Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Good, well, remember just take the calls and forget them. You made a note of the right room this time?’

  ‘The very room,’ he said. ‘Room 246, Flightline Hotel. I apologise for previous mistake. Most embarrassing for me.’

  Not as embarrassing, she thought, as it was for that wrong room’s occupant. ‘All right,’ she said quietly brisk. ‘Appointments after five o’clock today …’

  At five o’clock Georgina was in what the hotel called one of its small business suites, a confined sitting-room in pastel shades, a bedroom with one double bed and a bathroom. There was a television set with a video, a radio which was playing softly, a tea- and coffee-making tray and a drinks refrigerator. On the walls were two prints, eighteenth-century Thames scenes, and there was a bowl of polished fruit on the coffee table. For her it was convenient and, in its functional name, appropriate; she was there on business. She sat in one of the two compact chairs in the sitting-room, legs crossed, smoking and sipping tentatively from a glass of white wine, enjoying being alone before she got busy.

  Georgina, Candy for a few hours, was wearing her air stewardess’s uniform, the slick blue shirt and the buttoned jacket with the wings above the left breast, a white silk blouse showing at the neck. Her stockings were seamless and dark blue and her shoes had slender heels that would never have been permitted on an aeroplane.

  Her visitors were rarely late. She charged from the time of the appointment. At precisely five thirty the bell rang modestly and she took a deep breath, touched her hair into place, extinguished her cigarette, and went to answer it. As she opened the door she adjusted her smile. ‘Miss Candy?’ said the man.

  ‘Who else?’ she murmured.

  ‘Oh, indeed, I can see,’ he said taking her in. His smile trembled. He was an American; forties, embarrassed, round faced and round bellied, but clean and uncomplicated looking, although, she knew by now, you could never tell.

  She opened the door and invited him in. His eyes moved from one side then the other, as their eyes always did. He took a second step into the room once he was sure there was no one else there. She knew what to do; she walked into the bedroom, casually, calling him to follow so that he could see it was also empty. They frequently feared a trap.

  From the beginning Georgina had decided that she would make it as civilised as it could be. Leading him by his pudgy hand, she returned to the sitting-room and turned the music dial of the radio down a little. ‘I like that song,’ he said smiling awkwardly. ‘Reminds me of all sorts of things.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ she agreed, listening to it for him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Phil … no, Ron. It’s Ron.’ His face turned blotchy. ‘Some people call me Phil, that’s all.’

  ‘Whichever you prefer,’ she assured him easily. ‘It’s your hour. Would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘That would be just right,’ he said. ‘Yes, please … Candy.’

  ‘Do you smoke, Ron?’ There were a lot of time-consuming questions she could ask. An hour was an hour and a surprising number did not claim the full time. Sometimes they went on to tell you about the wives and children they were missing, fumbling in their bedside clothes for photographs to show her.

  Ron did not smoke. ‘But I really don’t mind if you do,’ he offered. ‘I have no environmental objection.’ He glanced at the dying stub in the ashtray.

  ‘No, perhaps later,’ she decided. She kept her voice very English. ‘I’d really like to do what you want to do.’ She smiled at him teasingly. ‘Within reason.’

  Ron became flustered. ‘Oh, it will be,’ he assured her. ‘Within reason.’ He ventured to touch her arm; as if it were now time. She permitted his fingers to rest on her skin and smiled at him, watching the hue of his face gradually deepen. Turning, she walked carefully to the side table and poured him a glass of wine. ‘I love the uniform,’ he said surveying it gravely. ‘That’s why I came, because of the uniform. Are you a … real stewardess?’

  Georgina’s slim fingers handed the slender glass to him. ‘I was but I left,’ she told him. She smiled directly at his nose, inches away, and he reddened further. She added: ‘I prefer to deal with people one at a time.’ She had almost said ‘strangers’.

  ‘Do you mind if we play a kinda game?’ he inquired lowering both the glass and his eyes before raising the eyes, now lit with a different light, to regard her earnestly.

  ‘Depends,’ she said. ‘No heavy stuff.’ She leaned forward confidingly. ‘I have security arrangements.’

  He became concerned. ‘No, nothing like that. I guess you have to protect yourself. I’d just like to play at being on a plane and you’re the stewardess and I’m the guy who’s a passenger. That’s all it is. Nothing crazy.’

  ‘That might be fun.’ She said it as though it had never occurred to her before.

  ‘I hope so. For you as well.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be. But first I need two hundred pounds.’ She flattened her hand and held it out.

  ‘It’s that much,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I might have known. You’re a classy-looking girl and it’s an hour. Okay.’ He had the notes ready. He counted them out, in twenties, and handed them to her. Excusing herself she took them into the bedroom and, glancing in a mirror which showed him securely waiting in the other room, his fingers drumming on the glass table, slipped them into a safe in the wardrobe, playing quickly over the buttons. ‘Ding,’ she said to herself like the sound of a till. Standing before the mirror and avoiding looking into her own eyes, she smoothed her skirt, tunic and her smile again before returning to the sitting-room. He was upright in one of the chairs, his eyes fixed on her.

  ‘Right,’ she told him firmly looking down at him in the armchair. ‘I’m the stewardess and I am in charge. Is that how you like it?’

  ‘No,’ he said a trifle uncomfortably. ‘You’re only in charge for so long, Candy. Then, when I begin to undress you … if that’s okay … then I take charge. You don’t … you don’t, by any chance, have a life-vest here do you?’ Anxiously he checked her expression. ‘Like on the plane.’

  ‘A life-jacket? No, I don’t,’ she confessed making a mental note to obtain one. ‘You’d like to see me put it on?’

  ‘Yes, I would have enjoyed that.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s okay. If I sit down here and imagine that I’m in my seat and you’re showing the passengers the emergency drill, the exits and that kind of stuff….’

  ‘I could pretend I have a life-jacket,’ she offered. ‘I could go through the motions.’ She looked at him as though taking him into her confidence. ‘If this all goes well, and I mean “well” and only “if”, would you like to pay me another fifty pounds?’

  His face was becoming set and the conversation had given him an erection. ‘Another fifty …?’ he muttered as if he wished she had not mentioned it. ‘Well, yes, okay. If it works out right.’

  ‘It will,’ she promised. ‘So you want to pay me now?’

  ‘Later,’ he suggested cautiously. ‘I’ll pay you then. When it’s all over.’

  She leaned towards him and tapped the head of his penis with her little finger, the same small, sharp movement she had used on the safe. He jumped as if it were an electric shock. ‘Do it now,’ she suggested. ‘Give me the fifty pounds now and then it’s done. It needn’t get in our way.’ She moved even nearer to him, the breasts swelling her tunic almost touching his chin as he sat breathing heavily in the chair. ‘It’s no contest,’ he agreed. ‘Fifty. Okay. Here. But I don’t have any more, after this, Candy. I need to get a taxi back to the city.’

  ‘That’s fine, Len,’ she answered swiftly taking the money. This time she slid the notes in a pocket inside her tunic. His eyes followed them as they disappeared like the eyes of a boy trying to fathom a conjuring trick.

  ‘It’s Ron,’ he said. ‘By the way. Or Phil.’ He regarded her unhappily.

  ‘Whatever did I say?’

  ‘Len. You said Len.’

  ‘Silly me. That’s being
confused by Phil and Ron.’

  Her proximity and her perfume were overpowering him. It occurred to her that one day, one of these men was going to have a heart attack. That would need some explaining. She flicked on her smile once again and with more power than she required, pushed him further back into the seat. ‘I just need to go to the bathroom,’ he said pleadingly. ‘I have to pass water, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t excuse you,’ she smiled wickedly. ‘After all the aircraft is about to take off. We’ve fastened our seat-belts. You can’t go to the bathroom now.’

  The personal excitement caused by her words made him vibrate. ‘I have to,’ he pleaded. ‘I just have to.’ He jumped from the chair and followed her imperiously pointed finger towards the bedroom and the bathroom beyond. He went out at a crouch, like a rounded Groucho Marx. She glanced at her watch. Sixteen minutes, thirty seconds. She sighed and sipped the wine.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said huskily as he reappeared, giving the impression of relief, as if she feared he might have left her forever. In his haste he had forgotten to zip his fly and once he was seated again she leaned over, coolly and professionally, poked the end of his shirt in with her red-nailed finger and tugged up the zip. The action stiffened him again. His face was damp as though he had washed but not towelled it. ‘You’re back in your seat,’ she repeated firmly.

  ‘I am. I’m back,’ he groaned then muttered. ‘Let’s … let’s take off, Candy.’

  The young woman stood before him, four feet distant, blue stockinged ankles close together, calves and thighs abutting beneath her slim skirt. ‘So you want me to do the commentary, Ron?’ she inquired conscientiously. She made a further mental note to get the tape of the take-off safety routine and play it while this was going on. There were always ways to improve the act.

  ‘Please,’ he answered. ‘And go through the actions. Emergency exits, inflating the life-vest and the oxygen masks, all that stuff. Just go through it like you would. Please.’

  Posed before him, she could have sworn his eyes were going pink as a pig’s. ‘First,’ she recited huskily. ‘The fastening of the seat-belt. For those of you not familiar with this type of belt, it fastens like this and opens like this.’ She went through the actions. The man closed his eyes as if he could not bear it but immediately reopened them not wanting to miss anything.

  ‘There are eight emergency exits on this aircraft,’ she recited. Professionally po-faced, she held out her slim uniformed arms and with her palms flattened, indicated the door to the suite, the two Thames scenes on the wall and the door to the bedroom.

  ‘In the unlikely event of the aircraft having to set down on water …’ Who the hell had thought up that phrase, she had often wondered; ‘Set down on water’ as though they were flying a duck. ‘… The life-jacket, which is under your seat, should be put on like this …’

  Ron was groaning. Again he briefly shut his eyes as though to exclude the anguish. Georgina deliberately paused until he had opened them again. ‘… The jacket fastens like this, around the waist …’ She elegantly went through the motions with the invisible vest. ‘And is tied at the front….’

  ‘Tied at the front,’ Ron repeated desperately. ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘If you pull the toggle …’

  ‘Pull the toggle,’ he repeated like a litany. ‘Jesus … yes … you pull it.’

  ‘The life-jacket will inflate. But this must not – repeat not – be done inside the cabin.’

  ‘No,’ agreed her client earnestly. ‘No … not inside …’

  ‘On no account,’ she added sternly. ‘There is a light … and a whistle for attracting attention … and if you blow into this mouthpiece …’ She blew provocatively into an imaginary tube.

  ‘Please,’ begged Ron. ‘The whistle. Do with the whistle again … and then make the mouthpiece bit slower, will you.’

  She did as he asked. She saw that it was the signal for him. He stood and held out both hands. ‘Now, I want to undress you,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You want to undress the stewardess?’ Her voice was husky and mildly surprised.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to do that,’ he said as if bordering on a trance. His eyes were trenches. She stood acquiescently, counting the glistening grapes in the fruit bowl over his shoulder. His fingers, with a sort of urgent slowness, began to undo the buttons on her tunic. He started from the bottom and when he had unbuttoned them he said: ‘Would you please take it off. The coat, take it off.’ She slipped out of it; the more time and trouble she took now the less she would need to work later. ‘Shall I take my blouse off?’ she suggested. ‘It has small buttons.’

  ‘You do that,’ he agreed. He stood, almost stumbled, half a pace back while she slid the white silk blouse from her shoulders and without asking him, she unhooked her bra and let her breasts loll forward. His eyes almost fell out with them. ‘May I touch these?’ he asked like a man in a greengrocer’s. He decided to make an offer. ‘I have some more money and I need this to be real good. I don’t need to get a taxi. Maybe there’s a bus.’

  ‘Another fifty?’ she suggested. ‘Pounds.’

  ‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘But not right now. Later.’

  ‘Of course not now,’ she agreed as though money were the last thing on her mind. His fingers went to the underside of her breasts and he played with them like a child. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he mumbled. ‘Stewardess.’

  ‘I’ve been specially chosen,’ she told him. The line pleased her. She must remember to use it again. His hands trembled down her ribs and held onto her buttocks under the confining skirt. She undid the zip at the back and let it descend around her knees, then, with a wriggle, her ankles. She stepped out of it, bending gracefully straight backed, picking it up and putting it with care over the arm of the chair.

  ‘White,’ he confided to himself in a whisper. ‘I knew she’d have white panties. I just knew.’

  ‘White panties are regulation,’ she informed him mischievously. ‘Would you like to remove them for me?’

  ‘Would I?’ he answered, almost toppling against her as he dropped to his knees. He pulled the garment down the long length of her stockinged legs. He seemed incapable of getting up and pushed his nose into her pubis. Sternly she straightened him up. ‘Not there,’ she warned primly. ‘Not like that, Phil … Ron. Let’s get your clothes off.’

  Her stockings swishing against each other, Georgina led him into the bedroom where he sat dreamily on the edge of the bed while, like a busy mother with a small son, she tugged away his trousers and underpants. In the same deft movement as she touched his penis she slipped a condom on it. Easing herself onto the bed, she opened her blue nylon legs and he climbed on top of her, sportingly taking his weight on his hands. She closed her eyes with a sudden weariness and disdain. She felt him ejaculate almost as soon as he entered her, as she was confident he would. They lay there for only a moment longer. He withdrew from her and in a sudden and surprisingly businesslike tone said he would have to leave. It gave her an excuse to check her watch. Thirty-one minutes, twenty seconds. The next client was not due for almost an hour.

  ‘There’s fifty pounds owing,’ she pointed out. ‘As agreed.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said offhandedly. He counted out five tens and put them on the bedside table. ‘I had a good time. But I’ve got to go. I need to call home. I call home every single day.’

  ‘Homelea’,

  Anglia Road,

  Hounslow,

  Middlesex,

  England,

  Great Britain

  14th July

  My Dear Father and My Dear Mother,

  I was worried with waiting but your welcome letter popped through the letter box today. Please affix the correct postage stamps. If you do not the letter takes longer and I have to pay more this end.

  However it was excellent to hear from you and with all the added news. I am noting that you are well and that Benji is well and misses me. One day I will come back and take B
enji for a walk.

  So at last the men cleaned the well and put some concrete around it. I was worried about the tiger. When I tell the Brits that we have tigers near our village they think I am pulling their plonkas. One of the porters at London Airport (Heathrow) said he had seen on the telly that there are no tigers left. They have all been killed and eaten by the poor people, he says. All I can say is that it was not our part of India.

  Here things are going first class. Uncle Sammi and Marika never seem to talk of the old days now, they are so long here. He is well pleased because as well as the emporium, which is soon to be open all night as well as all day, he keeps a social club. People telephone at all times to make appointments and I think it is making him good money. He is also considering starting a minicab. He is very clever.

  It is summer and I am still waiting to be warm but I am getting used to it. In the winter, so the porters say, it is for brass monkeys. My position at Heathrow goes well and I hope for promotion before too many weeks.

  My friend Jeremy Banarjee has a girlfriend who is a bar tenderess. She comes from Outer Wales. But I do not drink alcohol.

  Soon I will write to you again. Tell the postmaster that he must put more stamps on your letters.

  Your loving son,

  Nazar

  When the crew were leaving Heathrow, Barbara Poppins privately touched Bramwell Broad’s sleeve. ‘Come and take a look at the barge, if you like,’ she said. He detected her motive. ‘Just drive back there with me, will you,’ she confirmed looking straight at him. ‘I’m still shaky.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to go there alone.’

  ‘Mr Richardson offered to send somebody with me, but I said it wasn’t necessary. But it is. I’m not all right. I think I’ll be looking around corners for some time yet.’

  Together they went towards the glass exit to the terminal. A summer’s day was framed in the doors like a happy picture; a cut-out sky, the green heads of regular trees, the bricks of the central control tower red in the sun. ‘It’s hard to think it really happened,’ mused Bramwell when they were sitting together on the bus. ‘Nobody would believe you.’ He shook his head. ‘A pineapple.’