To the Airport

 

By Mike Sedgwick

water melon juice

‘Is it just the one bag, Sir?’ The taxi driver wears a khaki Shalwar Kameez and a large black moustache. ‘Indira Gandhi Airport is it?’

The doorman of the hotel, immaculate in his Indian uniform and Dastar, snaps to attention and salutes. ‘I wish you a safe journey, Major, and hope to see you again soon.’

This little saluting game with the doorman, whose name is Dinesh, started when I arrived at the hotel. I was carrying a long postal tube over my shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Dinesh saluted in the approved British Army fashion, slowest way up, quickest way down. I returned the salute in the manner of a soldier carrying his rifle at the slope. After that Dinesh and I always salute one another smartly and with broad grins. It is a re-enactment of the old Empire days.

‘On your next visit, you will be Colonel.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret, Havildar Dinesh, I have never served in the army, but I know that you have. I look forward to seeing you again sometime soon.’

I climb into the spacious interior of the slab-sided Hindustan Ambassador. The bodywork displays dents and scratches. There is no tread on the tyres, slicks they would call them in F1 parlance. A wheel nut is missing. The driver manages to close my door on the third attempt by lifting and shoving it with his bum. With a crunch, he engages first gear, and we jerk away, leaving a furrow in the gravel.

‘What your country, Sir?’ asks the driver.

‘England.’

‘You must be good Christian man, from England; Archbishop and Pope.’ He fished around the shelf under the dashboard and retrieved a crucifix which he hung on his rear-view mirror. Also on the shelf I can see a statue of Buddha and one of Krishna. Probably there is a Star of David and a Crescent as well. All options are covered. I decide not to explain about the Pope.

‘You must be ver important man, but my life is misfortune. My wife, she ver sick. Doctor say to take medicine, or she die. Prescription cost ten dollar a bottle. Where can a poor taxi driver find ten dollar for medicine? He stared hard at me in the mirror but seeing no response, he tried another tack.

‘Ver little traffic today. We have time, I take you to my cousin’s emporium. He has many jewels, rings, gold for your wife. He give you best price, plenty discount.’

‘No, we will go to the airport.’

‘You no look happy, Sir. I have young niece, she know how to make a man happy, ver pretty girl, Sir, ver clean. We have plenty time.’

‘No. Please go straight to the airport.’ Do not pass Go, do not collect ten dollars for your wife’s medicine and do not stop at your niece’s brothel. I stare him down in the mirror.

We make a sudden swerve, the taxi lurches and grinds to a halt in a marketplace. I watch a wheel wobbling along the street, heading for a fruit stall manned by a portly Muslim with a black beard. The whites of his startled eyes shining whiter than his Takiyah. He and I know what is about to happen.

The wheel hits the side of his stall which teeters and then collapses, sending an explosion of fruits in a colourful fountain onto the street. Orange mangoes, green limes, yellow bananas, red mangosteen, pineapple, guava, star fruit, papaya, coconut and melons roll between the legs of the people. Dorian and breadfruit roll more slowly.

Within a moment, the driver is out of his taxi and chasing his wheel. The stallholder hitches up his thobe and pursues the driver. They begin to have words and gesticulate wildly, surrounded by ladies who kneel before them, gathering and scooping as much of the fruit as possible into the folds of their saris.

The two men make threatening gestures to one another and then turn to look at me. I do not need language skills to know what is in their minds.

‘It’s his fault, the foreigner, he’s got money. He will pay for the damage.’ They make their way towards me as the fruit-laden women watch. ‘Stop him,’ they cry, as I turn away.

‘Sir, Sir, get in.’ A young man blips the throttle of his tuk-tuk. I shove aside melons and a large comb of bananas. The rear shelf is piled high with mangoes and pineapples.

‘To the airport, quickly.’ We shoot forward and squelch over a water-melon, its sweet-smelling juices spattering nearby legs. This is no time to argue about the fare; this man is a good Samaritan.

‘What religion are you?’ I ask once we are clear of the crowd.

‘What religion would you like me to be? I try to satisfy my fares.’

‘Atheist.’

‘OK. Atheist. Which God do they worship?’

Chester Medderman

by Mike Sedgwick

a stiff whisky

The airport public address system intoned the same message again; this time, I listened. ‘Mr Chester Medderman, passenger from Barcelona, please contact airport information.’

Could that be the Chester Medderman I knew at school? Mealy Mouthed Medderman, Cheating Chester or Chester Brown-nose the arch sycophant, the Uriah Heep of the Upper Fifth. The Golden Boy the Housemaster selected as Captain of just about everything, the youngest Prefect and eventually deputy Head of School, winner of one of those archaic organ scholarships to Oxford. A boy we should aspire to emulate, we were told, destined for great things. I heard he eventually had a job with Shanks, making toilets.

Chester and I were the best of friends a Prep School. We covered for one another in times of trouble, made a formidable attack on the football pitch and together won the prizes on sports day. We shared books, toys, sports equipment and even beds in a pre-pubertal declaration of everlasting friendship. We even colluded to go to the same public school.

After the long summer vacation, I sought him out on our first day at St Bede’s. He was in the Common Room talking with a group of boys.

‘Hi there, Chester. Good to see you again.’ I proffered my hand. Then I noticed his down-the-nose look.

‘Ah, Henshaw-a, now I’m at public school-a I’m determined to mix with the better class of person-a one finds here-a. Isn’t that right, chaps-a? No point being with the lower classes-a.’

Each of his phrases ended with the mouth open and an ‘a’ sound. A new affectation, like the chin-up, look down-the-nose posture.

We went our separate ways at school. He joined all the ‘right’ societies; The Scripture Union, The Flecker Poetry Society named after a former pupil and the Tovey Society after the musicologist. I went in the opposite direction and joined the chemistry society where my experiments with explosives got me into trouble.

I recognised him immediately at the information desk. ‘Chester Medderman, I presume, late of Wellington House, St Bede’s.’

‘Yes-a, and you are-a?’ Still with the ‘a’ sound but now it sounded more like a suppressed belch than his former clipped affectation.

I had stepped into a problem. His face, close up, was older, his sunken cheeks were sallow and with small spider-like veins. His bloodshot eyes held a yellowish tinge. His shave was careless, leaving areas of stubble at the angle of the jaw.

‘Richard Henshaw, from our prep school and St Bede’s. You kindly arranged for me to have a tanning for insubordination.’

That was unkind of me, and seeing the look of confusion on his face, I regretted it. He gazed for a long moment and then smiled.

‘Yes-a, Richard, how are you? Good to-a see you again-a.’

‘Have you time to join me for a coffee? There’s a table over there.’

‘Actually, Old Boy-a, I’d rather go to the bar. Need a stiffener, don’t cha know-a? What’ll you have?’
‘Did you take that job with Shanks after Oxford? We had visions of you making pissoirs for the rest of your life.’ I’m unkind again.

‘Actually, yes-a, but even though I was fast-tracked for management, it wasn’t for me-a. I tried several jobs after that, but none were suitable-a. Then I got the call from the government. I’ll get us another.’

I watched him at the bar, two double whiskies and he had vodka put into my tomato juice. He downed one of the whiskies and left the empty glass on the bar.

‘I added to your tomato juice to ginger you up a bit. Yes, a job with the government.’ He tapped the side of his reddening nose. ‘Hush, hush, MI6, don’t cha know-a, can’t say more. Just back from Moscow-a.’

‘Interesting. The PA system said you were inbound from Barcelona.’

He looked surprised, threatened almost. ‘Ah, yes, throws ‘em off the scent, don’t cha know-a. The Ruskies are a great threat-a, busy making nerve gas as fast as they can-a.’

He saw the disbelief in my eyes. He sat back in his seat and stretched his legs, showing his swollen ankles.

‘S’true, Old Boy, I’m reporting to the PM in the morning-a.’

I wondered how to respond to this when a young blonde woman appeared behind him.

‘There you are, Daddy, I thought I would find you in the bar. He’s not bothering you, is he?’

‘Yasmin, my dear girl. I gave the Commies the slip-a. I’ll pop to the facilities, then you can take me to HQ.’

‘Yasmin, nice name. I’m Richard Henshaw, I knew your father at school. Sorry to meet him again in such a state.’

‘A whiter light, a deeper gold, a glory too far shed, Yasmin; after a ghazel by JE Flecker. It’s about the only thing he remembers about school now. I suppose he told you about his secret world in MI6. Actually, HQ is Alcoholics Anonymous at the Priory Clinic.’

About the author 

I fly gliders over the flatlands of Southern England and mountain peaks in Scotland, the Alps and the Pyrenees.
Part of my life is in Sri Lanka, where I help with medical research into snake venoms. Keeping our tuk-tuk driver on the road is another occupation.
Publications
There is a cabinet full of turgid medical and scientific papers, but that is what the genre demands.
I submit pieces to competitions and once won a prize. I contribute to a local blog www.chandlersfordtoday.co.uk on various subjects, Prosody and Pandemics are recent topics. There are unfinished books, one about a medical student and another about Sri Lanka.