Spinning Around

by Catherine Jinks

  An adulterer, maybe, but an irresistible one.

  Emily was playing with Gemma’s doll’s house when I came to do battle with Jonah. She was crouched on the floor of Gemma’s bedroom, her knees up around her ears, carefully dressing a Barbie doll under Gemma’s close supervision. Jonah was pushing buttons on an old toy cash register. He wasn’t cooperative.

  ‘No,’ he said, when he heard the word ‘bedtime’.

  ‘Come on Jonah, please. Be a good boy.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Don’t you want to sleep in Zoe’s bed? Hmm?’

  ‘Oh yes, Jonah!’ Zoe’s eager eyes sparked as comprehension dawned. ‘Yes, don’t you want to sleep in my bed? Where I sleep?’

  He looked at her suspiciously. His expression became mulish.

  ‘Come and see Zoe’s bed, Jonah,’ I said in brisk tones. ‘Come on. Come and see.’

  ‘It’s got a big, fluffy toy cat on it!’ Zoe continued. That sold him. He allowed himself to be led into Zoe’s room, where I had closed the cedar shutters (must have cost a fortune) and turned down the broderie anglaise bedclothes. He’s a stubborn little soul, is Jonah. Touchy and sensitive, but with a steely streak that Emily doesn’t have. You can tell that—despite all the emotional knocks he might experience along the way—he’s going to end up doing, very successfully, exactly what he wants to do, and that no-one’s going to distract him from his purpose.

  Like playing with the cash register, for instance.

  ‘No—no more cash register for now,’ I told him. ‘You can have a nap in Zoe’s bed, with Zoe’s cat, and then you can play.’

  ‘No,’ he said, sticking out his bottom lip.

  ‘You can have some milk. Warm milk. Do you want some warm milk?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Then into bed, please.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What if I read you a story, Jonah?’ Zoe suggested. ‘If you get into bed, I’ll read you a story.’

  ‘Oh, boy! That sounds good. Do you want a story, Jonah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then get into bed, please.’

  It went on and on like this, interspersed by a couple of eruptions. You might wonder why I bothered. You might think that I was being unnecessarily rigid about my schedule. After all, it was the weekend. Why not kick back and let the kids fall into a natural rhythm, doing their own thing while the adults murmured together over their Thai salad, and the sun arched across the sky?

  Well, let me tell you why. Because if Jonah doesn’t take a nap in the middle of the day, we all suffer for it. He whines, he screams, he cries at every little setback. He becomes ‘overtired’. And if that happens, then it’s hard to get him to sleep at night, too. As I said, he has nerves like violin strings. He’s even had night terrors, on occasion, and that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. I’d do anything to keep those at bay.

  The trouble is, it’s very difficult to get him to sleep in a strange house. He won’t be left alone, for a start. He has to be patted, and sung to, and sometimes even joined in bed. I can spend up to an hour trying to settle him when we’re out, and even then he’ll only sleep for forty-five minutes. With the result that he wakes up grumpy and clingy, demanding attention. And I never really enjoy the rest of our visit.

  He’s always been a bad sleeper. Emily was such a good baby: she smiled a lot, she stopped crying when you picked her up and went to sleep after you fed her, she was sleeping through the night at six months and never reverted thereafter. Jonah, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Before I had Jonah, I didn’t know what it was all about—not really. Women in my mothers’ group would talk about feeding problems and sleeping problems and I would think: There’s no way on earth I would ever take my baby to bed/leave her to cry for fifteen minutes/feed her formula before the age of two months. I just didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that when you get desperate enough, you’ll do anything. Literally anything.

  But there was nothing I could do—that was the problem. While my presence used to comfort Emily, it didn’t comfort Jonah. Neither did food, burping, clean nappies, dummies, or being rhythmically jounced up and down or pushed back and forth. ‘He’s not very comfortable in the world, is he?’ my Early Childhood nurse once said, and she was right—he wasn’t. Or perhaps he was just bored, poor darling; who wouldn’t be bored, lying in a bassinette all day, unable to ask for a thicker blanket? Anyway, whatever the problem was, I couldn’t believe that there wasn’t a solution somewhere. Fatalism isn’t part of the western way of life, after all. If there’s a problem, we have to fix it. The trouble was that I couldn’t fix it. No matter what I did, no matter what tests he endured for gastric reflux (negative) or lactose intolerance (negative), I couldn’t make my child happy.

  It did wonders for my confidence, I can tell you.

  In the end, I went to the Tresillian long-stay facility. My Early Childhood nurse referred me to a Tresillian nurse, who came around and asked searching questions about my state of mind. I kept assuring her that I was all right, really—because I knew that, compared to the women in my mothers’ group who had chronic mastitis, twins, unsympathetic (even abusive) husbands and dreadful gynaecological complications, I was all right. She wouldn’t believe me, though. She kept questioning and commenting until at last I burst into tears, and admitted that there was no joy in my life, none at all, and she booked me in for a week at Tresillian.

  Then I got there and wondered what on earth I’d been complaining about. There were mothers whose babies wouldn’t eat, mothers with huge families and bad back injuries who hadn’t slept for more than ten minutes at a time for a whole year, mothers who couldn’t take care of themselves, let alone their babies. And there was I, in a lather just because Jonah kept waking me up every hour at night and cried a lot during the day. I felt as if I was there under false pretences. But because I was desperate, I didn’t care much what everyone thought of me. I’d stopped caring about anything except a good night’s sleep.

  Perhaps that’s when things started to go downhill with Matt?

  It’s a wonderful institution, is Tresillian. Trained mothercare nurses give advice on feeding, settling, bathing. They help shell-shocked mothers teach their babies how to eat and how to sleep, especially how to sleep. You’d think that these would be natural human functions, but they’re not. Some babies need to be taught. Some mothers need to be taught. I met a mother there with four kids, and the fourth was the first she’d had trouble with. Like me, she hadn’t believed in leaving a child to cry even for two minutes. That was before the birth of her fourth child. Afterwards, she’d realised that sometimes you just have to do whatever it takes—or lose your mind.

  One thing Jonah taught me was not to judge other parents, except in pretty extreme circumstances. For all you know, they’re doing the best they can. And one thing that Tresillian taught Jonah was how to sleep for most of the night. He’s not perfect— he’s not like Emily, for instance—but he’s a lot better than he used to be.

  As a matter of fact, there ought to be places like Tresillian for wayward husbands, as well as wakeful babies. Places that will teach them how to change tap washers, make kids’ lunches, and remain faithful to their wives.

  If only.

  On our way home, Matt and I had a long conversation. Jonah and Emily were contentedly eating the emergency jelly snakes that I’d packed away in the glove compartment. (I’d had to break them out when we became firmly wedged in a traffic jam leading away from the beach.) A CD from Matt’s collection was filling the car with plaintive music. The light was golden; the shadows were long. Matt seemed utterly relaxed, his right hand draped over the top of the steering wheel. He said: ‘What was Kerry complaining about, out by the pool?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I saw you with her. You and Penelope. You had that look on your face.’

  ‘Oh.’ What look? ‘Well, she was saying she’d had a hard day yesterday. And when I asked her why, she told me that she’d spent fiv
e hours trying to find the right curtain fabric for that boat they’ve got a share in.’

  Matt snorted.

  ‘Which is pretty much on par with moaning about how your nanny doesn’t load the dishwasher properly,’ I continued. ‘God, she’s a joke.’

  ‘But you’re not laughin’.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I looked around at the sun glinting off spoilers and bumper bars. ‘Maybe I’ll laugh when we’ve cleared this mess.’ I was worried about what might happen, once we’d run out of jelly snakes.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ said Matt. ‘As soon as we get past these lights.’

  ‘We should have left earlier.’

  ‘I guess. Well, we would have, wouldn’t we? If Emily hadn’t lost that damn—I mean, that duck of hers.’

  ‘Ix-nay on the uck-day,’ I replied, with an anxious look in the rear-vision mirror. But Emily hadn’t heard. She seemed to have forgotten about the lost wooden duck.

  ‘It’ll turn up,’ said Matt.

  ‘I hope so.’ I had a nasty feeling that it might have been left on the beach. ‘You’re sunburned, did you know that? On the back of your neck.’

  ‘Yeah? Feels like it.’

  ‘Didn’t you put sunscreen on?’

  ‘Yeah. I musta missed a bit.’

  ‘You should always go under the collar. Just a few inches.’

  ‘I know.’

  And so it went on. A typical, rambling, domestic conversation, as dull and well-worn as the old vinyl on our kitchen floor. And yet I remember every word, simply because it was so normal. It seems amazing to me that you can keep going through the motions when you’re falling apart inside. It seems amazing that Matt can smile, and relax, and talk about traffic lights, and fall asleep as soon as he hits the sheets at night, when he may very well be having an affair.

  I’ve been lying here thinking about Megan Molesdale. Where did he meet her? At work, perhaps? If I was to ring the ABC, and ask for Megan Molesdale, would they put me through? And what would I say to her if they did? I couldn’t possibly ask her if she was having an affair with my husband. If I ask her, and it’s not true, then I’ll become the laughing-stock of the ABC.

  But I’ve got to do something. At least I can find out if she works with Matt. Maybe I can even visit her house. Check it out a bit. Establish whether she is, or is not, the Girl With Purple Hair. Smash her window with a rock that’s got a note tied to it: ‘Stay away from my husband ’.

  No, no. On second thoughts, you can get arrested for that sort of thing. Besides, I might be making a mistake. It might be a perfectly innocent association. Something work related. Something to do with concert tickets, or an REM fan club. Something completely above board.

  And even if it isn’t—do I really want to make waves? Wouldn’t it be better just to let him have his fling, and hope that he’ll get it all out of his system? Because it can’t have been happening for very long. Not to judge from the phone records—not for more than a month, I reckon, and I can handle that. At least—well, I can’t handle that, but you know what I mean. It would be different if it had been going on for years and years and years. That kind of vast betrayal, woven into the very fabric of a marriage, is very different from a three-week fling.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Though it suddenly occurs to me: even if it’s already over, how can I possibly trust him ever again? Especially if he thinks that I don’t know—if he thinks he’s got away with it. Having done it once, what’s to stop him from doing it whenever he wants to?

  On the other hand, if I tell him I know—well, that leaves me with two options. Either I forgive him, and leave him with the impression that he can walk all over me, or I throw him out. And what’s throwing him out going to achieve? Nothing that I want to deal with.

  Oh God, oh God. And I’m not even sure that I’ve got it right. What am I going to do? What on earth am I going to do?

  I’ve no idea, but it has to be something. Whatever it is, I have to do something. If I don’t, I’ll go mad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday

  I was dreading today. I didn’t know how I was supposed to work while I was secretly going crazy. But it turned out to be all right, in the end.

  This morning was a madhouse, as usual, with Matt staggering around like the living dead while I struggled to change Jonah’s nappy and iron my white jacquard blouse without burning the toast. Just as well Matt doesn’t have to leave until twelve on the days when he has a late shift; if we were both trying to get away at the same time . . . well, the mind boggles. As it is, he’s normally just beginning to wake up when I’m ready to make tracks, so there’s a fairly smooth changeover.

  He takes the kids to day care before driving off to the ABC.

  ‘Don’t forget their fruit,’ I reminded him, shrugging on my purple jacket as I advanced sideways down the hall.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And the hats. Jonah’s hat is on the clothes-horse—don’t forget it. Ow!’ I nearly fell over Barbie’s kitchen sink. ‘Emily! What did I say about cleaning up your toys?’

  No reply. She was watching the television.

  ‘Have we paid for this week?’ asked Matt, nursing a cup of coffee against his chest.

  ‘No. You can take care of it. Oh—and Jonah’s nappy supply needs topping up. I’ve put them out—they’re on the kitchen table. You can’t miss ’em.’ I was going through my mental checklist (keys—yes; handkerchief—yes; purse—yes; briefcase—yes) when Matt suddenly said: ‘Are you all right, Helen?’

  I was poised on the threshold, my eyes on my watch, and for a second the words didn’t penetrate. Then I blinked, and looked up at him.

  He was watching me from behind a great swatch of black hair, so I couldn’t see his eyes properly. But it sounded like a serious question. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and replied: ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?’

  As soon as he frowned, however, I lost courage. I couldn’t do it. My knees trembled. My heart took off. Not now, I thought—I’ll miss my train.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Helen—’

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be late. See ya.’

  It’s a thirteen-minute brisk walk from our house to the railway station, but I almost always have to run when I hit the final stretch. Fortunately, I don’t wear high-heeled shoes. I’d hate to have to clatter down those station stairs at top speed in a pair of stilettos. Even in court shoes it’s a bit of a challenge, especially when you’re also wearing pantyhose and a knee-length skirt. God knows what I look like from the train: all wild eyes, bouncing boobs and jangling earrings. And while I could blame the kids for this last-minute loss of dignity, I won’t, because half the time it’s not their fault. Half the time I’m late because I was walking too slowly, savouring the lovely morning light, the fresh smells, the fascinating glimpses of other people’s gardens and porch furniture. I love that walk. Some people might not think much of it, because all the streets around here are fairly builtup and suburban, but I think it’s wonderful. There’s a beautiful plumbago climbing over an iron fence; a letterbox shaped like a rocketship; a front path inlaid with tessellated tiles; a mysterious boarding house with a dark, cavernous entry hall and sheets in the windows; a corner shop with a little old man permanently parked on a deckchair near the entrance; a cat basking in a concrete yard; a juliet balcony; a weatherworn statue of a cherub; a climbing rose; a King Charles spaniel. Even the station is a poignant and touching place, with its advertisement for the local library (translated into six different languages) and its struggling beds of pansies and petunias. I love it. I love every bit of it.

  And lest I sound too flaky for words, let me assure you that I wasn’t always like this. It’s having kids that’s done the damage. Once upon a time, I wasn’t conscious of the sheer glory of getting out of the house on my own. Once upon a time I used to hate commuter trains. Now I enjoy them. I enjoy being part of an anonymous crow
d of suits—it’s such a relief. You don’t have to worry about the stroller getting stuck behind a pole, or your kids climbing on the seats, or your son’s juice bottle falling onto the floor and rolling down the stairs. All you have to worry about is you. You certainly don’t have to worry about your fellow passengers, because nothing that you do (barring an especially pungent fart) is going to annoy them in the least. You’re not about to squeal, vomit, cry, kick or complain. You’re not going to cause their hearts to sink when you get on board, because you’re one of them. A commuter.

  That’s what I tell myself: that I’m one of them. Certainly I look like one of them. But as a matter of fact, I don’t really feel like one of them—not any more. When I get off the train, and emerge into the smog-filled canyons of the central business district, I feel like a spy. It’s because there isn’t a child to be seen. Not one stroller, not one baby pouch, not one harassed-looking woman in a stained T-shirt and flapping sandals, pushing the younger kid while calling the older to heel. Sure, there are harassed-looking people in the city, but they seem to be harassed in a focused way. And they’re all so neat. Their bags are so neat— neat and black. You don’t see them toting floppy, bulging things covered in bright yellow flowers.

  I suppose the whole scene feels so foreign because I’ve only been back at work for four months. I suppose there’ll come a time when I won’t feel wildly out of place walking through sliding glass doors into a towering foyer made of stainless steel and polished granite. After all, look how adrift I felt when I first turned up, after four years in the maternal wilderness. God, I was terrified. I couldn’t believe that I’d ever get back into the swing of it all—the meetings, the deadlines, the assessments, the huge crowds bolting down caesar salad in subterranean food courts to the tune of beeping mobiles. I was concerned that I might have lost my skills, forgotten my law, discarded all the furniture in my head except the kind directly related to child-rearing. What’s more, I’d never jobshared before, and was worried about that. How would I manage it? Would I be able to trust my partner to finish what I had started? I remembered how difficult it had been to work while I was pregnant with Emily; how tired I always was, how my brain had turned to mush. It still seemed pretty mushy four years later, whenever I tried to write a simple shopping list. Was mush-brain perhaps a permanent condition of motherhood?