by Fiona Lowe
Over the years they’d had their grant wins and their losses. Fortunately, when one of them was broken, dejected, and worn down by the constant fight, the other still had enough faith to drag the sad one along in the slipstream until new energy could be harnessed. If her destiny had always been to have a special-needs child then she was glad it was with Steve. He was like a dog with a bone when it came to getting services and support for Tasha and she knew he worried as much as she did about the far-flung future when neither of them would be alive to take care of her. That was why their current project was so important, a first step in future planning. Over the years, they’d become experts in filing grant submissions—learning the lingo that garnered results and jettisoning language that didn’t—and that unexpected skill had landed them as the convenors for a new and exciting community project for the district. After a lot of fundraising, they’d applied for funding through the council to build a purpose-built respite-care house in Billawarre, specially designed for people with disabilities. Although the local tradesmen were all donating their time to build the house, they needed the funding to purchase the building supplies. Council had approved the money but Xara and Steve were yet to receive the promised cheque, which was why they were both chasing James to find out the reason for the delay.
Steve kissed her shoulder. ‘You feeling frisky?’
She tried not to groan. ‘Just tired.’
‘Me too, but we should probably make an effort.’ He ran the tip of his tongue along her collarbone.
She’d been up for seventeen hours and all she craved was sleep. ‘How about I lie here and you keep making the effort. But I’m not promising anything.’
‘Challenge accepted.’ Grinning, he vanished under the doona and then his strong, work-callused fingers were pressing firmly into the soles of her feet. His fingers kept up their rhythm, moving from her feet to her calves and her thighs and a long and languid sigh rolled out of her as a warm river of relaxation stole into her weariness.
A muffled but wicked laugh sounded from under the covers. ‘I’m good.’
A smile tugged at her lips. ‘I’m still not promising anything.’ But it was a half-hearted protest and as his gentle touch kneaded her inner thigh, a flicker of need flared. It broke through her fatigue, bringing with it the promise of some precious moments of heady bliss. She rolled into him.
Steve was right. It really was worth the effort.
* * *
‘Ms Chirnwell, can I bring my pet rats for show and tell tomorrow?’
Georgie tried hard to stall the shudder that whipped through her. Growing up in country Victoria, where rats gnawed easily through the fuel line of the ute and mice plagues turned solid ground into a wriggling and heaving grey mass, rodents as pets were anathema to her. Not so to the kids of Collingwood, where space was at a premium. ‘That sounds great, Jai,’ she said with forced enthusiasm. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Yeah. No. She was looking forward to pet rats as much as she was looking forward to the farewell morning tea for Lucy Patrell. It was the reason she’d lingered at the recess bell instead of shooing 2C out into the playground and striding across the already softening asphalt steaming in the summer heat to the staff room. Ordinarily, the promise of a cheese platter with Erica Gubbin’s homemade quince paste and Chi Li’s carrot cake was enough to make her feign deafness to all student entreaties as she crossed the quad. Not today. Today, self-preservation was in a tug of war with duty and self-preservation was winning.
She heard the click-clack of hurried and determined footsteps in the corridor but before she could dive behind the smart board, her name was being called. Sharon Saunders, the office dragon, had a habit of rounding up stray and recalcitrant staff members. ‘Come on, Georgie,’ she said briskly, pausing in the doorway of 2C, lips pursed and a critical frown on her pinched face. ‘Lucy will be disappointed if you’re not there to see her open her presents.’
Georgie doubted that. It was Sharon who’d be disappointed given she’d organised the baby shower and she lived for the accompanying praise: ‘Great choice of presents, Sharon. What would we do without you?’ Georgie’s naive hope that kicking in twenty dollars to the farewell gift fund and signing the card would be enough faded fast. Experience had taught her that Sharon wouldn’t budge from the doorway until Georgie had exited the classroom.
She swallowed her sigh and picked up her Keep Calm and Pretend it’s on the Lesson Plan mug. ‘I was just on my way.’
She walked into the crowded staff room where a beaming Lucy sat surrounded by women and a staggering pile of gifts. Georgie busied herself putting a teabag in her mug and carefully filling it with water from the instant hot-water tap before joining the outer circle. This consisted entirely of the male staff members and she could hear the low rumble of a discussion about the cricket between the principal and the visiting psychologist.
She found herself standing next to the new relief PE teacher and realised with quiet regret that she couldn’t remember his name. Was it Brad or Brent? She was almost certain it started with a B but then again she might be grasping at straws. She really should pay more attention at staff meetings when the sessional staff members were introduced.
‘Do you want to hustle in?’ he asked, angling his body slightly so she could step forward.
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine here.’
Someone squealed and clapped. ‘Oh my God! Did you knit that, Sharon? It’s so tiny.’
Georgie gulped tea and immediately regretted it as it burned all the way down.
‘You sure you don’t want to see?’ The PE teacher, whose height dwarfed hers, gave her a cheeky grin. ‘I hear there’s a hand-smocked nightie although my favourite so far is the bib that says, “Party in my cot at 2 am, bring a bottle.”’
She summoned a bright smile, dredging it up from who knew where, and dragged it past the permanent brick of grief that was firmly cemented in her chest by a dull and empty ache. Locking the smile onto tight cheeks she said, ‘I’m guessing the student teachers bought that one.’
His chocolate caramel eyes crinkled around the edges. ‘Are you implying I’m past partying at 2 am?’
Georgie always found it hard to estimate anyone’s age but she’d hazard a guess that Brandon, Barton, Brendon—God, what was his name?—was thirty at the very least. She’d been thirty once. ‘I’m thinking you can make it to midnight once a week as long as the next day isn’t a school day.’
He laughed. ‘That’s both harsh and sadly true. I can’t even blame getting up in the night for kids. Do you have any?’
Given they were strangers at a baby shower it was a perfectly normal question; a societal standard like where did you go to school? Are you married? How long have you been teaching? A polite question and one whose answer he probably had very little interest in. It was a question she should have been prepared for and right up until the moment he’d asked it, she’d been confident. After all, she had rock-solid protective armour in place with no gaps for attack. Only, his question hit like a rogue grenade, knocking her off balance and throwing her back to a time and place that had stained her soul with the indelible ink of loss.
She badly wanted to answer yes, because it felt disrespectful to say no but a yes would only bring more questions. Questions that would slide off his tongue with the ease of rolling mercury. Questions that would batter and bruise her until she was blotchy and riddled with pain. So she lied like she always did with strangers. ‘Only the terrors of 2C.’
‘That class is nature’s contraception,’ he said, giving her a look that combined both respect and sympathy, ‘and I’ve only taught them twice for an hour each time.’
She found her tight smile relaxing into something more genuine. ‘Thanks for running them ragged for me. Rahul actually managed to sit still at his table for the next session. I think he was too exhausted to get out of his seat.’
‘I’ve got a lot of time for little boys who aren’t designed to sit,’ he said with
a rueful smile.
She caught a glimpse of a curly-haired little boy with big brown eyes and an impish grin. She was about to ask if he’d caused his teachers angst when another round of oohs, ahhhs and ‘So cute!’ bounced off the staffroom walls. She focused on not wincing.
‘I don’t get it. It just looks like a blanket to me,’ Brock or Brady said, sounding bemused as he reported what he could easily see over the top of everyone else’s heads.
‘It will be hand embroidered with a ring of flowers, and accompanying bears or sheep,’ she offered by way of explanation despite wanting to avoid all discussion of baby accoutrements.
He took another look. ‘Sheep. You’ve obviously been to this rodeo before.’ Turning to the table that was groaning with food he picked up a platter and offered it to her. ‘Cake, Georgie?’
Oh, God. He knew her name. What the hell was his? Come on, brain. Spit it out. B … b …b … b … ‘Yes, please. Ah, thanks, B … Ben.’ His name shot out of her mouth.
‘Trying to remember my name’s been driving you crazy for the entire conversation, hasn’t it?’
‘Not at all, Ben,’ she said, trying to sound cool and queenly like her mother but failing miserably.
He laughed and once again his warm brown eyes gazed down at her. How had she failed to notice his lovely eyes before? Probably because she’d been busy wrangling 2C to line up so he could take them out for PE.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and as it was recess she pulled it out and read the message.
This is the recipe you’re making for Edwina’s 65th party. Harriet x.
She sighed.
‘Bad news?’ Ben asked between mouthfuls of cake.
‘No.’ She slid her phone back into the pocket of her dress. ‘Just my bossy big sister in seventh heaven, aka, organising everyone. This time it’s for my mother’s birthday party, which I didn’t even know was being planned.’
A streak of understanding shot across Ben’s dimpled cheek. ‘Once the youngest, always the youngest.’
‘Exactly.’ A moment of simpatico passed between them, warming her. ‘You never get to have an opinion and you’re always told what to do.’
‘But you can get away with a lot.’ Mischief danced in his eyes. ‘I reckon Mum and Dad had run out of parenting energy by the time I arrived.’
‘You don’t sound very scarred by that.’
He shrugged. ‘Flying under the radar has its benefits.’
Georgie thought about her own parents. She’d certainly been the surprise baby. Had they been tired of the job by the time she’d arrived? Come to think of it, that might explain a lot.
The pre-bell music suddenly blared out of the speakers, signalling that recess was almost over, and Lucy made a quick thank-you speech, her hand unconsciously rubbing her pregnant belly. Everyone cheered. Georgie clapped politely. The bell finally rang, sending relief washing through her like a balm; she’d survived and she was now home free. Walking purposefully to the door, she escaped into the corridor and took her first deep breath in fifteen minutes.
Ben caught her up. ‘You going to drinks tonight at the pub after work?’
She rarely went to Friday-night drinks and she opened her mouth to say no, but instead she got a flash of her tiny rented house. If she didn’t count the mould in the shower, the only living things waiting for her there were her potted anthurium and her cat. ‘Maybe.’
Ben smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll see you there.’
He pushed open the outside door and she stood watching him run sure-footedly down the bank of concrete steps, the sun-kissed tips of his curly hair glinting in the sunshine.
ISBN: 9781489247018
TITLE: BIRTHRIGHT
First Australian Publication 2018
Copyright © 2018 Fiona Lowe
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