Dimples

‘Ah’m goin’ to Barcelona’. His voice bruised my eardrums from behind. The queue for the check-in desk bulged in front of me, everyone fractiously jockeying for position. I turned to see the owner of the voice and found myself looking at his sternum. Looking up I saw his melon head outlined against the painful lighting of the departures hall. I had to turn my head to the side to see the edge of his body. I felt very small.

-‘Yiss, Barcelona’ Bar - sell – owner, he drew it out; savouring his surprise at his destination. ‘Ah wonna competition.’
‘That’s nice’, I replied to the dark shell suit top in front of me.

Whoever said politeness costs nothing? They were wrong; it costs time, if you end up in pointless conversations. I looked down the mountain, its feet were huge, clad in odd trainers: no, not a strange design. The shell suit bottoms above them didn’t match the vast nylon expanse covering his torso. His only luggage appeared to be an Adidas bag bought in 1978.

- ‘Ahm gonna watch Manchistah Yoo-nited, ah wonna competition, yer kner’. I was queuing for the Malaga flight at Stansted, wondering why I was listening to the gormless accents of my youth so far from the North East.
- ‘Yer wanna kner what ah hadda dew?’ I didn’t, but I was sure I was going to find out.
- ‘Ah answered a question!’ He pronounced proudly, expectantly.

But he remained quiet for a glorious two minutes, staring intently at the flight ticket, as small as a cigarette coupon in his meaty hand.

- ‘Howmanydimplesinagolfbaaaaaall?’ He bellowed. I almost dropped my mobile. He ran all the words together, no breath taken, until after the last, long drawn out sound.
- ‘Howmanydimplesinagolfbaaaaaall?’ Something strange was happening with his sibilants; his S’s sounded like a softly sucking sink, as if he suffered from a chronic overproduction of saliva. I remained silent. People were turning round, pretending to look behind him, slyly curious. One more time:
- ‘Howmanydimplesinagolfbaaaaaall? Go on it’s a noombah yer kner!’
There was no escape. I ventured a timid ‘126’
- ‘Dern’t be daft, man! Ah terld yer itsah noombah yer kner! What’s 126, eh? The vast moon face leaned down and eclipsed the light above. – ‘Go on havvah nuthah guess, itsah noombah yer kner!’

I leaned back as far as I could, although his breath was unexpectedly sweet, smelling of parma violets, although you couldn’t buy them even then.
- 52?’ I stammered, aware that the whole of the crawling queue were openly watching.

- Ner, ner, ner! That’s not enough, man…. But yer closer than yer think!’

An airport security guard approached, raising his eyebrows at me.
I shrugged, shook my head and he shook his.

- ‘Go on havvah nuthah guess itsah-‘
- ‘Number I know, yes, I’ve got it. Let me think.’

He remained camped in my personal space; a big top in a pup tent pitch. His lips worked, although he was silent, as if he was thinking very, very hard. I threw out random numbers for the next 10 minutes; he seemed to get angrier and angrier with every wrong guess. I shuffled backwards as the queue inched forward. Suddenly it was my turn. I handed over my passport and ticket, answered the usual questions. The check-in person was handing my passport to me as a parson-quiet voice whispered:

-‘365’