Girl on a Plane Page 5

  As the cool cabin air escapes into the desert and the intense heat swirls in, the temperature begins to rise. I lean my head against the once-cool plastic of the seat in front of me. It’s warm and sticky already.

  Now that the No Smoking signs are unlit, cigarette lighters start clicking all around the cabin, and smoke curls above the seats around us. Soon cigarette smoke is all I can smell. And as it gets hotter and hotter, the cabin appears to shrink into the fog.

  10

  Revolutionary Airstrip, Jordan—​1720h

  Apart from the occasional low voice and the rustle of hot, restless, cooped-up bodies, it’s unnaturally quiet now. There’s no noise from the plane’s engine, no air-conditioning, and no intercom anymore.

  We sit quietly, sweltering under the great blanket of heat weighing us down. I’ve piled my hair up and stuck a pencil in it to keep it off my neck, but it still feels stifling, as though I’m wearing a thick woolen hat. The straggly bits stick to the sweat on my face and neck. Everything is sticking. My clothes are stuck to my body. My shirt is stuck to my back. My skirt is stuck to my legs, which are stuck to the seat. I’m stuck here, sweating endlessly, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And everything is an effort. Lifting my arm, turning my head, bending down—​I do it all in slow motion.

  I wonder if thinking about cool things will help. Such as the first time I visited London from abroad when it was winter and freezing cold and raining. We all sat in a café, watching the people walk to work holding briefcases and umbrellas, and we wondered what was the matter with them. Why were they all walking so fast? What had happened? Were they running away from something? Because no one walked that fast in the hot country we lived in then. They’re walking fast to keep warm, Marni had said. Everyone slows down in the heat, to keep cool.

  I wish there were some cool in here.

  I take my shoes off, blow down my front, wave magazines around to try to stir up the air, to create just the tiniest of breezes, but it’s hopeless. Then I remember the BOAC paper fan stuffed down in my seat pocket. I pull it out and whip it to and fro, but I’m just moving hot air around. I give up, defeated.

  “This is unbearable,” I grumble.

  “And it’s only going to get worse.” David wipes a rivulet of sweat from his neck with a tissue.

  “Well, thanks, David,” I say. “Guaranteed to raise spirits.”

  He laughs shortly. “Sorry. Didn’t realize that was my designated role.”

  “It won’t be this hot when it gets dark, will it?” Tim says hopefully, his face bright pink.

  “No, it should cool down,” David says, “but then we’ll probably freeze. We’re in the desert, after all.”

  “Great,” I say. “Though, frankly, anything will be better than this. Even the soles of my feet are sweating, for God’s sake.”

  “If I was in a cartoon,” Tim says, “there’d be smoke coming out of my ears.”

  “Why don’t you roll up the sleeves of your shirt? And I’d take your shoes and socks off too.” I help get him organized.

  “Funny we haven’t heard about the other planes,” David says. “They must be here too somewhere.”

  “The two hijacked earlier? Why don’t you ask him?” I nod at the Arab opposite us.

  “Good idea.” David leans over and touches him on the arm. “Excuse me, sir,” he says. “We heard that two other planes were hijacked and taken to Jordan earlier this week, and we wondered if you can see them through your window. There aren’t any on this side.”

  “Yes, yes, dear boy,” he replies kindly. “Apparently they are here, but it’s difficult to see through these portholes. The Swissair is farther back and on our left—​I can just see the nose—​and the stewardess said the TWA was behind us, so out of sight. But mostly I only see guerrillas swarming about.”

  “Thanks.” David turns back to us. “Did you get that?” Tim and I nod. “I wonder what the people in those planes are feeling like by now? They’ve been here three days already. Christ, I couldn’t take this heat for three days.”

  “Do you think they have bombs on board too?” Tim asks.

  “I expect so,” replies David.

  “They must have given them some food,” Tim says, “or they’d be skeletons by now.”

  “No, not quite yet, Tim,” David says. “And of course they’ll be feeding them.” But I can see he’s not so sure.

  “Do you think someone there will seriously lose it, like that man at the back did?” Tim asks cheerfully.

  “You mean they’ll set off a bomb?” David says. “And because we’re close enough, we blow up as well?”

  “Er, thanks, you two, that’s probably enough.” They’re making me feel jittery again.

  David puts an arm around me. “We’d better stop, Tim.” He shakes his head. “She can’t take it.”

  I shrug him off. “God, you’re so patronizing. Why don’t we swap seats so you two boys can talk fascinating boys’ stuff together and I can sit in peace in the aisle seat for a change?”

  David raises his eyebrows. “You really want to?”

  “Yes, just for a bit.”

  “OK.” He lifts the armrest, and I semi-stand while he slides under me, into my seat, and I try slipping into his. It’s a bit of a sticky tangle, and at one point I regret asking him, but we do manage it—​eventually.

  I’m just settling down to enjoy the new, clear view up and down the aisle, when my calm is broken by the captain raising his voice at the front: “But the passengers haven’t had anything proper to eat or drink for ages,” he says to the Giant. “We didn’t take on any supplies at Beirut except fuel, so we’ll need food and water to be brought on board very soon.”

  “I’m sorry,” the Giant replies, “but we have none spare at the moment. You will have to wait.”

  I turn to David. “Did you hear that?”

  “He can’t be serious,” he says.

  “Where have the other two hijackers gone?” the captain asks. “The ones that got on at Beirut? I need to speak to them urgently.”

  “I’m sorry, they are busy on the ground. There is nothing I can do at the moment.” The Giant’s voice is deep and patient. The captain gives him a frosty look and sits back down across the aisle from the navigator.

  I sit quietly while the boys play interminable games of hangman, then tic-tac-toe. After that, David tries to draw Sweaty in Tim’s school uniform on his Etch A Sketch.

  “Where’s your school, then, Tim?” he asks as he draws.

  “In Kent. I don’t like it much. The older boys are bullies. You have to do things for them all the time. One of the assistant matrons is nice, though.”

  “What’s her name?” David is turning Sweaty into a rat with bulging eyes and drooling gums.

  “She’s called Miss Thomas. She lets me play with her Jack Russell, Dandy. She’ll like Fred. I know she will.”

  David rubs Sweaty out and puts down the Etch A Sketch. “No offense to you two, but I’m feeling really tired of sitting here. I need to get up and walk.”

  “Go on, then,” I say. “Give it a try. We’ll watch. See if you get shot.”

  He looks sideways at me and screws up his face. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t mind.”

  “Charming.”

  “Why don’t you draw the Giant now?”

  “Screen’s too small.”

  “Do you want your seat back, then?” I ask.

  “OK.”

  While I’m settling back down next to Tim, he suddenly asks whether I have a brother.

  “Yes,” I say. “Two. Why?”

  “I’ve always wanted one,” he says. “How old are yours?”

  “They’re eleven and nine.”

  “I’m nine too.” Tim looks pleased. “And do you have a father and a mother?”

  “Yes . . .” I frown. “Why?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t.” He says it matter-of-factly.

  “I’m sorry,”
I say quietly. “Your mother?”

  “Yes.” He looks straight at me with serious brown eyes. “She died when I was six.”

  “Oh, Tim. That’s so sad.”

  “She was called Anna too, you know. We have pictures of her, lots of them, all over the house. Dad still loves her, you see. If she was alive I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t go to boarding school. Sometimes I dream about her. I’m sure it’s her.”

  “Who looks after you when you’re home, when your dad’s at work?”

  “Our housekeeper, Mary. She stayed ever since Mum died. I write to her when I’m at school—​as well as Dad.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s an engineer.”

  “What’s yours?” David asks me.

  “In the army. Mum’s a teacher.”

  “Ah! There she is,” Rosemary says from the aisle. “Just the girl I want.” Sweaty’s standing behind her, so I feel a shock of anxiety. “Don’t look so worried!” Rosemary says. “I’m just wondering if you’d like to help me go through the trays at the back, in the galley, to find any uneaten food left over from lunch. Fancy it?”

  I look at Sweaty; his gun is pointing at the ground for once. I’d really like to get up and walk about. I nod. “Thanks.” I begin to climb past David, but he springs up to let me out.

  “How come she’s been handpicked?” he asks Rosemary.

  She laughs. “Handpicked? You’ll get your turn, don’t worry.”

  When he’s back in his seat, I lean down. “You see, David,” I whisper, “there are some advantages to being a girl!”

  I follow Rosemary to the back of the plane.

  “Now,” she says when we get to the galley, “I’m Rosemary.” She points to her badge. “And you’re . . . ?”

  “Anna.”

  “Good, lovely.” She has lively brown eyes and short, curly hair the color of chestnuts. I can’t get over how brave she was with the hijackers when that man wanted to go to the toilet. Would I have done that? I doubt it.

  “We need to go through all these used trays in the carts,” she explains, “and pick out any wrapped food that’s left. Only unopened stuff, mind you. Excuse me,” she says a little sharply to Sweaty, who’s in the way. He moves to one side, and she kneels down and slides out the top tray from one of the metal cabinets. “Crackers, cheese, cans of soda and water, especially water. Remember, leave anything that’s been opened. Isn’t it crazy?” she says. “We’ve got masses of duty-free booze, cigarettes, perfume, but hardly any food or water. They might have thought that one through in Beirut.” She picks up a sealed pack of crackers. “Pile it up on here, and we’ll share it all later. Why don’t you start on this cart?” She points to the one nearest the aisle.

  I start sliding the trays out one by one and sifting through them. Loads of people have taken only one bite or spoonful and then left the rest, not able to eat then, like me, I suppose. They must be regretting it now. I certainly am. What I’d do to be offered that tray full of food again.

  Though I’m uncomfortable having Sweaty’s gun trained on my back, it’s good to be somewhere else, doing something different, bending and stretching, not having to think about missing Marni or Tim’s sad story or being blown up.

  Suddenly the chief steward, Alan, steps past Sweaty and into the galley.

  “Oh, hello,” Rosemary says with a quick smile. “This is Anna.”

  “How’re you doing?” Alan says to me. He’s probably thirty-something but looks older, worn out—​as worn as Rosemary looks fresh.

  “I’m OK, thanks,” I say, pushing a tray in and pulling out another.

  “What brings you down here?” Rosemary asks him.

  “Well, as you know,” he says airily, “I just can’t leave you alone.” Rosemary shares a long-suffering look with me. “Actually,” he says, “I thought you might like a hand.” He starts rolling up his shirtsleeves, and I find myself wishing he hadn’t come. Being with just Rosemary felt much less complicated.

  “Celia and I have finished going through the food cabinets at the front,” Alan says, dropping a small can of tonic on the counter. “Not much there, I’m afraid. Why we didn’t take on meals in Beirut I’ll never understand.”

  “Well, let’s hope we have more luck here.” Rosemary adds a tiny can of tomato juice to the meager collection. “Anna sits between the two boys in row ten, by the way.”

  “Do you, now?” Alan grins at me. There’s a dark edge to his smile where some of his side teeth are missing. I go on searching through the trays. He comes and kneels by me. “Yeah, we only found a few crackers at the front.” His face close up is clammy and pockmarked. “Oh, and some peaches and about eight bread rolls.”

  Rosemary sighs. “That’s not a lot, is it? We’ve got ninety-eight passengers and seven crew members to feed. Oh well, we’ll just have to cut them up and share them as best we can.”

  Alan wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “They say they might be able to get us some tomatoes and grapes and more water by tomorrow. Just hope they mean it. We’ll be pretty desperate by then. I’ve explained that we have passengers with low-blood-sugar problems, diabetics and the like, who need regular food. Doesn’t seem to register, though.”

  I take a surreptitious look back at Sweaty. His eyes range restlessly up and down the cabin, then back to us. I turn quickly and concentrate on the trays.

  “Ta-da!” Rosemary pulls out an intact can of pineapple juice.

  “You know that couple with the pocket radio, the Newtons?” Alan asks. “They say our hijacking was on the last news. Apparently the PFLP has roadblocks in some parts of the capital, Amman, and the king of Jordan’s sending tanks in to surround the hijackers. So it’s all heating up, with us in the middle. Even the Syrians are massing troops on the border . . .” Rosemary shoots Alan a look over my head, stopping him in his tracks. But it’s too late, I’ve heard too much, and it doesn’t sound good—​With us in the middle.

  “I’ve been through the duty-free, by the way,” Alan says. “Got plenty of booze and a few sodas, loads of gold-plated Dunhill lighters, Nina Ricci scarves, Pierre Cardin stockings, cognac, miniatures, Peter Stuyvesant and Gitanes cigarettes—​but no water or food! Ironic, isn’t it? Perhaps we can bribe the hijackers to swap our duty-free for some bread and cheese.”

  We’ve reached the end of the trays, and we stand to survey the small heap of food and drinks.

  “Thanks, Anna, you’ve been a real help.” Rosemary smiles. She picks out a packet of crackers and a tiny can of pineapple juice. “Share that with your two boys. I’ll dole this little lot out to everyone else.”

  With Alan behind me, I follow Rosemary back up the aisle, carrying my precious hoard. She stops briefly by the little girl who was sick. There’s still a whiff of disinfectant around her.

  “How are you, Susan? Mrs. Green? Everything all right now?” Rosemary asks.

  “Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Green smiles wanly.

  Rosemary looks at Susan. Her mother has taken off her messed-up dress, so she is sitting in her underwear. “You’re looking so much better now, Susan. And I hear you’re very good at drawing. Have you tried the coloring book yet?” Susan drops her head shyly. Mrs. Green smiles gratefully up at Rosemary.

  We walk past the couple who were drinking whiskey. The man’s deep in a Reader’s Digest. His wife glances up at us from her crossword as we go by. We pass the place where the man with the bomb sat, and then, several rows behind our seats, I’m astonished to see Tim playing Travel Scrabble with the two boys in maroon and gray school uniforms. He must have sneaked out while Sweaty’s back was turned.

  “Got some goodies,” I whisper at him. His eyes light up. He makes quick excuses, slips out, and walks in front of me back to our seats. The Arab parents opposite David are talking quietly while their son sleeps between them. The couple behind is holding hands, resting with their eyes closed and heads touching.

  I sit and put the snack down on my table.


  “Hey!” David looks impressed.

  “We’ll have to take it in turns,” I say. “Just small sips. No glugging allowed.” I break the can open and take the first tiny sip. The pineapple taste explodes in my mouth. It’s unbelievably sweet and so pineapple-y. I pass it on, trying to savor the taste before it goes. But all I want is more.

  David takes a sip. “Ah! Nectar,” he groans.

  Tim can’t stop smiling. I give them each a cracker.

  “Let’s see how long we can make them last,” Tim says.

  “But I’m salivating already.” David puts the cracker to his nose and inhales it. Then he bites into it quickly. Tim laughs, takes tiny nibbles across it, fast, like a frantic mouse. I eat mine very, very slowly, but, even so, it’s soon gone, leaving behind only a delicious, creamy memory.

  11

  1740h

  The captain, the navigator, Celia, and Rosemary seem to be negotiating with the Giant and Sweaty at the front. The little boy across the aisle has woken up and is driving a Matchbox car, a lime-green VW Beetle, up and down his mother’s arm and over and back across her table. His father reads a magazine, undisturbed.

  “Do you know what?” Tim says. “The boys farther back have a set of Monopoly!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He’s grinning. “And loads of other stuff. Walkie-talkies, a Spirograph . . .”

  “Have you told them about Fred?”

  “Not yet.” He opens David’s pack of cards and starts setting them out for a game of solitaire.

  David looks at his watch. “Do you realize it’s past five thirty? Surely they’ll let us out soon?”

  “Fancy a walk in the desert, do you?” I say.

  “Well, anything would be better than this.” He wrenches open his paperback, sighs dramatically, and starts to read.

  I’m bored too, though I don’t want to admit it. How can I possibly feel bored when these might be my last few hours on earth? But I do. And I feel restless. I turn around, kneel on my seat, and look back down the plane. The Arab couple opposite me glances up briefly, then goes on whispering. I look at the rows and rows of heads—​smooth, tufty, ruffled, bald—​at the long row of portholes, the only source of light now, and at the endless stretch of overhead shelving rushing toward the back, where the toilets and the galley cluster in the dark.