Seize the Reckless Wind

CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_a5c1d5e8-643a-5ca4-82a0-3ad92f50a793)

On one side of the road was Gatwick Airport, acres of building, hangars and carparks: on the other side was the pub called The Fox and Rabbit; down a wooded lane stood Redcoat House, in tranquil isolation. Beyond, the company’s farmland ran up to a hill, behind which was the home of the managing director of Redcoat Cargo Airlines. A plaque by the front door of the House was inscribed with an impressive list of companies all beginning with the word ‘Redcoat’. But Redcoat House was an old barn. It wasn’t even legal. The land was not zoned for commercial purposes. The municipal council had been threatening Redcoat for two years, but Mahoney kept stalling them. One day the council would get Redcoat out, and it was going to cost a lot in legal fees, but it was a lot cheaper than renting legitimate premises. So was the use of Tex Weston’s hangar, but the price was that Weston insisted on being on the board of directors, and that the rent be in the form of Redcoat shares.

That worried Mahoney. During the first year, Weston was so seldom in England that he did not matter; but then he began to show up more frequently. As a director, he was entitled to know all business details. Mahoney began to get the feeling that the man was biding his time.

‘Fire him off the bleedin’ board,’ Pomeroy said.

‘Then what will you use for a hangar?’ Shelagh wanted to know.

‘He won’t kick us out,’ Pomeroy said. ‘We’re no threat to to his routes. We even hire his engineers if I can’t cope, like.’

‘We’ve got to get our own hangar,’ Mahoney said. ‘He’s got nearly twenty-five percent of the shares already.’

‘What’ll we use for money?’ Shelagh said. ‘You and your grandiose schemes.’

‘Earn it.’

‘Earn it! We’ve only got two aircraft and they’re working flat out – and we’re still broke!’

‘We’ve got to get rid of that Britannia and buy another Canadair.’

‘But the Canadair costs a hundred pounds per hour more to run!’

‘But it carries ten tons more cargo.’

‘Good God,’ she cried, ‘where’re we going to get the money? We couldn’t sell that Britannia – that’s how we’re stuck in this godawful business! Listen – you said we were going to stay in just until we had enough money to get out.’

‘That’s why we’ve got to find another Canadair,’ Pomeroy said.

‘God! Next you’ll be trying to build one of Todd’s airships …’ She got up and walked out of the board meeting.

Dolores shot Mahoney a sympathetic look. Pomeroy and Ed avoided his eye.

That afternoon, after a great deal of hesitation, Mahoney telephoned Shelagh’s psychiatrist, and made an appointment to see him that night, at ten o’clock. Then he drove slowly home, to dress for dinner at his Inn of Court, where he was a goddamn law-student again.

It was a beautiful cottage, two hundred years old, with a thatch roof and low beams and small windows; it needed a lot doing to it. The garden was overgrown but completely surrounded by woods, which cut off the airport noise. Mahoney parked the car, and entered the kitchen door with a heavy heart.

‘Shelagh?’

She was bathing, and did not hear him. He walked through the living room, up the narrow stairs, down the corridor to Catherine’s room, calling, ‘Is this where the beautiful Miss Mahoney lives?’ There was a squeak and a toddle of little girl across the room, all curls and smiles, arms outstretched. Mahoney picked her up, and hugged her and kissed her, and his eyes were burning at the thought of losing her.

He left ten minutes later, in his only decent suit. It was grey pinstripe, which was unfortunate because his Inn of Court required black. Shelagh was still in the bath; he called goodbye, got into the car, and drove slowly through the woods on to the road for London, thinking.

He parked and walked into Holborn, through an arch, into the courtyard of Gray’s Inn. He walked grimly across into the cloakroom. He took a gown, paid the clerk, signed a register, and walked into the Inn. It was crowded, students finding places at the tables, a clamour of voices. Half the students seemed to be African. He muttered to himself: ‘I thought more than three constituted an Unlawful Assembly …’

At the top of the old hall was a dais, where the benchers dined. Below were rows of tables, the length of the hall. There were stained-glass windows and high beams. Mahoney walked up an aisle, and sat down at the first empty place. ‘Good evening,’ he said.

He was sitting between a portly black gentleman and a thin Indian gentleman. Opposite sat a fresh-faced Englishman, and a pretty Chinese woman.

‘I think you happen to be Mr Senior of our mess tonight,’ the young man said, ‘if you’re sitting in that place.’

‘Oh, very well.’ He reached for the strip of paper and printed his name. He got the names of the other three and printed them in order of their seniority within the mess: Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, Mrs Chan. He then asked for the names of the people in the messes immediately to right and left of his, and printed them, in order of seniority. Just then there was a loud knock, and all the students stood up.

The door opened, and in walked the benchers, a solemn single file. The senior bencher said grace. Everybody sat down and the tucker began.

Waiters went scurrying down the aisles thumping down tureens of soup. As Mr Senior, Mahoney started ladling. The wine steward passed with two baskets.

Mahoney filled the glasses and picked up his elaborately: ‘Mrs Chan, Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, lady and gentlemen of the best, your good health. May you live long, plead well and judge with humility.’

He drank solemnly to that. After a minute Mr Fothergill proposed his toast to the mess. They smiled politely. They resumed their soup. Mr Obote picked up his glass.

‘Mr Mahoney, Mr Fothergill, Mrs Chan, I wish you good health.’ He added with a twinkle: ‘May your children be as numerous as the stars in the sky, and your goats and cattle even more numerous.’

Mahoney laughed and slapped the black man on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Mr Obote!’

Mrs Chan piped up, blushing: ‘Mr Mahoney, Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, I wish you good health and happiness.’

Mahoney took a weary breath and muttered, ‘Let’s get it over with.’ He leant forward and addressed the mess to his left. ‘Mr Senior of the Upper Mess, may I interrupt your scintillating conversation by proposing a toast?’

‘Why, certainly, Mr Senior, if you can tear yourself away from the illuminations of your own mess.’

‘With difficulty, Mr Senior.’ He read from the list: ‘Mr Johnson, Mr Patel, Mr Patel, and Mr Patel – may your cups run over with happiness and may your seed, both severally and jointly, be more numerous than the stars in the sky, your progeny even more fertile, and theirs after them, and your herds even more prolific than the whole damn lot of you put together.’ He added, ‘All this in your lifetime.’

He drank. The two messes were laughing, except Mr Fothergill. Mahoney then turned the other way and said, ‘Mr Senior of the Lower Mess, may I pray your silence while I drink to your sterling health? …’

And so on. Lord, Mahoney thought, this is supposed to train lawyers?

Finally they were through the dessert and on to the coffee and port. Then the shouting started.

‘Up, Junior!’

But Mr Junior of the lowermost mess, the person closest to the door, studiously ignored the call.

‘Up Junior! … Come on, Junior! …’

For five minutes the shouting went on. Finally Mr Junior stood up. Except Mr Junior was a woman. Immediately the jeering and bellowing began.

‘Mr Senior,’ Ms Junior shouted across the hall, ‘may we have permission to smoke?’

The boos and jeers drowned her. Mr Senior of the uppermost mess studiously ignored the request.

‘Louder, Junior!’

Ms Junior shouted again and the boos and jeers doubled.

‘On the table, Junior!’

Ms Junior was looking very embarrassed, though she was smiling. She climbed on to her chair, put her hands to her mouth and bellowed.