"Do you mind if I have the radio on sir?" Jack asked, "I'd like to know what the traffic reports are saying. There are reports that there's fog coming in from the South."
"No, not at all," replied Robert.
"It won't disturb you sir," said Jack, with that he pressed a button and the glass panel closed him off from the front of the vehicle.
Looking out of the windows, he could see low dark clouds on the skyline. Definitely, not flying weather, he thought to himself, already he could see the mist forming in the fields.
Within ten minutes they ran into the start of a fog bank, their speed dropping off as they joined other traffic.
The partition slid noiselessly open, "It's just been announced that their closing Gatwick, and Heathrow and Stansted will be next," Jack reported.
He continued, "The met bloke on the radio says something about warm south air is in contact with a cold front from the north centred over London. It looks like we could be in for a long drive sir."
"Leave the partition open Jack I'd like to hear what is happening," Robert asked.
Soon reports began flooding over the radio of traffic jams from Basingstoke up to Luton and the fog appeared to get getting thicker.
The police were appealing to people that didn't need to travel to stay indoors. Heathrow and Stansted were closed and thousands which had hoped to fly were left to find accommodation for the night.
By six pm, they had covered less than thirty miles.
By the time, they joined the M11 it was grid locked. Reports said that London was completely snarled up with traffic, of people leaving their place of work trying to get home.
"I'm afraid you are going to be late reaching your hotel sir." Jack said.
"That can't be helped," replied Robert.
The pain began as an ache in his calf, but quickly spread up through the leg, he tried flexing his toes, but it didn't help; he knew then it was going to be a bad attack.
A thin film of perspiration covered his forehead.
When he could stand the pain no longer, he reached into his pocket for the pill bottle.
"Does Sir Royston have anything to drink in here?" Inquired Robert.
"In the centre cubby sir," said Jack.
Robert had noticed the large leather consul that divided the back seat, pressing it down; it opened to reveal two cut glass crystal decanters with matching tumblers.
Two silver disks announced that one contained Brandy and the other Whiskey.
Robert poured some of the Brandy, into a tumbler, taking a swig with a capsule in his mouth, he washed it down.
"If you want to smoke sir there's Cuban cigars in the humidor at the back of the cubby," Jack informed him.
"Thanks Jack, but I'm a cigarette man myself," not that Robert smoked many at all.
Jack reached over to the glove compartment, "will these do," passing over a new packet of Dunhill, "I always keep a spare packet handy."
"You must let me pay for them."
"That's quite all right sir, no need at all," replied Jack.
Robert cracked open his window, then lit a cigarette with the cigar lighter; he coughed at his first lung full of smoke.
Whether, it was the capsule, the brandy or the cigarette or a combination of all three, but the pain had dulled to an acceptable level.
By now night had fallen, dim orange glows of light indicated where the motorway lights were suspended along the road.
The journey had resorted, to stop go movements of a few yards.
Robert tried to sleep, he felt tired, but the constant stop start motion of the car, and the pain prevented him.
By the time, they had reached the out skirts of London they had become completely grid locked.
Car hooters were sounding; people were losing tempers, and the police were fighting a losing battle, to try and keep the traffic moving.
They spent over an hour in one traffic jam before moving.
By the time they finally drove on to the fore court of the hotel it was eleven forty-five.
Robert shrugged on his great coat, to lessen the effect of cold damp air; every bone in his body seemed to be protesting,
Jack retrieved his case from the boot and accompanied him in to the foyer, placing the case down by the reception desk he turned to Robert.
"Will you be OK, now sir?"
"Fine now thanks Jack, but what about you. Do you have to get back tonight?"
"No sir I'll be all right, I have a mate, who lives across the river, who will put me up, and he has a lock up so the Bentley will be all right."
Shaking hands, he said, "Good luck for tomorrow sir, make us all proud". And then he was gone.
A young man in his early twenties appeared behind the desk, "Can I help you at all sir?"
"I'm Flight Lieutenant Barlow, I believe you are holding a reservation for me." Robert replied.
The young man consulted a computer screen, his fore head creasing into a frown. After several seconds, he said, "If you will follow me I'll take you through to the bar whilst we sort out your room."
Coming from behind the desk, he picked up Robert's case; Robert followed him leaning heavily on his walking stick.
He led the way into a large bar area that was full of comfortable chairs and tables, but was quite empty of customers.
The only person present was the bar man, who seemed to be occupied cleaning up.
The young man leaned over the bar and seemed to have an animated conversation with the bar man. Breaking away, he returned to Robert, who was still standing leaning heavily on his stick.
"James will look after you sir, order what you will, compliments of the hotel." With that, he dashed away.
Robert limped over to the bar where his case had been placed, the barman; James was waiting to take his order.
Jimmy White was forty-eight years old; he'd worked has a barman for twenty-six of those years.
He started out working for his uncle in his pub in the East end and found he enjoyed the job. He'd studied, and could talk knowledgeably about beer, spirits, or wine.
He prided himself that there was no cocktail that he couldn't make.
He was also a student of human nature, able to weigh up the personality of his customers, and the Officer standing in front of him looked worn out and sick.
"What will it be sir?"
"Err," Robert was finding it hard to concentrate. Rummaging in his greatcoat pockets, to find some money, his hand fell on the Dunhill packet he placed it on the bar to continue his search.
"Its ok, sir the drink is on the hotel," James informed him.
"Oh, thank you, I'll have a Jameson if I may."
"Coming right up," James hesitated, "If you would like to smoke I think I can find you a place without you, going outside. I know it's against regulations, but I won't tell if you don't." James said with a smile.
