Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  When I checked in at Glasgow airport, the airline staff asked if I needed assistance with the children and our numerous bags and parcels. Harry was clinging to my skirt, pale and clammy from what I still didn’t know was an ear infection. I couldn’t believe a three-year-old could become so sick so quickly. But there was no way I could contact Zoë to change plans, so I convinced myself Harry would cope until our arrival in Amsterdam.

  Sitting on a bench in the waiting area, suddenly I saw a red light flashing beside our flight number and I realised that the last flight of the evening was on its way to Amsterdam with or without us. We had to make that plane. It was my responsibility to get us to Amsterdam that night.

  ‘Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!’ I couldn’t give myself a tick for verbal restraint this time. ‘Darling, grab that bag. Bring Pocahontas and John Smith. Don’t forget his little helmet. Quick, my love, we have to run.’

  One thing about Mimi, she was certainly efficient: she nimbly scooped up the collection of figurines large and small, colouring books, key rings and just about everything else available in the Pocahontas range from the carpeted floor and stuffed it all into her little Pocahontas backpack. Disney’s marketing strategies had certainly worked on us. We were the dream customers who could never get enough merchandise.

  Somehow when you have no time and an imminent departure the corridors leading towards the plane gates are endless. Mimi could hear our names being called over the loudspeakers, which pleased her no end. Harry was lying across my shoulders with vomit sliding down Norman’s Christian Dior raincoat, which had been his pride and joy. We had just managed to get to the boarding gate when John Smith and his helmet went flying past my ears as Mimi’s little backpack burst open and every conceivable Pocahontas item spilt onto the floor.

  The glamour-puss in the one-size-too-small uniform with curves in all the right places took our tickets and installed us in our seats. ‘You know, you almost missed your flight. It’s very important to be aware of your flight gate.’

  ‘Listen to me, Sara, sweet pea,’ I hissed, peering at her name badge, ‘it’s very important for you to get me a whisky, otherwise I’m going to faint and you’ll have to look after these children all by yourself. So you take away this cup of tea and bring me a drink — and make it a double.’Travelling had made me acutely aware that it was every woman for herself, and that carrying the solidarity card of sisterhood was worthless.

  Sara quickly realised it was better to bend the rules a little and serve me a huge whisky than run the risk of having the little boy vomit again, all over her. Sara was a beauty and she certainly knew it. She obviously worked hard at her glossy high-maintenance look, and no sick child was going to ruin her stopover in Amsterdam. She shook her head in disgust that so many bodily functions could happen instantaneously in one small child. And didn’t the mother know that she had a blob of something ghastly stuck in her hair, not to mention her raincoat?

  ‘Madam, here is a large whisky, a facecloth for your hair and coat, an airsick bag for your son, and the toilet on the left has a change table.’

  Finally, descending into Amsterdam, there was a bloodcurdling wail from my little boy, who was clutching his head in intense pain. By now the ear infection was so bad that the change in altitude was sending him into an agonised frenzy. As the wheels touched the tarmac, the bottle of apple juice that I had shoved into his mouth, in a vain attempt to get him to suck and thus relieve the pressure, flew open and drenched me in juice.

  By the time we’d extricated ourselves from the plane from hell, I’d decided that I was just not coping with the trials of travelling. Everyone was right. I hung my head in shame and went up to the international counter to change our flights and head home for Christmas, four weeks earlier than expected. Three steps back.

  ‘Waddya mean there are no available flights before next week? This is an emergency! I can’t cope. My little boy is sick and I want to go home to my family. Please, you must find some seats for us!’

  The kind lady looked at me, sizing up the severity of the situation, then called over her supervisor. I’m sure she often had to deal with difficult customers with whisky-breath and unsolvable problems, but here I was, drenched in apple juice, vomit in my hair and on my clothes, a sick little angelic child attached to my skirt, just wanting to go home the week before Christmas.

  Unfortunately there was just no way we could leave within the next twenty-four hours. The Christmas rush was in full swing. Emergencies had to be slotted in wherever possible. The supervisor took our details and said that she would be calling me at our hotel with our new flights for the next day or the day after. I turned to leave.

  Hang on. I was missing something — no, someone! I was missing one child! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! ‘Mimi, where are you?’

  I only had the baby standing beside me in one little black Italian boot; the other had fallen off during the mayhem as we got aboard the plane and had been left lying discarded in the corridor in Glasgow.

  ‘Oh, my God, I’ve lost my daughter! She’s not even five! For Christ’s sake, you must help me! I’ve really done it now. I’ve lost my own child in a fucking international airport!’ Schiphol is one of Europe’s largest and busiest airports, and the thought that Mimi was out there by herself sent me right off the edge. ‘Get the airport security!’

  The supervisor picked up my one remaining child and luggage.‘Come with me. I’ll take you to my office. It’ll be all right. We’ll find her. What’s her name? What was she wearing? What colour is her hair? her eyes?’

  My mind went blank as I desperately tried to remember the clothes I had put Mimi in before setting out from Glasgow. It all seemed so long ago. I would have to ring my cousin Lewis — and worse still, I would have to ring my parents to tell them I had lost my daughter.

  How could I have lost my own child? My body refused the command to move. I could only stand at the counter screaming: ‘You don’t understand! I lose everybody! I lost my husband. He’s just died! I can’t just lose my child like this! Please, you must help me! She must be here somewhere!’

  How much worse could my life get? Everyone said I was unreliable and here was the proof: one lost child, not even five years old. Time was standing still. How many hours had passed? In actual fact it was less than two minutes, but I had become completely irrational.

  I caught a glimpse of Mimi just before my head hit the counter as I fainted. She was standing outside a shop window gazing at the Pocahontas display. Thank you, Guardian Angel.

  Wrapping both children around my body, pulling the now smelly raincoat over us, I let the tears pour out. All the grief that had been shut away for so many months decided to make an entrance in front of a sea of unknown faces, none of whom had any idea why this woman before them was so overwrought. Under their breaths they muttered that she was obviously not a seasoned traveller.

  The counsellor had told me there might be a moment like this, but I had never expected it to be quite so public and quite so loud. He’d told me I had to learn to let out all the grief I’d bottled up for so long — but once I started it was pretty difficult to stop. Niagara Falls had nothing on me. Now, as I think back to this moment, I can see that it marked a turning point in my grieving process.

  Not that it occurred to me at the time. All I felt was total humiliation and disgust that I’d managed to make such a spectacle of myself in front of half of Amsterdam. The way I saw it then, too many steps had been taken backward to even justify thinking about it.

  My feeling of utter failure didn’t lessen when I reached the hotel that night. If anything, the misery continued and magnified. It felt as though we had spent hours at Schiphol Airport, but in fact our drama had only delayed us by an hour, and it was still just eight o’clock. Harry was getting sicker and I knew I needed to get some urgent medical assistance to control his pain and his elevated temperature. My medical kit contained a huge supply of liquid paracetamol for children and some antibiotics that Harry’s ear, nose and throat speci
alist had given me for just such an emergency. I would get a doctor to come to the hotel to check him over the next day. But I couldn’t help thinking that if I’d been a good mother we would never have wound up in this predicament.

  That thought sent me into a new stream of self-abuse. How could I be so pathetic? Why on earth did I think that travelling halfway around the world and traipsing around Europe would give me any solutions? The Scottish leg of the journey had been fairly successful, but not the wondrous, self-cleansing experience I’d ordered. And the flight to Amsterdam seemed to have unravelled all the good of the previous month.

  It was time to call home and tell them of my intention to come back for Christmas. When the telephone rang and rang at my parents’ place, I felt comforted by the continual recognisable sound. Until I realised there was no one home. Had they gone on Christmas holidays? What about me? Where the fuck were my parents when I needed them most? Kate and her family I knew were away for a few days, so ringing them was pointless. Who else? The answer was obvious. The Latin Lover.

  ‘It’s me. Am I disturbing you?’ I mumbled. I wanted this over as quickly as possible, a bit like tearing off a bandage that’s sticking to a bloody wound. Do it as painlessly as you can.

  ‘You are a disturbing person. Where are you? You must be in Amsterdam. Are the children okay? Are you all right?’

  Suddenly my pride got the better of me and I abandoned everything I’d been about to say. ‘Of course — why on earth wouldn’t I be okay? I am thirty-seven years old. I am a fabulous mother to my two children. All our luggage has arrived from Scotland, which in itself is a miracle. I am a seasoned traveller. I can speak French and Italian fluently and my German and Japanese are passable. I am coping brilliantly. We’re having so much fun.’

  ‘Come on, I know you too well. What’s happened? Are you coming home? Has it been too much for you? Do you need help? I can get to you within forty-eight hours. Talk to me. Tell me.’

  Why did he think that I needed his help? There’d been some minor hitches, but basically I was doing just fine.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I have absolutely no intention of coming home early. We’re having the best time ever. In fact, things are so fantastic I think we might even stay longer.’

  How could so many whoppers come tumbling out of my mouth? I marvelled at my words — and the more I spoke about how wonderfully well I was coping and how terrific everything was, the more I started to believe it.

  ‘I see,’ said the Latin Lover — and he did. He saw right through everything I said, as usual.

  ‘Well, I’d better go. We’ve had such a big day and we’re all so tired.’

  ‘I bet. It’s such a pity Zoë wasn’t able to arrive at the airport today as well.’The Latin Lover had insisted on a copy of our itinerary; he liked knowledge in any shape or form. ‘Does her flight still come in at 6.30 tomorrow morning?’

  Oh, fuck.

  I had completely forgotten the reason why we were in Amsterdam: to pick up Zoë. How could I keep forgetting about children like this? I needed to make a list immediately.

  1. Get a doctor for the baby.

  2. Don’t forget to pick up Zoë from Schiphol, my favourite airport, tomorrow at 6.30 am. Book a taxi for six o’clock.

  3. Buy a small backpack with good-quality zips for all the Pocahontas crap.

  4. Buy a pair of shoes for the baby, who has been walking around with one little Italian boot in the middle of Amsterdam in winter.

  5. Have a shower and an early night.

  I managed only the shower part of the list, then I had a large drink and went to bed not long after nine. The rest went into the ‘too-hard’ basket; I had learnt early in my adult life that decisions were best put off till the last possible moment. Calm. Zen. Breathe deeply.

  And as I lay there thinking, the truth of what had happened today suddenly became clear. After the scene at the airport I’d felt mortified, but somehow justifying myself to the Latin Lover had realigned my thinking. I realised that the grief I felt over Norman was never going to completely go away. But the answer wasn’t to lock it up in a corner of my heart and pretend it wasn’t there. The only way to face it was head-on; then, little by little, I would learn to live with it.

  Things would get better now I’d worked this out, I just knew they would. Two steps back. Two steps forward.

  Fifteen-year-old Zoë, cranky and jetlagged, waited atop her many suitcases until our arrival at seven o’clock the next morning. Her plane had been diverted to another section of the airport. Even though she’d scarcely been waiting fifteen minutes, I could see she was unforgiving and was going to be a real handful that morning.

  There was no way we could go back to Australia for Christmas, the three children screamed in harmony. I realised I agreed with them. The decision had been taken. Tomorrow, sticking to our original plans, we were off to Chamonix.

  First of all, though, we had a whole day to enjoy in Amsterdam. A day to visit windmills, art galleries and — much to the girls’ delight — shops decked out with Christmas decorations. The antibiotics were making Harry irritable but definitely better; the doctor who came to the hotel had assured me I was doing exactly the right thing.

  By the late afternoon, Zoë was walking around more asleep than awake. The three of them couldn’t wait to dive into bed for a very early night, and when I saw my lined face in the mirror, I knew another one wouldn’t harm me either.

  Our plane the next day was leaving at ten o’clock, which would get us into Geneva by lunchtime. We would be picked up from the airport by Monsieur Bayle and his daughter Marie, who was visiting for Christmas from Australia. An unbelievable ten years had passed since I’d last seen them. They would drive us back to Argentière — a trip that would take about two hours. We would be in our new home by the evening.

  Mimi and Harry were dancing with anticipation and Zoë was whipping up the excitement. Snow! Santa! ‘Jingle Bells’! There was only a week to go before Christmas . . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  White Christmas

  STANDING OUTSIDE THE NEWLY built chalet tucked behind the village of Argentière, nine kilometres east of Chamonix, we all gasped in unison. This was undeniably chocolate-box material, right down to the little red shutters with cut-out hearts. The wide balcony on the sunny south side faced a range of mountains, from Les Grands Montets, looming directly above us, over to L’Aiguille du Midi and then Mont Blanc. It was instantly set aside for passing an hour or two with a book and a glass of warm mulled wine. Through the trees, at a distance, we could catch glimpses of other little red shutters — close enough to be a comfort, but not intrusive into our little paradise. The chalet appeared perfect in every way.

  Just as we began to unload Monsieur Bayle’s car, the long-awaited Christmas snow started descending in small flakes, and within ten minutes it was tumbling from the sky in a thick white sheet. I couldn’t have organised it better. I just needed the snow to hold for another five days until Christmas. The children, including Zoë, could barely contain themselves, and started rolling around in it like puppies.

  Marie and I hurried them inside and we set about exploring the interior of our new winter home. From the outside it had seemed small and compact, but when we went from room to room I realised that it was far too generous for our needs — as had been pointed out to me by Catherine. When I had investigated the possibility of a winter rental, I had eliminated anything that was not recently built. I wanted the latest in Alpine design, moving away from the traditional sombre and heavy chalets, which had few windows, in order to keep in the heat. Advances in building technology meant that windows were now larger and double-glazed, allowing the sunlight to stream into spacious, well-insulated rooms.

  Every door that swung open brought squeals of delight from the children as they slid across the highly polished wooden floors in their thick new ski socks. The mingled scents of pinewood and beeswax pervaded the air. The shelves were stuffed with books in English, French and
German, and the television unit was surrounded by an impressive array of videos. There were photographs of the Mer de Glace glacier, Chamonix, and Mont Blanc skiers from a past age. Leaning up against the walls were old-fashioned skis with funny leather straps for bindings, and beside them a pair of heavy lace-up leather ski boots. We felt as though we had walked into someone’s much-loved home.

  Zoë had already unpacked her beauty bag and lined up every skin astringent, cleanser, pore reducer, thigh firmer and breast enhancer creams that a fifteen-year-old could cram into her bulging overnight bag. I laughed to myself, reflecting that it was only teenagers who were gullible enough to buy so many creams and unctions. Zoë’s suitcases, along with all her clothes, were strewn across the floor, where they might possibly stay for four weeks. It might soon be time to introduce her to Auntie Hygiene; clearly Kate had neglected this important aspect of her upbringing. I could see that downstairs would soon turn itself into a combined beauty parlour and dance space. Upstairs would have to be my domain. There was a well-equipped kitchen off the spacious living–dining area. Tucked away near the stairs was the main bedroom, with its own en suite bathroom and sweeping views of Les Grands Montets. I breathed a little sigh of relief that we weren’t sitting on a plane right now, returning home for Christmas.

  I’d decided a car wouldn’t be necessary for transport around the tiny village of Argentière and occasional trips down to Chamonix, and this saving, along with the reduced winter rental, made the overall cost almost come within range of my budget. Mr Friendly, my favourite bank manager, had explained that my budget had only so much elasticity, and that every effort should be made to curb my spending overseas. The four weeks in the chalet were pure indulgence, but I felt everything had to be more than perfect in order for us to begin again. I was sure that Norman wouldn’t have minded that the sale of his precious sports car was going towards a family holiday to help glue us back together.