Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ