satisfaction at Kalangalla: green lawns, sprinklers, fences. True, the grass was dusty and tough underfoot—it had to be to survive in this climate—and the sprinkler water stained your clothes if you got too close, but no other community she had seen up here looked anything like this. Elsewhere, the fences were rusted and broken, the ground strewn with burnt-out cars and worm-ridden dogs; they didn’t have schools or bakeries or medical centres. Kalangalla was an oasis, she thought, a model of the way things could be done— should be done.
‘Wow,’ said Caro, opening her door. ‘It’s pretty primitive, isn’t it?’
Amira felt a flash of anger. She’d expected such a comment from Fiona, but Caro? She thought Caro had understood why she’d applied for the teacher exchange—because her life was too bland, too safe, too predictable; because she wanted to do something with her skills, make a difference somehow, and that wasn’t going to happen in a place where there was a Starbucks on every corner or an Xbox in every home. ‘It’s not the Gold Coast, no,’ she replied. ‘Then again, I wouldn’t want it to be.’
‘Sorry,’ said Caro, colouring. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just sort of had these visions of you living in a hut on the beach, with coconut trees and a hammock . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?’
Amira had to laugh. ‘Beach huts are overrated. No airconditioning, and I couldn’t watch MasterChef . It may not look like it but we’re actually pretty up with it. We’ve got a shop and the clinic, plus there’s internet access at the school and the office.’
‘Positively cutting edge,’ Fiona said, but smiled at her. She hauled herself out of the car, landing beside it in a fine spray of red dirt. ‘Shit, it’s hot.’
Amira looked again at the scene in front of her, suddenly seeing it through her friends’ eyes. It was true, the community did look primitive. The squat fibro houses had peeling paint; the roads were dirt, not paved. Two children ran past barefoot and barely clothed. Everything sagged in the heat. Oddly though, it hadn’t struck her that way when she first arrived. Instead, there had been this enormous sense of something new, something beginning . . . something real, somehow. For years—ever since Davis had walked out, and he’d left before Tess’s first birthday—she had done what was expected of her. She had established a routine, she had found a part-time job, she had swallowed her pride and asked her parents for a loan so she could buy Davis out of his share of their flat. She had, in short, done everything in her power to provide Tess with stability: financial certainly but emotional too. There had been no passionate love affairs that might distract her from her daughter; and nothing had been decided—new carpet, a holiday—without considering, then, in later years, consulting, Tess. And it had worked, hadn’t it? At fourteen Tess was a lovely girl, thoughtful and funny, smart and sensitive. When the flyer for the exchange had gone up on the noticeboard in the staffroom Amira had immediately felt drawn to it. Tess is fine , it seemed to whisper to her. It’s your turn now.
‘Mum, Mum!’
Amira turned to see her daughter racing towards her, brown legs flying. She loved that about Tess, loved that she still wore her heart on her sleeve, showed her enthusiasm; that puberty hadn’t yet rendered her too cool or too jaded to get excited about things. And she was barefoot too, Amira noticed, at home in her skin and this place . . . She smiled. Tess was thriving. Tess would always thrive.
‘Hello, angel girl,’ she said, throwing her arms around her daughter and burying her face in Tess’s hair. The thick dark strands tickled her nose. Tess complained about her unruly mane, about the knots and the weight of it, just as Amira had done when she was younger, but thank God she’d inherited it rather than Davis’s
‘Wow,’ said Caro, opening her door. ‘It’s pretty primitive, isn’t it?’
Amira felt a flash of anger. She’d expected such a comment from Fiona, but Caro? She thought Caro had understood why she’d applied for the teacher exchange—because her life was too bland, too safe, too predictable; because she wanted to do something with her skills, make a difference somehow, and that wasn’t going to happen in a place where there was a Starbucks on every corner or an Xbox in every home. ‘It’s not the Gold Coast, no,’ she replied. ‘Then again, I wouldn’t want it to be.’
‘Sorry,’ said Caro, colouring. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just sort of had these visions of you living in a hut on the beach, with coconut trees and a hammock . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?’
Amira had to laugh. ‘Beach huts are overrated. No airconditioning, and I couldn’t watch MasterChef . It may not look like it but we’re actually pretty up with it. We’ve got a shop and the clinic, plus there’s internet access at the school and the office.’
‘Positively cutting edge,’ Fiona said, but smiled at her. She hauled herself out of the car, landing beside it in a fine spray of red dirt. ‘Shit, it’s hot.’
Amira looked again at the scene in front of her, suddenly seeing it through her friends’ eyes. It was true, the community did look primitive. The squat fibro houses had peeling paint; the roads were dirt, not paved. Two children ran past barefoot and barely clothed. Everything sagged in the heat. Oddly though, it hadn’t struck her that way when she first arrived. Instead, there had been this enormous sense of something new, something beginning . . . something real, somehow. For years—ever since Davis had walked out, and he’d left before Tess’s first birthday—she had done what was expected of her. She had established a routine, she had found a part-time job, she had swallowed her pride and asked her parents for a loan so she could buy Davis out of his share of their flat. She had, in short, done everything in her power to provide Tess with stability: financial certainly but emotional too. There had been no passionate love affairs that might distract her from her daughter; and nothing had been decided—new carpet, a holiday—without considering, then, in later years, consulting, Tess. And it had worked, hadn’t it? At fourteen Tess was a lovely girl, thoughtful and funny, smart and sensitive. When the flyer for the exchange had gone up on the noticeboard in the staffroom Amira had immediately felt drawn to it. Tess is fine , it seemed to whisper to her. It’s your turn now.
‘Mum, Mum!’
Amira turned to see her daughter racing towards her, brown legs flying. She loved that about Tess, loved that she still wore her heart on her sleeve, showed her enthusiasm; that puberty hadn’t yet rendered her too cool or too jaded to get excited about things. And she was barefoot too, Amira noticed, at home in her skin and this place . . . She smiled. Tess was thriving. Tess would always thrive.
‘Hello, angel girl,’ she said, throwing her arms around her daughter and burying her face in Tess’s hair. The thick dark strands tickled her nose. Tess complained about her unruly mane, about the knots and the weight of it, just as Amira had done when she was younger, but thank God she’d inherited it rather than Davis’s
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