by Leigh Barker
with an over-sized ‘do not open’ notice, recycled from an aircraft engine cowling. Below the threat was a handwritten notice taped to the door, informing anyone who needed it that this was the office of Richard Marks, GAL Customer Services Manager.
“Is our master in?” Maurice asked as he checked the kettle for water and pressed the little lever-switch to start the thing complaining.
Shirley looked up from her magazine and shifted a little on the sofa so that she could see the closed door and the sign with the electric shock lightning bolt. She sighed heavily, as she always did whenever she was forced to confront the fact that she worked here. “He’s in,” she said, exchanged a long, knowing look with Janet, who was sitting at the battered table, and returned to her magazine.
Major Tom stopped at the noticeboard half-screwed, half-nailed to the thin wall and checked the security duty roster. There was only one name on it, his, but he was the only security officer, so no surprise there. It was, however, part of his daily routine: check the duty roster. Tick in box. “Any coffee in there?” he asked Maurice.
Maurice poured hot water into his mug and put the kettle back in its spot by the dented stainless-steel sink. “Yes,” he said as he walked tiredly over to the table. “No hot water, though.”
Mutual support. Pulling together. Watching each other’s back. That is what makes a team hum like a perfectly tuned machine. The team in question wasn’t this bunch, but it was worth saying.
The heavily noticed door opened, and He came out into the break area. Major Tom stood to attention.
Richard Marks strode youthfully up to the table. Richard Marks did everything youthfully. It was part of the Management Training Programme. And anyway, he liked it. Stomach in, chest out, big smile. Walk with purpose. That was also why he wore a polo shirt and khaki cargo pants with junk in the knee pockets. It’s what hip kids wore, right? Hip kids… that’ll be street talk, right? Or was, once.
“How’s everything going out there, Janet?” he asked.
“Good morning, Mister Marks,” Major Tom said, still at attention.
Richard smiled at him. Someone should have told him tooth whitening bleach isn’t left on overnight. “Good morning… err… troops.” Good catch. “You can call me Dickie,” he said, to err… thing. “And you know what I say to the girls?”
Yes, everybody knew exactly what he said.
“You can’t say Marks without saying mmm…”
Oh God, take me now.
But they smiled at the clever joke. Except Janet.
“And you can’t say Dickie without saying dick.”
Now was that nice?
“You’re not married are you… Dickie?” Maurice asked from his seat next to Janet.
“No,” Dickie said slowly, expecting a catch.
“Then you might want to drop that line.” Maurice raised his hand. “Just saying, that’s all. But what would I know?”
“While we’re just saying,” Janet said. “You might want to call yourself Richard instead of Dick.” She knew exactly what he called himself.
“Oh,” he said, rolling out the smile again, “I like it. I think it makes me sound like an actor.”
The silence hung in the room for several seconds.
“Have you put it together?” Shirley asked, without looking up from her House Interiors magazine.
He frowned again, then stopped. Frowns cause lines.
Maurice was hoping the heartburn was an impending heart attack about to snatch him away to a soft seat on a cloud and a nice musical instrument. “Dick Marks?” he said with his eyes closed.
“It sounds,” Janet said, fixing him with a steady stare, “like the sand trail of a turtle.”
And it did.
Dickie flushed and pointed at his door. “Have you seen the sign on my door?”
They all looked, though to be accurate, they had all seen the sign before.
“What?” Maurice said. “Fire exit?”
“No. No,” Dickie said. He stamped his foot. “The one below that.”
Maurice climbed to his feet and crossed the small room and leaned closer to the door. “Ah!” He squinted. “Holding yourself while those around you fall… is a disgusting habit.” He shrugged. True.
Dickie gritted his teeth, his very white teeth. “No, not the graffiti!” He stepped closer and pointed at the handwritten sign. “Manager! It says manager. Right?”
“Yes,” Janet said, “but that’s a throwback to another era.”
Dickie frowned again and risked the lines.
Janet gave him a smile she’d borrowed from a diamondback. “Before our Christmas party.”
Dickie looked like he was about to run for it, but controlled the impulse. “I thought I’d explained that?” There was a note of desperation in his voice.
“You may have done,” Janet said, “but I have the photographs.”
“We must talk about that again… err… at a more… err… appropriate moment.” Dickie looked around for something to change the subject and found it. He pointed at the staff door. “Who’s holding the fort out there?” As if he didn’t know.
Shirley glanced up from her magazine. “Rob.”
And she said it as if it didn’t really matter. Amazing.
Dickie gave a visible start. “Do you think that’s wise?” He clearly didn’t.
Janet put down the pen she’d been using to highlight lines in the document she’d been reading. “I’m sure we can trust him to screw things up royally at the earliest possible moment.”
“That’s a little harsh,” Maurice said.
“Possibly,” Janet said, “but true.”
Maurice nodded and returned to his coffee.
Rob was indeed screwing things up. He leaned on his hand and idly tapped the keys of the booking terminal. It bleeped loudly and went blank. He jumped up, looked around quickly, and stepped over to the next desk and checked that this terminal was working. Okay, that’s one problem resolved. Or at least moved to someone else, which is the same thing.
He looked up as movement in the deserted concourse caught his eye and saw an elderly man and his wife approaching the check-in. It was clearly his wife because he tutted at her, sighed at her, and generally harried her towards the desks. Good to see the age of chivalry wasn’t dead. Mortally wounded, yes, but still with enough breath to tell the old lady to sort out her brain cells.
The old man rummaged in his inside jacket pocket for a moment, pulled out a ticket folder, and slammed it on the desktop.
Rob looked at it and then back at the scowling old man, who glared at him and pointed a slightly shaking hand at the tickets.
“Ah,” Rob said with a toothpaste advert smile, “you want to check in?”
“Of course I want to check in!” the old man said. “I’m not here to order a gin and tonic, am I?”
Old people can be funny. This was not an example of a funny old person.
Rob picked up the ticket folder and took out the tickets. He examined the front of the first one. Then the back. Then the front of the second one. Then—
“I haven’t got all day!” the old man said charmingly.
“They’re tickets,” Rob said, nodding sagely.
And sure enough, they were.
The old man spluttered, but before he could select the best abuse from the deluge that crossed his mind, Rob spoke. “Business class,” he said, slid off his stool, and pointed to the desk to his left. “If you’d be good enough to come to the VIP desk, mister…” He checked the tickets again. “Ah, Colonel Butler.”
“Why?” the colonel said.
Rob climbed over the baggage belt and sat at the desk. “Because it’s the VIP desk, Colonel. And you are a VIP, are you not?” As well as other things.
The colonel didn’t move. “It looks exactly like this desk,” he said and glared at his wife, who was moving towards Rob’s new position.
“True,” Rob said, “but this one has been designated the VIP desk.”
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“That’s stupid,” the colonel said.
And it was, clearly.
“You’re a colonel,” Rob said, “so you will understand that rules are there to be obeyed.”
And that, too, was stupid, but also true.
The colonel sighed heavily, collected the ticket folder Rob had left, and started to move to the designated VIP desk as instructed. He passed Rob coming the other way, stopped at the VIP desk, and looked back as Rob sat on the stool.
“Are you being deliberately insolent?”
Yes.
“No,” Rob said. “You’re right. It is stupid. Let’s use this desk.”
“But I’m at this one now.”
Rob gave him the toothpaste smile and waited.
The colonel glared at him. He glared at his wife. He glared at the tickets. He took a deep breath and let it out with muttered curses. But he came back.
“Now,” Rob said, tapping the terminal keyboard. “Let’s get you booked in, shall we?”
“About bloody time.”
This terminal was dead, as someone had apparently broken it.
Rob tut-tutted, tapped the keyboard, checked the back of the monitor, and shook his head. “The terminal is broken,” he informed his VIP passengers.
The colonel glared at him. His wife smiled nicely, probably thinking about a nice cup of tea.
Rob slid off the stool and stepped over the baggage belt. “Shall we move to this desk?”
The colonel’s mouth was open, and his jaw was moving up and down.
“Shall we, dear,” his wife said with a soothing smile.
The colonel squinted at Rob suspiciously, but walked back to the other desk.
“Now,” Rob said, tapping the terminal keyboard, this time with satisfactory results, “where are we flying to today?”
“I’m going to Prague,” the colonel