The Delay
Seat belts were fastened and we were ready to go when the captain announced our departure would be delayed. She explained that a group of Japanese tourists were held up in immigration, but that their luggage had already been loaded into the hold. She assured us the delay would only be a matter of a few minutes.
I turned to my neighbour who was gazing at his wrist watch, an ostentatiously expensive Breitling, as if doing so might speed things up. ‘Let’s hope she’s right,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, still gazing at his watch, ‘I’ve an important meeting to get to. I’m a stickler for punctuality. Being late will be highly embarrassing.’
He looked distinguished, dressed in a tailored white shirt, a tie and gold cufflinks. His trousers were well pressed and his black shoes highly polished. He had removed his jacket and a hostess had carefully hung it in a nearby wardrobe. From his demeanour, and the fact that he was travelling first class, I guessed he might be someone distinguished; a high flyer, perhaps a captain of industry. I suspected he might be wondering what I was doing in first class.
Ten minutes passed. Behind us we could hear passengers talking on their phones explaining the delay. My neighbour was now reading the Financial Times, but kept glancing at his wrist watch, looking increasingly agitated. ‘This,’ he said, addressing no one in particular, ‘is absurd. Totally unacceptable.’
I decided to remain silent, not wishing to risk fuelling his agitation. A further five minutes passed.
The captain made another announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. When I last spoke to you I had been assured that the Japanese party were due to board in a matter of minutes. It has now become apparent that I was misinformed. I have therefore decided to unload their luggage and leave without them. Apologies again for this unavoidable delay.’
‘Unavoidable be damned!’ my neighbour snapped. ‘What she really means is that she made the wrong decision in the first place.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s rather harsh. In the light of the information she’d been given, her decision to wait for them to clear immigration was surely the correct one.’
‘Nonsense! She should have double checked and not been lulled into making a decision based on duff information. Rubbish in, rubbish out.’
Whilst I was weighing up whether it was worth continuing my plaintive attempts to defend the captain, we heard noises underneath our feet as baggage handlers located the luggage belonging to the absent Japanese party. I glanced out of my window and saw some suitcases bouncing down a conveyor belt.
‘Progress,’ I said, ‘their luggage is being offloaded.’
‘About time too,’ my companion grudgingly conceded.
As soon as he’d spoken, a few Japanese appeared and wandered down the aisle, looking disoriented, some peering at the illuminated seat numbers through thick lensed spectacles. Stewardesses rushed to help them locate their seats and stow their hand luggage in the overhead lockers.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ my companion said. ‘Why are they letting them board when their luggage is in the process of being offloaded? This is an absolute cockup!’
No sooner had he spoken than the captain made another announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the passengers who were delayed have now been cleared by immigration and have started to board. I have therefore decided to reverse my previous decision. We will depart as soon as everyone is seated and the luggage has been reloaded in the hold. My apologies again for the regrettable delay.’
‘Well, at least she’s no longer claiming the delay was unavoidable,’ grumbled my companion.
I drew a deep breath. ‘I still maintain our captain is blameless. The problem has been the incorrect information she’s been given.’
‘I beg to differ, sir. I shall put in a complaint and blame her for mishandling the whole situation.’ He returned to reading his newspaper as if to say, ‘and that’s the end of the matter.’
The Japanese—I counted thirteen of them—were eventually seated behind us and we taxied out to the runway, waited our turn, and took off. I looked at my watch. We had been delayed an hour. It was exactly when we should have been landing in Manchester.
As we climbed through clouds, there was a sudden jolt and the engine noise altered. The plane lost height and we banked to the left.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ it was the captain’s voice again. ‘I’m sorry to say we’ve hit some birds. This is most unusual, but we need to return to Heathrow. I can assure you everything is under control. Unfortunately we need to jettison some fuel before we can land. Please remain seated and keep your seat belts fastened.’
‘Damn it!’ exclaimed my neighbour. ‘This flight is doomed, doomed! My chauffeur should have driven me.’
I turned to him. ‘May I ask you a question? When you decided to fly to Manchester, rather than be driven, I presume you expected the flight to take an hour?’
‘Of course. As scheduled.’
‘But in the event, you’ll admit you made the wrong decision?’
‘Too right. It’s been a total shambles!’
‘So who would you say was to blame?’ I asked.
‘No one. I couldn’t have predicted how things would turn out.’
‘Precisely. Just like our captain.’
My neighbour turned and glared at me. Then he quietly hissed, ‘you supercilious pratt!’
I smiled, feeling absurdly triumphant, knowing I’d done my best to defend my daughter’s decision making.
