The view down there was so familiar. A thousand miles below, vague, distant, but as keenly familiar as a long-lost friend. Still, the green of it, the absolute greenness of it, was a constant surprise. Of course, it made sense. The green made complete sense. Not quite a tropical island, but an island, nonetheless. A tiny, lush, and living landmass, earthy and green, thrust from the depths of water, water everywhere, slipping through streams, puddling into marshes, pouring down rivers, and all of it quenching the land into this greenery. A grid of sequin green. An ancient and chartered map. Hunter-green fields and lemon-green squares, forest green farms and parsley acres: each square carefully cultivated, naturally hydrated, coolly lit under perma-grey sun. Oh, the familiarity warmed him, warmed his innards like a long sip of brandy. God, he loved it, this ridiculously green island. It was a marvel, really – that he loved it so much. So strange to love this island’s dirt and fields and trees as if they belonged to him. That he could look down on a mass of land as if returning home.
Despite having tried several times over the course of the eleven-hour flight, and each time in vain, James again attempted to push up the beige window blind. But the blind wouldn’t budge any further than three-quarters of the way up the small, oval window. They can make metal fly above the clouds, but making a window-blind that opened appropriately was a step too far. Resigned, James pressed his face against the thick glass (or was it plastic? Some special glass or plastic that could withstand the heady powers of the sky), and did his best, under the circumstances, to revel in the view below.
The lady in the next seat cleared her throat: a signal that she was about to make some disturbance. Thus, she set to scratching around in the bag between her feet. She’d been a good flying companion in all. Just after dinner, when James had apologised for needing to pop to the facilities, she’d pushed her knees to the side and leaned her pink-jacketed back well into the seat. And, in the dark, stuffy hours, when he’d put on the light to read and the spotlight had beamed upon her dozing face, she’d politely smiled through sleepy lids. In fact, now he thought about it, there had been no noise from her the entire flight, despite their confinement, perhaps because of their proximal intimacy (mind you, there had been that disconcerting gargle-snore around three am).
They’d introduced themselves, naturally. She was Jocelyn. Jocelyn from Northamptonshire. He’d told her he was James, James from Suffolk. Lovely part of the world, she’d said, to which he’d agreed. She’d added that she’d been visiting her son in Cape Town. How nice, he’d said, and, feeling the pressure of reciprocation, explained that he’d been over there to see a girl he once knew. A reunion with an old friend from school, he’d quickly clarified. She’d nodded, considered asking more, and decided against it. So, they’d gone back to sipping tea from plastic cups.
He looked out the window; Jocelyn having located her glasses and phone. A girl he once knew. True. An old friend from school. Not true. He felt bad about having lied. It had been easier, though. And, expected. Appropriate, even. Polite small talk prompted lies. There had been another, too. What do you do for a living, she’d asked. I manage a restaurant, he’d lied. When he thought about Maggie, it was always the same image that came. Her in that big straw hat. She was on the beach, the white sand vast and shining in the background. In one of her hands was a bottle of cider, the other wiped a stray strand of long red hair from her freckle-tanned face. She’d smiled. It was the smile she always gave him when he took a photo: a kind of stoic upturning in the left corner of her lips. Just take it already, she’d said. And he had.
J March 