73. At the Airport
By the time he arrived at Edinburgh Airport, Bertie’s view of his impending trip to Paris had changed almost completely.
Dread had been replaced by anticipation and the excited questioning of his father, who had driven his son out to the airport in their newly-recovered Volvo, the precise status of which remained an awkward issue. That it was not their original car was now beyond doubt, but Stuart felt – and in this he was backed up by Irene – that they now had some sort of prescrip-tive right to it. It was not as if they had acquired anything new; they had started with one Volvo and still had only one.
Somewhere in between, presumably as a result of the helpful intervention of Mr Lard O’Connor, of Glasgow, the precise identity of the car had changed, but this still left them with only one car. Somebody else must have theirs, and so the overall number of cars in circulation had not changed. It was a rough calculation, but a just one nonetheless.
Stuart parked the car, taking careful note of which section it was in. Then, carrying the small brown suitcase that Irene had packed for Bertie, he accompanied his son into the terminal.
228 At the Airport
“Look, Daddy,” shouted Bertie, pointing to the tail of a plane that could just be made out peeking over a covered walkway.
“Look, that must be my plane.”
“Perhaps,” said Stuart, looking down at his son. This was Bertie’s first flight; could he remember his own first time in the air? It was a remarkable moment for most people, a moment when the laws of gravity are for the first time ostensibly flouted, and for him this had been in Fife, he thought, during a brief time as an air cadet. He had been fifteen and had been taken, along with several other boys, on a flight from Leuchars. He had not thought about that for a long time, but now it came back to him. How young the world was in those days, how fresh.
They had been told that the members of the orchestra would all congregate just inside the terminal so that they might check in together. And there they were, all milling about near the foot of the escalator. Bertie spotted them first and tugged at his father’s sleeve. Everybody was so tall, so grown-up, and this made his heart sink. Nobody was in dungarees, of course, except him.
Stuart would have wished to have remained with the group until they had gone through security, but he sensed that it would be important for Bertie that he should not.
“Well, that’s it, Bertie,” he said, passing the suitcase over.
“That’s you all set up. I’ll let you get on with it now.”
Bertie looked up at his father. “You’re not staying, Daddy?”
“Well, I think you can look after yourself,” said Stuart. “So I’ll just say goodbye.”
He wanted to pick this little boy up and hug him. But he could not do that, not with all these teenagers around, and so he put out his hand and Bertie took it in his.
“Good-bye, Bertie,” he said. “Good luck in Paris, son!”
Bertie shook hands solemnly with his father and then Stuart turned round and walked off. He did not look back.
Left with the others, Bertie stood in silence. He imagined that people would be staring at him, but he soon realised that nobody was paying him any attention and he relaxed. One of the flautists, a girl of about sixteen, glanced at him at one point and smiled. Bertie smiled back. Then she said something to her At the Airport 229
friend, which Bertie did not hear, and the friend looked over in his direction and gave him a wave. Bertie waved back.
Bertie was fascinated by the whole process of checking in for the flight and going through the security search. The conductor seemed to be in charge of the party and Bertie decided to follow him closely, keeping a pace or two behind him. And then, on the other side of the barrier, he waited while the rest of the orchestra came through and they could go off to wait at the departure gate. Bertie looked about him; he felt very important.
“All right, Bertie?” asked the conductor. “You looking forward to Paris?”
“Yes, I am,” said Bertie. “Thank you very much, sir.”
The conductor laughed. “You don’t have to call me sir,” he said. “My name’s Richard. Richard Neville Towle. But you can just call me Richard.” He paused. “You checked your saxophone in, did you? I hope that you had a strong enough carrying case.”
For a few moments, Bertie said nothing. Then, his voice barely audible, he said: “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?” asked Richard. “Do you think the case will break?”
“I didn’t bring it,” said Bertie, his voice small and broken.
“Mummy just gave me my suitcase. That was all. I forgot my saxophone at home.”
Richard sighed. Taking an orchestra anywhere was always a difficult business; taking a youth orchestra was even worse. This was not the first time that he had been obliged to deal with an instrument being left at home, and at least it would be easy to borrow a saxophone at the other end. It was not as if Bertie played the cor anglais or anything like that; that might have been a bit more problematic.
He reached down and patted Bertie on the shoulder. “Not to worry, old chap,” he said. “Paris is full of tenor saxophones. We can very easily borrow one for the three days that we’re there.
In fact, I’ll call ahead to a friend I have over there and get him to have it sorted out by the time we arrive at the hotel. No need to be upset.”
Bertie had begun to cry, and so Richard knelt down and put 230 The Principles of Flight
an arm around his shoulder. “Come on, Bertie,” he said gently.
“Worse things have happened.”
Bertie made an effort to control his tears. This was a terrible start, he thought; to go off with a group of teenagers and then to start crying. It was just terrible. He looked about him furtively, half-covering his face with his hands so that the others might not see his tears. Fortunately, they all seemed to be busy talking to one another. They were smiling and laughing. As well they might, thought Bertie: they had their instruments with them.
74. The Principles of Flight
By the time they boarded the aircraft, Bertie’s spirits had picked up again. He tried to give an impression of knowing what to do
– an impression which would have been weakened if anybody had seen him turn left on the entrance to the plane, rather than right, and head purposefully towards the flight deck. But nobody saw this solecism, apart from a cabin attendant, who gently pointed him in the direction of the window seat that had been allocated him and into which he was shortly strapped, ready to depart.
Bertie had already seen, but not met, the boy who came and sat next to him. Now, turning to Bertie, this boy, who in Bertie’s reckoning was at least fifteen, introduced himself. “I’m Max,”
he said. “And you’re called Bertie, aren’t you?”
Bertie nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I play the saxophone, only . . .”
He was about to explain that he did not actually have his saxophone with him, but he decided not to mention this. Max would think him rather stupid to have left his instrument behind, and Bertie wished to impress Max.
“Where do you go to school?” Max asked, as he adjusted his seat belt.
“The Steiner School,” Bertie said.
“That’s nice,” said Max. “I go to the Academy. I play the cello there. And I’m in Mr Backhouse’s chamber choir.”
“I bet you’re good at the cello,” Bertie said generously.