The Mothers' Group by Fiona Higgins

her more than two hours to reach Sanur, stopping for directions along the way. When she finally arrived at Pantai Raya Resort on Duyung Road, the sun was setting. Breathless with fatigue, she stopped on the footpath and stood astride her bicycle, staring at the ocean. It was bigger than she’d imagined. The waves made a peculiar sucking sound, like the rush of strong wind through a forest. The air was sharp and cool, carrying pungent aromas she’d never smelled before. She was as far from her mountain home as she’d ever been.
    She approached the resort’s security post and smoothed her hair with one hand. Pantai Raya was one of the best-known resorts on the island, favoured by diplomats, corporate travellers and government officials. Only the wealthiest tourists could afford to stay there.
    A middle-aged man in a brown uniform looked up from his newspaper. Six security screens blinked black and white behind him. Beyond the security post, dozens of cottages with thatched roofs dotted tropical gardens. Pebbled paths sloped down to a golden sweep of sand.
    â€˜Yes?’ the security guard asked, his tone uninterested.
    â€˜Sir, my name is Made. I have come to visit my cousin Ketut. She works here.’
    The security guard folded his newspaper. ‘We have eighty staff members. What is her job?’
    â€˜She’s a cleaner, sir. I’m hoping to find work here too.’
    The security guard yawned. ‘You and half of Bali.’
    â€˜Please, sir.’
    The security guard cleared his throat, rolled a glob of phlegm around his mouth, then spat it out the side window of his booth.
    â€˜I’ll call housekeeping.’ He picked up a telephone and dialled three digits. ‘Security,’ he announced. ‘There’s a girl here looking for a cleaner called Ketut. Her cousin, she says. Do you know her?’
    Made waited.
    â€˜What time tomorrow? Right, thanks.’ The security guard replaced the handset. ‘It’s your cousin’s day off. She’s on tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. Come back then.’
    Made gripped the handlebars of her bicycle. ‘Sir, I left my village early this morning. I am happy to come back tomorrow, but I have nowhere to stay tonight.’
    â€˜That’s a shame.’
    â€˜Please, sir, may I stay in Ketut’s room?’
    â€˜No.’ The security guard was firm. ‘You say you’re her cousin, but can you prove it? Besides, only staff and paying guests are permitted on site.’
    Made stared at him, helpless. The sound of the ocean was frightening.
    â€˜What will I do?’ she asked, her voice shaking.
    â€˜Come back tomorrow.’
    It was cold, colder than a mountain evening, lying on the beach. She attempted to shelter from the wind by curling up against the exposed roots of an enormous banyan tree and resting her head on her knapsack. Her limbs throbbed from the day’s exertions, but sleep evaded her. She was too alert to the foreign sounds around her, too frightened of being discovered, too ashamed of her predicament, too homesick. She missed her mother’s familiar smell, the smoothness of her skin, the warmth of her embrace. She imagined lying next to Komang in the bed they’d always shared, their toes touching, giggling at each other’s jokes. She drew the flap of her knapsack around her ears, attempting to muffle the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes encircling her. All night she drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.
    In the stillness before dawn, she was jolted awake by a snuffling sound. Her heart raced as she tried to make out the creature in the sand nearby. She sighed with relief; it was only a stray dog scrounging for scraps. Her body was stiff and her clothes damp. The beach was shrouded in mist, but she could detect a faint arc of light creeping across the eastern horizon. She slung her knapsack over her shoulder and began to walk across the sand, her limbs warming with the