Collected Short Stories Read online

  “Agreed, Matron,” said Christopher, laughing.

  On arrival at Heathrow they checked their baggage on to the charter flight, selected two nonsmoking seats, and, finding they had time to spare, decided to watch other planes taking off for even more exotic places.

  It was Christopher who first spotted the two passengers dashing across the tarmac, obviously late.

  “Look,” he said, pointing at the running couple. His wife studied the overweight pair, still tan from a previous vacation, as they lumbered up the steps to their plane.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume,” Margaret said in disbelief. After hesitating for a moment, she added, “I wouldn’t want to be uncharitable about any of the offspring, but I do find young Malcolm Kendall-Hume a …” She paused.

  “‘Spoiled little brat’?” suggested her husband.

  “Quite,” said Margaret. “I can’t begin to think what his parents must be like.”

  “Very successful, if the boy’s stories are to be believed,” said Christopher. “A string of secondhand garages from Birmingham to Bristol.”

  “Thank God they’re not on our flight.”

  “Bermuda or the Bahamas would be my guess,” suggested Christopher.

  A voice emanating from the loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion.

  “Olympic Airways Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate Number Thirty-seven.”

  “That’s us,” said Christopher happily as they began their long march to their departure gate.

  They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research.

  “We must be sure to see Diana’s Temple when we visit Ephesus,” said Christopher, as the plane taxied out onto the runway.

  “Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary,” added Margaret.

  “Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians,” Christopher remarked as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher asked what his wife was reading.

  “Carpets—Fact and Fiction, by Abdul Verizoglu, seventeenth edition,” she said, confident that any errors would have been eradicated in the previous sixteen. “It’s most informative. The finest examples, it seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up to twenty young women, even children, at a time.”

  “Why young?” pondered Christopher. “You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.”

  “Apparently not,” said Margaret. “Herekes are woven by those with young eyes that can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,” continued Margaret, “can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty, thousand pounds.”

  “And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?” suggested Christopher, answering his own question.

  “No doubt,” said Margaret. “But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.”

  Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.

  “The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,” read his wife aloud. “And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds, or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.”

  “Don’t they like animals?”

  “I don’t think that’s the point,” said Margaret. “The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious leaders, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently around the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.”

  “What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.”

  Margaret smiled before continuing. “But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.” She looked up from her book. “If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.”

  Christopher smiled.

  “And finally,” continued his wife, turning a page of her book, “if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time because he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.”

  “If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,” said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her books on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled “Pre-Turkey.”

  “A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,” she assured her husband as she carefully set her watch ahead two hours.

  The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.

  “Wonder where they’re heading,” said Christopher.

  “Istanbul Hilton, I expect,” said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared obsolete by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.

  The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.

  Their room was tiny but clean, and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile that augured well for the next twenty-one days. Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for day one in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.

  After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their car rental form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage, where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.

  As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the “offspring” completing a geography test.

  “Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,” said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.

  She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. “I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?” she asked, not expecting a reply.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?” shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the captain in the “Birds Eye” commercial, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.

  “Climb on board, m