Mrs Kitchen’s house was called ‘Halifax Villa’. She was eponymously at her stove in her kitchen for she came to answer the chimes with flour on her hands. She wiped them on her apron in the manner of one about to do business.
He guessed she was in her fifties and she had spread. Her baggy chest rolled below a woollen jumper, her legs were bare and sturdy, so were her arms. The skin on her face, however, was smooth as milk and pale except for two doll-pink blotches on her cheeks.
They faced each other in silence. Eventually Mrs Kitchen said: ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Kitchen?’ he inquired. ‘This is Halifax Villa, I take it? I’m Edward Richardson.’
‘Oh, you are.’ She attacked first. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve come into the open. You’d better come in.’
He stepped into the hall. On the floor was a rag rug, the sort made on dull winter evenings, a telephone on a stand with a framed print of two shire-horses ploughing a field above it. ‘Halifax Villa’s an unusual name,’ he mentioned conversationally as she led him into a sitting-room furnished with tassled blue chairs and a red sofa. ‘Do you come from Halifax?’
‘It’s named after the building society,’ she told him bluntly. ‘We’ve paid out our last penny on this house. That is why we don’t want the neighbourhood spoiled.’ She regarded him. ‘You’re very tall,’ she said as if it might be cured. She invited him to sit down.
They sat looking at each other. Then he said: ‘It doesn’t need planning permission.’
‘Right,’ she said, accepting the challenge. ‘Let’s get down to business. The Residents’ Association requires you to dismantle, take down, or whatever, but remove that unauthorised erection on your house. It’s contrary to the nineteen thirty-seven covenant.’
‘I’ve never been party to any covenant. This is the first I’ve ever heard of it. That dome comes under the same heading as a greenhouse. It needed no planning permission.’
‘Ah, but it does,’ she said so strongly that he suddenly feared she might be right. ‘They are two separate and different erections, greenhouses and observatories. This one, for a start, is on top of your house and can be clearly seen. The covenant requires that such additions should not be made to residences in this village.’
Richardson felt himself bristle. ‘I will need to see written evidence of that.’ He kept his tone even.
‘Our Action Committee will provide it,’ she replied with confidence. ‘It will be presented to you at the same time as it is presented to the local authority. If they won’t sue, we will.’
‘Sue! Sue! What right have you to come to Bedmansworth …? God, you’ve only been here five minutes and start throwing your …’ He hesitated, surveying her bulk, ‘… weight about like this.’
‘I am concerned with the amenities and the environment,’ she told him bluntly. She leaned towards him and her eyes narrowed. ‘Amenities in every shape and form. We have to do everything we can.’
A plane making for Runway Two bellowed above the house. When it had gone and they could continue, she added emphatically: ‘I am also proud to be a member of GROAN.’
‘What’s GROAN?’ he asked helplessly.
‘You should know,’ she said regarding him with some scorn. ‘Group Resistance Over Airport Noise.’
‘Oh, you’re dabbling in that as well are you?’
‘Not dabbling, deeply concerned, as everyone should be.’
As if to emphasise her affirmation the shadow and roar of an outgoing plane passed the window. She waited until the sound had diminished. ‘It’s got to stop.’
‘I doubt if it will stop,’ he forecast easily. ‘Not until somebody designs the silent aeroplane. And I should point out that the airport was in place some years before these houses. The price no doubt reflected their location.’ The taunt went home. He rose. ‘I must be off. I’m going to look at the stars.’
‘Really,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m more concerned with earthly-matters. I’m afraid, Mr Richardson, you will find that I don’t give up. Never. We’ve always been battlers, my husband and I. We have battled at Leighton Buzzard, at Crawley and in Swindon. We have not always been the victors but we have fought.’
‘And now it’s my observatory,’ he mused. ‘I’m in impressive company.’
He made for the door. ‘I don’t intend to dismantle that observatory,’ he told her doggedly. ‘Other people also have their ideas of freedom, you know. I can fight at barricades too. Goodnight, Mrs Kitchen.’
She remained at the door as he strode down the garden path. ‘I like you,’ she called after him. ‘I’d like to be friends.’
Puzzled, he turned sharply. ‘Let us hope that might not become too difficult,’ he said.
Five
There was a hold-up in the northern tunnel and the staff bus was wedged in the stalled conveyor belt of traffic. The anxiety of people about to travel in the sky but finding themselves trapped below ground, was apparent in agitated drivers revving their engines, clouding the tunnel with fumes. Bramwell Broad, from his elevated seat in the bus, could see the faces of car drivers and passengers, pallid and set as masks with hollow eyes. The traffic began to edge forward; a horn sounded, a woman, her mouth moving silently behind glass, complained, a child banged its fist on a car window.
Outside the tunnel it was a warm, dim day, the air damp and thick; half the morning it had been drizzling and Bramwell was glad he was going away. Lettie had been moody at breakfast, her pink robe carelessly wound about her childish body, her face dark and pouting. He always thought she looked much browner when she was sulking. She had said she wanted her mother to visit her. She missed her mother. He had heard it before. By the time he had returned from a trip she had usually forgotten about it or could be assuaged with general promises. She would smile gratefully and suggest: ‘Also my brother and our Pauline.’ He would say: ‘No brother and no our Pauline.’ There would be further sulks, then she would easily brighten once he had paid attention to her, flattering her, telling her that no man in Bedwell Park Mansions had a wife like her, which was true. He would pour a glass of Tesco red for himself and a Ribena for her, they would raise the glasses romantically to each other and everything would be right. Lettie would sing appallingly as she took his soiled shirts and underwear into the utility room below and put them in the machine. He would put his feet on a footstool she herself had constructed from a kit he had bought to keep her occupied when he was absent and he would lean back rolling his shoulders into the armchair and read the newspaper.
For Bramwell striding into the terminal in his uniform was like entering into a different season, making a long journey in a couple of paces. Drizzle was cloaking the outside, soaking parking wardens, porters and policemen but to walk through the sliding doors was to step magically into light, warmth and animation. He enjoyed airports, especially Heathrow; they were full of excitement and promises.
As the glass partition opened he felt the warmth of the air within the terminal. It was like a fairground, the lights, the movement; the coloured check-in counters and the lit shops were sideshows, signs flashed, there were loud announcements and music played.
People criss-crossed the floors hauling bits of baggage on wheels. There was an emergency call for a lost bishop from Stockholm. At the check-in desks, trustful travellers were handing themselves over to authority, lock, stock and baggage; facing hours of regimentation. Girls on stools in smart flying uniforms went through the static routine of ticketing and weighing. A child, bound for Majorca, had wet herself in the queue and the mother was taking short quick steps to pass the responsibility onto the next in the line, an elderly man who stared at the puddle, uncertain of its origin.
Unruly children were dodging and shrieking among the legs of shuffling adults. A man deftly extended his foot to send one of the dashing infants headlong into a group of men wearing kilts and carrying golf clubs. Here was the world compressed into the area of a football pitch. There were girls with mini-skirts and knock knees; women hung w
ith anxieties and coats and executives in earnest suits. Two threadbare Irish priests, chins stubbled, argued about the Departures indicator while two nuns stood trustingly. ‘Father Brennan will know,’ one told the other. ‘You just see.’
Some passengers hurried, harrying those with them, others sat listlessly, as if they had already lost interest, others grouped to stare open-mouthed at directional signs. Bramwell had often thought it was a miracle that some of them ever left the earth at all and yet not one lacked faith that, despite all evidence to the contrary, they would sooner or later fly high and effortlessly away beyond the clouds to some far destination.
That morning Bramwell was on the flight to Bahrain, the first leg of the plane’s eventual journey to Singapore and on to Sydney. The stage would take six hours and they would leave on time. It was an almost full flight. The captain, co-pilot and flight engineer were making pre-take-off checks on the flight deck, confined as astronauts in a space capsule. There would be one steward and two stewardesses for the eighteen passengers in the First Class section at the front of the plane; there would be four in the extended Cabin Class in the middle where there were sixty passengers, and nine to service the 278 Economy travellers at the rear. The Boeing 747–400 would be cruising at an altitude of 39,000 feet, far above clouds and weather but prey to occasional clear air turbulence, with a ground speed of 620 knots. The pilot might encounter difficulties as diverse as volcanic ash floating in the high atmosphere (which once stopped all four engines of a British Airways plane in flight), birds on the approach to a runway, and the mystery luminescence of St Elmo’s Fire on the wingtips. Lunch and an afternoon snack would be served on this first stage; there was a movie, ten channels of stereo entertainment and an in-flight magazine.
Bramwell was the purser in charge of Cabin Class. He had seen Barbara Poppins at the crew assembly and briefing and she was now working with him. They busied themselves with their checks. Was the food lift working? Were the headsets on board? Was the food on board? There had been a flight which had turned back when well on its journey to Moscow because no lunch had been loaded.
‘How’s the Mercedes?’ asked Barbara casually.
‘Any more of that and I’ll give you the washing-up,’ said Bramwell. ‘I’ve swapped it for a Vauxhall.’
Tarrant, the cabin service director, came into the galley. ‘Bramwell,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Mr Richardson, the commercial manager, is joining this flight, so I’ve just heard. Look after him, will you. And I’m swapping Holloway around. He’s coming in here instead of in Steerage.’ He eyed Bramwell. ‘You know Holloway’s a Jehovah’s Witness? He tends to pray during take-off and landing. Keep him out of sight of the customers. I wish I could do something to stop him, defrock him or something.’
‘Holy Holloway? Well, once, under certain circumstances, you could have done,’ suggested Bramwell. ‘He used to be gay. Now he’s a Jehovah’s Witness, I don’t know. Perhaps you can be both.’
‘Well, on this service, I’m Jehovah,’ said Tarrant. ‘So no praying.’
Holloway, his pleasantly moonish face damp and beaming, wriggled along the aisle. ‘Good morning, everyone,’ he gently greeted each one in turn. The service director grunted and moved on. ‘Bless him,’ muttered Holloway. ‘And us all.’
Barbara smiled. Bramwell said: ‘No time for blessings now, Holy. Here they come.’
‘Bless them,’ said Holloway.
The first passengers were entering the cavernous Boeing; nervous-faced people, people clutching hand baggage and children, blinking as they came aboard, looking around them at the curved, enclosing walls. Another conga line was jolting slowly along the parallel aisle. Heads bobbed and moved from side to side trying to get a view ahead. People, separated, called reassurances to each other.
Once the front of the twin lines had reached the Economy section the progress was slowed and then spasmodically halted as people searched for their seats, their boarding cards held out like licences. Those struggling to heave baggage into the overhead lockers blocked the passage of others following. There were polite pushes, tight smiles and small concealed snarls. Two children began to wail, one at the extreme rear and one at the front of the Economy section. As if each recognised a rival the howls travelled the long length of the cabin.
There was a tight-lipped anxiety and a touch of ill will in the boarding of a large aeroplane. The strung-out line progressed roughly along the metal enclosure but by degrees the stumbling queue thinned. The last mother carrying a baby, its bottled nourishment, its linen and its transport, a folded pushchair, tottered her way into the aircraft and distractedly asked Bramwell: ‘Sydney?’ Bramwell confirmed it was the plane’s eventual destination and made to relieve her of the pushchair and her hand baggage. Instead she dexterously transferred the baby to him. It had chocolate-matted fingers and, as though welcoming the opportunity, it caught hold of his white shirt collar. It began to snivel and its nappy was loaded. Bramwell rolled his eyes and, seeing Barbara hovering, passed the child gratefully to her. ‘Have a nice baby,’ he muttered.
Quickly he opened the toilet door; he had to get the chocolate off his collar. An old man was sitting on the lavatory, his trousers and woollen underpants piled around his ankles. Bramwell apologised. ‘S’all right, lad,’ replied the man. ‘Couldn’t wait. Forgot to lock the door.’ He called out when Bramwell was outside again and the steward reopened a crack in the door and asked him what he wanted. ‘It is all right, is it?’ inquired the crouched figure. ‘I mean, it’s not like a train in the station?’
Bramwell reassured him, went into the adjoining cubicle and tried to get the chocolate smudges from his collar with a wet tissue. He could hear the Club Class passengers coming aboard. Scowling at the brown stain in the mirror he said: ‘Shit.’
He left the cubicle. Edward Richardson was settling into his seat. They wished each other good morning. Richardson’s attention went straight to the marks on the collar. ‘It’s all right,’ said Bramwell. ‘It’s Cadbury’s.’
He turned to greet other passengers now, a handkerchief pressed to his collar. ‘Good morning, sir. Which is your seat number? Yes, here it is.’ A heavy, tired young man took the window seat next to Richardson. ‘God, I’m shagged,’ he said as if they had known each other for years. ‘Glad to get back, I will be … to the good old Gulf. At least you don’t have women after you. You can keep London. Bahrain for me any day, mate.’ His leaden eyes closed and he dropped into an immediate sleep, his large chest heaving. Richardson nudged him and without opening his eyes he fastened his seat-belt. ‘Women,’ he muttered dreamingly. ‘Keep them.’
No matter how far or how often he flew, no matter how difficult or delayed the journeys, Richardson had never ceased to enjoy the experience of aeroplanes. Twenty-five years before, when he had begun as a junior in the airline’s public relations department, there had remained the last of a generation of wartime flying men who would not have settled into a peacetime life where their feet were on the ground. The boom in civil airlines was a boon to them and they were a boon to the infant industry for they could fly anything. They did, as their phrase had it, by the seat of their pants. Now pilots, generations on, sat up front in aircraft that, for much of the time, flew themselves, computers clicking them through the sky, each as much a passenger as a maiden aunt on a maiden flight.
The plane left on time, the company boasted that eighty-five per cent did. Richardson automatically checked his watch as they pulled softly away from the pier. Through the window he saw the ground engineer, his muffs like cartoon ears, give the thumbs-up sign. They had been been doing that since the infancy of flying; thumbs-up as the propellers whirled. Even the lifeboat crew who had attended, as a precautionary rescue team, the Wright Brothers’ first flight in 1903 on the coast of North Carolina, had given the thumbs-up as the plane took off on its twelve-second flight. Now there were no propellers, only the humming silver pods below the wings. He remembered when a red-capped ground marshall would sa
lute; in Japan the service crews lined up and bowed. But from Heathrow it was a cheery wave as the engineer marched away trailing his leadwires to his next check.
The plane turned with the studied grace of a curtsey and moved warily forward towards the open ground of the airport, between the glassy buildings, the piers and the other big, patiently waiting aircraft; great, dumb machines, asking nothing, not even respite, only that they should be fuelled and tended. As soon as this flight had reached Australia, after twenty-three hours in the air, it would untiringly turn its nose home again, cleaned, scrutinised, refurbished, and with a new human cargo, retracing its long, same and invisible path girdling the world. It often seemed to Richardson, especially in the night hours, that the plane sang to itself, romantic moonlight on its wide wings. The longer an aircraft flew, the better it flew and some had been airborne for years, the old Boeing 707, its engine pods like a grandmother’s curlers traipsing around the globe still.
He had noted they were fourth in the queue for the runway, taxi-ing to the furthest extreme of the semicircle where the concrete became grass, where stone-deaf rabbits munched. A Cathay Pacific Boeing 747–400 was first to go off; it would not land until it came in from the mountains of Hong Kong, low over buildings, so low you could almost spy into windows, and touched down on the slender harbour runway of Kai Tek Airport. A British Airways Trident was next, fussily turning onto the runway at the three-quarter mark, bound for Glasgow, where, regular as a carrier pigeon, she had already been twice that morning. Immediately in front of Richardson’s aircraft was a fat plane with the Cedar of Lebanon on its tailfin, Middle East Airlines, which had been trading in and out of Khaldeh Airport, Beirut, untouched through years of civil war.
On this good summer morning, there were three-minute intervals between take-offs, one airliner transformed into a smudge of farewell smoke in the sky before the next began to boost its engines. The Boeing gave a brief nudge as if to rouse itself, yawned, increased its speed between the bright lights along the runway and with a lazy curve lifted its nose from the ground, confident as a goose. The patterned airport, the motorway, other roads with their Monopoly houses, fanned out below the wings. Up among the icecream clouds the airliner droned. The horizon expanded; wide reservoirs flashed meaningless messages in the sun, the shadows of clouds smudged the flattened countryside.
Arrivals & Departures Page 9
