by Fiona Lowe
‘There’s a lot anger and betrayal going around,’ Doug said carefully. ‘We’ve told my kids and Edwina’s about you and, well, they’re struggling too. They’re not happy with Eddy and me for upending their world. The counsellor told us it’s pretty normal.’
‘How did your parents take the news you were meeting us?’ Edwina asked, gripping the stem of her wine glass too hard. One child adopted and yet so many people affected.
‘I haven’t told them yet. I wanted to wait and see how today went.’
A wave of shame reinforced with guilt rolled through Edwina and settled heavily in her chest. For years she’d kept Michelle a secret for the sake of others. Now Michelle was keeping her a secret. Although part of her understood, it didn’t lessen the hurt.
Michelle stirred her drink, the ice cubes tinkling against the sides of the highball glass. ‘The thing is, I know that a lot of people who are adopted have this need to find out who their biological parents are. I’ve never felt like that. I’ve always felt loved and secure. Smug, even, when I look at some of my friends who grew up with their biological parents and their current fractured relationships.’
Doug frowned in bewildered concentration. ‘I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to find us, why did you register?’
A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face. ‘I had a precancerous cyst removed two years ago. It was the first serious medical condition I’d ever had. When my doctor asked me if there was any history of breast cancer in the family, I found myself talking about Mum and Dad and then it hit me. Yes, they’re my family. Yes, they love and support me, but they can’t help me with this. It rocked me.’ Her voice wavered. ‘It was the first time they couldn’t be there for me. I had a pressing need to fill this gap with information. Not just for me but for my daughter too.’
I have another granddaughter? Edwina pushed away the question for another time and tried to stay focused on the present. ‘And your health now, Michelle?’ she asked anxiously. Was the daughter she’d only just found after all these years in jeopardy?
‘I’m fine. I have regular mammograms and nothing else has been detected. The urgent need I had to get the information faded with each good result. That’s why it was such a shock to get the letter from Tim saying you were looking for me. I’d never really thought of you beyond the medical history.’
Edwina felt a tear in her heart that Michelle’s desire to meet them was utterly pragmatic. It took her a moment to rally and then she grabbed on to the fact that this was something concrete she could do for Michelle. It might be the only mothering thing she ever got to do for this daughter.
‘None of the women in my family have had breast cancer,’ Edwina said. ‘Doug?’
A pained expression crossed his face. ‘Sorry. I don’t know very much about my family’s medical history. All I can tell you is my mother died of a heart attack at fifty.’
‘I can give you a fairly complete Mannering family medical history.’ Edwina gave a tight laugh. ‘It may be the only advantage of being descended from a dynastic family so proud of their family tree that it rules their lives. It dates back to the fifteen hundreds in England.’
Michelle’s eyes widened. ‘Wow. That’s a long way back. Dad did our family tree but he got stuck at 1830.’
‘Your great—’ Tim’s voice played in Edwina’s head. They’d spoken to him on the phone about how best to manage the first meeting. He’d stressed that Michelle had her own family and that she and Doug were her biological parents, not her parents. It was a hard pill to swallow when she’d never wanted to give away her firstborn child but the fear of alienating Michelle burned strong.
‘Your biological great-great-grandfather arrived in Victoria in the 1830s with three brothers and a mob of sheep. I still live in the district where they settled. Your family history is everywhere in Billawarre.’
‘And your family, Doug?’ Michelle turned to him, her guarded demeanour fading slightly. ‘You said you don’t know much of your medical history. Were you adopted too?’
Doug’s usually cheerful manner dimmed somewhat and Edwina automatically took his hand. Although he’d spoken a lot about Sophia and his kids, he never mentioned his mother or extended family.
He cleared his throat. ‘My maternal great-grandmother was Aboriginal. My mother had Irish blood in her and I believe my father was English but I never knew the man.’
Michelle stared at him, her mouth slackening before her hand rose up to cover it. ‘Oh. My. God.’
Doug flinched. ‘Does that upset you?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, a baffled look of wonder washing across her face. ‘In a crazy way, it actually makes sense.’
‘Growing up people teased you about your curly hair and your tan, right?’ Doug asked with a sigh.
‘No. Never. In fact, my girlfriends have always been envious of my tan.’ Her eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Doug, I work in the Department of Aboriginal Affairs in Perth. I liaise with community groups, helping them write grant submissions, and I absolutely love it. I get to travel to communities all over the west and it always invigorates me. Where’s our country? Our mob?’
Sadness flickered in Doug’s eyes. ‘I dunno. I was born in outback New South but I’ve got no memory of it. I’ve never been back.’ Regret tinged his words. ‘It was a different time. My mother moved us around a lot to avoid me being taken.’
‘Stolen, you mean,’ Michelle said quickly and with chagrin.
‘Yeah.’ Doug downed his beer. ‘They got me at ten. Put me in a home.’
Edwina’s mind spun with Doug’s revelation and suddenly the reason he never spoke of anything much before coming to Murrumbeet was clear. She stared at the man she loved and the daughter she’d lost, awed by how much they shared.
‘You were stolen too, Michelle,’ she choked out against a tight throat.
The blue of Michelle’s eyes darkened to a flinty grey. ‘Because my father was Aboriginal?’
Edwina shook her head. ‘No. Because it was 1968 and I was a single mother with no rights.’ Tears pricked the back of her eyes. ‘I never wanted to give you up but I was forced to. I got to hold you for an hour and then you were taken from me. I’ve never forgotten you.’
Michelle made a choking sound. ‘I didn’t know … my parents never said…’ She blinked rapidly and reached out to touch Edwina’s arm. ‘I have a son and a daughter. I can’t even imagine the pain if they’d been taken from me.’
‘No,’ Edwina managed to say softly. ‘It’s every mother’s nightmare. It’s been my nightmare for a long time.’ Despite her best efforts, her withheld tears fell silently, tracking down her cheeks. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am you’ve had a happy life.’
‘Would you like to order now?’ the waiter asked cheerfully.
Edwina wanted to both smite him and hug him for the interruption. Although food was the last thing she felt like, she needed a breather from the emotional intensity that cloaked them. She chose the salmon simply because it required no other decision-making. Doug ordered more wine and another beer for himself. This time Michelle accepted a glass.
They sat silently with their thoughts until after the waiter had set the fish and steak knives and retreated. Michelle fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper covered in large blue handwriting. The loops on the Gs and Ys were identical to Edwina’s script.
‘I wrote a list of questions I wanted to ask you.’
Doug burst into peals of laughter. ‘Edwina has a list just like it.’
Edwina shrugged. ‘Lists are a way of making sure you don’t forget the important things.’
Michelle smiled. ‘I’ve always made lists. Mum and Dad used to say I was busy organising them from three.’
Edwina thought of Harriet and patted Michelle’s hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a Mannering trait.’
‘I like it. I always get a great sense of achievement crossing things off the list.’ A sheepish look crossed her face. ‘I’ve been
known to add something I’ve done that wasn’t on the list just so I can get the buzz from crossing it off.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Edwina said as her shoulders relaxed for the first time that day. ‘Do you want to start working through your list?’
* * *
The conversation over lunch lurched from moments of blissful simpatico to strained and uncomfortable silences and back again. Edwina had loved Susan but Susan had only existed in her mind. Michelle was real and she loved her but she didn’t know her. Edwina wanted to learn everything about her and yet as titbits about her daughter’s childhood were casually revealed it brought back the pain of loss in unending waves. Doug seemed to cope better but he’d not had years to imagine a baby growing into a woman; he had no preconceived ideas of their child. Michelle, too, appeared more relaxed with Doug and far more interested in him.
After viewing Doug’s family photos, Michelle said, ‘You should try to find our mob. You’d still have living cousins and maybe some aunties and uncles who remember your mother and grandmother. I could help you.’
Doug murmured something noncommittal as Edwina weathered another knife to her heart. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She could give Michelle more Mannering family information than she probably needed but Michelle didn’t seem interested in her Anglo-Saxon connections and their pastoral dynasty. Despite that, at the end of lunch, Edwina said, ‘You’re very welcome to spend the weekend with us at Billawarre. You could stay at the motel or with us at Glenora. It’s your choice.’
‘Your daughters all live there?’
‘Two of your half-sisters live there,’ Edwina said, not wanting to make a distinction between Michelle and her other three daughters. ‘Georgie lives here in Melbourne.’ Did she mention now that Georgie was living with Ben? Best to keep that bombshell for another time.
‘Today’s a lot to process,’ Michelle said hesitantly. ‘I’m not ready to meet them.’
‘No. Of course,’ Edwina said, trying to be understanding and at the same time battling the building dread that Michelle was going to walk away from her and she’d lose her all over again.
‘Could I … would you …’ Michelle fiddled with her phone. ‘I don’t want to come to Billawarre but can you stay in Melbourne for the weekend? Could I see you both tomorrow?’
Edwina looked at Doug, and together they said, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER
29
It was mid August and lambing season was in full swing. Xara was doing the morning paddock check because Steve had man flu. To be fair, it had been a rugged virus. Poor bloke. He hated being in bed, so the fact that he’d spent two days horizontal was testament to how ill he’d been. He’d now graduated to light duties and was keen to do more but Xara had insisted he needed another two days before braving the coldest winter they’d had in years. As she’d pointed out, the last thing she needed was him hospitalised with pneumonia while the kids lurched from one winter bug to the next. Last week, all three kids had been home sick and she’d been tempted to paint a black cross on the door. Tasha lacked the robust constitution that blessed the twins so she was still dealing with the sniffles and a wet, hacking cough a smoker would be hard pressed to outdo. She’d left Steve and Tasha home watching ABC3. Steve quite enjoyed Arthur.
The weather was bitter and made more so by the Antarctic southerly blasting across the paddocks after rolling over the Otways. The sheep had been busy overnight: two lambs had died from the cold but four were hale and hearty. She’d had to intervene and assist with one delivery. The lamb had become stuck but she’d been able to rescue it and deliver it safely. Unfortunately, due to the large size of the lamb, the ewe had suffered pelvic nerve damage and paralysis. Xara had shot it. She hated that part of farming.
With the dismal job over, she stowed the rifle in the gun locker on the back of the ute and then pushed her hands deep into her coat pockets, looking for a tissue to stem her streaming nose. Her fingers collided with a letter that had arrived a few days ago. She’d read it at the roadside mailbox and then shoved it in her pocket. Not that she’d forgotten it—far from it. It wasn’t the sort of thing one forgot. She’d left it there because it fell into the too-hard basket and she wasn’t certain how best to handle the request contained within.
She should probably discuss it with Georgie. After Xara had what Steve now referred to as her ‘getting real meltdown’, she and Georgie had sat down with a bottle of wine. They’d talked, listened, cried and laughed.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,’ Georgie had said, her face filled with regret, ‘but I couldn’t. I freaked out for a bit there. Xar, I couldn’t tell anyone. I tried but I just couldn’t. After, Ben and I needed time to work through stuff.’
‘I guess I can understand,’ Xara had said, taking a long gulp of wine. ‘I like Ben, I do. And I’m thrilled you’re happy, but it’s going to take time for me to get used to it.’
‘I’d never do anything intentionally to hurt you. I mean, you’ve been there for me through all the bad stuff and I get that you probably deserved to be the first person to hear my good news. But you’d still have freaked out about me loving our mother’s lover’s son.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She’d drunk more wine. ‘Sorry I made it all about me when it’s about you and Ben. God, I did exactly what I’ve been accusing you and Harry of doing.’
Georgie had laughed. ‘In a weird way, it was kinda reassuring, watching you lose it. Sometimes, your logical and rational approach to things makes me feel I’m too emotional.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Me too.’
They’d fallen back into their routine of regular texts and occasional phone calls. Xara valued them, especially as things between Harriet, Charlotte and Edwina were still at an impasse. She fingered the letter again and decided she’d call Georgie tonight and discuss the contents.
She glanced up at the steel-grey sky and thought the howling wind and the bleating lambs made it all very Gothic. On a playful whim she called out, ‘Heathcliff!’ And laughed.
‘Xar-rah!’ came back to her on the wind.
She stilled, convinced she was imagining things but then she heard it again. With mud sucking at her gumboots, she stomped over to the gate and was startled to see Harriet coming toward her, dressed in running gear. Her sister dodged and weaved around potholes of water on the corrugated surface of Woolscour Lane.
‘What on earth are you doing? It’s six degrees with a wind chill of two.’
Panting, Harriet stopped and bent over, pressing her palms to her thighs as she caught her breath ‘Exercising. You … should … try … it.’
Xara rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve just walked the length and breadth of a paddock and delivered a lamb. If that isn’t exercise, I don’t know what is.’
Harriet laughed. ‘Fair point. Sorry.’
An apology? ‘Wow, exercise really suits you,’ Xara teased. ‘Surely you haven’t run from Miligili in this weather? That’s ten k.’
Harriet dragged her forearm across her forehead. ‘I needed to run.’
Xara took a closer look at her sister. Her face was lined with fatigue and gaunt with misery. She looked older than she had before Easter and despite what was clearly an expensive colour treatment in her hair, new silver strands had appeared. Her aura of control, usually so dominant, didn’t have the same sharp and precise cut to it. For weeks, Xara had been calling and dropping by to check on Harriet, and Harriet had visited the farm more often than she had in the past decade. But whenever Xara asked how she doing, her response was always a clipped and terse, ‘I’m fine.’ Today it was clear Harriet was struggling.
Xara had a sudden urge to be the sister to Harriet she’d always wished Harriet could be for her. Slipping off her coat, she threw it over Harriet’s shoulders. ‘Get into the ute before you freeze.’
Harriet didn’t object and was oddly quiet on the short and bouncy drive back across the paddocks to the farmhouse. After waving and calling hello
to the sick crew on the couch, she turned back to Xara.
‘Can I grab a shower?’
‘Sure.’ Xara pulled a towel from the linen press.
‘Thanks. Have you got anything I could put on after?’
‘I don’t have any cool-down clothes. Can you cope with wearing a pair of my daggy trackie daks and an old-school hoodie?’
This time Harriet rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’ll be able to manage without breaking out in a rash.’ Her mouth tweaked up. ‘Only just though.’
Xara laughed and went off to find the clothes.
She’d just brewed the tea when Harriet appeared in the kitchen wearing her comfort clothes with a style Xara could never emulate. A gnarly old resentment surfaced. ‘Why do you look better in my old clothes than I ever look in my good ones?’
‘I don’t,’ Harriet said bluntly, accepting a mug of tea. ‘You just think I do. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why.’
Because you have a wardrobe full of designer clothes. The thought was petty and she didn’t want to dignify it by saying it out loud. But today there was something sad in Harriet’s gaze that made her say, ‘Sorry.’
For the first time ever, she glimpsed a shift in their relationship and she saw a chance for them to move out from under the shadow of their birth order and just be sisters. Friends even, but it could only start with the truth.
‘For years, I’ve been jealous of how much you can afford to spend on clothes. It’s ridiculous really, because out here I need a totally different type of wardrobe.’
‘Well, you don’t have to be jealous anymore.’ Harriet slumped onto a chair in a very uncharacteristic movement. ‘Two-thirds of my clothes are currently on consignment in Melbourne.’
‘Oh, Harry.’ Xara sat down next to her, feeling the loss almost as keenly. Sure, she’d had moments of envy but at the same time she’d also gained a lot of pleasure from admiring Harriet’s clothes.
Harriet shrugged. ‘Clothes are the least of my problems. You’ve seen today’s paper?’