Secret Mothers' Business by Joanne Fedler

Author:Joanne Fedler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: SEL000000, FAM000000
ISBN: 9781741156973
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2006-01-04T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

where you draw the line

Dooly, first winding the scarf around her neck again, has taken CJ out onto the balcony, the social worker in her alert to the early signs of dignity’s deterioration. Stepping in, she provides the trapdoor to self-respect, ‘let’s go for some fresh air’. Such small gestures can save us, a friend’s timely intervention; a deflection; the distraction of walking out into the night’s sheltering darkness. Kindness is underrated alongside the grandiose traits to which we aspire—intelligence, integrity, self-awareness . . .

Helen gets up noiselessly and walks over to the CD player, into which she inserts a disc.

‘Is this the CD?’ I ask her. She doesn’t answer me. Helen hoards a stash of ‘surprises’ for me. ‘You’re gonna love this . . .’ ‘Just wait till I show you that . . .’ ‘I’ve got the best present for your birthday . . .’ Invariably, the saved up treat, a tidbit of gossip in which I have no interest, some chick-lit book I would never read, a movie on DVD I have already seen, will fall short of ringing my bells, but I never grow tired of the way she cherishes the little nothings in life. Our days are flaccid with domestic trivia, rank with nothing special, and the best defence is Helen’s skill—a full-blown attack with that ridiculous laugh of hers, of mad celebration.

The music starts and the message of the song is that you should marry an ugly girl if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, because pretty girls are just trouble. Such misogynist crap, but a good get-up-and-dance beat, nonetheless. Helen turns up the dial on the volume and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet. She starts to boogie in the way that only a short plump curly-haired woman in Ugg boots like her can, ramming me with her well-padded buttom and making absurd pelvic undulations. I copy her, as we both laugh outrageously. In only a matter of minutes, I am out of breath.

‘I need more to drink,’ I say.

‘Me too,’ she says, following me to the dining room table.

The tub of strawberry daiquiris is empty. It is a horrible sight. Helen morosely scoops out the last of the mixture with a dessert spoon, taking the first, offering me the second.

‘It seemed like so much when I bought it,’ she whines. ‘How can we be out of it so soon?’

CJ and Dooly return from outside, arms hugging their bodies, Luke’s orange scarf around CJ’s neck. The bite of the cool night’s air has slapped CJ’s cheeks pink; she seems chastened, for now. She wanders over to the table to survey what’s left in the eating department. Dooly gives me a flicker of a smile. I’ve never really given much thought to how good she must be at her job, unwearyingly agreeing with Mrs Buchanoltic that the price of eggs has really gone sky-high, while fastening her geriatric nappy before she goes out in public. That takes a special kind of person.

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