by Kylie Ladd
‘My girl?’ Morag asked, confused, then realised that the woman must mean Macy. ‘Oh, she’s not . . .’ She stopped. It was all too hard to explain, standing here in the red dirt with the midday sun stunning her senseless. What did it matter anyway? She supposed Macy was her girl while they were here. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.
The woman nodded approvingly. ‘She did well. Caught some big crabs.’
Morag felt a foolish rush of pride. Macy had done well, better than anyone except Tess, and Tess was practically a local. It had been a pleasure to watch her—a pleasure, too, to see her out of her usual get-up, laughing with Bronte and Tess, content for once just to be a girl rather than a goth.
‘They’ll be good eating tonight.’ The old woman lifted her hand and turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Morag called. ‘Do you miss your daughter?’
The woman stopped and regarded her solemnly. ‘Of course. Your blood is your blood.’
Morag swallowed. ‘Do you talk to her? Not on the phone, I mean. In your head. I’ve heard that sometimes you can do that, your people . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed. All that humming yesterday had clearly unhinged her a little.
The woman’s eyes danced. ‘It’s easier to get her on the phone. Or Hotmail. Your friend lets me use her computer.’ She was still chuckling as she walked away.
Morag watched her go, flushed with humiliation. Of course she called her daughter. This was the twenty-first century, and probably even Telstra was more efficient than telepathy. It was just that sometimes, in the middle of the night, Morag woke and knew somehow that her mother was thinking of her, half a world away in her little flat in Trinity; knew that she was thinking of her with the ache of longing, with such an abundance of love that it telescoped the distance between them and spilled straight into her soul. I’m here, Mum, she’d reply in her head, and felt the answering relief, saw as clearly as if she’d been in the room her mother sit back in the chair with the doilies on the arms, a smile spreading across her face. I’m here, Mum. I miss you. I love you.
She wasn’t hungover, Morag suddenly realised. She was homesick. For years she’d lived quite happily in Australia. She’d made her peace with it, she thought—this was where her husband was, her children, her future. Coming north, though, had shifted something. Broome and Kalangalla were so different, so foreign to her, that they magnified the strangeness of this continent, made it all seem new again. New and overwhelming and completely alien. Her mind went back to a home visit she’d done one winter’s day over a decade earlier—Newhaven, she thought, or maybe North Leith. There was a hostel next door to the flat she was visiting. It was snowing, and a black-skinned family—refugees, she’d guessed, asylum seekers from North Africa—were standing in the garden with their pink-palmed hands out, catching the dirty flakes, a look of total bewilderment on each of their faces. That was her, she thought. That was how she was feeling right now.
The greys were coming through again. Caro peered more closely into the mirror, then reached for her tweezers. She’d have to make an appointment with Stefan as soon as she got back. She sighed. What she hated most about getting older was the constant maintenance: hair, nails, brows, make-up . . . She hadn’t gone as far as Botox yet, but it was tempting. Janey could get out of bed, put on something she’d picked up from the floor, run a brush through her hair and look beautiful, but for Caro these days it took at least an hour of solid preparation just to achieve well-groomed. Beautiful she’d given up on.
Where was Janey anyway? she wondered. She hadn’t seen her since before they’d all left to go mudcrabbing, when Janey was feigning sleep so she wouldn’t have to come. Caro had thought about getting her up but then changed her mind. She still didn’t know what had happened between the girls the previous day, and if they kept ignoring each other it would be awkward. They only had a day and a half left in Kalangalla, and she just wanted to enjoy the remaining time. Was that too much to ask? She leaned forward to yank a particularly recalcitrant grey from her temple, but just as she gripped it there was a knock at the door. It was Amira.
‘You don’t have to knock!’ Caro smiled as she waved her friend into the room. ‘You should have just come in.’
‘I wanted to make sure you were alone,’ Amira said. ‘Is Janey here?’
‘No,’ Caro said. ‘Why? What’s up?’
Amira didn’t answer straight away. She never did that, Caro thought. Like Fiona, she always said whatever was on her mind, though with more tact and care.
‘Look, it’s none of my business, I know that,’ Amira began, ‘but when Tess told me last night I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I know if I was you I’d want you to tell me, if that makes sense.’
‘Tell me what?’ Caro asked. There was something in Amira’s voice that was making her uneasy.
Amira sighed. ‘Janey put a photo of Bronte up on Facebook without Bronte knowing.’
Caro turned back to the mirror and picked up her tweezers, relieved. ‘Is that all? The girls do that sort of thing all the time.’
‘I know, but this was different.’ Amira paused again. In the reflection, Caro watched her swallow, her throat shiny with sweat. ‘It was a shot she’d taken of Bronte in the shower, naked from the waist up. Bronte didn’t know about it,’ she repeated.
‘What?’ Caro spun around. ‘Bronte in the shower? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know how it happened, but Janey must have crept in and taken it without Bronte noticing. I’ve no idea how long it’s been on Facebook, but I’m guessing Janey uploaded it the day we were at Wajarrgi, when we had reception on our phones.’ Amira took a step towards her and placed her hand on Caro’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, Caro. It’s probably none of my business, as I said . . . I don’t want to interfere, but I figured you’d want to know.’
Caro shook her off. ‘Have you actually seen this picture?’ she demanded.
‘Well, no,’ Amira faltered. ‘But Tess has. Janey showed her. Tess was so upset about it she told me, late last night.’
Caro felt the familiar tightness in her chest; felt her hands balling into fists. It was only when a sharp stab of pain shot through her palm that she realised she was still clutching the tweezers. She dropped them to the floor. ‘Last night . . . Something happened between the girls yesterday afternoon, didn’t it? They were all so quiet at dinner. How do you know Tess isn’t just trying to get back at Janey for something or other?’
‘I don’t,’ Amira admitted. ‘I don’t know anything about what went on yesterday—Tess wouldn’t tell me. But she wouldn’t make this up, Caro. She’s not a liar. She’s not malicious.’
‘And Janey is?’ Caro cried. She had to sit down. She couldn’t breathe properly. Feeling behind her for the bed, she sank down onto it.
‘I don’t know!’ wailed Amira. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I asked Tess to show me the photo this morning so I could be sure—we went over to the school to use the computer there, but we couldn’t log on, the internet was down. It happens sometimes when we have a storm, and there was all that wind and rain last night . . .’
Amira babbled on, but Caro wasn’t listening. She stared at the ceiling, concentrating on getting the air in and out of her lungs, trying not to black out. Oh God, she thought, imagine having an attack here, when she’d kept them under control for so long. The first time she’d had one, a month or so after her mother’s death, she’d thought that she was going to die too, that the giant hand squeezing her lungs would never let go. They’d stopped for a while as she’d grown older and met Alex, then reappeared when Janey was born. Even now she still couldn’t look at any of Janey’s baby photos without calling up that fog of her first months, the gut-clenching fear, the ever-present panic that she had no idea what she was doing and that she would somehow end up killing her child or having her taken from her . . .
‘. . . So we went to the office, but they were in the same boat, of course.’ Amira suddenly stopp
ed, coming over to the bed. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice rising. ‘Caro! Talk to me! Are you alright?’
Caro coughed and tried to nod. She couldn’t speak, but her mind was racing. Could Janey have done that? Was it true? It couldn’t be, but if it was . . . if it was she’d have to tell Fiona, face her scorn and her wrath. Janey would have to apologise to Bronte, of course, and delete the photo before anyone saw it . . . Caro moaned. The scholarship! There’d be no point even putting Janey’s name down if anyone found out about this. Schools hated that sort of stuff. And Alex—what would he say? She’d let Janey get away with too much. The thought came unbidden, but she recognised the truth of it immediately. She’d been lazy, stupid. She’d been blinded by Janey’s looks, had trusted that her daughter was as smirchless inside as out.
Amira had rushed to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting it at Caro. ‘Drink this. You’ll feel better.’
The water was warm. Amira hadn’t allowed the tap to run, but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, given the heat outside. Caro sipped the tepid liquid, willing her heart rate back down, staring at the bedspread rather than looking at her friend. There was some Xanax in her handbag. She could ask Amira for it, but she didn’t want her to know.
‘Sorry,’ she finally croaked. ‘I just got a bit . . . upset.’
Amira reached forward and hugged her. When she drew back, her eyes were glistening again.
‘You scared me. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said anything until I was sure it was true. But we’ll work it out, Caro, whatever’s happened, OK? I promise. It’s all going to be fine.’
Caro nodded. ‘I need to talk to Janey.’ Tentatively, she met Amira’s gaze. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course.’ Amira squeezed her hand. ‘Do you want to rest for a bit or shall we do it now?’
‘Now,’ Caro replied. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’ As she stood up, still light-headed, she suddenly thought of her mother. How would she have managed this? What would she have done? But her mother had never had to face anything of the sort, had died long before her only child became a teenager. Maybe she’d been lucky.
The trick, Janey knew, was not to draw the smoke into your lungs. Inhale, but only a little, hold it in your mouth, then exhale. Easy. That way you could still look as if you were smoking without doing any of the damage. She snuck a peek at Macy, standing next to her leaning against the boab tree. Could she tell? Janey didn’t think so. Macy was too intent on her own cigarette to be paying close attention to what Janey was doing; she was sucking at it as if it was oxygen and she hadn’t breathed in a week.
‘Fuck, that’s better,’ she said, blowing two fine lines of smoke out her nostrils. ‘I’ve been hanging out for this ever since I got here. It’s hard work getting away from Morag’s eagle eyes.’
‘Do you ever worry about it hurting your voice?’ Janey asked. She tapped her cigarette into the dirt, then drew her foot across the ash, the red dust coating her toes like talcum powder.
‘Nah,’ said Macy. ‘It’ll make it better if anything. Huskier. Sexy.’
‘Jaaaaaaaaaaaney!’ Her mother’s voice drifted through the trees between their rooms and the beach. Macy glanced at her and quickly stubbed out her cigarette against the tree. Janey followed suit.
‘That’s your mum, isn’t it?’ said Macy. ‘Bit unrefined for her, hollering like that.’
It was unlike her mother, Janey thought—as was the way Caro suddenly appeared, puffed and perspiring, in the clearing before them. A few metres behind her was Amira.
‘Oh—Macy, hi,’ said Caro. ‘I need to talk to Janey. Would you be able to give us a few minutes?’
‘Sure,’ said Macy, rising to her feet, her cigarette butt concealed in her hand. ‘I’ll catch you later, Janey.’ She sauntered away, white legs luminescent in the afternoon sun.
Caro waited until Macy had left, then abruptly turned on Janey, eyes blazing.
‘Apparently you put a photo of Bronte on Facebook. A particularly nasty photo.’
Janey took a step back. Tess. That little sneak.
‘Well?’ her mother demanded, grabbing her by the wrist. ‘Did you?’
‘Ow!’ Janey complained. Her mother’s nails were biting into her skin. ‘Let go!’ She shook her arm free.
‘Just tell me the truth,’ she said.
For a second, Janey thought about denying it, then realised there wasn’t any point. Tess must have told Amira, who was hovering like an avenging angel in the background, and Amira of course had had to tell her mother. For fuck’s sake. Would it have been so hard for Tess to keep her mouth shut?
‘It was just a joke,’ she said. ‘I was gonna take it down tomorrow when we get back to Broome.’
‘Posting naked shots of your friends is your idea of a joke?’ Caro’s voice cracked on the last word. This was getting embarrassing.
‘She’s not naked,’ Janey argued. ‘It’s just her tits. I’ve actually done her a favour by proving that she has some.’
Her mother’s hand flew to her cheek so quickly that Janey didn’t have a chance to duck. Amira winced as the slap rang out, resonating through the bush.
Janey’s fingertips rose to her throbbing face as she stared at her mother.
‘I can’t believe you did that,’ she said slowly.
‘I could say the same about you,’ replied Caro. ‘How do you think Bronte will feel when she knows? Or Fiona, for God’s sake. You’ve got to take it down. Do it now, so I can see that you’ve done it. I’m assuming you’ve got your phone on you.’
‘Can’t. There’s no reception.’ Janey shrugged, trying to play it cool. Her cheek hurt like buggery, but there was no way she was going to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing that.
Caro frowned, then quickly turned to Amira.
‘This morning, during the mudcrabbing, one of the men said something about being able to pick up a signal here if you stood in the right place. Do you remember? Right at the end, when we were taking pictures of what we’d caught.’
‘Sort of,’ said Amira. ‘I’ve never done it myself though.’
‘It was somewhere on the beach, I think . . . maybe the rocks. We could try and find it.’
‘I’ll ask Mason,’ Amira said. ‘He’ll know.’ She scuttled off, thighs jiggling.
‘We’ll meet you at the beach,’ Caro called after her, seizing Janey’s wrist again. ‘Come on. You can help me look.’
Janey allowed herself to be dragged along through the scrub until their feet hit the sand.
‘Mum,’ she hissed. ‘Let go. Stop it!’
Caro glared at her as if she might hit her again, and Janey raised her arm defensively.
‘Don’t,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I just wanted to say it’s no biggie if I can’t delete the photo today. No one here will see it anyway. I’ll do it tomorrow, in Broome, like I said. Bronte and Fiona don’t even know it exists. We don’t have to tell them. I’ll make sure Tess doesn’t blab this time.’
Caro released her grip and stood there panting. A drop of sweat ran down her face, carving a track in her make-up. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and slowly sank to her haunches on the beach. Janey could tell she was tempted by the idea.
‘It’ll be fine, Mum,’ she cajoled. ‘Let’s just go back and you can have a drink. I shouldn’t have done it, OK, but I can fix it tomorrow. No one will ever know.’
Caro was still for a long minute; then she slowly shook her head. ‘It’s too late. All your friends back in Melbourne will have seen it by now.’ She looked up at Janey, her blue eyes sad and faded; eyes, Janey realised, that were just like hers, only older, much older. ‘I’m doing this for you, you know,’ Caro said wearily. ‘Yes, it’s awful for Bronte, but the longer that picture stays up the worse you look, don’t you get that? Do you want people knowing that you’re a bitch?’
‘Hellooooo!’ Mason cried cheerfully, advancing towards them with Ami
ra once again in tow.
Caro swiftly stood up, brushing the sand from her pants.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘We need to access the internet. It’s a little bit urgent, did Amira tell you? If you can just find us the spot . . .’
‘No problem,’ said Mason. ‘We’ll have to go out on the point. How’s the arm?’
Surprisingly strong, Janey thought, still shaken. What had her mother meant, knowing that you’re a bitch? It was just a joke. Why didn’t anyone get that?
‘Much better, thanks.’ Caro held it out for inspection even though it was wreathed in bandages. She gazed at it for a moment, then seemed to snap to. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Janey, you go first. Hold the phone up so we can see when you’ve got a signal. Let’s get this done quickly.’
Reluctantly, Janey walked towards the water, carrying her phone in front of her.
‘Higher!’ barked Caro. ‘Right up.’
As she raised her arm she thought she heard Mason stifling a laugh. She hoped like hell nobody was filming her.
‘You did what?’
Bronte’s head swivelled automatically to seek out her mother, gauge her reaction, but her mum was staring at her lap and didn’t look up. Bronte turned back to Janey. ‘You took a photo of me, in the shower, without my permission, then you put it on Facebook?’
‘She’s taken it down now,’ said Caro quickly, as if that made it all OK.
‘But it was there, on Facebook, where everyone could see it!’ Bronte could feel the blood coming to the boil beneath her skin, rising to the surface, staining her arms, her chest, her face. Oh God, what on earth must she have looked like in the photo? She tried to visualise it—her bony shoulders, her tiny breasts; the image was so awful she almost wept. ‘How long was it up for?’ she asked.
There was silence. ‘Janey?’ Caro eventually prompted.
‘I’m not sure.’ Janey shrugged. ‘A couple of days, I guess.’
