Walking Alone: Free Liverpool and the Second British Civil War

2: In Transit

Just before we began our descent into Gatwick there was an announcement that any passengers who were flying on to destinations in the north of England should make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew. I did so and a smiling steward came down to me, knelt beside me in the aisle and asked where I was going on to. When I said Liverpool his expression changed, though he tried to control it, and he nodded and said, "Right, right."

I watched him walk back down to the galley where a lady with her hair angrily gelled back into a tight bundle looked down the aisle at me and nodded like an angry teacher. She wagged a finger at the ginger steward who, setting himself and smiling, walked back to where I was sitting. By now I knew the other passengers were aware of what was going on and were as hooked on my little soap opera as much as they'd ever been on any Netflix show.

"OK, right, sir," the steward began, kneeling, taking on a sweetly patronising tone. "Because of all the, you know, problems and political things that everyone's been experiencing over the last few weeks, ok? You know what I'm talking about, right, sir?"

"Yes."

"Right, right. Well, because of all that, ok, we've been told that it's probably best if you stay behind when we land just while the other passengers get off. Is that all right with you? If you just stay behind and you'll be processed a little bit later than the others?"

"But, is there a problem?"

"Oh no!" He flapped a freckled hand. "No problem! It's just that – it's for security, you know, sir. Just, at the moment, with everything being like it is, it's for the best, that's all. All right?"

What could I say?

I sat looking out of the window at the lovely clear blue sky and, down below, the sea of endless puffy clouds. Nothing seemed too serious up there.

I hadn't been back to England for over two years. The last time had been Christmas and I hadn't enjoyed it. Nobody had really wanted me there. I was asked all the usual questions and gave all the usual evasive answers and when I came home I realised England wasn't my home anymore and that's all there was to it. It was sad but true. Liberating almost. Yet I still read the English news online every day, still bought HP from Carrefour, still drank tea and still liked rainy days (all these things apparently so English).

As we descended, the grey windows ran with rain and the cabin shook with the weight of the clouds. Below us, England appeared: a wet, green patchwork of countryside drizzled with mist. Car lights were on though it couldn't have been later than four in the afternoon and suddenly, seeing the old country again, I felt my breath catch in my chest.

I felt old England hit me, the England of school and TV, the England of Noel Edmonds and tweed, of ripped up porno magazines under hedges and wet verges, crunchy snowy fields, lone oaks and box houses. I felt like an animal about to be put into the wrong enclosure and felt a change in the atmosphere, too, among the other passengers. The foreigners felt like me, I sensed, became slightly nervous of this new reality we were arriving at, while the English became, especially after we'd landed, far more animated and garrulous.

"'scuse me, mate," the man sitting in the centre seat said as we rolled to a stop at the terminal. The rain was crashing down so hard you could hear it on the plane roof.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and was standing up to move for him when a sharp, crackly voice chastised me from the overhead speakers. "Please do not move until the plane has come to a complete standstill and the fasten seat belt signs have been switched off! Sit down!"

The man sitting next to me, who hadn't moved, said nothing. Quietly he snapped his seatbelt back on.

I reddened. I could feel eyes glaring at me. The ginger steward was nodding and shaking his head.