Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  This time Amira laughed out loud. ‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing across at Morag. ‘So Macy inspires you to clench and release, to keep yourself toned? Andrew should be grateful for that, at least.’

  ‘Oh, you,’ Morag said, but she was smiling too.

  Bronte was the first out of the car when they arrived at the resort.

  ‘This place is amazing,’ she said, looking around. ‘Those cliffs—they’re so red. And the beach. It’s just beautiful, and there’s no one on it!’

  ‘That’s the western beach,’ Amira said. ‘It’s a bit dangerous for swimming—strong tides and deep water—but it’s great for walks, and there’s wonderful snorkelling just around the corner on the eastern beach.’ She paused while the others climbed down from the troop carrier. ‘We’re on a point, the very tip of Cape Leveque. The restaurant and some of the campground is here, but the other accommodation is up the hill, below the lighthouse.’

  ‘Wajarrgi,’ said Bronte, reading the sign. ‘But you just called it Cape Leveque.’

  ‘It’s the Bardi name for this area,’ Amira said. ‘They’re the local tribe. The community at One Arm Point just up the road owns this place. A lot of them work here. The plan is that one day it will be wholly Aboriginal run.’

  ‘It isn’t now?’ Bronte asked.

  ‘Not yet. You’ll see lots of Indigenous staff, but the management are still white. It all takes time.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ shrieked Janey, gazing at her phone. ‘They have wifi here. It’s working! I can check my emails and update Facebook.’

  Immediately Caro, Fiona and Morag were fossicking in their bags, while Tess craned her neck to see what Janey was doing. Out of the corner of her eye, Amira caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of black and white. She turned her head towards it, gazing out over the ocean. There it was again . . . a whale, probably a humpback on its annual migration, breaching far out to sea. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, but nobody looked up. They were too busy checking their phones.

  Caro excused herself and moved to the furthermost edge of the deck where they were sitting, checking the reception on her phone as she went. One bar, two . . . that would do. Fiona had tried to stop her, had poured a glass of wine and held it out invitingly, but Caro had pushed in her chair and walked away. The wine could wait. Speaking with April was far more important.

  The line was engaged. ‘Damn,’ Caro muttered under her breath. Who could Maria be talking to? She never used the phone much, too conscious of her limited English, and seemed to be becoming even more afraid of it as her hearing failed. Caro made a mental note to take her to the audiologist when she was home again. Maria would probably be too vain to wear a hearing aid, but Caro still had to try, didn’t she? It wasn’t as if Alex would do anything about it. She selected the number again and waited, palms sweaty. Still engaged. Caro felt her chest tighten. She just wanted to talk to April. Was that too much to ask? It had been three days since she had seen her. They’d never been apart that long before. She’d checked her messages as soon as she’d arrived at the resort and there were none from Maria, but that didn’t mean everything was OK. April would have to be lying unconscious in a hospital bed before Maria would think to try to contact her. The thought sent a wash of nausea through Caro’s gullet, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She could see it so clearly: April pallid and unresponsive, a bandage wrapped around her scalp, dotted in places with blood, her blonde hair shorn off so that the surgeons could get to her skull fracture. Stop it, she told herself, pinching the inside of her wrist. It was a trick her therapist had taught her, the idea being that the pain would return her to reality, derail the escalating anxiety. Yet the image of April remained—inert, all alone in a cold white room while a heart machine beeped accusingly beside her. In desperation, Caro bit down hard on her tongue. That was her own trick, the one she kept for when the pinching didn’t work. The rusty tang of blood spread through her mouth, making her gag, but she was calmer now. She was just being stupid, she told herself, dialling again. April would be fine.

  This time the line was free, and after four rings Maria picked up.

  ‘Pronto,’ she said.

  ‘Maria, it’s me. Who were you talking to?’ Caro demanded, suddenly furious at her for not answering her when she’d first called. As she spoke, a fleck of blood flew from her mouth onto her arm. Caro licked her index finger and rubbed it away. Thank goodness it hadn’t landed on her white shirt. She had to be more careful.

  ‘Ah, Caroline,’ said Maria. ‘I have been speaking with Alessandro. He a good boy, he ring his mumma.’

  Caro did a quick calculation. It was early morning in Rome. A good boy? Huh. She wondered when he was planning to ring her. There hadn’t been a message on her phone from him either.

  ‘He had dinner with Tony last night,’ Maria went on. ‘He wanted to tell me about it. You remember Tony, he married to Teresa, my sister’s second girl. They have three children. Alessandro said they went to a very nice place—’

  ‘Is April there?’ Caro interrupted. She wanted to scream. She didn’t care about any of it, she just wanted to speak to her daughter.

  ‘Scusi,’ Maria said with an injured air. She let the silence between them hang for a moment, in case Caro wanted to apologise. When it became clear that this would not be forthcoming, she went on, ‘April is at Natarsha’s. The one from her class. They are having a play date.’ She pronounced the last two words slowly and carefully, clearly pleased with herself for remembering the expression. Caro barely heard her. Hot tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked furiously, staring unseeingly at the red cliffs edging the ocean. It was silly to be so upset, but she missed April. She adored Janey every bit as much, of course, but somehow her love for her younger daughter felt easier, less fraught. Maybe it was just that April was still a child, had not yet been overthrown by adolescence; maybe, she admitted, it was because April still told her she loved her, still wanted to climb into her bed and cuddle up with her, didn’t wince or pout or sigh every time Caro spoke to her.

  ‘Oh.’ Caro swallowed. ‘I was hoping to talk to her. How is she? Is she OK?’

  ‘She fine. She good girl. Good eater.’ Maria paused, then added, ‘It is very nice to have her. You don’t bring her here enough.’

  Caro’s temper flared. Right, because she had so much time to be lugging April across town to visit Maria, what with her work and Janey’s swimming, and running the house and Alex never home . . . Alex, she thought, Maria’s precious Alessandro. Didn’t he have a role to play in this? She could bet Maria hadn’t spent her phone call to her son ticking him off. Alessandro could do no wrong.

  ‘She should stay more often,’ Maria continued. ‘It is better with her here. The house is . . . happier.’

  And just like that, Caro’s anger evaporated. Maria was lonely, had been lonely and aimless and bereft ever since Alex’s father died two and a half years earlier. Caro knew that, she just didn’t like to think about it too much. She was too busy to think about it. If she acknowledged it she’d have to do something about it, and ignorance was easier to sustain than guilt. She should make more of an effort with Maria, she really should; the woman was old and isolated, and she wouldn’t be with them forever. But Jesus, she thought, clutching the phone, Maria had two sons. Why should it fall to her, the barely tolerated daughter-in-law, to look after their mother? Why did anything involving caregiving automatically become the domain of women?

  Caro promised that she would bring the girls over more often, then mumbled her goodbyes and ended the call. It had only been three or four minutes, yet she was utterly exhausted. Conversing with Maria invariably left her like this: drained, irate, found wanting. She needed to sit down; she needed that wine. Caro started back to the table. Did Maria feel the same? she wondered. Did she also hang up feeling frustrated, misunderstood, and not quite sure why? It must be tough watching your child fall in love with someone else, witnessing the transfer of their allegiance. Being a mother was hard enough; she wasn’
t sure she could cope with becoming a mother-in-law. Still, Caro realised as she rejoined the group, the alternative was worse. Her own mother had never had that option.

  ‘Sorry I was so long,’ she said as she sat back down at the table. ‘Have you ordered? I hope you didn’t wait for me.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Amira. ‘We’ve been a bit distracted.’ She tilted her head slightly in the direction of the adjacent table. It had been empty when Caro left to call Maria, but it was now crowded with men. Young men. So was the one next to it, Caro noticed, and also the long table at the front of the deck overlooking the sea . . . In her absence, the tiny restaurant had been overrun by flashing grins and broad shoulders and large strong hands lifting glasses to mouths.

  ‘Lordy,’ she said, looking around. ‘We’re outnumbered.’

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ said Fiona, fanning herself with her menu. ‘You didn’t tell me lunch was going to be a smorgasbord, Amira. I think I’ll just pick the dish I want. Or dishes.’

  Amira laughed. ‘Believe me, I wasn’t expecting it either. I didn’t think there were this many men on the Dampier Peninsula.’

  A waitress appeared at Morag’s side and stood with her pencil poised above her notepad.

  ‘Are you ready to order?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, where’d they all come from, then?’ Fiona cried, ignoring her. ‘This is like something out of my fantasies. It’s Boys R Us.’

  The waitress leaned into the table, dropping her voice.

  ‘They’re an AFL development squad. You know, the ones that eventually go into the draft. Kids hoping to make the big league.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘We probably should have warned you when you booked, but we didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘We don’t mind,’ said Fiona, unable to tear her eyes away from the dazzling array of young flesh.

  ‘Stop drooling,’ Morag told her. ‘Or at least put your serviette over your mouth. You’re putting me off my lunch.’

  Fiona raised one finger in response, lasciviously licking her lips. ‘Not me. I’m working up quite the appetite.’

  The boys were just kids, Caro realised, at least some of them. Most didn’t look as if they shaved yet, and only a handful would be old enough to drive. What were they—sixteen, seventeen? Their biceps and bravado made them appear older, but really they were teenagers. Was it necessary to be grooming them for the draft already? She picked up her glass, but quickly put it down again. The wine was lukewarm. Nothing stayed cool in this climate for long. The waitress took Morag’s order and moved on to Amira. Caro bent over the menu and tried to make a decision.

  A wolf whistle sliced the air. Caro’s head shot back up. Three seats away, Tess giggled. Janey had risen from her chair and was sashaying towards the railing at the end of the deck, tight shorts clinging provocatively to her equally tight buttocks. She looked innocent enough, as if she was just going to take a picture of the view, but Caro sensed that her daughter knew exactly what she was doing, the reaction she could provoke. Another whistle. Caro turned, accusingly. This one came from a dark-skinned boy at the table to her left. Actually, they were all dark, or almost all of them.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he called out, holding up his phone. ‘Give me a ring. It’s 1800-SEXY.’

  As usual, Janey’s head was bent over her own mobile, but she tore herself away from it long enough to throw him a dazzling smile over one shoulder.

  ‘I’m in love!’ exclaimed the boy, thumping his hands and phone to his chest and falling back into his seat as if shot. Tess laughed again, eyes ablaze. Janey coolly returned to her texting, one hip slightly cocked, her legs honey-brown in the afternoon light.

  ‘Boys,’ Amira said. ‘They never change. Remember when it was us who used to get whistled at?’

  Caro nodded and picked up her glass again, swallowing a mouthful regardless of the temperature. She did. She did remember, and the fact that it was now Janey’s turn made her feel both proud and piqued. Proud because her girl really was beautiful, really did turn heads; piqued because once upon a time that had been her. She’d never been as slim as Janey, true, but she’d had lovely curves—hips that swung, a décolletage that demanded the attention of any male within a hundred-metre radius, thighs that Alex had loved to sink into. Caro glanced around the deck. Almost every male face was turned towards her daughter, focused on those white shorts and golden legs. Stop it! she wanted to scream at them. Stop looking at her! She needed to protect Janey, she told herself. No matter what Janey thought, Caro knew she wasn’t old or experienced enough to manage this sort of situation. Caro opened her mouth, but nothing came out. There was no point. No one was paying any attention to her.

  It was him, she was sure of it. Janey had recognised him, the man-boy who had dived into the darkened pool with her on their first night in Broome, as soon as his group had arrived at the restaurant. He hadn’t seen her yet; he’d been too busy talking and laughing with his mates. She’d watched them covertly from behind her sunglasses. There were twelve or so guys at the pool boy’s table, all tall, all lightly muscled, all wearing matching black polo shirts with a red insignia printed on the left side of their chests. Not one of them, it seemed, could sit still. They jostled each other as they took their seats; they flicked menus and serviettes across the table; they pushed up their sleeves and fiddled with their cutlery. Energy radiated from their restless fingertips, from their taut calves jiggling as they waited to order. The atmosphere in the restaurant changed, thrummed, moved up a gear. The new arrivals were like chimpanzees in a circus, Janey thought; probably quite well trained but not entirely predictable.

  She pushed her chair back. ‘Where are you going?’ Tess hissed.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ Janey replied, jamming her phone into her pocket.

  ‘But we’re already in the fresh air,’ Bronte said, gazing around the deck.

  Janey sighed. Poor stupid Bronte. That scholarship clearly wasn’t for common sense.

  ‘I’m going to look at the view, OK?’ she smirked. ‘Or create one of my own.’ She shook out her hair and made her way between the tables to the railing. Damn the pool boy for not noticing her. She would make sure he knew she was there.

  It only took a few moments. She glanced his way when that other guy called out to her, and was gratified to see recognition spreading across his features. Then she turned back to her phone as if she couldn’t care less and scrolled through some old texts, leisurely counting to one hundred in her head. When she had finished she tucked it back into her shorts, turned around without making eye contact with anyone and sauntered off in the direction of the beach. She hoped her mother wouldn’t notice. The other adults were already on their second bottle of wine and could hopefully be relied on to stay where they were, getting slowly sozzled in the afternoon sun, but if her mother saw that she was missing she’d worry and come looking for her. Janey sighed. Her mother was always worrying, that was the problem . . . about her dad when he flew, or whether Janey had had enough sleep or had eaten her vegetables or if her top was too tight. She felt her hands clench. It drove her nuts, all that worrying, her mum barely ever looking at her without that half-frown of concern, her eyebrows drawn together. It was just so irritating, so . . . weak. It made Janey want to give her something to worry about.

  Janey followed a sandy track down to the beach, the clamour of the restaurant gradually fading behind her. She positioned herself in the shade of a red cliff, taking in her surroundings for the first time. Aquamarine water lapped at the shore; a translucent ghost crab dug at her feet, diligently rolling its leavings into tiny spheres that festooned the shoreline like cachous on a cupcake. It was beautiful here. For once Amira hadn’t been laying it on. Janey kicked off her sandals and stretched out her toes in the sand, admiring their fuchsia polish. Then, when the pool boy didn’t materialise as she’d expected, she reached for her phone and switched it on, waiting impatiently as it came to life.

  There were two messages in her inbox. Janey clicked o
n them greedily, impressed that even here on the beach she could get a signal. It was almost like being back in civilisation. The first was from a girlfriend in Melbourne whom she had texted as soon as they’d arrived at Wajarrgi. It didn’t say much, but then neither had Janey’s. They were just touching base, reasserting to each other that they still existed, were still relevant.

  The second was from her father. Hey Janey girl, hope you are having a good time up north. I went shopping today and bought you and April some DVDs. Do you still like One Direction? Kidding!! Srsly, tell me what colour (black? brown?) and I’ll get a handbag for you. They’re beautiful here. Be nice to your mum and have a great time. Dad xxx Huh. Janey grunted. Be nice to her mum? He should be telling Caro to be nice to her. She began composing a reply, and opened the file containing the photos she’d taken on the trip so far to choose one to attach. Maybe one of the lagoon, or the selfie she’d taken on their first night in Broome, at the Aarli Bar. She peered critically at the shot. God, that seemed ages ago now. She looked so white. Janey scrolled through the images: Tess smiling from beneath a sunhat; Amira and Caro with their arms around each other at dinner in Kalangalla; Bronte in the shower. Janey scowled. Just seeing Bronte maddened her. But we’re already in the fresh air. Idiot. Goody-goody. She was probably sitting hunched over her lunch right now, scared to look up in case a boy tried to talk to her.

  Without pausing to think, Janey opened Facebook on her phone and uploaded the photo, then added a caption: Shower scene, WA-style. Watch out for the psycho! It wasn’t very funny, but it didn’t give anything away either. Hardly anyone would even know it was Bronte. Besides, she’d just leave it up there for a bit and delete it as soon as they got back to Broome on Saturday. Bronte was so stupid she’d never even know it had been there.