Everybody else was checking in their luggage, striding off freehanded, or with just a stylish night-bag looped across one shoulder, or a power-zoomed video camera slung around their necks. Only he was loaded down with castor oil and Heinz tomato ketchup, paralysed by the sheer weight of canned baked beans. The airline had refused to take his baggage yet, told him check-in time was two hours before the flight, so would he please return at half past three – p.m. He’d checked his watch – still only nine and morning.
‘But … But I can’t move,’ he’d faltered. ‘Not with all these cases.’
‘We do have luggage trolleys, sir, and even a left-luggage office. Just grab yourself a trolley and wheel your cases over there.’ The desk clerk gestured (vaguely) to the left, then turned briskly to the next man in the queue, a dark hirsute Adonis with one streamlined case so small and neatly compact it probably contained nothing but a few silk handkerchiefs.
Bryan peered up and down the seething hall. He couldn’t see a luggage trolley – not one without an owner – and he dared not leave the cases to go and seek one out. Deadlock – as so often in his life.
‘Bryan!’
He swung round, saw his Mother, exultant with a trolley, weaving through the jostling hordes towards him. He’d still not quite recovered from the shock of her appearance when she’d emerged at dawn, fully dressed, wearing a colour for the first time in his life, instead of the black or grey or beige of semi-mourning. He’d never seen the outfit, had no idea she owned it – an old-fashioned matching dress and coat in a vibrant cornflower blue, which seemed to transport him to another age. She looked like a character from some now dated film, in a dress too young (and short) for her, and in Mary’s shade of blue. He had found it most unnerving, especially as she’d added a sparkling flower-spray brooch. He’d never seen his Mother wearing jewellery, nor any shoes but lace-ups. Yet there she was, lolloping towards him now in some low-slung laceless casuals, which only drew attention to her gammy foot, disfigured veiny leg.
He felt a wave of pity,, curdled with embarrassment. Her leg was clearly hurting, yet she refused to sit and rest, seemed to have been galvanised this whole last week by the sheer peril and high drama of a trip to Foreign Parts; had even compared it to the war, which she’d also seen as a chance to live more dangerously, to espouse a Cause, pump excitement and adrenalin into her usual stagnant life.
‘Watch out!’ he called – too late. Lena was engulfed in a tide of foreigners – not just Europeans, but West Indians with dreadlocks, turbaned Pakistanis, pan-faced Japanese. Tarbooshes and yashmaks assailed her oh all sides. What on earth were they all doing in this European terminal? They must have come specifically to goad her, brought their swarms of hypermanic children, to drive her back full-pelt to Ivy Close. His Mother hated children, felt they should be born with fully-trained bowels and bladders, good manners and good salaries, and preferably dumb. If children were bad news, then foreign children would be red rag to a bull. He could no longer see the bull, who was completely swamped in aliens; closed his eyes helplessly as he waited for her angry snort, her nostril-flaring charge. A sudden exhalation of Yardley’s English Lavender and menthol linament wafted in his face. His Mother was beside him, not bellowing or charging, but triumphant with her trolley.
‘I stole it from a darky, dear. That deserves a kiss.’
He pecked her cheek, embarrassed. She was almost flirting with him, clinging to his arm like a loving bashful bride – not the faintest whimper about kids or crowds or foreigners, let alone the storm of protest he was ready braced to hear. He’d never seen her like this in his life before, almost longed for her to nag again, so at least things would be familiar. He couldn’t cope with change.
‘Careful, Bryan. You’ll trip, dear.’
He did trip, cannoned off the escalator and landed on his bottom. He couldn’t even remember going up an escalator. And where were all the cases? He leapt up in pain and panic.
‘We’ve lost the luggage, Mother. Quick! Call a guard or something.’
‘But we’ve just left it in that office.’
‘What office?’
‘The left-luggage place. They gave you seven tickets.’
He fumbled in his pocket, found the crumpled tickets, fought new and daunting worries. Would the suitcases be safe? Should he ever have abandoned them to careless cowardly staff, who might muddle up the tickets, or dash for safety if burglars smashed the doors down? He was still clutching the most vital things – his toy snake, Anne, which he’d hidden in a pillowcase, so that nobody would mock, and his large supply of notebooks labelled ‘Rome’, ‘Mary’, ‘Check-list’, ‘Accounts’, ‘Expenses’, ‘Problems’, ‘General’, ‘Miscellaneous’ and ‘Emergency’. He should have brought a dozen for Emergency, the way that things were going, and a far bigger one for Expenses. That car had all but ruined him, and he’d taken out a dozen different insurances which had cost almost half as much again as the holiday itself.
‘Oh, look, dear, all those shops!’
He looked. Not just shops, but banks and business centres, bars and restaurants, telephones and toilets, counters, kiosks, booths – endless signs shouting all around him. The signs were quite bewildering, required instant clear decisions, yet the very sight of all those choices reduced him to a vacillating shuttlecock. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to bolt back home, unpack the brandy-butter and the Sennakot, fill the four hot-water bottles and put himself to bed?
‘And what a huge great Christmas tree! Fancy Christmas decorations in an airport.’
His Mother seemed impressed, turning in amazement from shops to tree to baubles to flashing fairy lights. She was more used to Victoria Coach Station with its dreary concrete bays, its total lack of glamour, lack of all diversion save one shabby wilting cafe selling cardboard sausage rolls. Her eyes tracked from gift-wrapped chocolates adorned with flowers and bows, to a gigantic smiling Santa swinging from the ceiling on his sleigh. His own eyes followed hers, so he didn’t see the real-life Father Christmas scurrying towards him – or rather Mother Christmas. His body registered soft flesh as he collided with her ample jutting breasts.
‘Mary!’ he thought instantly, as he glimpsed fair curls, blue eyes, though the face itself was swallowed up in a froth of fake white whiskers.
‘We’ve got a very special offer, sir, in duty-free today. Just buy two hundred Rothman’s and …’
He crumpled up the leaflet she pressed into his hand. He’d been lusting for a billet-doux from Mary-in-disguise, and all he’d got instead was a page of panting prose about the smooth rich satisfaction not of his sweet mistress, but of filthy tar and nicotine. Yet at least his mood had changed. How dare he even contemplate bolting feebly home, when in just three days his Love would be arriving to share the Eternal City with him, reignite his faith and his devotion? It was Christmas Eve, a time for hope – and giving. He put down his bags (and snake), rifled through his pockets for his wallet, withdrew a wad of fivers, handed them theatrically to Lena.
‘Buy yourself a present, Mother.’ He could afford to be generous just once in his cramped life. If he was going to leave his Mother alone in Ivy Close, build a nest with Mary, then at least he should provide some compensation. ‘Buy anything you like,’ he urged. ‘Don’t fuss about the price.’ He knew he was quite safe. Lena had never been extravagant in half a century’s shopping; was so used to penny-pinching she would never dream of squandering his precious hard-earned cash, but would horde it in a biscuit tin, or save it for the groceries. He himself would do the squandering – buy a new silk tie to dazzle Mary. He stopped just inside the largest store, which appeared to offer everything from the Daily Mail and Playboy to huge slabs of chilled smoked salmon. ‘You stay here, Mother, and pick out a scarf or something. I’ll meet you by these teddy bears in exactly half an hour.’
Bryan mooched back from the tie shop, exhausted, empty-handed. Impossible to choose a tie in twenty-seven minutes. It had been known to take him months, as he’d keep retu
rning and returning to the same shop or rack or counter, weighing up grey-blue against blue-grey, comparing stripes with squiggles, or dry-clean versus washable. He stood now amidst the teddy bears, searching for his Mother, couldn’t see her anywhere, only sixty furry bodies, sixty pairs of brown glass eyes, most of which were mocking his alarm. He plunged the other way, darted up and down the aisles, fighting down the urge to cry ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’ like the lost and frightened child he felt inside.
‘Mother!’ He’d tracked her down, at last, at a counter labelled Travel Goods, which was loaded with appliances and gadgets – things he’d never dreamed existed: body-safes and siren-lights, combined mini-fans and mosquito-killers, a water-treatment system which claimed to kill every germ known to man and some still unclassified. Lena’s hands were full, her trolley piled with packages – a trolley big enough to bankrupt him, if she continued in this fashion. He glanced around him fearfully. There were still racks and racks of other things she probably hadn’t even noticed yet: jewels and scarves and dolls and scents, sunglasses and cameras, cassettes and Wedgwood china, tins of tea, jars of … No, he mustn’t make his lists, not even in his head. John-Paul would disapprove.
Lena had moved on to the travel-irons, comparing prices, assessing weights and sizes.
‘Stop!’ he almost shouted. ‘I’ve packed an iron already.’
‘But I did all the packing, Bryan, and anyway …’
‘I mean, they’ve got one in the seminary.’
‘Seminary? What’s that?’
‘The … er … hotel. They’re called seminaries in Rome.’
‘Well, still best to have our own, dear. I expect Italian irons are dangerous, like their government. And I’m sure we need one of these big …’
‘No,’ he hissed. ‘We don’t need anything. Except a cup of tea.’ Tea would be much cheaper than a Ten-Way Torch or Tropical First-Aid Kit, or a foldaway umbrella which doubled as a walking stick and camping stool. He’d even offer her a bun, the nutty chewy kind which would take a while to masticate and so keep her from the shops. He helped her up the stairs to the Plaza on the floor above, where the restaurants were all clustered; stopped in shock as he heard his name booming over the Tannoy.
‘Would Mr Bryan Payne, travelling to Rome, please report immediately to the Airport Information Desk. Mr Bryan Payne, please, to Airport Information.’
He gripped his Mother’s arm, the blood draining from his face. John-Paul had summoned him back home, discovered some huge error in the last cheque he’d posted off. He could well have written seven pounds in place of seven hundred – even though he’d checked it twenty times. John-Paul would interpret that as an act of sheer contempt – his services, his expertise, worth peanuts. Or he’d start repeating all that stuff again about his fixation at the anal stage, which meant he wasn’t just obsessional, but also parsimonious. An image of blocked faeces was poisoning his whole mind now. He tried to pull the plug on it, think less insalubriously. Of course John-Paul hadn’t called him. The doctor was in Rome himself, had been there a full week. It was James who’d had him paged, a James crazed with murderous jealousy, now waiting at that desk with loaded pistols, or a Travel Muggers’ Outfit disguised as a First-Aid Kit.
‘Mother, you sit here. Promise not to move till I come back. This may well be urgent, a matter of life and death.’
‘But what’s happened? Why …?’
He couldn’t stop to answer, hurtled down the stairs, scanned the signs for Airport Information, found it almost opposite, joined the dawdling queue, every muscle tense as he jigged and fumed and cursed behind the loiterers.
‘Payne,’ he gasped at last, as he reached the counter, sweat pouring off his face.
‘You’re in pain, sir? Where’s the pain? Look, you’d better take a seat here and I’ll phone through to a doctor.’
‘No, my name. Bryan Payne. Mr Payne. B.V. Payne. B. Vernon Payne …’ He tried to stop the tide of names, heard his doctor’s stern rebuke grating in his head. ‘You wanted me. You called me – on the Tannoy.’
‘No, I don’t think that we did, sir, but let me check a moment.’
Bryan could feel his heart thump-thumping as the girl turned to scan her notepad. Perhaps it was Mary who had summoned him, disguised not as Mother Christmas, but as a pager or announcer. This could be the start of his new life. Any breathless minute her ardent message would be relayed to him by the freckled Miss in uniform still checking through her list. ‘I love you, Bryan. I know it now. I’m leaving James – I have to. Meet me by the …’
‘No, sir. We called a Mr Brian Baines, who’s already reported here, in fact.’
‘Are you absolutely sure? I mean there wasn’t any message from a … lady?’
The young girl shook her head. ‘No. Mr Baines had simply lost his spectacles, and we asked him to reclaim them from the desk.’
Bryan slunk away, suspicious. Baines could be a rival who had claimed not just his spectacles, but a crucial private message addressed to Mr Payne. The entire airport was swarming with his rivals, all bigger, broader, stiffer men, with larger bank accounts. And Rome would be far worse – hordes of Latin lovers with bold black eyes and dark-furred chests ogling his own blonde and smooth-skinned Mary. And they wouldn’t all be swathed in thermal underwear, which hardly helped his chances. His Mother had insisted he wear a long-sleeved vest and knee-length underpants in Thermolactyl Double Force, a thick and prickly fabric which fretted at his skin. The underwear was advertised for Arctic expeditions and assaults on Everest, not for modern airports heated to a sweltering over-eighty. He’d put it on quite eagerly that morning because he liked its virile promise, ‘Double Force’, especially when in contact with his groin, but it had let him down – of course. The only thing which had doubled (tripled, quadrupled) was his feverish sweaty heat.
He passed a vinyl-covered bench, miraculously empty as a whole family decamped from it: children, Grandma, Mum and Dad, trailing off together for their flight. He lurched into their place, now faint from hyperthermia; stretched out semi-supine, tried to turn the vinyl into John-Paul’s stylish leather, begged his absent doctor to slip into his usual seat just behind his head. How could he have criticised John-Paul, panted for the blessed month when there would be no more appointments? It was already nine whole days since his last session on the couch, and he was missing them increasingly. Yet he’d wasted those last sessions, said hardly more than fifty words in each fifty-minute hour. John-Paul had interpreted the silence as being due to his mounting fears about the break. He’d never been away so long before, especially not at Christmas, and Bryan must clearly feel abandoned, and was perhaps even reliving the experience of his father’s early death – an ‘abandonment’ so critical it had affected all his subsequent relationships, or lack of them.
‘I do have a relationship,’ he’d shouted sotto voce. ‘I’m about to live with Mary, rescue her in Rome and secrete her back to England, buy a little cottage in Northumberland or Yorkshire or Hants or Wilts or …’ John-Paul couldn’t hear, nor his next remark that the sooner his psychiatrist pushed off to Rome himself, the happier he’d be. Since he could mention neither Mary nor his relief at John-Paul’s imminent departure, he’d spent the remaining nineteen minutes imagining Mary’s thighs. Were they white or tan, he’d wondered, voluptuous or slim, dusted with gold hairs or smooth as marble?
‘What are you thinking, Bryan?’ John-Paul had asked, at last, as perhaps his final offering before he said goodbye.
‘Thighs,’ he’d answered dreamily, as his hand crept higher, higher, inching slowly upwards towards Mary’s moistening groin.
‘Thighs?’
‘Er, chicken thighs.’ He’d bought some just last night – Sainsbury’s frozen chicken thighs in egg and breadcrumb coating.
‘You realise, Bryan, that “chicken” is the colloquial word for coward. It appears you’re feeling cowardly today – weak, perhaps, and scared, worried by the fact I’m going away.’
‘I
can hardly wait!’ he didn’t say, just swung his legs rudely off the couch, even banged his shoes about as he tugged them on, decamped.
He groaned now, closed his eyes, did indeed feel orphaned and abandoned, in need of some support. He longed to hear his doctor’s measured voice, investing things with causes, reasons, meaning. John-Paul had explained to him just a week or so ago how every time he gave himself some treat, he had to pay for it with still more guilt and worry; how he needed pain and problems to afford himself the punishment dictated by his stringent super-ego. John-Paul was right, as usual. He’d booked himself a holiday, and had never felt so vulnerable, so stricken.
He sat bolt upright on the bench. Was he in the right terminal at all? Perhaps he’d come, mistakenly, to what they called ‘long haul’, which would explain the Japs and Indians. Any minute now he’d be jetting off to Tokyo, or Delhi, or Peking. How would he find Mary in an Indian bazaar or Chinese opium den? The agent had said Terminal Two, but supposing he’d misheard, as he’d mistaken Baines for Payne? Even his own language was foil of traps and terrors: words not meaning what they said, people taking liberties with grammar, punctuation. A comma in the wrong place could initiate a tragedy. He was meant to be travelling with two hundred pious Catholics, yet he hadn’t spied a rosary or missal; seen no one looking prayerful or accompanied by a priest. He checked his watch again. He’d been told to join his party half an hour before the flight, meet them by the departure gate at five. It was still only half past ten, but wouldn’t some of them come early, be worriers like he was?
Fifty-Minute Hour Page 32
