Liane Moriarty - Big Little Lies

T hat doesnt sound like a school trivia night, said Mrs. Patty Ponder to Marie Antoinette. That sounds like a riot.

The cat didnt respond. She was dozing on the couch and found school trivia nights to be trivial.

Not interested, eh? Let them eat cake! Is that what youre thinking? They do eat a lot of cake, dont they? All those cake stalls. Goodness me. Although I dont think any of the mothers ever actually eat them. Theyre all so sleek and skinny, arent they? Like you.

Marie Antoinette sneered at the compliment. The let them eat cake thing had grown old a long time ago, and shed recently heard one of Mrs. Ponders grandchildren say it was meant to be let them eat brioche and also that Marie Antoinette never said it in the first place.

Mrs. Ponder picked up her television remote and turned down the volume on Dancing with the Stars. Shed turned it up loud earlier because of the sound of the heavy rain, but the downpour had eased now.

She could hear people shouting. Angry hollers crashed through the quiet, cold night air. It was somehow hurtful for Mrs. Ponder to hear, as if all that rage were directed at her. (Mrs. Ponder had grown up with an angry mother.)

Goodness me. Do you think theyre arguing over the capital of Guatemala? Do you know the capital of Guatemala? No? I dont either. We should Google it. Dont sneer at me.

Marie Antoinette sniffed.

Lets go see whats going on, said Mrs. Ponder briskly. She was feeling nervous and therefore behaving briskly in front of the cat, the same way shed once done with her children when her husband was away and there were strange noises in the night.

Mrs. Ponder heaved herself up with the help of her walker. Marie Antoinette slid her slippery body comfortingly in between Mrs. Ponders legs (she wasnt falling for the brisk act) as she pushed the walker down the hallway to the back of the house.

Her sewing room looked straight out onto the school yard of Pirriwee Public.

Mum, are you mad? You cant live this close to a primary school, her daughter had said when she was first looking at buying the house.

But Mrs. Ponder loved to hear the crazy babble of childrens voices at intervals throughout the day, and she no longer drove, so she couldnt care less that the street was jammed with those giant, truck-like cars they all drove these days, with women in big sunglasses leaning across their steering wheels to call out terribly urgent information about Harrietts ballet and Charlies speech therapy.

Mothers took their mothering so seriously now. Their frantic little faces. Their busy little bottoms strutting into the school in their tight gym gear. Ponytails swinging. Eyes fixed on the mobile phones held in the palms of their hands like compasses. It made Mrs. Ponder laugh. Fondly though. Her three daughters, although older, were exactly the same. And they were all so pretty.

How are you this morning? she always called out if she was on the front porch with a cup of tea or watering the front garden as they went by.

Busy, Mrs. Ponder! Frantic! they always called back, trotting along, yanking their childrens arms. They were pleasant and friendly and just a touch condescending because they couldnt help it. She was so old! They were so busy!

The fathers, and there were more and more of them doing the school run these days, were different. They rarely hurried, strolling past with a measured casualness. No big deal. All under control. That was the message. Mrs. Ponder chuckled fondly at them too.

But now it seemed the Pirriwee Public parents were misbehaving. She got to the window and pushed aside the lace curtain. The school had recently paid for a window guard after a cricket ball had smashed the glass and nearly knocked out Marie Antoinette. (A group of Year 3 boys had given her a hand-painted apology card, which she kept on her fridge.)

There was a two-story sandstone building on the other side of the playground with an event room on the second level and a big balcony with ocean views. Mrs. Ponder had been there for a few functions: a talk by a local historian, a lunch hosted by the Friends of the Library. It was quite a beautiful room. Sometimes ex-students had their wedding receptions there. Thats where theyd be having the school trivia night. They were raising funds for SMART Boards, whatever they were. Mrs. Ponder had been invited as a matter of course. Her proximity to the school gave her a funny sort of honorary status, even though shed never had a child or grandchild attend. Shed said no thank you to the school trivia night invitation. She thought school events without the children in attendance were pointless.

The children had their weekly school assembly in the same room. Each Friday morning, Mrs. Ponder set herself up in the sewing room with a cup of English Breakfast and a ginger-nut biscuit. The sound of the children singing floating down from the second floor of the building always made her weep. Shed never believed in God, except when she heard children singing.

There was no singing now.

Mrs. Ponder could hear a lot of bad language. She wasnt a prude about bad languageher eldest daughter swore like a trooperbut it was upsetting and disconcerting to hear someone maniacally screaming that particular four-letter word in a place that was normally filled with childish laughter and shouts.

Are you all drunk? she said.

Her rain-splattered window was at eye level with the entrance doors to the building, and suddenly people began to spill out. Security lights illuminated the paved area around the entrance like a stage set for a play. Clouds of mist added to the effect.