‘Go get ready, kids.’
As the girls bolt away, Jackson stands transfixed at the window.
‘Want to get ready too, hon?’
Jackson doesn’t budge.
He wants to say something, I can see, but it’s not coming out. The expression is one I’ve come to recognise since his toddler years.
‘Are you missing Dad?’ I move to his side.
Jackson says nothing.
‘Thanks for eating Ruby’s pancakes.’ I put an arm around his shoulders. ‘That was kind of you. I couldn’t have eaten them all on my own. Not with them so “well done”, anyway.’
Jackson doesn’t smile at the joke.
‘How about we FaceTime Dad a little later? I can message him right now to see if he’s still up?’
Jackson beams, and my heart sinks. So he is missing his father, on the opposite side of the world. It’s a feeling not easily remedied by videocalls and Andy may have turned in for the night already.
I pick up my phone.
‘Look!’ Jubilantly, I wave the message at Jackson. ‘Nanna Pam says she can meet us at Beanster at nine o’clock, so you’d better get dressed. We’ll call Dad as we walk.’
Jackson races out of the room.
I tap out a message to Andy.
You still up? Jackson would love to talk xx
Changing out of my pyjamas, I opt for my usual weekend garb of faded jeans, a plain white t-shirt and a comfortable navy hoodie. Along the hall, I hear drawers sliding, doors slamming and Ruby and Milla singing to the music of some precocious teen popster they both idolise.
‘Ready, Mummy!’ Ruby hollers from the hallway.
Standing in front of the mirror, I ignore the fact that my jeans are snugger than they used to be. But as I lean in to inspect my face, I can’t help but sigh; that expensive age-defying serum isn’t exactly delivering on its promises. I brush my hair, now a much darker blonde than it used to be, before tying it back into a no-nonsense ponytail. I pop a breath mint, slap deodorant under my arms, and dab some tinted moisturiser onto my face. Once upon a time there was proper makeup, in my cabaret days.
‘Muuummmy!’ Ruby yells impatiently. ‘Reaaady!’
I hurry out of the bedroom to find the children already waiting for me at the front door.
‘No lipstick, Mum?’ asks Ruby. She pulls a tube of pink gloss from the pocket of her yellow polka-dotted dress. ‘This could make you look a bit more…?’
Critiqued by the family fashionista, yet again.
‘Thanks, Rubes.’ I take the tube and smear it across my lips. The look of disdain on Ruby’s face suggests an imperfect application on my part.
We close the front door behind us, navigate the missing timber planks in the veranda, then walk down the three rickety steps leading into the front yard.
Beyond the carport, Ruby turns and inspects the length of the driveway.
‘Now that’s what I call a cricket driveway,’ she says, parroting her father. ‘Want to practise bowling later, Jackson?’
Jackson shrugs, nonplussed. Despite Andy’s best efforts to encourage him to play cricket, Jackson’s never been passionate about the sport.
Milla scoops up a stray tennis ball on the lawn and tosses it in Ruby’s direction. ‘Since when have you been so into cricket, Rubes?’
‘Since Dad taught me how to bat and bowl,’ Ruby replies with a smile. ‘Can I join a girls’ cricket team next summer, Mum?’
‘Absolutely, Rubes,’ I say. ‘Girls can do anything.’
‘You’ll hate the cricket uniforms,’ warns Milla. ‘No sequins or feathers. Not glam enough for you, girlfriend.’
‘Shuddup.’ Ruby waves her hands overhead, gesturing for the ball. ‘Let’s play!’
Milla pegs it at her, hard and fast. Ruby stretches out a hand and dives, catching it low to the ground.
‘Nice one,’ I call.
Ruby executes a triumphant little pirouette, then bows.
‘Race you to Beanster!’ she yells at Milla.
The girls bolt ahead in the direction of the café, but Jackson dawdles at my side.
‘Girls can do anything,’ he mutters.
I glance at him, then reach for his hand.
‘Boys can too, Jackson,’ I say, squeezing his palm. ‘Boys, too.’
2
Amid the noisy hubbub of the café, I spot Pamela sitting at a low aluminium table in the very centre of the room, the weekend newspaper spread out in front of her.
‘Hellooo!’ she calls, smiling at the children over her half-moon spectacles.
The three of them mob her with hugs.
‘Hello, Julia.’ She greets me with a perfunctory wave.
‘Happy Mother’s Day, Pamela.’ I kiss the polished cheek she offers me. ‘That’s a lovely shirt you’re wearing.’
She has a closet full of them. Various colours, identical style.
Her gaze alights on my ancient jeans. ‘Surely you haven’t been… gardening this morning, Julia?’
She’s had underlings all her life, I remind myself. Ambassadorial minions.
‘Always,’ I say. ‘We have a problem with palm berries. It’s practically a full-time job clearing them out of the back yard.’
Pamela appears decidedly uninterested.
‘Ooh, that’s nice, Nanna Pam.’ Milla slides onto a stool next to her grandmother and motions at an iPad protruding from Pamela’s handbag. ‘It’s new, right?’
Ruby and Jackson crowd around Pamela to see, while I take a seat on the opposite side of the table.
‘I’m finally emerging from the Jurassic age.’ Pamela looks pleased with herself. ‘Your father had it delivered to me yesterday, then he video-called this morning to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. It was almost like being in the same room!’
I try not to feel wounded by the fact that Andy purchased such a thoughtful gift for Pamela, but not for me. She is his mother, I remind myself.
‘Milla, could you help me set up email and Facebook?’ Pamela asks. ‘You’ll be so much cleverer at it, being a digital natural and all.’
‘Digital native, Nanna.’ Milla suppresses a smile.
Pamela passes menus around the table. ‘What do we feel like this morning, children?’
As the three begin debating the virtues of smoothies versus milkshakes versus frappes between themselves, she turns to me. ‘Breakfast, Julia? It’s on me.’
I shake my head. ‘Just a coffee, thanks.’
‘Why don’t we lash out and order a champagne and orange juice, for Mother’s Day?’
‘I have to go to work, sorry.’
I’m not quite in the mood for celebrating anyway, with Andy away.
‘Of course.’ Pamela glances down at her newspaper, then points to an advertisement for discount Venetian blinds. ‘Look, Prestige Drapes is having a clearance. I assume Andy didn’t fix your bedroom blinds before he left? It was such a shame Jackson pulled them down…’
I pretend to study the advertisement, replaying in my mind the incident.
I’d been sitting on the end of my bed with Jackson one Sunday afternoon last month, counting out cards for our umpteenth round of Snap, when Andy bustled in with his toolbox.