ON THE PLANE • by Prue King

“We apologise for the bumps, everyone. We’re trying to climb up above it but the turbulence might last a little longer so we’re keeping the seat belts signs on for the moment,” announced the pilot.

Beth leant forward, peering out the window to check the wings weren’t on fire and trying to kid herself that the bumps were just potholes in the sky and that the aircraft was juddering over them to a smoother passage.

She couldn’t rely on the breathing exercises she’d practised. The empty seat beside her gave her space but she was sure that the sedative she’d taken in the boarding lounge must have been a placebo. She longed for a knockout drop.

Sometimes moving in her seat helped her helplessness; a way of moving her body to counteract the floating feeling of being suspended powerlessly in the atmosphere.

The cabin crew chatted away as they served drinks and snacks, trolleys stable in the aisle. The chap in the aisle seat asked for red wine and seemed happy watching a film. Another bump. Feeling woozy, Beth exhaled and pushed the call button.

“Is everything all right?” asked the attendant. “Can I get you something?”

“Sorry, I’m not very comfortable flying and the turbulence is, is, it’s making me really uncomfortable.”

“Can you find the sick bag in the seat pocket?”

“No, I’m not going to vomit. It’s silly but I just get really frightened.”

The man two seats along watched her intently.

“Would it help if you had someone to talk to?” he asked. “I’m not really keen on this film.” The attendant looked relieved and said she’d get a drink of water.

Beth lifted the armrest and was into the adjoining seat in a flash.

“What takes you to Sydney?” the man asked, lowering his tray table for the water.

“It’s a family gathering. Everyone’s coming from all over the world and I only have to cross the ditch and I’m still a mess,” she said. “My name’s Beth. I’m sorry to interrupt your viewing.”

“It’s okay. I was spending more time looking at the lovely ladies on the screen in front, if I’m truthful.” They shook hands and she didn’t let go. “I’m Joe, Joe Wright. I’m not really doing that,” he grinned, “how long are you going to Australia for?”

“Just a fortnight,” she said. “Long enough to join in the celebrations and meet more ghastly cousins. But I’m hoping to escape to some of the local golf courses while I’m there.”

The plane inched its way across the flight map, closer now to the east coast of New South Wales than to New Zealand. The turbulence started to ease along with Beth’s anxiety. They chatted about golf and families and where they’d lived and where they’d worked until the seat belt signs came on and the copilot announced they were descending.

Beth always enjoyed coming in to land — not only was the ordeal almost over but she could make out the signs of people going about their day. Normal people on normal ground. She looked out at the sprawl of houses, red roofs packed together so not even a tree had space to grow.

They taxied into the dock.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” said Joe.

“I’m really sorry,” said Beth. “Was I that bad?”

“Well, I suppose I’ll get the feeling back in my hand at some point. You were seizing it so tight it was cramping up before.”

She grimaced. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “But really, I just hate coming into land.”


A former journalist who’s lived in six countries, Prue King’s published poetry, most recently in London Grip, kokako and Fast Fibres; also short stories, a parenting book and stage plays. She lives in the luxuriant far north of New Zealand with a head full of words.


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Every Day Fiction