Everything Changes by Phillipa Bevin

The boards were flicking through the newly cancelled flights. My heart felt like it was in my throat as I checked for the fourteenth time whether my flight was still going to depart. The screen was cycling quickly. The father of the family three rows down seems to sink into himself before whispering urgently to his wife whilst she held their sleeping son. At last, the board stopped then the continuing flights were lost islands in a sea of ‘CANCELLED’. My flight was one of only four that was still active. I breathed out and watched the small family collect their bags and leave. The boy was still asleep.

Looking back it is odd to think of how scared I was of being trapped in a country where I did not speak the language. I was away from my family, away from my home, and afraid to leave the apartment I was renting in case I was confronted by one of the military personnel roaming the streets and checking documents. This fear of leaving the safety and comfort of home to the crowded parks and byways has dogged my every step since it became apparent that COVID-19 was no longer a distant disease that was not going to meaningfully impact my life. It was here and it was at home and it was affecting everyone.

There was a strange timelessness to the airport in Paris. The boards were empty aside from the last four flights out of the country. No one around me was fiddling with their phone, laptop, or tablet. No one even seemed to have a book. Instead of the usual crush and mayhem people sat evenly spaced apart and stared intently at the boards or turned their heads like meerkats, anxious and alert for danger. No one ate or drank in the terminal. A man in a dark rumpled suit had earlier daringly purchased a ham sandwich and bottle of apple juice from the single open cafe, but had been eyed with such suspicion when he lowered his mask to drink that he gave up and placed the items in his bag. He was still given a wide berth.

There was no speaker used to announce boarding for my flight. Instead a young-looking woman in uniform simply said ‘Manchester’ in a strong voice, and we all stood and shuffled over to her. There was no queue, the small group of passengers followed the arrows without question.

‘The plane will be landing soon, please return to your seats and put your seatbelts on.’

No one moved. No one had left their seat or unbuckled their seatbelt since we finally left Paris two hours ago. We were all too anxious to get home.

I had been desperate to cough since we flew over Dover although I did not dare in case the pilot turned the plane around and quarantined us all. Scenarios such as this have been flashing through my mind ever since I had relaxed enough to think it probably would be okay to cough just once. It was my own mistake for not considering the dry air when I decided against bringing a bottle of water or anything to consume onto the flight with me. I thought I was being smart. COVID-19 safe. Instead, I had subjected myself to an intense, self- inflicted mental battle for over two hours so as not to bring attention to myself.

There was a nervous buzz of energy under my skin at the prospect of seeing my parents again, of spending the night in my own bed and of finally understanding the increasingly irritated instructions of the airport staff that will no doubt be on hand to direct us through the new systems in place at Manchester Airport. The other passengers, from what I remember of their faces as we boarded, seem to be as relieved as I was to be landing. The flight was bizarre. There were only five other passengers on board in addition to myself, the pilot and his co-pilot, and two exhausted looking flight attendants who half-heartedly pushed a cart from one end of the plane to the other without any of us daring to sample their wares.

Finally, I felt the plane start to descend. I could see the tarmac of the landing strip of the airport. I turned my head towards the window and coughed as quietly as I could into my right shoulder. No one seemed to have noticed. The wheels hit the tarmac with an unpleasant thud. I felt my heart beating fast in my chest at the prospect of this all finally being over.

I feel foolish looking back at my thoughts on that plane. The idea that everything would somehow be miraculously fixed when I arrived back in England. That my home would be unchanged and exactly as I remembered. Now I know that instead of being the end of my journey this was very much the start.

We left the plane with the same extreme orderliness that we had boarded. This airport seemed abandoned. It was empty except for the posters that instructed everyone to keep their distance and keep their masks on. Newly erected barriers closed off all the exits aside from one. At the end of this was a long tunnel and a solitary man who seemed to be vibrating with tension. As we, the departed, got close to him he proceeded to shout a fast litany of declarations “quickly through here to the left. Don’t stop. Go to the gates at the end and don’t stop. Just go forward. Quickly.’

We were chivvied through a newly erected maze of barricades, warning signs, and closed doors before we were forced through the automatic pen gates of border control. There was no stopping. We dragged our bags off the belt then went out through the next layer of double doors. Finally, I stepped into the Arrivals lounge expecting to have a moment to catch my breath, but there was more tape and yet another man in uniform standing opposite the doors and pointing us towards the exit. I hurried on.

No one was waiting. I rang my mum with fumbling fingers. I felt my heart which had only just started calm, speed up again. She answered. It was okay. She was by the car. They had been asked not to wait outside of the door.

I stepped out and saw her wave at me from the car park across the road. I dragged my bags over the two empty lanes disregarding the usual pedestrian crossings. Then pulled them over the last barrier too tired to follow the old signs, which seemed so much less important now. I went to hug my mother, but she raised a hand to stop me. She pulled out a bottle of disinfectant and wiped down my cases before loading them into the back of the car. Before I sat in the front of the car she opened the doors and pulled out another bottle, this time of antibacterial gel, and squirted a generous helping into my hands. I rubbed them thoroughly. She gave me some more and I repeated the process. Only then did we both remove our masks and lean in to hug each other. I felt the buzzing of my mind go blank with relief. I collapsed back into the seat as if my strings had been cut and let myself relax for the first time in weeks. I was home.