An Unexpected Destination
Dublin
"It was the alternator," said the man who was delivering Martin's newly-repaired van, "three hundred quid."
Martin gulped. "Of course." He wrote the cheque out quickly, retrieved his keys and disappeared back into the house before the man could see the humiliating tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks.
The house was empty; all the students were out on placement today, which meant they'd be back smelling of animals and probably covered in unspeakable things, a lot later on.
Three hundred pounds. That was all the money remaining in his bank account, substantial overdraft included. Just as Carolyn was always saying that one incident could kill MJN, so one unexpected bill could finish him off.
Three hundred pounds! And to make matters worse, MJN was pretty booked up for the foreseeable future, which meant no time to actually use his van to try and earn some money.
He moved drearily into the kitchen, surveyed the meagre contents of his cupboard. A few packets of spaghetti, one potato, some chopped tomatoes, half a loaf of bread. And until he booked some more jobs (and completed them without mishap) that was all he had. He leant his head against the cool wood and let the tears run.
He went to bed without dinner. He lay there, still, listening to the students trooping back in, their cheery voices floating up to him. Oh, to be that young and optimistic again! But then he'd never been terribly optimistic. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't had to fight hard for things to turn out well for him. He knew that he really was in dire straits this time. But the one thing he clung to desperately, the one thing that no-one could take away from him, was his pride. He would pull himself out of this, he told himself firmly. Eventually he dozed off into a land of strange nightmares, the details of which floated away the moment he woke up, leaving him with a sense of vague unease.
Carolyn called soon after he woke up. "Morning Martin," she was chirpy and brisk as always, "popping over to Dublin today, short notice. I'll pick you up in half an hour."
Martin mumbled something which might have been agreement at her and hung up. He struggled out of bed and pulled on his uniform, checked his reflection in the mirror and thought that, yes, it was worth it, to be a captain, it really was.
He had one slice of toast for breakfast and pinched a dash of somebody else's milk for his coffee. He tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach which protested that this really wasn't enough breakfast when it hadn't had food since midday yesterday.
"Morning Skip!" Arthur greeted him. "We're going to Dublin! Isn't it brilliant!"
In the face of Arthur's never-ending cheeriness, Martin couldn't help but feel slightly happier. Five minutes later they stopped outside Douglas's house. "Morning all," he said as he climbed into the back seat.
"What, no remark on the beauty of the day?" asked Carolyn.
Douglas glared at her reflection in the rearview mirror. "Suffice it to say, I'm not in the mood today."
"Wow Douglas! What's wrong?" Arthur stared at him, puzzled.
Douglas didn't answer.
"Post take off checks complete Sir."
"Thank you Douglas," Martin stared at the beautiful view and his lips twitched in a smile. Stunning.
"So, sir, I propose a game of Airports. Each to start with the last letter of the previously named."
"Sure."
"And to make matters more interesting, if you can't think of one in twenty seconds you lose a point. Person with fewest points at the end loses their pudding."
"No," said Martin abruptly, his stomach clenching at the thought of food, "No betting today."
"Well, whatever sir wishes," agreed Douglas after a second.
"Skip, skip!" cried Arthur, bursting merrily into the cockpit. "One of the passengers has a lemon on their head! I didn't know you were playing the Travelling Lemon again!"
"Oh Douglas," groaned Martin, "Not this again."
"I assure you, Sir, entertaining though I find the game, in this instance a lemon on a passenger's head has nothing to do with me."
"Well it wasn't Mum," said Arthur, "Cos she's not here."
Douglas looked meaningfully at Martin.
"You can't just go up to somebody and ask why they have a lemon on their head," Martin pointed out, "It'd make you look like an idiot!"
"No more of an idiot than they currently look, sitting there with a lemon on their head."
"Douglas is right-
-"I usually am"-
"-Skip. Maybe they don't know it's there."
"How could anybody possibly have a lemon on their head and not know it's there?"
"Well Skip -"
"Alright Arthur," Martin cut him off hurriedly, "If it's still there in half an hour I'll go and, um, tell him."
"It's a her, Skip," said Arthur cheerfully, and left.
Martin sighed.
Douglas looked at Martin, at his drawn, worried face. "Hey Chief," he began, "I might be wrong, but I think that something's troubling you. This makes me feel concerned for you. One thing we could do is talk about it. How does that sound to you?"
Martin looked at Douglas, astonished. "Concerned for me? Really?"
"It might have escaped your attention, sir, but I think that these days we might be considered friends. So, what's wrong?"
Martin looked away. "Just the van's been playing up."
"Ah," said Douglas, and that was all, but Martin had a feeling that Douglas had understood a lot more than Martin had just told him. Douglas was after all very good at doing that. Douglas's presence in his life, much like in the cockpit, was loud and sometimes cutting but it gave him an odd sense of safety. Like Douglas would always be there to have his back.
In the light of their newly declared friendship, he found himself wondering about Douglas's behaviour that morning.
"Douglas?"
"Yes Martin?"
"What was wrong this morning? You weren't quite your usual obnoxious self."
"Oh, that." Douglas avoided Martin's eyes. "Helena moved out yesterday."
"Oh Douglas!" Martin's own worries were subsumed by pity for his First Officer. "I'm so sorry to hear that. You always said she was your favourite Mrs Richardson." Martin patted him sympathetically on the back.
Douglas accepted the pat stoically. "I don't think I'll be looking for Mrs Richardson the fourth any time soon. Helena was…is…" he trailed off.
"You know what?" Martin said, "Sometimes I think it must be really nice to be Arthur."
On cue, Arthur came barrelling back in. "Lunch!" he passed them a plate each and they pulled identical expressions of, well, a mixture of emotions including but not limited to; worry, disgust and morbid curiosity.
"Arthur, what in heavens name is this?" asked Douglas.
"You've got Sausage Surprise and Skip's got Amazing Rice. Mum's cutting costs again." He left, quickly.
"Got any sandwiches?" Douglas asked Martin.
"Nope."
"We ought to stagger eating then. You go first and I'll wait and if you don't start vomiting, I'll risk mine."
"Reassuring, thanks," grumbled Martin. "I wonder what makes Amazing Rice different from Surprising Rice?" he wondered pensively, but a twinge of hunger reminded him that he was in no position to be choosy. Picking up his fork, he poked gingerly at the whiteish rice and interesting coloured lumps. He scooped some into his mouth and chewed tentatively. "Oh!" he said in pleasant surprise, "Not bad!"
"You astound me," drawled Douglas.
He tried to eat it slowly, but hunger got the best of him and it was rapidly gone.
The cabin door opened once again. "Hey Skip! You ate it all! Nice wasn't it? Mum sent me on a cookery course."
"In Ipswich?" Douglas and Martin asked simultaneously, and Arthur nodded.
"That's right. Oh, Skip, I just came to let you know that the girl still has a lemon on her head, and it's nearly been half an hour."
"Go on then, sir."
Martin stood up, donned his cap and left the flight deck. In a plane with only sixteen seats it was easy to scan all the passengers quickly and even easier to pick out the girl with a lemon on her head. He stood at the door for a second, taking her in. About his age, late twenties or early thirties. Long brown hair, big green eyes. She was saying something to her companion and they both laughed. And there perched in the masses of her curly hair, was a lemon. He wondered why it hadn't fallen off. He made his way through the cabin, smiling at people, and stopped by her seat.
"Good morning," he began.
"Oh, good morning to you too," she turned and spoke in a lilting Irish accent, smiled at him and suddenly his mouth was very dry. "I, uh, you…" he stared at her.
"Is something wrong captain?" she asked softly.
"Uh, no. No! Not at all. I was just wondering if you… If you were having a pleasant flight?" he saved himself desperately.
She smiled at him again. "Lovely, thank you."
He blinked at her. "Right. Good. That's good." And turned on his heel and strode back to the flight deck.
"Well, did sir find out why she had a lemon on her head?"
"Um. Not exactly, no."
"Hmm."
"You ask her!"
"Ok then, yes, I will. In a while. But first- Cardiff!"
"Ah, that's easy. Fitton."
"Nottingham."
"M…uh… muh… muh…" Martin growled in frustration.
The sat com buzzed. "Greetings Carolyn. Airport starting with M?"
"Moscow," she shot back, "How are you getting along? No diversions? No dead passengers?"
"We're fine Carolyn," Martin said firmly.
"Yes, indeed we are. Just the strange case of the girl with a lemon on her head."
"Douglas, did you just say a lemon?"
"Yup."
"Odd. Well… that's all… I'm just coming!"
"Carolyn, who are you with?" asked Douglas, sounding suspicious.
"Nobody! I mean, that is…." She sounded oddly flustered.
"Well hello MJN," said a familiar smooth voice, "I'm afraid I have to take your CEO away now, we're going to the opera."
"What!" exclaimed Douglas, "Herc, you've persuaded Carolyn to go to the opera?"
"Bye all," Herc called happily as he shut off the communicator.
"Well that's a turn out." Douglas commented, "Who would have thought that Carolyn would be the one getting all the action?"
"Just because they're going to the opera doesn't mean she's getting… that they're… you know… urgh."
"Just you go on believing that. Anyway Carolyn said Moscow, so that gives you a W to play with."
"Mmm… Winnipeg!" Martin claimed triumphantly.
"Very nice, sir. In turn, I give you… Gwent."
"Why don't you go and talk to the lemon lady?"
"Buying a bit of time are you? Very well, but I expect a superb T when I'm back."
Douglas disappeared through the flight deck door and Martin found himself wondering if Herc and Carolyn really were getting together. He was pleased for her, he supposed, but it did highlight his failure to ever get a date. His inability to talk to, well, anybody outside his immediate circle of friends probably wasn't helping him there.
Douglas re-entered the cabin.
"Bit quick. What'd she say?" To his surprise, Douglas looked embarrassed.
"I… didn't ask her. She…" he sighed, "reminded me a lot of Helena when we first got together."
"I'm sorry Douglas."
"Bloody Tai Chi."
"Right, well. Time for pre-landing checks anyway. Incidentally, Toronto."
"Oslo." Douglas replied and started on the list of checks.
Twenty minutes later they were shutting down the engines. "Damn, I wish we knew about that lemon." Douglas murmured.
They both peeked out the flight deck as the passengers disembarked. Arthur was, as usual, saying goodbye to them.
"It was the pleasure of ourselves to fly yourselves today… Disembark yourselves carefully…"
Lemon-lady and her friend were at the end of the line. They reached Arthur and he looked at the lovely Irish girl and said straight, "Why do you have a lemon on your head?"
Both girls giggled a bit, and the lemon-wearing one retrieved said lemon and passed it to him.
"It was a bet," she explained, "Would you like to go for a drink with me? You know, for being the only person brave enough to mention it?"
Douglas and Martin exchanged incredulous glances.
"Oh thanks! Would have been lovely but we're going back now."
The girl actually looked disappointed. "Well, bye then." She leant forward quickly and pecked Arthur on the cheek.
"Bye!" said Arthur, cheery as always.
"Bloody hell," said Douglas to Martin.
"Even Arthur. Arthur!"
"Chin up, Martin. Let's go home."