The Wyld Girls

Chapter 19 - Michelle

Wyld Times, Episode 66 – unaired footage, Boat Cam, 4:37pm

Kylie is dancing on the deck of the Easy Catch. She's alone, blasting a tune from the boat's stereo system, a popstar singing about fireworks. Her movements are ungainly but joyful; she's a typical eleven year old, on the cusp of becoming a teenager who will soon worry about what everyone thinks, but for now, she's unabashed in her dancing. Her slender arms wave around her head, her eyes closed, her legs high-kicking into the blue of the southern skies that surround the boat.

As the song reaches a crescendo, she spins wildly, her dark hair splaying out like a fan. She loses her balance – and crashes into the racks where the scuba gear is stored. Tanks and tubes tumble to the deck as the racks topple over. Kylie squeaks in panic, attempting to stop the fall of so many items, but they rain down around her. She steps on something that makes a cracking sound; her shoulders flinch and she glances about to see if anyone has noticed.

No one appears. Kylie appears to relax slightly, then works swiftly to put all the gear back into place. Each member of the crew has their own rack; she hangs equipment haphazardly, muttering, "I think this is Shelly's... or maybe Parker's?"

She lifts a regulator; the mouthpiece dangles off the hose at an unnatural angle. She jams it back on, then nods; it seems to be fixed.

There's a noise from behind camera: voices and footsteps. Kylie looks terrified. On tiptoes, she tosses the regulator over a hook and scampers away.

As two crew members enter the frame, the hose of the regulator swings slightly, and the name tag of the gear's owner is exposed:

Bruce Wyld

Once, when Bruce and I were first married, I lost Kylie. Bruce had taken off, scouting locations for our upcoming filming, leaving me to care for Kylie for almost a month. I'd been thrust into parenthood too fast; I still felt like a kid myself and I was freaking out about being solely responsible for the life of this small human.

We'd muddled through together. I'd learned how to make crustless Vegemite sandwiches for school lunches after getting thoroughly roasted by the teacher for sending Kylie in with nefarious and anaphylaxis-inducing peanut butter. Thanks to Google, I'd managed to master a few basic recipes so we weren't eating takeout every night of the week – and I had only caused one small kitchen fire. When I realised that Kylie had grown too big for almost everything she owned (because it hadn't occurred to Bruce that kids change size), I took her shopping and purchased her a whole new wardrobe.

And all of that was pretty easy. Logistics, I could do. I had just finished studying project management, so I treated 'Project Kylie' like a new piece of work: divide everything up into manageable tasks, assign weighting and deadlines, highlight milestones.

I struggled more with the esoteric aspects of the role. What was I supposed to say when Kylie asked what the box of condoms beside our bed was? How could I comfort her when she woke up screaming at night, crying out for her mother? And what authority did I have to enforce rules? I wasn't her parent or her guardian – I'd only been around for a few weeks. So, when I tried to get her to put her washing in a hamper or asked her to actually use soap when she showered and she flat out refused, I was flummoxed.

"You can't tell me what to do!" she'd scream, her small face red with indignation. "You're not my mum! You're not even my sister!"

"I know I'm not," I'd say, trying to stay calm. "But, Kylie – we have to live together. Right now, that makes us family, and family means helping out."