Air Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘What’s her problem?’ I ask Gareth as we stand in the aisle together.

  ‘She knows she is in the wrong,’ he shrugs. ‘So she came out fighting.’

  ‘Do you believe the drugs thing?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ says Gareth. ‘For a start, people on Ecstasy are usually quite pleasant.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Gareth and I are joined in the aisle by a hassled-looking Craig, who rushes towards us from economy.

  ‘Whatever it is, Craig, I don’t want to hear it,’ I say, about to put my hands to my ears.

  ‘It doesn’t concern you anyway,’ says Craig. ‘They have a loaves and fishes problem with breakfast in economy,’ he says to Gareth. ‘They are about ten short.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘I know,’ says Craig. ‘Angela is cooking the scrambled eggs at the moment. We are trying to thin it out with milk but we can only find the powdered stuff.’

  ‘Right,’ says Gareth. ‘Let’s go.’

  Craig and Gareth go back down to economy to start halving sausages and dividing up hash browns, trying to make breakfast stretch for the whole of economy. It’s not unusual for the catering company to serve us short. Sometimes we are to blame for not counting in the meals properly, and sometimes I think they are just pulling a fast one. Short-serving one plane doesn’t make that much of a difference, but if you do it to a fleet for a week, think of all the money you could save. With any luck half the people passed out at the back won’t actually fancy tucking into some par-cooked bacon and watered-down egg. It is, after all, only half past one in the morning. Most of them will want to carry on sleeping as much as possible before we touch down in Dubai.

  ‘Off for the morning glory run,’ says Loraine with a smile as she leaves the galley and makes her way up to the front.

  One of the perks of serving breakfast for your average flight attendant is a bird’s eye view of some of the male passengers’ morning erections, often visible through their blankets or standing to attention in their trousers. This is usually Craig’s favourite game, to go down the plane just before they get the trolleys out and point out the really large ones to the girls. Today, however, it seems that the food crisis has distracted him. Craig also says that there is one steward who always gets ‘dawn horn’ and has to have a wank in the loo before he goes out with the breakfasts. I wonder if it’s Tom. He disappeared into the club-class toilet about five minutes ago and has yet to re-emerge.

  ‘You all right there?’ I ask Andy, who is looking a little rough around the edges to say the least.

  ‘I’m a bit shagged.’ He yawns, stretching his hands above his head, one still holding a drink. ‘I’m waiting for Tom to come out of the loo, and then I should be all right.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘He’s got quite a few things to keep you awake, if you want anything.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Also,’ continues Andy, ‘there’s a stash waiting for us at the hotel. Room two forty, or something like that. He knows where it is anyway.’

  I have to say that I am not at all shocked. Crew smuggling drugs is common enough, especially for personal consumption. There are secret stashes of coke and hash in hotel rooms all over the world. One lot takes them out, takes what they can and tapes the rest to the U bend of the hotel toilets, leaving it behind for a later date or for another visiting crew. It’s relatively easy as no-one would suspect a band of hosties of carrying contraband, and they don’t really go through Customs anyway.

  Sometimes things are taken a little further. There’s the story of the captain who was caught with half a million pounds’ worth of heroin on him; the hostess in prison in the Middle East for four years, caught with a small amount of smack in the elastic of her shoes. There were also the girls who were smuggling heroin out of Thailand, Hong Kong and Bali. Their wheelie bags were full of the stuff, which had a street value of some £15m. They were nice middle-class girls devoid of problems, but they were earning something like £20,000 a drop, so you could kind of see the appeal. But the most audacious has to be the South America-Miami cocaine route where the caterers were lining the food trolleys with coke and the hosties were taking the trolleys off at the other end. Eventually the ring was busted, and now all food trolleys are weighed before and after they land and take off at the South American airport.

  Tom comes out of the front right-hand toilet. His eyes are bright and his face alert. He comes past and squats down next to Andy.

  ‘All right?’ he asks me.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I say, looking the other way.

  The last thing I want to do is witness the drug swap or even watch the gauche way they will try to pass the drugs from one to the other, thinking they are being subtle. Fortunately for all of us, Edith pops her head around the galley and announces in a quiet airline-crew-only voice that she has made some scones if I would care to join her up front. Belinda, she also shares, has been moved up to the first-class galley where Loraine can keep an eye on her to make sure that she doesn’t get into any more trouble. So while Tom and Andy fumble about trying to look like they are up to nothing, I get up and join Rachel and Sue in the galley for some delicious homemade scones.

  ‘Mmm, Edith, these look amazing,’ I say as I lean against the lockers buttering a scone.

  ‘I try to make them every trip,’ she says. ‘They make me feel better.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ says Sue, breaking a small amount off with her fingers. ‘Rachel and I have made flapjacks a couple of times, haven’t we?’

  ‘Well, you did,’ says Rachel, squatting next to Sue on a silver box. ‘I just eat them all.’

  ‘It does make all the difference on a long flight if you can have something homemade,’ says Sue.

  ‘I find it grounding,’ says Edith.

  ‘Well, I think they’re delicious.’

  I lean across to pick up what looks like a pot of tea.

  ‘Don’t!’ says Edith, putting her hand out to try to stop me.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  I pour out a bright orange drink that bears no resemblance to tea whatsoever. In fact, it stinks of alcohol.

  ‘It’s . . .’ She stops.

  ‘Not tea,’ I say, helpfully.

  ‘No. It’s punch.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Is it any good?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she replies. ‘Tom made it. He always makes it. Every flight he is on, he rustles up a punch and leaves it hanging around for any member of the crew.’

  ‘Jesus!’ says Sue, taking a sniff. ‘It smells lethal. What’s in it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Edith. ‘Tia Maria, vodka, orange juice, Cointreau. I don’t know exactly. Everyone comes in and has a hit now and again.’

  ‘Let’s have a bit,’ says Rachel, handing out a teacup.

  ‘Don’t tell Gareth,’ says Edith, pouring Rachel a cup.

  ‘I’m sure he knows already,’ I suggest.

  ‘He thinks we are drinking orange juice,’ she says.

  ‘Course he does.’ I smile.

  ‘It’s certainly strong,’ inhales Rachel. ‘How many have you had?’ she asks Edith.

  ‘Two or three.’

  ‘Slugs?’ asks Rachel.

  ‘No, cups.’

  ‘I’m amazed you can stand.’

  ‘It helps me get through.’

  We all sit in silence for a few seconds, everyone aware of Edith’s situation. And Edith is aware that everyone else is aware. Sue and Rachel shift uncomfortably on the silver box.

  ‘So, how’s Lizzie?’ asks Sue, trying to clear the air and change the subject at the same time.

  ‘She’s broken her ankle,’ replies Edith.

  ‘No!’ says Sue, eating some more scone. ‘How?’

  ‘She was on a tea tray and went slap bang into one of the toilets at the back of the plane. Really painful it was, poor thing. It took a while for her to think of a story for the insurance, but I think the company believed her.’

  ‘Like h
ell they did,’ I smile.

  Tea-traying is a popular cabin pastime. Let a crew loose in an empty plane and it’s the first thing they’ll do to entertain themselves. Just before take-off a couple of hosties or stewards will grab a tray each and place themselves at the top of each of the aisles; then, as the plane takes off, they will sit on the trays and push themselves off, racing one another to the end of the plane. Then they will attempt to scale the aisle again, currently at about forty-five degrees, in order to repeat the process all over again. It’s rather like tobogganing indoors, and accidents, as you can imagine, are common. Slamming into a toilet door or a row of seats is a surefire way to break your ankle. The worst accident I have heard of was when a crew was taking a forty-year-old decommissioned and stripped-out 747 that wasn’t even fit for the haj or Lourdes over to RAF Lyneham so that it could be cut up for Coke cans. It was devoid of passengers and seats and light on fuel so when it took off, it tore off the tarmac like a bullet. There were two guys tea-traying inside and one of them broke his leg in three places as he was sent flying into the back wall. He came up with the lamest explanation – that he’d fallen out of the plane after it had landed – but everyone knew what had really happened.

  ‘How long’s she off work for?’ asks Sue.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Edith. ‘Six weeks or something?’ She pauses. ‘Talking of which, does anyone know what Gareth is doing? I should start getting the breakfasts out quite soon.’

  ‘They’ve got a loaves and fishes problem at the back,’ says Sue.

  ‘Oh,’ says Edith. ‘Who’s going to help me get the club breakfasts out?’

  ‘Shall I go and get Craig and Gareth?’ I ask.

  ‘Would you?’ she says, her white face looking all the more pallid. ‘Otherwise I’ve no idea how I’ll cope.’

  2–3 AM

  BEFORE I CAN get anywhere near my white charger, Gareth and Craig make their way up the aisle to help Edith with the breakfasts. The loaves and fishes routine has apparently worked in economy and all those who wanted half a hash brown with some tepid bacon and a spoonful of milk-powdered-down scrambled egg have had their fill. So I sit back down in my seat and await some orange juice, coffee and a warm croissant.

  ‘Are you going to have some breakfast?’ I ask Andy as he comes back from the toilet.

  ‘Jesus, no,’ he replies, the idea of solids clearly making him gag. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a sharpener?’ he offers, a clenched fist extended. ‘It’ll banish all thoughts of breakfast.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Please yourself. I’ve got to go down the back to give this to Tom. Do you want to come?’ he asks, as if it’s the best invitation going. There’s a clatter of plates and cutlery from the galley. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘before we get blocked in here.’ He sees me hesitate. ‘Honestly. Remember all the puke they cleaned up earlier? The last thing you need coming from that kitchen is a hot coffee and a roll.’

  I have to say that the puke thing clinches it, as does a waft of something disgusting coming from the colostomy man. It’s a while since anyone has been down the cabin spraying some Poison.

  ‘OK,’ I say, thinking that what I really want is my bed and a warm duvet. But as I am here I may as well join in.

  As Andy and I walk towards the galley in economy, we can hear a strange sort of banging going on, as if someone is hitting something against a hard surface.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  Andy just smiles.

  We pull back the curtain and find about six flight attendants sitting around on silver boxes slamming what look like small tequila shots on the floor. Behind them, pushed into a corner and currently being ignored by all of them, is a large black plastic bag in the shape of a curled-up corpse.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ says Tom as he looks up from the floor. His eyes are slightly rheumy. ‘Landing drinks,’ he declares. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘You’re a bit premature,’ I say, trying to sound jovial. ‘Doesn’t the captain at least wait until the plane touches down?’

  ‘Times change.’ He grins.

  Actually, indeed they do, because in the good old days when the flight deck was open to all and there wasn’t a pistol locked in a box at the front, the captain and the first officer used to be given a nice cool beer or a gin and tonic after they landed. Just as they were circling above the airport, the chief hostie would be cracking open the ice and serving the nuts so that as soon as the chocks were on the captain could have something to take the edge off his long day. But now that they are breath- and drug-tested, such civilized perks are no more. Equally, the crew used to pocket a load of miniatures and finish up what was left over before the wheels hit the tarmac. However, slammers before the duty free has gone out is a new one on me.

  ‘Budge up,’ says Andy to Angela, who is sitting on a silver box.

  ‘Take it,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to do the duty-free trolley.’

  As Andy sits down, Angela starts rootling around in the cupboards above his head, looking for her perfume samplers. As the most junior member of the crew it is her job to carry the samplers on and off the plane. She also gets to take them home with her, for safekeeping. This is not a popular job. It is a bore and a pain, and the samples themselves are surprisingly heavy.

  ‘You look a little light on samples there,’ says Tom.

  ‘What?’ says Angela, looking down at him as she rearranges her trolley. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You’re just looking a little low.’ He grins.

  ‘Well, the Poison has gone, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of selling them on?’ she asks.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first, love,’ he says. ‘Or indeed the last.’

  Tom’s right. Juniors are always flogging on their samples at car boot sales or to friends and pocketing the cash. It’s one of the first things they learn when they join the airline. They then ring up the perfume companies and ask for more. It’s not exactly rocket science. But then there are the clever duty-free scams. For example, I would be quite careful if you were thinking of buying a watch off a duty-free trolley, particularly if it is expensive and designer: another old trick is to replace the real Gucci watch that the passenger gets to touch and feel before purchase with a fake picked up in Thailand. Flight attendants have been known to replace whole trolleys with a load of fakes and quietly pocket the difference.

  Despite all the cons and fakes, cabin crew do actually make money off the duty-free trolley anyway. The person pushing the trolley gets 5 per cent on all goods sold, and per cent is shared with the rest of the crew. Some attendants can take the whole thing very seriously indeed, dressing up their trolleys with toys and tinsel at Christmas and spraying dashes of perfume ahead of them like someone out of a department store. On some flights, such as Lagos and Moscow, you can make quite a lot off the trolley, pocketing up to £400 a trip. If you’re on £18K a year, that goes some way towards helping you clear the £30K target you’re after.

  ‘Well, maybe just a few bottles have gone walkabout,’ admits Angela, finally. ‘But it has nothing to do with me. I’ve only just qualified.’

  ‘Aha,’ says Tom. ‘Good point. How about you, Katie?’ he asks, looking across at the other quiet-looking mousey girl putting together a trolley on the other side.

  ‘I’ve got the full complement,’ she replies.

  ‘Course you have, love.’ He grins. ‘Haven’t we all?’

  As the girls set off down the aisles to try to flog a few old teddy bears, some silver tie pins and the odd bottle of Anais Anais to the sleeping passengers, Tom gets out the tequila.

  ‘One more shot each?’ he asks. ‘It is Andy’s birthday after all.’

  He and Andy line up another four shots for the two of them and the two other girls remaining in the galley.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing your boyfriend?’ one of them asks the other.

  ‘Oh, don’t
tell me you have an MMD here in Dubai,’ says Tom, his shot poised by his lips.

  ‘A what?’ asks Andy.

  ‘A “My Mohammed is Different”,’ he says.

  ‘But he is,’ wails the girl.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Tom, exuding sarcasm as he downs his shot. ‘He treats you “right and proper”, not like the other guys.’

  ‘He really is different,’ she insists.

  ‘Bev banging on about her MMD?’ asks Craig, as he pops in behind the curtain.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Tom. ‘There’s no changing her record.’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, green,’ agrees Tom.

  ‘Tom’s just the sort of man who is dying to settle down and go steady,’ says Craig, leaning forward, trying to get his hands on some tequila.

  ‘Rather like you,’ says the other hostie. She looks sour and hurt, definitely like one of his downroute conquests.

  ‘I haven’t heard you complaining,’ Craig replies tartly.

  ‘Children, children,’ says Tom.

  ‘I’m going,’ she says. ‘It’s suddenly a whole lot less entertaining in here.’

  ‘Good,’ says Craig. ‘It is a bit of a squash in here, especially with that fucking corpse.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Andy, recoiling his legs and looking over in the corner for the first time. ‘I didn’t see that was there. When did that happen?’

  ‘While you were asleep, mate,’ says Tom.

  Craig squats down on the floor and starts to talk Andy step by step through the heart attack he didn’t witness. He adds and embellishes as he goes along, making the whole thing all the more dramatic and disgusting. I lean against the galley wall, thinking about going back up to club and talking to Susan.

  ‘Did you hear that Dee was got for prostitution last week?’ Craig suddenly announces.

  Bev chokes on her tequila in total shock. ‘What, our Dee?’

  ‘Yup,’ says Craig. ‘Apparently she was working out of a hotel in Bangkok on her stopovers, slipping the concierge ten per cent. He was organizing all her bookings and she spent her weekends flat on her back supplementing her income.’