Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘I hope you all enjoyed that,’ the guide chirped, smile firmly back in place. ‘Now we’re going to head to the village, where you can try your hand at some traditional weaving.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to join in, Bronte?’ asked Amira. ‘You can share my spear if you like.’ She waved the spear resting on her shoulder.

  Bronte shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’m happy just to watch and finish my weaving.’ She snuck another look at the small piece of matting in her lap, an umber-coloured circle emerging from its fibres. A thrill went through her, racing along her limbs and down her spine, like that time she’d stuck a knife in the toaster trying to free a jammed crumpet, only far more pleasant. She was doing it. It was working! Her fingers moved to select the next piece of dyed pandanus, and she paused, contemplating how it could be integrated into the design. She didn’t look up as Amira turned away and splashed into the shallows of the village lagoon. Across . . . under . . . across . . . under . . . rotate and tie off. Bronte mouthed the instructions to herself, concentrating fiercely. She was on her own. The old woman who had demonstrated the weaving was no longer with the group, dismissed as soon as they had moved on to making spears. Bronte had wanted to ask if the woman could stay with her and she could give the whole fishing thing a miss, but she’d been too shy, afraid that the woman might say no or her mother would roll her eyes. Still, this was the next best thing, sitting under a tree while the others stalked their prey, the handful of pandanus in her lap, her fingers finding their own rhythm, the fibres aligning, shifting, becoming something else.

  No one else had enjoyed the weaving, she knew. Caro had glanced at her watch while the old woman showed them the items she had made: a mat, a basket, something she called a dilly bag; Tess had yawned, then smiled apologetically when Bronte caught her eye. ‘Got up early to go to the beach,’ she’d whispered in explanation, and Bronte had nodded, returning her attention to the demonstration. The woman’s hands were knotted with arthritis, yet they moved so deftly over her work it was almost as if they were dancing. Bronte had watched, spellbound; she’d wanted to stand up and move closer. It was the colours, she thought, so vibrant, so alive. She’d had the same sensation on her first day of primary school when all the students had received their own box of crayons. Up until then she’d made do with Dom’s hand-me-downs, jumbled and broken in a grubby plastic lunchbox, tips blunted, labels shredded. As the teacher continued on past her desk, distributing the bright yellow packets, Bronte had glanced around, wondering if she was allowed to open them or if they were to be kept for special like the ‘good’ scissors her mother wouldn’t let her touch. Other children were ripping at their boxes, tearing the cardboard, but Bronte sat patiently, waiting to be told what to do. When Miss Kirkland had finally nodded at her, she eased back the lid and carefully shook the crayons out onto her exercise book, holding her breath. Jewels emerged, perfect and whole, rubies and sapphires and emeralds, their glorious hues tumbling across her blue-lined page. They were so beautiful she’d gasped, and the boy sitting next to her laughed and said, ‘They’re just dumb crayons, stupid.’

  But Bronte had never forgotten those crayons. Unable to bear being parted from them at home time that afternoon, she’d smuggled them into her bag. After dinner, Fiona had discovered her drawing furiously in her room when she should have been getting ready for bed; rather than being angry with her as Bronte had feared, she had sat down next to her, picked up the purple crayon and drawn a dragon. Bronte hadn’t known her mother could draw dragons. Together they covered it in scales, then coloured them in, orange and pink and cyan and crimson; a harlequin dragon, a kaleidoscopic creature. The drawing had hung on the fridge for at least a year afterwards.

  Even Janey had understood how Bronte felt about those crayons. When Patrick, the boy who had laughed at her, had accidentally snapped her favourite crayon, the cobalt one, Janey had noticed her quivering lip and passed Bronte her own box.

  ‘Take the one he broke,’ she said. ‘I don’t care. They’re only baby crayons.’

  It was a typical backhanded Janey comment, Bronte realised many years later, but kind nonetheless. Janey could still do that occasionally, reveal a hint of humanity beneath her shellacked exterior, but the glimpses were getting further and further apart.

  Bronte shifted in the sand. Truth be told, she was scared of Janey, of her razor-sharp tongue, her blonde indifference. For a while at primary school she had considered her a friend—mainly, she supposed now, because their mothers were close, so they were always at each other’s houses—but Janey, no doubt, had never shared the delusion. Even as a six year old she’d had the same cool blue gaze, had been able to sum up any situation in an instant and know how to work it to her advantage.

  Bronte looked up from her weaving, suddenly curious as to how the ice queen was handling the Survivor-esque antics going on in the lagoon. When Tess had proudly shown them her just-caught fish that morning they had both recoiled—Bronte because she hated to see any animal suffering, Janey because she was terrified of getting blood or slime on her fresh white singlet. This catch-and-kill thing was never going to be Janey’s style. Sure enough, there she was, lying face down on her towel further along the beach, earbuds in, her bikini top fluttering like a red flag from the spear rammed into the sand next to her. The side of her breast was clearly visible. Bronte flushed. Just say someone saw? But that was the point with Janey, she supposed. Being seen was always the point.

  Bronte leaned back against the tree, letting her weaving fall into her lap, and took in the scene in front of her. The tourist who had made such a fuss about the didgeridoo was posing on the beach with her newly minted weapon, her husband obediently filming her every move. Caro fluffed around in the shallows, clearly nervous about getting her silk sarong wet, while the guide hovered on the sand making sure that everybody was safe and enjoying themselves. Tess and Amira laughed together as they stood, spears poised, in water over their waists. They could be natives themselves, Bronte thought. Their dark skin, yes, but also how at ease they looked in that setting, as if they spent every day up to their bras in a lagoon. Maybe they did. A pang went through her—not for the fishing, which she was happy to avoid, but for their tranquil companionship, that they could spend time together without harsh words being spoken or feelings getting hurt, without either one of them turning around and stalking off.

  She sighed. Tess and Amira were a team, were equals. Tess spoke, Amira listened; Amira suggested and Tess complied. There was none of the struggle she felt between herself and her own mother, or indeed between Janey and Caro. Why was that? Was it because Tess’s father was out of the picture, and Tess and Amira had had to rely on each other instead? Was it the time spent up here, thrown together in a new land, a new culture, with none of the distractions of home? Or was it simply dumb luck? Amira was a good mother, Bronte thought, then immediately felt guilty. Her own mother was a good mother. They were just going through a bad patch. Her mum worked too much, she was always tired and it made her short-tempered, plus she worried about Dom . . . And what about Morag? Bronte wondered, catching sight of her moving towards Caro, eyes focused on the blue-green depths in front of her. How did she feel about Macy? Did it bother her that her stepdaughter had been thrown out of school? Or was it only blood that made you care about such things, brought the two of you to loggerheads about the length of your skirt or the curve of your shoulders?

  Bronte picked up her weaving again. Macy. Ugh. She’d only met her a few times, but she was afraid of her too. Bronte, Tess and Janey had their moments, but at least they were used to each other, they could muddle along for the few days they had left. Macy would change all that, and Bronte hated change. Change was overrated. Far better to know where you were and what to expect . . . Still, though, imagine being banished by your father to the other side of the country, being delivered by the post van like a dog-eared parcel. Bronte shuddered. She didn’t know how Macy could stand it.

  A cry went up from the wa
ter and Bronte craned her neck to see what was going on. Her mother was standing about ten metres from the shore, holding out her spear, a grey-green fish flapping from its point. ‘I got one,’ she cried, sounding surprised, then raised the shaft higher in triumph. ‘I got one, did you hear that? I won! I won!’

  Pride flushed through Bronte. If anyone was going to catch a fish she would have expected it to be Tess, who’d done it before, or the precise, methodical Morag. ‘Good on you, Mum!’ she shouted, jumping to her feet, then sprinted down the beach to congratulate her. She must get a picture, she thought, something to show Dad. He’d never believe them otherwise.

  ‘I’m going to the bar,’ said Amira. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  She and Fiona were back on the deck of the restaurant at Wajarrgi, the footballers they’d seen at lunch playing kick-to-kick on the grass nearby.

  ‘Stupid question,’ replied Fiona. ‘Get me a glass of sauv blanc. Actually, make it a bottle. You’ll share it with me, won’t you?’

  Amira pulled a face. ‘Not a whole bottle. I’ve got to drive back in an hour or so, when the others have finished snorkelling.’

  ‘God, Amira, it’s only ten minutes away.’ Fiona sighed. ‘Have you ever even had a booze bus anywhere near Kalangalla? It wouldn’t make it up that bloody road.’

  Amira smoothed her hair back from her face and knotted it at the base of her neck. ‘It’s still not a good look.’ She shrugged. ‘Being an exchange teacher and all.’

  ‘You’re such a good role model.’ Fiona opened her purse and pulled out a fifty-dollar note. ‘Get a bottle anyway. You can have a glass. Actually, get two—one to take back for dinner tonight.’

  Amira leaned across the table for the money. ‘It’s going to be quite the feast, what with your catch of the day and Tess’s fish from this morning.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fiona. ‘Now all we need is for someone to spear some hot chips.’

  She watched as Amira ambled into the restaurant. Was it her imagination or was she broader across the beam than Fiona remembered her being in Melbourne? You wouldn’t think you’d put on weight up here, what with all that bloody healthy living and no grog. Amira was that type though, she mused. She only had to look at food to add an inch to her arse. Tess was gorgeous now, but she was going to be the same once she finished growing. You could see it coming. Fiona sat back in her seat and peered out along the beach below the cliffs. Not that she could talk. Had there ever been a time when she hadn’t felt self-conscious about her stomach? And now her hips had joined in, moving past childbearing and into a territory where they’d soon need their own postcode. But it was the soul that mattered, not the body—wasn’t that what all the women’s magazines were always spouting? She should embrace getting older; it was empowering. The lines deepening around her eyes were a sign of wisdom, of a life spent laughing and loving. Fiona shook her head. If Todd overheard her he’d be only too quick to point out that actually they were from not using sunscreen until her thirties and not giving up smoking for another decade after that. Worse, he’d be right. God, women told each other a heap of crap.

  There they were. Fiona could just make out Morag, Caro and the three girls at the edge of the ocean, pulling on flippers and rash tops, Janey’s bright hair glinting in the sun. They were welcome to it. There was no way she was going snorkelling, not while she had her period. Every shark in the area would be onto her within minutes. Shit, she was probably meant to embrace that too, wasn’t she? The beauty and wonder of her monthly cycle, the miracle of bleeding like a stuck pig, of cramps that knocked the wind out of her and undies that had to be left to soak for days. Beneath the table, the fish that she’d caught twitched in its polystyrene esky. Fiona kicked the box. Wasn’t it dead yet? She hadn’t even gone into the lagoon past her knees, though that black girl had told her it was perfectly safe. Fiona scoffed. She was young but she’d learn. Nothing was safe, never mind perfect.

  Amira placed two glasses and a dark green bottle, already sweating, in the centre of the table, then pulled out the seat opposite Fiona.

  ‘I got some more ice for your fish,’ she said, tipping it into the esky.

  ‘Good. Hopefully it will freeze to death. I think it thinks it’s coming back with us as a pet.’

  Amira sat down and reached for the wine Fiona had poured. ‘Cheers,’ she said, lifting her glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ Fiona replied. ‘Thanks for staying with me. I’d’ve hated to have to drink alone.’

  ‘Like that’s ever stopped you before.’ Amira smiled. ‘Did you ring Todd? What’s news from home?’

  ‘Nah, couldn’t be bothered. I’ve been gone four days and he hasn’t even left a message.’

  ‘He might be busy,’ Amira said.

  Fiona took a slurp of wine and held it in her mouth, cold and crisp, until it made her teeth ache. Who’d choose snorkelling when they could be doing this? She swallowed, the familiar warmth blooming down her throat and into her stomach. ‘Yeah, I bet he’s busy . . . busy lying on the couch, busy at the TAB, busy drinking beer with Dom.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s missing you anyway,’ Amira said.

  ‘It’s alright, Amira.’ Fiona held her gaze across the table, then reached for the bottle to top up her glass. ‘You don’t have to pretend. We both know he isn’t. Just like I’m not missing him. I’m glad to have a break from all his shit for a while, if you must know.’

  Amira opened her mouth to reply, but just then a football came sailing across their table, narrowly missing the wine. Without thinking, Fiona put up her arms and caught it, the warm leather stinging her palms.

  ‘Nice one!’ cried the young man bounding to their table to retrieve it. ‘Sorry about that, but it was a good mark.’ Fiona tossed him the ball and he grabbed it, then peered more closely at her. ‘Hey, you ladies were with that blonde girl earlier today, weren’t you? Is she still here?’

  Fiona winced. Ladies. She hated that word.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she said. ‘She was taken by a crocodile just after lunch. Tragic. So young.’

  The boy stared at her, then laughed.

  ‘I thought you were serious for a second.’

  He was like a labrador puppy, Fiona thought, bouncy and cute and none too bright. A chocolate lab. She stood up from the table. ‘I want to play too.’

  The boy had started back towards his mates, but turned around at her words. ‘What?’

  ‘Kick-to-kick,’ Fiona said. ‘I want to join in. I used to play it with my husband . . . I’m pretty good. You saw my mark.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ The boy hesitated, trying to work out if she was pulling his leg.

  ‘You would have let the blonde girl play though, wouldn’t you?’ Fiona said. The sea and the cliffs were spinning slightly, sliding into each other in a blur of red and blue. She must have got up too quickly.

  ‘Probably,’ the boy conceded. ‘If she was still alive.’

  ‘Hah!’ Fiona barked. ‘I’m in. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.’ She pulled off her shoes and jogged towards the group of youths on the grass, still waiting for their ball. Lady, huh? She’d show him. And it was true, she had played with Todd, years ago when they were first dating. They’d been on a picnic down by the Yarra with some other builders he’d gone to TAFE with. While Todd manned the barbecue, one of them had pulled out a Sherrin, handballing it to her while she stood watching. Fiona had three older brothers and she’d kicked it back without thinking, a long low drop punt that streaked through the air like a missile. Todd had put down his tongs and whistled appreciatively. It was one of the last times she could remember impressing him.

  ‘You go up that end,’ the young man said as they reached his teammates. ‘Guys,’ he called out, ‘we have a guest. This is . . .’ He looked at her.

  ‘Fiona,’ she said, panting slightly. She really had to get back to the gym.

  ‘Fiona,’ he repeated, ‘and she’s got good hands, so watch out.’ He tossed her the ball and she grasped it de
ftly, conscious of the twenty or so pairs of eyes on her. Fuck, she hoped she could remember how to do that drop punt. She walked back to the edge of the grassed area, trying to recall what her brother Stevo had taught her. Take a few small steps, arm raised for balance . . . drop the ball straight down and meet it with your foot . . . follow all the way through. As soon as her foot made contact with the leather she knew it was good. The kick was hard and straight, made the distance and then some. A spindly boy at the other end rose up from the pack as if on strings and plucked it out of the air.

  ‘Alright,’ grunted the player next to her, then moved to take the mark as the footy flew back. He passed it to her and she kicked again, bare skin stinging as it smacked the red leather. It hurt, but Fiona didn’t care. Alright? She was bloody fantastic. If only Todd could see her. She still had it; she’d show them all a thing or two.

  The next thing she knew she was flat on her back, staring up at the sky, her mouth filling with blood. The good-looking boy who’d come to their table was bending over her, face anxious.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kicked it so hard. I thought you’d mark it again, like you did last time.’

  Mark it? Fiona closed her eyes. She hadn’t even seen it. Her tongue probed for the source of the wound and came up against something gritty. Oh, fuck. Please God, not her teeth.