Plane Talking

Take Off

"You can open your eyes now."

So George Harrison did open his eyes; a lifelong, almost Pavlovian and more or less unconscious reaction. He usually did what John suggested. Or, at least, he usually trusted him enough to be able to do what he suggested. In day to day conscious life George might often resist John's commands or suggestions, at least for as long as it took to weigh them up and search for mockery, piss take or simple lack of judgement. But, emerging from the fog of combined acute fear and dragging exhaustion, he just reacted, and opened his eyes.

He hadn't known John was sitting next to him, hadn't felt him land there. So he blinked at him quizzically.

"And you can get this down you." John was offering a glass of what looked like and probably was rum and coke; George saw that John had one too.

"But you'll have to let go of the arm rest if you want to take it."

He looked down at his own right hand, and saw that the knuckles were still white as he gripped the arm rest. He forced himself to smile as he forced himself to let go, and he reached out for the drink. "Ta." With an almost steady hand, he took a sip, and then a large gulp.

"You ever going to get over this?"

George flicked a dark brown glance over at his friend. "Maybe when you do."

John acknowledged the retort with a flick of his eyebrows, and raised his own glass in an unspoken 'touché'. It was widely accepted that George was the Beatle with the deepest phobia of flying, but also that John was not a million miles behind him.

The two young men sat in comfortable silence for a while, while the plane climbed towards its thirty three thousand feet and while they polished off their first glass of anaesthetic. John, with his clear view from his aisle seat, waved at someone, and second glasses were brought promptly. They sat back again. They could tackle the second glass more slowly. Take off was over, and they were still alive.

The second tour of America was over, and theywere still alive. And they were going home