On the Sunny Side of the Clouds

"I'm dying, you know." The man combed through his silver-white hair with a thin-boned hand, speckled with liver spots. He reminded Cynthia of her grandfather, which is probably why she wasn't her usual bitchy self.

"How so?" She asked, looking into his pale green eyes.

"Pancreatic cancer. They found it a few weeks ago. Too late to do anything about it." He looked away suddenly, as if something caught his eye outside the airplane's window.

Cynthia followed his gaze. The thick clouds beneath them shimmered in the sunlight like freshly fallen snow, completely covering the ocean below.

"Great view," she said after a while. "Much less boring than the usual endless water."

"You fly this route often?" The man looked back at her.

"Every couple of months, or so. You?"

"It's a first for me. And last, I hope."

It wasn't often that Cynthia was lost for words. Words were her life and her livelihood, yet somehow she struggled for a meaningful response. Cheering people up wasn't in her habit, and if anything, cheering up seemed the last thing that the man sat next to her wanted, or expected. Luckily, he broke the silence before it became awkward.

"Is the jetlag as bad as they say?"

"Depends on your body. Some get it worse than others, but it's not so bad when flying west. You'll be okay."

What a stupid thing to say to a man who just told you he was dying, she thought, feeling her cheeks turn red. If the man noticed, he made no mention of it.

"I've always wanted to see New York, since I was a boy." His face lit up with a melancholy smile. " I dreamed that one day I would travel all across the States. I would see the Yellowstone. Climb the Rockies. Ride horses with the cowboys in the West. Sail the paddle steamer down the Mississippi." Cynthia laughed.

"I don't think they still have actual steamers on the Mississippi. But I'm sure the Rockies haven't moved much, not recently, anyway."

"Just as well. Still, too late for that now. All I want, is just to see my daughter," he broke off and then added in a voice just above a whisper. "And beg her forgiveness for being such a lousy father."

"She doesn't know you're coming, does she?" She made it sound a question, out of politeness, but she was sure of the answer. He looked at her for a moment and then slowly shook his head, as if the movement itself was causing him pain. He didn't offer any further explanation and Cynthia didn't feel like probing. They watched the clouds instead.

Their silence was broken by an announcement over the passenger address system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are exactly half-way through our flight and right on schedule. The weather ahead is good and the rest of the flight should be as smooth as you like. The clouds will be thinning out shortly, so you'll be able to enjoy the views of the ocean beneath. Meanwhile, our cabin crew will be serving mid-flight refreshments, so please sit back, relax and enjoy your flight."

Cynthia checked her watch and turned towards her fellow passenger.

"Unless you fancy some food, it might be a good idea to catch a nap."

"It's not even 1 o'clock," the man objected.

"Yes," Cynthia agreed, "but it's 1 o'clock London time. We've got another four hours till touchdown, but when we land in New York, it'll still be morning local time."

"I see your point," the man nodded. "Sounds like an awfully long day, doesn't it."

"It is," Cynthia confirmed. "Besides, I found that having a nap on a flight helps with the jetlag. I'll wake you up before we land."

The man thanked her, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

Cynthia sat motionless for a few minutes, as if afraid that any movement might wake the old man. She could never sleep on a flight, no matter how tired she was. She wasn't scared of flying anymore; her regular trips back and forth between London and the States saw to that. Still, there was this uneasy feeling deep inside that she couldn't quite conquer. Besides, the hours in the air were amongst her most productive. Maybe she was trying to focus on the work so as not to think about the flight itself, or, maybe it was because there were no phone calls to break up her concentration, nor any people sticking their heads into her office with one thing or another.

She opened her laptop and started reading the manuscript she was sent yesterday. The writing was good, if a bit rough in places, she concluded after the first few pages. The author was a second-rate celebrity who, after a modicum of success with his autobiography, decided to try his hand as a thriller writer. Cynthia's publishing house made a decent profit on his first book and her boss was convinced there was more money to be made on the second one, 'if we give the bloke an editor who can help him cut the crap out, and that's where you come in'.

And there she was, on another transatlantic flight to meet her new author. Except, somehow the excitement wasn't there. She forced herself to scroll through a few more pages, but the words were lost on her.

Annoyed, she closed her laptop and looked around. The old man next to her was still asleep, his head tilted against the headrest.

What was wrong with her. She had work to do. A draft to read. An author to nurture. A story to tell.

And yet, all she could think of was this old man in the adjacent seat and the story of his life he shared with her, a perfect stranger, chance-met on a plane. Surprised, she realised she remembered everything he told her. Word for word.

He was born in the late summer, just days before Hitler invaded Poland. His father fought the Nazis during the September campaign, but when Stalin's armies invaded from the East, the war was lost. His father survived the battles with the Germans and made his way to Romania, then to France and finally to Britain, where he fought and died in the Battle of Britain.

After Poland capitulated, he and his mother found themselves trapped in Warsaw. His mother was just as brave a patriot as his father had been. She got involved with the Polish resistance, determined to continue the fight against the occupant at all cost. She was caught by the Gestapo and was tortured for days, before being publicly executed as a warning to other would-be conspirators.

It was his aunt, his mother's sister, that took care of the infant boy, but life in the Nazi occupied country was extremely tough and dangerous. His first childhood memories were of German tanks and soldiers with machine guns patrolling the streets.

Luckily, they had distant relatives in London, and after months of preparations, they set out on a perilous journey that took them across half the continent, to Spain, from where they sailed to England.

He was nearly five years old when the Allies landed in Normandy and not quite six when the war finally ended. Growing up in post-war Britain wasn't easy for an orphan boy who didn't remember his parents, especially that his relatives were reluctant to tell the young boy much about them, to save him the pain.

He got through school and then university. By then, the cold war was at full swing, and for a few days the world stood on the brink of a nuclear holocaust when the Americans discovered Soviet nuclear missiles on Cuba.

That was when he decided to apply for a position with a government agency. 'I can't tell you which agency it was, please forgive me,' he explained in his soft voice, looking away, 'but I wanted to do everything I could to help prevent the next war, or if there had to be one, to be on the right side and help win it.'

He didn't talk much about his work, but he did tell Cynthia about his private life. It wasn't a happy one.

He married late, in his forties. His wife, nearly ten years younger, was a stunning beauty, the quintessential 'English Rose'. Their daughter was born two years later, but their happiness did not last much longer.

His long absences were to blame, he confessed. He would sometimes be gone for weeks or even months without ever being able to tell his wife where he went or what he did.

Returning from one such trip, he found the house empty. There was a note from his wife informing him she moved to the US with their daughter and 'her new friend, who will be a better father to our Dotty, than you could ever be'.

The 'new friend' had money. His expensive lawyers, although very sympathetic, left him in no doubt that the best course of action 'for all involved' was a quiet and amicable divorce. They assured him that their client was in position to 'look after the child's education and future', but it would 'not be advisable to confuse the child with another father figure'.

He never saw his daughter again. Nor did he ever remarry. He had thrown himself into work, hoping it would help him forget. Or get him killed.

When he retired, he started writing down all he knew about his family history. He spent thousands of hours researching various archives to discover what happened to his father. Then he went back to generations that came before. His intention, he explained, showing Cynthia a thick notebook with pages covered with elegant handwriting, was that one day he would give it to his daughter, so that she 'knows who she is'.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing in fifteen minutes. The weather in New York is sunny, with light winds and the temperature is 22 degrees Celsius."

Cynthia looked at the old man. He was still asleep.

"We'll be landing soon." There was no response. "Sir?"

She touched his arm, gently at first and then with more force. His head slowly rolled down onto his chest.