Free Talking It Over by Julian Barnes Page A

sun-’n’-sex postcard from Heraklion, worked out which day they’d be returning, telephoned all possible airlines and went to meet them at Gatwick. When the indicator board clacked out the information BAGGAGE IN HALL against their flight, a circle of bell-ringers in my stomach all heaved on their ropes at the same time, and the terrible clangour they set off in my skull could only be stilled by a couple of stiff ones at the bar. Then I waited at the barrier, the motley flesh around me all pulsing with welcome.
    I saw them before they saw me. Stuart had typically picked a trolley with one locked wheel, and he emerged from the tender scrutiny of the douaniers in a comic curve, his uncertain course hymned by Gillian’s indulgent laughter and his trolley’s maundering squeak. I adjusted the chauffeur’scap I’d borrowed, hoisted a rudely lettered sign reading ‘Mr & Mrs Stewart Hughes’ (the misspelling was a tad masterly, I thought), took a deep breath and prepared to face the glittering turmoil that my life would become. As I watched her before she became aware of me, I whispered to myself, Everything begins here.

6: Stave Off Alzheimer’s
    Stuart It’s really rather awful you know. I keep on feeling sorry for Oliver. I don’t mean I shouldn’t – no, I’ve got lots of reasons now – it’s just that I’m uncomfortable with it. This isn’t what I should feel for him. But I do. Have you seen those cuckoo clocks which have little weathermen as part of the mechanism? The clock goes off, the cuckoo goes cuckoo , and then a little door opens and either the good-weather weatherman comes out, all grinning and dressed for the sunshine, or else another door opens and it’s the bad-weather weatherman who comes out with an umbrella and a raincoat and a grumpy expression. The point is, only one of the two can come out of his little door at any one time, not just because that would make impossible weather, but because the two little men are joined together by a metal bar: one has to stay in if the otherone is out. That’s how it’s always been with Oliver and me. I’ve always been the one with the umbrella and raincoat, forced to stay indoors in the dark. But now it’s my time in the sun, and that seems to mean that Oliver’s going to have less fun for a bit.
    He looked a real mess at the airport, and I don’t think we helped matters. We’d had these super three weeks in Crete – marvellous weather, nice hotel, swimming, really got on – and even though the flight was delayed we were still in a terrific mood when we got to Gatwick. I waited at the carousel, Gillie fetched a trolley, and by the time she got back the bags had already come up. I loaded them on, and when she tried to push she found out she’d got a trolley with a wonky wheel. It wouldn’t go in a straight line and kept squeaking, as if it was trying to draw the attention of the customs officers to the person pushing: ‘Hey, take a look at this chap’s bags.’ That’s what I thought the trolley sounded like as we went through the green channel. I’d joined in trying to control the thing by now as Gillian found she couldn’t manage curves on her own.
    So it wasn’t really surprising that we didn’t recognise Ollie when we got into the arrivals hall. No-one knew we were on this flight, and we only had eyes for one another, frankly. So when someone emerged from the scrum of drivers meeting various flights and waved a sign in our face, I sort of pushed him away. I didn’t really look at him, though I immediately smelled alcohol on his breath, and thought, that firm isn’t going to last long if it’s sending out drunken drivers to pick up clients. But it was Oliver, dressed in a chauffeur’s cap and carrying a sign with our names on it. I pretended tobe glad to see him, though my first thought was that Gill and I wouldn’t be alone on the train back to Victoria. We’d have Oliver with us. Isn’t that unkind? You see what I mean about