To think I wrote this four years ago ...
Douglas wrote a
shorter version of this story for the Daily Telegraph ‘Just Back’ short story
competition in 2013. He did not win. Another version of the story is included in Ywnwab! his first book by
the Allrighters’ published in September 2013.
Leap Year
Travel a fantasy journey — by Henry
I am just back from the airport,
standing at my front door, shivering in my new, warm-weather holiday clothes. I
walk in and hear the cacophony of the house alarm. I think for the code 8532 or
8253? I press 8235 and all goes deathly still and quiet; I am home again, alone.
My wife reached eighteen birthdays last year — yesterday to the day.
We are heading
south — a familiar route. Our jet aircraft banks west and I see lakes and
woods. Then we bank east and lose height very quickly, dropping in steps, as though
in turbulence, air-frame banging, wings flapping. Down we go… fear rises as I
see the terminal building to one side and we are still not down; a runway
overshoot looms, so I tuck my feet under the seat, brace myself and close my
eyes...“Please, God, no.” My prayer is answered, as with a huge roar, full jet
power comes on again. The pilot, in a monotone robotic voice, says.
“For safety,
we are going around. We could not take the early landing slot. You will have a
good view of Mont Blanc.”
My peers
converse in the seat behind.
“Scary.” I
hear in a broken trembling voice.
Her male colleague
makes a terse, sober reply. “Most unprofessional, failed to take the slot, he
should not have tried, not even an apology for making us late.”
I
wholeheartedly agree. I feel my wife’s long, sensuous fingers holding my hand
tight and draw my breath thinking of more intimacy later. Her magic still not
dimmed by age.
I change my
watch for the hour time difference and worry about our train leaving in sixty
minutes. We complete a circle, Mont
Blanc is on the wrong
side for me to see, and land smoothly all right second time around. We sit out
of breath on the train to Brig. A comfortable hotel and good food await us.
Cuddles and more at night and dawn in a net-curtained room, her still-perfect
ivory skin caught moving in beams of new day sun.
The Glacier
Express for Chur is not anywhere to be found in the main station. Departure is
due in five minutes … we should not have dallied in bed. I start to panic …
then see the narrow gauge track in the town square outside. We board, putting
our bags in a luggage-van at the rear. We are off and soon mountain and valley
scenery is running by, all grand and magnificent. At halfway the eating car is
swapped from the westbound train. Lunch is adequate … poor exchange rate cost
to be forgotten else troubling. Our train dives into gorges with fast-flowing
rivers and is split into two before we reach Chur. When we reach Chur we find
our two bags of luggage have gone to St
Moritz.
“Do not worry, dear, we are travelling on
Swiss Railways.”
Even with
communication in Swiss English I am not completely sure what I hope I have
agreed with the helpful staff in the Chur platform signal station.
We buy a
shared toothbrush, paste and T-shirts and go to our hotel, enjoy rosti and
steak followed by brief satisfying T-shirted sleep and more.
At 8.00am we
leave Chur’s large rail station and it’s yellow buses. The flanges squeal and
the rack engages as we wind our way up the valley. The brochure picture of a
red train going over a high viaduct into a mountain face with dark spirals
inside is now real. Wow! — the reality is better than expectation. At St Moritz a miracle — by
our carriage as it halts at our door stand our two bags on a trolley. Anxiety
over Swiss English and Railways are now relieved.
We travel
onwards, in fantasy, on the winter running Bernina Express over a snow-ploughed
route through a high pass; then falling into warmer Italy, the snow soon disappears. We
spiral around on rails and arches in another brochure picture and rattle
through main streets to reach Torino for an
enjoyable slow lunch, amble and a night’s rest in full night attire. Then to Milan and a coast train to cold Pisa. Few look at the amazing leaning tower.
We enjoy a belated winter birthday celebration in front of roaring fires at the
retreat and lots of good views while on rambles, both well wrapped up against
the biting cold.
Of course all
these delights took place last year. I am now going away again to somewhere
warmer; booked specifically I stated to travel on the last day of February,
alone. No cuddles this year unless my widow temptation fantasy matures.
I sigh; the
queues for booking in are much longer than last year. I only have a single bag
now. I eventually shuffle forward and reach the counter and the young lady with
a name badge smiles; I feel a glow inside, she has a face similar to my
daughter’s. Tracy Evans inspects my flight details and looks at me with a sad
expression as though I might be her demented father.
“Do you know the date today, sir?”
I smile, my
stress from queuing relaxed by her melodic, gentle Welsh accent. “Yes, my
wife’s birthday — 29 February.”
She replies
slowly. “I am sorry this year is not a leap year; it is 1 March today, St
David’s Day.”
Douglas started this story with an idea
about the awful prospect of turning up at an airport a day late, which is a
recurrent nightmare he has about travel. He thought then about leap years,
added details of an actual flight to Switzerland where they overshot the runway
in Geneva, another train journey where luggage was lost and put an overlay of
loss of a dear partner to support the arrival a day late.
Of all his creative
writing Douglas likes putting together short
stories the most. Indeed his longer books under the Allrighters’ name are made
up of many short stories linked together.
Open http://www.amazon.co.uk and search on Ywnwab! to find Kindle and paperback versions for sale.
Open http://www.amazon.co.uk and search on Ywnwab! to find Kindle and paperback versions for sale.
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