September 2012
Henry Merton studied the mini statement carefully. All that he had between him and the debtor's prison was £152.74p. Spread across the desk beside the statement were the flight e-tickets and confirmation of the cottage, both already paid for, as was the rental fee for the cherry red Nissan Micra, the same one he always hired when he escaped from the world into the primitive depths of the Loire Valley. Miles from anywhere and in an area where eating out at a restaurant was simply unheard of, he usually lived a frugal life for the duration and £100 should be sufficient to feed him for the week and to put a few litres of fuel into the Micra for his trips out into prime walking country each day. He queued at the bank counter and purchased €130, which should leave him about £50 to last him when he got back until he received his first pay packet.
Since his contract with the NHS had been terminated, finding employment in the recession fuelled job crisis had been painful and his life savings had haemorrhaged away simply to keep a roof over his head, but now his prayers had finally been answered and the new position which would secure his financial future awaited him in just ten days time: IT Manager at Thurgold Industrial Chemicals PLC. His new life awaited him on the horizon and he could finally allow himself a week of R & R to mentally prepare himself for the transition.
But that was last week – the seven days had simply flown by and now his feet ached but his soul was rejuvenated. The extravagance had been worthwhile and he was feeling fully ready to return home and kick-start his new life. The Micra purred contentedly as he cruised down the tree lined boulevard into the airport towards the Rental Car Return car park. The road was unusually quiet; even for a small provincial French airport these roads were seldom empty, but he shrugged off the anomaly and headed for the furthest entrance beside the yellow Hertz sign.
He drove in past the kiosk and was amazed to see that the car park was completely empty – he had never before seen it like this, but took full advantage and parked in the bay nearest to the departure entrance. As he dragged his suitcase up to the huge glass doors he realised that the road outside was also completely devoid of traffic, drivers were normally fighting aggressively for a space to drop off their loved ones, but today the road was empty.
He shook his head in disbelief and entered the doors. Here at least there was activity – quite a lot more than usual in fact. People were lounging all over the floor, filling the departure area like a human carpet and he had to tread carefully to guide his suitcase through to the Hertz desk.
At least in here it was normal: Jean Paul was smiling at him from behind the desk as he rested his case against the desk.
'A good vacation, Monsieur Merton?' he enquired.
'Wonderful, thanks. Car performed perfectly. No damage.' He dropped his keys onto the desk top. A couple who had been sat in the corner suddenly appeared by his side and the woman snatched up the keys while her husband signed off some forms with a triumphant flourish.
Henry was surprised at the discourteous behaviour, but he guessed that cars must be at a premium at the moment and assumed the couple had been waiting for some time for him to return the Micra.
Henry watched the couple flee the office then turned to Jean Paul with a smile, 'They were in a bit of a hurry.'
Jean Paul gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders, 'They have to get to Calais and this is the only way, monsieur.' When Henry looked at him blankly, the Frenchman asked, 'And how are you getting home, Mr Merton?'
Henry checked his watch, 'My flight leaves in a couple of hours, should be in Stanstead for tea-time.'
'I don't think so, monsieur, have you not heard?'
Henry froze.
'There have been no flights anywhere for five days. The volcano in Iceland . . . the ash cloud . . . planes all over Europe have been grounded indefinitely; surely you must have heard, Mr Merton.'
Mr Merton, cosseted in his wilderness, cut off from the outside world had most definitely not heard. Sudden realisation hit him that his new job was in jeopardy. 'I need a car.'
Again the Frenchman shrugged, 'Sorry, monsieur, yours was the last one I had. The other agents are all in the same position. Sorry.'
Half an hour later, after he had badgered official after official without success, Henry sank down in a small clear space of floor and sunk his head in his hands. Everything had depended on his showing up on time on Monday morning . . .
A hand on his shoulder dragged him from his misery and he looked up into a pretty face shrouded by a curtain of light brown hair. 'Monsieur, would you be kind to me?' she asked earnestly.
Henry forgot his problems in an instance – he would very much like to be kind to this beautiful creature.
'I need to pee, would you guard my bag, please.'
Henry looked down at a tattered case held together with a thick striped strap. He smiled, 'Of course.'
He watched as she picked her way carefully across the sea of bodies and for a moment his heart felt lighter.
Five minutes later she stumbled back with a mobile phone in her hand. 'Good news, monsieur, my friend is coming to collect me and take me to Paris.' She took a firm grip on her battered case, then stopped and looked down at him and smiled. 'Are you going to Paris, monsieur? You could come with us; there will be space.'
Henry had already formed the opinion that he was unlikely to get a flight out of here for days and the prospect of getting closer to home was appealing. He smiled and said, 'That would be wonderful, mademoiselle.'
The VW camper van was a relic from the 60's with extravagant graffiti to match, but to Henry it looked like a gleaming limousine. The driver, a skinny pimply faced youth barely old enough to drive took Henry's case and threw it behind the back seats. A large oafish youth with a shock of dark wavy hair filled the front seat, so Claudette and Henry sat in the back. After half an hour she snuggled up against him, shut her eyes and in a few minutes was snoring loudly enough to be heard over the rattle and roar of the decrepit engine, but Henry did not mind one bit.
A little over an hour later the van pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the E Road near to a small wood. The oaf opened the front door and the driver announced that anyone who 'wanted to go' should do it now. Henry climbed out, grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs and wandered over to a large tree at the edge of the wood and unzipped his fly.
Suddenly a huge hand hit him in the small of the back flattening him against the tree trunk. Something cold was placed against his cheek and he froze. 'Monsieur, you pee. You no follow us or else . . .' He felt the sharp point momentarily pressed against his skin and then he was alone, leaning against the tree, the front of his trousers sodden.
As he turned around the VW was pulling back onto the tarmac with a rolling lurch and he watched in horror as it accelerated away. On the back seat of the van was his jacket with his mobile phone, his wallet and his passport inside. He was miles from anywhere.
He stood by the side of the road for almost an hour before the first vehicle stopped for him – an old lorry transporting livestock, driven by an ancient Frenchman with a weather-beaten face and a soiled cap who spoke no English whatsoever. It took Henry some time with his pigeon French to establish that the man was delivering his load to a warehouse in Paris. It was not perfect travelling conditions, but at least he should be able to seek help at the British Embassy; that was his only chance now of getting home without a passport or cash.
Dropped off unceremoniously in a dingy suburb, Henry was very wary as he picked his way through the maze of tired streets until eventually he emerged out onto a busy road and saw the police car. He leapt out into the middle of the road waving his arms around like a madman and the car managed to stop inches short of flattening him. The policeman was angry and aggressive, but eventually Henry managed to get his sad story across and the mood changed from annoyance to reluctant acceptance. He stopped short of actually giving Henry a lift, but he did write down the address and told him which Metro station he needed.
Henry checked the small change in his pocket and headed for the large 'M' on the opposite pavement. He emptied a pile of small change onto the ticket desk, gave the cashier the address and waited anxiously. After a few moments he walked away with a ticket and 75 cents in his hand and a wry smile on his face – could it be that his luck was actually beginning to change?
He waited several hours to be seen in the Embassy, which was full to overflowing with distressed Brits trying to get home. Cyril Carpenter listened sympathetically to Henry's story and then explained that he could not help with any cash, but that he was empowered to issue a rail warrant and wrote down in a beautiful copperplate hand the name of the official he should see at the ferry terminal at Calais.
Henry was starving, he had not eaten for hours, but in Paris 75 cents would not even buy him a Mars Bar. He trudged the several miles to Paris Nord and collapsed into the comparative luxury of the carriage, where he slept like a baby. When he awoke he saw that the youth who had occupied the opposite seat had gone and a screwed up paper bag covered in crumbs lay on his seat. Looking around to make sure he was not observed Henry flicked open the bag to find a half eaten cheese sandwich. He very quickly overcame his embarrassment and devoured the remains of the sandwich in a couple of mouthfuls, unsure of when he might get the chance to eat again.
He dozed a little more until the squeal of brakes as the train pulled into Gare de Calais dragged him back again. He wandered down to the ferry terminal and queued for over an hour to speak to a very disgruntled official who handed him a ferry voucher as if the cost was coming from his own pocket. Despite the discourtesy, Henry thanked him profusely and boarded the next available ferry.
He watched the French coast slipping away with a profound sense of relief. Once he was back in England it would be so different, he was certain now that he could get home before the Monday deadline and then he could finally put all of this misery behind him.
He was enjoying watching France get smaller and smaller, but a rain shower sent him scuttling inside into the warmth of the bar. He had no money to purchase anything and the sight of the other passengers overindulging themselves was purgatory, but he settled into a chair prepared to sit it out.
On a wide screen TV the BBC News was updating the position regarding the eruption and he was surprised to hear that the European governments had just lifted the embargo on flights and that everything would soon be back to normal again. He smiled, he might have been better waiting for his plane after all, but he was only an hour away from England, so he would have to make the best of it for now.
The news went on for some time, re-running footage of the erupting volcano interspersed with scenes of chaos at airport terminals and anecdotes from travellers caught up in the chaos. Somehow he felt glad to be on this boat and, although he kept watching the images on the screen automatically, he switched off from the hype and sank into his own world, making plans for his first week at a new job.
The scene on the TV changed suddenly and sparked his interest; a huge fire was filling the screen and a breathless reporter was trying to get to grips as the story was unfolding. Henry watched with mild interest until the camera panned around and he saw with horror the sign over the factory gate . . . Thurgold Industrial Chemicals PLC. Fire engines surrounded the building, pumping endless streams of water into the smoke and flames, but the excited drawl of the reporter was explaining that there was little hope of saving the factory.
Henry felt weak, his hands were shaking and he could feel tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He turned away from the dreadful scenes on the screen and escaped back out onto the deck. He could hardly believe it – he had sunk everything he had left on a holiday with the certainty that a good job awaited him on his return, and now he had nothing.
He stepped out through the doors and forced himself against the strong wind to the front where he could see the iconic white cliffs looming on the horizon. His mind was sunk in the pits of despair and he could see no further than those chalk cliffs. His life was in ruins.
The steady drone of the engines throbbed through the body of the ship and he could feel the vibration through the handrail. The sea was rough and every few minutes the ship would rise up and drop with a heavy thump into the trough of a wave sending a shudder through the whole vessel. Henry patted the thick steel plate affectionately: British engineering at its best, designed to chew its way through the roughest seas, safe as houses . . .
A sudden crunching rumble far below him shook the ship violently and for a moment the deck heeled over to the left before it righted itself. But Henry realised that the steady drone of the engines had gone and the rocking of the ship had become more pronounced, more random. He had no idea what had happened until the tannoy speakers burst into life: 'Crew to lifeboat stations. Crew to lifeboat stations.'