Fit For Purpose

by Julian D. Parrott

  Tom had retired from the army exhausted and restless. He felt the need to keep moving, to keep to himself, to be surrounded by quiet and peace. Especially peace. He’d temporarily moved into a narrowboat and, four years later, was still there. Now he was looking forward to collecting his dog from his sister’s farm and getting back to his boat and, if the weather allowed, moving slowly up and down the UK’s labyrinthian canal system.

  Tom looked at the sleet that was now streaming against the terminal’s broad windows. He moved his gaze down to his phone, touched the screen, went to his music, found ELO’s ‘Mr Blue Sky’ notched up the volume, and took a surreptitious look at the woman who had taken ‘his’ seat. Lovely, he mused, I wonder who she is and where she’s going?

  There was an announcement from the gate agents and the flight was called. There was a collective movement, and, as one, the mass of people retrieved bags, corralled kids, and searched pockets for tickets and passports. A crowd formed at the gate while the uncomfortable sorting by class began. First class was summoned and somewhat embarrassed, the actress moved to the gate with ticket and passport in hand. She disliked the term ‘first class’ as she had bridled against class and privilege and entitlement all through her life. Many of her roles reflected her own politics and sense of class — pink and working. Her politics had remained steadfast even as her roles and lifestyle evolved. She was cleared by the ticket agent, hoisted her cabin bags and moved off down the jet bridge without a look back.

  The big Boeing was almost full by the time Tom made his way quickly down the cold jet bridge. He had completely ignored the call for first-class passengers as he was still stuck in the economy class mode. He was greeted at the plane’s door with an obvious additional level of service courtesy and shown to his seat, which was more like a self-contained pod. He smiled at the flight attendant who returned it with something more than the usual fake plastic smiles found on most cabin crew. The first-class cabin was relatively sedate. Most passengers had already stowed their luggage and were all in various stages of settling in: some reading business newspapers, he recognised the pink of the Financial Times; some were sitting back, eyes closed lost in the reveries of whatever music or podcasts they were listening to through complimentary Bose headphones; most, however, were furiously typing on their phones, tablets, or laptops. There was one empty seat, front row, second seat, slightly angled next to the third pod to his right in which sat the woman who had gazumped him for the terminal seat. He quickly glanced at his ticket for his seat assignment. Yup, this was him.

  The actress had just finished arranging her space, champagne flute next to her book on the pod’s small table, magazines piled up next to the microfibre pillow in its hygienic case, when she noticed the flight attendant showing a passenger to the adjacent pod. It was the toddler whisperer. She again gave him a quick, professional appraisal. He was indeed a nice-looking guy, she thought. In her younger days she would have enjoyed the frisson of having a handsome man sitting next to her on a long flight and the possibilities that such a situation conjured. There had been that knee trembler in the toilet on a flight to LA with a Hollywood A-lister, some fifteen years ago. She remembered it, somewhat fondly. He was a terrible actor, but he had been beautiful. But that was then. Time and the bottle, she thought, had not been kind to him. Given her profession she was aware how opportunities changed with age. Her roles had already changed, as they did for all actors.

  She had been the ingénue as a late teen while still in drama school. Casting agents viewed her as lovely, but not beautiful, strong yet vulnerable, and she was often cast as the rebellious daughter, the runaway, or the bad boy’s girlfriend. Through her twenties she was seen as sexy, thoughtful, and deep but lead roles were infrequent. She played anger and indignation and insouciance so well that it made casting directors nervous. Perhaps, too, it was the dark eyes that often looked black on screen, the raven hair, the Welsh accent, the full lips over slightly wonky teeth. She was always the consummate professional and recognised and accepted casting directors’ limitations for she was never short of roles. She weathered a personal and professional wobble and was still enjoying a solid career working on stage, frequently on TV, and occasionally in Brit cinema. There had been a couple of Anglo-American movies in her younger days, but Hollywood had never really come calling. Her disappointment had been short-lived.

  As the actress returned to her novel, Tom settled into the oversized and extraordinarily comfortable chair pod next to hers. The plane’s safety video played to a distracted audience. Almost no one watched; all, Tom presumed, knew how to fasten their seat belts, find the exits, and how to place the dangling oxygen mask over their own faces before helping anyone else with theirs. The first-class steward who introduced herself as the purser, made a quick check of seats belts and electronic items being turned off and then Tom felt the short shunt of the Boeing being pushed back from the gate. He looked to his right to the window. He had travelled extensively, enough to know that there was a ubiquity to airports, but he wondered whether the weather would break enough to allow a view of the city to emerge during take-off and ascent.

  The actress noticed Tom’s stare but then realised he was trying to look out of the window. As she caught his eye, he looked at the first-class pod and mouthed “Wow.” Tom noticed the book she had laid out to read.

  “How’s the book?” he asked with a gentle smile.

  “Not good. Pretty crappy really, one of those trashy beach thrillers with gratuitous violence and bad sex. Not my cup of tea really, but a friend gave it to me as a plane read,” the actress replied diffidently.

  “Aha. I see. What do you normally read?” Tom continued.

  “Well, I’m also actually reading an Iain Banks. It’s a bit heavy, so was taking a little break from it. Thinking of picking it up again, oh, around Iceland.”

  “Ah, good,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I like Iain Banks too, The Bridge is one of my favourite books, brilliant.”

  “I prefer the Wasp Factory,” the actress said somewhat disdainfully.

  Tom was aware of the difficult attitude the woman exuded but he found her intriguing. In a situation like this he would normally smile, put in his air pods, get lost in a book or magazine, and retreat further into himself.

  “I’m Tom, Tom Price,” Tom said, with a ‘damn the torpedoes’ attitude which was unusual for him and he held out his hand.

  “Hi, Tom, I’m Nia,” the actress said a little coolly and just brushed his hand in a facsimile of a shake. She stared up at Tom as he stood to take off his sports jacket and then settled back into the pod. She was anticipating a look of recognition followed by a statement like, “Are you the actress Nia Williams?” or “I loved you in that episode,” or “Has anyone told you that you look like Nia Williams,” or, a little less these days, “Hey Nia, give us a kiss then.” None of these happened. Did he really not recognise her? Shit, she thought, had she aged that much?

  ***

  The Boeing taxied onto Montreal’s main north-south runway. It had been de-iced, but the pilots were still anxious to get the wide-bodied jet into the air as quickly as possible. They knew the troublesome sleet that lashed their windscreens would be no match for the jet’s speed and climb rate. The big Boeing would soon rise above the clipper system that had dropped the temperature along with a nasty stew of hale and sleet. The pilots received the okay from the traffic controller. The captain nodded to the co-pilot and applied pressure to the throttles and the two huge General Electric turbofan engines responded sweetly. The two-hundred-and-fifty-tonne aircraft accelerated down the runway as smoothly as a Ferrari from a traffic light. Its nose wheel appeared to almost levitate off the runway’s surface before the jet leapt into the air.

  Inside the warm cabin Tom felt the plane become airborne and he pushed himself further back into the seat willing the jet to continue its climb. He missed sitting next to a window and attempted to look across the seat pod to his left, but the passenger had closed the
window blind and appeared to be settled in for a nap. He looked to his right, across Nia, who was staring straight ahead with a blank determined look, to her window. He couldn’t see much through the window; different shades of grey and precipitation streaming across the window giving him a sense that they were under water. Then his gaze fell on Nia. Blimey, he thought, she really is lovely. He should travel first class more often. He found her looks and air of insouciance attractive. He continued to steal quick glances in her direction taking in the thick black hair with red highlights that fell past her shoulders, her generous mouth, and as she turned and captured his stare, her slate-dark eyes. Tom smiled reflexively and Nia half smiled back and pushed herself deeper into her seat to afford him a better look through the cabin window. She’s thoughtful as well, Tom recognised, nice.

  It’s going to be a long flight, he thought, may as well try to make some conversation. “Flying home Nia?” he asked.

  “Yup.” She exaggerated her novel reading body language for a moment but then felt rude. She put down her book. “I’ve been working in Montreal and Toronto for a few weeks, what about you?”

  “Over here just for a long weekend really. An old friend was defending his doctorate and having a bit of a bash afterwards.”

  Nia was now intrigued. “Sounds fun. What was the doctorate in?”

  “Strategic studies, something to do with international terrorism,” Tom answered with a bit of feigned ignorance.

  “And what is it that you do?” Nia asked looking into Tom’s face. It was a good face. She noticed his eyes, calm and blue grey, close cut dark hair with some pepper and salt at the temples, a face that was slightly weather burnt, he must work outside she thought. Close up she reconfirmed he had a warm, genuine smile. Yes, she thought, a nice face.

  Tom hesitated, partly because he felt himself being sucked into Nia’s big dark eyes. He tried to think of a colour to describe them and felt ‘brown’ didn’t do them justice.

  “Oh, I do a bit of writing now and then.”

  He noticed Nia’s eyes immediately register suspicion. Why?

  “Oh God,” she began with an obvious eye roll. “You don’t write for newspapers and magazines, do you?”

  “No, not for newspapers but, errrr, I do write the occasional pieces for magazines.” He let the sentence trail off interested in how she’d respond.

  “What magazines?”

  “Um,” he smiled. “Well, would you believe magazines devoted to narrow-boating on British canals and some related touristy things?”

  She stared at him for a moment, he watched light return to her eyes and her eyes crinkle as her full mouth broke into a smile.

  “You’re joking,” she asked, and he noticed more of a Welsh accent creep into her speech. Was she relaxing, getting a bit more comfortable?

  The jet emerged through the pregnant clouds to find its ceiling and cruising speed. The captain turned out the seat belt lights and gave the passengers permission to move about the cabin albeit in a rather discouraging tone. As if by magic, a flight attendant appeared with another tray of champagne and hot, moist towels for the passengers to freshen up with. Tom and Nia both took a towel and a glass. He wiped his forehead and his neck and felt immediately refreshed, more so when he took a long draw on the champagne. He raised his glass in Nia’s direction and was happy to receive a slightly raised glass and a smile in return.

  Nia took a gulp of her champagne. She leant towards him in her pod.

  “Seriously, you write about barges?” she enquired.

  “Yup, I write travelogue pieces about British canals and living aboard rather small boats.” Tom answered with a smile. Then, in an exaggerated pompous plumy voice,

  “Narrowboats to the cognoscente rather than barges.”

  Nia laughed again until she realised, he was serious. Tom noticed how she tipped her head back while she produced a deep throaty laugh. He liked it. He liked her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know, obviously, and anyway I didn’t mean to sound condescending.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not really my career, actually more of a lifestyle thing and helps pay the bills. Well, more like offsets the bills. And, what do you do Nia?” he asked.

  She looked at him quizzically, “I’m an actor.” Then she moved on quickly.

  “Well, you must be doing well,” Nia made a gesture summing up the first-class cabin.

  “I was upgraded,” he said.

  He saw her embarrassment. He had already guessed that class was something she was very aware of. You don’t keep that accent as an actor if it wasn’t a point of pride. He kind of liked that.

  “Have you always been a writer?” she asked quickly.

  Tom paused for a moment before replying, “Errr, no. I don’t actually really think of myself as a writer. It’s still relatively new for me so I’m not really sure what I am. I noodle around a bit enjoying the kind of writing that I do but, now I think I’d like to write a novel… one of those trashy beach thrillers with gratuitous violence and bad sex.”

  They both laughed again, and Nia moved closer to Tom.

  “What did you do before the writing then?” Nia asked.

  “I was in the army,” Tom sighed internally. He was proud of his service, but he’d had these conversations before. Some people responded excitedly, some thanked him, whereas some others withdrew. In the pod next to his, he felt Nia withdraw ever so slightly.

  “How long did you serve?” she asked.

  “Oh, a little under twenty years,” he said.

  “Wow, a lifetime.”

  “Felt like quite a few lifetimes actually,” he said and immediately regretted it. He was trying to be flippant but had opened the door to a room full of uncomfortable histories. He anticipated the follow up, oft-asked question that accompanied the knowledge that someone had served in the armed forces in the past two decades: whether he had killed anyone? He hated the question because he didn’t like the answer. Neither, usually, did the questioner.

  Nia didn’t ask it. She moved a little closer to him in her pod and stared deep into his eyes. She had long ago realised that there was a psychology in understanding a role, embodying a character. You took on that character’s feelings, their joy, their pain, their hopes and fears. In many ways she was a trained empath and she recognised that there was some real pain here. This Tom was a genuinely warm and funny guy, but there was something deeper to his personality. She was intrigued and she didn’t want the conversation to end.

  “Look,” he began hesitatingly, wanting to keep the connection going, “Would you like another drink?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Let’s split a bottle of red.”

  Nia was going to ring for a flight attendant, but Tom unbuckled his seat belt and went in search of the wine.

  Nia smiled. Fuck, she thought. She had vigorously protested the wars, had attended some mass demonstrations, and had marched in protest into Trafalgar Square. She couldn’t understand why anyone wanted to join the army.

  Tom returned with six small, plastic bottles of red wine. He opened the first bottle and poured the wine into their empty flutes. With the first glass the conversation returned to the light banter they had both previously enjoyed. He asked her about her career. She was now comfortable with the genuineness of his not knowing. Seldom did she encounter people who didn’t recognise her, at least vaguely. She wasn’t a marquee name, but she was still well known. For a few years, earlier in her career she, had been more recognisable, famous sometimes for her work, but almost as frequently for her personal life.

  They continued talking as flight attendants passed out menus and then took orders for dinner. Through dinner, Nia talked, and Tom listened intently. At first, she didn’t notice his attention, but as the conversation continued, she reflexively kept checking to see if he was still listening, still connected. He was, and she realised that most of the people she talked to couldn’t wait to interject and move the conversation to focus on themselves.
It was refreshing to feel such a connection and it inspired her to add greater depth to her anecdotes. She watched Tom’s eyes, felt increasingly more comfortable and less guarded. She told personal stories and regaled him with some of her favourite tales from her theatre days as they shared the wine, some laughter, and the occasional close head lean-in conspiratorial conversation. Tom liked her sense of humour and her infectious giggle as it grew into a full laugh. Two Canadian flight attendants who slyly observed them thought them a well-established pairing still deep in the throes of love.

  Nia became aware of the cabin crew and leant closer to Tom, she was tired and a little tipsy now.

  “You’re used to uniforms so what do you think of the cabin crews’ uniform then?”

  Tom glanced up and noticed the two flight attendants. They were both wearing tight purple pencil skirts, white blouses under purple bolero jackets, with small, elegant gold wings over the left breast. Blue scarves rounded off the ensemble.

  “Quite nice really,” he said. Then, with effete pomposity, “Smart, with a hint of a timeless classic style, but the manufactured material, although unquestionably durable, leaves a lot to be desired.”

  Nia looked at him and laughed.

  “I’ve worn lots of uniforms in my time. For some reason I’ve played a helluva lot of coppers,” Nia said. “Some good roles really, but I always feel their uniform makes me look a little… dowdy, matronly even.”

  “Nonsense,” interjected Tom. “I bet you look really lovely. Look at you, you’re so beautiful, you’d rock any uniform.” What the fuck, you blithering idiot, he thought immediately.

  Nia smiled but warily this time, took a gulp of wine and politely excused herself to go to the toilet. It had been a long time since anyone had called her beautiful. It was an odd remark given the context and she wasn’t sure how to take it. She instinctively felt it had been genuine, but she wondered if it was loaded somehow. And, what was with the “you’d rock” remark? She giggled as she looked at the reflection in the mirror. She reached up to her hair and pushed it off her forehead. She took in the fine lines emanating from the corners of her eyes and around her lips, age and all that damn smoking in her youth she thought. Her cheekbones were still fine, and she had always liked how her dark eyes glistened when she was happy or tipsy. Too many of her acting friends had panicked when age began to show, or when scripts were suggested with character parts and not leads. Many resorted to needles and knives, or worse, pills or the bottle. She’d had her moments with pills and bottles and powders but only recreationally.