by Pat Rosier
‘When they’re two I’m going back to work.’ She announced it from the doorway. Bob’s mouth opened, and she saw him pause, and rearrange the shocked look on his face. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, keeping her voice light and cheerful, ‘lots of mothers go to work these days, even when they don’t have to. I’ll work out the details. You’ll see.’ And she sat down beside him and rubbed the side of her face against his shoulder. Now he was jiggling Neil and Andrew was drooping on his other shoulder.
‘You do come out with things,’ he said. ‘It’s my job to ….’
‘Bring home the bacon. I know. But I’m not very good at …,’ then she didn’t want to talk about it any more, she just wanted to hold the possibility, not flatten it with explaining and justifying. ‘Let’s leave it for now, eh?’ she said, and took Andrew and sat on the floor, sitting him between her legs, encouraging him to grip a finger from each of her hands and move to the music of a jingle advertising cheese.
When Isobel asked her mother why she had never done paid work in all her years of marriage, the older woman said, ‘You children. And your father takes a lot of looking after, with his weak stomach. He wouldn’t have liked it.’ She looked at Isobel and continued, ‘It’s different now, the war changed all that, there’s no going back.’ The war? She nearly said, ‘what war?’ Her mother went on, ‘I can’t see you staying home for years and years. What does Bob have to say about it?’
Isobel shrugged. ‘When I mentioned it, you know, for in a while, he wasn’t keen.’ Let it drop now, she told herself, at least she’s not shocked, and didn’t take her own advice. ‘I’m no good,’ she went on, ‘at the wife stuff.' Her mother’s hastily hidden embarrassment drove her on. ‘No, that part’s all right, it’s doing looking after his clothes, and admiring what he does at work when it seems ordinary, being interested when I’m not, all that stuff.’ Now her mother was looking shocked. Isobel stood up. ‘I’d better get going,’ she said stuffing toys and bibs and a plastic bag of wet nappies into the bottom of the pram, ‘washing to bring in, dinner to get.’ She leant over, buckling each boy in. ‘You get used to it,’ her mother was saying, ‘and they’ll be at school before you know it, then …’
‘I’m not waiting four and a half years to go back to work’, Isobel told the boys on the way home. ‘You just wait and see, I’ll sort out a way. And not a little part-time something with school holidays off, either.’ She didn’t mention the idea again to Bob.
The car did in fact make a difference; visits to his parents were more frequent but shorter, which Isobel found easier. Nana and she had come to a kind of unspoken agreement that Neil was Nana’s boy and Andrew was more mother-struck. Isobel warmed slightly to her mother-in-law when she noticed how arid her household was, how she never actually made it onto her husband’s radar — he only ever spoke to her if there was something to be done and there was never any evidence of warmth between them. When she pointed this out to Bob, he brushed it aside with, ‘they’ve always been like that, they suit each other fine.'
Sally invited them and her parents all over for Sunday lunch and of course they had to go in Bob’s new car. Even driving, it took forty minutes to get across the city to their place, Bob driving, Isobel’s father sitting beside him and Isobel and her mother in the back with the boys. Bob and her father talked about learning to drive. Bob had been taught by his father when he was nineteen. He’d driven other people’s cars a bit, mostly his father’s, but this was the first one he could call his. Her mother pronounced, predictably, that learning young was best. As they drove over the Harbour Bridge the conversation turned to the proposed extensions that would double its lanes and the Japanese money that would be involved. Isobel heard the phrase ‘Nippon clip-on’ and switched out. She watched her mother watching the backs of the men’s heads as they talked, noticing her approval, then turned her attention to Neil, who was trying to stand on her lap.
‘If Shirley and her three were here, we’d have the whole family …,’ said Isobel’s father suddenly, in a moment after lunch when everyone was quiet and all four children were still. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ her mother began, then everyone was distracted by Andrew inching across the floor on his stomach towards his father’s jiggling foot. On the remaining short drive home after they had dropped off Isobel’s parents Bob announced it was time she moved permanently back into the double bed. ‘We can be a proper married couple again,’ he said. Isobel said nothing. It was okay, sex with Bob, though she liked his softness, affection even, afterwards as much as the doing of it.
Suddenly the boys were a year old. Andrew was walking unaided, Neil almost. On the day of their birthday, a Saturday, Isobel managed to put on lunch for both sets of grandparents and Sally and Daniel, and Nathan and Sarah. She didn’t watch Nathan so carefully around the boys now, he’d lost interest in them altogether, though he was still boisterous. When Daniel took him outside to play soccer, her father followed. Everyone made a fuss about what a wonderful lunch it was and she took a bow and gestured at Sally, who had brought a huge salad in two bowls and a banana cake as well as giving Isobel good advice. ‘Cold meat, cooked potatoes and salad,’ she had said, ‘do a few pieces of bread, buttered and with hundreds and thousands for the kids, and some cheerios, plenty of cheerios, the adults will eat them. With a bowl of tomato sauce. It’s lunch, so you won’t need a pudding, just a few pieces of fresh fruit and I’ll bring a cake to go with the cup of tea afterwards.’
Actually, Bob had bought beer. Isobel and Sally both had a glass. In spite of Isobel’s efforts to prevent it, the men kept huddling together. Well, the two grandfathers and Bob, really, Daniel joined them when Sally gave him a nudge and nodded in their direction. He went, obediently rather than willingly, Isobel thought, but he did at least pick up Neil as they moved outside to look at the best spots for the barbecue Bob was insisting he would get in the summer.
Sally was a godsend for keeping the conversation going with the two grandmothers, she never ran out of things to talk about and adroitly steered them all away from troublesome topics like whether the twins should be dressed the same, or the importance of regular routines for young children.
‘I’m doing an evening class on antiques,’ Sally was telling the older women, ‘the tutor says I’ve got an eye for it.’ Isobel started gathering up wrapping paper. The boys had so far had as much fun with that as with their presents. The push-along wooden carts her father had made, each with a load of wooden blocks was the present Isobel liked best, though Nana’s big cardboard book with its clear bright pictures of everyday objects was good, even if Isobel did disapprove of a shared present. Bob had bought a buzzy bee for each of them, and Isobel one book of Grimm’s fairy tales and other of Scottish stories for children which she could tell Bob didn’t think much of, but she intended to read them stories, real stories with characters and a plot. Point and name books were all right but they were going to have stories as well. The balls that Nathan and Sarah brought, and helped unwrap, then played with, one red one blue, both big, soft and slightly bouncy, would be good for inside, Isobel was thinking, when she heard her mother saying,
‘You could do a night class, I wouldn’t mind coming round if Bob was away …’ She thinks I should get out more, see more people. But Isobel smiled at her, ‘Thanks, Mum. If I see something interesting ….’ Then the others were making suggestions for her.
‘It’s okay, I’ll look at the college night-class programme for next year,’ she managed, wanting to yell at them to shut up. Sally must have noticed, because she asked Nana about some china she had from her grandmother, and then Isobel’s mother started talking about the bone china tea-set that had been her aunt’s. When the men came back in there was the bustle of everyone leaving, all saying how good the boys had been and what a lovely lunch. Bob’s loving this, Isobel thought, watching him hand jackets and bags, tease his mother-in law, feeling his hand on her back as they stood at the door waving their visitors off. Andrew was clasping her leg. N
eil was asleep in his cot. As her father’s car, the last, moved away, she bent and picked up Andrew.
‘Well, then, how was that, your first birthday?’ She kissed the top of his head.
Bob kissed her cheek. ‘Shouldn’t he go down for a sleep too?’
‘Yes, he’s usually well away by now …,’ Isobel halted when she realised what Bob had in mind. Oh well, she thought, why not?
~~~
Chapter 13
The boys’ second Christmas came and went, and they spent most of the day at Bob’s parents. Isobel enjoyed the boys enjoying themselves with presents and the attentions of the adults. Everyone did their best to cover up the fact that Andrew still wouldn’t go to Nana. It’s a kind of sub-plot, Isobel thought, let’s pretend we don’t notice that Andrew can’t stand her and let’s especially make sure she doesn’t notice. With the boys running about and into everything and needing to be watched constantly and diverted and told no there was no need for sustained conversation. Of course Bob and his father went off to the garden shed after the inevitable jokes about eating too much. Isobel had a brain-wave and suggested she and Nana take the boys for a walk and they held a boy each by the hand and went to the end of the road and back. Then it was time to go so the boys could have a nap before going on to her parents’.
Isobel wished she could learn to drive the car and use it sometimes during the week. The double pushchair she had now was certainly lighter than the pram, but she couldn’t carry as much, and it was still awkward getting on and off the bus with the boys much more mobile, though she had to admit that people were mostly kind and helpful, especially the regular drivers. She couldn’t have managed without the harnesses even though she didn’t like them, it seemed too much like having the boys on leads, like puppies. But they did mean that she could keep them with her while she got the pushchair onto the front of the bus and the three of them safely inside.
While they were at her parents’ she saw Bob and her mother in conspiratorial conversation. Her fears that something was being hatched were realised when Bob announced that her mother had agreed to babysit so he and Isobel could go to a New Year’s Eve party at the home of his boss, Charles Cherwin, who had made a point of inviting him personally and insisted that he bring his wife along. There was no way she could refuse; she was to be the new manager’s wife at the boss’s party and her mother was delighted. She had nothing to wear. No shoes. Bob was already offering to look after the boys while she went to town on one of the two shopping days between the holiday weekends. Even her father was looking pleased at all these arrangements. Why then, did she feel like a small meaningless more-or-less empty space? She was relieved when the boys both started grizzling tiredly and she could start gathering their things and make a move to leave.
When they were all in the car, Bob talked to her over his shoulder. ‘She’s a good sort, your mother,’ he said. ‘It’ll be nice going out together, he’s a good man, Charles.’ Fortunately he didn’t seem to expect an answer. Once he was on the road he began telling her about Charles’s daughter, Marion, who worked in the firm and had acted as hostess for him since he had been widowed a few years earlier.
‘You’ll like her,’ he went on confidently, ‘she’s smart, she runs a very efficient office. She’s thirty or so, not married ….’
‘What was her mother’s name? When did she die?’
‘I don’t know, her name that is, I never heard it. It was a car accident, Marion was in the car, and then in hospital for months with injuries. She’s okay now though. Even goes running.’
Isobel felt tears in her eyes, silly tears for a woman she never knew, a wife and a mother without a name. She shifted slightly so Bob wouldn’t see her in the rear vision mirror, unsettling Andrew and then being taken up with ‘sit down,’ and ‘if you bang his seat, your father won’t be able to drive.' Bob didn’t say anything for the rest of the trip. It would be nice if you backed me up, Isobel thought.
‘Come on then,’ he said cheerfully, helping the boys out of the car when they arrived home, walking to the gate with one boy holding each hand, lifting Neil to help him open the gate and Andrew to help close it,, leaving Isobel to manage the stuff. By next Christmas, Isobel thought, they’ll be two and I’ll be back at work. She still had no idea how she was going to accomplish this, she thought she’d get serious about it in January. And now there was this party to worry about first. When she was struggling to open the gate with both hands and her arms full a bag of wet nappies fell on the footpath. ‘Shit.’ She kicked it through the opening and down the path, abandoning it by the steps. Bob had the television on already. ‘Watch the boys will you,’ she called from the kitchen, ‘while I sort out these things.' There was no answer, so she shrugged and went back for the dropped bag. When she’d emptied its contents into the washing machine, before she could add the powder, she heard, ‘Shit!’ Neil! Don’t do that!’ Then, ‘Mum! come here, quickly!’
Mum. She didn’t have a name, either.
‘Coming,’ she called, and put the washing powder in and started the machine before she went. Bob was pointing at Neil, saying, ‘Stop that.' Neil, apparently oblivious, was sitting on the floor under the window, systematically tearing pages from a book.
‘Isob …,’ Bob started, even louder, then turned and saw her in the doorway. He pointed at Andrew, asleep leaning against his arm, then back at Neil and said, ‘Stop him for heaven’s sake, it’s one of your stu… your library books.' She knew that. She’d take it in and confess and pay for it. How do you think I manage when I’m on my own with the two of them all day, she thought.
As soon as Neil became aware of her he broke into a big smile, dropped the book and held up his arms.
‘Aren’t you going to …,’
‘Tell him off.’ She had him on her hip. ‘Why? He can’t read yet.’ And Isobel smiled to herself as she carried Neil out. Bob wouldn’t get it of course, but really, it was funny, if he can’t read it, what else would a child do with a book but take it apart?
The day she went shopping for a dress and shoes – and a handbag, she thought, she couldn’t take her big, brown, battered everyday one – was the first time ever that Bob stayed alone with the boys. When she left they were happily building towers with the wooden blocks her father had made and knocking them down with glee, and Bob was reading the paper, glancing up at them now and then. The day was grey, not raining, warm, she didn’t need a coat.
Sitting on the bus into the city, on her own for a few hours, she wanted to enjoy herself. But there was the shopping, shopping she wouldn’t be doing if it wasn’t for being a wife going to her husband’s work party. For a moment she wished for Jean, to talk with about going to a party at the boss’s house and to help her buy the right dress. No mistakes, she told herself, not like that first pair of shoes I bought on my own, no red suede, just plain and simple. Black. It came to her. Black dress and shoes, you couldn’t go wrong with black, didn’t they always say. Plain. Boring even, but not humiliating. Then she remembered it was a barbecue. Wouldn’t black be too formal? What did you wear to a barbecue in Remuera?
When she got off the bus, Isobel looked around for a phone box and was grateful there were only two Cherwins in the directory. The address for one was Mangere, so it must be the other. A woman answered and Isobel asked to speak to Marion Cherwin.
‘This is she.’
Pause, panicked.
‘Hello? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’ Hastily. ‘Hello, this is Isobel, um, Johnson, my husband Bob works for …’
‘Indeed he does. There’s nothing wrong, is there Mrs Johnson?’
‘No.’ Isobel hoped she had managed a small laugh. ‘No, it’s just that, well Bob and I are coming to the New Year barbecue, and I was wondering what to wear, you know, I suppose it’s informal. … ‘ Her voice tailed off. A slight pause.
‘How sensible of you to ring.' Isobel didn’t want to be so pleased to be approved of. ‘Yes, informal, sun-dresses, anything really
..’
‘Of course. Thanks.’ She couldn’t think how to end the conversation.
‘I look forward to meeting you. Bye for now.’ The assured Marion rang off.
No little black dress, Isobel muttered to herself, heading down the hill to Queen St and Smith and Caughey’s. Conservative, stylish, they must have the right sort of sundress. When Bob had given her a hundred pounds that morning she had wanted to knock it out of his hand. Instead she said thank you as graciously as she could manage and turned away to put it straight into her handbag.
Asking’s worked once today she thought, as she took the stairs to ladies’ wear on the first floor. It wasn’t busy and a saleswoman dressed in a straight black skirt covering her knees and a white blouse with a peter pan collar bustled up. She told the woman what she was shopping for and confessed to not being certain what to buy, finishing with, ‘a sun dress, a smart sun dress, perhaps.’ The saleswoman wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and looked about the same age as her mother. She couldn’t imagine her mother selling dresses. The woman bustled about, looking Isobel up and down and pulling dresses out of the racks. And you don’t need to know I’ve had twins Isobel thought. She knew the right dress as soon as she put it on, after rejecting pink gathers and a low cut princess line with diagonal cream and green stripes. The one she would buy was a pale, turquoisy blue, with splodgy white flowers centred with a touch of yellow. Boat neckline, cut lower in the back than the front, short fullish skirt (‘cut on the bias so it hangs beautifully,’ the saleswoman had explained) with a matching bolero. ‘Quite the thing this year, boleros,’ she was assured. Buoyed by her success, Isobel headed for the shoe department. Not the white patent-leather sling backs with stiletto heels she would surely fall over in but the thin-strapped, wedge-heeled ones the sales lady called ‘scuffs’, but they were classier than any scuffs Isobel had ever had. Light tan. And a small, neat, matching hand bag right there on the next counter; she had spent eighty pounds in forty minutes. She added sheer stockings, a white lacy handkerchief and a lipstick she was told was exactly right for both her colouring (what can be wrong if your hair is mid-brown and your eyes light blue, she wondered) and the dress. With encouragement she also bought mascara, resisting the cake face powder with its matching foundation. She’d never learnt how to apply face makeup evenly and didn’t want to.