46 “i’ll build a stairway to paradise”

Fry was waiting for us at the aerodrome. He looked like he was off to explore the Arctic—huge boots, thick wool trousers, leather jacket with fur collar, woolen cap, and huge goggles. He made the rest of us, in our city suits and little suitcases, look like refugees or gullible tourists. He handed each of us an oddly shaped metal bucket.

“Unless you’ve weathered a storm in a dinghy, you will find the seasickness on your first flight unbearable. Be sick into this.”

“Why is there a tube? Wouldn’t an open bucket be more useful?” Maisie was always so practical.

“If you’re feeling sick, it’s because the aeroplane is bouncing around too much. No point vomiting into a bucket for the sick to bounce out and slop all over you. Be sick down the tube. Don’t miss or you’ll wear it.” The rickety metal stairs, the hard bench seats, and the exposed metal frame of the aeroplane did nothing to expel the tension created by Fry’s statement. Nothing could expel that except the view.

Is there anything more spectacular than your first time in an aeroplane?

When the possibility entered my head that I would need to go to Italy, I knew immediately that I would take Tom and Bertie and Maisie. But I had imagined a leisurely train trip south, changing at the border, ordering hot drinks and biscuits from the tea-lady, my head on Tom’s shoulder as we gazed out the window, or whispering to Maisie about life and love while Tom and Bertie were asleep. Not for one second did I imagine gripping a vomit bucket, my suitcase clenched between my feet, as we put our lives in the hands of a man who had recently got stitches to his head.

We submitted to the terrifying takeoff, where the whole machine rattled like a bomb had exploded and Fry cursed so loudly and continuously that what he thought of the aeroplane and its makers could be clearly heard over the roar of the engines. But after this, I forgot to be scared, or practical, or even to care that Fry could be woozy with concussion. I was absorbed by the transcendent beauty outside the window. The lights of Paris as we left the city behind us. The moon on top of the clouds. I had never thought I would see the other side of clouds or the endless star-bright sky above them. All the constellations were visible in the velvety night. Maisie took a quick look, smiled wanly, before curling up and willing herself unconscious as I’d seen her do many times before. Bertie cradled his little bucket like a long-lost lover, his face pale and sweaty. But Tom, iron-tum Tom, had his face as close to the freezing glass as he could go. We couldn’t speak, the engines were too noisy. We didn’t need to. Tom held my hand tightly as we stared out our separate windows, occasionally pointing out this star group, or that cloud, as we flew by.

We were flying into sunrise and saw the sun start to lighten the sky. The ground came back in sight, a quilt of green and brown with threads of black road and blue river. The Alps appeared in all their splendor to our left. We flew through the gray, pink, gold, orange, and finally blue of the new day. Silver cities rose from the ground, beetled with cars. Tom actually laughed with joy. It was magical.

We saw the aerodrome below us. I was aware of a tiny thank-you that rose up, to Fox, for these hours of wonder. But any gratitude I might have had for Fox vanished with the descent into landing. We were dice shaken by a furious hand, we were dumped by a wave, we were an eagle shot from the sky. I even checked to see if Fry had lost control of the aeroplane, but he turned and gave me the thumbs-up. Tom made the “he’s crazy” sign at his head and I had to agree with him. The landing strip rushed up to us and I wanted to scream, but we bumped and thumped across it and the aeroplane came to a stop without crashing or catching fire. I could see signs in Italian by the side of the landing strip.

We were in Rome.