The London Dash

A river of coffee splashed down my chin. I should’ve known better than to gulp it down while jogging through the streets of London, but given the dent it had put in the day’s budget, I didn’t want to see it wasted – which was exactly what would happen . . . as soon as we found our bus. We’d given ourselves plenty of time to stroll to the station, grab a coffee and find the airport shuttle. But by our third lap of Waterloo our contingency had been exhausted. Sweat trickled into the small of my back under one too many layers and I teetered between fading hope and defeat. Two minutes. No seats on the next service and we still couldn’t find the fucking stop! . . . Suddenly I was struck by the distinct feeling of déjà vu.

It was three years ago; the last time I flew out of London. And after three days rediscovering the snow-covered city, I was loathe to leave. Still, not wanting to be rushed, I made sure to roll my suitcase out of the hotel with hours to spare. My downsized luggage was a far cry from the thirty-two kilo monument I’d sent home with Colby a week earlier, yet hauling it through tube stations was not fun. So, I paid a little extra to catch the Heathrow Express. A short tube trip, a pleasant fifteen-minute Express ride and I’d be relaxing in the Heathrow Qantas Club, which from memory had a day spa. It would be sweet consolation for arriving so early.

I dragged my bag up the final flight of steps and pushed through the Paddington crowds. Rivers of people parted around me as I stared up at the monitors, but the looped PA announcement caught my ears before I could find my service. The Heathrow Express had been cancelled until further notice. My jaw dropped and I scanned the screens for confirmation. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. Fighting panic, I made a quick calculation. The Express might resume but there wasn’t time to find out when. The alternative, a one hour forty-five tube journey, would gobble up every bit of my contingency, and some. I grabbed my bag and bolted for the Underground. In ten years of Fly-In Fly-out I’d never missed a flight, and I wasn’t about to start now.

My backpack flung from side to side and sweat trickled down my sides. The PA announcement echoed in my ears as I hustled through the crowd. The Hammersmith and City line, which would get me back onto the Piccadilly Line (which I should’ve caught directly from my hotel, even if it did mean forgoing the day spa) was in some obscure corner of Paddington Station. And after jogging for what seemed like an eternity I finally reached the platform. Unceremoniously I dumped my bags on the ground and tore off my jacket. The open air provided a momentary solace from the sauna in my clothes as the train screeched to a halt. I took a deep breath, bundled my dishevelled belongings and shoved them on board as the doors slid together. Deep breath. I had two stops to recover my composure before the mayhem began again.

I realised a strength I didn’t know I had at Hammersmith Station. I hauled my bags from one platform to another with the kind of grace that made Xena look like an amateur. And although my heart thumped against a soggy thermal I was surprisingly composed. A brief calculation told me I would arrive at Heathrow an hour fifteen before my flight. And with any luck, check in would still be open. But as the train approached, my hopes were dashed. It was so packed with people, I couldn’t have squeezed myself on board, let alone my luggage. But this was London, I consoled myself. There would be another in a matter of minutes . . .

. . . only that was just as packed. And so was the next . . . and the next. Every minute I stood on the platform ate into my already tight schedule until I had no choice but to get on the next train . . . whatever it took. The doors opened, I whispered an apology to no-one in particular, picked up my case, and launched into the sea of people. Sorry, but I’ve got a plane to catch.

I curled my upper body into an ‘L’ over my case, bending to the shape of the tube and praying my arse wouldn’t get wedged in the closing doors. The train lurched forward and I rocked back and forth with the gentle click-clack of the rails, held vertical only by the bodies I had wedged myself between. For forty-five minutes I stared at the floor, avoiding the disapproving glares of those around me.

I burst into the airport an hour and five before my flight. Even if I’d had the capacity to scan the screen for a check-in counter it only would’ve wasted more time. I jogged up to the closest staff member and asked for directions. “That’s a BA code share ma’am. It leaves from terminal 2.”

The words thumped against my temple and my chin began to shake. Heathrow airport, and I was in the wrong terminal. “But . . .” I choked on the lump in my throat. “But my flight leaves in an hour.” The words gushed out in a deluge of sniffles and despair. “I’ve probably missed it now.”

“I think you’ll be okay ma’am,” the man gave me a sympathetic look and touched my elbow, steering me toward a set of double doors. “Terminal 2 is just through here.”

Despite another heart stopping sprint through the airport, I made the flight. So, drenched in coffee and sweat the slightest flicker of hope touched me as we retraced our steps around Waterloo Station. “There it is!” Colby jabbed a finger at bus stop F, on the far side of the road we’d been scouring. We bolted out between double decker buses just as our coach rounded the bend. We’d made it. I tipped my head back drained the last of my coffee . . . just as the bus pulled in to the stop.