Grace and favour
Jeremy Clarke The check-in queue was constrained by portable barriers into one of those snaking, pointless and unexpectedly intimate queues that are all the rage at British airports. Every time I made the 180-degree turn, I found myself once again face to face with these two elderly women. They were short and stout and festooned with gold chains, and one of them had the same kind of striking, deeply lined face that W.H. Auden had in later years. And they both had something unusual about them that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
Finally I checked in my bag and joined the queue for security clearance. Someone touched me on the shoulder. A young, black-haired woman. Was I going to Malaga? I was, I said. She pointed out the two charismatic ladies, now standing just behind me in the security-check queue. They were Spanish, she said. They didn't speak a word of English. Even in a small airport like this, everything was most confusing. She was seeing them off. This was as far as she was allowed to go. Would I mind looking after them from now on and make sure they got on the right plane?
I went through the security-clearance process and waited on the other side for the Spanish ladies to come through. When their turn came they hesitated, unsure of what was expected of them. And perhaps it has never occurred to the security people at Exeter International airport that one or two of their customers might not speak English or know the drill at British airports. 'Coat!' they bellowed impatiently. 'Coat!' Then, 'Shoes! Shoes!'
My Spanish ladies looked at me in bewilderment and despair. I mimed coat and shoe removal and (now the centre of much curiosity) they began humbly to undress. As I watched, I realised what that extra something was I had noticed about them. It was dignity. They'd stood out in a queue of British holidaymakers because they still had it, whereas we've all been thoroughly stripped of ours.
British airports must be a shattering experience if you have dignity. To make amends, I helped them back on with their coats and knelt to guide their feet into their shoes. I argued strenuously on their behalf with the security woman who was all for confiscating their make-up sticks and tubes of moisturising cream. (Oh, they really look like a couple of terrorists, don't they?' The make-up and cream were confiscated.) I carried their bags through into the departure lounge and through passport control and on to the ridiculous bus on which we were to travel the 70 yards to the waiting plane. I held on to them when the driver inflicted a final parting indignity on us by stepping sharply and inexplicably on the brakes after ten yards, sending us all flying to the front. On the plane, I showed them to their allotted seats, stowed their shopping baskets in the overhead locker, then went to find my own seat, which was further to the rear.
Two hours and 12 minutes later, as we skimmed sunlit rooftops on the outskirts of Malaga airport and braced ourselves for touch-down, I heard a shout and looked up. We were perhaps 30 seconds from landing and now here was one of my Spanish ladies — the one who looked like W.H. Auden — wandering unconcernedly up the aisle towards me, heading for the lavatory at the back.
'Sit down!' shrieked both stewardesses from their flip-down seats at the back. 'Sit down!' But on she came, calmly wagging a forefinger at them. When you've got to go, you've got to go. It was magnificent. A big skinhead in front of me commented laconically to his father, who was seated across the aisle, 'Well, that's a first, Dad!'
'Somebody grab her!' shrieked the stewardesses. They were quite hysterical. For grace under pressure — nought out of ten. Nobody obeyed them. On the contrary, passengers settled back to enjoy first the unexpected cowardice of our hitherto insolent stewardesses, who refused to leave the safety of their seats; to be followed by the thrilling prospect of a little old lady going to the lavatory at 200 miles an hour then coming to a sudden stop.
She drew level with my seat. I caught her eye and she beamed recognition. My seat was by the window. The aisle seat was fortunately vacant. I patted it convivially. Gallantly she accepted, if only for a moment. She sat down at the exact moment the plane hit the tarmac. Her mild surprise at the impact and ironic applause suggested she had had no idea that we were landing. I mimed relief by flicking imaginary beads of sweat from my brow. She opened her palms upwards and shrugged, then resumed her journey to the lavatory at the rear of the plane.
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