Confessions of a Bad Mother by Stephanie Calman Page A

definitely think he isn’t my child. I debate this with
myself while we continue apologizing. Why don’t they invite us to give up
our plans for the weekend and piss off home? Maybe they’re bored with
terrorists and drug smugglers, and welcome the change of routine.
    ‘Do you have the baby’s birth certificate?’ one of
them asks casually.
    ‘Not here, sadly. It’s in the drawer at home. HANG
ON!!’ I leap up, nearly bashing Lawrence’s head on the
policeman’s chin.
    ‘Steady on, madam.’
    ‘Dave the painter’s there! Peter! He can fax it!! Would you
accept a fax ?!’
    ‘Would you accept a fax?’ repeats Peter, calmly.
    ‘We will enquire as to whether that would be acceptable,
yes.’
    ‘I know where it is!’
    ‘Calm down,’ says Peter.
    ‘You’re always saying I don’t know where things are. I
do!’
    The second detective returns – we hadn’t noticed him
slipping away – and says that if a fax were to be sent, it would be
considered. It’s up to British Airways, really: it’s their
£10,000. They point me towards a phone (we are pre-mobile) and I ring the
house.
    ‘Dave! How’s it going?’
    ‘Not bad. I’ve done all the walls and I’m just
starting on the paintwork. It’s quite a strong pink. It’s for a
girl, is it?’
    ‘No. I don’t know. Look, Dave? We’re still at the
airport.’
    ‘You’ve not gone to Italy, then?’
    ‘Not yet, no. Could you – Lawrence’s birth certificate
is in the dresser drawer, in the kitchen. Could you – possibly –
get it, and fax it to the number I’m going to give you?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Why?!’
    ‘I’ve never used a fax.’
    ‘It’s terribly simple, honestly. Can you get the
certificate, and I’ll tell you what to do?’
    ‘Er – OK.’
    He finds it.
    ‘You see?’ I tell Peter. ‘I do know where things
are.’
    We gather round the machine to watch the document emerge. Luckily, that
patterned pink background they use hasn’t turned it all grey; it is
legible. And right at the bottom, after the Name, Place of Birth and so on, is
a line in much smaller type I have never noticed before: ‘ WARNING: THIS CERTIFICATE IS NOT EVIDENCE OF THE IDENTITY OF THE
    PERSON PRESENTING IT .’
    We look at each other and say nothing. Perhaps they won’t read the
small print.
    They take the fax away, and after several agonizing minutes, return.
    ‘You are free to travel,’ says one. ‘The fact that he
has both your names has worked in your favour,’ said the other.
    ‘Great! Thank you! Thank you! ’
    ‘But our flight’s gone.’
    ‘That’s no problem, sir. We can put you on another
flight.’
    ‘I’m afraid we’re on Air Miles,’ I blurt out
guiltily.
    ‘We’re going to return you to the departure lounge. If
you’d like to come to the British Airways desk, they’ll give you an
overnight pack.’
    ‘Overnight pack?!’
    ‘Yes. You may not be able to collect your luggage in Milan until
tomorrow. It has been removed from the plane, but we’re not absolutely
sure when it will travel.’
    ‘Oh. OK. Thanks!’ We’re only going for three days.
Still, at least we are going. And I now have an excuse to buy some Italian
clothes.
    At the British Airways desk, we’re given a plastic bag each,
containing a toothbrush, paste, comb and plain white T-shirt.
    ‘Hey! A free T-shirt!’ I sit down to examine my gift.
    ‘Would you like one with a razor?’ asks the man. I feel my
leg. ‘You shouldn’t be here that long.’
    ‘Here are your boarding cards. You’re on Flight 275, which
leaves at 15.10. You’ll hear the announcement. We’ve rung Milan and
told them to expect you.’
    ‘Goodbye. And thank you!’
    ‘That’s quite all right, sir.’
    ‘As for coming back, well …’
    ‘You’ll have to show the fax again and hope for the
best.’
    They melt away and, as if on cue, Lawrence stirs and wakes up.
    ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think they realized we were
incompetent,