Birthright

by Fiona Lowe

  Oh, Dad. You would have loved the kids. She shook off the melancholy, wondering why her father had been popping in and out of her thoughts recently. Was it because he’d only been forty-nine when he’d died and Alex was now forty-seven?

  Kevin had died before Sarah met Alex but she felt sure her father would have liked him. They certainly shared a lot of traits. Well, they had, right up until last week. Over the years, she’d sometimes pondered the similarities between the two men she loved. Had part of her attraction to Alex been that he reminded her of her father? They certainly shared the ability to fix just about anything.

  She tossed the manual for the Victa lawn mower into the discard pile. It had been a lemon from the moment her mother bought it, and she’d given it to Sarah and Alex when they’d first returned to Australia. Alex immediately took it apart and rebuilt it, only to discover one piece left over. Despite the machine running better than it ever had, he dismantled it again, just like Kevin would have done, and started over. Alex always lavished love and care on engines; apparently he was only cavalier with relationships.

  Sarah ditched more aged and expired warranties and manuals for a variety of household items, including the colour television her parents bought in 1975—they were one of the first families in Mingunyah to own one; a 1980 state-of-the-art Molineux food processor that came with every possible attachment and Sarah barely remembered her mother ever using; two fridges; one freezer and three washing machines. Then she started on the ten— ten!—manila folders of receipts. Had her mother kept a receipt for everything she’d ever purchased? Sarah could understand the meticulous care of jewellery receipts—they were important for insurance purposes—but the rest of the receipts were yellowed with age and could have been chucked out years ago.

  The playlist moved into ’90s music and she needed the soaring beats of Coldplay as she started on the middle drawer. The first few expander files held old tax returns and bank statements, which she was hesitant to throw away so she invoked a ‘decade’ rule and put the rest in an archive box just in case Margaret freaked out. Dust clung to her nostrils, making everything smell musty and old, and her stomach rumbled. She pushed the drawer closed and pondered her options for lunch. She could duck out to the bakery but when she’d done that the day before, the staff had presented her with a raft of issues and expected her to solve them. Best to stay in and rustle up something from the fridge.

  As she left the study her phone beeped with a message from Edmund. It was short and sweet: Thank you.

  A fizz of delight spun through her. He wanted her. He appreciated her. Unlike her husband, he didn’t want space from her. But as Alex’s words came at her with the accuracy of a long-range missile, they cast doubt and uncertainty over Edmund’s message. What did ‘thank you’ really mean? Thank you and let’s do it again? Thank you, but the real you didn’t live up to my long-held fantasy, so goodbye?

  Stop it! She hated how wayward and runaway thoughts invaded her mind and totally took over. Five days ago, she’d rarely second guessed anything about herself or her life; she’d never needed to. She’d known exactly who she was—a loving and loved wife, a loving and loved mother and daughter, and an award-winning businesswoman running an internationally successful business. Her life was full albeit slightly out of balance, but she’d been planning on rectifying that. All it had taken to upend her equanimity and make her question everything was Alex saying, I need space from you.

  ‘I need food,’ she said out loud to shut up the voices. She opened the fridge with a jerk.

  Her jaw dropped. Instead of the usual bottle of milk, the two main shelves in the door were filled with one-litre Tetra Paks of tomato juice. At first she thought they must belong to Anita, but then she remembered Anita was using the fridge in the butler’s pantry; the health department had approved that one because the food for her classes had to be kept separate from Margaret’s.

  Why did her mother have eight boxes of tomato juice in her fridge? Seeking answers, Sarah’s gaze shifted to the interior shelves. There was an opened container of yoghurt, a black banana, a Tupperware container labelled ‘Chicken Casserole’ in Anita’s distinctive Victorian modern cursive script, some cheese slices—seriously, Mum? Plastic cheese?—a box of her mother’s favourite chocolates and a packet of batteries.

  Batteries? She was reminded of the time when the kids were little and she’d been so distracted that she’d once put a Lego toy in the fridge and the jam in the toy box. Picking up the batteries, she turned them over. The day before, Ellie had insisted their mother was confused. Sarah hadn’t seen any evidence of disorientation and was convinced that if Ellie spent more time with Margaret, she wouldn’t be making such outrageous claims. But batteries in the fridge and a surfeit of tomato juice did give her pause. She reminded herself that Margaret had been on the way to the supermarket when the accident occurred, which would account for the lack of food in the fridge.

  She was relieved to find half-a-dozen frozen meals, a loaf of bread and a tub of salted caramel ice cream in the freezer. Given the limited lunch options, Sarah overrode her foodie soul and made herself a toastie with the mass-produced cheese. She chased it with an apple and some tomato juice.

  She was just rinsing the plate when her phone rang, displaying her brother’s name. ‘Cameron, how’s Mum?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling.’

  A pain twisted in her chest. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Apparently, she’s had a mild stroke.’

  Sarah sat down hard as memories of her grandfather with a tightly clawed hand and a drooping, drooling mouth assailed her. ‘Oh God, how bad?’

  ‘Jeez, Sarah. I said mild. Why are you always such a panic merchant?’

  And just like that she was fifteen again and visualising slamming her fist into his handsome, sneering face. ‘Define “mild”? Can she talk? Walk?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t notice too much difference. She’s got some problems swallowing and her speech is a bit slurred. They’re admitting her to monitor her overnight. If there’s no change by noon tomorrow they’ll transfer her to Mingunyah for rehab. They’re talking about physio and stuff so she’ll probably be in hospital for a few weeks but it’s easier at home than down here.’

  ‘I’ll drive down.’

  ‘It’s not worth it. Even if you leave now, you’d get stuck in peakhour traffic and by the time you arrive, visiting hours will almost be over. I’m staying at the apartment tonight and we can discuss it all in the morning when we know more. If she needs to stay longer in Melbourne, you can drive down and bring her some nighties.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Sarah hated conceding that his plan made sense.

  ‘It’s what you’d tell me if the situation was reversed.’

  And she couldn’t argue with that. ‘Can I talk to her?’

  ‘She’s having tests.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, please send her my love.’ A loud rumbling noise that sounded a lot like a tram filled her ear. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside the hospital.’

  Granted, it had been a long since she’d been to Heidelberg, but she was fairly confident that no trams ran past the hospital. ‘I thought her appointment was at the Austin?’

  ‘It got changed. I have to go. I’ll text you the details.’

  The line went dead just as she asked, ‘But where’s Mum?’

  Fuming, she stared at her phone. Why was it that even when Cameron was being helpful, he still managed to annoy her? Without thinking, she opened a new text message and was halfway through typing it when she stopped. Were you supposed to tell your estranged husband about your mother’s mild stroke?

  You’re not estranged. It’s time apart.

  I slept with Edmund.

  Had that one act pushed her over an invisible line into separation territory?

  It doesn’t have to. You didn’t promise Alex you wouldn’t sleep with someone.

  That’s because I was never going to do it!
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br />   According to the Cosmopolitan magazine she’d found in Emma’s room a couple of months earlier, young women now owned their sexual needs and monogamy wasn’t guaranteed. She remembered saying, ‘Rubbish!’ before tossing it into the recycling. As much as she wanted to think that she’d owned her sexual needs the night before, she knew it was alcohol and a floundering self-esteem that had taken total control. She felt lost and at sea in a life devoid of all the usual anchors and now her mother was sick, adding to her discombobulation. Needing the routine job of filing more than ever, she returned to the study and pulled open the top and final drawer.

  Unlike the previous drawers, this one contained more recent paperwork, although it lacked the rigid labelling system of the older files. The first suspension folder contained a mishmash of photos: Emma, Phoebe and Ruby on horseback; Noah standing proudly next to a sandcastle; her parents’ wedding; Cameron in his christening frock; and one of her and Alex looking young and happy, bouncing Finn and Gus on their knees. A lump rose in her throat, fast followed by a wave of anger.

  Why, Alex? Why?

  Tossing the folder aside, she picked up the next one. It appeared to be bills: phone, power, property rates, home and contents insurance and car insurance. She set the car insurance aside; her mother’s car would need some panel work. When she returned to the untidy pile she glimpsed the words ‘Tack and Co’. Wondering what her mother could have possibly bought from Mingunyah’s horse-riding equipment store, she pulled out the paper. She blinked at the $5125 invoice for an equestrian saddle.

  She immediately recalled Anita telling her that Ruby was thrilled with her new saddle. Sarah had assumed Cameron had bought it, but it appeared it was their mother who had paid the big bucks. Given Margaret wasn’t known for her generosity outside of birthdays and Christmas, and even then her giving was fiscally prudent, the saddle was an incredibly munificent gift. A twinge of jealousy scurried uncomfortably through Sarah. Margaret had never given a gift to Finn, Gus or Emma that came anywhere close to the price of the saddle, and they were the grandchildren who’d received most of Margaret’s attention.

  Ruby is Cameron’s child. The needy and traitorous voice from her childhood—one she hadn’t heard in years—rose shrilly in her mind. Cameron’s the golden child, the favourite. She loves him more.

  Sarah shook herself. Her mother had the right to spend her money any way she chose and if she wished to give a saddle to Ruby, who was a very talented rider, then Sarah had no right to comment.

  She returned her attention to the job at hand, tossing the utility bills that were older than a year along with the expired insurance certificates. The recycling pile grew larger by the minute.

  It was inside the last suspension folder, stuck between a brochure for a cruise and an invoice for travel insurance, that she found a plastic sleeve containing an invoice and a certificate of authenticity for a cello.

  Her mind boggled at the five-figure sum. This must be the documentation for Phoebe’s cello. The cello both Anita and Cameron constantly bemoaned the cost of while at the same time bragging about how much talent blessed Phoebe, and how the purchase of a lesser instrument would disadvantage her. Cameron had stood in Sarah’s kitchen a year earlier saying, ‘We had no choice but to fork out the big bucks. But dear God, if the little girls want to learn an instrument, it has to be the recorder.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Were Cameron and Anita lying because they wanted to spare her feelings that their daughters were receiving incredibly generous gifts when they knew the other grandchildren were not? Did they assume that her kids had already received gifts like this in the past and, as nothing had ever been said, there was a tacit agreement to obfuscate? Or were they lying because they’d asked Margaret to pay?

  With the deft skill of a clerk with an ink-blackened rubber thimble on her finger, she determinedly raced through the paperwork. Finally, she sat back, sweat pooling on her eyelids and she tried to slow her racing heart. She’d found six partial payments to her older nieces’ exclusive and expensive Melbourne girls’ school. Cameron and Anita had not only lied to her; they’d done it on multiple occasions. That Cameron had lied didn’t shock or surprise Sarah as much as it should, but Anita—her lies cut like a knife, the pain sharp and eviscerating. Anita was her sister and confidante. They told each other everything.

  You haven’t told her about Edmund.

  That’s totally different.

  From the day Cameron had introduced a young, wide-eyed and overwhelmed Anita to the family, Sarah had loved her and had been determined to be the sister Anita never had. In turn, Anita became the sister Sarah had wished for in Ellie but had never known. Anita joked she and Sarah were so close that if she turned up with a dead body, Sarah would just grab the gloves and shovel and later provide the wine, no questions asked. So why had she lied about the cello, the saddle and the school fees?

  Was it Cameron’s idea to lie? Anita’s unquestioning spousal allegiance always puzzled Sarah, but then again, what did she know? Cameron wasn’t the husband who’d told his wife he wasn’t happy and hadn’t been for a long time. Even so, Sarah couldn’t fathom Anita’s behaviour unless she was an unwilling participant. That idea made more sense and she was momentarily reassured until a voice inside her head said, What else don’t they want you to know about?

  As if on cue, Anita’s name lit up her phone.

  ‘Hi, Anita,’ Sarah said tightly, then forced herself to add in friendlier tones, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Oh my God, Sarah. What a shock about Margaret. Just as well she was in Melbourne when it happened.’

  ‘Just as well it was mild.’

  ‘Yes, of course, that too. But Cameron says she’s going to need rehabilitation.’

  ‘And we might need to seriously talk about her moving.’

  ‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’

  Something about the way Anita said the words ran up a warning flag. Was her sister-in-law’s concern for Margaret or was it for her cooking classes and high teas?

  ‘The most important thing is we do what’s best for Mum.’

  ‘Absolutely. But really, it’s too early to be making any big decisions, especially when we don’t know all the details.’

  Details was right! Sarah knew nothing about the details of a saddle, a $15,000 cello or $20,000 worth of school fees. ‘How’s Ruby enjoying her new saddle?’ The question was petty and she instantly regretted it. This situation needed to be finessed and tackling Anita about it over the phone was not the way to go.

  ‘Oh, she loves it. Did I tell you that the first time she competed using it, she got a blue ribbon in the schools’ equestrian event?’

  Sarah knew she should just say, ‘How exciting,’ and change the subject. But she glanced at the invoice for the saddle and, with the bit between her teeth, threw caution to the wind. ‘I bet Cameron had fun beating Rob Bartlett down on the price.’

  ‘You know how he loves to haggle. He got a good price but it still cost us a small fortune.’ Anita gave a tinkling laugh. ‘But I’m not telling you anything. You bought a new saddle for Emma last year.’

  She had, but it had cost a fifth of what Ruby’s had. Hang on! Anita just said, ‘it still cost us a small fortune’. Not ‘it cost Margaret a small fortune’ or even ‘it cost a small fortune’. Fury blew through Sarah like a hot north wind, leaving treachery and mistrust swirling in her gut. If Anita was lying about the gifts, then it was only a small leap to assume she was lying about other things. Suddenly the idea of Anita having free run of Mill House without Margaret there to monitor things seriously bothered her.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Ellie listened to Noah reading to her, his mouth slowly forming the challenging words, and tried not to let her concentration wander. She wanted to be present, wanted to enjoy his childhood, but her responsibilities pressed in on her. She inhaled her son’s sweet, clean scent and absorbed the heat from his soft, warm body. Unlike the summer, when it was hard to get him inside and sitt
ing still, the early fall of winter darkness lent itself to early bath time, dinner and snuggling up.

  ‘Pen-ell-lope.’ Noah sounded out the name on the page.

  ‘Pen-ell-o-pee,’ she corrected him.

  He was on the second last page of the book when he suddenly stopped reading and scrambled to the edge of the bed. ‘Someone’s here.’

  She grabbed the back of his pyjama top. ‘Everyone’s here and you know the deal. You can’t go and play with Bree until you’ve finished your reader.’

  ‘No, silly,’ he said with an exaggerated eye roll. ‘I mean a visitor.’

  ‘It’s not polite to call people silly.’

  Up until the eviction notice, drop-in visitors had been rare at the old farm but that didn’t mean the household wasn’t social. To be accurate, Wendy, Grace and Rachel were very social and Ellie enjoyed being included in their slipstream. Her housemates’ friends were an eclectic group and in the past two years, they’d thrown them a winter solstice dinner, a spring blossom frolic and an autumn harvest picnic in the orchard. Without a dam, a pool or access to the river, summer was just too hot for entertaining at home.

  Home. The word dragged across her mind like a blunt blade. It wasn’t going to be home for very much longer. Already it had an air of ennui, with packing boxes stacked in the hall. What had been the happiest household she’d ever lived in was breaking up and whenever she thought about it, she fought back tears. For the previous couple of weeks, friends had been dropping in unannounced— often with wine—to grieve with them and say a last farewell to the quaint old house and orchard.

  Noah strained forward. ‘But I want to see who it is.’

  Her son was far more sociable and interested in people than Ellie, which she conceded was a good thing. From the moment he was born, she’d been determined to do everything in her power to protect his innocent trust and enthusiasm.