Rona patted the brown, knuckled hand. ‘He’s just letting everybody know that he’s got everything under control,’ she whispered.
‘I certainly hope so,’ returned the old lady. She was once more peering critically from her window. ‘Those fields do look small,’ she reaffirmed. ‘Just see how bitty they are.’
‘And very green,’ pointed out Rona.
‘All that rain,’ her mother replied.
Rona leaned over and touched the buckle of her mother’s clipped seat-belt. Her mother had only once been to Europe, twenty-five years before when her husband was alive. They had travelled to Paris and Rome and then returned to California. Apart from a vacation in Mexico she had not left the United States since. At seventy-seven she had seemed unlikely ever to want to do so. Until an afternoon a month before when she had telephoned her daughter: ‘Get yourself packed. We’re going to London.’
At first Rona had thought it was because of her divorce. She had been so low and drained, it seemed that it was her mother’s idea of a diversion. But Pearl denied it.
‘I want to go,’ she had stated firmly. ‘I’m going whether you come or not. I can get by.’
‘It’s not just for me, then?’ said her daughter. ‘Not because of my marriage.’
‘Your ex-marriage,’ the old lady corrected bluntly. ‘Not at all. Nothing to do with it.’
Rona said: ‘I could do with a break.’
‘Show me a pleasant divorce,’ said her mother. ‘So you do want to come.’
‘Yes, of course, I’d love to. Can we have dinner at the Ritz?’ She gave a small laugh into the telephone.
‘Sure. We’ll go to the Ritz and the Savoy. And Buckingham Palace.’
‘It’s not going to be too tiring?’
‘For me?’
Rona smiled again. ‘Yes.’
‘Not for me,’ confirmed Pearl. ‘Start getting packed.’
Georgina Hayles was fatigued; weary of the long flight and the people on it. Most of her working life was spent seeing only the tops of their heads as she moved swiftly up and down with her professional sway, touching the shoulders of seats as she went, as though to propel herself by means of them. The passengers in their little niches were only fully revealed as she bent to serve them or speak to them. With their nerves and their quibbles, their complaints and their stupidity, she sometimes wondered whether she was somehow doomed to wait upon mass transportations of fools and inadequates. A drunk had been sick over her hair on the previous flight. All she wanted now was to get home, get into bed, and, having slept, put into effect the long-considered decision to escape, dangerous though it might be.
The aircraft was about to touch down. Bright, early sun shimmered on the wet grass and reflected on the wings and tailfins of planes standing outside maintenance hangars, making them shine like banners. Rona held her mother’s wrist but the old lady was peering from her window. ‘He made it,’ she announced loudly as the tyres squealed on the runway. ‘He got it down.’ The big aircraft landed like a pelican on a lake. The engines reversed. The captain said: ‘Welcome to London. The local time is seven o’clock.’ He added: ‘In the morning. The temperature is fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. We hope you had a good flight.’
‘Pretty good,’ replied the old lady as if speaking for all the passengers. ‘Even though it took long enough.’
A pier floated to the side of the plane and the door opened, letting in a stream of cool air. ‘I don’t feel too good,’ mentioned Pearl Collingwood suddenly. ‘But I’ll be okay.’
Her daughter’s face clouded. She caught the stewardess’s eye. ‘My mother is feeling unwell,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long trip.’
Georgina glanced at the old lady. ‘I expect it has for her,’ she said. At least she had not collapsed in mid-air. ‘I’ll get some help. She should have a wheelchair.’
‘I don’t want any chair,’ said Pearl her head coming up briskly. Her mouth knitted. ‘I’m not going to arrive in London in any chair. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.’
‘Perhaps we could get off first,’ suggested Rona to the stewardess.
‘Yes, of course.’ She went briskly to the exit and spoke to the cabin services director. He glanced back into the cabin towards the old lady, left the door and walked down the aisle. ‘We’ll get you off first, madam,’ he said. He glanced at Rona. ‘There’s a chair if you need it. It’s quite a walk.’
Rona leaned towards her mother. ‘I think you ought to use a chair,’ she suggested firmly. ‘It’s a long way.’
‘I’ll take it easy,’ insisted the old lady. A smile wrinkled briefly. ‘I hate being pushed around.’
Her daughter gave a look like a shrug to the director who still appeared anxious, but nodded. He walked back and picked up the telephone at the now open door and ordered a wheelchair anyway. ‘Get her off quickly,’ he said to Georgina out of the side of his mouth.
The wheelchair was swift in arriving; it was standing outside the door when Rona and her mother disembarked. A pink-faced man was peering from behind it, his very expression an invitation to Pearl Collingwood to occupy the conveyance. She refused sharply, shaking her head and muttering: ‘I’ll use my usual feet.’ With her daughter supporting her arm she took her first steps in England. The wheelchair and its attendant sedately followed ten yards to the rear, keeping pace with them, the pink man at the apparent ready to scoop up the elderly American if she should fall. The trio’s pace was slow and other hurrying passengers caught up and overtook them, a race for Immigration, trolley lines, baggage claim and Customs. Pearl Collingwood waited, letting the rush go by. The man with the wheelchair paused, smiling rosily, giving it a minute push of invitation towards her. ‘Don’t need it,’ she called back. ‘Take it away!’
Rona apologetically acknowledged the man who showed no sign of going away. She took her mother’s elbow once more and they proceeded carefully with the attendant and the chair keeping pace. ‘Is he still there?’ asked the old lady sneakily, inclining towards her daughter.
‘He is,’ confirmed Rona. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a ride?’
‘No way,’ responded her mother firmly. ‘I’m not arriving in England on wheels.’ She turned and glared at the attendant who blinked mildly back at her. She said nothing, but waved a feathery hand dismissively and strode out with the determination of a staunch but tiring explorer on the last testing lap of a difficult journey.
They reached the Immigration area and Rona saw with a surge of dismay the long, scarcely shuffling lines of incoming passengers. She half turned towards the wheelchair man. Her mother, her wrinkles mazed into a puzzle, regarded the queues, her mouth working. ‘Don’t they want us in their country?’ she grumbled.
‘If you use the chair you can go straight to the front,’ the pink man pointed out pleasantly.
Pearl Collingwood remained truculent, although wavering. ‘So you have to be dying first,’ she grimaced. She turned to her daughter. ‘You sit in the thing,’ she suggested. Rona laughed and the attendant laughed too. He pushed the chair forwards and after a final hesitation the old lady sat in it with an ill grace. ‘Okay, driver, let’s go,’ she said. But her glance back at the man was grateful. ‘But step on it,’ she added.
The immigration officer was sympathetic. ‘It’s been a long journey, has it,’ he said as he took Mrs Collingwood’s passport.
‘Oh me, I’m used to it. I’m flying about all the time.’ She waved his sympathy aside.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ he advised, returning the document to her.
She continued the journey by wheelchair, giving the impression that she might be someone important. Rona gave a wry and relieved smile. Her mother knew when she was beaten, although she did not like anyone else to know. The attendant helped them at the baggage collection and through the Customs channel. Rona pushed their cases on a trolley. Mrs Collingwood insisted on going by way of the Red Route, although they had nothing to declare. The turbaned customs officer was cooperative. ‘
Just wanted to see you were on the ball,’ the old lady informed him. ‘We could be drug barons.’
‘We know the drug barons,’ answered the Sikh mildly. He waved the small group through. ‘What sort of Englishman was that?’ said Mrs Collingwood cautiously.
The invalid chair was propelled through a moving mass of other passengers, most of them pushing wire trolleys piled with luggage, some tiredly holding onto the vehicles as if they might lend support. The trundling advance rolled through the Arrivals exit to be faced with walls of faces, some expectant, some blank and clutching below their chins names in capital letters on squares of cardboard: ‘Mr Jenkins’, ‘Mr Ali’, ‘Mr and Mrs Snodding’, ‘Bennett of Guinness’, ‘Christian Brothers’, and others. It was an odd identity parade in reverse, not lost on Mrs Collingwood. ‘Looks like they rounded up the usual suspects,’ she muttered.
‘There’s our driver,’ said Rona. A man in a grey uniform and sharply peaked cap was holding a discreet notice which said: ‘Mrs Pearl Collingwood from Los Angeles.’
‘Now somebody else can transport us,’ she said to the pushing attendant. ‘How much do I owe?’
‘Nothing, madam,’ he replied soberly. ‘No payment. Nice to help somebody with a bit of spirit. Some people give up too easy if you ask me.’ He looked thoughtful as though unsure whether or not to confide in her. ‘In any case, this is a special journey. Like a celebration. We’ve just taken over these.’ He patted the conveyance.
‘Taken them over?’ It was Rona’s question but her mother looked up sharply. ‘There’s been a revolution in wheelchairs?’ she asked.
He grinned. ‘You could say that. We used to work for the airport but they made us redundant. So six of us got together and bid for the wheelchair contract and we got it. We operate all the chairs in Heathrow now. We charge the airport for each case we handle. From today.’ He said it like a man who had just bought an airline. They wished him luck and he pushed off, zigzagging through the people with their luggage trolleys.
‘Always knew we should give that guy our business,’ said Mrs Collingwood. She examined the capped and uniformed figure who had spotted them. ‘He looks real English,’ she concluded.
‘I expect he is,’ agreed her daughter. The man, sober-faced as his suit, lifted his cap. ‘Mrs Collingwood and Mrs Train,’ he recited. ‘I’m from the Excelsior Hotel. My name is Arthur.’ He took the handle of the luggage trolley from Rona. ‘If you would not mind waiting one moment, the car will be here. He was just circling.’ He looked anxiously at the older woman. ‘Not too weary, madam?’
‘I feel bad,’ said Mrs Collingwood, holding onto the handle of the trolley with Arthur.
‘Still?’ Rona asked anxiously.
‘Sure, still. I’m sick. I feel it.’
Arthur was diffident. ‘Perhaps madam is tired after the flight,’ he suggested to both women at once. ‘It will only take forty minutes into London.’
Mrs Collingwood eyed him. ‘I know the difference,’ she told him. ‘Tired is tired and sick is sick. And I’m sick.’
He glanced again at Rona. ‘Would madam like a doctor?’ he asked.
‘Not right now,’ the old lady put in firmly. ‘When we get to the city. You may have to break the speed limit.’
‘It’s nearly all motorway,’ he answered inconsequentially. They were outside the building now. ‘Here he is,’ he added.
‘He’s quit circling,’ said Mrs Collingwood. ‘Maybe he thinks he’s a flier.’
The driver, a tall, stooped man with a creased chin, left the car and announced himself. ‘I’m Charles, ladies,’ he said. ‘Welcome to London.’
‘The lady is not feeling well, Charles,’ said Arthur, his eyebrows rising. He nodded at Mrs Collingwood. Charles was at once concerned. ‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ he said inclining his folded chin towards her. ‘Perhaps we’re feeling fatigued.’
‘You may be, but I’m not,’ reaffirmed Mrs Collingwood. ‘I’m sick.’
‘I think we must get going,’ suggested Rona. ‘We’ll get a doctor when we reach the hotel.’ She looked anxiously at her mother. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have come,’ she said.
‘We’re here now,’ said the old lady. For a sick woman she sounded oddly forthright, but Rona was often puzzled by her mother. She patted the thin hand as soon as they were settled in the car. ‘We’ll soon be there,’ she assured. ‘Then we’ll get you a check-up.’
The big car turned out of the airport and drove swiftly but quietly towards the motorway. Mrs Collingwood now became silent but peered from the window intently. ‘Very flat,’ she commented eventually, drily. ‘No hills, no ocean.’
‘The hills and ocean are in other parts of the country,’ her daughter replied firmly.
Mrs Collingwood’s face wrinkled into a grin. ‘But I like it,’ she conceded. ‘The British seem glad to see us.’
They were on the motorway heading east when she complained of being ill again. ‘I’ve got to get out of this car,’ she told Rona. ‘I need to rest.’
Rona was aware of how difficult Pearl could be; but now she was anxious. ‘My mother feels ill again,’ she said over the driver’s shoulder. ‘I think maybe we’ll have to stop somewhere.’
Charles stared at Arthur. ‘Hillingdon Hospital,’ he said decisively. ‘That’s nearest.’ They regarded each other with abrupt concern. ‘Not in the car,’ muttered Arthur like a prayer. ‘Not this car,’ whispered Charles. ‘It’s new.’
‘No hospitals!’ bellowed Mrs Collingwood from behind. ‘Did I hear you say a hospital?’ I didn’t come to England to go to hospital. I can do that in California. I have insurance.’
Stoically Charles pulled the car onto the hard shoulder. ‘What would madam’s instructions be?’ he inquired of Rona.
The answer came from Pearl. ‘I want to go there,’ she declared pointing from the car window. ‘See – right there.’
‘Where, madam?’ blinked Arthur, craning to look around the driver.
‘That’s a church,’ said Charles.
‘I know. I know a church when I see it,’ retorted the old lady. ‘But there’s got to be houses, hotels. That’s where I want to go.’
Rona regarded her with astonishment matched only by that of the two men. ‘You want to go there?’ she asked.
‘Right there. And right now. I’m sick.’
‘What’s there?’ Rona asked the two men.
‘Don’t rightly know, miss,’ said Charles helplessly. ‘There’s a few villages around here. We could see if you like.’
‘I like,’ put in the old lady. ‘I want to go there. I need to rest.’
‘Yes, please,’ Rona nodded haplessly at the driver. ‘I’ll call the Excelsior and tell them what happened.’
Charles eased the car forward from the hard shoulder. ‘There’s an exit a mile further on,’ he said. Arthur half turned and looked back with concern. ‘There are other hotels around here,’ he offered. ‘Plenty of them. And motels around the airport.’
‘I want to go to the place with the church,’ Mrs Collingwood told him uncompromisingly. Her creased eyelids slid up and he backed away from her scrutiny. ‘I may need to die there.’
‘Next exit,’ Arthur muttered to Charles.
Rona was more than aware that her mother had a strong streak of eccentricity. In Mexico, on her seventieth birthday, she had ridden a striped donkey along the main street of Tijuana. Once she had nudged a man she disliked into a swimming-pool at a politician’s party. Rona remembered how she and her former husband Jeff had stood immobilised while the man surfaced and splashed like a walrus, spouting water and bellowing: ‘You didn’t know I could swim, did you? You pushed me and you didn’t know whether I could swim!’
‘I sure didn’t,’ her mother had replied grandly.
There had been other incidents: the explosion of some homemade moonshine which she had concealed below her bed; her interruption of a shocked preacher at a man’s funeral with muttered corrections about the deceased’s past; th
e absent-minded lighting up of a cigarette in church; croaky singing during a chamber-music recital. Now Rona looked sideways at the older lady who was staring from the window as if to make sure that they were truly going to go in the direction she required. Her mother returned the examination with pain crossing her face. ‘I don’t feel much better,’ she complained.
They had reached the exit and Charles turned the car off and crossed the bridge back over the motorway. ‘This is foreign country to me,’ he confided to Arthur.
‘Go straight,’ suggested Arthur.
The guess was sound. The road narrowed and then split into a series of lanes but by this time the square tower of the church was near. The hedges on either side were ragged and coated with dried mud and dust, there were short fields, electricity pylons, shaggy horses and muddy cows, rusty corrugated-iron fences and pigs, then an open space sown with crops.
‘Turnips,’ said Arthur informatively. ‘This is big turnip country.’
‘Bedmansworth,’ read Charles as a sign appeared at the side of the road. ‘Never heard of it.’
The route turned quickly and they found themselves moving the length of the churchyard wall. ‘Slow down,’ called Mrs Collingwood. ‘Take it easy.’
Rona asked: ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘It comes and goes,’ responded the old lady doggedly. ‘Where can we stop?’
‘Here’s the pub,’ said Arthur. ‘The inn. The Swan.’
‘We’ll stay here,’ said Mrs Collingwood. ‘This will be fine.’
‘They may not have accommodation,’ pointed out Arthur doubtfully. ‘A lot of these places don’t.’
Charles pulled up in front of the open door. There were flowers in a basket by the entrance and more in window-boxes suspended over the street. Arthur half turned and spoke to Rona. ‘Would you like me to inquire, Mrs Train?’
‘This will be fine,’ asserted Rona’s mother, her head nodding vigorously. The younger woman stilled her with a touch. ‘We’ll need to see if they have rooms,’ she said. She looked at Arthur. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘I’d better explain.’
Arrivals & Departures Page 2