Mothers and Daughters (23 page)

‘That’s the Italian way, I guess, to have some wine at meals. They probably do it at home, too.’

‘Well, I don’t think it’s the Italian way to end up spewing in the bushes, like Janey did before she went to bed. Didn’t you see? Over by the laundry for the campers. It was disgusting.’

Amira paused as she was lifting her cup to her mouth. She hadn’t seen. She’d had no idea, probably because she’d had more than a few glasses of wine herself.

‘Does Caro know?’

‘I doubt it. You lot were carrying on so much you wouldn’t have looked up if George Clooney had strolled in naked.’ Tess wiped her mouth. ‘Mind you, all that shrieking would have driven him away before then.’

‘Oh dear.’ Amira flushed. ‘Were we really that bad?’

‘Pretty much,’ Tess said, then smiled. ‘It’s OK. You were funny. You’ve missed them, haven’t you? There’s no one here you laugh with like that.’

Amira nodded. It was true.

‘Was Janey OK?’ she asked. She felt guilty that she hadn’t noticed what was going on, but really, she told herself, it was Caro’s problem.

‘I think so. Macy was with her when she was sick. She held her hair up.’

‘That was nice of her,’ Amira mumbled. More guilt. She’d barely said anything more than hello to Macy herself. Probably too busy shrieking, if you asked Tess.

‘Not really,’ Tess went on. ‘Janey was only drinking that much because Macy was there. She never does it around us.’ She opened her book again, cracking the spine to lay it flat on the table.

Amira winced.

‘What’s she like, Macy? Do you all get on OK?’

Tess grunted. ‘Too soon to tell. She doesn’t want to be here, that’s for sure. She spent most of the night going on about how she should be at rehearsals. To be honest, it was a relief when Janey started chucking. Far more entertaining.’

Amira laughed, then put her hand to her head. The coffee hadn’t helped her hangover.

‘Hey,’ Tess said a minute later, still reading
The Bell Jar
. ‘Esther says there’s nothing like puking with someone to make you old friends.’ She looked up, eyes merry. ‘Janey and Macy will be set, then.’

Janey wandered aimlessly back towards the room she shared with her mother. She didn’t really want to go there, but what other choice did she have? She couldn’t hang around out here by herself. Everyone would think she had no mates. She sighed and pushed her sunglasses back up her nose. Ten minutes
outdoors and she was already sweating. This climate was a joke. She went over in her mind all the places she’d tried, making sure she hadn’t missed any. First the big outdoor eating area by the barbecues where they’d had dinner last night—no one there. Next she’d gone to the shop, half expecting to find Tess and Bronte lolling on the grass under the trees outside it, but the shady green expanse was empty save for two lorikeets squabbling near the rubbish bin. She’d bought a can of Coke because her mother wasn’t there to tell her not to, drank half, then threw it away as soon as it started to get warm. The church and art gallery were similarly deserted. Where
was
everyone? It had been a late night but surely they were up by now. It was almost lunchtime.

Janey let the screen door bang behind her, and for want of anything else to do, lay down on her bed with a magazine. It was one of Fiona’s that she hadn’t yet read, but every story felt familiar and formulaic.
Celebrity post-baby bodies. Easy ways to spice up your marriage. Forty magical ways with mince
. God, why would you even bother with
one
? She tossed it aside and stared at the ceiling. Maybe she should have gone with her mother after all. Then again, three hours in a boat, under that sun, just bobbing up and down . . . She’d bet that Caro wasn’t feeling quite as enthusiastic about it right now as she had been when she’d announced her plans at dinner the previous evening.

‘Fishing?’ Janey had asked her. ‘You don’t even like fishing.’

‘You don’t know that,’ her mother had replied. ‘I’ve never tried it.’

‘Fishing gets you dirty,’ Janey muttered. ‘It’s not your scene.’

Amira leaned over and topped up Caro’s glass. ‘That’s great, Caro. Who are you going with?’

‘Mason invited me,’ Caro said, flushed from the heat and the alcohol. ‘I ran into him just after we got back from Wajarrgi.’

‘No wonder you’re going.’ Fiona cackled. ‘Bet you can’t wait to jump into
his
boat.’ She paused for effect. ‘I’m sure he has a sturdy vessel.’

Morag almost choked at that, spraying a mouthful of wine across the table.

‘The invitation’s open to everyone!’ Caro protested. ‘You should come.’

‘Nah,’ Fiona said. ‘I think this is a pleasure cruise just for two. I wouldn’t want to rock the . . . vessel.’

All the mothers had just about asphyxiated, they were laughing so much, Janey recalled. What had Fiona meant, though?
Vessel. Pleasure cruise.
Surely she didn’t think that Janey’s mother was interested in that man who’d spent so long haranguing them about what had happened to his wife, or whatever it was. God. Imagining her mother attracted to anyone was bad enough, but a black man? Surely not. Her mother was too . . . neat for that. Caro liked her things coordinated, all matchy-matchy. She was nutty about it, and there was no way a black man would fit into any of her colour schemes. Janey giggled and rolled onto her side.

God, she was bored. She almost wished she had a training session to go to, though she’d never really swum for the love of it but rather because it was something she could
do
, something she excelled at. Probably the only thing, she thought, then immediately pushed the notion from her mind. That first
race, at a school carnival, when she was, what—seven, eight? Churning through the water, touching the wall, then looking around to find to her astonishment that not only had she won but that the others were still going some metres back. The look on her mother’s face, the fuss everyone had made of her . . . It still felt wonderful, touching first; it was what drove her through the water and the endless squad sessions, only now the stakes were higher, the margins smaller. State championships were only eight weeks away. She pictured it in her mind, the way her coach had taught her to: standing behind the blocks, swinging her arms to keep the blood flowing through them from her warm-up. Pulling down her goggles onto her face, pushing against them with the flat of her palm to force the air out and make them watertight. The whistle blowing . . . stepping up onto the block, staring down at the water.
Take your marks.
Her fingers curling around the lip of the block, pulling back, hard, so as to maximise her propulsion into the pool. The sharp retort of the gun, the sweet relief to finally be in the water, racing, rather than forever thinking about it, preparing for it. Streamline, pull, one kick, surface . . . Then the race, one long red ache, her muscles alight with pain, every breath torn out of her lungs . . . turn, streamline, resist the temptation to glance around, see how she was doing.
Swim your own race
, her coach was always telling her, and so she would, she did, she swam and swam and swam until she hit the touchpad and her name flashed up first on the giant scoreboard.

Only, just say it didn’t? Just say it was second, or third, or not even in the medals at all? Janey felt a chill go over her,
her skin erupting into goosebumps despite the heat. The other swimmers would give her a hug and say, ‘Bad luck,’ though they would be secretly pleased; her coach would smile at her but somehow shake his head at the same time. And her mother . . . her mother would put on a brave face and say it didn’t matter, but what the fuck would she know?

Janey jumped up from the bed. She needed to do something, she needed to sweat and pant, she shouldn’t just be lying around. The beach, she thought, rummaging through her chest of drawers for the only one-piece swimsuit she’d brought. The lagoon was pretty sheltered—she could get in some training there, or at least do some strength work on the sand. She might even run into the others, though suddenly that didn’t seem so urgent anymore.

Janey noticed them halfway through her swim. It was the smoke that gave them away, the scent drifting across the mirror-flat lagoon, taken in at a gulp as she breaststroked across it. She stopped and treaded water, sniffing the air, fearful of a bushfire, but when she traced the fine haze back to its source she saw it was just two people sitting cross-legged about twenty metres away on the rocks that jutted out into) the sea, each with a cigarette in their hands. She shaded her eyes, making sure they weren’t going to spear her or something, then resumed her drill. One of them was Tia, she thought, concentrating on her stroke, on snapping her ankles together midway through each kick. Tess had introduced them on the first day at Kalangalla. Janey had wondered if she was meant to shake her hand, but she hadn’t, making do with a
little half-wave instead. Tia had looked grubby, dressed in a faded yellow t-shirt and an old pair of men’s jeans cut off at the knees. Janey didn’t understand people who didn’t make an effort. Four days later, as far as she could tell from this distance, it appeared that Tia was still wearing the same top.

They were probably watching her, Janey reflected, flipping over into backstroke. People did. She was always being told what a lovely style she had, how natural she looked in the water. Could Aborigines swim? She didn’t think so. They were good runners—Cathy Freeman was still doing Coles ads on TV on the back of her solitary gold medal—and she thought she could recall hearing about one winning Wimbledon once. But swimming? Nah. They must be admiring her, watching her streak through the water and wishing they could do it too. She changed to freestyle, putting her head down and sprinting as fast as she could, until the sky blurred into the sea and everything spun.

When she’d finished her program she made her way towards the rocks. It would be rude not to say hello, after all. They might even have some questions for her.

‘Hi,’ she said, floating on her stomach just beneath them. The second person, she could now see, was a dark man in his late teens or early twenties. He was lighting another cigarette; judging from the number of butts scattered around him on the rocks, he’d been smoking the whole time he was there. ‘It’s Tia, isn’t it? I’m Janey. Tess introduced us.’

‘I remember,’ Tia mumbled. Her eyes were red, Janey noticed. It must be the smoke. ‘This is Jago,’ she added, thumbing in the direction of her companion. Janey could feel him watching
her, checking out her arse through the crystal-clear sea. She felt a flush of pleasure. It was a good arse, firm and high from all those laps. Her mother had told her once when she’d had a few wines that one day Janey would have to choose, that as women aged it was either the face or the arse that went, and you couldn’t keep both. What bullshit, Janey thought, enjoying Jago’s gaze on her, his eyes on her breasts, her legs. She was going to keep both. She intended to have it all.

‘You’ve been goin’ pretty hard,’ he drawled, exhaling.

‘Thanks. I’m in training. Got states coming up soon.’

‘States?’ Jago narrowed his eyes, peering down at her as if she were something he’d just caught and wasn’t sure what to do with.

‘State championships. Swimming. I’m the current record holder in the hundred-metre breaststroke for girls fourteen and under. Might go to nationals if I win again this time.’

‘Nationals, eh?’ Jago whistled. ‘Fuck me.’ Janey grinned, warmed by his approbation, but he hadn’t finished. ‘You whiteys are a joke. You’re at one of the most beautiful beaches in the world’—he removed his cigarette from his mouth and gestured across the sweep of turquoise and white—‘and you’re fuckin’ trainin’.’ He laughed, a hard, closed-up sound. ‘That’s fucked. No wonder you lot never look happy.’

Janey flinched.
Whitey
. Had she just been racially abused?

‘Yeah, well, it’s better than sitting around getting pissed all day,’ she snapped, then turned and swam for shore before he could respond. Whitey. How dare he? And she’d been thinking too that he was really quite handsome. For an abo, anyway.

‘You feelin’ OK?’ Mason asked. ‘Not seasick or anything?’