rather than criminal.’
‘Yes, very.’
It is the week before half-term, and the plane is about a third full. We
have two stewardesses each, and another offers to walk Lawrence up and down the
aisle while we have our drinks.
But at Linate we find ourselves in a small, crowded office, facing an
official behind a desk. We present our fax.
‘In London—’ we begin.
He slaps the fax with the back of his hand, as if trying to stun a
fish.
‘ London! ’ He implies it’s a preposterous place
where people cross borders with flimsy sheets of paper: not a proper city like
his. He’s having none of it.
‘Oh. Well, d’you think—’ 117
‘You sit. I phone London .’
We sit. The room is filled with officials, all smoking. I’ve
forgotten how much smoke one cigarette can produce. Four or five going at once
and the air is opaque. Lawrence stirs again in the sling. I’ve probably
built up enough milk by now for a feed, and figure if I feed him myself,
they’ll surely see he’s my child and let us go. On the other hand,
we could all choke to death before I even get my tits out.
‘I need to feed the baby,’ I announce boldly.
‘You go in there.’ I am ushered into a tiny side office,
mercifully free of smoke. Peter remains, smiling un-nervously to show he
isn’t a child abductor.
After about an hour, the official finds the line to London engaged for
the umpteenth time, and drops the phone back onto the desk.
‘It’s busy. You go.’
‘What? We can leave?’
‘Yes, yes. Go.’ We scuttle away before he changes his mind.
I have no idea how, since we’re about five hours late, but Giuseppe is
there to meet us.
Lawrence enjoys his trip, particularly the Sunday afternoon which he
spends screaming. And something wonderful happens.
‘He’s slept through the night!’
Travel seems to agree with him. We stand over the cot and gaze at him,
as if he will look different.
We return from our adventure to find his room duly painted, even if it
is a somewhat more Barbie-ish pink than we remember from the colour
chart. We’ll probably end up with another boy: fine. When they’re
old enough to have a say about the colour, they can repaint it themselves.
At about three months, just as last time, I start falling asleep twice a
day, and feeling sick. But I discover a brilliant cure: food! You know that
traditionally morning sickness puts you off eating. You also know that
things with ginger in often make it slightly better. But – selflessly
using myself as guinea pig – I have found that tiny morsels of anything alleviate it to the point where normal life can resume. The
only problem is, the effect wears off rather soon. I have to eat my own weight
in biscuits every day.
Lawrence babbles, ‘ Da-da-da-da ’ so we ring my mother
and hold out the phone, whereupon he stops. He can nearly sit up, but just when
you think he’s stable, does a terrifying whiplash movement with his upper
torso which sends his head flailing forward. If we put him within two miles of
the coffee table, he will knock himself out, and quite possibly lose an eye. We
make one concession to safety, and stash the coffee table away. We briefly
consider getting cupboard clips, but the people we know who have them can never
get their cupboards open easily, and anyhow, even when he does become mobile,
he doesn’t pull all the plates onto the floor. Instead, he opens them and
peers in rather politely, as if seeing round the house, then closes them
again.
A friend with a daughter the same age invites us to one of those groups
I hate, called Tick-Tock or Humpty- Dumpty . As I am still
hoping to turn into the sort of person who likes – or can at least
tolerate – sitting on a cold church-hall floor chanting,
‘ Hickory-dickory-dock ,’ we go along. Lawrence isn’t
interested. He only wants to crawl across the middle of the neat baby circle
and snatch the others’ maracas.
I always believed that
‘Yes, very.’
It is the week before half-term, and the plane is about a third full. We
have two stewardesses each, and another offers to walk Lawrence up and down the
aisle while we have our drinks.
But at Linate we find ourselves in a small, crowded office, facing an
official behind a desk. We present our fax.
‘In London—’ we begin.
He slaps the fax with the back of his hand, as if trying to stun a
fish.
‘ London! ’ He implies it’s a preposterous place
where people cross borders with flimsy sheets of paper: not a proper city like
his. He’s having none of it.
‘Oh. Well, d’you think—’ 117
‘You sit. I phone London .’
We sit. The room is filled with officials, all smoking. I’ve
forgotten how much smoke one cigarette can produce. Four or five going at once
and the air is opaque. Lawrence stirs again in the sling. I’ve probably
built up enough milk by now for a feed, and figure if I feed him myself,
they’ll surely see he’s my child and let us go. On the other hand,
we could all choke to death before I even get my tits out.
‘I need to feed the baby,’ I announce boldly.
‘You go in there.’ I am ushered into a tiny side office,
mercifully free of smoke. Peter remains, smiling un-nervously to show he
isn’t a child abductor.
After about an hour, the official finds the line to London engaged for
the umpteenth time, and drops the phone back onto the desk.
‘It’s busy. You go.’
‘What? We can leave?’
‘Yes, yes. Go.’ We scuttle away before he changes his mind.
I have no idea how, since we’re about five hours late, but Giuseppe is
there to meet us.
Lawrence enjoys his trip, particularly the Sunday afternoon which he
spends screaming. And something wonderful happens.
‘He’s slept through the night!’
Travel seems to agree with him. We stand over the cot and gaze at him,
as if he will look different.
We return from our adventure to find his room duly painted, even if it
is a somewhat more Barbie-ish pink than we remember from the colour
chart. We’ll probably end up with another boy: fine. When they’re
old enough to have a say about the colour, they can repaint it themselves.
At about three months, just as last time, I start falling asleep twice a
day, and feeling sick. But I discover a brilliant cure: food! You know that
traditionally morning sickness puts you off eating. You also know that
things with ginger in often make it slightly better. But – selflessly
using myself as guinea pig – I have found that tiny morsels of anything alleviate it to the point where normal life can resume. The
only problem is, the effect wears off rather soon. I have to eat my own weight
in biscuits every day.
Lawrence babbles, ‘ Da-da-da-da ’ so we ring my mother
and hold out the phone, whereupon he stops. He can nearly sit up, but just when
you think he’s stable, does a terrifying whiplash movement with his upper
torso which sends his head flailing forward. If we put him within two miles of
the coffee table, he will knock himself out, and quite possibly lose an eye. We
make one concession to safety, and stash the coffee table away. We briefly
consider getting cupboard clips, but the people we know who have them can never
get their cupboards open easily, and anyhow, even when he does become mobile,
he doesn’t pull all the plates onto the floor. Instead, he opens them and
peers in rather politely, as if seeing round the house, then closes them
again.
A friend with a daughter the same age invites us to one of those groups
I hate, called Tick-Tock or Humpty- Dumpty . As I am still
hoping to turn into the sort of person who likes – or can at least
tolerate – sitting on a cold church-hall floor chanting,
‘ Hickory-dickory-dock ,’ we go along. Lawrence isn’t
interested. He only wants to crawl across the middle of the neat baby circle
and snatch the others’ maracas.
I always believed that
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