The Mothers' Group

Fiona Higgins

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781743314081
• eBook ISBN:
  9781760639600
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Women in Fiction
• Index: Literature

All those things no one ever tells you about motherhood. It's like secret mothers' business. Lots of my friends had babies before me, but not one of them ever told me it would be this hard. It's like a code of silence. The Mothers' Group tells the story of six very different women who agree to regularly meet soon after the births of their babies. Set during the first crucial year of their babies' lives, The Mothers' Group tracks the women's individual journeys - and the group's collective one - as they navigate birth and motherhood as well as the shifting ground of their relationships with their partners. Each woman strives in her own way to become the mother she wants to be, and finds herself becoming increasingly reliant on the friendship and support of the members of the mothers' group. Until one day an unthinkably shocking event changes everything, testing their bonds and revealing closely-held secrets that threaten to shatter their lives.

Made

It was the last Friday of the month, a warm spring day in October. Although it was only ten o’clock, the sun already had a sting in it. They’d parked the babies’ prams beneath the broad white umbrellas of Beachcombers, and pulled together two tables for their first book club session. The idea had been suggested by Cara a few weeks earlier.

‘My brain’s turning to mush,’ she’d said, laughing. ‘I used to be a journalist, and now I can’t even read two pages at night without falling asleep. I need a book club to keep me motivated.’

They’d all submitted suggestions for books, then drawn titles out of a hat. Suzie’s suggestion, Eat, Pray, Love, had been selected for the first session.

Made had been thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of reading an entire book in English and hadn’t even tried.

‘This has got to be my favourite book of all time,’ Suzie gushed, thumbing a dog-eared volume. ‘I just loved every single chapter, especially the India section. It was such a spiritual journey for the author.’ Suzie’s blonde curls bounced behind her ears. The way her hands fluttered as she spoke, her child-like eagerness, reminded Made of her younger sister, Komang. Suzie’s face was open too, and her heart was good, Made was sure. When Suzie asked Made how she was, she actually waited to hear the answer.

Ginie coughed impatiently. Australians were always in a hurry, Made had come to understand, and none more so than Ginie. She was tall and athletic and rather old, with white hairs springing from her blonde plait. This was not unusual in Australia, she’d learned, women having babies at an age when they could be grandmothers. Ginie’s face was lined across the forehead and slightly drawn, giving Made the impression of hunger or thirst. Her restless, dissatisfied energy seemed to unsettle the group.

‘I found the India section the hardest, actually,’ said Ginie. ‘Italy was passable, but India was dull. In fact, I found the whole story a bit tedious. I just couldn’t get past the fact that after the author split up with her husband, her publisher gave her an advance to go and have an overseas adventure and write about it.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, how many unhappy thirty-somethings get to do that after a messy divorce?’

As usual, Ginie spoke too quickly, making it difficult for Made to follow what she was saying. But her tone spoke volumes. Suzie looked chastened.

‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Pippa, sipping at her peppermint tea. ‘That seemed a bit premeditated. But in the end, I thought the author was really courageous to write about such personal things. Sometimes I’d read a paragraph and think, “Gosh, did she really mean to tell us that?” I liked the way she described all the unexpected things that can happen to us in life.’

Made had never heard Pippa say so much.

‘Oh God, I hated all that,’ objected Ginie. ‘Why put your own bullshit out there, unless you’re someone of world importance? The author kept rabbiting on about how challenging her life was and I kept thinking, come on, this is so indulgent.’

Made’s eyes widened; she’d heard at least one crude word. No one else in the group seemed troubled by it. A waiter arrived with a tray of coffees, their second round. These women drank milky coffee, with hardly any sugar in it. It was too creamy for Made, so she always ordered tea. At Suzie’s suggestion, she’d tried a variety of herbals, but they tasted like warm flowers.

‘I agree with Ginie,’ said Miranda, bouncing Rory on her knee. ‘I just wondered how hard the author’s life really was.’ She stood up from the table to check on Digby and, seeing him scaling the climbing frame, sat down again. ‘I mean, she didn’t have any children, did she? I loved her honesty and humour, but hated how much she didn’t know about life. I kept thinking to myself, honey, if you think this is worth whining about, just wait until you have kids.’

Everyone laughed.

‘What did you think of it, Cara?’ Suzie’s expression was hopeful.

‘Well . . .’ Cara looked thoughtful, fingering the end of her ponytail. She had hair the colour of teh panas, Made thought, the dark orange tea she missed so much. ‘I felt like I got to know Elizabeth Gilbert quite well in the Italy section. Then I found the India section a bit odd, mostly because she spent all her time in an ashram full of expatriates.’ Astrid gurgled and suddenly coughed; she hadn’t long been fed. Cara dabbed at the baby’s mouth with a wipe.

‘But I guess more than anything, I felt sorry for the writer,’ Cara continued. ‘She spent most of the book trying to make sense of her pain. I was relieved when she found happiness in Indonesia. I found that part quite beautiful. And I’d love to hear what Made thought of it.’

All eyes fixed upon Made, who rummaged through her bag for her notebook. She’d prepared for this moment.

‘I write down my thinking,’ Made announced, glancing about nervously. ‘I want not to say the wrong.’ She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ginie’s scorn. She’d seen how she made the others wilt at times, Suzie in particular.

She folded back the pages of her notebook. Cara nodded at her encouragingly.

‘Too hard for me to read book,’ she said. ‘But Gordon borrow DVD for me. I watch four times. I learn many new word in English. Like celibate, mozzarella and gelato.’

The others laughed. She wasn’t exactly sure why.

With Gordon’s help, Made had pored over her dictionary the night before, trying to piece together the right words. Even so, she knew her expression was imperfect. She’d wanted to tell the mothers’ group that she’d been perplexed by Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey. That the Bali portrayed in the film, the popular holiday town of Ubud, was a world away from the village life she knew. And that many of the Balinese characters looked and sounded like the opportunistic buaya—or ‘crocodiles’, according to her dictionary’s translation—that hung around tourist precincts, waiting to prey on foreigners. Eat, Prey, Love, she’d jotted in her notebook, proud of her first English joke.

‘This movie confusing for me,’ she started. ‘Elizabeth Gilbert take long journey to find happiness. She throw away old life, old husband, search for new things. But why she not like old life? I wonder. Sometimes life happy, sometimes life sad, but always life have meaning. In Bali, life not only about happiness.’

Ginie interjected. ‘What is life about then, in Bali?’

Made shifted in her seat. ‘I think . . . ’ She wished her grasp of English was better. ‘In Bali, life is about . . . accepting.’ She glanced around the group. ‘No person or place give the happy feeling more than few days, maybe few weeks.’ She looked at Ginie. ‘Author Elizabeth, she run from the sadness, but sadness natural. Happiness not always the normal thing for humans. This is the way, in Bali.’

Made stared at her hands, doubting she’d made herself clear.

Cara broke the silence. ‘I think I know what you mean, Made.’ Her smile was warm. Even when Made couldn’t entirely understand what Cara was saying, her tone was always kind. ‘I have an old friend from university who comes from a small village in rural India. Bali is mostly Hindu, like India, isn’t it?’

Made nodded.

‘Well, this friend taught me that the pursuit of happiness is a very Western concept.’ Cara folded the canopy down over Astrid’s pram, signalling it was sleep time. ‘In most parts of the world, in places like Indonesia or India, people are busy just surviving. Trying to get enough food, clean drinking water, or education for their children.’ Cara zipped up the canopy. ‘Achieving happiness or enlightenment is a preoccupation of the privileged, for those of us in the first world. Only people like Elizabeth Gilbert can afford to worry about being happy. Billions of others can’t. It’s one of the reasons I chose a career in social justice journalism.’

‘Well, good on you,’ said Ginie. ‘I must be quite decadent in the scheme of things, with a life coach I pay to keep me happy.’ Her tone was jovial, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

‘You’re dead right,’ replied Cara, without hesitation. ‘We’re all part of the global elite.’

Ginie reached for Rose, who had started to whimper in her pram. Cara didn’t seem to feel threatened by Ginie, Made reflected, unlike the rest of the group.

‘If you ever come to Bali,’ said Made, ‘you see life very hard outside the tourist area. Difficult to get the food and the water. Happiness not always possible.’

Ginie pushed a bottle of formula milk into Rose’s mouth. ‘I’ve never been to Bali,’ she said. ‘Daniel’s wanted us to go for a while now, for the surfing. I’d prefer Paris.’

‘Me too,’ said Miranda.

‘Well maybe you come to Bali with me one day.’ Made smiled. ‘You all come. Then you see the Balinese way. Accepting the good and bad together. You help other people, that is happiness.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Well, I’d better bring my husband on that trip, Made,’ said Miranda. ‘He’s hell-bent on working his way to happiness. Usually on Sundays—it’s his version of church.’

Several of the others laughed, but Made couldn’t grasp what was funny about Miranda’s words. Humour was the hardest thing about learning a new language. You never could tell what these women would laugh at, or why. But she’d noticed, over the past four months, that it was really only Miranda who could make Ginie laugh.

She closed her notebook: the conversation had moved beyond her.

Even now, after attending every single mothers’ group meeting, Made still felt her difference keenly. In the early weeks, it had been a challenge to familiarise herself with the women’s incessant babbling. Their words ran into each other, like the cackling of a brood of chickens. There was Ginie, who was always receiving telephone calls; Cara, the one who smiled as if she knew her; Suzie, who bubbled like a cooking pot whenever she spoke; Miranda, who was always distracted by the difficult Digby; and Pippa, the subdued one. With babies inevitably crying or feeding, it was difficult to conduct a one-on-one conversation with any of them. So she usually took their cues and laughed when they did, or simply listened as the conversation coursed around her. But over time, despite the fact that she knew none of them very well, she began to find comfort in their company.

A sudden shriek from the playground jolted Made out of her seat. Digby lay face down at the base of the climbing frame, wailing. Made turn...

Table of contents

• COVER PAGE
• TITLE PAGE
• COPYRIGHT PAGE
• DEDICATION
• CONTENTS
• GINIE
• MADE
• SUZIE
• MIRANDA
• PIPPA
• CARA
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• PREVIEW CHAPTER from WIFE ON THE RUN