Chapter 7
‘How about this blue teddy bear, honey?’ Clem said, waving a navy toy in front of Indi. ‘Or maybe this sweet yellow duck?’
She made quacking noises, hoping to distract her youngest daughter from the hot-pink unicorn she’d picked out for Mia’s new baby Fred, but no amount of farm animal noises would sway Indi.
‘Boys can have pink too, you know Mum,’ Harriet said, looking up from the book she’d had her nose buried in the whole shopping trip. ‘One of the guys in my class has pink sneakers, and he said he’s bringing a purple sleeping bag on school camp.’
Clem liked to think she was pretty modern, but still she found herself impressed with the kid’s bravery.
Penwarra was a country town, with pretty conservative views.
She and Hazel had talked at length about the funny looks she got when she’d opened a cafe without the support of a partner, and Hazel’s choice to embrace motherhood with an anonymous donor.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ Clem said, putting the other toys back on the shelf. ‘Fred will love a pink unicorn.’ Clem reached for her purse, and Louisa Brealy’s flyer for the Penwarra Players fluttered to the ground. Harriet scrambled out of the beanbag she’d commandeered to scoop it up.
‘What’s this? Are we going to watch a play? Is it like Beauty and the Beast?’
Clem suspected the musical they’d seen in Adelaide was a slightly different calibre to the community theatre group’s performances.
‘Maybe more like your end-of-year school concert,’ she replied, catching the shopkeeper’s narrow look and fluffing up the beanbag.
Harriet’s shoulders sagged. ‘Pansy always gets the lead roles in the school concert. She does dance twice a week and calisthenics and singing classes. I’ll never get the good parts unless they move schools and I’ll never have a chance at middle-school captain.’
‘Honey, I’m sure that’s not true,’ Clem said, leading the way to the front counter.
The school put on an inordinate number of concerts, luncheons, eisteddfods and recitals for such a small student body, and she was sure Harriet had scored a starring role in one thing or another.
‘What about the Christmas pageant in Mount Gambier? You were in that!’ She prised the unicorn out of Indi’s arms so the cashier could scan the price tag.
‘I was the donkey in the nativity scene. The only line I had was saying “heeee-haw” as we drove down the main street, and nobody could even hear me over the engine of the old truck.’
Harriet smoothed out the crinkled flyer, her chipped pink fingernails tracing the words ‘Cast wanted! All ages encouraged! No experience required.’
Clem saw the shopkeeper’s watchful gaze move from Harriet, who looked positively miserable, to Indi. Now that she had her hands free, the three-year-old was piling on glittery bracelets from the nearby display. ‘You’re taking the jewellery too?’ the cashier asked frostily.
‘No thanks,’ Clem said, looking at her watch and quickly emptying Indi’s arm of the dozen elasticised bracelets.
‘It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t get a role anyway,’ Harriet said, giving a little shrug. She folded the flyer and slid it back into Clem’s handbag.
‘Mr and Mrs Brealy run the Penwarra Players,’ Clem said as Indi, laughing and enjoying the game, wriggled like an eel, determined to keep at least one of the sparkly bracelets. ‘We can think about it.’
‘Like we were going to think about the guinea pig?’ Harriet stalked out of the store, her shoulders straight and arms crossed as she made for the exit.
Clem didn’t see Spencer Hawkins, but Harriet’s yell and frantic waving across the car park had her turning in his direction.
‘Mr H! Remember, Indi, he’s the famous guy from my school, he’s going to be on TV,’ Harriet yelled, and every late afternoon shopper in earshot swivelled in their direction.
Was it Clem’s imagination, or did Spencer cringe at that? She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and instead of the sharp haircut he’d worn throughout the final weeks of filming, his hair was floppy over his forehead and his ears.
‘Not famous,’ he said brusquely, pushing a string of trolleys towards them.
‘New job as a trolley guy?’ Clem joked. ‘With the stories Mia tells about teaching high schoolers, it sounds like herding runaway shopping trolleys would be an easier nine to five.’
He laughed at that. ‘Bugs the hell out of me when people leave them in the middle of the car park, too lazy to walk fifty metres at the end of their grocery shop.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll see you around, have a great weekend.’
It was on the tip of Clem’s tongue to tell him she’d bumped into Emily at the cafe last month, and quiz him about the Penwarra Players, but he was gone without a backwards glance.
Probably hurrying to get his groceries and head home to Emily.
Their final stop for the afternoon was Fiona’s second-hand store, where they found Jean manning the counter. ‘Woah, you won’t lose that unicorn in a hurry.’ Jean pretended to shield her eyes. ‘Neon pink suits you, Indi.’
‘It’s for baby Fred,’ Harriet corrected. ‘Do you have any new books, please?’
Jean nodded at Harriet’s hopeful question. ‘Fiona has a fresh bunch of novels out the back, knock yourself out.’ The girls ran past the pre-loved clothes and knick-knacks to the small room that housed the books and furniture.
‘Aggie Angelino told me Mia had a rough time in the delivery ward with that new bub. Such a long labour. You going to visit her?’
Clem nodded, though the thought of stepping foot inside the hospital made her pulse rise.
‘Tomorrow.’
Jean ambled out from behind the counter and rubbed Clem’s shoulder. ‘You sure that’s a good idea? It won’t bring up too many bad memories? Hearing about the mum and her poor baby in Glenelg must have been upsetting enough, you need to be gentle with yourself.’
‘Mia’s the one lying there with stitches and a newborn, I’ll be fine,’ Clem said, determined to sound more confident than she felt.
Coverage of the Glenelg incident had rattled her though, especially when her suspicions about the mother’s ill health were confirmed, so she’d pushed it to the back of her mind, just like Hazel suggested.
Clearing her throat, Clem showed Jean a photo on her phone. ‘The van’s coming along beautifully, Jack’s going to help me fit the new coffee machine on Sunday.’
The segue worked, as Clem had known it would, and the concern on Jean’s face was replaced with delight.
‘I knew you’d do it justice. It’ll be a bundle of sunshine, cruising to my old haunts, covered in sunflowers.
And hopefully Selina’s over the silly misunderstanding.
How are things working out at the cafe?’
Putting a fist to her mouth, Jean let out a sharp cough, then another, wincing as she hunched over and fumbled with the lid of her water bottle.
‘The cafe’s getting there,’ Clem said quickly, not wanting Jean to worry. ‘Here, let me unscrew the cap.’
Jean apologised, and gestured to the hand sanitiser. ‘Get a squirt of that, love. Darn germs everywhere this time of year, always are at the start of spring.’
They looked up as Harriet’s footsteps thumped along the floorboards.
‘Look what I found, Mum. It’s about an orphan in Canada. You said Mrs Brealy’s from Canada, didn’t you? The lady doing the play?
There’s nothing slow about her, Clem thought, marvelling at how Harriet retained so many pieces of information and was able to fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle.
It reminded Clem of how observant her daughter had been when her father, Adam, had come back onto the scene four years earlier, long enough to produce another baby and remind Clem of all the reasons she shouldn’t have given her heart to him in the first place.
‘Ah, you’ve heard about the Penwarra Players then?
’ Jean pointed to the shop window, where a flyer identical to the one Louisa had given Clem was taped to the glass.
‘You always did have a lovely singing voice, like your Pop,’ Jean told Harriet, with a wink at Clem.
‘Though my brother usually saves his baritone for bawdy sea shanties and footy team songs these days.’
Harriet’s cheeks reddened. ‘When did you hear me singing, Aunty Jean?’
‘You’re always singing when you’re hooning around on those rollerblades and pottering in the garden at Art’s retirement home. Old ladies like me don’t miss much.’
Clem watched Harriet’s chest fill with pride. She felt churlish for hesitating over the camp and the play, especially when she knew how much a mother’s support could make or break a situation.
‘I think you should give it a shot, Harri.’ Clem turned to her aunt. ‘It says on the flyer that you can read a piece of your own choosing for the auditions. Does it have to be from a play?’
Jean tapped her lip. ‘Not necessarily, just a piece that tugs at the hearts of the audition committee.’ She looked at the book Harriet was holding. ‘You’d make a fabulous Anne Shirley, even without the red hair. And I’d wager your mum is partial to Anne of Green Gables too?’
Clem shook her head and pulled out her wallet. ‘First time I’ve heard of it.’
Jean crossed her arms, aghast. ‘It’s the reason I went to Canada for my honeymoon. I’m sure I bought it for you when you and Jack first came to stay with Arthur and Shirl. Isn’t there still a copy in your grandmother’s old bookshelves?’
‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Clem said.
‘Well, this is my treat then,’ Jean said, waving away the money. ‘Break a leg, Harri. I bet you’ll score a part.’
Spencer hadn’t set foot inside the Mount Gambier hospital for years, and when the sterile smell assaulted his senses, he felt like turning around and walking straight back out the door.
The only thing that kept his legs moving in the direction of the lift was the news that he had somehow landed top gig as the godfather of Mia and Jeff’s new arrival, Fred.