Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

       ~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