The pram wheel caught in the narrow slot between the new bitumen and the broken gutter. Jennifer de-snagged it with a jolt, and baby Michael woke up grizzling, his little face red and steaming hot under the lacy bonnet. She patted and soothed him. The crying escalated. Jennifer pushed the pram faster. She wanted to get to the chemist to buy the cream for Michael’s nappy rash.
The Avenue had no trees. It had dusty construction sites, waist-high grass that sizzled with snakes, and roaring, grunting machinery through all the daylight hours. One day the street would be full of friendly neighbours. Today there was only Betty.
Betty Horton was dead-heading roses in her perfect garden, deep red velvety roses that Jennifer could smell from yards away. Her three blond boys, wearing clean blue rompers, played sedately on the lush and perfect lawn, taking turns with a red pedal car. It would be very rude not to say hello.
Jennifer dragged the pram with the screaming baby over to Betty’s perfect white picket fence.
“Good morning, Mrs Horton. Lovely day.”
“Mrs Robbins. That’s a pretty blouse. Did you make it yourself?”
Jennifer had made it and she was proud of it. She loved the cheerful pink and green and yellow daisies that matched her yellow slacks and flat white sandals. She’d made the matching headband that held back her over-frizzy hair too. It broke her heart that the slacks already felt tight and in a couple of weeks she’d have to put the hideous pregnancy smock back on. Or she could wear a loose shirt dress with white cuffs like Betty Horton. Not in this lifetime.
“Yes. I love dressmaking.”
Jennifer picked Michael up. He was hot and his nappy was wet. He cried and vomited milk onto her shoulder.
“He hates the pram,” said Jennifer. “He can’t see out because of the hood.”
“Maybe he’s ready for a stroller. I’ve got one you could use. Come in and have a cup of tea, cool down a bit.”
Jennifer smiled and opened her mouth to accept. A car swept past her up the driveway, one of the new Holdens, pink and grey with sharp fins. Betty’s husband, home early and in a door-slamming mood.
“Perhaps another day,” said Betty, smoothing down her dress and hustling the children inside.
“Yes, another day,” said Jennifer.
