Free Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow by Paul Gallico Page B

gaudy, and the stewardesses crisp in their fresh, beige, linen uniforms with blue cap and gold badges, efficient and extraordinarily pretty as well as coolly helpful. There were sapphire-eyed blondes and dark-eyed brunettes displaying all the attractions of the colour photographs in the brochures. They were also in some subtle way slightly different and perhaps even more alluring than their British or American counterparts and looking them over Mrs Harris was able to understand how Mr Lockwood could have fallen in love with one of them and if Lizin the flesh was anything like her picture it was easy to comprehend. These pretty girls gave Mrs Harris an earnest of what she was going to encounter in the unhappy and lovelorn Liz and she took pleasure in contemplating the moment when she would be kindling the light of happiness in the sad and melancholy eyes.
    Even Mrs Butterfield, now that she was under way and her tremors with regard to her friend’s mission had begun to fade, was beginning to enjoy herself and when the girls in relays began serving up an excellent meal with even a dollop of caviar, she was prepared to announce that at least in the culinary department the Rooshans were a little bit of all right.
    A stewardess had come by pushing a trolley and inquired, ‘Will you have vodka, wine, beer or Russian champagne?’
    â€˜Cor blimey,’ said Mrs Butterfield, ‘ ’eavens above. Caviar and champagne and all that lot for free.’
    Even Mrs Harris who was difficult to impress had been affected by this largesse and said to the stewardess, ‘I’ll ’ave a bit of that white stuff,’ pointing to the vodka. ‘It looks like gin and maybe a glass of beer to ’elp it go down.’ She turned to her friend, ‘Now then, Violet Butterfield, what ’ave you got to say about yer ’oliday trip?’
    They had enjoyed the coffee and thereafter peace and somnolence descended upon the two voyagersas all early misgivings were forgotten. They had even slept part of the time until the changed note of the jets signalled the fact that they were coming in to land.
    Touch down at an airport after having been whizzed through the air against seemingly all the laws of nature enclosed in several hundred tons of metal and highly explosive fuel is likely to crowd all other thoughts or emotions with the exception of a large sense of relief from the minds of most passengers, and Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield were no different.
    And then, during that long trundling ride on the runway and tarmac from the point of impact to the disembarkation line during which the bird has suddenly turned itself into a bus, there is the busying with last minute brushing off of crumbs from lunch, tugging at one’s clothes, reaching for hand luggage, discarding unwanted periodicals and generally preparing to become a locomotive biped once more. These trifles also occupied the two friends as the main airport building hove into sight; and then there was the hustle and clatter of the plane being surrounded by tall flights of steps, tankers, luggage transporters, vans, cars, while waiting to come aboard could be seen barrel-chested men in blue with badges or gold stripes, several girls in uniform and some half-dozen plainly dressed women from young to middle-aged.
    At last the wheels stopped turning, the jets sighed and whispered to a stop and while those outside the plane prepared to come on board, the chief stewardess at the head of the aisle, microphone in hand, said, ‘Attention, please, will all tours and groups please keep your seats. Your Intourist guides are here and will call for you by your tour number and you may then leave the plane.’
    Mrs Harris felt a small, cold chill trickle down her spine and every other thought was driven from her head but the blending of two similar sentences. ‘Your Intourist guides are here,’ and the remembered revelation by Mr Lockwood, ‘She is the