A distant call to prayer echoes as the day's intense heat wanes and the land cools. The sun slowly sets behind Muscat's golden, jagged mountains, painting the wispy sky in amber and crimson hues.

At the officer’s mess, the pool lights flicker on, as a young boy emerges from the tepid water, droplets cascading from his skin like a shower of tiny crystals. The surface of the pool settles into a smooth, glassy calm. He tosses a towel over his shoulder and strides toward the patio door, the rhythmic slapping of his flip-flops echoing with each step.

Palm leaves dance gracefully in the gentle breeze, bringing relief at the close of another sweltering day.

The Indian staff in white shirts, black trousers, and red cummerbunds begin setting up tables for a barbecue. The air buzzes with conversations in Hindi and Tamil as they carry trays of meat and salad.

Nizar and Albert from Kerala stack plates on tables. A rumble fills the sky as they pause to watch an Air India 747 climb out into the heavens.

Silently, they follow the red and silver plane as it heads east across the Arabian Sea. Though they don’t speak, their eyes reveal their longing for home—to hold their wives and say I love you, to play with their children in the warm sea at sunset as fishermen haul in their last catch of the day.

Twilight descends as we leave Gordano Services on a warm evening in July 1984. We’ve had shepherd’s pie for dinner, and I popped into the shop for a quick look at the magazines. “Come on, James, let’s get home. You can look at the comics tomorrow when we fetch the paper.” It had been a long drive from Greystoke, Cumbria, to see Nanny and Grandad. Dad grew up in Threlkeld, and Grandad was a signalman. He’s slow now; it’s the cancer from smoking.
 
He stopped a year ago, but the damage was done. There was nothing left to do but prepare, and everyone knew it. I wasn’t totally sure what was happening, but Dad just said Grandad wasn’t well.
 
Dad hasn’t spoken much on the way home. Maybe he’s just tired. We also stopped at Sandbach Services. Dad flicks the indicator on the old beige Rover 2200 as we head west and homeward-bound—Exeter (M5), then it’s the A38, where life slows down.
 
Dad says the faster world begins in Exeter, but I’m glad we live on the slower side. Motorway lights flicker on, and the radio picks up interference from nearby power lines.
 
Avalon plays as I learn my head against the window.

*And the background's fading
Out of focus
Yes, the picture’s changing
Every moment
And your destination
You don’t know it
Avalon*
 
It’s cooling down now as we pass the exit for Weston-super-Mare. I wind-up my window.
 
Dad looks sad, as though there are permanent tears in the corners of his eyes. Mum is asleep. I reach forward and touch Dad’s shoulder. His large, warm hand envelops mine, a squeeze that says, "I love you." I squeeze back. He turns slightly, smiles, and winks.
 
By the time we arrive home, it is pitch black, and as we drive through the estate, something strange happens. The engine falls silent. Dad tries the ignition. Nothing.
 
“Oh… that’s not good,” he says, shaking his head. Lights out. Radio silent. Not a sound from the car. He thinks quickly; there is just enough momentum to take us to the top of the incline.
 
Our house is halfway down the hill, and Dad coasts it down, easing on the brake as he goes. Then he makes a turn into the cul-de-sac and a sharp right onto the drive before braking slowly.
 
Handbrake up, and we are home. We’ve just made it back, and what a final journey it was for our old Rover—all the way from Cumbria to South Devon.
 
Three motorways and one final trip. Dad knew a lot about cars, so when he said, “It’s dead,” I knew it was true, but I still asked anyway, “But Daddy, maybe it can be fixed. It’s only an engine.” He still had both hands on the steering wheel.

“The damage is done, darling. It’s too late now.” He welled up, and Mum and I held him as he sat in the driver’s seat.

“Come on,” he said, “she won’t empty herself.” A chill in the air from Dartmoor as we carried the bags into our house. The stars were out, as were all the lights in the surrounding houses, except one—the Bishops. They were watching telly. Stillness on Brakefield.
 
I was soon in bed, and Mum and Dad came up to kiss me goodnight. As Dad switched off my light, my glow-in-the-dark E.T. stickers on my headboard glowed brightly.
 
“Love you, James—phone home!” he said in his E.T. impression voice, pointing his finger, but I could tell he was sad and fighting hard.
 
“Love you, Daddy… it was a good car, wasn’t it?” I pulled my Star Wars duvet up to my neck.
 
“The best. Sleep now, and we’ll get the papers tomorrow. How about that comic?”
I nodded, and he switched off the light. Down the stairs he went. I heard Mum ask, “You okay, love?” Silence. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were holding each other. The sound of a kiss.
 
I dropped off to sleep. It would turn out to be the last time he saw his dad, and when we left his parents on that warm morning, my dad and Grandad held each other for a long time. but they had to let go so we could drive home, because nothing lasts forever.