‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have they called us?’
‘No.’
‘Why are we moving?’
‘Skeet, we need to be able to see the departures screen or we’ll miss it!’
The three of us move to new seats and sit glued to the screen, silently awaiting updates.
‘Have you got the tickets?’
‘Yep, in my pocket.’
‘What flight are we again?’
‘Jetstar.’
‘But what flight?’
‘JQ812.’
‘What gate’s that?’
‘Up there on the screen, Dad. It says “Gate 18”.’
‘Are we boarding?’
‘No, up there on the screen, Dad, it says “Boarding soon”.’
An announcement is made on the sound system for a Qantas flight to Brisbane.
‘Is that us?’ Dad asks in panic, instinctively reaching for his bag.
‘No, we’re Jetstar.’
Then, three minutes later, an announcement is made for a Virgin flight to Perth.
‘Was that us?’ he asks, and again he has picked up his bags before I have had time to answer.
‘No, we’re Jetstar. And we’re not going to Perth.’
It seems that removing one’s ageing parents from their everyday routine is so highly stressful for them (and therefore you), you wonder why they (and you) agree to it. It’s as though they’re mortally petrified of things beyond their control – public transport timetables, a security guard’s decision to frisk, the location of watering facilities (both in and out). Even something that isn’t entirely foreign, like ordering a wine on the plane, will evoke such trauma that our parents will become reliant on us. You feel like you’re the only thing keeping them from instantly disintegrating. Without you, they’ll be treated as lost or abandoned, prompting an internal announcement for the responsible party to come collect them from the Manager’s Office.
Judy is wearing a floral blouse, three-quarter-length denim pants, a hefty gold elephant bracelet and strap-up K-mart sandals; Peter is wearing khaki shorts, a striped collared t-shirt and overly cumbersome therapeutic walking shoes.
Okay, so maybe I’m not blameless in all of this. I’ve always been a slightly nervous flyer but, aside from that, getting to, and through, an airport remains exciting. I’d receive my itinerary, memorise it, then prove to myself that I was such a relaxed traveller that I wouldn’t need to double check any of the details, ever.
Armed with this easy-breezy travel philosophy, I once waltzed into San Francisco International Airport without a worry in the world. The check-in counter was eerily quiet but that would make my experience even more enjoyable.
‘Um, sir, your flight left two hours ago.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask the uniform-wearing gentleman. He laughs in response. ‘Did it have to leave early?’ I press, ready to complain and ask for a complimentary upgrade to First Class as compensation for the inconvenience.
‘No, Mister Alexander, it left at the correct time.’
Thankfully, as it was a business trip, I was not only travelling that class but also on a fully flexible ticket and, after waiting eight hours in the disappointingly non-luxurious lounge, I got on the next flight home.
Being a one-off little blunder, the exception that proves the rule, what happened in San Francisco did nothing to deter my happy-go-lucky way to fly. Millie was in town and we were taking her to Brisbane to meet Charlie and Lucy for the first time, travelling with Jude and Pete. We all met at our apartment in inner Sydney and sat around drinking tea and chatting, filling in time before we were due at the airport.
‘Aren’t we running late?’ Jeff asked.
I gave him a Pete look. ‘This is my trip, I’ve organised the whole thing, and getting two biddies and a deaf low blood sugar weak bladdered fogey to comply with my instructions is difficult enough. I don’t need you here second-guessing me too.’
We needed to take two taxis so, before splitting up, I double checked the tickets to ensure we all met at the same place. I casually pulled Jeff aside. ‘So,’ I started, in a whisper. ‘You were right. I’ve gotten the times wrong. We’ve missed our flight. But don’t worry. Let’s just get to the airport and I’ll go to the counter and arrange for us to be on the next flight and no one need be any the wiser. Please don’t tell anyone.’
‘How much is all that going to cost?’
‘Jeff, please! Just this once you need to overlook the cost.’
We got to the airport with everyone oblivious and I made some paltry excuse to go to the counter. I explained my predicament. The woman behind the counter did some unnecessarily loud and rapid smashing of computer keys. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there is only one single seat left on any flight to Brisbane today.’
Very briefly (okay, I deliberated for a good couple of minutes if truth be told), I considered taking that ticket and informing Jeff he had to drive my parents and his mum to Brisbane and I’d just meet them there.
‘Is there nothing you can do for me?’ I pleaded. It sounded pathetic, even to me.
