Chapter 20

My Dad dropped me off at the short-term car park at Manchester Airport, so that I could check in while he took the bulk of my luggage to the freight terminal to check that in for its flight to Vancouver. United would hold it there until we arrived, the following week.

We’d signed a six-month lease on a five bedroomed house close to the coast on Grey Point Road in Kitsilano in the southern part of Vancouver, with a view to buying it if we were happy with it. It was currently fully furnished, and we’d agreed to buy the contents for eight thousand dollars if we decided to buy the house. The arrangement was that I’d ring the agent as soon as we arrived at Vancouver Airport and someone would meet us there.

The queue at the first-class desk was short and it wasn’t long before I had my boarding card slipped inside my passport.

I wandered back over to the entrance to wait for my Dad arriving with the waybills for my other luggage. I’d had to buy hard cases for my two guitars and my practice amplifier, I also had three suitcases full of clothes and my PlayStation and a tea chest full of miscellaneous items including PS games, some CDs and DVDs. Just like I had in LA I’d buy any other electronics I wanted over there.

He arrived and handed me the envelope with the paperwork in it, which I put in my hand luggage, we hugged.

“Look after yourself son,” he said, “and we’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Yes, see you then Dad,” I replied.

The whole family were flying out for Christmas and New Year. One thing that had surprised me as a fall out from the problem with Cal, her mother had decided against withdrawing her from Chetham’s. Firstly, on the grounds that with her greatest dream shattered, she may not have any incentive to do well at school, and secondly, because I’d suggested it. She had promised in her letter to me to stop doing things on impulse and start considering consequences. I’d suggested that going back there and putting that into practice, especially with respect to the ‘Sisterhood’ would give her a chance to prove to her mother that she really had changed.

I strolled over to the first-class lounge, showed my ticket at the door and got myself a coffee. As usual it was full of business types who looked askance at a teenager dressed in jeans, trainers and a t-shirt carrying a rucksack invading their territory. As I walked across to a seat by the huge windows overlooking the aircraft waiting to load and the runway, I raised my cup in salute to any I caught looking my way.

It was a little after six pm, so, by my reckoning it would be about an hour and a half before they called my flight, so after I took my seat, as far away from the sometimes hostile glare of my fellow passengers, I pulled out my book and started to read.

At seven-twenty I was gently shaken awake by the lounge receptionist.

“Mr Barker,” she said quietly, “they’re calling your flight.”

“Thank you,” I replied as I shook my head to clear the sleep from my brain.

I stood up, gathered my possessions and headed for the door. Thankfully, the gate was less than two minutes walking time from the lounge, and as a first-class passenger, I was allowed onto the plane first. I got myself settled into my window seat and settled down to enjoy, as best I could, seven hours of boredom.

I’d been sat there for about five minutes when the seat beside me was suddenly occupied. The man was enormous, easily six foot eight tall, and I guessed about thirty-eight stone in weight. I swear I felt the cabin floor shift as he flopped down into his seat. I’d hate to have been sat next to him in cattle class.

We took off ten minutes late, but that was just because of the take-off queue. By the time we were flying over the Isle of Man the seat belt light was off and I stood up and made for the toilet.

When I got back, my neighbour had moved over and taken my window seat.

I stood in the aisle, quietly, waiting for him to move back. When he hadn’t after a couple of minutes, I coughed quietly.

He looked up.

“Sit down,” he commanded, “you’re making me nervous.”

“I can’t,” I replied, “you’re sat in my seat.”

He indicated his seat by jerking his head towards it.

“That one’s free,” he said.

“No it’s not, that’s yours,” I replied.

“Well, don’t worry about that,” he said, “I’m not using it any more, now, sit down like a good little boy or I’ll call the attendant and tell her you’re bothering me.”

I reached up and pressed the attendant call button above his head.

“There, I’ve saved you the trouble,” I said.

This being first class a flight attendant was there in seconds.

“Yes, Mr Barker,” she said, “how may I help?”

“This gentleman,” I placed emphasis on the gentleman, “has taken my seat while I was in the toilet. Given that I paid extra to pre-choose which seat I occupied, I’d be grateful if you’d ask him to give it back.”

“Certainly,” she said, before turning to Mr Big, “I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to vacate that seat.”

“No,” he said, “not going to happen. I asked for a window seat when I checked in and wasn’t given one. I’m not giving it up now I’ve gotten one.”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m going to have to insist,” she said softly.

“Then you’re going to be disappointed,” he said, “you can’t possibly ask me to move for a child.”

She turned to me, “I’m sorry about this sir,” she said, “it will take me a few moments to sort out, I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared towards the back of the plane and, a couple of minutes later, returned followed by a man in a suit that, well was all over him like a cheap suit. The flight attendant pointed him in our direction, which interested the six other passengers in the cabin.

“What’s the problem here?” he asked when he reached us.

“Who are you?” the man asked him.

“I’m a Federal Air Marshall,” the newcomer replied, showing his badge, “I repeat, what’s the problem here?”

“This man took my seat while I was in the toilet, and refuses to give it back,” I said, “I paid to pre-book that seat, and quite frankly I didn’t like his attitude.”

“Can I see your boarding card sir?” he asked me holding his hand out.

I reached across the interloper and fished my passport out of the magazine holder on the wall beside him. I handed it and the boarding pass stub to him.

He checked it, confirmed the seat number then turned to Mr Big.

“And yours, sir, if you please,” he said.

“What for,” the other demanded.

“Because I asked you nicely,” the Marshall replied, “but if you’d rather I can arrest you, cuff you and then go through your pockets myself.”

He fidgeted around in his pockets and found his boarding card stub, handing it to the Marshal.

“This is a coach class ticket, sir,” he said, “this is not valid in this compartment.”

“The cabin crew upgraded me,” the man insisted.

“No, sir, the cabin crew allowed you to occupy an empty seat up here because you would be more comfortable and for safety in case of an emergency landing,” the Marshal replied, “and you have caused disruption, so I must ask you to go back and take a seat in coach.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll arrest you and you’ll get a seat at the back near the toilets,” the Marshal said, “now move before I arrest you.”

He stood up. Glared at me and stormed off, threatening to sue the airline.

“Sorry about that, Sir,” the Marshall said, “thankfully it doesn’t happen often.”

I smiled, thanked him and sat back down, in my own seat and, fortunately, the rest of the flight was unremarkable.

When, two hours after we touched down, I finally got through customs and immigration, I was greeted by a very enthusiastic Sandy and her mother.

Sandy managed to avoid braining me with her forearm cast and I was pleased to see her walking with the aid of crutches, she was certainly very generous with the kisses. It may only have been just midnight here in New Jersey, but my body was still five hours ahead of that, so I was soon wishing for a little more restraint.

It was after one when we finally got back to Hoboken, and half past when Sandy and I finally fell into bed. I’m not sure what nefarious plans for my body that Sandy had, but I was far too tired to notice.

I noticed when I woke up though, I woke up to the warm moist feeling of my American girlfriend sucking me into life and offering me the opportunity to return the favour.

“Nice way to wake up,” I said, when we lay together, cuddled up afterwards.

“I know a nicer one,” she said, which I’ll show you when I get rid of all this extraneous material. She waved an arm pot in the air.

I laughed, pulled her closer and kissed her.

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you too,” she replied, “so when do we set off for Vancouver?”

“We have to be there for the start of production on the sixth,” I replied, “so any time before then.”

“Ok then,” she said, “David?”

“Yes?” I answered.

“Could Mom come with us?” she asked.

“If she wants to, of course she can,” I replied.

“I was thinking she could come as our housekeeper,” she said.

“Whatever you two want, but what about her playing in the band?” I asked.

“The bar they played regularly in is closing,” she explained.

“Well then, why don’t you talk it over with her, we could pay her a salary, so long as it’s not ridiculous,” I said.

“You’d do that?” she asked.

“Of course if she’s doing the job then she deserves to get paid,” I replied, “and besides if she’s on the payroll she’s covered on the company travel insurance.”

She kissed me softly.

“You’re a good man, David James Barker,” she said, “and I love you.”

I kissed her back.

“And I love you Sandra Dunham,” I told her, “now come on let’s get dressed and go talk to your Mum about Vancouver.”

We did that, and Maria accepted the offer gladly, saying that she was looking forward to exploring the music scene up there.

“Who knows,” she said, “maybe I could get a paying gig.”

“This is a paying gig,” I told her, “we’ll pay you whatever the going rate for a live-in housekeeper is.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, “just house me and feed me, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“And what about your rent here?” I asked, “you’ll need this place to come back to in six months.”

That one stumped her; I don’t think she’d considered that.