Leaving

For months we've been forking out for things that didn't seem real;
a hundred pounds for the initial assessment, three hundred for the
medical and a similar amount when Tim's Nissan's alternator gave up the
ghost on the M25 on the way to the medical. Then, at the second
attempt, he'd passed the fourth stage, the flight simulator test, and
he was in! Only three in a hundred make it that far; lots of people
with private pilot licences are rejected for various reasons, but our
kid, the one who drives the airport minibus for a living, had passed
all the stages and was going to New Zealand to train as an airline
pilot!

"It's not the ends of the earth," said Debbie as he began to pack all
manner of things he just might need "out there".

"It is, actually," I corrected

He was flying from Heathrow, via Singapore, along with Darren, another
successful candidate. We'd met Darren's mum, an ordinary lady from
South Wales whose husband had died. Darren's dad would have been so
proud of him, and we thought of our own family members who weren't here
to see Tim's success and follow his progress.

Bloody Heathrow, doesn't anybody realise we've an international airport
four miles down the road here in Manchester? The training company's
based in Southampton, so it's second nature to book everyone from
Heathrow irrespective of where they actually live - all south-east
based companies seem to do it unless you stop them. Tim was technically
still working for the Marriott, so he got us an overnight in a Heathrow
hotel at a staff family concessionary rate. On the way down we lunched
in Banbury, then saw twelve red kites on the M40 between Stokenchurch
and Beaconsfield; we would see one almost in Oxford on the way back, a
beautiful treat in the pale winter sunshine.

We were down way too early, as I hear so many horror stories about the
M25, not to mention the usual snarl-up around Birmingham, but this time
we felt flush and used the M6 toll road, and the M25 was clear. Darren
hadn't taken any chances either, and got to Heathrow about seven hours
before his flight; we dumped our bags and arranged to meet him. The
hotel ran a "courtesy bus" to the terminals for a "nominal charge" of
?3 per head, but the staff revealed that the London Transport buses
would take us to the airport bus station for free if we walked the
fifty yards to the bus stop on the A4. Well, ?3 isn't considered
"nominal" where I come from, fifty yards is no distance at all, even
with luggage, and the red buses ran every few minutes - no
contest.

We sat around making small talk until sometime between seven and eight
o'clock - the flight was at a quarter past ten - then Debbie and I
decided that we ought to go and get some food; we weren't leaving Tim
by himself in the airport, after all. Time for the hard bit - the real
leaving. It was like Sam saying goodbye to Frodo, we were two grown men
in tears, although Tim will be back on leave in August.

"I'm really proud of you," I told Tim, though I could hardly speak,
"but I'd be just as proud of you if you hadn't made it this far." I've
learnt to never make acceptance of your children conditional, and to be
proud of character rather than achievement.

Debbie and I caught the bus back to the A4 and found a pub which served
food and Fuller's London Pride. Soon after nine we were back in the
hotel room; we didn't fancy any of the TV programmes, so we watched the
progress of the departures from Heathrow on the screen. At that time of
night most of the local stuff has finished, and there's just the
eastbound longhauls rising to greet a faraway dawn. The status of the
flights changed from "boarding" through "final call" to "closed" and
then "taxied", confirmed by the well-muffled roar of the departing
aircraft a few hundred yards away. Eventually, at around half-past-ten,
the Singapore flight, one of the last to leave, flicked off the screen.
He was gone.