Luck of the Draw?

Jean Currie

'One?' the airline desk attendant asked in the tone that suggested she suspected I had a flight bag crammed with hijackers.

'Yes,' I said quietly, anxious not to give offence. 'An aisle seat if possible.'

I have had all kinds of travelling companions. Those who are sure there must be something wrong with me because I am alone; those who feel I must need to have my lonely hours enlivened with the story of their lives from the moment of conception; and those who snore in an alcoholic stupor, jerk and twitch, and knock a half-full glass into my lap. I settled myself into F4, took out my book and awaited events.

Something I took to be a flight bag was pushed into my line of vision. I looked up and smiled to show I hadn't taken the huff. F5 didn't smile back. She was facing the other way, bending to stow something under the seat in front, filling my air space with two balloon-like red bulges. The lady in red sat down, or, to be more accurate, she sank, overflowing into F4, oozing under the armrest and surging over the top like a tidal wave.

Bending towards me, F5 asked if I had visited Canada before. Without waiting for a reply, she confided that she had flown ever so many times. This time was special. Her granddaughter's wedding and she'd got a new hat. Not a new dress, because she had this purple one she'd always liked. She'd put on a pound or two since she'd bought it, but she was sure it'd be all right.

She leaned further over to peer into my face for re-assurance. I nodded and tried to back off but there was nowhere to go. She'd worn the purple dress last year for her grandson's birthday party, and the time before, not sure what for, but nobody would remember, not with the new hat. It was red - she liked red, nearly as much as she liked purple - and had black cherries, pink flowers and green leaves around the brim.

She bent to get something from her flight bag and I thought (hoped) confidences were at an end.

She came up like a whale from the depths, a soft drinks can in her hand. She passed it to her invisible husband to pull the ring tab, took it back and gulped down half the contents. She smacked her lips with the sound of a wet fish slapped onto the counter ready for filleting and prodded my arm.

Her daughter and son-in-law - she couldn't stand him - had emigrated nearly thirty years ago and she and Cyril had visited them ever so many times. His parents couldn't afford.

She bent so close she was almost kissing me. I couldn't escape. I was already hanging so far into the aisle that I was in danger of being run down by the drinks trolley.

Her daughter worked so she watched 'The Young and The Restless,' 'The World Turns' and 'The Bold and The Beautiful'. She loved the Soaps. She didn't bother with "Dallas" and "Dynasty". Well, they were repeats and she'd watched them at home. Sometimes she dozed and wasn't sure which she was watching. They were all the same, the wrong man fathering the baby. Not like 'Coronation Street'. Vera could be the woman next door, couldn't she?

She couldn't understand what her daughter had ever seen in him. She'd tried to tell her before the wedding, but would she listen? And it wasn't as if she had to get married. And why on earth she'd agreed to emigrate - Well, it meant she was stuck with him, didn't it? Nowhere to go if she left him. It wasn't like being in the same street. She couldn't come home to mother.

Every other sentence was punctuated by a slurp from the can until it was empty, when another was brought up from the depths. I marvelled at her capacity.

Before she launched into the story of her daughter's Ruby Wedding next year and told me whether the purple dress would be aired again, I decided to take a walk. Maybe in my absence she would remember her husband and I should be allowed at least half of F4.

When I returned, she leaned over to whisper that she wouldn't dare visit the toilet. She knew she would be locked in. Thinking that she suffered from claustrophobia and anxious about her liquid intake, I offered to stand outside and rebuff all comers so that she need not fasten the door.

I should have left her husband to cope with his wife's phobias. For the rest of the flight I heard no more of the unloved son-in-law or the much loved Soaps. She prodded my arm until it was bruised: "Isn't it small? I couldn't turn round. I was sure I'd never get out. I didn't know how to open the door."

I gave up telling her that the door had not been closed. I stuffed a tissue in each ear and pretended to sleep. Between slurps she nudged me to tell me she couldn't turn round ...

I never saw F6, never saw the film, never read my book. It was less her bloated body that overwhelmed me than her deluging personality. I felt mentally as well as physically bruised and it made me wonder how the seats were allocated. Perhaps that attendant on the airline desk was having a bad day and made me suffer for daring to make a request.

Perhaps when she was in a better mood she selected as neighbours those who would fall in love on sight? Perhaps she used the pin method? Or was it all done by computer, just the luck of the draw?