by Kylie Ladd
‘Janey!’ her mother bellowed from the paved area at the far end of the pool. Fiona, Morag and Amira stood beside her, Fiona swaying slightly. ‘Janey, what are you doing? You’re meant to be in bed!’
Janey’s companion surfaced beside her, took in the situation and slowly breaststroked away.
‘See you, mermaid,’ he whispered.
‘Janey, come here right now,’ said Caro. ‘I’m very disappointed in you. This trip was meant to be a treat, but you’ve already let me down.’
Janey sighed and pushed her hands through her hair, squeezing out the moisture. Silver drops ran glistening down her fingers and back into the water.) She trudged towards the steps, wishing she could join them.
‘You could have hit your head,’ her mother was saying. ‘You could have drowned! Where’s Bronte? And who was that boy? Do you even know his name?’
She was only getting started, but thankfully Janey was spared the full tirade; at that moment Fiona groaned, bent over, and vomited all her cocktails into the pool.
Monday
Fiona pressed her head against the glass of the troop-carrier window and wished everybody would just shut up. Amira had gone all tour guide on them and was pointing out the paltry sights of Broome, Bronte was dutifully nodding and asking questions, and Caro was still exclaiming—when she could get a word in—over the fucking mango she’d had for breakfast. Fiona stifled a groan. The memory of watching Caro shovelling it into her mouth, juices dripping onto the table, fingers sticky and gleaming, made her stomach contract. All Fiona had been able to force down was a lukewarm coffee, and at every bump in the road she feared that she would soon be seeing it once more.
She belched cautiously. It had been good of Amira to make sure she had the front seat, though with the fumes coming off her the others would probably have offered it quick smart anyway. Amira had also got her into the shower last night after she’d thrown up by the pool; had hunted around for a skimmer and removed the worst of the floating vomit. Fiona closed her eyes. Sadly, that wasn’t even her most humiliating memory of the evening. That honour belonged to the moment after her third cocktail when it had seemed a good idea to invite one of the locals propping up the bar to dance with her. He must have been about twenty-three, with shoulders as broad as his accent, and he’d certainly been friendly enough when she’d sidled up beside him and ordered a Sex on the Beach.
‘Pretty exotic, eh,’ he’d grunted when the bartender had no idea what she was talking about. She’d pouted and cooed that she was on holiday, and there was a beach here, wasn’t there, so with any luck she’d get it anyway. He’d laughed at that, but later, when a Michael Jackson song came on and she approached him again he turned her down flat.
‘I’m too bloody young for that shit,’ he’d said, cocking his sun-bleached head at ‘Blame It on the Boogie’. Then, giving her a once-over, he added, ‘And you.’
Fiona had felt heat and rage rise inside her. How dare he?
‘Your loss,’ she’d slurred, yanking down her strappy singlet top to give him a quick flash of her tits, which were still in pretty good shape. Then she’d stormed back to their table and got riotously, recklessly drunk.
It hadn’t taken long. She’d barely eaten all day, and it was so hot in The Bungalow—the lack of air-conditioning no doubt a ploy to encourage the patrons to spend more on drinks. Fiona didn’t remember much after that, just Amira and Morag trying to keep her upright as she stumbled back to The Mangrove, and the look on Janey’s face when she’d almost chundered over her in the pool. It would have to be Princess Janey, wouldn’t it? Always so perfect, the golden girl . . . not so perfect now though, she thought, smiling for the first time all morning. That look on Caro’s face when she’d realised her precious daughter was breaking the rules—and with a boy, what’s more. Welcome to the real world, Caroline. It sucks, doesn’t it?
The troop carrier shuddered to a halt and Amira tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Are you awake? We’re going into Coles. Do you want anything?’
Fiona shook her head. All she wanted was to be left alone, and a nice cool bed. Predictably, she’d hardly slept last night, resorting to a sleeping tablet around three am. Having to take it pissed her off—she was trying to cut down—but enduring the way she was feeling for another minute was a far worse option. Besides, she wouldn’t need any at Kalangalla. There wasn’t any chance of getting drunk there every night.
‘Last Liquorland for a thousand kilometres,’ Amira teased, as if reading her mind.
‘Go away,’ Fiona said, then, when Amira did, called after her, ‘Coke. Get me some Coke and some chips—crinkle cut, plain. And Berocca,’ she added, head falling back against the seat. She already had a tube of B vitamins in her case, but that was buried somewhere in the back of the vehicle, no doubt wedged between the spare tyre and Caro’s fucking pillow. The thought of standing out in the heat in the middle of the supermarket car park, sorting through all their bags to get at it, made her want to heave all over again. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew Amira was once more tugging on the handbrake before the carrier had completely stopped, jolting Fiona forward.
‘All out!’ Amira announced jauntily.
Fiona pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and resolutely turned her shoulder away, trying to tug her slumber back around her as if it was a blanket that had just slipped off.
‘Come on, Fiona,’ Amira said, shaking her. ‘You’ve got to see Cable Beach. You’ll feel better if you get out of the car, anyway.’
Fiona was inclined to disagree, but Bronte had come around to her door and was pulling it open, so she had no choice. Reluctantly she lowered herself from the car. They had driven right down onto the sand, which stretched golden and vast in both directions as far as she could see. Tiny crabs scurried away from her feet, their bodies translucent.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Morag. ‘This is what we saw from the plane, isn’t it? Do we have time for a swim?’
‘Sure,’ Amira said. ‘The water’s gorgeous at this time of year—twenty-seven, twenty-eight degrees or so. Tess and I saw two huge mantas just off shore when we were last here, in September.’
‘Are they dangerous?’ asked Bronte.
‘Nah. They look like they should be, but they don’t have a barb like stingrays do. They’re gentle giants—stunning to watch. People pay to swim with them further down the coast, at Ningaloo.’
‘I haven’t got my bathers on,’ complained Caro.
‘So go naked,’ suggested Amira, smiling. ‘This part of the beach is for nudists, anyway.’
Fiona glanced around. There were only two other cars besides theirs, but sure enough the elderly couple sitting back in their deckchairs a hundred metres away didn’t appear to have any clothes on. The woman’s large breasts lolled almost to her lap, like deflated airbags. Fiona winced. Sunburnt nipples. Nice.
‘It is lovely,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve got to go to the loo. I’ll meet you back at the car.’
She hurried away before they could protest. Yes, it was pretty, but her bladder was bursting and the glare was giving her a migraine. A small plane flew overhead, shattering the stillness. Coast Watch, Fiona read on the side of the plane, and thought of whales, then saw the smaller lettering on the tail: Customs. It was watching for people, not animals; refugees, illegal immigrants. Keep up the good work, she thought silently. Australia was already too crowded. Well, not here, maybe, but it was.
The public toilets were empty, save for a backpacker rinsing her plates directly under a sign that read, Please do not wash dishes in the hand basin. She smiled blithely when she saw Fiona and continued rinsing. Fiona went into a cubicle and pulled down her cargo pants, the phone in her back pocket falling to the floor. As she stooped for it, head pounding, it occurred to her that she should probably ring Todd. She hadn’t called yesterday, and they were about to disappear up into the Dreamtime or something, where there was apparently no reception . . . Fiona sa
t down on the toilet, relaxed her bladder and punched in the numbers. Who cared if the backpacker heard her; she probably couldn’t even speak English.
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 p
icked 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.’