‘Muuuuuum. Muuuuuum.’
She pushed her feet into her Birkenstocks and walked into the ensuite. She sank onto the toilet, her head in her hands. Her urine stank; it was acrid and yellow. I really must remember to drink more water today, she thought. It was a daily resolution that she never seemed to accomplish. She stood up from the toilet and held her hands under the cold water, staring into the mirror. At 33, her face had changed. Her skin was dull, her eyes bloodshot, and faint lines were beginning to crease her forehead. Not that long ago, Willem had called her beautiful.
‘Muuuuuum.’
Digby’s voice had disturbed Rory; she could hear him stirring in the next room.
She opened Digby’s bedroom door.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered. ‘Please can we use our quiet inside voices while baby Rory is still asleep?’
‘Noooooo!’ he shrieked.
She said nothing. According to the parenting manuals she’d devoured, the twin pillars of toddler behaviour management were, first, ignoring negative behaviours and, second, the art of distraction. She opted for the latter.
‘I wonder what the weather is like this morning, Dig. Shall we see?’
She began to open the curtains.
‘I do it,’ shouted Digby, launching himself from under the covers. He grabbed a fistful of curtain and began yanking it towards the floor.
‘That’s not how we open curtains, Digby. Please let it go.’
‘No!’ he shrieked again.
‘Let me show you how to do it so we don’t break anything. Then you can try.’
‘Noooooo!’
‘Digby, honey,’ she said, her tone firm, ‘I’m going to count to three and then I’d like you to let go of the curtain, or Mummy will have to ask you to start the day again. Let’s not pull the curtain until it breaks. Please, Digby, I’m starting to count now. One . . . two . . .’
Digby looked at her, expectant.
‘Three,’ she said. ‘Right, lie down.’ She prised his hands from the curtain. ‘We need to start the day again.’
Digby began to snivel. ‘But I don’t want to start the day again.’
‘It’s not discussion time, Digby. I asked you nicely to stop pulling the curtain, and I told you what would happen if you didn’t. Now, lie down.’ It was utterly predictable: misbehaviour, warning, repeated misbehaviour, action. Consistency in consequences was the key, so the manuals said.
She tried to pull him down onto the bed.
‘Noooooo.’ He slid off his bed and ran towards the train table, diving underneath and rolling towards the wall.
‘Nyah nyah nyah-nyah-nyah, can’t catch me,’ he sang.
She got down on her hands and knees.
‘Digby, I have to give Rory his bottle now. When you’re ready to start the day again, you just let me know.’ She stood up and walked towards the door.
‘I hate you, Mum,’ he bellowed.
I’m not your mother, she thought, closing the door behind her.
5.26 am.
Rory was lying on his back, gazing at the rainbow mobile suspended above his cot.
‘Hi, sweetie.’
He turned towards her voice and smiled, as always. At eleven months old, he had only just learned to crawl. The other babies in the mothers’ group had all developed that skill much earlier. Some, like Astrid, had started commando crawling at just six months, pulling themselves up flights of stairs, onto chairs and into cupboards. But Rory had seemed reluctant to join the world of the upright, and Miranda hadn’t been too concerned by it. She’d wanted to savour Rory’s infancy for as long as possible, to linger in his babyhood. She loved everything about him: his mischievous smile, his lively eyes, his placid temperament and calm acceptance of the world as he knew it, so unfairly monopolised by the hyperactive Digby.
‘How did you sleep?’ she asked, leaning over and tickling the folds under his chin.
‘Ma-ma-ma-ma.’ Rory smiled up at her with a lopsided, toothy grin. She loved hearing him say her name.
She scooped him out of his cot and onto the change table. It was immediately obvious that he’d soiled his nappy.
‘Oh, that’s a smell only a mother can love. Let me change that.’
He kicked his feet in the air and giggled.
‘Muuuuuum, I’m ready to start the day again,’ Digby called from his bedroom. Miranda sighed. She’d hoped Digby might stay in his room and sulk just a little longer, so that she could enjoy Rory in the interim.
‘Okay, Dig,’ she called back.
She picked up Rory and gave him a squeeze. ‘Let’s get Digby.’
She turned the doorknob to Digby’s room and stepped back, allowing him to race past her.
‘You be the backhoe loader, I’ll be the bulldozer,’ he yelled on his way to the lounge room.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m just changing Rory’s nappy, Dig. I’ll come and play in a moment.’
Since he’d turned three, Digby’s favourite activity was what the parenting books called ‘imaginative play’. This inevitably involved some kind of role-play in which Miranda found herself acting the part of an inanimate object. She’d spent hours conducting mind-numbing conversations with Digby as a backhoe loader, a steamboat, a lampshade. Sometimes Digby would choose household objects (‘You be the dustpan, I’ll be the brush’) or gardening equipment (‘You be the rake, I’ll be the broom’). One rainy afternoon, he’d looked up from a drawing activity and thrust a crayon her way. ‘You be the red crayon, I’ll be the blue crayon,’ he’d said, grinning. She’d almost cried with frustration. I used to be someone, she’d thought. Important people asked me for my opinion. Her life before children, as an art curator and gallery manager, had never felt so remote.
As she lowered Rory onto the change table once more, Digby appeared in the doorway. ‘Has Rory done a big poo?’
‘I’m not sure, Dig. I’m about to find out.’
She wanted him out of the bedroom. ‘Do you need to go to the toilet?’ she prompted, hoping he would take her cue and head to the bathroom.
‘Nah.’ He sauntered over to the change table and began to scale its side.
‘Digby, please don’t climb up.’ She threw the soiled nappy into a flip-top bin.
‘But I want to give Rory a kiss.’
She looked at him, doubtful. ‘Okay.’
With his feet balanced on the shelf below, Digby pursed his lips and leaned forward. Rory smiled at him with the trusting adoration of a younger sibling. As Digby pressed his mouth against Rory’s face, Rory screamed. The shock and indignation in his cry was palpable. She pulled Digby away and gasped at the teeth marks on Rory’s cheek.
‘Digby.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Go to your room now.’
‘Nah.’
Her rage exploded out of her. ‘How dare you!’ She whisked Rory off the change table and onto the floor. Then she seized Digby by the shoulders, marching him into his bedroom and pushing him onto the bed.
‘You will stay here until you learn how to behave properly!’ she shouted.
Instantly he bounced off the bed and ran towards the door. She caught hold of his pyjamas and rammed him back onto the bed, shaking him as he rebounded on the mattress.
‘Muuuuuummmy!’ he screamed. ‘Mummy, let go of me.’
The panic in his voice registered. She stopped, appalled by her own behaviour. I’m the adult here, she reminded herself.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Digby. That was wrong of Mummy.’
She reached out to touch his face. He recoiled as if she’d brandished a weapon. Rory’s whimpering was audible in the next room. He was still on the floor, without a nappy on. She hoped he wouldn’t wee on the carpet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I was just so upset that you made Rory sad by biting him.’ She looked at Digby, cowering on his bed. He didn’t care why it happened, he didn’t want to hear her reasons. All he knew was that his mother had manhandled him. She felt terrible.
‘We us
e our mouths for speaking and smiling, Digby,’ she continued. ‘Not biting.’
Digby’s lower lip protruded. He began to cry.
The sound competed with Rory’s wailing in the next room. It was at times like this, with both children crying, that she felt like locking herself in the broom cupboard.
‘I have to go and help Rory,’ she said. ‘His cheek will need some ice. Stay here, please, and think about what happened.’
‘Noooooo,’ Digby objected. ‘I want a cuddle.’
Rory’s cries were escalating. ‘I can’t do that right now, Dig. I have to help Rory. But we can have a cuddle later. I’d like that.’ She didn’t believe her own propaganda. By the look of Digby, neither did he.
‘I hate you,’ he yelled. ‘I really, really hate you.’
She pulled the door closed behind her.
The antique clock in the hallway chimed six o’clock.
She sat with Rory on the expensive leather chaise longue that Willem had insisted on buying. There was nothing she liked about this house, nor the furniture in it. Willem prided himself on his aesthetic sensibility and, when she’d accepted his marriage proposal, he’d declared his intention to buy her a dream home. True to his word, he’d done that—except it was his dream home. His passion for interior design hadn’t surprised her. But his desire to stamp his mark on every minor finish—from taps to toilet seats—had been disconcerting. It’s like being engaged to my mother, she’d giggled to a girlfriend at the time; no detail in décor spared.
She dabbed at the edges of Rory’s mouth with a soft cloth, careful that no drips strayed from the bottle. She’d learned from experience how unpleasant it could be if Willem discovered a mark on the leather. He valued order and elegance in his home, and things were always better between them when she respected that. While it was challenging to contain the walking disaster that was Digby, Rory was more predictable.
‘Muuuuuum,’ called Digby.
Rory had only drained half the bottle. Digby would just have to wait.
She smiled at Rory as he sucked at the teat, his small hands roving over hers. People often commented on how much he looked like Willem, with a prominent forehead, striking eyes and a square chin. It was true, she knew, but she liked to think that he had inherited some of her personality traits. He was amiable and relaxed, which was a miracle given that Digby was always shadowing him, like a vulture circling its quarry.
She closed her eyes. I need to be more positive about Digby, she thought.
It was another daily resolution that she always seemed to fail to meet.
Willem had been upfront about Digby, the son of his first wife, from the beginning. Digby was barely a year old when they’d met and only eighteen months when they married. For some reason, she’d thought that Digby’s infancy might make it easier for her to slip into the role of stepmother. She’d certainly never imagined it would be as hard as this, not in a million years. But even if someone had told her how difficult it might be—and God knows, her mother had tried, in her own quiet way—she’d lost all capacity to reason. Back then, she’d been thoroughly seduced by Willem, and the lifestyle he represented.
He was articulate, well-travelled and charismatic. Not to mention his broad physique and disarming smile. A walking cliché—tall, dark and handsome—but with a mind that roved over a thousand topics at once. His capacity to digest and distil financial information had led to such outlandish investment success, she’d often wondered if he had savant-like talents.
He’d thoroughly charmed her, right from the beginning. When he bowled into the gallery one rainy afternoon, looking for an artwork for his sister, she couldn’t believe her luck.
‘She’s a stay-at-home mother,’ he explained. ‘She keeps telling me how she’s going mad, climbing the walls. So I thought I’d hang something decent on them for her.’
She laughed aloud.
They walked around the gallery for more than an hour. He drilled her on questions of form, texture and composition. She tried hard to demonstrate her intimate knowledge of the artists and their works, an eclectic curatorial selection of acrylics, mixed media and oils.
In the end, he chose two of her favourite Estelle Umbria pieces: oil, graphite and wax on linen.
‘One for her, one for me,’ he said. ‘Can I have them delivered?’
She’d taken down his address, a prestigious street in the seaside suburb of Manly.
‘Put them on that,’ he said, passing her a platinum credit card. ‘Art catapults us out of drudgery. That warrants the investment.’
She smiled, glancing at the name on his card as she processed the payment. Willem J. Bianco.
‘Thank you, Mr Bianco.’ She was careful to pronounce his surname with a slight Italian accent; she’d studied the language at high school.
‘Willem’s the name.’ He signed the receipt with a flourish, using a silver fountain pen he pulled from the inside pocket of his Ralph Lauren sports jacket. His signature was bold, purposeful. ‘May I ask yours?’
‘Miranda Bailey.’ She felt her face flush. ‘I’m the manager here.’
‘I can tell.’ He held her gaze slightly longer than was comfortable.
‘Well, Miranda, the pleasure was all mine.’ He pulled his coat over his shoulders and stepped onto the wet street. ‘Goodbye.’
She watched him stride away, sidestepping puddles as he went.
But of course it wasn’t goodbye. He telephoned within two hours of making his purchase.
‘Miranda,’ he said, his voice smooth and low. ‘It’s Willem.’
She liked how he used their names together, so casual and familiar.
‘I’m standing in my lounge room,’ he continued, ‘all at sea about where I should hang The Predator. Can you help me?’
‘Certainly,’ she replied. ‘We offer a professional placement and installation service.’ She checked the diary. ‘The earliest I can have someone there is four o’clock on Friday. That’s with Bruno, our most experienced installer.’
‘I see.’
She could sense his dissatisfaction. ‘There’s no charge involved,’ she assured him. ‘It’s a free service.’
‘But what if I’d like you to do it, not Bruno?’
She flushed. ‘Oh . . . well, of course. I’m not as skilled as Bruno, but I’d be happy to help.’
‘Good. You have my address. Four o’clock on Friday then?’
‘I don’t finish until four thirty.’ She was afraid of displeasing him. ‘Is five thirty too late?’
‘All the better,’ he’d said.
Willem opened the door holding a baby boy in his arms.
Miranda was speechless with disappointment.
‘This is Digby,’ he said. ‘Say hello to Miranda, Digby.’
He picked up one of the baby’s limp arms and waved it at her. The boy stared at her, his face impassive.
‘He’s a little shy around strangers. But he’s only thirteen months old. I was probably shy at that age too.’
The boy began to whimper.
‘Yasmin!’ Willem called over his shoulder.
A stunning brunette appeared, barefoot on the buff-coloured carpet. She smiled at Miranda before whisking Digby out of Willem’s arms and sashaying away.
‘Yasmin’s been with us full-time since Digby’s mother died.’ Willem watched her as she walked away. ‘She’s remarkable with the dinner and bath routine, which can get quite ugly, I’m afraid.’
Miranda’s mind reeled as she processed this information.
‘I’m sorry.’ She was unsure what else to say.
‘So am I, but life goes on. Come in.’ He gestured towards the lounge area beyond. ‘Welcome to my home, for now. I’m about to put it on the market.’
‘Oh.’ She wondered why he needed an art-hanging service, if he was planning to sell. She followed him beyond the vestibule and tried not to stare. It was a split-level monument to glass, wood and light, overlooking the ocean at Fairy Bower. A minimalist palette
of ivory and grey offered a neutral canvas for the stunning artworks strung across the walls. Miranda took in the Brett Whiteley and the Albert Tucker as if she saw them hanging in private collections every day. But she couldn’t contain her excitement at the Emily Kngwarreye.
‘That’s not what I think it is, is it?’ She gaped at the large striped canvas.
‘I suspect so. I picked it up at Sotheby’s ten years ago for a ridiculously low sum. If I auctioned it now, I’d get twenty times the price I paid for it.’
She shook her head in wonder.
‘I’ve decanted a bottle of Mount Mary Quintet,’ he announced. ‘Can I offer you a glass while we consider where to hang The Predator?’
He held up a crystal Bordeaux glass and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.
She smiled. ‘Thank you.’
She wouldn’t normally drink on the job, but she was in no hurry to return to her one-bedroom apartment above a Vietnamese bakery in Darlinghurst.
And as it happened, she never really did.
It was almost six thirty when she opened Digby’s door again. He pushed past her with his usual gusto, seemingly unaffected by the time-out imposed. It took all of her resolve to call him back. She didn’t want to wage another battle of the wills, but she couldn’t let him get away without an apology. Of all the principles she attempted to enshrine at home, consistency was fundamental.
Digby,’ she called after him. ‘Please come back here.’
He dragged his feet across the floor.
‘Have you thought about why it wasn’t okay to bite Rory?’
He nodded, eyes downcast.
‘Why?’
‘Because Rory is not a biscuit.’ His eyes crinkled at his own joke. For a moment, she was tempted to laugh too. But then she remembered Rory’s tears as she applied an ice pack to his cheek. Digby needed to apologise.
‘Digby.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Big boys, three-year-olds like you, know what’s right and wrong. What do you say to Rory, please?’
‘Poo to you, Mr Moo. Poo poo poooooo.’
It was at times like this that she wished she could call on someone in the mothers’ group for moral or practical support. Most of her friends lived on the other side of the Harbour Bridge, and it was hard to coordinate catch-ups. Despite their proximity, no one in her mothers’ group truly understood what it was like with two children. Some of them tried, offering to babysit for an hour here or there. But it was never enough; the battle in which she was engaged was unremitting. Sometimes, when the other mothers complained of how tired they were, it took all of her willpower to remain silent, not to scream: At least you get to lie down during the day, you only have one child to deal with. They all made noises of admiration, telling her how strong she was, what a good job she did. But they were hollow words, as far as she was concerned.
The Mothers' Group Page 18
