Mothers and Daughters (34 page)

Tess glanced across the bay. ‘No, I’m not. It’s not time yet.’

Bronte leaned over, her breath warm against Tess’s ear. ‘Have I got time to go to the toilet then?’ she whispered.

‘Sure,’ Tess said. ‘Are you OK? Do you need a hand?’

‘I think I’m getting the hang of it,’ Bronte said, then giggled and ran off.

Tess smiled. She’d never known anyone so happy to get her period, if that was indeed what had brought the colour to Bronte’s cheeks. Ever since they’d left Kalangalla, through the jarring ride down the Cape Leveque road, a swim at Cable Beach, and then checking into The Mangrove, Bronte had been bright-eyed, chatty, animated. As they sat together on the back seat of the troop carrier she’d told Tess what had happened at lunch, but she’d turned it into the sort of story
Janey would have told, full of
Oh my God
s and
I nearly died
, rather than the mortified silence Tess might have expected. What was even more surprising was that Janey had caught her mood. Since the furore over the Facebook thing, Janey had been sullen, uncommunicative, but on the trip back to town she’d started talking again. Not directly to Bronte, sure, just as Bronte still wouldn’t directly acknowledge Janey, but both had joined in the same conversations with Tess and Macy. Maybe it was just because Janey was bored on the long trip without her phone . . . But even when they’d reached Cable Beach and everyone else had dashed into the surf Janey had simply laid out her towel and sat down on the sand next to Bronte, who didn’t want to swim in her current condition. They hadn’t talked to each other, but they hadn’t tried to kill each other either.

Tess rolled onto her side and spotted Macy and Janey picking their way towards her through the groups of people who had gathered here on the back lawn of The Mangrove. Janey was carrying a jug of something and some glasses; Macy was tucking her lighter into her handbag.

‘You got a good spot.’ Macy sank down onto the blanket that Tess had laid out, her red sundress catching the light from the lanterns hung in the trees. Tess had expected her to revert to her goth garb once they reached the relative civilisation of Broome, but it appeared that for now Macy had banished the black.

‘I’ve been here before. Most people go to Roebuck Bay park to see the staircase, but Mum and I think it’s better here. Less crowded—and there’s a bar. For the adults, I mean.’

Macy grinned and took the jug from Janey. ‘Drink?’ she offered. ‘It’s cider. No one bothered to check my age. Just tell your mum it’s creaming soda if she asks.’

Tess glanced across at Amira, sitting a few feet away with Fiona, Caro and Morag, gesticulating and laughing. Her mother wouldn’t ask. She’d pretty much stopped asking since they’d come up north, preferring to trust Tess not to do anything too stupid but to know that Amira would still help her if she did. It was a good policy. It was why they still liked each other.

‘Hey, I think it’s starting!’ Janey cried, pointing out across the mangroves that fringed the water. Sure enough, there was a faint silver glimmer on the horizon.

Bronte squeezed herself next to Tess.

‘Have I missed it? Did I miss it?’ she asked.

‘Relax,’ said Tess. ‘It’s only just begun.’ She held her breath as the full moon seemingly rose from the sea, a glowing orb, a golden balloon. As it slowly ascended, its light reflected off the exposed mudflats that stretched out before them, creating the illusion of a set of gilded stairs hanging in the sky.

‘I can see it!’ said Macy, forgetting for a moment to be cool. ‘Can you, Janey?’

‘It’s amazing,’ murmured Bronte. ‘It almost looks as if you could climb right up into the moon . . . that you could sit on it, staring back at us.’

Tess felt her skin prickle. That was it, that was it exactly.
As if you could climb right up
. She’d have to remember that phrase for her letter to Callum. The letter. Just thinking of it made her warm. No more postcards—this was the real deal.
It was only half finished, stashed deep in her overnight bag, but tomorrow morning she was going to get up early, write another page or two, and then give it to Morag before she left. She didn’t have any masking tape, but she trusted Morag. Morag wouldn’t peek.

As the moon floated above them, rich and round, Tess composed her sentences in her mind. Callum would love this, she thought. Perhaps she might even suggest that one day he came and saw it with her.

Fiona peered through the gloom at the faces surrounding her, universally upturned in delight and awe, then looked at the sky again. Nup. She still didn’t get it. A fat yellow moon—nice, but she’d seen full moons before—and a few fading bars of light below it. How could
this
be what everyone was in raptures over, the subject of all those tacky souvenirs she’d seen in town—fridge magnets, stubby holders, cheap jewellery? Maybe it was her—she’d never had the patience to wait for those 3D pictures to swim into view, after all. She tilted back her head and squinted hard, but all that came into focus was how itchy the sandfly bites were on her ankles and a nagging pain building behind her temples.

‘Hey!’ Warm liquid gushed across her foot, soaking her sandal and the hem of her taupe pants. When she looked down she thought for a moment it was blood, then realised she’d actually been splashed with red wine knocked over by
the group sitting in front of them. The bottle rocked slightly at her feet, discharging its contents into the lawn.

‘Hey!’ she said again, louder this time, prodding the closest back with her dripping toes. They left a russet mark . . . Good. ‘I think this is yours,’ she said when a hippyish-looking woman turned around, and handed her the empty bottle. ‘You spilled it all over me.’

‘Oh—sorry,’ the woman said, taking it from her. ‘I didn’t notice. We’re all just so engrossed by the moon. Isn’t it magical?’

‘Yeah, magical,’ grunted Fiona, holding her foot under her nose. ‘So magical you fucking soaked me.’ Amira laid a warning hand on her arm and Fiona shook it off.

‘Serena,’ said the woman to the person sitting next to her, ‘Have you got any tissues with you? There’s been a bit of an accident.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Fiona, standing up. ‘Tissues aren’t going to cut it. I’ll need to go and wash these.’

Someone further back hissed at her to sit down, that she was blocking their view.

‘Get stuffed,’ she called out as she strode off. ‘It looks better on the postcards anyway.’

Back in her hotel room, she took off the pants, ran some cold water in the basin and soaked the cuffs. The water bloomed red. ‘Fuck it,’ she said aloud. She hoped the stain would come out. She really liked those pants. They were the only ones she owned that made her arse look smaller than a pick-up truck. Fiona sat down on the bed. Now what? Get changed and go back out again . . . but for what? More of that stupid moon and the gawping tourists. She didn’t have anything else to
wear, anyway. Every other item of clothing she’d brought was befouled with red dust and encrusted with sweat. She was over this place, she really was. She couldn’t wait to get on the plane tomorrow.

The door opened and Bronte stood there blinking in the light.

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ replied Fiona. ‘Some idiot spilled wine all over my pants so I came back to rinse them. What about you?’

‘I forgot my camera.’ Bronte crossed to the small table between their single beds. ‘I didn’t think it would matter, but I had to come back and get it. The staircase is so—’

‘Magical,’ Fiona cut her off. ‘Yeah, I know.’

Bronte picked up her camera and turned to leave again. ‘Wait,’ Fiona called. ‘How are you going with all the . . . the pads and stuff? Are you managing OK?’ She felt awkward. This wasn’t the sort of conversation she usually had with Bronte.

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Bronte stared down at the carpet, her long hair falling over her face. ‘I’m still a bit crampy though.’

‘Grab some Naprosyn if you like. There’s some in my toilet bag.’

‘It’s not that bad.’ Bronte took a deep breath and looked up at Fiona. ‘What does make me feel sick is that Facebook thing. I’m trying not to think about it, but every time I do I want to vomit.’

‘Really?’ Fiona asked, surprised. ‘But you showed Janey—you got your own back. You took her phone and threw it into the sea!’ She smiled at the memory, but Bronte’s face grew pinched.

‘That doesn’t fix anything! Everyone I know will have seen that picture. It was up for two days!’ She paused, breathing
heavily. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You think if someone’s mean to you you just be mean back and it’s all square. But it’s not, it’s
not
! I’ve been totally humiliated and you don’t care.’

‘I do,’ Fiona protested, uncomfortably aware that she was at a disadvantage. It was hard to convey authority clad only in a singlet and floral underpants. ‘I wanted to see Janey cop it in the neck just as much as you did. Caro’s way too soft on her, if you ask me.’

‘It’s not about Janey!’ Bronte screamed. ‘Will you stop going on about her? It’s about me, your daughter! You barely even stood up for me—you kept looking out the window like you were thinking about something else. You should have dealt with it. You shouldn’t have left it up to me. You’re meant to be my mother.’ Bronte’s voice rose. She placed a hand on the doorknob. ‘And when I get my period, you hand me a box of tampons and that’s it? That’s
it
? Caro had to come in and help me! You were useless—you were too busy folding your fucking clothes or something. Thanks a million.’

The sound of the door slamming rang in Fiona’s ears. She sat down on the nearest bed. Should she go after Bronte? Her daughter had never sworn before, at least not in front of her. Bronte had never fought with her either, never raised her voice to her or questioned anything Fiona had done. Bronte was always so meek, so biddable, and that drove Fiona mad, but this was no improvement. She picked at the bedspread, trying to distract herself by concentrating on its florid tropical whorls. There was a taste of acid at the back of her throat.
Useless
. Had she been? But there was no point in mollycoddling, she’d always believed that. The world was a tough place, and the
sooner you realised that and learned to deal with it the better. Useless, though. Did Bronte really think that? Was Caro a better mother than she was?

Her hand went to her breast, to the lump, working it between her fingers like a rosary. She sat there palpating it for five minutes, then got up and let the water out of the basin. A hairdryer. The room would have a hairdryer, maybe even an iron. Either would do. She’d wring out the cuffs, dry the pants as best she could, then go and find Bronte.

The cider was working. Macy sat back in her chair and enjoyed the warm glow spreading through her body, radiating out from her core to her fingers, her toes, even, she thought, her eyelashes. She blinked. Yes, definitely her eyelashes. They felt warm and sleepy, like the rest of her, so heavy that her eyes kept wanting to close. She gave in and let them. Thank goodness for alcohol. She’d bought the jug for all of them, but Bronte had wandered off somewhere and Tess had declined, so she and Janey had had no option but to drink it all themselves. Tess was crazy. She had no idea what she was missing. All day long Macy had felt a quiver in her stomach every time she thought about heading home the next morning: facing her mum, facing her dad, working out who the hell she had to screw to get back in the eisteddfod, but the cider had taken care of all that. Gone. Washed away. She’d kill for just one more glass, but there was no point asking Morag; her stepmother would spontaneously combust at the very idea.
Which was a bit hypocritical, given that she and her friends hadn’t stopped knocking back the cocktails since they’d arrived at the restaurant after that staircase thing. Macy wondered if Morag had seen her and Janey with the jug between them on the lawn. She doubted it. Morag had been too busy taking photograph after photograph, gazing down her lens rather than paying any attention to what was right under her nose.

‘Excuse me, are you finished?’

Macy opened her eyes to find a waitress hovering at her side clutching a tray. Embroidered on her blouse was some bright red lettering and an Oriental-looking character.
Matso’s
, Macy read. That’s right. That was the name of this place—Matso’s. Matso’s near The Mangrove. She began to giggle at the alliteration, but stopped when Bronte nudged her.