Mothers and Daughters (29 page)

‘Macy! Hey! Your stick’s moving!’ Tess hollered excitedly from where she was standing guard over another hole.

Macy glared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘So?’ ‘It means you’ve got a crab,’ Tess cried. ‘Do you want me to get it for you?’

‘No way.’ Macy hesitated for a moment, then tugged off her remaining boot, wedged it in the mangrove she was clinging to and jumped down. The sandy mud soaked through her socks and sucked at her dress but she ignored it, focusing on getting to the pokestick before the creature lost interest. Slowly she eased it out of the hole, just as Mason had instructed, and
was delighted to find a fat crab clinging to its end, one bright orange claw waving in agitation.

‘He’s a beauty!’ Mason said, advancing towards her. She noticed that his feet were bare; everyone’s were except those of them who’d come from Melbourne. ‘Here.’ Mason held out an arm. ‘Pass your stick over and I’ll tie him up for you. Don’t want you losing a finger.’ Macy did as she was told, then reached down and peeled off her socks, flinging them deep into the mangroves. It probably wasn’t good for the environment, but they were so rancid after two days in the heat that surely they’d just dissolve or be mistaken by some scavenger creature for carrion. She wriggled her toes. The mud felt soothing, cool against the soles of her feet. Why on earth had she worn boots
,
she wondered, or even clothes for that matter? It wasn’t yet lunchtime, but the heat was oppressive, a python enfolding her in its coils. Before she could change her mind she grasped the filthy hem of her long black dress and yanked it over her head, then balled up the fabric, found a clean spot and used it to rub all the make-up off her face.

‘Whoa.’ Mason grinned. ‘So that’s what you look like under all the war paint.’

Macy just stood there, enjoying the sensation of the air on her face and body, of suddenly feeling lighter, freed. Just as well she’d worn her bikini under her dress, in case they went for a swim later. She glanced around. It occurred to her that no one actually cared what she was wearing or whatever statement she was trying to make—they were all busy with their pokesticks, or trying to trap fish. It was a liberating notion. She took two steps forward and braced herself to wrench her
Doc from the mud, almost toppling backwards when it came free on the first try.

An hour and a half later she had managed to catch three more crabs, and was quietly singing Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab’ to herself as she scouted for another hole. Poor Amy, Macy thought. She probably should have gone to rehab, as it turned out. It wasn’t going to be like that for her when she was a big star. She’d be more careful. How stupid to work so hard and get so famous and then throw it all away . . . the applause, the flashbulbs, the money. Macy sighed. She couldn’t wait for any of it—if only she didn’t have to finish school and could get started now.

A shrill whistle disturbed her thoughts.

‘Hey, you mob,’ Mason called through the mangroves. ‘That’ll do. Bring everythin’ you caught to the beach and we’ll put it all together.’

Macy picked up her sullied Docs, knotted the laces together and slung them around her neck. Amy should have been sent here for rehab. You couldn’t get into much trouble with no booze or drugs, and only crustacean-chasing for entertainment.

Most of their group were already on the beach by the time Macy arrived: Tess and Amira chatting by the water, Fiona and Morag sitting under the shelter, out of the sun, and Caro hovering admiringly around Mason. Three buckets of crabs sat at his feet, their claws tied with string. ‘How come we never catch this many when we take the tourist groups out, eh?’ laughed Mason, winking at Caro. Bronte flopped down on the sand, her pale skin glistening with sweat. ‘How many did you get, Macy?’

‘Four,’ Macy said.

‘That’s fantastic!’ Bronte exclaimed. ‘I didn’t get any. I felt kind of sorry for them, to be honest. My stick probably gave off negative vibes.’

Macy laughed. Bronte was alright. Tess too, now she’d taken a chill pill and was actually talking to them all again. It probably helped that Janey hadn’t joined them this morning. Her mother had said she was too tired, but Macy would lay any money on her not wanting to damage her manicure.

‘Say cheese,’ said one of the community members, pulling out his phone to take a picture of the catch.

‘Crabs, you mean.’ Mason lifted one of the buckets of squirming shells in triumph.

‘Hey,’ Macy said. ‘Why do you have a phone here? You can’t get a signal.’

‘You can if you go out on the point.’ The man gestured to the rocks at the far end of the beach. ‘You can pick it up from Wajarrgi, not that they know.’

‘Cool,’ said Macy. ‘A bit of local knowledge, huh?’

Mason nodded seriously. ‘Secret men’s business.’

Thank God that was over. Morag handed back her pokestick, made the obligatory positive comments about the experience and headed towards her room before anyone could engage her in conversation. She’d only gone a few hundred metres before she had to sit down. She felt like crap: tired, lethargic, heavy. Was it because she’d had more than her customary glass or
two of wine last night, or that she hadn’t been for her run this morning? Probably both . . . The alarm had gone off, but for the first time since her pregnancies she’d ignored it and rolled over instead. It had taken her ages to fall back to sleep, and it seemed that as soon as she finally did, Amira was banging on the door, announcing that they were all going out to hunt for crabs. Morag didn’t even like crab, but she’d dutifully got out of bed, applied sunscreen and joined the group.

At least they’d been in the shade, but that was the best she could say about it all. She’d never tell Amira, but she’d hated the whole thing from start to finish. She’d felt sorry for the crabs, ripped so abruptly from their snug silty homes; she’d thought she might pass out from the heat in the airless fug of the mangroves. Of course, it hadn’t helped that she’d worn a long-sleeved top and full-length pants, being mindful of the sun. Almost everyone else had turned up in shorts and singlets, even Caro, who gamely prodded around in the mud with one arm wrapped in a bandage. She’d still looked good though, Morag thought with a twinge of jealousy.

Something tapped at her shoulder.

‘’Scuse me, missus—this yours?’

Morag jumped. An old Aboriginal woman was holding out her daypack, its black straps frayed.

‘Sorry,’ Morag said. ‘You scared me. I was thinking about something else.’ She reached for the pack. ‘God, I didn’t even realise I’d left it.’

‘It was in the mangroves,’ the woman said. ‘Thought I better take it before the sea did.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Tide’s comin’ in. Fish’d be nibblin’ at it soon.’

‘Thank you so much,’ Morag said, embarrassed. ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid. I don’t even remember taking it off.’ She quickly checked inside: camera, iPod, water bottle, wallet . . . it was all there. A thought crossed her mind—should she offer the woman some money?

‘I thought it was yours. I was watchin’ you.’

Morag’s head jerked up. ‘Watching me? Why?’

The woman smiled. ‘I was with my sisters. At first we were laughin’ because you were stabbin’ that stick so hard we thought you were tryin’ to spear the crabs, not catch them.’ She raised one hand and languidly waved it across her face to shoo away a fly. ‘But then you looked sad, so we stopped.’

‘Sad?’ said Morag. ‘I wasn’t sad. Just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m not used to this weather.’ She fumbled for her wallet. ‘Here, can I give you a reward?’

The woman shook her head. ‘No need.’ She reached out and shyly touched the faded Saltire patch sewn to the front of the daypack. ‘Is this your people?’

It had been there so long that Morag had almost stopped seeing it, but she studied it now: the midnight-blue background, the Saint Andrew’s cross. She’d stitched it there years ago, before her first trip to Europe with some friends from university. Even as she worked the needle in and out of the canvas she’d known it was a bit naff proclaiming your identity in such a way, but it was the fashion back then, it was what you did when you were young and you travelled: you showed the world where you were from. Partly it was because you were proud, but maybe it was also so you’d remember to go back.

‘Yes,’ she said, still staring at the flag. The daypack had seen a lot of miles. Who would have thought when she first bought it for Paris that it would end up accompanying her here a quarter of a century later? ‘It’s from Scotland, where I was born. My mother still lives there, in Edinburgh. Australia’s home now though,’ she added with an effort.

‘My daughter’s away from me too,’ the woman said. ‘She lives in Adelaide. Might as well be Scotland for all the times I’ve seen her since she left.’ She smiled. ‘She has a good job, in a hospital. At least you’ve still got your girl, eh?’

‘My girl?’ Morag asked, confused, then realised that the woman must mean Macy. ‘Oh, she’s not . . .’ She stopped. It was all too hard to explain, standing here in the red dirt with the midday sun stunning her senseless. What did it matter anyway? She supposed Macy was her girl while they were here. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

The woman nodded approvingly. ‘She did well. Caught some big crabs.’

Morag felt a foolish rush of pride. Macy
had
done well, better than anyone except Tess, and Tess was practically a local. It had been a pleasure to watch her—a pleasure, too, to see her out of her usual get-up, laughing with Bronte and Tess, content for once just to be a girl rather than a goth.

‘They’ll be good eating tonight.’ The old woman lifted her hand and turned to go.

‘Wait,’ Morag called. ‘Do you miss your daughter?’

The woman stopped and regarded her solemnly. ‘Of course. Your blood is your blood.’

Morag swallowed. ‘Do you talk to her? Not on the phone, I mean. In your head. I’ve heard that sometimes you can do that, your people . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed. All that humming yesterday had clearly unhinged her a little.

The woman’s eyes danced. ‘It’s easier to get her on the phone. Or Hotmail. Your friend lets me use her computer.’ She was still chuckling as she walked away.

Morag watched her go, flushed with humiliation. Of course she called her daughter. This was the twenty-first century, and probably even Telstra was more efficient than telepathy. It was just that sometimes, in the middle of the night, Morag woke and
knew
somehow that her mother was thinking of her, half a world away in her little flat in Trinity;
knew
that she was thinking of her with the ache of longing, with such an abundance of love that it telescoped the distance between them and spilled straight into her soul.
I’m here, Mum
, she’d reply in her head, and felt the answering relief, saw as clearly as if she’d been in the room her mother sit back in the chair with the doilies on the arms, a smile spreading across her face.
I’m here, Mum. I miss you. I love you.

She wasn’t hungover, Morag suddenly realised. She was homesick. For years she’d lived quite happily in Australia. She’d made her peace with it, she thought—this was where her husband was, her children, her future. Coming north, though, had shifted something. Broome and Kalangalla were so different, so foreign to her, that they magnified the strangeness of this continent, made it all seem new again. New and overwhelming and completely alien. Her mind went back to a home visit she’d done one winter’s day over a decade
earlier—Newhaven, she thought, or maybe North Leith. There was a hostel next door to the flat she was visiting. It was snowing, and a black-skinned family—refugees, she’d guessed, asylum seekers from North Africa—were standing in the garden with their pink-palmed hands out, catching the dirty flakes, a look of total bewilderment on each of their faces. That was her, she thought. That was how she was feeling right now.

The greys were coming through again. Caro peered more closely into the mirror, then reached for her tweezers. She’d have to make an appointment with Stefan as soon as she got back. She sighed. What she hated most about getting older was the constant maintenance: hair, nails, brows, make-up . . . She hadn’t gone as far as Botox yet, but it was tempting. Janey could get out of bed, put on something she’d picked up from the floor, run a brush through her hair and look beautiful, but for Caro these days it took at least an hour of solid preparation just to achieve well-groomed. Beautiful she’d given up on.