Cabin Pressure fic
So bethan_b_bad introduced me to this wonderful radio comedy called Cabin Pressure a few weeks ago, and it has become one of my favorite things to currently exist. I've been reading through the prompt meme these past few days, and this prompt caught my eye, because Arthur would be totally brilliant with small children. So I wrote this.
(I'll do the post where I try to convert people later. I don't think it will be very long, because all you have to do these days on the Internet is say "Benedict Cumberbatch" and people go, "Where do I sign up?")
"I'm so sorry," the young woman says for the third or fourth time, "he just gets like this sometimes and nothing I do seems to work."
It isn't, Carolyn has to admit, for lack of effort on the girl's part; screaming tots on aeroplanes always seem to be accompanied by selectively deaf parents, but Florence Conley has done her level best to attend to her charge. Carolyn thinks it is not a coincidence that Florence is a nanny, not a mummy, and a fairly new one at that. Still keen, still anxious to be seen earning her pay even when her employers are not actually around to do the seeing. Perhaps she thinks Carolyn has accompanied the flight in order to report on her upon arrival.
Or maybe she really cares and just happens to be spectacularly crap at doing her job. Lord knows it wouldn't be GERTI's first experience with such a person.
(Forty-five minutes ago, Carolyn was prepared to concede that maybe the boy just hadn't got used to his new nanny yet, or that there may well be a good reason why the parents chose to fly ahead and then summon the boy once they had settled in, but she has long since ceased to feel quite so charitable.)
She acknowledges Florence with a nod and a thin smile. Florence flushes and turns her attention back to the strained cooing that hasn't made a whit of difference in the past hour and seems unlikely to become suddenly efficacious any time soon.
Carolyn decides that a visit to the flight deck is in order.
It doesn't dampen the din entirely - or, judging by the tension with which Martin is hunched over his controls and the studied nonchalance in Douglas's sprawl, even enough - but it's still slightly better than directly sharing the same space.
"You're a mother," is the first thing Martin says, "can't you make it stop?"
"Don't you think I would have tried?" she counters. "Arthur was such a happy baby I took him to the doctor three times in his first month because I was afraid his crying mechanism was broken. I haven't the faintest idea what to do with a screaming child."
. . . she realizes, after three seconds' expectant silence, that both she and Martin are waiting for Douglas to supply one of his usual bits of sarcasm.
"Speaking of broken," she says, eyeing Douglas. He shrugs.
"Everyone has an off day, Carolyn. Apparently even I am not immune."
"He hasn't had anything supposedly clever to say in almost twenty minutes," Martin says.
"Oh dear," she says, "this is serious. Right, time for my secret weapon." She flips on the intercom. "Steward to flight deck. Now, Arthur."
"Hi, Mum!" Arthur appears scant seconds later, fairly quivering with excitement. "Is it time?"
She nods gravely. "Arthur," she says, "go see to that child."
"Brilliant!" Arthur vanishes at the same speed with which he arrived.
"Really, Carolyn?" Martin regards her with profound skepticism. "We're that desperate? I don't know about you, but I think it would reflect a bit better on us if the child made it to his parents intact, untraumatized, and alive."
"Ah ah ah." Carolyn holds up a finger and cocks her head. "Listen." She pauses for dramatic effect, watching as Martin cocks his own head a bit in spite of himself, and even Douglas looks interested in the proceedings, then says, "Three . . . two . . . one."
Right on cue, the wailing stops.
Martin blinks. ". . . Really?" he says again.
"Well," Douglas observes, "Arthur is among the very young at heart."
"You'll be back on form in no time, I see," Carolyn says. "Yes, I try not to encourage him too much when we have children on board, you know how easily distracted he is" - not to mention the risk of parents finding a strange man's enthusiasm for their progeny a bit unseemly - "but I've never seen him fail with a screamer yet. We won't hear a peep out of that child for the rest of the flight."
Martin shakes his head. "Amazing."
When Carolyn returns to the passenger cabin a few minutes later, after pausing in the galley to whip up what she knows will be a much-needed cup of tea for Florence Conley, she finds exactly the tableau she was hoping for: Arthur with a blissfully enrapt toddler on his knee, playing a game with him as Miss Conley looks on with a mix of relief, gratitude, and just a little jealousy. She lights up as Carolyn presents her with the tea.
"Oh, thank you so much, that was exactly what I needed." She cradles the cup in her hands and turns her gaze back to Arthur. "He's missed his calling, I think. He's better at this job than I am."
"Oh, no," says Carolyn. "Arthur is exactly where he needs to be."
(I'll do the post where I try to convert people later. I don't think it will be very long, because all you have to do these days on the Internet is say "Benedict Cumberbatch" and people go, "Where do I sign up?")
"I'm so sorry," the young woman says for the third or fourth time, "he just gets like this sometimes and nothing I do seems to work."
It isn't, Carolyn has to admit, for lack of effort on the girl's part; screaming tots on aeroplanes always seem to be accompanied by selectively deaf parents, but Florence Conley has done her level best to attend to her charge. Carolyn thinks it is not a coincidence that Florence is a nanny, not a mummy, and a fairly new one at that. Still keen, still anxious to be seen earning her pay even when her employers are not actually around to do the seeing. Perhaps she thinks Carolyn has accompanied the flight in order to report on her upon arrival.
Or maybe she really cares and just happens to be spectacularly crap at doing her job. Lord knows it wouldn't be GERTI's first experience with such a person.
(Forty-five minutes ago, Carolyn was prepared to concede that maybe the boy just hadn't got used to his new nanny yet, or that there may well be a good reason why the parents chose to fly ahead and then summon the boy once they had settled in, but she has long since ceased to feel quite so charitable.)
She acknowledges Florence with a nod and a thin smile. Florence flushes and turns her attention back to the strained cooing that hasn't made a whit of difference in the past hour and seems unlikely to become suddenly efficacious any time soon.
Carolyn decides that a visit to the flight deck is in order.
It doesn't dampen the din entirely - or, judging by the tension with which Martin is hunched over his controls and the studied nonchalance in Douglas's sprawl, even enough - but it's still slightly better than directly sharing the same space.
"You're a mother," is the first thing Martin says, "can't you make it stop?"
"Don't you think I would have tried?" she counters. "Arthur was such a happy baby I took him to the doctor three times in his first month because I was afraid his crying mechanism was broken. I haven't the faintest idea what to do with a screaming child."
. . . she realizes, after three seconds' expectant silence, that both she and Martin are waiting for Douglas to supply one of his usual bits of sarcasm.
"Speaking of broken," she says, eyeing Douglas. He shrugs.
"Everyone has an off day, Carolyn. Apparently even I am not immune."
"He hasn't had anything supposedly clever to say in almost twenty minutes," Martin says.
"Oh dear," she says, "this is serious. Right, time for my secret weapon." She flips on the intercom. "Steward to flight deck. Now, Arthur."
"Hi, Mum!" Arthur appears scant seconds later, fairly quivering with excitement. "Is it time?"
She nods gravely. "Arthur," she says, "go see to that child."
"Brilliant!" Arthur vanishes at the same speed with which he arrived.
"Really, Carolyn?" Martin regards her with profound skepticism. "We're that desperate? I don't know about you, but I think it would reflect a bit better on us if the child made it to his parents intact, untraumatized, and alive."
"Ah ah ah." Carolyn holds up a finger and cocks her head. "Listen." She pauses for dramatic effect, watching as Martin cocks his own head a bit in spite of himself, and even Douglas looks interested in the proceedings, then says, "Three . . . two . . . one."
Right on cue, the wailing stops.
Martin blinks. ". . . Really?" he says again.
"Well," Douglas observes, "Arthur is among the very young at heart."
"You'll be back on form in no time, I see," Carolyn says. "Yes, I try not to encourage him too much when we have children on board, you know how easily distracted he is" - not to mention the risk of parents finding a strange man's enthusiasm for their progeny a bit unseemly - "but I've never seen him fail with a screamer yet. We won't hear a peep out of that child for the rest of the flight."
Martin shakes his head. "Amazing."
When Carolyn returns to the passenger cabin a few minutes later, after pausing in the galley to whip up what she knows will be a much-needed cup of tea for Florence Conley, she finds exactly the tableau she was hoping for: Arthur with a blissfully enrapt toddler on his knee, playing a game with him as Miss Conley looks on with a mix of relief, gratitude, and just a little jealousy. She lights up as Carolyn presents her with the tea.
"Oh, thank you so much, that was exactly what I needed." She cradles the cup in her hands and turns her gaze back to Arthur. "He's missed his calling, I think. He's better at this job than I am."
"Oh, no," says Carolyn. "Arthur is exactly where he needs to be."