by Kylie Ladd
Fiona sighed. God, Bronte could be so embarrassing. First the earnest questions about the artwork, as if she hadn’t asked enough in the gallery, then this—seizing that boy as if at any moment men in suits carrying clipboards were going to leap out of the bushes and snatch him away. Caro had half-risen to her feet as if to go to her, but Fiona shook her head. No one needed to make a fuss. It was just Bronte, overreacting as she always did—if Dom teased her at dinner, or someone made any sort of comment about her appearance. She was so bloody sensitive. Fiona exhaled through her teeth, cringing internally as she watched Bronte croon to the baby, who simply looked confused. How the hell had she, Fiona, raised such a thin-skinned child?
‘It is sad, isn’t it?’ Mason said. Oh God, he was going to humour her.
Fiona shifted slightly and felt something seep between her legs. Her fucking period, which had started that morning. She needed to change her tampon, but she could hardly stand up now, with Mason giving them the whole Roots treatment, and just walk off. Amira would think she was rude, and besides, she didn’t want them all watching her as she went. For almost a year now her periods had been getting heavier, thick and clotted, and it would be just her luck if she’d bled onto her pants. Caro would have heart failure. The thought made her smile. It would almost be worth such an undignified exit to see the look on Caro’s face.
‘But Sal—Yara—had her own children, at least I presume?’ said Morag. ‘She made a new family.’
‘She had Aki when she was sixteen,’ said Mason. ‘Got pregnant to a cook at the mission. She was still goin’ to school, but the nuns gave them all chores, and Sal’s was to help in the kitchen.’ He shrugged. ‘The fella denied it was his, but it was pretty plain when Aki was born.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Morag.
‘He was Japanese,’ said Amira, glancing over to see if Mason minded her taking up the story. He waved her on. ‘The only one on the mission, descended from a family of pearl divers. And, well, Aki had his eyes.’
‘Did he have to marry her?’ Caro asked.
‘I don’t think they ever spoke again,’ Mason said. Beagle Bay couldn’t afford to fire their cook, so Sal was shipped down to the St John mission in Broome to have the baby. Then that closed, so they were moved to La Grange . . . and then Sal turned eighteen, so she left.’
‘Left?’ sniffed Bronte. ‘But with Aki?’ The child on her lap wriggled away.
Amira shook her head. ‘She must have been desperate to find her people, her country. She knew Aki would be cared for. I’m sure she thought she’d come back . . .’
‘You never told me that,’ said Tess to Amira. ‘So Aki was orphaned too, really?’
Mason lifted his hat to wipe his brow, the black curls underneath springing straight up. ‘That’s the thing. All those government types with their talk, your lessons at school . . . it wasn’t just one generation that was stolen, it was the children that came after them too. Aki never had a mother. Sal didn’t know how to be a mother. How could she? She grew up in an orphanage, not a family.’
Fiona fought the urge to stand up, to walk away, to head straight to Morag’s room and that cold bottle of vodka, to switch on the air-conditioner and lie down with the bottle and not come out again until it was empty. OK, the whole Sal/Aki thing was pretty awful if it was true, but Mason was laying it on a bit thick, wasn’t he? Maybe Aki had been better off without a mother anyway. Lord knows, some women simply weren’t up to the task. Fiona had met Aki yesterday, just before dinner, when she’d come to ask Amira if she knew where Tia was, and the woman looked fine. Tall, healthy, a child on her hip, though not the one with Mason today . . . she seemed to have any number of them, small brown boys with round bellies and cheeky dark eyes, and they were fine too, they were all just fine.
Fiona felt hungry and damp and annoyed. This entire thing, the conversation that had turned into a lecture—had Amira set it up? She wouldn’t put it past her. It all seemed too smooth, the way Mason had just materialised like that and Amira had chimed in, some sort of consciousness-raising double act. Fiona picked up a twig off the ground and snapped it in two. She loved Amira, but jeez, give us a break. The fuss over Sorry Day—it had always annoyed her. She wasn’t responsible. Why should she be sorry? And what did it mean, anyway? It was just a gesture, a front, so the pollies could pat each other on the back and people like her—people who had nothing to do with the whole wretched mess, who’d barely ever met an Aborigine, never mind stolen one—could feel good about themselves, could congratulate themselves on doing the right thing. Fuck, it was all so meaningless. She’d had a shit upbringing too—her dad had shot through, her mother may as well have for all the care she took after that—but no one had ever said sorry to her. That was life, wasn’t it? It was just the luck of the draw. And Mabo, she thought, her anger rising; yeah, the abos should have some land if it was that precious to them, but how much did they need? It wasn’t as if they were actually doing anything with it. They were freeloaders, as her mother had always said. God knows, her mum wasn’t right about much, but she’d nailed that one. The handouts, the land, the special programs—that was what really upset her, made the gall rise in her throat. Everything was just given to them on a plate, while she, Fiona, had to work like a dog just to keep a roof over her head, worked harder than anyone she knew, black or white. It made her blood boil.
A hush had fallen over the group and Fiona prayed that they were done, that she could finally get to the loo and then have something to eat, but Bronte couldn’t let it go.
‘So Aki grew up in an orphanage too, just like Sal? Is that where you met her?’
Mason chuckled.
‘Nah. Aki stayed at La Grange, but she was OK. That was one of the good ones, where they didn’t try to turn the blackfellas white, just let them be who they were. There was a priest there who learned the local language, and set up a footy team just for the black boys. They sent Aki down to Perth to finish high school, because she couldn’t do it there. She stayed, got a job . . .’ He dropped his gaze, plucked at a tuft of grass near his boot. ‘We met when she was working in a bottle shop. I was a pretty regular customer. Bit too regular.’
‘Were you an alkie?’ needled Fiona. Bronte shot her a look, but stuff her. It wouldn’t hurt her to see that it wasn’t only the whites that mucked up.
‘Near enough,’ said Mason. ‘Then Tia was born and I knew I had to get my shit together. My act, I mean.’ He grinned around the circle. ‘Sorry, ladies. That was when we moved here, to get away from temptation.’
‘And now you work in the garage, and Aki runs the gallery and helps out at Wajarrgi,’ said Amira proudly, as if she was personally responsible for the turnaround.
‘What about Sal?’ asked Morag. ‘Did you ever see her again?’
‘Just once. Tia must have been about three—it was before we had any of the boys. Aki got a call from a historian who was doin’ some research into the mission kids, what happened to them, and he’d tracked Aki down through La Grange. Told us that Sal was back in the Kimberley, a place called Durack, about a day and a half from here. We met the guy and he drove us over. I think he was hopin’ for a big reunion scene.’ Mason stretched his arms out in front of him, cracking his knuckles. ‘Didn’t get it. Sal was three sheets to the wind. He was the one who ended up fillin’ us in on her history—the little she knew, anyway. She was too drunk to even know we were there.’
‘What did you do?’ whispered Caro.
‘Came home again. Went fishin’.’ He smiled at Caro’s stricken expression and stood up. ‘I just came out to get lunch—I better get back to work. Good talkin’ with you. Might see you down the beach this afternoon.’
He scooped up the child, who had crawled back to him, and strode off, pushing his hat down onto his head.
‘That was so sad . . .’ Bronte began, but she was interrupted by a loud snore from Janey, who had fallen asleep.
Lucky bitch, thought Fiona.
Janey squirted s
ome sunscreen into her palm and smeared it haphazardly across one shoulder. She’d used too much, and thick white droplets spattered onto the floor behind her, befouling the carpet like bird droppings. She paused to rub them in with one toe, then wiped her hands across her stomach, careful not to get any on her bikini. From the bathroom came the sound of humming—her mother, faffing around with her hair or her face. Cow. As if it would make any difference.
Janey picked up the sunscreen again, then changed her mind and snapped the lid shut. She hadn’t done her back, but there was no way she was going to ask Caro, not after the scene she’d made that morning in front of all the others, shrieking so loudly that the girl behind the counter in the shop had come out to see what all the fuss was about. For God’s sake, she’d only been having a nap! It wasn’t a crime. So she hadn’t listened to some story—big deal. She was tired. Her mother would be too if she’d had to spend the night on Tess’s bedroom floor, and anyway, she’d done well not to nod off before that, in that boring gallery. Fiona was right. All the pictures had looked the same.
Janey wriggled into her shorts and held her breath as she did up the zip. Were they tighter than the last time she’d worn them? Her coach had told her that for every week missed in training it would take another week to get back to the same fitness level, so that essentially this holiday was putting her a fortnight behind—time, he’d remarked, that she couldn’t afford with the state championships coming up in December. Fuck it, Janey thought, looking around for her sunglasses. Some bloody holiday. When her mum had told her they were going to Broome she’d imagined a resort, a pool, with waiters and big shady day beds and her sheets turned back every night with a chocolate left on the pillow. Not this, not some godforsaken hole where the lights went out after ten and there wasn’t even a restaurant. And yes, the beach was beautiful, but you had to hike for twenty minutes in the boiling sun to get there, and it only had two tiny shelters that they couldn’t all fit under . . . Janey located her glasses and jammed them on top of her head. She wished she was in Italy, like her father. She’d sightsee and order room service and smile coyly at all the men who whistled at her in the street. She’d drink wine and buy shoes, and there was no way she’d keep a travel diary, as her mother always insisted. She’d do what she liked, just as her dad did.
Janey sat down on the bed. It wasn’t fair, him always jetting off like he did, leaving them behind, leaving her behind. She couldn’t wait to finish school and be free, like him. Her father, she thought, saw the big picture, was involved with big things—not like her mother, who was always fussing over details, hyperventilating if the towels in the bathroom weren’t straight, or Janey’s homework was a day overdue. April was going to be just the same, she could see it already. Little Miss Perfect, with her symmetrical plaits and her pre-ruled margins in her exercise books. She’d never be much of a swimmer though, surely? Oh, they’d moved her into the intermediate squad, which was higher than Janey had been at the same age, but that was just a fluke. She’d get found out. She had to.
Caro emerged from the bathroom wearing eyeliner and lipstick. Lipstick. They were going to the beach, not a nightclub; another fabulous afternoon picking sand out of Amira’s salad rolls and trying not to get fried and listening to Tess going into raptures about shells. It was good to see her again, but honestly, she’d turned into such a yokel—she hadn’t even heard of The Voice, and her hair was mostly split ends. It was tragic. That was what happened to you when you didn’t have the internet.
‘Janey, can you run next door to Fiona’s room? I think I must have left my sarong in her bag yesterday. I can’t find it anywhere.’
Caro was bent over in her underwear, hunting through the chest of drawers, bottom in the air. Her Pilates wasn’t going to hold things for much longer, Janey thought. Her mum would have to do something that actually involved a bit of sweat.
‘Can’t you?’ she complained.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Janey, can you think of someone other than yourself for one minute?’ asked Caro, straightening up.
‘Fine,’ Janey said, stung. It wasn’t like her mother to criticise her. She must still be pissed off about that nap. ‘Perhaps you might like to put some clothes on while I’m gone, so I don’t have to look at your fat arse.’ She stormed out before Caro had a chance to respond.
There was no answer when Janey knocked on the door to Fiona and Bronte’s room, so she pushed it open and went in. ‘Fiona?’ she called out. Nothing, though she could hear the shower running in the bathroom. ‘Fiona, it’s Janey,’ she said more loudly, so she could be heard over the water. ‘Mum thinks she left her sarong in your bag. I just need to grab it.’
‘It’s Bronte,’ came the reply. ‘Mum’s at the shop. That’s fine.’
Janey was turning away when she had a sudden impulse. Before she could think better of it, she’d pulled her phone from her shorts, set it to camera, and gently pushed the bathroom door ajar. The shower curtain gaped wetly, and through the gap Janey could see Bronte washing her hair, eyes closed. Janey smirked—Bronte must have worked up quite a sweat in all her excitement over the pictures in the gallery. She raised her phone and silently snapped once, twice. The resulting images on her screen were a bit blurred, but you could see Bronte’s breasts, what there were of them.
Janey backed away from the bathroom door and peered around the room again. There was crap everywhere—at least her own mother was anal about putting stuff away—but eventually she located Fiona’s beach bag hanging from a hook on the back of the door. She reached inside and grabbed the sarong. Nestled underneath was a book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Bronte’s school novel, the one she’d been underlining on the beach yesterday. Janey felt a flash of irritation at her for being such a swot, for bringing homework on holiday. It served Bronte right that she’d taken her photo. She wasn’t sure how, but it did.
‘Thanks,’ she sung out and left, the phone wedged back in her pocket.
‘Caro, what about you? In or out?’
Caro swung her head around to find Amira looking at her expectantly.
‘Pardon? Sorry, what did you say?’ She had been gazing out to sea, watching a tiny fishing boat in the distance, lulled by the way it rose and fell on the waves. A dark figure stood at its bow, fiddling with a net or a rope. She wondered if it was Mason. Or would he be at work now? But when she’d run into him around this time yesterday he had just been returning from fishing, so maybe he finished early every day . . .
‘Wajarrgi, tomorrow,’ Amira went on. ‘The resort, remember? I’ve booked us in for lunch there. I was asking if anyone wanted to do one of their tours as well.’
Caro glanced across to the others to see what they thought, but Morag was reading a brochure and Fiona was lying on her stomach with her eyes closed.
‘I guess so,’ she said. ‘What does it involve?’
‘“Cultural tagalong tour,”’ Morag read aloud. ‘“Your local guide from the Djar . . . Djarindjin community will show you ancient sites and tell you tales from the capital-D Dreaming. Visit an Aboriginal community and experience their traditional way of life. Witness cultural rituals and make and decorate your own ceremonial spear.”’ Morag looked up. ‘Open brackets, “spear optional”, close brackets.’
‘Good luck getting that home again,’ said Janey, who’d been listening from where she lay on her towel just outside the beach shelter.
‘Cultural rituals? What, do we get to watch them sit around and drink?’ said Fiona. ‘We could do that back in Broome. Besides,’ she added, rolling over, ‘aren’t we already visiting an Aboriginal community?’
‘Wajarrgi’s different,’ Amira replied earnestly. ‘It’s set up like it was before white people came, with humpies and a campfire and everyone just wearing pelts or loincloths. They perform a corroboree, and afterwards they’ll take you down to the lagoon and show you how to use the spear.’
‘On the fish or each other?’ asked Fiona.
Morag closed the brochure, folding it
carefully along its creases.
‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I don’t know enough about that sort of thing. It sounds interesting.’
‘Me too,’ said Bronte. She was hunched in a corner of the crowded shelter, legs pulled to her chest, clearly anxious to keep herself out of the sun. Caro moved over to give her more room and was rewarded with a grateful smile. It was a shame Bronte didn’t smile more often, Caro thought. She was surprisingly pretty when she did.
‘What does it mean, tagalong?’ Morag asked.
‘That we follow them, in our own vehicle—the transport isn’t supplied,’ said Amira. ‘All the roads are dirt or sand. You have to have a four-wheel drive. If you want to do it I can take you in the troop carrier.’
‘Is that OK?’ asked Morag.
‘It’s fine. I enjoy it. Tess’ll come too, won’t you? She caught a big fish last time we went. We brought it home for dinner.’ Tess nodded and Janey rolled her eyes. ‘God, Tess, you’re practically native. You’re going to be the Bear Grylls of Salisbury High when you come back.’
‘If we come back,’ Amira interjected playfully.
‘What do you mean?’ Caro asked, finally paying her her full attention.
‘Oh, I’m joking. Melbourne just seems a continent away sometimes.’ Amira frowned. ‘I suppose it is. A hemisphere, then. A planet. A whole other solar system. Now, what about you?’ she prompted, changing the subject. ‘Are you coming? No pressure, but there’ll still be plenty of time for lunch and snorkelling if we stay the whole day. Wajarrgi’s only fifteen minutes from here.’
‘I suppose so,’ Caro replied. ‘Janey too, if Tess and Bronte are going.’ Janey was rhythmically flicking through a glossy magazine, turning each page almost before she’d had a chance to scan it. She pulled a face but didn’t look up.
