Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  Suddenly Georgina stopped and faced her. ‘I think I do,’ she said.

  Barbara saw the other girl’s face falter. She was wet eyed, her lips quivered guiltily. ‘Oh, Barbara,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m on the game!’

  Barbara stood, aghast and transfixed, her eyes widening. Then she cried out and threw her arms around Georgina. They hugged each other and their tears mingled on their cheeks. ‘Oh God,’ howled Barbara. ‘Don’t say that …’

  ‘I’ve said it,’ stammered Georgina. ‘I am Honestly.’

  Barbara searched her face. ‘What’s it like?’ she asked, breathless.

  Georgina took her hands and they returned to the settee below the window. ‘Well, it’s … it’s like you’d think it would be. You meet interesting and … varied people … and …’

  ‘Like being a stewardess.’

  ‘To a point.’ She sniffed her tears back and they dabbed their own cheeks and each other’s with handkerchiefs. ‘But the money’s better.’

  ‘Homelea’,

  Anglia Road,

  Hounslow,

  Middlesex,

  England,

  Great Britain

  29th November

  My Dear Father and My Dear Mother,

  Your news was interesting although I cannot remember most of the people you tell me about. I am glad Asif at the Pavilion café could help you. Tell him Croydon is still there. Ask him if he knows what ‘bottle’ is for they say here that a person has lost his bottle. Answer – next time.

  My great news is that I have a new, better job at London Airport (Heathrow) with much more space to work. Now I am responsible for a big part of Terminal Two, which the porters call Terminator Two because of a film which is showing. Every hour I must make a sweep of the area, checking on bins and under seats which is all part of the security. So that I do not look suspicious as I carry on these investigations, I carry a broom and a long-handled dustpan.

  It is very cold here now. Brass monkey weather, and I have had my first flu – sneezing, quaking, throwing about in my bed. The Brits get it all the time. But I stayed in bed and sweated it out. These things you have to do.

  Uncle Sammi is teaching me to drive a car. Everybody has cars here like they have bikes there in India. He has begun the minicab business which is another feather in his cap. My colleagues the porters say a minicab can go without brakes! I will help him with this business. Asif will tell you about minicabs.

  Your loving son,

  Barry (or Nazar)

  Fourteen

  When her mother, her brother and their Pauline had gone to the airport, taking her luggage with them, Lettie wandered around the compact house, surveying for the last time what had once been her future. She had always loved Christmas and it was drawing near. She would not be spending it in this house. Her slender, crimson-tipped fingers kept touching things; she unnecessarily dusted ornaments with her handkerchief, and tried not to cry. It was difficult, for to be bought and brought as a bride to England had been a wonderful thing and, contrary to most people’s expectations, it was possible to love someone who had purchased you, and she had loved Bramwell, and not only for what he had done for her. If husbands had been for sale in the same manner as wives, he would have been the sort she would have bought for herself.

  To come to a far country had been hard; the winds blew cold and most people regarded her just as coldly. But it was something she had been expecting (women who had been purchased as wives but had returned to the Philippines had told her). Another country she could cope with, but another woman in another country was different. She knew she was defeated. There was, nonetheless, a healthy instinct for revenge in her. Her brother, who was familiar with arson, had come up with the plan. Lettie, drinking her way through her final bottle of Ribena, had listened to him intently and then agreed.

  There was a flight to the Far East that evening but the timing had to be precise. Her family was despatched in good time by minicab and another minicab was ordered for an hour after they had left Bedmansworth. She spent much of the hour regretting and walking slowly and gracefully around the house of which she had been so proud, her Ribena glass tipped slightly tipsily in her slim hand. She put on her favourite compact disc and swayed to the softly spreading music. But, romantic as she felt, she kept one eye on her tiny gold wristwatch, a present from one of Bramwell’s foreign journeys in the days when they believed he loved her.

  On the hour the minicab drew up outside the house. She waved to the driver and he acknowledged the wave; then she finished her drink and placed the glass in the dishwater. Her eyes moist but with determined step now, she went to the rear of the house and down a flight of steps into what the builders of the houses of Bedwell Park Mansions had called a wine cellar. It was scarcely bigger than a cupboard and had never been used for wine. Sitting among the lumber there now was an oil stove with which, in the cold of winter, she had reinforced the warm-air heating.

  She was familiar with its workings since she had often used it to prepare the house for Bramwell’s late return from a flight. Now she checked the paraffin, the wick, and the tin chimney before taking a box of matches from the shelf above and lighting the stove. The wick glowed and enlarged suddenly, as though glad to be of use. She watched it fondly spreading its friendly light around the confined space. Then she turned the flame up fractionally, retreated towards the door, and leaning back extended her shapely foot to push the oil stove onto its back. Swiftly she went out of the door and shut it. She waited but then saw fingers of smoke sifting out. She turned, went in through the back door of the house, through the kitchen where she had spent so much time making exotic food, and to the small front hall. Her face was now expressionless, her eyes dry. Briskly she opened the door, and putting her handbag below her arm, stepped out into the dull November evening. The minicab was waiting. Her neighbour Mrs Hilditch was standing observing her from the window, clearly outlined. As she got into the car Lettie waved to the woman who had scarcely ever spoken to her.

  The neighbour waved a surprised half-hand. Lettie told the driver to take her to Heathrow. She allowed herself one final look back at the life she was leaving before the car headed down the hill on the first few yards of her journey to Manila.

  The first fire engine passed Bramwell’s minicab as it was turning onto the Bedmansworth Road. There was little traffic but the driver pulled the car well to the left to allow the blaring, light-flashing truck ample room to pass.

  ‘He’s in a hurry,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Cat caught up a tree, I expect,’ muttered Bramwell.

  ‘I expect,’ echoed the driver. ‘They just do it for a bit of excitement. Funny thing, excitement. I could do with a bit myself.’

  As they turned towards the village and then took the road to Bedwell Park Mansions they saw the glow bruising the sky. ‘It’s a real fire, all right,’ enthused the driver. ‘A real good one too by the look of it.’

  A heavy feeling invaded Bramwell’s stomach. He tried to pinpoint the glow above the housetops. A second fire engine passed them. The cab driver repeated: ‘Looks like a big one. It’s on the top of the hill there.’

  ‘I live up there,’ moaned Bramwell. ‘It looks like it might be my house.’

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed the driver. ‘I’ll get a move on.’

  From the bottom of the hill Bramwell knew it was true. They had to stop halfway up because a police car was across the road and an officer waved them down. ‘Can’t come through. Due to a conflagration.’

  Bramwell opened his mouth soundlessly. His jaw felt like a heavy sack. ‘It’s … it’s my house,’ he managed to tell the policeman. ‘My wife …’

  ‘Nobody in there,’ the policeman assured him. ‘Empty. Neighbours saw a lady go out.’

  The cab driver was fussily helping Bramwell from the vehicle. ‘And you with a leg and all,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Never rains but it pours, does it.’

  Bramwell stared at him uncomprehendingly. He began to
move on his crutch around the end of the police car.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the cab driver reminded. ‘Six pounds twenty-five.’

  Bramwell turned blank faced again. ‘How much?’ he asked. He turned to the policeman. ‘Will you settle it?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘If I’ve got enough on me,’ agreed the policeman. He produced a wallet and fumbled in it. ‘Had to pay for the milk and the papers this afternoon.’ His face brightened in the red glow of the blaze. ‘It’s all right. I’ve got it. Just. Seven pounds.’ He glanced at Bramwell. ‘You’ll be wanting to give him a tip, won’t you.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Bramwell. He returned his stunned expression to the house. The fire was past its peak but the windows belched smoke mixed with an orange glow. The roof had fallen in and the smoke rose like black hair above the walls. The firemen were pouring water from their hoses through the windows; none had attempted to advance towards the heat. There was no wind and the neighbours’ houses stood untouched. He hobbled forwards.

  ‘There he is!’ exclaimed a female voice. Mrs Hilditch advanced, her finger pointing, her face puce in the fire. ‘It’s him. Mr Broad.’

  A police sergeant and a fire officer came towards him. ‘Are you the occupier?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘I was,’ mumbled Bramwell. ‘I gather my wife was not at home.’

  ‘No sir. Your neighbour saw her go out.’

  ‘By minicab,’ put in Mrs Hilditch. She glanced at the authorities. ‘Not long before we saw the flames.’

  Bramwell looked about him and made himself calm. ‘I didn’t know we had so many neighbours,’ he mentioned looking at the crowd on the other side of the road, in the gardens and in the windows of their houses. A clutch of excited children were clapping hands.

  ‘It’s well under control now,’ said the fire officer as he summed up the house. ‘You won’t have a lot left there,’ he said. ‘Just as well the next doors are a decent distance, well detached.’

  ‘My potting shed’s gone,’ said a complaining voice from the crowd. ‘The sparks started that.’

  ‘Fuck him and his potting shed,’ muttered Bramwell.

  ‘Where do you think your wife is, sir?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Gone,’ said Bramwell more slowly. He looked up quickly. ‘Gone to London. To … see a friend.’

  ‘Well, you’re in a bit of a state, sir,’ continued the officer sympathetically. The fire chief went away as though this was none of his business. ‘Broken leg is it?’

  ‘Was. It’s getting better now. But … look at my house.’

  ‘Did you have a lot of valuables? Apart from the missus, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, only the odd Rubens, a couple of Gaugins,’ Bramwell remarked bitterly.

  ‘There’s always the insurance.’

  ‘Yes, there’s always that.’

  ‘Would you like to go off by ambulance, sir? You look a bit shocked and there’s that leg. The ambulance boys haven’t got anybody else to take. They’d be pleased.’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t need to go to hospital.’

  ‘But you’ve got somewhere to go tonight? A friend or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Bramwell. ‘I’ve got somewhere to go.’

  Low, slow cloud hung over the flat country, grey, almost resting on churches and tree tops. Airliners leaving Heathrow vanished into it almost as soon as they had left the ground; those arriving talked anxiously to Air Traffic Control and then came tentatively in, their trust in instruments and computers.

  But there was little wind and it was mild for the time of the year. Sergeant Morris, his greatcoat collar extended, peered from the hole in his balaclava like a sniper hiding in a hollow tree. It was not a day you could see far, at least he could not, and he did not observe Anthony Burridge approaching until he was two hundred yards away.

  ‘Can’t spot you this weather,’ said the old sergeant. ‘No sun to shine on your bowler.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time,’ returned Anthony. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not bad. In December she stops letting us out, not till the outside is aired, I suppose. A lot of them have coughs and not many of them want to risk it. How’s living in that bivouac?’

  Anthony laughed. ‘Oh, we had to give up. It got too cold and my wife’s expecting a baby.’

  ‘Is she now. Never had any myself. Not officially that is. Although there could be one or two around I s’pose.’

  Anthony was unworried about not being on time now. He sat on the seat beside the old man. ‘No, we’ve got a little flat in the village. Not much but we’ll be moving out soon, anyway.’ He smiled expansively at the elderly sitter. ‘I’m going to be a publican.’

  ‘That was always my ambition,’ said Sergeant Morris quietly. ‘One of them.’

  ‘Mrs Mangold, the old lady at the Straw Man, is retiring and I’m taking over as manager in the New Year. I have to go on a training course.’

  ‘Basic training, eh. Well, that’s good. Time spent in training is never wasted. If I can get down there, if somebody gives me a lift, I’ll come and have a free pint.’

  Anthony patted his overcoated shoulder. ‘We had to get out of that tent,’ he said. ‘The weather got bad and one night the bloody horse came in.’

  ‘Which horse was that?’

  ‘Remember that old scruffy horse up there? We called it Freebie. It was raining and windy and it pushed its way in about three in the morning. Brought the whole tent down.’

  ‘That must have been a sight,’ said Sergeant Morris with a rare wrinkled grin. ‘I’d like to have seen that.’

  ‘It seems funny now but it wasn’t then. The wife went mad. The bed collapsed and the horse panicked. That was the end.’

  Sergeant Morris sniffed. Another airliner disappeared into the clouds. ‘Women are so unreasonable,’ he said. He nodded over his shoulder. ‘I’ve been in terrible strife here. They nearly threw me out.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Said I’d upset three of the old girls. Said I’d proposed to them, like to marry them, and the silly old cows believed me. I was only making conversation. Trouble was two of them was sisters, never married either and you can see why, and they fell out because they each one reckoned I was going to marry her. Ended up throwing jam tarts at each other.’ He leaned forward confidingly. ‘It’s not as though I can do anything,’ he whispered. ‘I had my last you-know-what when Harold Wilson was in. All that I did was hold hands. And the third old woman, she made her own veil for the bleeding wedding. I said she should save it for her funeral. It’ll be sooner.’

  ‘Are you all right now?’ asked Anthony. ‘I mean they’re not throwing you out.’

  ‘Oh, no they won’t do that. Not with Christmas coming on. I’m the only one who can climb the steps to put the lights on the tree.’

  Anthony rose. ‘I’d better go. I’ve only got till Christmas in the City, then I’m behind the bar. I’ll look out for you.’

  ‘See you in the spring,’ said Sergeant Morris. ‘I like the bloody spring. It means I’ve made it through another year.’

  Mrs Durie had already been in with the tea when Rona knocked quietly. Outside it was raining, patterning the windows, but Pearl’s room was warm; over the months it had become homely with oddments that she had bought, prints of Middlesex, an old stoneware jug, a carriage clock, winter flowers in a brass jardinière, and a pair of cushions, petit-pointed with royal heads of George the Fifth and Queen Mary, especially for the Silver Jubilee and a gift from Mrs Durie.

  When Rona entered Pearl was sitting on her quilted bed, drinking her tea sedately. Her daughter smiled her pleasure. ‘You always look so comfortable,’ she said.

  ‘I feel just like I was born here,’ said Pearl firmly. ‘In this room, in this bed.’ Rona sat at the bedside. Pearl’s eyes moved sideways, her cup held, half tipped. ‘But you’ve come to say that we’ve got to go home.’

  Fondly Rona touched her forearm, just below the lace sleeve
of her nightdress. ‘I have,’ she sighed patiently. ‘We really have to, Mother.’

  Pearl nodded. ‘I guess you’re right, Rona. I’ve done what I came to do here. Not that it’s made any difference.’ She looked shrewdly at the younger woman. ‘And you think it’s time you went too. Is that right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Rona looking directly at her. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘They do have divorces in England,’ said the old lady bluntly.

  Rona told her: ‘It won’t happen. It’s just one of those things in life that comes too late.’

  ‘Nothing comes too late.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. You know it.’

  The old lady looked thoughtful. ‘I guess I do.’

  ‘So we really should be going back to the States.’

  ‘Would after Christmas be okay? In three or four weeks?’

  Rona smiled broadly. ‘Christmas in Bedmansworth should be fun.’

  ‘A whole lot better than in Los Angeles. I know more people here.’

  Rona kissed her on the side of her head. Her hair was grey and soft. ‘We’ll go back in January,’ she said. ‘We’ll fix a day. It’s been wonderful but …’

  ‘It’s been wonderful,’ said her mother with finality. ‘Maybe on Christmas Eve I’ll take a trip to Laleham Church.’

  ‘If you think that’s the right thing to do.’ Rona looked doubtful.

  ‘I must think about it. I’d need to sneak in at a different time to Edward’s wife. She’d wonder what the heck I was doing there.’

  Rona straightened from the bed. ‘You know what’s going on tonight,’ said Pearl.

  ‘The darts championship presentations,’ smiled Rona. ‘I know.’

  ‘Sure is. The Swan, Bedmansworth, champions of the Heathrow League, Second Division. What a night this is going to be!’

  She looked suddenly and seriously at her daughter, the lines on her face in the lace patterns. ‘I’ve just loved being in this place,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going to miss it.’

  Rona said: ‘So am I.’

  Pearl had her hair coiffeured at Elaine of Hounslow and Rome and wore a trailing silver gown for the evening. The Bedmansworth Band played ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ and everyone joined in to sing to it. ‘Learned that specially, they did,’ said Dobbie Dobson proudly to Rona over the clapping. ‘It takes somebody special to get this lot to get something right,’ he said surveying his nondescript musicians sweating and smiling with the achievement. The girl with the violin was regarding it with awe as if it had produced unheard-of magic.