Читать книгу ELVIS SAILS AGAIN - DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - Страница 8

Whilst Naomi munched on her first egg cress sandwich, and Elvis skulked moodily around the departure lounge, their clients were finally being called for boarding in the South Terminal. The announcer had gone straight from Flight Delayed, to Last Call, so there was now an unseemly dash to Gate 43, a distant outpost assigned to the lesser airlines.

"Come on, let's get there asap, we're priority boarding so we can make sure we get the best seats," Cynthia told her party.

"I thought the whole idea of priority boarding was that we didn't have to rush," said her red-faced husband as he struggled with Cynthia's shopping bags and hand luggage.

When they arrived at the gate however they discovered that they were far from the first.

Cynthia led the other three past the long line of passengers waiting impatiently.

"We need to get to the front, ignore the sour looks, they're only jealous," said Cynthia.

The others followed meekly.

Two minutes later they were heading back in the opposite direction.

"Well what's the point of priority boarding if every buggers going to buy it?" said Cynthia.

It was fair to say that the wait in the Departure Lounge had been a tortuous one for Anne. If Cynthia had remarked once that she had thought it would have been a good idea to book a place in one of the lounges where you could relax in comfort, she must have said it a thousand times. Nothing met with Cynthia's approval. The coffee was too hot, too cold, or too strong. The chairs were uncomfortable or not supportive enough. The Departure Lounge was too noisy and full of people. When Anne had suggested they moved to Chez Gerard, that had been too expensive (though Anne was paying) and apparently not a patch on Cynthia's local Chez Gerard which was "a real dining experience." When Anne had suggested a turn around the shops Cynthia had condemned "all the materialistic people buying things that they did not need, shopping is the new religion." Finally, Anne had given up and joined the others in silent contemplation of the wait and the week that stretched out ahead of them.

Keith and the gang, on the other hand, had been having a whale of a time. Drinking slowly but solidly now for several hours, they were merry. They met each new announcement of the continued delay with good humour. Tony was by common agreement in the group its "joker." He said it had always been that way ever since he had been at school.

"My nickname at school was Tosser," he told them proudly.

His humour was not always appreciated. He had an unhappy knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. As the technical problems were repeatedly cited as the reason for the delay, Tony ran through his repertoire.

"The wheels are probably loose," he told those around him, "the wing nuts must have come off."

Later he suggested that the wiring had gone haywire, and then that the pilot might be drunk. The group began to attract first interest and then comment from other groups of passengers, who had been happy to let the lads enjoy themselves until Tony's comments started to cause nervousness amongst them. Eventually security was called in to have a word and they were asked to move on from the Queen Victoria.

"That's the first time I've ever been barred from a pub, and it's still only nine o'clock," Tony told his mates. "I'm loving this holiday already. Wow look at that!"

Keith and the others looked to where Tony was pointing and took in a tall slim dark-haired woman in her early twenties.

"Yep, stunning," said Keith.

"You can win her for only £50" replied Tony.

"You're sounding well dodgy now," said Mike.

"Look at that body, the shape, the lines. I could spend hours buffing that at the weekend," Tony said as he looked on longingly.

"Now you just sound plain weird mate," said Keith. "Anyway, she's out of your league," added Malcolm.

"Normally yes, but at £50 I'm in with a chance," said Tony as he walked straight past the girl to the gleaming Aston Martin behind her. Keith and the others read the promotional banner above the car as the assistant approached them.

"Good morning gentlemen," she said as she caught a whiff of their alcohol breath.

"You seem to be in a bright and breezy mood, fancy winning an Aston Martin," she chimed, "or similar car?" she added more quietly.

"Our mate does," said Malcolm.

"Stunning," said Tony.

"He's talking about the car," said Keith.

"Well, Alicia," said Tony peering glassily at her name badge, "do I get a bulk purchase discount?"

Alicia smiled thinking of the commission.

"I'm sure we can arrange that, Sir. Perhaps one free for every twenty you buy."

"Twenty? But that would cost…" he counted unsuccessfully on his fingers, "well, a lot. I was thinking more of two, maybe three at a stretch."

"If you're serious Tony," interjected Keith, "you'd best put the ticket in my name, given my luck at the hospice raffle and all. But I got to say mate think about it. You're chucking away a hundred and fifty smackers of drinking money. What's your chance of winning out of all the tickets they've sold?

"But that's exactly it mate," replied Tony, "I reckon I'm in with a chance. After all, how many people are stupid enough to buy tickets at £50 a throw?"

"Are you holidaying alone?"

Naomi looked up from her in-flight magazine. The speaker was male. About 65. Dyed hair going a little thin, but still with enough to form a quiff that probably took him hours to perfect. He wore beige slacks, an open necked YSL shirt, and had a blue Pringle jumper slung casually around his shoulders.

"I know Kerkira like a local and would be happy to show you around."

"Kerkira?" asked Naomi.

"Oh God I'm sorry, I used the Greek name for Corfu. I'm always doing that as I speak a little Greek. Was that pretentious of me?"

Naomi let the question hang unanswered.

"That's a very kind offer but we will only be there overnight as my husband and I are heading down to Nidri," she said.

She looked across at Elvis who was seated a few rows back and indicated him to her neighbour. As their tickets had been booked last minute, not only was the price eye watering for economy, but they had not been given seats together. Elvis was next to a young man in sunglasses and a straw hat who was listening to music and nodding his head rhythmically.

"The name is Edward, my friends call me Ed," continued the man, "pleased to make your acquaintance and that of your husband, of course. Oh yah, Nidri. Used to be a nice spot before the flotillas got hold of it. I remember twenty years ago when it was lovely. There's a bay called Tranquil Bay right opposite. Hasn't been tranquil for quite a while now though, shame," he said.

Despite herself, Naomi did the polite thing and introduced herself.

"I'm Naomi and my husband is Elvis. Sound like you know the area well," she said.

"You could say that. Been sailing the waters of the Ionian for twenty-five years now. Know it like the back of my hand. Visited all the best places. Of course, nothing's like it used to be. I remember when I was the only boat in some of the bays. Now you're talking twenty five or more. Those damn flotillas have ruined it for us real yachties."

Naomi tried to think of something to contribute but couldn't, she needn't have worried. Ed was a man who specialised in monologues.

"Yah, keep my boat at Gouvia Marina in Corfu. Great little place. British influenced. Organised, not chaotic like the rest of Greece. Yah, been back in the old UK for August. Too damn hot in August and worse, full of Italians. Watch out for the Italians, they have all the gear but no idea."

He laughed loudly before going on.

"My boat's a Beneteau 52, a real beauty. I don't expect you know much about yachts but she's a real Rolls Royce of the open sea. You can sail her thousands of miles across the oceans of the world and she'll come back for more."

"Gosh, how exciting," interrupted Naomi, "and have you?"

"Have I what?" replied Ed.

"Sailed the oceans of the world in her?"

"Er, well no. I brought her in Lefkada and the furthest I've gone is Kefalonia."

"So, about 30 miles." commented Naomi.

"Just don't have the time to do longer distances and the trouble and strife isn't so keen. You know how it is. Keffy though. Beautiful place. Ever been?"

Ed didn't wait for a response.

"Course everything's changed now. Once it was a beautiful quiet place like on that film, uhm, Mamma Mia, great film."

"I think you might mean Captain Corelli's Mandolin," suggested Naomi suppressing a giggle.

"Well, whatever. We head down there every year. Know all the locals. Soon as we arrive they give us a cheery wave, and its free this and free that. We manage to squeeze into the best spots. There is a sort of hierarchy you see. At the top you've got the chaps like me who own and sail our own boats. Mostly Brits and Germans at this time of year with a few French, Swedes, Norwegians and the like. The next tier down you've got the Bareboat Charters, people who rent from a company but sail it themselves. Then you've got the skippered charter, the people who rent the boat and a skipper because they can't do it themselves. Finally, at the bottom of the pile you've got the flotilla people."

Here he adopted a look of disdain across his jowly face, before continuing loudly.

"Wrecking crews I call them. Can't sail for toffee. Led round by loud mouthed Aussies and the like, all tan and badly bleached hair. One minute you're enjoying a peaceful bay and the next moment these bloody convoys on water arrive. God I hate them," he concluded.

After a brief pause, off he went again without requiring any reply save for the odd nod here and there. Ed never stopped to ask Naomi more about herself and what she would be doing in Greece, so she didn't tell him. He droned on for a further half an hour until the drinks trolley's arrival caused him to stop talking at her, whilst he asked the hostess for a double Gin and Tonic.

Naomi seized the opportunity of opening her book and adopting an engrossed look.

The plane on which she, Elvis and the other 360 passengers were flying to Corfu was a Boeing 737.

It only had one cabin, but the front 10 rows were curtained off from the remainder. Naomi knew that Elvis was sore about not being on the other side of the curtain where there was free champagne, a complimentary newspaper, and marginally better prepacked food.

"They have real knives and forks at the front," he told her as they boarded. "And special head covers with Business Class written on them."

Elvis was eyeing the passengers up front with open envy. He was sure the stewards serving the front of the plane were swishing the dividing curtain backwards and forwards merely to irritate him. The five vodkas he had managed to squeeze out of the crew wasn't helping his mood. He rued his failure to secure an upgrade at check in, compounded by his non admission to the executive lounge.

Elvis' neighbour's music was leaking out from his ear buds as an irritating "Tsch Tsch Tsch" much to his increasing irritation. The only saving grace was that at least the boy made no effort to communicate with him, beyond grunting when he wanted to squeeze by to go to the toilet.

Elvis looked at his watch.

"Twenty minutes to landing. Time for another vodka and tonic," he told himself.

He pressed the call button on his control panel. The curtain swished back, and an unsmiling face peered out. The steward spotted the light, muttered a few words to his colleague, and then approached. Elvis opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a self-important hand gesture as the steward reached up above Elvis and cancelled the alarm call.

"That's better isn't it?" he said, "stop that nasty noise, now, what seems to be the matter, Sir?"

"Oh, nothing's the matter at all thank you, I just fancy another Vodka before landing."

The steward looked at the five miniature bottles on Elvis's tray, then at Elvis, his face disapproving.

"Doesn't Sir think he's had enough, we don't want Sir to risk dehydration now do we? Has Sir read our healthy flying leaflet?"

He plucked a leaflet out of his jacket's inside pocket with a flourish.

Elvis looked at the leaflet with contempt.

"Young man," he said, hoping he was sounding superior and not just tipsy, "at the advanced age I have successfully reached without the help of your leaflet, I consider myself well able to judge my alcohol intake. My judgement is that I would like another vodka, so could you just toddle off and get me one. Oh, and you can stuff your leaflet where the sun don't shine."

The steward's face was momentarily a picture of stunned disbelief, but he had years of talking down at economy passengers to call on as he fashioned his reply.

"Has Sir read our leaflet on air rage and how BA staff do not have to tolerate abuse, and how they are obliged to report such abuse to the captain, who may decide what action to take, including arrest? No? Well may I suggest you do. And in any event the bar is now closed."

With that he swept away, disappearing behind the curtain, relaying to his fellow crew members how rude the man in row 23C had been. Every so often Elvis saw the curtain swish open as first one colleague, and then another, took a look at the troublemaker.

The young man next to Elvis stirred. He removed his earpieces one by one and turned his upper body slowly towards Elvis.

"Respect man, respect," he said with open admiration.