The Mothers' Group Read online

  Made had been thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of reading an entire book in English and hadn’t even tried.

  ‘This has got to be my favourite book of all time,’ Suzie gushed, thumbing a dog-eared volume. ‘I just loved every single chapter, especially the India section. It was such a spiritual journey for the author.’ Suzie’s blonde curls bounced behind her ears. The way her hands fluttered as she spoke, her child-like eagerness, reminded Made of her younger sister, Komang. Suzie’s face was open too, and her heart was good, Made was sure. When Suzie asked Made how she was, she actually waited to hear the answer.

  Ginie coughed impatiently. Australians were always in a hurry, Made had come to understand, and none more so than Ginie. She was tall and athletic and rather old, with white hairs springing from her blonde plait. This was not unusual in Australia, she’d learned, women having babies at an age when they could be grandmothers. Ginie’s face was lined across the forehead and slightly drawn, giving Made the impression of hunger or thirst. Her restless, dissatisfied energy seemed to unsettle the group.

  ‘I found the India section the hardest, actually,’ said Ginie. ‘Italy was passable, but India was dull. In fact, I found the whole story a bit tedious. I just couldn’t get past the fact that after the author split up with her husband, her publisher gave her an advance to go and have an overseas adventure and write about it.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, how many unhappy thirty-somethings get to do that after a messy divorce?’

  As usual, Ginie spoke too quickly, making it difficult for Made to follow what she was saying. But her tone spoke volumes. Suzie looked chastened.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Pippa, sipping at her peppermint tea. ‘That seemed a bit premeditated. But in the end, I thought the author was really courageous to write about such personal things. Sometimes I’d read a paragraph and think, “Gosh, did she really mean to tell us that?” I liked the way she described all the unexpected things that can happen to us in life.’

  Made had never heard Pippa say so much.

  ‘Oh God, I hated all that,’ objected Ginie. ‘Why put your own bullshit out there, unless you’re someone of world importance? The author kept rabbiting on about how challenging her life was and I kept thinking, come on, this is so indulgent.’

  Made’s eyes widened; she’d heard at least one crude word. No one else in the group seemed troubled by it. A waiter arrived with a tray of coffees, their second round. These women drank milky coffee, with hardly any sugar in it. It was too creamy for Made, so she always ordered tea. At Suzie’s suggestion, she’d tried a variety of herbals, but they tasted like warm flowers.

  ‘I agree with Ginie,’ said Miranda, bouncing Rory on her knee. ‘I just wondered how hard the author’s life really was.’ She stood up from the table to check on Digby and, seeing him scaling the climbing frame, sat down again. ‘I mean, she didn’t have any children, did she? I loved her honesty and humour, but hated how much she didn’t know about life. I kept thinking to myself, honey, if you think this is worth whining about, just wait until you have kids.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘What did you think of it, Cara?’ Suzie’s expression was hopeful.

  ‘Well . . .’ Cara looked thoughtful, fingering the end of her ponytail. She had hair the colour of teh panas, Made thought, the dark orange tea she missed so much. ‘I felt like I got to know Elizabeth Gilbert quite well in the Italy section. Then I found the India section a bit odd, mostly because she spent all her time in an ashram full of expatriates.’ Astrid gurgled and suddenly coughed; she hadn’t long been fed. Cara dabbed at the baby’s mouth with a wipe.

  ‘But I guess more than anything, I felt sorry for the writer,’ Cara continued. ‘She spent most of the book trying to make sense of her pain. I was relieved when she found happiness in Indonesia. I found that part quite beautiful. And I’d love to hear what Made thought of it.’

  All eyes fixed upon Made, who rummaged through her bag for her notebook. She’d prepared for this moment.

  ‘I write down my thinking,’ Made announced, glancing about nervously. ‘I want not to say the wrong.’ She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ginie’s scorn. She’d seen how she made the others wilt at times, Suzie in particular.

  She folded back the pages of her notebook. Cara nodded at her encouragingly.

  ‘Too hard for me to read book,’ she said. ‘But Gordon borrow DVD for me. I watch four times. I learn many new word in English. Like celibate, mozzarella and gelato.’

  The others laughed. She wasn’t exactly sure why.

  With Gordon’s help, Made had pored over her dictionary the night before, trying to piece together the right words. Even so, she knew her expression was imperfect. She’d wanted to tell the mothers’ group that she’d been perplexed by Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey. That the Bali portrayed in the film, the popular holiday town of Ubud, was a world away from the village life she knew. And that many of the Balinese characters looked and sounded like the opportunistic buaya—or ‘crocodiles’, according to her dictionary’s translation—that hung around tourist precincts, waiting to prey on foreigners. Eat, Prey, Love, she’d jotted in her notebook, proud of her first English joke.

  ‘This movie confusing for me,’ she started. ‘Elizabeth Gilbert take long journey to find happiness. She throw away old life, old husband, search for new things. But why she not like old life? I wonder. Sometimes life happy, sometimes life sad, but always life have meaning. In Bali, life not only about happiness.’

  Ginie interjected. ‘What is life about then, in Bali?’

  Made shifted in her seat. ‘I think . . . ’ She wished her grasp of English was better. ‘In Bali, life is about . . . accepting.’ She glanced around the group. ‘No person or place give the happy feeling more than few days, maybe few weeks.’ She looked at Ginie. ‘Author Elizabeth, she run from the sadness, but sadness natural. Happiness not always the normal thing for humans. This is the way, in Bali.’

  Made stared at her hands, doubting she’d made herself clear.

  Cara broke the silence. ‘I think I know what you mean, Made.’ Her smile was warm. Even when Made couldn’t entirely understand what Cara was saying, her tone was always kind. ‘I have an old friend from university who comes from a small village in rural India. Bali is mostly Hindu, like India, isn’t it?’

  Made nodded.

  ‘Well, this friend taught me that the pursuit of happiness is a very Western concept.’ Cara folded the canopy down over Astrid’s pram, signalling it was sleep time. ‘In most parts of the world, in places like Indonesia or India, people are busy just surviving. Trying to get enough food, clean drinking water, or education for their children.’ Cara zipped up the canopy. ‘Achieving happiness or enlightenment is a preoccupation of the privileged, for those of us in the first world. Only people like Elizabeth Gilbert can afford to worry about being happy. Billions of others can’t. It’s one of the reasons I chose a career in social justice journalism.’

  ‘Well, good on you,’ said Ginie. ‘I must be quite decadent in the scheme of things, with a life coach I pay to keep me happy.’ Her tone was jovial, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘You’re dead right,’ replied Cara, without hesitation. ‘We’re all part of the global elite.’

  Ginie reached for Rose, who had started to whimper in her pram. Cara didn’t seem to feel threatened by Ginie, Made reflected, unlike the rest of the group.

  ‘If you ever come to Bali,’ said Made, ‘you see life very hard outside the tourist area. Difficult to get the food and the water. Happiness not always possible.’

  Ginie pushed a bottle of formula milk into Rose’s mouth. ‘I’ve never been to Bali,’ she said. ‘Daniel’s wanted us to go for a while now, for the surfing. I’d prefer Paris.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Well maybe you come to Bali with me one day.’ Made smiled. ‘You all come. Then you see the Balinese way. Accepting the good and bad together. You help
other people, that is happiness.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Well, I’d better bring my husband on that trip, Made,’ said Miranda. ‘He’s hell-bent on working his way to happiness. Usually on Sundays—it’s his version of church.’

  Several of the others laughed, but Made couldn’t grasp what was funny about Miranda’s words. Humour was the hardest thing about learning a new language. You never could tell what these women would laugh at, or why. But she’d noticed, over the past four months, that it was really only Miranda who could make Ginie laugh.

  She closed her notebook: the conversation had moved beyond her.

  Even now, after attending every single mothers’ group meeting, Made still felt her difference keenly. In the early weeks, it had been a challenge to familiarise herself with the women’s incessant babbling. Their words ran into each other, like the cackling of a brood of chickens. There was Ginie, who was always receiving telephone calls; Cara, the one who smiled as if she knew her; Suzie, who bubbled like a cooking pot whenever she spoke; Miranda, who was always distracted by the difficult Digby; and Pippa, the subdued one. With babies inevitably crying or feeding, it was difficult to conduct a one-on-one conversation with any of them. So she usually took their cues and laughed when they did, or simply listened as the conversation coursed around her. But over time, despite the fact that she knew none of them very well, she began to find comfort in their company.

  A sudden shriek from the playground jolted Made out of her seat. Digby lay face down at the base of the climbing frame, wailing. Made turned to Miranda and held out her arms to take baby Rory.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Miranda, bounding down the small set of stairs, across the grassy slope and into the playground.

  Made watched as Miranda kneeled next to Digby, who raised a bloodied face towards her and pummelled the ground with his fists. Miranda rocked him in her arms, trying to pacify him. Digby lay limp in her lap for a moment, before suddenly rearing up. The crack of their foreheads connecting was audible, even at a distance. Miranda fell backwards, dazed, still holding Digby.

  Made immediately started down the stairs, carrying Rory on her hip. ‘Miranda alright?’ she called.

  Miranda shrugged. An angry red mark had appeared across the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Come on, Digby, let’s take you home.’ Miranda’s voice was low and controlled. ‘We’ll put some band-aids on your face.’

  Digby continued to wail. The noise seemed to irritate Rory, who began to squirm in Made’s arms.

  ‘I help you to car,’ offered Made.

  Digby was upping the ante, writhing and kicking as Miranda carried him from the playground.

  ‘Bye, everyone,’ she called, apologetic. ‘Sorry for cutting short book club.’

  Everyone made sympathetic noises; they’d seen it all before.

  Made returned to the table and, with Rory in her arms, slung Miranda’s nappy bag over her shoulder and scooped up the Evian bottle under her seat.

  Then she joined Miranda on the street, watching as she wrestled Digby into his car seat. He arched his back and screamed in indignation, as if she was prodding him with a hot poker. Finally, Miranda was able to pin his arms and legs down and buckle his seatbelt.

  ‘I hate you,’ he screamed as she shut the car door.

  Miranda turned to Made.

  ‘There’s only one thing worse than a screaming baby,’ she said quietly, taking Rory and the nappy bag from Made. ‘And that’s a screaming toddler.’

  Made smiled.

  Miranda fixed Rory in his car seat, then opened the driver’s door.

  For a moment, they looked at each other.

  ‘Miranda work very hard,’ said Made, unsure what else to say. ‘You do good job.’

  It was true. For all the challenges of life in a foreign land, Made couldn’t imagine dealing with a child like Digby every day. What’s more, Digby wasn’t even Miranda’s own son.

  ‘See you next week,’ said Miranda, pulling the car door closed.

  As Made walked away, a car horn sounded behind her.

  She turned to see Miranda jogging back towards her, the car engine idling.

  ‘Forgot that,’ she said, pointing to the Evian bottle in Made’s hand.

  Made smiled and passed it to her. Australians drank far more water than Indonesians, even though the climate was cooler.

  Miranda waved as she drove away.

  She was always calm, Made mused, even when Digby gave her every reason not to be. She was carefully groomed, lived in a beautiful house, and was married to a successful financier. And yet, for all of that, there was something about those piercing green eyes. Despite so much to be grateful for, Miranda wasn’t happy.

  Made could remember a happier time, before the Bali bombings, when her family never went hungry. But after the bombings in 2002, tourist numbers had plummeted. Suddenly there were fewer rich Westerners holidaying in expensive resorts. The price of basic goods rose, and employment fell. And like almost everyone else on the island, her family was affected.

  Being of Sudra caste, they’d never been affluent. They worked hard, cultivating rice and soybeans on the small plot of land they leased from Ida Bagus, the head of the village. They ate what they grew and gave Ida Bagus his share. Her mother took great care of the money earned from the sweet cakes she sold outside the village temple, keeping the notes straight and smooth in a tattered leather pouch beneath her mattress.

  That pouch was only ever produced in the most desperate circumstances. Like when her older brother Wayan had fallen ill with blood fever, before the second Bali bombings in 2005. In his typical entrepreneurial way, Wayan had been supplementing the family’s income with a small tyre-repair service at the foot of the mountain. When he fell sick, lying motionless and glassy-eyed on his bed for three nights, her mother had walked half a day to fetch the doctor. Made’s stomach had churned with anxiety as she watched her mother bow down and touch the doctor’s feet with handfuls of her long black hair. Her silent plea: save my son. The doctor had stayed two days in their village, mixing up all manner of potions and poultices, leaving instructions with her mother on how to use them. Then he’d accepted all the notes from her mother’s pouch, promising to return the following Tuesday. But Wayan had died before the week was out. And so her only brother had gone, along with her mother’s savings.

  Within two months of Wayan’s death, they were eating only one meal a day. The whole of Bali was suffering, the second bombings having frightened the Westerners away again. Forever, some said. Her mother refused to beg and ran the household as though nothing was wrong. She dismissed Komang’s complaints with a raised hand.

  ‘Komang, we are very fortunate,’ her mother would say. ‘Your father works hard and so do I. Do not dishonour our efforts with your ungrateful words.’ Then she would push most of her own meagre rice ration into Komang’s bowl, reserving the rest for Made. When Made objected, she would raise her hand for silence again.

  But Made would hear her mother at night, weeping quietly into the sarong she used as a pillow. As she listened to her mother’s grief, she would imagine Wayan alive again. His cheeky smile, his husky voice accompanying a four-stringed guitar on moonlit evenings, his wily schemes to make money. At family gatherings, her father had always told the story of how Wayan, at seven, had picked wild lychees in the wet season and sold them at market. He’d hung a sign over his bicycle with the words Magic Lychees— Make You Strong and spent several hours spruiking their qualities to the market throng. He’d returned that night with six thousand rupiah in his pocket, much to his parents’ amazement. ‘There’s no doubt about Wayan,’ her father chuckled. ‘He could sell eggs to a chicken.’

  All of that was gone now. Since the day Wayan died, her father hadn’t spoken much. He spent much of his time smoking under the papaya tree. Made would see her mother watching him from across the yard, a worried look on her face.

  Three months after Wayan’s death, Made came to a deci
sion. With her brother gone, she was the eldest. She was eighteen years old: it was her responsibility to help the family. She needed to find work, one way or another.

  Early one morning, before the rooster crowed, she slid out of bed and began to get dressed.

  Komang stirred at her side. ‘What are you doing?’ she murmured.

  ‘Little sister,’ Made whispered, kneeling next to her, ‘I am going to find work. Tell mother I will return soon with good news.’

  ‘But . . .’ Komang began. Her small hand gripped Made’s.

  ‘Shhh,’ whispered Made. ‘It is my destiny to go. It is your destiny to stay.’ She stroked Komang’s hair and kissed her forehead. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  She stole out into the cool dawn and took Wayan’s bicycle, unridden since his death. With a knapsack of clothes strapped to her back, she set off for the coastal town of Sanur, where her cousin Ketut worked.

  She hadn’t been gone two hours when a nail punctured her rear tyre. Her legs were weary from the pedalling, and her arms ached from steering the heavy steel frame around potholes. When she saw the thin metallic spike protruding from the tyre, she almost cried.

  What would Wayan do?

  She picked her way along the road, wheeling the bicycle next to her.

  ‘Where are you going to, missy?’

  Made stopped and turned, scanning a nearby rice paddy for the source of the voice.

  ‘I’m trying to get to Sanur,’ she said.

  ‘Down here.’ A woman’s head popped out from a water channel running alongside the field. She was hauling a large wicker basket on her back, loaded with wood. She straightened up with some difficulty, then clambered out of the channel. Made guessed she had just been drinking the water, or defecating in it. Her dark skin and dress immediately announced her lower caste. But she didn’t look Balinese, Made thought. More Javanese, like her own mother.

  ‘Good morning, Ibu,’ said Made courteously.

  ‘Sanur’s a long way to go by bicycle,’ said the woman, looking Made up and down. ‘Especially for a scrawny girl like you.’