Oh Matilda: Who Bloody Killed Her? Chapter 6

Fiona Harari is a Weekend Australian Magazine feature writer and a renowned author — and she’s zeroing in on our story’s most mysterious character.

 

This is ‘summer reading’ like nothing you’ve read before: a diverse field of writers collaborating on a novel that will captivate you through summer.

Each author had just three days to write their chapter, with complete freedom over story and style; it’s fast, fun and very funny.

Tune in over the summer to see how the story unfolds.

Today, Fiona Harari with Chapter Six.

By Fiona Harari

Mother had no idea what De Kock replied. Not that she cared. She’d missed most of the past few minutes anyway, sitting sombrely in her lounge chair, eyes closed, as though she had somehow dozed off amid the mayhem.

Mother was not happy. Stuck on this bloody island, people dropping off as fast as boobies falling from the sky. In her mid-50s, but deliberately looking older, she was tired of acting. She had done it all for Braddy for years, and willingly But this trip was already too long and she was yearning for a Little Night Music. Instead she was being forced to mingle with these ageing thespians and a Chorus Line of wannabes, storm churning outside, not even a chance of Singing in the Rain.

Musicals. Her mind was always wandering there. Fame. A Star is Born. Anything Goes. The titles belonged to some of the greatest productions ever staged but they also plotted her own ambitions. Once so lofty. Then they’d almost fallen off a cliff. And All That Jazz.

Back then, before she was Mother, the deliberately nameless parent who accompanied her adult son on every work trip, she was Maria Annie Champers, aspiring entertainer and toe tapping wunderkind. When she was four her parents had been unable to afford the cost of a babysitter and theatre tickets, so they had sat her on their knees late one night at the new stage production of My Fair Lady at Her Majesty’s Theatre in Melbourne. With little idea of what to expect, Maria was looking forward to the choc top she was promised at interval if she sat quietly through the first act. But it turned out no bribery was required. Within minutes of the curtain rising, she was smitten. By the time Eliza Doolittle was singing Wouldn’t It Be Loverly, Maria had a dream.

Ever since she’d dedicated herself to scaling the heights of musical theatre success – Climb Every Mountain, as Reverend Mother sang in her beloved The Sound of Music – debuting as Wendy in Peter Pan in her primary school play, when the adulation of 100 applauding parents reconfirmed her life’s course. Countless amateur productions followed: Paint Your Wagon, Pippin, Mary Poppins, her roles expanding with each show until, at 19, she found a musical that didn’t start with the letter P and was cast as Anna’s understudy in a travelling regional production of The King and I.

By her early 20s, toe-tapping and tuned to perfection, she was on the cusp of greatness.

Cast in the starring role in a nationally touring production of Evita, she had achieved The Impossible Dream.

Then one night after rehearsals she met a gorgeous American producer: tight dark curls, deep tan, deep voice. He told her he was scouting for stars. He told her she was stupendous. He told her that if she slept with him the role of Dolly Levy in his new Broadway production of Hello Dolly was hers.

She did and it wasn’t. Turns out he was no producer. She wasn’t even sure he was American, if the bogan accent he used when he sleep-talked was any indication. But by the time she realised this it was too late. After their first night together she’d called the Evita production office and informed the receptionist she was quitting for a bigger stage.

A few weeks later, Mr Broadway Producer said he was going out for a packet of cigarettes – I’m not making this up – and the crumpled back panel of his ill-fitting reefer jacket was the last Maria ever saw of him.

She called the production office again, repeatedly, but the Evita director refused to take her calls. She was so upset she started throwing up. And she started gaining weight.

By the time Braddy was born a few months later, Maria was a single mother who still Dreamed a Dream. Now, though, and ever since, she projected her ambitions on to her baby.

Braddy would be the greatest musical stage performer of all time. Even greater than The Boy from Oz. Take that, Hugh Jackman.

She returned to the singing and dancing treadmill, but this time her baby was the beneficiary of her hard work. She schlepped him to classes and auditions, cajoled him when he was more interested in making friends than performing. Haunted by her own failure, she deliberately neglected her own appearance so she might look aged, lest anyone from her own musical past recognise her. For the same reason, when her then teenage son started calling her Maria in public, thinking it made him seem older, she convinced him that Mother sounded more professional. She was, after all, his parent/manager.

He complied as usual. And because she accompanied him everywhere – You’ll Never Walk Alone was the mantra of her motherhood – others started calling her Mother. Soon everyone, it seemed, had forgotten her real name.

She – they – seemed back on track. Then her son Bradley Champion – she’d changed both their surnames from Champers year ago – started losing interest in musicals. Ya Got Trouble, as they sang in the Music Man. Now he, too, was being touted as a wunderkind – but as a television director!

Again Maria fine tuned her plan. He would take on a television directing role so ridiculous he’d be crying out to leave the industry and reprise the starring role he’d perfected a decade ago in Oliver, before idiotically opting for a life BEHIND THE SCENES and away from a live audience

So she’d convinced him to take this job on this God-awful island.

That meant she’d have to be here for weeks too. Only a few days in and she was bored shitless. The other night in desperation she’d gone for a midnight walk but the solitude was shattered by some idiots playing Skyhooks at full blast, and blowing a bullhorn. And they weren’t even discreet about breaking quarantine, shouting and carrying on like someone was being murdered, not even caring about their possessions! She’d almost stumbled on a discarded silver shoe – she kicked it away – and in the darkness she’d walked past a few of the party goers, her presence only briefly noted when the moon temporarily peaked out from behind a cloud. She didn’t chat to them of course. Like hell. It was late and Mother was off duty.

Now, hunkered here in this lounge with other guests, Braddy was rattling on about something to do with mysteries but Maria, her eyes gently closed, had tuned out.

Her boy would be back treading the boards very soon, she had no doubt. She’d already been partially right. He was definitely acting again, even if it was like Hercule bloody Poirot – although the only thing he seemed to be entertaining at the moment was this ridiculous idea of hosting a podcast.

As her son continued lecturing the small gathering, Mother stared at him intently. In her head, Maria was singing I Believe in You.

She was not, however, the only one on the island obsessing about musicals. Elsewhere in the Pandanus Lounge, someone else was wandering into musical territory, perhaps unintentionally, plagued by one recurring thought. How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?

For app readers, swipe to the Summer Novel section to find all chapters or click to read Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 or Chapter 5

Fiona Harari is a staff writer for The Weekend Australian Magazine. She is the author of two books, A Tragedy in Two Acts: Marcus Einfeld and Teresa Brennan, and We Are Here: Talking with Australia’s oldest Holocaust survivors.