‘Okay, my lovely lassies,’ Shona purred in her Scottish burr, ‘I’ve put out some colouring-in sheets for you at those corner tables, and then I’ll read you a story.’
As the girls chose their pencils, Allison shared a chocolate slice with Shona. The teachers covered their mouths with their hands to hide the fact that they were eating in the library.
‘Your hair looks great, Allison. You’ve figured out how to style it, then.’
Two weeks ago, Allison had marched into the hairdresser and asked for a makeover. She still didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror with the short, choppy bob.
‘Thanks. None of my clothes go with the caramel colour, though.’
‘Obviously you need a whole new wardrobe!’ Shona laughed.
If Allison could afford it, she would. This morning, she’d wanted to wear her favourite red top with the black spots—my watermelon shirt, she always joked with the class—but today it hadn’t worked. Between the new hair, the comfort eating and the perimenopause, none of her clothes sat right.
She shouldn’t have got the stupid haircut. It was like a neon sign flashing over her head. The only person she’d told was Shona, but this morning a year five teacher had given Allison a sideways glance. A year three teacher had frowned and said meaningfully: ‘How are you?’ And at drop-off, a group of parents Allison knew from last year had all stopped speaking the instant she’d approached.
Allison mentioned the reactions to Shona.
‘Stop being paranoid. And if they know, well …’ The younger woman shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Shona had only been in Wirriga for eighteen months and the students loved her over-the-top enthusiasm and quirky expressions. She’d followed her girlfriend back to Australia and didn’t seem to care what other people thought. But Shona hadn’t grown up in this suburb with family and friends literally around the corner.
Wirriga still had that same village feeling as when Allison had ridden her bike to this very primary school forty years ago. When the suburb had been developed back in the 1960s, it was seen as an undesirable swamp full of mosquitoes, sandwiched between glamourous white beaches and a bushy plateau. Land had been cheap and the houses built big—two storeys, often with a pool. To Allison, Wirriga was the best-kept secret of Sydney’s northern beaches. An enclave of friendly locals. Cul-de-sacs where kids could play in the street. No thoroughfares to other suburbs. No tourists—they all stayed in Manly, on the opposite side of the multi-lane freeway. A short commute to the centre of Sydney but a world away from the city’s congestion. Fresh air, open space, natural bush around Manly Dam. Five minutes to the beach.
The only downside was that everyone knew everyone, and that meant gossip was rife: between the volunteers in the school canteen, on the sidelines of the kids’ sports games, during the mothers’ morning teas, and at the picnics in the park.
Allison had considered taking leave without pay this term, but she needed the money. Perhaps she should’ve asked for a transfer to another part of Sydney, but she didn’t have the energy to learn new systems and build new friendships. Lack of sleep was making her brain fuzzy.
‘I feel like such a middle-aged cliché,’ Allison moaned to Shona. ‘I’m a laughing stock.’
‘No, he’s the cliché,’ Shona said. ‘It’s not your fault, hen.’
Soon, they’ll all know that I’m not enough. Not interesting enough, not smart enough, not funny enough, not clever enough, not pretty enough. Not enough to keep a husband of twenty-four years.
And, evidently, not enough for her fifteen-year-old son either.
Shona was reading the girls a book about a female astronaut when Allison’s phone buzzed. A text from Tony. Summer soccer back on tomorrow. Will you be there? Dinner after at the Italian?
Usually, Allison was the one telling him about their son’s arrangements. She considered how to answer the message. A sarcastic response about his sudden involvement? A bitchy question about the new woman whom he wouldn’t name? No, she’d wait until after school to reply.
And then another text, this time from Felix. Can u bring my kit & boots?
Allison sent a quick thumbs-up; safer to let the emojis say it all.
‘You can be whatever you want to be.’ Shona finished the last page and closed the book. ‘You can fly to the moon like this amazing astronaut.’
Allison gave a tight smile. Forget the sky-high ambitions—all Gracie wants to be is healthy. All I want is my husband and son back.
‘My mum was an astronaut,’ Gracie said.
‘Oh wow!’ Evelyn’s eyes widened. ‘Have you seen a rocket?’
Should Allison pull Gracie up on the fib or just take the girls back to the classroom? When she’d asked Luke about Gracie’s mother, he’d closed his eyes and put his head in his hands for a moment.
‘The counsellor said to reinforce how much her mother loved her. To keep reassuring her.’ He’d sighed. ‘And we don’t discuss the tumour in front of her. That’s been our rule since Gracie was diagnosed. She knows she’s sick but we don’t want her to worry about the future.’
We. Our. As if his wife were still alive. Thankfully, Luke hadn’t had to explain about the horrifying death. Samantha in the front office had passed on the news—a bushfire had destroyed the Bransons’ farm and their lives.
‘Kids can be very blunt,’ Allison had said. ‘Some will ask Gracie about her mum and cancer and dying.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He’d sighed again. ‘At least her eyelashes and eyebrows have grown back. Last year a boy at the playground called her an alien. The next round of chemo is weekly. She shouldn’t be so sick this time.’
Life was cruelly unfair. Four-year-old Gracie should not be going through all this misery. And nor should forty-nine-year-old Allison.
While Shona had been reading aloud, Allison opened the note from the hospital again. It sparked a list in her head. Don’t compromise Gracie’s immunity. Don’t let her get breathless. Don’t let her get injured. Don’t let her get upset about her mother. Allison yawned, wishing she had time for a coffee before the afternoon class. She’d have to be on high alert all day, every day, for the new girl.
Each time Allison walked through the front door, she expected to see her son’s black sneakers kicked off in the hallway, his schoolbag dumped on the couch, a dirty cereal bowl on the kitchen benchtop. Instead, it was as tidy as when she’d last vacuumed.
And silent.
Without the ordinary background noise she used to take for granted. Felix strumming a new song on his guitar. The shouts of teenagers in the pool, splashing and somersaulting. In the evenings, Tony cheering at a soccer match on television.
Pouring herself a large gin and tonic, Allison tipped out the last few drops from the duty-free bottle Tony had bought on his way back from the funeral in England.
Should she drive down and check on him now?
He’d refused to give her his new address. It’s a legal matter, he’d explained haughtily. Nothing to do with you and me. Refused to tell her anything. And so, the second time she’d dropped Felix off near Tony’s new place, Allison had driven around the corner and parked. Sneaked back to see where Felix went. Now she watched the house whenever she could, desperate to catch a glimpse of the woman with no name.