The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘Seats, please, girls,’ Grace said as she entered Mrs Swan’s homeroom class, scattering gossip circles.

  She took the roll, then the class captain read from the daily newsletter. Volleyball practice would be moved to the gym. All girls who wanted to audition for the school production of Lysistrata were to meet at the drama department at lunch. When the bell rang, one student hung back.

  ‘Can I help you, Bridget?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you I’m looking forward to the bake-off, Mrs Arden,’ Bridget said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was a boarder who had frizzy blonde hair and a gummy smile like a cartoon sun: big and beaming. ‘I’ve got lots of ideas for things to make this week.’

  The prizes for Grace’s weekly bake-off competition in the boarding house were simple: a week off bathroom-monitor duty, and getting to pick the movie that played in the common room on Sunday night. Once the meals had been cooked, they were wrapped in foil, and Grace and the girls took the school’s minibus to the Sydney City Mission where they served dinner—usually casseroles and pasta bakes—to homeless men and women.

  ‘When I was home on the weekend I got some ingredients I’d like to experiment with. Some truffle oil and gruyere.’ Bridget grinned again. Braces gave her smile an endearing awkwardness. ‘Mum brought it back for me from Switzerland in a special refrigerated bag.’

  ‘Truffle oil and gruyere? For the bake-off?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Bridget nodded. ‘Mum always lets me choose a present for her to bring back, and this time I wanted food.’

  This was partially the reason Grace had come up with the bake-off, to foster a social conscience in the girls, and squash any prejudices they might feel towards those who lacked the good fortune to be sired by lawyers and suckled by surgeons.

  ‘If we’re going to cook for these men and women, there’s no harm in making something really nice. Besides, I think they deserve a little truffle oil, don’t you?’ Bridget said.

  Grace smiled, feeling a tug on her heartstrings.

  ‘I think that’s a very nice idea.’

  As Bridget skipped off to her first class, Grace suddenly felt a little weepy. The fertility hormones whooshing through her bloodstream, the sleeplessness and the hope all sent her emotions into hyper-drive. She straightened her jacket and headed back to the boarding house, wishing she could bring home presents for a daughter of her own.

  Climbing the stairs to her office, Grace detected a whiff of nutmeg; lingering evidence of a spiced latte consumed by one of the boarders. As she took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma, she couldn’t help but wonder if her senses were sharpening as her body prepared for its biggest call to duty.

  It would be four more days before she could reliably take a pregnancy test. She flipped open her calendar and drew a circle around the date. They were supposed to resist taking a home test—they should wait until the scheduled blood analysis at Empona—but Grace never could. She was, therefore, glad she would spend the night at the boarding house, and keep her mind occupied with the bake-off.

  An hour after the last bell rang for the day the boarders filed into the home-ec rooms for the bake-off and began unpacking the ingredients Bonnie had prepared. Grace walked from station to station, supervising.

  ‘Catherine, those curls need to be tied back. We don’t want to be serving hair pie. Annika, no handling hot pans with tea towels—where is your oven mitt?’

  Bridget had brought in her imported ingredients, and as the cooking got underway she added them to the other students’ dishes too. In her regulation Corella College apron, Bridget twirled from bench to bench, shaking truffle oil into risottos and grating expensive cheese onto lasagne. ‘Would you like some gruyere for your risotto, Catherine? Stacey, truffles?’

  ‘Truffles? For the bake-off?’ Stacey Mannix said tartly.

  ‘I thought it would be unfair to our guests if I didn’t share,’ said Bridget.

  ‘They’re not our guests,’ Stacey replied.

  ‘Of course they are,’ Grace said, smiling proudly at Bridget.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to miss out,’ said Bridget.

  ‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ said Grace, nearly giddy with hormone-charged hope.

  After the food was baked and wrapped, the group was joined by Mr Bishop. It had taken Grace a year to get the school principal, Paul Lombardo, to sign off on the bake-off, and when he finally, begrudgingly did, one of the conditions was that the head of English had to accompany the group to the Sydney City Mission.

  The girls squirmed and giggled as they took their seats and the minibus pulled out of the school gates. Laura Kelk yelled as a hot ceramic dish grazed her bare thigh.

  ‘Girls, stop being silly, please.’ Grace clapped her hands. ‘We don’t want any accidents.’

  ‘Do they seem worse than usual to you?’ Mr Bishop asked. ‘They’re a bit keyed up.’

  ‘They’re teenage girls,’ Grace said. ‘They’re always like this.’

  The Sydney City Mission manager, Glen Thwaites, met them at their usual spot in the shadow of the freeway flyover, with trestle tables lit by gas lights. The April night was crisp but there was something cosy and campfire-like about the yellow glow cast by the lamps. Grace unpacked the dishes and began distributing plastic serving spoons to the girls, who arranged themselves along the tables and peeled back the foil from their meals, unleashing the steamy aroma of meat and onions. A shuffling line of people grew quickly, drawn by the smell. Grace could detect the earthy note of Bridget’s truffles. It made her salivate and stoked her wishful faith that her ability to identify the ingredient was further evidence that her body was changing. Preparing. Every one of her cells was humming with possibility. She rubbed her hands together.

  ‘Good work, girls,’ she said, smiling and jostling between them. ‘Larger serves, please, Catherine. That’s it, let’s keep the line moving. You’re doing well.’

  They were about halfway through their supply of food when a woman in a black tracksuit approached Grace with an empty plate. ‘Any more of that beef casserole?’

  ‘Let me see; Stacey made the beef. Stacey?’ Grace looked down the service line, her eyes seeking Stacey Mannix’s blunt fringe. ‘Has anyone seen Stacey?’

  Nobody answered. Grace folded her arms. ‘Well, who’s on beef casserole?’

  ‘It’s here!’ Laura Kelk pointed to the girl next to her. Bridget Hennessy was digging ground beef from the corners of a casserole dish with a serving spoon, too absorbed by her task to respond.

  ‘Bridget, where’s Stacey? Isn’t this her dish?’

  ‘What?’ Bridget’s head snapped up.

  ‘Are you serving beef casserole?’

  ‘My risotto ran out.’

  ‘Then where’s Stacey?’

  ‘Um.’ Bridget’s eyes flicked from side to side. ‘I think she went to the toilet?’

  ‘Who has she gone with? She didn’t ask permission.’

  The girls were allowed to use the bathrooms in the nearby Travelodge but they had to travel in pairs and they had to let Grace know they were going.

  ‘She said she told Mr Bishop.’

  Grace turned to her colleague. ‘John, did you give Stacey permission to go to the Travelodge?’

  ‘Stacey Mannix? I haven’t seen Stacey all night.’

  ‘Are you sure? She was on the bus.’

  Grace flipped open her folder to double-check her list of girls who had attended that night. A quick scan of the names confirmed Stacey had been on the bus when it left the school.

  ‘Right.’ Grace slammed her folder shut. ‘Girls, put down your spoons, please. I need to do a headcount.’ She could already tell there were fewer faces than there should have been and at a glance she could guess who was absent. ‘I’m sorry, everyone, this will just take a minute,’ she told the crowd.

  The headcount revealed she had correctly predicted the three culprits who had snuck off. Stacey Mannix, Lyndsey Hornery and Annika Whitelaw were nowhe
re to be seen.

  ‘Can anyone tell me where they are?’ Grace asked, her hands on her hips. The students shuffled and looked at their shoes. ‘Anyone?’

  Grace was not surprised her question was met with silence. The three fugitives were queen bees. Owners of Kate Spade handbags and wearers of Tiffany pendants, they were more sophisticated than their peers and, consequently, revered. If the other girls knew where they were, there was no way they would give them up.

  ‘I’ll check the Travelodge,’ Grace said, handing her folder to John Bishop. She pressed the button for the traffic lights impatiently, doubtful the girls would be there. The city-edge hotel’s lobby was decorated with dusty fake flowers and had the antiseptic air of a nursing home. She ducked into the ladies, confirmed her suspicion, then hurried back to the students.

  ‘I’m sorry, Glen, we’re going to have to pack up early,’ she said, prompting a chorus of disappointment from the girls.

  ‘Not to worry, Mrs Arden, we’re always grateful for your help.’ ‘I’ll leave this food with you and collect the dishes next week.’ ‘I appreciate that.’

  Grace’s concern for the girls was tempered with a heavy dose of annoyance. They had snuck off deliberately, jeopardising not just her program but the meals of the people who relied on the bake-off for a feed.

  ‘Shall we call Mr Lombardo?’ Mr Bishop asked.

  ‘Not if we can help it. Get the rest of the girls back on the bus, will you? I’ll see if I can track down our truants.’

  As Mr Bishop herded the girls back onto the bus, Grace charged to the nearby McDonald’s, imagining the runaways squeezed into booths with some boys from Fullerton Grammar. When she pushed open the fast-food joint’s door, she saw almost the exact scene she had imagined, but none of the students were from Corella.

  Grace half-heartedly checked the toilets, then the deserted playground. She climbed up the plastic ladder in case the girls were sitting in the cubby with their feet up on the walls, licking soft-serves. But they weren’t.

  Next she checked the two-storey KFC across the street. It was hot and loud inside, and smelled of salt and fryers. A grotty-looking man in fingerless gloves looked her slowly up and down as she entered. Two drunk teens in high-tops and singlets crashed into her on their way out. Grace’s hands moved protectively to her belly.

  ‘Holy shit,’ one snickered, as they hurried away.

  The girls were nowhere to be seen.

  When Grace stepped back out into the night annoyance gave way to fear. The rumble of heavy trucks on the freeway flyover was monstrous and the darkness of the car park made her shiver. As Grace hurried back towards the main road, her fingers curled around her keys, taking comfort from the long, jagged form of the boarding house master key. She was certain the girls had snuck off, but she couldn’t deny her growing fear that something sinister had happened to them. What if they had been lured away by feckless guys in their twenties? Or worse, by sleazy older men who would offer to buy them a drink at a badly lit pub. Or worse still, an actual criminal. She thought of the girls, possibly terrified, possibly hurt, all because Grace had the trumped-up notion she was an inspirational teacher. She went back to check the McDonald’s again. There were no teens left in the booths. Just a mess, and a stack of pink flyers. Grace picked one up.

  Under-18s Dance Party. Kobuka Club. DJ Faustus and Liz Licker. No alcohol!

  She swore under her breath. The address was just around the corner.

  Gangs of girls in heavy eyeliner and tiny shorts leaned against the Kobuka Club next to guys tonguing bottles of Coca-Cola. The entrance was manned by a bored-looking woman chewing gum.

  ‘Entry is ten dollars,’ she said when Grace approached.

  ‘I’m a government liquor-licence inspector,’ Grace replied in a flash of inspiration. She entered without pausing and felt a victorious surge of power when nobody stopped her.

  The club was dark and crammed with bodies. Fake smoke filled Grace’s lungs. Purple laser lights forced her to squint. As she pushed through hordes of teens, sticky drinks cascaded over her arms and onto her shoes. Grace felt prehistoric. The sensation was not helped by the tenderness in her lower abdomen, which had popped out, swollen, as if she’d swallowed a small helium balloon. She lay her hand across it, fearful of sharp elbows.

  Someone trod on her foot in a spiky heel. Grace’s yelp was drowned by the beat of house music. Her eyes watered. She directed her anger towards the missing students.

  ‘Stacey! Lyndsey, are you in here? Annika?’

  As she forced her way towards the bar she spotted a familiar flash of blue and burgundy. Two Corella College schoolbags were sitting under a table. Grace barged over, grabbed one by the strap and opened it. Inside she found blazers, pleated skirts and socks tucked into shoes, as well as a bottle of Escada perfume and a pink leather make-up bag with a gold tassel and the initials SM embossed on it.

  She looked up and saw Stacey, Lindsay and Annika clutching each other, watching her with bug-eyed panic. Stacey said something inaudible then turned and tried to disappear into the crowd.

  ‘Girls, don’t even think about it!’ Grace hollered. Her voice was swamped by the thrum of the music but the students’ escape attempt was foiled by the mass of bodies. Hemmed in by oblivious revellers, they couldn’t get away. Grace hauled the bags over her shoulder and pointed to the door. The girls’ shoulders sank and they slouched towards the exit.

  ‘How could you be so irresponsible?’ Grace said when they emerged from the club’s smoky bowels into the cool night air. ‘How could you be so selfish?’

  Annika and Lindsay answered in sniffles. ‘Sorry, Mrs Arden.’ They hugged themselves, trying to cover their exposed flesh.

  ‘Are you going to tell our parents?’ Annika asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Grace said honestly.

  She debated her options as she marched the girls back to the bus. She could impose a punishment without involving the parents or Mr Lombardo, who could use an episode like this as an excuse to shut down the bake-off. On the other hand, if she didn’t report it and someone found out, the consequences could be even worse. ‘Hurry up, the other girls are waiting. You ruined their night too. Not to mention the people who came for a meal.’

  Lindsay started to cry but Stacey had a scowl on her face, which was made up with winged eyeliner and shimmery highlighter. Her lips were pressed into a pout and she looked bored and imperious.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re looking so smug about, Miss Mannix,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve no doubt you were the ringleader of this little escapade.’

  ‘What are you going to do, ground me? We’re not allowed out of that stupid school anyway.’

  Annika sniffed. ‘It’s worse than prison,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

  Grace pondered this. Another reason for the bake-off had been to get the girls out of the dorms. Looking at the young women before her—unsteady in high heels, like baby gazelles learning to walk—she realised how short she had fallen of her goal to provide a social outlet.

  ‘Are you really going to let all of the parents know you can’t keep control of your students, Mrs Arden?’ Stacey flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘That we were roaming the streets just because you think you’re Mother Theresa?’

  Anger flashed in Grace’s eyes. ‘So, you were banking on me covering for you?’

  Stacey shrugged, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Good luck convincing the parents to let you take their precious daughters out again after this.’

  Any empathy Grace had felt evaporated. ‘I am so mad, I could just—’

  She froze. Every impulse halted. A secret change was occurring. She felt a shift. A liquefying. Oh no. A new thought dominated her mind: Please, no.

  ‘Mrs Arden, are you okay?’ Annika asked. Grace could feel the colour leave her face as they reached the Sydney City Mission.

  ‘That will be all, girls. Get on the bus, please,’ she managed. ‘Can you drive, Mr Bishop
?’ She slid onto the passenger seat, wrapped her coat around herself and held it tight until they reached the school gates. The girls were mercifully quiet.

  She could feel a familiar pain at the base of her spine. ‘Mr Bishop, could you please do a head count and then send the girls to bed,’ Grace said when the bus came to a stop.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Her voice was grim. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  A sob caught in Grace’s throat as she raced to her bathroom and slammed the door. She locked it then pulled down her stockings. There was blood everywhere. She went to her shower and turned on the taps as hard as they would go, filling the room with steam. She cleaned herself of the yolky red mess, staying under the stream until the water turned into needles of cold. She shivered as she felt the full force of what had just happened. It was like a fist to the face, a battering ram to the breastbone.

  Mrs O’Shea, the deputy boarding-house mistress, was on call, but the journey home was more than Grace could face. Once she had scrubbed herself raw, she crawled into bed. She would spare Dan the sleepless night. Besides, she thought, hugging herself, the breakfast routine would give her a reason to get up in the morning.

  It was a grey dawn, the sky blotted out by a sheet of cloud. To Grace, the whole world was colourless. She sleepwalked through the morning and somehow made it to noon. After the lunch bell she called Dan. When she tried to speak his name she merely croaked down the line.

  ‘Do you want me to pick you up?’ he asked, understanding immediately.

  ‘No, you were right. We can’t stop living our lives. I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll see you at home tonight.’

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I love you.’

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I love you too.’

  By two in the afternoon she was in so much agony she had to call Mrs O’Shea to come in early for her overnight shift.