Grainger re-entered the room. ‘If you mean me, I’m here,’ he announced. He surveyed Phillipson’s costume with embarrassed surprise. ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ he muttered.
Phillipson said: ‘I got here as soon as I could.’ He was not in awe of Grainger. He straightened his neckerchief and dragged a chair from the wall as though about to start an indoor activity. He sat down and leaned forward, his fractured tooth exposed like a fang, then produced a grubby notepad and wiped his spectacles on his shorts.
‘I don’t think you’ll need the notebook, Henry,’ said Grainger impatiently. ‘The less of this that is taken down in writing, the less will be given in evidence.’
‘I’d forgotten you were once in the police force,’ commented Phillipson putting his notebook and pencil in his back pocket.
Grainger reddened and said: ‘I was a special constable. Purely voluntary.’ Richardson and Snow began to enjoy it.
Grainger placed his hands flat on the blotter. There were pale fibres on their backs which quivered in the low rays of the desk lamp. He peered over and then through his severe glasses. ‘I assume we all know the situation,’ he said. ‘I gave Henry a résumé on the telephone. In a nutshell, Bill Allsop being brought back to this country from Africa – and dying on the plane. And we all know what from.’
‘Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome,’ Snow told him.
‘Quite. Aids,’ muttered Grainger. He glanced at each in turn leaving out Chandler, still sitting like a forgotten safeguard behind them. ‘And let’s not be too prissy about this. To have one of our senior employees die on one of our services is bad enough, but to have him die in this way is disastrous.’
‘It certainly was for him,’ said Snow.
‘May I finish, Doctor?’
‘Please do.’
‘Look, let’s not beat about the bush. I have to think what the customers are going to think.’ His eyes paled as if he needed help. ‘This business, and this job, are difficult enough without …’ He left the sentence unfinished. Assertive again he thrust his head towards Richardson. ‘You went out, Edward, to sort out the situation.’ It was an accusation.
‘I did,’ said Richardson. ‘I found that the entire establishment was laid low with a tropical infection, although when Dr Snow and I arrived they were over the worst of it. They were being looked after at the American clinic in Mombasa, but Bill Allsop had refused to go there. He was dying privately at home.’
‘How did you know he had Aids?’ asked Grainger. He said it as though with difficulty and added: ‘For Christ’s sake.’
‘For Christ’s sake, indeed,’ put in Snow. ‘Allsop told me. He said that he had known for some time that he was HIV positive, as the popular phrase has it. His system just could not combat this infection.’
‘And you brought him home,’ said Grainger, his eyes sliding slightly left to Richardson. ‘Why?’
‘He wanted to come home,’ said Richardson simply. ‘He asked to see England and his wife.’
‘Very nice,’ muttered Grainger. He turned his attention to Snow again. ‘Was he a homosexual?’
Snow leaned sideways and called to Chandler. ‘Not Tchaikovsky this time, Mr Chandler.’
Grainger, amazed and hurt, almost snarled. ‘For God’s sake, Doctor, let’s get this done. How did he get Aids in the beginning?’
‘There’s a selection of ways in Africa,’ Snow told him as though recommending a visit. ‘But he was not a homosexual. Not that I would have thought that would have mattered, not in the airline business.’
Grainger’s teeth clamped. He looked bitterly at Richardson and then to Snow again. He spoke slowly. ‘Didn’t it occur to either of you that this was, to say the least, an inadvisable action? It’s the image of the thing….’ He glanced severely at Phillipson who had produced a piece of string and was tying knots in it. ‘… What if the press get onto this?’
‘It’s a very good story,’ admitted Phillipson with what sounded like a touch of relish. ‘Aids … dying man … Africa … wants to see England and wife … brought home … expires … upsets airline’s passengers.’
‘Let’s hope to God nobody sniffs it out,’ sniffed Grainger. ‘If anybody does then you are going to have to deny it point blank, Phillipson.’
‘Let’s hope it does not arise,’ replied Phillipson as though apprehensive for his Scout’s honour.
‘I’m going to have to take this to the board anyway,’ said Grainger. ‘Something like this has to be. Let’s hope the press don’t get hold of it. It’s difficult enough these days to get passengers, without them suspecting that they’re sitting next to somebody … who is likely to die. Thank you.’
His thanks was a dismissal. They got up and went towards the door. ‘Incidentally,’ said Richardson almost over his shoulder. ‘Bill Allsop’s funeral is on Monday.’
‘I have to be in Paris,’ said Grainger trying to sound regretful. ‘You are going?’
‘Of course. And Dr Snow will be.’
‘He’s our baby,’ said Snow.
Edward slept brokenly, a sleep riven with dreams; Allsop bawling ‘Burlington Bertie’ and haunting the Strand with his gloves on his hand; Tony and Annabelle begging him to run to refuge in their tent. And in between the frenzy a dream of Rona, sketching, talking to him: ‘I want to draw you.’
It was late that evening when he had returned from Allsop’s funeral in Cambridgeshire in a wind-cleft churchyard in the fens. Allsop’s widow had remained expressionless throughout the service and the burial. The only words she had spoken to Richardson and Snow were: ‘I’m glad he wanted to come home.’
They had stopped at an inn on the return journey and had dinner. ‘It’s difficult to tell with the bereaved,’ Snow had mused. ‘You could not make out whether she was grieving or what. There’s no occasion when people hide their feelings so well.’
Strangely exhausted, Edward had returned to the darkened house. Adele did not stir but eventually his fitful turns roused her and they lay awake but unspeaking, side by side, staring at their ceiling, powerless to stop what they had – they owned – slipping away from them. Their past was moving out of their sight.
‘Am I keeping you awake?’ he asked eventually.
‘You woke me up,’ she said without complaint. ‘You were rolling about.’
At one time, earlier in their lives when they slept together, they would have turned and embraced until they were settled and able to sleep again. He half wanted to face to her in the present darkness. He almost did so but she said: ‘Why don’t you go into the other room. We’ll both sleep then.’
‘All right,’ he responded quietly, wearily. He put his feet on the carpet and stared at them; two white fish lying in dim water. Then he picked up one of his pillows and went out onto the landing and into the smaller room.
In the room was a rocking horse that Toby had ridden in childhood and which they had always meant to give to someone else. He watched the pale-faced horse and fell into a light, brief sleep. Then he awoke, got up and, putting on a sweater, his grey flannels and tennis shoes, deftly let himself out of the house. It was early, empty daylight. Adele’s patterned front garden was embroidered with dew. An elaborate spider’s web was glistening across the front gate like a miniature suspension bridge. Rather than break it he climbed over the gate into the silent street.
It was a clear morning although the forecast promised cloud and showers later. Sunrise shadows stretched becalmed across the street, the spire of the church furthest, projecting over the road, the shadow of its gilded arrow weathervane resting against the shut door of the Swan.
Jim Turner was in the yard at the side glaring at a pyramid of barrels and crates as if trying to move them by sheer willpower. ‘You’re out early,’ he said to Richardson. He sighed: ‘I look at this pile and I wonder if it’s all worthwhile. Don’t you feel like that sometimes?’
‘I wish it were only beer barrels,’ laughed Richardson. He hesitated then asked: ‘How are your American
guests?’
‘Just fine,’ said Jim doing an imitation of Pearl Collingwood’s accent. He stepped two paces closer, confidingly. ‘They pay up on the nail, they’re nice and friendly, they never complain about the food or the service, such as it is. But all the time I wonder what they’re doing here. I mean, here. Bedmansworth. Can you believe it, I can’t.’
‘Just … being here,’ suggested Richardson. Jim shook his head. ‘Getting free from their usual life,’ Richardson went on. ‘Opting out, I suppose you could say.’
‘Running away,’ said Jim.
‘Yes, you could call it that.’
The publican looked thoughtfully at the crates and barrels. ‘Suit me, that would, running away. That kid of mine drives me mad. That bloody pigtail. Can’t get a job. I told him it could be because of the pigtail. I certainly wouldn’t employ a freak like that.’ He regarded the other man with almost comic appeal. ‘Did you know that if Queen Victoria had lived she would be a hundred and seventy-three years old by now.’
‘Ah, your mother-in-law.’
‘That’s another one,’ said Jim thinking of his worries. He shrugged. ‘But you can’t, can you. Run away. At least I can’t.’ He looked wistful. ‘There’s never any time.’
Richardson continued along the village street. He had decided on collecting the newspapers almost as an excuse for getting up early. The shop was open with a spectral yellow electric glow issuing from its open door. He went in. Mrs Latimer, the newsagent’s wispy wife, finished counting through a pile of magazines before looking up from the counter. ‘Richardsons’ papers are gone,’ she said as if concluding there was nothing else he could possibly want. ‘They’ll be through the letterbox by now. They’re gone with the twins.’ She threw her arm wide and he smiled, grateful for her cheeriness.
‘How are the twins?’ he asked.
‘Still the same,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘Some people still can’t tell them apart and they’re eleven now.’
‘They have to start work early,’ said Richardson.
‘Oh they love it. Like lightning they are. Run, run, run all the time. They want to be footballers, you see. Their father wants them to play for Fulham. He says they’ve got to aim for the top.’
Richardson walked from the shop and passed the twins as they cloned their way up parallel garden paths, each with his sacking bag large around his neck. ‘Come on Fulham!’ he called to them. Both stopped and stared at him. ‘Stuff Fulham,’ they responded as one.
Anthony Burridge came into undulating view around the edge of the churchyard wall. He was in a blazoned tracksuit, jogging thoughtfully, mildly sweating. He continued to prance slightly, on the spot. ‘Half an hour and then shower in the bucket and change and off to work. I’m knackered,’ he confessed to Richardson.
He breathed heavily. ‘It’s keeping it up is the trouble.’ Still jogging on the spot he suddenly said: ‘We’re having a baby. We’re scared stiff.’
Richardson shook the perspiring hand. ‘But it’s the tent,’ said Burridge. ‘You can’t bring up a baby in a tent. Not unless you’re an Arab. We’ve got to find somewhere for the winter.’ Then he said: ‘I’m cooling. I must go.’
Richardson watched him jog away and then returned to his house. Adele was in her dressing-gown in the kitchen. ‘I thought you’d run away,’ she said.
‘I was going to but I got frightened,’ he responded. They both laughed. It was like a door opening and for a moment their hands reached out and touched. ‘There’s tea in the pot,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to rush. It’s the county committee this morning.’
‘The Burridges are having a baby,’ he said.
‘What? In that bivouac?’ She frowned. ‘They must be mad.’
He poured tea from the pot. ‘How was Brenda at the funeral?’ she asked.
‘Just … blank,’ he said. ‘She had no expression at all.’
‘To lose your husband is bad enough,’ she said looking into her cup. ‘But to lose him like that must be hard.’
Toby sat beside him in the car as they drove towards Windsor. The trees were swiftly losing their leaves now, one night of high winds would strip them. But the sun flecked through the branches as they drove. Richardson was aware that it had been a long time since he had been alone with his son.
‘Mr Old’s got a flat above the shop,’ said Toby. ‘Well, it’s really only a bedsitter but he says I can have it if I like.’
Richardson was almost shocked. ‘I think your mother might have something to say about that,’ he said. ‘Have you mentioned it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Toby. ‘I haven’t had the chance. She’s been dashing around all the week.’
‘She’s busy.’
‘Yes, she is. You’re pretty busy too, aren’t you, Dad?’
Richardson sighed. ‘It’s not often we get the chance of a chat,’ he confessed. ‘Is that what you’d like to do, go in the bedsitter?’
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ said Toby realising that at least one parent might be persuaded. ‘Mr Old doesn’t want to have to come in to open the shop in the morning. But he didn’t mean right now. Perhaps next year. He only mentioned it.’ He paused, keeping his eyes ahead. They were running into Windsor, the autumn morning shadows deep across the High Street, the Castle large and grey, casting a big shade. There were not many people since it was before nine o’clock. ‘I would have a place to myself then,’ added Toby thoughtfully. ‘I’d be out of your way.’
As Richardson pulled up outside the antique shop, the proprietor was opening the door, sniffing the cool air as if seeking the scent of buyers. He waved as Toby got out of the car.
‘He’s a good lad,’ he called to Edward. ‘Very good. Learning all the time.’ He came across to the car and Richardson pressed the button to lower the window. Mr Old looked surprised. ‘What will they think of next?’ he said.
Edward grinned at him. ‘He says he wants to come and live over the shop.’
Mr Old looked mildly surprised. ‘Well, I did mention it,’ he agreed. ‘But I didn’t mean yet.’
‘No, he said it would be next year,’ said Richardson.
‘Yes, when he’s got a bit of age,’ said the antique dealer. He leaned forward confidingly. ‘I think he’s feeling his … feelings,’ he smiled. ‘He wants a bit of freedom.’
When Richardson thanked him, waved to Toby who was standing in the doorway looking importantly at an embroidered sampler, and driven away, the antique dealer added quietly: ‘And he’s lonely.’
Richardson had intended to drive straight to his office at Heathrow, but it was an imperturbable day, the walls of the Windsor houses peaceful in their shades and colours, the sun floating in misty bands through the gaps between the streets and along the Thames. Aware of his own lack of peace, he parked the car and walked through a tapered alley emerging at its narrowest onto the river bank. At once, as if he had known she would be there, he saw Rona.
She was sketching, sat intently on a folding stool by the tow-path. He looked at the scene she was taking in; skiffs and other small boats gathered for the winter, nudging each other near the bank, suburban swans picking through floating plastic containers, nudging the flotsam with their beaks, their necks like white ropes. Ducks loitered hopefully. A solitary fisherman, his shoulders drooping with lack of luck, stared at the river as if hoping for an answer. The water was like suede. On the far bank the buildings were still romantically misty.
Rona was so attentive to her task that she was not aware of his approach. ‘Am I allowed to look?’ he asked. She turned her head and smiled. Their hands touched in recognition.
‘There’s not much to look at right now,’ she said. He studied the started sketch and then the scene. ‘I’m trying to get it before the mist goes.’
‘Before you can see what the distant vision really is, a petrol station and the roof of a supermarket,’ he suggested.
‘You’re right,’ she laughed. ‘If it’s romance you want sometimes you need to comprom
ise.’ They looked at each other steadily but she then, swiftly, turned away to her sketch.
‘I drove my son Toby to work,’ Edward said as if he had to explain what he was doing in Windsor. ‘He’s in the antique shop in the High Street. How did the airport sketching go?’
‘Just fine,’ she replied. ‘But claustrophobic. I guess you can only spend so long in an airport.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
‘You don’t sound very happy, Edward.’ Her eyes were still away from him. ‘How was the trip to Africa?’
‘That’s one of my problems. Bill Allsop, our manager out there, he died.’
‘That’s sad. You had known him a long time?’
‘He was an old friend, although we didn’t see each other often. Despite aeroplanes, distances are often still distances.’
Rona began to draw again. ‘The thought of distance, the idea of it, is still there. It’s not measured in hours,’ she agreed. ‘That was one of the factors I tried to work into my airport sketches. You get a whole lot of emotion in a very few yards. People arriving, people departing.’
‘Greeters and weepers, they’re called at Heathrow,’ he nodded with a brief smile. ‘It’s as much about emotions as flight times. The airport is like a theatre, nothing’s quite real.’ He sat on the wall beside her and asked if he was disturbing her.
Rona said: ‘Not at all. Sometimes it helps to have someone to talk.’ She continued drawing using swift and decisive lines. Then she said: ‘Watching those planets of yours must be very silent.’
‘Those planets of mine,’ he said smiling at the emphasis. ‘Oh, I listen to music.’
‘What’s your favourite?’ she asked.
Edward was surprised. ‘Oh, there’s a few pieces. “Nimrod” for one, from the Enigma Variations, of course. “The Planets Suite”, Gustav Holst. Then there’s the music that Vaughan Williams wrote for that old film about Captain Scott, the Antarctic Symphony. It’s eerie, it’s all about cold, open, remote places.’ Then he said: ‘It’s just about all I’ve got.’ The ducks began squabbling over some passing debris. One of the swans cruised by and casually removed the tit-bit.
Arrivals & Departures Page 21
