Home life

Fly in the ointment

Alice Thomas Ellis

High on the list of things a mother would prefer not to know comes the following.

'Hi, Mom.'

`Hello, my darling, how are you?'

`I'm fine, Mom.'

`What have you been doing, darling?'

`Well, the other day I was going to take Crispin and his girlfriend up in an aero- plane. But before I could take passengers, according to regulations I had to take off and land once more. So the control tower said the weather was clear and I took off. Then I looked down and the San Fernando basin had disappeared under a blanket of cloud.'

`Good heavens, my darling.'

`So I radioed for instructions because I wasn't qualified to fly through clouds and they told me to fly to Ontario.'

`You flew to Ontario, my darling?' `That's Ontario California, Mom.'

He had to spend the night in an hotel and as far as I know Crispin and his girlfriend are still hanging about in the hangar. It was only 50 miles he had to go but that's 50 miles flying through the air and I have frightfully little faith in aero- planes. His younger brother set off in one the other day, and after the time specified for the trip I rang up to see if he'd arrived safely. Not a bit of it. His aeroplane had had to turn around in the middle of the Atlantic and come all the way back again. I don't know why — metal fatigue? Engine failure? The pilot had forgotten his packed lunch? Ooh, I hate aeroplanes. I only ever went in one once and I didn't like it. The thing that scans you for concealed weapons at the airport screamed when I stood in it and a hostile-looking lady searched me. We think it was my earrings, but I don't place much faith in a gadget which is incapable of differentiating between a sub- machine gun and a bit of jewellery. Do I look like a terrorist?

The third son and his cousin were once flying across the Channel in an elastic- band-type aeroplane when the cousin, who was driving, was afflicted by a call of nature. The only receptacle handy was a 7-Up can, so the son took the controls while the cousin took time off. Then the slipstream took over and — but I can't bear to think about it.

Even here in the country we are not free of the aeroplane. The RAF practises low- flying — I think to escape radar — and weaving through mountain peaks, and the sound barrier cracks up all over the place. Cows drop their calves, sheep their lambs; and the chickens go off the lay. I would myself. As it is, I leap feet in the air and drop things. When the daughter was smaller she would jump the length of the kitchen from a standing start into the arms of the nearest person, howling with terror. It must have left its mark.

It is significant that the word airport has absolutely none of the glamour of the word seaport. When I hear the word seaport I smell tarry ropes and dead fish, I see vistas of swaying palms and hear breakers roll- ing, I remember sailors toiling at the shrouds (well, almost) and the controlled chaos of the docks. At the word airport I am assailed by a sense of boredom, an image of formica, carpet tiles and peculiar food in plastic trays. For some reason wafting away into the sky is not nearly as exciting as setting out to sea.

My friend Mary's friend Matthew ran out of money in Minorca and planned to spend the night at the airport there, but people came with brushes and mops to clean the lounge where he had arranged himself and then they locked the place up so he had to leave and sleep under a prickly bush. He awoke to find a cat asleep on his chest and a cicada half in his mouth trying to climb down his throat. It wouldn't have happened in a seaport. He could have curled up on a coil of rope or climbed into a lifeboat or stretched himself out on his dunnage. In fact it would have been so interesting that he probably wouldn't have wanted to go to sleep at all.