‘Um, I think you should take him to one side, explain the rule and tactfully suggest that he goes to Boots to buy some deodorant. Otherwise he can’t fly.’
‘Oh, good idea. Excuse me, sir,’ Cathy says, turning around, ‘can I have a word?’
I leave Cathy to deal with her smelly passenger and arrive behind Andy just as what I can only conclude is our terrorist turns up. It’s not the most subtle of arrivals. Firstly he is so closely flanked by two tigers he can hardly move without treading on either of their toes. Secondly, the terminal suddenly appears to be crawling with foxes, all of whom seem to be sitting and staring at our check-in. It would be hilarious if the man weren’t presumably so dangerous. For a bloke who just over an hour ago was so gabby and interested in our friend’s dodgy past, Andy is remarkably taciturn as he checks them all in. In fact, he is so tense he forgets to ask any of them if they packed their bags themselves, or if they have any sharp objects to declare.
‘The last row of club all right for you gentlemen?’ he asks, his hand shaking slightly as he types. One of the tigers nods. The terrorist says nothing. He is staring at the floor, stroking his long black beard. ‘Great,’ says Andy, his voice suddenly slightly high-pitched. ‘Enjoy your flight!’
‘Thank you,’ replies one of the guards.
‘Oh my God! Did you see that?’ asks Andy as they turn the corner. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s definitely a bomber and he’s definitely killed people. I could feel it. Just feel it on him. Couldn’t you?’
‘He looked like an old school teacher to me,’ I say.
‘You’re such a bad judge of character,’ declares Andy, running his hands through his highlights. ‘You’ve got no idea.’
I leave Andy to wallow in his close encounter with terrorism and go into the back office to put a call through to Chris, the purser in charge of the Bangkok–Sydney flight. He needs to be informed that he has a terrorist and a couple of tigers on his flight, in order to brief his cabin crew. When I get through, it turns out that Chris and the captain already know who they are carrying to Bangkok. I tell them they are all sitting in the last row of club and Chris suggests that, as I have already met the man, I should come to the crew briefing just to make his staff feel a bit more at ease with the whole situation.
‘The last thing I want is anyone being at all hysterical,’ he explains. ‘You know how they can be. And seeing as you have already met the man . . .’
It seems like a good idea. Just as I walk over to Andy to tell him where I’m going, the weasel with BO returns. I can tell by the look on Cathy’s face that the trip to Boots has made no difference at all.
‘Don’t worry, Cathy,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘I’ll take this from here. Excuse me, sir?’
‘Yes?’ says the man. His voice is quite nasal and he is beginning to sound a little pissed off.
‘Could I have a word?’
‘What about?’
The queue of passengers is growing behind him and they do not seem to be at all amused by the delay.
‘If we could just move to one side?’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’ve already lost my place in the queue once. What do you want?’
‘Um, the whole personal hygiene thing . . .’ I start.
‘I’ve already been to the chemist and bought some deodorant.’
‘I realize that, sir.’ I smile. ‘But it just isn’t working.’
‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘You could go and buy a new shirt,’ I suggest as gently as I can.
‘What?’ The man looks stunned. ‘A new shirt? No way.’
‘Well, in that case I can’t let you fly.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I’m afraid I can. For the sake of other passengers.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ, what sort of bloody outfit is this? I can’t bloody fly unless I buy a new shirt?’ His cheeks are growing red with fury, and possibly with embarrassment.
‘That’s about the sum of it,’ I say. ‘I am terribly sorry, sir, but I am only following regulations.’
‘Don’t talk to me about fucking regulations,’ he says, his teeth gritted.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t let you fly.’
‘Fuck you!’ he says.
‘Quite possibly, sir,’ I say.
‘And fuck your airline!’ he says, walking away from me.
‘That too.’
‘Fuck the lot of you!’
I nod and smile again.
‘Where’s the nearest fucking shirt shop?’
‘Round the corner to the left, sir,’ I say. ‘Thomas Pink, you can’t miss it.’
2–3 PM
IT’S A LONG walk to the crew briefing room. It’s almost at the other end of the terminal from where we are. But I can’t say I mind. It’s a great excuse for me to get outside the building, spark up a cigarette and see some daylight. Although I have to say now that I’m outside the light is grey and the weather is awful. Apart from that brief outburst of sunshine when I was at Animal Welfare, it must have been drizzling gently all morning. What is it about the weather in this country that means it can go off half-cock like this for days at a time? I wish it would just piss it down and be done with it. Suddenly, I think as I take a drag on my cigarette, the jaunt to Dubai doesn’t seem so bad after all. Anything to get away from here, no matter how short the trip.
I walk along the pavement outside the terminal and watch a loving couple kissing each other goodbye. I wonder what Susan is doing. She should be showered and tucked up in bed by now. Lucky girl ... lucky bed. I can’t believe Andy invited her to Dubai. He can be a right old shit sometimes. Messing around with other people’s lives and relationships. It’s not amusing at all.
I spot what looks like a plainclothes security fox standing at the end of the pavement, watching people arrive. He is wearing shades and leaning against the wall. He’s holding a newspaper that I’m sure has eye-holes cut out of it for easy viewing. He looks about as subtle as a Secret Squirrel cartoon. All he needs is a flasher’s mac to complete the ensemble. I wonder if he was one of the guys who was watching our check-in just now.
Andy suddenly calls through on my radio.
‘Hi there,’ he says.
‘Hi.’
‘I just wanted to tell you that Dave has turned up for work.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, leaning against a pillar. ‘Well, he’s over an hour late for his shift.’
‘I know,’ says Andy. ‘But you know we have another flight to do today and you are over there and the queue is backed up to the BA check-in.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Really?’
‘I know,’ he says.
‘How did that happen?’
‘Oh, we’ve had one too many difficult passengers, heavy bags, excess baggage – you know the score.’
‘Tell him yes, then,’ I say. ‘But we won’t pay him his full shift.’
‘Fine,’ says Andy. ‘Send my love to the flight crew!’
‘Yeah, right.’ I smile.
‘Roger,’ he says. ‘See you later.’
I put my radio back in my pocket, turn the corner, go through a side door and walk to the end of a white, strip-lit corridor where I find the crew room. It’s a small, unattractive office full of chairs, desks, computers, plane-charts, a map of the world with all our routes drawn on it, plus some telephones and tea- and coffee-making facilities. The place smells of a new carpet, instant coffee and the sweet floral scent of cheap perfume. Chris is leaning, buttocks first, on a desk, asking his gathered crew of nine various security questions.
‘So, Diane. If there is a fire in the cabin, what do you do?’
‘You get the extinguisher and put it out,’ she replies, her red glossy lips cracking into a self-satisfied smile.
‘That’s correct,’ says Chris. ‘And what don’t you use?’
‘Oxygen,’ the whole group reply.
‘Excellent,’ says Chris. ‘Diane, can you show me how to do a He
imlich manoeuvre on Sally here.’
Diane gets out of her seat, smooths down her tight navy skirt, grabs the dark-haired Sally from behind and starts thumping her on the back.
‘Um, no, Diane,’ says Chris.
‘Oh God, sorry,’ says Diane, collapsing in a fit of embarrassment. ‘Sorry, sorry, I forgot. Can I do that again?’
‘Be my guest,’ says Chris.
Diane takes Sally from behind again, places both her hands in a clasped fist below Sally’s rib cage and gives her an almighty tug. Sally pretends to cough up whatever was obstructing her throat and everyone seems pleased.
‘Excellent,’ says Chris. ‘I knew you’d get it in the end. So’ – he claps his hands – ‘those are all the safety questions dealt with.’
It’s not often that I get to sit in on a crew briefing. An hour and a half before any flight takes off the crew always gather to go through various quick safety checks, the passenger list and any other idiosyncrasies of the flight. Normally they’d be expected to answer the safety questions straight off; these days they sort of seem to pride themselves on being safety officers. The whole trolley dolly, waitress in the sky idea is supposedly long gone. Attendants are on the terrorist frontline, in charge of the key to the flight deck, the only thing between the captain and a shoe bomber. Some of the super-keen even go on unarmed combat courses so that they know how to deal with drunk or dangerous passengers. However, judging by Diane’s performance, this safety movement seems to have passed our lot by.
‘OK,’ says Chris, his eighties wedge fringe flopping forward across his face. ‘Before we all CPA, does anyone know where Tom is? Alex?’ A skinny bloke shakes his head. ‘Daniel?’ The other steward looks equally blank. ‘Well, this is terrible,’ says Chris, shaking his head. ‘I’ve called his mobile and there is no reply. I’ll give him a bit longer before I ring one of the standbys, but quite frankly . . .’ He looks at his watch and sucks his back teeth. ‘OK.’ He looks up. ‘Can we all CPA?’
All the flight crew stand up, get out their handbags, rattle around in them for a moment, and pull out their compacts to ‘check personal appearance’. The two stewards retrieve hand mirrors out of their top pockets.
‘Sally?’
‘Yes?’ she says.
‘Have you waxed your arms?’
‘Chris!’ she moans. ‘Course I have.’
‘Well, after last time,’ he tuts.
‘I know, but I’ve learned my lesson,’ she says, walking towards him, extending both her arms for inspection.
Chris takes hold of her hands and turns her forearms up towards the light. ‘You know it’s because you’re dark,’ he says.
‘I know,’ she agrees. ‘It’s the half Greek in me.’
‘Only half?’ comments Daniel. ‘Doesn’t sound much good.’
‘Shut it, Daniel,’ says Chris, wagging his finger. ‘They’re snooker-ball smooth,’ he opines, running his hands along Sally’s arms.
‘Told you,’ says Sally.
‘Your nails,’ Chris continues, squinting slightly as he moves in closer. ‘Are they the regulation red?’
‘Yes.’ Sally rolls her eyes. ‘Rimmel Titian,’ she confirms, ‘just like everyone else.’
I’d forgotten quite how strict they are when it comes to uniforms and make-up. They make quite a song and dance about it all. It’s worse than school. Each flight attendant is issued with a booklet when they are first handed over their uniform, which details the dos and don’ts of cabin dress – no facial hair, no tattoos, no visible piercings, no far-out make-up deviations like blue nail varnish. There are approved hairstyles, like bobs, French pleats or pony tails or whatever women do to make their hair look neat. They can’t do that just-got-up, pole-danced-their-way-through-a-Britney-Spears-video sort of look. And no obvious dyeing. It’s all about looking neat, sweet and efficient. Some airlines have a choice of five or so make-up colours; we, like Emirates, only allow red. And only one type of red at that. Jewellery is minimal – gold earring studs, small diamonds, plus the old-school pearls.
Physically, hosties have to be strong enough to open the plane door and tall enough (over 165cm) to reach an overhead locker. I know it doesn’t sound much, but you’d be surprised how many wannabes fail the height/strength test. And they’re not allowed to be fat or to get fat. No-one says that, of course, because that would leave the airline stranded in some large legal minefield. But there is some weird rule that height and weight have to be in proportion. Some airlines have a free Weight Watchers programme for all flying staff and they are quite strict on the uniforms themselves: they won’t issue a larger size for any attendant who has put on weight. As a result the flight attendants who do chub up end up letting out their uniforms themselves.
And the cardinal sin for a flight attendant? A VPL. For reasons of elegance and decency, they are checked for visible panty lines before each and every flight. And with those regulation tight skirts, it’s hard not to have one. So much so that many attendants actually fly pantyless. Some wear girdles, some have thongs, but the majority don’t bother with knickers at all. I remember Susan telling me some story about when she was working for another airline, the Cabin Service Director made her bend over and pick something off the floor to check if they could see either her buttocks or the gusset of her pants through the split in her skirt. Sounds like my kind of job.
‘Ah.’ Chris smiles, having finally spotted me at the back of the room. ‘All right mate?’ he nods. ‘Thanks for coming over to talk to us.’
‘That’s fine,’ I say.
‘Do you mind sitting there for a sec? We’ve just a few more bits and pieces to get through. And, I think’ – he mouths this like it’s a bit of a secret – ‘the captain’s on his way.’
‘No, that’s OK,’ I say.
I have no idea what the hell I am going to say to this lot. It’s not as if I ever actually engaged the terrorist in any conversation. Perhaps I should just leave. It’s hardly going to be the most enlightening of chats.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ asks a blonde hostess who I know is called Denise.
‘That would be great,’ I say. ‘Black no sugar.’
‘Strong and black – just like my men.’ She laughs.
‘Yes, quite,’ I say. A couple of the other flight attendants giggle.
‘OK,’ says Chris, clapping his hands, pushing his wedged hair away from his eyes. ‘Concentrate, everyone. I’d just like to go through the passenger information list. Just to make sure everyone is OK about what is going on this flight.’
Everyone sits back down to listen to Chris go through the PIL [Passenger Information List].
‘As you know, we have a terrorist on board,’ he begins. ‘Our duty airport manager will be able to tell you a bit about that later.’ He nods towards me. ‘But before he does I’d just like to tell you about a few of our special-needs passengers. There is a Mr Parsons on board in, um . . .’ He looks down his list. ‘Thirty-four B. Mr Parsons has one leg shorter than the other. He’s had a leg amputation so he needs extra room for his prosthetic. Sally?’
‘Yes, Chris?’
‘We might have to move Mr Parsons. Can you check how mobile he is when he boards and make sure that in the event of an evacuation he is not going to block anyone in? You know we don’t allow the disabled to sit on the end of a row, do we? We don’t want them to put other people in danger. The immobile are put in a window seat, remember?’ Sally nods. ‘For the safety of the other passengers?’ Sally nods again. ‘So make sure Mr Parsons is mobile. If not, you’ll have to move him. I can’t risk that on my watch.’
‘Yes, Chris.’
‘Lorraine,’ Chris continues.
‘Yes?’ A young pretty redhead I haven’t seen before smiles.
‘You’re in first?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, there’s a Mr Andrews in first who is ovolacto sensitive.’
Chris looks at Lorraine. Lorraine stares back, waiting for some sort of clu
e.
‘Ovolacto,’ she repeats, rather slowly.
‘Intolerant to eggs and milk,’ he explains.
‘Right.’
‘Thing is, I’m not sure if it’s a dietary affectation or if he’s actually life-threatening allergic. OK? So pay attention to that. He has got a special meal somewhere, so be sure not to give it to someone else. I’m not sure where he’s sitting as he hasn’t pre-booked his seat. Just watch out,’ he concludes, pointing to each of his own eyes with his index finger.
‘Other than that,’ he continues, ‘we’ve only got one overly large person, a Mrs . . .’ he runs his finger down the list. ‘Mrs Price, who is obese and very embarrassed about her condition. She has booked two seats and we have also ordered up a seat-belt extension so she can fly. But remember not to serve her any meals because she won’t be able to get the tray down, now will she? She is bringing her own onboard food, but remember to be as tactful as possible.’ The crew nod. ‘She’s in economy. She’s over twenty-five stone so you can’t miss her.’
‘Afternoon, everyone.’ The captain walks in behind Chris. He has four stripes on his jacket and scrambled eggs (a brocade) on his cap. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Absolutely, Captain,’ says Chris, stepping quickly to one side. ‘You go right ahead.’
‘Afternoon, everyone,’ he says again. His voice is soft, smooth and terribly reassuring.
‘Afternoon, Captain,’ the crew reply in unison.
Quite a lot of the time captains are not much to write home about. They are technical-minded control freaks who spend most of their lives sitting on their backsides and moaning about mortgages as they fly across the Atlantic. They only get laid so much because they’ve got great uniforms and are in positions of power. This bloke, however, is in a different league. Tanned, toned and in his late thirties, he’s got a jaw like Action Man and a twinkle in his eye. All the hosties sit up straight. A couple of them cross and uncross their legs. Another flicks her hair.
‘My name is Captain Nick Jones,’ he says with a smile, ‘and I shall be taking you all the way down to Sydney.’
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