Mothers and Daughters (25 page)

‘It does seem a bit . . . excessive,’ Bronte replied. It was no wonder so many of the kids in the community were fat. She’d noticed it in her first couple of days here, how they’d saunter around with a Coke in one hand, a packet of chips in the other—and not just a can of Coke but a two-litre bottle, and the family-size bag of chips. It made her feel a bit sick,
to be honest, but she could hardly say that to Amira without sounding judgemental. And at least there wasn’t any alcohol here, as Amira kept pointing out, but Bronte wondered if replacing it with junk food was much of a step forward.

She moved down the aisle, Amira following behind her. ‘What were you after?’ Amira asked.

‘A new sketchbook,’ Bronte said. ‘I’ve filled up the one I brought with me. I didn’t expect to—there were heaps of pages left—but there’s been so much that I wanted to get down, to show my teacher back home.’

Amira smiled. ‘That’s fantastic. I’d love to see your drawings. Have you shown them to your mum?’

Bronte hesitated. Show them to her mother? What, and have her laugh like she did when Bronte had shown her the card from the modelling agency? Not a chance. Bronte would rather go naked to the beach than show her mother her sketchbook. ‘Not really,’ she eventually answered.

Amira regarded her for a moment, basket propped on one ample hip.

‘You should,’ she said. ‘And Fiona should look. I’ll make her, if you like. I’ll withhold all wine until she does.’

Bronte laughed to cover the stab of jealousy she felt. Did Tess know how lucky she was? ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Mum and I are into different things. I get that.’

‘Yes, but—’ Amira broke off as Macy came around the end of the aisle, a scowl on her face.

‘This place sucks,’ she said. ‘I had to get packed so quickly I forgot to bring any toiletries. I realised on the plane, but then I thought I’d be able to buy them up here, you know, like in
any decent civilisation, but all this dump has is two bars of soap and a packet of dental floss.’

‘I’m surprised by the dental floss,’ Amira said. ‘I’ll buy it if you’re not going to.’

Macy had the grace to smile. She was pretty when she did that, Bronte thought, despite the ring in one nostril and the studs through her eyebrow, despite her white-painted face and black-rimmed eyes. She might have forgotten her toothpaste, but she’d clearly remembered her make-up.

‘Knock yourself out,’ Macy said, then added, ‘How do you survive up here?’

‘I drive to Broome once a month and do a big shop at Coles. That tides us over. I usually only come in here for bread, which they bake next door, or fruit and veg. Not that there’s much of that today.’ Amira paused. ‘There is something like a supermarket up the road at One Arm Point, though. Why don’t we go there? It’s expensive, but I need to get the salad for tonight, and I know they’ve got plenty of other stuff. You could probably get that sketchbook, Bronte, and there’s sure to be shampoo and what have you.’

‘Is that a black “up the road” or a white “up the road”?’ Macy asked suspiciously. ‘I don’t want to spend two days travelling through the Kimberley just so I can brush my teeth.’

Amira laughed. ‘You’re a quick learner. White. It won’t take long—ten minutes or so each way. If we go now we’ll be back in an hour. Tess has gone to see Tia, so I don’t have to worry about her—do you two need to check with your mothers?’

‘Mum went off for a nap after lunch,’ said Bronte. ‘She’s
been doing it every day. Says it’s too hot to go to the beach before four, so I told her I’d see her then.’

‘I don’t need to check,’ said Macy. ‘My mother’s four thousand kilometres away.’

One Arm Point was a bit of a ghost town, Bronte thought as she sat on a graffiti-scarred bench outside the supermarket waiting for Macy and Amira. It was much bigger than Kalangalla, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around, only an old Aboriginal woman shuffling away from the store with a packet of cornflakes tucked under her arm. Maybe they were at work, but what was there to do here? The community appeared devoid of any industry whatsoever, lay stunned before her, its dusty streets shimmering in the oppressive afternoon air.

Bronte flicked through the blank pages of her new sketchbook, mesmerised as always by their creamy possibility, then pulled from her backpack the one she’d already filled. A surge of pride ran through her as she studied her work. The first few drawings weren’t great, she knew that—too stilted, self-conscious, her hand stiff around her pencil—but oh, the rest . . . Ms Drummond was always telling her to relax, to let the lines emerge rather than trying to force them onto the paper, and Bronte had nodded, but she’d never really understood what she meant until now. This sketch of a dog, for example, that she’d done in charcoal—it was just a dog, fast asleep in someone’s front yard, but it looked as if it might yawn and stretch at any minute, might cock one eye at you while scratching behind a mangy ear . . .

‘Did you do that?’ asked Macy, peering over her shoulder. ‘It’s fantastic. Show me the rest.’

They were still looking at the sketchbook when Amira joined them ten minutes later. Macy wasn’t so scary when she was like this, Bronte thought. At first she’d assumed the older girl was just being polite, but then she could have stopped after a page or two. Instead she’d taken the book onto her lap and gone through it, drawing by drawing, right from the start, examining every detail. She was so relaxed, Bronte thought. There had only been four or five other customers in the shop, but each had stopped in their tracks and stared as Macy went by. Bronte could hardly blame them—Macy certainly stood out, dressed as she was all in black and with her piercings and heavy make-up—but didn’t Macy
mind
? She certainly didn’t seem to. It was bizarre. Most of the time Bronte wished she was invisible. It was bad enough having people gawk at you because of something you couldn’t help, like your stupid height, but why invite that sort of attention?

‘We’ve been pretty quick,’ said Amira, checking her watch. ‘Do you want to call into the hatchery on the way back? It’s fascinating—they’ve got about twenty small pools, filled with local tropical fish and turtles, and you can handfeed them all. I was actually thinking of suggesting we all came up and visited tomorrow morning.’

‘I don’t think Caro will want to go near any more turtles for a while,’ said Macy.

‘Oh God, no,’ said Amira, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, that was awful, the poor girl. She showed me her arm
when I took her in some lunch. It was like someone had whipped her, all bright red and—’

‘Shhh,’ Bronte said. She didn’t mean to be rude, but she wanted to listen. Ever since she’d come out of the supermarket she’d noticed a faint hum in the air, a murmuring. At first she’d assumed it was some kind of insect, but it was gradually getting louder, building into a buzz, a throb . . . a voice. Voices, more than one, raised together, growing, soaring, pulsing towards her across the red earth.

The others heard it too. For a moment they all stayed perfectly still, not looking at each other, absorbing the sound. Macy broke the spell. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Someone’s died,’ Amira said. ‘Probably an elder, someone important in the community. The dead person’s family and some of the other adults are singing the spirit home, so it leaves the area and returns to its birthplace, where it can be reborn.’

‘Wow,’ Bronte said. ‘Have you heard it before?’

‘Just once, though it would have been different. Every funeral song is. The Aborigines sing the sacred names of the dead person’s waterhole and country, so their spirit will be enticed there.’ Amira hugged herself as if she was cold. ‘I did some reading about it after I heard it the first time. It scared me a bit, I have to say. It sounded so eerie. The song gets right inside you, like the wind. But it’s beautiful too, isn’t it?’

‘It’s amazing,’ Macy said. ‘I’d love my friend Micah to hear it. I wonder if we could do something like that together?’

Amira shook her head. ‘You can’t. It’s not yours; it belongs to them. Anyone who hears it today and knows the person
who has died will join in. It might go for hours—for days, sometimes.’

The song wound between them, a wail, a chant, insinuating itself under their skin. Bronte closed her eyes and gave herself up to it, felt it vibrate in her bones. She wondered if they could hear it back at Kalangalla. Her mum was
really
going to hate that.

‘Right, who’s next?’ Janey’s eyes narrowed, peering around for her next target. ‘Macy,’ she pronounced. ‘You haven’t had a go yet. Truth or dare?’

Macy had her earbuds in and lay, oblivious, on her towel with her eyes closed behind her sunglasses. Tess had been surprised when she’d joined them for their late afternoon swim—you never usually saw goths at the beach—but Macy had pulled off her long, shapeless dress to reveal a tiny bikini, and gone straight in. It was black, of course. Black hair, black nails, black bathers. You had to admire that degree of dedication.

‘I don’t think she can hear you,’ Bronte said unnecessarily, her own skin covered by a sarong and a cotton shirt with the collar up and sleeves buttoned to her wrists.

‘Duh,’ Janey replied, then leaned across the sand and pulled out the nearest earbud.

The older girl’s eyes shot open.

‘Fuck, Janey, I was listening to that.’

‘Truth or dare?’ Janey repeated, then, as Macy snatched
the earbud back, quickly said, ‘Truth, then. How old were you when you first had sex?’

‘Janey!’ Bronte exclaimed.

Macy rolled onto her stomach, turning her head away from them. ‘As if I’m going to tell you. It’s none of your business.’

‘It’s a game.’ Janey pouted. ‘I’d tell you.’

You mean you’d make it up
, Tess thought, but didn’t have the guts to say the words out loud. Instead she caught Bronte’s eye and raised one eyebrow.

‘Hah.’ Macy jeered. ‘Because you’re soooo experienced, right? Like with the wine last night at dinner.’

Janey coloured. ‘I’ve had boyfriends. Plenty of them.’

‘Macy, do you want me to put some sunscreen on your back?’ Bronte interjected. ‘You can still get burnt, even at this time of day.’

‘Nah. I’ll put my clothes on in a minute,’ Macy said. ‘I’m just enjoying the warmth. It still felt like winter in Melbourne when I left. God, it’s amazing here.’

Tess smiled to herself and picked up
The Bell Jar
. It was. She loved this time of day almost as much as she loved the clear, still mornings; loved how the sun turned the water golden as it sank in the sky, loved the cicadas warming up and the cool caress of the first evening breezes.

‘You lot are so
boring
,’ Janey complained. ‘Worrying about sunscreen. Reading books.’ She glared at Tess. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring your knitting with you—or maybe we should have a nice game of bingo. It’s all so lame. What happened to Truth or Dare?’

‘Fine,’ Macy said, raising her head. ‘I’ve got a dare for you, Janey: a skinny dip. In the lagoon.’

‘Now?’ asked Janey. ‘It’s broad daylight.’

‘Hey, you wanted to play,’ Macy said. ‘Are you chicken?’ She started making clucking noises at the back of her throat. ‘
Burk, burk, burk burk
.’

Tess couldn’t help herself. She giggled.

‘I’m not chicken!’ Janey protested. ‘But I’m not doing it by myself. You’d probably all run off with my clothes or something. I’m only doing it if everyone does . . . but I bet you’re all too gutless.’

Tess swallowed. She’d swum once or twice at night without her clothes, but only when there was no moon and she was certain she wouldn’t get caught.

‘No way,’ said Bronte. ‘I can’t even bear to look at myself naked. You’d all just laugh.’

Macy stood up. ‘
I
will,’ she said, hooking her thumbs through the sides of her bikini bottoms and pulling them down, then undoing the top. Both pieces fell to the sand, and she casually stepped out of them, completely unselfconscious. ‘Bronte, you’re mad,’ she said, but not unkindly. ‘You’ve got a fabulous body. The best of all of us.’ Then she turned and started walking towards the sea, her petite pale buttocks rising and falling with each step.

‘Wow,’ breathed Bronte. ‘Did you
see
?’

Tess nodded. Not only was Macy’s navel pierced, as they’d already noticed, but both her nipples were too—a small silver ring through one, two diamante studs adorning the other.
‘That’s gotta hurt,’ she said. ‘I wonder if her mum knows? Or Morag?’

‘As if,’ Janey snapped. ‘God, what a show-off. She only suggested that dare so we’d have to look at her. She’s such a fake.’

‘The dare was for you,’ Tess said. ‘You were the one that said we all had to do it—and I notice you’ve still got your bathers on. If anyone’s a fake it’s you.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them; grew wings and flew away across the turquoise lagoon, where Macy was paddling in the shallows.

Janey swung around, face red. ‘You bitch! You total bitch. It’s not like you were ever going to get your gear off either, you’re so bloody uptight. And you.’ She turned to Bronte. ‘Macy needs a guide dog. Fabulous body, my arse. You should be in a fucking circus.’ She jumped up and started sprinting up the beach, towards the community, then spun around and yelled, ‘Don’t you go anywhere! We haven’t finished this game yet. I’m coming back.’