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Heathrow Airport 1998
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‘MAM, ARE YOU THERE?’ The bing-bonging announcement system made it difficult to hear. Michelle clamped the telephone receiver beneath her chin while she rummaged in her purse for another coin. ‘Mam?’
‘Yes, I’m here...’ The voice trailed away, then came back on full blast. ‘Tom, Henry wants to go –’
Michelle held the handset away from her ear, while her mother, Audrey, scolded her stepfather about someone whose name she didn’t recognise.
‘Michelle? Is that you?’
‘We’ve landed,’ she said, trying to balance a wriggly Sara on her hip. ‘Who’s Henry?’ The credit tick-tocked down. ‘Never mind, I don’t have much sterling. I wanted to let you know we’re –’
‘Tom –’ Audrey shouted down the phone. ‘They’ve landed. You’re late picking them up.’
Little Sara jumped at the sound of her grandmother’s voice, then giggled and joined in with a high-pitched gurgle-shout of her own, right into Michelle’s other ear.
‘Tom, where the hell are you?’ A dog yapped in the background.
‘No, Mam, listen.’ Michelle took a deep breath. ‘We’re at Heathrow. Should be in Newcastle by four if there are no delays.’
‘Tom, Tom, did you hear that? Down, Henry –’ The line went dead.
Sara continued with her tirade. Michelle peered down at her daughter and laughed. ‘Yes, poppet, I agree. Your nana’s as mad as a hatter. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to her.’ Michelle smiled so widely her mouth ached and she thought she might burst with happiness. In a couple of hours, they’d be home.
She felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and turned to find an old lady, probably in her late seventies, peering up at her. She noticed the woman’s cardigan, a hand-knitted rust-coloured angora – the type of ‘beautiful autumn colour’ her mother loved – and felt a rush of affection. It would be so good to hug her mother again.
She smiled at the lady. ‘Are you all right? Do you need help with something?’
The woman narrowed her watery-grey eyes and sucked her dentures into place. ‘I’ll be fine and dandy when you stop hogging the phone.’ She jerked a crooked thumb backwards. ‘There’s a queue you know, selfish.’
Michelle, aghast and ready to apologize to those waiting, peered at the space behind the lady. Empty. Sara scrunched up her face at the woman and made a clickity-clack sound.
She elbowed her way past. ‘Well, move it...’ she grumbled.
‘Bloody witch,’ muttered Michelle as she gathered up her possessions. Sara growled and pulled a pursed-lipped face at the old lady.
The woman grabbed the handset with her gnarled hand and threw Sara a stony look. ‘Impudent.’
Michelle struggled over to the main concourse with Sara and the baggage trolley. As she scanned the area for a signpost, she realised her error – International Arrivals were nowhere near Domestic Departures. In her student days, she’d breezed easily to and from Spain by coach, but that had been without Sara and her baby paraphernalia in tow. She smiled down at Sara, who grabbed her nose and squealed in delight as her tiny nails pierced her mother’s flesh.
All she’d thought about was how lovely it would be to be back among people who cared. And houses, she’d missed houses so much. Their descent into Heathrow was strange, like flying into a toy town. The buildings were so low compared to the tall apartment blocks in Pamplona. Wonderful, marvellous houses. Two-storey buildings, with little gardens, garages and fences. And electric kettles and Walkers cheese and onion crisps. Homes occupied by loving families – who didn’t constantly criticize and belittle each other. Houses made Michelle feel secure. Being back in England made her feel happy, safe and loved.
Stacking the pushchair, case and hand luggage onto the trolley with one arm, the other holding Sara, had been tricky. In years to come, she might look back on this experience and wonder why on earth she hadn’t asked for help. But that day, she did what she always did – she struggled on alone.
Michelle lined the basket attached to the trolley handles with Sara’s fleecy pink blanket and made a pillow with her own sweater, to create a cosy little bed, then lowered her into it. She wished she’d thought about wearing a jacket. The black mini-skirt and green and white cropped top had been fine that morning in red-hot Pamplona, but now she was freezing. She peered at the cases. Her coat was in the one on the bottom of the trolley. Too late to dismantle everything.
‘Brrr,’ she said, pulling a silly face at Sara, who gurgled a smile and kicked her legs in response.
Michelle checked over the trolley one last time and kissed the tip of Sara’s button nose, inhaling her delicious baby smell. It amazed her how Fermín, who’d turned out to be such an irritating idiot of a man, had managed to have any part in creating her wonderful daughter. ‘Right then, poppet, vamonos, let’s go.’
Manoeuvring the whole ensemble along to Terminal Two was a nightmare. Months with very little appetite, had left Michelle’s once athletic arms puny and barely strong enough to hold the trolley straight. The situation wasn’t helped by Sara grabbing her mother’s little finger, further reducing her ability to control the operation. Thankfully, the link corridor between terminals wasn’t too busy. She zig-zagged her way down the ramps, with Sara squealing and giggling in her special chariot. Michelle was managing, of a fashion, to hold it all together...
‘Oh –’ she said, as the wheel of the pushchair brushed another passenger’s briefcase.
‘Oy,’ Sara said, imitating her mother’s tone.
Michelle turned to the owner of the briefcase to apologise.
‘Stupid cow,’ said the man, with an aggressive step forward.
She backed away, protectively pulling Sara and the trolley closer. His reaction felt almost physical. Dressed in a smart business suit and accompanied by his family, he looked more the type of gentleman to help someone in need of assistance, than attack them. The snarl on his face said otherwise. He glared at Michelle, looked her up and down, then fixed his steely gaze on Sara. Michelle instinctively cupped one arm around her daughter.
Her legs trembled. ‘I’m very –’
‘Silly little bitch.’
She felt light-headed. There was no one else around, barring his family up ahead. What if he turned violent? Oh my God... Sara... How was she going to protect her baby? She felt the space around them expand and gripped the trolley handles for support.
He held Michelle’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity, disgust flashing from his eyes. She couldn’t move. Finally, he turned away and sauntered towards his family. ‘Sodding teenage pregnancies. Bleeding this country dry.’
‘Oy, ratadada, oy, oy, baah,’ shouted Sara.
Michelle wanted to tell him that she wasn’t a teenager, and she’d be providing for her baby herself, but her throat had completely dried up. Shaking, but determined to hide her fear from Sara, she pulled an exaggerated smiley face at her. Sara squealed in delight.
She wished she could rid the earth of people like that man and surround her daughter with an indestructible bubble of protection. If she’d been braver and not afraid of breaking the law, she’d have grabbed the next red fire extinguisher she spotted and beaten his head to a pulp.
The remainder of the journey along to their terminal was excruciating, especially now her legs felt like they didn’t belong to her. She hung back as far as possible, struggling on and feeling stupidly inadequate, with the snarling man in front, repeating his original insult on a loop. His nasty voice echoed up the empty corridor. She didn’t dare attempt further communication, but each time she passed a fire extinguisher, she gave him a mental thwack.
Michelle had lived with insecurity for most of her twenty-four years, but with a greater intensity since her move to Spain. After Sara was born, she sometimes felt so panicky she thought she’d go mad. The constant worry of not being strong enough to keep Sara safe dominated her existence.
Sara was blissfully unaware of the terrible perils all around. She had dozed off in her tiny bed and was making clucking sounds as she sucked on her pacifier.
To Michelle’s relief, the man and his family headed for the Manchester check-in desk. The girl on the Newcastle one had a Geordie accent, which made Michelle feel weak with relief. But it was only later, as the engines roared and the aircraft taxied up the runway, that she was able to relax.
Allowing her mind to wander, she thought back to recent events and the invitation to attend her cousin’s wedding. The timing had been perfect. Three weeks back home in Ashpeth would do her good, and Sara would love being spoiled by her grandparents. A proper nana and grandad – not the mentally ill Spanish grandmother and sleezy grandfather she had in Pamplona. Michelle had been counting down the days.
The trip would also have given her time to think about everything, away from Fermín and their toxic marriage. As it turned out, she hadn’t needed three weeks. It was as they were saying goodbye in Bilbao airport that Michelle knew for certain. The anger, frustration and at times hate, which had built up over the past year, dissipated as he hugged her, and she whispered that they might not return. He’d tightened his arms around them both and simply said he already knew.
In that moment, she’d been reminded that they’d once loved each other. Before she really knew him. During their first year together, when she’d been a student in Pamplona, they’d had wonderful times – walks up into the hills and romantic picnics by the river, where they’d shared their dreams for the future. She’d loved his relentless wooing, the numerous marriage proposals, and promises of a wonderful life together.
She’d have returned anyway, that had always been her plan. Michelle had loved Spain from the moment she’d stepped off the plane, aged twelve, for the one foreign holiday her family had taken. There’d been no reason for Fermín to lie to get her to go back after her studies finished. Then she’d remembered his broken promises, the pointless lies and rows – being told so often that everything she said was rubbish, until she practically stopped speaking. And she was sure once more she was doing the right thing.
Without a permanent place to live, money or a job to go to, the future should have looked bleak. But as the plane approached Newcastle through the rainy North East skies, Michelle felt the Spanish shackles fall from her. A kind, loving future stretched before them. She choked back a sob – they were home. Here, surrounded by her family, she and Sara would be safe, secure and loved. Never again would Michelle entrust her own, or her daughter’s happiness to a man.
