Girl on a Plane (20 page)

When I wake again, it's that soft time after dawn. Threads of pink clouds lie in lines above the horizon. In the trenches around the plane, old campfires glow red-gray. A long line of camels treads rhythmically on a distant ridge, each step throwing up a puff of sand.

At the front of the plane, Alan has his arm around Rosemary. Is he comforting her? Has something happened? Across the aisle from them, the captain talks earnestly to Jim. Have they heard something?

I watch the Giant pass a piece of paper to the captain, who sits on the arm of a nearby seat to read it. Have they released Leila Khaled? Is it good news? Are we going home? I can't see the captain's expression. He turns to Jim, says something. Jim nods and beckons to the other crew members. They move to huddle around the captain. What are they deciding? Who is going to be shot first? My stomach lurches. I feel so sick. I never really believed this moment would come. But it has.

It really has.

I lean across the aisle. “Something's happening.”

David and Tim crouch up on their seats to look.

“The captain's giving instructions to the crew,” David says.

“What for?” asks Tim.

“Dread to think.”

I feel lightheaded and sit down. I open my table and press my forehead onto it. My whole body is in a revolt of fear. I can feel the nausea rising.

“Do you mean . . . ?” Tim says slowly.

The captain stands up. The crew take their seats.

“Good morning, everyone,” the captain says. “A moment, please. A moment of your time. I have something important to tell you.”

Saliva rushes into my mouth. I am going to be sick. I scrabble to find the bag in the seat pocket.

“Would those people still standing sit down, please?”

There's a great shuffling about; the bald man in front is trying to put something in his overhead locker. We wait while he carefully folds his coat. I want to scream at him to stop, to sit down! Eventually he does.

There's an uncanny stillness. I open the sick bag and turn away toward the window.

“It's good news.” The captain smiles. “We're going home!”

His words are greeted with a great uproar of clapping and whooping. I slump back in my seat, dropping the sick bag. I look over at the boys, stunned. Tim is jumping up and down with his arms in the air. He leaps on David, hugging him. Then he scrambles over, picks up my limp hand, turns it over, and, grinning, quickly kisses the palm. Then he's off to see the twins.

At the front, Celia is hugging Alan, the bald man shakes the captain's hand, the blond girls sob, their arms around each other. Rosemary hugs Sarah and plants a big kiss on the baby's forehead. Behind me, Mr. Newton is slapping everyone he can reach on the back. I look over at David. His smile is a mile wide. He comes over and gives me a long hug.

“How about that?” he says.

I stare at him, speechless, a great sob gripping me. He puts his arms back around me again. “We're going to be OK, Anna. We're going to be OK.” I nod into his chest, and I don't want to pull away.

When the clamor finally dies down, the captain, smiling broadly, continues. “I expect you'd like to know the details. The British government has negotiated with the Palestinians. We don't know everything yet, but I have a letter here from the chief British negotiator, which I believe to be genuine; otherwise, I wouldn't raise your hopes. He says that the plan is for us to leave the plane at about two p.m. today. Minibuses will apparently be sent from Amman to take us back into the city, where we'll be put up overnight, some in hotels; others—​mainly the unaccompanied young people—​will stay with diplomatic families in their homes. Initially the guerrillas refused to accept the decision made by their main commando leadership, the central committee, but in the end an agreement of sorts was reached. We are to be released on humanitarian grounds. The king of Jordan has arranged for a Jordanian Airlines plane to fly us to Cyprus tomorrow morning, where we'll transfer to an RAF flight home. That's all I know at this point.” Relief is written all over his exhausted face. He pauses and looks around the cabin. “I don't have to tell you that the situation is still grave and potentially very volatile. There is much that can happen before we are on our way. We must be calm and polite and not create any tension
at all
between now and two o'clock this afternoon, nothing that will put the plan at risk. I'm sure I can count on your cooperation. When I give the command, we'll need to proceed to the waiting buses quietly. If we behave as we have done so far, we may all leave in one piece. I'll talk to you all again at one forty-five. In the meantime, please speak to a member of the crew if you have any questions, but, remember, none of us has any information about the plan other than what I have just told you. Again, I urge you to remain calm and quiet. No rocking the boat at this critical phase, please.”

Everything is different. The relief inside the plane seems to change the air we breathe. If I didn't know it to be impossible, I'd think the air-conditioning was back on.

But then, as the minutes pass, we become more muted. Because now we have hope, and with that comes a new fear—​the fear of what we might lose. We're so close to actual freedom, but now anything, anything at all, could go wrong.

I don't seem able to calm the turmoil in my exhausted mind. I feel strung out, balancing between relief, elation, and a quiet dread, the dread that someone or something might jeopardize this fragile chance of freedom. What if someone on one of the other planes . . . ?

But I mustn't think about that. There's no point. What matters now is getting
off
this plane, getting as far away as possible from the huge bomb we're sitting in.

I pack my things into my bag very slowly:
Wuthering Heights,
the almost-empty pot of Nivea, my BOAC fan, my badge, Marni's letter . . . and as I do, my anxiety and confusion grow.

I'm going to live. I want to leave. And yet—​and yet leaving the plane, going outside, away from it, feels incredibly dangerous too. We have no idea what's out there, what we're getting into next.

Marni looks down at the plate of food her sister has cooked for her breakfast, at the lacy egg white and the yellow globe of yolk, and her eyes glaze over.

“Come on, Marni,” Diana says gently. “It might be a long day.”

“I know . . . but . . .”

Her sister puts an arm around her and kisses her on the forehead. “You must eat.”

“Yes, it's just . . . I don't know what to say to them anymore,” she says hopelessly. The sound of the television filters in from the living room, where the two boys are watching.

Suddenly Mark shouts out. Marni starts to her feet, but Diana puts a hand on her shoulder. “I'll go,” she says, and marches out of the room. “Now, you two little tinkers, what's going on?”

The egg on Marni's plate congeals. The bacon has rigor mortis. They've been given a phone number to call. She's tried it twice already but hasn't been able to get through. James was so frustrated that he borrowed Di's car this morning and has driven in to the Foreign Office, saying he'll call if he finds out anything new. Marni listens. Was that the phone?

“Marni!” The shout comes from the living room. “Quick!”

She leaps to her feet and dashes to the open doorway.

The news is on.

“They're letting them go!”

Oh my God. They're letting them go.

Marni puts a hand to her temple and slumps against the door frame.

Sam stares at her. “Mum?” He gets up and runs over, puts his arms around her. “Mum?”

She wraps him up and squeezes him tight. “It's OK,” she murmurs. “It's OK, my darling. I'm just happy.” She wipes her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, then smiles down into his eyes. “See?”

He looks hard at her. “Your mouth is,” he says, “but your eyes aren't yet.”

“Will Anna be OK now, Mum?” Mark says from the floor.

“Yes,” Marni says. “She'll be absolutely fine.”

Six dirty white, bullet-scarred minibuses draw up alongside the plane, and everyone is ordered to leave the aircraft. I look at my place, my row of three chairs, my little window, my overhead locker and the fold-down trays. I look at the floor where I've slept. This has been my place, where I've
been,
where I've lived through all this. Where I've hidden, slept, dreamed, laughed, cried.

It pulls me back.

Suddenly I don't want to leave it. If I do, it will be forever.

In a blur, I pick up my bag, file down the aisle, and, as I wait in the line to be helped down the ladder, I look at the line of subdued passengers standing quietly below in the burning sun. They look scruffy, disordered, rumpled. Older. There's little conversation. Even the baby is silent. Hands are tightly held: the Newtons, the blond sisters; Mrs. Green stoops to tie Susan's shoelace.

As soon as I am down too, I look around the aircraft for Jamal and the Giant. There's been no sign of them since the captain's announcement. I'd really like to say goodbye. Instead I see the neat, dark figure of Lady Mac watching from the shadow of the tail. Is that the man with the bomb standing next to her? I turn away to join the line waiting to collect luggage from under the other wing.

Rosemary is in front. She turns and smiles at me. “Isn't this great . . . ?” She stops. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” I give her a wan smile. “Just feel a bit odd.”

She looks relieved. “I know what you mean. We'll all feel a bit odd over the next few weeks. It's going to take time to get back to normal. But imagine, Anna—​a shower! Sleeping in a real bed! Seeing your family.” She turns back to collect her luggage. And of course I know she's right.

I can see the two other planes properly now. Their passengers are milling about under them, collecting their luggage, and there are minibuses parked there too, waiting to take them into Amman.

Tim and David have already collected their cases and have gone on ahead to line up by our minibuses. It takes ages to locate my case, and by the time I do find it, I glimpse Tim climbing into the minibus behind the lead Jeep, which has a large Palestinian flag fluttering from its radio antenna. The minibuses from the other two planes have set off and are already wending their way across the desert, leaving a long trail of dust behind them. I think of the people in them, who were held even longer than us. What must they be feeling like now?

I'm told to board the last minibus in the line and feel a great wave of disappointment at being separated from David and Tim. I climb in and sit in the single seat by the window behind the driver and the guard. The door slams shut, and we move off, flanked by Jeeps with guerrillas I don't recognize. Our driver, wearing his black beret at a jaunty angle, swings the wheel left, then right, struggling to avoid the deep fissures in the hard sand. The guard sitting next to him in the front cradles his rifle on his lap, his headdress obscuring his face.

I stare back at the three planes. They look smaller already, and incredibly isolated in the middle of the empty desert. And, although I'm relieved to be going home, I suddenly feel worried about what will happen to them. Will they fly home one day too?

I lived in that plane for four days, felt safe in it, as well as in terrible danger. And now I don't feel safe at all. I don't really know where I'm going or even if I'll get there alive. I'm just shut in again, but this time with only a dozen people, who I still hardly know. No Rosemary, no Jim, no captain, not even the Newtons or Susan and Mrs. Green. Not even the baby. Just Maria, slumped at the back next to the bald man, both smoking.

The three planes are as small as toys now. And when we drive down a slope into a wadi, a dry river channel, they vanish from view—​and I feel bereft.

The temperature rises inside the van, so I slide my window open to let some air in, but it's blisteringly hot outside too. I'm desperately thirsty. Our last water ration was hours ago. I run my finger around the tin of Nivea and rub the very last smear of cream into my dry lips.

While we lurch and bounce over the dry earth and water-smoothed stones that form the bed of the wadi, I imagine the river as it once was, millions of years ago, with giraffes, zebras, hippos, and elephants grazing. Suddenly, I see two black tanks hunched ahead on the horizon and feel a jolt of adrenaline. Are they friendly? Will they fire at us? Am I going to die now, here, after all?

There's muttering among the passengers, and then everyone falls quiet. As we get closer, I see the huge tire tracks and the gun turrets, and figures leaning against the great creatures' flanks. Closer still, and I see they're drinking from metal cups and smoking. As we pass by, turning left through a gap in a barbed-wire fence onto a rough gravel road, the soldiers raise their cups as if toasting us.

Every so often, in between long stretches of road, we have to stop at PFLP roadblocks. The driver shows his papers and sometimes exchanges news and information. The PFLP seems to control this side of Amman, and the road is littered with burning tires and rocks, debris from barricades and from fighting. I can hear bursts of gunfire, faintly to begin with, then worryingly close. We pass several low buildings that have been reduced to rubble. Farther off I see a twisted plume of thick black smoke rising into the air. And I begin to wonder if we'll ever make it into the center of Amman, or escape home before the country explodes into civil war. And if it does, then what? What will happen to us?

At the next roadblock a line of brown and gold camels walks past with their heads outstretched, ignoring the revving Jeeps, the minibuses, and the intermittent gunfire, just treading the desert as they have always done.