Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  She’d done her best to explain that as far as she knew the hotel didn’t actually exist, but certainly, if it turned out they had time, she’d see what they could do.

  She made sure she was downstairs in time to greet the party and do a headcount as they came into the breakfast room. Several years before, James had done a count of one of his parties – a sixteen-strong group, average age seventy, exploring the sights of Sydney – and realised one was missing. After checking the foyer, the car park and the lounge room of the hotel they were staying in, he’d finally asked at reception for a spare key to check the room. The missing man had been found in his bed. Dead, unfortunately. Natural causes, the doctor had declared. Since then, all the Turners had been very particular about their morning headcounts. Harriet was pleased to see all her twelve had survived the night. They were, in fact, looking quite bright-eyed this morning. She moved quickly from table to table, hearing a complaint or two about lumpy pillows, and assuring them the pillows in the St Ives hotel would be far superior and if they weren’t she’d do her best to get first-class replacements.

  Three times in five minutes she was asked if she was absolutely sure Mr Shawcross would be waiting for them in St Ives. They had obviously been more shaken up by Lara’s non-appearance the evening before than she had realised. ‘Yes, I’ve called the hotel and he arrived safely last night,’ she told them. ‘He’s there waiting for us right now.’

  ‘And how is he?’ Mrs Lamerton asked, practically elbowing her way across the room to Harriet. ‘Did he sound excited about the tour?’

  She didn’t think it right to tell them she hadn’t spoken to him in person. She nodded and smiled, hoping that wasn’t quite a lie, then moved purposefully out into the foyer before they had an opportunity to ask any more difficult questions. A bus pulled up in front of the glass double doors. Renwick Hire. Their bus.

  The driver’s door swung open and a small, tanned man jumped out, wearing a khaki shirt, khaki shorts, long white socks up to his knees and very white shoes. He strolled in, blew a kiss to the receptionist then turned in Harriet’s direction. As he came closer, she guessed he was probably in his mid-fifties. Not much more than five foot four in height. She stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘Clive Tillon? Hello, I’m Harriet, from Turner Travel.’

  He shook it. His grip was tight. ‘You’re the nervy one who’s been ringing the office all morning?’

  Her voice faltered. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Leave it to me, now, love. There’s nothing I don’t know about the roads around here, or buses, so if anyone is to do any worrying, it’s me. So fill me in. What have we got here? How many and what for?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s a tour group, isn’t it? We do dozens of them, everything from walkers to TV fans. What’s our poison this time?’ He peered past her shoulder, into the area of the foyer where her group was assembling. ‘That your lot? The oldies? It’ll be a nostalgia trip then, I suppose? A trip down memory lane before a trip to the cemetery?’ He gave a monkeyish laugh, showing a row of very white teeth.

  Harriet wasn’t used to bus drivers taking an interest in the tours. On the ones she’d run in Australia, the driver usually started yawning when he met the group, yawned all the way through, dozed at the wheel while they did any sightseeing, and yet somehow still managed to form an alliance with at least one of the women on the trip, often two. It was a travel industry phenomenon, Gloria had remarked once. Bus drivers were notorious lady-killers. She was convinced it had something to do with the uniform.

  Clive barely reached her shoulder and his uniform was for a man a size or two bigger, so she wondered would it work its magic this time. She tried to imagine Mrs Lamerton clutching him to her breast (‘Clive. Oh, my Clive’) and failed. He was still waiting for an explanation of the trip.

  ‘We’re a tour group from Australia,’ she said. ‘We’re visiting the locations of a TV series called Willoughby.’

  He frowned. ‘That one about the postman? Solving crimes? From years ago?’

  ‘That’s right. Are you a fan yourself?’ She brightened. It would be a real help if the driver knew some of the episodes.

  He made a snorting sound. ‘Biggest load of rubbish I ever saw. All the actors were terrible, none of the plots made sense and when’s a postman going to find the time to solve crimes? There’s a lot more to delivering mail than pushing bundles of letters into slots, you know. It’s all systems, organisation. My brother worked as a postman for a while, and the stories he used to tell. I didn’t know the half of it until he told me. It’s a science, dividing up the regions, the way they place the bundles in the bag, so they’re in the right order geographically. Think about it – what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Think about it, Harriet. You post a letter in, let’s say here in Bristol, and it has to be in London by the next day, and somehow it is. It gets there. In pristine condition, too. That’s a science.’ He stopped. ‘What’s with the gear by the way? You in fancy dress?’

  They both looked down at her clothes. Her bright yellow skirt and shirt. Her bright yellow stockings. Her yellow scarf. Every single inch of it was a glaring shade of the colour. Melissa’s idea again. She’d read a study that it would stand out best against all other colours in an airport. She was right. Harriet had a feeling it would be visible from the moon. ‘It’s the Turner Travel uniform.’

  ‘You look like Big Bird.’

  He was right, she realised in horror.

  He must have seen something in her expression. He gave her several hard pats on her yellow-sleeved arm. ‘Don’t take it as an insult, love, will you? That’s just my way. I say it as I see it. Now then, let’s get this show on the road and have a look at all of this.’ As he spoke he started rifling through the notes in the folder he was holding. ‘Are you it from the tour company? I thought there was going to be two of you?’

  She nodded. ‘There was. But there’s been—’ What? ‘A change of plan. I’m in charge on my own for now.’

  He whistled between his teeth. ‘That’s a shame. Easier on everyone if you can share the burden and believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve done dozens of these elderly group tours. By the time the fights start, and the moaners start moaning away, you’ll wish you could swap places with me, at the wheel, my own boss. That’s not even taking into account the possibility of one of them dropping dead, or having a heart attack. I said all that to your colleague, what’s her name, Lara? When she rang last week to check a few details. Some story about your brother falling off a roof and you coming instead, was that it? I thought she was bad enough, until we got all your calls this morning. You two need to relax.’

  ‘You spoke to Lara last week? On the phone?’

  ‘No, love, via morse code. Of course on the phone.’

  She ignored his sarcasm. ‘And how did she sound?’

  He shrugged. ‘Like an Australian girl sounds on the phone. Why? Who should she have sounded like? Gina Lollobrigida?’ He made the snickery monkey-laugh sound again.

  Harriet was conscious that Mrs Lamerton was approaching again. She lowered her voice. ‘She didn’t sound worried about anything?’

  ‘No? Why, what did she have to be worried about?’

  ‘Harriet, good morning again.’ The imperious voice, right behind her.

  Harriet turned. ‘Hello again, Mrs Lamerton.’

  Mrs Lamerton was wearing a flowered dress that fitted a little too snugly over her matronly frame. She favoured bright nylon dresses, generally decorated with bold patterns of flowers, and underpinned by what she must surely have called foundation garments. Her bosom was remarkable, there was no other word to describe it, though Austin had suggested one or two rude alternatives over the years. She was also wearing one of her brooches. She had a wide selection of them, most of which depicted large insects, such as grasshoppers or ladybirds, their colours picked out in glass stones. Today there was a gold spider with
emerald eyes and a matching emerald stone at the end of each of its eight legs pinned to her left shoulder. It made quite a contrast to the poppies decorating the fabric of her dress.

  ‘Still no sign of Lara, I see.’ As she spoke, Mrs Lamerton was fingering the corners of her mouth, checking for lipstick residue.

  Harriet wondered if she should tell her there was a mark of her too-red lipstick on her front teeth. She decided against it. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Clive ignored Mrs Lamerton and spoke directly to Harriet. ‘She’s looking for her too? Who is this Lara? Lord Lucan’s daughter?’ Another cackle and another flash of the white teeth.

  Mrs Lamerton gave Clive a haughty glare, before Harriet hurriedly introduced them. Mrs Lamerton’s manner defrosted. The uniform working its magic again, Harriet realised. ‘Lara and I formulated the Willoughby tour together and I am greatly puzzled, and still unsatisfied, as to why she isn’t here. In fact, it’s a disappointment. I thought she would have put the tour first, before any other commitments that may have arisen.’

  ‘That’s a good point. So where is she then?’ Clive looked back and forth between the two of them.

  Harriet felt like glaring at him. With his brown skin and brown eyes he suddenly reminded her of a monkey. A nosy monkey. ‘She unfortunately couldn’t make it. Something else came up. At the last minute.’ She couldn’t say they didn’t know where she’d gone or what had happened. ‘I think it had something to do with the tourism course she’s doing in Bath.’

  ‘Bath’s only a couple of hours from St Ives,’ Clive said. ‘She could nip over and join us when she’s finished, couldn’t she?’

  Now the pair of them were staring her down. Harriet tried to stand her ground. ‘That might be unlikely. She asked me to apologise on her behalf.’

  ‘So you’ve spoken to her?’ Mrs Lamerton leapt at the news.

  ‘Not exactly. She left a message.’

  That tchy sound again.

  ‘Well, it all sounds queer to me,’ Clive said cheerfully. ‘Come on then, Mrs Lamerton. First here, first served, let me help you on to the bus.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

  ‘Of course you can. I’m just looking for an excuse to put my arm around you.’

  Once again, Mrs Lamerton surprised Harriet with a girlish giggle. Perhaps her fantasy of Mrs Lamerton clutching Clive to her chest wasn’t that far-fetched, she thought, as she watched them head for the pile of luggage.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By one o’clock the tour party was only halfway along the coast road from Bristol to St Ives.

  It had taken Harriet nearly an hour to get everyone onto the bus. Mrs Lamerton had been first, settling herself into the front seat with a loud sigh. Harriet had been reminded of a large cruise ship docking. Mrs Pollard had been next. It had taken two people, one in front pulling and one behind giving her a gentle push, to get her up the steep steps. As she said loudly several times, it wasn’t that she was overweight, it was more her problems with the arthritis. Mr and Mrs Douglas – the only couple on the tour, and keen world travellers – insisted on trying out every seat on the bus before settling on a pair right in the middle, the first ones they’d tried. In the Turner Travel office, Mr Douglas was known as Mr Been – as in Been There Done That. He had a fund of stories and they had all heard most of them, several times over. It was Gloria who had first noticed his habit of getting his words mixed up. Since then, an unofficial competition had been underway for the best Mr Douglas-ism. Harriet’s personal favourite had been his account of a safari trip to Kruger National Park in South Africa.

  ‘There we were,’ he’d told them as he leaned over the office counter, ‘sitting on a rocky outcrust, looking at the wilmerbees.’

  As she listened now, she heard him and his wife talking to Mr Fidock in the seat behind them.

  ‘You’ve got a bit of a cold, love, haven’t you?’ Mr Douglas was saying, patting his wife on the arm. ‘She often picks up a cold on these long-haul flights, don’t you, pet? We’ll have to stop off at a chemist, get a few of those euthanasia tablets for you.’

  ‘Echinacea, dear,’ Mrs Douglas absently corrected.

  Harriet smiled a welcome at the last few members of the group as they made their way onto the bus. Miss Talbot, dressed in denim, carrying a bag in the shape of a heart. Mrs Biggins, who’d undertaken five conquer-your-fear-of-flying courses in the past two months so she could come on the tour. Mrs Pennefeather and her twin sister Mrs Hart, both widows. They did two Turner Travel tours together every year. They also did a lot of whispering and giggling. Mrs Kempton – married to one of Mrs Lamerton’s cousins, and another long-time fan of the Willoughby series – came aboard next, followed by Mrs Randall. She smiled shyly at Harriet as she took her seat. All the Turners knew her, too. She was famously quiet. Austin called her Rowdy Randall.

  The last to arrive was Miss Boyd. She had read about the Willoughby tour in the local paper six months previously and had phoned Turner Travel almost daily since. She was on and settled within moments, practically swinging herself on board and then proceeding to start sucking noisily on a barley sugar to stop herself getting ‘travel-motion sickness’ as she called it. The noise reminded Mrs Kempton that she had an awful feeling she had left her supply of anti-travel sickness tablets on the cupboard beside her bed upstairs.

  ‘Or perhaps I packed them, Harriet, do you think? Would I be able to check in my luggage?’

  Harriet had already seen Clive load the last of the luggage into the compartment, heaving Mr Fidock’s bag on top of the large pile. She just knew that Mrs Kempton’s case would be right at the back. There really wasn’t time to unload and check, not if they wanted to keep to their schedule.

  ‘Could I offer you one of my anti-nausea tablets, Mrs Kempton?’ she asked. James had insisted she take the company’s large first-aid kit with her. He’d phoned through a detailed tour of the contents the morning she left. If the plane had crashed on a desert island Harriet had enough knowledge and supplies to open a small hospital. ‘I’m told they’re the best on the market. I’m sure they’ll do the trick if you do start to feel queasy.’

  ‘No, mine are a special brand,’ Mrs Kempton said, looking teary. ‘From a Chinese doctor.’

  Behind her, Clive was hefting himself up into the bus and caught the last few words. ‘Not into that herbal medicine business, are you? A man I know did that, spent all his time boiling up bags of sticks and leaves. The house stunk of it.’

  Harriet shot him a look. ‘That’s fine, Clive, thanks. I’m sure Mrs Kempton is happy with her doctor and her tablets.’

  ‘Could I please check in my bag, Harriet?’ Mrs Kempton asked. ‘Or could someone check upstairs for me? Just in case I left them behind. I’ve been getting forgetful of late.’

  Clive was watching with interest, arms folded, leaning against the driver’s seat. ‘One tablet is like another, you know. It’s probably a placebo, or whatever the Chinese word for that is. Made from sugar or something. Not that sugar helps motion sickness. It just gives you something to do with your mouth, rather than think about getting sick. I read a study last year that —’

  ‘Clive, please.’

  ‘Just trying to help.’

  Harriet herself had gone back into the hotel, explained the situation, been given the key to Mrs Kempton’s room and, to her great relief, found her Chinese pills on the bedside table. She also found a pair of spectacles in the bathroom, a raincoat in her wardrobe, her book (a James Herriot novel) on the floor, and an umbrella on the hook on the back of the door.

  Back on board, Harriet took the microphone and, after one false start with the on switch, welcomed everyone, urging them to settle back and enjoy the scenery or doze, whatever they liked. James had made a handwritten suggestion in brackets on her itinerary (You could sing ‘We’re All Going on a Summer Holiday’ to get everyone in the mood.) Yes, or she could just smile and sit down as quickly as possible. A bad poem at the airport was one thing. She di
dn’t want to break the bus windows with her singing. She switched off the microphone.

  The itinerary for the first day was deliberately light, with brief stops at just two of the Willoughby locations en route to St Ives. Harriet knew there had been a lot of discussion in the Turner Travel office about how to plan the trip, taking into account the age of the group. The number one concern of elderly travellers was getting enough to eat and drink, and their number one pet hate was packing and unpacking every day or two. She remembered Lara suggesting they base themselves in St Ives, which was not just beautiful but also where Willoughby had lived in the series.

  ‘We can do day trips from there, all over Cornwall,’ she’d suggested during her presentation. ‘The distances aren’t great, and that way our clients won’t get too exhausted.’

  Harriet felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Mrs Lamerton, sitting squatly in the first seat again, with her bags piled on the seat beside her.

  ‘Harriet, have you decided yet where Mr Shawcross will be sitting each day? When we’re doing our bus tours?’

  She realised then why Mrs Lamerton was sitting in that seat and also why the seat beside her was piled high with bags and scarves. ‘I don’t really know yet, Mrs Lamerton. I suppose I thought I’d leave it up to him.’

  Miss Talbot leaned over from the adjoining row. ‘But he will move around, won’t he? He won’t sit in the same seat each day?’

  Mrs Pollard leaned forward too. ‘Yes, we’ll all get a go at sitting next to him, won’t we?’

  ‘Are you ladies fighting over that actor? A bit young for you all, isn’t he?’ It was Clive, loud from the driver’s seat. He turned back, taking advantage of the fact they were stopped at a red light. ‘If you’re looking for a bit of action, I’m right here. Much fitter than I look, too. You wouldn’t mind, Big Bird, would you? All part of the service, heh heh heh.’

  Miss Talbot gasped. Miss Boyd gave a giggle. Harriet realised she had to put her foot down. ‘Thank you for that, Clive. Perhaps you could concentrate on the road and keep your comments to yourself?’ She winced inside at her prim school-mistress tone.