Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  Scarcely restraining another smile she asked: ‘Do you want to kiss them?’

  ‘Not half,’ he mumbled. She took his face and eased it towards her nipple, nuzzling him to it. ‘There is one on the other side,’ she suggested.

  He came away from her damp, bright eyed, pink faced. ‘I know,’ he said with difficulty. She guided him again and she held his head, pretending to suckle him. Her hands went to his groin.

  Suddenly she burrowed below the cover and enclosed him in her mouth. He squeaked like a mouse. His whole body stretched. ‘Take it easy,’ she cautioned, reappearing. She looked at the bedside clock. ‘You still have half an hour. Let’s have another glass of wine. She slithered from the bed pulling one strap of her nightdress over her shoulder, and walked into the other room. Staring at the ceiling he thought, God, even he had never imagined it would be like this. The feckless Liz, the disappointing Dee and even his faithful pillow were all in the past now.

  Georgina returned with two glasses of white wine. She put them on the dressing table and slipping away the single strap allowed her nightdress to roll to the floor. ‘This is all of me,’ she said with a joking twist of her hips.

  ‘I’ve never seen anybody like you,’ he said sitting up in the bed. ‘And that’s the honest truth.’

  She picked up the wine again and they sat in bed and drank it, her left hand lolling in a friendly way around his naked shoulder, his right hand on her damp thigh. ‘I’ve only seen this in books and on the pictures and television,’ he said conversationally. ‘I wondered if it would ever happen properly.’ He turned his full eyes on to her.

  ‘Let’s carry on now,’ she said taking his glass. ‘But we’re going to need a little something on there.’ She tapped the head of his penis like a pet. She regarded him seriously. ‘You wouldn’t want to make me pregnant would you, Spike?’

  ‘God, no,’ he breathed. He grinned helplessly at her. ‘Me, a father.’

  ‘You’ll hardly notice,’ she promised as she performed a sleight of hand. ‘There. You wouldn’t know.’ Professionally she eased herself across the bed and opened her thighs.

  ‘Okay. It’s time now,’ she said.

  He hardly knew how. Clumsily he climbed between her legs and she took him and guided him into her. A great smile of relief, bliss and achievement came over his face. She regarded him as a teacher might a promising pupil. ‘That’s very good,’ she said seriously. ‘Now let’s both enjoy it.’

  Toby scarcely needed the elevator. He felt he could have easily flown down to ground level. Out into the hotel lobby he floated winking at the girl in reception so that she said: ‘Cheeky little devil.’

  He was intending to go out to the bus stop but he saw a taxi discharging passengers outside the hotel. The doorman held the cab door open. It seemed to Toby that he skipped over the ground. ‘I’ll take that, please,’ he announced beamingly. The doorman looked surprised but held the cab door open for him. ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Where to, son?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Bedmansworth, if you please.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bedmansworth. It’s the other side of Heathrow.’

  ‘Oh blimey,’ the man grumbled. ‘You’ll have to show me … It’s pitch dark out there. I thought you wanted to go to London.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I’ve got cat’s eyes,’ boasted Toby. He felt he had eagle’s wings too, and the gift of prophecy, the singing of angels, and the powers of Don Juan. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Grumbling the driver set out into the hinterland. ‘Hope I can find my way back,’ he called.

  ‘Sure you will,’ returned Toby blithely. ‘I get fed up with London, don’t you?’

  He sat in a warm dream. Remembering how, when they had finished in the room, as he was going, she had said: ‘I had a good time too, Spike. It made a nice change.’ She handed him fifty pounds. ‘Let’s split it.’

  Staring at the notes he mumbled: ‘I used to get half price in the pictures once.’

  ‘But not now,’ she assured him. ‘You’re a man, Spike. You’re a full grown man.’

  She had seen his name ‘Toby Richardson’ on a label sewn into his pullover by his mother. But she still called him Spike.

  Thirteen

  Sergeant Morris crouched almost double in his accustomed seat at the roadside outside St Sepulchre’s, his face thrust forward, and tried to ascertain how far he could see into the distance. From the age of sixty, he had set himself minor tests as a gauge as to how far and fast old age was gaining. It pleased him that he could still, fifteen years later, touch his nose unerringly with his finger, stand on one leg, either leg, for half a minute, balance the Bible on his head, hit a lightshade with an orange pip once in three shots, and remain unsplashed while engaging only one hand at the urinal.

  The winter days, however, helped neither his vision nor his comfort. Despite his overcoat and woolly balaclava the cold crept in, and fields and sky had become one glum curtain. He wondered if it were really there or if it were a mean trick of his failing eyes; a shroud, a harbinger.

  The taxi pulled up almost at his feet. He had long ago learned in his military days, despite his training, that it was a mistake to react too quickly to an unexpected event. Alacrity often led to trouble. Now there was added to this philosophy an element of idleness and he remained composed, upright and seated, while Pearl Collingwood left the taxi and asked the driver to return in forty minutes.

  ‘Well, hello,’ she said to Morris. ‘We’ve met before.’

  He surveyed the old lady as the taxi departed. ‘When?’ he inquired bluntly. ‘I try not to remember the past.’

  ‘It’s not too far in the past,’ she returned sturdily. ‘At the barbeque, remember?’

  ‘That lot in the tent,’ he recalled. He allowed himself a grim grin. ‘I bet their feet gets cold these nights.’

  She decided not to provide him with further ammunition. ‘I’ve come to visit St Sepulchre’s,’ she announced briskly. ‘Mrs Bollom invited me to come anytime. Is she at home?’

  ‘She’s at home,’ he sighed vigorously. ‘Wish she wasn’t. Fussing around, do this, do that, don’t spill your custard, you’ve got tobacco in your bed. Never stops, that woman.’

  He stood up, however, as if having said his piece, he was willing to be cooperative. He even smiled. ‘You’re that Yankee lady,’ he said. ‘I remember now.’

  With the familiarity that the elderly enjoy with the elderly, Pearl hooked her arm into his, and they began to progress sedately along the path to the front door of St Sepulchre’s. An Air India Boeing seemed to graze the housetop as it took off.

  Pearl covered her ears. ‘What a helluva row!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s very noisy here. More than the village.’

  ‘Indian.’ He sniffed at the sky into which the plane was diminishing. ‘Air India, they call that. See the tail. To think I helped to subdue that lot. Well, my regiment did. My grandfather was in the Seventeenth Slashers. And here they are flying right on top of us. And the Krauts, the Eyeties and the Fuzzy-wuzzies, and all ruddy sorts. All got their aeroplanes even if half of them can’t afford to run them. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’

  ‘An end, eventually,’ she mentioned.

  ‘It is for us,’ he agreed. He glanced at her as though they shared a truth. They had walked through the meagre trees and now she stopped and took in the house, its once white exterior walls stained with damp, its window frames peeling, its roof tiles like irregularly shuffled playing cards.

  ‘The Americans were here once,’ she confided to him. ‘In this house. During the war.’

  ‘Here and everywhere else,’ said Morris relentlessly. ‘Over here, over the girls.’ He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Oh, sorry, missus. I forgot you’re a Yank yourself.’

  At the front entrance, like someone performing a ceremony, Sergeant Morris rang the bell. ‘In general we have to use the back door,’ he told Pearl. ‘But if there’s a visitor you can come to the
front with them. She reckons we muddy the carpet.’

  Mrs Bollom herself opened the door. ‘Ah,’ she said taken off guard. ‘Ah …’

  Sergeant Morris was abruptly silent, merely wafting his hand towards Mrs Collingwood as though vaguely exhibiting her. The American stepped swiftly into the breach. ‘Mrs Bollom, I do so hope you’ll remember we met. I’m Pearl Collingwood. At the barbeque.’

  The matron’s expression cleared. ‘Of course. You’re the American lady from the Swan. Come in, come in and see us.’

  ‘She’s not all bad,’ whispered Morris leaning towards the visitor’s ear.

  A heat like a desert wind was emerging from the house. ‘My goodness,’ Pearl said as the stepped into the hall.

  ‘It’s hot,’ said Mrs Bollom familiar with the reaction. ‘They like it like that. Nobody wants to be cold.’

  ‘Getting ready for hell,’ commented Morris. He had crept in beside the American woman and, at a motion of the head from the matron, he wiped his feet extravagantly on the doormat. He caught a second sharp glance from Mrs Bollom. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘About that thing I said about hell. Didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Mrs Bollom agreed firmly. They walked further into the house. ‘It’s not something we talk about here.’

  ‘It’s just I like a bit of fresh air myself,’ said Morris inhaling with a snort. ‘That’s being in the army for you. That’s why I go and sit on the seat.’

  They walked into a large and polished room where four frail ladies were sitting on chairs and bouncing a huge, coloured-striped beach ball to each other.

  ‘Harlem Globetrotters,’ said Morris dolefully. He was busily cleaning his ear with a matchstick. The great, bright ball bounced towards him and he pushed it disdainfully back with his hand.

  They went further into the lounge. There was a rank of chairs facing a wide French window. ‘Our private viewing gallery,’ said Mrs Bollom quite proudly. A Boeing 747 floated into view at the upper edge of the window frame and landed lightly before roaring along the runway. Polite applause sounded from several of the old ladies and another old man watching. ‘They’re on special strings, you know,’ proclaimed the man knowledgeably nodding towards the airliner.

  ‘So’s he,’ grunted Morris. He took a place on the end of the row. A United Airlines plane came into the frame. ‘Yankee!’ called Morris and there was a round of polite applause. Mrs Bollom brought Pearl a cup of coffee. A British Airways Trident followed onto the runway. A ragged cheer went up. ‘One of ours,’ Morris said helpfully to the American.

  ‘Mrs Richardson, the social worker lady, suggested we might take them on a visit to the airport,’ said Mrs Bollom doubtfully regarding her charges. ‘But I couldn’t risk it. They ran amok in a fairground once.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘I have an ulterior motive, I’m afraid, in visiting you,’ whispered Pearl to the matron.

  ‘Oh, and what is that?’

  ‘I wanted to see this house. You see, my husband was stationed here in wartime. In this area somewhere. I understand that this house was used by US Air Force officers. I just thought I would like to look around.’

  ‘Your husband …’

  ‘He died some years ago. But I had an itch just to come see.’

  ‘Is that why you came to Bedmansworth?’

  Pearl hesitated. ‘I’m not sure this is the place,’ she said not answering the question. ‘I just think so.’

  A concerted booing came from the old people at the window. Raspberries were blown. ‘Lufthansa,’ sighed Mrs Bollom. ‘Sergeant Morris makes them boo the Germans.’ She tutted towards the old soldier. ‘He’s a terrible man, you know,’ she said as if glad to have someone to tell. ‘He’s promised to marry at least three of the old ladies here. One of them is making her bridal veil. Nothing but trouble.’ She led Pearl from the hot room. ‘Well, you’re welcome to look around, Mrs Collingwood,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how many changes there will have been. The house is more or less the same, I suppose, but when it became a home for the elderly I know that some of the bigger rooms were converted into smaller bedrooms.’ She appeared thoughtful. ‘I had heard that the Americans were billeted here but it was so long ago. Strangely enough I had a letter only a couple of months back, from a chap, some sort of military historian, asking me if there was anything left from that time. He was putting together a local story about the Americans. But, of course, there was nothing I could do to help him.’

  Pearl took her time. ‘Would you by any chance have the name of that gentleman and his address?’ she inquired.

  Mrs Bollom said: ‘I’m sure I could find it. I file everything away.’

  The small, yellow cottage was almost obscured by the combine harvester parked in front of it. ‘Excuse the lawnmower,’ said Bert Trouton. ‘There’s nowhere else I can put it.’

  ‘Looks like a prairie mower,’ Pearl offered, surveying the massive machine.

  He was a big man and patted the battered red front of the harvester carefully as though to avoid damage. ‘She’s my baby,’ he said fondly. ‘Bought her for a song and she’s my living. I’ve got a mechanical digger too, a JCB. I’m an all-rounder I am.’

  She liked him at once. He led her into the low cottage. ‘This is the good wife,’ he said with the air of one who might have one not so good. A round and shiny woman shook Pearl’s hand. ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Coming all that way from America.’

  ‘I’ve only come from Bedmansworth,’ laughed Pearl. ‘Today that is.’

  ‘Good job I was home when you phoned,’ said Bert. ‘Having a bit of a snooze this afternoon. I have to keep my strength up.’

  ‘He has to keep his strength up,’ confirmed Mrs Trouton as she went from the room. She returned at once. ‘Is that your car out there?’

  ‘It’s a taxi,’ said Pearl. ‘He’s waiting for me.’

  ‘I’ll take him a cup too,’ she said. ‘While Bert shows you his papers.’

  ‘They’re all in here,’ said Bert. He led the way into a front room. The furniture and the floor were almost buried below files, boxes, bundles and books. ‘I’m getting around to sorting it all out,’ he said waving his hands above the chaos. ‘It might look a mess but I know more or less where everything is.’

  He cleared a staggered tower of books from a table and some ragged documents tied in string from a chair which he brushed briskly before inviting her to sit. His wife brought the tea. ‘Kettle’d just boiled,’ she said. She looked around the confusion half in dismay, half admiration. ‘He knows where more or less everything is,’ she confirmed. ‘Though I don’t know how.’

  Pearl accepted a spoonful of sugar and sat down at the unsteady table. ‘It looks fascinating,’ she said.

  There were some metal files piled like squared stones on top of each other and Bert sat gingerly on them. ‘Eighteen stone, I am,’ he said. ‘I could be crushing history.’

  He was eager to tell her about it. ‘By accident I started this,’ he explained. ‘I’m not a historian or anything, as you can see, I drive that harvester out there. But, see, I was always told that my father was an American, a soldier who was over here in the nineteen forties. He just vamoosed and my mum died a couple of years ago. But I set about trying to find out about him. Eventually I tracked him down to a town in Iowa. Bliss, it’s called. The Americans, the authorities over there, were very helpful with it all. But when I tried to contact him I got nowhere. So I went over. I just went and got straight to this little place, Bliss, which was in the middle of nowhere. But he’d died too. All I was able to do was stand by his grave.’

  ‘That’s pretty sad,’ said Pearl. ‘But I guess it happened a lot.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. There’s hundreds of cases. Especially from the War.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘I’m not blaming the Yanks,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Some of the marriages lasted years.’ He paused and picked up a sere sheet of paper from the top of a pile. As though he were reading from it he went
on: ‘But it was while I was going about this that I came across all sorts of relics of the Americans in this country. Stuff just left around, documents, photographs …’

  ‘You have photographs?’

  ‘Hundreds. So I sort of got interested and took it up like a hobby. When I wasn’t working I went around gathering up stuff. Mostly, people were only too glad to get shot of it. It was in cellars and basements and old camps. I had to concentrate so I just did west of London, and there was plenty there, believe me.’ He extended his hand. ‘Well, you can see.’

  Her eyes went around the crammed room. Bert’s wife reappeared, as if anxious to keep in touch, and said: ‘The driver’s got his tea. I asked him if he wanted to come in but he says he’s quite comfy, thank you.’ She looked around the rubble. ‘You couldn’t take some of this away could you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bert warningly. He nodded towards his wife and said to Pearl: ‘She wants her room back.’ He moved one pile of boxes a few inches as if making a token effort. ‘It won’t be that long before it’s all sorted.’

  Mrs Trouton went out with Pearl’s cup after offering her more tea. Pearl declined. She said to Bert: ‘I think the whole thing looks wonderful.’

  He seemed appreciative. ‘Well, I’m not a scholar or anything, but I’m quite logical, you have to be with machines. So I’ve been spending my time off going through all this, sorting it out as much as I can. And all sorts of people have got interested. There was a bit in the Sunday Express about me. I’ve had two blokes from the Imperial War Museum here and the American Embassy rang up.’ He looked at her shyly: ‘And now you.’

  His attitude made her smile. ‘Just like I say I think it’s wonderful,’ she repeated. Then carefully: ‘Is there anything from Bedmansworth?’

  ‘It was the officers’ mess of the 44th Tactical Support Group, US Air Force,’ he said. ‘I checked after you phoned. But if they left anything it’s been dumped long since.’