‘Mr Pennington, our motto is “The Redcoats Are Coming” … We deliver. To out-of-the-way places with strange-sounding names. More, Better, Cheaper, Faster …’
It was an excruciating hour, standing in the cold, a fixed smile on his face as they posed for the photographers, shaking hands with each other, under the wings, on the forklifts, on the flightdeck. All the time Pennington whispering complaints that the loading was still not finished, that Redcoat better pull up its socks. Mahoney assured him Redcoat would. For an hour the handshaking exercise went on. Then the last crate was loaded, the tail closed, the plane crammed with PCC’s fine products. ‘Well,’ Mr Pennington said, ‘I presume you’re now ready for take-off and we can get our final photograph?’
‘Indeed,’ Mahoney said. ‘And while we’re waiting for the crew, would you join our staff in a few drinks? They’re all waiting to meet you!’
‘Mr Mahoney,’ Mr Pennington said testily, ‘I thought the crew were ready!’
‘Any moment now, Mr Pennington.’ (He so nearly said Pencilton.) ‘They only sign on duty shortly before take-off because they’re only allowed to do so many duty-hours a month, by law. They’ll be arriving any moment. This way please, gentlemen …’
It was a big galvanized-iron hangar, but it never had an aeroplane inside it because it was full of engines under repair, plus Redcoat vehicles, spares and gear. Redcoat Cargo Airlines had only two aircraft and they were never on the ground long enough to squeeze them into the hangar, and it would have been a financial disaster if they had. Redcoat stayed afloat only because its aircraft stayed aloft, by being repaired the moment anything went wrong, in the 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
