by Kylie Ladd
Morag made her decision.
‘Don’t touch it, just keep her as still as you can. I’ll be there soon.’
Soon, she thought, but not straight away. No one else had bothered, no one else was looking out for Macy. She was damned if she wasn’t going to go and find Macy first.
Sunday
‘We’ll keep going, yeah?’
The lead singer looked around at the other band members for confirmation. The guy on keyboards nodded; the drummer simply picked up his sticks, preparing for the next song.
‘You too?’ he asked Macy. ‘It’s the last night market for the year, before the wet sets in. We’ll make hay while the moon shines.’
She hesitated. It was getting late—it must be after midnight, though she was too scared to look at her watch. The crowd had thinned, but there were still plenty of people left, faces raised expectantly to the stage.
‘Sure,’ she heard herself say. Stuff it. It wasn’t as if she got a chance like this every day—to perform with a real live band. She’d had a couple of offers before, but her parents hadn’t allowed it; in fact, the first time she’d asked her mother Janice had laughed and told her she was far too young to be up late at pubs and that she needed to concentrate on her schoolwork. It didn’t seem to matter that the gigs were on Saturday nights, when she’d be out anyway, and that she’d sworn there was no way she’d be drinking (not a chance when she had a job to do, and anyway, the management would probably know she was underage); her mum had simply held up her hand in that supercilious way that indicated the topic was no longer open for discussion. It was infuriating. You got to sixteen and all the people who expected you to start acting like an adult wouldn’t actually engage with you as such.
‘“Sweet Home Alabama”,’ the guitarist hissed. ‘D’you know that?’
Macy nodded, felt her hips sway in anticipation of the opening chords. It was an old song, but it always got people dancing. Years ago, when she was eight or nine and staying over at her father’s one winter weekend, it had come on the radio while they were eating lunch and her dad had pulled Morag to her feet and twirled her around the room until they were both out of breath and giggling and the soup had gone cold. Morag. A prickle of guilt ran down Macy’s spine. Morag had expected them back by ten . . . But Tess and Bronte must have told her where she was, Macy assured herself, so she wouldn’t be worried. The other girls would have found Janey and headed back, probably ages ago now—and Macy was older than them, so surely she deserved to stay out a bit longer.
The guitarist grinned at her as they went into the chorus.
Home, she sang, feeling better, and she would go home, or to The Mangrove anyway, just as soon as they were finished. It would be a crime to stop now. The band was really good, so much better than that piss-poor one at school. Besides, her mother was always telling her to seize the moment, wasn’t she? So here she was, seizing.
She threw back her head, harmonising. It was funny how easily the lyrics came to her, even when she had no idea what they meant. If only it was the same with the periodic table, or the cosine rule, or that soliloquy they’d had to learn from Macbeth. Why hadn’t someone put that to music? It would have made it so much simpler. But nothing about school was simple, she’d accepted that now, and the thought of her final two years looming ahead filled her with terror. When she was little, in grade three, her mum had told her that it was just a matter of working hard and paying attention—that if she did both she’d be fine, that everything would come together like notes gliding up a scale, one flowing seamlessly into the next. But it never had, never, no matter how hard she tried. After the dyslexia was finally diagnosed a year or so later she’d hoped things might get better, but she was already too far behind and after a while she’d simply given up. She knew it upset her mother, who thought she was lazy, but it wasn’t as if Macy had a choice. The song ended and the crowd applauded, someone wolf-whistling from towards the back. Macy tried to see if she could spot them and found herself staring straight at Morag.
‘Oh, shit,’ she murmured, pushing her mike back into its stand. ‘I have to go,’ she called to the band and started for the side of the stage, but Morag had beaten her there, was leaning up against it, waiting.
‘I’m sorry,’ Macy began, ‘I know it’s late, and you said to come back, but Bronte and Tess—’
Morag cut her off. ‘You were amazing.’
Macy gulped in surprise.
‘You just look so . . . at ease up there,’ Morag continued. ‘And your voice, with the music behind it, and the microphone—I mean, I’ve heard you sing before, of course, but not like that.’
‘Really?’ said Macy. The band had started their next number; she felt the throb of it roll across the stage towards her, engulf her.
‘Look, I have to find the others,’ Morag said. ‘Janey’s hurt, and I’ve brought the car to pick her up, but you can stay here if you like. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll come back. Do you want to do that?’
‘Yes,’ Macy breathed. ‘Yes. I’ll be here.’
She wished Janey would stop making that noise. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Tess felt awful, but it was true. Janey was clearly badly hurt, her ankle splayed at an unnatural angle on the sand where they’d found her, and Tess did feel sorry for her—but still, that sound . . . It got inside your marrow, somehow; it set your teeth on edge. It reminded Tess of the time at Kalangalla when one of the dogs always hanging around the community had got its front paw impaled on a fishing hook; the dog had made the same unrelenting keening, a wail of distress. But it wouldn’t let anyone try to help it, and in the end Mason had had to throw an old hessian sack over its head so he could hold it without getting bitten and work the hook back out. Janey was much the same, shouting at Amira to stop when Tess’s mum had tried to examine her, though so far they hadn’t had to use a sack on her. It was her cry that had enabled them to finally locate her, to pick their way along the darkened beach until they discovered her crumpled form, head thrown back, one long howl of pain emanating from her open mouth.
Tess squeezed Janey’s hand, trying to make amends for her horrible thoughts.
‘Mum will be back soon, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘She’s gone to meet Morag, who’s bringing the troop carrier so we can get you to the hospital.’ Her mother had already told Janey that before she left ten minutes ago, but who knew what Janey was capable of taking in right now? Tess had a sudden idea. ‘Do you want some water?’ she asked, dropping her hand to feel through her bag. ‘I’ve got a bottle in here somewhere.’
‘No!’ cried Caro, who was sitting on the wet sand, cradling Janey’s head in her lap. ‘Don’t give her anything. She’ll probably need surgery.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Tess snuck another look at Janey’s ankle, then quickly turned away again. Even in the hazy moonlight it looked wrong enough to make Tess feel sick: Janey’s whole foot was turned away from her leg as if trying to escape it. ‘Do you want some then?’ she asked Caro.
Caro just shook her head, continuing to stroke Janey’s hair, now dark with sweat.
‘What the hell was she even doing down here?’ she muttered.
Tess didn’t reply. She had no idea. At least Caro had pulled herself together now. It had been awful when they’d first come across Janey—Caro shrieking and falling to her knees, then gasping as if she was having an asthma attack. Tess herself had burst into tears, and even her own usually unflappable mother had squawked a bit before snapping out of it and calling Morag. Tess hated seeing adults lose it. They weren’t meant to do that. Wasn’t that the whole point of growing up, that you always knew exactly what to do? It had scared her to see Amira and Caro so confused and frightened. It had made her want to sprint back towards the lights of the markets and stay there until everything was sorted.
But of course she hadn’t. Her mother had taken Bronte with her to meet Morag and told Tess to stay and look after her friend. That was exactly what she’d called her, your friend, as if she needed to
remind Tess of the fact, as if Tess hadn’t spent her entire childhood tagging after Janey. God, how she’d loved her, from the minute they’d first met at school, when Tess had been instantly entranced by Janey’s golden hair—hair just like the princesses’ in her storybooks, and so different to Tess’s own. Loved her confidence too, loved that Janey always seemed to know exactly the right thing to do, say, wear, that she was in control of any situation she was part of—or appeared to be, anyway. Loved her into high school, where Tess had chosen French over German simply because that was what Janey was doing and she hated the idea of being separated from her for even four periods a week. Loved her right through year seven, and until they’d moved up here . . . but then something had shifted.
Tess studied Janey now—the other girl’s eyes were closed, her whole face contorted in a grimace—and felt precisely nothing. Well, maybe not quite nothing . . . Pity for her, yes, for the agony she was clearly in, and a strange sort of fondness, a faded souvenir of almost a decade spent loving her so fiercely, but the love itself was gone. There’d been that awful scene with Callum’s letter, of course, and then what she’d done to Bronte, but if she was honest with herself Tess knew it was more than that. It was the way Janey had sneered at Tess’s new life from almost the moment she’d arrived in Kalangalla; it was her obsession with her phone and her looks; it was meeting Tia; and it was discovering who she, Tess, really was and being OK with that. Was this normal? All that emotion, all those years, and then nothing? Was this how her mother had fallen out of love with her father, and if so how could you ever trust love, how could you commit your life to anyone? She suddenly yearned for her mother’s arms around her, to sit and talk with her until morning and have Amira sort it all out.
Footsteps sounded on the beach behind her. Tess swung around to see Bronte leading the way, Morag hot on her heels and Amira trailing in the distance.
‘Oh, Janey!’ Morag exclaimed, dropping to her knees beside her and reaching out to run one hand lightly over her swollen ankle. Janey had gone quiet in the previous minutes but screeched as soon as Morag touched her.
‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘It hurts so much!’
‘Sorry,’ said Morag. ‘I think it’s broken.’
‘Yeah, no shit,’ mumbled Janey. Tess stifled a giggle and felt a flicker of her old admiration. Janey was tough, she’d give her that.
Amira finally joined them, puffing. ‘We’ll have to carry her,’ she said. ‘Tess and Bronte, you go either side of her—Janey, put your arms around their shoulders. Morag, you support her under the legs—I’ll hold up the ankle.’ She bent down to Janey, her voice dropping, and gently touched her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, this is going to hurt, but you can’t stay here. We’ll do it as quickly as we can, OK?’
Janey nodded. Tess moved to where her mother had pointed. It felt good to be told what to do.
‘On the count of three,’ Amira said, stooping to take Janey’s ankle. ‘One, two . . . three.’
The scream that was ripped from Janey’s throat as they picked her up sent bats in the mangroves spiralling into the air like inky clouds in the night sky.
‘You yell, sweetheart,’ Amira murmured as they lugged Janey along the sand. ‘You yell as loudly as you like.’
Thankfully, the hospital was close to the beach. Once Janey and Caro had been taken to its tiny emergency department, Amira motioned Tess and Bronte back into the carrier. ‘You two need to get some sleep,’ she said. ‘I’ll drop you at The Mangrove, then come back here—Caro might need the company. Morag, you jump in too.’
Morag was already walking away, her bag over her shoulder. She slowed down but didn’t stop.
‘I’m going back to the markets for Macy,’ she said. ‘Remember her?’
‘Shit,’ Amira said, her hand going to her mouth. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘There’s no need,’ Morag replied, her pale legs disappearing into the night. ‘I know where I’m going now.’
It was after one when they pulled up outside The Mangrove, but Tess could still hear music drifting across Roebuck Bay from the markets.
‘Straight to bed,’ Amira admonished as she drove away, heading back to the hospital.
‘Fat chance,’ Bronte whispered.
Tess snickered. ‘When did you stop doing what you were told?’
Bronte shrugged. ‘It’s our last night together. Everyone else is still up—Morag, Macy, your mum, my mum, no doubt, definitely Caro and Janey. Why should we have to go to bed?’ Tess reached into the stand of frangipani trees growing along The Mangrove’s driveway and plucked two blossoms. She tucked one behind her ear, then stood on tiptoe to do the same to Bronte.
‘There,’ she said, stepping back. ‘You look like a local now. Let’s go sit on the lawn near the bar for a bit. I’m not tired either.’
A frog croaked nearby and both girls jumped, grabbing each other.
‘Some local,’ Bronte giggled.
‘Listen,’ Tess said, ‘all those sketches you’ve done while you’ve been up here—do you think I could have one? Something that will remind me of Kalangalla once Mum and I leave in summer.’
‘You’d really like one?’ Bronte asked shyly. ‘They’re not that good. You could always buy a postcard.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Tess said. ‘Your pictures are much better—and they’re real. If you don’t want to give any of them up, maybe I could send you a photo and you could draw one from that?’
‘I’d love to,’ said Bronte. ‘Sort of like a commission.’
‘I’ll make you famous,’ mused Tess. ‘I’ll show it to everyone. I’ll put it on Facebook.’ Then they looked at each other and burst out laughing.
She didn’t want a drink. This had to be a first. The bottle still had about a third left in it, but since the others had left to search for Janey, then Morag had raced off in the troop carrier twenty minutes later, Fiona had suddenly gone off wine. It was bizarre. It had never happened before, as far as she knew—not even when she was pregnant, when she knew she was meant to give it up but only managed to last until the second trimester. Not that she was an alcoholic, she reassured herself. She could give up, she just didn’t choose to. Anyone married to Todd would feel the same. And it wasn’t as if her having the odd glass after dinner seemed to have done her kids any harm. It was meant to retard growth, wasn’t it? So much for that. Bronte was a bloody giraffe.
She picked up her glass, but then set it down again. Maybe it was the heat. Wine didn’t really work in this climate—it got warm too quickly. What she needed was a rum and Coke or a vodka and lime, something that you could fill with ice cubes. The bar was still open. She could hear the hum of conversation and clink of glassware from where she sat by the pool on the edge of the lawn. All she had to do was get up, take a few steps . . . yet she stayed where she was. Just the thought of a rum and Coke—the sticky cola coating her teeth, the calories that would go straight to her arse—made her feel sick. I must be tired, she thought. It had been a big week. She stared unseeingly over the water, wondering when Bronte would be back.
Useless. Fiona flinched. That word again. It kept popping back into her head, try as she might to distract herself. Fiona felt the resentment prickle in her gut. Useless was what her own mother was, not her. Useless wasn’t going out to work every day, day after day, keeping the family afloat while her husband pissed around, pretending to run a business, and then still managing to put a meal on the table and keep the house halfway clean. Useless would have been just sitting back, as most women did, having their pedicures and their manicures and their lunch dates, not forever trying to soothe seven medical egos and manage a team of staff who seemed to spend half their days on Twitter rather than making appointments or filing the lab results. She wasn’t useless!
Tears came to her eyes and Fiona brushed them away with the back of her hand. She really was tired, she realised—not from the trip, but from her own damn life. From the long hours and Todd’s constant sniping, fro
m the ever-present worry about whether they’d have enough to pay the mortgage that month, from the effort of keeping her constantly simmering anger from coming to the boil. And for what? She was probably going to die anyway. She was definitely going to die, she corrected herself, but possibly earlier than she’d expected. The thought gave her a perverse flash of pleasure. Good! Let’s see how they all coped then. They’d soon realise she hadn’t been so useless after all.
But just say she didn’t die? Just say the lump was benign, or easily treated . . . She’d get out of hospital, go back to the practice, and nothing would change. Fiona sat up straight in her chair. It had to change. She saw that now. It drove her mad to watch Bronte being a victim—being picked on by Janey, afraid of her own shadow, always hiding behind that curtain of hair—but was she any better? She didn’t creep around like Bronte, but then again she rarely stood up to Todd either, just put up with all his shit and then took out the way he made her feel on everyone else. On Bronte. Fiona swallowed. She wasn’t much of a poster girl for the confident, hard-headed woman she was always harping at her daughter to become. And what about Dom? Her mind raced. What was her marriage teaching him—that it was OK to bag your wife, to deride as inferior every female you knew, to do no more than eat, grunt and fart at the dinner table, then piss off without clearing your plate or thanking the person who’d cooked your meal? God, no wonder Bronte scuttled out of the room as soon as Dom came in. He was turning out just like his father.
‘Hey,’ said Bronte, emerging from the shadows.
‘You’re back!’ cried Fiona, surprised at the relief she felt.
‘Oh, Tess and I have been back for ages,’ Bronte said. ‘We’ve just been lying over there on the lawn.’
The words stung. Back for ages, but she hadn’t bothered to come and find her mother, to say hello or tell Fiona what was going on.
‘Did you even know I was here?’ Fiona asked, sounding whiny even to her own ears.
