Mothers and Daughters

by Kylie Ladd

  ‘Wow,’ Macy said. ‘That’s fantastic. It’s huge! Will the boys go too?’

  ‘No.’ Morag shook her head. ‘I doubt it. Too expensive—and too cold. Scotland in the dead of winter isn’t for everyone. They’ll be much better back here, with their friends and their surfboards, and that way I can just concentrate on Mum. Your dad can take some time off. Finn and Callum are old enough to be by themselves during the day anyway, and they probably prefer that. Torran’s a bit trickier—maybe you could help out?’ Her mind started ticking over. ‘Or maybe . . .’

  ‘Of course I can,’ Macy said. ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe . . . maybe you could come over for a bit too? With me. It’ll be your school holidays, and Edinburgh has this incredible live music scene—you could see lots of bands, maybe get some more experience.’ Oh God, thought Morag. Had she really suggested that? Was she going to live to regret it? It was a crazy idea, but Macy, she now knew, needed to spread her wings too. Maybe they all needed to let her off the leash a little. Maybe they needed to stop worrying about what she couldn’t do, and concentrate on what she could.

  ‘Really?’ asked Macy. Her face was lit up from inside—and it was her real face, thought Morag. Her stepdaughter wasn’t wearing any make-up; hadn’t reapplied it, in fact, since that morning in the mangroves. ‘You’d really do that? You’d let me?’

  ‘You’d have to behave—no staying out all night—and your parents would have to agree, of course,’ said Morag, ‘but if I told them I’d keep an eye on you . . . You could stay with us, in Mum’s boxroom. She’s got a camp bed. I’m not sure how comfortable it would be, and there wouldn’t be a whole lot of space—’

  ‘I’ll hardly be there anyway,’ Macy interjected, then rushed on, ‘I mean, I’d be there when you told me to, duh, but I’d be out a lot too.’

  ‘Don’t say anything when we get back,’ Morag cautioned. ‘Let me bring it up. I’ll have to work out how to do it.’

  Macy grinned at her, her muesli forgotten. It was as if they were conspiring, Morag thought. Better, it was as if they were talking as adults for the first time.

  ‘That would be incredible, Morag.’ Macy reached across the table to squeeze her hand. ‘Honestly. Thank you.’

  Morag squeezed back. Macy’s excitement had rekindled her own. She let her thoughts fly for a moment, imagined landing in Edinburgh, and then her first glimpse of the castle, of Princes Street, all lit up for Christmas, of the Balmoral Hotel with its enormous clock set two minutes fast so those heading for Waverley station didn’t miss their trains . . . She imagined the taxi on the cobblestones, delivering her to her mother’s home, imagined Margaret opening the door in delight and throwing her arms around her. It was funny, thought Morag. You spent all your teen years struggling to separate yourself from your mother, to distance yourself, but you never did, not really. Mothers were innate; they were part of you. One day Macy would know that too.

  Bronte angled her chair so that her calves were in the sun. She could enjoy it now, for the ten minutes or so she had left before Amira drove them to the airport. She’d been so careful all week to stay out of the sun—obsessive, almost—but surely even she couldn’t get burnt in such a short time? And it did feel lovely warming her skin . . .

  She picked up her sketchbook and flipped through the pages. Though she’d bought it at One Arm Point just three days earlier it was almost full, and she couldn’t wait to show Ms Drummond what she’d done. This one, to set the scene, she thought, pausing at a drawing of the beach at Kalangalla just before sunset . . . And this one too, a few pages further on, where she’d attempted to depict the complex weave in one of the baskets at the gallery. It had made her wonder if the same effect could be replicated in fabric, maybe a kind of vest over a loose white shirt, both futuristic and primitive. Was that even possible? Her mind raced. She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to find out. Perhaps if she drew it . . . That was how she worked her ideas out. Ms Drummond had taught her that, just to sit with her pencil on the page, to block all her usual self-censoring reflexes and let it move of its own volition, almost as if she was an eighteenth-century medium attempting to commune with spirits. It wasn’t such a silly idea, Bronte thought. It was spiritual, the way inspiration seized you and moved through you, captured you, took you over.

  She stood up from her seat by the pool and hurried the few steps back to her room. There was one page left in her sketchbook and still time to get something down before Amira hustled them into the troop carrier. She just needed some grey leads, her 2B and a 4B. She was definitely going to do fashion design next year, she decided as she walked. Her mother didn’t want her to—she was pressuring her to choose something ‘more practical’, in her words, like typing or food tech—but for once Bronte was going to stand up to her. She could always learn to cook, or to type for that matter, but a whole year with Ms Drummond just to dream and draw . . .

  She pushed open the door. Her mother was sitting on one of the beds, t-shirt puddled at her feet, her bare back still red and peeling and somehow vulnerable.

  ‘Shit,’ Fiona said, clasping her hands over her breasts as Bronte stepped into the room. ‘Sorry,’ said Bronte, quickly turning away. ‘I thought you were packing.’ Curiosity overcame her. ‘What are you doing?’

  Her mother sighed and reached for her t-shirt, then seemed to think better of it.

  ‘I’ve got a lump,’ she said.

  Bronte didn’t understand. ‘A lump?’

  ‘In my breast. Just near my armpit. I only found it the other day, while I was in the shower. I was seeing if it was still there.’ Fiona looked up, face drawn. ‘It is.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum.’ Bronte dropped her sketchbook and rushed over to her. ‘Are you sure? How big?’

  Her mother took Bronte’s hand and placed it on the side of her breast. Something moved beneath Bronte’s fingertips. A marble. An olive.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Bronte asked. Despite the lump, she didn’t want to move her hand away. Her mother’s skin was surprisingly soft, almost velvety. She gently shrugged off Bronte’s hand and pulled on her top. ‘I’ll get it looked at when we’re back in Melbourne. No point worrying about it until then.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Bronte said. ‘You are worried.’

  Fiona’s head jerked up at the swearword. ‘Language, Bronte,’ she said, a smile flitting across her features. ‘I should wash your mouth out.’

  ‘You are though, aren’t you?’ Bronte was determined not to let it go. Sarcasm, deflection, cynicism—they were her mother’s native tongue, and she was sick of it.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fiona, her gaze dropping to her lap. ‘Yeah. I am.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Her mother wasn’t much of a hugger, but Bronte threw her arms around her anyway. Too bad if it made her flinch. ‘I’ll come with you, when we get back. For the mammogram or the biopsy or whatever it is, OK?’ The thought darted across her mind that she was going to be busy. She needed to look after Janey too. That was OK. She was up to it.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Fiona.

  ‘I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I want to be with you. I’d want you to be there if it was me.’

  She heard her mother swallow, then clear her throat. ‘Thanks,’ Fiona said, then paused and added quickly, ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Bronte asked, pulling back. ‘For what?’

  Her mother couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘For . . . stuff. You know. For only having tampons.’

  Bronte didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What a weird few hours it had been. All of a sudden, everybody seemed to be confiding in her—first Janey at the hospital, then Tess, who’d woken her up to talk about some news, now her mum. That never happened. It was strange, but it felt good.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Amira called from outside. ‘We’ve got to go—we still have to collect Janey and Caro.’

  ‘Coming!’ yelled Bronte. She stood up, straightening her spine, throwing her shoulders back. Her mother would be
fine, she told herself. She had to be. There was no option. But just to be sure, she wasn’t going to let her out of her sight until she’d had that lump checked.

  ‘Oh, I hate goodbyes,’ said Caro, fanning herself with her boarding pass. ‘I always cry. I think I’m about to start now.’

  Fiona stretched her arms out in front of her, cracking her knuckles. ‘That’s probably because you’ve been up all night—and because you know who’ll be fetching and carrying for Princess Janey for the next month.’

  Amira glanced across to where Janey was slumped in a wheelchair, her left foot and ankle swathed in plaster and propped up in front of her. She didn’t seem to have heard Fiona’s statement. Good. Probably drugged to the eyeballs on codeine, poor kid.

  ‘There’s still half an hour until boarding,’ Amira said. ‘We don’t have to start the goodbyes just yet.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Besides, I’ve got something to tell you all before you go. Tess and I . . . we’ve decided to stay.’

  Morag was the first to respond. ‘What do you mean, stay?’ she asked, shifting on the plastic airport bench. ‘You were already staying, weren’t you, until January or so?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amira, ‘but I’m going to extend it for another year. Maybe even more—I’m not sure at this stage, but there’s so much to be done up here and I feel as if I’ve only just got started. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while . . . Tess and I talked about it last night after I got back from the hospital. I had to make sure she was OK with it first, but I’m pretty sure she is.’

  Amira looked over at her daughter, who smiled.

  ‘I love it here,’ Tess said simply. ‘And Mum said we’ll fly down for Christmas anyway, so it’s only a couple of months until we see you all again.’

  Thank goodness for Tess. Amira hadn’t realised quite how anxious she’d been until she’d finally worked up the courage to broach it with her daughter and felt the sweet relief when Tess had agreed, and with enthusiasm. True, she’d hesitated for a second, which was probably just her getting used to the idea, but then Amira had mentioned the trip home at Christmas, and suggested that maybe Tess could ask one or two of her Melbourne friends up to stay in the holidays next year, if their parents agreed. For a moment she’d been tempted to mention Tia too—it might have made Tess’s decision even easier if she realised how much her new friend was going to need her—but that was Tia’s news to give, Tia’s situation to deal with. And it wasn’t just about Tia, after all. Seeing her at the washing line yesterday, her stomach distended, had crystallised the decision in Amira’s mind—Aki was already so busy with her four younger children that she wouldn’t have much time to help out with a grandchild too, and Tia would need help. But it was more than that. It was what Tia represented that made Amira want to stay in Kalangalla: the chance to shape a young life, to influence and expand it, to extend the horizons and dreams and potential of the children she was educating. To improve literacy, yes, but lives as well. Was that absurd? Was she being naive? Probably, but she had to try. She’d had a taste of it, and now she couldn’t let go.

  ‘Tess told me about it this morning, and we were thinking . . . if you’re coming down for Christmas anyway, maybe Tess could stay at our place for a few weeks after that, and fly back up before school starts?’ Bronte suggested.

  ‘I’d really love to—to be with Bronte, and to see all my old friends,’ Tess said. ‘Can I, Mum?’

  Amira shrugged. ‘Sure, if it’s OK with Fiona.’ Bronte herself hadn’t checked with her mother, she noticed—Bronte, who always deferred to everyone.

  Not that Fiona seemed concerned.

  ‘Saint Amira of the Never-Never, huh?’ She smirked. ‘Our lady of the darkies.’ She held up a hand before anyone could protest. ‘I’m just joking. Much as you won’t expect me to admit it, what you’re doing is fantastic, Amira—and someone has to, to make up for people like me. Good on you for putting your money where your mouth is. We’ll miss you.’

  Amira blinked back her tears. She was as bad as Caro. ‘You can all come visit again. Bring the rest of your families, if you like. The boys would love it here, Morag—April too, Caro.’

  ‘I’ll talk them into it over summer,’ Tess said.

  Janey shifted in her wheelchair, opening her eyes. ‘I bet you will,’ she muttered, but with a smile.

  ‘How’s your ankle?’ asked Macy. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Janey, ‘it throbs. The doctor gave me plenty of drugs though, and at least I’ll get some sleep-ins over the next month. I won’t be going back to squad for a bit.’

  Amira turned to Caro. ‘Does that bother you?’ she asked quietly. ‘She was doing so well.’

  Caro pulled a face. ‘If you’d told me at the start of the trip I’d have been devastated. But what can you do?’ She exhaled. ‘It is what it is. No point getting upset now. We’ll just have to live with it.’

  Maybe that was what Tia thought too, Amira reflected—or rather, how she thought. It had struck her previously that few of the Aborigines she’d met at Kalangalla and socialised or worked with were planners. They didn’t think too much about next week or next year, just lived their lives as they unfolded. Sometimes it drove Amira nuts, and she’d caught herself wondering if they were simply passive by nature, or conditioned to be so by years of white rule, but now a new possibility occurred to her. Maybe they were just smart. If you didn’t think too far ahead you didn’t worry either. It wasn’t such a bad way to be. She smiled to herself. Here she was with all her lofty ambitions for what she was going to do in the community—to inspire, to teach—but there was another reason she was staying as well. There was so much to learn.

  When boarding was announced almost everyone got teary, not just Caro. The embraces, the goodbyes seemed to last forever, her three friends and their daughters lining up to hug her and thank her—but then suddenly they were gone, the departure lounge deserted save for a gecko scuttling up one corrugated wall and the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. Amira stood with her arm around Tess, and they watched as the plane taxied away, sat for a few minutes, then roared into the air.

  She felt strange, she thought as she started the troop carrier and pulled out onto Frederick Street: sad to see them all go, but happy too. Happy to be where she was. Tess sat beside her, humming a song by a local band that she’d first heard soon after they moved north. They crested Kennedy Hill and saw Roebuck Bay laid out before them, its turquoise waters sparkling under the sun. Tess sighed. ‘I don’t think I could ever get tired of that view.’

  Amira nodded and reached briefly for her daughter’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’ Tess turned to her, puzzled, then her face cleared. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking back out to the ochre earth, the blue sea. ‘Oh, you’re welcome.’

  Amira eased her foot onto the brake. A quick stop at The Mangrove to collect their bags and have some lunch, then they had to get on the road to Kalangalla. It would be good to be back. She loved Fiona, Morag and Caro, but she was glad she wasn’t on the plane with them. They still had a while yet to travel, but she was already home.

  Acknowledgements

  Fiction is the best way I know of telling the truth. With sincere and grateful thanks to those who helped me tell this one:

  The wonderful women at Allen & Unwin and Curtis Brown: Jane Palfreyman, Pippa Masson, Siobhán Cantrill, Clara Finlay, Louise Cornegé and Grace Heifetz. Thank you all for your assistance, your support, your care and for being so damn good at your jobs.

  Mrs Whitla (Beaumaris Primary School), Ms Walters (St Michael’s Grammar School) and Mrs Drummond (Mentone Girls’ Grammar School). Most people are lucky to have one life-changing teacher. I had three.

  All those who welcomed, befriended and helped us out during our time in Broome, particularly the Thorns, the Stones, Greg Sutherland, the Banfields, Krim Benterrak, the Oggs, Toni and Richard Bourne, Miss Shioji, Sally and Rae at the Broome Library, Jodie Lynch, Wayne Lynch, the Bacons
, the Millers, Shane Bilston, the Broome Barracudas, Broome SLSC and Yindi Newman.

  My beloved family—Craig, Dec and Cam—for gecko hunting and frangipanis and the blow-up turtle and Sunday morning Nippers at Cable Beach; for those incredible trips across the Kimberley and up the coast via Ningaloo and Karajini; for breakfast at the Courthouse markets and threadfin salmon at the Aarli Bar; for Lombadina and Kooljaman and Middle Lagoon and Eco Beach; for painted boab nuts and Matso’s on the deck; for turtles and manta rays and humpback whales and green tree frogs in the cisterns, for The Pigram Brothers and Tonchi and the flutestone and the camels going home along the beach at sunset. What an amazing year it was—thank you for talking me into it, Laddy.

  And finally our dear friends Jane and Dan Magree, with such treasured memories of our trip together with the kids on the Dampier Peninsula, which is when I first started thinking about this book. So many laughs, such a happy week—thank you.