COVER PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Petronella McGovern works in marketing and communications, and has written two non-fiction books. She grew up on a farm near Bathurst, New South Wales. This novel was inspired by her time living on the edge of Canberra, when her children’s playgroup became a source of support and friendship. Petronella now lives in Sydney, with her husband and two children, in a house backing onto the bush with wallabies in the garden.

DEDICATION

For my mum, Ingrid,

who inspired my love of books and writing

THURSDAY

1 LEXIE PARKER

1

LEXIE PARKER

I UNDID THE CLASP AND BELLA CLAMBERED OUT OF HER CAR SEAT, almost as fast as usual. The cast on her broken wrist only slowed her for a moment. She started along the footpath towards the playgroup.

‘Wait, wait.’ I pulled her back by the other arm. ‘We need to put your jacket on first.’

‘No, Mummy. No. I don’t want to.’

Children’s laughter drifted over the wooden fence. Bella wriggled against me, desperate to be inside with her friends. Her elbow jabbed into my sore cheek, shooting pain across my face.

‘Oh God, Bella, STAND STILL! We are not going in until you’re wearing a jacket.’

I pushed her good arm through the jacket sleeve. The flu had killed almost a hundred people across Australia this winter; Marty had seen kids in intensive care. I would not let Bella catch a cold. At least we were finally through the sub-zero nights; this morning it had been five degrees. But nothing like a Sydney spring. September in Canberra was still cool.

‘Too rough, Mummy,’ Bella screeched. ‘Stop!’

The high-pitched squeal reverberated through my aching head. Deep breaths … in through the nose, out through the mouth. Maybe I should have stayed home. But playgroup was my one-day-a-week lifesaver. Especially now. Closing my eyes, I pictured the tablets in my top drawer. Had Marty realised I’d stopped taking them yet?

When I opened my eyes again, Mel was standing near the gate ten metres away, shepherding her son, Sammy, into the little playground. She lifted a hand and waved to us, smiling.

‘Hi, Lexie! Hi, Bella!’

So calm, so happy. She mustn’t have heard Bella’s screams and my shouting. If only I could be more like her. Despite the stress of being a single mum, Mel never raised her voice. And she’d only just turned twenty-five. At her age, I’d been working at the museum and starting a master’s degree. No time for a boyfriend, let alone a child. But I was excited about life back then. Now, ten years later, I dragged myself through each day. Although the last few months had been better; maybe this move to Canberra would give us the fresh start that Marty and I had both been hoping for. Apart from last Tuesday, the day of the broken wrist.

‘Sorry, darling Bella.’ I kissed my daughter’s cold forehead. ‘I just want to make sure you stay warm.’

The playgroup was hidden behind the local shops, near the church and in sight of the primary school. This small block was the hub of Merrigang, population 1641 at the last census, plus the new arrivals: our family of three. Firefighters had saved the historic heart of the village in 2003 but a hundred houses had been lost. Now, Merrigang was a mix of old and new, nestled in a semi-circle below the ridge. Paddocks stretched off to the west, bushland and mountains to the south. Over to the east, Canberra kept expanding with new suburbs of concrete and steel, but the Merrigang old-timers believed the steep ridge in between would save the village from being swallowed. Twenty-two kilometres to Australia’s Parliament House and we lived in a completely different world.

The Thursday morning playgroup had welcomed me in April with cups of tea and plates of cake. Unlike playgroups in the city where different families dropped in each week, here in Merrigang it was the same four mums every Thursday—Mel, Tara, Imogen and Julia. They had divulged the best playgrounds in Canberra, child-friendly cafes, gymnastics classes and swimming lessons. They’d moaned about their husbands (apart from Mel, who seemed to be perfectly happy without a man). They’d shared their birth stories. They told tales of tantrums and toilet training.

Some days, I could pretend I was one of them.

Inside the playgroup room, Tara was the first to greet us, with her short red hair gelled up; that meant baby Daisy had slept last night. Her other daughter, Zoe, was crouched by the doll’s house, moving miniature furniture between the tiny rooms. Tara took one look at me and gasped.

‘Fucking hell, Lexie, your face looks worse than last week.’

Automatically, my hand went to cover the mottled purple and yellow. I’d asked Marty to put tape over the whole thing but he said it would heal faster exposed to the air. And he was right—the cut itself was closing up, though the bruising had crept outwards.

I hoped the children hadn’t heard Tara’s swear word.

‘How’s Bella coping with the cast?’ Tara glanced over at my daughter, who was on the carpet rummaging through the dressing-up box. ‘I bet your hottie hubby has been a bloody legend at bath time.’

Ha—Marty, the busy paediatrician, was never home by bath time. Too busy looking after other people’s kids. Since Tara had met him on the ridge a month ago, she’d mentioned him every week at playgroup. Once or twice had been flattering.

Before I could answer Tara, her daughter screamed, ‘GIVE IT BACK!’

One of Imogen’s twins had grabbed all the furniture from the doll’s house and dumped it into the back of a tipper truck which he was pushing along the floor towards the door.

‘It’s moving day,’ he shouted.

Imogen gently extracted the truck from her son’s grip and glided it across the carpet towards Zoe.

‘Now, Thomas, they weren’t your toys to take.’

Sweet Imogen had her hands full with those boys. None of us other mums could tell Matthew or Thomas apart; they were both loud, determined and always getting into trouble. I imagined the boys must take after their father because Imogen was nothing like that. She marched Thomas to ‘time out’ by the toilet door.

Tara smiled gratefully at Imogen, patted Zoe on the back and picked up her phone—texting, Facebooking—she was addicted to that thing. The other children briefly glanced up at Thomas then went back to their own activities.

Bella had taken everything out of the dressing-up box and strapped on the wizard’s hat. Sammy was already wearing the matching purple cape. Bella twirled the magic wand in front of him.

‘I turn you to a … MOUSE! Ta-da!’

Sammy dropped to the floor, the cape tangled over his head. Bella’s giggles echoed around the room.

‘To the sandpit!’ Sammy shouted from beneath the purple material.

Mel smiled and waited to see if her son could disentangle himself. I needed to take some lessons from her in how to step back and let our children become more independent. Sammy flapped around with the cape, then smoothed it back into the right position.

I couldn’t stop myself from giving Bella an instruction.

‘Make sure you sit on the edge of the sandpit, darling. You can’t get sand inside your cast.’

As she rushed out of the door to the sandpit, Bella didn’t acknowledge my words. She was saying something to Sammy about her broken wrist. I caught the last few words—fell on the tiles—and prayed that none of the other mothers had heard.

In the kitchenette, Julia handed a plastic cup of water to her daughter, Morgan, then took out the old china mugs from the cupboard. Usually, we all had a cuppa and a chat before organising the kids’ morning tea. I’d been the last to arrive, despite my counsellor’s suggestions on joining a group: arrive early and bring food. At least I had the biscuits.

Last week, I’d described the playgroup mums to my sister—relaxed Mel, outrageous Tara, kind Imogen and bossy, pregnant Julia. I hoped she’d meet them at Christmas; Phoebe had promised to fly over, even though she was still angry at Marty for moving us here: ‘Do you even want to live in Canberra?’ she’d demanded. I didn’t know. The job had come up and Marty accepted, hoping it would be a way for us to return to Australia while avoiding Sydney. It was better than Manchester, but the downside was I couldn’t see my sister at weekends. Phoebe used to catch the train up from London whenever she could. Being back home in Australia, though, I was starting to feel more like the old me, and I was finally making some friends here, in playgroup.

These four women, with their chatter and their laughter and their advice, were helping me to become part of the world again. Even the very blunt, slightly intimidating Tara (‘I’m just calling it as I fucking see it’). When I’d first joined the playgroup, Imogen would say: ‘Language, Tara, remember kids are in the room.’ Tara didn’t seem to take much notice. And when they all confessed their parenting disasters (‘He scooped the poo out of the potty and smeared it all over the sofa—I just lost the plot’), I thought: I can do this, I can be a good mum for Bella.

‘I’ve brought Florentines,’ I announced, placing the biscuits and Bella’s water bottle on the benchtop.

‘Yay, chocolate and sugar—just what I need.’ Julia grinned and patted her ‘bowling ball’, as she called it. Nothing like the bump of my pregnancy; mine had been low, pressing downwards, as if the baby knew my body couldn’t be trusted. Mel rested her palms on Julia’s belly, waiting to feel a kick. I kept my hands to myself.

‘Bloody hell, Lexie, don’t tempt me.’ Tara moved her chair further away from the biscuits. ‘I’m starving and I’ve only lost half a kilo this week. I’m never gonna fit into my work clothes by January.’

I’d always imagined that I’d be back at work after a year; maybe even bring my toddler in on my day off to look at the exhibits. Now it had been too long. Work was a foreign country. Tara couldn’t wait to fly back there.

‘Oh no, not Florentines,’ Imogen sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Lexie, you can’t open them here. They have nuts.’

Almonds, of course. Shit. Imagine if I’d sent Thomas into anaphylactic shock. I grimaced and the pain in my cut cheek shot into my eardrum. The deeper pain—the shame and the guilt—was a constant.

‘Take them home, Julia. I’ll go to the shop and get something else.’

‘Thanks.’ Julia took the packet from me. ‘But don’t worry about getting more, we’ll have enough.’

‘Tim Tams!’ Tara piped up. ‘I want Tim Tams!’

‘What about your diet?’

‘All this talk about biscuits has made me even hungrier.’ Tara glanced at the kitchen bench. ‘I bet the others have brought healthy crap. Did you bake zucchini muffins, Mel?’

‘Chickpea cookies, actually, but I bet the Tim Tams taste better.’ Mel smirked. ‘If you all keep it a secret, I might even have one too. Lexie, do you mind getting Tim Tams?’

‘No, absolutely not. I’m so sorry about the nuts.’

Cringing at my stupidity, I picked up my bag. Bella was back inside again, still wearing the sparkly wizard hat. She rocked a baby doll in a cradle, taking turns with Zoe and Sammy. Here, she was surrounded by children of all ages. Surrogate brothers and sisters.

‘Bella, let’s go to the shop.’

She shook her head, dark plaits flying. Chestnut brown. The same colour as mine, now that I dyed it every eight weeks.

‘She can stay here,’ Mel said. ‘We’ll look after her.’

The other mums did it without a second thought—left their kids in playgroup and wandered over to buy groceries for dinner. And Mel was an expert at caring for other people’s children; she’d even set up family day care at her house, looking after Julia’s daughter Morgan on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and Zoe whenever Tara needed a break.

Could I leave Bella here and go on my own? I’d done it once before. Three weeks ago, I’d left Bella with the mums for five minutes while I went to the shop. Worrying every step of the way. I hadn’t told Marty about the test I’d set myself. Next year, she’d be off to preschool for six excruciating hours a day. Marty half joked that I’d be hiding out in the toddler toilets to keep watch over her.

‘Thanks anyway, but I’d better take Bella. She … she always gets to choose the biscuits.’

Bella was ignoring my outstretched hand and concentrating on piling all the dolls on top of each other into the cradle. Staring at the outline of her cast under her jacket sleeve, I willed the tears to stay unshed.

She would be safe here surrounded by the other kids and their mums. Safer than at home.

‘Bella, do you want to stay here while I go to the shop?’

It would take two minutes to grab a packet of biscuits.

‘Yes, Mummy.’ She picked up her wand.

I took a deep breath and ran my fingers down her plait. Bella blew me a kiss then dashed away.

I can do this. I can prove to Marty that I’m getting better.

‘Sammy.’ Bella tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the door. ‘Let’s play hide-and-seek outside.’

‘If it’s okay by all of you, I will leave Bella here.’ Amazingly, my voice didn’t wobble as I addressed the others. ‘Please, can you help her if she needs anything? You know—with her cast.’

‘She’ll be fine with us,’ Julia reassured me. ‘And keep an eye out for that girl, Fox—she’s probably left the school grounds again.’

Last Thursday, Julia had found the eight-year-old wandering around the laneway behind playgroup. She had marched Fox to the principal’s office and demanded that the school pay more attention to the child’s whereabouts. Apparently Fox was in the same class as Julia’s daughter, and constantly disruptive. Julia had labelled her ‘Trouble with a capital T’. The school mums knew Fox by sight and looked out for her in the village.

At the gate, I called to Bella: ‘Don’t get sand in your cast, Tinker Bell. Go inside if you’re cold. See you in a minute.’

Clambering into the cubbyhouse, Bella didn’t see my wave.

2 MARTY PARKER

2

MARTY PARKER

‘HI THERE, MY NAME’S DR MARTY. I LIKE YOUR TRAIN. IS THAT THOMAS the Tank Engine? Now, we’re just going to have a quick check to make sure everything is working properly. Did you know that trains have engine check-ups like this all the time?’

‘Choo choo,’ the toddler chortled as he dragged the train along his mother’s arms.

In the two minutes between patients, Marty had skimmed the boy’s notes—a two-year development check for a child who had been unresponsive at birth. At a glance, the toddler looked healthy; he was above the fiftieth percentile for weight and height, and attached to his mother. A straightforward consult. Marty’s thoughts were still on the ward rounds from this morning; should he have ordered more blood work for the girl with the kidney transplant? He’d have to go back and see her after lunch, maybe ring the renal physician for advice. Christ, why couldn’t he make a simple decision these days? The girl had a needle phobia and taking blood was traumatic for everyone involved. If only Elissa were in today; she was brilliant with scared kids. Maybe he could talk to management about getting her in two days a week and trying to organise a paid position. Elissa was too valuable to remain as a volunteer. The patients needed her. The staff needed her.

Marty asked the toddler to climb up the little stairs onto the bed, watching the movement of his hips and legs.

‘Now, I’m going to have a look in your ears with this torch. Can you turn your head and smile at Mummy?’

The mother had mentioned recurrent ear infections. As he gently angled the otoscope into the toddler’s ear, Marty kept talking. ‘Isn’t it lucky that we don’t have great big ears like an elephant. Can you imagine waggling those gigantic ears?’

The boy laughed and Marty felt that half his job was done; a relaxed child was so much easier to assess.

‘His ears look fine at the moment. Do you have any other concerns?’ he asked the mother.

‘Actually, I do.’ The woman reached into her oversized handbag, pulled out a Filofax and opened it to a page of notes. ‘I’m worried about his pencil grip when he’s using a crayon. He’s not holding it properly. I read that he should be using a digital pronate grasp by now.’

A parent was the most likely one to pick up a problem, but parenting had changed since Marty had chosen his specialisation. Now it was a competitive sport to raise the ‘best-ever’ child. Perfect kids who came off an assembly line with no human flaws or quirks. In the last few years, he’d seen the stress levels of parents—and their offspring—skyrocket. He’d gone into paediatrics to treat sick kids, but these days he spent more time dealing with anxious mothers.

Anxious mothers. He should be a world expert by now. Since Bella had broken her wrist, Lexie’s worrying had escalated again. Before that, Lexie had seemed to be getting better, although when they’d walked up the ridge four weeks ago, she was concerned about dislocating Bella’s elbow. Ironic in retrospect.

‘Dadda, do the swing!’

Marty had glanced down at his three-year-old, skipping on the path beside him. Even though her nose was red, Bella hadn’t complained about the cold yet. Earlier, she’d bolted out the back door to crunch through the frost, admiring her trail of footprints in the grass and puffing her breath into the air. With barely a beat between them, Lexie had raced behind, dangling Bella’s gloves and a jacket.

Now, Bella was rugged up like an Eskimo, her pink scarf wrapped all the way to her chin and her hood almost covering her eyes. A few strands of dark hair had escaped her ponytail and drifted across her cheeks. Could she see the vast sky that stretched across their heads and met the dark blue of the mountains in the distance? Lexie had said it was too cold, too cloudy for this walk, but he’d won the argument by getting Bella onside. He wanted to take them along the ridge where he jogged every Tuesday and Friday, a wide dirt path bordered by clumps of gum trees, raucous kookaburras in their branches and kangaroos grazing nearby. Some days he wished he could disappear from the hospital at lunchtime and clear his head up here.

Bella tugged on his hand again.

‘Swing, Dadda! Please?’ She smiled up at him, a small gap between her two front baby teeth.

‘You’ll have to ask Mummy too,’ he told Bella. ‘Remember, you need both of us to swing.’

Lexie took Bella’s hand but then stopped and crouched down beside her.

‘Why are your fingers so cold, darling? Where are your gloves?’

Bella grinned, and made them appear from each of her coat pockets like a magician doing a trick. Purple and sparkly—the brightest objects on this overcast day.

‘Okay, but put them back on after the swinging.’

They each held one of Bella’s hands and Marty called out: ‘One, two, three, SWING!’

He was careful to keep his momentum the same as Lexie’s. His wife seemed stronger since they’d moved here. The hard lines of her bones were softening; she’d put some weight on her skinny frame. Lexie was wearing her black fleece jacket; the one she’d bought eight years ago on their ski trip to Italy. Back then, she only drank when they socialised. In those photos, she had blonde hair and a big grin; she’d teased him that he was too old to keep up with her on the slopes and on the dance floor. He remembered them holding hands on the chairlift, drinking a creamy Bombardino which left cinnamon dotted around her nose, sharing lasagne with a single fork, and a kiss tasting of gluhwein. Her wonder at the jagged skyline of the Alps, the storybook villages dusted in snow. Now, dressed all in black with her dark hair, she could have passed for an Italian working at the resort. A different woman from the one he’d married. Inside and out.

‘One, two, three, SWING!’

Giggling, Bella kicked her feet up high in the air.

‘That’s enough now,’ Lexie suddenly said. ‘Put your gloves back on, darling.’

‘No, Mummy, I want more.’

Marty had tried to catch Lexie’s eye but she was focused on Bella.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘She can have a few more.’

‘But you said that swinging could dislocate her elbow,’ Lexie whispered.

Bella stopped in the middle of the path and refused to move.

‘For God’s sake, Lexie, that was a year ago.’ He hadn’t meant to sound so exasperated and tried to rein it in. ‘It’s okay. She’s bigger now.’

Squatting down, Lexie was wrestling with the sparkly gloves, trying to get Bella to unfold her arms and hold out her fingers.

‘Bella is big and strong and healthy,’ he said. ‘We can give her five more swings.’

‘I’m big and strong!’ Bella echoed, snatching her hands away from her mother. She held her arms up in a bodybuilder pose. ‘I’m so big. I’m almost four. I can have swings, can’t I, Dadda?’

‘You let her do anything,’ Lexie hissed.

And you’re turning her into a neurotic, anxious child, he wanted to retort.

Bella darted out of Lexie’s reach and rushed to investigate something next to the path.

‘Yukky! Look at this, Dadda!’

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