by Peggy Frew
Jess’s whingeing broke into a cry.
Bonnie folded her towel and put it on top of the bag.
‘Darling?’ said Suzanne. ‘Don’t you think?’
Bonnie turned and grabbed the handle of the pram, her hand beside Suzanne’s. She jerked it, sideways, gave three big shoves. ‘Hard,’ she said. ‘Like that.’ Then she let go and walked to the water without looking back.
‘Mickey?’
‘Bonnie?’ There was background noise — drums, someone clattering from tom-tom to snare and back.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ The drumming got louder, then receded. There was the sound of a door closing and then quiet. ‘That’s better,’ said Mickey. ‘Just at rehearsal. How you going?’
‘Oh, sorry. Is it a bad time?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘You sure? I can call back.’
‘No, really, it’s fine — we were just about to have lunch.’
Bonnie looked at the clock. It was half-past two. She turned away from the dishes piled in the sink. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about the other day,’ she said. ‘I meant to call you back, but then I just, everything got …’
‘That’s all right.’
‘… and I know I’ve missed out on the tour …’
‘Yeah. Sorry, Bon. I couldn’t wait any longer.’
Bonnie swallowed. ‘But I was just thinking — you said something about that other show?’
Mickey laughed. ‘Oh yeah, the’ — she put on a posh voice — ‘showcase. You want to do that one?’
‘What is it?’ Bonnie perched on the edge of a stool. Outside, through the glass in the back door, Pete came around the corner and went towards the workshop.
‘Well, it’s this weird arts festival thing — they’re putting on a series of shows, called Nights Underground or something. As far as I can tell it’s pretty much just a normal show.’
Bonnie watched Pete walk, head down, slow in his heavy work boots. The wind caught his hair and ruffled it forwards and the back of his neck showed, exposed. She had a sudden, awful vision of him having to answer to one of the unpaid suppliers — him making excuses, shuffling, cowed.
Mickey went on. ‘But it’s really close to the tour, so I was going to say no, but then my booker said let’s just ask for a ridiculous amount of money, what the hell, so we did, and they said yes. So looks like I’m doing it.’
‘Um,’ said Bonnie, and she sounded strange in her own ears, shrunken and distant. ‘So, how much … how much could you pay me?’
There was a rustle and the click of a cigarette lighter, Mickey’s intake of breath, then the exhale. ‘Not sure. Let me suss it out.’
Pete went into the workshop and closed the door. She kept her eyes on the greyish timber, the rusted hasp dangling.
‘All right?’ said Mickey. ‘Bon?’
She imagined the door opening again, Pete and Doug emerging, coming up the steps to the kitchen. Doug talking, waving his arms, filling up the kitchen. Pete taking a seat at the table, glancing up at her, his face soft and open, his smile ready.
‘Bonnie? Hello?’
The faint noise of Pete’s electric sander started up. ‘Sorry,’ said Bonnie slowly. ‘That sounds’ — she brought her gaze back inside the room, blinked, pushed the hair back from her face — ‘that sounds good.’
‘No probs.’ The drums started up again in the background, and the rolling of a bass guitar. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
Bonnie slipped off the stool and stood over the empty table. Pete’s sander droned on like a faraway insect.
On Thursday night there was an email from Mickey. Festival show, said the subject line. Bonnie opened it, scanned down the lines for a number. $3,800. She blinked, checked again. Flights, hotel and taxis covered, read Mickey’s message. And I’ll buy you dinner. She looked away from the screen, up at the faded curtain. She’d never been offered so much for one show. She sat, breathing slowly, waiting, but nothing came, no thrill. She went back to the screen, searched for a date. Next Friday.
Bonnie shut down her mail and closed the computer. The house was silent. She ignored the heap of unsorted laundry on the couch, went to the door and switched off the light. Walked slowly past the children’s darkened bedrooms to the kitchen. Through the back-door glass lines of brightness showed around the workshop doors. Bonnie filled a big saucepan with water and put it on the stovetop. She knelt, opened a cupboard and started searching for the breast pump.
When Pete came in she was just putting the sealed bag of milk in the freezer.
He stopped inside the doorway. There was a pause. She went on with her movements, her back to him, taking the pump apart, awkwardly, self-consciously.
‘Thought you’d be asleep,’ he said at last.
‘No.’ Bonnie watched her own clumsy hands lift the pieces of the pump into the sink and turn on the tap. ‘Had to do this.’ Her face was hot. What’s your problem? Just tell him.
Another pause. Then his voice, tired-sounding, mistrustful almost, as if expecting further trouble from her, further difficulty. ‘What are you doing?’
Bonnie saw herself through his eyes, her tense frame at the sink. She swallowed down on the silly lump of embarrassment in her throat, willed her face to cool. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re helping — fixing things. ‘I was expressing milk.’
‘Right.’
She turned and spoke in a rush. Water splashed up onto her cheek, and she tilted her face to wipe it on her shoulder, glad not to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve got a show. With Mickey. It’s next Friday, in Sydney, but it’s really good money. Nearly four thousand dollars.’
Pete didn’t answer.
Bonnie swallowed again. She glanced up, but couldn’t hold his gaze. She turned back to the sink. ‘I thought …’ She scrubbed at one of the plastic tubes. ‘I thought it might help. You know — bring in a bit of extra money. To make up for …’
No response from Pete.
She dunked the tube under the water, lifted it and scrubbed again. ‘Nearly four thousand,’ she repeated. ‘All the other expenses are covered. The hotel and … stuff.’
‘So you’re going to Sydney?’
‘Well’ — she faced him again — ‘yeah. I mean, that’s where the show —’
‘For the night.’ His expression was flat, unreadable.
Don’t be mean. I’m trying to help. But then Bonnie felt her mouth go stiff. She knew what was coming; she hadn’t thought things through. She stood lamely, wet hands dangling.
‘For a night, and — what? — most of two days?’
‘Yeah.’ The word came out small and limp.
He sighed, as if preparing to explain something to a child. ‘I have to work. Every possible moment. I have to get this job done for Grant.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you understand. I’m going to have to work weekends till it’s done. Weekends, nights. It’s …’ He spread his hands. ‘Well, my reputation’s at stake.’
She stared at the floor.
‘Sorry, Bon.’ His voice softened. ‘Thanks for trying to help, but I can’t take that time off to look after the kids. You know what these things are like: you’d have to leave by — what? — mid-morning Friday, and then you won’t be back until —’
‘Yeah, okay.’ She felt tears come into her eyes. ‘I get it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again and yawned. ‘I have to go to bed. I’m exhausted.’
‘Okay,’ she heard herself whisper. She turned back to the sink one last time and pulled out the plug.
‘Mum?’
‘Oh, hello, darling.’
Her stomach was clenched. She shifted the phone to her other ear, breathed in, tried to shake off the nerves. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Quickly, yes. I’m just
on my way to bridge.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Come on. Bonnie stood at the kitchen door, watching the twins out on the trampoline. She put her hand to the cold pane of glass. ‘Well, I just … I’ve got …’ She breathed and pushed the words out. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘Yes?’ Suzanne gave a short laugh, and Bonnie heard unwillingness, reluctance.
You’re imagining it. She drove her voice out again. ‘I’ve got some work — a show. In Sydney. Next Friday night, so I’ll have to go Friday morning, and I won’t be back till Saturday afternoon …’
‘That’s great news,’ came Suzanne’s voice, slow and hesitating.
She’s waiting for the catch. ‘Yeah, it is.’ Bonnie watched the children bounce round and round. ‘But the thing is, Pete’s … Pete can’t take any time off work. He’s got this big job on and, well, Doug’s disappeared, so he’s on his own —’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you mean? He just left?’
‘Yeah.’ Bonnie closed her eyes and spoke rapidly. ‘I guess so. Got a better offer maybe. Anyway, he’s gone.’
Suzanne made a clicking sound. ‘Told you that feller was a liability.’
There was a cry from the trampoline. Bonnie opened her eyes again. Edie was swinging Louie around by the back of his jumper. She glimpsed his furious crying face whisk by before she turned away. ‘Yeah, I know.’ She leaned over the kitchen counter, trying to ignore the screams. ‘But, anyway, so the thing is, it would be really great for me to do this job — to bring in some extra money — but Pete can’t afford to take any time off at all. He has to work weekends till …’
‘So you want me to babysit?’ Suzanne’s voice sounded small and cold through the phone.
Babysit. How detached the word was. As if Suzanne was someone who might be paid — someone with no connection or obligation. She willed herself to answer. ‘Well …’
There was a sigh.
Bonnie fought the shame that lay thick and choking in her chest. She’s your mother. You can ask her for help. ‘Sorry,’ she heard herself say.
‘It’s not much notice, is it?’ said Suzanne.
‘I guess not.’
Another sigh. ‘I’ll have to cancel some things.’
The yelling outside was reaching a crescendo. Bonnie moved further into the house. She couldn’t face the living room with its piles of laundry so she stood in the bathroom. ‘Sorry,’ she said again, hearing her voice echo.
Suzanne was speaking quickly now, brisk and clipped. ‘So when is it again? Next Friday — from Friday morning till Saturday afternoon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All right.’ Another tongue-click. ‘I’ll get myself organised.’
Bonnie sat down on the edge of the bath. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, hating her meek voice.
The kitchen door crashed open, and there was the sound of Louie calling. ‘Mu-um!’
‘Sounds like you’re busy there,’ said Suzanne.
‘Mu-um!’ Footsteps, running.
‘Yeah. I’d better go.’
‘All right then.’
‘Bye.’ Bonnie pressed the end call button and cradled the phone in her lap.
‘Mu-um!’ yelled Louie in the hallway. ‘Edie hit me!’
Bonnie reached out with her foot and nudged the door gently so it swung shut.
‘Let’s jump on the couch.’ Louie pushed away his plate and slid down off his chair.
‘Yeah,’ said Edie. ‘And let’s make a train with all the cushions.’
‘Hang on,’ said Bonnie, leaping up with a tea towel. ‘Wipe your hands and faces first.’
The twins paused, taking it in turns to make brief scrubbing motions with the towel before running out of the kitchen.
‘That’s not …’ She gave up and started to clear the table. ‘Watch out for my guitar,’ she called after them.
Jess leaned sideways in her high chair and let a rusk drop to the floor.
Pete picked it up and handed it back to the baby, who smiled, leaned over and dropped it a second time.
‘Ah-ha,’ said Pete gently, bending again. ‘This old game.’
Bonnie stood on the other side of the table. She found herself averting her gaze, as if the moment between Pete and the baby was something she wasn’t meant to see. She gathered up cutlery. ‘So,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ve got my mum.’
‘What?’ said Pete.
‘To look after the kids. Next weekend.’ She added the leftovers from one twin’s bowl to the other’s.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Bonnie’s heart picked up. ‘So I can do the Mickey show.’
He stared. ‘Your mum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you reckon that’ll be okay?’
She turned her eyes away from his face, its hard look. ‘Yeah,’ she said, hesitatingly.
Pete puffed out his lips. ‘You sure?’
She stacked the two bowls and carried them and the fistful of dirty forks and spoons to the sink. Her throat hurt. Her body felt stiff with it all: guilt, worry, swelling anger. ‘Yes.’ Her voice ground out roughly. ‘Why wouldn’t that be okay?’ She threw the cutlery into the sink.
‘Well,’ said Pete behind her, evenly. ‘It’s just — you know — she’s kind of, hopeless, and I don’t want her knocking on the door every three minutes asking me things.’
Bonnie clanged the saucepan down beside the stack of plates. ‘I’m trying to help,’ she said, her voice catching. ‘I’m trying to help, to make up for everything — fuck it.’ She leaned over the sink.
Pete stood, scraping back his chair. ‘How much is it again? Four grand?’
She didn’t answer.
Pete brought his plate over and added it to the pile. Then he went to the door. ‘It’s better than nothing,’ he said. ‘But — you realise, it’ll just cover the difference between what I was paying Doug and what I have to pay Glenn.’
Bonnie closed her eyes.
‘So’ — Pete pulled open the door — ‘we’ll pretty much be back where we started.’
She kept her eyes shut. The cold wind was rushing in.
‘You’ll be right with the kids, won’t you?’ he said, as he stepped out. ‘I’d better get back to work.’
After she’d fed Jess in the early morning and put her back to bed, Bonnie used the breast pump. She huddled on the couch in the grey almost-dawn with the heater on and the rug around her, pressing the funnel to herself, squeezing the handle until one hand got sore and then changing to the other. When she touched the bottle she could feel the warmth still in the milk. It hissed against the plastic as it went in, its fine jets almost translucent. Outside various noises started up: a barking dog, a car engine, a few sparse bird calls. Bonnie pumped, both sides, until no more would come out.
She went to the kitchen and carefully poured the milk into a storage bag, labelled it with the date and quantity and put it with the others at the rear of the freezer. Then she returned to the living room, shut the door and got back under the rug on the couch. Picked up her acoustic and ran through her parts for Mickey’s songs. She played them straight, one after the other. Then she mixed them up, spliced the verse bit of one with the bridge from another, went into the chorus from a third. The fingers of her left hand swung from note to note, the riffs ran and merged, took off in their own directions.
Bonnie forgot she was cold and the tired aches in her shoulders and throat. She swam into it, the bright-edged trails of notes, the hums of chords, the opening of the sounds as they lifted out of the belly of the guitar. Their shining ascent, their moment of life, their leaving.
She pumped every chance she got. The stash of bags grew at the back of the freezer. She went through the cor
ner cupboard, the dusty collection of bottles, teats and white plastic accessories, sorted and washed them. Matched bottles, lids and teats and lined them up in ordered rows in a shallow cardboard box on the bench. She wrote a detailed schedule for Jess. Feed and sleep routine; times she was likely to need her nappy changed: Usually does a poo mid-morning so don’t forget to check her nappy before you put her down for a sleep. She added general tips and rules, feeling stupid and obsessive but unable to stop. Obvious of course but NEVER let go of her in the bath!! Always put her to sleep on her back.
She stood at the kitchen bench with the pen in her hand. How much did Suzanne know or remember? Was any of this common knowledge? Was any of it the same as it was back then, when Suzanne was the mother, and she, Bonnie, was the baby? All she could think of was how when the twins were newborns, she’d begged for some advice, crazed with exhaustion, and Suzanne had only smiled vaguely and said she couldn’t remember anything. Sorry, darling. It all seems so long ago now. Sitting there holding one of the blanket-wrapped babies as if it was a cake, or some extremely delicate or breakable thing, that she couldn’t wait to give back.
Every now and then Bonnie would try to pack.
One show. One night. It should have been easy. The overnight bag stood in the middle of the floor waiting. But every time she actually went to the wardrobe, looked at the clothes, tried to make a decision, her mind slid away from it and her limbs felt weighted down with hopelessness.
She threw the last dress down on the end of the bed and put her hands to her face. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ve got nothing. What am I going to do?’
‘What about this one, Mum?’ Louie held up one of the unworn tops she’d bought not all that long ago, but that was still just a bit too tight, and anyway would require a proper bra. ‘I like this one.’
‘Yes, it’s nice, isn’t it. But it’s just … It’s not quite right.’
‘I’ll put it in your bag.’ Louie went over and stuffed it in.
‘Thanks, Lou.’ Bonnie heaved a sigh and looked down at her thighs, her old underpants, faded black, with a hole at one of the side seams, her pale, ruined stomach. ‘What am I going to do?’ she said again. She took the small pile of clean underwear and her best pyjamas, went over, pulled out the top and pushed them to the bottom of the bag.