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13 February

It was the fault of airport security.

At airport security, Joanna’s nine-week-old baby boy was screaming. Her partner was busy taking off his trainers. A stocky uniformed woman was saying: ‘Can’t take these. ’

‘What?’ Joanna asked, her newborn gnawing at her T-shirt through his howls.

‘These liquids. The bottles are more than a hundred millilitres. If you need more for the flight, you’ve got to have proof. Do you have something in writing?’

‘No. ’

‘In that case, I’ll have to dispose of them. ’

‘But you can’t. It’s Calpol – paracetamol – for the baby, and antibiotics. I’ve got an ear infection. And, look, they’re not full. ’

‘Can I help?’ a freshly scanned and shoeless Alistair offered.

‘We’ll have to throw these out,’ the security woman repeated.

‘I told you about the hundred-millilitre rule, Joanna. ’

‘Did you?’ Probably. She couldn’t remember.

Alistair turned from Joanna to security woman, from problem to solution. ‘Can one of us nip over to Boots and get some smaller bottles?’

‘Well, yes, you can do that. But you’d need to go to the back of the queue and come through again. ’

‘You go on with Noah,’ Joanna suggested. ‘I’ll go back and sort this. ’

She handed over her baby and zig-zagged back the way she had come.

*

It was the fault of airport security.

If Joanna hadn’t gone back, if she hadn’t bought two small, clear hundred-millilitre bottles from Boots, if she hadn’t poured liquids into each while kneeling on the floor in front of WH Smith, if she hadn’t waited in the queue for another hour while her breasts ached: if she hadn’t done any of these things, then she would still have her baby.

*

The flight to Melbourne took twenty-one hours. The first seven – Glasgow to Dubai – were the worst. Noah cried the entire time. She couldn’t recall one minute when he didn’t. For five of these hours, Joanna tried doing the things she was supposed to do, in the order she was supposed to do them.

Round One. One hour from Glasgow. Plane flying over the North Sea. Alistair watching a movie which made him laugh very loudly which made Joanna want to kick him.

Food? She pressed his head towards her breast – too hard perhaps? Was he biting and pinching at her deliberately? Was that a punch?

Nappy? She felt inside it with her finger. It was clean, thankfully, because if it hadn’t been, her finger would now have poo on it.

Bored? The rattle and the Bananas in Pyjamas teddy bear made his eyes turn evil.

Tired? Are you kidding? At nine weeks, his determined angriness gave him so much energy that he almost wriggled himself out of the airline cot attached to the bulkhead in front of her. She caught him just in time.

Round Two. Three hours from Glasgow.

Plane flying over Germany. Alistair asleep.

Food? Wah.

Nappy? Wah.

Bored? WAH.

Tired? What sort of a mother are you?

*

She went through this routine, over and over. Round Three. Four. Five. And so on. Just as the mothers at the breastfeeding group had taught her.