tutoring, do you reckon?”
“Well, not to blow our own trumpet or anything, but Skye here is already reading quite well too,” said Nathan. “And we don’t believe in tutoring, do we, Bon?”
“We prefer to let Skye’s growth happen organically,” said Bonnie.
“Organic, eh?” said Jane’s dad. He furrowed his brow. “Like fruit?”
Amabella turned to Ziggy. “What’s your—” She froze. An expression of pure panic crossed her face. She clutched the pink envelopes tight to her chest as if to prevent Ziggy from stealing one and, without saying a word, she turned on her heel and ran off.
“Goodness. What was that all about?” said Jane’s mother.
“Oh, that was the kid who said I hurt her,” said Ziggy matter-of-factly. “But I never did, Grandma.”
Jane looked around the playground. Everywhere she looked she could see children in brand-new, too-big school uniforms.
Every single one was holding a pale pink envelope.
Harper: Look, nobody in that school knew Renata better than me. We were very close. I can tell you for a fact, she was not trying to make a point that day.
Samantha: Oh my God, of course she was making a point.
18.
Madeline was being assaulted by a vicious bout of PMS on Chloe’s first day of school. She was fighting back, but to no avail. I choose my mood, she told herself as she stood in the kitchen, tossing back evening primrose capsules like Valium. (She knew it was no use, you were meant to take them regularly, but she had to try something, even though the stupid things were probably just a waste of money.) She was furious with the bad timing. She would have liked to have found a way to blame someone, ideally her ex-husband, but she couldn’t find a way to make Nathan responsible for her menstrual cycle. No doubt Bonnie danced in the moonlight to deal with the ebbs and flows of womanhood.
PMS was still a relatively new experience for Madeline. Another jolly part of the aging process. She’d never really believed in it before. Then, as she hit her late thirties, her body said, OK, you don’t believe in PMS? I’ll show you PMS. Get a load of this, bitch.
Now, for one day every month, she had to fake everything: her basic humanity, her love for her children, her love for Ed. She’d once been appalled to hear of women claiming PMS as a defense for murder. Now she understood. She could happily murder someone today! In fact, she felt like there should be some sort of recognition for her remarkable strength of character that she didn’t.
All the way to school she did deep-breathing exercises to help calm her mood. Thankfully Fred and Chloe weren’t fighting in the backseat. Ed hummed to himself as he drove, which was kind of unbearable (the unnecessary, relentless cheerfulness of the man), but at least he was wearing a clean shirt and hadn’t insisted on wearing the too-small white polo shirt with the tomato sauce stain he thought was invisible. PMS would not win today. PMS would not ruin this milestone.
They found a legal parking spot straightaway. The children actually got out of the car the first time they were asked.
“Happy New Year, Mrs. Ponder!” she called out as they walked past the little white weatherboard cottage next to the school, where plump, white-haired Mrs. Ponder sat on her fold-out chair with a cup of tea and the newspaper.
“Morning!” called Mrs. Ponder eagerly.
“Keep walking, keep walking,” Madeline hissed at Ed as he started to slow his pace. He loved a good long chat with Mrs. Ponder (she’d been a nurse in Singapore during the war), or with anyone really, particularly if they were over the age of seventy.
“Chloe’s first day of school!” Ed called out. “Big day!”
“Ah, bless,” said Mrs. Ponder.
They kept walking.
Madeline had her mood under control, like a rabid dog on a tight leash.
The school yard was filled with chatting parents and shouting children. The parents stood still while the children ran helter-skelter around them, like marbles skidding about a pinball machine. There were the new kindergarten parents smiling brightly and nervily. There were the Year 6 mums in their animated, unbreakable little circles, secure in their positions as queens of the school. There were the Blond Bobs caressing their freshly cut blond bobs.
Ah, it was lovely. The sea breeze. The children’s bright little faces—and, oh for fuck’s sake, there was her ex-husband.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t known he’d be there, but it was outrageous that he looked so comfortable in Madeline’s