Chapter 6
Every expense is spared in the Tiny World Airlines’ office.
It isn’t minimalistic out of fashion; it’s bare out of neglect.
The walls are painted white, although I’m sure the owner would have left the plastered walls naked if he thought he could get away with it.
Sixteen grey plastic chairs sit in two circles of eight next to each other for crews to huddle round for a pre-flight briefing.
One laptop connects to an antique printer balanced on a makeshift table: an upside-down waste bin.
The laptop is only capable of printing off the pilots’ route map via a dial-up internet connection.
If it was legal to replace the expensive navigation systems and give the captains a compass and A-Z map instead, Tiny World would make them uniform standard.
I put my crew bag in the corner and Soumia hands me a cup of hot water and milk which has been threatened with a teabag.
‘She’s not even on my flight and she makes me feel nervous,’ Soumia whispers to me, nodding in the direction of Ivy Walsh who is sitting head of a circle of chairs, vape in hand, ignoring the no smoking sign above her.
‘Give over, you’ve got a great crew, you’ll have fun in Boston.’
‘I’m going to have a quiet one and study for my upgrade exam. I might pop to Bath and Body Works. Do you need anything?’
Bath and Body Works are the number one tourist attraction for all long-haul crew.
Forget the Empire State Building in NYC or riding the waves in a whale spotting boat in Boston.
All crew immediately head to stock up on a range of mini hand sanitisers in smells you can only get in the USA. Champagne Candyfloss is my favourite.
‘I’m good thanks babe, I’ll pop out myself if I get bored of the hotel room.’
‘Don’t get bored and raid the mini bar, those prices are crazy.
’ Soumia gives me a hug and makes her way over to her plastic chair.
Her crew are already seated and ready to brief.
Soumia hugs them each in turn with a kiss on both cheeks, a typical crew greeting, then pulls out a box of cup-cakes from her crew bag and offers them out. She’s instantly liked.
I make my way to Ivy Walsh who has balanced a stack of inflight assessment forms on the chair next to her. They act like a red card to any crew member who dares to oppose the rules in her game.
‘If these crew get any younger, they’ll start doing recruitment in nurseries.’ Ivy doesn’t look up at me.
‘There was me thinking you were only twenty-one yourself, Ivy.’
‘No point in trying to sweet talk me. You’re number eight, down the back, I’m keeping the fresh meat at the front with me.’ Ivy takes another puff on her vape. She exhales a scented cloud, not one of the nice smelling ones like bubble-gum or banana, more likely concrete and cement.
Ivy doesn’t need to fly; she doesn’t need to work full stop.
She married the owner of the first airline she worked for and immediately went from a rear galley to a mansion.
Not content on marrying him once, she divorced him and married him again before he then divorced her.
Rumour has it she smoked him out the house.
Down the back suits me just fine. A position known by all crew as the galley bitch.
It will be my job to cook all the meals, set the carts up, oversee the service in economy, keep the toilets clean, then count the takings at the end of the flight, all whilst smiling – which I find the most challenging aspect of the job.
It means I have the least passenger interaction of all the crew – perfect.
The other six members of our crew are huddled together around the kitchenette sink in the corner. I go over and pour my cup of hot water and milk away.
‘You can’t stay hiding over here forever,’ I say to no one in particular.
I return to my seat next to Ivy, the crew follow sheepishly behind me. The most nervous and newest member of the Tiny World team taking the last chair.
Ivy can smell fear. ‘Who are you?’
Ivy points at the crew member whilst keeping her eyes on her paperwork which she balances on a clip board on her knee.
‘I’m Chantelle, it’s my first flight. Well, it’s my first flight here, I used to fly –’
Ivy cuts her off. ‘I didn’t ask for your life story, and what’s that?’
‘It’s my check-in bag.’
Chantelle has broken the first rule of long-haul flying: do not check in a case when you only have 24 hours down route. It pisses everyone off when valuable drinking time is wasted in baggage reclaim.
‘Get rid of it,’ Ivy replies.
‘Come on, I’ll show you where you can put it,’ I say to Chantelle.
I can see she already has tears in her eyes. I put one arm around her and lead her to the computer.
‘Don’t worry, her bark’s worse than her bite.
She’s soft really, but don’t question her and do everything she says, unless it’s to do with safety, which knowing Ivy it won't be. Put your suitcase next to the laptop and put your name and staff number on it so no one thinks it’s a bomb.
’ I pull a piece of paper out the printer and hand it to Chantelle with a pen.
She scribbles down her name and places it on top of her bag which she pushes into the corner next to the bin.
‘Is there anything in your case that you desperately need?’
‘No,’ Chantelle mutters.
‘Make sure you’ve got your blouse for the return flight in your crew bag you take onboard and enough clothes for down route. And babe, take off that necklace before she sees it.’
Chantelle is wearing a necklace which has her name spelled out in gold. It matches her foundation which ends when it meets her jaw line, leaving a pale white neck visible above her uniform scarf.
We re-join the crew and Ivy immediately starts the pre-flight brief. ‘Flight number TW765 MAN-JFK, flight time 7 hours 45. We’ve a full house and no specials. Has everyone got their hi-vis, medicals, passport, IDs, attestations?’
‘Yes.’ A collective response.
‘We’ll continue with the emergency procedures brief. Chantelle, can you tell me what you would do in the event of a decompression?’