Free Frank Derrick's Holiday of a Lifetime by J.B. Morrison Page A

the cumbersome baggage he could now afford a swagger more suited to his shirt, swinging his overnight bag by his side like John Travolta with his paint pot during the opening credits of
Saturday Night Fever
.
    In the security area Frank took off his shoes and removed his belt. The 15 denier nude women’s knee-highs that he’d been so desperate for Eyes Facing South-West to put in a brown paper bag could now be seen by the passengers and staff at the world’s third-busiest airport. Ten thousand CCTV cameras filmed him from hundreds of different angles as he edged towards the hand luggage X-ray machine in his ladies’ tights, trying not to slip on the polished airport floor.
    He put his shoes and his belt into a grey plastic tray with his overnight bag and placed the tray at the entrance to the X-ray machine; it reminded him of when Laura had described Beth’s radiation therapy as ‘like being passed through an airport bag scanner five times a week’. He tried to get the image out of his mind in case it made him laugh or burst into tears in this high-security no man’s land between ground and airside where laughter or tears might be enough to get him barred from ever getting on a plane.
    The grey tray disappeared inside the X-ray machine and while he waited to be ushered through the metal detector arch to retrieve his hand luggage he checked all six of his trouser pockets for coins. He wondered whether the small gold studs on the belt loops of the trousers would set the alarm off. A member of the security staff waved him through the metal detector arch and he was relieved that it didn’t make a sound. His trousers were a couple of sizes too big and he was worried about what might happen if he let go of the waistband to be searched.
    On the other side of the arch the conveyor belt conveyed his belt, shoes and bag through the X-ray machine. For a moment it stopped and the security staff studied the monitor. Then it started moving again, a uniformed woman following the plastic tray along the conveyor belt. She picked the tray up and asked Frank to come with her to a table, where she unzipped Frank’s bag.
    ‘Is this your bag, sir?’ she said, putting on a pair of white latex gloves.
    ‘Yes,’ Frank said.
    ‘Could you tell me what’s in the bag, sir?’
    ‘Um,’ Frank said, ‘toiletries, um . . . a comb . . . oh yes, a sandwich. I wasn’t sure what the food would be like. On the plane, I mean. Not in America. Er –’ he scratched his head – ‘this is a bit like
The Generation Game
.’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
    Frank wanted to do his Bruce Forsyth impression to illustrate:
‘Good game, good game. Cuddly toy.’
But he knew airport security was a serious business. Everyone knew that airport staff didn’t appreciate jokes about bombs and even though there was no red-circled picture of Bruce Forsyth on the forbidden-items chart behind the woman (there was a firework, a gas canister, a Stanley knife, lighter fuel, matches and a bottle of acid but no Brucie), it was possible that any joking, however light, was best avoided.
    ‘I’m sorry. Nothing,’ he said.
    ‘Where are you travelling to, sir?’ the woman said. She took his folded jacket out of the bag and put it on the table.
    ‘America.’
    The security woman took a small alarm clock out of Frank’s bag.
    ‘A clock,’ Frank said, suddenly remembering that he’d packed it.
    ‘Business or pleasure?’ the woman said. ‘Your trip today?’
    ‘Holiday,’ he said. ‘I’m going to visit my daughter and my granddaughter.’
    The woman took another clock out from the bag.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Frank said. ‘
Clocks
.’
    ‘Can you tell me why you have so many clocks, sir?’ the woman said as she removed a third clock from Frank’s bag. It was the clock from his bedside table. The lid of the battery compartment on the back of the clock had snapped off and the batteries had fallen out into Frank’s bag. The woman took the batteries out of the bag and put