The Mothers' Group

Fiona Higgins lives in Sydney with her husband and three children. She is the author of
Love in the Age of Drought
and has worked in the philanthropic sector for the past ten years.

www.fionahiggins.com.au

The

Mothers'

Group

The

Mothers'

Group

FIONA HIGGINS

First published in 2012

Copyright © Fiona Higgins 2012

The epigraph on
♣
is taken from Sherrard, J.,
Mother Warrior Pilgrim
, New York, Andrews and McMeel Inc, 1980, p. 75

‘Forever Young'
Music: Marian Gold, Bernhard Lloyd, Frank Mertens
Lyrics: Marian Gold
© 1984 Rolf Budde Musikverlag GmbH
Reproduced with the permission of Fable Music Pty Ltd (Australia)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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ISBN 978 1 74237 986 9

Internal design by Lisa White
Set in 11.5/18 pt Minion Regular by Post Pre-press Group, Australia
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my mother, Lesley, who did a remarkable job of mothering
the three of us under very difficult circumstances

The mothers agree that indeed the years do fly.
It's the days that don't. The hours, minutes of a single day
sometimes just stop. And a mother finds herself standing in
the middle of a room wondering. Wondering. Years fly.
Of course they do. But a mother can gag on a day.

JAIN SHERRARD

Contents

Ginie

Made

Suzie

Miranda

Pippa

Cara

Acknowledgements

Ginie

She lay naked on the dune, the sand stuck wet against her skin. Seagulls circled, calling to their mates through the sea fog, curling low and languid across the beach.

The smell of rotting seaweed was distracting, even as his tongue and hands moved over her.

She looked down at him, beyond her bare stomach.

Let go
, he said.
Let go.

She arched her back, pulling thousands of grains of sand into tight fists . . .

Startled by a sharp rapping at the front door, Ginie opened her eyes. She blinked, registering where she was. On the couch. In the lounge room. Next to Rose. The dream sprinted away and disappointment plummeted through her. She felt cheated.

Sex had become a thing of the past. Alongside other common pleasures like Sunday morning sleep-ins and uninterrupted showers, Rose's arrival had signalled the abrupt departure of Ginie's sexual appetite. She closed her eyes again, wondering if she'd ever get it back. That delicious sexual abandon with Daniel, a level of intimacy she'd never known before.

The knocking at the door resumed, more insistent now.

For fuck's sake, she thought, I'm tired. Go away.

She glanced at Rose, a soft bundle of pink in an old-fashioned bassinette, a nostalgic gift from her grandmother. The knocking hadn't disturbed the baby at all. Once she was asleep, nothing much did.

Maybe if I just lie quietly, Ginie thought, whoever it is will leave.

She stared at the modern chandelier suspended above her, its crystal beads catching the morning light. What time was it? She couldn't have been asleep for very long. Her laptop was still perched on her knees, cursor flashing in an unfinished email.

She'd been out of hospital for five weeks and Rose was doing everything right. Feeding from a bottle, settling easily, sleeping as well as a newborn could. A textbook baby, so her mother said. As if she'd bloody know.

As usual, thoughts of her mother sent a wave of anger coursing through her. Ginie took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself.

Her Buddhist-leaning life coach had taught her ‘mindfulness', the technique of watching her anger as if she was a third party. It was all part of making peace with her mother's absence during her childhood, apparently. Had Ginie's mother been sick or died, it might have been easier to understand. But instead, as a primary school principal, her mother had devoted her life to education. She'd worked slavishly during school terms and holidays, ensuring thousands of children reaped the benefit of her dedication. Other people's children, Ginie had sometimes reflected.

When her mother wasn't working, she'd always seemed more occupied with her siblings. Ginie could remember watching her older brother at endless weekend soccer matches, her mother bellowing encouragement until she was hoarse. Or sitting by her side in the rooms of countless specialists, from orthopaedic surgeons to occupational therapists, discussing her younger sister's medical condition.
Hip dysplasia at birth
, her mother had explained to anyone who'd listen.
One of her legs is longer than the
other.
Ginie had always been the dutiful middle child, compliant and sensible, playing Best Supporting Actress to her siblings.

But none of that mattered anymore. When Ginie looked at her present life, one thing was sure: it was far superior to that of her siblings. It was
her
time now.

She exhaled, soothed by the thought.

The tapping at the door grew louder.

She glanced again at Rose, certain the noise would wake her.

Through the opaque leadlight panels of their front door, she could discern two figures. Her iPhone flashed an impatient alert:
Daniel (Mobile)
. Her husband again.

I've organised painters for the nursery. They're waiting outside.

She rolled her eyes.
Hopeless prick
.

From the moment they'd discovered she was pregnant, she'd repeatedly asked Daniel to repaint the room for the nursery. She'd been frantic at work, organising the complicated handover required before she went on maternity leave. As the most senior female lawyer at the firm, she earned a hefty salary that allowed Daniel to pursue his writing and photography ventures. Most of which came to nothing.

‘I'm tired,' she'd complained to him, eight months into her pregnancy. ‘I really need you to repaint the nursery. Please, Daniel.'

‘I'll get to it,' came his stock-standard response. ‘Trust me.'

And then the baby had arrived, a full month early, and Daniel had run out of time.

Ginie read the message again, then tossed the telephone onto the coffee table.

Angry? she thought. I'm fucking furious.

Rose stirred in her bassinette. A tiny arm reached out of the muslin wrap. Ginie's anger instantly receded. From the moment Rose had been pulled from her body, covered in vernix and squirming in the light, Ginie was smitten. The depths of her newfound tenderness for this tiny mysterious creature had taken her completely by surprise.

For a moment she watched, transfixed, as her daughter's delicate hand grasped at the air. Floating fingers, no bigger than her own fingernails.
My daughter.
She shook her head, marvelling. Just a few months ago, the concept had seemed so abstract. Yet now, here she was, a mother to this living, breathing, milky soft being.

The knocking persisted. Ginie couldn't ignore it any longer.

She glanced at her watch and hauled herself off the couch. The first session of the mothers' group was due to begin. A reminder had arrived from the local baby health centre a week ago but she'd chosen to ignore it. She couldn't imagine anything worse than sitting around with a bunch of women she didn't know, eating biscuits and talking babies. Now, with the painters banging down the door, attending a mothers' group seemed an attractive alternative to watching paint dry.

She opened the front door and directed the tradesmen to the nursery, on the lower floor of their split-level home. Then she placed Rose in the pram and gathered up the nappy bag, a bunny rug and several stuffed toys.

‘Nicole, we're going out for an hour or two,' she called up the stairs.

There was no reply. The nanny had arrived from Ireland yesterday, but she still hadn't surfaced. Jetlagged, no doubt.

The baby health centre was at the top of a hill, only a short walk from the car park. Yet the all-terrain baby jogger, purchased by Daniel the week before, was heavier than she could manage. She was forced to stop along the way to catch her breath, her caesarean scar throbbing beneath her jeans. It was a crisp June day, the sky so blue it almost hurt her eyes. Cerulean, Daniel would call it, in his writer's way.

When she arrived at the centre, the mothers' group had already started. She hated running late, for anything. Flustered, she pushed open the glass door with a force that caused it to slam against the adjacent wall. A group of women turned in her direction.

‘Sorry,' she mumbled. She turned her back on the group and attempted to pull Rose's pram up the step.

‘Shit.' The door was heavy against her back, and the pram unwieldy. I've got a law degree, she thought, and I can't even get a baby jogger through the bloody door.

A woman with honey-coloured hair appeared at her side. ‘Let me help,' she offered, holding the door open for Ginie.

‘Thanks,' said Ginie, hauling the pram inside. ‘I'm still getting the hang of this.'

‘Heavy, aren't they? I got mine jammed at the supermarket checkout the other day and a security guard had to help me. I was
so
embarrassed.' The woman grinned at her. ‘I'm Cara, by the way.'

‘Ginie.'

‘Well, hello! Come on in.' A bespectacled silver-haired woman sat at the front of the group, waving a clipboard in Ginie's direction. This must be Pat, the chatty midwife who'd telephoned several weeks earlier to check on her post-natal progress. Ginie had declined her offer of a home visit.

‘Have a seat, Ginie,' the woman said, consulting the clipboard and ticking her name off. ‘I'm Pat. You're just in time for introductions.'

A dozen chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, but fewer than half were occupied. Most of the seats closest to the door had already been taken. As if the women in them might run from the room at any moment, Ginie chuckled to herself.