She waited in the ute wishing she’d brought something to read, but her three special books were on the bedside table in her bedroom. She and Kurt had found the books while going through boxes in the farm shed after the fire, searching for anything useful their parents might have left behind. The boxes had contained mainly old household items: cracked crockery and tarnished cutlery, salt and pepper shakers, vases, worn flannelette sheets. Miki had opened a box expecting more of the same, but beneath old folded camisoles, silky pantyhose and a pair of faded jeans, she’d uncovered three books: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Tess of the D’Urbervilles. She’d lifted them out and thumbed through the stained yellow pages; Mother’s maiden name, Heather Jones, was inscribed inside each cover. Kurt had wanted to throw the books away, but Miki begged him not to, and in the end he’d let her keep them. On the farm, she’d grown up with only the Bible, so these books were exciting. They were from another time in Mother’s life, and their existence made her a mystery. Miki wondered why Mother hadn’t stored them in the house. And what had made her relinquish them for the Bible? Had she read other books? She must have given these ones up, but why had she kept them? Had she been saving them for her daughter?
Miki loved her three books. The main characters were all different, but she adored each of them and she envied their fascinating, complicated lives. She admired Jane Eyre’s integrity and boldness, Tess’s sweetness, Cathy’s passion for the high moors above Wuthering Heights—just like Miki’s love of the forests. Each heroine possessed certain strengths she respected. They took risks and ventured into the world. They accepted new challenges and succeeded or failed. They loved, made friends, lived: all things Miki longed to do. She yearned for Jane Eyre’s freedom to go to school, then find a job as a teacher. She craved long stimulating conversations like those Jane had with Mr Rochester. She wished she could ask questions and seek answers, form her own opinions and be allowed to disagree. Just like Jane. She wanted to make mistakes, like Tess. She longed to see the world, and meet people, maybe find love as Tess had with Angel. She wanted to feel her emotions as wildly as Cathy—not always have to be careful like she was around Kurt.
She was still thinking about her books when he appeared in his white suit, carrying the plastic box. Several bees clung to his sleeves and Kurt brushed them off before removing the suit. The ute juddered as he hoicked the box onto the tray. Now it was safe for Miki to get out. While Kurt removed his gun from the lock box behind the seat, she slithered out and donned her coat.
‘You carry the rifle,’ he said, shoving it at her.
‘No thanks.’ She shrank away.
His brow furrowed. ‘I need some help, so you can just bloody do it.’
She took the rifle, holding it tentatively as if it might go off. It was heavy, the metal shaft burnished and cold. She hoped Kurt would take it back, but he stuffed gear into his backpack and strode off up the track, so she was forced to follow, gingerly manoeuvring the rifle onto her shoulder. He only shot creatures that damaged the forest, like wallabies that ate the new growth, and lyrebirds, which had been introduced to Tasmania and weren’t supposed to be there. But Miki still hated it. On the farm, he used to shoot rabbits because they chewed on the apple trees. Mother liked rabbit stew, and Miki didn’t mind using them for food, but to simply shoot animals and leave them seemed such a waste.
They tramped up the overgrown track in the damp dripping forest. When they rounded the bend, she could see her favourite tree up ahead: an enormous swamp gum, fifteen strides round and ninety metres high, its crown lost in clouds. The trunk reared like a vast bark highway, and halfway up, small branches poked out like antlers. At the base of the tree, Kurt stopped and lit a cigarette. Resting his pack on a buttressed root like an elephant’s foot, he leaned against the trunk and blew smoke in the air. Miki slipped the rifle from her shoulder but was afraid to put it down; she knew how paranoid Kurt was about moisture and rust. At home, he usually cleaned the rifle in his locked room under the shop, but sometimes he used the kitchen table; that was when she’d seen how gently he handled it, the way you might hold a baby.
He looked at her now and chuckled. ‘Here, give me that thing. It won’t go off, you know. It’s not loaded.’
Relieved, she handed the rifle over then wandered around the huge trunk, running her hand across the woolly bark, listening to the hush of wind in the leaves. Around the far side, a fire scar had cut a chasm into the heartwood, an opening large enough for a human to enter. The tree reminded her of childhood visits to the bush up behind the farm on Sundays with Kurt. Beyond the back fence, among a bower of ferns, there had been a tall tree with a scar in it too. Miki used to like playing there with Kurt, acting out stories from the Bible. Once, they had been Samson and Delilah even though Miki thought it was sinful. Kurt had gone along with it until she produced a pair of scissors to cut his hair, snipping off a chunk before he realised what she was doing. He’d yelled and broken free of her poorly tied ropes and snatched the scissors, tossing them into the bush. She remembered the look of horror on his face, and it still made her smile. They’d spent hours searching for the scissors and arrived home late, covered in mud and leaves. Father had been furious.
Now she hooked a hand around the curved edge of the scar and ducked inside the hollow. Within the tree’s thick skin, it was dark and quiet, dense with the sweet scent of rotting wood. Her feet sank in a soft bed of crumbled debris, and when she peered up she could just make out a small circle of light way above where the tree’s crown had blown out. So far away. Closing her eyes, she heard a faint whisper: the tree sighing out secrets, breathy stories of ages past, wind and weather, black people sliding through the bush. If she held her breath, she could feel the heartbeat of the world.
Outside, a grey fantail flitted to the ground so close she could see its white eyebrows. Then it saw her and fluffed its tail, swinging it side to side and chittering. Miki loved the trees and birds, but what she loved most couldn’t be seen. The way she felt in the forest. The scent of the bush after rain. The sound of bark crackling. Branches squeaking. The feeling of patience and agelessness, growth and renewal. The aura of trees. The sense of connectedness. Of everything having its place. She could stay here all day, breathing with the tree, drawing its life into her lungs.
But she heard Kurt’s muffled voice calling her.
When she joined him, he was still lounging against the tree. ‘What were you doing?’
‘Just standing inside the tree.’
He shook his head slightly as if he thought she was mad, but she knew he shared her affinity for the forest. It was what bonded them—not the long hours in the shop or the endless evenings in front of the TV, not even her homely cooking or the snug tidy rooms behind the shop, but this: time spent in their world beneath trees. As they stood together in comfortable silence, a gust of wind rustled in the canopy, and the leaves shifted like schools of fish flickering against the sky. They looked up, watching clouds scud by.
‘Lovely, isn’t it,’ Miki said.
Kurt’s long exhalation indicated he was relaxing at last. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘I’m in a good mood. Ask me some questions.’
Occasionally when Kurt was feeling generous, he offered to share some of his memories. These opportunities were rare, so Miki stored questions for weeks. It was the only way she could learn about life before she was born and unearth who she was, where her parents had come from. This was knowledge she craved, and which Kurt kept under stringent control. She had to ask her questions with care; there was a fine line between his generosity and anger.
‘Tell me how you used to get to school,’ she said.
He sucked on his cigarette and smiled. ‘You’re so funny the way you want to know all these things. But I suppose it’s nice to look back … Dad used to drive me.’
Miki felt the forest melt away as she tried to imagine Kurt’s school. She pictured a small white building with green trim, a shady playground, gum trees up the back. ‘What
did you have for lunch?’ she asked, hungry for detail.
‘Cheese sandwiches on homemade bread.’
‘Who were your friends?’
He puffed out a cloud of smoke and gazed up at the trees. ‘A boy called Chris and a girl called Cherry. They were twins.’
‘What games did you play?’
‘We dug in the dirt and made roads and gutters for water to run down when it rained.’
‘What did you do in class?’
‘We read books and sang songs, learned how to write.’
‘What were your teachers’ names?’
Miki knew these by heart, but she liked hearing just the same. The only teacher she’d ever had was Mother. She wished she had gone to school. She wished she could go now.
She hesitated before her final question, because she’d never asked this one before. How would Kurt react? If she was out of line it could ruin the whole day. She felt the forest breathing around her; it gave her courage. ‘Why did you stop going to school?’
‘Because you were born.’
‘Why did that matter?’
‘That’s when Father and Mother decided to retreat to the farm. They’d had enough of the church. Decided to go their own way. Do their own thing. Make their own rules.’
Miki was confused. Hadn’t they always lived by God’s rules? She hadn’t known those rules were open to interpretation. ‘I don’t see what that had to do with me.’
‘Timing, I suppose.’
‘Why couldn’t I go to school?
‘Because you’re a girl and they wanted to protect you.’ He scraped the stub of his cigarette on the tree trunk and tossed it in an arc to fizz in a puddle. Then he stood and reached for his pack.
Miki felt that she was on the edge of something important so she pushed on. ‘Why didn’t we have visitors? And why don’t we have any relatives? Are they all dead?’
Kurt dodged her eyes and shouldered his pack. ‘I’m done with questions.’
Miki was frustrated. Why wouldn’t he tell her? ‘Please.’
His face clouded and he turned away. ‘I’m off. Make sure you stay close to the tree.’ He started up the track, pausing to toss her the car keys. ‘Get in the ute if it rains. I’ll be back in an hour.’
She watched him disappear into the forest: the thud of his feet on the trail, the swish and crack as he shouldered into the scrub. She knew he might glance back so she remained outwardly composed, but inside her questions rippled and seethed like the wind.
For a while, she stayed by the tree, turning over questions in her mind. Then the clouds condensed, the light faded and rain began to spill from the sky. She retreated to the car, still going over questions, preparing for an imagined day when Kurt might treat her like an adult and open in honesty towards her, impossible though this seemed.
Why hadn’t her family had visits from friends? Where were their relatives? Didn’t they have grandparents? Didn’t Mother and Father have brothers or sisters? What was in Father’s black leather folder? Why wouldn’t Kurt let her see it? Why wouldn’t he allow her into the storeroom under the shop? Why didn’t he trust her to go out alone? How long until they would have enough money to buy their own farm?
The questions made her skin itchy, and she realised that mulling over them had stolen the pleasure from her day. Seeking distraction, she opened the glovebox, hoping to find something to read. Sometimes Kurt kept newspaper clippings in there: ads for new four-wheel drives or gym machines. But there were only car manuals. Miki was disappointed—even a street directory would have been interesting.
Poking around, she opened the ashtray expecting it to be empty, but in it she found several silver keys. She’d never looked in the ashtray before because Kurt never used it—when he smoked he tipped ash out the window and tossed his butts on the road. Now she wondered if these keys had always been there. Picking one up, she measured its weight in her hand then lined another alongside it, matching the teeth. They were exactly the same. She pulled out the other keys. All identical, but different from the car keys. Why did Kurt have so many duplicates? Had he had them cut for a reason? Was he worried about losing them? She considered the locks in the house and counted them up: front door, back door, Kurt’s filing cabinet, the room under the shop, the gun box in the car, the ammunition box, the metal cashbox. She jingled the keys. Since they were all the same, would Kurt notice if she took one?
Her heart flipped as she contemplated deceiving her brother. Should she do it? Or would it be wrong? For a long moment, she sat looking at the keys. Then she asked herself what Jane Eyre would do. Jane was bold but she was also clever, and she had courage and lived by her principles. Would it be unprincipled to take a key? Miki thought of Jane at Thornfield Hall, investigating strange sounds at night. Mrs Fairfax had told her to always remain in her room, but if Jane hadn’t ventured out Mr Rochester would have died when his bedroom was on fire. Kurt locked Miki in when he left her at home, but there might be times when she needed to venture out too.
There were so many keys here. Surely Kurt didn’t need all of them.
Before she could change her mind, she slipped a key into her overalls pocket and zipped it up. Then she replaced the other keys in the ashtray and closed it.
7
Parks headquarters for the region was a twenty-minute drive from Leon’s new town. The office was in the main street between the hairdresser and real-estate agent. Leon pulled up outside and sat in his car, watching rain slide down the windscreen. He was nervous. It would take time to get established in a new job but he was looking forward to working in a team and making friends with people who shared his passion for wild places and who liked the outdoors. He checked his watch. Ten to nine. Time to go in.
A buzzer sounded as he entered, but there was no one about. He heard a murmur of voices and the clacking of a keyboard behind a large opaque screen at the back of the shop. For a few moments he inspected his surrounds: shelves with books and maps for sale, a postcard rack, stuffed toys. Then he stepped up to the counter, which had a glass top with a map beneath it. He dinged the bell and a tall, lanky man emerged from behind the screen. He had short dark hair, a long nose, after-five shadow and questioning brown eyes. ‘Hi, how are you? Need any help?’
Leon reached over to shake hands. ‘I’m Leon Walker. Starting a new job here today.’
The man smiled and accepted the handshake. ‘G’day, I’m Terry. Pleased to meet you.’
He led Leon behind the screen and introduced him to Brian, the boss: a big man hunched over a small desk in a pokey little office right out the back. Brian was frowning at a computer among a mountain of papers and several used coffee cups. From his doughy shape and double chins, Leon figured he didn’t visit his parks very often—something he probably delegated to juniors like Leon. But when they shook hands, the grip was solid, just what you’d expect of a manager.
‘Sit down,’ Brian said, pointing to a chair.
Leon sat.
‘So you’ve come from Bruny Island. Busy over there?’
‘Yeah. I was on my own, so it was flat out.’
‘You’re used to working alone?’
‘Yes. They didn’t replace the other ranger when he retired. Not enough money.’
‘Understood. Things are tight here too. No resources. The reality is we’re understaffed and you’ll be busy like on Bruny.’
‘That’s okay. I’m a hard worker.’
‘Good. I appreciate enthusiasm. You’ll have plenty to do. And not all of it will be outside. These days we only get up to the park three times a week, and mostly we only send one ranger because there’s so much office work: manning the counter, answering questions for tourists, that sort of stuff. Any specialties you bring to the job?’
‘I like talking to people, so if there’s an opportunity I’d be keen to take guided walks and do nature interpretation. School visits, maybe. Back on Bruny, I used to look after the Scouts.’
‘Sounds great, but to start with you’l
l be checking toilets and doing the rubbish and track maintenance. Sorry. But that’s how it is. Once you’ve settled in, we can talk more.’
Leon hid his disappointment. After years of toilets and tracks, he’d been hoping for something different.
Brian was already focusing back on his computer. He glanced up at Leon from beneath bushy brows. ‘Terry will get you sorted with a computer and uniforms, then he’ll take you up to the park.’
The conversation was over.
They were on their way out of town in a white Toyota LandCruiser when Leon’s phone rang. It didn’t look good taking personal calls first day, but he thought he’d better answer it. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Terry. ‘It’s my mum—she might need something.’ He pressed the phone to his ear and kept his voice low. ‘Hi, Mum. What’s up? Have to be quick. I’m with another ranger.’
‘Stan’s here.’ Her whisper was urgent.
Stan was Dad’s drinking partner who plied him with grog even though it was killing his liver. Stan would never have visited if Leon was home, so word must have got around that he was gone. ‘What’s he doing?’ Leon asked.
‘He’s at the door.’
‘Don’t let him in.’
‘The car’s in the garage. I can’t pretend we’re not home.’
She sounded panicky. Even over the phone, Leon could hear the pounding on the front door. What was Stan doing? Trying to knock it down? ‘Tell him to get lost,’ Leon said.
Then his dad’s voice, distant, muffled. ‘Someone’s at the door, Sylvia!’
‘Don’t go,’ Leon pressed.
‘I have to. Your father is shouting at me.’
‘Don’t do it. You know what will happen.’
The line went quiet. She was gone.
Leon felt as if he was hanging above an abyss. He’d counted on his dad being too weak to do anything—that was the strategy to keep his mum safe. But maybe this plan was delusional. If Stan got Dad drunk, it could go anywhere.
‘Everything okay?’ Terry asked.
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