Mothers and Daughters (32 page)

Saturday

It was only one night away, Amira told herself as she threw the overnight bag on the bed. She didn’t need to take much. Her bathers, in case they stopped off at Cable Beach or she felt like a swim at The Mangrove; sunscreen, a hat and sunglasses, the holy trinity of accessories in the tropics; some clean undies; and something nice to wear out to dinner. Amira pushed her hair back from her face.
Nice
. If one of her students had written that she would have circled it in red and told them to use a more descriptive word:
beautiful
,
striking
, even
pretty
. She turned and peered into her wardrobe. The trouble was that she barely had anything pretty anymore. There was her fitted black dress with the beading around the neckline, but she’d already worn that at the Aarli Bar last Sunday. All the other summer gear she’d brought with her from Melbourne had long since faded or frayed, was either stained with pindan or baggy from overuse. Her clothes had gone into shock, she thought,
assaulted by the UV, the humidity, even the antiperspirant she had to reapply every few hours. And she knew it didn’t really matter—clothes up here were for purely functional purposes, not decorative—but she had wanted to make an effort tonight, their last together.

Amira sat down on the bed, her stomach clenching. Their last night. The hours were ticking away . . . Right now her friends were in their rooms preparing to leave: gathering up their toiletries, shoving sarongs into suitcases, probably yelling at their daughters to hurry up. Soon they’d all load back into the troop carrier for the long drive down the bumpy red road to Broome, and this time tomorrow she’d be at the airport, preparing to wave them goodbye. She’d miss them. She’d miss the laughter and the sniping, she’d miss Caro’s smile and Morag’s dry wit and even Fiona’s cynicism, she’d miss the simple ease of being with people who knew you, who got you, who were part of your history. But she didn’t want to go with them. The realisation was abrupt, instinctive and shocking. She felt it race through her like an electric charge. She was glad she was only packing her bags for an overnight trip; she didn’t envy her friends their return to the south. She could barely even picture Melbourne, she thought with a start. It wasn’t real to her, not the way all this was—the sun and the sky and the ta-ta lizards sitting panting in the shade, waving one arm back and forth like wind-up toys.

She had thought she might be homesick after spending a week with her friends, but she wasn’t. Oh, there were things she missed about Melbourne, no doubt about it: the lamb-shank pizza at Al Albero; not having to keep her armpits shaved all
the time; being able to take her class on excursions. Amira smiled to herself as she folded a beach towel and placed it in her bag. To think how she used to grimace whenever an excursion was announced, immediately exhausted by the prospect of dragging her class around the zoo or the museum for what felt like the thousandth time, her temples pounding in anticipation of a day of constant headcounts and too much noise on the bus. How spoiled she’d been! What she’d give to be able to take her current students to the Bunjilaka Aboriginal Cultural Centre at the Melbourne Museum, or to show them an elephant or a chimpanzee. Most of the kids had rarely left the community in their lives; there were some who hadn’t even seen Broome. She reached under her pillow for her nightie. It was one of the many frustrations of teaching up here: the isolation, the lack of resources—not so much in the classroom but in the community, in the day-to-day life going on outside the school. Kalangalla was beautiful, but it was limited. When she’d asked her year six students what they wanted to be when they grew up they’d told her nurses and teachers, or maybe working at Wajarrgi—all of which were fine aspirations, they really were, but no one had said
meteorologist
or
architect
or
chef
, as her class in Melbourne had done. And it wasn’t that they weren’t capable of dreaming or aspiring, Amira thought, crossing her room to get her bathers from the chest of drawers, it was that they didn’t
know
. They had no idea those jobs existed, no notion of what their lives might be.

The bathers weren’t in the drawer. Amira sighed. It got to her sometimes, just how much there was to do up here, but then that was why she’d come, wasn’t it? For a challenge, and
to make a difference. She was a good teacher, she knew she was, but there were lots of good teachers in the cities. People like her were needed in places like this. And she was getting somewhere, she truly felt she was, only it all took so much time . . . January was looming, and yet most days it seemed that she’d hardly got started. She’d have only just figured out these kids, this community, and then she too would be heading for the airport, like Fiona and Caro and Morag, her boab nuts wrapped carefully in newspaper for the journey, her work only half done.

Amira shut the drawer she’d been fossicking through and straightened up, squaring her shoulders. She wouldn’t think about it now. She wouldn’t ruin her last day with her friends fretting over things she couldn’t change. And the bathers—they must still be on the line where she’d hung them to dry last night. After the comforting gloom of the house, the sunlight stung her eyes. Amira rubbed at them as she made her way to the old Hills hoists next to the communal laundry. Tess’s would probably be there too, unless of course she was already in them, hadn’t bothered changing after her regular morning swim.
Regular
. It still surprised Amira. Back home, Tess had all but given up any form of physical activity. She continued to play netball with Bronte and Janey on Saturday mornings but that was about it—otherwise her leisure time was given over to staring at the screen on her phone or laptop, going out shopping, or obsessing about her appearance. But now she went swimming every day and read more novels than Facebook updates. The move had definitely been worthwhile, even if it was going to be over too soon.

As she approached, she saw that Tia was at the line, hanging sheets, her back to Amira. Thank goodness for Tia. She’d been a great friend to Tess, had really helped her settle in. Amira was about to call out to her but then stopped. Halfway through her task, Tia had paused; she seemed to sway a little in the red dust, her hands going to her back. Standing like that, her belly thrust forward . . . Amira swallowed. No. She was seeing things. It wasn’t possible. Tia was only fifteen, not much older than Tess—but that stance, that stomach . . .

‘Tia,’ she blurted, ‘you’re pregnant!’

Tia started and turned towards her, her face hostile. For a moment Amira thought she was going to deny it, but then the girl bent over the laundry basket, pulled out another sheet and silently pegged it to the line. Her ankles were swollen, Amira noticed; fingers too.

‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Amira asked. ‘Have you had a scan? Do you know how far along you are?’

Tia shrugged, her hands dark against the white linen.

‘It’s Jago’s baby, isn’t it?’ Amira persisted. ‘Have you told him? You need to tell him. He’ll have to be part of it, whatever you decide to do.’

‘I told him the day you were all at Wajarrgi,’ Tia replied sullenly, her back still to Amira. ‘And there’s nothing to decide. I think it’s too late now anyway.’

‘Oh, Tia.’ Amira exhaled. ‘You could have gone to university in another few years.’

‘Still can.’ Tia grunted, hauling a faded yellow blanket over the Hills hoist.

‘How?’ Amira said, her voice sharper than she intended.
‘Leave the child back here, with your mum, who already has enough of her own to care for? Or take it with you and hope you can juggle work and study and looking after a toddler? That’ll be fun.’

The basket was finally empty. Tia swung around, scowling.

‘I’ll manage. Who said I wanted to go to uni anyway? That was your idea, not mine. I like it here.’

‘Oh, Tia,’ Amira sighed again. She wasn’t handling this well. ‘What do your parents think? Your mum, Mason?’

‘I haven’t told them yet.’ Tia wiped her palms down the front of her t-shirt, almost as if she was trying to smooth down her stomach, make it flat again. ‘Mum had me young. She’ll be fine.’

Maybe so, Amira thought, but Mason? Surely he’d be disappointed. Tia was a bright girl. She was one of the few her age who had what it took to make a life away from Kalangalla . . . but then Mason did too, and he was still here. Amira felt a headache rumbling into gear behind her temples. For all her love of it, she still didn’t understand this place. Was the baby even an accident, as she had immediately assumed, or was it Tia’s means of releasing herself from her own bright promise, ensuring she stayed with her people and on her land?

‘Don’t you tell them, anyway,’ Tia said, walking away—Tia, who had always been so polite, so open, so giggly and uncomplicated. ‘It’s none of your business. You won’t even be here by the time it’s born.’

Amira watched her go until she disappeared into her home, then turned back herself. It wasn’t until she reached her own front door that she realised she’d forgotten to get her bathers.

Bronte sat at the table where they’d had all their meals, toying with the food in front of her. She wasn’t full, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat any more. She was a bit over fish . . . fish for dinner, fish for lunch—there probably would have been fish for breakfast if she’d asked, sardines crumbled across her cornflakes or a side order of groper with her toast. Ugh. Every piece of fish she’d eaten had been freshly caught, expertly filleted, marinated in an ever-changing assortment of local herbs—but now all she wanted was a lamb chop or some carbonara. Funny how you could get so sick of something you liked if that was all that was offered every day. She wondered if it worked with people too. Did Tess ever get fed up of hanging out just with Tia and yearn for some variety, a whole noisy, heaving gang like she’d been part of in Melbourne? Against that, having one really close friend would be amazing. Someone who knew you and accepted you, who you could just relax and be yourself with rather than worrying if you’d said the wrong thing or were wearing the right clothes. She’d hoped it would happen when she moved to St Anne’s, but she was still waiting . . .

‘Bronte, it’s not a bloody pet. Stop playing with it. Just hurry up and finish your lunch, can you—we still need to pack.’ Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. Bronte blushed, lifted a morsel of white flesh to her mouth and made herself swallow. She’d already packed, but her mum obviously hadn’t realised that yet, their room was so littered with her own debris. Bronte would go and help her get it under control,
then maybe there’d be time for one last quick look at the gallery before they left . . .

She pushed her plate away and stood up from the table. Something trickled down her leg—sweat, she thought—and she reached behind her to brush it off. Her hand came away red. Bronte thumped quickly back down into her seat. Tentatively, she examined her fingers in her lap. Blood, it looked like blood. She sat there, heart pounding, and felt a second trickle rolling down the other thigh. Under cover of the table she moved her hand into her shorts and found that her undies were wet to the touch, sticky and warm. Her mind raced. She wasn’t hurt—she’d been fine all week, apart from those cramps yesterday . . . cramps. Oh God. What awful timing. She’d been dying for her period to finally start—she must be the last girl in her year at St Anne’s to get it—but why here, and why now?

‘Mum,’ she called out, but Fiona was already walking away.

‘Hurry up,’ she repeated over her shoulder.

Bronte looked around. Only Janey and Macy were left at the table, the latter chewing slowly as she listened to her iPod, the former simply staring into space, uncharacteristically still with no phone to fiddle with. They hadn’t spoken since Bronte had thrown it into the lagoon. Janey was probably avoiding her mother, Bronte supposed, but the thought gave her no pleasure. How could she get out of this? There was no way she was going to reveal her predicament to Janey and Macy, suffer their condescending sniggers—or, worse, stand up and have them gawp or laugh. Tess would know what to do, but she was nowhere in sight. Everyone else was preparing for
their departure; Bronte had only lingered at the table herself because, unlike them, she was ready to go.

‘
Mum!
’ she cried again, voice wavering.

‘I’m
busy
, Bronte!’ her mother shouted back from their room thirty metres away. ‘You should be too.
Hurry up
.’

Tears pricked at Bronte’s eyes. The seat beneath her felt uncomfortably slick. How much blood was she losing? Was this normal? A sudden rage seized her. Her mother should be here for her now. Her mother should be reassuring her and taking care of her, but her mother—as usual—was too preoccupied with her own agenda. Bronte felt her skin grow hot, but with fury, for once, not embarrassment. She pushed back the chair, got to her feet and strode towards their room. Let everyone see, let them all laugh, what did it matter? She didn’t care anymore.

‘Bronte!’ Janey exclaimed behind her. ‘Your shorts . . . your legs . . .’