Jules Wake - Notting Hill in the Snow

Just as we approached the slip road – I’d moved over in plenty of time – my dad suddenly said, ‘Of course, last time I went to Atlanta I flew British Airways.’

I risked a quick glance at him as he turned an apologetic face my way. ‘We’ve still got plenty of time. I’ve checked in online. I only have to drop my case.’

I gritted my teeth. I had to get back to Notting Hill, drop the car and get to the school in time for two and it was already ten past one.

‘I’m flying Virgin Atlantic this time,’ Dad announced, apropos of nothing. There was a silence in the car. ‘Not British Airways.’

‘Does that mean that it might not be Terminal Five?’ I asked, my fingers almost strangling the steering wheel.

‘I think –’ Dad drew out the syllables as I negotiated a roundabout, following the signs to Terminal Five ‘– that’s for British Airways flights only.’

‘Oh, for … sake,’ I ground out under my breath as I did a hasty left signal and pulled back into the main stream of traffic going around the roundabout. ‘Are you definitely flying Virgin?’

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘See here.’ He held up the paperwork just under my nose as if I could calmly take my eyes off the road and peruse the details at my leisure.

‘Dad, do you have any idea where Virgin fly from?’

‘Terminal Four?’

‘Do you know that or is it a guess?’

‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If BA flies from Five, Virgin would fly from Four.’

‘Not necessarily,’ I said, driving for the second time around the roundabout, past the turning for Terminal Five. ‘Is there any way you could look it up on your phone quickly? I can’t keep driving round and round this roundabout.’

When I started the third circuit, I took an executive decision and took the turning for Terminal Four.

‘I might have got it wrong, you know. I think Terminal Five is for all flights to America, so that would mean Virgin do fly from there,’ said Dad, looking back over his shoulder at the roundabout as he lifted his phone to his ear.

‘Who are you calling? I asked, glancing over at him.

‘Your mother; she might know.’

I raised my eyes heavenward before I spoke. Dad was a gentle soul; getting cross with him would be counter-productive … but seriously.

‘Mum isn’t going to know. You’re the frequent flyer. Just look it up on your phone.’

‘Phyllis, it’s Douglas. No, I just had a cup of coffee. They’ll give us lunch on the plane. I know, but I didn’t like to bother you.’

‘Dad …’ I ground out through gritted teeth.

‘Yes, Viola’s fine. Driving a little too fast.’ I shot him a furious look but he was oblivious, picking at the twill on his tweedy trousers. ‘No, we’re not there yet. I don’t suppose you know which terminal the flight will go from? No, I thought Five but then I’m flying Virgin Atlantic … Yes, I know, I always go BA; I’m not sure why they changed it this time.’

‘Dad!’ I yelled. My shoulders were level with my ears and any second steam was going to hiss out of my ears. When he jumped and gave me a mild-mannered look of reproach I felt doubly guilty, but seriously, he was driving me mad. ‘Clues would be good here; otherwise we’re going to be driving round and round in circles.’

‘Viola needs to know which terminal it is. We thought possibly Four, but then it might be Five … You think it’s Three? Gosh, never thought of that.’ He leaned my way, any sense of urgency completely lacking. ‘Mum thinks it might be Three. I don’t think that’s very likely, do you? It doesn’t sound right to me.’

I closed my eyes for a very brief second, wheeled the car into the left lane and followed the signs to Terminal Five, my hands gripping the steering wheel like claws. I pulled up in the drop off zone and hauled the car into a space, slamming the brakes on, almost sending Dad through the windscreen, and yanked my phone out of my pocket.

‘Well, we’ve just arrived at Terminal Five … I’ve no idea.’ He unbuckled his seat belt and went to open the door as I stabbed at my phone, typing into Google.

‘Dad!’ I yelled, grabbing his arm as he started to get out. ‘Wait, I’m looking it up.’

He turned back to me, all mild-mannered and totally reasonable, as if I were the crazy person. ‘It’s all right dear; I’ll just go and ask someone.’

I looked through the windscreen at several stern-faced police officers, their hands resting on large black guns. ‘We’re not allowed to stop here; it’s just dropping off.’

‘They won’t mind. I’ll just …’ I leaned over and tried to grab at his seat belt, catching the eye of one of the police officers who was looking at the registration plate and talking into the radio just below his shoulder.

‘But,’ said Dad, opening the car door and putting one foot out as the policeman advanced. God, he was going to get us arrested.

‘It’s Terminal Three,’ I hissed as the answer magically appeared on my screen. ‘Virgin Atlantic fly from Terminal Three.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ said Dad, hauling himself back into the car. ‘It must be just next door.’

‘As the crow flies and if we were allowed to drive across the runway, yes. But by road it’s twenty minutes back round.’ Holding my phone up, I shoved it towards him to show him the map on the screen.

‘You seem a bit tense, Viola. It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of time. In fact, I could have got the tube, you know, or the Express from Paddington. You didn’t need to drive me.’

I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t say a word.

‘You’re very late,’ observed the receptionist, once I’d spent another five minutes on the laborious sign-in process, waiting for my escaped prisoner photo printed badge. When had schools become like Fort Knox?

‘Traffic,’ I said tightly.

‘I understood you were local,’ she said, reading the address on the DBS certificate I’d handed over. She didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to let me through the big glass maglock doors.

Finally I breached Security and was led into the big assembly hall. The wall bars and ropes, the parquet wood floor and the blue carpeted stage with the piano in the corner immediately brought back memories of my own primary school days.

‘That’s Mr Williams,’ said the school secretary, gesturing towards a familiar figure standing on the stage surrounded by small children. At the sight of him, my heart did its funny flutter thing again.

‘M-Mr Williams?’ I stuttered. I certainly hadn’t expected to see him here today.

‘He’s our parent volunteer, also helping with the nativity. And there’s Mrs Roberts, our head. I’ll introduce you.’

He glanced over, just as handsome as ever, my imaginings over the last week had not let me down, but there were no smiles this morning; he was too busy gripping a clipboard with grim determination. Even so my heart did another one of those salmon leaps of recognition and stupidly I suddenly felt a lot better about this whole nativity project.

‘Miss Smith.’ Mrs Roberts strode over on long thin legs, looking a lot more glamorous than any headteacher I remembered, to pump my hand. ‘What a result. We’re so delighted the London Metropolitan Opera Company –’ she pronounced the name with great delight ‘– is helping us like this. Our nativity is one of our biggest and best events of the year. And when our usual teacher, Mrs Davies, went down with appendicitis, we thought it was all going to be a disaster but now you’re on board and can take charge …’ She clapped her hands and beamed at me.

‘Er … um. Right.’ Take charge? Me? That wasn’t quite what I’d signed up for.

‘Of course, Mr Williams here, one of our dads and a governor, will be here to assist you. And Mrs Davies had made a good start. She’s allocated most of the parts already and started the script. This morning Mr Williams is taking the children through the opening scene with the armadillo, Joseph, Mary and the flamingos.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a meeting.’ And with that she hurried off.