Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Thank you, Edward,’ said Rona. ‘For letting us eavesdrop.’ She was standing very close, almost facing him. She leaned slightly and he felt the swelling of her breast against him as she kissed him on the cheek. He kissed her cheek and said goodnight.

  ‘What a shame about Copernicus,’ she said.

  ‘Homelea’,

  Anglia Road,

  Hounslow,

  Middlesex,

  England,

  Great Britain

  3rd October

  My Dear Father and My Dear Mother,

  Your news although welcome was very upsetting for me. Poor Benji being drowned in the floods. Will you get another dog? There was nothing in the UK papers about the floods but these papers do not seem to know that India is a place in the world. India we see on the films, on the telly, and we laugh but are sometimes angry because it is damn nonsense. Sometimes there is a small paragraph in a newspaper about Pakistan or Bangladesh. But Uncle Sammi says, and he is right, it is only about a bus full of people falling from a mountain into a river or some such thing.

  My position at the airport is first class. Soon I may be risen to another posting. There was a strange happening since my last letter. An Arab left a pineapple and some boot polish in the conveniences and there was much trouble about this. It was treated most seriously by the authorities. Many investigations were made. At first it was believed they were only the sanitary authorities, but then I saw the representatives had guns so the matter was seen in a different light altogether. But it was only a hoax, that is what they call a trick.

  One thing you could do with in India is an underground. It is one of the great things in London. For sixty pence I can travel anywhere in London and far afield. It is not possible to leave the train until I return to the next station, to Uncle Sammi’s, which is Hounslow East, which is where I commenced, but the trip can take all of a day.

  Some of the time there is nothing to view because it is below ground (except for the interesting people who get on and off) but it is also above. There is a map in each tube so I change trains and change again. It is most interesting and cheap. Today, my rest day, I am going to Ongar.

  I am,

  Your respectful loving son,

  Nazar

  Hobbling to his front picture window Bramwell did his best to crouch before spying out, checking the landscape of Bedwell Park Mansions as if it were a hostile frontier. It was mid-afternoon and the colourless scene was unmoving. He stumped back into the house and telephoned her.

  When she answered he almost dropped the handset. He looked guiltily around once more.

  ‘Hello, Barbara. It is you?’

  ‘Bramwell! I’ve been so worried about you, darling. How is the leg?’

  ‘Terrible. I can’t move. It’s like being in irons. I’m only ringing now because I’ve managed to get rid of Lettie and her tribe. I must see you.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to call. I tried once but it sounded like Lettie’s mother answering.’

  He groaned. ‘She answers the phone all the bloody time. According to Lettie she’s only being useful, silly old cow. She watches the television squatting by the phone. The only time she’s not there is when she’s at the pictures. That’s where I’ve just got rid of the lot of them, Lettie as well. I’ve sent them to see Fantasia. I told them it was funny. I’m fed up to the teeth with all of them. Oh, Barbara, I want to see you.’

  ‘Could you come over now?’ she said readily. ‘I can’t leave here, I’m on standby.’

  ‘God, I could,’ he breathed, realising. ‘They’re gone for the afternoon. I can get there and back easily. I’ll get a minicab.’

  ‘Do it,’ she urged. ‘Don’t waste any time. How long have they been gone?’

  ‘Only ten minutes. I rang as soon as they were out of sight. They’re walking to the bus stop. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Bramwell put the receiver down and strutted on his encased leg to the cabinet where the telephone directories were kept. He stumped back to the phone and called a taxi, then sat down to wait, his stomach quivering, his leg stiff.

  The minicab was there promptly. Bramwell left the front door unlocked and swung his leg and his single crutch along the garden path towards the vehicle. The driver, seeing his disability, left his seat and opened the rear door. ‘To the hospital, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not likely,’ replied Bramwell. ‘Down by the canal. I’ll show you the way. Go towards the Bath Road and I’ll direct you from there.’

  ‘The canal,’ repeated the driver doubtfully as he moved the car forward. He studied his passenger in the mirror. ‘Not thinking of ending it all are we, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m going for a nice swim,’ Bramwell said testily. ‘To exercise my broken leg.’

  They had reached the bottom of the hill and, to his sudden alarm, Bramwell saw Lettie and her relatives still standing in a line at the bus stop. With a brief, choked, cry, he somehow pulled himself down, his head jammed against the back of the seat in front, his leg and the crutch thrust into the seat well. His exclamation caused the driver to check in the mirror again. For a moment he thought that his passenger had gone. The car swerved. Then he saw the quarter moon of Bramwell’s balding head. ‘All right are we, sir?’ he called wide eyed.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ gritted Bramwell. He remained hidden. ‘Mislaid something, that’s all.’ They were well past the bus stop before he inched his way into a sitting position again and attempted to look backwards. Then turning, he saw the Slough bus coming towards them. He muttered in relief.

  The driver asked: ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, thanks. Just a penknife I dropped.’

  ‘People are always dropping penknives,’ said the man. ‘We’re coming up to the main road now. Which way?’ He sounded anxious.

  ‘Left, then the second on the right. Towards Datchet,’ instructed Bramwell. ‘It isn’t that far.’

  ‘Good,’ said the driver.

  He followed the directions. ‘Down this lane on the left,’ pointed Bramwell. The driver hummed his surprise. ‘Into the jungle,’ he said.

  ‘The canal is along here,’ Bramwell assured him. ‘Turn at the end of the lane. Into that gate on the right.’

  Mystified, the driver turned into the gate and found himself in the overgrown yard with its rusty vehicles and ancient engines. ‘If you didn’t have a buggered leg I would have thought you’d brought me here to rob me, or worse,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Seven quid.’

  ‘No chance of me doing that, mate,’ Bramwell told him as he grumblingly paid, adding a twenty-pence tip. The man backed the car as his passenger stumped towards the gap in the hawthorns that led to the towpath. Turning the car into the lane the driver put down the window and called: ‘Try jumping!’

  Bramwell lifted two ill-natured fingers in his direction and almost toppled over in doing so. He limped onto the canal side and his heart lifted as he saw the curtains move in the window of the barge. Barbara came to the hatch, her face glad. The gangway was already in place and he swung his straightened leg up it. ‘Got a spare parrot?’ he groaned.

  Laughing she helped him through the hatch and down the awkward steps inside. They embraced tightly, kissing and holding each other. ‘Are we alone?’ he asked glancing towards Georgina’s door.

  ‘Georgina’s away,’ Barbara said. She frowned. ‘But you, surely … we … can’t. Not with your leg like that … can we?’

  He kissed her again fervently. ‘I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you. I’ve tried ringing.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you,’ she answered sincerely. They were still holding each other. She led him to a chair. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘I want to lie down,’ he told her honestly. ‘I’ve been having dreams about you.’

  ‘Darling, stop it. How can you, you poor thing?’

  ‘Let’s try. Please let’s try.’

  She regarded him solemnly. ‘Let’s have a glas
s of wine. I’m not allowed, I’m on standby, but one won’t hurt.’ She went to the galley kitchen and filled two glasses from a cardboard cask on the shelf. ‘It’s hardly the Côte d’Azur,’ she said handing him one.

  ‘What a nightmare,’ he remembered. They smiled wistfully together. ‘Not all of it, of course. But breaking this leg, those idiots fighting and all that.’

  ‘What about Lettie?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve stuck to my story,’ sighed Bramwell. ‘But she nags on about the compensation from the company for falling down their steps. I have to keep putting her off, telling her it will be a long time, there may be a court case. You know what they’re like about money.’

  ‘And her family?’

  ‘Mother and brother and our Pauline just sit stunned around the television. I stay in my room as much as possible. I have my own room now because of my leg. Or I stumble down the garden and stare at the privet hedge. I can’t even get to the pub.’

  ‘You poor old thing,’ said Barbara. She held him against her breasts. Letting the crutch take his weight, he kissed her enjoyably. ‘Let’s try, darling,’ he pleaded. ‘We’ve only done it once.’

  She looked at him quizzically and then, making up her mind, she helped him into her bedroom. ‘Give me a hand with the trousers, will you?’ He was sitting on the side of the bed. ‘It’s not very romantic, I know.’

  ‘Lettie does the trousers for you, does she?’

  ‘Well, yes. There is nobody else.’

  She began to laugh. She knelt in front of him and tugged at the trousers. ‘That poor leg,’ she said looking at the cast. He stroked her hair and she dropped her face into his lap. The crutch clattered to the floor when she lifted her head. His erection was standing inside his underpants like a snow-covered hill. She slipped down her jeans and pulled her sweater away. He watched her. When she had taken off the rest of her clothes she levered him onto the bed and pulled of his pants.

  She smirked. ‘This,’ she said crawling beside him, ‘is going to be interesting.’

  ‘And difficult,’ he added. ‘Watch the leg.’

  ‘Can you move it over a bit? Just a couple of inches. Here, let me do it.’

  Her professional sense of initiative took over. She lifted the heavy leg and with care swung it aside like a derrick, then moved it fractionally more. ‘That’s it,’ she said patting the cast. There was a full expression in her eyes as she climbed onto him. She had a fawn suntan, white skin where her bikini had been. His arms went up to her sides and his hands to the pale breasts. Carefully, then confidently, they coupled. She eased herself down tightly to him, so her face was against his and her hair lay scattered around his neck. ‘It’s still not right,’ she whispered. ‘That leg is so hard.’

  ‘I can’t unscrew it,’ he said unhappily. They were still locked into each other. She giggled and he felt it.

  ‘I know,’ she suggested. ‘Let’s drape something over it. Like my dressing-gown.’ She arched to her knees and had almost left him when she said: ‘No, I’ve got a better idea – darling, put the leg inside the bed. Tuck it under the duvet.’

  Barbara heaved herself upright. She made a face as he took himself from her. ‘I’ll get withdrawal symptoms,’ he warned.

  ‘It won’t take a moment. Don’t let it get cold.’ She opened the duvet and like someone lagging a water pipe, she swung his rigid leg and replaced the covering over it. ‘Very erotic,’ she murmured regarding him stretched naked, one limb missing. ‘Is it comfortable?’

  ‘It is. I’m not,’ he complained. ‘Come back to me, poor one-legged man that I am.’

  Her expression becoming earnest, she bent her body like a bow. Bramwell reached out again to hold her ribs, to support her while she placed herself above him. ‘Jesus, God, you are wonderful,’ he breathed feeling her.

  She whispered. ‘Oh Bram.’

  The telephone rang. ‘Oh shit,’ said Bramwell.

  They paused, poised. ‘Please leave it,’ he pleaded.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Darling, you know I can’t. I’m on standby.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘I must.’ She could not reach the bedside receiver from their tight situation. With a brief kiss she abandoned him once more and slithered over the bump in the duvet. ‘Watch the leg,’ he muttered.

  Just as she reached the telephone, it ceased ringing. She picked it up anyway but heard only the regular tone.

  ‘Can’t be the company,’ Bramwell said. He lay comically on the bed. ‘They wouldn’t have rung off. Can we start again?’

  ‘Let’s move nearer the phone,’ she suggested diffidently.

  ‘I’ll have to transport the leg over there.’

  ‘So you will.’ She looked as if she might laugh or weep. ‘Bram, what a mess we’re making of it all.’

  ‘It’s the others, not us,’ he said stoutly. ‘Every time we get together.’

  ‘Let’s try again,’ she said softly.

  ‘Please,’ he asked.

  Her light hair had dropped all around her face; she crawled over the bed towards him with her eyes shut and biting her lip. ‘Remember the leg,’ he whispered. She eased herself across the protuberance below the duvet, then inched up his body. ‘You still want me?’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘I can feel.’ Once again they coupled and began to rock together. Again the phone rang. ‘Shit almighty!’ Barbara sobbed. ‘Please,’ Bramwell said. ‘Stay. Just now … for one moment.’

  ‘I will,’ she whispered. ‘Here it is, Bram. I can feel you.’

  The telephone kept ringing. She collapsed against him. Then, mumbling, she slid herself away and once more crawled across the bed. ‘The leg,’ he mumbled.

  Barbara picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’

  From where he lay Bramwell heard the voice at the other end. ‘Hello, Missus Bobbins. This is Lettie. Have you seen my Bramwell?’

  ‘Drop me here,’ he instructed the minicab driver. ‘This will do.’

  It was a different man. He seemed concerned. ‘Got far to go on that leg?’ he asked. ‘It won’t cost any more to take you right to where you want to go.’

  ‘No. No. that’s perfectly all right,’ mumbled Bramwell searching for his money. ‘I need to take a bit of exercise. It’s not far.’

  He scanned the immediate area to reassure himself. They were at the foot of the brief hill. His house was out of sight around the climbing bend. He paid the man who came around to assist him from the back. ‘Did my leg once,’ the driver said. ‘Fishing.’

  Once the car had driven away, Bramwell adjusted his crutch and began with genuine difficulty to mount the easy hill. Lettie saw him as soon as he had rounded the slope and came from the house. He could see her frown below her blowing hair. His stomach began to bubble like a stew. ‘Hello darling,’ he called weakly. ‘Just went for a stroll.’

  She stepped out towards him and for a moment he expected the worse. But he realised that the eyes were uncertain. ‘How was Fantasia?’ he smiled.

  ‘No good,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Walt Disney but not funny. Why did you go for this troll?’

  ‘It’s stroll not troll. Help me, will you, sweetie.’ He gave her the arm on the other side from the one occupied with the crutch. He had seized the initiative and he intended to keep it. ‘I just couldn’t stand being penned in any longer,’ he told her breathlessly as she helped him up the last stretch of incline. ‘Especially as you weren’t home. I missed you. I thought I’d try and reach the pub. Have a cup of tea. Look in the church. Anything.’

  Her Filipino eyes had narrowed but she was wavering. ‘You didn’t go to see Missus Bobbins?’ she asked.

  The negative encouraged him. ‘Missus Bobb … who is? Oh, that woman Poppins. Good God, no. Why would I want to see her? She doesn’t even live around here … I don’t think.’

  They had reached the front door. He knew she wanted to believe him. ‘I shouldn’t have tried it,’ he moaned. Lettie’s mother
and Pauline had come into the hall to witness his arrival. ‘Fantasia no good, eh?’ he said smiling wanly at them.

  ‘Not much Donald Duck,’ said Lettie’s mother grimly.

  ‘Only a bit Mickey Mouse,’ grumbled Pauline.

  ‘That’s bad luck.’ Already Lettie was guiding him to a chair. ‘I rested by the church gate,’ he said piously. ‘I shouldn’t have gone that distance. Foolhardy. And getting back up the hill …’

  ‘Why you don’t telephone?’ asked Lettie, her suspicions lingering. Her brother now appeared and said: ‘Fillum not good.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Bramwell sympathised. He knew he was home and dry now. He turned to Lettie. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be back, love,’ he said. ‘Or I would have phoned. You could have carried me up the hill.’

  Lettie bent near him. ‘I thought … I thought you sneak away to Missus Bobbins,’ she confessed. ‘Our Pauline found her telephone number under your bed.’

  ‘What was our Pauline doing under my bed?’

  ‘Just looking,’ said Pauline.

  Bramwell scowled and growled: ‘I don’t need this sort of treatment. I only took her number to thank her for helping me.’ He tapped his plaster cast forcefully. ‘Which I forgot to do, incidentally.’

  ‘So sorry,’ said Pauline. ‘Big mistake.’

  ‘Big mistake indeed,’ added Bramwell. Lettie was near to weeping, the edges of her dark eyes red. ‘I get you a drink or a cup of tea,’ she offered.

  ‘I’d like a cup of tea, if you please,’ he asked putting his fingertips together primly.

  As she went from the room Lettie was sniffing. She turned to Pauline at the door to the kitchen. ‘Our Pauline just bloody fool,’ she said.

  Bramwell sat back and smiled.

  A loaded October moon, the sort of moon the one-time inhabitants called the parish lantern, hung hugely above the roofs and moulting trees, giving to the golden ball and arrow that topped Bedmansworth church tower an almost ethereal glow. A pilot or passenger in an incoming aircraft could, on such a lucid night, have easily traced the course of the village street by its window lights.