Grace and favour

The check-in queue was constrained by portable barriers into one of those snaking, pointless and unexpectedly intimate queues that are all the rage at British airports. Every time I made the 180-degree turn, I found myself once again face to face with these two elderly women. They were short and stout and festooned with gold chains, and one of them had the same kind of striking, deeply lined face that W.H. Auden had in later years. And they both had something unusual about them that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Finally I checked in my bag and joined the queue for security clearance. Someone touched me on the shoulder. A young, black-haired woman. Was I going to Malaga? I was, I said. She pointed out the two charismatic ladies, now standing just behind me in the security-check queue. They were Spanish, she said. They didn’t speak a word of English. Even in a small airport like this, everything was most confusing. She was seeing them off. This was as far as she was allowed to go. Would I mind looking after them from now on and make sure they got on the right plane?

I went through the security-clearance process and waited on the other side for the Spanish ladies to come through. When their turn came they hesitated, unsure of what was expected of them. And perhaps it has never occurred to the security people at Exeter International airport that one or two of their customers might not speak English or know the drill at British airports. ‘Coat!’ they bellowed impatiently. ‘Coat!’ Then, ‘Shoes! Shoes!’

My Spanish ladies looked at me in bewilderment and despair. I mimed coat and shoe removal and (now the centre of much curiosity) they began humbly to undress.