You are now leaving Dublin. We hope you enjoyed your stay.
Dad’s rubber ears go back on his head, his bushy eyebrows lift upward.
‘You’ll tell all the family that I’m asking for them, won’t you, Fran?’ Dad says a little nervously.
‘Of course I will, Henry. You’ll have a great time.’ Fran’s eyes smile at me knowingly in the rearview mirror.
‘I’ll see them all when I come back,’ Dad adds, closely watching a plane as it disappears to the skies. ‘It’s off behind the clouds now,’ he says, looking at me unsurely.
‘The best part,’ I smile.
He relaxes a little.
Fran pulls over at the drop-off section, busy with people conscious they can’t stay for more than a minute and are quickly unloading bags, hugging, taxi drivers being paid, other drivers being moved on. Dad stands still, like the rock thrown into the stream again, and takes it all in, as I lift the bags from the boot. Eventually he snaps out of it and turns his attention to Fran, suddenly filled with warm affection for a woman he usually can’t stop bickering about. Then he surprises us all by offering her a hug, awkward as it is.
Once inside, in the hustle and bustle of one of Europe’s busiest airports, Dad holds on to my arm tightly with one hand and with the other, pulls along the weekend bag I’ve lent him. It had taken me the entire day and night to convince him it wasn’t anything like the tartan trolley-bags Fran and all the other older ladies use for their shopping. He looks around now and I see him registering men with similar bags. He looks happy, if not a little confused. We go to the computers to check in.
‘What are you doing? Getting the sterling pounds out?’
‘It’s not an ATM, this is check-in, Dad.’
‘Do we not speak to a person?’
‘No, this machine does it for us.’
‘I wouldn’t trust this yoke.’ He looks over the shoulder of the man beside us. ‘Excuse me, is your yokey-mabob working for you?’
‘Scusi?’
Dad laughs. ‘Scoozy-woozy to you too.’ He looks back at me with a grin on his face. ‘Scoozy. That’s a good one.’
‘Mi dispiace tanto, signore, la prego di ignorarlo, è un vecchio sciocco e non sa cosa dice,’ I apologise to the Italian man, who seemed more than taken aback by Dad’s comments. I have no idea what I’ve said but he returns my smile and continues checking in.
‘You speak Italian?’ Dad looks surprised but I haven’t time to respond as he hushes me as an announcement is made. ‘Whisht, Gracie, it might be for us. We better hurry.’
‘We have two hours until our flight.’
‘Why did we come so early?’
‘We have to.’ I’m already getting tired now and the tireder I get, the shorter the answers get.
‘Who says?’
‘Security.’
‘Security who?’
‘Airport security. Through there.’ I nod in the direction of the metal detectors.
‘Where do we go now?’ he asks once I retrieve our boarding passes from the machine.
‘To check our bags in.’
‘Can we not carry them on?’
‘No.’
‘Hello,’ the lady behind the counter smiles, and takes my passport and Dad’s ID.
‘Hello,’ Dad says chirpily, a saccharine smile forcing itself through the wrinkles of his permanently grumpy face.
I roll my eyes. Always a sucker for the ladies.
‘How many bags are you checking in?’
‘Two.’
‘Did you pack your own bags?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ Dad nudges me and frowns. ‘You packed my bag for me, Gracie.’
I sigh. ‘Yes, but you were with me, Dad. We packed it together.’
‘Not what she asked.’ He turns back to the lady. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Yes.’ She continues, ‘Did anybody ask you to carry anything for them on the plane?’
‘N—’
‘Yes,’ Dad interrupts me again. ‘Gracie put a pair of her shoes in my bag because they wouldn’t fit in hers. We’re only going for a couple of days, you know, and she brought three pairs. Three.’
‘Do you have anything sharp or dangerous in your hand luggage – scissors, tweezers, lighters or anything like that?’
‘No,’ I say.
Dad squirms and doesn’t respond.
‘Dad,’ I elbow him, ‘tell her no.’
‘No,’ he finally says.
‘Well done,’ I snap.
‘Have a pleasant trip.’ She hands us back our IDs.
‘Thank you. You have very nice lipstick,’ Dad adds before I pull him away.
I take deep breaths as we approach the security gates and I try to remind myself that this is Dad’s first time in an airport and that if you’ve never heard the questions before, particularly if you’re a seventy-five-year-old, I agree they would seem quite strange.
‘Are you excited?’ I ask, trying to make the moment enjoyable.
‘Delirious, love.’
I give up and keep to myself.
I collect a clear plastic bag and fill it with my make-up and his pills, and we make our way through the maze that is the security queue.
‘I feel like a little mouse,’ Dad comments. ‘Will there be cheese at the end of this?’ He gives a wheezy laugh. Then we are through to the metal detectors.
‘Just do what they say,’ I tell him while taking off my belt and jacket. ‘You won’t cause any trouble, will you?’
‘Trouble? Why would I cause trouble? What are you doing? Why are you taking your clothes off, Gracie?’
I groan quietly.
‘Sir, could you please remove your shoes, belt, overcoat and cap?’
‘What?’ Dad laughs at him.
‘Remove your shoes, belt, overcoat and cap.’
‘I will do no such thing. You want me walking around in my socks?’
‘Dad, just do it,’ I tell him.
‘If I take my belt off, my trousers will fall down,’ he says angrily.
‘You can hold them up with your hands,’ I snap.
‘Christ Almighty,’ he says loudly.
The young man looks round to his colleagues.
‘Dad, just do it,’ I say more firmly now. An extremely long queue of irritated seasoned travellers who already have their shoes, belts and coats off, is forming behind us.
‘Empty your pockets, please.’ An older and angrier-looking security man steps in.
Dad looks uncertain.
‘Oh my God, Dad, this is not a joke. Just do it.’
‘Can I empty them away from her?’
‘No, you’ll do it right here.’
‘I’m not looking.’ I turn away, baffled.
I hear clinking noises as Dad empties his pockets.
‘Sir, you were told you could not bring these things through with you.’
I spin round to see the security man holding a lighter and toe-nail clippers in his hands, the packet of cigarettes is in the tray with the photograph of Mum. And a banana.
‘Dad!’ I say.
‘Stay out of this, please.’
‘Don’t speak to my daughter like that. I didn’t know I couldn’t bring them. She said scissors and tweezers and water and—’
‘OK, we understand, sir, but we’re going to have to take these from you.’
‘But that’s my good lighter, you can’t take it from me! And what’ll I do without my clippers?’
‘We’ll buy new ones,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Now just do what they say.’
‘OK,’ he waves his hands rudely at them, ‘keep the damn things.’
‘Sir, please remove your cap, jacket, shoes and belt.’
‘He’s an old man,’ I say to the security guard in a low voice so that the gathering crowd behind us don’t hear. ‘He needs a chair to sit on to take off his shoes. And he shouldn’t have to take them off as they’re corrective footwear. Can you not just let him through?’
‘Do you think I have a BOMB IN MY SHOE? Sure, what kind of eejit would do that? Do you think I have a BOMB sittin’ on my head under my cap or in my belt? Is my banana really a GUN, do you think?’ He waves the banana around at the staff, making shooting sounds. ‘Are you all gone loony in here?’
Dad reaches for his cap. ‘Or maybe I’ve a GRENADE under my—’
He doesn’t have the opportunity to finish as everything goes crazy. He is whisked away before my eyes and I am taken to a small cell-like room and ordered to wait.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After fifteen minutes of sitting alone in the sparse interrogation room with nothing but a table and chair, I hear the door in the next room open, then close. I hear the squeak of chair legs and then Dad’s voice, as always, louder than everyone else’s. I move closer to the wall and press my ear up against it.
‘Who are you travelling with?’
‘Gracie.’
‘Are you sure about that, Mr Conway?’
‘Of course! She’s my daughter, ask her yourself!’
‘Her passport tells us her name is Joyce. Is she lying to us, Mr Conway? Or are you lying?’
‘I’m not lying. Oh, I meant Joyce, I meant to say Joyce.’
‘Are you changing your story now?’
‘What story? I got the name wrong, is all. My wife is Gracie, I get confused.’
‘Where is your wife?’
‘She’s not with us any more. She’s in my pocket. I mean the photograph of her is in my pocket. At least, it was in my pocket until the lads out there took her and put her in the tray. Will I get my toe-nail clippers back, do you think? They cost me a bit.’
‘Mr Conway, you were told sharp items and lighter fluid is not permitted on the flights.’
‘I know that, but my daughter, Gracie, I mean, Joyce, went mad at me yesterday when she found my pack of smokes hidden in the Sugar Puffs and I didn’t want to take the lighter out of my pocket or she’d lose the head again. I apologise for that, though. I wasn’t intending to blow up the plane or anything.’
‘Mr Conway, please refrain from using such language. Why did you refuse to take off your shoes?’
‘I have holes in me socks!’
There is a silence.
‘I’m seventy-five years old, young man. Why on earth do I have to take my shoes off? Did you think I was going to blow the plane up with a rubber shoe? Or maybe it’s the insoles you’re worried about. Maybe you’re right, you can never tell the damage a man can do with a good insole—’
‘Mr Conway, please don’t use such language and refrain from smart-aleck behaviour or you will not be allowed on the plane. What was the reason for your refusal to remove your belt?’
‘My trousers would have fallen down! I’m not like all these kids now, I don’t wear a belt to look groovy, as they say. Where I come from you wear it because it keeps your pants up. And you’d be arrestin’ me for a whole lot more than this, if it didn’t, believe you me.’
‘You haven’t been arrested, Mr Conway. We just need to ask you some questions. Behaviour such as yours is prohibited at this airport, so we need to ascertain if you are a threat to the safety of our passengers.’
‘What do you mean, a threat?’
The security officer clears his throat. ‘Well, it means finding out if you are a member of any gangs or terrorist organisations before we reconsider allowing you through.’
I hear Dad roar with laughter.
‘You must understand that planes are very confined spaces and we can’t allow anybody on that we aren’t sure of. We have the right to choose who we allow onboard our aircraft.’
‘The only threat I’d be in a confined space is when I’ve had a good curry from my local. And terrorist organisations? I am, all right. The Monday Club is all I’m a member of. Meet every Monday except on bank holidays when we meet on a Tuesday. A bunch of lads and lasses like me gettin’ together for a few pints and a singsong is all it is. Though if you’re lookin’ for juice, Donal’s family were pretty heavily involved in the IRA all right.’
I hear the man questioning him clear his throat again.
‘Donal?’
‘Donal McCarthy. Ah, leave him alone, he’s ninety-seven, and I’m talkin’ about way back when his dad fought. The only rebellious thing he’s able to do now is whack the chessboard with his cane and that’s only because he’s frustrated he can’t play. Arthritis in both his hands. Could do with gettin’ it in his mouth, if you ask me. Talkin’ is all he does. Annoys Peter no end but they’ve never gotten along since he courted his daughter and broke her heart. She’s seventy-two. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? Had a wandering eye, she claimed, but sure, he’s as cock-eyed as they come. His eye wanders without him even knowing it. I wouldn’t blame the man for that, though he does like to dominate the conversations every week. I can’t wait for him to listen to me for a change.’ Dad laughs and sighs in the long pause that follows. ‘Do you think I could get a cuppa?’
‘We won’t be much longer, Mr Conway. What is the nature of your visit to London?’
‘I’m going because my daughter dragged me here, last minute. She gets off the phone yesterday morning and looks at me with a face as white as a sheet. I’m off to London, she says, like it’s somethin’ you just do last minute. Ah, maybe it is what you young people do, but not for me. Not what I’m used to at all, at all. Never been on a plane before, you see. So she says wouldn’t it be fun if we both go away? And usually I’d say no, I’ve loads to be doin’ in my garden. Have to put down the lilies, tulips, daffodils and hyacinths in time for the spring, you see, but she says live a little and I felt like peltin’ her because it’s more livin’ I’ve been doing than her. But because of recent, well, troubles, shall we say, I decided to come with her. And that’s no crime, is it?’
‘What recent troubles, Mr Conway?’
‘Ah, my Gracie—’
‘Joyce.’
‘Yes, thank you. My Joyce, she’s been goin’ through a rough patch. Lost her little baby a few weeks back, you see. Had been years trying to have one with a fella that plays tennis in little white shorts and things finally looked great but she had an accident, fell, you see and she lost the little one. Lost a little of herself too, if I’m to be honest with you. Lost the husband too just last week, but don’t you be feelin’ sorry for her about that. She lost somethin’ all right but, mind you, she got a little somethin’ she never had before. Can’t put my finger on exactly what, but whatever it is, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. Generally things aren’t goin’ right for her and sure, what kind of a father would I be to let her go off on her own in this state? She’s got no job, no baby, no husband, no mother and soon no house, and if she wants to go to London for a break, even if it is last minute, then she sure as hell is entitled to go without any more people stopping her from what she wants.
‘Here, take my bloody cap. My Joyce wants to go to London and you fellows should let her. She’s a good girl, never did a thing wrong in her life. She has nothing right now but me and this trip, as far as I can see. So here, take it. If I have to go without my cap and my shoes and my belt and my coat, well then, that’s fine by me, but my Joyce isn’t going to London without me.’
Well, if that isn’t enough to break a girl.
‘Mr Conway, you do know that you get your clothing back once you go through the metal detector?’
‘What?’ he shouts. ‘Why the hell didn’t she tell me that? All this feckin’ nonsense for nothing. Honestly, you’d think she almost wants the trouble sometimes. OK, lads, you can take my things. Will we still make the flight, do you think?’
Any tears that had welled very quickly dried.
Finally the door to my cell opens and, with a single nod, I’m a free woman.
‘Doris, you cannot move the stove in the kitchen. Al, tell her.’<
br />
‘Why not?’
‘Honey, first of all it’s heavy and second of all, it’s gas. You are not qualified to move around kitchen appliances,’ Al explains, and prepares to bite into a doughnut.
Doris whisks it away from him, leaving him to lick dribbles of jam from his fingers. ‘You two don’t seem to understand that it’s bad feng shui to have a stove facing a door. The person at the stove may instinctively want to glance back at the door, which creates a feeling of unease, which can lead to accidents.’
‘Perhaps removing the stove altogether will be a safer option for Dad.’
‘You have to give me a break,’ Justin sighs, sitting down at the new kitchen table and chairs. ‘All the place needs is furniture and a lick of paint, not for you to restructure the entire place according to yoda.’
‘It is not according to yoda,’ Doris huffs. ‘Donald Trump follows feng shui, you know.’
‘Oh, well then,’ Al and Justin say in unison.
‘Yes, well then. Maybe if you did what he did, you’d be able to walk up the stairs without having to take a lunch-break halfway up,’ she snaps at Al. ‘Just because you sell tyres, sweetie, it doesn’t mean you have to wear them too.’
Bea’s mouth drops and Justin tries not to laugh. ‘Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of here before it turns to violence.’
‘Where are you two going? Can I come?’ Al asks.
‘I’m going to the dentist and Bea has rehearsals for tonight.’
‘Good luck, Blondie.’ Al ruffles her hair. ‘We’ll be cheering for you.’
‘Thanks.’ She grinds her teeth and fixes her hair. ‘Oh, that reminds me. One more thing about the woman on the phone, Joyce?’
What, what, what? ‘What about her?’
‘She knows that I’m blonde.’
‘How did she know?’ Doris asks, with surprise.
‘She said she just guessed. But that’s not it. Before she hung up she said, “Best of luck with your ballet show.”’
‘So she’s a thoughtful lucky-guesser,’ Al shrugs.
‘Well, I was thinking about it afterward and I don’t remember telling her anything about my show being specifically ballet.’
Justin immediately looks to Al, a little more concerned now that it involves his daughter, but adrenalin still surges. ‘What do you think?’
Cecelia Ahern 2-book Bundle Page 39
