Green Room And Plastic Ukelele...
Green Room and Plastic Ukulele…
by Peter Hunter
'Watch where you’re going, mate.’ More a rebuke than a warning - the taxi driver’s shout - a mere irritancy at having to slow down a fraction - a slight affront to the man’s pride - not a serious road safety hazard. But in his urgency to get out of his way he misjudged my step over the eighteen inches of water flowing along the side of the road, grey slush melting beneath tyres on the road and feet on the pavement.
He cursed his soaked shoes as another huge splash covered his lower legs from another careless town driver…
How different three hours had made. Waking early, in the blackness of a morning anticipating the first glimmer of dawn - until the rising glow revealed a soft crisp, six inches of snow - a 'gift' of the skies caress during its long hours of darkness.
Breakfast - before a slow four-wheel drive up the hill to the lane, carefully avoiding a slip into the embracing stone sidewalls. Concentration needed - as the car crunched through the virgin white for five hundred yards until it reached the main road, already cleared by early traffic going to Salisbury.
Now Hilton - his thoughts distant from crossing the busy West London road - were eight seconds from writing off an aircraft, maybe himself with it, on a fine June day, one and a half years back in a clear blue sky - far from the darkening January around him. He shivered drawing his lapels close together as a gentle dusting of sleet heralded a shower - it would at least, freshen the air.
Rod Hilton entered the studio with mixed emotions - devoid of the enthusiasm most would experience when about to appear on television. The approach had been casual - a friend of a friend; ‘Do you want to be on The Box?’
Recognising surprise on Hilton’s face…
‘Something ‘bout people who survived air crashes…’
Sceptical Hilton felt concern - not usually a regular viewer - despairing of endless repeats - predictable plots or implausible stories. He loathed the media, seeing only a drug pandering to popular fantasies - except to many it wasn't fantasy - the silly buggers often believed the characters were real…
The receptionist directed Hilton to the Green Room - his mind still recalling clearly the events of that day a year ago... It began innocently enough - warm and sunny, a postfrontal high-pressure area gifting crystal clarity to southern England - clear blue punctuated with white cumulous clouds.
It was rare for it to be so clear - as if he could see for ever…
Boringly facing another routine day - he had sat, feet on desk - gazing wistfully at he sky.
It wasn't a day for the stuffy office - he had really wanted to fly…
Now over a year later - that wasn't what TV wanted him for - not his flying - they wanted to know about crashing…
Many wanted to appear - whatever cost in loss of dignity or respect. Hilton supposed his presence, poring a coffee in the Green Room - could be seen by some an achievement - so what? Already, he regretted coming here. He felt it a game not really of his choosing.
Coffee, warming his numb fingers, he was ushered from the small waiting area to the studio, joining other guests patiently waiting the proceedings. The others, a curious mixture - anxious, devoid of spontaneous excitement - not knowing what to expect. Huddled, seeking warmth after their cold journeys, expectantly seeking, hoping for an ephemeral fame of sorts.
Hilton remembered that long ago June day too well - Sue his PA, sensing his frustration, had suggested; ‘you aren't really doing anything important today, why don’t you skive off and fly your ‘plane?’
His thoughts exactly - without hesitation he had driven to the small airfield in Elstree where he parked his two seat aircraft.
Memories flooding back, sipping his coffee, he absorbed the studio scene. The thirty or forty others were self-absorbed rather than chatting. Mostly couples, obviously many were traumatised, some scarred or disfigured, others with limbs missing or disabled. Their body language suggested scarring, not physically but mentally - many not at terms with experiences or happenings.
With that June day vivid again - Hilton recalled what happened - it was intended to be routine, landing at Booker, west of London, drink tea, eat a bun in the little airfield restaurant, then continue to Sandown on the Isle of Wight for more tea…
Easy, routine…
Things done many times before…
The girl sitting next to him looked normal, blond, about thirty, smartly dressed and alert.
‘Hi…’ Hilton was determined to be friendly ‘…my name’s Rod.’
‘Terri,’ she replied ‘…nice to meet you.’
Hilton’s crash had come suddenly, unexpectedly as they usually do. Engine stopping dramatically a mere 150 feet above ground when on his final approach to land. Nowhere else to go - unable to reach the runway he was faced with two choices for the eight seconds of flying that remained, either crash into a market garden, a wood or crash-land into ripe wheat.
He couldn't reach the airfield…
Neither was attractive but the field was flat, wheat should be softer than bricks or wood.
Terri was speaking…
‘… a stewardess for them… landed short of the runway, the ‘plane broke in two… Forty killed in the front half - I was up-back and walked unhurt out of the wreckage…’
‘Although I wasn't hurt I've never flown since - never again…’
Hilton saw young lady with a clipboard working round the various guests - questioning them. Dark, probably south Asian in origin, she wore heavy horn rimmed glasses.
Obviously a researcher…
‘They’re sorting out the ones to speak to on the show...’ said Terri.
‘Doesn’t every-one speak?’ asked Hilton.
‘No - we are too many.’ she replied. 'Most are just audience - making up the numbers - a few called by the presenter.'
Remembering his training, Hilton had gently banked the Beagle Pup descending towards the field. He wasn't prepared for the noise - deafening, aluminium rending and tearing, the ‘plane somersaulted on its nose, destroying itself into a heap of crumbling metal. Stopping instantly, from the drag of ripe wheat - breaking off the nose wheel, propeller spearing the soft earth, turning the machine over.
Terri was talking to another youngster - one with part of her left leg missing, replaced by a prosthetic limb.
‘Most of us just being used?’ he commented.
‘We're all used…’ she replied ‘…fodder for the God Television…’
Silently into the Green Room, he returned with more coffees. The studio now becoming cloying and stuffy - air condition prematurely switched off in preparation for the show.
Hilton cynically believed the microphones around the room were still live - researchers listening to the audience’s private conversations - ammunition for the presenters later…
The impact had almost flattened the airplane, reduced headroom almost crushing him. A smell of leaking fuel had alarmed him; despite switching off everything he'd been worried about fire. With the safety harness an impediment, he managed to wriggle sideways and kick the door wider, leaving the cockpit…
In the eight seconds remaining, Hilton 'may-dayed' the control tower… struggling to free himself from all-enveloping wheat he spotted the approaching Landrover crash wagon. He resembled a blood caked seal emerging from a golden sea of wheat…
In the ambulance the cheery nurse remarket; ‘Don’t usually get a live one from Booker…’
Of his check-up in casualty - Hilton remembered two things - no cup of tea and being made to promise not to drive for three days in case of concussion - the young doctor said nothing about flying! It was a contrast from his last time in hospital - blasted in the back by Bellingham after murdering his friend Mike…
‘Thanks…’ Terri took the cup, surveying the shabby studio ‘… bet important guests get real coffee from the Green Room…’
Hilton wondered if Bellingham was still inside - whether his sentenced had been commuted.
He recalled that hospital visit - the doctor carefully extracting the shot one by one from his back - fortunately they'd not penetrated too deeply thanks to his leather jacket.
In the studio, the researcher questioned a young man - his expressionless shiny, patched face struggling to conceal emotion, the cruel pain he was obviously reliving as she made notes the presenter needed for a punchy interview.
Hilton was back flying one hour after he left casualty - but with a safety pilot hired from flying club.
It was his way of getting back on the horse…
‘Are you OK Rod?’ One of his employees - Dave, had driven to the airfield to collect his boss. ‘Where'go? Home or office?’
Hilton gradually remembered… but it had not been that significant - not after it had happened… but now?
At least it was dry and warm in the studio - outside the sky would be drifting into early evening - lowering cloud, fading light - perhaps more snow and freezing temperature. He thought of the journey home - would the snow have thickened in the Wiltshire countryside - were the roads were still passable? Perhaps he should not have interrupted his winter holiday for the dubious attraction of appearing on TV?
The researcher was closer now… Hilton mentally prepared to tell the story he assumed they wanted to hear.
‘Hello Rod - I’m Anjum.’ was the girl’s over-familiar greeting. - in the studio Miss Horn-rim had finally to around to notes from Hilton .
She took little interest in the details - only that he hadn't been seriously hurt - just his pride. She was not even interested that Dave had taken him back to the office - where he paraded his blood-soaked shirt bandaged - just another trophy - mere street-cred before his young staff.
But Anjum wasn't interested - not in a survivor - so high on his own adrenalin, finding it so exciting he would repeat it for thrills if someone paid enough…
They were only interested in broken and traumatised - wanting gibbering wrecks - emotionally, physically scarred - freaks for their gawping viewers… Hilton, she pronounced, was welcome as part of the audience - but he wouldn't be called. Hilton could not avoid thinking of those real heroes; the war wounded back in Wiltshire - injured and mutilated serving their country - not some self-pitying unfortunate traveller.
Real heroes were not as welcome as the freaks…
Anger surged…
He thought of the foul weather - driving all these miles only to be dismissed and offered to participate in the audience...
It had seemed more important...
As a final, probably futile gesture, he turned to the woman called Anjum; ‘In Victorian times - people paid to visit asylums and laugh at the unfortunate inmates. Now you, your kind provide the freak show - and millions watch it…’
Almost in tears… 'Can’t, won’t be part of it …won’t play your sick games… like a requiem to stupidity played on a thousand plastic ukuleles…’
The researcher watched as Rod saying no more - walked from the Green Room - into the comparatively clean fresh air, the sleet and grey slush of West London…
She could not understand why anyone would pass a chance to appear on TV…
End
© Peter Hunter 2011
