Holiday Time

It was dark as we made our way along the country lane. I mean, really dark.

‘Where are you?’ read the text message on Robyn’s mobile as I peered through the windscreen of the black Hyundai Elantra.

‘There it is,’ said Robyn, too late, despite her excellent navigation skills. I did a U-turn where the dry-stone wall curved outwards and crawled the car back to the one tiny light on the dark stretch. Our host was waiting, anxious and puffing vapour into the night air.

‘It’s just back the way,’ he said. ‘At least you’re here. Better late than never.’ Oh, what bliss it was as the five of us creaked out of the car and crowded into the cottage behind the man. He showed us through the rooms, explaining the contents of the fridge and pointing out a wall map should we want to explore the area. But all we were interested in after six hours of driving was the warmth within and the cosy beds that whispered ‘sleep-in-me’ as we peeked at them from doorways.

***

The twentieth of December had started for us some fifteen hours earlier in East London. We’d packed for our holiday to Linlithgow, Scotland, the evening before, and Roxanne’s friend, Bea, had arrived to spend the night so we could leave promptly the next morning.

‘For Stansted Airport, we need to catch the Victoria line to Blackhorse Road and then to Tottenham Hale where we get the Express to Stansted. If we get to Stansted at 7.15am we’ll be in good time for our 9am flight to Edinburgh,’ Stuart said, looking at the Citymapper app on his phone. Pretty adept at travelling after years of benefitting from the travel industry we set off on time on the twentieth for our fifteen-minute walk to the Barking Station carrying only small overnight bags. Robyn’s suitcase was the biggest since it contained our food supplies for the self-catering cottage. Our trains were all on schedule and by the time we settled into the final leg to the airport our tummies were grumbling for breakfast. Do you know the feeling you get when something’s not quite right? A darting whisper in the dark parts of your mind? Something that pricks at the self-satisfied feeling of having it all together? Well, on that Express Train to Stansted as I ate my Rhubarb Yoghurt from a little plastic pot, I had none of those. Everything was as it should be. 

But that all changed when we walked into the terminal building. A winding, cordoned-off pathway that led to the higgledy-piggledy-looking security check counters was full. And I mean full. People and suitcases and removed clothing and unpacked bags and heartless-looking security personnel filled up the untidy space. I knew at once in my yoghurt-filled tummy that we weren’t going to make the flight. But, hope and ignorance are powerful, positive forces. They have the ability to keep you going, necks craning forward even as you look at your watch for its bad, bald, objective news. To try and save time (clueless, I know) when it was our turn to be checked for dangerous goods we split into three. Robyn and Stuart went to one counter, Roxanne and Bea to another, and I went to a third. Roxanne and Bea went through quickly and disappeared from view. Success! Then it was me. Even as I loosened my belt, slipped off my boots and displayed my plastic bag of tiny toiletries, I could see Robyn and Stuart would slow us down. Tins of Baked Beans from Robyn’s carefully packed store were tossed by the security guard with furious tuts onto a mountain of banned goods. How callous!

‘I’m going ahead,’ I yelled to Stuart and Robyn’s stricken faces. I slung my belt over my shoulder, threw on my boots without zipping them up, grabbed my open suitcase and ran. I looked desperately for gate number forty-six, saw a sign to it and followed a pathway that led through other rushing passengers, luggage trolleys and shoppers idling at the duty-free. Holding onto my unbelted jeans with one hand, my unsecured possessions with the other and with my boots flapping at my ankles I loped along like an injured baboon, seeing neither Bea and Roxanne, nor Stuart and Robyn who must have passed me somehow. I foolishly made it like this all the way to an empty lounge area with glass doors that announced ‘Train to Gates 46-120’. Good gracious. I simply had no idea of how big Stansted Airport was. I needed to board a train to the gate it was so far away. And anyway, ‘Gate 46 is now closed for boarding’ droned a voice on the intercom. How ridiculous that I had even tried to make it to the aeroplane. It was probably taxiing out at this very moment as I stood there, my shoulders sagging and dishevelled. I was alone. Roxanne and Bea for sure, and, miraculously, Robyn and Stuart, had made it to the plane, squeaking in as the doors closed. And here I was. Abandoned. 

I turned, shuffling back the way I had come. Together with other, stooping and lifeless passengers, I was ushered into a secret passageway. Like a get-out-of-jail-free card on a monopoly board the passage led back to the terminal building, which was now empty and was where I could ostensibly start again. The first person I saw sitting glumly on a railing was Bea. And then a tearful Roxanne rushed up to me. And then behind me were Robyn and Stuart.

‘We thought you’d all made it onto the plane without us,’ sobbed Roxanne.

‘So did we,’ said Stuart, shaking his head at the reality that none of us was going to have a fabulous holiday without the others. After some negotiations it seemed the best solution in our straitened circumstances was to hire a car and drive the 334 miles to Edinburgh. Once there we’d change to the car we were due to pick up at the airport there and drive to Linlithgow. Since I was the only one of the five who had her driver’s license with her, I had to hire the car in my name and drive all the way to Scotland. Terrified of adding a speeding fine in pounds to my mounting bills I clung to the steering wheel and drove the 50mp/h speed limit. Curiously, the motorway cars flashed past on our right and left, while Stuart hissed and sighed and huffed in the front passenger seat for six hours. (Note to self: write to the British road authorities and tell them to change that silly road sign from one with a single angled line through it to: 70mp/h).

***

Stuart hated that holiday in Linlithgow.

              ‘It’s like being on the moon,’ he grumbled, looking out of the kitchen window the next day as the sun crept above the blank horizon after 8am. It was now the twenty-first of December. The winter solstice. This shortest day and longest night marked the point at which the North Pole’s tilt away from the sun was the greatest it would be for the year. That sun, when it did show itself, was lemon-yellow and weak, casting only a dim glow on the heathery, featureless landscape. I loved it. I also loved the walks we took on those freezing, pale hills. The crumbled mansion ruins we passed on our hike. And the visit we took to a Scottish tartan shop which had ‘Made in China’ on all its labels. I loved how my face turned red hot in front of the fire at night-time. And the slurp of the whisky syrup we ladled onto our porridge at breakfast time. Stuart did brighten up when we visited Edinburgh Castle on our way back to the airport for our return trip to England five days later. Perhaps it was the history contained within the Castle walls that cheered him. Or the fact that we were going back to London where there were people and landmarks.  I’m not sure. What I was sure about was our plan to be very early for this return flight. We were not going to miss this one. Oh no. We’d learnt our lesson. Instead of a paltry one hour and forty-five minutes, we had built in a whole three hours to get through the queues and security.

I’ll never forget the sight that greeted us as we strolled into that terminal building in Edinburgh, Baked Bean free and ready: a handful of people and a digital sign next to our flight number that read ‘three-hour delay’. The jolly airline had beaten us again! After breezing, to our fury, through security we slumped into seats in the waiting area. After slumping we idled through duty-free shops. After idling we spent our measly meal vouchers on crisps and sweets. And after spending we logged onto the free airport Wi-fi and read up on the airline’s terms and conditions. And that’s when we found it: a light at the end of our travel-troubled holiday tunnel. ‘If your flight is delayed by over three hours you can claim a full refund,’ read a line in the ream of highfalutin writing. Suddenly our wait didn’t seem so bad. It was okay that we’d reach our destination in the dark. Once again. Oh yes, justice would be served. We’d get back the hundreds of pounds we’d lost. But, do you know, I think the airline must’ve cottoned-on to our plans somehow. As we looked hopefully and ignorantly at our watches on that bumpy, crowded flight back to Stansted, they delivered their bad, bald, objective news. We squeaked onto the tarmac two hours and fifty-seven minutes late. Just three minutes short of being better late than never. That jolly airline had beaten us again!

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