by John Gardner
It was logical enough, the passengers were to be transported by coach. The true problem lay in the fact that Air Apparent had no means of providing a coach service directly from the Station and certainly no possible authority for setting up a recognised office within the station’s confines.
But Mostyn was a fixer, a promulgator. He gave the orders and set the thing up. He had provided that each ticket gave details of the coach departure time from Victoria Terminal. He organised a pair of sixty-eight seater coaches, and had already bribed the drivers from the hire firm to have the vehicles in position along Buckingham Palace Road at nine thirty. Mostyn was not troubled with the fact that it was illegal to load coaches in Buckingham Palace Road, nor was he particularly worried about how Boysie and the girls would sort out and guide the passengers from the coach station round the corner to the coaches. As far as Mostyn was concerned, Buckingham Palace Road was near to the coach station and the passengers would assemble themselves in the station. Boysie’s job, he considered, was mere child’s play.
The girls re-checked the booking schedules. Ninety-six people had elected to be transported from Victoria to Gatwick.
At exactly nine fifteen, the three girls, bright in their scarlet tunics and flared pants, with Boysie, resplendent in peaked cap, disembarked from a cab outside the coach station’s main entrance.
It was a mild night, but no stars ever shine for Victoria Coach Station, which is London’s limbo: a place for those inescapably in transit. There is a sadness about the drab place. The Englishman’s natural modes of transport are the automobile and the railway train. Railway stations indeed are places of high drama and adventure. Not so coach stations.
In the United States the coach depot is more natural. There is a sense of exploration about “Coach boarding at gate five is the coach for Cheyenne, Laramie, Medicine Bow, Walcott, Rawlins, Rock Spring, Green River and Ogden.” Victoria Coach Station cannot match that; not even with “The coach for Leeds will be leaving an hour late.”
“Okay girls.” Boysie looked at his watch. “Cover the entrances. Eyes down for baggage with Air Apparent stickers and filter ’em off round the corner. Aida will come in with me on the dot of twenty past.”
In the next five minutes the girls collected a dozen up-up-and-away customers heading towards the main entrances. They were hustled round the corner to the appointed pick-up zone. Then, with Ada and Alma still circling the main doors, Boysie and Aida made their entrance.
The interior of Victoria Coach Station somewhat resembles a vast garage: a large bleak rectangle with depressing girders supporting the roofing. A wide paved area, forming three sides of a small rectangle, is allotted for departing and arriving passengers who anxiously scan timetables, constantly harass coach company officials, and are moved in small groups by sporadic outbursts from an elemental loudspeaker system.
The paved area was crushed full of people and their baggage. Among them, Boysie knew, would be eighty or so folk already in the mentally suspended state that attacks a herd grouped together for a long, and relatively uncomfortable, aeroplane journey.
As there was no possible reason for this small segment of society being at Victoria Coach Station when they wanted to get onto an aircraft at Gatwick, Boysie’s job was to get them out: fast and without official interference.
With Aida at his heels, Boysie began his progress, from one corner of the paved area, heading towards the Buckingham Palace Road Exit which lay at the far end. As he moved through the crowd, Boysie chanted loudly. “Air Apparent Flight E 319. Passengers follow me please. Air Apparent Flight E 319 …”
A recognisable look of hope flooded onto numerous faces as they recognised, in Boysie, a mentor to free them from the discomfort of waiting in this drear place. They began to follow.
“Air Apparent Flight E 319 …”
“I have all this baggage. What am I to do with my baggage?” A skinny lady in a coney coat blocked Boysie’s path, snapping like a worried poodle. The conies looked as though they had been massacred during a famine.
The customer, thought Boysie, is always right. “If you have our labels on the articles just leave them there, madam. Like Zorro I shall return.”
There were three other incidents concerning baggage which could not be manhandled by its owners. A fair-sized crowd began to build up behind Boysie: Aida bringing up the rear, whipping in stragglers.
Boysie did not dislike crowds, for they were groups in which one could hide. But here, with the gaggle pressing in on his back and the rising clack of chatter, an edge of panic began to stir: a nervy pressure starting to brew.
“Air Apparent Flight E 319 follow …” Boysie’s voice continued the exhortation, punctuated now by the responses of those who followed.
“Is this where we get on the aeroplane, Mum?”
“Shut up and hang on to my coat. If you get lost your father’ll belt you.”
“Disgraceful paying all this money to be treated like this.”
An aged gentleman, clutching a lethal walking stick and a bulging carrier bag, pushed through the throng and began to jerk at Boysie’s sleeve. It was a temporary setback.
“All right for Sheffield?” shouted the old man.
“Air Apparent Flight E 319 …” bawled Boysie, doing his best to push on and ignore all distractions.
“Will that get me to Sheffield?” screeched the aged one.
“Not unless you want to go via the Gold Coast,” hissed Boysie.
A small stout woman with tinted glasses and a pull-on hat the colour of dried sheep’s dung appeared at the old man’s elbow waving a ticket. “Leeds?” she cawed. “Do we follow you for Leeds?”
Boysie’s cool became tepid. He stopped. Several of the following crowd were involved in minor bumper to bumper shunting operations.
“Leeds,” said Boysie, his voice quavering a little loudly, “is over there.” Pointing far into the cavern of the station. “And Sheffield,” rising to a shriek, “is next to Leeds.”
The couple nodded enthusiastically and departed never to be seen again.
“Air Apparent Flight E 319. Passengers follow …” Boysie glanced behind him at the growing human snake.
“’Ang on a minute. What you think you’re up to? Incitin’ a bloody riot?”
Boysie’s forward movement was blocked by an official looking man with warts, a cap similar to the one Boysie wore, and a long black raincoat.
Boysie gave a sick smile. “Sorry mate. There’s been a bit of a cock up. People told to report here by mistake.”
“’Ave to report it.” Warty produced a notebook and pencil, which he licked, displaying an ugly coloured tongue. “We can’t ’ave cock ups in the coach station, it’s upsetting to the regular passengers. As Duty Inspector I’ll …”
“Be all out in a minute.” Boysie edged forward. “Tell you what. You phone the gaffer, it’s all his fault, brother. I’m only obeying orders. Tool of the capitalist pigs, that’s what I am. Phone him. Three-seven-oh, one-nine-two-nine.” The numbers had come easily into his head as he lurched off still chanting.
The Duty Inspector scratched his head, made as if to speak, then changed his mind and, with the air of one who has little opportunity of exercising his small authority, began to write in the notebook. As Boysie and the phalanx of passengers moved away, the Duty Inspector stopped writing, looked after them and again scratched his head with the bewildered determination of defeat.
The coaches arrived dead on time and the girls set about getting their passengers on board with as much speed as possible while Boysie, labouring heavily by this time, dashed to and fro collecting the heavy baggage which had been left inside the station.
By nine forty they looked ready to go. Boysie was on the step of the lead coach when Ada ran up, white-faced.
“We’ve got three too many.” She looked genuinely concerned.
“We can’t have. How do you know?”
“Alma and I have been counting heads and unless we’ve got a trio
of two-headed freaks we’re carrying ninety-nine not ninety-six.”
“Check the tickets,” ordered Boysie, cavalier to the last. “Can’t wait ’ere any longer,” interrupted the driver of the lead coach.
“We’ll have to.”
“Well, we can’t.”
“Why not? Give me two good reasons.”
The driver looked at him with pity. “First, we shouldn’t be here at all. Second, there’s the Public Bleedin’ Service Vehicles: Conduct of bleeding Drivers, Conductors and bleedin’ Passengers Regulations, 1936. Section bleedin’ seven, para (b) A-driver-shall-not-cause-the-vehicle-to-remain-stationary-on-a-road-longer-than-is-reasonably-necessary-to-pick-up-or-set-down-passengers-except-at-a-stand-or-place-where-such-vehicles-are-permitted-to-stop-for-a-longer-time-than-is-necessary-for-that-purpose. That’s by the bleedin’ book.”
Happily, by the time the driver had finished reciting regulations, the stowaways had been discovered: a trio of little elderly ladies under the misapprehension that they were on the coach for Middleton-in-Teesdale.
“Stay flexible, keep moving and let it all hang out.” Boysie murmured to himself. The brace of coaches pulled away.
On the far side of the street a black, polished Daimler stood at rest. In the rear, comfortable and well-fed, sat a man called Suffix. He was tall with a face full of dubious character: as though his features had regularly been altered with the help of fists, bottles and the sun. His clothing looked casual until you scrutinised and the art of a skilful tailor was revealed: a dark blue denim battledress and matching shirt. Around the neck a silk kerchief and, hanging from a silver chain, a small locket. The locket was executed in silver and carried on its smooth front the raised device of a cobra spitting fire.
Suffix removed the cigarette holder from his lips and addressed his companion, a much older man. “You were right. Quite right. It is amusing to observe humans going to so much trouble in order to perform a simple operation. That’s what I find fascinating about Africa. I think we should see them off.”
His companion nodded. “Oakes always had a streak of the bizarre. But watch him. Have care.”
The Daimler moved away in the wake of the coaches.
From the viewing windows in the gallery of the main concourse at Gatwick you can look out across the parking area to the taxiways and seven thousand feet of runway two seven slicing across rich Surrey countryside.
At night it was a carpet of lanes lit by blue and white grounded stars, backed by the group music of jets.
The chaos of the pick-up at the coach station had quickly subsided once they got under way. There was only minor confusion on arrival at the airport. Within twenty minutes Excelsior had taken over and the responsibility had passed from Boysie’s hands.
He sent the girls up to one of the cafeterias to get coffee and sandwiches while he went to watch the departure, leaving the magic cap in Ada’s safe keeping. Only some major disaster, like the aircraft being turned back, would return that unruly load of travellers into Boysie’s lap.
He could see Excelsior’s big Boeing trundling away towards the threshold, its identification lights blinking metronomically.
Slowly the aircraft began to roll, becoming indistinguishable among the pinpoint lights and darkness: then the flashing lights rising. Flight E 319 was on its way. Boysie was conscious of others standing near and peering across the airfield. He breathed out a sigh which was a mental punctuation to his thoughts, a never again determination. Many times previously, Boysie had made up his mind to refuse Mostyn. But this was it. The traipsing around with platoons of people, the ridiculous business at Victoria, humping baggage. Never again.
Locked within this thought as he turned, Boysie saw the girl too late. They collided and he had to leap, with outstretched arms, to stop her falling badly against the plate glass windows.
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“Oh. Oh dear.”
“You all right?”
“Oh. It was my fault. I wasn’t looking.”
She was as light as air: fragile. Boysie felt it so strongly that he carried on holding her shoulders to prevent the further tragedy of her body crumbling away.
Her face was shaded by a large floppy black hat which hindered him from seeing even a wisp of hair. Yet the eyes were enough. Large brown eyes with lashes that curved upwards towards slim pencilled brows. Eyes which invited even when tear-stained as they were at this moment.
The remainder of the face was equally inviting. Wide, well-proportioned lips, high cheekbones, skin without a trace of blemish.
“I’m okay, thanks.” A soft throaty voice, touched with melody.
“You certain? You’re …”
Her hand came up and dabbed at her eyes. The hand was white gloved and held a delicate tiny handkerchief. “I know. It’s silly, isn’t it. Crying like this. I thought I’d be okay. After all he’s only my brother.”
“Been seeing him off?”
She nodded quickly, lips moving together. Boysie stepped back. Slim and too good to look at, her body encased in a black velvet pant suit, the jacket full waisted, a leather coat trimmed with fur thrown round her shoulders.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, that would be lovely.” The face under the hat became gilded with pleasure. “You’re so kind.”
Boysie guided her to the nearest cafeteria, found a table, seated her and made for the bar.
Ada, Alma and Aida were occupying a table near the bar, engrossed in raucous conversation burnished with coarse laughter. They were dishes, thought Boysie, but, compared to his new found friend, they were as tinned peaches are to the real thing. As he came alongside their table he mouthed, “Make your own way back. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Who’s your white friend, Mr B?” asked Aida in a low voice.
“Careful, Boysie. That looks very expensive,” whispered Alma.
“Stick to your own kind, Oaksie darling, that one’ll have your wallet and you won’t even get her bra size,” growled Ada.
“We’re not all sex mad,” muttered Boysie, turning away to order a brace of coffees.
She had lighted a cigarette and slung her coat over the back of the chair by the time he returned to the table.
“You really are too kind.” The tears had gone and colour returned to her face.
“The least I could do after being so clumsy.”
She looked round her. “I hate airports. They have so little taste: in the surroundings, the decor, I mean.”
Boysie nodded, exhibiting ageless wisdom. “Built for the passage of human cargo,” he observed.
“That’s awfully good. Human cargo.”
“Well, that’s just about it nowadays.” Boysie clung on to what seemed an advantage. “We all have to conform to the common denominator. We’re all human cargo on the freight lines of life.” It did not sound like him at all, but seemed to please the girl.
She sighed. “I know. So depressing. I try not to conform. You look like a non-conformist also.”
“One tries.”
“I started some years ago. I began with my name. I’m Snowflake Brightwater.”
Boysie’s instinct was to maintain that he was Golden Sunset III. “I’m Boysie Oakes.”
Miss Snowflake Brightwater did not seem all that impressed. “Snowflake Brightwater’s my given name of course.”
“Given?”
“Yes. I gave it to myself. My conformist name was Harriet Hardy. That was too much.” She inhaled on her cigarette and expertly expelled the smoke down her enchanting nose.
“I have my Mercedes Benz motor car outside in the park. When we have finished this doubtful coffee, would you care to drive me back to the city? I feel you are to be trusted.”
“Yes, I’d love to drive you back, and yes I can be trusted.”
Suddenly Miss Snowflake Brightwater erupted into laughter. “You’re super. Most men look for an escape route when I pull the quaint bit on them. They think they’re ho
oked with something totally weird.”
“It takes all kinds.”
“You didn’t even bat an eyelid.”
“To be honest I’m thinking of writing a monograph on eyelids I have batted.” Boysie drained his paper cup. “Do you really call yourself Snowflake Brightwater?”
“Consistently. Makes paying for things by cheque a bit of a performance, but it’s my name and I like it.”
“And you have a Mercedes Benz motor car?”
“And a splendid apartment in Eaton Place, but don’t let the pound signs show too clearly in your hungry eyes. I’ve worked for everything I own.”
Boysie’s mind was not homing onto the idea of riches. He blinked himself back into the present. “I never let pound signs show too readily these days,” he said soberly. “You took me back for a minute. I used to live near Eaton Place myself. Just off Chesham Place.”
“But no more?”
“Long gone, Snowflake Brightwater, long gone.”
She put her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands. “What do you do to keep body and soul together? You’re not a child of nature. That I can tell by your mode of dress and nice manners.”
“The quaint bit’s showing again.”
“It does from time to time. I live with it, like a second skin. It keeps out those I want to exclude: including thoughts. What do you do?”
“I’m in the airline business.” It sounded respectable and was technically true: until he handed his resignation to James George Mostyn, CMG, CBE.
The slim lines that served as eyebrows tilted fractionally upwards. “That rubbish?”
“It puts food on my back and gives me clothes to eat.”
She dropped her hands. “Yes, I know. Warms you in summer and keeps you cool in winter. I have similar problems.”
