Mothers and Daughters

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Mothers and Daughters Page 21

by Kylie Ladd


  She felt her stomach contract as she remembered what Tess had told her as she drifted off to sleep. They’d been curled side by side, murmuring together in the dark—about their plans for tomorrow and how sore Caro’s arm had looked—when Tess had said drowsily, ‘Do you know what she did to Bronte?’

  ‘Who?’ Amira had asked. ‘Janey? No. What?’

  ‘She took a photo of her in the shower and put it on Facebook so anyone from school can see.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Amira said. ‘Was she wearing any clothes?’

  ‘Muuum.’ Tess had yawned and rolled over. ‘I said she was in the shower. She was naked, but the picture stops at her stomach.’

  ‘Does Bronte know?’

  ‘No, she had her eyes closed. She’s got no idea. Don’t tell anyone,’ she added in a reflexive burst of loyalty. ‘Janey said she’ll take it down.’

  ‘And you’ve seen this picture?’ Amira had asked, suddenly wide awake, but there had been no answer, just the rhythmic in–out of Tess’s breath.

  A faint light shone through the bedroom curtains. The clouds must have cleared, Amira thought, though her own mind hadn’t. What should she do? Who did she owe her loyalty to: Tess, who’d asked her not to tell, or Caro, who really should be told? Daughter or friend . . . or Bronte, the daughter of a friend, who had the most at stake here? But should Amira even believe the story? She had no doubt that Tess did, but Janey had been prone to exaggeration—to outright lies, if it suited her—since first grade. Maybe Janey had taken the photo, maybe she’d even shown Tess, but who was to say she’d actually followed through and posted it online? Surely she wasn’t that stupid, or that dangerous? Amira heaved herself up on her elbows. She could check now. There was no internet at the house, but she could take her laptop over to the school . . .

  She sighed and lay back down. It wouldn’t help. Tess was on Facebook, but Amira had never bothered with it. She didn’t have the time or the interest—plus she trusted Tess, so she’d never felt the need. Yet what was it that all those glossy government-funded internet guides said, the ones she herself had parroted to classroomsful of parents perched uncomfortably on their children’s seats? Make sure you monitor your children online—that you know what they’re doing and who they’re talking to. Some teacher she was. She couldn’t even follow her own advice. And she did trust Tess, but she’d forgotten that that meant she had to trust everyone Tess was interacting with too. Amira groaned. She could probably find Facebook if she googled, but there was no way she could log in to see if Janey had really done what she’d said. She’d have to wait until morning and get Tess to find out.

  And if Janey had done it, Amira thought, what then? Who did she confront? Something like that couldn’t just be ignored. Friendships were such tricky things though. She and Caro had been close for years, but that wouldn’t make it any easier to tell her what Janey was up to. Caro was such a proud and private person . . . It would probably only add to her anger, Amira reflected, to realise that not only had her daughter behaved badly but that one of her own friends had been the first to know about it. Then again, she’d be even angrier if she ever discovered that Amira had known about it and hadn’t told her, just as Amira would be in the same situation. Should she challenge Janey directly, or was that out of line, given that the whole thing was actually none of Amira’s business? Or maybe she could just tell Bronte—but then Bronte wouldn’t know how to deal with it, so Fiona would have to know . . . The sheets tangled around her legs and she kicked them away irately. What a nightmare. Perhaps she should just pretend that Tess had never confided in her, keep them both right out of it.

  The trouble was, she thought, that you loved your friends and you loved your children and you thought the two things were separate, would never impact on each other, but it didn’t work out that way, not always. Like Tess’s birthday party in grade two . . . The four of them—she, Caro, Morag and Fiona—had just about lived in each other’s pockets back then when the kids were still small and Morag and Caro were at home with their toddlers and hadn’t yet gone back to work. There were the Friday night drinks, of course, but all the other meet-ups too: twice a day at the school gate, the many play dates arranged at three thirty, the weekend barbecues or the lunchtimes spent doing tuckshop duty together. Their children had always attended each other’s birthdays, but this year Tess was turning eight and had decided that boys had germs and she didn’t want any at her party. Dutifully, Amira had left Callum and Finn off the invitation list, but when Morag found out she was so upset she barely spoke to Amira for weeks—Morag, who never got her knickers in a knot about anything. She’d feared she was being excluded from the group, she confessed later, somewhat sheepishly, and Amira sympathised, but what could she do? Tess had made her choice, and—for Amira at least—what Tess wanted would always come first.

  She plumped up her pillow, determined to put the whole thing with Janey out of her mind and go to sleep. Think about something else, she told herself. The meals for next week, once everyone had gone back to Melbourne, or the herbs she kept meaning to plant in the community garden. Domestic planning always made her doze off . . . But suddenly her eyes flew open again. If Tess and Janey ever did stop being friends, dumped each other conclusively or just grew further apart, could she still be friends with Caro? A missed party invite was one thing, but this was quite another. Would it be too awful, too awkward to keep seeing Caro if their daughters didn’t speak or, worse, actually loathed each other? Yet if this Facebook thing was true, Caro and Fiona would have to negotiate the same territory. God, and they’d thought toilet training was hard. They’d had no idea; pull-ups and puddles were nothing compared to dealing with teenage girls.

  A memory came to her; something Mason had said. In traditional Aboriginal communities, if someone injured or aggrieved you the matter would often be dealt with using black law, not white, and justice would be meted out via payback. ‘One fella hurts another or mistreats his woman, the elders bring him in front of everyone and get two strong men to hold him so he won’t run away, then someone they’ve chosen spears him in the thigh. There’s blood, but after that it’s over.’ Mason had laughed at her horrified face, but then grown serious again. ‘It’s finished that way, don’t you see? Everything is balanced. Someone gave pain, they get pain back. Fellas witness payback and they feel right, they start again. It’s better, often, than white man’s way, draggin’ it through the courts—our people don’t have the money for that. Anyway, if they go to jail they often end up a lot worse off than being stabbed in the leg.’ Fiona would laugh, but Amira had understood. She certainly wouldn’t advocate for Janey to be speared, and yes, the whole concept was undeniably primitive, but in some basic way it made sense too. You give pain, you get it back, and everyone moves on, case closed. A line is drawn; an end is reached. Could she and her friends ever be like that with each other, so direct, no games? She didn’t think so. The black way was unsophisticated and crude, but it was also somehow cleaner than theirs, and clean was appealing. She had a feeling that this whole photo thing was about to get messy.

  ‘Macy—your shoes!’ Bronte shouted. Macy looked down to see her black Doc Martens slowly sinking into the mangroves in which she stood, their yellow stitching already obscured by mud.

  ‘Shit!’ She abandoned the pokestick she’d only just worked, as instructed, down a crab hole, and attempted to pull her feet out of the ooze. At first she couldn’t budge them, but finally one came up with a long, loud rasp and a fetid stench of rot.

  ‘Pooh,’ said Bronte, waving her hand in front of her nose.

  ‘Macy, that’s not very polite,’ Mason rebuked, then winked at her to show he was kidding. She was tempted to shove her pokestick through his eye. One boot was out, but she couldn’t free the other without placing the first back into the ooze. She stood there fuming for a moment, then leaned forward, grabbed a mangrove and hoisted herself into it, hoping its spindly limbs would take her weight. Her trapped foot came free almost imme
diately, clad in a sweaty black sock, but the Doc stayed where it was, now up to its eyelets in mud.

  Macy gazed at it despairingly. Those boots had cost a fortune. Her mother wouldn’t buy them for her—she wanted Macy to wear ballet flats and strappy sandals, for fuck’s sake—so Macy had had to use some of the money she’d saved from busking. All that work, all that standing around on pavements while people sneered at you and threw in five cents if you were lucky, or spat if you weren’t . . . all for her Docs to end up like this? She’d kill Amira. It had been her idea, of course. Amira couldn’t stop being a teacher even when she was off duty. ‘We’re going mudcrabbing!’ she’d announced at breakfast, before adding that the whole community was heading out to the mangroves to collect crabs for a feast that was being held tonight for that bloke who’d died. ‘We’ll join them!’ she’d crowed. ‘It’ll be fun!’ Some bloody fun, standing around in stinking muck while the Docs she’d scrimped and saved for met a sticky end. And in any case, being whiteys, they probably weren’t even invited to the feast.

  ‘Macy! Hey! Your stick’s moving!’ Tess hollered excitedly from where she was standing guard over another hole.

  Macy glared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘So?’ ‘It means you’ve got a crab,’ Tess cried. ‘Do you want me to get it for you?’

  ‘No way.’ Macy hesitated for a moment, then tugged off her remaining boot, wedged it in the mangrove she was clinging to and jumped down. The sandy mud soaked through her socks and sucked at her dress but she ignored it, focusing on getting to the pokestick before the creature lost interest. Slowly she eased it out of the hole, just as Mason had instructed, and was delighted to find a fat crab clinging to its end, one bright orange claw waving in agitation.

  ‘He’s a beauty!’ Mason said, advancing towards her. She noticed that his feet were bare; everyone’s were except those of them who’d come from Melbourne. ‘Here.’ Mason held out an arm. ‘Pass your stick over and I’ll tie him up for you. Don’t want you losing a finger.’ Macy did as she was told, then reached down and peeled off her socks, flinging them deep into the mangroves. It probably wasn’t good for the environment, but they were so rancid after two days in the heat that surely they’d just dissolve or be mistaken by some scavenger creature for carrion. She wriggled her toes. The mud felt soothing, cool against the soles of her feet. Why on earth had she worn boots, she wondered, or even clothes for that matter? It wasn’t yet lunchtime, but the heat was oppressive, a python enfolding her in its coils. Before she could change her mind she grasped the filthy hem of her long black dress and yanked it over her head, then balled up the fabric, found a clean spot and used it to rub all the make-up off her face.

  ‘Whoa.’ Mason grinned. ‘So that’s what you look like under all the war paint.’

  Macy just stood there, enjoying the sensation of the air on her face and body, of suddenly feeling lighter, freed. Just as well she’d worn her bikini under her dress, in case they went for a swim later. She glanced around. It occurred to her that no one actually cared what she was wearing or whatever statement she was trying to make—they were all busy with their pokesticks, or trying to trap fish. It was a liberating notion. She took two steps forward and braced herself to wrench her Doc from the mud, almost toppling backwards when it came free on the first try.

  An hour and a half later she had managed to catch three more crabs, and was quietly singing Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab’ to herself as she scouted for another hole. Poor Amy, Macy thought. She probably should have gone to rehab, as it turned out. It wasn’t going to be like that for her when she was a big star. She’d be more careful. How stupid to work so hard and get so famous and then throw it all away . . . the applause, the flashbulbs, the money. Macy sighed. She couldn’t wait for any of it—if only she didn’t have to finish school and could get started now.

  A shrill whistle disturbed her thoughts.

  ‘Hey, you mob,’ Mason called through the mangroves. ‘That’ll do. Bring everythin’ you caught to the beach and we’ll put it all together.’

  Macy picked up her sullied Docs, knotted the laces together and slung them around her neck. Amy should have been sent here for rehab. You couldn’t get into much trouble with no booze or drugs, and only crustacean-chasing for entertainment.

  Most of their group were already on the beach by the time Macy arrived: Tess and Amira chatting by the water, Fiona and Morag sitting under the shelter, out of the sun, and Caro hovering admiringly around Mason. Three buckets of crabs sat at his feet, their claws tied with string. ‘How come we never catch this many when we take the tourist groups out, eh?’ laughed Mason, winking at Caro. Bronte flopped down on the sand, her pale skin glistening with sweat. ‘How many did you get, Macy?’

  ‘Four,’ Macy said.

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ Bronte exclaimed. ‘I didn’t get any. I felt kind of sorry for them, to be honest. My stick probably gave off negative vibes.’

  Macy laughed. Bronte was alright. Tess too, now she’d taken a chill pill and was actually talking to them all again. It probably helped that Janey hadn’t joined them this morning. Her mother had said she was too tired, but Macy would lay any money on her not wanting to damage her manicure.

  ‘Say cheese,’ said one of the community members, pulling out his phone to take a picture of the catch.

  ‘Crabs, you mean.’ Mason lifted one of the buckets of squirming shells in triumph.

  ‘Hey,’ Macy said. ‘Why do you have a phone here? You can’t get a signal.’

  ‘You can if you go out on the point.’ The man gestured to the rocks at the far end of the beach. ‘You can pick it up from Wajarrgi, not that they know.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Macy. ‘A bit of local knowledge, huh?’

  Mason nodded seriously. ‘Secret men’s business.’

  Thank God that was over. Morag handed back her pokestick, made the obligatory positive comments about the experience and headed towards her room before anyone could engage her in conversation. She’d only gone a few hundred metres before she had to sit down. She felt like crap: tired, lethargic, heavy. Was it because she’d had more than her customary glass or two of wine last night, or that she hadn’t been for her run this morning? Probably both . . . The alarm had gone off, but for the first time since her pregnancies she’d ignored it and rolled over instead. It had taken her ages to fall back to sleep, and it seemed that as soon as she finally did, Amira was banging on the door, announcing that they were all going out to hunt for crabs. Morag didn’t even like crab, but she’d dutifully got out of bed, applied sunscreen and joined the group.

  At least they’d been in the shade, but that was the best she could say about it all. She’d never tell Amira, but she’d hated the whole thing from start to finish. She’d felt sorry for the crabs, ripped so abruptly from their snug silty homes; she’d thought she might pass out from the heat in the airless fug of the mangroves. Of course, it hadn’t helped that she’d worn a long-sleeved top and full-length pants, being mindful of the sun. Almost everyone else had turned up in shorts and singlets, even Caro, who gamely prodded around in the mud with one arm wrapped in a bandage. She’d still looked good though, Morag thought with a twinge of jealousy.

  Something tapped at her shoulder.

  ‘’Scuse me, missus—this yours?’

  Morag jumped. An old Aboriginal woman was holding out her daypack, its black straps frayed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Morag said. ‘You scared me. I was thinking about something else.’ She reached for the pack. ‘God, I didn’t even realise I’d left it.’

  ‘It was in the mangroves,’ the woman said. ‘Thought I better take it before the sea did.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Tide’s comin’ in. Fish’d be nibblin’ at it soon.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Morag said, embarrassed. ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid. I don’t even remember taking it off.’ She quickly checked inside: camera, iPod, water bottle, wallet . . . it was all there. A thought crossed her mind—should she offer the woman some money
?

  ‘I thought it was yours. I was watchin’ you.’

  Morag’s head jerked up. ‘Watching me? Why?’

  The woman smiled. ‘I was with my sisters. At first we were laughin’ because you were stabbin’ that stick so hard we thought you were tryin’ to spear the crabs, not catch them.’ She raised one hand and languidly waved it across her face to shoo away a fly. ‘But then you looked sad, so we stopped.’

  ‘Sad?’ said Morag. ‘I wasn’t sad. Just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m not used to this weather.’ She fumbled for her wallet. ‘Here, can I give you a reward?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No need.’ She reached out and shyly touched the faded Saltire patch sewn to the front of the daypack. ‘Is this your people?’

  It had been there so long that Morag had almost stopped seeing it, but she studied it now: the midnight-blue background, the Saint Andrew’s cross. She’d stitched it there years ago, before her first trip to Europe with some friends from university. Even as she worked the needle in and out of the canvas she’d known it was a bit naff proclaiming your identity in such a way, but it was the fashion back then, it was what you did when you were young and you travelled: you showed the world where you were from. Partly it was because you were proud, but maybe it was also so you’d remember to go back.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, still staring at the flag. The daypack had seen a lot of miles. Who would have thought when she first bought it for Paris that it would end up accompanying her here a quarter of a century later? ‘It’s from Scotland, where I was born. My mother still lives there, in Edinburgh. Australia’s home now though,’ she added with an effort.

  ‘My daughter’s away from me too,’ the woman said. ‘She lives in Adelaide. Might as well be Scotland for all the times I’ve seen her since she left.’ She smiled. ‘She has a good job, in a hospital. At least you’ve still got your girl, eh?’

 

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