Mothers and Daughters (20 page)

A dancer gyrated inches from her face and Fiona whooped. He looked like one of the young men who had been sitting in the restaurant at lunch—such graceful bodies, agile and powerful. And that was another thing, Morag thought. Aborigines were
an accepted—indeed, admired—part of football, but did you ever see them anywhere else? Andrew had dragged her along to a few AFL games, and black faces were everywhere—taking marks, evading opponents, streaming down the wing with the ball moving like a yo-yo in their hands. Yet she’d never met an Aboriginal doctor in all her years in the health system, nor a solicitor, electrician or accountant. It was that tokenistic thing again: the souvenir boomerang, the black half-forward. Take the bits of the culture you like or can use, and ignore the rest. Wajarrgi was a prime example. If the Bardi people owned it, as Amira had said, how come none of them actually ran it?

The corroboree ended, the men whirling to a stop in a cloud of dust. Caro and Amira clapped, Alan kept filming, Fiona put two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud wolf whistle. Morag sighed. She was probably just still grumpy about Macy. Did any of her qualms matter? Working here was better than them living in poverty, or being completely dispossessed of their land and culture. And was it any of her business? Australia was where she lived, but it still wasn’t her home. The realisation chilled her, brought out goosebumps on her sunburnt arms. Torran had been born here, and so too Andrew. Finn and Callum had been naturalised, but she herself had never gone through with it. She didn’t have time for all the paperwork, she said whenever someone asked, but was it more than that? She’d lived here for almost a decade. Surely she belonged by now?

‘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 water 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.