Mothers and Daughters (12 page)

And then he’d gone. Left one autumn afternoon for Spain, where there were more ceilings to see. ‘They’re a bit Gaudi,’
she’d joked miserably as they said goodbye at Waverley, the filigreed dome of the ticket hall blurring above as she blinked back tears. This was planned, she’d reminded herself, this was always on the agenda, but still it stung.

Morag sighed, and wiped the sweat out of her eyes. Tiny shells crunched beneath her feet, nicking her heels. She should put her shoes back on, but she couldn’t be bothered.

Spain. They’d kept in touch for a while, but that was before email, and after a month the letters had dwindled, then dried up altogether.

It should have ended there. Over the years, Morag had occasionally wondered what would have happened if it had. Would she still be in Edinburgh? Would she have a daughter? Maybe, but maybe she wouldn’t have had children at all—no Torran, Callum and Finn to exhaust and delight her. She shivered despite the bite of the sun on her shoulders. But it hadn’t ended. Andrew had returned eight years later, fleeing the still-smouldering wreckage of his first marriage, and by that time she was Google-able. He’d tracked her down through her job, then gone to the Royal Infirmary and sat in its cafeteria until she came in for lunch. ‘Why are you here?’ she’d asked him later, after her heartbeat had returned to normal. They were seated in the corner with two cups of coffee steaming between them, throwing up their own mini-haar. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he’d said. ‘For old times’ sake.’ For an old time’s shag, more likely, she’d thought, cautious and uncertain, but she’d smiled nonetheless. His hands were still roughened. They caught on her skin when he reached across to touch her face. Caught, and didn’t let go.

Morag shook her head. The next part was fuzzy. How was it that she could recall some things so clearly—the gleam of the taps at the Cafe Royal, Andrew’s calluses against her cheek—but not what came next, the rest of her life? She’d discovered she was pregnant a month after the afternoon in the hospital cafeteria. By that stage, Andrew had told her that he had a daughter, Macy, back in Melbourne; that his wife Janice had left him for the colleague she’d been sleeping with since Macy started childcare. Andrew had started a business making bespoke furniture for cashed-up yuppies, but Janice owned half of it and they still needed to sort that out. The double blue lines caught them both by surprise. Andrew laughed nervously and rued the absent condom; Morag put her hands to her stomach and mentally prepared herself for him leaving again.

To his credit, he hadn’t. He’d stuck around and convinced her to go through with it, to move to Melbourne with him. She’d agreed, relieved, and had gone so far as to book their tickets when the twelve-week scan revealed twins. Immediately she’d known she couldn’t do it. One unexpected baby had been almost too much to get her head around; for two she needed her mother. Margaret sold the Fort William home and moved to a small flat in Trinity, only a few minutes from where Morag and Andrew were living; the Qantas tickets were exchanged for single fares six months apart so Andrew could visit Macy. The business was sold and Andrew started a new one in Edinburgh, but five years later, when it failed, Morag knew she couldn’t put off the move any longer. Andrew’s designs were too muscular, too modern for a Scottish clientele,
and then there was Macy, only two and a half years older than the twins, and who Andrew feared was growing up without him . . .

Morag had arrived at Tullamarine tired and nauseous and all too certain she was pregnant once more. It was a daunting trifecta: new land, new baby and a suspicious new stepdaughter. Margaret had declined their invitation to emigrate with them, that they’d pay her fare, declaring she was too old to settle somewhere else, that she’d miss her oatcakes and the heather and Jenners in the high street. Morag missed it all too, struggled daily with homesickness and morning sickness and heartsickness, sure she’d made a terrible mistake . . . until Finn and Callum started school and she met Amira, Caro and Fiona. They had got her through, she thought, recognising yesterday’s beach just ahead and breaking into a jog. They had provided meals and babysitting and moral support and laughs. Things had shifted a little now that the children were older, but the connection remained important to her—two years ago she had started coaching their daughters’ netball team so there’d still be somewhere they all met.

A gentle breeze drifted across her skin, cooling her. Morag felt her spirits lift as she thought of the day to come, the days still left of the holiday, time all of her own to spend with these women who meant so much to her. Her gait lengthened, her feet kicking up dust. She missed Scotland, she missed her mother, but there were compensations. And realistically, there was always a price to be paid, wasn’t there? Nothing came for free, least of all love.

‘Quick, Bronte,’ hissed Janey, ‘give me some of your Coke while my mum’s not watching.’

Though she’d only just bought it, Bronte handed the can over obediently, then watched while Janey tipped half of it down her throat, swallowed hastily and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

‘You might as well keep it now,’ she said as Janey passed it back. ‘I’ll get another one.’

‘No way,’ replied Janey, turning and opening the fridge door behind them. A puff of cold air hit the back of Bronte’s shoulders and she shivered appreciatively. How on earth had the nuns who founded the mission ever survived up here without air-conditioning, without refrigeration? Janey pushed the door shut and plonked a bottle of water onto the counter. ‘Mum’ll have a fit if she sees me drinking it. Empty calories, yadda yadda.’ She passed her money across, fingers tapping impatiently as she waited for the young Aboriginal girl to work out her change. ‘She’s a pain in the arse about stuff like that,’ she added when they were heading back outside. ‘These are supposed to be the best years of my life, and I can’t even have a Coke.’

Bronte followed her from the small community shop onto the grassed area just in front of it, where the others were sprawled in the shade of an enormous gum tree. She sank down next to them, glad to be out of the sun and to be sitting again after a morning on her feet. Her mother, she noticed, had her shoes off and was examining a blister on her heel;
dark semicircles stained her shirt beneath each arm. Bronte thought again of the long-ago nuns. Had they worn habits? You couldn’t, surely, not in this climate. You’d suffocate under the weight of all that wool; you’d sweat yourself to death. But maybe that was just part of the deal, along with leaving their country, their family, everything they knew. They must have really believed, Bronte thought. They must have been so very sure of their faith.

‘Shit,’ said her mother, tossing away her sandal. ‘I won’t be able to wear those again. I’ll have to go barefoot, like the boongs.’ She glanced around, oblivious to the rest of them flinching, and her eyes fastened on Bronte. ‘Sit up straight,’ she said. ‘Stop bloody slouching all the time. It doesn’t fool anyone. And give me a sip of your drink.’

‘It’s empty,’ Bronte said, though it wasn’t, not quite. She lay down on her back. Her mum couldn’t criticise her for slouching if she was lying down, couldn’t remark, as she had once before, that she should be grateful for her height, that it was the only reason she kept her spot on the netball team. Personally, Bronte believed that the real reason was that they were too polite to dump her, though she sometimes wished they would. She wasn’t very athletic. Bronte closed her eyes, the sun making patterns on the back of her lids, swirls of purple, blue, bright sparks of red. Ochre, she corrected herself, the colour of the land. The community gallery, where they’d spent the last few hours examining paintings, weaving and craft from the area, had been fascinating, inspirational. She wished she’d had her sketchbook with her. Maybe she could go back with it later, while the others were at the beach . . .
she’d like to show some of those designs to Ms Drummond, discuss with her how they could be transferred onto fabric. Could you do that, she wondered, or would you be breaching some sort of cultural copyright? But that painting with the russet, tan, the clusters of yellow dots—it had shimmered, it had moved. If the pattern could do that on a canvas, imagine the effect on a skirt, a dress, a sarong tied around the hips . . .

‘What’d you think of the gallery?’ asked a deep male voice.

Bronte opened her eyes, shading them as she sat up. It was that man Tess had pointed out to them yesterday at the beach, the father of her friend Tia, the one who killed turtles. He looked harmless enough now though, standing there smiling with a baby on his hip, white teeth flashing against his dark, dark skin.

‘Oh, we
loved
it!’ cooed Caro. Her own mother, Bronte noticed, had gone back to picking at her foot. She’d only lasted half an hour at the gallery before complaining that it was all just finger painting really, and that Dom could have done it when he was three. Bronte would never dare tell her, but her mother’s attitude mortified her. Those words she used—
boong, abo
—they were just so awful. They made Bronte wince. They were little hand grenades that Fiona tossed into conversation. Did she intend the damage they did, or was it just the way she’d been brought up? It was true that her grandmother—Fiona’s mother—was one of the sharpest-tongued people Bronte had ever met.

‘This is Mason,’ Amira said, hauling herself to her feet. ‘He’s one of the elders at Kalangalla. Mason, this is Morag, Fiona, Janey, Bronte and Caro.’

‘We’ve already met,’ said Caro, smiling back at him, her left hand going straight to her hair.

‘It was amazing. All of it.’ Bronte blushed as the others turned to stare at her, heads swivelling on sunburnt necks. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The colours, the composition.’ She hesitated. ‘We haven’t studied anything like it at school. I’d like to show my art teacher. I saw the sign in there about not taking photos, but would it be OK to sketch some, so I can describe them to her?’

The baby fidgeted and Mason jogged him a little, rubbing his back. ‘That’s there to stop the dealers. Some of them are good people, but not all. Few years back, we had one in there, snappin’ away . . . found out later that he showed the pictures to some blackfellas in another community, got them to copy the painting, then bought it for less. The sign went up after that.’ The baby chortled and made a grab for Mason’s nose. The man’s face softened. ‘You wouldn’t be doin’ that though, so take as many photos as you like. Just make sure you write down somewhere where they came from, so you don’t forget.’

‘I wouldn’t forget,’ said Bronte. ‘Thank you. And the boab nuts—those too? I love how they’re carved. They’re so big. It must take ages.’

‘Which one was your favourite?’ Mason asked.

‘The one with the stingray,’ Bronte said promptly. ‘The cross-hatching made it look as if it was really swimming.’

Mason smiled. ‘Aki did that. My wife. I’ll get her to make one for you, if you like.’

‘Would you really?’ Bronte asked. ‘That would be fabulous. I’ll pay her for it—I mean, if it’s not too much . . .’

Mason held up his hand. ‘No money. She’ll be happy to. I think she’d like the idea of somethin’ of hers going all the way across the other side of the land.’

‘We eat stingray sometimes,’ Amira said. ‘Jinup, it’s called. Is that right, Mason? It’s a delicacy here. You should try some before you leave.’

Bronte grimaced.

‘Perhaps I should make that the price,’ grinned Mason. ‘Jinup stew. You eat some, you get the boab nut.’

‘How did your wife learn to carve the nuts?’ asked Bronte, keen to change the topic. ‘Was it passed on from her ancestors?’

Mason’s smile dwindled. ‘Not Aki. She never knew her people. Hasn’t even seen her own mum for over ten years.’ He sat down on the grass next to her, setting down the child. The boy crawled straight to Fiona, who looked as if she wanted to shoo him away.

‘What happened?’ Bronte asked. Was that rude? Maybe, but she had the feeling that Mason wouldn’t tell her unless he wanted to, and that the others were interested too. They sat or sprawled in a half-circle around him: Morag with her back pressed against the tree; Caro, still fiddling with her hair; Tess, who’d pulled Amira to her and lay with her head in her mother’s lap; and Fiona, trying to stop the baby from crawling across her legs. Only Janey had separated herself from the group; she lay on her stomach with her earbuds in, rolling her bottle of water back and forth in front of her.

‘Aki’s mother was taken when she was just a nipper,’ Mason said. ‘Five or so. No one knows for sure; that was the age they guessed at the orphanage, though she wasn’t no orphan. She
and her mob lived somewhere east of here, in the Kimberley, when the welfare department got her and that was the last she saw of them. She already had a name, Yara, but they gave her a new one. Sally, they called her. A whitefella name.’

‘What do you mean, “got her”?’ Bronte asked.

‘The stolen generation,’ Caro said, and looked across to Mason for confirmation. ‘Am I right?’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he replied.