The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  Leon smiled. ‘You didn’t break any height records either.’

  ‘No, and now I’m shrinking. Just you wait—it’s all ahead of you.’ Grandpa sniffed. ‘Still got your red hair.’

  ‘Yep. Walker through and through.’

  Inspection over, Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here? Has somebody died?’

  ‘No. I just came to see you.’

  ‘What for? Do you want to talk about my will?’

  ‘I’m being sociable.’

  ‘Ha!’ the old man barked. ‘Nobody comes to be sociable.’

  ‘I do. I’m turning a new page. Starting today.’

  Grandpa grunted. ‘Come to check me out, have you? Your mother says you’ve developed an interest in old people lately. It’s about time. Can’t remember the last time I saw you.’

  Leon sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ve been slack.’

  ‘I hear you’ve got a new job. Working in forests? Better be careful. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘You did it for years.’

  ‘I was lucky. Survived some near misses. Your father wasn’t so lucky, though. If he hadn’t hurt his hand, he’d still be working.’ He paused. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure,’ Leon said, ‘why not?’

  Grandpa’s face creased into a grin. ‘Good. You can make it. Jug’s in the bathroom, and the tea bags are on that chest of drawers. I’ll have one too. Tea always tastes better when it’s made by someone else.’

  The bathroom ponged of disinfectant and tacky air freshener. Leon filled the jug at the basin, which had bits of whiskers in it and a clump of toothpaste. He set the jug on to boil then wiped down the basin, straightened the towel and picked up the bathmat left screwed up on the floor. He couldn’t help himself; when he was a teenager, his mother had insisted on tidiness. She’d said she was training him to be a good husband one day.

  ‘Tell me about your job,’ Grandpa called from his chair.

  Leon went back to join him. ‘Not working in forests. I’m with Parks.’

  ‘Ah! And what does your father think about that?’

  ‘He loves it.’ Leon perched on the bed again.

  ‘I don’t believe you. He’d be saying you ought to be knocking trees down, not locking them up.’

  ‘Yep. That’s his mantra.’

  ‘But the park’s in the high country, so why would he care? Only wind and crows up there. Nothing worth cutting.’

  ‘I’m breaking family tradition, Grandpa. Dad says I should have a chainsaw in my hands.’

  Grandpa shook his head. ‘But they don’t use chainsaws anymore. It’s all machines.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Leon was surprised—the old coot couldn’t have been up to the forest in years.

  ‘I have a friend who keeps an eye on things,’ Grandpa said. ‘He’s a bit more mobile than me, and he goes for a drive in the forest every month then calls me up and gives me the lowdown.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t work in the industry now if you paid me. It’s changed too much. Vandalism, if you ask me. My mate thinks so too. The forest is overcut, that’s a fact. Young blokes these days don’t know what it used to be like, so they can’t see what they’re doing. If they asked us old codgers, we’d tell them to stop. They’ve overdone it now.’

  ‘Maybe they could switch to plantations.’

  ‘Could. But won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ideology.’

  ‘Isn’t that politics?’

  ‘Forestry is politics. Back in my day it was just a job.’

  The kettle boiled, spitting water all over the basin, and Leon went to turn it off. ‘You need a better kettle,’ he said.

  ‘That’d cost money. Unless it’s totally broke, they won’t fix it. That would be unnecessary expenditure.’

  ‘I’ll buy you one then. Next time I come.’

  The old man snorted. ‘You won’t come again.’

  Leon poured hot water over the tea bags. ‘Yeah? Well, get ready. I’m close by, and I’m going to be your new best friend. I might even take you for a drive in the forest sometime.’

  The old man perked up at the suggestion of an outing. ‘That’d be good. I hardly ever get out. Your mother used to take me for a spin every now and then. More than I can say for your father.’

  Leon paused. ‘You heard from Dad lately?’

  Grandpa’s face fell. ‘No. It’s usually your mother who rings.’

  ‘She rings me too,’ Leon said, grinning. ‘Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Still not weaned?’

  ‘Not completely.’ Leon sipped tea and changed the subject. ‘How long have you lived in this place?’

  ‘Best part of a decade. I’ve seen a few inmates come and go.’

  ‘Inmates? It’s not supposed to be a prison.’

  ‘Not supposed to be, but it is. They lock the doors so the fruit loops can’t get out.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Leon warned. ‘You might become one.’

  ‘If I do, you’ll have to put me down.’

  ‘And spend the rest of my life in jail for murder?’

  ‘Either that or you could spend your life with a woman. Any girls on the scene?’

  Leon scoffed. ‘Yeah. Mum’s cat Minnie.’ It was supposed to be funny, but it sounded sad.

  ‘I was referring to females of the human variety,’ Grandpa said.

  Leon shook his head.

  ‘I’m on the lookout,’ the old man said, eyes lively. ‘This place is full of prospects.’

  Leon was appalled. ‘What about Grandma?’

  ‘She’s been dead a good while. I don’t think she’d mind.’

  ‘Good luck to you then.’

  Grandpa peered at him. ‘What will you do if you’re not going to chase girls? How will you entertain yourself?’

  ‘I’ll find something to do. Maybe a bit of bushwalking.’

  ‘How about footy? You could join the local club and meet a few chaps. You used to be good at it. Your dad said you were a handy winger.’

  Leon shrugged.

  ‘How is your father?’ Grandpa asked.

  Leon wasn’t sure how much Grandpa knew. ‘His liver’s stuffed, you know.’

  Grandpa nodded. ‘An infection, your mother said. Some sort of virus.’

  Leon hesitated. Obviously she hadn’t told Grandpa the truth. ‘Ah, I think it’s more than that.’

  The old man regarded him with interest. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s been pissing on for years, Grandpa. He’s got cirrhosis.’

  ‘Hmm. I had my suspicions.’ Grandpa eyed him keenly. ‘Is that all?’

  Leon wasn’t sure he should reveal the rest. Not on his first visit. ‘That’s about it.’

  But the old man was shrewd. ‘It’s not, is it?’

  Leon sighed. ‘How well do you know your son?’

  ‘Not so well these days. He never talks to me. Must be allergic to the phone.’

  ‘He’s allergic to more than that.’

  ‘Housework? I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘No. He’s allergic to being nice. To being decent.’

  ‘To you or to your mother?’

  ‘Both. I don’t care how he treats me. But I care about him being a bastard to Mum. I was there to put myself in the way.’

  Grandpa’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Has he hurt your mother?’ Leon’s silence was his answer, and Grandpa’s lips flattened. ‘Well, I’m not so sorry to hear about his liver then. Sounds like he had it coming.’ The old man paused. ‘So that’s why you’ve been living at home. I should have guessed. I thought it was strange.’ He shook his head. ‘I never thought one of mine would end up like that. But let me tell you, boy, it didn’t come from me. I was wild when I was young, and I did some fool things, but I never touched a hair on your grandmother’s head. Don’t know where your father learned that rubbish. I smacked him a few times when he was a boy. But it was only a tap on the bum. It wasn’t abuse.’

  L
eon had often wondered where his father’s violence had come from, whether it was genetic, and he’d spent years worrying it might be in him too. A person might not realise they had mongrel inside till they snapped. Leon had seen how it came from nowhere then disappeared. His dad’s weakness was failing to acknowledge it, because that allowed him to avoid taking responsibility. Or perhaps that wasn’t quite right. In the past, his dad had apologised to his mum, begging forgiveness and promising it wouldn’t happen again. But it had, and that was what Leon feared most: snapping once and falling into his dad’s habit. If he did, he would never forgive himself. That was why he didn’t drink, a decision he’d made years ago.

  He sipped tea in silence, grateful that the old man let him be. He was comfortable with Grandpa, so he would visit again. Maybe drop in once a week on his way home from work. They could get to know each other again.

  A buzzer rang in the corridor.

  ‘Supper’s in ten minutes,’ Grandpa said. ‘You’ll have to go. Can’t miss out on my fruit cake.’

  ‘That sounds all right. What’s the food like here?’

  ‘Good, if you have no teeth. They serve up slop. Except for the fruit cake.’

  Leon smiled. ‘Do you still have any teeth?’

  ‘Yep … even a few I can call my own.’ The old man shifted his tongue and popped out a denture.

  ‘That’s revolting.’

  ‘Let’s see how many you’ve got left when you’re eighty-six.’

  The buzzer sounded again, and Leon stood up. ‘Okay. I’ll see you next week.’

  Grandpa’s lips twitched and his face crumpled slightly. ‘You don’t have to come, lad.’

  ‘Maybe I want to.’

  Leon patted the old man on the arm, but Grandpa waved him off. ‘Go on with you or I’ll be late for my cake.’ He sounded gruff, but as Leon paused at the door he noticed tears in his grandfather’s eyes.

  6

  Monday was forest day, and Miki woke with lightness fizzing under her skin. Kurt wanted to check the beehives, so they left in the ute early. Miki was in overalls, and Kurt was in hunting clothes: dark-green knitted jumper, khaki trousers, black beanie crammed over his ears, rifle stashed in the back so he could go shooting later.

  They drove towards the school, past a group of boys lugging schoolbags. Miki saw Max among them; he was walking with the policeman’s younger son, Callum. As Kurt’s ute roared by, Max looked up at Miki and waved. Behind him, Callum’s big brother, Jaden, booted Max’s backpack so it bounced up, hit his head and almost made him tip over. It upset Miki when Jaden hassled the younger boys. He did it in the shop all the time, using size to get his own way. His father should do something to keep him in line.

  From town, the road rolled through open country and green hilly farms, past the sawmill where the whine of machinery and smell of sawdust hung in the air, and workers’ cars huddled beside the corrugated-iron shed. Miki hated the mill because it ate trees. Every day, truck-loads of logs came down from the forest: mostly skinny logs destined for woodchipping, but many large old trees too—ancient swamp gums that had been growing for centuries. Miki couldn’t work out why the loggers kept cutting wood when endless piles of sawn timber sat at the mill, waiting to be taken away. Over weeks and months, she’d watched those piles slowly turn black and then silver.

  The forest was close to town, not far from the sawmill, and when they drove into its misty shadows, Miki lowered her window to let in some air. Water swished under the tyres and the wet trees smelled minty and fresh. She was grateful to be out today. Kurt had been dour this morning, and sometimes when he was in a mood he made her stay home. She wasn’t sure why he was so grumpy. Last night he’d worked late on the paperwork, and this afternoon he would go to Hobart for business, which always made him surly. But his current sullenness was out of character—usually their expeditions to the forest made him happy. Something was bothering him. Either it would blow over or he would erupt like a spring storm. Miki knew it was best to keep out of his way when he was like this; she had learned how to make herself small.

  He was hunkered over the steering wheel, brow furrowed. ‘Who was that guy you were talking to in the shop yesterday?’ he grunted. ‘The redhead at lunchtime.’

  So that explained Kurt’s anger. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think he’s new to town.’

  ‘Making him feel welcome, were you? Having a nice little chat?’

  Miki’s skin tightened. ‘He did the talking. I was only being polite.’

  ‘Forget polite. You should have called me. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘You were doing the books.’ Last week she’d been in trouble for disturbing him.

  ‘I don’t want you talking to scum, so don’t.’

  He glared at her and she felt herself shrivel. Her heartbeat accelerated and her palms prickled. ‘I’ll call you next time,’ she promised.

  She held her breath and waited. It could go one of two ways: either he would start shouting, or it would be suddenly over.

  As the moments slid by, she realised he’d let it go.

  They turned off the main road onto a gravel track that wound through regrowth forest crammed with tall, skinny saplings. Potholes jolted the car and, despite being locked in by her seatbelt, Miki had to cling on so she wasn’t bounced around. Trees hugged the edge of the track, impenetrably dense. She could imagine getting lost in forest like this: you might never find a way out.

  They came to a patch of old-growth with towering trees. Here, the understorey opened out, and the forest was park-like and stately. Miki loved the tall swamp gums jutting into the sky. Tree ferns splayed their fronds. Pockets of beech were just beginning to turn golden—the only deciduous trees in the forest. Over the next few weeks, they would yellow up then drop their leaves. Autumn was definitely here.

  Further into the forest, she wound her window right down and leaned out so she could see way up to the wedge-tailed eagles’ nest: a messy platform of sticks and bark woven onto a branch. Kurt said there weren’t many wedge-tails left in Tasmania, so this nest was special. Miki thought the birds magnificent with their proud heads and hooked beaks. The view from their tree must be amazing: the forest stretching all around, layered and complex, like life. Last spring, the eagles had raised a chick; Miki had seen its doddery head just above the lip of the nest, peering out at the world. The adult birds were wild and free, but the chick was like her, watching from its nest, unable to join in till its wings were fully grown.

  Driving on through the forest, they came to another patch of old-growth, where broad tree trunks reached high and lost themselves among clouds.

  ‘These trees must be hundreds of years old,’ Miki said.

  Kurt sniffed. ‘Only takes a few minutes to cut them down.’

  Miki felt a surge of passion. ‘I wish I could buy the whole forest and lock everyone out so all the trees could just do their thing and grow up to the light. No one ever chopping them down. Then everything could go back to how it was before white people came.’

  ‘The Earth is here for us to use,’ Kurt said.

  ‘But not to wreck. Look at this!’

  They’d crossed a boundary into a blitzed area, recently logged. More than a year since the loggers had finished their work, but everything was still a terrible mess. Barely a tree left standing. Only a few exposed spindly specimens and a cluster of scraggly tree ferns. Piles of bark and branches, waiting to be burned. The whole place was a scar on the landscape. And it was quiet, so quiet. Small seedlings had begun to push up through the soil, but not a bird to be seen.

  They traversed the logged area then re-entered forest, where the track narrowed and roughened into dirt. Miki’s shoulders eased. This was where she and Kurt liked to come: a place that spoke to her, a hidden patch of ancient trees. Their own private piece of forest.

  Kurt pulled up near a grove close to where he’d hidden the hives. On the farm, they’d kept bees to pollinate the apple trees, and Father had stacked the hives up near th
e bush. Sometimes he’d let Miki help harvest the honey, which they’d sold in recycled jars at their self-serve roadside stall near the front gate. Here in the forest, the sweetest honey came from leatherwood trees, and Kurt knew where to find the best thickets. He said bees had their own language, their own way of talking to each other. One bee could dance out a story telling the others where to find food. All he had to do was put them near flowers, and the bees would do the rest. He admired the clever way they made honey out of nectar and pollen, and he liked the hierarchy of the colony in which every bee had a specific job to do.

  Miki loved bees for different reasons—the way they were a huge family and cared for each other, sharing jobs and nurturing their young.

  Now Kurt unfolded himself from the ute and tugged out the bee suit. They had only one, so Miki often had to stay in the car. Sometimes Kurt let her have a turn, and she would slide into the suit and slip her hands into the gloves. She loved being close to the bees and hearing the hum of the hive, the energy of it. She liked the excitement of lifting out the frames and peering in at all that activity, the bees crawling over each other.

  ‘Can I do it?’ she asked.

  Kurt shook his head as he stepped into the suit, hitching it over his shoulders. ‘Not today. It’s almost the end of the season and the bees might be grouchy.’

  ‘I’d be safe in the suit.’

  ‘I don’t want to annoy them. They might pack up and leave.’

  During winter Kurt left the hives full of honey, and the bees hid inside because they hated the cold. Miki watched him stride off through the bush like a spaceman in his bee suit. He was carrying a large plastic box to bring back the honey frames. She pictured him lifting one out and shaking off the bees. They wouldn’t like it, and they would spin and buzz around like noisy little satellites, until eventually they returned to the hive to get on with their work. At home Kurt would carefully scrape off the wax caps that sealed the honeycomb, then slide the frames into the extractor and spin out the honey. Miki would sieve out the fragments of wax then pour the honey into jars to be sold in the shop.