Free Fall in Stilettos

by Catherine Louise

  Contemplating that perhaps I was becoming too shallow about looks, I soon shrugged off the thought, Who isn’t at twenty-two? My redeeming feature was my long blonde hair which usually got me noticed. Fortunately, mum had delivered good genes there. Flicking back my hair, I dashed for the loo.

  *

  Entering the training room, I immediately spotted the girl. A vision of beauty. She sat cross-legged, looking lovely and sophisticated. She was gorgeous and completely fanciable – proper girl crush material. She had the smoothest-looking skin and the silkiest, shiny dark hair tumbling elegantly over her shoulders. Her make-up was perfect too. Momentarily taking my eyes off her to look around the room at my fellow trainees, I felt reassured. Not that they were dowdy, but she’d outdone everyone, the only sex kitten amongst us.

  ‘All right chick. I’m Kerrie,’ said a deep Brummie accent.

  It was the goddess. And she was talking to me. Her voice wasn’t befitting of her looks. But grateful for some justice, I instantly liked her.

  ‘Couldn’t stand the sun in me eyes over there,’ she continued, ‘thought I’d come and plonk myself next to you.’

  ‘Hi,’ I replied, smiling. ‘I’m April, nice to meet you,’ I said.

  At that moment, a tall, dark and tanned man breezed into the room. He was carrying a large folder which he dumped on the table.

  ‘Good morning. I’m Christian, your trainer, and I’ll be taking you through your six-week cabin crew training course,’ he said. His eyes scaled each of us in turn.

  ‘Cor! He’s a bit of all right candy,’ whispered Kerrie, under her breath.

  I smiled back. She wasn’t the only one to notice.

  Intensive Training

  The ability to swallow, absorb, digest and fully regurgitate learning proven by passing numerous tests was a skill; along with becoming fluent in airline speak, although I couldn’t fathom a reason for replacing words like collect the rubbish with gashing in and kitchen for galley.

  We were quizzed on trivialities like Do you push the door or pull it open? and Are the additional safety harnesses located top right or bottom left? and How many flotation aids are carried on the aircraft? etc. My level of intimacy with each of the five aircrafts was regularly scrutinised. The emergency drill had been etched in my brain – an itemised list of what to do if it all kicked off – shitting oneself being the reality and the reason flight attendants smelled of perfume – it covered up any shit when they breezed by.

  Getting our uniform was like being awarded a prize. Pilots got stripes and wings. We got a red lipstick recommendation, heels and hosiery. We had both a summer and winter uniform which was a jacket and two different skirts, which provided a choice. The navy fitted skirt was allowed all year round. I preferred it. The summer skirt was long and floaty with gathered pleats and reminded me of something my gran used to wear. It made me look like a frumpy dumpy and I hated it. Apart from on a feeling fat day. It skimmed over lumps, bumps and disguised bloating and trapped wind.

  August 2002

  ‘Christian, what do we need to wear tomorrow?’ Kerrie asked with a huge smile.

  He sloped over to her table and perched on the end. I observed him ogling Kerrie. He was a confirmed brunette and boob man.

  ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  Leaning over, whilst pretending to mishear, he took in a good eyeful of her ample cleavage. Sitting upright, Kerrie encouraged him.

  Silly fucking question, I uttered under my breath.

  ‘Good question,’ replied Christian whilst raising both his arms and pointing his fingers upwards in the irritating manner I’d become accustomed to. He did it to try and grab the attention of everyone in the room. But it didn’t make him any less attractive. ‘Listen, ladies; please wear your summer skirts tomorrow ready for the evacuation practice.’

  *

  We arrived in Bristol by minibus. It was a purpose-built training ground. The excitable chatter on board had resembled a noisy school outing. When the doors opened, I’d been pleased to escape. We all tipped out forming a small crowd, ready to be introduced to a real aeroplane. Everyone was dressed as instructed in the obligatory summer skirts, ready to ride the giant slide.

  The day before, we’d experienced the simulator for smoke mask training. The headgear had resembled a World War II relic, making each of us look like an extra in a scene from Alien. But it had been a good laugh. The only downside was the after-effects of an unavoidable bad hair day – even Kerrie hadn’t escaped the dishevelled look.

  Inside the hangar there was an aircraft with its huge inflatable yellow slide activated. Not dissimilar to a giant bouncy castle.

  ‘Out of interest, is there anybody in the room that has never flown before?’ asked Christian.

  The echoes of voices in the hangar suddenly hushed as everyone looked around.

  ‘Come on… there’s usually one,’ he said.

  Nobody raised their hand. My heart beat faster. I was damned sure my hands would remain glued to my sides due to the fear of looking ridiculous, having committed to a flying job; although the thought of receiving special treatment from Christian crossed my mind.

  ‘No one. Okay. Good,’ he said and continued to explain the exterior aircraft features.

  Then we climbed inside. It was a buzz, being in a proper aeroplane for the first time. A frisson of temptation took hold as I eyed up the gadgetry in the cockpit. Having spotted a couple of retro-looking Atari games joysticks, I wanted to press and play. But I kept that urge to myself. We were being watched.

  Christian moved on to talk about the how to of taking off the emergency door. Knowing that performing this manoeuvre formed part of our assessment (and I didn’t want to be the only idiot that did it wrong), I paid attention. Then we each took a turn whilst the engineers fully supervised in case of accidental droppage, causing an expense akin to a mortgage.

  ‘Form a queue, please, ladies and take off your shoes,’ said Christian, standing at the front of the aircraft. I bet he was usually accustomed to telling women to take off more than their shoes. I was first in line. Kerrie was behind. ‘Now follow me.’

  Christian zipped down the slide. I inched forward, peering down at the ground. Christian had positioned himself at the foot of the slide. It looked intimidatingly high from the top, and a long way down to reach the bottom.

  ‘Promise I’ll catch you,’ Christian called, offering out his hand.

  Forced to abandon my fears, I held my breath and jumped. It was a soft landing to start with, not hard like playground slides. But it was faster than I’d anticipated as I whizzed down at speed. My skirt flew in front of my face and acted like a giant parachute. The fabric billowed. There was nothing I could do.

  Arriving at Christian’s feet in an unladylike heap, I lay there, trying to recover my dignity. He bent over, took my hand and pulled me upright. Then he flashed a smile, whilst I adjusted myself. Thank God I was wearing clean knickers and not period pants. (Each month, my minging knickers, the ones I kept for that very occasion, made an appearance for a few days before being shoved right back to the furthest crevice of my drawer.)

  The other girls followed on behind. A raucous sound of laughter echoed off the walls. Then a few pilots and engineers flocked over. Soon there was a gathering of keen voyeurs to join our party and underwear exhibition. And I didn’t care. Christian’s motives were perverted. But there wasn’t a single girl that didn’t queue enthusiastically for another go.

  The Captain’s Log

  September 2002

  Stuck to the side of the kettle was Emma’s fluorescent Post-it note, which read Good luck, mate. I got you a present for your 1st day x. Next to it was a packet of travel sickness tablets. It was partly a joke, but it made me laugh. As a precaution, I swallowed a couple.

  It amused me that I was now a fully-fledged flight attendant, even though I’d still never actually flown on an
aeroplane before. Most passengers probably had more experience of flying than me. Not that I’d ever share that. But I doubted their heads were as stuffed full of flying facts. Mine was like a saucepan having been left on the boil, bobbing open with streams of bubbles spilling down the sides.

  *

  I arrived at the crew room door and paused. Feeling like the new kid at school, I told myself to get a grip. Then taking a breath, I pushed down the handle and walked in. It was vaguely familiar, having visited during training about three weeks ago.

  No one seemed to notice me. It was paraphernalia central. Loads of tables and chairs were scattered about. Large cardboard boxes were still lying on the floor, and uniform was still hanging on the clothes rails. The large sofa provided an area to hang out, with a radio for entertainment. It was empty. My first instruction was to find my crew.

  Behind me, the door burst open. A pretty, dark-haired girl with a cute dimpled smile made her entrance.

  ‘All right, chick?’ she said to me, prompting me to introduce myself as she rifled through her bag without looking up.

  ‘I’m April. Nice to meet you… it’s my first day,’ I said.

  ‘Ahh, you’re one of the newbies,’ she said, stopping the scrabbling in her bag to give me the once-over. ‘It’s a bugger losing your lip gloss.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I’m Becky. Don’t worry, I’m gonna look after you, chick. We’re on the Dash. So, any nervous passengers, remember to tell them that if one propeller cuts out then the plane can fly perfectly adequately using the other one.’ She smiled, but I knew she meant it. ‘Time for the briefing. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the flight deck.’

  Following the introductions, I became acutely aware of staring at Tom, the first officer. I didn’t fancy him. He just looked too young. And they let him fly planes full of passengers with their lives in his hands, and more importantly, mine. At least the captain, called Ron, provided comfort. He looked reassuringly old. He had a large paunch and grey, thinning hair and wrinkles around his eyes. I just hoped he wasn’t prone to a heart attack at his stage of life. Our first destination was a short hop to Jersey. As I tried to relax and involuntarily found myself picturing cows, ice cream and lots of old people taking holidays, the crew got up to leave.

  I got my first glance of the Dash as it stood on the tarmac, parked on stand… a proper old-fashioned looking propeller aircraft. I’d heard all about it, but hadn’t seen it, until now. Disguised in livery, it had been surreptitiously placed amongst its shinier, bigger and much newer contemporary colleagues. It stuck out. It belonged in a museum. It would have been more at home there. It had survived the war effort and escaped retirement. And now, here it was being granted a second life alongside the proper commercial planes. During training, we’d been warned about fearsome flyers being more nervous and suspicious about propeller aircraft. Now, I could see why.

  On board, Ron opened the door to the loo, making a loud announcement in his Scottish accent: ‘Time for the captain’s log. Tom, I want you to record it,’ he said whilst locking the door.

  Tom looked disgusted. But it made me laugh. As the toilet flushed, Becky waltzed down the aisle spraying a cannister of air freshener. A sea of mist mainly masked the smell as we awaited the arrival of passengers.

  Thrilled at having been invited to sit in the flight deck for my first ever flight, I was relieved at Becky’s expertise with the jump seat. It pulled out using brute-force from behind the first officer and was a tricky manoeuvre for a first-timer. Becky placed the headset on me and left. Still no one knew it was my first time. I kept quiet and listened to the voices of the pilots going through their checklist.

  Then the engines fired up. The sound was louder than I’d expected. A tingle in my tummy turned to a rush of excitement as the aircraft slowly moved. The voices in the headset confirmed that we were on pushback. The stench of fumes was strong. It reminded me of travelling on the top deck of a ferry with the wind blowing straight into my face and making me feel ill.

  A quick flashback of the Brittany school trip played on my mind. The puke image popped up. The more I tried to banish thoughts of vomit, the harder it became. I didn’t have a bag prepared. Tom’s well-combed, parted and slicked-back hair was straight in line for receiving projectile spew. Then I remembered the travel sickness tablets that I’d digested earlier and calmed myself. If the absolute worst-case scenario happened, I promised myself I’d resign.

  We started to taxi. Waiting for take-off, I firmly held the rim of my seat, hoping for some sort of comfort and protection. In an instant, the sound intensified like a rocket launcher on full blast. Suddenly, hurtling down the runway, my stomach whirled. I fought the thrill of letting out a theme park-style scream. We left the ground and headed steeply upwards, into the clouds, and it was spectacular, being airborne.

  Releasing the rigid tension from my arms, my hands were stiff from gripping tightly. It left marks that ate into my palms, like the handles of overloaded shopping bags. And it was awesome – being above the world and seeing it all from the sky.

  ‘Let’s go, chick,’ said Becky, as she removed my headphones. It startled me. I hadn’t realised she was there. But we had work to do, even though I was too in awe of flying to be bothered.

  ‘We’re not full today, which is totally bizarre because these flights are usually always full of pensioners between the ages of eighty and death. We’re gonna run down the aisle, chuck everything out and then sit and ’ave a chat. Sound okay, chick?’ she asked.

  ‘Err, yep. Let me know what you want me to do,’ I said. She laughed and pointed to the back galley.

  Heaving the heaviest trolley up the aisle on an ascent in mid-heels was challenging along with balancing tea and coffee pots on top. I did the service whilst she did duty free. Then the seat belt sign went off. A flurry of people attempted to flock to the loos, which was a pain in the ass. Each time someone wanted a wee or worse, it resulted in politely going back and forth with my trolley, timed with toilet entries and exits. Observing Becky, she made passengers wait. I had lots to learn. Service finished, and trollies stowed, we sat on the front crew seats.

  ‘It’s a nightmare with toilet disruptions,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. You get used to that, chick. I sometimes get the captain to switch on the seat belt sign when it’s impossible,’ she said.

  ‘They do that for you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. The good ones do. Not the jobsworths, but there’s not too many of those,’ she replied.

  ‘So, what’s next?’ I asked.

  ‘Have you seen the bloke with a cock on his head?’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I laughed, thinking I’d misheard.

  ‘That guy down there; he’s gelled up his hair, looks like a cock. What’d you call it?’ she asked.

  I peeped round the curtain, immediately recognising the offending passenger. Far younger than most on board, he had a Mohican-style haircut, enthusiastically gelled straight up at the front. I sniggered.

  ‘What about nostrils in row 5A? They’re coming alive,’ she said and put her hand to her nose and wiggled her fingers to demo stray nasal hair. ‘Nostril damus.’

  Peeking back through the curtain again, I spotted the big nose in row 5A.

  ‘You’re evil,’ I laughed.

  ‘Yeah. You’ve gotta have a laugh, chick. Helps pass the time,’ she said. Becky’s deceptive, innocent-looking smile suggested that she could get a whole lot worse. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I can’t stick my head round again. Looks weird,’ I said.

  ‘Here,’ said Becky, handing me a black bag. ‘You go gashing in. I want at least one observation by the time you get back. Think of it as initiation.’

  Feeling like a binman, I went through the cabin carrying out rubbish collection duties. I sought anything of comedy value whilst Becky relaxed with her feet up and a maga
zine – a number one’s prerogative. On getting back to the galley, I reported in.

  ‘Comb-over in row 11 and flying low next door,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll go and look,’ she giggled. ‘You sort out the trolleys up front and I’ll secure the cabin.’ She went to do the final passenger checks, leaving me staring at the trolleys, wondering what to do. Moments later she returned. ‘You’re good. I can’t believe you checked out that guy’s crotch… and on your first day,’ she laughed as she pinned back the curtain ready for landing.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing when he leaned over to hand me his cup,’ I replied, laughing and hoping that the noise from the aircraft muted our conversation to any passengers. Becky had zero concern.

  ‘Didn’t think he’d be your type,’ she said.

  ‘He’s definitely not,’ I smirked.

  ‘Now, what have you done with my trolleys?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t really know what you meant,’ I said.

  ‘Just teasing you, chick. Got new trollies on landing. Soz, mean trick,’ she said.

  ‘I set up the tea and coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Perfect. Now chill out. You’re going to get on just fine, chick. We’re having some fun. Better go and take up your seat for landing,’ she said.

  Creeping back into the cockpit, I didn’t know whether to announce my arrival as a casual hi, or to keep quiet. Not wishing to distract anyone, I opted for the latter. I tried to be inconspicuous about pulling out the crew seat. But both pilots looked over their shoulder at me, so I casually waved. Then I yanked at the mechanism, caused some noise and pulled the seat into place. I strapped in and relaxed, observing the sunny views. Sandy rock pools were dotted around the coastline.