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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “a Finch in the Window” Down in the Dirt, v150 (the October 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

A Temporary Life

Norm Hudson

    The Prime Minister was dead. I was sorry for him. But then all life is temporary. Be you the smallest or the grandest in the land. Take me. My life has always been temporary. From birth. I blame my father for that. His job in the Royal Airforce meant there was never a chance of a permanent life. Every two years or so we would be required to leave our rented accommodation and move elsewhere. I never had the security of staying in one place for long. That’s probably why I became a pilot. I was used to travelling about. The trouble is being a pilot gives you a taste of the high life. Something I’d never had with my father’s job. The officer’s mess had been a no go area for him. And me. Now I was spending my time in top notch hotels, travelling to exotic destinations and having pool parties. You know the kind of thing. Or maybe you don’t.
    “Now that you’re making all this money, you’ll be able to get a place of your own,” my father said.
    I knew what he had in mind. But there was no way I was settling for a crummy studio or one bedroom apartment in London, with a crippling mortgage, like he had on his de-mobilisation. I had other plans.
    I knew he didn’t approve. But then he didn’t approve of anything I did.
    I remember the time he flew standby with me. He was in the jump seat behind me in the days when family members could travel in the cockpit.
    I’d told him to be quiet during take-off then I’d relaxed like I usually did, my legs propped up on the instrument panel.
    I could see my pose irritated him. But then everything about me irritated the old man.
    “I don’t think you should be sitting in that arrogant way,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?”
    “Automatic pilot,” I sneered, wondering if he knew what it meant.
    The old man’s irritation was reciprocated by me.
    “I’m only here for the take-off and landing!” I added.
    He never said another word the rest of the flight.
    I didn’t see much of him after that. It didn’t bother me. The old man and I moved in different circles. I was too busy anyway. Dating cabin crew. That’s when I met Rona. She was hard to get. I’d built up a bit of a reputation and she was having none of it. But I’ve always liked a challenge. And, in the end, my persistence paid off. We started a steamy affair. I say affair because, of course, Rona was married. It wouldn’t have been any fun if she wasn’t.
    But even fun is temporary. I knew that one evening when she was stretched out on the luxurious chaise longue in the penthouse apartment I was renting in the West End of London.
    “How can you stand living in all this rented accommodation?” she said. “Continually moving from place to place.”
    She sounded just like my old man.
    “This is the fifth place you’ve lived in in so many years,” she said. “And they’ve all been beautiful. Each one better than the last. I don’t why you ever moved from the first place.”
    I was feeling irritated even as she went on.
    “That old converted barn with its swimming pool was fabulous. It’s a pity the old girl who owned it died . Otherwise you could have stayed there for ever. And not had to do all this moving about. It must all be costing you a fortune. How much are you paying for this place?”
    She waved her hand around the apartment.
    I told her.
    Her face was a picture.
    “No way!” she exclaimed.
    “It’s worth every penny,” I said.
    “Wouldn’t you be better buying somewhere and stop spending all this money on the high life?” she said.
    It was then I knew that even love was temporary. But I couldn’t do anything as I was flying with her the next day.
    As it turned out, I didn’t have to.
    She did it for me.
    We were all standing waiting for the crew bus. I wasn’t in a good mood. There were “Cling Ons”. It seemed like hundreds of them. Family members of crew. Travelling with us.
    “There’s no room in the bus for them!” I told the Cabin Services Manager.
    I’d never had much time for family.
    I boarded the bus after the crew, ignoring the chill in the air.
    At least I’ve got rid of that lot, I thought, as the bus drove past them.
    “What the hell did you mean by leaving my mum at the pick-up point?” Rona shouted, in the cockpit after take-off.
    “Your mum?” I said.
    “My mum was one of the Cling Ons! That was a lousy thing to do. There was plenty of room in the bus!”
    “How was I to know your mum was one of the Cling Ons?” I said.
    I didn’t tell her it wouldn’t have made any difference.
    “That’s not the point. The point is only an ass-hole would leave Cling Ons when there was plenty room in the bus. And I don’t want anything to do with an ass-hole!”
    And she didn’t.
    It didn’t bother me.
    There were plenty more fish in the sea. That was only one of the advantages of being a pilot.
    Besides which I had my luxurious London apartment.
    I received the letter the next day. I had to move out. The owner wanted the apartment back. I was angry. As angry as I had been at all those other landlords. The ones that had all died in different ways when I had been careful enough to be out of the country on a trip. No one had a right to take my home away from me. My father had done that to me too many times. I’d pay the landlord back. Like I’d paid those other landlords back. Like I’d paid my father back all those times.
    And I did.
    The Prime Minister was dead. Brake failure. Car accident the paper said. I felt sorry for him. But then he shouldn’t have been so greedy. He had other houses he owned. Why did he want my penthouse apartment? Still, they couldn’t pin it on me. I was in Washington. On a trip. Arranging the lease on my new apartment. You’ll never guess who owns it. The President himself. You know me, I’ve always moved among the high-brow.
    I put down the newspaper in the empty cabin. The passengers would be getting on. Ready for their trip to Heathrow. I opened the door to the cockpit.
    I should have realised it was going to be a lousy trip when I saw Rona in the co-pilot’s seat.
    She didn’t speak. I was glad. I’d moved on. I had nothing to say to her. Besides I was too excited about my Washington apartment and where that might lead.
    It was only when take-off was complete, I’d engaged the auto-pilot and put my feet up in the customary position that Rona spoke.
    “My mother’s down the back, you know.”
    I looked away. It didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t be in Traveller anyway. I didn’t mix with the plebs. I might have a meander through First Class and see if anyone interesting was travelling with us. I’ve always liked the high-born.
    I was just about to make my announcement to the passengers that we were flying at 36,000 feet. (Once a high-flyer always a high-flyer.) when I was reminded that all life is temporary. Even for in-animate things. The auto-pilot knew that when he stopped functioning. I wasn’t bothered. I could fly the plane. Or Rona could.
    I guess I was out of practice though. And it seemed the engines knew it too. I wasn’t bothered when one went on fire. It was when the other one did and the plane started plunging down in a circular motion that I knew all life is temporary. Even for jet engines.
    They say your life flashes before your eyes at the moment of death. Mine didn’t. There was only one thing that flashed before me.
    I wondered if death was temporary.
    I hoped so. It would be bad enough meeting all those highfalutin ex-landlords I’d disposed of.
    But I didn’t fancy spending eternity with Rona and her mum.

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