Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [109]
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 Dread had been replaced by anticipation and the excited questioning of his father, who had driven his son out to the airport in their newly-recovered Volvo, the precise status of which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 prescriptive 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