Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow (7 page)

Ada looked like money, clad in a dark blue Norman Hartnell (By Appointment to The Queen) suit with white blouse, patent leather shoes with a Rayne's label inside, white gloves and handbag from Asprey's in Bond Street. Her Simone Mirman toque was in the £50 millinery class.

However, all the money this looked like had not been Ada's. Her outfit might have borne the tag of her best-liked, long-standing clients, Lady Dant,
the Countess Wyszcinska, Mrs Schreiber and Lady Corrison, who in sudden fits of generosity or moments of irritation with a certain garment had bestowed them upon Ada.

Mrs Butterfield had somehow confined the bulges of her rotund person into a modest travelling outfit, also the gift of Mrs Schreiber at the time they went to America, and looked neat but not dowdy, the perfect satellite to Ada.

Each carried two suitcases bearing blue and white stickers and, in addition to their tickets and passports, clutched several Intourist folders plus a small booklet instructing visitors to Holy Mother Russia how to behave upon arrival there, what to do and what not to do.

In the very last moment while the taxi that was to take them to the West London Air Terminal in Cromwell Road was ticking over, Mrs Harris went to the china soup tureen on her sideboard, lifted the lid, removed therefrom an envelope and with every appearance of not being really very much interested in what she was doing put it into the Asprey handbag, a gift from Lady Dant, and snapped it shut.

But Mrs Butterfield, whose nerves had been brought to the very edge by this moment of departure to a land from which deep down she never really expected to return, saw her and queried, ‘What's that?'

Mrs Harris replied noncommitally, ‘Nuffink. Just a letter.'

If Mrs Butterfield had been equipped with bells she would have jangled like a dozen fire alarms. ‘A letter,' she cried. ‘To 'oo? What's it abaht? What's it doing in your bag? What was it doing 'iding away in your soup dish? Ada 'Arris, what are you keeping from me?'

Ordinarily this inquisition would have irritated Mrs Harris to the point of a snappish retort or even a refusal to give. But her conscience to begin with was still not entirely clear on the subject of dragging her friend off to a place into which she didn't want to go. And the fact was, too, that she had not been unaware that for all of his precautions Mr Lockwood had still been uneasy about the transaction and not wholly happy about burdening Mrs Harris with this missive. And furthermore there was a question of ethics which was one of Mrs Harris's strongest points. She had been at no pains to conceal the fact that she had been hurt when her friend had tried to hide from her that her club had closed down and she was thus perfectly able to take a holiday. And now she herself, Ada Harris, was proposing to keep from Mrs Butterfield that she was acting as a courier for Mr Lockwood.

‘Oh, very well, Vi,' she said. ‘Keep your hair on. It ain't nuffink to get excited over. It's a letter to Mr Lockwood's sweetheart in Moscow 'oo he can't get
in touch wif and the both of them dyin' of worry and love,' and briefly and succinctly she quickly recounted the saga of Geoffrey Lockwood and his Liz.

Mrs Butterfield's immediate reaction offered a choice of metaphors. She neither kept her hair on nor did she take this news lying down. In fact her coiffure was practically standing up straight and she took three steps forward pointing a finger and shouted, ‘Ada 'Arris, you put that letter right back where you got it from. 'Ave you gone barmy in your old age? Don't you know what 'appens to people what carries secret papers to Roosha? The rest of our lives in a dark 'ole on bread and water. I just read a harticle where you carn't even bring a Bible into Roosha. If you carn't take the Good Book and they catch us wif a letter we're both for the 'igh jump. You put that right back or I ain't goin'.' And to emphasize her determination she reached up and began to make those motions that ladies make preparatory to removing their hats.

The clickety-clack of the taxi engine outside added to Ada's exasperation and she cried, ‘Violet Butterfield, you're a silly goose. I 'aven't got any Bible on me. Neither 'ave you and there's nuffink in this letter that nobody couldn't read. And what's more it ain't got any nyme or address on it of anybody, it ain't signed by anybody, it's just a poor bloke a pourin' out 'is 'eart to 'is sweetie 'oo 'e's lost.
All I know is that 'er name is Liz, I've seen 'er photer, she's the guide on our tour and when I get 'er alone for a moment I slips 'er the letter and what's the 'arm in that?' She didn't even stop to reflect about how Mrs Butterfield would take on if she had any inkling of what somehow she felt she was going to attempt after making contact with Liz. Instead she picked up her suitcase and made for the door, leaving Mrs Butterfield stranded in mid-room with her hands up to her hat. Thus, the latter was compelled to a somewhat ignominious surrender, left her hat where it was, picked up her own luggage and followed Mrs Harris out of the flat muttering, ‘Suicide, that's what it is. Daft in the 'ead. You can read any day about someone bein' nobbled behind the Iron Curtain for 'avin' suspicious papers. I carn't see any good coming of this.'

The grumbling went on in the taxi cab until Ada finally said, ‘Oh Vi, do shut up. We're goin' off on a free 'oliday to enjoy ourselves.' The two then sat silent all the way to the air terminal which was not exactly the most auspicious beginning to a carefree vacation. Mrs Butterfield continued to regard Mrs Harris's handbag as though it contained a bomb.

Nor was Heathrow Airport that year, month and time exactly soothing to the nerves of even experienced travellers. Disembarking from the airport bus the pair were immediately plunged into the disconcerting atmosphere swirling about the entrance to a
great metropolitan air terminal, thumping of car doors shutting, the rumbling of luggage trucks of the porters, the crying of babies, the cooing of unintelligible voices over the loudspeaker system, the revving up of motor car engines, all the chaotic clatter on the fringe of modern air travel. But within things were going on that were even more disconcerting than their normal check-in, weighing of baggage, handing out of boarding cards and the confusion of following directions of where to go next.

For this happened to be the period of the greatest IRA attack upon London. Bombs were arriving in the letter post, incendiaries were being stuffed amongst the dry goods in Oxford Street department stores, innocent looking packages left in doorways were exploding with lethal violence and one never knew when a car parked at the kerb wasn't going to blow sky high. Guerrilla action and sabotage were in the air. Heathrow was simply seething with police in uniforms, detectives in plain clothes, intelligence and security officers, not to mention inspection devices for turning up illicit hardware. Passengers were scrutinized not only by human bloodhounds but closed circuit television and X-ray machines as well.

Mrs Harris caught the atmosphere at once but didn't say anything, not wishing further to alarm Violet, but Violet being cockney herself had her
own accurate seismograph and reacted. ‘Ada, what's up? The plyce is crawling wif rozzers.'

They were on their way to the news-stand to buy the morning papers and it was unfortunate that before Mrs Harris could reply something soothing there was the incident of the young man passing near by clad in dirty jeans and leather jacket encrusted with grime.

He had a sinister beard, long filthy hair and a wild look in his eye. He was holding one of those paper shopping bags with the British flag emblazoned on the side of the type which had been considerably in the daily press of late. Two burly detectives materialized suddenly on either side of him, one firmly remarking, as he flashed his badge, ‘Sorry, sir, but we'd just like to have a look into that bag of yours.'

Violet squeaked, ‘Oh, my Gawd, look at that. What's 'appening?'

The individual accosted made no protest and handed over the bag. It produced two apples, half a salami, two dirty shirts, four pairs of socks equally soiled, an extra pair of sneakers and a few toilet articles. The detective returned the bag with, ‘Sorry, sir, just routine, you know.'

Violet asked, ‘What was 'e looking for?' And Mrs Harris whose nerves were now becoming slightly frayed had been about to reply, ‘Bombs, 'ijackers, IRA, Arabs. That's just the kind of bag they like to
carry 'em about in,' but remembering the timorous nature of her friend, refrained and merely remarked, ‘Suspicious looking character weren't 'e?'

Mrs Butterfield's mind was simply unable to adjust to the letter that her friend was carrying, equating it now with the bombs for which the police were so industriously searching and once more she tackled the subject saying, ‘Oh dear, Ada, supposing them two cops 'ad arsked to look into your 'andbag and 'ad found that there letter? They'd 'ave 'ad the cuffs on you quicker than wink.'

Mrs Harris wanted to say, ‘Don't be a fool, Vi, this ain't Russia,' but thought better of it since what was going on all around them could not be called exactly true British, besides which Vi was still at her.

‘Come on, Ada, tear it up. Throw it away, don't 'ave nuffink more to do wif it. You can chuck it over there in that litter bin. When you see the girl you can
tell
'er all abaht 'er boyfriend.'

For a moment for the sake of peace Mrs Harris was of half a mind to do just that except that two blue-clad special officers who had been strolling by stopped wholly by chance to take up a position by the wire refuse basket to look the crowd over. If holding a carrier bag was suspicious what about being caught throwing away a sealed envelope in these days of postal bombs? In addition there is something connected with a love letter which makes it impossible to dispose of in such a manner. She was
transporting not so much a letter as a piece of Mr Lockwood's heart.

The loudspeaker came to her rescue, announcing their flight 501 Aeroflot to Moscow and requesting that they present themselves to passport and inspection and pass through into the departure lounge.

Ada said, ‘That's us, Vi. Come on, we're off.' As the flow of people ensued in obedience the two for the first time had a glimpse of their fellow passengers on the tour and even to Mrs Butterfield a sufficiently reassuring one. They were mostly middle class or elderly people with a few groups wearing special badges to identify them on a trip to confirm the Soviet Paradise as well as a few worker types, probably, Mrs Harris thought, shop stewards going over to get their instructions for making more trouble for British industry. Mrs Harris's politics were those of her clients.

The inspection of passports at immigration was cursory but then they found themselves guided by several airport hostesses off to one side and a door leading to an enclosure before the departure lounge. There was a long counter in the room, a number of uniformed police and two policewomen. It took only the first glimpse of the blue to set Mrs Butterfield off again and clutching Ada by the arm she quavered, ‘It's the police. What's 'appening? I told you, they know about that bloody letter. We're for it.'

Ada shook her off and whispered, ‘Shut up, Vi, it ain't us. It's the syme for everybody. Carn't you see? There's nuffink to be afraid of.'

Although Mrs Harris had never before been through one of these airport frisks she was knowledgeable from complaints of some of her employers as to what a bore it was to travel by air these days. Indeed the inspection was routine and one which by now has become familiar to every airline traveller who, unless he is packing a .38 or a hand grenade, goes through it with resigned patience and even a sense of relief that precautions are taken to make sure that the party sitting next to them isn't loaded for bear.

Handbags, briefcases, airline overnight carryalls and packages were given a swift but thorough inspection and then returned to their owners who were then guided along to pass between two uniformed technicians who, holding electronic metal detectors in their hands, passed them over the contours of the passengers which would signal the presence of any untoward hardware concealed about their persons. One man going through elicited a faint piping from one of the gadgets but, asked to turn out his pockets, proved to be carrying nothing more lethal than a rather over-large bunch of keys.

However, the effect upon Mrs Butterfield when the inspector opened Mrs Harris's handbag and the fatal letter showed between the brochures was
shattering. Her tiny mouth quivered, her round florid face was drained of all colour and gobbets of perspiration gathered on her forehead. If the police were looking for anyone acting in a suspicious or agitated manner they had a beauty right under their noses.

Still, the searchers merely dug their fingers into the corners feeling for small calibre artillery and not finding any in the property of the two ladies handed the bags back.

In her agitation Mrs Butterfield at first did not take notice that she had been given Mrs Harris's handbag while Ada had hers. It was not until she reached the men with the gadgets that she realized that it was now she who carried the letter.

Thus she arrived before them in a state of abject terror which was wholly justified apparently by the results, for as the technicians performed their little contour pantomime rather exaggeratedly around the outlines of her rotund figure both the gadgets gave forth loud and high-pitched screams of triumph.

From Mrs Butterfield emerged one anguished moan. ‘Oh my Gawd, the bloody letter.' She then melted to the floor in a dead faint. Even from that distance the metal detectors continued to cheer.

Mrs Harris stared horrified at her friend. Would she have been so foolish because of what she had been told of Mr Geoffrey Lockwood as to have
concealed a lethal weapon upon her person? But no, she had only known about the letter in the very last moment.

The police were quietly efficient. They surrounded Mrs Butterfield. Smelling salts were produced. When she returned to life the two uniformed policewomen raised and escorted her into a side room. A policeman told Ada, ‘You can't go in there.'