The Mothers' Group (26 page)

Since Rory had started crawling, the park had become more challenging— she now had to keep a close eye on both of them. She could never wholly trust Digby to respond to verbal commands, so she had to be in constant reach of both. Sometimes, when Digby was in a reasonable mood, she would permit Rory to sit on his lap on the slippery dip.

‘How about you and Rory play trains on the slide together?' she suggested.

Digby kicked at the pine bark beneath the swing set. ‘Okay.'

‘Thank you, Dig,' she said.

He climbed to the top of the slide and waited while she positioned Rory on his lap.

‘One-two-three . . . Choo, choo!' yelled Digby, wrapping his arms around Rory's waist.

Rory squealed as they slid down together. They landed at the bottom, arms and legs entangled, Rory cackling with a glee he reserved for Digby alone. Miranda laughed too, and reached for her phone, capturing a picture of their delight.

After an hour in the park, she checked her watch.

9.30 am

‘Coffee time,' she announced.

They retraced their route, stopping off at her favourite café at Freshwater Village.

‘
Ciao, bella
,' said Alberto, the ageing Italian barista.

She smiled, even though she didn't feel remotely
bella
.

As he frothed the milk for her cappuccino, she fished around in the stroller pocket for coins. Predictably, Digby began to whine.

‘I want a marshmallow.'

She ignored him, until he attempted to climb the counter. She guided him back down.

‘I'm sorry, Dig, that's a treat. We don't eat marshmallows every day.'

‘But I WANT a marshmallow,' he bellowed.

Alberto clipped a lid over her coffee and she pushed four dollars towards him. He ducked under the counter for a moment, emerging with a jar of marshmallows.

‘Here we are,
bambino
,' he said, unscrewing the lid.

Digby thrust his hand into the jar, fingers moving over the pink and white puffs.

‘Just one, Dig,' she admonished. He pulled out three and began licking them.

‘Can I pay you for them?' she asked, embarrassed.

‘No, no.' He smiled. ‘My pleasure.'

She turned to Digby. ‘What do you say to Alberto, Digby?'

The corners of Digby's mouth turned upwards and a slyness crept into his eyes. He took a step forward.
Please say it, please say it, go on, Dig.

‘Poo to you, Mr Moo.'

She jerked him backwards, away from the counter, reefing his arm towards her. His feet slipped with the sudden movement and he landed on his knees, hard, on the tiled floor below.

Digby howled in outrage. People turned and stared.

‘Oh no, no,
Signora
, no . . .' Alberto waved his hands. ‘He only small . . .'

She flushed, humiliated by Digby's behaviour, her own loss of control in public, and Alberto's obvious objection. It wasn't the European way, she knew. Hendrika and Marco were
always
indulging Digby.

She pulled Digby away by the hand.

‘Thanks, Alberto,' she muttered.

9.45 am

She pushed the pram so quickly that Digby struggled to keep up. She could hear his small sneakers padding against the pavement several steps behind her, his little grunts of effort. She knew it was infantile, but she wanted to punish him. She couldn't possibly return to the café. Not tomorrow, not ever. It was just another part of her life that Digby had spoiled.

As they approached a bus stop, she noticed a woman leaning into a minivan parked illegally in a loading zone. The van's hazard lights were blinking and a shrill squealing sound was audible over the intermittent noise of passing traffic. Another mother with a baby, Miranda thought.

As she neared the open door of the minivan, Miranda saw the object of the woman's attention. A young man in a wheelchair, his arms and legs twisted with spasticity, was shrieking with indignation as he strained to reach the straw cup the woman proffered.

‘Here it is, honey,' Miranda heard the woman say.

From behind, Miranda could see that the woman's hair was greying and the backs of her hands were peppered with age spots. She couldn't be younger than fifty. But the patient tone of her voice, the gentle hand on the young man's jaw, the tilt of her head, all were maternal. It was, Miranda recognised, an intensely private moment between mother and son.

She lowered her gaze and pushed Rory beyond the minivan.

‘Come on, Dig,' she said, turning and reaching for his hand.

Tears blurred her vision.

I'm so lucky, she thought, I'm so lucky. I
have
to remember that.

She stopped and kneeled in front of the stroller, pulling Digby onto her lap. Rory grabbed two fistfuls of Miranda's hair and yanked them. Digby laughed and batted at Rory's hands.

‘Let go of Mummy's hair,' he giggled.

Gently, Miranda prised Rory's hands away, drew them to her lips and kissed them.

‘I love you both,' she whispered, cuddling Digby to her chest. ‘More than anything in this world.'

Digby leaned into her.

Then she stood up, brushed the tears from beneath her sunglasses, and resumed pushing the stroller home.

10 am

Still too early, she thought.

She switched on the television and called out to Digby. All her best intentions about limiting television had been abandoned. It was the only way she could get some peace and quiet.

‘
Play School
's on,' she called, piling some cushions in front of the television. ‘You and Rory can watch it, if you like.'

‘Yay!' Digby was never quite as thrilled by any of her other suggestions.

She propped Rory on a cushion next to Digby. They sat transfixed, their eyes following the movement and colour. It was only thirty minutes, she reasoned. She returned to the kitchen and scanned the to-do list stuck to the fridge door.

She picked up the telephone and dialled Computerworld. Her laptop had crashed a week ago, just after Digby had knocked it off the coffee table. All her photos and movies were stored on that laptop, along with her art archives, contact lists and important documents. Stupidly, she'd never backed up any of it.

‘Chris,' she said, ‘it's Miranda Bianco. Any news on the laptop?'

‘Not good, Miranda.'

Computerworld had been recommended by Ginie. It was another benefit of belonging to the mothers' group: whenever anyone needed a referral, someone always had a suggestion. Over the past year, Miranda had sourced a plumber, a cleaner and a landscape gardener in exactly the same way. So when she couldn't restart her computer, she'd sent a brief text message to the mothers' group:
Computer's died. Anyone know someone who can help
me get my life back?
Within three minutes, Ginie had responded, sending her Chris Moran's mobile number and the message:
Chris is Daniel's best
mate. Been in IT for years. Expert at data recovery. Good luck.

‘The hard disk has a serious internal hardware fault,' said Chris. ‘The hard disk heads are damaged or malfunctioning. We might be able to recover some of your data, but it's the worst possible scenario, I'm afraid. It will cost at least three thousand for my senior engineer to go in and try, and he may not be successful. We'll need a thousand-dollar deposit to start the work, then the remaining two thousand on completion.'

‘Oh.' Miranda had hoped for better news.

‘Do you want some time to think about it?' asked Chris.

‘I guess I need to talk to my husband. Three thousand dollars . . . I could buy a new laptop with that.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘It reflects the complexity of the task, I'm afraid. I've given you my best price, seeing as you're Ginie's friend. I'd normally charge four thousand. I guess it's a matter of whether you've got mission-critical data on that disk.'

She sighed. Most of her photos of her mother were on that hard drive: three thousand dollars was a small sum to pay to retrieve them. She didn't need to talk to Willem.

‘Look, start the job, Chris,' she said. ‘I'll give you my credit card number for the deposit.'

Willem was due to return on Friday; she'd tell him about it then.

10.30 am

‘The Wiggles are on now,' yelled Digby from the lounge room.

She considered her options: turn off the television and resume combat with Digby, or be granted a further thirty minutes of peace. It was a no-brainer.

‘Okay, Dig,' she called back. ‘Is Rory still happy?'

‘Yep.'

She walked to the kitchen door and looked into the lounge room to verify this. Rory was transfixed, his eyes lowered in lazy half-slits. In thirty minutes, he'd be ready for a nap. It couldn't hurt him to chill out a little longer.

She walked back to the kitchen and sank onto a stool. The kettle had not long boiled. She arranged the plunger, spooning in four tablespoons of ground beans before adding hot water. As the coffee brewed, she flicked through the
Manly Daily
, scanning the job advertisements. Accounts payable, telemarketers, early childhood intern, baker's assistant. She poured the coffee into a giant mug and grimaced at its bitterness.

It pained her to be financially dependent. Willem claimed that he held nothing over her, that it was simply his turn to shoulder the responsibility of work while she looked after the children. But she'd always had her own income prior to Willem and her altered circumstances grated. She hated having to ask him for money. Each month he combed the credit card statements with forensic interest, interrogating her about every unfamiliar item. ‘What's CG Express, Narrabeen?' ‘Ninety-one dollars at Ho Vanh— is that a clothes store?' ‘What did you get at Rebel Sports?'

She resented being answerable for every petty expenditure, especially given the fact that they could afford it. She wanted to lash out at him, to call him a miser. Mostly she stayed silent, but recently he'd detected her frustration.

‘I don't know why you've become so sensitive about this,' he'd said, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I'm just tracking our expenses. If you can't measure it, you can't manage it. You know that.'

She'd nodded, the compliant wife, while she inwardly seethed. If only
she
could make enough money somehow, she thought. She could have her own credit card, spend whatever she wanted and be answerable to no one.

Sometimes she fantasised about ways to do that. She'd considered going back to the gallery when Rory turned one, but the manager's position was full-time. She'd been angling for a part-time or job-share arrangement, but the owner was reluctant. He'd made it clear that the position of manager was being held open for her while she was on maternity leave, but that it would only be offered on its previous terms—five days a week, eight hours a day. But she didn't want to leave Rory in full-time care, and travelling from Freshwater to Paddington would be onerous. She had changed, it seemed, but the world had not.

She'd worked hard to attain the position of gallery manager. After completing a masters in Visual Arts, she'd spent four years in the UK and Europe before returning to Australia, buoyed by her exposure to the world's finest galleries and museums. Back in Sydney, a series of contract roles at the Australia Council led to her dream job as the manager of a contemporary gallery for emerging Australian artists. She'd only been in the role for two years when she'd met Willem and fallen pregnant. It was hard to believe that fifteen years of study and professional development would now be wasted.

11 am

An irritating, mechanical melody sounded the show's conclusion. Digby rushed into the kitchen.

‘Where's my sandwich?' he demanded.

‘Just a moment, Dig. I'll get Rory.'

They sat at the stainless-steel island bench, Rory in his highchair and Digby balanced on a bar stool next to her. Rory rubbed his eyes and ignored his egg sandwich. Digby ploughed into his, having worked up an appetite at the park.

‘Can I have Rory's sandwich too?' he asked, swallowing the last hunk of bread.

‘Okay, Dig. I don't think Rory's eating his.' She passed the plate to Digby. ‘I'm going to put Rory to bed now, okay? Here's a drink of water for you.'

Digby guzzled the water from the plastic cup she gave him.

Rory's eyes were drooping as she slipped him into his sleeping bag.

‘Shhh, shhh, shhh,' she whispered, although he needed no settling. He'd already turned his head to one side, his usual sleeping posture, as she closed the door behind her. What an angel, she thought.

1.30 pm

She looked at her watch, fuming. It had been over an hour since she'd put Digby to bed, and yet he still wasn't asleep. She could hear him ranging around his room, knocking over books and toys, clicking his bedside lamp on and off, sliding the wardrobe door open and shut. He'd demonstrated all the usual tired signs but, as was often the case now, he had simply willed himself
not
to sleep. Why couldn't he just have a rest at least, lying down quietly with his picture books? Rory was due to wake up soon.

She rested her head in her hands on the island bench. She was exhausted. Apparently it would get better, so her sister-in-law said, when the children were about eight years old. The prospect of waiting another five years was demoralising. She'd be almost forty by then. And she suspected that any notion of a ‘break' was pure fantasy; surely children were challenging in different ways at different stages. She might as well write off the next twenty years.

The telephone rang. It was her mother-in-law, Hendrika. The best part of forty years in Australia hadn't softened her Dutch accent.

‘Are the children asleep?'

‘Not quite,' Miranda said. ‘They're in their bedrooms, but . . .'

‘Well, they're as good as asleep then.'