Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘A couple of days?’ Bronte wailed.

  The sound seemed to momentarily bring her mother out of her fog.

  ‘This picture—can we see it?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘I don’t have it anymore. I took it off Facebook, like Mum said, and I deleted it from my phone.’ Janey pulled her mobile from her pocket and held it out. ‘You can check if you like.’

  ‘As if I’ve got the time to go through all your shit,’ Fiona spat. ‘It wouldn’t prove anything anyway. Even if you did delete it you’ve probably already forwarded it to half your friends . . . of which I thought Bronte was one.’ She shook her head. ‘Lovely friend you turned out to be.’

  ‘Fiona—’ Caro began.

  ‘Suit yourself, then,’ Janey said and put her phone back in her lap.

  Bronte clutched at the bedspread beneath her. She’d known something was going on the minute Caro and Janey had knocked at the door of the room she shared with her mother and asked if they could come in. Fiona had been napping but woke up when they knocked; because there were no chairs she motioned for them to sit on Bronte’s bed. Bronte had closed her sketchbook—she was halfway through the new one now—and sat down apprehensively next to her mother.

  ‘On Facebook . . . were there any comments?’ she asked now, dreading the response but needing to know.

  ‘A few,’ Janey said. ‘But I didn’t have time to read them. Mum made me get rid of the whole post the moment we got reception.’ She was lying, Bronte was sure of it. She had watched Janey wheedling her way out of things for years, and the signs were all there: the slightly widened eyes, the toss of the hair. Janey was a lifetime practitioner of the deceptive arts.

  ‘I did,’ Caro confirmed. The air-conditioner shuddered in its frame.

  ‘But everyone will have already seen it.’ Bronte could hear herself whining and felt any control she’d had over the situation slipping away from her. Her stomach heaved and knotted as if she’d swallowed poison. She’d been feeling crampy all day, she realised—gutsick, stricken. Maybe her body had known what Janey was up to before the rest of her did.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Janey said unconvincingly. ‘A lot of people are away on holidays, remember. They might be too busy, or not have wifi, like us.’

  And that was meant to pacify her? Bronte glanced to her mother for support, but her mum had drifted off again. She had one arm cradled against her chest and was staring into space.

  ‘Janey just meant it as a joke, but I’m sure she’s learned her lesson now,’ said Caro. ‘Haven’t you, Janey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Janey mumbled.

  Bronte was suddenly furious. A joke? Janey hadn’t even said sorry. How did she get away with this stuff—not just once or twice, but again and again and again? Couldn’t Caro see? And why didn’t her own mother say anything or stick up for her? Wasn’t she interested? Didn’t she care?

  ‘What’s her punishment then?’ she asked.

  Caro looked taken aback. It was clear that the thought of punishment hadn’t crossed her mind.

  ‘Well, I suppose . . . I think . . . maybe I’ll confiscate her phone until we’re home again,’ she ad-libbed.

  What, for two whole days? Bronte thought. It was too much to bear, all of it: her humiliation, Janey’s attitude, her mother’s lack of interest, Caro’s blindness. Rage swept through her, propelled her off the bed; she snatched Janey’s phone from her lap and ran out the door, faster than she ever had in her life, sprinting madly towards the beach. She passed Morag, who stared after her, and Mason, sitting in the shade fixing a net, who called out, but she didn’t stop. The rage drove her on and on, Janey’s shrieks fading behind her, until she reached the white sand, lifted her arm high above her head and threw the phone as far out to sea as she could.

  Fiona took another mouthful of wine and slipped her hand inside her singlet. The sun had gone down a few hours ago; no one could see what she was doing. No one would be interested anyway, caught up in their post-dinner conversations or thinking about retiring for the night. She eased her fingers under her bra, probing gently. Maybe she’d just imagined it . . . maybe it had been an ant bite, or a reaction to something she’d brushed against. Look at Caro—her arm was covered with angry red bumps. It seemed as if there was no end of ways to injure or inflame yourself up here.

  Fiona’s spirits rose for a moment, then plummeted as she found the lump again. Was she just imagining it or was it bigger than when she’d discovered it earlier that day, in the shower after mudcrabbing? She closed her eyes and tentatively palpated it, concentrating. It was bigger than a pea but smaller than a marble, and mobile rather than anchored in her flesh. Was that a good sign? She worked with seven doctors. She was always tuning out their conversations or telling them to stop talking shop in the lunchroom, but now she desperately tried to remember anything they might have said about breast lumps, anything at all. It was probably just a cyst, Fiona told herself, as she had in the shower, or something to do with starting menopause. She was forty-eight; the change must be close. Maybe it was related to her period, which was still going—she’d never noticed lumps before at that time of the month, but then she rarely examined her breasts. It was too boring, and they were so big and floppy that she’d once joked to Amira that she’d never be able to find a lump anyway—there’d have to be an aircraft carrier in there before she noticed anything. That didn’t seem so funny now.

  A biopsy, she thought, the moment she was back in Melbourne. That was what she needed. Maybe not Sunday, when her plane got in, but definitely first thing Monday morning, as soon as she arrived at work. Or maybe a mammogram . . . what did they do first? Her fingers sought the lump again, pressed down on it as if she could drive it right out of her body and into the dust at her feet, a still-pulsing morsel of blood and gristle to be tossed to the ever-hungry dogs skulking at the edges of the community. She’d slice her whole breast off now if she could, throw them that too.

  Fiona lifted her glass to her mouth, then put it down again. There was a link between alcohol and cancer, wasn’t there? Maybe she’d brought this on herself . . . but then there was a link between cancer and everything, pretty much. ‘Calm down,’ she muttered to herself. There was no point worrying about it now when nothing could be done. She needed to think about something else, anything.

  She pulled her hand out of her top and looked around. Morag and Macy were deep in conversation at the far end of the table, Macy appearing more animated than Fiona had ever seen her before—though maybe that was because for once her face was free of her usual heavy make-up. Caro had risen from her seat and was scraping and stacking plates. Amira hadn’t joined them for dinner, attending the community feast instead. Janey was nowhere to be seen—maybe she was down at the lagoon with a torch and a net, trying to find her phone—and Bronte and Tess were sitting side by side, heads almost touching as they talked.

  Bronte. Christ. That was one way to distract herself. Fiona’s jaw clenched. What a piece of work Janey was, what a first-class bitch. She’d finally revealed her true nature, hadn’t she? Even Caro couldn’t be sucked in by her any longer, surely. And what a way for it all to unfold: Tess tells Amira, Amira tells Caro, Caro tells Janey, Janey tells Bronte . . . it was like some fucked-up game of Chinese whispers. Women could be so pathetic, she thought, their own worst enemies. Sometimes she suspected they actually enjoyed being victims because it gave them something to talk about. If this whole sorry online saga had happened between men—not that it would ever happen between men—they would have sorted it out with fists, not endless chatter.

  Still, she thought, Bronte had done alright. Better than alright—she’d been fabulous. Fiona couldn’t quite believe it when Bronte had snatched that phone from Janey, and her surprise was mixed with pride. Bronte, who still stammered if Dom teased her, who’d carefully move spiders out of the kitchen rather than let Fiona kill them . . . Bronte had stood up to Janey. Caro had been aghast, but Fiona had quietly cheered her daughter on as she sprinted away. Who
would have thought Bronte could run so fast, could leave state champion swimmer Janey in her wake? It must be those long legs of hers, Fiona mused. Nice to know they were good for something.

  She settled back in her seat, enjoying the memory, and allowed herself a sip of wine—the damage was clearly done now, after all. She wished Amira had seen it. Too hard on Bronte, was she? Maybe, but Bronte was turning out OK if today was anything to go by. The problem was actually that most people were too soft, with their never-ending positive feedback and the affirmation workshop she’d had to attend at the clinic and all the awards they were forever giving out when Bronte was at primary school. Student of the week! Best helper! I can tie my shoelaces! Might as well hand out certificates for wiping their own arses. Her own mum had never gone in for any of that, had never lavished her with praise—quite the opposite—and it hadn’t hurt Fiona. Sure, she and her mother didn’t talk much, but that was normal at this age, wasn’t it? They were grown women, they had their own lives. There was no need.

  ‘Hey,’ said Morag, sitting down beside her. Fiona noticed that Macy had moved to join Tess and Bronte, the three girls now sprawled out on the grass just beyond the table, their young limbs silver in the moonlight. ‘Are you still with us? And Caro—the plates can wait. Come and have a drink before bed.’

  Caro pulled out a chair, casting a wary glance at Fiona. They hadn’t spoken since the phone incident.

  ‘What a gorgeous night,’ Morag remarked. She either had no idea about what had happened between Janey and Bronte or was choosing to ignore it, to smooth things over. Probably the latter, Fiona guessed. ‘Though it’s strange not having Amira with us. She’s such a part of this place, isn’t she? Watching her interact with everyone at mudcrabbing today—it’s like she’s been here for years.’

  ‘A bit too involved, if you ask me,’ said Fiona. ‘Racing off to that corroboree, or whatever it is they’re doing on the point. I mean, I know she works here and everything, but it’s not as if she’s actually one of them, is she? You know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s not a corroboree, Fiona,’ Morag said mildly. ‘It’s a feast to honour the dead man’s spirit and move it on. That’s what Amira told me, anyway. I think it’s wonderful that she attended, that she’s welcomed there even though she’s white. There should be more of it in Australia, from both sides.’

  Fiona felt vaguely chastened. She fell silent, her hand once more drifting to her breast.

  ‘It would’ve been nice to try some of those crabs,’ Caro said. ‘Do you think she’ll bring any back for us?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Morag. ‘Hey—can you hear that?’ At the same time, Macy suddenly sat up, inclining her head in the direction of the beach. The sound of voices drifted towards them, rising and falling in unison.

  ‘Are they humming again?’ Caro asked.

  Morag shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s more like a song, but I can’t make out the words.’

  The ethereal melody rose between them, carried on the still night air, slipping across the lagoon and between the trees, encircling their table, the community. Goosebumps broke out along Fiona’s arms; the skin on the back of her neck tingled. The singing reminded her of the didgeridoo she’d heard at Wajarrgi a few days ago: the ancient music somehow telling a whole story, infused with a whole history. It was unnerving and it was beautiful and she didn’t understand it at all. She stared up at the stars, the same ones that had been there when this ancient land was new, and just then another, nearer singer joined in. It was Macy, her voice soaring in harmony with those by the water.

  Saturday

  It was only one night away, Amira told herself as she threw the overnight bag on the bed. She didn’t need to take much. Her bathers, in case they stopped off at Cable Beach or she felt like a swim at The Mangrove; sunscreen, a hat and sunglasses, the holy trinity of accessories in the tropics; some clean undies; and something nice to wear out to dinner. Amira pushed her hair back from her face. Nice. If one of her students had written that she would have circled it in red and told them to use a more descriptive word: beautiful, striking, even pretty. She turned and peered into her wardrobe. The trouble was that she barely had anything pretty anymore. There was her fitted black dress with the beading around the neckline, but she’d already worn that at the Aarli Bar last Sunday. All the other summer gear she’d brought with her from Melbourne had long since faded or frayed, was either stained with pindan or baggy from overuse. Her clothes had gone into shock, she thought, assaulted by the UV, the humidity, even the antiperspirant she had to reapply every few hours. And she knew it didn’t really matter—clothes up here were for purely functional purposes, not decorative—but she had wanted to make an effort tonight, their last together.

  Amira sat down on the bed, her stomach clenching. Their last night. The hours were ticking away . . . Right now her friends were in their rooms preparing to leave: gathering up their toiletries, shoving sarongs into suitcases, probably yelling at their daughters to hurry up. Soon they’d all load back into the troop carrier for the long drive down the bumpy red road to Broome, and this time tomorrow she’d be at the airport, preparing to wave them goodbye. She’d miss them. She’d miss the laughter and the sniping, she’d miss Caro’s smile and Morag’s dry wit and even Fiona’s cynicism, she’d miss the simple ease of being with people who knew you, who got you, who were part of your history. But she didn’t want to go with them. The realisation was abrupt, instinctive and shocking. She felt it race through her like an electric charge. She was glad she was only packing her bags for an overnight trip; she didn’t envy her friends their return to the south. She could barely even picture Melbourne, she thought with a start. It wasn’t real to her, not the way all this was—the sun and the sky and the ta-ta lizards sitting panting in the shade, waving one arm back and forth like wind-up toys.

  She had thought she might be homesick after spending a week with her friends, but she wasn’t. Oh, there were things she missed about Melbourne, no doubt about it: the lamb-shank pizza at Al Albero; not having to keep her armpits shaved all the time; being able to take her class on excursions. Amira smiled to herself as she folded a beach towel and placed it in her bag. To think how she used to grimace whenever an excursion was announced, immediately exhausted by the prospect of dragging her class around the zoo or the museum for what felt like the thousandth time, her temples pounding in anticipation of a day of constant headcounts and too much noise on the bus. How spoiled she’d been! What she’d give to be able to take her current students to the Bunjilaka Aboriginal Cultural Centre at the Melbourne Museum, or to show them an elephant or a chimpanzee. Most of the kids had rarely left the community in their lives; there were some who hadn’t even seen Broome. She reached under her pillow for her nightie. It was one of the many frustrations of teaching up here: the isolation, the lack of resources—not so much in the classroom but in the community, in the day-to-day life going on outside the school. Kalangalla was beautiful, but it was limited. When she’d asked her year six students what they wanted to be when they grew up they’d told her nurses and teachers, or maybe working at Wajarrgi—all of which were fine aspirations, they really were, but no one had said meteorologist or architect or chef, as her class in Melbourne had done. And it wasn’t that they weren’t capable of dreaming or aspiring, Amira thought, crossing her room to get her bathers from the chest of drawers, it was that they didn’t know. They had no idea those jobs existed, no notion of what their lives might be.

  The bathers weren’t in the drawer. Amira sighed. It got to her sometimes, just how much there was to do up here, but then that was why she’d come, wasn’t it? For a challenge, and to make a difference. She was a good teacher, she knew she was, but there were lots of good teachers in the cities. People like her were needed in places like this. And she was getting somewhere, she truly felt she was, only it all took so much time . . . January was looming, and yet most days it seemed that she’d hardly got started. She’d have only just figured out th
ese kids, this community, and then she too would be heading for the airport, like Fiona and Caro and Morag, her boab nuts wrapped carefully in newspaper for the journey, her work only half done.

  Amira shut the drawer she’d been fossicking through and straightened up, squaring her shoulders. She wouldn’t think about it now. She wouldn’t ruin her last day with her friends fretting over things she couldn’t change. And the bathers—they must still be on the line where she’d hung them to dry last night. After the comforting gloom of the house, the sunlight stung her eyes. Amira rubbed at them as she made her way to the old Hills hoists next to the communal laundry. Tess’s would probably be there too, unless of course she was already in them, hadn’t bothered changing after her regular morning swim. Regular. It still surprised Amira. Back home, Tess had all but given up any form of physical activity. She continued to play netball with Bronte and Janey on Saturday mornings but that was about it—otherwise her leisure time was given over to staring at the screen on her phone or laptop, going out shopping, or obsessing about her appearance. But now she went swimming every day and read more novels than Facebook updates. The move had definitely been worthwhile, even if it was going to be over too soon.

  As she approached, she saw that Tia was at the line, hanging sheets, her back to Amira. Thank goodness for Tia. She’d been a great friend to Tess, had really helped her settle in. Amira was about to call out to her but then stopped. Halfway through her task, Tia had paused; she seemed to sway a little in the red dust, her hands going to her back. Standing like that, her belly thrust forward . . . Amira swallowed. No. She was seeing things. It wasn’t possible. Tia was only fifteen, not much older than Tess—but that stance, that stomach . . .

  ‘Tia,’ she blurted, ‘you’re pregnant!’

  Tia started and turned towards her, her face hostile. For a moment Amira thought she was going to deny it, but then the girl bent over the laundry basket, pulled out another sheet and silently pegged it to the line. Her ankles were swollen, Amira noticed; fingers too.