By the time Leon pulled up at home, it was after six-thirty. He fastened the cone around Rosie’s neck then let her out of the car, and she dragged him through the yard, whining excitedly as he knocked at her front door. He heard rapid footsteps in the hall, then the door burst open and Max was there. His face lit up when he saw the dog.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he yelled. ‘It’s Rosie. And she’s wearing the weirdest thing on her head.’ He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, staring at the stitches.
Leon caught the look of surprise and annoyance in Wendy’s eyes as she ambled down the hall. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘I found Rosie on the road in the forest with a cut in her side, so I took her to the vet.’
Wendy frowned. ‘Why didn’t you come here first?’
‘I did, but no one was home.’
She looked at the dog and the kid.
‘She has tons of stitches,’ Max said. ‘Twenty-two.’
Leon could sense Wendy’s question hanging in the air. ‘I fixed things up with the vet,’ he mumbled. ‘Least I could do.’
‘What’s this thing on her head?’ Max asked.
‘A cone to stop her chewing her stitches.’
‘Cool,’ Max said. ‘She looks like an alien.’
At that moment Shane’s ute roared up the street, headlights swinging towards the house, illuminating them all. Leon stood by helplessly as Shane strode up the path and checked out the dog. ‘What the fuck?’
‘She fell off your ute again, Shane,’ Wendy said. ‘And look what’s happened.’
‘She’s fine now.’ Leon couldn’t help putting in.
Shane squinted at him. ‘Did you have something to do with this?’
It was an accusation, not a thank you—but before Leon could respond, Max shouted, ‘Leon saved Rosie, Dad. Look how big the hole was. And Leon got her fixed. She might have died, but he saved her.’
Obviously it was easy to be a hero for a kid.
‘Should have bloody died,’ Shane muttered. ‘It would have been cheaper.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Leon said. ‘It’s all sorted. The vet wanted to do it straight away, so I paid. I couldn’t leave her with a great hole in her side.’ He backed away, taking the moment of confusion to exit.
Shane was scowling, but Max’s face shone with delight, and Wendy gave a quiet nod. At least she understood he’d done it out of compassion for the dog, even if Shane didn’t appreciate it.
Later that evening, Leon sat on the floor in front of the fire with Grandpa’s book on his lap. It was a hardback, a historical document outlining the story of the main sawmills that had existed in southern Tasmania. He flicked through it. The text was detailed and included anecdotes and facts about logging going all the way back to the mid-1800s. But what caught his eye were the photographs—they seemed alive to him, and they told the tales of the old timber cutters and tramways better than any words could.
The photos were mostly black and white. Some were faded and had deteriorated with age. And others were so clear, you’d think they’d been taken yesterday—until you looked at the people and the clothes they were wearing, the activities they were doing, the cars and trucks they were driving. There were photos of tramways being constructed from timber. Horses waiting patiently to begin dragging a log along a tramway. Steam locomotives hauling logs. Old timber-town settlements. Steamships that carried sawn timber to overseas markets. Timber cutters with their wives and families. Sawmills and bridges being built.
Leon studied the faces of the workers, and they all seemed like serious men. Nobody smiled for the camera—that must have been the way of the times, or perhaps they all lived hard lives. Most of them had moustaches and wore hats, dark trousers and jackets over light-coloured shirts. Leon noticed the way they stood, with arms crossed or cocked on their hips as if they had been carefully set up for the camera—he supposed fewer photos were taken back then, so every shot was important.
He read about the timber industry on Bruny Island at Adventure Bay, where he’d grown up. The book told the story of discovery and settlement, which Leon already knew—he’d been raised on a diet of history and explorers. It was interesting to read about sawmills on the island, however there were few mentions of names, and little that related directly to his family.
He finished by delving into the chapter that Grandpa had recommended, on bushfires and fires in sawmills and their impact on the industry. But he couldn’t work out what the old man had wanted him to glean from all this information. Grandpa’s discomfort was still a mystery. Leon supposed the truth would come out in the fullness of time—he would wait for the right moment to ask. He had a good feeling about his relationship with his grandpa. Weekly visits to the home were going to be interesting.
8
For Miki, Tuesday was the loneliest day of the week. That was when Kurt locked her in and went off to Hobart. Usually he left Monday afternoon, which was okay, because she would spend the evening knitting or reading a book. But Tuesdays seemed to last for an eternity. And here she was, yet again, perched on a chair in the empty shop, staring out at the street, watching life pass her by.
Kurt had been grumpy when he left yesterday—there was something about going to the city that always made him edgy. Normally Miki didn’t worry about his mood when he drove off, but since she’d taken the key yesterday morning, she’d been tense, wondering if Kurt had noticed it was gone, and how he would punish her when he found out. But nothing had been said, so for now it seemed her secret was safe.
This morning, she’d risen early and ticked off her jobs: vacuuming the rooms, doing the washing, mopping the floors, cleaning the fryers. Changing the oil was a job she and Kurt generally tackled together. She detested doing it alone: draining the old oil into tins, scraping out the dead bits of batter, wiping away the scum, and then scouring the bottom of the fryers. After pouring in the new oil, she’d showered to get rid of the grease. And now she was watching the children on their way to school. She saw the policeman’s sons go by: Jaden shoving against Callum and pinching his arm. Then Max dawdled past, focused on his phone. But he looked up, peered into the shop and waved—the only person who had seen her all morning. She was invisible to everyone else.
A log truck rumbled up the street, the shop windows rattling as it pulled in across the road, air brakes snorting. It was Robbo in his battered blue Kenworth, his name written in curly silver letters on the door. His load of slender logs was probably headed for the pulp mill. It seemed most loads were destined for pulp these days: so many thin trees, too young for sawing.
Robbo climbed down from the cab, hitched his jeans and crossed to the bakery. He wasn’t supposed to park his truck in the main street but he was a law unto himself, and his wife Trudi worked part-time at the bakery, so he must have figured he had an excuse. Trudi was nice. Miki often served her in the shop, and she always smiled and said thank you. Miki had heard Trudi only worked part-time because she wanted to help out in the community, like delivering Meals on Wheels for old people who couldn’t cook anymore. Trudi also assisted with reading at school because she liked to be around children. Apparently she couldn’t have her own children, and the women said she had troubles with depression too. Miki didn’t know much about depression, but she could see something mournful in Trudi’s eyes. It was lucky Trudi had Robbo: Miki could tell by the soft way he looked at his wife that he loved her. Not like some men in town. Mooney’s eyes were always hard when he looked at poor Liz.
Now Robbo appeared from the bakery with a cream bun and a coffee-to-go. Not the sort of food he ought to be eating: he was short and thick around the middle. People joked that he was carrying a spare tyre for his truck.
Miki liked Robbo; he always gave a nod when Kurt was looking away. Today, though, he didn’t notice her. When the shop was shut it was as if she didn’t exist.
Three teenaged girls walked by, talking and laughing. They were tall and elegant with long hair that swept ar
ound their shoulders like mist. Miki looked at the time: nine o’clock. The girls would be late for school, but they didn’t seem to care. They had their elbows hooked and their heads close together. Miki wished she could have friends and go to school too. She was nearly eighteen. Kurt ought to trust her.
When they had gone, the street was quiet. Autumn leaves shuffled in the gutter, and a few used wrappers tumbled by on the breeze. Miki fetched Jane Eyre from her bedroom and read the scene where Jane’s cruel aunt locked her in the red room and wouldn’t let her out, not even when she was stricken with fear. Poor Jane suffered so much persecution. At school the principal, Mr Brocklehurst, labelled her deceitful, but Jane bore the insult with admirable resilience. If Jane could overcome oppression and unfairness to find a path in life, Miki could too. But right now she felt captive, like Jane in the red room.
She thought of the key she’d taken from the ute yesterday. Maybe now was the time to try it. Last night, she’d crept from bed and retrieved it from her overalls. Then she’d taken a sharp knife from the kitchen, made a small slit under her mattress and concealed the key in the padding where Kurt wouldn’t find it. She fetched the key now and clutched it in her hand. The metal warmed quickly in the hot flesh of her palm. Jittery, she inserted the key into the front door, and her hand was shaking as she twisted it. What if it didn’t work? But the lock released smoothly, and there she was with the door slightly ajar.
She stood still, breathing in the fresh air. She didn’t know what to do next, hadn’t thought that far ahead. She could walk up the street, but nobody had seen her out by herself before, and what if someone talked to her? They might say something to Kurt later: Saw your sister out yesterday. Then what would she do?
She wondered what Jane Eyre would do, but this time it didn’t help. She would have to decide by herself.
Trembling, she collected the window-cleaning gear from the laundry. Then, tremulously, she opened the front door and set everything on the footpath. Her heart was a jackhammer in her chest, and her hands were so fluttery she could barely squeeze out the sponge. She drew breath and tried to concentrate on the windows; surely if she got on with the job, nobody would notice her.
The windows were certainly smeary. During the week, children pressed grimy fingers against the glass and made faces at their friends. Starting at one end of the shop, Miki began wetting down the glass with the sponge. It felt strange being outside when she wasn’t meant to be. She was buzzing with excitement, as if the entire world was watching her even though nobody was there.
After finishing with one pane, she was shifting her ladder along when she saw Wendy strolling up the path with her little girl, Suzie. Wendy always looked tired, and she always had a cigarette in her hand—didn’t she think about her children breathing in all that smoke? She was a good-looking woman, and today she wore tight jeans and a denim jacket over a close-fitting top. Whenever she entered the shop, men noticed her, and Miki was sure Wendy was aware of this—something about the way the blonde woman pulled back her shoulders and pushed out her chest. Now Wendy paused, with a wry smile, to watch Miki at work. Miki smelled Wendy’s perfume, light and sweet like freesias, but the sour tang of smoke was still there, just underneath.
Wendy grinned. ‘You can do my place next, if you like.’ She was holding the little girl’s hand, and Suzie was inspecting Miki with big brown eyes, the same shape as her mum’s.
‘Can I have a turn?’ Suzie asked.
‘Sure.’ Miki dipped the cloth in the bucket, wrung it out and handed it to Suzie, who started wiping haphazardly over the section Miki had just finished.
‘Kurt let you out for the day?’ Wendy asked drily, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’d run, if I was you. I’d hit the road and never stop. He’s a controlling bastard, your brother. He’s really got you under the thumb.’
Miki was uncomfortable. She knew people talked about her and Kurt, but she’d never been confronted like this and she couldn’t think what to say, so she dodged Wendy’s eyes.
‘Sorry I’m a straight talker,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve always been that way. I say things as they are.’
Suzie was wiping the window enthusiastically, water dripping down her pudgy little arm and onto her clothes.
‘Where’s Kurt today?’ Wendy asked Miki.
‘Out the back doing the books.’
Wendy sucked on her cigarette and exhaled a small cloud of smoke. ‘Rubbing his hands over his money, no doubt. You should ask him to buy you some new clothes instead of that old skirt. He can afford it. This place does well for a takeaway. Too well, if you ask me.’
Miki wasn’t sure what this meant. Did Wendy think their prices were too high? ‘Suzie is getting very wet,’ she said, to divert the woman’s attention.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. She changes clothes four times a day. That’s little girls, isn’t it? We were all like that once.’ Wendy smiled at Suzie indulgently, as if being a girl explained everything. But Miki had never changed her clothes four times a day. She hadn’t owned four changes of clothes and, even if she had, Mother would never have allowed it. Wendy was looking at Miki appraisingly. ‘How old are you now, love?’
‘Nearly eighteen.’
‘Almost independent, hey? Christ! I was pregnant at your age. Once you’re eighteen, Kurt has no hold on you. You can go then, you know.’
This was news to Miki. Kurt had told her they needed to work together till she was twenty-one. And what about the farm they were saving for? That was a family thing.
‘You should make sure the business is in your name too,’ Wendy was saying. ‘Otherwise none of it belongs to you. I wouldn’t put it past your brother to keep it all for himself. Sorry to say it, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him.’
Miki was embarrassed now, and she wished Wendy would leave. Clearly this woman didn’t understand Kurt. Yes, he was unpredictable, and Miki disliked his restrictions, but sometimes he could be quite considerate.
She was saved by Suzie. The little girl crouched to dip the cloth in the bucket and tripped, knocking it over as she fell and sending a small river running down the path, the bucket rolling after it. Miki was about to rescue the bucket when Suzie’s face screwed up and a murderous scream came out, along with a good dose of tears. Wendy’s sigh was exasperated as she helped Suzie up and handed the wet cloth to Miki.
‘Sorry,’ Miki said. ‘It was meant to be fun.’
Wendy shrugged. ‘It’s always fun till someone loses an eye.’
Miki hadn’t thought Suzie was hurt. ‘Is her eye all right?’
Wendy laughed. ‘Yes, she’s fine. You’re very literal, aren’t you?’ She wiped her daughter’s cheeks with a handkerchief and helped blow her nose.
‘My knees are sore.’ Suzie pouted. ‘And my tights have holes in them.’
Wendy checked Suzie’s knees and planted a kiss on her daughter’s mop of brown hair. Then she took Suzie’s hand. ‘How about we get a doughnut from the bakery? Will that help?’
Suzie nodded.
Wendy winked at Miki and led her daughter up the footpath. Miki watched them go, noticing how their walk was the same, the shape of their shoulders and the way their hips moved. She had wished them gone, but now she felt lonely. It was the intimacy between mother and daughter that moved her: Wendy’s gentle care, the small things mothers shared with their children. Miki missed her mother.
Turning back to the windows, she started cleaning up the soapy mess Suzie had made.
When the windows were done, Miki locked the front door and hung the cleaning things to dry in the laundry. The rest of the day stretched ahead of her. Entertainment options were few. Kurt had disabled the TV and hidden the remote controls so she couldn’t watch it without him. All she could do was knit or read. But now she’d been outside and tasted freedom, she wanted to do it again.
She let herself out the back door this time and left it unlocked—she wouldn’t be gone long.
On the back steps, she hesitated with th
e key in her hand. Should she try the padlock for the storeroom under the shop? She held her breath as she attempted to slide the key in. But it didn’t fit. Kurt must have other keys for his private hideaway.
In the street, she paused, unsure what to do. She saw her reflection in the window, and her eyes were wild. Out here she was somebody else: someone bold and exciting; she barely recognised herself. But she couldn’t stand here all day, hovering in front of her own shop—that would attract attention. So, mustering courage, she walked down the hill, her boots striking the concrete.
She wasn’t alone on the footpath: a man in a fluorescent work vest was coming the other way. Anxious to avoid him, she ducked into the visitor centre, pushing open the double doors.
She’d never been here before, and she stopped in the doorway and gazed around—all these new things were quite overwhelming. A gust of wind blew some leaves at her legs, so she stepped in and let the door close behind her. She was in a large echoing hall that had a wooden information counter to one side and all sorts of displays. It was warm inside. In the centre of the room, a pot-bellied stove pumped heat, and down the back was a silver log-truck cabin for children to climb on. A boy and girl were playing on it now—the boy hanging from the truck door shouting for his mum to come and look, while the girl bounced up and down on the seat.
Miki wandered around, trying to appear calm as she looked at the displays, but she was too agitated to take in more than a cursory impression. There was so much to see: posters and photos, landscape paintings, a massive cross-section of an old tree trunk, rusty cross-cut saws, old maps, ancient glass bottles and wooden boxes. Near the counter, a series of shelves displayed books for sale, polished pieces of turned wood, postcards, soft toys. It was very neat. Miki imagined there must be quiet times here, just like in the shop. She knew how in those moments you could tidy things over and over, trying to stay awake.
A woman was sitting behind the counter. She was soft-looking and middle-aged with a mushroom cap of grey hair. She smiled at Miki, and her eyes were like half-moons, her mouth kinked upwards at the corners. She seemed friendly, but Miki was too nervous to talk to her. Instead, she slipped behind a blue velvet curtain into a small room where a video was playing to empty rows of yellow plastic seats. Miki sat down. She felt safer behind the curtain where nobody could see her.
The Orchardist's Daughter Page 8