1. Iris
Iris
I was fourteen and in high school when a local woman was murdered.
I couldn’t recall ever knowing about a crime before then, at least not one so close to me.
I hadn’t known the woman, but Mum did, and she’d religiously buy the newspaper every day to keep up to date with the investigation.
Each day, we’d drive past the woman’s house, the crime scene, on the way to school, and each day I’d become more and more curious.
When Mum placed the newspaper on top of the recycling pile at night, I’d take out any articles relating to the murder.
I’d pretend to be a detective looking for clues within the words of each story.
When the murderer was found and arrested, the town was relieved. Of course I was too. But I also felt disappointed. It’d been a thrill “investigating” a crime like that.
It was no wonder I went on to study Criminology and Behavioural Science as part of an Arts degree at university. Teenage Iris’s dream job was behavioural analysis agent but I’d settle for detective at Victoria Police.
However, after six months as a qualified Constable, working my butt off and absolutely loving the job, I fell pregnant to one of my academy classmates, who I’d been dating for over a year.
We ended up losing that baby but not before our unborn child brought us closer together, paved the way for our future and the babies that came many years later.
I took some time off while I grieved and let my body heal, but I just couldn’t bring myself to put on the uniform and get back on the road.
I’d had a small taste of family, and suddenly the danger of the job, which had once made it thrilling, became a terrifying concept. I gave it all up.
Now I live vicariously through my husband.
‘Sam,’ I call out to him, as I try to round up our three kids before kindergarten and childcare drop off. ‘Have you got a sec?’
Sam comes down the stairs, fixing the collar of his blue police uniform. Even after ten years together, this man in uniform takes my breath away.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, as he grabs a piece of cold toast one of the twins hasn’t finished.
‘Can you find Lara’s shoes? Hers are the blue ones. Sadie’s are green.’
From the moment I found out we were pregnant with twins, I vowed not to dress them in identical clothing. From their dark curls to their sharp green eyes, they are identical in every way, so I’m doing them, and the world, a favour by offering one source of difference.
‘No probs,’ he says, heading back up the stairs.
‘Billy, shoes on now!’ I shout.
Billy is four. He has two years on his sisters. Two years of knowledge on how to wind me up and drive me crazy. Right now, he sits in the corner of the playroom, back to me, playing with a fire truck.
‘Billy!’ I call out again. His selective hearing is in full force today.
Two months ago, I’d taken him for a hearing test, adamant the child was going deaf.
I felt such a fool when the specialist declared he had perfect hearing.
I swear Billy smirked at the declaration, although Sam tells me there’s no way he understood.
After one last attempt to get Billy’s attention, I grab my car keys and jingle them in an over-the-top noisy manner.
His head turns quickly, eyes widening. ‘Wait, Mummy. I’m coming.’ Works (almost) every time.
Sam comes in carrying a daughter under each arm.
They’re both giggling and neither are wearing shoes.
Their joyous faces remind me to pause and breathe before I fret over yet another morning of chaos.
He drops the girls to the couch, as well as the shoes he managed to find, and they squeal with delight.
Then he kisses me goodbye before heading out the door for work.
Fifteen minutes of toddler wrangling later, I’m carrying three backpacks, my handbag and a travel mug full of coffee, as I usher the kids into the garage.
An old friend once told me she’d never have more than two children because you don’t want your kids to outnumber your hands.
It was such a comforting and sensitive comment to make to a woman with a newborn baby in each arm and a toddler at her feet…
not. However, a third, or even fourth arm would certainly come in handy sometimes.
I pile the bags on the front seat, strap in the kids and drive to Cobal Gully Kindergarten and the twins’ childcare centre, which is conveniently next door.
Sam and I moved from Rosewood to Cobal Gully six months ago. He got a promotion at the local police station a little over a year earlier.
Sam says the reason we moved is because he grew tired of the commute. But I think the real reason is he wanted me out of Rosewood.
I’m not complaining though. With regular nine to five hours and a pay rise, it’s a dream promotion for both of us. He’s home to take my side in the daily dinner-bath-bed battle. That makes four hands versus three kids. Slightly better odds.
I was sad to leave Rosewood, especially the group of mums I’d met when Billy was born.
But after what happened two years ago, things have never been the same.
I’m sure I could visit Charlotte, Katya or Sloane at any time, and they’d welcome me but I’ve never been able to let those events go.
I still haven’t. Not that Sam knows anything about that. It’s my secret project.
I drop the twins off at daycare first before walking next door to the kindergarten. The usual kids bound in with their backpacks and a parent racing after them, usually checking their watch and muttering something about being late for work.
I have nowhere important to rush off to, a fact that stings a little sometimes.
I still haven’t returned to work since the twins were born.
After my miscarriage, I worked at the Rosewood local council for five years before having Billy.
My job had been answering phones and directing visitors to various offices.
It was not my passion at all, but I got to meet all sorts of different and interesting people and hear their usually less interesting stories.
There’d be a weekly visit from a developer losing patience about a permit.
There’d be the little old lady who wanted speed bumps on every road around town.
And my personal favourite, the daily visits—yes, daily!
—from people who demanded we implement tough laws around picking up one’s dog shit.
Now I’m in Cobal Gully, I can’t work at Rosewood Council, and I haven’t looked into another job. Thankfully, Sam’s promotion makes that financially possible. Instead, I’m a member of the Cobal Gully Kindergarten Parent’s Association. And I have my secret project too.
‘Bye, Billy,’ I say, kissing him on top of his head. ‘Have a good day.’
He doesn’t respond, just rubs the part of his hair my lips touched as though I’ve passed on girl germs. Then he runs towards a group of kids playing with dinosaurs in a big tub of sand. I shudder at the thought of the clean-up. You couldn’t pay me enough to be an educator.
On the way home, I grab a few items from the grocery shop.
It’s different to Rosewood where we had all the big chain supermarkets in our suburb, plus a Westfield ten minutes away.
Cobal Gully is much quieter. Not city and not quite country.
But a happy medium where there’s no traffic, but you do have to drive thirty minutes for a Target.
I load my basket with butter, sugar and chocolate chips.
There’s a Parent’s Association meeting tonight and I never show up without baked goods.
I’ve been in town for six months and I need to uphold my reputation as Cobal Gully’s resident cookie baking guru.
I know I’m not supposed to be worried about what people think of me or the way I parent, what my kids are wearing or what’s in my child’s lunchbox, but I do.
Little details are important to me. It’s probably why I love investigating so much.
Later on, I sit at my desk in the upstairs spare bedroom, and a wave of excitement and adrenaline washes over me. Sam doesn’t know what I do up here day to day.
‘Kinder stuff,’ I tell him. Or, ‘Job applications. Online courses.’
Every so often, I’ll do a free online course on something totally random so I can convince myself I’m not totally betraying my husband. He’d be furious if he knew the truth.