Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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.

       Tnejn

      ~two

      Air Malta is not only committed to provide you with a comfortable journey, but also to give that extra personal touch…

      The doors have been closed, security measures have been explained. I did not listen or watch. Christopher is virtually on my knee, squashing in between me and the passenger next to me. He is fidgeting, wriggling, annoying.

      

      ‘Sit still,’ I tell him.

      

      He looks at me but does not speak. We both know that the plane is ready to lift us from that ground.

      

      the engines are whirring.

      

       ~wh – hir.

       ~wh – hir.

       ~wh – hir.

      and as my head falls back to the headrest, the engines whir some more.

      

       ~wh – hir.

       ~wh – hir.

      then the plane darts forwards, upwards, it tickles into the back of my throat. I swallow, forced gulps.

      

      I look out through the small oval window, the houses and cars become insignificant. I see the clouds. I am flying over the clouds. I am flying over a blanket of greying white that separates and joins. I am in the air, higher and higher.

      

      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