Free Cooee by Vivienne Kelly

take him to galleries, to Mozart concerts, to poetry readings. We’d play chess together, and when he grew up we’d sip chilled pale wine on summer evenings. We’d discuss philosophies, scientific theories, whatever. Our relationship would rest on shared pleasures, shared opinions, mutual appreciation. And love, of course.
    Kate and Steve were, needless to say, absent from these touching scenes.
    But, the relationship never worked, never meshed. It was worse, far worse, after the marriage broke up, but it was never the way I’d planned it, never the harmonious rapport I’d envisaged. Zoë would say this was my fault, of course. Zoë would say I got it wrong with both children.
    Once, she visited when Dominic was little. He was still crawling: he must have been around twelve months, I suppose. Kate was six: that I do remember. She took a doll from him and his roar was passionate. I rebuked her. I wasn’t savage; I wasn’t mean: there was no need for her to burst into tears.
    â€˜She’s very good with him, isn’t she?’ Zoë said, her voice just lifting towards that spiky tone it has so often when she addresses me.
    I disapprove of discussing children in their presence. It leads to unpleasant precocity. I shrugged and nodded as non-committally as I could. At this stage Kate was whining loudly and showing little sign of being good, so far as I could see.
    â€˜It’s my special doll, Mummy,’ she wailed.
    â€˜It’s her special doll,’ said Zoë, regarding me meaningfully.
    â€˜She shouldn’t have left it where he could reach it.’
    â€˜Oh, have a heart, Isabel.’
    â€˜For God’s sake,’ I snapped. Kate ran howling into her bedroom, clutching the damn doll. Dominic, sensing conflict, sobbed more loudly.
    â€˜You’re hopeless,’ snarled Zoë. This is her idea of sisterly support. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜You favour him. All the time. It’s always: “Kate, don’t do this. Kate, don’t do that.”’
    â€˜Zoë, she’s six. He’s a baby.’
    â€˜You need to watch it. You’re making some big mistakes.’
    â€˜Oh, come on.’
    â€˜I mean it, Minky. You’re so hard on her, and of course she gets upset. She is good with him. There aren’t many six-year-olds who’d be as careful, as gentle. She’s a dear little girl, and you’re going to cause huge problems for her if you keep on going this way. You’ll cause problems for him, too, you mark my words.’
    â€˜You’ve got so much experience, I suppose,’ I said, meanly.
    â€˜I may not have kids of my own, but I do have experience with kids in the classroom. I spend every day with kids. Anyway, you don’t need experience to see the mistakes you’re making. It’s just a matter of common sense.’
    This is a good example of Zoë’s tact and sensitivity. In any case, she was demonstrably wrong. Kate has no problems that I’m aware of — or none, anyway, that are caused by me. She had a perfectly happy childhood. She appears to me, in spite of everything, to be a perfectly happy adult. And if Dominic hates me because I was too kind to him when he was a baby — well, what kind of sense does that make?
    I kept thinking the relationship would improve. I gave up work for Dominic, so I could spend more time with him. It was harder, anyway, to work when I had two small children at home. I’ve heard other women say this, too: it’s three times as hard with two children as with one. But he always fought me, even as a baby, even as a toddler. He fell over once and I cuddled him, crooned to him, savouring the moment, because he so seldom let me do this. ‘Poor Dominic,’ I murmured, rocking him. He exploded in fury and struck my face. ‘I’m not poor,’ he screamed.