Midwinter Break Read online

  He lifted their large suitcase out of the boot and set it in front of Gerry. Stella retrieved her own and they extended handles simultaneously. Both set off, their cases growling behind them. The strap of Gerry’s shoulder bag cut into him like cheese wire. They approached the main terminal, protected behind stainless-steel bollards.

  ‘This must have cost millions,’ Gerry shouted above the noise of their cases. ‘What’s to stop a motorbike bomber going between the bollards?’

  By the main entrance three or four people were smoking behind a plastic hedge. Excluded, like lepers. Inside the doors Stella checked the monitors and they joined the correct queue. Each time the line progressed they shoved their luggage forward with their feet.

  ‘It’ll not go without us,’ Stella told him.

  ‘Don’t you bet on it. Everybody here’s got more luggage than sense.’

  They eventually got through security – after the security guy had thrown away Gerry’s shampoo and conditioner. Liquid in open vessels was not allowed, he said. They had coffee to calm themselves.

  ‘Was any comment made about your digging spoon?’

  ‘I don’t carry it all the time. Only on walks.’

  She minded their stuff and Gerry went for a wander in duty-free. Nothing but perfume. And adverts for perfume. The place reeked of the stuff. Slim sales girls dressed in black offered to spray samples onto upturned wrists. Gerry refused.

  He came to the spirits section. Stella had warned him not to buy anything. A bottle of his favourite Irish whiskey would be cheaper in Amsterdam, she said. The Traveller’s Friend, he called it. Because it helped a man get over to sleep. But there were too many imponderables about buying drink in Amsterdam. Did they sell it in supermarkets? Was there an off-licence system? Maybe it was like Norway or Canada and you had to go to a Government Liquor Store which, if he remembered correctly, stayed open only during office hours. Best to get it here and now when it was available. He tried to buy a bottle of Jameson but the girl asked him for his boarding card. He reneged on the deal and stomped off back to where Stella was sitting.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘They want my boarding card.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘I don’t know what her name is. Deirdre from Airdrie.’

  ‘Get me some Werther’s – if you can remember.’

  He got his boarding card and took his passport, just in case. The girl slid the bottle into a white foam lattice before putting it into a plastic bag.

  ‘Why did you need to see my boarding pass?’

  The girl smiled. She rang up the purchase and handed the bag over.

  ‘Regulations.’

  Standing with other men at the urinals unnerved him – he preferred a cubicle. He set down his bottle of whiskey to wash his hands. Even in its plastic bag it chinked on the marble surface. The dryer was of a new design and was amazingly powerful – a roaring, supersonic noise which startled him. The skin on the back of his hands rippled.

  A man came in with his wee boy. Gerry watched them in the mirror. The father approached the urinals and the child was going to follow him.

  ‘Stay there,’ said the father. The child did as he was told. But a moment later he moved under the hand dryers and immediately set one off. With a howl it blew hot air down onto his head. His hair threshed and flickered and the wee fella screamed with fright. He didn’t know where to run. Gerry stepped forward.

  ‘He’s okay, okay,’ shouted the father above the noise. But the child’s tears and panic were obvious as he screeched his head off. Gerry squatted to be at the same height, put an arm around the child, patting his back, while his father finished. But the boy twisted away towards his dad. The father smiled and picked him up – touching the top of his head to feel if it was hot. ‘You’re okay. You got a fright. It was just a big noise.’ Gerry made a sympathetic face.

  ‘Och, the poor wee man,’ he said. Then to the father, ‘I’ve a wee one that age myself. A grandson. You couldn’t protect them enough.’

  ‘He’s all right, aren’t you, son,’ said the father, leaning back from him. The child stopped crying but was distressed and shy at being the centre of attention in a toilet full of grown men. He nuzzled into his father’s neck as they backed out the door.

  In WH Smith’s Gerry bought a packet of Werther’s Original. He’d kid her on that he forgot. Then surprise her just before take-off.

  In the huge hallway Gerry joined his hands behind his back as he walked. He stared up into the ceiling of the new extension.

  ‘Hi,’ he said and sat down beside Stella.

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘The Traveller’s Friend.’ She rolled her eyes a little.

  ‘What about the Werther’s?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘You’d be a great one to send for sorrow.’

  ‘Have you what’ll do you?’

  ‘The remains of a packet.’

  Gerry stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He told her about the toddler and the hand drier.

  ‘Designers and architects should take responsibility for stuff like that,’ he said. ‘It’s just bad design and shouldn’t happen.’

  ‘The poor wee thing,’ she said over and over again.

  ‘I held onto him till his father had finished at the porcelain.’

  ‘Too much information,’ said Stella. ‘It’s your turn to hold the fort.’

  ‘So I’ve time to waste,’ said Gerry. ‘Where’s the paper?’

  She pointed, got to her feet and wandered off. He followed her with his eye. She went into the duty-free area. It was a huge concourse and she looked tiny at the far side of it. Architecture was about the size of things compared to the human. He opened the paper and began to read.

  She came back sooner than expected.

  ‘It says Boarding.’ They walked the carpeted corridors for ten or fifteen minutes. Stella said, ‘If you’d told our parents carpet would be laid in miles, they wouldn’t have believed you.’

  The plane sat roaring on the runway, waiting its turn. Stella particularly disliked both take-off and landing – that race to build up speed, the parting from the ground and then, at the end of the flight, the thump of the tonnage of aeroplane coming into contact with the earth. The way the wings shook and opened up like they were broken, followed by the roaring of the reverse thrust. Now she closed her eyes and gripped the armrest. Gerry put his hand on hers. He tapped a little rhythm on the back of her hand to comfort her.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Gerry.

  ‘Wristbands.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘In duty-free.’

  ‘What are they supposed to do?’

  ‘Keep me from being sick.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Pressure points.’ She showed him a white bead which touched her wrist on the inside. ‘It presses here – near your pulse point – it stops nausea. They’ve worked for me in the past. On ferries. Remember?’

  ‘Look, I’ve been flying for years and not once have I seen anybody throwing up. There was a child one time – probably had a feed of bad oysters and dodgy stout before he got on. You’d be far better off saying the rosary. For a special intention.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘God, don’t let me vomit on this flight.’

  Stella smiled and said, ‘We used to say the rosary in the car going to dances.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘The driver was a lot older than us but he was kind. Did it for petrol money. He gave out the rosary as he was driving.’

  ‘Poor horny guys going along, paying their money, hoping like mad for a bit and you’re saying the rosary on the way there?’

  ‘Ireland in the fifties.’

  ‘Was nobody ever carsick?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘So you’d be far better off saying the rosary than throwing your money away on bloody armbands . . .’

  ‘Wristbands. Armbands keep you from d
rowning.’

  Gerry produced the packet of Werther’s.

  ‘Like a sweet for take-off, modom?’

  ‘You said you’d forgotten them.’ She pulled out another tube of Werther’s. ‘So I bought my own.’

  ‘You’re so organised.’ Gerry put the sweets back in his pocket.

  The plane’s engine note rose and it javelined down the runway, pressing them into their seats. Then the rumbling under-carriage noise stopped.

  ‘We’re off.’

  Stella smiled and opened her eyes.

  ‘Have you brought a book?’

  ‘I’m on my holidays.’

  She snuggled back in her seat.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to this,’ she said. ‘There’s some things I want to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘My own concerns.’

  Gerry hooted as if there was something mysterious in what she’d said.

  ‘Me likewise.’

  ‘So we don’t necessarily have to do them together.’ She smiled an exaggerated smile.

  ‘Why didn’t we go somewhere warm?’ he said. ‘Like to a nearby hemisphere?’

  ‘Too much hassle.’

  The plane rose and began to judder as it entered cloud. Again he put his hand on her hand.

  ‘How come you were in Amsterdam and I wasn’t?’

  ‘A conference. With teachers.’

  ‘When was this?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I think it was the eighties? Anyway I thought it would be good. To remind myself.’

  ‘It’s a very elaborate piece of storyboarding.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Planning ahead. Mapping it all out. The way you want things to happen.’

  ‘Storyboarding?’

  ‘It’s a movie term. They draw a comic first – then film it. It’s a way of setting out exactly what you want to happen.’

  ‘I like that word,’ said Stella.

  It wasn’t a long flight. Stella did two crosswords. Both cryptic. One in the morning paper, the other – kept flat in her Filofax – clipped from Sunday’s paper. She had a theory about crosswords: that they would keep her mentally active in her very old age. Press-ups for the brain, she called them.

  The plane turned on its side and below they could see Amsterdam.

  ‘It was summer last time,’ said Stella. ‘We flew over tulip fields. From the air they looked like freshly opened plasticine. Rows and ridges. All primary colours.’

  ‘Looks very grey now.’

  ‘If it’s raining I wouldn’t mind a snooze when we get as far as the hotel.’

  ‘In the middle of the afternoon?’

  ‘Last night I discovered what bad sleep is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lying awake. You and your music,’ she said.

  ‘You never go to bed in the afternoon at home.’

  ‘Away is different.’

  The first smell in the airport building was of flowers. Hyacinths in January. Stella drew some euros from a hole-in-the-wall machine after checking the exchange rates. It shelled out high-denomination notes only and she tut-tutted. She gave half to Gerry and he slid them into his wallet. As they made their way to the train station Gerry pointed at her wristbands.

  ‘You can take those things off now.’

  ‘They keep me nice and warm.’ Stella’s face was turned up to the huge noticeboard.

  ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Europe,’ she said. ‘Does that not do something to the hairs on the back of your neck? To be on the same piece of land? Rome, Warsaw, Berlin, Prague. Moscow, even. You could get on a train . . .’

  ‘Let’s get to Amsterdam first.’

  The board changed with a roar and a flutter of individual letters and in an instant the whole board trembled and all the information leapt up a line.

  ‘Double-decker trains,’ said Gerry.

  ‘You’re such a boy sometimes.’

  They found a place in an empty carriage and got settled.

  ‘Which direction are we going?’

  Gerry pointed. Stella changed her seat.

  ‘You’re a forward-looking woman.’

  ‘Always have been.’

  The train pulled out and cleared the terminal. It was grey and raining. Stella wriggled her hands out of the wristbands and put them in her bag.

  ‘We should jump in a taxi,’ she said. ‘Around the station can be a bit unsavoury. Last time we were lugging our cases through junkies and ne’er-do-wells. In the days before cases had wheels.’

  ‘It’s all going far too well,’ said Gerry. ‘A bad omen.’

  In the main station pigeons crossed their path, cooing and speeding up to get out of their way. Gerry stopped to look closely at them.

  ‘Have you ever seen their feet?’ Stella shook her head, no. ‘They’re nearly all deformed. In Glasgow Central, it’s exactly the same. Wee red clenched fists, missing toes, running around on their knuckles . . .’

  ‘So they are,’ said Stella. ‘I’ve never seen that before. Poor things.’

  A couple of the birds rose in front of them and they felt the wind of their wings as they passed. Gerry ducked, thinking of germs.

  Gerry paid the taxi. From nowhere, Stella produced an umbrella and led the way through the rain into the hotel, hoisting her cabin case up the steps to the large revolving doors. The clerk checking them in spoke good English.

  ‘Perhaps you want to go out separately?’

  They were given two plastic cards for room keys. The doorman reached for their cases but Gerry said, ‘It’s okay – we can manage.’

  In the lift when the doors slid to Gerry consulted the little paper envelope containing the card.

  ‘Three nine six,’ he said.

  She pressed the button and when the lift began to move they kissed. It was a habit they had developed, to kiss lightly when alone in a lift. Between floors.

  ‘It’s so embarrassing – making a flunkey out of someone.’

  ‘Gerry, it’s his job.’

  ‘And then there’s the tip. He’d stand around hoping.’

  On their floor they followed the arrows to the room number. Gerry slid the plastic into the lock and plucked it out again. The room was dark because the curtains were pulled. He inserted the card into the wall slot and said in a booming God-like voice, ‘Let there be light.’

  The television screen welcomed them by name.

  ‘The Hotel Theo wish you a pleasant stay. If there is anything we can do to help, please let us know.’

  ‘A free drink would be nice,’ Gerry said.

  Stella went first to the window and drew back the dark curtains. She lifted the inner nets. Their room faced into the centre of the hotel. Opposite were windows up and windows down like a crossword. Gerry came to join her, looking over her shoulder, putting his arms around her waist. There was a flat roof below.

  ‘Would you look at that rain?’ said Stella. Lying on the wet roof was an empty Gauloises packet beside a child’s plastic seaside bucket.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Gerry.

  Stella set the big case on the king-sized bed. The lid, when she opened it, cast off droplets of rain onto the coverlet. She began to unpack. Gerry went around the bed and lay down full length on the opposite side.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Hard as a brick runway. Soft beds spell danger to my back.’

  ‘D’you like these?’

  She held up a cellophane pack from Marks & Spencer.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘New pyjamas.’

  ‘Black?’

  ‘As sin.’

  He raised an eyebrow and looked up at her.

  ‘Why? Did you think it’d be a turn-on – like sleeping with a priest?’

  ‘Priests usually have enough independence to choose their own pyjamas.’

  Stella stripped them of their packaging. She threw it all in the waste bin and slid the pyjamas under the pillow. In the bin th
e bundled cellophane crackled softly as it tried to regain its shape.

  She handed Gerry the remote control.

  ‘Get me English News.’

  He began flicking, watching the changing screen – hearing the riffle of European languages. Then BBC News appeared. A reporter was on a beach interviewing a man who had come ashore from a heaving and crowded boat. The migrant’s English was broken but good enough. Behind him was a woman holding a baby. The reporter ended with a shrug. ‘A man and his wife with their infant son changing countries to escape from war.’

  ‘On and on it goes,’ said Stella. She carried her washbag into the bathroom. Gerry could see her reflected in a mirror opposite the doorway. She tore off the pleated paper from a bar of soap and inhaled it. ‘I’ll have the luxury of a bath or two in here,’ she shouted. She took out her plastic bag of creams and tubes and artificial tears and set them on a ledge.

  Gerry was still on the bed with his shoes on when she came back into the room. She kicked off hers and folded herself into the coverlet beside him. From her bag she produced her Amsterdam guide and began to flick through it. One restaurant boasted of ‘robust stews’. She tried to find it on the map but fell asleep.

  Stella awoke to a knocking. Her watch told her they’d slept far too long.

  ‘Who is it?’

  She opened the door. Two shy girls in uniform. They smiled and the one nearer the door said something in Dutch.

  ‘English?’ said Stella.

  ‘Turn-down service,’ said one of the girls.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stella. ‘But we can do that ourselves.’

  ‘Chocolate?’ The further-away girl held out a platter with tiny gold-wrapped bars. Stella still had the Amsterdam guide in her hand. She awkwardly took a handful of chocolates with her left hand and nodded her thanks. She closed the door with a push of her shoulder.

  ‘We’ve just turned down the turn-down service,’ said Gerry, laughing. ‘Anyway, it’s just more subservience. Carry your bag, sir? Turn down your covers, sir? Some chocolate to rot your teeth, sir?’

  There was a knock from a door further along the corridor and the whole spiel began again in the distance. This time in Dutch.