Free Cooee by Vivienne Kelly Page A

‘I’m not poor .’
    Well. What can you do?
    This is one reason I so much appreciate Sophie’s company, Sophie’s unconditional love. I sometimes think Sophie and Max are the only two people who have ever really cared about me, who have truly loved me.
    Yet I always feel, with pricking resentment, that I’m worthier of love than people seem to think. If only they could see me as I really am, if only Dominic could get past the protective spines I raise against him, if he could only lower the guns he mounts against me, if only we could meet in some pure space unhindered by our family, our history, our expectations of ourselves and each other, I’m sure he’d like me.
    I’m a likeable person: I know I am. I’m a warm and loving person. I love you, Dominic! Sometimes I think I ought to scream it at him, every time I see him, just to drive the point home, to make him notice me, listen to me, listen to what I want to force into that sleek, obdurate head of his.
    I know women who are entirely unremarkable but who nevertheless manage to retain cordial relations with their children, their sons. Of course we all adopt party manners for the world’s scrutiny, and I imagine there are rough patches in such relationships, dropped stitches, torn pages, dark, vicious corners of psyches that never see the light of day or face exposure to outside observation. Still, such people manage to maintain a reasonable façade.
    I’m quite positive most sons aren’t as savage to their mothers as Dominic is to me; most sons don’t chip away at their mothers’ fragile veneers with anything matching Dominic’s deadly ruthlessness. I can’t, however, adequately measure or comprehend their success against my failure. I can’t see why they’ve managed what should surely be a relatively simple manoeuvre, when I so conspicuously haven’t. What is it about bringing up children, after all? What makes it so difficult?
    I started off with intentions and resolutions as good as the next person’s. I taught them manners, correct behaviour, consideration for others. I talked to them; I played with them; I didn’t abuse them; I didn’t take drugs; I didn’t hit them; I tried not to shout at them. I know I split up the family, but it wasn’t them I had to get away from: it was Steve, and I’ve always made that distinction clear.
    I don’t understand where it went wrong, at what particular point Dominic decided to limit his communications to sneer mode, why he woke up one day and perceived my maternal limitations with such devastating clarity.
    These women I know who are successful mothers — who at any rate seem to be successful mothers — there’s nothing so special about any of them. Intelligence doesn’t appear to be a prerequisite, nor does talent, nor (let’s face it) good looks. They’ve just bumbled along, the same as all of us. I once said to a woman I knew how lucky she was to have such happy and successful children, and she fixed me with a dirty look and said: ‘Luck, Isabel, had nothing to do with it.’
    Well, luck always has something to do with it, in my book. If you can put in so much effort and still fail, luck has a lot to do with it.
    Sometimes I fantasise about the kinds of circumstances that might enlighten Dominic about the value of a mother’s love. Well, not any mother. Me. Some rescue I could effect, some unfortunate condition he finds himself trapped by (imprisonment, perhaps, for some shameful crime?) in which I waft back into the mainstream of Dominic’s life trailing forgiveness and compassion. Gosh, Mum, where would I be without you? whispers a white-faced Dominic, as I gently raise him on my arm and spoon homemade beef tea between his unresisting lips.
    Or perhaps we’re hostages together (unlikely, this, I do recognise that element of the hypothesis), and I intercept the shot that’s