Page 37 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ he mutters. He’s dressed in a flannel shirt, grubby beige pants and thongs. ‘Ghezala is inside with the boy.’

I stop, rest the basket on my hip. ‘How’s the job hunt going?’

‘Fine. Fine.’

‘What kind of jobs are you applying for?’

He stubs out his cigarette, shaking his head. ‘Oh. This and that.’

‘Need any help? I might have contacts I could—’

He stands, yanking open the screen door. ‘Ghezala?’

‘Have you applied foranyjobs, Hakem? Ghezala found her cleaning job quite quickly, as I understand it. Surely you should be able to find something too.’

He cocks his head. ‘And what jobs would you have me apply for? Taxi driver? Supermarket packer?’ He laughs, revealing a mouth of eggshell-coloured teeth. ‘In Kabul, I was an engineer. I built skyscrapers for the big western chains. This is one of the reasons we were run out of there. Now that I’m here, no one will let me build their dog kennel.’

‘So you’re happy to let your pregnant wife clean supermarkets but you’re not willing to do the same?’

He jabs a finger at my Land Rover. ‘You drive this car to my house and then ask me what I’m willing to do?’

‘I’m driving this car so I can deliver a double pram to a pregnant woman in Dandenong, Hakem.’

‘Tell me this,’ he continues, turning his finger on me now. ‘What wouldyoube willing to do?’

‘I’d be willing to do anything for my family. I might not be happy about it. It wouldn’t be fair. But life’s not fair, is it?’

He shakes his head, makes apahsound. After a moment, he extends his finger again, over my shoulder. ‘See this building?’ he says, pointing to the shabby three-storey block across the road. ‘The guy who lives there was a respiratory surgeon back home. He used to live in a five-bedroom house! He lives in a one-bedroom apartment now with his wife and three kids.’ He takes a step toward me and I can smell his breath, cigarettes and spice. It’s unclear if he is doing this to intimidate me or is simply fired up making his point. ‘Have you actually thought about what it would be like to go from having everything to having nothing?’

‘What’s going on?’ The screen door slaps closed again and I see Ghezala standing there with a little boy at her ankles. He is the spitting image of his father. ‘Hakem?’

He pulls back from me, and I feel the welcome rush of fresh air in my face.

‘Aarash,’ Hakem says, patting the boy on his head. ‘Come. Let Mâmân talk with her friend.’

She watches them wander out toward the street, then turns to me. I smile and hold up my basket. ‘I brought you some maternity clothes. And some information about a doula service in case you’d like to have this baby at home with a little medical assistance this time. Shall we talk inside?’

Ghezala nods and I hold the door open to let her walk back into the house. Before I enter, I glance over my shoulder at Hakem. I was wrong, I realise, to think he is angry. He’smorethan angry, he’s bitter. It worries me. Because when left to their own devices, bitter people can do bad things.

19

LUCY

The past . . .

‘You’re not happy about me going into business with Eamon, are you?’

Ollie is merely a disembodied voice as he removes a load of laundry from the washing machine in the next room and tosses it into the dryer. For all of Diana’s foibles, I will never resent her for making the man learn how to do laundry. I lower my pregnant body onto the couch and, after trying and failing to remove my wedges, I lift my feet and thunk them on the coffee table, shoes and all.

‘Why do you say that?’

We’ve just returned from dinner at the Sandringham Pub, a virtual heaven for parents due to its indoor playground that allows mums and dads to consume their beers and chicken parmigianas in relative peace while their offspring get into fights with other kids on brightly coloured play equipment behind a pane of glass. Usually I enjoy the Sandy Pub for what it is—a change of scenery, a chance to drink wine and chat with Ollie without being surrounded by children—but tonight I was simply too pregnant to enjoy anything. The saving grace, at least, was that Archie fell asleep on the way home and didn’t rouse as Ollie carried him to bed.

‘Because,’ Ollie says, appearing in front of me, ‘you’ve been quiet since I brought it up.’

The problem, of course, is that unlike my mother, who was happy to silently support my father in everything he did, I find it difficult to keep my opinions to myself. Or maybe Dad just never made any decisions as questionable as going into business with Eamon Cockram.