‘Sketches at the airport,’ he mused. ‘Well, there’s plenty of movement.’
‘I was worried if it would be okay. How do I get by about the security? I’ll only be in one of the terminals and I’ll sit there quietly and rough things out as the basis for a series of paintings.’
He thought about it. ‘I don’t think there could be any problem,’ he told her. ‘It’s hardly loitering with intent. If you do have any difficulty, just give my office a call. I’ll give you my card.’
‘That’s kind of you, Edward.’ Rona glanced slightly at him.
‘I’m off on a trip,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell my secretary to get somebody to help you if you have any problems. Her name’s Harriet. She enjoys skirmishing with the security people. They’ve tried stopping her when she’s riding her bicycle. They think she looks suspicious.’
Rona laughed. ‘She rides a bike at the airport?’
‘You should see her. Six feet tall and wears short shorts.’
They were on the main road going west. He stopped at the lights. ‘My office is just about in the middle of the three terminals on this side,’ he told her. ‘Come up and have a coffee and I’ll introduce you to Harri. Then if you have to call her you’ll know each other. Will you be coming here to sketch on other days?’
‘I’d certainly like to.’
He parked the car and they walked towards his office. ‘It’s like a city, isn’t it,’ she observed as they went along the pavement. ‘A moving city.’
‘Fifty thousand people work here,’ he said. ‘Not counting those trying to get in and get out.’ A United Airlines Boeing appeared, apparently from the middle of the building before them and steeply climbed an invisible hill.
‘You love it, don’t you,’ she said watching with him as it vanished, leaving a paw-mark of smoke low on the horizon. ‘I can tell.’
‘It fascinates me,’ he admitted. ‘I can never get used to it.’ He touched her elbow and they went into the lobby of the office where he checked her through security, then through a further set of doors where Richardson had to play out the numbers on a dial.
‘Where are you flying today? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask?’ she said.
‘East Africa. Mombasa. All our station staff are in hospital, struck down by some bug. We’re flying replacement people there but I’ve got to sort it out, which is not going to be easy, knowing Mombasa.’ They had reached his office. Harriet was in the storeroom adjoining. He could hear the cups. ‘Morning, Harri,’ he called. ‘We have a visitor for coffee.’
Harriet came from the back room, pole like, bespectacled, and wearing cycling shorts. She had once been described by a radio officer as thin as a morse message. She apologised as Richardson introduced them.
‘I don’t always look like this, honestly,’ she said. ‘Do I, Mr Richardson? I get changed when I get here. I was just about to put my dress on. I’m decent by nine o’clock.’
‘Harriet is one of the pioneers of cycling at Heathrow,’ smiled Richardson.
‘Reviving it,’ corrected the secretary. She indicated the fading airport photographs on the wall. ‘See, there’s a delivery man on a bicycle in this one, another just dismounting outside the tent here and here, look, two air hostesses on bikes, and wearing white gloves.’
Rona stepped towards the photographs. ‘That’s amazing,’ she said reading the inscription below the main picture. ‘Heathrow nineteen forty-seven,’ she repeated. ‘Well, well. Tents and bicycles.’
‘Even the bookshop is in a tent,’ said the secretary pointing.
Richardson said to Harriet: ‘Mrs Train is going to do some sketching in one of the terminals.’ Harriet smiled in a knowing way he did not recall seeing before. Her nose wrinkled as she glanced sideways. The slim American woman was still studying the photographs. Rona turned. ‘I hope I won’t be in the way.’
‘Everyone gets in everyone’s way at Heathrow,’ observed Harriet. Richardson said to her: ‘If there are any problems with security or anyone, I’ve asked Mrs Train to give us as a reference. So she may telephone for help.’
Rona said: ‘I hope it won’t be necessary. I’ll sit quietly in a corner.’
‘That way they’re bound to think you’re suspicious,’ laughed Harriet. ‘Everyone else is in a frenzy, even when they’re sitting.’ She went outside and brought in the coffee on a tray. The telephone rang and Richardson picked it up. He laughed. ‘Hello, Doctor. Well, you’ll be going a bit further than Fulham today. You’ve got the faxes and all that stuff. Hope you’ve got your passport. Right. I’ll pick you up on the way.’ He checked his watch. ‘The flight’s at eleven fifty. There’s room in First Class today, I hope.’
Rona finished her coffee and picked up her case. ‘Terminal Three is in front of you as you go out of the door,’ said Harriet. ‘The others are not far, One and Two that is. Terminal Four is miles, practically at Gatwick. I’ll have to come down with you to check you out. They won’t let you into these buildings, and then they won’t let you out.’
When Rona had gone down with her Richardson sat behind the desk staring ahead, then stood and went to the window. She was walking on the opposite pavement towards the terminal. Harriet returned. ‘A nice American lady,’ she said carefully.
Richardson did not look up. ‘She is,’ he agreed. ‘Have you got a complete list of the personnel at Mombasa?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said the secretary disappearing into the store. She emerged immediately. ‘When Americans are nice, they’re nice,’ she persisted.
‘Yes. She and her mother are staying in the pub down in Bedmansworth.’
‘Here we are,’ she said bringing over a file. ‘Odd place to stay.’
His eyes came up. He took the file from her. ‘This is dated August twenty-first.’
‘There have been no changes,’ she said. ‘I checked when they asked yesterday. You’d think Americans would go into London, wouldn’t you.’
He sighed at her assiduity. ‘The old lady,’ he said patiently, ‘Mrs Train’s mother, was taken ill on the way and they ended up in the village.’ He was looking through the papers in the file. ‘Bill Allsop was finishing next month,’ he said. ‘Due to come home.’
‘End of tour,’ she agreed. ‘Back home on November thirtieth. What’s wrong with them? Are they all sick?’
‘Some dreaded African lurgi,’ he said. ‘That’s why Dr Snow is coming.’
‘He was married to an opera singer, you know,’ said Harriet.
‘A violinist, I believe,’ he corrected. ‘Poor old Allsop.’
‘She went off with somebody,’ said Harriet smugly.
‘You seem to know a lot about Dr Snow.’
‘His nurse cycles to work,’ she explained. ‘She’s one of our movement. PEDAL it’s called.’
‘I presume that stands for something,’ he observed. ‘GROAN stands for Group Reaction Over Airport Noise, you know.’
Harriet said she did. She sat at her desk and stared into the screen of her word processor as if seeking a message or reassurance. ‘We’re trying to find some appropriate words to fit PEDAL,’ she admitted. ‘And they’re still there then?’
‘Who?’
‘The American ladies, Rona and her mother.’
‘Harri, I have to go to Africa.’
‘I know. Your tickets are here.’ She produced them. ‘I was only interested.’
I’ll keep you posted,’ he promised.
He signed a sheaf of letters. ‘The rest of it will have to wait.’
He picked up his travelling bag and his briefcase. ‘I’ll call when I get there,’ he said moving towards the door. ‘Anything otherwise, put it on the fax.’
When he had gone Harriet went and changed into her office dress. She returned to the room and, imitating Rona Train, walked precisely to the photographs on the wall. ‘I’ll sit quietly in one corner,’ she said mimicking the American’s voice. She turned towards the door from which Richardson had exited and poked out her tongue.
>
Dr Snow, unsuitably tweed suited, was standing anxious faced with his two cases. As Richardson arrived, his surgery nurse followed with a newly-purchased toilet bag. ‘There’s toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, everything you’ll need,’ she told him pointing each one out. She said to Richardson. ‘He’s like a boy going on an outing. Next he’ll be wanting a bucket and spade.’
‘What’s the latest on the patients?’ asked Richardson. ‘God only knows what it’s like in the office down there. It’s always chaotic and with all of them smitten at once it must be murder. We’ve sent out a couple of chaps as stopgaps. They went yesterday.’
The Scot peered over his glasses at a fax lying on top of the machine. ‘Well, they’re all still pretty poorly by the sound of it. They’re in an American missionary clinic.’ He looked up quizzically. ‘Rather better than the local hospital, I would guess.’
Richardson glanced at the clock on the wall behind the desk. ‘We should be going,’ he suggested. ‘I have a couple of things to check at the terminal first but I won’t be long.’
‘I’m ready,’ said the doctor picking up his bags. His nurse patted him on the arm and then kissed him on the cheek. To Richardson’s surprise she said: ‘Don’t be nervous.’ Snow looked a little peeved but then grinned unsurely at Richardson. ‘Nurse Robinson seems to have got some notion that I’m worried about flying. And me, an airline doctor.’
The nurse studied his tweed suit. ‘Are you not going to be a little warm in that?’
‘I’ll take my coat off,’ said Snow.
Richardson regarded him curiously. ‘You don’t fly a great deal, do you,’ he said.
‘Not really. Every year for the Tchai Festival, that’s all.’
‘He could go anywhere,’ sniffed the nurse disapprovingly. ‘Staff concessions and the like. But he doesn’t.’
‘It’s like Harriet, my secretary,’ said Richardson. ‘She could travel all over the place for ten per cent and she prefers cycling.’
‘I go to Suffolk, it’s very level,’ said the nurse. She looked at Snow unconvincingly. ‘It’s quite safe, flying,’ she said.
‘I’d rather it be safe, than quite safe,’ the doctor said. He turned to Richardson. ‘I’ll be all right as long as I don’t look down.’ The nurse kissed him on the cheek again and like a mother ushered him to the door.
The two men went from the building. ‘Was it you suggested I came?’ inquired Snow screwing his face to study an aircraft rising into the sun.
‘We needed a medical man from here,’ said Richardson. ‘And I thought you’d like the change. I hope you won’t miss too much Tchaikovsky?’
‘Nothing outstanding this week,’ Snow assured him. He was a deliberate walker and Richardson had to reduce his normal brisk pace. ‘Su Yung played the violin concerto on Saturday at the Barbican. She’s very good.’ He looked reflective. ‘Those wee Orientals are marvellously dedicated,’ he said.
‘There won’t be much Tchaikovsky where we’re going,’ said Richardson.
‘I shall listen to him in my head.’
They went to the airline crew room and then towards Departures. At once Richardson saw Rona sitting against the window watching passengers go through the first gate check. ‘I see a friend,’ he said to Snow. ‘She’s doing some sketches.’ They went over to her. She was drawing quickly on a block. She looked up and Snow blushed as Richardson introduced them.
Richardson asked: ‘Are we allowed to see?’
‘It’s just skeletons,’ she said exposing the pad. ‘Outlines.’
‘A good place to sketch,’ approved Snow. ‘A lot of dramas at Departures.’
‘It certainly is,’ agreed Rona. ‘Already I’ve seen more tears, more rending apart, more brave faces, more vanishing smiles, than you’d see anywhere. Look there.’
They watched a young woman tightly embracing a man who was telling her not to cry, making her smile with some joke. Abruptly, as though wanting to be done with it, her arms remaining spread but now empty, he strode towards the gate showing his ticket and his boarding pass. He rolled his hips as he waved goodbye. She was still trying to laugh and not to weep as he vanished through the door, going into another room leading to another country, perhaps another life, another woman.
As he went she turned and her ordinary face collapsed into sobs which she carried in her hands towards the exit stairs where she paused and looked back hollow faced as if he might reappear.
‘He’s not coming back,’ said Rona softly.
‘He may never,’ agreed Snow shaking his head.
‘Or he may,’ said Rona. ‘And maybe she’ll not be here to meet him.’
‘At Departures you see it all,’ said Richardson. He glanced at the doctor. ‘I think we’d better go on to our particular drama,’ he said. He laughed quietly. ‘I can’t imagine what it would be like for someone to cry when I was going away,’ he said. He glanced at Rona. ‘It becomes so ordinary.’
He and Snow said goodbye and walked through Departures. After they had gone beyond passports and put their hand luggage through the security X-rays, Snow said: ‘What a beautiful woman. And gentle.’
‘Yes,’ said Richardson. ‘She is.’
As they made their way to the plane Snow dropped to silence. Richardson knew that there were people afraid to fly although they earned their livelihood at Heathrow; perhaps that was why. Harriet had once looked from the office window at yet another airliner hanging unsupported in the sky and said: ‘The most I want my feet to rise above the ground is on the pedals of my bike.’ There was a Heathrow air traffic controller who could not be levered into an aeroplane. To him, aeroplanes were all-too-adjacent dots on a tight screen, far out in the long drop of the sky.
‘Years ago,’ remembered Snow when they were sitting at the gate, ‘in the fifties, I was in Turkey and I hitched a lift to Paris in an American Air Force freighter.’ It was almost as if he needed to get it off his chest, talking to fill the clean, dismal and vacuous room where they waited with two hundred others for the flight to be called. ‘There were no seats and I spent all night on the deck jammed against a fellow who was coughing his life away. First it was cold, then it was hot. When I couldn’t stand it any further, I went up to the flight deck. And my God! They were all asleep! It was on automatic and the pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, were all snoring.’
Richardson regarded him wryly. ‘You might have gone on forever like the Flying Dutchman.’
‘Until the fuel ran out,’ corrected the doctor.
‘How did they wake to change course?’
‘An alarm clock,’ Snow said glumly. ‘They had a tin alarm clock.’
The ground stewardess at the head of the long room switched on her microphone. ‘Flight AB430 to Mombasa and Harare is now ready for boarding. Passengers with seat allocations numbering fifteen to thirty-three please board now. Have your boarding cards ready.’
Snow rose, stretching his tweed legs resignedly. Richardson said: ‘Let them all get aboard first.’
‘The longer I can keep my feet on God’s earth, the better,’ said the Scot. ‘What’s Mombasa like?’
‘Mid-Africa,’ shrugged Richardson. ‘Urban mid-Africa, I should say. High-rises, a triumphal arch or two and the rest slums.’ He grimaced at the tweed suit. ‘You won’t need a jacket,’ he said.
‘I can take it off,’ said Snow. ‘It’s not an encumbrance.’
‘Most airline crews don’t go out of the hotel in Mombasa,’ continued Richardson. ‘Aircraft to hotel, hotel to aircraft and that’s it. A surprising number are not very adventurous.’
Snow surveyed the African passengers lining with their bundles and bangles. One man carried a pair of bicycle wheels as hand baggage and another a wrapped car exhaust. Many of the people were glistening ebony, the women in bright shawls and furled native headdresses, the men in uncomfortable western suits.
‘We’ve kept Mombasa going, a bit of leftover from the days of the Empire,’ said Richardson. ‘One day, I sup
pose the company thought, it was going to prove useful again as a staging post to South Africa. And that’s how it’s turning out.’ Most of the passengers had boarded now. The two men moved forward and the man and the girl at the gate recognised Richardson. ‘Couldn’t you find somewhere else to go, Mr Richardson?’ grinned the man glancing at the computer screen.
‘I could, but the firm couldn’t,’ shrugged Richardson. They walked through the inclined, carpeted tunnel. ‘This is my first wee nasty bit,’ suggested Snow in a Scots whisper. ‘Like walking through the Fallopian tube.’
At the door of the aircraft the cabin service director greeted them. ‘Room in First today, Mr Richardson, Doctor,’ he said a little under his breath.
‘So I heard,’ said Richardson as the man went before them into the cabin. He smiled encouragingly at Snow. ‘Champagne and canapés.’ They sat in the two front seats, Snow next to the window. As soon as he was seated he scrutinised the ground and then, like a man making a final decision, pulled the shutter down. ‘We’re right in the nose,’ he muttered leaning towards Richardson. ‘There’s nobody out there.’ His finger pointed dolefully. ‘Not a soul.’
‘Not even the pilot,’ said Richardson. ‘He’s upstairs.’
Snow ran his teeth together. ‘So if we should … er … say tip forward this position will hit the ground first.’
‘Roughly, yes. But I don’t believe they’re planning that for today.’ The steward appeared with a tray of champagne and Snow brightened. He and Richardson briefly toasted each other. Richardson said sympathetically: ‘I understand, believe me. For myself, I have never worked out how they keep a train on the railway track. And there are times when they don’t. Travelling at over a hundred miles an hour when you’re still in contact with the earth doesn’t fill me with confidence. The air is a good deal softer. And the way trains wobble and the way they skim past each other, inches between them …’
Snow was slow to convince. The engines of the Boeing began to hum. ‘It doesn’t seem natural, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Every time I see a plane take off from Heathrow, and I’m there almost every day, I feel uncomfortably sure it’s not going to make it.’ He sipped his champagne furtively. ‘And need they fly so high?’
Arrivals & Departures Page 15
