Arrivals & Departures

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘It must be some experience.’

  ‘If some people have their way then I won’t have an observatory for much longer. They want to dismantle it.’

  ‘But … why would that be?’

  ‘They say it contravenes a covenant. But I’m fighting them.’

  Richardson stood and brushed the back of his trousers. ‘I must be on my way, Rona,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting at ten thirty.’

  ‘Good luck with your observatory.’

  ‘I’ll need that.’ They touched hands again. ‘I’ m glad I didn’t disturb you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Rona. He had disturbed her and she knew that she had disturbed him also.

  Loaded with his thoughts he drove to Heathrow. He had to go to Terminal Four to a brief meeting with the catering contractors. He drove along the perimeter road, the long curving back route, about the circumference of the airport, passing on its way the fire station, the catering block, the long line of taxis waiting to be called to the terminals, the veterinary hospital, the police car compound and the Thames Water sewage works, its existence threatened by the demands for a new super-terminal on the site of its filters and ponds. Today, in the quiet season for the airport, the peripheral route was as uncrowded as a secondary highway. Richardson could see fields and cattle from there, the distinct tower of Bedmansworth church with its arrow and its golden ball glistening like the sun itself.

  The Longford River imprisoned in its culvert flowed slow and grey; there was an old farm and a row of low cottages, dwellings of agricultural labourers built before there were airports, when Heath Row was a hamlet between the Magpie Inn and the few houses at Perry Oaks. The road followed the way of an ancient carting track.

  On the left was a higher perimeter wall with the tails of Boeing 747s standing above it like banners. The homely jumbo had changed the world; the gentle, indomitable aeroplane, both cumbersome and graceful, had travelled the world’s skies in its thousands.

  Richardson left his car in the staff section of the car park and walked over to the newest of the airport’s terminals. Alongside was a hotel, hat shaped, like a late twentieth-century Victorian railway station. He watched a small jet from Air Malta, which used Terminal Four among the major airlines, fussing out to the runway. There were two KLM aircraft in their pale blue and white colours standing at the piers and then a long run of British Airways tails like a huge hand of cards stretched to the infinity of the buildings.

  He walked into the terminal building, roomier, higher than the other three, built years before, but with its concourse crowded with all types and nations, colours, costumes, languages, all moving and preparing to be scattered throughout the world; to New York, to Toronto, Buenos Aires and to Katmandu, Timbuktu and Trengganu. He stood for a moment, in isolation, watching it all but thinking of a woman standing at an easel by the autumn River Thames.

  The sub-postmaster of Bedmansworth, Dobbie Dobson, was manoeuvring his tuba through the door into the long porch of the village hall as Richardson walked up the paved path. The other players of the Bedmansworth Band stood on the ragged grass waiting for the bulky bandmaster to get in; a big, scowling girl with a drum, a youth clutching a flute like a weapon, another giving his trumpet a tentative kiss, and a girl with a white face and a violin. Among the others was a middle-aged woman who carried a pair of exposed cymbals and brought them together quietly, but with a touch of impatience.

  ‘There’s an art in this, Mr Richardson,’ said Dobson. ‘Getting through this door or tunnel if you like.’ He demonstrated twisting and rolling the bulbous instrument and his own rotund body. ‘A turn this way then a wriggle that.’ He performed the movements as he spoke. ‘There.’ He went into the doorway. The girl with the violin case stood aside with a mumble and, thanking her, Richardson followed Dobson into the porch.

  ‘Is it band practice?’ he asked. ‘I thought the Residents’ Association were here tonight.’

  ‘Tuesdays, band practice,’ Dobbie informed him solidly. ‘There was some people going in a bit earlier, I saw them, but I expect they’ll be in one of those pokey rooms off. We have to have the main bit, because we do our marching up and down as well, see.’

  He had worked his way along the confined porch and he shifted himself and the tuba to make room for Richardson to pass through. The shabby hall with its melancholy flags, hanging from the ceiling, was empty and glowering with indifferent light. Velvet curtains sagged like an old skirt across the stage. A complaining voice echoed from a door half open at one side of the stage. The pink-and-white face of Mrs Kitchen appeared. She saw Richardson. ‘Ah, there you are! We’re in here! We’ve been waiting!’

  Taking his time, Richardson crossed the scuffed floor and crouched into the low-ceilinged room where Mrs Kitchen and four others squatted in self-conscious discomfort on kindergarten chairs. In one corner was propped the head of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, the last pantomime, the plaster nose fractured and horribly hanging. ‘Good evening,’ said Richardson.

  ‘This,’ said Mrs Kitchen briskly, ‘is the Central Action Committee.’ She waved a lumpy hand.

  ‘Of what?’ inquired Richardson looking casually for somewhere to sit. There was a spare infant chair but he ignored it.

  ‘The Bedmansworth Residents’ Association,’ returned Mrs Kitchen with accentuated surprise. ‘Naturally. Please sit down.’

  Richardson sat on the edge of a table wedged among the chairs, so that he was head and shoulders above the committee, a manoeuvre not lost on Mrs Kitchen. She grunted her annoyance and after regarding the tiny chair sniffed: ‘It might have been better if the hall had provided some proper seats. Apparently they’ve been taken elsewhere on hire. They allege that these fitted better into this silly room.’

  Outside the door, in the main hall, the band began assembling. There came a mild fumf-fumf from Dobbie Dobson’s tuba. ‘Band practice,’ Richardson smiled to the Central Action Committee.

  ‘Drat it,’ said Mrs Kitchen. She stood, opened the door, and shut it again fiercely, her cheeks pouting. ‘The Residents’ Association is required to watch its expenditure,’ she said confronting Richardson. ‘We are not like an airline.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Richardson surveying the room’s occupants. ‘There is a difference.’

  She rolled her lips. ‘So we had to take the room at its lowest rent.’ There was a further fumf-fumf and one explosive bang on the drum. ‘But I did not realise the hall was being used for band practice.’ She regarded Richardson with something akin to a plea for sportsmanship. ‘I think the quicker we get into our business the better, before they start.’

  Suddenly Edward realised he was going to enjoy himself. He said: ‘Let’s be quick by all means but I feel I should have the names of the … Central Action Committee, Mrs Kitchen. I recognise only one person….’ He nodded across to a twitching woman in a thick green coat and a hat with a fractured feather. ‘Fumf,’ sounded the tuba from beyond the door. Cymbals clashed. Mrs Kitchen winced.

  ‘One person….’ proceeded Richardson. ‘And I’m afraid I don’t know her name.’

  ‘Not familiar with your fellow residents,’ said Mrs Kitchen swiftly. She glanced towards the door.

  ‘Not these fellow residents I’m afraid,’ admitted Richardson. He smiled at each in turn. The woman in the green coat said with a twitch: ‘Mrs Fickens, I am, Thora.’ She bridled away from her chairman’s glare. Dobson’s voice came from outside the door, calling the band to order.

  Not surrendering his initiative, Richardson nodded genially at a pipe-shaped man with wispy hair scraped without hope across his forehead. ‘Mr Gordon,’ the man said answering the nod, adding ‘Percy’, with a sign of shyness. The squat man next to him put together a scowl. ‘Bert Kitchen,’ he muttered.

  ‘Ah, the better half,’ acknowledged Richardson pleasantly. Notes of discord and random clashes of cymbals and drums came from the outside room as the band pulled itself together. Mrs Kitchen was becoming angry.

 
‘And that’s Miss MacNamara,’ she jabbed her finger at the woman who appeared startled in a meagre way. She gave Mrs Kitchen a look of hurt and hatred. ‘That’s me,’ she confirmed.

  ‘And I am Edward Richardson,’ said Richardson with exaggerated kindness. The band began to play ‘Colonel Bogey’. They played it loudly and badly. A shout from Dobbie Dobson and the noise clattered and collapsed. ‘This is hideous,’ muttered Mrs Kitchen. ‘They should have told me. It’s that half-witted caretaker, whatever he’s called. Smith.’

  ‘Mr Henry Broughton-Smith … MC … Military Cross,’ Richardson informed her. ‘Been in the village for years. Retired solicitor. He does the hall voluntarily.’ The band started up again, the massive music shuddering against the walls and ceiling. Mrs Kitchen sprang up angrily and strode the three paces to fling open the dividing door.

  ‘Stop!’ she bawled. ‘Will you stop this racket!’

  Edward sat, leaning forward to see, on the edge of the table, and happier than he had been for some time. The committee on their infant chairs stared towards the door with collective apprehension. Undeterred the music blasted on. Through the open door, around Mrs Kitchen’s big shoulder, he could see Dobbie Dobson. The band wavered to a halt.

  ‘Did you shout?’ inquired Dobson peering towards the open door.

  ‘I said stop. We’re having a meeting.’

  ‘Are you now,’ blinked Dobson. ‘And we’re having a practice. Tuesday’s – band practice.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, you do now.’ He revolved and raised his baton. ‘Ready. One, two, three!’ Mrs Kitchen bellowed something further, drowned in the din of the music. She returned to her miniature chair and sat down, looking as if she were going to cry.

  ‘Madness,’ she moaned. ‘Absolute madness.’ She lifted her head with a half challenge, half plea, to Richardson. ‘We will have to shout,’ she said.

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ he said looking directly at her. He raised his voice. ‘In any event I’m sure that we can get through this matter very quickly. You want me to take down my observatory and I’m not going to take it down.’

  While he was speaking the band had subsided into a fortissimo and then stopped altogether, apart from Dobson’s pleadingly instructive voice. But, as Mrs Kitchen opened her mouth and as though they had only been waiting the opportunity, they struck up again.

  Mrs Kitchen’s face tightened. The pink spots on her cheeks deepened. ‘I will not be beaten,’ she squeaked. ‘They will not defeat me.’ Attempting to raise herself from the small chair, she caused it to tumble backwards. For a moment she trembled, knees bent, like a circus elephant dismounting from its coloured tub, but then, her weight proving too much for her knees, she began to collapse. For a split moment she had a choice; to fall backwards or forwards. She was confronting Richardson who had instinctively slid from the table to help. Mrs Kitchen chose; she projected herself forward. With an impassioned moan she fell at Richardson’s feet, the moan pitching up to a howl of pain as her plump knees struck the floor. The committee remained rooted.

  ‘Now look what’s happened!’ howled her husband. He tried to lift his wife like a tug trying to right a freighter.

  ‘Get away,’ she said through grinding teeth. Apart from Mr Kitchen none of the committee had moved. ‘I’m all right. I am not injured.’

  Mr Kitchen clenched his fists. Before his wife had even regained the chair, placed upright at last by Thora Fickens, he was at the door, had flung it open and howled at Dobson and the village band: ‘Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know?’

  ‘“Colonel Bogey”,’ Dobbie told him appearing glad at the interest. ‘Now we’re doing “Blaze Away”.’

  ‘Bastard band!’ bellowed Mr Kitchen. Mrs Fickens tutted, and looked at Miss MacNamara as if they should not have been there. Mrs Kitchen was squatting on the child’s chair rubbing her knees. ‘We must reconvene this meeting,’ she demanded.

  ‘I think,’ said Richardson steadying his expression, ‘we have had the meeting.’

  Mrs Kitchen’s cheeks expanded. The band was striking up again. They were marching up and down the hall and Dobson could be heard shouting: ‘Left, right, left, right, about turn!’

  ‘This,’ said Mrs Kitchen like someone making a final foray, producing an envelope, ‘is a letter from our solicitor. A summons will follow unless you comply with its instructions.’ She thrust the envelope towards him. He hesitated but then accepted it.

  ‘Meeting adjourned!’ bawled Mrs Kitchen.

  The Central Action Committee stood and, in disarray, stumbled after their chairman from the room. Mrs Fickens offered Richardson a shy wave. He heard Mrs Kitchen berating the band.

  When they had all gone, leaving the three-quarter semicircle of chairs like a wooden model of a Druid temple, Richardson remained on the edge of the table, laughing to himself. He opened the letter. Legal proceedings would commence unless he forthwith complied with Covenant 874/2 of September 21st 1937. The Residents’ Association it said, had an unanswerable case. With a grimace he folded it up and put it into his pocket and went out of the confined room. The band were resting, odd shapes, faces, sizes and ages, grouped bent backed, holding their instruments or wedging them against the floor, while Dobson mopped his forehead with a custard-coloured handkerchief. ‘Hope we didn’t interrupt you too much, Mr Richardson,’ he said.

  Richardson laughed. ‘Well, you did, Dobbie, but it was just the thing, in fact. The Residents’ Association Action Committee could do with a little music.’

  ‘Sour-faced old lump,’ muttered Dobson.

  ‘Mrs Kitchen,’ supplemented Richardson. He glanced towards the village musicians. ‘I’ve never seen a violin in a marching band before.’

  ‘Mary Powell,’ said Dobson. He nodded at the spare and pale girl and seemed about to add something about her but then changed his mind. ‘Would you like us to play something for you?’ he suggested.

  ‘Thank you,’ responded Richardson with surprise. He hesitated while Dobson beamed appreciatively but then his expression clouded. ‘Within reason, of course,’ warned the bandmaster. ‘We can’t get to grips with Sibelius yet. There’s not much we can do, to tell the truth, try as they do.’ He took on the look of someone who has decided to come clean. ‘In fact, they only know three marches and “God Save the Queen”. Unless it’s your birthday. They know …’

  ‘Anything will do,’ Richardson assured him. ‘How about “Colonel Bogey”? They played that well.’

  Dobson was patently pleased and relieved. ‘Just the number,’ he said. ‘They’re getting quite decent at that. Would you like them marching? They get more into the swing of it when they are marching.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richardson backing to the wall.

  Dobson tapped his baton on his knee briskly, like a chorus girl. ‘Right, musicians,’ he said. The faces of the band looked up. ‘Mr Richardson,’ announced the bandmaster, ‘has requested “Colonel Bogey”. Marching.’ The band remained impassive although the housewife with the cymbals clashed them briefly.

  ‘Right, form up,’ ordered Mr Dobson. ‘And try and keep straighter this time. No wriggling, Sarah Browning.’

  ‘That Bertie Bent was poking me with his instrument,’ complained the girl half turning and glaring at the freckled boy next to her. He held his trumpet guiltily as if it were stolen. ‘Didn’t touch her,’ he disclaimed. ‘Wouldn’t touch her.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ chided the bandmaster. ‘Form up and no poking.’ They shuffled into three ragged lines. Not one musician seemed to be the height or shape of any of the others; some of the largest instruments were carried by the smallest players; the woman with the cymbals had a plaster on her nose. Dobson picked up his golden tuba. Every instrument shone, a polish accentuated by the shabbiness of the room. When the bandmaster lifted the tuba its surface was reflected on the dim ceiling.

  ‘One, two, three!’ he timed. There was a false start. An old man had
dropped his music and was attempting to pick it up with uncoordinated fingers. The cornet player next to him tried to help but in doing so struck the ashen girl with the violin who cried out in protest.

  ‘It’s like getting race horses into the starting stalls,’ apologised Mr Dobson inaccurately. He rallied them once more and at his signal they blared an initial note and set off marching down the hall. It was scarcely long enough for the musicians at the front to take more than half a dozen paces before they had to about turn for the march back, Dobson fumfing at the side while his players swivelled and, swerving like footballers, attempted to avoid those coming towards them. But the march blazed bravely, resounding against the roof. Richardson imagined he saw the dusty flags flutter as though from old memory. All the players played their utmost, stepping out, the white knees of the girls with the baggy trousers of the old man, and the boys in their stained tracksuits and creased jeans, the cymbal-clashing housewife and the heavy girl in wellington boots belabouring the drum.

  Eventually they finished and stood puffed and perspiring, each one almost glaring in hope, in anticipation at Edward Richardson. Dobson gave a final fumf on his tuba and remained sweatily beaming. ‘There,’ he said happily. ‘That’s the best they’ve ever played it.’

  Richardson clapped them and shook the bandmaster’s hand. ‘That was terrific,’ he said as they went to the door into the porch. He lowered his voice. ‘They try tremendously hard,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, they try,’ said Dobson a trifle sadly. ‘But it doesn’t come easy to them. You said about Mary Powell with the fiddle. Really and truly she can’t play anything. She just marches along and scrapes. The fiddle was her dad’s who died just before last Christmas.’

  Richardson said: ‘So she just goes through the motions.’

  ‘That’s it.’