Writing for Fun
July 2017
Déjà Vu - Anne Wilson
He stretched in his seat, breathing an audible sigh of relief that the other two in the row were still empty and likely to remain so now that the flight to California was nearly due to take off. He was to be left in blissful solitude it seemed. Sadly, fate had other plans and a face suddenly appeared out of nowhere and peered down at him.
‘Do you mind?’ a voice said with an American drawl.
Its owner was a woman of what is sometimes described as ‘a certain age’. He was not sure about the age for qualification, but was confident his would-be companion had reached it some time ago. The tell-tale spots on her hands and the low register of her voice acted as betrayals.
‘Of course not,’ he lied with what he hoped was some conviction. Being British and therefore proud of remaining unfailingly polite in the face of all adversity he refrained from pointing out that other rows behind remained wholly empty.
‘I do like to have some company on a flight, don’t you?’ she gushed as she sat down with a thud in the seat immediately next to him. He felt an irresistible compunction to inform her that, actually he didn’t, but his native reserve got the better of him and he just smiled ambiguously. It was going to be a flight of several hours duration, via New York, and he resigned himself to little respite from the onslaught.
‘Are you on holiday?’ she pried – somewhat ingenuously, given that he was dressed in a smart suit with matching tie and balancing an open brief case crammed with papers on his lap.
‘No’, he replied. ‘I’ve been staying in Boston on business. I’m flying to visit my company’s other branch in California.’
‘I’ve been to visit my daughter,’ she drawled, without the information being elicited. ‘I really don’t like flying, but how else am I to see her?’ She unwrapped a sweet and offered him one. He refused.
‘I suppose you’ve little option then,’ he responded with as much politeness as he could muster.
There was a slight hesitation and then came the question. It was inevitable as night following day.
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said resignedly.
‘I just love your accent,’ she gushed, touching his knee playfully. 'You sound like Prince Charles. Do you know him?’
Never once in his native country had anyone told him that he sounded like the heir to the throne and his personal experience of the royal family had been non-existent, with no possibility of an imminent change.
‘We don’t meet up as often now,’ he remarked drily, but the irony was lost on her.
‘I’ve been to England,’ she told him eagerly. ‘Stayed in London for a week so I know the country well.’
He couldn’t let that one pass.
‘There’s much more to England than just the capital,’ he said carefully, trying not to sound patronising.
‘Oh, I know that,’ she rebuked him. ‘There’s also Stratford Upon Avon’. (She emphasised the ‘Ford’). ‘And Oxford.’ (The University town received a similar stress on its second syllable). ‘We visited both of those and were taken to one of your lovely pubs in the country called ‘The Red Lion’. Have you ever eaten there?’
By now, impatience was overriding good manners.
‘It’s hard to tell without knowing where exactly it was,’ he countered irritably. ‘There are pubs all over England called The Red Lion. Hundreds probably.’ He made a futile attempt to locate one of his business documents, rustling the papers noisily in the process.
She seemed unfazed, although he noticed her manner towards him had stiffened momentarily. She recovered her equilibrium quickly, though and he was soon being treated to lengthy tales about her daughters (one living in Boston and the other locally to her in her home state of California), her not infrequent excursions to the plastic surgeon, but mostly her life-long phobia about flying. Because of that her many trips abroad had been undertaken mainly by ocean liner wherever it was possible to do so and she was a veteran cruiser. He tried shutting his eyes but it did not deter her from the recounting of her life history and so he opened them, nodding every now and again to lend credence to the possibility that he was given her his rapt attention. After thirty minutes of sleep inducing tedium he found himself in the comforting arms of Morpheus without too much difficulty – her conversation all but a distant droning in his ear.
It was difficult to know how much time had elapsed but he awoke suddenly to find his companion jabbing him in the side with a gnarled, beringed finger.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ she hissed. ‘We were talking and then you suddenly went to sleep.’
‘I couldn’t keep my eyes open,’ he said with justified exasperation. ‘I was tired,’ he then added more kindly in explanation, in case she thought he was being rude.
Her face fell.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, touching his arm in what he took to be genuine contrition. ‘It’s just that I was worried about you. I’ve been so grateful for your company, you see. It’s taken my mind off the flying. I hate flying at the best of times but I had a bad dream a few nights ago about this one today and I can’t get it out of this foolish old head.’ She tapped it for emphasis. ‘I know it’s illogical but I can’t help it.’ Guilt washed over him and it was all he could do to resist patting her arm in reassurance. ‘I know all about the statistics,’ she reasoned ‘but it doesn’t help knowing that I’ve got more likelihood of being involved in an automobile accident. It’s this terrible fear I have of being trapped up here and not being able to get out.’
‘That’s very unlikely,’ he said gently. He was softening towards this seemingly vacuous woman who had now ceased prattling and revealed an unexpected vulnerability. ‘Do you want to talk about your dream?’ he asked with a concern that took him by surprise. She shook her head and shuddered.
‘It’s my birthday today,’ she said suddenly brightening up. ‘Pity I couldn’t stay on in Boston but my daughter took me out to celebrate yesterday and gave me a lovely card to take back with me. Guess how old I am?’
His heart sank. He was rarely accurate in these matters and whilst he knew that men generally took it in good part even when he inadvertently estimated them as ten years older, a woman would endlessly analyse a year’s difference and deem it to be an insult of monumental proportions.
He opted for the least line of resistance.
‘Whatever age you are, you’re looking very good on it,’ he flattered without committing himself and this seemed to satisfy her curiosity.
She produced an envelope from her handbag and handed it over to him.
‘From my daughter,’ she said proudly.
He glanced at it, noticing it bore the tell-tale signs of having been opened and then re-opened several times. She was obviously pleased to be able to have palpable affirmation of her daughter’s devotion and must have shown the card to unsuspecting strangers in the airport lounge.
‘She’s misdated it,’ he observed, looking at the handwritten opening instruction in the top left-hand corner.
‘No she hasn’t. That’s today’s date,’ his companion chided.
Realisation dawned on him.
‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘Americans put the month of the year first and then the day of that month. In England we express it the reverse way round. That envelope would read to us as if your birthday is due in several weeks’ time, not 11th September.’
She sighed, as if acknowledging her tolerance of the foibles of the British. ‘To be opened on 9/11 and I did just that. You know, I dreaded the flight today but I feel strangely calm up here now and it’s all your doing. Thank you.’