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Great Writing - Home > Extended > No Baggage (Part One)
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Extended Work
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| No Baggage (Part One) | |
| By SammoR | ||||||||||||||||||
| 03 May 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||
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Something of an 'in-between' - too long to be a short story, but too short to be a proper novella. (BTW - the small characters and the ever-changing fonts aren't intentional, something must have gone wrong with the cut-and-paste!!) Richard is a buttoned-down executive, on a business trip to Amsterdam. He falls in with Cynthia, who is an older woman and a free spirit. She teaches him that there's more to Amsterdam - and to life - than he thought. But do they have a future together? Part 1 follows...... ‘Richard Koroma and Cynthia Blake, passengers on flight AK 2398 to Amsterdam, please report to Gate 23, as the flight is about to depart. Thank you.’ Richard got to the enquiry desk, out of breath. ‘Excuse me, I’ve been looking everywhere for gate 23, I’m Richard Koroma…’ The youth behind the counter looked as if he had recently left school and was already bored with the world of work. Barely lifting his eyes from Computer Games Weekly, he gave Richard a few curt directions. Richard pondered how unhelpful the signs in the Stansted lounge were. No time to make that point now. He would write a complaint letter when he got back. As he picked up his travel bag, he saw a woman strolling up to the desk. She was about five foot six, and in her early forties, about ten years older than Richard. Her baggy corduroy trousers and denim jacket were the opposite of his business suit. Her short, straggling, brown hair was streaked with grey; her earrings were big and pendulous. She wore little make-up, yet she had a quiet charm about her. ‘Cynthia Blake,’ she smiled to the young man. She had a faint American twang. ‘Where’s gate 23?’ The youth pushed his magazine aside and looked up. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am-’ he started. Richard turned to Cynthia. ‘We’re flying together, you can follow me.’ Cynthia turned to the attendant. ‘Some other time,’ she smiled. Richard took huge strides as they made their way to the gate. Turning round, he was surprised to see Cynthia still walking at an unhurried pace. ‘This is the FINAL announcement for flight AK 2398 to Amsterdam. Passengers Richard Koroma and Cynthia Blake, please go to Gate 23. The doors are about to close and the flight will depart shortly.’ ‘That’s us!’ said Richard, agitated. ‘Let’s get a move on!’ ‘Easy, tiger,’ Cynthia replied. ‘They’re not really gonna close those doors anytime soon, the flight’s only a few minutes late. That crap’s just to scare people.’ Against his instincts, Richard slowed down to Cynthia’s pace. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Oh, I’ve been in this situation lots of times.’ ‘Missed any planes?’ They were just arriving at the gate. ‘A few,’ Cynthia winked. ‘She’s one to avoid,’ Richard thought. As they went through the final checks, he looked at her boarding pass. She would be sitting twenty rows behind him. On board, the flight attendants greeted them with smiles even more forced than usual. When they entered the cabin, Richard felt the glare of the other passengers. He found his seat, relieved that there would be no-one sitting near him. Richard pushed his newspaper aside, and watched the flight attendants go through the safety briefing. ‘Wow, someone watching while they do their stuff! Bet they’re glad somebody cares!’ Cynthia was sitting next to Richard. ‘Shouldn’t you be right at the back?’ he asked. ‘You don’t get rid of me so easily.’ ‘Why did you move?’ ‘You know how people stare when you’re late...’ she started. ‘Not really.’ Previously, Richard had always been giving stares, not receiving them. ‘I was sitting between these two women and they were both so snooty. I thought, fuck it, I’ll find someone who won’t treat me like that.’ ‘They’ve got a point,’ Richard was hesitant. ‘I’ve been flying for years, never been late before today. If everyone turned up three hours early….’ ‘Didn’t work for you today, did it?’ Richard bit his lip. The safety demonstration had ended, and the plane started to take off. He rushed to fasten his seatbelt, and noticed that Cynthia didn’t. He turned to her and continued, ‘I normally fly from Heathrow, this is the first time from Stansted. I couldn’t find the gate.’ ‘I wake when I want, take it easy, get there just in time, and you and I get called together,’ she said blithely. ‘All comes to the same thing – why bother coming early?’ Richard turned to reply, but thought the better of it. He forced a smile and looked out of the window. Hopefully Cynthia would start listening to music, reading a magazine, or something, and he wouldn’t have to talk to her. The plane climbed into cloud. Richard turned away from the window, and found Cynthia looking straight at him. ‘I-I’m going to Amsterdam on business,’ he stuttered, straightening his tie. ‘You?’ ‘Oh, definitely pleasure. For a week.’ ‘Lucky you. I’m only going to be there for a day.’ ‘Coming back on Sunday? What a waste!’ Richard smiled. ‘I’m a marketing consultant. What do you do?’ ‘I eat, sleep, drink, go clubbing, do drugs, read, watch telly and occasionally get laid,’ Cynthia replied with a straight face. ‘I didn’t mean like that,’ Richard said. ‘I meant, what’s your job?’ ‘Who says everyone has to have a job?’ ‘But how do you live?’ ‘I get by – I’m not complaining. Look, we all take different paths in life. Some people’ - she looked Richard from head to toe - ‘some people sign on the dotted line at eighteen, and sell their souls to The Man. Some of us choose to live our own lives.’ Richard found himself getting hot under the collar. ‘Look, that came out wrong, asking you how you live. But you have no right to judge me…’ ‘I wasn’t judging you. But if you’re getting all worked up, well hey, the cap must fit!’ ‘Right,’ Richard said quietly after a pause. ‘I’ll just retreat into my ordered wage-slave world, then.’ He opened his bag, and pulled out the slim folder containing the presentation he had to deliver the next day. ‘No hard feelings, I hope,’ said Cynthia. ‘We can meet up when you’re done. Been to Amsterdam before?’ ‘Only when I was at school.’ ‘I’ll show you a good time if you meet up with me.’ ‘The hell I will,’ Richard thought. He smiled and turned back to his folder, but found himself looking at it and not taking anything in. At Schipol airport, Richard lost track of Cynthia in the rush to get off the plane. He lost no time in heading for the terminal exit. He was surprised to find her walking behind him. ‘You’re here for a week, where’s your case?’ he asked her. ‘I don’t carry baggage’, she said. ‘But what do you do for clothes?’ ‘I just grab something from a charity shop,’ she replied. ‘You getting a cab into town?’ ‘Yes, but on expenses,’ Richard grinned. ‘Can I come with you?’ ‘You don’t mind benefiting from the corporate dollar?’ ‘You suits have my money at the checkout, I might as well claw back some of it now.’ Richard hailed a cab in front of the terminal. ‘Victoria Hotel, please,’ he said to the driver. ‘Can you drop me at the City Hotel first?’ asked Cynthia. Richard was relieved – if he remembered the guidebook correctly, her hotel was a good half-mile from his. As they pulled up outside into the City, Cynthia turned to Richard. ‘Well, I hope you have a good – er, whatever it is that you guys do.’ ‘Take care,’ smiled Richard. As she left the cab, Cynthia scribbled on a Rizla and handed it to Richard. ‘My mobile,’ she said. ‘We can meet up later, like I said.’ As the taxi drove away, Richard rolled up the paper, and wound down the car window. ‘Mustn’t litter,’ he thought, and he then put it in his jacket pocket. Minutes later, he checked in at the Victoria.
The next afternoon, Richard was sitting in his hotel room, hunting through all the pockets of his suit. Cynthia’s number was still in his inside pocket, rolled up into a ball. He dialled the number on his mobile, straightening his tie as he did so.
Richard was taken aback. Then he said, ‘Richard Koroma – from the flight yesterday.’ ‘Oh, that Richard. How are you?’ ‘Okay, I suppose.’ ‘You sound a bit down. Trouble in salary-man-land?’ ‘N-n-no. The presentation went very well…it’s just that I started to see what you meant about being a wage slave. Getting up at the crack of dawn to do the presentation, and all that crap.’ ‘Shouldn’t you still be schmoozing your clients?’ ‘I should be, but they just took me on a boat trip. I wanted – I wanted-' ‘What?’ ‘I wanted to see what there is to see. All they offered me – boat trip, Rijksmuseum, Anne Frank Huis – it’s all stuff I saw when I was at school. There has to be more to life than this…’ ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ said Cynthia. Richard pictured her wry smile. ‘I’ll meet you in your lobby in half an hour.’ Richard was in the lobby within five minutes – force of habit, he thought. He paced up and down, attracting stares from staff and other guests. Passing a mirror, he wondered whether he was overdressed in his business suit, for wherever they would be going. Where would they be going, anyway? He heard one of the porters having a softly-spoken conversation in Dutch with a woman. They were sharing a joke- the porter burst out laughing at the end of it. Richard looked round and was surprised to see Cynthia saying goodbye to the porter, who was stepping into a lift. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Richard said. ‘Don’t look too pleased to see me,’ teased Cynthia. ‘Didn’t know you spoke Dutch,’ Richard mumbled. ‘Rule one,’ said Cynthia. ‘There are no rules. If you wanna enjoy this place, don’t let anything surprise you. I spend a lot of time here, so I speak enough of the lingo to get by. Okay – where do you wanna go?’ ‘Haven’t given it much thought really,’ Richard replied. He found himself straightening his tie again. ‘Let me do that for you,’ said Cynthia. She reached up, stuck her thumb in the middle of the tie-knot and pulled it loose in one movement. ‘Ow!’ gasped Richard, feeling his throat. ‘What the hell was that for?’ Cynthia reached up to Richard, carefully wrapped the tie around his temples, and tied a knot at the side of his head. ‘There, I think it’s all right now.’ ‘I look like a right prat,’ Richard complained as he looked in the mirror. ‘You’ve got character now, you looked like a prat before,’ smiled Cynthia. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ They walked out of the lobby into a warm summer’s afternoon. A cycle rickshaw was waiting for them, manned by an athletic-looking young man. They set off at a rapid pace. ‘I’ve seen these in the West End,’ said Richard. ‘They started there some years ago. I’d always wanted to ride in one but I…’ ‘…never got round to it?’ Cynthia finished. Richard looked at her as if annoyed, but then they both burst out laughing. They had already turned the corner and were heading down the Damrack, a long street lined with touristy restaurants and a few supermarkets. They pulled up at a square at the end, which was dominated by a huge, obelisk-like monument at the top of some steps. Around it were some more supermarkets, and the local Madame Tussauds. Cynthia and Richard left the rickshaw. ‘What are we doing…?' Richard gasped as Cynthia dragged him along. ‘You’ll see,’ she replied. They rushed up the steps of the obelisk-style memorial. When they had almost reached the top, Cynthia ordered, ‘Lie down’. ‘What for?’ ‘Just do it. It’s called spontaneity; ever heard of it?’ Richard lay down, face upwards. ‘Close your eyes!’ Richard complied. He felt totally disempowered and yet safe, as he had when playing activity games in nursery. He could hear Cynthia moving around and mumbling to herself. ‘Got it - perfect!’ shouted Cynthia. Richard opened his eyes to see her brandishing a digital camera. Just then, he became aware of a group of men and women standing further down the monument. They were all in their eighties or nineties, and wore dark clothes. Many had medals on their chests. Some carried wreaths. They were pointing excitedly at Cynthia and Richard, and shouting. Richard couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded unfriendly. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, staggering to his feet and grabbing Cynthia’s arm. They ran down the steps of the monument. The elderly people followed, one of the women raising her walking stick. Richard and Cynthia ran across the square and down a side street. Richard knew they would never have been caught, but he just didn’t want a scene. They stopped a few streets away, and caught their breath. ‘What were those people worked up about?’ Richard asked. Cynthia showed him the picture she had taken on her digital camera. It showed Richard lying on his back, with the obelisk apparently standing up from his groin in a Freudian pose. ‘That monument,’ Richard asked. ‘What is it exactly?’ ‘War memorial or something,’ said Cynthia dismissively. ‘Do you realise what we’ve just done?’ Richard snapped. ‘We’ve taken a really funny picture,’ Cynthia said.’ Lighten up, will you? Come on – I’ll take you to Zenith.’ Richard felt disgusted. And elated… He had often seen colleagues’ raunchy holiday shots, and he had never had anything to contribute. And now he did. After a short stroll, they arrived at a small café by a canal, with a sign over the door saying ‘Zenith’. They went in and sat at a table. The café was small, and poorly lit. A large blackboard hung from the ceiling, with a menu which Richard could not make out. Photographs of Istanbul street scenes hung from the walls, and belly-dancing music blared from speakers. A short, middle-aged Turkish man came round from behind the counter. He greeted Cynthia in a language which Richard presumed must be Turkish. She replied in kind. The man glared at Richard, and asked Cynthia something involving the word‘polis’. Cynthia spoke to him in a reassuring tone. Eventually he came up to Richard and asked in English, ‘What would you like, sir?’ Richard peered at the blackboard hanging from the ceiling. He couldn’t make out what was on it, much less the prices. He took a guess. ‘C-coffee, please,’ he said. ‘Black, no sugar.’ Cynthia looked at the man. ‘He’s only joking. One of my usual, we’ll share.’ ‘How thick am I?’ Richard thought. Of course, he was in one of the famous ‘coffee shops’ of Amsterdam. The man went behind the counter. ‘What was he saying when he looked at me?’ Richard asked. ‘Just asking if you were a cop or something,’ Cynthia replied breezily. ‘He’s from Hackney- the cops gave him a hard time there.’ The man came back, still glaring at Richard, and handed Cynthia a joint. She put it between her lips, and lit it. After a few puffs, she handed it over to Richard. He took a deep draw and spluttered. ‘Not like that,’ Cynthia smiled, taking it back from him and taking a slow, gentle draw. She handed it back to Richard, who had another go. This time he only coughed a little. ‘Makes my head spin,’ said Richard. ‘You sure this is good for me?’ ‘Sure,’ replied Cynthia. ‘It’s the coffee you wanna give up. Gets you all stressed out.’ Richard attempted another drag. He had nearly controlled the cough reflex. He felt strangely calm. Calmer than he’d felt in ages. At peace with everyone. Cynthia took the joint back, and puffed. ‘Feeling better?’ ‘Y-y-yeahhhh,’ Richard mumbled. ‘Good,’ Cynthia almost purred. ‘Now – tell me all about yourself…..what’s a great guy like you doing in a nine to five job?’ Richard gave a long, high-pitched giggle, and had another puff. ‘Whoever told you it was nine to five? Okay, yeah, that’s what it says in the contract, but if you only worked those hours, you’d be…you’d be….’ He paused, finding it harder to string words together, ‘..you’d be out on your arse.’ ‘Why work there, then?’ ‘Start at the beginning … I’m an only child…’ ‘Snap. Go on.’ ‘I grew up in Dagenham …we were one of only a few black families on the estate. Back in the eighties, everyone was making lots of money in the City. Mum and Dad, they didn’t have the qualifications – or contacts. All their white mates would rub their noses in it….tell them what they’d got…holidays they’d been on…we were still in our two-up two-down….’ ‘That sort of crap doesn’t matter, really,’ mumbled Cynthia. ‘Mmmmm,’ mused Richard, taking a puff. ‘I did well at school....went to uni. First in both families to do it….Mum and Dad would always say, “You won’t be like us, you’ll never to have to get your hands dirty for a living” and “You’ll remember us, when you’re all posh and lah-di-dah, won’t you?”’ He coughed, then continued. ‘So I had to do the right thing by them. Took the best-paid jobs I could get. I’d be the only black person in the office - other than security and the cleaners - so I had to work twice as hard as everyone else. I found out I never had any spare time. I paid for Mum and Dad to buy their council house, then a bigger house, a decent car, but …..I never spent much time with them, you know? And I really wanted to spend more time with them, get it? I’d got them a better life but I wasn’t there to see them enjoy it. And the guys I went to school and uni with – I hardly have time to hang out with them.’ He felt tears on his cheeks. Normally he would have battled to hold them in, but now he just let them flow, holding his head in his hands as sobs shook his body. ‘Easy now, easy,’ Cynthia said, pulling out a grimy handkerchief and giving it to Richard to wipe his eyes. She took a last drag on the joint, and stubbed it out. Cynthia paid the barman, and pulled Richard to his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
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Looking forward to the next episode(chapter) soon! 
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