Teamwork

It wasn’t maternal instinct. I’ve missed that gig.  No, it was those pricks, three guys in suits with their glasses of Cab Sav. I saw their disgust, the look that said “get your brats under control”. As much as I was walking towards her, I was also turning away before I gave them an earful. There’s nowhere to hide in an airport terminal, no dark corner if your kid’s having a meltdown and your baby’s hungry and you’re juggling spilled luggage and nappies and boarding passes.

She looked up, desperate and teary, as I dropped to my knees beside her son.  I started with ‘Incy Wincy Spider’ - where did that come from? -  with the whole hand action deal.  The screaming became shuddering sobs.  His eyebrows drew together above wet lashes.

The girl was there first. Probably not a mother judging by the Amy Winehouse makeup, the scarlet hair and slashed jeans. Or am I just showing my age?  She had a way with children, that’s for sure.  The toddler was quiet now, transfixed, tears drying on his cheeks.  I caught his mother’s eye and raised my eyebrows. She nodded and I crouched, holding out a piece of mandarin.  He grabbed it in his small fist. The baby in her arms was crying, uncomfortable in a dirty nappy.  I asked for her flight number. She shrugged apologetically. I pointed to her boarding pass and she held it out to me.  She was on my flight. I smiled, pointed again and then at myself.  The boarding call had already been made.

Only small kids stare like that.  Clenched fists shoved mandarin segments into his mouth, juice running in the tear tracks down his chin. A ponytailed chick in a tracksuit was collecting up the overturned bag:  a book in an Arabic script, keys, a packet of tissues, coins from an open purse. The overpowering reek of shit masked the sweet freshness of the fruit.

Now there was a woman in full length robes speaking insistently to the mother, flanked by two brown eyed girls.  A flash of alarm, then defeat.  The mother passed her baby to the newcomer who walked away, the younger girl a step behind with the baby bag.  Airports are all about trust. That the plane will get you there on time, that the engineering will keep you up, that the pilot’s on top of her game. That a stranger who takes your baby will bring it back, clean, fresh.

And then we were standing, gathering, checking.  The woman took the boy’s sticky hand and cradled her sweet, heavy-eyed infant.  I shouldered her extra bags and we dashed to Gate 9.

I watched them hurry towards the departure gate. It had taken only a few minutes, four strangers, no discussion.  The pricks at the bar had gone, leaving empty glasses and a plastic nut bag.  Off to their next overpriced consultancy, I imagined, to their next teamwork training session.

Rosemary McBryde