Mothers and Daughters (7 page)

Todd sounded flustered when he answered. ‘Hello?’ he barked.

‘Hey, it’s me,’ Fiona said, urine still flowing between her legs. God, it was a relief to let go.

‘Oh, you’ve remembered us, have you?’ he asked in that half-joking, half-sniping tone she knew so well.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call yesterday. The plane was delayed,’ she lied, ‘then I knew you were going to be out all afternoon. Did you have a good time?’

‘Yeah, it was alright,’ Todd said. ‘Got a bit of a hangover now, but. Dom too.’

‘I hope you didn’t let him drive home.’ The words were out before she could stop them.

‘Jeez, you’re unreal. You piss off on holiday, spending a fortune, then ring up to nag. Go back to your chardonnay, Fiona. We’re doing just fine.’

Fiona took a deep breath.
Please dispose of sanitary items in the bin provided
, said a sign on the back of the door in front of her. The euphemism had always amused her. The items weren’t that sanitary by the time you disposed of them.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just worry about him after last time. And I miss you both. Caro’s already driving me nuts.’ She wasn’t really, but she said it for Todd, who had never liked her friend.

‘Well, it was your choice,’ he replied, still miffed. ‘I’ve gotta go. Some of us have to work. Have a good time.’

He hung up, and she sat there fuming. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him about Kalangalla, that she wouldn’t be able to call . . . he hadn’t even asked her what she was doing,
or if she was having fun. Arsehole. Fiona wiped herself, then stood up to flush, tempted to throw the damn phone down the toilet as well. When she went out to wash her hands the backpacker had gone, but the sink was full of gristle and soggy shreds of lettuce.

‘Here we are,’ said Amira as she spotted the sign for the turn-off to Kalangalla. ‘Almost there.’

‘Thank fucking Christ,’ moaned Fiona, stirring herself from where she’d slumped back against the window the minute they’d left Cable Beach. She wouldn’t be the only one who’d be glad to get out, Amira thought. The others had chattered and laughed as they’d headed along the bitumen road out of Broome, but had fallen silent as soon as they turned onto the red dirt of the Cape Leveque track and the corrugations began. It was too hard to talk when your teeth were jolting together and your head kept threatening to hit the roof of the car.

‘That took
forever
,’ Janey complained from the back seat. ‘I wouldn’t come here again unless I could fly.’

‘Some people do fly in,’ Amira said. In the rear-view mirror she could see Janey checking her reflection in a compact, lips pursed critically. Like mother, like daughter. ‘There’s an airstrip at the Wajarrgi resort, ten or so minutes away. Tourists sometimes fly up from Broome to spend the day there.’

Janey snapped the compact shut. ‘That’s how I’m getting back then.’

‘Is it worth visiting the resort?’ Morag asked.

‘Definitely,’ said Amira, slowing as she came through the gate into the community. ‘I’ve already booked us in for lunch on Wednesday. The restaurant’s fabulous, and there’s some really lovely snorkelling areas. Mind you,’ she added, bringing the troop-carrier to a halt beside the administration building, ‘our own beach is none too shabby either. I’ll take you down once you’ve unpacked and got settled.’

She looked out in pride and satisfaction at Kalangalla: green lawns, sprinklers, fences. True, the grass was dusty and tough underfoot—it had to be to survive in this climate—and the sprinkler water stained your clothes if you got too close, but no other community she had seen up here looked anything like this. Elsewhere, the fences were rusted and broken, the ground strewn with burnt-out cars and worm-ridden dogs; they didn’t have schools or bakeries or medical centres. Kalangalla was an oasis, she thought, a model of the way things could be done—
should
be done.

‘Wow,’ said Caro, opening her door. ‘It’s pretty primitive, isn’t it?’

Amira felt a flash of anger. She’d expected such a comment from Fiona, but Caro? She thought Caro had understood why she’d applied for the teacher exchange—because her life was too bland, too safe, too predictable; because she wanted to do something with her skills, make a difference somehow, and that wasn’t going to happen in a place where there was a Starbucks on every corner or an Xbox in every home. ‘It’s not the Gold Coast, no,’ she replied. ‘Then again, I wouldn’t want it to be.’

‘Sorry,’ said Caro, colouring. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just sort of had these visions of you living in a hut on the beach,
with coconut trees and a hammock . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?’

Amira had to laugh. ‘Beach huts are overrated. No airconditioning, and I couldn’t watch
MasterChef
. It may not look like it but we’re actually pretty up with it. We’ve got a shop and the clinic, plus there’s internet access at the school and the office.’

‘Positively cutting edge,’ Fiona said, but smiled at her. She hauled herself out of the car, landing beside it in a fine spray of red dirt. ‘Shit, it’s hot.’

Amira looked again at the scene in front of her, suddenly seeing it through her friends’ eyes. It was true, the community did look primitive. The squat fibro houses had peeling paint; the roads were dirt, not paved. Two children ran past barefoot and barely clothed. Everything sagged in the heat. Oddly though, it hadn’t struck her that way when she first arrived. Instead, there had been this enormous sense of something new, something beginning . . . something real, somehow. For years—ever since Davis had walked out, and he’d left before Tess’s first birthday—she had done what was expected of her. She had established a routine, she had found a part-time job, she had swallowed her pride and asked her parents for a loan so she could buy Davis out of his share of their flat. She had, in short, done everything in her power to provide Tess with stability: financial certainly but emotional too. There had been no passionate love affairs that might distract her from her daughter; and nothing had been decided—new carpet, a holiday—without considering, then, in later years, consulting, Tess. And it had worked, hadn’t it? At fourteen Tess was a
lovely girl, thoughtful and funny, smart and sensitive. When the flyer for the exchange had gone up on the noticeboard in the staffroom Amira had immediately felt drawn to it.
Tess is fine
, it seemed to whisper to her.
It’s your turn now.

‘Mum, Mum!’

Amira turned to see her daughter racing towards her, brown legs flying. She loved that about Tess, loved that she still wore her heart on her sleeve, showed her enthusiasm; that puberty hadn’t yet rendered her too cool or too jaded to get excited about things. And she was barefoot too, Amira noticed, at home in her skin and this place . . . She smiled. Tess was thriving. Tess would always thrive.

‘Hello, angel girl,’ she said, throwing her arms around her daughter and burying her face in Tess’s hair. The thick dark strands tickled her nose. Tess complained about her unruly mane, about the knots and the weight of it, just as Amira had done when she was younger, but thank God she’d inherited it rather than Davis’s thin hair, now receding. Anyone could tell at a glance that Tess was Amira’s daughter. As a single parent, that mattered somehow. She squeezed her tightly. ‘Did you enjoy yourself with Tia?’

‘Yep,’ said Tess. ‘We went crabbing. I got three and we cooked them, but I kept one for you. Janey!’ she exclaimed, spotting her friend. ‘And Bronte! It’s amazing to have you here. I can’t wait to show you everything.’ She pulled away from Amira and enfolded both the girls in a violent hug, at which Janey winced slightly. ‘Come on,’ Tess said, tugging Janey by the hand. ‘I want to show you my room, and the beach, and the church.’

‘The church?’ said Janey dubiously.

‘It’s all lined with pearl shell. The missionaries who first came here just picked it up off the beach. Everything glows . . . it’s like being under the sea, or inside an oyster.’

‘Great,’ said Janey. ‘Just what I’ve always dreamed of.’

‘I think it sounds beautiful,’ said Bronte, taking Tess’s other hand. ‘And I want to see your house too. Let’s go.’

‘Take your hats,’ called Caro, reaching into the car for them. ‘You’ll need to watch your skin this week—especially you, Bronte.’

Janey held out her hand for the cap, then thrust it into a back pocket. ‘We’ll be inside in a moment,’ she said, turning away. Bronte hesitated, pulled hers on and ran after the other two.

The four women watched them go.

‘It’s nice to see them together again,’ said Amira. ‘Tess has been so excited.’

‘I can tell!’ laughed Caro. ‘She’s looking great—so fit and healthy.’

Morag gazed around. ‘It’s so quiet here. Where is everybody?’

‘At work,’ Amira replied. ‘There’s no unemployment—everyone has jobs with the garage or in maintenance, or the shop or in tourism. It’s so different to Broome and the Kimberley, where at least half of the Indigenous population is on benefits.’

‘Why?’ asked Morag simply.

Amira shrugged. ‘Lots of things. Being dry helps, but it’s more than that. I think it’s simply that there
is
work here, and work that feels like it matters—keeping the place running, showing visitors some of the old crafts and traditions, taking
care of the children. The people here still have a connection to the land, a sense of history.’ She corrected herself. ‘Not history. Continuity. Life going on. It’s important to them. There are songlines here that are thousands of years old.’

That’s enough
, she thought, noticing Fiona stifling a yawn. Amira felt strongly about the way the community worked, protective and impassioned, but there was no point lecturing. People either got it or they didn’t—anyway, her friends had only just arrived. She smiled at them. ‘Let me show you where you’re sleeping, and then we’ll hit the beach.’

It wasn’t the Gold Coast, Amira was right about that. It wasn’t even The Mangrove, and that had hardly been the last word in luxury. Caro looked around the room that she and Janey had been assigned, one of four side by side in a drab concrete block marked
Visitors
. Threadbare curtains, worn carpet, an ancient ceiling fan slowly rotating overhead, as if unable to work up any more effort. Everything was scrupulously clean, thank God, but it was so small. She’d stayed in youth hostels with more space than this. Where the hell was she going to put all her stuff? Caro sank down on the bed to take stock. The springs squeaked, so she got up and tested the other one, which was against the opposite wall. May as well have her choice before Janey arrived from wherever she was, though neither appealed. Single beds! She hated single beds. One of the benefits to Caro of Alex’s never-ending travel—and heaven knows there weren’t many—was spreading out across their
king-size mattress, making herself as comfortable as she could, compromising for no one. She hadn’t slept in a single bed since the youth hostels, well before they met. She’d thought those days were behind her.

Caro sighed and opened the first of her bags. She needed to hang up her clothes before they got any more creased. There didn’t seem much chance of finding an iron here. The bedroom situation could have been worse, she told herself. At least she didn’t have to share with Fiona again, who’d snored and moaned throughout the previous night, and it would be nice for her and Janey to be roommates. She needed to make more of an effort with Janey, Caro thought, maybe actually stay at training and watch her swim, so they had something to talk about in the car on the way home afterwards, instead of Janey jamming in her earbuds and Caro returning the calls she hadn’t got to during the day. The trouble was that there was never any time, with the business to run and the house to look after, April always needing help with her homework . . .

She shook out a pair of capri pants. In her walk-in robe at home they’d seemed perfect, just the sort of thing for afternoon drinks and evenings out, but now she threw them back in her case. She’d had her evening out. There weren’t going to be any more, and everything she’d packed was far too dressy for Kalangalla. It was all wrong, all of it, the structured sundresses and the white linen shirts, the wedges and the silk wrap. She’d look like an idiot parading around in that stuff. Caro felt a tightness across her chest. What she needed were plain shorts and singlets like Amira was wearing. She’d brought some, hadn’t she? She was sure she had, positive . . . She tipped the
bag upside down on the bed, ferreting through its contents, then did the same with the next. Her breath came in gasps as she searched. Just two casual t-shirts, a singlet and three pairs of shorts. That wasn’t enough. Were there washing facilities here? Could she buy powder? Maybe she could get Amira to take her back into Broome so she could go to the shops there and buy the right sort of clothes.