The Doctor's Wife [antikvár]

The plane from Belfast arrived on time, but when the passengers disembarked there was a long wait for baggage. "This plane is full seven days a week," said a chap who stood beside Dr. Deane watching the first suitcases jiggle down the conveyor belt. "It's the best-paying run in the whole of the British Isles," the chap said. Dr. Deane nodded: he was not a great one for conversation with strangers. He saw his soft canvas bag come down the ramp looking a bit worn at the edges, and no wonder. It had been a wedding present from his fellow interns twenty years ago. He picked up the bag, went outside, and took the bus to Terminal II to catch the twelve o'clock flight to Paris. It was raining here in London. It had been very blustery when he left home this morning, but the weather forecast had predicted clear skies over the southeastern part of the British Isles. In the airport lounge, after being ticketed and cleared, he decided to have a small whiskey. It was early in the day^ but he thought of the old Irish licensing law. A bona fide traveler is entitled to a drink outside normal hours. On his way to the bar. Dr. Deane stopped at the newsstand and, after browsing, bought the Guardian and a copy of Time magazine. He then went and stood, a tall lonely figure, at the long modem bar. "John Jameson you said, sir?" the barman asked, and found the bottle. When Dr. Deane saw the amount of liquid poured in the glass, he remembered that he was in England. "Better make that a double," he said. "A double, very good, sir." He tasted the whiskey. Over the intercom a voice announced flights to Stockholm, Prague, and Moscow. He still found it odd to think that people could walk out of this lounge and get on planes for places which, to him, were just names in the newspaper. 1 Pl.i