The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Alrighty, Diggy-D og, give us your best shot.’

  She felt impenetrable, untouchable. Bullet-proof.

  7.50 pm

  She lay on the couch, drained, her limbs heavy. Was this the definition of legless? She giggled to herself. After the nightly circus of dinner, bath and books, she’d herded the children into bed. The kitchen was a disaster zone, but there would be time enough to wash up tomorrow. When at home, Willem would never countenance dirty dishes left in the sink overnight. He wouldn’t have approved of dinner either: an emergency packet of fish fingers after she’d burned the homemade shepherd’s pie. Much to Digby’s delight, she’d served the fish fingers with great dollops of tomato sauce and suggested they eat them with their hands.

  She rolled over on the couch, turning her back to the heater. Her clothes were still damp from bath time, which was always a maelstrom of arms and legs, sponges and flannels, plastic cups and bath animals that Digby addressed by name. As usual, Rory had sat in his bath seat, transfixed by Digby. And as usual, she’d had to play the role of two fat rubber duckies, whom Digby had christened Yellow and Diver, while Digby played the role of Captain Crabclaw. She found it difficult to conjure up new and exciting bath time adventures for Yellow and Diver on a nightly basis, but Digby simply wouldn’t pull the plug without one.

  ‘Fuck those rubber duckies,’ she said aloud, giggling again.

  Her mobile phone buzzed next to her. Probably Willem, she thought, wanting to tell her about his day. She fished the phone out from under the cushion and read the message: Delayed in Mumbai. They’ve made us sit on the tarmac for three fucking hours!

  She considered her reply, irritation flooding her.

  Delayed, permanently. Did the same jigsaw today with Digby for three fucking hours!

  Instead, she deleted his message without replying, and closed her eyes.

  I’ve got so much to do, she thought.

  10.30 pm

  She stumbled up from the couch and into Digby’s room. She stopped, confused, at his bedside. Hadn’t he called out for her?

  He lay on his back, his blue comforter twisted around his hand. She reached out and brushed away a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his eyes. He looked almost angelic in his sleep.

  She tiptoed backwards out the door, closing it behind her.

  Her head throbbed. She went to the kitchen and stood at the sink, gulping down several glasses of water. She filled up the Evian bottle with water and took it to her room, along with a fresh glass for tomorrow morning’s aspirin.

  She lay down on the bed and thought of Willem, of where he might be flying tonight. She’d stopped asking for itineraries months ago.

  Tomorrow is a new day, she thought. I won’t open the freezer tomorrow.

  She closed her eyes, tired of resolutions.

  By the time Willem returned on Saturday afternoon—not Friday evening as he’d promised—it was too late to line up Hendrika for babysitting.

  ‘I’m so sorry, honey,’ he said, looking over his wine glass at dinner. ‘I have to go into the office tomorrow morning. Can we try for next weekend instead?’

  She stiffened. ‘Can’t you even have Sunday off? For your birthday? I thought we could have a picnic, something simple.’ She pushed her slow-roasted lamb shank, one of Willem’s favourites, around the plate. She’d spent much of the afternoon preparing it, when she could have just as easily settled for a bowl of muesli.

  ‘Sounds nice,’ he said. ‘But I told Adam I’d be in tomorrow. We’re going through the strategic plan before the annual general meeting. It’s the only chance we’ll get to finish it off.’

  She shrugged. She didn’t really care why he was unavailable.

  ‘What about next weekend?’ he persisted.

  ‘Okay.’ She avoided his gaze.

  He stood up from the table and walked around the back of her chair, draping an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Thanks for looking after Digby and Rory. You do it so well.’

  She felt his breath on her neck and wrinkled her nose. Don’t you even think about sex tonight.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she replied. ‘I’m tired.’

  She was stating the obvious, she knew. But what else could she say? I’m bored. I’m frustrated. I love Rory, but sometimes I feel like I could kill Digby.

  She searched for the right words, the honest ones.

  ‘Being a mother is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life,’ she said, staring at her hands. Her nails were shorter than they’d ever been, just like her hair. It came with the territory of motherhood: pragmatism was king. She’d even stopped wearing her engagement ring lately; it had a habit of connecting with Digby’s flailing limbs.

  Willem pulled away and looked at her. ‘Sure, it’s tough at times,’ he said. ‘But there’s more pleasure than pain involved, isn’t there?’

  How would you know? she thought. Your experience of parenting is always mediated by me.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she murmured.

  He poured himself another glass of wine, topping hers up too.

  ‘I checked the credit card statement today,’ he said suddenly. ‘What’s Computerworld?’

  ‘Oh, I was going to tell you about that. It’s a data recovery place.’

  ‘And it’s costing us a thousand dollars to get your hard disk back?’

  His tone said it all.

  She steeled herself.

  ‘Actually, that’s just the deposit. It’s going to cost three thousand. I can email you the diagnostic report, the hard disk is . . .’

  ‘I don’t need to see the fucking diagnostics,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve been taken for a ride.’

  She sat back in her chair, chastened. She loathed it when he swore.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Her voice was calm. ‘The guy who’s doing it is a friend of Ginie’s.’

  Willem pursed his lips. ‘So I should feel better about being ripped off, should I, if someone from your mothers’ group is involved?’

  She stood up. Her legs were shaking.

  ‘Well, thanks so much for your understanding. Half my life’s on that computer, which your son’s done a good job of destroying, in his usual fashion.’

  Willem’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘How much did you spend on your last Armani suit? More than three thousand dollars, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t know the exact price, would I, because I don’t watch your expenditure like a fucking hawk.’

  She slammed her wine glass down on the table so hard the base cracked.

  Willem slept in the guest room that night.

  Is it really only eleven o’clock?

  She’d been up with Rory since the ungodly hour of quarter to five. He’d woken up crying and she’d been unable to resettle him. Willem had walked past her at seven thirty, on his way to work. He’d ignored her and hadn’t even said goodbye to the children. She’d smiled brightly at Digby, pretending nothing was wrong.

  She went to the pantry and removed the bread, the peanut butter and the Vegemite. She’d learned the hard way that more sophisticated ingredients— avocado, alfalfa, hummus or grated carrot—would only be ignored or, worse still, flung across the table or floor.

  ‘Time for sandwiches,’ she called.

  Digby bounded into the kitchen. ‘Peanut butter, peanut butter, peanut butter!’

  ‘Okay, sit down, Dig, I’ll just get Rory.’

  She walked into the lounge room, bent over the playpen and lifted Rory into the air.

  ‘Hi, sweetie,’ she said, bouncing him above her head. Rory cackled with delight. If only she had more one-on-one time with him, perhaps life wouldn’t feel like so much drudgery.

  She walked back into the kitchen and stopped dead. Digby had scaled the bench and was now balanced on the edge of the kitchen sink, waving a long-handled knife in his right hand.

  ‘Digby,’ she gasped. ‘Put that down, it’s dangerous.’

  ‘Ya ya ya!’ he
laughed, swinging it above his head.

  She placed Rory in his high chair and approached Digby cautiously, as a zookeeper might approach a cobra. How had he scaled the bench in a matter of seconds?

  ‘Dig, I don’t want you to fall and cut yourself,’ she warned.

  ‘Fuck fuck.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Fuck fuck,’ he repeated.

  She was aghast.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Daddy,’ he said. ‘Daddy says it on the telephone. Fuck fuck.’

  Her hands fell to her sides. She’d never heard Willem use the word in Digby’s presence.

  ‘Well,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t care what Daddy says. It’s not nice. Now put the knife down and I’ll help you to climb off the bench.’

  ‘No.’

  She took a step towards him.

  It happened as if in slow motion. Digby raised his arm and threw the knife, with all the expertise of a trained ninja. It whizzed past her ear and speared into Rory’s tray table, landing within centimetres of Rory’s fingers. Unaware of the danger, Rory watched with interest as the knife quivered before him, like an arrow in a bull’s-eye. She swooped down on it, pulling it free and out of his reach.

  She turned to Digby and, without a word, lifted him off the bench. She carried him into his room and sat him on the bed. Adrenaline was coursing through her; she’d broken a sweat and she was breathing heavily.

  ‘Digby,’ she said, ‘I’m calling Daddy right now. He needs to know what’s happened. We never, ever throw knives. And we don’t use rude words like that. Please lie down in your bed for a nap. When you wake up, Daddy will be here to talk to you.’

  She backed towards the door.

  ‘Noooooo. Nooooo. I want a peanut butter sandwich!’ Light blue veins bulged at his temples.

  ‘There’s no lunch today,’ she said firmly. ‘Lie down and have a rest, please.’

  She closed the door, ignoring his cries. She walked back to the kitchen and prepared Rory’s sandwich, her hands trembling as she cut off the crusts. She placed four neat squares on Rory’s tray table.

  ‘There you are, honey,’ she said calmly. ‘Mummy’s just going to call Daddy now.’

  She lifted the handset.

  When Willem answered, she fell to pieces.

  ‘I don’t care how important your work is,’ she screamed into the telephone. ‘You need to come home right now.’

  It was only after she’d slammed down the handset that she paused for a moment.

  She could have sworn she’d heard children in the background.

  By the day of the babies’ first birthday party in May, things had settled down between them.

  After the knife-throwing incident, Miranda had been more assertive with Willem than ever before.

  ‘Can’t you see what Digby needs?’ she’d demanded, her voice shrill. ‘More of his father, less of his stepmother. Either you step up, Willem, or I step out.’

  It was tantamount to an ultimatum. Willem had been subdued and irritable at first, resentful almost. But after several weeks, when she’d refused to succumb to his sexual advances, he started making a concerted effort to spend more time at home. Now, two months on, she was impressed by just how much he’d managed to pare back his work.

  In return, she’d allowed him to touch her, almost as a sign of goodwill. But there was an urgency to it, a roughness, that left her uneasy. Two bodies bumping in the dark. At least this morning he’d gone to the trouble of bringing her breakfast afterwards, on a tray, for Mother’s Day. Digby and Rory had perched on the end of the bed, lunging at the croissants.

  ‘Stop it, boys, they’re for Mummy,’ Willem had objected, before finally relinquishing the tray to them.

  It would take some adjustment for Willem, she knew, to prioritise family life in a way he’d never had to previously. But she could see that he was trying, and it reassured her.

  2.50 pm

  She checked her watch.

  ‘Almost time to go to Rory’s birthday party now, Dig,’ she called out the back door.

  Willem was kicking the soccer ball between the lemon trees with Digby.

  Keeping an eye on both of them, she opened the freezer and removed the vodka. Some of it sloshed onto the bench top as she refilled the Evian bottle. She stuffed it into her handbag, alongside a small tin of mints she always carried with her. The smell of vodka was relatively easy to smother. Teamed with the mints, she smelled as though she’d just gargled with mouthwash.

  ‘Come on,’ she called. ‘We don’t want to be late. You can carry the fairy bread, Digby.’

  Digby kicked the ball into the garden and galloped inside. ‘Yay! Fairy bread!’

  Willem followed, rather reluctantly.

  ‘It’s only from three to five,’ she reminded him. ‘It could be fun. You can meet some of the other dads.’

  He nodded unenthusiastically. He’d never taken any interest in the mothers’ group. She suspected he saw it as some sort of social club for bored housewives.

  She picked up Rory. ‘You look special in your birthday clothes, handsome. Doesn’t he?’

  Neither Willem nor Digby answered.

  *

  They arrived at Manly Dam almost twenty minutes late. It was one of the most popular spots for picnicking on the peninsula. Before Rory was born, Miranda had enjoyed weekly walks in the bushland surrounding the dam. It was like a rural island in a sea of suburbia, a haven for those who loved swimming, fishing and mountain biking.

  Pippa was the first to greet them at the picnic area they’d reserved, not far from the children’s playground.

  ‘Well, happy Mother’s Day,’ she called, waving an enormous bunch of pink helium balloons at them. ‘And happy birthday, Rory.’ She smiled at Willem. ‘You must be Willem. I’m Pippa. It’s nice to meet you after all this time! I’m glad you’re here, we need someone tall.’ She looked at Digby. ‘How are you going, Dig?’

  As usual, Digby said nothing. Then suddenly he poked his tongue out at Pippa.

  ‘Blurgh!’ he spat.

  ‘Come on, Dig, be polite, please,’ Miranda urged.

  Digby darted away, with Willem in pursuit. Miranda shrugged apologetically at Pippa. Despite Willem’s increased presence at home, Digby’s behaviour had a long way to go. At their recent book club session on We Need to Talk About Kevin, it had taken all of Miranda’s power not to divulge her predicament. I have a Kevin, she’d wanted to say. He’s calculating, he’s divisive, possibly a sociopath. I live with him, but he’s not related to me. And the cult of motherhood says I’m supposed to love him.

  Willem dragged Digby back in front of Miranda.

  ‘Apologise to your mother, please,’ he commanded. Digby pulled a face and scuffed at the dirt. Willem had a lot to learn about effective discipline.

  Pippa squatted down in front of Digby. ‘I’ve got a very important job for you and your dad,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could hang these balloons up?’ She nodded at the wooden pergola covering several tables alongside the barbecue.

  ‘Okay,’ said Digby, taking the balloons from Pippa. ‘Come on, Dad.’ He raced towards the pergola.

  Willem smiled at Pippa. ‘You’ve done that before.’

  Always charming in public, Miranda thought.

  Pippa turned to Miranda. ‘Robert’s just cooking the sausages.’ She gestured towards the barbecue. ‘And Suzie’s gone to get some extra chairs from her car. I might get Willem to help her with them, if that’s okay, once he’s finished the balloons?’

  Miranda nodded. ‘You and Suzie have done a great job of organising this, Pippa. And my God, you look fantastic.’ She stared at the bright blue leggings under Pippa’s navy shift dress, teamed with ballet-style slip-ons. Since her operation, Pippa had gained weight and lost her trademark paleness.

  Pippa beamed. ‘Thanks, I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m feeling so much better.’

  At least that’s one of us, Miranda thought. />
  She felt for her Evian bottle. There was quite a crowd gathered, most of whom she didn’t know. Older children chased each other around, laughing and throwing streamers. Grandparents sat smiling in fold-out chairs, picking over paper plates of crustless sandwiches. A face-painter had spread out her kit on a picnic table and was busy transforming Wayan into a bumblebee. Made crouched at his side, dressed in brightly coloured Balinese garb, while Gordon moved about taking photographs.

  Ginie and Daniel loitered near the drinks esky, chatting with a group of people whom Miranda assumed must be Ginie’s parents and extended family. The children ducked and weaved among the group, chasing each other and yelling, ‘Tip!’ Picnic rugs were laid out like patchwork squares across the grass, and a number of the babies were toddling across them, pursued by adoring relatives. Aunts, uncles, cousins and godparents, all gathered to celebrate the first birthday of first children.

  Miranda felt envious; she’d had hardly anyone to invite. Her father had declined, as she knew he would, and her brother simply hadn’t responded. Her sister-in-law was holidaying in the Seychelles. Willem’s parents had made it clear how inconvenient Sunday afternoon was for them, as though she had deliberately scheduled the party to clash with their regular golfing commitment. She still wasn’t sure whether they planned to attend. If her own mother had been alive, Miranda couldn’t have kept her away.

  She swallowed several mouthfuls from her Evian bottle and replaced the lid tightly.

  Rory grunted and pulled at his five-point harness.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, releasing him from the stroller. ‘Look at these.’ She removed several colourful plastic balls she’d packed and rolled them across the grass. Rory immediately pursued a green ball with plastic spikes protruding from it. Astrid toddled after a spotted red ball, before stopping and pointing at a flock of ducks paddling at the dam’s edge in the distance.

  ‘Da-da-da!’ Astrid stared with wonder at the birds.

  Cara followed at her heels. ‘That’s right, Astrid, they’re ducks. Clever girl.’ She smiled at Miranda. ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Great afternoon for our first Mother’s Day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Miranda. ‘Where’s Richard?’