44 Scotland Street: Suitcases as hostages to fortune

From where he had been standing with Nicola, Stuart suddenly realised what Bertie was up to, and rushed forward to help him.

“You should have called me, old fellow,” he said, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “That looks like a bit heavy.”

Stuart leant forward to check the label. “Well, at least it’s the right one. You have to be careful that you don’t take …” He stopped, straightened up, and looked about him. “Where’s Ulysses?”

Bertie who had followed his father’s lead and had been examining the label, gave a start. “He’s over there,” he said, pointing to the suitcase-laden carousel. “I had to …”

He became aware of his father’s look of alarm. I’m sure he’s all right, Daddy.

Maybe he’s …” Unable to think of anything to say, he became quiet.

Stuart lunged forward and pressed a large red button prominently placed on a nearby pillar. As he pressed it, the carousel lurched to a stop.

“What you do that for?” complained a young man standing by. “That’s for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency,” hissed Stuart. “My son.” He began to run round the side of the carousel, pushing people out of his way, desperately scanning the luggage piled on the belt. In a few seconds he had reached the point where the luggage disappeared once again through a hatch before reappearing a minute or so later on the other side of the hall.

Bertie had followed him. “Maybe somebody picked him up,” he panted.

“Maybe they’ve taken him to the lost property. Do you think that might have happened, Daddy?”

Stuart did not answer his question. “You wait here, Bertie,” he shouted. “I’m going to climb through there.” He pointed to the hatch and began to clear the now static suitcases that were blocking it.

“Be careful, Daddy!” shouted Bertie. “There’s a notice that says you shouldn’t …”

His words were drowned in the sound of the carousel starting up again.

Stuart, on his hands and knees, felt the belt jerk into motion, and was then carried ignominiously through the hatch, the plastic curtain brushing roughly against him as he made the transition into the behind-the-scenes region of the airport; so might it feel descending to Hades; so might one be greeted by Charon; so might one first see the waters of Lethe.

Instead of which he saw a small group of astonished men dressed in blue work outfits standing around a small tractor and its attendant cart. One of the men detached himself from the group and strode over towards Stuart, apparently ready to admonish him. But then Stuart saw that one of the other men was holding Ulysses, while another spoke urgently into a mobile phone.

Stuart brushed past the man coming towards him and ran over towards Ulysses.

“This yours, Jim?” one of the men asked.

Stuart was relieved to hear the traditional Scottish honorific – Jim. The world of officials and busybodies would never use the term. Jim was friendly; Jim was understanding, implicitly recognising that anybody might leave his baby on a luggage carousel – it could happen to the best of us just as easily as to the worst.

“Yes,” he said. “My other son put him on the belt. Sorry about that.”

The man who had been holding Ulysses passed him over to Stuart. “Aye, well, he’s none the worse for wear,” he said. “Mind you – it could have ended differently.”

One of the other men nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Somebody put their baby on the luggage belt at check-in the other day. It was a mistake, of course, but the baby was checked through to Antigua via Gatwick. Fortunately they noticed in time.”

Stuart blanched. “Well, thanks to you that’s not happening.” He looked at the men. “I’ll leave you to finish loading the luggage. Thanks very much for … for taking care of him. Sorry to keep you from your work.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” said one of the men, looking at his watch. “It’s almost time for our coffee-break. We’ll start that a bit early.”

Stuart frowned. “But you’ve still got all that luggage to load on the carousel,” he said.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that after our coffee break,” said the man who had been holding Ulysses.

Stuart raised an eyebrow. These men had done him a favour, and he did not wish to press them, but he could not help but wonder about the people awaiting their luggage in the other side.

Picking up his concern, one of the men gave an explanation. “Those folk will be all right,” he said. “They’ve got their mobile phones and their BlackBerrys. They can read their e-mail for a while. They’ll get their suitcases all in good time.”

“Instant gratification can be bad for you,” said one of the others. They all laughed – except Stuart.

“You disapprove?” asked one of the men. “You think it takes too long for your luggage to come out?”

“Well,” began Stuart, tentatively. “I would have thought …”

The tallest of the man approached him menacingly. “Listen, Jim,” he said. “You do your job and we’ll do ours. Ken what I mean?”

“I understand perfectly,” said Stuart.

“Technically that baby should have been handed into lost property,” said the baggage handler. “We could still do that, you know.” He paused. “And hand you in as well.”

Stuart edged away. “Thank you very much,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll be making my way now.”

“One final thing,” called out one of the men. “You keep what you’ve seen back here to yourself: understand?”

Stuart said that he did understand – perfectly.

“Because ever so often people come through that hatch and see things they shouldn’t see,” continued the handler. “They see suitcases being dropped …”

“Never our fault,” chipped in one of the other men. “Weak handles.”

There was general laughter at this.

“Of course,” said Stuart.

“And people who talk about what happens to their suitcases in the airport,” the man continued. “Well, they find out – or rather their suitcases find out just how unwise that is. Suitcases can be made to encounter problems, you know. To come adrift, for instance, and spill all their contents on the floor. You wouldn’t believe what we see.”

Stuart gasped. And then, as if one man, the baggage handlers burst out laughing. “Don’t believe a word of what we say,” one said. “We’re just having our little joke. You see, we get a bit bored here behind the scenes. Anything to liven things up a bit.”

“Yes,” said another. “Although we do have a very good game we play. It’s called Test The Strength of the Suitcase.”

“Sshh,” said one of the other handlers. “Not for publication.”

“Tell it not in Gath,” said another. “Proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon.”

“Or indeed of Edinburgh,” said yet another, to general laughter.

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