by Mia Freedman
That night, after Fran left, I did a full inventory of my clothes, looking in every cupboard for the things I knew were missing to absolutely rule out that I’d stashed a pile of clothes somewhere and forgotten about them. No luck.
Instead, I discovered a whole lot of other items that were gone. All things I hadn’t looked for until now because I hadn’t worn them for a while.
Every missing thing matched her taste. It all made perfect, sickening sense. Jason was home by now and watching TV in the lounge room. I wandered in in a daze.
‘More stuff’s missing. It’s her. There’s no question.’
‘Oh shit.’
I slept quite well that night. I’ve never been a tosser and turner, even at times of extreme stress. But when I woke up the next morning, my mind began to gallop down that dark road called ‘I’m Fucking Freaking Out Here’. On the way, there were a million ‘what ifs’ to consider.
What if Fran wasn’t who she said she was? If she was a thief, why not a liar? Why not a psycho? Why not a serial killer? She had keys to our house. She knew the alarm code. What if? What if? What if?
Options ran through my head—and my mouth—as Jason and I discussed it endlessly. Should we get a nanny cam installed in my dressing room so we had proof? That would take too long. Should we call the police? No, I didn’t want to inflame the situation. If she was a thief, I just wanted her away from our family. Should we hire a private investigator to photograph her wearing my clothes on the weekend as proof? Too slow and too expensive and also possibly too ridiculous. This wasn’t ‘CSI’.
I decided to call the agency Fran had come from. It was a Saturday but the owner called me back almost immediately.
‘I got your message and I’ve just come in to look at Fran’s file. This was the first job we’ve placed her in so we haven’t known her much longer than you, but we did do a thorough background check and her references all stacked up. And you don’t have to worry about her not being who she says she is because we checked licences and birth certificates and all that.’
I told her exactly what had happened and my hope that somehow it might be explained by some scenario I hadn’t considered.
‘Probably not, no,’ she said sadly. ‘Even if she didn’t do it—and you may never know if she did because thieves tend to be very good liars—the trust has broken down so much that she has to go.’
Fantastic.
‘Now I’m going to call back all her references and ask some more pointed questions about whether they ever noticed anything going missing. I’ll call you back.’
The news was interesting. ‘The woman at the day-care centre where she worked was adamant there was no way Fran would ever take anything. But when I rang the last family she worked for, the mother said that a few things had gone missing but at the time she’d assumed it was the cleaner who left around the same time as Fran, so she’d never talked to her about it.’
The evidence was piling up. Next, I called my own cleaner, who worked at our place each Wednesday when Fran looked after Coco.
‘Um, hi Josie, sorry to call you on the weekend but, well, I’m having a few problems with Fran and I just wanted to ask you about how you think she’s going. Have you noticed anything you think I should know about?’
Our lovely cleaner, who had been with us for years, confessed that she did indeed have a few concerns, but they weren’t huge things and she hadn’t wanted to get Fran in trouble.
‘You know, she never takes Coco out of the house. I always say, “Why don’t you take her for a walk or to the park?” but she always says, “Nah, I’m too tired,” and just stays home. She’s always very, very tired and sometimes she sleeps on the couch when Coco has her nap. And she never feeds her good food. She always takes your money and goes to the café and feeds her muffins. And she’s always in front of the television with Coco.’
The nausea was rising again. Why the hell had I never thought to ask Josie before about what she saw? Why hadn’t it occurred to me to check up on Fran? Maybe because I desperately wanted to believe it was all fine and that she was doing a terrific job. Ostrich syndrome.
Straight away I made arrangements for Coco to be looked after the following week by her grandparents and my aunt. I knew I wasn’t going to let Fran come near Coco again.
It was vital to me that she had no warning of what was about to happen. I didn’t want to give her the chance to copy my house key, but also, I wanted to look at her face when I brought up the subject, in the hope that I would know the truth by her reaction. I was devastated on so many levels, but bizarrely, I was devastated for her. Devastated that she’d stuffed up the best job she ever had and that she’d never see Coco again and would instantly be cut out of our family. I felt for her totally, even though I should have just been angry and betrayed. I was those things too. What a mess.
Tuesday afternoon came and I’d arranged for Coco to be with Jason’s mother. I didn’t even want Fran in the house so I was waiting on the front lawn playing ball with the dog when she arrived. Not expecting me, she was surprised but recovered quickly.
‘Coco isn’t home from her nanna’s yet and I’m working from home this arvo,’ I said, a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
‘So, Fran, look, I know about you borrowing my clothes…’ I’d decided to say ‘borrowing’ instead of ‘stealing’ so that the more gentle word might lull her into a confession. It was important to me to know for sure that she’d done it and that I was doing the right thing by sacking her.
She looked blankly at me, her face impassive. ‘What do you mean?’
My voice was disappointed but not angry. ‘There’s a large amount of my stuff missing. Clothes and shoes. There was the jacket in your glove box the other day. I know you’ve been borrowing my things without asking…’
She scrunched her face a little as if she was having trouble understanding me but she was very calm. Disconcertingly so.
‘What do you mean, Mia? I never borrowed anything of yours. My goodness. I told you I found the jacket outside. What’s missing? Tell me and maybe I can help work out what happened to it.’
I listed some of the things and she looked puzzled, as if she was genuinely wondering where they might be. ‘Goodness, Mia, this is awful,’ she said without much emotion. ‘I promise that it has nothing to do with me though. Maybe it was Josie.’
‘Fran, that’s utterly ridiculous. Josie has been with us for years. Look, I’d really like to believe it wasn’t you but the trust has just broken down too much and you’re going to have to find another job.’
‘Oh, okay, I understand,’ she said vaguely. ‘But really, I don’t know what happened to your stuff.’
I wanted her gone. Her utter lack of emotion was throwing me. ‘I need you to give me the key back and I need to get Coco’s seat from your car,’ I said not unkindly, getting to my feet and walking her out to the street.
In the end, her departure was hugely anti-climactic.
‘Fran, I’m sorry it had to end this way.’
‘Yes, I’ve enjoyed working for your family.’
And then she was gone. It was only later that I realised. She hadn’t even mentioned Coco’s name…
The adrenaline left me like the air out of a balloon. The knot in my stomach unravelled. I jumped on the phone to debrief Jason. Then my mum. Then Jo. Then Jason’s mum. I needed to talk it through to make sense of it. With each person, I started by asking a question.
‘If you were accused of stealing from your employer who then sacked you because of it and you were innocent, how would you react?’ I genuinely wanted to know because out of all the scenarios I’d played through in my head, Fran’s utter passivity had been a wild card.
Each person I asked replied in the same way. ‘I’d get angry and I’d protest my innocence and I’d probably cry.’ But mostly they said they’d be angry at the injustice of a false accusation.
There had been not a skerrick of anger in Fran’s response. Just mild denial and a passi
ve acceptance that she was to be fired for something she supposedly hadn’t done. She’d been dry-eyed. I felt justified.
And as for how much I’d feared for her reaction at never seeing Coco again? The baby she’d grown so close to these past few months? Coco who?
Even if I hadn’t elicited the confession I’d hoped for, it was plainly obvious that she was guilty.
As I picked my shredded trust and confidence out of the bin and began the process of finding a new nanny, I still didn’t have closure. Or my clothes.
A week after I sacked Fran, I called her mobile number on the pretence of checking up on her.
‘Hi Fran, it’s Mia. I was just ringing to find out how you’re going and to say that we would pay you a fortnight’s wage.’
It was 11 am but she sounded groggy, like she’d just woken up. ‘Oh, yeah, hi. Well, thanks for that.’ Her tone was vague and devoid of much emotion. I tried to make a bit of small talk to glean information.
‘So, have you been looking for another job yet?’
‘No, I’m really tired and I think I’m going to have a break for a while.’
‘Right, okay, well I just wanted to wish you well and again, I’m sorry for how it all ended.’
Jesus, soon I’d be offering to write her a reference and buy her a new car.
Ten minutes after I hung up the phone, my mobile beeped with a text.
From: Fran
Mia, I am sorry for what I did. I don’t know why I did it but I know you didn’t deserve it. I will try to get some help. Thank you for being so nice. Fran
Bingo. I sat with it a while before I replied.
To: Fran
I’m glad you were honest. Thank you for that. I’d like you to send all my clothes back next week. Just bag them up and drop them over the fence. Thanks.
When they finally arrived, there were eighteen separate items. Nothing had been washed or dry-cleaned, and they were roughly folded and shoved into shopping bags.
She never did get that reference.
WHEN A HOLIDAY ISN’T A HOLIDAY
Voicemail to Jo from me:
‘Hi babe, is your holiday going well? Mine not so much. Why does everything fall apart when we go away? Last night was a doozy. Coco kept waking herself up in that fucking noisy nylon travel cot and on about the fourth time, I was staggering to her room with my eyes half closed and I overshot the door and fell down the stairs. It’s lucky I was half asleep because my muscles were clearly relaxed and I didn’t break anything, although I do have some attractive bruises, which look quite fetching on the beach. Jason heard the noise and came running and didn’t know who to comfort first: sobbing baby in cot or sobbing wife on floor. The drama then woke Luca, who wanted a detailed explanation of the situation and how it had all actually occurred. Then Harry decided it was a great thing that all the humans were up and about and why not capitalise on this unexpected treat by running to fetch his ball in the hope someone might throw it for him. Good times. Can I go back to work yet? I need a rest. Love you. Bye.’
The phrase ‘Holidays with kids’ is an oxymoron. And I’m an actual moron because I always forget this and am surprised when I come home exhausted. So I’d really appreciate it if someone could invent an alternate word for ‘holiday’ that doesn’t imply rest and relaxation. Because then, parents everywhere would have a more accurate way to describe their ‘holidays’ to their friends and workmates.
Our Christmas holidays to the North Coast after I’d been working at Channel Nine for a few months were not very relaxing. After I’d left Jo the voicemail about my fall down the stairs, she texted me back: ‘Don’t call it a holiday, call it “moving-the-baby-to-a-different-location”.’ Truer words never texted.
If you’re a working parent, holidays are a great reminder of the difference between spending quality and quantity time with your kids. Kids need both. Quantity is harder.
Without the buffer of childcare, grandparents or even the occasional babysitter, it can be gobsmacking to discover how much hard work full-time parenting is. On the odd occasion I’d make it into the playground at Luca’s school of a morning, or when I dashed, late and lumbering in my high heels, into the school hall for a concert or some such thing, other mums would sometimes shake their heads and say to me ‘I don’t know how you do it’. But back when I worked in magazines, work was the easy part of my life. I had staff, a nice office, an assistant. I was never as knackered as after our annual Christmas holiday. Entertaining children 24/7 is harder than the toughest day at work.
This is the part where stay-at-home mums (and dads) get to high-five themselves while wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with: ‘TOLD YOU SO, SUCKERS!’ Stay-at-home parents? I endorse your smugness and I salute your T-shirts. I’ve always thought it’s far easier to spend your day at work where no one demands you share your food, drink and toilet time or fractures your concentration span into a million teeny tiny pieces. Full-time at-home parents are legends. Where is their ticker-tape parade?
But a lack of match fitness isn’t the only holiday challenge. It’s also the lack of props. Homes with kids contain mountains of stuff. Toys, DVDs, play areas, childproof cupboards, computer games, ergonomic change tables, cots, car seats, high chairs, no-more-tears shampoo, bikes, PlayStations, piles of assorted plastic crap, snacks and on and on. You start accumulating this stuff while pregnant and it never stops. Until you go on holiday when you’re suddenly cut loose from your stuff mountain and are forced to fend for yourself.
I’m sure there are resourceful parents who embrace the opportunity to fashion a makeshift high chair out of a dog-eared yellow pages and three rubber bands. But not me. Nope. I like my stuff. I neeeeed my stuff.
And I’ve never needed it more than on this particular holiday. After two weeks trapped indoors with two bored children while so much rain fell on the North Coast, I became demented and began texting friends ‘PLEASE SEND ARK’.
To keep my spirits up and my perspective in check, I’d regularly remind myself how lucky I was even to be on holidays. How lucky I was to have happy, healthy children I adore. How lucky I was not to be camping. Or homeless. When all of this lost its cheering power, I dug deeper, trying to summon gratitude for having limbs, oxygen and the ability to blink.
Eventually, around day ten, when the rain became so torrential it was falling horizontally, I said goodbye to my gratitude and my sense of humour. Then I threw such a spectacular tantrum, Jason threatened me with timeout and Coco looked at me with new respect.
Even when the sun is out, family holidays can leave me in need of a stiff drink and a long lie-down. Or, in the case of ten consecutive rainy days, a straitjacket.
I first suspected my Mother Of The Year crown was slipping when Coco pointed to a sleeping Wiggle on the DVD and asked me for the hundredth time ‘What’s wrong with Jeff?’ and I snapped ‘Jeff’s dead, okay?!’
I’m not proud of this, but in my defence I was very, very tired. This was because by this stage, after the falling-down-the-stairs episode, Coco was now sleeping in her small nylon travel cot next to our bed, waking herself and us every hour as she thrashed about noisily. Are we having fun yet, people?
Well, we’re certainly not having sleep. For those without kids, holidays are an all-you-can-eat buffet of sleeping opportunities. Afternoon naps, morning sleep-ins, snoozing on the beach, early nights…it’s all about filling up the sleep tank until it’s overflowing.
Fortunately, once I had kids, I stopped wanting to sleep. What really got my juices going after I became a mother was working out how little sleep I needed to maintain basic brain function and then halving it. You will never sleep less—or worse—than when on holidays with your kids.
Jo, in her infinite wisdom (both her children are brilliant sleepers) always packs blackout fabric and a staple gun, which she uses on the kids’ bedroom windows wherever they’re staying. I used to laugh at her. Until I found myself texting her at 5 am for advice on how I could improvise with alfoil and some sticky ta
pe. Who’s laughing now?
One of the best things about holidays is long leisurely dinners. And cocktails at sunset. I find children—especially if they’re small and tired—integrate seamlessly into these activities.
My digestion is always enhanced by a wriggling toddler on my lap, trying to hurl the pepper grinder across the table while shoving fistfuls of sea salt into her mouth. Another drink anyone? Oh no, I’ll just inject a daiquiri directly into a vein, thanks.
As long as you don’t want to actually spend time with your partner, it is possible to get a break. This is called divide and conquer. It requires complex negotiations about who’s had more time to themselves and quickly deteriorates into recriminations. ‘You got to SLEEP IN this morning while I took the kids to the beach.’ ‘Yeah but you went shopping in town BY YOURSELF yesterday.’ ‘Going to the supermarket to buy nappies is hardly me-time and the baby was asleep when I was out so THAT DOESN’T BLOODY COUNT.’
Despite the challenges, there is something wonderfully bonding about all that quantity time in a confined space. And it helps that I’m a goldfish. How else to explain the decision we made on this holiday.
Byron Bay is a good place to make decisions. There’s something very grounding, a little bit magic about it. Life slows down when you get to Byron. Because I am a goldfish, I always forget this for the first twenty-four hours after I arrive and find myself constantly impatient with the service and the way people drive. It takes me at least a day to remember I came to Byron Bay because everything is slower. And then I slip into the groove and slow down too.
After a few days, I begin pissing off all the new arrivals from Sydney, Brisbane and Melbourne who are antsy that I’m chatting about dolphins with the dreadlocked guy at the counter and putting an extra forty-five seconds between them and their skinny latte.