Man and Boy (26 page)

I got out of the car, realizing that I didn’t know what airline they were on. Virgin Atlantic left from Terminal 3, but British Airways was at Terminal 4. There wasn’t time to go to both. What was it to be? Did I go for Richard Branson or the world’s favorite airline?

I ran by the side of the motorway, the planes screaming into the blue sky above me, the tails of my morning suit flying.

***

In the end, it didn’t matter what flight they were on. The day’s planes to America had all left by the time I reached the departure hall.

The crowds were thinning out now. Those traveling were in the air. Those seeing them off were on their way home. By the international departure gate, sweating heavily inside my morning suit, I hung my head and sighed. I had been too late.

And then I saw him on the ground, a little lavender party man. Disco Ken. I picked him up. His silver trousers were filthy. He had lost his remaining shoe.

And then Cyd and Peggy were standing in front of me, their boarding passes still in their hands, their suitcases at their feet. They were both still in their party dresses.

“Great speech,” Cyd said.

“You don’t think that it should have been a bit more traditional? You don’t think I should have—you know—included some stuff about the groom and sheep?”

“No, it was good.”

“You missed your plane.”

“We let it go.”

I shook my head with disbelief. “It’s you,” I said.

“It better be,” she said.

Peggy took Disco Ken from me and looked up at Cyd, as if wondering what happened next.

***

In the early evening the black cab headed slowly back toward the city. Cyd stared out at the first of the tower blocks along the Westway, lost in her own thoughts, and Peggy slept in my arms.

Sometimes this child could seem so grown-up, so self-possessed and assured. But sitting on my lap with her head resting lightly against my chest, she felt like no weight at all. As though she was still a baby, with all her life still stretching out ahead of her, a life still waiting to find its shape.

Peggy stirred in her sleep as she heard an ice cream van ringing its bell somewhere in the endless streets of west London. More than any bird song or blooming bud, this was the sign that the days of cold and dark were finally drawing to a close. Spring must be coming soon. Because the ding-dong man was out there somewhere.

From the backseat of our black cab, I couldn’t see exactly where he was in those quiet suburban streets that stretched out in every direction. But the echo of those chimes rang in my head like a memory of childhood, or a dream of wedding bells.

Born to a blue-collar family in the East End of London, Tony Parsons became a music journalist, covering the new wave and punk rock explosion for
NME
(New Musical Express). Parsons’s award-winning journalism has also appeared in magazines such as
GQ
and
Elle
.