by Nicole Hayes
Hours later, showered and ready for bed but too pumped to even attempt sleep, I switch on my laptop. I can hear Mum and Dad in the kitchen, moving about in companionable silence. I’m tempted to join them but decide they don’t need me getting in the way. I don’t need them right now, either.
I click through to the news sites and watch Mum’s press conference with Seamus Hale from beginning to end. There are lots of questions about Colin’s dad and Mum’s relationship with him, but she holds steady on that, reminding them that she was young – still a child herself, really – and that she’s not here to talk about people who can’t defend themselves. They ask about the trip to Ireland with Gran and the decision to adopt Colin out.
‘I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I couldn’t be a mother. Not on my own,’ she says. ‘I thought my mother would change her mind and agree to help me.’ She forces a smile. ‘It was a different time – she had already raised me herself, alone. My father left soon after I was born. She did not – would not – allow the same thing to happen to her daughter.’
‘Do you blame her?’ Seamus asks.
Mum thinks about this. I watch her choose her words with that careful patience that has made her such a powerhouse in Parliament. ‘It has taken me many years to understand that decision, to understand my mother’s reasons.’ She tilts her head, thinking some more. ‘I have made peace with it. Perhaps that’s all anyone can do.’
I think about Gran at the concert tonight, acting like a teenager, dancing with Jake in the audience, dominating every space she filled. I should have been mortified. I would have been once. But she was so completely, unapologetically … herself.
You really have to admire that.
I watch Mum tell Seamus about the couple from Gran’s village in Ireland who desperately wanted a child, the process of handing him over when he was born and how broken and lost she felt afterwards. But that she knew inside herself that it was the better choice for the baby. At least, it felt like it at the time.
‘When my mother and I arrived home, we learnt that the baby’s father had passed away.’ Her lips tremble slightly. ‘It was a difficult time,’ she says, barely able to look at the camera. ‘I was … bereft. I couldn’t bear to hear from the couple or about the baby. I could only try to get on with my life. And I tried to put it all behind me.’
I watch her hands shake as she talks about the moment she learnt that Colin was never adopted – that the family took him back to the orphanage, and how she began the process of trying to find him that very day. But it was so many years later and the orphanage had destroyed most of the records. When she learnt about the forced adoptions that had happened here, in Australia, she knew immediately that she needed to fix this – to bring these women back together with their babies, to help them find each other even if she could never do the same for herself.
She looks down, studies her hands clasped on her lap, then looks up, collected. And in that instant, she is transformed. Once again, she is Premier Mulvaney, the woman who wants to change the world, or at least her corner of it. The woman who will not stand by and let evil be done.
I see then, perhaps for the first time, that there are not different versions of Rowena Mulvaney. There is not the Premier, the mother, the daughter and the wife. She is all of them – sometimes all at once. There would be no Premier Mulvaney without the moments – the good, the bad, the difficult – that led up to this one. And that includes the moment she surrendered to her mother’s decision. The moment twenty-eight years ago when she handed over her squalling, newborn son.
I’m a part of it – of her – too, and not just a product of her – just as she is a part of me. We all are. The apple needs the tree, just as much as the tree needs the apple. That’s what makes us whole.
When Seamus asks if she’s going to visit Colin in Ireland, that carefully constructed calm vanishes and she looks like an ordinary mum – one who aches for the child she left behind. ‘Of course,’ she says quietly. ‘I would like very much to see him again, in Ireland or here. Whenever he’s ready.’ There’s a long pause as she considers her words. ‘But these things take time and I’m prepared to wait as long as I need to. As long as Colin needs.’ She hesitates, her hands twisting in her lap. ‘I also have to be prepared for the possibility that he won’t change his mind.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not my decision anymore. It has to be his.’ Her voice catches at this, a quiet hiccup that disappears as fast as it arrives. She squares her shoulders, matches Seamus’s gaze and waits.
The inevitable leadership questions come up, and at first she brushes them off, resorting to the old favourite about being focused on the business of running Victoria.
Seamus exhales noisily, perhaps as annoyed with that worn-out line as I am. ‘Premier, you’ve abandoned a child, your marriage is in tatters and you have lied to the very people you represent. How can you say you’re the right person to lead the government?’
That familiar taste of bile rises in my throat as I watch Seamus Hale resort to the performance he’s so famous for, and I wonder again if choosing him was such a smart idea. But when I see Mum smooth her skirt and lift her chin, those square shoulders wide enough to carry a whole family, an entire state, I decide that, actually, this was genius. No one will hit harder than Seamus. It’s like ripping off a bandaid – do it fast and do it hard, but get it done.
‘I can’t agree with that characterisation, Seamus, and I’ve made that very clear. But if you’re asking whether I can lead Victoria, let me say this: I ask the people of this great state, when they stand at the ballot box, to not think about my family or my clothes or my past. I ask you to consider the actions I’ve taken in my role as your Premier. The choices my government has made. The change we’ve effected and our vision for the future. If that means we lose government, then so be it.’
I imagine Harry and her party colleagues holding their breath at her words, knowing that setting up that kind of challenge could just as easily backfire. But she looks into the camera, so composed and ready for anything that it’s hard not to believe her. Hard not to trust her that everything will be all right.
‘And what of the woman question?’
‘The “woman question”?’ Mum asks, a trace of a smile on her lips.
‘It seems you’ve opted for a strategy to avoid mention of that issue.’
Mum laughs out loud. ‘To quote my daughter, “I think that horse has already bolted”. I am, quite clearly, a woman.’ She leans in, as though to confide something to Seamus alone. ‘That’s why we’ve decided on an alternative route for the Northlink on-ramp, addressing the need to reallocate the women’s shelter and the community centre. We’re diverting the ramp to the eastern corner, two kilometres closer to town.’
‘Which is exactly the alternative route laid out by the Opposition.’
‘Yes, it is. Even the Opposition can come up with a good idea every now and then,’ she says smoothly. ‘Of course, they’ll need more than one.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, that silver streak exposed for the moment. ‘Instead of moving the shelter, the centre will be refurbished and expanded, a family violence research body established, a new women’s health and welfare clinic opened and the community centre expanded. The Joan Kirner Women’s Centre will be a one-stop shop catering to all women’s needs, and named after the true first female Premier of this glorious state.’
‘Holy crap,’ I say, offering my mum a slow clap even though she obviously can’t hear it. I wonder if Kessie knows about the centre yet and then my phone bleeps, and I have my answer. I pause the recording and scan the message. ‘Your mum rocks!!!!!!’ flashes across my screen beside Kessie’s new avatar – a photo from tonight of the band in action.
I write back: She kind of does, doesn’t she?
Seamus Hale’s face is frozen in outrage, and I’m tempted to snap a photo for future reference. I hit ‘play’ instead.
‘So you’re playing the gender card,’ Seamus continues, contempt
lacing his words.
‘Let me tell you a secret, Seamus. I’m a mother, a wife, a daughter, a woman. This is not a card or a strategy. It is a reality. It is not a question for me, nor a source of weakness. It is, in fact, my strength. All of these things together, and each of them apart, are my greatest asset.’
‘That’s debatable, Premier, but not for me to say,’ he answers. ‘That’s up to the people of Victoria, and what they decide at the election on Saturday.’
I watch my mum, Premier Rowena Kate Mulvaney, cock her head and look directly into the camera, that trademark smile lifting the edge of her mouth, the fine spray of wrinkles reminding us of her humour and wit and the life that she’s lived. ‘Bring it on.’
CHAPTER 45
RAPPROCHEMENT
The electoral office is virtually empty. It’s late and only the senior staff are still around. They’re all holed up in Mum’s office, some last-minute meeting before the family goes out to dinner – a belated celebration for the election win without all the hangers-on.
It wasn’t the expected landslide predicted weeks ago, but it also wasn’t the disaster that Seamus Hale campaigned for. Mum’s words struck a nerve, her honesty and determination to confront her painful past somehow cutting through despite the weeks of bad press and rumour.
‘The electorate is stupid in an election year,’ Harry said after the interview, worrying that she’d gone too far.
But Mum disagreed. ‘We just treat them like they are,’ she’d said.
I make Luke a hot Milo in the cramped staff kitchen while he plays Minecraft on one of the PCs and then I head into the main office to finish some homework before we go. On the front desk there’s a blue envelope with a yellow post-it note on top, my name marked out in pen.
I flip the envelope over and read the back, my heart immediately leaping into my throat. It’s from Ireland. From C. Leith.
Colin.
I run my finger along the seal and open it carefully. I have no idea what to expect, and I realise then how little I know about Colin. I know he felt something for us – even for Mum in the end. I remember his expression at the pool when Luke was so sick, and at the hospital with Mum beside him, his decision to tell the media, to let Mum off the hook … He did that for her, not for himself. I’m sure the media hounded him for a time after – even in Ireland, it would be a story – and yet he put himself out there anyway.
The media still calls Mum ‘Yummy Mummy’ – the Colin story only adding fuel to that particular fire – but the story has lost some of its heat. Harry’s two weeks finally seem to be over. It took a little while, but, eventually, some big-name journalists started asking real questions, just like Mum requested. And once they did, others followed. Seamus Hale wasn’t so keen to move on, but a couple of footballers have got into trouble this past week and that’s what’s distracting him right now. I’m sure it will turn again – it always does – but it’s nice to be forgotten for the moment.
I unfold the letter – one page, one paragraph in rough scrawl – and read.
The meeting ends a little later and the staff trickle out in ones and twos. Most of them pack their things and head off immediately, but the usual suspects return to their desks.
When Harry sees me, he hums the opening guitar riff of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ before breaking into his own version of the lyrics. Something about teenagers and how they smell like old shoes. Or old poo? Something like that.
‘Nirvana again?’ I ask lightly, to take the sting out of the fact that I didn’t play along. ‘It’s time you hear some new music.’
‘Oh, really?’ he says. ‘Like who?’
‘There’s this really cool band I know,’ I say, offering him a lopsided smile.
He’s grinning too, and it feels real. ‘Yeah? What are they called?’
‘The New Normal.’
‘Great name.’
‘Great music too. Shades of that excellent but somewhat earnest indie band No Politics, with a stronger set and a bigger voice – two voices now.’
‘Two voices? Really? I like the sound of that.’
‘Totally your thing,’ I say.
‘I’ll keep an eye out for them.’
‘If you’re lucky, I’ll rustle up a flyer. They’ve got a gig next weekend.’
We didn’t go through to the next stage in Battle of the Bands, but a booking agent approached us after our set and asked us if we were available. It means having to perform more covers than we’d like, but it gives us time to play with the new sound and write more material.
‘I’ll be there.’ He glances over at Mum’s office. ‘If the boss will let me.’
I lean in conspiratorially. ‘She kind of likes me. I reckon I can talk her around.’
‘I believe you could,’ he says, and offers me a broken salute before he disappears into his office.
Mum’s still talking to Sarah, so I wait by Christie’s desk, listening to her chat about her latest boyfriend, not worrying about trying to remember his name, knowing he won’t be around long enough for it to matter. Christie packs up her stuff then says goodbye, and it’s just me, Luke, Mum and Sarah – the latter still buried deep in conversation.
When Sarah finally emerges from the meeting, she heads straight for me, greeting me with a tight, knowing smile. I know in that instant that she found the letter and set it aside.
‘Hey, Frankie.’ She looks older suddenly. I wonder sometimes why she does it, why she wears herself down in this job. Is it just about friendship? Or something bigger? I’ve honestly never asked her. I decide that, one day, when we’re alone, that’s what I’ll do.
‘Hey.’ I’ve got the letter in my hand, the blue envelope distinct and obvious.
‘It came for you today.’ She glances discreetly around the office, but Luke is lost in Minecraft, Harry’s still in his office, and Mum is head-down in hers. Dad’s still on his way, and Gran is meeting us at the restaurant. ‘I didn’t show anyone.’ Her mouth is drawn in a thin line and I realise she’s struggled with this. ‘Not Ro. Not yet.’ She reaches for my hand as it clasps the envelope and she gives it a squeeze. ‘It’s your call.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do the right thing,’ she says, and leaves me standing there, contemplating what the ‘right thing’ is. Is it ever one thing? I wonder. Or are there lots of right things that you have to try to make work for you?
‘Sit down,’ I instruct Mum, after I shut her office door. I probably should have started with hey, but the feeling of urgency is weighing me down.
She lifts an eyebrow. ‘Sounds serious.’
I place the envelope between us and wait, the letter still folded in my hand. She looks at the envelope, flinching slightly when she recognises the Irish stamp. She turns it over and reads Colin’s name and then just holds it in front of her, in shock.
I unfold the letter and start to read it aloud.
Dear Frankie,
Your grandmother told me you missed your concert. Hope you get another chance. I think they’re touring Ireland soon. You should come and bring your brother. Let me know if you do. This is where I live:
In an uneven, rough scrawl, I read out Colin’s name, address and phone number.
Mum blinks. Tears glisten on her lashes. She nods, like she understands, but also like it hurts. ‘I’m glad he’s reaching out – at least to you.’
‘And Luke,’ I say. ‘And you.’ I show her the two sentences scrawled under the address.
P.S. Come in summer so Luke can give me those swimming lessons. Tell your mum I owe her a coffee.
Mum sets the letter down so carefully that you’d think it was made of the most delicate crystal. She looks at me then, hope and fear and all kinds of unnameable emotions scrawled across her face. There’s a long silence until I can no longer bear it.
‘Well?’ I say.
Mum doesn’t answer, but then Dad’s knocking on the door. I tell him to come in. He’s got his writing cardigan on, which e
xplains why he looks confused and a bit disoriented. When I’m playing music I forget where I am. The same thing happens to Dad when he’s writing. He must have come straight from his office, his mind still lost in his story.
I wait to see if Mum’s going to explain the letter, but she can’t seem to form words.
‘It’s from Colin,’ I say gently, holding it up to show him.
Dad immediately goes to Mum and crouches down beside her, his arm protecting her like a shield. ‘Are you all right? Has something happened?’
Mum shakes her head, the tears flowing now, but still she maintains that slightly frozen smile, as if she can’t let go.
Dad looks from me to Mum, then me again, but I shrug. This isn’t my story to tell. Not this time. I learnt that from Gran.
Finally, Mum stops crying and wipes her eyes. ‘What are your plans in the Irish summer?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dad says, a smile touching his lips. ‘What are they?’
She shows him the letter. In one swift glance he’s understood completely.
Mum reaches out with one hand to squeeze mine, and the other to clutch Dad’s. They’re staring at each other like they used to. I could be six years old again, lying on the couch watching Finding Nemo, Mum pregnant with Luke, Dad’s arm around us both as they laugh at the jokes I don’t realise are funny, while I laugh at the ones I do. But all three of us laughing, in our own time, on our own level. A kind of together without being the same.
‘Luke!’ Mum calls out, and my little brother, after objecting and whining about having to get back to his spawn point, finally wanders in, still annoyed at the interruption.
‘Want to go to Ireland?’ she asks.
Luke takes this in, squinting to better process it. ‘Colin lives there,’ he says matter-of-factly.
‘There’s my genius,’ I say, and scruff his curls.
‘Stop it, Frankie!’ he yells, slapping my hand away, but not before I’ve ruffled his hair beyond recognition. Those ridiculous curls, that unruly fringe, the chaos and disorder … All of it is perfectly normal. This moment – this life – feels perfectly normal. Big, messy and all out of order, but it belongs to me. And I guess maybe I am finally making it mine. But here’s the thing I didn’t know – this one true thing I’ve learnt – nothing is as good, or as real, until it’s been shared.