Flight School by Vivien Teasdale

 

I never thought I’d go back to school, certainly not at my age (thirty-one and three-quarters as Adrian Mole might have said). That was before I saw the advert, in the airport of all places. “Heathrow Flight School. New term, new start. Apply …”

Returning to my hotel, I thought hard. Flying is something I’ve done a lot of, but somehow, never really felt, well, comfortable with. Oh, I’m competent enough, don’t get me wrong, but there’s always room for improvement and I felt I needed that little extra something.

I’ve known a few people who always seem more confident, more skilful than me. Now it was my turn. Off went my application form and, to my surprise, back came the offer of an interview. Did that mean, I wondered, that I have all the right qualifications to be a top flyer or that I was so hopeless they thought any improvement would make them look good? There was only one way to find out.

But for a start, what should I wear? Should I go for ‘man-about-town, jet-setter look?’, the ‘casual competency image?’ or play safe with old-fashioned formality? There was no one I could ask. My mates would have taken the mickey or wanted to apply too. I didn’t want to be competing with them. And I certainly wasn’t going to discuss that sort of thing with my mother. She’d ask too many questions, give me some very hard-talking answers and send me off, no wiser. That’s the trouble. I always feel wrong – under-dressed or over-dressed.

I finally settled for smart casual: new jeans (no machine-made holes or ragged bottoms, though), white shirt (newly ironed), suit jacket and polished shoes. By the time I reached Heathrow Flight School’s newly painted front door, I felt a complete idiot. What had I been thinking of?

It was too late. Before I even knocked, the door opened and a quite nice-looking receptionist invited me in. ‘Ernest Hunter?’ she asked in a voice that sent tingles down my spine. ‘I’m Scarlett. Do come in.’ The way she tossed back her long, wavy hair – the colour of mahogany in firelight – and gazed at me with those Belgian chocolate eyes, I’d already decided to take the advanced course, not just the beginners.

The interview went better than expected so my only problem was which modules to take. No wonder I’ve been such a low-grade flyer. I had no idea there was much more that could be learned. I began to think that the Government should enforce a P-plate scheme, just like car drivers. From Learner to … Practitioner? Passable? Proficient? No, I thought. I should be aiming at complete Professional.

So it began. I moved from Basic Information; Pre-flight science and service; Take-off - under myriad conditions; Dealing with Turbulence; and Back to Earth. I’ve never worked so hard or had such strict, strait-laced but stimulating teachers. I passed, with flying colours, you could say.

That was ten years ago. The course certainly made me a professional. I can now fly from unpaid hotel bills, bullies twice my size, angry animals, irate fathers – with or without shotguns and weeping women (or men, actually, that was part of the same module). I can fly a room or house, town or country.

But there was a snag. Scarlett was not the receptionist. She was their top instructor and, in fact, proprietor of the school. I know far more than fifty ways to leave your lover … but then so does she. Personally, we don’t fly anymore. We just keep each other on our toes.