Alone on my return journey I take the direct route via William IV and Orange Street to Jermyn Street, entering Ormond Yard by the Duke of York. Before leaving the Savoy I had opened Hammond’s envelope to discover a British Airways ticket for a 10pm flight the following evening. I realise that this will be my last springtime stroll before arriving to a southern hemisphere autumn.
The leather travel bag rests in accumulated dust on top of the wardrobe. Its cabin size is perfect and will hold everything I need to take. I fold spare underwear and socks between two shirts and reach for my toilet bag containing a Geo F Trumper razor, cologne and toothbrush. Then I spy the trusted, 1996 Minolta TC-1 that somehow I had never had the heart to return to Q’s predecessor. ‘Analogue film, untraceable and small enough to slip into a jacket pocket’, I mutter to myself as I consider whether to pack the folding Panama.
I spend a moment to glance around my small apartment. Low ceilings and small windows add to its dingy, dated and worn appearance. Perhaps I should have hired a cleaner, or had a wife? The black Bakelite phone with a dial and silent bell is like everything else here, just on the brink of redundancy. I run a finger along the spines of a single shelf of books, each copy saved to denote a year, or mark a stage of life. In the morning when I depart, the less comfortable suit, two remaining shirts, a pair of handmade shoes and half-empty bottle of Talisker single malt will remain as sole witness to my having lived here.
After a fitful night’s sleep I rise early to breakfast on Mr Barrick’s game pie at the Red Lion at the end the Yard, then for Argentine pesos to the bank in Jermyn Street and finally, the newsagents to stop the papers.
‘When will you be back, Mr Bond?’ asks the owner. ‘I really don’t know’, I reply, ‘It all depends on Scottish Referendum Fellowship funds’, I add inscrutably as I turn to leave.
Mireille arrives by limousine at 6 pm prompt, far too early for a Heathrow journey that should take but an hour.
‘Your cologne suggests to me that you are going on a date’, she observes playfully.
‘What, Mireille, are you coming too?’ I retort. But I see in her response that this time she will not escape London for Buenos Aires.
Out through Hammersmith on the Great West Road, and beyond Chiswick we pick up the M4 leading to the dreaded London Orbital and the airport. We sit in silence, with just the occasional exchange, Mireille knowing not to ask or to fuss. Her driver’s pass allows us to escape the airport charges, slipping through on a priority route to arrive directly outside the terminal. Grabbing my bag I flip my flight jacket against the cold rush of early evening air and proceed through the electric doors to terminal five.
In the next episode, Bond arrives in Buenos Aires after a sixteen hour flight. Who or what will await him there?
No comments:
Post a Comment