Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘So it’s just you left, Fiona,’ Morag said. ‘You have to join us. You can’t sit in the restaurant drinking all day.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Fiona, pulling her hat down over her eyes. She was silent for a moment, then sighed. ‘Oh, God, OK then, if you’re going to guilt me into it. Put me down for a bit of black magic—but I hope you’re right about the loincloths.’ She licked her lips suggestively. ‘The smaller the better. I wouldn’t mind getting a glimpse of those ceremonial spears.’

  Morag threw the brochure at Fiona and it stuck to her chest, which was glistening with sweat. Fiona peeled it off, laughing, and dropped it at her side, where it joined a couple of apple cores, an empty chip packet and some chewing gum wrappers.

  Caro turned away and stared back out to sea. The boat was still there, rocking gently in the swell. She could see a second, smaller figure now, a child. Had they caught anything? She imagined the tension on the line and Mason bending over to inspect his catch, to haul it in, those broad shoulders taut, the powerful muscles straining beneath his ebony skin. He’d be in shorts again, like yesterday, and nothing else. It wasn’t a loincloth, but it was close . . . She had a sudden recollection of the way the drop of water had inched down his torso while they’d talked on the path the previous afternoon, how she’d watched it as he gave her directions—slipping from his chest to his stomach, sliding into his navel, re-emerging to run alongside the line of black hair disappearing into his waistband . . .

  Caro hurriedly stood up, wrapping her towel around her waist. This was ridiculous. She needed a swim. Why was she even thinking about Mason like that? He seemed nice enough, and Amira clearly doted on him and his family, but he was hardly Caro’s type—barely educated, barely groomed . . . she hadn’t yet seen him wearing shoes. She was being silly. She loved Alex, and Mason was clearly committed to Aki if all those kids were anything to go by—five, she’d counted, Tia and then the four small boys. It must be the sun, or being on holiday, or . . . she stopped. What was that expression Fiona had used? Black magic. She turned it over in her mind, then dropped the towel, strode towards the sea and plunged into the water, diving head first rather than letting herself gradually adjust to the temperature as she normally did. When she came up she was blushing. Black magic. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book, and she’d fallen for it. How Fiona would laugh. She could almost hear her cackling, You just want to know if he’s got a big dick.

  ‘Well, what about this one?’ Janey asked. ‘Have you heard it?’ She held her iPhone up to Tess’s ear, watching her critically. A jangle of bass and synthesiser escaped the tiny speaker, shrill and metallic, without any discernible beat. Tess shook her head. Thin-lipped, Janey clicked forward to the next song, almost pushing it into Tess’s face.

  ‘Oh yeah, I know that one,’ Tess lied. ‘Jago—Tia’s boyfriend—was playing it in his car.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Janey, tucking her phone back inside her bikini top, being careful not to drop it in the shallow waters where they were sitting. ‘You don’t have a clue. Honestly, Tess, you’ve lost touch with everything since you moved up here. Everything! You don’t even have any new clothes.’

  Tess lay back, propping herself up on her elbows. The sky above her was blue; always blue. She loved that. She hadn’t missed Melbourne’s winter at all. Her hair fanned out behind her in the sea, and she shook her head slightly, enjoying the drag and the flow of it. The water embraced her, caressed her. Was this how Janey felt when she swam? Somehow she doubted it.

  ‘Nowhere to go shopping up here.’ She shrugged, closing her eyes. Even wearing sunglasses the light hurt her eyes. No wonder Bronte had retreated back up the beach to the safety of the shelter. That, and she probably didn’t know any of Janey’s top forty either.

  ‘What about Broome?’ Janey persisted. ‘You have to go there for groceries, don’t you? Surely they’ve got some decent shops?’

  ‘The elders don’t let us kids go,’ Tess said. ‘They need the room in the car for the food.’ It was another lie. She could accompany whoever’s turn it was to do the shopping if she wanted to, but the fact was that she didn’t. The trip was too long and hot and jarring. Even if it had been easier she didn’t really want to leave Kalangalla. Why be dragging around Coles or getting shooed out of the upmarket pearl stores on Dampier Terrace when she could be exploring the mangroves with Tia, or spearfishing off the rocks, or simply lying in a hammock reading?

  Books had been an unexpected source of company when she had first arrived in the north. Before then she’d never read much more than the novels they were set at school, but in those first few weeks at Kalangalla, feeling isolated and overwhelmed by the heat, she had wandered into her mother’s room one day and arbitrarily picked something out of her bookcase. Her mother loved to read; had named her, as she was always being told, after the heroine of her favourite novel by some English guy a century or more back. She must get to that someday, she thought, but there was no hurry. First she had read Rebecca, the paperback she had selected at random, her heart thumping in her chest as she suddenly understood what had happened to the first Mrs de Winter. Next her mother had suggested My Cousin Rachel, and when she finished that, Jane Eyre, amazed and delighted at Tess’s suddenly voracious appetite for text. Then Penmarric and Gone with the Wind and The Thorn Birds, for something more local . . . Wuthering Heights was on the agenda, but her mum had told her to save that until everyone had gone home and the wet had begun, when they’d read it together. To her own great surprise, Tess found herself looking forward to the prospect.

  She felt something skim across her hand, and opened her eyes to see a small silver fish. A dart, she thought, identifying it by the central black spot on its body, pleased she could do it so easily. That feeling of isolation hadn’t lasted long. She had the books, and then Tia, lovely Tia. Meeting her had easily been one of the best things about Kalangalla; she was funny and friendly and she knew so much about the area—country, as she called it—like where to find turtle nests, or how to get the biggest mud crabs out of their holes. Tess frowned. She’d asked Tia to join them on the beach today, but the girl had been uncharacteristically reticent, and wouldn’t look Tess in the eye. Was she jealous? Tess wondered. Was she intimidated by Janey, or just bored by her conversation? Janey and Tia didn’t have much in common. Come to think of it, Tess and Janey didn’t have much in common anymore either.

  ‘Tess . . . Tess. I’m just going up to the office, OK? I need to book the tour for tomorrow.’

  Amira was shouting to her from in front of the beach shelter. Tess raised her arm in acknowledgement and her mother ambled off across the sand before disappearing into the bush.

  ‘Your mum’s put on weight. She needs to watch it,’ observed Janey, pulling out her phone again. There was no connection, of course, but that hadn’t stopped her from fiddling with it incessantly, listening to snatches of songs and scrolling through old messages, occasionally holding one out for Tess to read.

  ‘She hasn’t really,’ Tess said, taken aback. ‘You’re just not used to seeing her in bathers.’

  Janey tossed her hair back over one shoulder, continuing to stare at her screen.

  ‘God, Tess, you’ve got no idea. She looks like she’s smuggling rockmelons in her shorts.’ She brought up a photo of the four mothers taken outside the gallery that morning, scrutinised it for a moment, then pressed delete. Caro, Morag, Fiona and Amira vanished instantaneously, as if vaporised.

  Janey turned to look at Tess, blue eyes cool. ‘It’s because you’re not used to seeing her in jeans anymore. You’ve totally lost touch out here in Hicksville. Do you even remember the real world?’

  ‘I’m still in the real world!’ Tess exclaimed, stung. ‘Anyway, I had a letter from Callum the other day. He definitely hasn’t forgotten me.’ Damn, why on earth had she told Janey that? She made you talk, Janey. She pushed and prodded at you until you couldn’t be held responsible for what came out of your mouth.

 
‘Callum?’ Janey sat up, her interest piqued. ‘Since when do you care about Callum?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Tess mumbled. ‘I mean, he’s just a friend, and it was good of him to write . . .’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Tess shook her head. ‘It’s in my room, hidden, so Mum doesn’t find it.’

  ‘Must be a pretty interesting letter if you have to hide it,’ Janey remarked. ‘I always thought you two were a bit keen on each other. Wonder what Morag would make of that?’

  ‘Don’t tell her,’ begged Tess. She wouldn’t put anything past Janey.

  ‘Oh, your secret’s safe with me,’ said Janey. She tapped once more at her phone, then passed it to Tess. ‘Have a look at this.’

  For a second Tess had no idea what she was looking at, the display just a blur of dark and light. Then all of a sudden it came into focus: Bronte, head back, eyes closed, her hands in her hair, naked from where the photo began at the base of her stomach. She looked wet—was she in the shower? She must be. Tess peered closer, trying to conceal her interest. Bronte’s nipples were dark and erect, her breasts small but pretty. Tess hadn’t even realised before that Bronte had breasts; she was always wearing those shapeless tops and baggy windcheaters. When had they stopped showing each other their bodies? she wondered. In grade six all they could do was stare and point and giggle every time they changed for sport, loving the thrill and the trespass of it, but something had happened when they hit their teens. They’d retreated, Tess thought. Everyone was too afraid of being laughed at.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Janey said. ‘Pretty funny, huh? I’m thinking of emailing it back to a few people at school.’

  Tess gaped at her, horrified.

  ‘You can’t do that! Does she even know you took it?’

  Janey switched off her phone and stood up out of the water.

  ‘I’m just joking,’ she said. ‘Have you lost your sense of humour as well as everything else? I can’t even get reception here, remember?’

  Tess watched her as she walked away up the beach, a fine silver chain flashing on her ankle. She was glad she wasn’t Bronte.

  Amira hurried through the scrub, the note clutched in her hand. URGENT, Jen at the office had written across it in red, underlining the word twice for good measure. All the same, she hadn’t remembered to give it to Amira until Amira had made the tour bookings and was almost out the door again, when Jen called her back, looking a little sheepish. Amira had asked Jen if she had any idea what it was about, but Jen had shook her head. ‘Nup,’ she’d said, ‘just that your friend has to ring her husband immediately.’

  Amira stopped to catch her breath and unfolded the piece of paper to see when he’d called: 2.06 pm. Immediately. Huh. That was over three hours ago now. Would it have killed Jen to try to find them, rather than let it wait until Amira had wandered into the office? She sighed and smoothed out the scrap of paper, now damp from her sweaty hand. She loved the north, loved the way of life and how laidback everyone was, but sometimes they were all just a little too relaxed. Up here, urgent seemed to mean anytime within the next week; when you can was an invitation to stretch things out indefinitely. Amira fanned herself with the note, then broke back into a trot.

  Her friends were arrayed much as she’d left them thirty minutes ago: Fiona lying on her stomach under the beach shelter, her back still bright red; Morag next to her, reading a guidebook; Caro a little distance from the others, sitting right at the edge of the shelter with her pale legs manoeuvred into the sun, no doubt trying to get a tan. The three girls were dotted separately around the beach, each seemingly lost in her own world. No one spoke.

  ‘Morag!’ Amira cried as she hurried towards them. ‘There was a message for you at the office. You have to ring Andrew as soon as you can.’ She pulled up next to her, panting, and thrust the note into her face.

  Morag dropped her book in the sand without marking her place.

  ‘Andrew? But he’s in Tasmania with the boys.’ She reached for her beach bag and started to go through it, then remembered. ‘My phone doesn’t work here.’

  ‘I’ll take you up to the office,’ said Amira. ‘Do you recognise the number?’

  Morag reached for the piece of paper, hand trembling slightly. ‘It’s his mobile,’ she said. ‘He must have tried mine and got no answer, then looked up Kalangalla. He wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t important.’ She turned to Amira, freckles prominent in her white face. ‘What do you think’s the matter?’

  Caro had moved across to listen to the conversation. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ she soothed. ‘Maybe he’s lost something, or one of the boys has twisted his ankle.’ Fiona had looked up but for once was mercifully silent.

  ‘He wouldn’t call for that,’ Morag said, scrambling to her feet. ‘He never calls. He goes hiking to get away from it all, that’s what he always tells me.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Amira said, though she didn’t feel as confident as she sounded. Andrew was the sort who took charge, be it MCing the school fete or allocating tasks at a working bee. He wouldn’t be calling about a sprained ankle. ‘Come on, let’s go and find out.’

  To give her friend some privacy, Amira waited on the verandah while Morag went into the office to phone Andrew. ‘I’m here if you need me,’ she called after her, and Morag nodded but didn’t turn around.

  Amira sank down onto an old timber bench. Night came early up here. It was still hot, but the orange sun had already begun to slide down the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt roads and coarse lawns of the community. A sprinkler spurted to life nearby, startling her; a banded gecko appeared at the end of the bench, regarded her with tiny jet-black eyes, then scurried up the office wall. If Andrew was calling he must be OK, so that was something—she just hoped it wasn’t one of the boys. When Tess and the others were in grade three, a child in a lower class at their school had wandered away from her parents at a barbecue and been discovered fifteen minutes later face down in the family pool. Quarter of an hour, that was all it took; possibly less. Children were so impossibly fragile. How did any of them make it to adulthood?

  Tess, too. Amira shivered, though perspiration gathered at the nape of her neck and trickled beneath her knees. That day when she was barely nine months old . . . Davis was unemployed (and unemployable), so Amira had returned to teaching, leaving him home with the baby. It had been her first week back in the classroom, and she’d phoned every chance she got: lunchtime, little lunch, when her grade had gone to PE and she should’ve been working on her lesson plans. ‘She’s fine,’ Davis had repeatedly told her. ‘Stop worrying. Concentrate on your work.’ Only Tess wasn’t fine. When Amira arrived home after her third day, Tess was pallid and fretful in her cot, floppy with fever, though her hands and feet were cold. ‘I didn’t want to bother you at work,’ Davis said. ‘It’s just a bug. Kids get them all the time.’ She had wanted to believe him, though he had no more experience of infants than she did; she might have believed him had she not removed Tess’s jumpsuit to sponge her down and seen the rash.

  Meningitis, they’d told her at the hospital. It was lucky Amira had brought her in so quickly, but even so there could still be brain damage. It was touch and go. She’d turned on Davis then, screaming and clawing at him in front of the entire emergency department, the adrenalin of panic coursing through her veins. ‘You told me she was fine!’ she’d shrieked. ‘You didn’t even check on her, you lazy shit.’ Tess, thank God, had recovered, but their marriage didn’t. She couldn’t trust Davis after that, couldn’t look at him without her lips curling into a sneer. When he’d left them both barely two months later her main emotion had been one of relief. ‘And don’t come back!’ she’d shouted childishly as he reversed out of the driveway, his old car blowing blue smoke into the morning.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t. She’d held her breath for the first week, willing him to stay away, tensing every time the phone rang or she heard a car door slam outside the flat. Surely he’d want to see Tess
, claim her, if nothing else? Yet when Davis finally did return a month or so later it was only to collect his few possessions: a box of CDs with cracked plastic covers, the bread-making machine, his loom. Tess was asleep in her cot and he didn’t ask to see her. He told Amira that he had moved to a commune in the hills established by a potter he had met at a local arts festival. He felt at home there, with the other craftists, he went on; they inspired and supported each other, bartering their work and skills for whatever they needed. As a weaver, he was particularly important because he could make clothes and blankets for the community, though he hadn’t actually done so yet. Amira nodded respectfully, restraining her giggles until she had shut the door behind him; then she raced to smother Tess with relieved kisses, waking her up.

  The marriage had been a mistake from the start. She knew that now, but she wasn’t ashamed of it. They’d met in teachers college, before Davis had dropped out at the end of the first year. Amira had been desperate to free herself from her overprotective parents, who expected her home by seven every evening and were forever introducing her to the dark-eyed sons of friends and exclaiming at what a lovely couple they made. Matrimony outside of their Lebanese circle was the easiest exit, the perfect method—she’d thought—of casting off the familial devotion that stifled her. Of course, once Davis left it was her parents she turned to, and they’d been magnificent. Her mother had cared for Tess while Amira was working; her father had fixed the spouting of her tiny unit, then painted it inside and out. It was a shame, Amira sometimes reflected, that she’d had to escape her parents to appreciate them.

  Even with her parents’ help, it hadn’t been easy. Early on, Amira had made the decision not to seek any maintenance payments from Davis—he had no money, for a start, but more importantly this way he had no hold over her, no claim on Tess. He drifted in and out of their lives, sending a postcard every once in a while, usually remembering to call about five days after Tess’s birthday. Amira hadn’t minded. There were lots of things they’d gone without—dancing or music lessons for Tess, holidays anywhere more exotic than a rental by the beach with her mother and father—but she had never had to pack her daughter’s bag and hand her over for a week, had never had to listen to Tess chatter about her other home, her other life. Next to that, being poor was nothing. Besides, she thought, in Kalangalla not having much made them normal, made them average. It was liberating not always comparing herself with everyone else, not being compared in return. Money was overrated. Perhaps she was more like Davis than she had realised.