Caroline Smailes - Like Bees to Honey

~b an-na al lejn l-g asel

Remembering, always, my grandparents George Dixon and Helen Dixon (née Cauchi).

Cover Page

Title Page Like Bees to Honey ~b an-na al lejn l-g asel

Dedication Remembering, always, my grandparents George Dixon and Helen Dixon (née Cauchi).

Excerpt Excerpt ‘You sent for me sir?’ ‘Yes Clarence. A man down on Earth needs our help.’ ‘Splendid! Is he sick?’ ‘No. Worse. He’s discouraged. At exactly 10.45 p.m., Earth-time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away God’s greatest gift.’ ~It’s a Wonderful Life , 7 January 1947 (USA)

Xejn Xejn ~zero Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991. I remember the exact moment when Christopher first realised. We were standing together, in my mother’s kitchen, in Malta. He had been unusually quiet. I asked him, ‘What’s wrong Cic io?’ He looked up to me and whispered, ‘Can you see the mejtin too, Mama?’ ~dead people. I looked at my five-year-old son, shocked, confused, thrilled. ‘Dead people,’ he translated. ‘Can you see the dead people too, Mama?’

Wie ed

Tnejn

Tlieta

Erbg a

êamsa

Sitta

Sebg a

Tmienja

Disg a

G axra

dax

Tnax

Elena

Tlettax

Erbatax

mistax

Sittax

Sbatax

Tmintax

Tilly

Dsatax

Tilly

G oxrin

Wie ed u g oxrin

Flavia

Tnejn u g oxrin

Tlieta u g oxrin

Tilly

Erba’ u g oxrin

amsa u g oxrin

Sitta u g oxrin

Seba’ u g oxrin

Tmienja u g oxrin

Disa’ u g oxrin

Tletin

Wie ed

Nixtieq nirringrazzja

Preview

About the Author

Also by Caroline Smailes

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘You sent for me sir?’

‘Yes Clarence. A man down on Earth needs our help.’

‘Splendid! Is he sick?’

‘No. Worse. He’s discouraged. At exactly 10.45 p.m., Earth-time, that man will be thinking seriously of throwing away God’s greatest gift.’

~It’s a Wonderful Life , 7 January 1947 (USA)

~zero

Christopher Robinson, born 20 December 1991.

I remember the exact moment when Christopher first realised.

We were standing together, in my mother’s kitchen, in Malta. He had been unusually quiet.

I asked him, ‘What’s wrong Cic io?’

He looked up to me and whispered, ‘Can you see the mejtin too, Mama?’

~dead people.

I looked at my five-year-old son, shocked, confused, thrilled.

‘Dead people,’ he translated. ‘Can you see the dead people too, Mama?’

~one

Checking In:

Please allow ample time to check in. Check-in times can be found on your ticket, by contacting your local tour operator or your chosen airline. Our broad guidelines state:

Please ensure that you check in three hours before departure for long-haul flights.

Please ensure that you check in two hours before departure for European flights.

Please ensure that you check in one hour before departure for UK and Ireland flights.

I am focusing on the woman, the one in front of me, her, with the black high high heels. She is wearing tight white jeans. I think they call them skinny jeans. She is wearing white socks and black heels, her. My son, Christopher, is standing next to me. He will not speak. I am focusing on her. I am focusing on her calves and on her black shoes. The heels are caked in mud, dry mud, around the tip of the cone. The mud is speckled up the back of her, of her calves, over her white skinny jeans.

I wonder if she realises.

We are standing in the queue. We move forward slowly. I have wrapped my large shawl around my shoulders, I roll the tassels with the fingers of my right hand. In my left hand I am clutching a small clear plastic bag containing a lipstick that does not suit and mascara that is almost empty, beginning to cause flakes on my lashes.

As we reach the security arch, Christopher walks through, no sound, no signal, no attention is given to him. I shout for him to wait. People turn and look from me and then towards where I am shouting, screaming.

Nobody asks.

Christopher carries on walking, ignoring me, he is angry. I know that I have upset him. I am anxious to reach him, uneasy when he moves from my sight. I wonder if it will be the last time that I see him, I wonder if he will finally have had enough of me, of the way that I have become.

I am stopped.

I am forced to remove my boots, empty the pockets of my jeans, be frisked with a detector that beeps. I take off my belt, I take off my boots. I look to my feet. I notice that my socks do not match.

Airport security is tight, these days. I smile. I smile as they appear to have let through my son, unnoticed. I am still smiling as I slip back into my knee-length boots. I am still smiling as I move over to the conveyor belt, searching for my handbag. I do not think that the officer likes my smile; he holds my handbag into the air, accusingly.

‘Is this your bag?’ the officer asks.

‘Yes,’ I say.

I look to the officer in his black uniform, with his shiny shoes and his shaven head. I wonder if he is proud, I wonder if he holds his head up high as he fights to save Manchester airport from terror. I like him, I decide.

‘Are you travelling alone?’ he says.

‘No my son’s with me, he’s…’ I point after Christopher. The officer flicks his eyes to there and then to me.

‘Work 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.