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...One look at John, and Pat forgot where she was and who she was visiting. The sight of the tall elegant American from Indiana left her weak at the knees. He grinned down at her, brown eyes sparkling, and said, “Can I get you a beer, Honey?” in a smooth American drawl. Pat was lost....

Isabel Bradley begins to tell a true love story - the sort that Hollywood films are made of!

Once upon a time, thirty-five years ago, there was a lovely young widow who lived in London. Her name was Patricia but she was known by friends and family as Pat. Before becoming a shareholder and director in an exclusive estate agency, she had run a hairdressing salon for the elite and learned the value of excellent service. Her first husband, Bob, died tragically of cancer within two years of their wedding, so she’d had to continue earning a living.

Now she worked for April’s Agency, liaising between rich home-owners and rich and famous tenants. She was a star at the agency, and became a good friend of the owners, Kenneth and Joan Duncan. Together, they entertained important clients at Covent Garden, both at the ballet and the opera, and dined at London’s best restaurants.

The Duncan’s’ son, Peter, was home on leave from his work in Saudi Arabia and Joan and Kenneth invited Pat for drinks the evening before Peter’s return. Peter had a colleague with him, John. One look at John, and Pat forgot where she was and who she was visiting. The sight of the tall elegant American from Indiana left her weak at the knees. He grinned down at her, brown eyes sparkling, and said, “Can I get you a beer, Honey?” in a smooth American drawl. Pat was lost.

While Peter, his friends and parents, swirled around them, Pat and John talked. They discovered so much about each other and their areas of common interest. John was not big on family, while Pat’s family was an important part of her life. He knew where she worked, she discovered that he was employed by an aero-space company, and was on contract with them in Saudi Arabia. She learnt that he was returning to Saudi that night.

“No!” she exclaimed, before she could think what she was saying, “You can’t leave tonight – I’ve only just met you!” Her lovely blue eyes grew huge and luminous with tears that hovered on her lashes but didn’t spill over.

“I’m afraid, Sugar, that I have to get back there. Work waits for no man, certainly not for John Craig! In fact,” he glanced at his watch, “I’d better get a taxi to the airport about now…”

“Wait – I’ve got my car here, I can drive you to Heathrow, we can get a cup of coffee somewhere on the way, you’ll get there faster than if you wait for a cab, and we can spend a lot longer together…” Pat couldn’t bear to let this glorious man escape; she felt such a bond with him after knowing him for only a few hours.

They drove together towards Heathrow, but to their frustration, all the coffee shops were closed. So: “Can I buy you a beer?” he asked as they spotted a pub that was still open. Over their beer they chatted lightly, they talked seriously, and sparks flew between them. She learnt that he wrote poetry, and he asked if he could write letters to her. “Of course,” she said, and gave him her address.

For the next three months, they corresponded. His letters reached her from Saudi within two days, as they were hand-carried. Hers took at least two weeks to arrive in Saudi. They learnt to know each other better than if they’d seen each other daily and became friends and verbal lovers.

Pat was due to take her annual leave soon. Her flights to visit her family in South Africa had been booked for at least nine months. When John suggested that she meet him in Cairo at the end of her holiday, she took fright. Being very British, she replied, “Oh, I couldn’t POSSIBLY do that…” Then, regretting her refusal, she started researching flights from Johannesburg to Cairo, and wrote to John, that she’d changed her mind, and would arrive on the eight o’clock flight from Johannesburg, via Nairobi at Cairo, on the first of March. As she popped it through the slot in the post box, she prayed that her letter would reach him in time.

They say the course of true love never does run smoothly. On the morning Pat was to leave for South Africa, she had a phone call from a stranger who had just arrived at Heathrow from Saudi Arabia and had a letter for her from John: “Could you maybe collect it from me at the hotel at Heathrow?” Flustered, Pat left what she was doing, got into her car, raced to the hotel and collected the letter. All the way home, it burned a hole in her lap – she couldn’t bear to put it in her handbag! She raced up to her top-floor flat, unlocked her door with shaking hands, threw off her jacket, and raced to – yes, I’m sorry, but this is a ‘true life’ true love story – the loo, where she sat down with great relief and opened the letter.

At that moment, her parents arrived to drive her to the airport for her flight to South Africa. They were rather startled to find her sitting there with the door open, reading the first lines of a five-page epistle when she should have been waiting for them in her coat and gloves. Being loving parents, however, they made little comment, and managed to get her and her luggage to the airport in time for her to catch her flight.

She had many hours to memorise John’s long letter on the ‘plane. “I’ll be there in Cairo to meet you at eight o’clock on the first of March,” he promised.

According to Pat's loving younger brother, she spent her entire holiday in South Africa talking about John Craig.

Because John’s letter had only arrived moments before she left for South Africa, Pat hadn’t actually made the changes to her travel reservations, and was booked directly back to London. After a lot of hard work on the part of her South African family, she finally made the necessary alterations to her flights, and left them on the evening of the twenty-eighth of February. When the ‘plane stopped in Nairobi, Pat had time to freshen strategic bodily points and to change into a natty little denim skirt and T-shirt. She even sprayed on a little perfume.

The flight landed on time at eight in the morning. Before she could leave the airport, however, Pat had to acquire a visa and some local currency. For two hours, the officials sent her from one desk to another: “Sorry, no visa without money,” then, “Sorry, no money without visa!” It was hot in the airport. Pat began to panic, and grew hotter and hotter. Ever a lady, however, she ‘glowed’ rather than sweated as some people do. Would John be there to meet her, she wondered. Would he wait, or would he give up and go back to Saudi before she could finally escape these beastly officials? No she decided, after all that had passed between them over the past three months, she knew he would be there.

Eventually she was the only traveller in the airport. She realised the two officials were in one long office together behind their counters, and were playing some kind of mean game with her. She carefully explained that her visit was one of romance, and that a wonderful man was waiting for her outside the airport The Cairoans finally realised that not only were they inconveniencing this beautifully lady, but that a man was being kept waiting. Within minutes they sorted out her visa and money requirements so that she could go in search of her luggage and then find her man.

Hot, flushed and fuming, she found a trolley. Just her luck, it was one of those that insist on travelling in any direction other than the one she wanted to go in.

As she approached the exit, fighting with the trolley and steaming from every pore, she caught sight of a tall, lone figure, leaning patiently against an old black taxi. Struggling womanfully, while trying to seem as cool as the proverbial cucumber and as elegant as always, Pat walked up to John and said, “Hello, I’m SO glad to see you!”

John kissed her chastely on the forehead. Then he said, “Hi – you’ve chipped your tooth, that’ll need fixing!” He swept her into the taxi, while the driver loaded the luggage.

To Be Continued.

Until next time, ‘here comes Treble!’

© Copyright Reserved
by Isabel Bradley

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