The Light of Amsterdam (14 page)

‘She'll never make the money for that,' she said.

‘I'm just talking off the top of my head now but I've been thinking about that. You know that the Clements are putting their flower shop in the main street up for sale? I was thinking, now just thinking, that it might be a good investment for us. And you wouldn't get a better person than Anka to manage it. I haven't said anything to her about it or anything of course. Just a thought, need to do the figures and all and hear what you think obviously.'

‘And you haven't mentioned it to her?'

‘No, of course not. So what do you think?'

‘I think the Clements wouldn't be selling if there was a good profit to be made. There's not enough all-year-round money in it. Look at how many of them are selling other stuff – arts and crafts, jewellery, everything under the sun. And at the end of the day what do we really know about Anka?'

‘She's a hard worker. And she seems an honest, straightforward girl. And if she has the ambition and the drive it could be a winner.'

She watched him take the lid off his coffee and then peer into the cup as if the future might be discerned there. She wanted him to look at her so that she might see what their future was. It was an idea he had clearly been hatching for some time but she knew already that she would never agree to it. A mistress was something else entirely. That was outside the realms of possibility. She was certain about that.

‘But does she actually know anything about flowers? Does she know anything about what's involved in running a business? It all sounds a bit fantastic to me.'

‘It's only an idea, Marion – I'm not suggesting that we're about to do it. It's only an idea. We shouldn't even be discussing this sort of stuff on a holiday.'

She watched him lift his eyes to the information screen and sensed he was embarrassed. He had spilled it out sooner than he intended and she believed he knew how unconvincing it had sounded. She swirled the remains of the coffee but already it had started to taste bitter and it was with a sense of relief she realised that it wasn't compulsory to finish it.

 

 

She knew most of the other members of the tribe but, still self-conscious, she tried to shelter at the edge of their excited meeting where hugging arms flailed and flapped like the wings of birds. There were a couple of girls she didn't recognise but most of the others were either longstanding friends or workmates of her daughter. They were squealing as they admired each other's costumes, Shannon doing a catwalk twirl and pirouette after the slightest encouragement, and she felt again that she was too old to be there and too old to be dressed as an Indian squaw. She was aware of people looking at them and even though she could see most of them enjoying the joke it did not ease her discomfort. She was also mindful that in a short period of time she would be on her first flight and that too made her increasingly apprehensive. For a moment she thought of turning and running towards the exit but as she searched for it she heard her daughter say, ‘Doesn't my mum look great, girls?' and Shannon's hand was on her shoulder, presenting her to the others. And then they were all agreeing and touching her costume admiringly as if she was a child in her new birthday dress.

‘I'm too old for this, girls,' she said to hide the embarrassment of their collective attention but they shushed her into silence, reassuring her again that she looked great. Two young men strolled by eyeing them up, one of them saying something she couldn't quite catch, but in an instant Lorrie was telling him that she would scalp him except he hadn't any hair while the other girls whooped and made Indian war-dance noises by flapping their hands against their mouths.

Then they were heading off through security but they got no further than the desk at the entrance when she was stopped by the official checking their boarding cards.

‘You can't take the hatchet on, love,' he said, holding his hand up to her as if she was a flow of traffic he was trying to halt.

‘It's not a hatchet – it's a tomahawk,' Shannon said.

‘I don't care what it's called, she can't take it on to the plane.'

‘It's not real. It's rubber,' she said, taking it out of her waistband and stabbing the palm of her hand with it.

‘It doesn't matter, love, what it's made of – you can't take it on a plane. You can't take any imitation weapons or such things on board.'

‘It's not as if she's going to hijack the plane with a rubber tomahawk,' Shannon said and her voice was edged with the belligerence that she increasingly recognised as her daughter's response to what she didn't like.

‘You shouldn't use that type of language and if you use it again I'm calling security and the only thing you're going to see is an interview room.'

‘She's sorry,' she said, pushing her daughter forward with her hand. ‘What will I do with it?' She offered it to him, handing it over by the plastic handle as if to avoid the possibility of injuring his hand.

‘I'll store it here,' he said, still looking at Shannon as he took it. ‘You can collect it when you return.'

‘Thanks,' she said, smiling and submissively following his direction to which queue to join.

‘What a jobsworth,' Shannon hissed at her. ‘A little power and it goes to their head.'

‘I suppose he has to do his job,' she said as she tried to read the instructions about what wasn't allowed in her hand luggage. All the focus on security only encouraged her imagination to construct doomsday scenarios that trembled her hand and made her conscious of her breathing. Then as she walked through the metal detector she thought of Kevin the doorman at work and how much he would enjoy this job and how he'd personally search everyone. She remembered, too, the photographs that she lifted each morning and suddenly she realised that she, too, was in a story that would end in a photograph, a photograph that would show her smiling and be just like the ones that sat on the office desks and served to tell the world that they had a life that existed beyond the daily grind. So perhaps it was a good thing that she had come, that these moments would give her admittance to whatever world existed for people other than herself. She thought, too, of Mrs Hemmings' missing bracelet and as she walked through the gate for a second she imagined that the alarm would explode into hysterical noise and the sound of rushing feet as hands stretched out to grab her and rush her away. But there was only the security guard waving her forward and a second later she was reunited with her possessions and focused on putting her suede boots back on and buckling the belt she had been told to remove.

 

 

‘Hell's bells,' he said as he saw them filing into the departure lounge and knowing that Jack couldn't hear him nudged him with his elbow. ‘Red Indians and they're getting our plane sure as anything. That's all we need – a hen party and probably half tanked already.'

‘They're not called Red Indians.'

‘They look like Red Indians to me.'

‘They're called Native Americans.'

‘You're quite right, Jack, but it's a bit academic and whether they're Red Indians or Native Americans they're definitely millies. And try to make sure we don't get seats anywhere near them or it'll be a long flight.'

‘What are millies?' Jack asked, taking off his headphones for the first time since they had left home.

But as he thought of how to explain the word he knew it couldn't be done without appearing a snob or a misogynist or something it was better not to be in the eyes of your son so he just shrugged dismissively and pointed vaguely in their direction. ‘Girls like these,' he said and then pretended he was studying the flight-information screen. Almost immediately he realised that Jack was no longer engaged with the Death Pixels and so in theory at least was available for conversation.

‘So you and Jas seem to be getting on well,' he said, glancing at his son and tentatively exploring the possibility of a response but Jack merely and almost imperceptibly tilted his head. ‘So what's she planning to do next year?'

‘She's going to tech to do Theatre Studies.'

‘Theatre Studies? That's good,' he said, although he didn't know if it was or not. Then asked, ‘So she wants to be an actress?'

‘I don't know,' Jack said. And he knew that if asked another question his son would put the earphones back in so instead he sank into his seat and watched the hen party on the other side of the lounge. It was the risk you took flying to Amsterdam on a weekend – stag parties, hen parties, lowlife in general – but at least it didn't come close to that nightmare of the sailing to Stranraer, when by the very worst of luck he had found himself trapped between rabid sets of Rangers and Celtic supporters who despite the police presence terrorised the boat with sectarian warfare.

 

 

‘So, Karen, you work in an old people's home?'

‘Yes and your name is Martina, so you work with Shannon.'

‘That's right. And what's it like working in an old people's home? It can't be much fun.'

‘Well it's not a bundle of laughs but you could do worse and it pays the bills.'

‘Do they die?' Martina asked, leaning closer so that Karen could smell the drink on her breath.

‘Sometimes but not that often. It's not a nursing home where people are ill.'

‘I hate old people. Sometimes they come up to your counter and want you to make them up. I hate it when they do that. What do they expect? You can't work miracles. But at least they always buy the stuff afterwards.'

‘I suppose they're desperate, Martina.'

‘I suppose they are. I never want to be old. Your skin goes all leathery and dead.' She squirmed then leaned back again before saying, ‘You've got great skin, Karen, for your age and all. Really, with a bit of highlighting you could do a lot for yourself. Does Shannon not look after you?'

‘It takes Shannon so long to do herself that she's no time for anyone else,' she said, glancing over to where her daughter was laughing at something someone had said.

‘Well, Karen, before this weekend is over I'll do your make-up so you won't recognise yourself.'

The thought of not recognising herself only added to her increasing feeling of disorientation. She had never been in an airport before and to be in one dressed as she was seemed intensely strange. If anything were to happen to her during the flight or the weekend itself she believed that she would never be reconnected to herself and be forever adrift in some limbo world. And suddenly she felt weightless as if the slightest breeze might carry her away. Martina was still talking but the words streamed past her and then into their slipstream came a voice telling them that boarding was commencing.

 

 

‘What's the point of rushing? We'll only have to stand for ages. And anyway our number hasn't been called,' she said, laying her hand on Richard's arm to stop him getting up.

‘If we end up beside those girls it'll be a long flight. I think they're already high as kites and we aren't in the air yet.'

‘They're just out for a bit of fun,' she said, surprised to hear herself defending them. And suddenly she knew that she envied these young women. Their friendship, their laughter, their not having to care about anyone else. Perhaps she was a fool to herself to worry about so many things. For some reason she wished she was back sitting at her computer where she found a pleasure in looking at things without any of them ever looking back and where everything could be made to happen with no more than the click of a mouse and where she was the only one pointing. She clutched her magazine and watched as a scrimmage started near the gate. She flicked her passport open and studied her photograph. In another year the passport would have expired and she wondered if she could renew it online. The photograph wasn't so bad – she looked quite young and her hair was shorter than she wore it now. The Indians were still squealing and it made her think of the friendships she too had once shared and that day when they were the Four Marys and intoxicated with their freedom from parents and when a tiny caravan assumed the splendour of an exotic Eastern palace. They didn't need alcohol, would have giggled for ever if a boy had so much as glanced sideways at them. And feeling safe and not thinking of what days were to come or what they might bring and the water tracing the outline of their feet as they paddled and squealed like these young women. Sometimes, too, when they sat round the little pull-out table with cups of tea or cold drinks they would catch each other's eye and suddenly know they were playing at adults and pass their laughter at the ludicrousness of this from one to the other, until the cups threatened to spill their contents.

Richard stood up as if he thought there was a risk the plane would go without him and imposed himself in a space in the queue, then signalled her to join him. She thought of not getting up, of just sitting there as the thickening throng behind him carried him forward and out of sight. Of course he would turn and call her to come but she might not answer him and then it would all be too late. The sun had baked the inside of the caravan – was it really true that summers were hotter then? – and everything smelled like they were inside a cardboard box and there was the sweet – was it sweet? – scent of gas. It was a wonder they weren't all poisoned and then she thought of Lillian who died a young woman and left a husband and three children. What made it pick her out of all of them? Were the spores there even on that day? She wondered if at any time after she found out, did that moment slip into her memory because it was probable that she would think back over her life. Did she question why she was chosen and not them? She wondered, too, if when she did that she felt a bitterness. It was Lillian who always started the game where each in turn had to say who they fancied, after, on pain of death, swearing never to reveal the names to anyone outside the group. She will never reveal any of the names because she doesn't remember any of them, not even the one she confessed. Watching the young woman, who was probably the one getting married, showing her passport to the attendant, she wondered what was the name of the boy she loved and if he would prove worthy of that love. Then Richard was calling her again and, gathering her hand luggage and magazine, she went to join him.