Daughter of Mine

by Fiona Lowe

  Steve shot her a knowing look. ‘Tell me you resisted the urge to push her buttons by asking if Charlie’s really onboard with the university plans?’

  ‘Oh, I had the urge all right,’ Xara said, feeling the familiar burn of frustration under her ribs, ‘but just as I was about to say, “Are you sure Charlie wants to do medicine?”, the twins flooded the bathroom. Harry left as I was mopping up the mess.’ She rubbed her face, thinking about the respite-care house. ‘Why don’t I just ring James myself?’

  Steve groaned. ‘That’s not a good idea. No matter how hard you try, you’ll go all lawyer on him. You know how much he hates that.’

  ‘Once,’ she spluttered indignantly, remembering the infamous family lunch. ‘It only happened once.’

  Steve tilted his head as he looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Yeah, and he’s never forgotten. This project’s too important to get him offside. Besides, I’ve already tried calling and leaving messages. Our best bet for the next step is through Harry.’

  ‘She’s operating all day tomorrow but if James still hasn’t got back to you by then, I’ll call her.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work I guess I can always talk to him about it at the party. There have to be some perks to being the brother-in-law of the mayor.’

  She gave a faux gasp. ‘Steven Paxton, I’m shocked. You’re always taking pot shots at the old boys’ club and their networks. Now you’re planning on doing the same thing.’

  The moonlight caught the grey streaks in his once jet-black hair and his face sobered as he closed his book. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes for Tashie.’

  Her heart filled and ached all at the same time. ‘And that’s what I love about you.’ She kissed him softly on the lips in the way couples do when they’ve known each other a very long time. Their life was nothing like they’d imagined when they’d naively plunged into marriage all those year ago, but then, was anyone’s?

  A memory of a hot summer’s night on the veranda of her grandparents’ old fibro beach shack at Apollo Bay came rushing back to her. It was a week before she’d started Year Seven and her first year of boarding school, which had coincided with Harry’s final year of school. As always, her big sister had been full of unsolicited advice on who to make friends with, the pitfalls to avoid in the first few weeks and suggestions on how to cope with living with forty other girls.

  ‘Never forget you belong there,’ Harriet had said confidently. ‘Mannering House exists because our great-great-grandfather donated the money to the school.’

  The thought of telling people that had made Xara’s stomach cramp. During her six years at the school, she’d never mentioned the family’s connection unless asked directly. Her behaviour had been in stark contrast to Harriet’s. Her big sister had always been quick to tell people that the Mannerings were instrumental in starting the school over a century ago. Harriet had owned the school during her years there: head girl, recipient of full academic colours, captain of the girls’ first rowing and the girl on everyone’s invitation list. Now she owned Billawarre: surgeon, wife of the mayor and the woman on everyone’s invitation list.

  Xara recalled having asked her that night years ago if she was worried about leaving school. Harriet’s face had taken on a slightly bewildered look, fast followed by a pitying expression, as if the concept of being anxious were foreign to her. ‘I’m going to ace VCE, go to Melbourne University, become a doctor and be the first female surgeon in Billawarre.’

  Xara, who’d just discovered the heady sensations of being kissed by a boy, had said, ‘If you do that, you’re going to be living in Melbourne a really long time. What happens if you fall in love with a city bloke?’

  Harriet’s laugh had been dismissive. ‘I will only fall in love with a man who’s prepared to live in Billawarre and who earns as much as or more than me.’

  And in typical Harriet style, she’d done all those things. James, who’d grown up in rural New South Wales, had not only adopted Billawarre as his own, but he successfully ran an accounting, financial planning and investment business, which earned him far more than Harriet made—and she was no slouch in the income department. Two years ago, James had stood for a position on the rural city council and just under a year ago, he’d been elected mayor.

  Perfect marriage. Perfect child. Perfect life.

  Xara pulled her thoughts away from her older sister, not wanting to wander down the toxic green path of envy that often seduced her and always left her feeling nauseous and unsettled. Most days she didn’t want Harriet’s life—perfection bored her, which was fortunate given what life threw at her on a daily basis. But she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t want a little bit of Harriet’s disposable income and the freedom it gave her. Who wouldn’t experience twinges of jealously for the annual and occasionally twice-yearly overseas holidays, not to mention the conference junkets, the quiet and comfortable European car, the seeming ease with which Harry and James paid Charlotte’s phenomenal school fees—an amount similar to what some people earned in a year. Then there was Harriet’s wardrobe of designer wear. Not that Xara attended even one tenth of the functions Harriet did, but a girl always liked to look good, even if there wasn’t a big call for Collette Dinnigan out on the farm. Xara’s day-to-day wardrobe was far more prosaic and included R.M. Williams boots and sturdy cotton work pants.

  To be honest, she’d pass on the clothes if it meant the extension to the farmhouse got finished. It had been creeping forward at a snail’s pace for eighteen months, because the funds earmarked for it had been channelled into buying feed and surviving the current drought. Life on the farm was a cycle of golden fleeces, high lamb prices and perfect weather conditions for both pasture and sheep, invariably followed by a glut of wool, crashing lamb prices and soul-sucking drought. Monies earned in the good years got reinvested back into the farm in an attempt to cushion the impact of the droughts. Yet slowly but surely they were reaping the benefits. A good farmer needed to be a canny small businessman, skilled in animal husbandry, part mechanic, part nurturer, part accountant, proactive rather than reactive, open to change, at ease with the isolation and above all, an optimist. Steve was all of those things and as far as the farm was concerned, their life was pretty much as she’d imagined—a continuously fluid financial state and a whopping overdraft.

  Farm life and family went hand in glove and she had no regrets there. Unlike Harriet, Xara had been unexpectedly completed by motherhood. It still stunned her how much she loved it. There was something wonderful about being needed and being loved so unconditionally, although that would likely change the moment the twins hit puberty, so she was enjoying it while it lasted. Despite or perhaps because of the challenges, her family gave her a sense of satisfaction unlike any other job she’d ever done. They also drove her crazier than any other job and at times frustrated her until she was tearing her hair out. But somehow the combination made her feel valued and, for the most part, happy.

  The one thing neither she nor Steve had anticipated was having a child who’d never be able to care for herself. Tasha’s arrival had been a combination of overwhelming love accompanied with crushed dreams, and all of it wrapped up in a huge red bow of guilt. Guilt that she’d done something to cause the cerebral palsy. Guilt that she ached for the child Tasha may have been without her disability. Guilt and sorrow for even feeling that way. It had taken the twins’ safe and healthy arrival to temper her feelings of failure as a creator of life.

  She knew people thought her crazy to have gone on to have more children when Tasha needed so much care, but she was incapable of stopping at one child. On a rational level, she knew that on top of the care Tasha required, increasing the size of their family would effectively kill her career as a solicitor. But when had rational ever been part of the equation of creating a family? More than anything, she’d needed to prove to herself that she and Steve could create a healthy child. She’d needed that to ease her sense of inadequacy as a biological mother.

  Sh
e knew Harriet thought another baby was a stress Xara and Steve didn’t need. In fact, Harriet had implied that two babies was just plain excessive, but Xara saw the twins as double confirmation that she wasn’t broken. She loved their energy and enthusiasm but their arrival had brought a whole new level of mother-guilt down upon her as she juggled their needs with the overwhelming needs of Tasha.

  Caring for Tasha’s physical and emotional wellbeing was in many ways the same as caring for the twins, except the boys eventually learned to do things for themselves. Mind you, she had her doubts they’d ever master tying shoelaces. No, it was the added burden of constantly having to write annual, as well as one-off, applications for financial grants that was wearing her and Steve down. The constant need to justify and fight for precious funding meant things like Tasha’s ongoing therapy, her integration aide, or added extras like a new wheelchair all became a battleground with bureaucrats or the health-insurance provider. Xara may have given up law but she’d become her daughter’s lobbyist as well as an advocate for other parents of children with disabilities in the district. The rollout of the National Disability Insurance Scheme was something they didn’t want to pin their hopes on too much just yet because it sounded too good to be true. But, oh, how wonderful it would be if grant submissions became a thing of the past.

  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 l
ike 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.