Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow (19 page)

Sir Harold said, with just the slightest emphasis upon the first word, ‘
We
will have Miss Borovaskaya at the airport at eleven tomorrow along with Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield.
You
just bring along the visa and passport.'

Agronsky smiled at his friend and said, ‘Very well. Actually, if I were in your situation I should do the same.' He suddenly felt that sweet feeling of lightness, happiness and relief in his breast. The deal, on his own initiative, might be a black mark against him but on the other hand when the details reached the top via the Foreign Minister he knew that the hardheads in the government would realize that he had had no choice and had done the right thing.

Freed now momentarily from the cast iron suit of bureaucratic armour Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky said, ‘You know, you are really a most remarkable woman, Mrs Harris, and I am happy to have known
you. By a set of extraordinary circumstances you were in control of a situation which would have affected the reputation of the Soviet Union and yet you made no attempt to use this information for your own advantage or even that of this girl here. When the opportunity presented itself you asked nothing for yourself but only for the happiness of two young people. Is there nothing that you would like for your own, some appropriate little gift or memento? Now that I have heard what has happened to you since your arrival I realize that you have been very much put upon and I feel ashamed for us.'

Ada Harris was sitting up straight and replied levelly, ‘Nuffink, thank you sir. Look what you've done already,' and she pointed to Liz's head in her lap, still sobbing with joy and relief. ‘Wot you've done for me 'ere is the greatest thing that ever 'appened to me and I'll never forget it or you neither as long as I live, and I'm sayin' thank you.'

And then suddenly a most curious expression came over the face which a moment before had been so full of almost the grandeur of dignity. The old mischievous, apple-cheeked, twinkle-eyed Mrs Harris reappeared and she said, ‘Begging your pardon, sir, come to think of it, and since you've 'ad the kindness to make the offer, there is somefink I'd like.'

‘Ah, good,' said the Vice Foreign Minister of all the Russias. ‘What is it?'

‘A fur coat,' replied Mrs Harris.

Agronsky was conscious of a sudden chill of disappointment and felt that he had fallen victim to a fantasy which had elevated Mrs Harris slightly too high in his estimation. In offering her a gift he had not known exactly what was in his mind. It would not have been shoddy or cheapjack, but rather something small, valuable and of beauty and the sudden demand for a fur coat shook him. There was a certain greediness and vulgarity about it. It made him suppress a sigh and the thought
Oh well, what did you expect? In the end they're all alike
. He said, ‘I see. A fur coat.'

Mrs Harris said, ‘It's not for me, sir, but for me friend 'ere. I s'pose it was all my fault. She's been wantin' a fur coat for years, she 'as, and savin' up for one but the stores keep gettin' ahead of 'er. Inflytion, they calls it. Every time she thought she 'ad the money the price was twenty quid up. Well, sir, it was me persuaded 'er she could buy a fur coat cheap in Russia like it said in them little booklets you get out with all the beautiful photygraphs and all the things you could buy in that special store with foreign money. She didn't want to come on this trip because she was frightened, but I said, “Look 'ere, Vi, 'ere's yer chance of a lifetime to get your fur coat cheap. It's the Russians have got the most furs of anybody anywhere.” But, gor blimey, when we got 'ere – the prices. 'Oo's got that many rubbles I'd like to know,
for what they cost? Two and three thousand quid! That's naughty, ain't it, but then a lot of things you say in them pamphlets you wouldn't want to swear to on a stack of Bibles, would you? And after all that 'appened after we got 'ere and what was done to me friend by the perlice.'

She hesitated for a moment as though struck by another thought and said, ‘It ain't nothin' like them in that shop I'd be arsking for 'er, but just the kind maybe a girl like Liz would buy for 'erself 'ere when it got cold in the winter-time.'

Relief once more coursed through the heart region of Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky. The feet which for a moment had begun to take on a certain clay texture had now altered and hardened again to pure gold. Mrs Harris was asking for something once more not for herself but for her friend.
And
, thought Agronsky,
if anyone ever deserved such a thing it was this poor, quivering jelly of a woman so completely out of her element
.

‘Very well,' he said. ‘Your friend, Mrs Butterfield, shall have her fur coat.'

Mrs Butterfield pulled herself together now sufficiently to say, ‘Oh, thank you, sir. That's ever so nice of you but we ain't really done nuffink to deserve …' Out of the corner of Mrs Harris's lips slipped the two words, ‘Shut up'.

Mrs Butterfield shut.

Agronsky looked at his wrist and said, ‘Well, if
I'm to produce a passport and visa by eleven tomorrow morning I'd best be about the business.' To Liz he said, ‘Will you give me your identification card and all of your papers? I shall be needing them.'

Liz looked up in alarm. A Russian without a variety of officially stamped cards and papers upon him or her became an ‘unperson' who no longer existed.

Ada said, ‘Do wot 'e asks, Liz. I trust 'im.'

The girl arose, opened her handbag and turned over the papers. Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky felt as though he had been knighted. He shook hands with Liz and said, ‘Good luck,' and with Mrs Butterfield, but with Mrs Harris he leaned over and kissed the side of her wrinkled cheek before he turned and passed out through the door leaving the room highly charged emotionally which Sir Harold felt he'd better break up. He said, ‘Second Act curtain. Intermission, Third Act to come. There are two rooms upstairs where you ladies can make yourselves comfortable, but under no circumstances are you to leave this building or for that matter even show yourselves at a window or approach the door.'

Mrs Harris said, ‘Sir, excuse me, but would it be possible for me to send a cable?'

‘Where to?'

‘Only London. I'll pay for it.'

‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Harris. We'll be glad to do it for you if you'll just write it out,' and he handed her a scratch pad and pen.

Mrs Harris wrote on the pad. The diplomat glanced at it and saw nothing in it which, under the circumstances, did not appear to be quite justified and put it out of his mind with, ‘We'll send this off immediately for you.' He had, of course, no idea of the final sacrifice to the ending of a dream that it entailed. What he was really wondering was how the Third Act was going to turn out.

The approach and farewell at the departure of British Airways Flight 801 Moscow/London the next midday from the standpoint of Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield was everything that could be desired in the way of smoothness, comfort and dispatch. Sir Harold Barry was there to see them off. So was Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky. They carried bouquets of flowers for each of the women. The great airport seemed to be more crowded than ever and Mrs Harris was aware of a curious feeling of undercurrent and excitement but put this down to the wonderful joy and satisfaction she was experiencing at actually having brought off the impossible. She was taking Liz with her out of Russia.

The formidable formalities of departure, examination of papers, immigration, police, customs, all
seemed to go with a wave and a nod. Nor did Mrs Harris feel any astonishment that, after they had passed the last barrier and were trooping across the tarmac to the aircraft, both Sir Harold Barry and Agronsky accompanied them. Also, there seemed to be rather a larger contingent than usually boarded an aircraft, and amongst them, mainly men, some very hard-looking customers. The three women mounted the stairs, turned for a moment at the entrance to the plane, waved and received a friendly return from the two diplomats. There were then a great many of these tough-looking characters left over on the ground who were not making the flight and now as the door of the jet slid shut and the engines began their eager-to-be-off whine they all turned and trooped their way back to the airport building.

The aircraft trundled to the top of the runway, poised itself there for a moment and then, as its three giant engines whooped it up, flung itself into the sky.

Curtain to Act Three
, Sir Harold thought to himself, took out a handkerchief and caught a few drops of perspiration that were about to drip from his moustache. His heart was filled with affection at that moment for his friend and enemy, Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky, who had kept his word.

This is not to say that all of the Soviet Union might have exploded into civil war from an incident
at Sheremetyevo Airport that noon, though many such in past history have been fired by less, but to one extent there is a simplicity to the politics of power. If one side has more muscle than you have you don't start anything. The KGB had the airport loaded with the force to prevent Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya from departing the Soviet Union, but the Foreign Office, which the Presidium knew dealt with matters often of the greatest delicacy and secrecy, had a pipeline to the head of the group of special police known as the militia. There were twice as many militiamen at the airport as there were KGB. There was peace. British Airways Moscow/London Flight 801 vanished into the Western sky.

Anyone who failed to share in the reunion of Mr Geoffrey Lockwood and Liz at Heathrow Airport via television, film, radio, newspaper or magazine features got it
viva voce
from those who had. Somehow, a public relations man had got wind of the impending drama, probably from the telegraph operator, and when Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya came tripping down the steps of the aircraft and into the waiting arms of Mr Lockwood there was such a popping of flash-bulbs, flaring of television and film floodlights, pushing and crowding and shoving of microphones towards their faces as the old landing field had not seen in years. Microphones
registered the cries of joy that went up, film and tape absorbed every tear that flowed not only from the eyes of Liz, Geoffrey, Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield, but officials, spectators and even hardened newspapermen as well. One of the finest pictures to result was Mr Lockwood crushing not his lady love but a wizened little old charwoman to his breast and looking down upon her with such an expression of love and happiness and gratitude upon his countenance as had rarely been seen before.

The cortège of happy celebrants moved from the tarmac, where the most touching and exciting pictures resulted, to the VIP lounge. Someone produced lashings of champagne and the celebration of the reunion of two faithful lovers at last united really went into high.

Fortunately no one inquired into the reason for the sudden release of Lisabeta to join her lover in British asylum, but then the Russians were notoriously unpredictable in their behaviour, and one of the unexpected by-products over which Vice Foreign Minister Anatole Pavlovich Agronsky had a considerable chuckle were several fulsome editorials in important British journals praising the Russians for their generosity in this case which would undoubtedly have favourable results upon the
détente
.

By the time that Lockwood had expressed his gratitude and wonderment to Mrs Harris for the
thousandth time, Ada and Violet finally managed to break away, hail a taxi and reach their homes. An hour later they were sitting in Mrs Harris's flat in Number 5, Willis Gardens, in old comfortable clothes, Ada filled with the richness of the happiness she had created, both slightly tiddly, having their evening cup of tea.

‘I say,' said Mrs Butterfield, ‘ 'ow did that there Mr Lockwood know Liz was on the plane? I thought 'e was goin' to 'ave a surprise, you a-knockin' at 'is door, 'im openin' it, and there you'd be.'

‘I cabled 'im,' replied Ada. ‘What I'd had about knockin' on 'is door was the dream of a silly old woman and enough to give a man who wouldn't be expectin' of it a 'eart attack. That would 'ave been nice, wouldn't it of? “ 'Ere's your sweetie, Mr Lockwood”, and 'e drops down dead – or,' and here she paused for a moment – ‘suppose he'd got fed up wif the 'ole bloomin' business and was entertainin' a young lady.'

‘Ada,' said Mrs Butterfield, ‘you're wonderful. You always do the right fing, don't you? It was beautiful. I cried me eyes out.' Then, ‘Let's see what's on the telly since we've been away.'

What resulted was the same blizzard as before even though they had had it repaired before their departure. No picture appeared. Instead the screen was streaked with what looked like the heaviest snowfall in the Hebrides. Suddenly Violet
Butterfield let out a string of oaths which while printable today are not particularly attractive and ended up with, ‘The bloody barstids!'

Ada looked at her friend in surprise. A television set not working after a repairman had been at it was nothing all that unusual and she said, ‘Why, Vi, whatever … ?'

‘The bloody barstids,' repeated Violet. ‘They forgot me fur coat. They promised me one. All that there that looks like snow reminded me of it.'

‘Oh dear,' said Ada. ‘That's so. In the excitement of leaving and getting away with Liz I never … Oh, Vi, it's all my fault.'

Violet was immediately up defending her friend. She said, ‘No, it isn't, and when it comes to it, I wasn't really expecting to get one. Anyone's a fool to think they're goin' to get anyfink that's promised. Look 'ere, we got out wif Liz and what's more we got out wif our lives and sittin' in that there perlice station I wasn't so sure if we would.'

‘You were marvellous there,' Ada praised. ‘The way you let 'em 'ave it. I didn't know you 'ad it in you.'