“Hey Bruce, over here, mate!” He shouted as he ducked under the rope that separated disembarking passengers from the friends and family who waited on the other side.
Bruce had that slightly shellshock expression that so many long haul passengers wear when they finally reach their destination. He let the rucksack that he had been struggling with slip to the floor.
“What a trip. Twelve bloody hours to Singapore then the same again for the trip here. Thank God that’s all over.”
“Good to see you, man. You’ve got the old suntan, I see. I s’pect you’re ready for a nice cuppa and a chance to rest up. You must be knackered.”
“You got that right; I’m whacked.”
Joe slapped him on the back.
“Welcome home, sport.”
Bruce was content to simply follow as Joe pushed the trolley through the crowd towards the lifts that led to the carpark.
Having wrestled the overloaded trolley out of the lift and cursed the families that seemed intent on hugging their relatives and chatting instead of just getting out of the way, they finally reached the carpark. Joe instructed Bruce to guard the luggage while he went to sort out the parking ticket. He blinked at the machine. He’d only been there a couple of hours and it had cost him nearly eight pounds. He grunted and put a handful of coins in the slot.
Bruce slumped against the trolley as he watched the taxis pull up alongside the curb to collect their passengers. He vaguely took in the sight as drivers struggled to put their luggage in every conceivable space in the already crowded vehicles.
Joe waived the stamped exit ticket at his friend as he reclaimed the trolley and indicated to Bruce to follow him. Fortunately he had written the row and space on the ticket.
“Here we are, sport. You can just stretch out and relax while I get us back to Devon.”
Joe hoisted the large suitcase and Bruce’s backpack into the back and gave the trolley a quick glance to make certain he had left nothing before he climbed in and turned the key.
“Better buckle that seatbelt, Bruce, we don’t want to get a hefty fine,” he told him as they exited the carpark ramp.
Soon they were out of the airport complex and on the M25. Bruce dozed off almost immediately and Joe concentrated on his driving. He did not want to miss the exit for the M3 towards the West Country.
The early commuters switched lanes in their efforts to cut every second possible from their journey to work. ‘Bloody fools’, Joe muttered to himself. He wondered how anybody could face that every morning and then have to repeat it all over again on the way home. The road sign indicated that they were nearing the end of the M3.
As he flicked on the indicators and crossed to the inside lane, his friend awoke with a start.
“Let’s stop in at a café or something, Joe. I’m parched and busting for a leak.”
“There’s a place I know on the A303 in only another 10 minutes or so where we can get a bacon sandwich and some chips. I could use some breakfast myself. I made the mistake of stopping at some dive on the way up near Taunton; cost a bomb and the food was awful.”
“I was sorta surprised to see you at the airport; thought now you’re rich you might send a taxi to pick me up.” They both laughed at the idea.
Joe pulled into what was once a popular truck-drivers’ stop. Now that the M4 took most of the West Country traffic, it was deserted, apart from a couple who had stopped on their way to work for a coffee.
An unshaven man stood behind the counter. An old-fashioned tea urn gave out a trickle of steam that even on a summer’s morning managed to make the place feel clammy.
“Two teas, milk and sugar. Bacon sandwich and some chips,” Joe told the man.
“Is that two bacon sandwiches?” The man asked.
Joe wanted to say – you ‘eard me. Just bloody well do it you numbo but thought better of it. It was the only place open apart from McDonalds, and that would mean queuing up. He just nodded and went and sat down with Joe.
“I’ll bring your teas,” the man called across to them.
Joe just waved. He was too tired to have an argument.
“You’ll feel like you’re back home as soon as you get some tea and a few chips in you,” Joe said as he joined Bruce at the only table in the place that was not covered in dirty plates and cups. “I think I’m more tired than you, mate. I hate that drive to the airport.”
“Don’t you have to go to work when we get back?” Bruce asked.
“No work for me today. The bloody toffs can wait for their precious cars to be fixed.”
Bruce shook out a generous dollop of HP sauce onto his sandwich and sipped his tea. He took one bite and pushed it, along with the greasy chips, aside.
“You must really be zonked,” Joe said. “Never saw you push your food away before.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, Joe.”
“What’s that? You got yourself hitched or something down in Australia?” He started to laugh and then remembered about Joan, although Bruce had not seemed to notice.
“It’s no joke. I think we might be
