The Changing Room

by Christine Sykes

  Molly stood at the entrance of the fibro church with Joe’s dad. The clouds parted and sun beamed in through the stained-glass window at the front of the church. The music commenced and she and Joe’s dad walked down the aisle past the few seated guests and towards the groom.

  Joe stood still throughout the ceremony. Molly pledged to love, honour and obey him for the rest of her life. Joe grunted assent to his vows.

  When it was time for the ring, Dave fumbled and the ring fell on the floor. It glistened in the light from the window. Then the light was gone and Joe picked up the ring and pushed it onto her swollen finger. Molly raised her veil and looked at Joe, and he looked back in his mocking way. Her heart skipped a beat when he pulled her towards him and kissed her.

  The reception was held at the hall next door. The streamers and balloons, which Molly and Lindy had put up, sagged, the chips were cold, the sandwiches were soggy and the soft drinks were warm. Molly’s mum brought a cask of wine and proceeded to toast everyone. Lindy played music from her phone. Molly had one dance with Joe before he joined his mates outside for a smoke.

  ‘Well, I hope yer happy now,’ Molly’s mum said. ‘And yer off me hands just in time.’

  ‘What do ya mean?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Well, ya got yer fella and I’ve got mine.’ Her mum pinched Molly’s upper arm. ‘An’ we’re gonna get out of this hellhole once and fer all.’

  ‘Mum, what on earth are you talkin’ about?’

  ‘Me and me bloke are movin’. As far away from this dump as we can get.’ Her voice rose as if she was telling the whole world. ‘We’re goin’ ta Perth to start a new life. Now you’re not a millstone around my neck.’

  Molly felt a rush of relief at the news her mother would be moving far away.

  ‘And you, you old witch.’ Molly’s mum turned to Grandma. ‘You’ve always loved her more than me. Well, now she’s gone and knocked herself up and married her useless bikie hubbie. You can have her and the sprogs.’

  Grandma looked hurt, but not surprised, by her daughter’s words. Joe’s parents were halfway out the door, leaving without even saying goodbye. Lindy was busy putting the half-eaten wedding cake in a plastic container and throwing out the rest of the leftover food.

  ‘I hope you’re happy now, I really do,’ Grandma sighed. ‘Spoiling Molly’s special day like this.’

  Molly wanted to tell them to stop. For once in their lives, to hug and make up. But she knew to keep her thoughts to herself.

  ‘There ya go, takin’ her side again.’

  Just shut up! Molly screamed in her head. She turned away and went to help Lindy clean up. Molly swished the broom, pushing the spilt food and streamers into a pile in the middle of the floor. Shut up, shut-up, shuddup, she chanted in her head.

  On any other night, Molly would have vented on her pillows. But this night, her wedding night, she hurled herself at Joe, who was lying spread-eagled on a queen-sized bed at Pritchards Hotel. She buried herself in his chest and he wrapped his arms around her. Tight and warm. She smelt his sweat, salty and safe.

  ‘Don’t worry about ’em,’ he said. In that small sentence, Molly knew he meant so much. He meant, It’s us now, Moll. You and me and our family. What your mum says and where she goes don’t matter. Me own parents and their bloody fights don’t matter. We matter and our baby matters.

  Joe rose to use the toilet in the ensuite. When he came back, he stood in the doorway, looking golden in the light from the bedside lamp.

  He stayed there for a moment, taking in every part of her like she was the slice of sponge wedding cake he’d eaten in one gulp. He returned to the bed and made slow love to her while his Steels of Wheels album blared into the night.

  Molly’s rounded belly tingled when Joe circled it with his lips. Her whole body relaxed into him. He’s right, she knew. There’s only me, Joe and the baby.

  *

  Molly and Joe moved into his parent’s garage and Joe moved the bike and spare parts to a lean-to beside the garage. Using discarded sheets, Molly curtained off a separate area for the bedroom. Her grandma let Molly use the old Singer sewing machine to run them up and Joe made rods out of plumbing pipes.

  On one side of the workshop at the back, Molly designed a makeshift shower and bath using the hoses from a washing machine so they wouldn’t have to enter the house. Joe’s father had made it clear he didn’t want them there and she avoided contact with him.

  On the other side of the workshop was a kitchenette. Molly used a battered copy of the Commonsense Cookery Book to find recipes, which she cooked with an old frypan. Molly ate scraps from the takeaway where she worked to ease the pressure on Joe’s meagre earnings from the bike repair jobs he did. If she needed extra food, she’d borrow a few tins from the takeaway and pay for them the following week. After a while, she realised no one noticed the missing tins and she became less regular putting the money in the till.

  Molly was over the moon when her baby boy, Matthew, was born on the twelfth of March. In three months she was pregnant again.

  Molly dreamed of having a little girl, someone she could dress in pretty clothes and share secrets with, someone to balance the family. She had another boy, Daniel, just over a year later on the twenty-sixth of March. After her initial disappointment that Daniel wasn’t a girl, she proudly paraded the boys in Westfield shopping centre, and took photos of them and posted them on Facebook.

  She didn’t lose the weight she had gained as a result of her pregnancies.

  ‘More t’ love,’ Joe said. And he did love her. She was sure of it. He called the boys his ‘pride an’ joys’, and she knew he meant it.

  On Friday nights, Joe went out with his mates, but on weekends he stayed home and tinkered with his bike. At first his mates dropped in whenever they needed an extra bike part, but he’d shush them when they got too rowdy.

  ‘Don’t you wake the kids,’ he warned.

  Molly was relieved when Joe’s mates stopped coming. She loved the nights they had alone together, when they’d turn on the old telly and cuddle up on the sofa bed. If it was warm, they sat outside and Molly polished the bike while Joe fiddled with the parts, explaining for the hundredth time what each one did.

  Molly continued to dream of having a daughter, a girl to love and care for the way she’d wanted to be loved by her mother. She kept quiet about it to Joe for a while, stifling the yearning and reasoning she needed to give all her attention to her boys.

  ‘Just be happy with what you have,’ said Lindy. ‘Y’ don’t want to go upsetting the apple cart now you’ve got everything so good.’

  The craving gnawed at Molly. One evening when they were packing up the spare parts she spotted the first star and talked to Joe about her wish.

  ‘If that’s what y’ really want,’ Joe mumbled. ‘Guess one more mouth won’t make much difference.’

  3

  CLAIRE

  While Anna was returning home and nurses were attending to Molly’s injuries in Liverpool Hospital, Claire sat in the study of her Rushcutters Bay mansion, gazing at the harbour that glistened beyond a mass of lush green trees as thoughts swirled in her mind.

  A service to empower disadvantaged women through economic independence. That’s it! she thought, and jotted it down. Our Mission Statement.

  Her thoughts were broken by the sound of the vacuum cleaner starting up. The cleaner, Theresa, was working extra days to tidy up after Claire’s holiday guests. Over the past month there had been three different groups of people staying in the renovated mansion. Thirteen guests in all. In early December, four friends from Europe who wanted to experience a Sydney summer arrived. They’d spent most of their time getting sunburnt on the beach or sailing on the harbour. Six family members from interstate came for Christmas and stayed to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. Claire’s daughter, Lauren, invited three university friends to come for the opening of the Sydney Festival.

  Claire enjoyed hosting guests in her mansion. However, this year
had seemed particularly frenetic and Anthony had been called away for emergency surgeries. She’d neglected her other responsibilities and today she needed to finalise the paperwork for the next Suitability board meeting. It was just over two weeks away, although why she had agreed to meet in late January she didn’t know. She studied the meticulous financial report that her dear friend Alice had emailed, tried to make sense of the numbers, which seemed to float on the page, and finally picked up the phone to call her.

  *

  Five years earlier, Claire was relaxing at the Marble Bar on George Street, admiring the Julian Ashton paintings in the elegant space with its multi-coloured marble arches, while she waited for her two best friends, Alice and Genevieve. It was their monthly get-together.

  Alice arrived first, wearing a tan suit, with her brown hair freshly cut short.

  ‘Ah, so chic,’ said Claire, and gestured for Alice to turn so she could see the cut from all angles.

  Alice’s suit was the same colour as the one Claire wore; their taste had been similar since primary school. They used to pretend they were sisters, non-identical twins separated at birth, and their ‘real’ family was French. For the past ten years they had been partners in Potential Unleashed, an executive coaching business, while Genevieve was a senior executive officer at Family and Community Services, the state government welfare agency.

  ‘Genevieve not here yet?’ said Alice.

  ‘Yes, here I am,’ said Genevieve, appearing at that moment. The three women embraced. Where Claire and Alice were petite and understated in appearance, Genevieve was tall, with long, dark hair, and wore a red and purple tunic over black palazzo pants.

  ‘Champagne?’ Genevieve asked. ‘To celebrate. What shall we celebrate? Being us?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Claire. ‘Make it French champagne.’

  ‘Mais, naturellement,’ said Alice. ‘I’m celebrating my wardrobe decluttering success. I have sorted all my clothes into “must keep”, “may keep” and “must go”.’

  ‘You should help me do mine,’ said Claire.

  ‘The only problem is what to do with the clothes which must go. They are perfectly good for work but they no longer suit me. I hate to admit I even have shoes I’ve never worn,’ said Alice.

  ‘We have clients who need clothing from time to time to go to court,’ said Genevieve. ‘I could take some and store them at work.’

  ‘What a great idea,’ said Claire. ‘I can give you outfits I no longer wear.’

  ‘Hang on. It’s a small office with hardly any closet space.’

  ‘I’m sure there are other women who need clothing,’ said Alice.

  Genevieve nodded. ‘It’s true. Many women can’t get a job because they have nothing to wear to an interview.’

  ‘That’s appalling,’ said Claire. She had been raised to give back to the community. Her mother said they had a duty to those who are less fortunate. Her parents had given Claire substantial gifts of money to get herself established, and as soon as she began earning her own, she set up regular donations to charity organisations, mainly to help underprivileged women and children in Africa, Asia and South America.

  While she sipped her second glass of champagne, Claire realised she’d given little thought to the needs of women in her own community. After all the advances in women’s rights since the 1970s, she was surprised a woman in this day and age would have trouble getting a job because of her clothing.

  ‘The other issue,’ said Genevieve, ‘is that many women have no idea what to wear to an interview, or the effect of her appearance on the outcome.’

  Genevieve told more stories about women who couldn’t get a job because they didn’t have the right clothes.

  ‘We can’t let this situation continue,’ said Claire. ‘We have to do something.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Genevieve, you would know how to start,’ said Claire. ‘There must be hundreds of other women with excess clothing. All we need do is locate them and find a way to get the clothes to the women in need. It is très simple.’

  They ordered another round of champagne, and before the evening was over, they’d conceived the name for their enterprise.

  It was Claire who said, ‘A suit plus ability would get a woman employment. Employment means economic independence. That’s it: if you put them together it’s “Suitability”.’ Claire’s head buzzed with ideas.

  *

  Over the next few weeks they set up a makeshift command centre in a spare bedroom at Claire’s home. They drew up lists of tasks and called or emailed every friend and acquaintance.

  Claire ordered in sandwiches and cakes from the local delicatessen for morning tea and lunch breaks. She arranged for Theresa to work extra days to serve the food and clean up afterwards, as well as to help prepare the ingredients for dinner. Claire prided herself on being a great cook but it was too difficult to juggle the new demands of Suitability with her other business. Theresa wanted extra work so she could make a trip home to the Philippines later in the year.

  Bags of clothing arrived, which Claire stored in her triple garage while they searched for premises.

  ‘Claire, there isn’t any room for your car!’ said Genevieve one Thursday, noticing the two shrouded shapes in the driveway.

  ‘I know! I had to tell Anthony he’ll need to park his beloved Porsche in the driveway. He only complained once and then bought a retractable cover for the cars.’

  Her husband was that sort of man, Claire reflected. They had met during their first year at high school. She cheered on the sidelines when he played rugby and he did the same when she played hockey. Along with Alice, they formed the core of a large amorphous group. Alice, Claire and Anthony made time for fun but were serious when they needed to be. They spent their spare time studying, trying to outdo each other in exams and competing to be dux of the year.

  ‘Good grades are everything,’ her mother had constantly reminded Claire. ‘Without them, you won’t get anywhere. You must study hard and go to university.’

  Claire’s mother and grandmother were self-confident, strong women who gracefully took their places in society – beside their men, not behind them nor, god forbid, in front. Her grandmother was one of the few women of her era to attend Sydney University. Her mother graduated from the same university and hosted consciousness-raising sessions for women in the 1970s while holding the family together and working. Claire had emulated them and graduated with honours from the same university, built her family and pursued her career.

  *

  Within four months, Genevieve had found a flat for the Suitability premises in Sydenham in the Inner West.

  ‘Can we run a service from a flat?’ Alice asked, looking round. ‘It doesn’t seem professional.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a place as dirty as this one, but it’s cheap,’ said Claire.

  The flat across the landing was also vacant, which would be handy if they had to expand. The women agreed it would suit their needs.

  On his few days off from the hospital and his private practice, Anthony entered into the spirit of preparing the flat and joined the Suitability painting squad. Claire was in the clean-and-scrape squad. She couldn’t have imagined the layers of grime and paint they had to remove to get a smooth surface. Once they started, they couldn’t stop. The layers formed ridges along the walls. They drafted their son Nathan and his mate Steve to help. While she scraped, Claire reflected on the fact that she had paid professionals to paint her own house, but when it came to Suitability, the whole family were doing it.

  ‘I’m not sure about Steve,’ Claire had said to Anthony the first time they’d met him.

  ‘Yes, not keen on those tattoos.’

  ‘Me neither. They make him look like a criminal.’

  ‘Oh, we are snobs.’ They laughed at themselves.

  But the day Steve arrived at the flat with his utility and power tools, she blessed him. He salvaged wood to make shelving, loaded up the utilit
y with rubbish and left without waiting for a thank you.

  Genevieve found material for fitting-room curtains, which gave the space a jolly atmosphere. Alice’s favourite boutique had spare clothes racks, which they donated. They spent many nights sorting through the clothes in Claire’s garage, and while they sorted, they sang, ‘It’s raining clothes, hallelujah, it’s raining clothes …’

  Clothes poured in. Some were on hangers from the drycleaners, others were in old suitcases stuffed to the brim. Many items were not appropriate; others were dirty or torn. Genevieve changed the publicity material to focus on work clothing and on one late, wine-fuelled night they came up with the slogan: Give us the clothes you’d give to your best friend.

  Claire called upon the help of another friend, a solicitor, to help set up the corporate structure for the not-for-profit organisation, apply for charitable status and register the name of Suitability.

  The three friends cajoled people with expertise or contacts to join their board of seven women. Claire was elected chair, Alice was the obvious choice as treasurer and Genevieve agreed to be secretary. A friend who ran a marketing company joined and was elected to a public relations role. Three other women with a mix of social work, corporate and human relations backgrounds joined them.

  *

  Suitability opened its doors to clients on an unseasonably warm May day. It was mayhem. One woman, a former refugee from Somalia, came an hour early, while they were setting up. They’d accommodated her in their one chair, given her a glass of water and an old magazine, and asked her to wait. Another, who suffered from a mental illness, arrived fifteen minutes early, and had the option of standing, sitting on the floor, or displacing the woman in the chair. One client came late and one didn’t come at all. Jacqueline, a transgender woman, turned up without a referral and pleaded for help as she had an interview that afternoon.

  They scrambled through the racks to find clothes for each of the women.