Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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      And then I realise.

      

      I am gone from his England.

      I wrap my large shawl around my shoulders. I bring the two ends together, up to my face. The shawl has tassels, the tassels tickle me, annoy, remind me. I wore this shawl when Molly was a baby, before she began toddling. I can remember her curling into me, fiddling with the tassels, rolling them between her tiny plump fingers, pulling them up to her mouth.

      

      I want the smooth material close to my face.

      

      I am sobbing.

      

       ~s – ob.

       ~s – ob.

       ~s – ob – bing.

      into my shawl.

      

      I am dripping.

      

       ~dr – ip.

       ~dr – ip.

       ~dr – ip – ping.

      snot and tears into my shawl.

      

      The plane continues to move higher and higher above the clouds. I continue to sob, muffled sobs.

      

      I have become the flight maniac. I want to apologise to the passenger beside me. He is dressed in a casual suit, creased slightly; his shoes are shiny, polished and buffed. I want to tell him about my life and my loss, but I do not. Of course I do not.

      

      I am the flight maniac.

      

      telling him my story, loudly, over the sound of the whir.

      

       ~wh – ir.

       ~wh – irr.

      whirling engine, would only make things worse.

      

      And so I continue to stifle my sobs. And the passenger beside me turns away, his left shoulder protruding, twisting awkwardly.

      Christopher does not speak. I think that he may be sleeping.

      The seatbelt sign goes off.

      

      the plane is filled with the click.

      

       ~cl – ick.

       ~cl – ick.

       ~cl – ick – ing.

      of metal.

      

      And within the minute, there is a queue for the toilet, four men and one woman line from the drawn curtain and down the centre aisle. She looks pregnant, the woman. Her stomach is large, egg shaped; her palm is resting on it. I wonder if she is having a girl or a boy.

      

      I want to talk to her. I need to talk to her. She must be able to smell food.

      

      I really should buy her food.

      I grew up on the island of Malta, in a close neighbourhood, with open window and open door. The community liked to cook and the odours of our foods were rich. They decorated, they floated in the air, breads, sweet pastries, baking potatoes, spice-filled macaronis, soups that celebrated local vegetables. This meant that a pregnant woman, whoever she might be, would smell the food and that with that smelling her baby would feel a desire, a need. And so, in Malta, without request, all from the community would know to take a dish of any food being prepared to any pregnant neighbour. It was almost a law, I think. It is said, in Malta, that the food will feed the desire of the baby. If a pregnant woman does not have, does not eat all that her baby craves, then it is said that the child will be born with a birthmark, a mark with a suitable shape.

      

      I remember that my mother had a notebook.

      

      She would write down the names of our pregnant neighbours and I remember that when one of our neighbours was heavy with her fourth child, my mother, she told me, ‘Nina, listen, take this to Maria.’ She told me, ‘I do not like her but her baby must have what it desires. Take her this.’

      

      I remember looking down to see my mother holding a dish of minestra.

      

      ~a vegetable soup containing local or seasonal vegetables, potatoes, noodles.

      

      We had many mouths to feed with our daily food, yet still we would feed a baby of a neighbour. The bowl was hot, my mother’s vegetable soup sloshed as I walked down the slope to Maria’s house. I remember that it was summer, the tall houses sheltered from the burning sun, the cobbles were cool under my naked feet, the dust swirled from recently brushed doorways. The smell of the minestra, so rich and sweet, danced and twisted up my nostrils. I remember the liquid spilling onto my fingers, burning and my longing to taste the food, but, of course, I would not, could not even. I had learned not to deprive a baby; I could not even lick my fingers. I remember walking the cobbles, slowly, slowly down the slope and I remember Maria answering the door.

      

      She told me, ‘I will not eat the food of your mama’ and then closed her front door, with a slam. I knew better than to return home with the minestra and so I left the bowl to the left of her step, where she could not trip over it. And I shouted loudly, told Maria that her baby’s food was outside.

      

      Three months later my mother told me, ‘Nina. Go look. Maria’s baby has the mark of a broad bean.’

      I stare at the swollen stomach of the tourist on the plane. The queue is slow. She is leaning now, against an aisle seat. I look to her face. She is young, she appears tired.

      

      I remember how tired I was when pregnant with Molly.

      

      I push Christopher off me, slightly; he continues to sleep. I stand, place my shawl onto my seat and walk to her. I do not like walking on planes. СКАЧАТЬ