Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘Shit, I’m ready for a drink.’ Fiona slid into the seat next to Morag. Amira quickly tucked the letter into her backpack.

  ‘Caro, you too?’ she asked, picking up the bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Caro, sitting down and holding out her glass. ‘The girls have gone for a swim. I said I’d come and grab them before dinner.’

  Amira poured the wine. ‘I booked early—six o’clock. I thought I’d better, seeing as your stomachs are still three hours ahead. We’re just going to a local place, the Aarli Bar. It’s down the hill, in town.’

  ‘So we can walk?’ Fiona asked. ‘You don’t have to drive?’

  Amira nodded.

  ‘Excellent.’ Fiona pulled Amira’s glass to her and sloshed in more wine, draining the bottle. ‘Drink up, then. We’ve got ten months of Friday nights to catch up on. Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Caro, lifting her glass high. ‘To the week ahead. To friendship. To us.’

  ‘To us,’ echoed Morag and Amira. Fiona was already taking her first long swallow.

  ‘You’re so sentimental,’ she said to Caro as she put down the half-empty glass. ‘To wine,’ she toasted instead, then burped loudly, neglecting to cover her mouth.

  ‘Oh, Fiona,’ Caro complained.

  ‘I’ll really enjoy having a drink tonight, actually,’ Amira said. ‘Kalangalla’s dry—you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Fiona, pausing with her glass halfway to her mouth. ‘We’re on holiday, without our husbands, and it’s fucking dry?’

  ‘I’m positive I told you. I assumed you’d realise, anyway. Most communities are, at least those like Kalangalla.’

  ‘The boring ones, you mean?’ said Fiona.

  ‘The ones where everyone’s trying to make a go of it. No grog, no domestic violence, no sniffing . . .’ Amira took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to relax her tone. ‘Look, you can have a drink, but you’ll have to buy it and bring it up yourself, then keep it in your room. No sem sauv on the beach. Some of the people there are recovering alcoholics. They don’t need the temptation.’

  ‘Faaaark,’ exhaled Fiona. ‘What about smoking? I may have to take it up again if I can’t drink.’

  ‘Plenty of smokers,’ said Amira. ‘You’ll fit in well.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Caro asked. ‘Drinking, that is.’

  ‘Oh, I still have one occasionally, with dinner. Some days I need it after work. As I said, it’s fine if it’s not a public thing.’ Amira toyed with the stem of her glass. ‘What I do miss—at least, I used to—is my mobile phone. There’s hardly any coverage on the Dampier Peninsula. That’s why I’ve been emailing you all so much, and I let Tess go on Facebook. We needed to stay in touch somehow.’

  Fiona rose from her seat, clutching her purse. ‘I think I better buy another bottle, pronto. No booze, no mobiles—and I’m guessing there won’t be a Krispy Kreme either?’ Amira laughed and shook her head. Fiona let out a low whistle. ‘I’d better come back with a bloody good tan, then.’

  When dusk fell they hauled Janey and Bronte out of the pool and set off for the restaurant. Amira pulled two frangipanis from a tree at the side of the road and tucked one behind her ear, handing the other to Janey.

  The girl buried her nose in it and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Thanks. I was wondering what that scent was.’

  ‘It’s always stronger at night,’ Amira said. ‘Lovely, isn’t it? I put them on my pillow sometimes.’

  The afternoon had been a lot of fun. It was great to see her friends again, to fall back so easily into their teasing banter. Amira and Tess had both settled into Kalangalla quite quickly, but it felt different to be with people who really knew you, she thought, people who’d minded your kids, slept at your house; people from whom there were no secrets. The night air was warm, and she was looking forward to eating out—there were no restaurants in the community. She’d order two threadfin salmon, maybe three, and they could pull off the flesh with their fingers . . .

  ‘Ya fuckin’ moll! Ya cunt!’

  An Aboriginal man was standing, swaying, in the road just ten metres in front of them, barefoot, his blue singlet torn and damp. Before Amira could react he reached out and hit a woman cowering next to him, the blow spinning her around and sending her sprawling to the bitumen. There was a dull crack as her head hit the road. A third Aborigine emerged out of the darkness, bent down and prised the bottle she’d been holding from her fingers, then disappeared back into the sandy scrub between the town and the bay.

  Caro clutched Janey to her, rooted to the spot. Behind them, Fiona, Bronte and Morag looked on in horror. The first man nudged the woman with his toe, then ambled off after his friend. ‘Fuckin’ moll,’ he repeated as he left.

  It had all been . . . exciting, Janey thought as she sat in the Aarli Bar reliving the scene. She knew that wasn’t how she was supposed to feel—she was meant to be scared, horrified, preferably both, but there you had it. She just felt thrilled. She’d never seen someone knocked out before. On the TV, sure, all the time, but it was different in real life; it was in your face. A small jolt of adrenalin buzzed through her as she recalled it again: the smell of the man—beer, urine, BO; the crunching sound his fist had made as it connected with the woman’s jaw; the way her knees had folded together, like a deckchair, as she sank to the ground. Janey’s mum had grabbed her after that, buried Janey’s face in her chest—something she hadn’t done for a good ten years, thank you very much—but it was too late. Janey had seen what had happened, and part of her had enjoyed it.

  Sadly, though, that was where it had ended. Almost as soon as the woman had hit the road, the air rushing out of her with a grunt, Fiona had seized Bronte’s wrist and hauled her to the restaurant, its burgundy sign glowing up ahead. Her own mother had followed suit, of course, continuing to shield Janey’s eyes as if she was five. Caro only let go when she had Janey seated and was pushing a barley sugar from her bag into Janey’s hand, no doubt in case she was suffering shock. Morag and Amira were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘How was the arm on that guy?’ Fiona asked, her voice slightly too loud. She caught the eye of a waiter, who picked up some menus and came towards them. ‘Bloody Mike Tyson. Or Lionel Rose, really. He was a boong too.’

  Her mum didn’t even try to shush Fiona this time, Janey noticed, just ducked her head and fiddled with her cutlery.

  ‘A bottle of red, please,’ Fiona said to the waiter. He went to open the wine list and she shooed him away. ‘Just red. I don’t care what sort. Whichever one you can get here quickest.’ Bronte blushed.

  ‘Someone’s going to have a sore head tomorrow,’ Fiona went on. ‘God. Welcome to Broome. Beware of the locals.’

  ‘Do you think she took his grog?’ Janey asked.

  Her mother looked up.

  ‘Janey!’ she warned.

  ‘It’s a fair question,’ said Fiona. ‘They’re always fighting over something—booze, women, land.’

  ‘I don’t know how Amira stands it.’ Caro sighed. ‘Imagine living with that all the time.’

  Bronte cleared her throat, a puny sound, like a kitten sneezing. ‘She said her community was dry, remember? That’s probably what they’re trying to prevent. I’m sure it’s different there.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it would be better if they just learned to hold their drink, like the rest of us,’ said Fiona, ‘or got a job, so they didn’t just sit around, pissing on. That’s our taxes, you know. We’re paying for their dole and their beer.’

  The waiter returned with the wine. Fiona held out her glass insistently, then moved it away before the waiter had finished pouring, ruby liquid spilling onto the table. Though it had been her fault, he apologised and pulled out a cloth.

  ‘Can I have one too, Mum?’ Janey asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Caro. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I do at home. Dad always lets me. You know that.’

  ‘We’re not at home now, and you’re
in training. Two mineral waters please,’ her mother instructed the waiter without consulting either Bronte or Janey.

  ‘Diet Coke,’ Janey called after him, but she was too late. She sank back in her chair. They were supposed to be on holiday, weren’t they? Couldn’t her mum cut her some slack for one night?

  Amira and Morag arrived, looking flustered.

  ‘I’m starving. Have you ordered?’ Amira asked, squeezing herself into the seat next to Janey. She could use some Diet Coke too, Janey thought.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Caro. ‘We wanted to wait until we knew that everything was OK. You were alright, I mean. What happened?’ ‘I didn’t want to just leave the woman lying in the street,’ Amira said. ‘I stayed with her while Morag ran down to the police station. It’s not far. Everything’s close in this town.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’ asked Janey.

  ‘Not really. I didn’t think the men would come back. They had what they wanted. I was more afraid the woman would stop breathing.’

  ‘Well, I was scared,’ said Morag from the other end of the table. ‘I didn’t want to be there in the dark, near all those bushes. I kept thinking about snakes.’

  Amira laughed. ‘Not at night. Not the legless variety, anyway.’ She turned to address the others. ‘She did a great job though—had the cops back there in less than ten minutes, and by the time they arrived the woman was starting to come round.’

  ‘I should have stayed,’ Janey’s mother said to no one in particular. ‘I didn’t realise she was unconscious. I was just worried, you know? I wanted to get Janey out of there.’

  ‘What did the police do?’ asked Bronte. ‘Did they find the man who hit her?’

  Amira shrugged. ‘They didn’t really look. They were more concerned with getting the woman to hospital. She’ll know who it is—she can tell them later. They probably know too.’

  ‘So you went back to the station and made a statement?’ Fiona was leaning forward, wine in hand.

  ‘No,’ said Amira. ‘I told the sergeant I was working up at Kalangalla, in case he needed to get in touch, but it won’t go to court. It never does. They couldn’t get through all the cases.’

  Fiona drained her glass and put it down. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said slowly. ‘I thought you would have been prosecuting it yourself. That’s why you came here, isn’t it, to save the darkie? Are you giving up that easily, or have you gone off them now you actually have to live with them?’

  Amira picked up a menu and opened it, speaking without looking at Fiona. ‘It’s far more complicated than you could ever imagine. I’ve learned to pick my battles. Let’s eat.’

  Later, when they’d finished their dinner and were heading back to The Mangrove, they passed the spot on the road where the man had punched the woman. Janey examined it as carefully as she could in the dim light, looking for blood, a clump of hair or maybe even a tooth, but there was nothing, no evidence of what had transpired.

  ‘Does that sort of thing happen a lot?’ she asked Amira.

  It had been a few hours, but Amira knew immediately what she was referring to. She sighed.

  ‘A bit. I wish you hadn’t had to see it.’ She turned and smiled at Bronte. ‘Your mum is going to be dining out on it all week.’

  Bronte just stared at her feet. ‘Hopefully she’ll get so pissed tonight she forgets all about it.’

  Amira laughed. ‘There’s a fair chance of that, I’d say.’

  After they’d finished eating, Fiona had pushed back her chair and insisted that the adults kick on.

  ‘Cocktails, dancing . . . Is there a nightclub here, Amira?’

  Amira had nodded. ‘The Bungalow, on Dampier Terrace. It’s a bit dodgy, though.’

  Morag wasn’t keen, Janey noticed, but Fiona was adamant. ‘It’s the first night of our holiday! And,’ she added, sneaking a sly glance at Amira, ‘our last in civilisation. Don’t be pathetic.’

  ‘What about the girls?’ Janey’s mother had asked, but Fiona had an answer to that too.

  ‘Amira can walk them back while we have another drink. They’ll be fine, as long as they keep the door locked and stay away from the porn channel. It’ll come up on the bill, you know,’ she said, wagging a finger at Bronte, who had flushed to the roots of her hair.

  ‘There you go,’ said Amira now, pushing open the door to the room Janey and Bronte were sharing. She handed the key to Bronte. ‘You heard your mother. Keep it locked.’ She stepped back to let them go in, impulsively touching Janey on the arm as she passed. ‘It’s lovely to see you again. Tess has been so looking forward to this week.’

  ‘Me too,’ mumbled Janey, because she knew it was expected of her, and ducked inside before Amira could get any ideas about kissing her goodnight.

  ‘You’ll be fine then?’ Amira asked, turning to go. ‘You’ve got our mobile numbers. We won’t be late. I hope. Sleep well.’ She disappeared back into the night, her footsteps fading after her.

  Bronte carefully turned the key in the lock, then drew the chain across for good measure.

  ‘You scared?’ asked Janey.

  ‘A little,’ admitted Bronte. ‘Mum was saying that a girl got raped up here a month or so ago. A tourist, like us.’

  ‘Tourists get raped in Melbourne, too,’ Janey said. ‘Lots of people do.’

  Bronte grabbed some stuff from her bag and went into the bathroom without replying. When she came out again she was wearing a t-shirt and pyjama pants with a motif of two pink teddy bears tucked up in bed, a line of Zs above their heads.

  Janey smirked.

  ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Did your mum pick those out for you?’

  ‘My grandmother,’ Bronte muttered, reaching for her hairbrush. ‘I like them. They’re comfortable.’

  ‘They’re too hot for up here,’ Janey said, pulling off her own clothes and kicking them under the bed. ‘I’m going to sleep nude.’ She moved so she could see herself in the mirror attached to the wardrobe door. Bronte went red and turned away, furiously dragging the bristles through her long dark hair. Janey smiled to herself. Little prude.

  She looked into the mirror, admiring her reflection. She liked her body. Long blonde hair, flat stomach, tight arse. She ticked off her attributes one by one. Good legs, firm and shapely from all those laps in the pool. They weren’t as long as Bronte’s, sure, but Bronte was a mutant. Great tits. That’s what Darren in year ten had called out anyway, when he passed her in the corridor before school broke up. Janey’s hands reached to cup them. They were nice. Round and high, the nipples a dusky pink, not brown and used-looking like her mother’s. Her mum had caught her peeking at them once as they got changed for the beach, and pulled a face. ‘Children,’ she’d said. ‘That’s what you get from pregnancy and breastfeeding.’ If that was the case, Janey was going to adopt.

  The light snapped out.

  ‘Hey!’ Janey said.

  ‘I want to go to sleep. It’s after midnight in Melbourne.’ Bronte’s voice was muffled. She probably had the covers pulled up to her nose, hiding from all the rapists. ‘Go into the bathroom if you want to stare at yourself.’

  She was just jealous, Janey thought, but slid into the second bed anyway.

  An hour later she was still awake. It was too hot. The air pressed against her face like a warm wet sponge, congealed beneath her knees and in her armpits. She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, then went over to switch on the airconditioner, but it shook itself to life with such a combination of clanking and wheezing that Bronte woke up and complained. Fine, Janey decided, shutting everything off and grabbing her bikini from where she’d left it in a damp heap on a chair. If she couldn’t sleep she’d go for a swim. Fiona had only told them to keep the door locked, after all. She hadn’t said anything about actually staying in the room.

  A small green frog hopped away from her feet as she followed the pathway outside her door. The sky was a deep navy blue dusted with stars; the pool when she came to it was still and serene. Janey dived in and
swam underwater, revelling in the luxury of not counting her strokes or rushing to the surface as she usually did, mind fixed on the session or the race ahead of her. Guided by a blue underwater beacon, she made it to the far end, turned and got halfway back before coming up for air. She rolled onto her back and floated, catching her breath. A bat wheeled past overhead, lit briefly by the light reflected from the water.

  ‘Are you part mermaid?’ someone called, and Janey stood up, looking around.

  ‘Over here,’ came the voice again, and then Janey saw him, sitting on the edge of the pool, half hidden in the shadows, his feet dangling in the water. ‘I was lying on the banana lounge when you dived in. Sorry to scare you.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Janey said. She lay back in the water again, annoyed at being disturbed.

  ‘My mates are all in the bar,’ the man continued. ‘I was sick of the smoke; came out here for a breather and a bit of a lie-down. Didn’t know I was going to get woken by a mermaid. Show us your tail.’ He grinned, white teeth and gleaming eyes all she could see in the darkness. Seventeen, Janey thought, judging by his voice. Maybe eighteen. It was hard to tell, but she liked his smile.

  ‘No way,’ she said, holding her legs tightly together and splashing water towards him. ‘You’ll sell me to a museum.’

  ‘Do mermaids fetch a good price?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been hunting for a bunyip, but maybe I should change my tack.’

  ‘Heaps,’ Janey said. ‘Even more if you can catch one alive.’

  ‘OK, then,’ he replied, then stood up and dived into the water, still clothed, before she could blink. Janey struck out for the shallow end but he was onto her in a moment, reaching for her feet. She shrieked and giggled, kicking spray into his face and wriggling away.

  ‘Powerful, too,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘You’ll make me a fortune!’ He took a deep breath and dived under again. Janey felt his hands on her ankles, on her calves, sliding up towards her thighs . . . and then heard a new voice, a loud and very angry one.