What man hasn’t fantasised of heroic acts
JOE BENNETT
When Peter told me about his plane trip I felt envy. Envy is not the same as jealousy, though the two are often confused. You may be envious of something that someone else has got, but you can only be jealous of something you have got. So you might be jealous of your own reputation, say, while you are envious of my impressively aldermanic belly. And I was envious of Peter’s dramatic flight.
One of Peter’s fellow passengers was a prisoner under escort. As they queued to board the plane, Peter noticed that the prisoner, perhaps understandably, did not look pleased to be there. He looked, thought Peter, volcanic.
Fifteen minutes later, with the plane at 20,000 feet, he erupted. In reckless defiance of the lighted sign he undid his seatbelt. He then attacked his minder, turned the air blue with invective and set about trying to kick a hole in the plane window. As an escape plan it could have been better thought through, but as a means of attracting attention it was hard to improve on. Everyone on the little plane was very much aware of what was happening.
The prisoner was seated a couple of rows behind Peter. As the fracas grew Peter nudged the gentleman sitting next to him, to whom he had only previously said good morning. ‘’If he comes up the aisle,’’ said Peter, ‘‘we’ll get him.’’
That was the moment I envied. That was what I wanted to have said. I wanted to feel that surge of righteousness. The moment when heroism beckons and you lift up your chin and say yes.
Immediately I pictured myself on that plane. And as 90 kilos of gym-honed muscle sets off down the aisle towards the cockpit of disaster, I feel courage swell within me and I rise from my seat and turn to face the malefactor. Blocking the aisle with my impressively aldermanic belly I declare in tones that ring the length and breadth of the fiftyseater turboprop ‘‘You shall not pass.’’
And then in part to disconcert the man but mainly to show off, I say it again in Spanish. ‘‘No pasara` ,’’ I say and as he stands amazed by my audacity I swing a mighty haymaker that catches him flush on the temple. His face remains a mask of pure astonishment even as his knees buckle and he crumples to the bristle carpet where the floor lighting will guide him to unconsciousness.
‘‘Yours, I believe,’’ I say to the grateful guard and I take my foot off the man’s chest, briefly acknowledge the cheers of my fellow passengers, return to my allotted seat and, panting a little but on balance satisfied, resume my struggle with Sudoku.
Show me the man who has not fantasised on similar lines, who has not dreamed of dashing into burning buildings, of foiling robberies with flying tackles, of doing all the Famous Five and Batman stuff, risking self for the good of others. It’s the deed that justifies a life, that makes you wear your skin with pride. And that’s why I envied Peter. He heard the call to heroism and his courage rose to meet it.
But there, as Hamlet put it, is the rub. What if I heard the call to heroism and didn’t rise to meet it? What if I looked inside myself and found my courage curled in a ball behind my liver trying not to be seen? For though a part of me longs to be tested, another part fears what I’d find.
And the signs are not good. As evidenced by three o’clock this morning when I was woken by a crash. Generally I am a heavy sleeper and a slow waker. But when this crash rang out from somewhere in the house I could not have been more quickly awake or more widely. On the instant every nerve was stretched like a violin string. My ears were pricked like a bat’s. They reached into the darkness for footsteps, for breathing, for anything. I hugged the hot water bottle to my aldermanic self.
It is often said that a man with a hot water bottle can never be truly alone. I felt truly alone. My mind raced. What could have caused the noise? Why hadn’t the dog barked? If it was burglars, my wallet was on the kitchen bench. They were welcome to it. And to anything else.
Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. When I woke up it was light and the water bottle was cold.
There’s a Larkin poem called A Study of Reading Habits .It concludes ... the dude Who lets the girl down before The hero arrives, the chap Who’s yellow and keeps the store, Seem far too familiar. Perhaps it was better not to have been on that plane.