Not Meeting Mr Right (2 page)

'There's such a limited number of childcare places
in this state that some of us have to pay double just to
find someone to mind the kids.' Vicky made it sound as
though raising her own child was an imposition. It was
an attitude that always made me angry.

I'd been waiting weeks to have this conversation,
after listening to whining mothers on talkback radio
and I launched straight in. 'I don't understand women
complaining about the government not providing
enough day care centres.'

'Women have to work too.' Vicky sipped her wine.

'Have to or
want
to? You wouldn't
have
to work if you
lived somewhere other than Point Piper, surely.' There
was no way she was getting away with not admitting it
was her lifestyle that meant she
had
to work.

'We're part of society – why shouldn't we be out
there in it every day?'

In my mind, there was a difference between
participating in society and dumping your kids with a
stranger so you could make money.

'If
you
choose to bring a child into the world,
you
should be responsible for raising it. Feeding it, playing
with it, looking after it until it has to go to school.'

'What's your real problem with working mothers,
Alice?' Vicky asked. It sounded like a challenge, as if
the issue was really about me, and not about working
mothers.

'I don't have a problem with mothers working. I just
don't understand how parents can admit publicly that
they're pissed off they can't find a stranger to raise their
children for $100 a day. Aren't kids supposed to be your
most prized possessions? Or are some things more
important than children? I wouldn't be off-loading
my little one to some stranger to raise, just because I
wanted a big house in an expensive suburb.'

'Ah, but you're single and childless, Alice, it's
different for you.'

'That's right – it should be different for me! I am
single and childless, so I can work long hours without
it affecting anyone else. I can be – what would you call
it? Selfish?' I was getting hot, my face felt flushed.

Vicky remained cool. She wasn't buying into the
argument. Her kid was probably in some private centre
that cost a fortune anyway. Vicky would've had a cleaner
and probably a cook, dog-walker, social director and
third husband on the way. She clearly had more than
me – even though as a single woman I was socially
permitted to be
selfish
.

We'd reached a stalemate – but our time was up.
Neither of us bothered with a polite smile; I just stood
up and moved one seat to the left again.

I persevered with the reunion chatter for quite some
time, fighting hard to find new adjectives to describe
each family portrait and baby photo I was forced to
look at over the course of the next hour. I tried to
expect the unexpected, as Aria had advised, hoping
that among all these women, there might be a Toni-
Morrison-reading, Koori-Radio-listening, Villawoodvisiting
mother who perhaps sent her kids to a Steiner
school or something, and taught ESL to refugees once
a week. Anything was possible, wasn't it? I mean, that's
the mother I knew
I'd
be.

Eventually I found myself opposite Ronelle. She was
the one person I'd actually been looking forward to
speaking with. Obese at school, she was now the most
glamorous and healthy-looking woman at the table.
Softly spoken and relaxed, she told me she had three
kids, but didn't mention stretch marks or lack of sleep
or sore nipples or the need for more day care centres.
Instead she talked about her life as a yoga instructor –
she'd been to India, done a course, changed her name
to something like 'Swami' (I'd forgotten it five minutes
later). It was all going well until she asked if I'd like to
attend one of her classes 'even though they were for
new mums'.

'You might still get something out of it,' Ronelle
said with one eyebrow raised. 'Your bust would look
better if you sat straighter, and yoga is fabulous for
posture. You'd learn to relax at the same time, too.' So
she thought that I
needed
yoga – that I had a drooping
bust line and that I was uptight? My bust was fine, and
I wasn't uptight, just annoyed at the lack of interesting
conversation so far that evening. I didn't need yoga – I
just didn't need to be at the reunion.

'I have too short a concentration span to make yoga
work for me, Ronelle, but thanks,' I said, and moved on,
even though our time wasn't up, demonstrating that
what I said was true.

After making a monumental effort to adhere to the
rotational rule, having spoken to almost everyone, I took
a break, leaning back in my chair. The metal was cold
on my skin. I looked around the pub. Jack's had been
gentrified, like all the pubs in the eastern suburbs had
been in the past five years. Dark wood tables and comfy
cushioned lounges had been replaced by streamlined
chrome tables and chairs. The antique-looking carpet
you still find in old people's houses had been replaced
with ceramic tiles. The jukebox and dance floor had
given way to a roomful of pokies. (I noticed they still
had Coopers on tap, though.)

The space wasn't as warm as it had been when we
were young, and while the pub's owners had changed
its name, and spent millions on updating the interiors,
they hadn't really managed to change their clientele.
I scanned the room and saw the same private-school
rugby players who'd been drinking there ten years
before. They didn't seem as attractive now. Funny that,
everyone's a spunk when you're young. That thought
brought me back to our group. There had been more
of us back then, when we were teenagers. I looked
around and counted heads: we were a table of fifteen.
Why had only fifteen showed up? Probably because
the others were single and out having a raging time
meeting gorgeous men, not worrying about their
pelvic floors.

Then I noticed it: each and every woman in the
group wore an engagement and/or wedding ring.
That's why I was on the outer. That's why I didn't fit in.
It was a clear case of 'Us' and 'Them'. I couldn't even
pull the race card this time; it wasn't about being Black
and white. It wasn't about being rich or poor, as it had
been at school. Rather, at twenty-eight it was about the
haves and the have-nots. I was definitely a have-not.
No wedding ring – not even an engagement ring. No
husband. No kids. Not even a date lined up any time
in the near future. I had nothing to contribute to this
Mothers' Club meeting. No-one was the slightest bit
interested in what I did for a living, what I drove (unless
it was the latest station-wagon or oversized four-wheel
drive with airbags to protect the kids), or where I lived
(unless it was near a good day care centre).

Debra, who had once crushed biscuits in my hair at
the school bus stop, arrived late. She hadn't changed a
bit. Thin frame, thick hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a
sense of self that had always put me on edge. Where did
she get that confidence? I knew straight away she'd be
married with children. I really didn't care if I spoke to
her or not, but she planted herself opposite me just as
the main course was being served, everyone else quickly
moving to ensure there wasn't a spare seat across from
them. Debra was known as the class bitch at school,
but no-one was ever brave enough to challenge her.
Dannie had told me that no-one really wanted her to
come. I'd had five gins and two glasses of wine by this
time, though, so I was ready for whatever she dished
out. Biscuits or otherwise.

'So, how many children do you have, Alice?' Debra
had four.

'None. But here's a photo of my brothers.' Did it
sound as weird as I thought it did? Probably. I quickly
put the photo back in my wallet and left it there for the
rest of the night. Some may have thought it was sad,
but my brothers and my dad had always been the most
important men in my life. At least I could rely on them
to be there for me.

'But you're obviously involved with someone special,
though,' Debra said, looking at my hands.

'No. I bought this ring as a present for myself.' I was
proud of my ability to teach, and that I made a good
enough living to take myself shopping at Tiffany's.
If I were ever to get a wedding ring or even just an
engagement ring, it would come in a pale blue box. Not
some chain-store faux suede one.

'That's funny. I thought Aboriginal women had
children young – married or not. We all thought at
school you'd be the first to have children.' Bitch! Had
they all really thought that?

Debra was wrong about me being the first pregnant,
but she was right about Koori women and kids
generally. Fact was, most of the Koori women I knew
had squeezed their kids out in their early twenties, some
even before that, and none of them had blokes around
now. Some of them had never had a bloke around at all.
Many of the young girls I knew now were still doing it.
It was a hard thing for me to understand, coming from
a two-parent family and a Catholic background. We'd
always been taught no sex before marriage and no kids
out of wedlock. Even as times changed, the morals of
the Church were upheld, at least in the Aigner house.
Christian values worked for me in a very general
sense – do unto others and so on – but I'd had to work
out my own beliefs when I left school and started to
live the life I thought best for me and the world. I tried
to live by the Aboriginal value systems of the past –
community benefits over individual gain, cooperation
over competition, responsibility over rights.

Debra was still staring at me.

'Some do have children young, Debra, because
when there's nothing else to do – no employment
opportunities for instance – and you have low selfworth,
why not create a life – someone who will love you
back unconditionally?' She looked at me, unbelieving.
I was struggling; she'd dealt me a low blow and I didn't
really know how to recover.

'As for me, I've got plenty of love around me. And
plenty of work to do. I'm not looking to fill any gaps yet,' I
said, getting to my feet, loud enough for some of the other
women to look at me and then Debra, wondering what
had sparked the clear disagreement. Debra looked at me
with contempt. She was ticked off, but I didn't care.

I already had my mother nagging me about breeding
and maintaining the race. ('Wouldn't it be lovely to
have a little brown Koori kid around the house?') All
the other women in her ceramics class had photos
of their grandchildren. ('I just need one photo in my
purse, Alice.') She said she was the only Koori woman
without grandkids. ('It's our job as the matriarchs to
have families, Alice.') Now whitefellas I didn't even like
were on my case about it too.

Dessert was being served and I moved four seats
away, so I could sit alone. Half the table, the 'responsible
homemakers and mothers', were outside, irresponsibly
sucking on cigarettes. Yeah, get lung cancer and who'll
look after your man and kids then? Dannie was happily
engrossed in conversation with two other women and
looking like she was having a great time.

I repeated my mantra,
I love being single!
, over and
over.

***

By ten pm
I love being single!
had become
I hate
school reunions
. The more I drank the more difficult it
became.

'Here's one of Lulu as a princess and Davey as an
elf – aren't they cute?' Another couple of photos were
shoved in my face.

I looked around the table at all the women, now
totally sloshed. It was their one big night out and
they were going to make the most of being kid- and
husband-free for a night. It was funny that I'd been
at all worried about what to wear to the reunion. My
'competition' hadn't worried at all. They might have
been happy with husbands and children and shared
mortgages, family holidays and family rooms, but they
also bore a few more laugh lines than I did, and some
were in need of serious tszujing from the Fab Five. These
minor details at least brought me momentary comfort.
It always bothered me to see women in bicycle shorts,
t-shirts and thongs out shopping, though I realised that
mothers had more important things to worry about
than coordinating outfits. It was okay to look sporty or
beachy, I thought, but not both at the same time, and
regardless of priorities and income, one should never
leave the house without a bra and lipstick. It was like
going to work without cleaning your teeth.

'You haven't changed at all, Alice.' At last some
positive recognition! It was Leonie. We had been good
friends in Year 8 but then drifted apart. I faked a modest
smile.

'Thanks, it's the eye cream and citrus face peels,'
I said, trying desperately to make my existence as a
single woman with a disposable income sound a little
less pathetic and perhaps even indulgent. If I could
make my life sound like an attractive option to just one
of these women I would be happy.

'You never got that chipped tooth fixed, did you?'

I gasped. My god, she wasn't complimenting me
at all.

'Not that you needed to. It's like a signature look
for you.' I rarely even thought about the tiny chip on
my front tooth. It had happened in second class. I was
laughing so hard I hit my mouth on a chair. I usually
have to point it out to people, it's so
not
there. I was so
pissed off that I felt like chipping
her
tooth, the married,
mortgaged, motherly bitch!

Dannie could see I was distressed, having difficulty
just being there, let alone having a good time. She
handed me a glass of water.

'Why did you come?' she whispered sympathetically.

'You dragged me here, remember? You didn't want
to come on your own.'

'Oh, come on, Alice. You've never done anything you
didn't want to in your life. You can't blame me. Why did
you
really
come?'