Mothers and Daughters (24 page)

Caro shook her head. They were a long way out, the Kalangalla beach now just a smudge behind them, but still the ocean was serene and unruffled, no more frightening than a paddling pool.

‘I feel great,’ she said. ‘
This
is great. Thanks so much for inviting me.’

‘No problem.’ He grinned, cutting the small motor on the dinghy. ‘You come all this way, you might as well see as much as you can . . . the real stuff, not all that hokum they would have fed you yesterday. It’s a shame none of your mates wanted to join us.’

Caro didn’t think so. ‘Morag can’t be in the sun for too long, and Fiona’s probably still asleep. Besides,’ she added, looking around, ‘it would have been a bit crowded, wouldn’t it?’ The tiny boat was laden with lobster pots, an array of tackle, assorted strands of rope and a few fraying lifejackets. She reached for one, pulling it closer to her just in case. For a second she wished Janey was with them. If anyone had to swim for help, she’d be the best bet.

‘What’s that girl of yours doin’?’ Mason asked, as if he knew what she was thinking about.

‘Oh, I think she wanted a quiet morning,’ Caro said vaguely. ‘It was a big day at Wajarrgi, then we had a late night.’ The truth was that she hadn’t actually invited Janey. Janey hated fishing, she told herself, and it was good for the two of them
to have a bit of a break from each other. There was no need to feel guilty.

Mason nodded. ‘They’ve got their own agendas, haven’t they? My Tia’s the same.’ He turned away from her, scanning the limpid sea. ‘Got a good haul of trevally round here the day before last, just drift fishin’ with the net. Might have another go at it.’

Caro couldn’t for the life of her see how this patch of blue could be distinguished from any other, but nodded politely. She watched as Mason stood up and removed his shirt, tucking it into the bow of their craft.

‘The net’s pretty mucky,’ he said in explanation. ‘Full of fish guts and seaweed. Aki’ll go off at me if I ruin another top.’ He gathered the net to his chest from a puddle in the floor of the boat, then straightened up, made some adjustment with his wrists, and flung it effortlessly, a sheet of mesh, across the glittering sea. The muscles in his back flexed and stretched; his strong arms cast off the heavy net as if it was a cobweb.

‘Now we wait,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘Do you want to throw a handline in too?’

‘That’s OK,’ Caro replied, distracted. She couldn’t care less about a handline. She just wanted to watch him do that again.

‘You know, they used to round up the blackfellas and make them dive out here, all along the coast.’ Mason pulled down his hat to shade his face.

‘Dive?’ said Caro. ‘What, from the cliffs?’

‘Nah, from the luggers. Pearling. The blokes in charge would go into the bush, round up as many darkies as they
could find, put them on a boat and keep them goin’ up and down, bringin’ up oysters, from sunrise to sunset.’

Caro was shocked. ‘That’s awful!’ she said.

Mason gave a dry little chuckle. ‘Yeah. The romance of the pearl, eh? Blackbirding, they called it. It wasn’t just the menfolk, either. Gins and kids got roped in too. They say they used to send them down thirty, forty foot; the captains had big sticks they’d use to stop them climbin’ back on deck till they’d got a bagful.’ He observed her silence. ‘They didn’t tell you that at Wajarrgi, hey?’

‘No,’ Caro mumbled.

Mason looked out to sea. ‘It’s no secret. It’s in the museum at Broome, if you get a chance to have a look when you’re back there. Wajarrgi just want everything pretty, just want to tell you about the Dreamtime and corroborees. They don’t want to make you feel guilty when you’re payin’ for stuff. Bad for business.’

‘God,’ said Caro. ‘Children too. You must all hate us.’

‘Nah.’ Mason laughed. ‘I mean, some do, but not everyone. There’s always a few, aren’t there? On both sides. And your boss man apologised.’

Caro couldn’t read the tone of his voice, couldn’t tell if he appreciated the intention behind Sorry Day or was mocking it. Before she could ask him, Mason sprang to his feet.

‘We’ve got ourselves dinner. There’s somethin’ in the net.’

He leaned over the side of the boat, making it lurch alarmingly, tugging the catch towards him. As it came closer, Caro saw that they’d snagged a turtle, its flippers waving helplessly in the weave.

‘Oh, how gorgeous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can I pat him?’ The creature was every bit as large as the one Bronte had ridden behind on their first afternoon at the beach, its ancient shell encrusted with barnacles. It reminded her of the friendly sea turtle Crush from
Finding Nemo
. Janey had loved that DVD, had gone through a stage as a toddler of demanding to view it the moment she woke up.

‘What?’ said Mason, busy wrestling the enormous animal into the dinghy. ‘Hey, can you give me a hand? We’ll get some nice steaks out of this one.’

Caro froze. He wasn’t going to kill it, was he? Not Crush. You couldn’t eat Crush. God, the thought was dreadful. She started to protest, then shut her mouth. It was just a turtle, she told herself. It was probably like a cow to them, as natural as eating beef. Hadn’t she been celebrating Aboriginal culture yesterday, at Wajarrgi? Hadn’t she said something to Morag about how important it was to try to bridge the gap, to understand each other as races? Yet today, the moment she was confronted with something personally unpalatable from that very same culture she was ready to condemn it. Worse, to tell Mason to stop—Mason, whose ancestors had been forced by hers to dive until their ears must have bled, until their joints bubbled with nitrogen and their lungs screamed for air.

The turtle gave a powerful heave, fighting to return itself to the ocean.

‘Grab it!’ Mason yelled.

Caro lunged from her seat but then hesitated, unsure what to do. The creature had extricated itself from the net and was frantically trying to clamber over the bow. Gingerly, she
reached for its shell, but her hands slid off the slimy surface. Mason thumped to his knees beside her, rocking the boat. He grabbed the animal by its back flippers, but was similarly unable to maintain his grip. With a mighty push, the turtle slipped from his grasp and into the water.

‘Damn,’ muttered Mason, wiping his palms on his shorts. ‘We’ll need the net again. The old fella’s not gettin’ away that easily.’ He hastily gathered the net in his arms and heaved it in the direction that the turtle had escaped, but the throw was jerky, and one edge of the webbing snagged on a rowlock.

‘I’ll fix it,’ Caro sang out. Here at last was something she could manage. She hurried to the side of the dinghy and reached down into the water to lift the net away from the boat. It was surprisingly bulky and she was struggling with it when a sharp pain burst along the underside of one wrist and up to her elbow. ‘Shit!’ she cried, dropping on to the floor of the boat and clutching her arm. For a second she thought the turtle had either bit or scratched her, but then she saw it was gone, just a dark shape gliding out to sea.

‘What’ve ya done?’ Mason was suddenly beside her, his dark eyes worried.

‘I don’t know,’ whimpered Caro. The pain was deepening, spreading, moving out into her fingertips and up towards her shoulder.

‘Show me,’ he said, slowly peeling her arm away from where she’d cradled it against her chest.

‘Fuck!’ she screamed, the movement unleashing a further, denser level of torment. Bile rose in her throat and for a moment she was terrified she would vomit onto Mason’s feet.

He bent over her arm and whistled.

‘Somethin’s got you good,’ he said, his tone sympathetic. ‘That hurts, doesn’t it?’

Caro glanced down. The skin along her forearm was covered with a thick mat of raised welts, red-white and pulsing. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Yes, it fucking well hurt.

‘Is it Irukandji?’ she asked fearfully, remembering something Morag had read out from her guidebook on the plane.
Highly toxic
, she recalled, then something else:
Can be fatal
. ‘Oh God,’ she moaned, ‘am I going to die?’

Mason carefully placed her arm in her lap, then went to scrabble through the gear at the back of the boat. He returned bearing an old plastic milk container filled with clear liquid, which he poured without ceremony over her welts. Caro screamed again, sunbursts of fresh pain exploding behind her eyes, her uninjured hand shooting out to support herself as she thought she might faint.

‘Sorry,’ Mason said. He softly placed his large hand over her own. ‘Are you OK? It’s vinegar. It’ll help. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will.’

Caro’s teeth chattered. A seagull squawked overhead, and she felt the noise go through her, travel along each and every nerve.

Mason bent over her arm again, inspecting her wounds.

‘It’s not Irukandji,’ he reassured her. ‘You don’t get anythin’ like this with those—often people can’t even see where they’ve been stung. It’s not box jellyfish, either.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Caro. The throbbing was receding
slightly, enough so that she could open her eyes. ‘How can you tell?’

‘You’d be dead by now,’ Mason replied. He took a final look, then straightened up. ‘I’m guessin’ it was a hair jelly. A snottie, we call it. It’s harmless, apart from the pain, but we’ll get you back to shore so they can have a look at it at the clinic. I’ve got some Panadeine Forte in my kit, then I’ll get you lying down. You’ll feel better that way.’ He squeezed her good hand. ‘It was pretty bad, eh? A shame when we were havin’ such a good day.’ Mason leaned towards her. For a second Caro thought he was going to kiss her, felt her own body instinctively lean in—and then he gently picked up her arm and positioned it once more against her body.

The clouds moved so fast, she thought, watching them race overhead from her position in the bottom of the dinghy. It was surprisingly comfortable, her head and shoulders cushioned by a nest of lifejackets, her feet resting on her beach bag. Or maybe it was the boat that was travelling quickly . . . Mason had been right to have her lie down; she never could have clung on sitting up with her injured arm. And the sky was such a rich blue, too. She hadn’t noticed before. Azure, you’d call it, or maybe lapis. Cerulean? Was that even a word? She’d have to ask Bronte. Bronte would know.

Caro felt herself drifting off. The Panadeine had kicked in and left her light-headed and slightly high; the release from pain was such a relief as to almost be an opiate itself. It was lucky Mason had the tablets and the vinegar, otherwise he would have had to pee on her welts. Isn’t that what people did? She’d seen it on an episode of
Friends
once, when Monica
got stung by a bluebottle. Caro giggled. Imagine that, imagine Mason having to tug down his shorts and urinate all over her. Instead he was prepared.
Be prepared.
He was a good little Scout. She twisted her head around to tell him, but as she did so she heard something—fainter at first, then more distinct. A humming, a low drone rising and building as if a light plane was flying towards them, or a swarm of bees. Yet apart from the clouds the sky was clear. Blue and clear. She shook her head, noticed Mason cock his. Still the noise. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Forget about it. Lie back down. If you move too much your arm will start hurtin’ again.’

She must have fallen asleep. There was the crunch of sand beneath the hull; there was Mason bending over her and lifting her to his chest. His heartbeat thudded against her ear as he carried her across the beach and then along the path beneath the trees, the long boab branches above drowsily waving at her through the warm air. She started to wave back, then winced as she lifted her arm.

‘You’re awake now, huh?’ Mason said. ‘I’m going to take you to your room, then get some ice and the nurse, if I can find her.’

‘Thank you,’ Caro murmured. She could smell him, his still-bare chest, a delicious mixture of sun and saltwater. Had Alex ever carried her like this? She didn’t think so. She’d be scared he’d hurt his back if he tried.

Mason reached their collection of rooms and went to hers without needing to be directed. He opened the screen door
with his elbow and then lowered her onto the bed. The room was dark and cool; Caro’s head fell back gratefully against the pillow. Here, she thought. Here was her chance to seduce him, to entice him to lie down with her. All she had to do was loosen her sarong, get her t-shirt over her head . . . Her fingers went to her waist, but it was all too much. She had fallen asleep before Mason even left the room.

Twisties, Cheezels, Cheetos . . . packets and packets of them, their bright yellow graphics clamouring for her attention. Bronte dropped her gaze to the next shelf. Corn chips, crinkle-cut chips, thinly cut chips, Noodle Snax . . . what the hell were Noodle Snax? Below those were at least eight varieties of Kettle chips, tubes of Pringles and bags of Burger Rings. There were only two aisles in the tiny Kalangalla shop, and most of one was filled to overflowing with chips.

‘It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’ said a voice behind her. Bronte turned to find Amira peering at the same display, a plastic basket over one arm. ‘I came in to get some stuff for a salad for tonight, but all they’ve got is some spinach and a few old pineapples. Looks like we’ll be eating Cheetos instead.’