It hadn’t been the best start to the holiday for anyone. Trust the port authorities to choose today of all days to make individual passenger checks on every coach coming into the Dover.
‘Half an hour they kept us waiting around in that draughty hanger place while they searched that couple’s cases.’
Fiona made sympathetic noises but it looked as if it would be several minutes before she could escape Edith and Len Webster’s list of moans. The elderly couple had buttonholed her the moment she’d come up from the vehicle deck and walked towards the small bar where they were ordering their coffees.
‘It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d let the rest of us back onto the coach. At least we could have sat down,’ Edith continued. ‘And that’s another thing. Why did they have to take sniffer dogs inside our coach as well as all round the luggage area like they did for the other coaches?’
‘Perhaps they were checking for dangerous substances,’ Fiona suggested lamely.
‘I can see the point of stopping drugs coming into the country but going out?’
‘It’s bureaucracy gone mad,’ chipped in her husband. ‘All that talk about security checks for our protection. Things like that don’t make people feel safer, it just upsets them.’
‘Now you’re onboard you can sit down in a nice comfortable chair and enjoy your coffee,’ Fiona said with a smile resisting the temptation to add – before it gets cold.
To Fiona’s relief, the couple took the hint and left her to order her own drink. At least she could be thankful that modern cross-channel ferries were considerably more up-market affairs than the over-crowded, litter-strewn vessels of twenty years ago that she and Bill had to put up with taking the boys camping in France. Her passengers should find little to complain about on this spanking new boat.
She collected her freshly brewed cappuccino and made her way to one of the heavy padded chairs facing the picture windows. It wasn’t just that she wanted to get away from having to listen to further complaints she was powerless to do anything about; she needed a quiet corner to look through the passenger list and make a few preliminary notes. Still apprehensive in her new role as a tour manager, it helped to be able put names to faces as soon as possible.
At least she had no trouble identifying the Asian couple, Devesh and Anita Najaran. They were sitting a little apart from a large group of ferry passengers watching the enormous flat screen television at the far end. They seemed a pleasant, well-mannered couple but already there were signs of them being ostracised by other members of the party. She would have to keep her fingers crossed that racial tensions within the group did not add to her list of problems. Once she’d finished her coffee, she would go and talk to them.
Before she could speak to the couple, a buxom, blousy woman wearing a profusion of large, dangling jewellery looked up. ‘Hello there, Fiona. Do come and join us.’
‘It’s Hilary, isn’t it?’
‘Spot on! I expect you saw this, right?’ She ran a thumb behind the gold letters proclaiming her name in the centre of one of the many chains around her neck. ‘I thought this might come in handy as a name tag.’
Fiona looked at the man sitting next to her whose flat features, narrow eyes and sallow complexion were in stark contrast those of his very English wife with her faintly cockney accent. ‘And you are?’
‘I Viktor.’ His grim face lit up with a smile.
‘You’ll have to forgive Viktor. He doesn’t have much English, do you love?’ Hilary gave him an affectionate pat on the knee.
Some five minutes later, Fiona was talking with the Najarans when startled gasps made all eyes turn to the TV screen. An explosion of some kind had wreaked havoc in a crowded city street. Standing in front of the police tape, the earnest young reporter, her face suitably solemn, was commenting on the scene although Fiona could only catch the occasional word. The camera man was prevented by the barrier from getting too close but the line of badly wrecked vehicles indicated the scale of the disaster. The camera panned the jagged glass edges of blown out windows in nearby shops and buildings. It hovered over what was left of a pavement café with its overturned tables and chairs lying in a litter of smashed china and spilt food beneath torn shreds of all that was left of the blue and white striped awning fluttering pathetically in the breeze.
‘What happened?’
Len Webster sitting much closer to the screen turned to Fiona and answered, ‘A car blew up. They think it might be a bomb.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘The driver of the car was killed but no one else was badly injured.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Hilary Kasar exclaimed, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Was it terrorists.’
‘They haven’t said.’
Anita turned sharply to Devesh and the two exchanged meaningful glances whose message was lost on Fiona.
‘If no one else is injured then presumably not,’ Fiona said firmly. ‘It will probably turn out to be faulty wiring or something.’
All eyes turned back to flickering screen above them as the reporter moved to a group of white-faced people gathered just beyond the affected area to where a man in green uniform overalls was tending to those suffering from cuts, presumably from flying glass, and other minor injuries. A microphone was thrust at a middle-age man. The passengers edged their chairs closer to catch what was being said.
‘… sounded like a thunder clap … happened so suddenly. No warning … fire engine arrived …’
It was evident from the even monotone, unlike the clearly halting, disjointed speech of the shocked eyewitness, that his comments must be being translated. In the background above the reporter’s head, Fiona was able to make out the words “Kaffeehaus Albert” written over the door of the street café.
Fiona’s heart sank. Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed.
‘Where is it?’ Hilary asked.
‘Germany.’
The knot in Fiona’s stomach tightened. That was all she needed. Panic spreading among her party before they’d even got there.
‘Did they say where exactly?’
‘Frankfurt.’
‘Not on our itinerary, thank goodness,’ Fiona said but not quickly enough to stop Hilary from grabbing onto her husband’s arm in alarm.
‘We have to turn back. I want to go home.’
‘Too late now. Ferry sailing.’ Viktor took his wife hands. ‘Come, I get you vodka. Calm you down.’
Before Hilary could protest further, he pulled her to her feet and almost dragged her to the bar where Fiona could see him talking earnestly. Perhaps it would only make things worse if she tried to intervene. She glanced around the mixed group gathered around the television trying to identify members of her party. There were a good few shocked faces but no one else had demanded to return home.
The two drivers had spent the crossing in the truckers’ rest area and there’d been no opportunity to discuss the situation with them until Fiona met up with them again at the coach. Neither the bear-like Winston nor the wizened relief driver Ted seemed at all fazed by her news.
‘Hilary was almost hysterical. Her husband managed to calm her down eventually but I’m still worried that other passengers may react just as badly when they get to hear about what happened.’
‘Let’s not worry about things before they happen, sweetheart. You keep charming them all with that lovely smile of yours and everything will be fine, you’ll see.’
Winston’s quick reassuring hug had a surprisingly calming effect. Not for the first time, Fiona thanked fate for teaming her up with the unflappable West Indian who had put up with all her novice tour manager nerves with inexhaustible patience.
Fiona put on a DVD almost as soon as the coach left the port. Best to keep everyone occupied. Despite all her misgivings, the majority of the passengers were either watching the charming nonsense of “Happy Feet” or looking out at the passing countryside. There were whispered exchanges but no sign of the panic she’d been dreading.
Lights were already beginning to twinkle invitingly as Fiona led her travel-weary party across the charming main square to Café Armande in the early evening dusk. Whether it was because of the fairytale setting enhancing the magnificent mediaeval architecture or, as was more likely Fiona judged cynically, the prospect of food, there were smiles all round.
It took some time for everyone to settle themselves and, despite Fiona’s initial misgivings, there were just enough seats for everyone. At least there was no fear of either of her unaccompanied passengers being left on their own. There was barely room for the three or four waitresses to squeeze between the tightly packed tables holding aloft the steaming plates.
‘Steak and chips?’
‘Is that what I ordered, Daphne?’ A bemused elderly man asked his wife at the adjacent table.
‘No, Sydney dear. You said you’d have the salmon.’
To judge from the bemused expressions on several other faces, Sydney was not the only one with a short memory. How could it be so difficult? They only had a choice of steak, salmon or vegetarian pasta.
‘It never occurred to me to make a note of who asked for what when I took their orders on the coach,’ sighed Fiona as she sank down on the chair next to the two drivers. ‘I only collected the numbers.’
‘If they can’t be bothered to remember what they asked for less than two hours ago then that’s their lookout,’ Ted said unsympathetically. ‘You’re their tour guide not their ruddy nursemaid.’
Winston, the big West Indian beside her, chuckled. His enormous hand covered hers giving it a friendly squeeze. ‘Our Fiona takes her responsibilities very seriously. Likes to make sure all her passengers are kept happy, don’t you, sweetheart? You just sit back for half an hour and enjoy your meal like everyone else.’
If only she could. After the ordeal of the ferry crossing, sorting out the meal choices was the least of her worries. ‘Now, are you going to see the ceremony up at the Menin Gate?’ Winston added. ‘Being as it’s the weekend, it’ll get pretty crowded up there. Might be an idea to get going soon.’
Fiona looked around. ‘Most people still seem to be eating. I’d better go round and let them all know.’
‘You off then?’ Ted asked when she got back.
‘Nearly all of them have decided they are too tired or to stay and finish their meals. The handful that want to go are happy to make their own way there. It’s only a couple of minutes and you can see the arch from outside so they can’t get lost.’
‘You go,’ urged Winston. ‘It’s worth seeing. Ted and I will look after the rest. They can take their time drinkin’ their coffees then we’ll take ’em back to the coach.’
The clock on the Cloth Hall tower was already striking the hour as Fiona picked her way through the tangle of tables squeezed onto the small terrace and out into the square. She could hear the pipes and drums sounding their eerie lament even as she hurried the last few yards down the narrow street. Winston was right. Even though the short ceremony was performed every night of the year, because it was the weekend, several hundred spectators were not only crowded around the impressive Memorial Gate but spread back down the road standing shoulder to shoulder. From her vantage point way at the back, Fiona could just make out the tops of the flags above all the heads although it was impossible to see the presentation of colours let alone spot the bandsmen. Nonetheless, the atmosphere was awesome. Everyone still, listening in respectful silence to the lone voice calling the roll of the fallen of one of the many regiments involved in the carnage that should have been the war to end all wars.
Once the short ceremony was over and the troops had marched off, a great wall of noise suddenly erupted from under the arch as conversation began again. Slowly people began to drift away and Fiona was able to ease forward to stare up at the long lists carved on every possible surface of the walls of the massive ramparts.
‘Impressive isn’t it? All those names!’ She turned to see one of her passengers standing beside her. ‘What a dreadful waste of young lives.’
‘Exactly. Makes you think doesn’t it.’ Fiona smiled at the middle-aged rather ordinary looking man trying to recall the name his name. ‘Did you see the ceremony?’
‘Heard might be a better description.’ He gave her a wide grin revealing a set of crooked teeth. ‘I could just about see the tops of their heads and the regimental colours but I don’t think the girls managed to get much of a view.’
‘Me neither, but I was right at the back. Still I’m glad I came.’ Fiona looked around. ‘So is your wife here too?’
‘Elspeth’s over there with her sister.’ He indicated the two women in their late forties peering up at the writing near the ceiling a short distance away.
Barry and Elspeth Glover that was it! They had come with another couple, a tall attractive man and his rather serious looking wife.
‘I didn’t realize you were actually related to the Spelmans. I thought the four of you were just friends.’
Though it disappeared quickly, she caught the frown and tightened jaw. ‘We usually take a short break together this time of year. The original idea was a Rhine cruise but they were all booked up for the dates we wanted so we thought we’d give this a whirl. First time we’ve tried a coach holiday though.’
‘I hope you all enjoy it.’
He looked round to check on the women. ‘Perhaps I’d better get back to them before we get separated in all the crowds. We already seem to have lost Graham already.’
Something in the way he said it, coupled with the gleam in his eye, made Fiona wonder if Barry was pleased his brother-in-law had wandered off, but she was probably being fanciful.
On her way back to the coach, Fiona spotted Graham Spelman looking in the window of one the many handmade-chocolate shops further down the street. She was about to catch him and tell him that his wife was still with his in-laws at the Menin Gate when he laughed, put an arm around the person next to him and usher her into the shop. Obviously, Fiona had made a mistake. Vivien must have left before her after all.
As promised, Winston and Ted had seen to those who had elected to stay in the restaurant and were now sitting in the coach contentedly chatting. Daphne Pettit had already inflated her travel pillow and was lying back with her eyes closed.
‘Have we got much farther to go?’ asked her husband. ‘We had to be up at four o’clock this morning to catch the feeder coach.’
Fiona gave the elderly man what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Having to change to continental time doesn’t help either, does it? But it won’t be too much longer now.’
While she was waiting for the stragglers to wend their way back from the Gate, Fiona looked through the selection of DVDs to find something suitable for the final leg of the journey and slipped it into the machine ready for later.
Time to check if all her passengers were here. A quick glance back was enough to establish there were only two or three yet to arrive. Ted was on the pavement outside, finishing his last cigarette, chatting to Winston. Fiona climbed down to join them almost bumping into Graham Spelman.
‘Oops! Mustn’t get this all over your smart uniform.’ His blue eyes twinkled as he held aloft an enormous strawberry ice-cream cone.
He turned to Cressida Flint, also holding an ice-cream, gallantly supporting her elbow as she the steps. Fiona and the two drivers followed in their wake.
As she knelt on the front seat, busily counting heads, it was impossible not to hear the whispered exchange in the seat behind.
‘Did he buy you that?’ The disapproval was evident not only in Holly Hubbard’s words but her whole body language.
‘What if he did?’
‘For goodness sake, Cressy! He’s old enough to be your dad and you can’t make eyes at a man with his wife standing there watching.’
Cressida tucked a stray lock of the sleek fair hair behind her ear and grinned at her plain friend. ‘They’re the safest to play for. Besides he started it and, just for your information, his wife wasn’t around at the time.’
There was a sharp intake of breath and Holly’s round face was a mixture of shock and disgust.
‘Oh don’t be so prickly, Holly.’ There was a peal of laughter.
‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’ The girl scowled, wrinkling her freckled nose, and turned to look out of the window. The effect of the disdainful toss of the head was somewhat diminished by the plumper girl’s cropped, almost boyish hairstyle. For all its auburn streaks, Holly’s mousey coloured hair did nothing to add to her allure anymore than the Harry Potter spectacles.
It struck Fiona as odd that a couple of twenty year olds should choose to join a group of sedate middle-aged people on a holiday such as this. Surely some Mediterranean beach resort soaking up the sun by day and enjoying the lively nightclub culture by night was more their scene?
Signalling to Ted that he could drive off, Fiona settled down in her seat with an air of misgiving. She hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those situations that blew up into something unpleasant. The Super Sun guidelines for tour managers didn’t have a section on how to deal with straying husbands and irate wives. No point in worrying, she told herself. There was nothing she could do about it.
Before long, a peaceful silence settled over her passengers as the coach sped east along the motorway towards the German border. Fiona glanced back and breathed a sigh of relief. The girls were listening to their iPods, and everyone else was watching the episode of the Two Ronnies or had been lulled by a good meal and the gentle motion of the coach into a doze. Even the two unaccompanied passengers seemed contented enough. Pen in hand, the sprightly Ernest Blake was engrossed in his sudoku book and the fun-loving Gloria Oldgate had her head back, eyes closed, snoring softly.
She could sit back and relax. A whole day in the unaccustomed high heels was making her feet ache. Dare she slip them off? No one would notice. At least tomorrow, she could change back into comfortable flat shoes and everyday clothes and the uniform navy skirt and blazer and bright yellow scarf could be put aside until the journey home. Whoever decided that female tour managers must wear tights and a straight skirt on the outward and homebound journeys should be made to sit on a coach in them for twelve hours at a stretch!
Lulled into a doze herself, Winston had to call her name twice before she jerked to attention.
‘Should be there in ten minutes.’
‘Great. I’ll give the hotel a call and let them know to be ready for us.’
As the coach pulled into the central square of the small town of Muscron, which was to be their overnight stopping place, everyone’s interest perked up. Both the church with its elongated spire and the flamboyant town hall at the far end, easily the two most impressive buildings, were bathed in illumination. Several people were on their feet reaching up to the overhead luggage rack to retrieve cameras.
‘Any chance of stopping for a photo?’ came a voice from the back.
‘Our hotel is only a few yards down the street at the top of the square,’ Fiona informed them all. ‘Once we’ve all been checked in you can easily slip out and snap away to your heart’s content. The hotel has only just opened and we’re amongst the first guests so let’s go and see.’
As soon as all the requisite forms had been completed, several of the more eager photographers were off. One or two of the men even left their wives to carry the hand luggage up to their rooms.
Fiona was at the reception desk sorting through the essential paperwork when she caught snatches of the raised conversation from the two people waiting for the lift.
‘How dare you, right under my nose, like that. Apart from making an exhibition of yourself, have you any idea how embarrassing it is for me?’
‘For pity’s sake, Vivien! It was only an ice cream. I couldn’t ignore the girl.’
‘I’m warning you, if I see you as much as within ten feet of her again, I’ll chop your bloody pecker off myself.’
The sharp hiss of the lift door cut off the rest of the exchange. The unexpected crude threat from such a sedate, well-spoken woman made Fiona turn and stare. Whatever the man had done, did it really deserve such a humiliating public outburst?