by Cate Kendall
She had spent weeks directing landscape renovation and outdoor furniture purchase to create a sumptuous backdrop for her garden party and she refused to accept a crimp in her plans at this late stage.
Harry the Hirer had sent a crew and another marquee around as an emergency delivery first thing in the morning and the team had still been tramping muddy boots over the sandstone-paved path at 11 a.m. They’d finished just in time for the gardening team to power-spray the pavers.
The new marquee had no walls so as not to restrict the sweeping views of the Forsythes’ lavish gardens. The poles were awash with ribbons and flowers, the tables groaning under hand-carved ice-sculptures, floral art and lashings of platters boasting an array of dips, antipasto, slivers of chilled wagyu beef and insalates presented as tiny artworks of texture and colour.
The immaculately groomed guests sipped champagne and swapped anecdotes under the canvas, soaking in the glamour of the event and thanking their lucky stars they’d been among the fortunate to score an invite.
As the bubbly flowed, the boasts grew louder and more elaborate and Mim found herself perspiring from the collected heat fuelled by enormous gas heaters under the marquee. She weaved through the throng of partygoers to the edge of the makeshift room and gazed over at the verdant expanse. Mim felt detached from the milling crowd at her back and a sense of unreality settled over her. It all seemed so pointless and inconsequential and she felt disconcertingly like an actor who’d forgotten her script.
She looked back at the party. Everyone else seemed to be in the right place, comfortable with their role; it was just she who felt as if life had struck a discordant note – who seemed to be grappling with a sense of discontent.
‘Mim, how are you?’
Mim turned and greeted the couple with cursory lipgrazes across their cheeks. It was awkward for a moment there because the Mortimers had just returned from three months in Europe and were currently doing the kiss-each-cheek thing, which made things a bit tricky. The recipient of the kiss would be leaning back just as the second kiss was coming in for a landing, so would have to make a last-minute direction change. It was all very annoying.
‘Clive, Isabelle, how lovely to see you both,’ Mim said with barely concealed boredom.
‘Mim, darling, how are you?’ yelped Isabelle. ‘We haven’t seen you guys since we got back! You look fabulous!’
‘Thanks, Isabelle, how was Italy?’
‘Ohmigod! Faaaabulous!’
‘Isabelle!’ said a bright voice from behind their little group.
‘Monique! Malcolm!’ said Isabelle in response.
‘Malcolm, Clive,’ Monique introduced the men.
‘Mim!’ said Clive, with a kiss and an arm squeeze.
‘Mim, darling,’ said Monique, when it was her turn at Mim’s cheek.
‘Hello Malcolm, Monique,’ said Mim, trying really hard to smile and defeat the urge to walk away from these forced niceties.
‘Where’s Tiffany?’ Monique asked, scanning the crowd behind Mim.
‘Oh, she’s in Portsea,’ Mim replied with a knowing smile.
‘Really, what’s she doing there?’ Monique asked, surprised that someone would be down on the Peninsula out of season.
‘Not sure. The Mortimers were just telling us about their trip,’ Mim offered weakly, hoping to distract Monique.
‘Yes,’ squeaked Isabelle, a wee mouse of a woman, who insisted on always wearing flat shoes, a habit that bugged Mim today more than usual. Why should normal-height people get a bad back from leaning over to talk to her when she should just follow fashion like a normal woman and gain a couple of inches and save the rest of them a dose of sciatica. She leaned slightly left past Clive’s rounded shoulders to try to send a help signal to James, but he was involved in an in-depth debate with Bernard Worthington over the virtues of Australian Rules versus Rugby League. That’ll only end in tears, she thought to herself.
‘How was your little jaunt o.s.?’ Monique continued.
‘Well,’ said Isabelle, glancing at each face to ensure everyone was enraptured enough for her to begin her well-rehearsed tale. ‘Paris in winter, you can only begin to guess what an enchanted fairytale city it is!’ she prattled.
Mim’s concentration dropped in and out as the group compared international five-star adventures.
‘… the trout was bone dry, honestly, it’s not like it was business class …’
‘… so I said, now listen here, my good man, in MY country …’
‘… not a word of English, would you credit it …’
‘… couldn’t get a good steak for love or money …’
‘… the five-series, who’d drive a five-series …’
‘… there are SOOO many Italians in Tuscany …’
She just couldn’t focus. Normally Mim prided herself on her keen conversational skills; smiling, nodding and genuinely listening to others. But today it was as if she could peer through the flimsiness of their topics and see each comment for what it really was – just a tragic and thinly veiled attempt by each speaker to grandstand and self-promote while subtly trumping their companions.
Mim just didn’t want to play any more.
She glanced at the marquee frame, swathed under a cloyingly fragrant garland of roses and gardenias. Mim noticed a trail of rainwater steadily travelling from the roof down the ribbon to the pole’s base where a small mud puddle had developed. It was a tiny bruise in the over-managed lawn, a fleck of reality in the intricately constructed vista.
Mim watched the mini-estuary fill the tiny dam. The mud was rich, dark and inviting. Her frustration dissipated as she admired the wet loamy dirt and imagined the cool earth beneath her hot, sticky feet.
Before she’d even consciously decided to move, Mim had slipped off her stiletto sandal and allowed her foot to hover over the puddle.
The promise of the cool, soft, earth was tantalising and Mim slid her foot quietly into the mud. The black, rich ooze squelched through her toes and she had a sudden flash of butter and Vegemite worming through the holes of Salada; simple pleasures from simpler days.
The moist earth welcomed her tired foot, and her other foot ached in jealousy.
She wiggled her toes and the mud caressed them deliciously. Her foot buried deeper, fully encased now in its nurturing dirtiness.
Mim suddenly became aware of her immediate surroundings. She realised the chatter nearby had stopped. With one foot in the mud, like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar, she looked guiltily up at the group.
All four were staring at her in stunned silence.
‘Mim, what are you doing?’ Isabelle asked in a voice usually reserved for the mentally unstable.
‘Just, well, just …’ Mim trailed off. How could she respond? It was a stupid question really, they were all standing there, they could see what she was doing. She guessed what Isabelle was really asking was why. And that was a question that Mim, quite frankly, couldn’t answer.
Mim turned her back on the group and stepped out into what was now a steady drizzle. She wiped her muddy foot onto the wet grass, which made quite an effective loofah. The spikiness of the buffalo grass stimulated the bottom of her foot and she giggled. The sound that burbled forth from her lips surprised her. She didn’t laugh enough these days.
The rigid blades against her sole also felt a little, well, erotic, if truth be known.
James suddenly appeared at the edge of the staring group.
‘Hey Mim,’ he called out, ‘do you want a towel?’ – as if he was completely accustomed to this type of behaviour, thought Isabelle disapprovingly, with a sidelong glance at the husband.
James was in fact quite accustomed to this kind of behaviour, because this was exactly the Mim-type of stuff that he’d fallen in love with. Spontaneous acts of fountain-dancing, random busker-karaoke and, of course, his all-time favourite, her penchant for skinny-dipping.
She smiled and shook her head, so he walked out into the rain to join
his wife, whose immaculately straightened hair was now all dishevelled. He held her by the elbows and kissed her on the nose as she looked up at him and said, ‘I’m starving. Have you been up to the buffet yet?’
The elaborate wrought-iron gate slammed shut behind Mim and locked fast with a resounding clang.
She shuddered at the finality of the sound – she was trapped, there was no going back on her classroom-helper duty now, and the thought of spending time in the rarefied air of Langholme Grammar filled her with dread. She always seemed to feel guilty about something as soon as she stepped onto the grounds. Her hair always felt wild and out of control, her voice too high or her vowels hideously flat. It was just like reliving her own cloistered schooldays.
The imposing century-old, ivy-clad buildings seemed to glower at her as she tiptoed around the finely manicured front lawn. The school had been secured with key-code locks since last summer when a paparazzi photographer snuck in to snap a prominent sportsman’s son after the father had been involved in a nasty sex scandal involving a weather-girl and a selection of vegetables.
Conventionally the realm of bankers, QCs and the like, Langholme Grammar had enjoyed a proud tradition of educating only fine, upstanding citizens. But unfortunately, recent enrolments had been awash with the sons of media types, actors, tennis players and footballers. And now it seemed even tradespeople were managing to afford the exorbitant fee – rumour had it that a plumber’s child was part of the latest influx of blue-collar entrants.
Mim skirted the ostentatious fountain, which spouted water over a Greek antique statue depicting Ares, the God of War, in the centre of the main lawn. She climbed the white front steps that led up from the stone circular driveway to the grand façade of the main building. Then she slid through the ostentatious front door and made her way down the hushed corridor. Times-table chants floated out of closed doors and the tortured notes of a violin lesson reverberated down the curves of the sweeping main staircase.
A wayward student, obviously caught in the act of eating in class, was standing with his sandwich on his head faced into a corner of the hall. Mim gave him a wink of encouragement as he peeped out at her.
The rooms in the original building crouched off narrow, high-ceilinged corridors through which the bitter winter wind whistled and the oppressive summer heat sweltered. Refurbishment hadn’t quite reached these Grade Six rooms where the Heritage code had to be obeyed before trivial concerns such as student comfort were considered. Besides, the hefty building budget had recently bottomed out after the completion of the fashionable Early Learning Centre and Prep areas.
As ELCs became de rigueur at all the best schools, Langholme had acted quickly to keep up with the trend toward forcing children only just out of toddlerhood into teeny ties and restricting blazers. The school now had both Montessori and Reggio Emilia learning styles offered in the purpose-built centres, greenhouses and meeting areas. The three-, four-and five-year-olds enjoyed an enormous range of educational activities, specialised classes and school excursions. Every single sensory experience was available in order to demonstrate a highly accurate model of the outside world to the children wrenched from it.
Mim walked through the swinging door that took her from the old building into the more modern lower-primary section. These children enjoyed air-conditioning, heating, and carpeted hallways. Two Grade Six children passed by Mim in deep conversation. Obviously one was attempting to convince the other to forego his lunch-time and join the school choir:‘… you’ll be thwilled with our contempowy piece, it’th a wollicking thea shanty, thuch fun!’ he lisped. But by the look of his friend’s downcast eyes, the petite blond lad had not landed a convert.
The more comfortable surroundings did little to help Mim relax. She hated being here. She hated classroom-helper days. It reminded her so much of her own private-schooldays where facts and figures were drummed into the students through tedious hours of revision and rote learning. And what she’d seen of the boys’ school (as little as possible, if she was honest) showed that not much had changed since her time.
Of course, schools such as Langholme Grammar were vital to her boys’ future, she reminded herself. The Old Boys’ network was strong, the school’s reputation was impeccable and her sons would land good uni spots and jobs just by association. It was just unfortunate it was all so … so, well, so awful.
But the school’s facilities were among the best in the country: the sculpture studio, the Olympic-sized pool, gym and sports fields, the school orchestra, symphony and choral groups, the television studio and state-of-the-art technology centre were worth every cent. And the headmaster was truly a gun salesman. During the initial school tour he’d made Mim and James feel like child abusers if they didn’t send their boys there.
So here they were, with matching socks, template haircuts and surrounded by a thousand other boys.
Mim had never been in trouble during her own school career; she’d always been a diligent student, yet this place made her feel so naughty. She imagined that the teachers were scowling at her as she walked past them in their long black robes, with their arms full of important-looking books. And she was a parent, for chrissakes – how in the world would it make her two small boys feel?
Charley’s classroom door was shut firmly, a note on its exterior scolding: ‘Parents must not talk at drop-off time’ in thick black texta.
Mim inwardly groaned as she saw that Hortense Mathews was to be her partner today and was already set up in the private reading room situated outside the classroom. Hortense was the ultimate suck-up, attaching herself to the movers and shakers of Langholme society like a starving leech. This year she’d decided LJ Mahoney was her best bet for soaking up some dimly reflected glory.
One could usually detect Hortense’s presence by the trademark snorts and whinnies she used to punctuate her speech, well before setting eyes on her. ‘MIM! How aaaaaaare you, dahhhling?’ she brayed now, ignoring the Prep child whose laborious reading she had been pretending to pay attention to moments before.
‘Fine, thanks, Hortense,’ Mim replied, heading for the box of reading folders. ‘Is this the batch that we’re working from today?’
‘Yes, it is. I’ve started at the front with dear little Jimmy here,’ replied Hortense, stretching back her lips to reveal an alarmingly large set of teeth. ‘You look FAAABULOUS, as always, Mim, really, you do … really, I’m not just saying it … you really really do. Really,’ Hortense finished with a snort of glee, and paused, waiting for Mim to return the compliment, as one does. But Mim simply flashed her a slightly startled glance as she entered the classroom.
Mrs Keith looked up from instructing a group of boys how to cut out the photocopied rabbits they were creating. ‘Mrs Woolcott,’ she said, bustling over, her substantial bosom threatening to escape the buttons of a dull grey dress. She took her reading glasses off and let them swing from her neck on their gold chain.
‘Good morning, Mrs Keith, is there anything you need in here?’ Mim asked with fingers crossed; anything to escape the Hortense onslaught. ‘Or should I simply do the boys’ readers?’
‘The readers are fine, but I wanted to discuss something with you first, very briefly.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Mim asked with concern. ‘What is it?’
‘Well it’s Charley, I am quite worried about him,’ Mrs Keith said, pursing her lips and pulling her chin onto her chest to create a most inordinate number of chins, Mim thought distractedly, before turning her attention to the disquieting matter at hand.
‘Ohmigod, whatever is the problem?’ she asked, her hand fluttering to her chest.
‘It’s his colouring-in. He can’t – no, let me rephrase that – he won’t stay within the lines. He’s doing it on purpose,’ Mrs Keith declared in the manner of a judge passing sentence.
‘Sorry?’ Mim had to ask, because she was sure she’d just misheard.
‘He will not colour within the lines, Mrs Woolcott. We had a giraffe to colour the other day
and instead of colouring it in orange, like everybody else in the room, he coloured outside the lines – quite deliberately – in navy, and didn’t colour the giraffe in at all,’ Mrs Keith finished breathlessly, her bosom heaving.
‘Did you ask him about it?’ asked Mim, feeling a sense of unreality about the entire conversation.
‘I most certainly did, and he had the impertinence to say that it was an albino giraffe in the middle of the night.’ Mrs Keith took a deep, shuddering breath at the memory.
‘Wow, I didn’t think he knew what albino meant.’ Mim suddenly forgot herself.
‘Mrs Woolcott, that is hardly the point.’ The teacher waggled a plump finger in Mim’s face. ‘This is not the first time, you know – there was another occasion when his penchant for outside-the-line scribbling was particularly rampant, and do you know what he told me?’ Mrs Keith was by now on a roll and Mim decided to let her just continue. ‘He told me his mother told him to always think outside the lines and that’s what he was doing,’ she spluttered with indignation, looking accusingly at Mim. Then pulling herself together, Mrs Keith perched her glasses back onto the end of her nose: ‘I said, “Charley Woolcott, there is no way your mother told you to scribble outside the lines”, and I stood over him until he did it properly,’ she finished triumphantly.
Mim looked over at her precious six-year-old boy, his blond hair falling gently into his eyes as he frowned in concentration at the task in front of him. His fingers, squeezed tightly around his crayon, bore the chubby reminder that he was still so little. His tongue poked sweetly through his full lips and Mim felt her heart surge with a bittersweet mix of love and regret.
‘So you stood over my son until he did it your way, did you?’ Mim said quietly, her eyes flicking over the teacher angrily. If James had been there he would have known that she was using her dangerous voice and would have advised Mrs Keith to tread very carefully.