Birthright

by Fiona Lowe

  Sarah’s eyes flew open and she sat forward so she could see his face, checking his expression to make sure she’d correctly heard his softly spoken words. ‘You’re in it? As in working backstage? Doing the lights?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m Oscar.’

  ‘Oscar?’ It had been years since she’d seen the 1960s-set musical and all she could remember about it were the songs ‘Hey Big Spender’ and ‘Rhythm of Life’.

  ‘I’m one of Charity’s love interests. Anyway, I told Mrs Lipton you’d help like you always do. She needs you at school tomorrow at four.’

  Sarah stared at Gus as a dozen half-formed thoughts bounced off each other. ‘Wow. That’s … big news. Well, not the bit about me helping Mrs Lipton, although some more notice would have been nice.’ Then enthusiasm won out over surprise and she smiled. ‘I can’t believe you auditioned. Do you have a song?’

  He dipped his head as he always did when he didn’t know if he should be proud or humble. ‘Two.’

  Her heart swelled at this unexpected event. For years she’d listened to Gus sing in the shower but he’d never shown any interest in singing in public. When he’d started high school and she suggested he join the choir, he’d rolled his eyes at her.

  Moving the cheese plate to safety, she hugged him. ‘Congratulations, sweetheart. This is exciting. I’ll try to get everyone to come. Perhaps Finn can drive Phoebe and Ruby home that weekend and then the whole family can see it. Oh …’ Her enthusiasm dimmed slightly. ‘Emma will miss it.’

  ‘What’s Emma going to miss?’ Alex fell onto the couch beside Gus. Grey shadows hovered under his eyes and grease stained his shirt and hands.

  ‘Tell your dad,’ Sarah prompted.

  ‘Tell me what? I hope it’s good news, because I’ve had a shit of a day. A water pipe burst—’

  ‘Alex.’ Sarah cut him off, knowing if she didn’t, he’d talk about work and Gus’s news would get lost. They juggled keeping the business and their home life separate, struggling constantly and frequently failing completely. Although Sarah insisted they all eat dinner together each night, there were too many occasions when, despite their best intentions, she and Alex were so busy discussing a business problem or a new idea they didn’t notice that the kids had upped and left the table. ‘Go on, Gus.’

  Gus hesitated.

  Alex sighed. ‘Come on, champ. All I want is a shower and food so spit it out.’

  ‘I auditioned for the school musical. I’ve got a lead.’

  Alex frowned. ‘That’s after the footy season, right?’

  ‘No. It’s two weeks away.’ Gus chewed his lip. ‘I’ll have to miss the match against Kyabram.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Gus. That’s an important match.’ Alex pressed his fingers into his temples as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘If there’s one thing a man doesn’t do, it’s let his mates down. Bruce will have your guts for garters.’

  ‘Coach is always on about teamwork, a fair go and giving people a chance, but he never subs me off. Cooper McFarlane and Rory Stefanovic are keen. They deserve a go. They can play.’

  ‘The talent scouts aren’t driving up from Melbourne to see Cooper and Rory. How’s it going to look when you don’t play because you want to bloody sing?’

  ‘It’s one match, Dad,’ Gus said belligerently, rising to his feet.

  ‘Yeah. And a really important one.’ Alex stood too, slightly shorter than his middle child. ‘God, what were you thinking? You’ve had other years when you could have done drama. Less important years. Why the hell choose this one?’

  ‘Alex,’ Sarah warned. ‘Let’s all take a deep breath. I’m sure Gus weighed everything up before he auditioned.’

  ‘Seriously, Sarah?’ Alex snorted. ‘What sixteen-year-old boy thinks and weighs up options?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Okay, mate. Who’s the girl?’

  Gus met his father’s steely gaze. ‘There’s more than one girl in the show, Dad.’

  For a moment, Alex’s face lost its tension and he laughed as if he was remembering his own adolescence. He gripped Gus’s shoulder. ‘There’s always going to be a girl, mate. Your job’s to focus on what’s important to you, not her.’

  Sarah startled, surprised by Alex’s blunt and selfish advice. It went against everything she believed about their relationship. ‘Relationships are a two-way street, Gus, give and take on both sides. I think what your father means is no one should ask you to give up your dream and take on theirs.’

  Alex grunted. ‘I’m quite capable of explaining what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not doing the show because of some girl. No one forced me to do this, okay, so get off my back.’ Gus turned and strode out of the room.

  ‘Christ. What the hell’s got into him?’ Alex sat down hard and shoved a biscuit and cheese into his mouth.

  ‘I know it’s a surprise but I think it’s good he’s exploring something outside of sport. All the parenting advice says kids shouldn’t be pigeon-holed too early.’

  ‘That only applies if the kid doesn’t have talent in anything. Gus does and his timing’s lousy. If Bruce cracks the shits, and I’m pretty sure he will, Gus won’t play in the firsts again this year.’ Alex pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll call him.’

  Sarah put her hand on his arm. ‘Let Gus talk to him first. Besides, tonight’s not a good time.’

  Alex looked at her blankly.

  Oh, for the love of God. ‘Mother’s Day.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He slid the phone back into his pocket. ‘How’d lunch go?’

  ‘Good. Only a couple of flesh wounds.’

  ‘Ellie and Cam?’

  ‘Yep.’ She reached for the merlot bottle and poured him a glass. ‘I managed to save this for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His head fell back as he swished the wine around his mouth, savouring the complex flavours.

  ‘So? I’m assuming you saved the day?’

  ‘Yes and no. Jack Forster put a fucking backhoe through the water main and no one thought to turn off the power before the dairy flooded. Not only did the milk get contaminated, the conveyor belt got fritzed.’

  ‘We lost a third of today’s milk?’ That was a disaster. ‘Alex! Why didn’t you call me?’

  This time it was Alex’s hand that shot out and clamped on her arm. ‘It’s okay. Luke Sorenson came out and fixed the pipe. I rang the emergency number at Randall’s and the part we need for the conveyor belt should arrive by noon tomorrow.’

  ‘And that’s all good but nothing’s been done about the orders. I’ll have to go into the office now and adjust the paperwork. I need to call Coles and—’

  ‘It’s sorted,’ he said wearily, shoving the last of the cheese into his mouth.

  ‘How?’ She couldn’t imagine Alex would have done it. Not only had he been flat out dealing with the mechanics of the disaster, their financial software package annoyed and frustrated him.

  His eyes were closed again. ‘Kelly did it.’

  Kelly? Kelly Bamfield was their mousy office manager and although she was extremely good at her job, she didn’t work weekends. None of the office staff did and it was rare for either Sarah or Alex to call them in out of hours; the two of them could handle all aspects of billing, staffing, payroll, marketing and customer relations because they’d done it all themselves in the years before they could afford staff. Why had Alex asked Kelly to come in and deal with it? It didn’t make a lot of sense unless—

  A warm feeling glowed in her chest, quickly filling her with the joy and security of being cherished. She smiled at Alex’s uncharacteristically generous gesture, relishing the significance of what he’d done.

  Nudging him gently, she said, ‘You gave me a Mother’s Day present.’

  His brow creased and then he opened his eyes, looking straight at her. For a moment, their rich brown depths—normally so full of energy—were eerily still. Then he blinked. ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She leaned in to kiss him on the lips b
ut he turned his head before she reached him and her lips grazed his stubbled cheeks. She laughed. ‘We’re misfiring today.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Remember? This morning I went to kiss you goodbye before your ride, and I missed your mouth and got your shoulder.’

  He didn’t show any signs he recalled it or found it amusing.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He rubbed his face. ‘I’m just tired and filthy. Besides, if I snuggle up with you now, you’ll only complain I stink.’

  She couldn’t deny that. ‘Fair enough. Go grab a shower and I’ll make you something to eat. There’s Ellie’s share of the lamb.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  She watched him leave and as she rose from the couch, it occurred to her that the day was finishing exactly as it started—her alone in the kitchen on Mother’s Day.

  * * *

  ‘Have a good day,’ Anita called to the girls’ backs as they ran towards their friends on the school’s play equipment. When she’d first arrived in Mingunyah, her busy Melbourne life had come to a screaming halt, replaced by something that was foreign and yet came with moments of disconcerting familiarity. Mingunyah school mornings were the same organised chaos of getting the girls up, fed and out the door but her drive to school in gridlock traffic and the challenge of parallel parking the SUV was replaced by walking to school with the girls and Fudge, their one-year-old chocolate labrador. But the ease and familiarity of chatting in the school grounds with the other parents—ninety-eight per cent mothers—that she’d worked so hard to achieve in Melbourne had vanished. Once again, she was the newcomer—the person who needed to prove herself worthy of being included in established groups.

  Anita was far too familiar with that routine. Some of her earliest memories were of the narrow and assessing gazes of kindergarten girls confident in their power as a group. They were the social gatekeepers and little Anita Jankovic, in her hand-me-down clothes, never made the cut. Over the years, she’d learned that most adult women didn’t outgrow that fast assessment and back in Melbourne, it had taken three years of sucking up and moments of humiliation to prove to the Botox Babes, the powerbrokers of the neighbourhood and the school’s social hierarchy, that she was worthy of belonging. It had also involved abandoning all traces of her childhood and writing a new script for where she’d grown up and gone to school. Fortunately for her, none of the women had grown up in the outer northern suburbs, let alone set a foot there, so no one questioned her recreated past. Those social gatekeepers were the reason Anita never stepped out of the house without her hair blow waved, her face immaculately made up and her clothes and accessories carefully coordinated. From yummy-mummy gym wear to her little black dress, and with all the gradients of smart casual wear in between, adult Anita was no longer sidelined on appearance by the elite groups she sought to enter.

  Just like at the older girls’ private Melbourne school, the Mingunyah Primary schoolyard had distinct clusters of mothers. The Pony Club Mothers dressed beautifully in boutique country-style clothes—quilted jackets, Liberty-print blouses, knee-high leather boots—that oozed money and style. The PCM were at ease in their own company, confident in their social standing and not in need of new members. This came as a rude shock to Anita, because she’d assumed that her married name and Phoebe and Ruby’s involvement in pony club meant the group would open and welcome her. Despite her Melbourne sophistication and fashion style, the PCM had initially been slow to show any overtures of friendship.

  The Sustainability Sisters were the mothers who dressed in natural fibres, religiously composted, recycled, reused, swapped, bartered and zealously judged everyone on where they fell on the rubbish-free scale. They ran the school’s kitchen garden and cooking program. Anita had both interest and skill in that arena, but her self-imposed dress code meant the SS were hesitant to open their group to her. Although Anita recycled paper and plastics and attempted to pack ‘nude food’ in the girls’ lunch boxes, she knew her occasional lapses and her makeup choices were possibly considered heresy to this group. She did think, though, that she’d made a connection with Tam, whose yoga class Anita attended at the Mechanics’ Institute.

  The working mothers fell into two groups. The first arrived at school prior to Anita, dropping their children off at the before-school care program because their job started early. The second group arrived at the gate wearing their work uniform—anything from the royal blue IGA shirt and navy pants to green hospital scrubs. They did a hug, kiss and run at the gate. The only times Anita met the working mothers was at school talks, weekend working bees, the concert and the fundraising trivia night. They were a fun but disparate group who each had barely enough time to spend with her husband, her kids and the housework, let alone finding any spare minutes to get to know Anita.

  Then there was a group Anita had mentally tagged ‘the battlers’. Some would say it was a label only a well-educated, upper-middleclass, latte-drinking, sauv blanc–sipping person would give but Anita knew she had the right to use the word. Growing up, Anita had lived that life. The battlers were not so much a group as a ragtag mix of parents who always arrived at the gate just after the bell accompanied by their school-age children dressed in an approximation of the uniform. The women frequently looked exhausted and worn down by life despite their uplifting tattooed quotes. Their skin was often tinged with a grey pallor and pulled hard and tight across their cheekbones, making them look older than their years. The men didn’t look exhausted but their demeanour ranged from angry to resigned and utterly unapproachable.

  After the school children disappeared inside, this group would release the younger siblings from strollers. As the kids raced to the play equipment, the parents would light up cigarettes and draw in the smoke with a hunger known only to the starving. Bliss came on the outward breath, followed by sheer relief. Anita always pulled her gaze away from that first puff lest the temptation to go over and pluck the smoke out of someone’s mouth overwhelmed her. It may have been years since she smoked, but she missed it far more than she missed her mother. Invariably, the vice principal came over and politely but firmly reminded everyone that smoking in the school grounds wasn’t permitted and the group would decamp across the road to the public park. Anita hadn’t entertained a single thought of seeking entry into their group. Why undo twenty years of hard work by going backwards?

  Over the course of the past year, Anita had slowly and determinedly made inroads with the Pony Club Mothers. Her first foray was inviting them for morning tea using the Cancer Council’s ‘Biggest Morning Tea’ to serve two purposes: raise funds for cancer research and prove she had the class and style demanded by the group. Of course, serving Moët & Chandon helped. When Cameron’s brows had risen at the sight of the expensive but empty bottles in the recycling bin, she’d said, ‘Business expense. I’m befriending the wives of the men who run this town.’

  ‘I’ve taught you well, baby girl. Just make sure you give me the receipt for tax purposes.’

  ‘Anita!’

  She swung around to see one of the PCM mothers marching towards her across the schoolyard with the precision of a targeted missile. ‘Morning, Jess.’

  ‘Love that colour on you. Can I ask a favour? Could you possibly pick up Mia for me this afternoon? I’ve got an appointment in Albury and I might not get back until six.’

  ‘Of course. No problem at all. Ava and Chloe will be thrilled.’

  ‘I thought they might be. Mia’s exceptional with the younger children and she takes her buddy responsibilities very seriously.’ Jess dropped her head in close and said quietly and conspiratorially, ‘I plan to remind the staff about that next year when they’re selecting school captains.’

  Anita smiled with relief. It may have taken a year but she’d finally come full circle and all her hard work networking was finally paying off. This conversation was identical to the ones she’d had in Melbourne with the other school mothers. It made an idea flicker. The immaculately dressed woman i
n front of her wielded a lot of social power. Could Jess’s request to collect Mia after school be an opportunity?

  ‘You’ll be tired tonight after all that driving. Do you need dinner? I could make you a family-sized lasagne.’

  In Melbourne, Anita had established a small in-home business, Cooked By a Friend. She’d targeted two demographics—one was time poor and the other time rich, but both had large disposable incomes.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you do to that.’

  Anita gave a calculated shrug. ‘You’re not asking. I’m offering. It’s no problem. Really. It’s what I used to do back in Melbourne.’

  ‘Cook for friends?’

  ‘Cook for clients. I menu plan, shop and cook for busy people in their home. I also taught one-on-one and group cooking classes. But my offer of the lasagne is a gift for a busy friend.’ A gift she hoped would pay off with word-of-mouth recommendations. Although Anita knew the Mingunyah client pool was limited, with the right contacts, she hoped she might just be able to get three or four regular clients. She’d missed working.

  ‘I had no idea you’d worked in Melbourne,’ Jess said as though having a job was a novel idea. ‘If your lasagne’s as good as those yoyos you brought to the cake stall, I’d be a fool to say no.’ She blew a kiss to Mia as the bell rang. ‘I’d better go. I’ll call you if anything changes but otherwise I’ll see you just before six.’

  ‘I’ll have your lasagne, salad and garlic bread ready and waiting.’ Anita waved to Ava and Chloe before exiting the schoolyard and turning left in the direction of the butcher.

  John Dalton greeted her before the tinkle of the bell fell silent and both of her feet were inside the shop. ‘Mornin’, Anita. That husband of yours got you cooking for a crowd again?’

  Anita enjoyed this aspect of country living. Although she’d used a dedicated butcher in Melbourne, that shop employed a lot of staff and she was just another well-dressed woman in a sea of many. ‘Actually, John, I’m cooking for a friend. I need your best beef and pork mince.’