Girl on a Plane (23 page)

Through the wide glass window, a huge Jordanian Airways plane is being refueled. It looks wrong too—​the wrong shape and color, the wrong logo, the wrong flag.

I hear footsteps behind me. “Where did you go?” Tim looks strange as well. He's clean and tidy in a blue T-shirt and brown corduroy trousers. Only his lace-ups are the same. A navy gabardine raincoat swings half on and half off one shoulder, like a musketeer's cloak.

“Where were you yesterday, Anna?” he repeats. “I couldn't find you anywhere!”

David arrives. “Yeah, we thought you'd gone off with the hijackers, didn't we, Tim? Become a fully fledged member of the PFLP.” They're both grinning.

“I was in the last minibus. You'd left before I could catch up with you at the hotel,” I say. “Where did you stay? Were you together? How's Fred?”

“He's fine,” says Tim. “We were all together, the twins too. There was a swimming pool. We played water polo till it got dark.” I feel a wave of jealousy.

“And we slept like logs in real feather beds,” David says. “Well, until this horrendously early start.”

“I had three helpings at supper,” Tim says. “Did you eat a ton?”

“Yes.” I'm smiling. “I did.”

“Actually, I felt really sick afterward.” He grimaces.

We fall silent, and the pause is full of all that has gone before.

“Were you OK?” David asks me. “Who did you stay with?”

“I was on my own, with a woman called Mrs. Hamilton, whose husband is a diplomat.”

“So it was OK?”

I nod, shrug.

Tim looks out at the Jordanian plane. “Do you think you can be hijacked twice?”

“No,” I say.

“Well . . .” David ponders the question. “I suppose—”

“No.” I frown at him.

“Good,” says Tim. “As we have to swap planes at Cyprus, I'm hoping to count both the flights toward my Junior Jet Club points. The twins think they should give us extra points because we
should
have been on a BOAC flight. I mean, it's not our fault we were hijacked, is it?”

“No,” I say. “You should definitely ask both pilots to sign your logbook.”

“Yes, then you've got double mileage,” adds David.

Tim looks pleased. “OK, I will.”

It feels so good to see them again.

A Jordanian stewardess offers us a bottled drink from her tray and a slightly greasy doughnut. We take one of each and thank her.

David bites into his doughnut. “Oh, there's no jam. Has yours?”

Tim breaks his open. “No. Hang on—​I'm just going to tell the twins about something.” He gallops off, holding his doughnut in one hand and his bottle in front of him like a sword.

“Funny how the hijackers disappeared.” David takes a swig of his Coke. “Was the Giant or Jamal with you?”

“No,” I say.

“Sweaty?”

“God, no.”

“Wonder where the crew have got to.” He wipes sugar from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I saw them going into a different room at the hotel,” I say.

“Being debriefed, I expect.”

I laugh. “You make it sound like a spy movie!”

“Feels a bit like that. I'm going to really milk it when I get back to school.” I watch him glugging down his Coke. He seems even younger today. “Damn. Where did that drink go so fast?”

“Here.” I hand him mine. I can't face it.

“Thanks.”

Tim skids to a halt, holding a bag of licorice allsorts. “You told me you liked the blue ones, Anna, so I saved these.” He holds out a handful.

“Wow! Where did they come from?”

“The man we stayed with last night gave them to me, and some pond water for Fred, and new plants, and a new box. I'll go and get him so you can see.” He runs off again and is back in a flash, carrying a blue plastic box with a lid. He lifts the lid, and there is Fred, looking grumpily up from an exotic array of water plants.

“Fred!” I say. “You're in the Garden of Eden.”

“I know.” Tim strokes his shell. “He's really happy. You can tell because he's smiling.”

“Is he?”

“You can see he is!”

“Oh, OK. If you say so.”

The twins skid across the polished floor in their socks, shrieking and crashing into empty chairs, bumping into bags and strollers. The Jordanian stewardess eventually catches up with them. “Now,” she says, “we'll be boarding in a moment, so it's time to put on your shoes and collect your things together.”

The PA system crackles.
“The Royal Jordanian flight to Nicosia, Cyprus, is now boarding.”
Everyone collects their bits and pieces, and we line up by the door.

The thought of being on another plane feels odd—​and unsafe. But somehow, despite my heart thumping with anxiety, and by not thinking about it too much, I manage to cross the tarmac toward the solid white steps leading up to the plane's open doorway.

There's no dangling rope here. These steps mean business. They're clamped against the plane. I grip the handrail and smell the paint, warmed by the sun, and I'm halfway up when there's a commotion below. The older blond girl is refusing to board. She's sobbing on her sister's shoulder. Two of the ground crew come over to see what the holdup is. They beckon to the stewardess up in the doorway. Our embarkation comes to a halt. We all stand frozen, as if in a tableau.

The stewardess pushes down past me with two paper bags in her hand. The older girl is struggling, her breath coming in quick gasps. Now her sister is panicking and crying too. The stewardess sits them both on the bottom step and tells them to breathe slowly into the bags. Gradually their breathing becomes more regular, and the steward at the top of the steps begins quietly to encourage the rest of us up into the plane.

I feel shocked and unsettled, so when I reach the top of the steps, I lean forward to Tim, in front of me, and whisper, “Shall we sit together—​for old times' sake?” Tim nods and gives me a quick, grateful smile. Then he passes the message on to David.

Once inside the plane, I hesitate. It feels unreal. Otherworldly. But I sit, feeling dazed and distant, between Tim and David, waiting for takeoff. The
clunk
of the door shutting makes me feel powerfully claustrophobic. I try to shut it out, to think about open spaces, the sea, wide, sandy beaches, anything but being shut in again.

As we taxi away from the clutter of buildings, toward the landing strip, I stare out the window at the wire fencing, the runway lights glowing in the gray light, the line of trees, the drooping windsock, and I think of the other Anna, the one who took off from Bahrain those four long days ago. And I don't know where she is anymore. She feels as light and insubstantial as a dust particle caught in the sun, drifting randomly . . .

I look out at the edge of land and the empty sky. Maybe the cold air of England, and normality, whatever that is, will make sense of things. And Marni. Marni will help. In the meantime, I'm between David and Tim once again, their arms touching mine on the armrests. The engines roar before the takeoff; the plane shudders, shakes as it speeds up, rises and tilts. The Middle East drops away. We're in the air, climbing once again into the heavens.

Breakfast comes: half a grapefruit, bacon, and an omelet with grilled tomatoes, a roll, butter and marmalade, orange juice, tea or coffee. I stare at the pale-yellow omelet, steaming slightly; at the soft, subsiding tomatoes; and I break open the bread roll, spread the hard, cold butter. But should I save it for later? The three of us approach the meal with reverence, with held-in elbows, so as not to knock one another in the delicate task. The memory of having no food still hovers over us. We eat terribly slowly, even David, savoring everything, making it all last as long as possible. I cut the slice of bacon into tiny pieces and chew each one separately. When the stewardesses bring the cart, Tim asks for tea and adds all our sugars to his cup until the spoon stands upright. Then he spoons the melting sugar into his mouth. At the end, he puts his uneaten marmalade roll into his satchel, saying, “For later.” Having had so little, everything is important, either eaten or saved. We all keep our plastic cutlery, the salt and pepper. Our trays, when they are collected, hold only empty bowls, wrappings, and an empty grapefruit shell.

Just over an hour after takeoff, we touch down on the island of Cyprus. And when the plane comes to a halt, we're herded off and immediately redirected across the tarmac toward a BOAC Boeing 707. It looks calm and regal and has a long, thin cloud hanging over it like stretched pastry.

But at the top of the airline steps, I'm alarmed to be greeted not just by stewardesses but also by two nurses and a doctor.

“Do they think we're sick or something?” I say under my breath.

“No, they think we've all gone insane,” David says.

“Well, we probably nearly did.”

As soon as we're airborne and the seat belt signs have pinged off, we are told we can wander about as we please. There's an air of celebration. Trays of sweets and endless free drinks and chips are passed around. It all feels a bit forced, as though they need to treat us differently or something awful might happen.

I notice that the doctor and nurses are mingling with the passengers. They spend some time talking quietly to the blond sisters, who managed to board this time without panicking. When they get to us, they ask if we have any aches and pains, or—​and they lower their voices—​any other worries we'd like to talk about. We all shake our heads solemnly.

When they're gone, David looks pretend devastated. “Damn. I forgot to tell them that I've acquired this awful aversion to food.”

“I dreamed I ate Fred last night,” Tim says suddenly. “Should I have told them that?”

David and I can hardly hold in our laughter.

“No, Tim, that sounds like a perfectly normal anxiety dream. How is he, by the way?”

“He's fine. In fact, he's very fine,” he says happily.

Mrs. Newton keeps one of the nurses occupied with a blow-by-blow account of what she personally went through during the hijacking, especially having had a headache for days on end. When the nurse is finally released from her clutches, I notice Mrs. Newton popping the painkillers she's been given into her handbag and ordering another double gin and tonic.

The captain announces that we can come up to the cockpit in twos and threes if we'd like. Tim and the twins are the first to go, and return crowing with delight. The captain has written copiously in each of their Junior Jet Club notebooks, confirming the exact mileage from Amman to London.

“That's fantastic,” I say.

“We're flying
eight
miles up, you know,” he says.

“No!”

“Forty-two thousand feet! Traveling at six hundred miles an hour!”

“Amazing! I had no idea!”

The three of them go off to play Scrabble, still talking about Rolls Royce engines and seven tons of thrust.

Throughout the flight, the head steward calls out the names of passengers whose friends and family are already waiting for them at Heathrow. Whenever a new list is announced, a cheer goes up and the cabin goes very quiet. Everyone waits, waits for
their
name.

“Yessss!” a person behind me says delightedly, and another farther back, and one in front. Then David, then Tim. When will they call out
my
name? Who's going to be there for me? Where are they?

Where
are
they?

Surely I won't be expected to go straight back to school?

I
can't
go straight back! This is
horrible,
waiting for my name to be called. It's like a raffle, but where I'm the only one holding a dud ticket.

The intercom goes again. I hold my breath. There's no Anna on the list. It's unbearable.

Am I really expected to get on a train at Waterloo and take myself off to school on my own, after all that's happened? I imagine being greeted by my housemistress. She'll try to look sympathetic, make me a cup of hot chocolate—​and then tell me to get on with it.

I can't believe that no one is waiting for me! Have they stayed in Bahrain? Or maybe they've gone straight to the new house. God, that means that this time tomorrow I'll be walking through the swinging doors into the hall, sitting cross-legged on the floor under the stage, being stared at by staff on the balcony checking my deportment.

I cannot go straight there.

“Come on, Anna,” David says, finishing his second Coke. “Let's go and visit the cockpit.”

“Really?”

“Yes, come on.”

I sigh. “OK.” There's nothing much else to do.

The plane is loud with laughter and high spirits. The adults are celebrating their freedom in style. It feels far more like a wedding party than a flight home. I'm amazed at the amount of champagne washing around. A ruddy Mr. Newton is standing, shouting above the din at Mrs. Green, who looks flushed and embarrassed.

Inside the cramped cockpit, the captain and navigator sit among the hundreds of switches lining the space over their heads. I think of
our
captain and navigator. I wish they were in here, flying us home.

The maze of dials flickers and twitches above the two men, and they're friendly enough but clearly a little bored of explaining how everything works. They ask us our names, show us the ejector-seat button and, on the glowing map of the Mediterranean, where France meets the English Channel. I try to look interested, desperately wanting to feel excited, but until I hear that Marni and Dad are waiting for me, it's difficult.

Why don't they
think
before they read out people's names? Can't they imagine what it might be like for the ones who have no one waiting for them? Don't they check?

“You can see that we're going over France, just east of Paris at the moment,” the navigator is saying.