Читать книгу Like Bees to Honey - Caroline Smailes, Darren Craske - Страница 7

~one

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I am focusing on the woman, the one in front of me, her, with the black high high heels. She is wearing tight white jeans. I think they call them skinny jeans. She is wearing white socks and black heels, her. My son, Christopher, is standing next to me. He will not speak. I am focusing on her. I am focusing on her calves and on her black shoes. The heels are caked in mud, dry mud, around the tip of the cone. The mud is speckled up the back of her, of her calves, over her white skinny jeans.

I wonder if she realises.

We are standing in the queue. We move forward slowly. I have wrapped my large shawl around my shoulders, I roll the tassels with the fingers of my right hand. In my left hand I am clutching a small clear plastic bag containing a lipstick that does not suit and mascara that is almost empty, beginning to cause flakes on my lashes.

As we reach the security arch, Christopher walks through, no sound, no signal, no attention is given to him. I shout for him to wait. People turn and look from me and then towards where I am shouting, screaming.

Nobody asks.

Christopher carries on walking, ignoring me, he is angry. I know that I have upset him. I am anxious to reach him, uneasy when he moves from my sight. I wonder if it will be the last time that I see him, I wonder if he will finally have had enough of me, of the way that I have become.

I am stopped.

I am forced to remove my boots, empty the pockets of my jeans, be frisked with a detector that beeps. I take off my belt, I take off my boots. I look to my feet. I notice that my socks do not match.

Airport security is tight, these days. I smile. I smile as they appear to have let through my son, unnoticed. I am still smiling as I slip back into my knee-length boots. I am still smiling as I move over to the conveyor belt, searching for my handbag. I do not think that the officer likes my smile; he holds my handbag into the air, accusingly.

‘Is this your bag?’ the officer asks.

‘Yes,’ I say.

I look to the officer in his black uniform, with his shiny shoes and his shaven head. I wonder if he is proud, I wonder if he holds his head up high as he fights to save Manchester airport from terror. I like him, I decide.

‘Are you travelling alone?’ he says.

‘No my son’s with me, he’s…’ I point after Christopher. The officer flicks his eyes to there and then to me.

‘Work or pleasure?’

‘Pleasure,’ I answer. I stop.

And then, I remember.

Christopher is waiting for me when I walk around the corner, out from security. He is leaning on his shoulder, against the white wall. He still refuses to speak. I scold him; I shout and scream that he is not to leave my sight, ever, again. He remains silent. He stares down to his canvas shoes, his favourite shoes. He will not look at me. I wish that he would. I wish that he would speak. Tourists, passengers, they all stand and stare.

Christopher waits for me to finish shouting. His cheeks look blushed. I am wagging my finger, my eyes are wide, my voice is shrill. I am embarrassing him; of course I am, he is sixteen.

Two security guards turn the corner. They stand still. Their legs are apart, their arms cross their chests. A third security guard appears, he is mumbling into a radio. I finish shouting; it has been one maybe two minutes. I do not like being watched.

I tell Christopher that I need a coffee. He walks off, still looking down at his canvas shoes, still silent. I follow. He is guiding my way.

The airport is busy. I do not know why I expected stillness, a silence. It is 4 a.m., a Thursday, flights come and go all through the night. I know that. I do not know why I needed a silence.

or why I expected a hush, a hush hush.

~hu – sshhhhh.

~hu – sshhhhh.

Christopher is sulking, not talking to me and I do not have the energy to pander to him. I am trying not to focus on him, not to give him negative attention. Instead, I am listening.

to the grrrr.

~grrrr.

~grrrr.

of the milk steamer.

~grrrr.

~grrrrrrrrr.

~grr.

~grrrrrr.

The noises lack symmetry.

The coffee shop is crowded. There is not much else to do, but to drink, to eat, to wait to be called for boarding. It is 4:20 a.m. I have purchased a coffee, nothing to eat, no thick slice of cake, no huge muffin, just a tall café latte, no sugar and a child’s milk for Christopher. He hates to be called a child. There is music, unrecognisable. Looping notes with a tinny edge, what the Americans would call elevator music, I think. I wonder if I am right.

I used to dream of going to America, one day.

there is the whir.

~wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

of the coffee machine.

then the grrr, again.

~grrrr.

~grrr.

~grrrrrrrrr.

of the milk steamer. There is the dragging scrape of the till drawer.

and the clink.

~cl – ink.

~cl – ink.

of the coins.

And then I realise that Christopher has gone. He has wandered off, again. He does that a lot, these days. I will not look for him. He will find his way, I reason. He will come back, he has come this far. He knows that he must take this journey with me, for me. He has been told that he has to escort me back to the island.

I need to telephone Matt.

I have left my mobile phone at home, in the kitchen, close to the kettle. Matt will have found it, by now. It is 4:30 a.m. and I know that I should not be calling my husband. He will be in bed, perhaps sleeping, but we have that telephone in our bedroom.

I find a payphone. I fumble in my bag, in my purse, for loose change. I lift the receiver, insert a 20p, press the number pads, wait.

It is ringing.

With the ring, I can see him stretching over the bed, I can see him in his sleepy haze, a panic, reaching his naked arm out, to answer, to grab.

‘Nina?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

I can hear crying, sobbing in the background.

‘She needs to speak to you. Will you speak to her?’ asks Matt.

I do not have time to answer.

‘Mama?’ She is sobbing, making the word high pitched.

‘Molly, Molly pupa. Stop crying,’ I say.

~my doll.

I am trying not to shout. People are listening.

I am sure that, I think that, the grr.

~grrrr.

~grrrrrrr.

has stopped and the whir.

~wh – wh – irrr.

~wh – wh – irrr.

has stopped too.

People can hear me.

‘Mama, you didn’t kiss me bye bye.’ Molly tries to stifle her heart, but I know that it is broken.

And then, suddenly, I am missing her too much.

And then, suddenly, my throat is aching and I need to cry and I need to scream and I need Christopher. I need for him to remind me why I have left my little girl, my four-year-old daughter, my pupa.

~my doll.

It is late, it is early, she will be tired and emotional, more emotional than usual. I am reasoning with myself, but I know, I know really. I know within that I have hurt my innocent.

I hang up.

I hang up on her sobs, leaving her to Matt. Her daddy.

I need to see Christopher.

I am walking around the departure lounge, searching, sobbing, snot dripping from my nose, tears cascading down my cheeks.

I find him.

He is squashed in between a couple, tourists, I presume. The woman tourist’s hair is bleached white, she wears a short short skirt and I see that her thighs are fat and dimply. She wears blue mascara, it clogs on her lashes; her lips are ruby red and her skin is orange. I do not look at the man tourist. Christopher smiles, briefly. Then he squeezes out from in between and he is off, again, running.

I refuse to chase him. I turn to walk away.

‘Are you alrite, pet?’ the woman tourist asks.

‘I’m fine,’ I turn, I say. ‘Thank you,’ I say, I start to turn and walk.

‘It’s just you was crying like a bairn a bit ago. I says to me bloke, “Look at that lass crying.”’

‘I’m fine, honest, I thought I’d lost my son,’ I say.

‘Shit,’ the woman tourist says. ‘Have you found him?’

‘Yes he’s there –’ I point, I turn, I walk away.

I find Christopher, standing below the departures’ board, straining his neck to read the listed times. The details for our flight have changed; we need to make our way to gate 53. We walk together, in silence.

All of the tourists have crowded to the gate. Christopher stays close to me, intruding on my body space. We do not have a seat. I am leaning onto the white wall, Christopher is leaning onto me. I think that he is feeling anxious. I am still sobbing. I wonder if he fears that I will change my mind, that he will fail his task, again.

‘Air Malta flight KM335 is now boarding from gate number…What gate are we?’ The crowd of tourists laugh, ha ha ha.

‘Yes. From gate number 53. Would all passengers please make their way, with their boarding cards and passports open at the photograph page.’

There is the usual scurry, the fretful rush of people desperate to claim their pre-booked seat. I do not move, neither does Christopher. I am standing, leaning, waiting for a realisation. I am waiting for some bolt of enlightenment, for something to enter into my head and to stop me from boarding the plane.

The bolt never comes.

The muffled sobbing continues, but still I am boarding the plane. I am leaving my Molly, my pupa.

~my doll.

I have no plans to return.