Fear of flying

Sara hates air travel. Takeoff is delayed. The heat is unbearable. And there's something the staff aren't saying.

Most people don’t want to fly because they are afraid to die. I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of dying in a tin can.

The seats are plastic, hemmed in on each other. Outwardly, I do not seem agitated. I appear pleasantly excited, smiling at people, make a half-hearted attempt at small talk with my neighbour. He does not seem interested and turns from me, donning an eye mask. I look out the tiny window at the grey gravel runway. The sky has clouded over. There might be rain.

We are already late taking off. There is an unspoken whisper of a coming storm, long due after the hot summer we’ve been having. I am wearing a yellow top with spaghetti straps that hardly covers the top of my black bra. I selected this garment this morning in a moment of carefree madness; it looked good in the faint dawn light, but I have been regretting it ever since. It’s hardly salacious, but I’m uncomfortable with showing so much of my chest, which is prickly and angry with heat rash. My skin is plastered with factor 50 even though my freckled nose is already peeling, and my cheeks flushed with heat. Sweat trickles down a loose black strand of tied up hair.

Someone says to the flight attendant, ‘When are we leaving?’

The flight attendant’s face is as smooth as the plastic chair. ‘Just a few more minutes.’

I check my belt again for the hundredth time. It’s on. Not that it’ll matter when we’re plummeting thousands and thousands of feet from the sky. As if a small strap could save me.

The man next to me stirs. ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he says.

I let go of the belt. Is it that obvious?

I look at him, properly this time. He’s middle aged at least, and tall, with legs too long to be comfortable in such a confined space. And yet he seems the picture of relaxation in his white-t shirt and beige shorts, a small pot belly suggesting a life of ease without too much excess. His grey eyes crinkle when he sees me examining him, and I look away, in case he gets the wrong impression.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, chuckling. ‘It’s not like I’ll remember you anyway.’

It’s an insulting remark and yet I’m not offended. In fact, I find the plastic chair becoming softer, cradling my back.

‘I won’t remember you either,’ I reply, only I probably will because my memory has a way of collecting odd, disparate events that have little meaning and letting significant ones like my first kiss slip away.

He smiles then, and a kindness lights his face. Then he replaces the eye mask.

As he does, the back door of the plane opens. I turn in my seat. People in dark uniforms are marching onto the plane and my mouth goes dry. My brain echoes with the one thought people have been pretending not to have on public transport for the last twenty years. There’s a terrorist on board.

The people march down the aisle, until there is one person next to each row of seats. I look at their dark green uniforms and am surprised to see that they look more like nurses than police.

In front of us, the screens used for watching bad films flash into life.

‘Attention. This is an important announcement. Attention.’

People are talking. Someone stands up and tries to move past the standing figures, but they are pushed back into their chair. For the first time, I see they have guns.

‘Attention. Please do not be alarmed. You are about to be injected. Do not struggle. This is for your own safety.’

A woman screams. Suddenly everyone is trying to climb from their seat, pushing their way out of the plane. A shot fires and a man falls dead. It is like a starting pistol. The nurses turn and as one, they start injecting people, one after the other. They fall unconscious in their chairs. A brown haired nurse has already injected my neighbour and is reaching towards me. I feel strangely calm.

‘That’s it,’ the woman says, as everything fades. ‘You’re a good girl.’

*****

I wake in a field. The sun beats down hard on my face and yet I am not burning.

‘Sara!’

I look down at my hands. They are brown from the sun, and warm. My freckles stand out as if they were drawn with brown ink. I turn my hands over and my palms are calloused, hardened from work.

‘Sara, quit daydreaming and help me with the bread.’

I stand up. I feel a little wobbly and yet I can still gasp at that beautiful blue sky, scarcely sullied by a cloud. The green and gold grass rises almost to my knees and seems to extend for miles. Flowers burst into colour around me, and a yellow butterfly floats past my face. I look towards the bellowing speaker and see a woman with her brown hair in a bun, skin flushed from heat. She’s wearing a long dark green dress and white apron.

‘Bless my soul, Sara. Are you a queen with time for lounging?’

Things are coming back after my dream. I’d only gone for a walk to escape the heat of the kitchen and been overcome with terrible tiredness. Poor Judith’s gone red as a beetroot in the summer heat.

Judith, cooling down a little, sighs and holds out her hand. ‘Come on now,’ she says more gently.

We walk together across the field towards the farm, my yellow dress fluttering behind me. Several young men are starting on the hay making, but without much hurry. It’s Midsummer’s Eve, a time of celebration. Tonight we’ll be feasting for Chloe’s wedding.

Soon we’ll feast for my own. My lanky husband to be is older than me, and has his own farm, though that is not why I smile. I smile at how he blushed when he saw me, making his hair seem greyer but his face kinder. I smile at his gentle chuckle of a laugh, the way his grey eyes light when discussing the proper way of treating a wheat field. When we are married, we will warm our house with our gentle, tender love.

As we approach the farmhouse, I hear that gentle chuckle, like a brook babbling under green willow trees. My husband to be is leaning on the wooden fence, wiping his face with a handkerchief. Ever respectful, he bobs his head to greet us.

‘Afternoon Miss Judith, Miss Sara.’

‘Afternoon, Bill.’

He nods. ‘A fine day for a stroll,’ he says, pointing at the rolling hills.

I laugh. Judith grumbles. ‘At least one of us has time for strolling.’

Bill doesn’t join my laughter; in fact, he seems a little nervous. At last he comes to his question.

‘Miss Judith, can you spare your kitchen helper? I wanted to show her the new house.’

Judith humphs, folding her great, muscular arms that could whip up any batter light as air. ‘The wedding feast is at sundown and there’s still all the cakes to do.’

My elation fades. A long dull afternoon of melting butter and sifting flour awaits me. But Bill is not to be perturbed. He says:

‘I could send Jenny down. She’s a dab hand with a pastry.’

Judith pauses, considering. It’s true enough; Bill’s sister’s pastries are the talk of the village. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘But no longer than an hour, you hear?’

And then, uncharacteristically for her serious character, she gives me a sly wink.

Bill opens the gate. I take his arm.

It feels awfully daring, being alone with the man I will spend the rest of my life with. But I suppose I’d better get used to it now. He walks with great strides and while I am a walker, I struggle to keep up.

‘Where are we going? This ain’t the way to the house,’ I tell him.

He stops. I fear he’s about to tell me to stop asking so many questions, but instead he draws me close and kisses me, full on the lips.

For the first time, I begin to burn.

When he finishes kissing me, he takes my arm. Blue cornflowers spring up around us. He lifts his handkerchief to his head, only it’s not a handkerchief at all; it’s a strange cloth with a band round it, like some sort of mask. He dabs his face with it then puts it in his pocket. An odd expression passes over his face, but it’s soon replaced by a smile.

‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you a long while,’ he says. ‘Now let me show you something.’

We run together over the field, hand in hand. All of a sudden, he stops and crouches down.

‘Get on my back, it’s faster that way.’

I laugh loudly. Only children play piggyback. But then I grin and leap on. We charge down the hill, screaming for happiness. Then he skids to a halt.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘Over there.’

I look. There’s the village, the little church we go to on Sundays.

‘No,’ he says, ‘higher.’

I look up higher. Over our heads, a bird soars. Only it’s no ordinary bird. Instead of brown, it’s brilliant white. Its wings don’t flap at all; instead, it glides through the air like a knife through hot butter.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I start to say, but a sudden roar fills the air, cutting me short. I press my hands over my ears, trying to block out the deafening sound, but it seems to be coming from inside my head. It takes a long while to fade, leaving a residual ringing.

We both stand there for a moment, looking at the sky. The sun beats down on us. Despite its warmth, I am shaking

‘What on earth was that?’ I ask at last.

Bill looks up at the vanishing creature with a wistful expression. ‘I don’t know. But it’s a long way from home.’

I stare at the vanishing white dot.

‘I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore,’ says Bill, touching my shoulder.

And all of a sudden, the giddiness in my stomach turns to mush and I cannot breathe.

I fall to my knees on the grass, staining my yellow dress. My chest clenches and air won’t enter my lungs fast enough. My tongue tastes like metal, people are clambering over each other to escape and all I can hear is them screaming.

And then it passes.

The world rights itself. There is the blue sky, the green field, the cornflowers. Only when I look at Bill’s kind face, his grey eyes are full of such sadness that I find myself getting to my feet and squeezing his hand. The black mask is lying on the ground.

‘Just a funny turn, Bill, that’s all,’ I say. ‘No need to look so down.’

‘Oh Sara,’ he says. ‘I thought you might remember…’

And then he shakes his head, and seems dreadfully, dreadfully old.

We turn back and walk, slower now, Bill stopping every now and then to take a breath. The air sizzles, tasting of iron. I feel something on my hands. Cool and hard. Like plastic.

Only, it strikes me as we reach the crest of the hill, that I have no idea what plastic is.

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