by Cate Kendall
‘Oh, really? Is that what you think? I was at the fete. And, as a matter of fact, I emailed Jack today, and I have been emailing him regularly …’ James returned.
‘That’s just great, James, a really solid virtual relationship you’ve got going there with your son. If you’ll remember, however, HIS PC IS STUFFED! You were supposed to upgrade the virus software two weeks ago! Anyway, this isn’t about email, this is about you, James. When are you going to wake up and realise that there is more to life than work? That we are in strife? I can’t live like this any more!’
‘What are you trying to say, Mim?’ James’ voice dropped several octaves, his eyes boring into hers, just daring her to say it.
‘I am saying that we need to take a good hard look at ourselves, at where we’re going, because the future scares the shit out of me. I didn’t want this, James; I didn’t want to be stretched so tight. I don’t like the person I have become. Hung up on labels, no time to be a decent mother, shoddy work, horrible clients. I feel trapped, like I’m in a vortex and you’re never around to help.’
‘Goddamnit, Mim!’ James exploded, crashing the glass onto the benchtop. ‘Do you think I like what I’ve become? You know this was never my dream. You know I wanted to start my own business, work from home, be a great dad, instead of chasing the next big break.’ He took a breath and continued in a sarcastic tone, ‘But first came the private school babies, then came the flash house with the right postcode, then the beach-house. It’s never-ending and you always want more!’
‘That’s bullshit! I’m the one holding this all together day after day. Don’t you dare put this on me! I’m stressed out of my mind as it is. I can’t handle it any more! I am about to explode, and all I want is a happy family. Something has to change, I can’t live like this any more!’
‘Well then friggin’ well don’t,’ finished James, and stormed out.
It was six years since Liz had caught sight of her daughter. Six years since she had started her desperate search – beginning the day after she had seen her living on the streets. At first she went regularly to the mission to look for Mikaylah, but despite constantly questioning the staff, no one remembered the forlorn girl with the dreadlocks, and she never returned. She had simply disappeared.
Despite the constant disappointment, Liz continued to visit the refuge weekly, and eventually she realised it had become a small lifeline for her: the tiniest connection with her absent daughter.
She was back for her fourth time when one of the staff suggested she pick up a broom and lend a hand if she was going to stand around all day scanning the faces of each kid who walked in. Liz initially baulked at the idea, but was too embarrassed to say no. She self-consciously slid the broom over the tattered lino and then decided to find the mop to get out some of the uglier stains.
The next week she came back with the donation of a new industrial broom and mop and found they did a much more efficient job of the floors.
The week after she brought her own pink rubber gloves and started work on the dirty basins in the communal bathrooms. After that it was some carpet pieces for the office and then some warm blankets for the kids’ beds.
She’d been coming for six years now but felt no desire to stop.
It had initially been a shock for a woman who lived such a sheltered and privileged existence to see how tough life could be for those who were forced to make the streets of the city their home. And as one who outsourced all the less-desirable aspects of her life to others, suddenly choosing to mop, change beds and peel vegetables was a huge turnaround.
In her first months as a volunteer, Liz teetered about on her ridiculously impractical heels, and although she’d tried to dress down, she soon found that ‘work clothes’ were something her wardrobe was just not equipped with. She’d had to go shopping for her first pair of jeans and basic tops, and eventually found her work uniform quite liberating. After six months at the mission she stopped wearing jewellery on her volunteer days, and by the end of the first year she’d even stopped worrying about her hair.
What surprised Liz most was that the job she had taken on out of guilt and despair had actually become enjoyable once she got the hang of it. She initially shied away from the dirtiest tasks, but it wasn’t long before she forgot about keeping clean, about protecting her French manicure and the fear that she might catch something.
In her second year she began exchanging smiles and small talk with some of the shelter’s regular clients and soon found herself making great friends with the staff, including Tracy March, the young and enthusiastic counsellor who headed up the mission. At first she had been intimidated by the rough veneer of the kids, but she soon came to see how much of that was bravado and a kill-or-be-killed instinct that these world-weary youths used to survive on the streets.
After her days at the shelter her body ached with tiredness and she would sometimes carry the sadness of the kids she had met, yet she always felt happiest at these times, driving back home through St Kilda’s colourful streets and alleys, and feeling for the first time that she was truly a part of life, someone who made a small but meaningful difference.
She told no one about her secret days volunteering in St Kilda. No one needed to know; she did this for herself, and for Mikaylah, and that was all that mattered.
As she became more accustomed to working at the mission, Liz found that she wanted to do more to help the endless stream of damaged young people who flowed through its doors looking for comfort, food and warmth. At times she felt ashamed of her own luxurious life and longed to contribute more to these troubled kids.
Already she donated money to the mission each month and was the first to reach for her purse whenever the oven needed fixing or the fax machine died. But she wanted to do something more tangible; something lasting that might help one of these kids change the direction of their life.
She thought about it for weeks, lying awake in bed at night and considering the best approach. Then she met with Tracy and the mission committee members to put forward a plan. She wanted to create a trust fund to finance education scholarships for the kids. Any of them could apply for the scholarship as long as they had a willingness to learn and a determination to kick their drug habit.
The committee seized upon the idea (particularly the promise of financial support), on the stipulation that it be coordinated by trained youth workers. Liz spent months working with Tracy to get the program up and running, and finally, six months after she first came up with the plan, the scholarship was launched.
At first it drew little interest from the kids who drifted in and out of the mission, until one day a seventeen year-old who’d only just hit the streets recognised it as his ticket out of a downward spiral. Nathan Cooper had no serious drug issues and a few scattered years of high school, and was deemed a prime candidate. He’d always had an interest in woodwork and chose a carpentry apprenticeship. Liz’s scholarship supplied him with books, public transport, a clothing allowance and any other education-related costs. The mission youth workers helped him find accommodation, took him to Centrelink and counselled him through his studies.
Liz cried with joy when she heard of young Nathan’s first tentative steps towards healing.
After a shaky start, Nathan began to shine. After his first year he returned to the centre to volunteer on his days off from TAFE. With his positive example and the time he spent encouraging other kids, it wasn’t long before another three decided to give the scholarship a go, and after that the programme bloomed. So, a new guideline was introduced. Scholarship winners had to promise to return to the mission to talk to the kids about how their life was going and how they were managing to stay clean and off the streets.
The talks became so popular they were shifted to an old hall out the back of the church every Friday night. Although many were enticed by the free cups of soup and bread rolls, Tracy was still delighted at how many street kids came along.
‘It’s like they’ve found something,
some kind of interest, some teeny glimmer of will!’ Tracy said to Liz in amazement.
Local comedians and performers heard about the talks and offered their time as ‘support’ acts, which created even more interest. The talk-and-show would only last an hour but it gave counsellors an opportunity to make contact with the troubled youth and offer assistance.
Liz continued working with the mission; organising fancy fundraising events to raise scholarship money and also regularly dipping into her own trust fund. There was no cap. Every single child who showed a determination to stay clean could win this chance of a new start. Thanks to her personal family trust, Liz was a wealthy woman in her own right, and Sebastian had no idea how much money she was secretly donating.
Liz’s happiness grew and she began to feel at peace with herself. But no matter how much of her time and money she gave, there was one hole inside that just couldn’t be filled – the one left by Mikaylah.
Mim didn’t throw the bottle of scotch in her hand at James, but it took all her willpower to relinquish it to the safety of the bench. It was as if the world had suddenly tilted after their vicious argument and Mim was struggling to stand upright. The room seemed muted and blurred.
She took careful, deliberate steps up the stairs to her bedroom, where she fell on her bed and gave in to great wrenching sobs. Somewhere, even in this pain, she remembered her sleeping children and tried to muffle her cries with a pillow.
God, why was it all going so badly? What the hell was she doing so wrong that her life was such a mess? Who was there to look after her? To help her sort out this mess? She felt utterly alone.
Finally, worn out from crying, she lay on her back and watched her thoughts spin.
James had basically just told her to piss off. What a fucking bastard. But did he really mean it? Surely they were just words shouted in anger? But the words had come so easily. Maybe he’d been considering ending their marriage?
Mim gave a post-sob shudder and nestled deeper in her goose-feather cocoon.
Self-pity overwhelmed her. Poor me! She wanted to shout. Poor Mim. Who’s looking after poor Mim?
‘Oh God, you’re pathetic,’ she muttered under her breath, and even managed a grim smile at her indulgent thinking.
Mim was never one to wallow for long, so she soon turned her thoughts to problem-solving and damage control. Right, she thought, staring at the crack in the blinds. Where to from here? First things first, James and I need some space. We need some thinking time, time alone to sort out our feelings about this relationship. Then we need a communication opportunity.
She mulled over her strategy for another half an hour before triumphantly announcing her first move to the empty room.
‘First thing tomorrow, I’m going home to Mother.’
‘Darling!’ her mother threw open the door and reached to hug Mim in one efficient move. ‘Come inside out of the rain. Children, look at you, you’ve all grown so much. Don’t touch that, Chloe. Come on into the kitchen, everyone.’
Mim’s mum was the ultimate power-woman. It was for her and her contemporaries that the phrase ‘super-mum’ was coined.
Entering the workforce in the misogynistic 1950s, Julia Jones had to be everything to everyone and do it extremely well. After a remarkable career in stockbroking (remarkable for anyone, not just for a woman), she finally had the respect of all the big men on campus. She had smashed the glass ceiling with a perfectly executed karate roundhouse kick, without ruining her Chanel shoes, and managed to simultaneously sugar a French teacake and supervise the household staff.
Julia never relinquished her shoulder pads, never wore trousers, and only wore pearls on Sunday.
‘Cup of tea, darling? Or a chardonnay?’ she asked Mim.
‘Mum, it’s 11.30 in the morning,’ protested Mim.
‘Oh, of course, tea it is then.’
The children hit JJ’s toy cupboard ( JJ is what Julia insisted they call her, she was far too young to be someone’s grandmother), and were soon entrenched in constructing the elaborate Brio train-set.
Mim’s parents lived in the affluent outer suburb of Donvale. Pristine English gardens bordered huge haciendas and were surrounded by gum trees. They had never felt the urge to ‘downsize’ their five-bedroom home. They enjoyed a weekly game of tennis on their court and would frequent the local club for a game of golf or the occasional cards night.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Mim.
‘Oh, somewhere, off tinkering, I don’t know what he’s up to. He mentioned a trip to the hardware store,’ Julia said vaguely as she placed the tea service on the coffee table. ‘I must say I was quite surprised with your phone call. You haven’t stayed the night out here for quite an age.’
‘Yes,’ Mim murmured. ‘I had to get away. James and I needed to have a bit of space.’
‘Oh dear,’ said her mother sympathetically, ‘sounds like a little trouble in paradise?’
‘Well, yes, I guess you could say that.’
Mim sat in her mother’s immaculate sitting room and told her the whole story: her fears for her marriage; the money worries; the stress she was under and the continual sinking feeling that enveloped her that perhaps this path she was committed to was not, in fact, the right one.
‘Mum, I think I’m going insane,’ she whispered. ‘You know how your housekeeper had that breakdown last year – I think I’m headed for the same thing. I can’t seem to keep a thought in my head, or put a sentence together. I think I’m losing the plot.’ Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them away with a shaking hand.
Julia could manage tea and feigned sympathy, but was so damned balanced and capable that she couldn’t really empathise with Mim’s confusion. ‘Darling, are you sure you’re not over-analysing everything?’ Julia said kindly. ‘I mean, thinking you’re getting depression is a bit dramatic, isn’t it? Why don’t you just have a good brisk walk and blow the cobwebs away? It’s amazing the power of a solid constitutional.’
Mim rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘Christ, Mummy,’ she began, grappling for a way to explain herself. ‘It’s just not fair. It’s all his fault, how come I have to do everything?’ She realised too late that she sounded like a petulant teenager. What was it about being around her mother that made her regress?
‘Darling, let’s just look at this in a clear-minded way. I’ll just nip into the bar and open a bottle of wine and we’ll really nut this thing out – ’ The phone interrupted their conversation. ‘Just as soon as I deal with this …’ Julia changed direction, grabbed her mobile and headed for the office.
Julia had been a terror on the trading floor in her day and still wielded mighty clout as a broker. Her clients made big money, and therefore so did Julia, though now she worked from home part-time. Mim watched her mother through the double-glass office doors. Julia smoothed a stray brunette lock into her sleek chignon, fiddled with her chunky gold chain and frowned into space as she listened to her client.
Funny kind of mother, really. Not exactly the apron and jam-sandwich sort, Mim thought.
Mim knew her mother loved her family, but she preferred a certain distance. She coped with visits from the grandchildren – but only in small doses.
‘I’ve already done my time with children,’ she’d tell Mim whenever the babysitting word came up, and eventually Mim got the message and stopped asking. Julia over-compensated with generous gifts and shouted wonderful holidays (as long as she didn’t have to go too).
Mim was massaging her earlobes to fight off the sensation of a headache (Ellie swore it worked wonders) when her father wandered in. ‘Hello, Midge,’ he greeted her with a bear hug. ‘How’s my baby girl? I just saw my beautiful grandchildren in the rec room. Aren’t they all getting tall? Gee that Jack’s as smart as a whip. And Charley, what a build on that little guy, he’ll be a formidable full-back one day. And precious Chloe: every bit as beautiful as her mother.’
Mim returned her father’s warm greeting with a smile. ‘It’s so good to see yo
u. I haven’t seen you since lunch at Lynch’s last month. How have you been?’
‘Grand, my dear girl, simply grand. Absolutely loving life. This retirement caper’s all it’s cracked up to be, let me tell you.’ Donald Jones hitched up the leg of his Ralph Lauren Polo chinos and sat with his ankle resting on his knee and linked fingers supporting his head. His steel-grey hair was as thick and wavy as twenty years earlier. ‘Where’s your mother … Oh, don’t tell me: client call?’ he smiled with the well-worn patience of a man married to a workaholic.
‘Dad, how come you never minded Mummy working so hard?’ Mim asked, suddenly curious about her parents’ relationship. ‘Didn’t you care that there was never a home-cooked meal on the table in the evening?’
‘Well, Midge, I knew what I was getting into when I married the woman. In fact, it was what attracted me to her in the first place. She wasn’t like all the other girls, all insipid and just out to please their man.’ Donald shifted in his chair and crossed his legs, keen to indulge in his favourite role as raconteur. ‘Of course, after the first few years of marriage, the novelty of having this career woman as a wife wore off a bit and I started getting sick of dining at the club or coming home to a dark, cold, empty house. I put my foot down!’
‘You didn’t!’ said Mim, amused at the thought of anyone standing up to her mother.
‘A lot of good it did me!’ Donald guffawed at the memory. ‘But we needed to meet in the middle somehow, to find a system that suited both of us, so I whisked her away for a surprise getaway to a lovely little rooming house in Lorne, which was just a sleepy little coastal town in those days.’ Donald started to go off on a tangent. ‘I remember it as if it was yesterday. It was next to the Pacific Hotel, overlooking the pier. We spent the day walking on the beach, looking for fossils, and talking. We sorted out all kinds of issues. We found out where each of us stood in the relationship, what we needed and what we were prepared to compromise on. We sealed the deal that night on the Pacific’s front veranda with a Pimms and lemonade. Or was it a Gin Sling? I don’t know. I know it had mint leaves in it though. We shared the most delicious fisherman’s basket that night and then I had chocolate mousse for dessert and your mother had crème caramel. Or apple crumble. I don’t remember.’