middle of the night if necessary, out on the tarmac while the new cargo was being loaded. The other engines in the hangar belonged to other airlines whom Redcoat serviced in a desperate effort to pay its way. Every time he entered the hangar, Mahoney, for whom engines were one of life’s mysteries, wondered where the money came from. He had intended showing his customers the hangar and explaining what a wonderful success-story Redcoat was, but Mr Pennington was having none of that. Over the first cup of tea in the corner office, he got Mahoney aside.
‘I would like a word with the managing director.’
It was on the tip of Mahoney’s tongue to say the boss was out. ‘I am the managing director.’
‘I see …’ He drew himself up. ‘This shipment was supposed to leave yesterday, then it was put off until this morning. Now it’s four o’clock.’
The hand-shaking exercise was in danger of degenerating into a hand-wringing exercise. Just then Dolores exclaimed: ‘Oh dear, it’s started raining!’
‘Oh dear!’ Mahoney cried, turning to the window.
‘Damn!’ Mr Pennington said.
‘I’m afraid’, Mahoney turned sadly to the Consul, ‘that you won’t get your photograph of take-off.’ He brightened: ‘But never mind, we took some last week, specially for you!’
Like a conjurer, Dolores produced a pile of glossy photographs. ‘Taken in sunshine,’ Mahoney said, ‘much better.’ It was a photograph of the Britannia taking off, not the Canadair CL44. He waited with baited breath.
Mr Pennington looked at the photograph with distaste. ‘Good,’ said the Consul, who didn’t think much of the English climate. ‘Don’t you think?’
The moment the Rolls Royce disappeared out the gate, Mahoney went racing across the tarmac, into the Corporation shed.
‘O.K.,’ he shouted, ‘get her unloaded! And load the chicks!’
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