The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  ‘Who are these people?’ Grandpa said. ‘They don’t look like greenies.’

  ‘They are, Grandpa,’ Leon said. ‘Used to be dreadlocks and ratbags. Now they’re office workers and grannies. Mums and dads.’

  The older woman produced a small drum that she began to beat while the young woman continued to shout into the loudhailer. ‘These machines are the enemy. They’re eating their way through our forests and nobody knows the damage they’re doing. There are no jobs anymore. We have to ban them.’

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ Grandpa said. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but she’s right.’

  Leon tried to persuade the old man to leave. ‘Come on, Grandpa. There’s going to be trouble.’ But Grandpa was far too excited.

  Now burly men in fluoro vests were running across the field; Leon recognised Mooney among them.

  ‘What’s happening in our forests is a crime,’ the young woman yelled. ‘It’s time for the loggers to get out. These machines cut the forest so fast the trees have no time to regrow. Enough is enough.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ someone yelled, and the entire crowd began to swarm towards them, shouting: ‘Get rid of them.’ ‘Why are they here?’ ‘Who let them in?’ ‘This is our festival.’ ‘Fucking greenies.’

  Mooney arrived at the machines first and tried to pull down the banners, but the men tugged them out of reach. ‘Take that sign down,’ Mooney shouted. ‘Take it down now or I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what?’ sniped the cameraman. ‘Beat us up like the thugs that you are?’

  ‘Get down and get the fuck out of here,’ Mooney snarled. ‘You’re not welcome.’

  ‘This is a family day,’ the cameraman said, waving a brochure at him. ‘It says: All welcome.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t include you.’ Mooney stretched up and grabbed at one of the men on the machines.

  The cameraman was filming as his teammate tried to push Mooney away with his foot, yelling, ‘I’ll go you for assault.’

  The young woman had shimmied aside, and now she went on with her commentary. But Mooney knocked the loudhailer out of her hands. Then he reached for the other woman’s drum.

  ‘Shit, Mooney,’ Leon shouted. ‘Be careful.’

  Mooney swung his way and scowled. ‘You on their side?’

  ‘I don’t want you to get in trouble.’

  ‘This lot are trouble.’ Mooney snatched the drum and tossed it away. It bounced on the grass and cracked. Then he turned back to the men on the machines. The cameraman was still recording.

  Shane was there now too. He scaled the skidder like a monkey, hooked on to the demonstrator’s leg and pulled. The guy attempted to shake him off but Shane didn’t let go.

  More men were sprinting across the field, rushing past Leon and Grandpa.

  ‘Call the police,’ someone yelled. ‘The cops can get rid of them.’

  Somehow the young woman fastened on to her loudhailer again and ran to one side, shouting, ‘You don’t like hearing this, do you? Because you know we’re right. You’ve been trashing our forests for years. Of course you don’t want to stop. You’ve had it good for too long.’

  Leon was worried that things were about to get worse. ‘Come on, Grandpa, we have to go.’

  ‘No, wait. Look.’

  The greenies were being hauled down from the machines. Mooney had the sheets and was tearing them up. But the demonstrators weren’t going to stand by and watch. Both sides began yelling and pushing, grabbing each other’s shirts, the two women shrieking. The man was still filming.

  Grandpa was suddenly anxious. ‘They won’t hurt those women, will they?’

  ‘Sorry, Grandpa,’ Leon said. ‘We can’t stay to find out.’ He grasped Grandpa’s arm and led him away.

  ‘We should call the police.’ The old man was overexcited. ‘That might protect them.’

  Leon glanced back. ‘Someone might get done for assault. And it won’t be the greenies. Those loggers are angry.’

  They worked their way through the crowd towards the exit, and it was slow going against the flow of people. Near the entry, Leon left Grandpa and went to fetch the car. It was a good time to be gone before people started pointing the finger and calling him Parkie.

  23

  On her eighteenth birthday, Miki woke to the tinkling of water in the downpipes. The music of rain on the roof had been her favourite sound at the farm. It reminded her of cosiness and warmth, the smell of bread and stew in the kitchen, the sweet aroma of baking cakes, trickles of rain running down windows. She wished Mother and Father were alive so they could see her today. But would they be proud? She wasn’t perfect, nobody was, but she had been as good to Kurt as she could. She had tried to smooth things for him, the way Mother had for Father. And she hadn’t complained, even when there had been a lot to complain about. Mother would have admired her for that.

  It was early, but she showered and washed her hair. Out of habit, she started to plait it then stopped. She was eighteen and it was time for something different, a fresh start—she pulled her hair back in a ponytail. It felt strange to her unpractised hands, but looking at herself in the mirror she saw a glow of excitement. Girl yesterday. Woman today. Her eyes were lively and brimming with hope.

  Kurt came out at six-thirty but didn’t say anything. She cooked breakfast, and placed it in front of him with coffee. All the while, she was hoping he would mention her birthday, maybe even comment on her new hairstyle. But breakfast spun out in silence, and she felt her spark fading. Kurt was buried in the newspaper, dipping his spoon into the porridge and lifting it absently to his mouth. She listened to the click of his spoon on the plate, the gurgle as he sipped his hot coffee. He had forgotten.

  When his plate was empty she removed it. From the sink, she asked, ‘What are our plans?’

  ‘It’s Monday so we’ll go to the forest.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘I’ll be in Hobart. You know the routine.’

  She said, ‘It’s my birthday.’

  He glanced at her, but his eyes were blank. ‘Is it? What’s the date?’ She told him, and he folded the newspaper. ‘So it is.’

  She waited for him to say something more. Air locked in her throat as the moments rolled by. She remembered his eighteenth birthday. Chocolate cake with his baptism candle and singing to celebrate his transition into adulthood. Mother’s smile, bright and warm. Kurt looking serious. New lines of responsibility on his brow.

  ‘You could make a cake,’ he said eventually. Perhaps he was remembering too.

  But bake a cake for herself on her eighteenth? Miki couldn’t speak.

  ‘Maybe a chocolate cake,’ he went on. ‘I like chocolate.’

  Yes, she knew. ‘I wondered if maybe we could go out,’ she said.

  ‘We’re going up to the forest.’

  ‘Somewhere different,’ she tried.

  ‘I thought you liked the forest.’

  ‘I do. But it’s a special day. I feel more grown up.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Nothing more.

  She said, ‘I’m an adult now.’

  He smiled with amusement. ‘You’re only a day older than yesterday. It doesn’t happen that fast.’

  In the ute she sat small and silent, curled around her disappointment. Kurt had to know she was hurting, but he refused to acknowledge it. She deserved something more. Yesterday, she had worked hard to feed all the customers coming through town for the festival. She always worked hard for Kurt and he never commended her efforts. He should appreciate her more, she thought. When Mother and Father were alive, birthdays had always been important in their family. Since their deaths, Miki had continued to make Kurt’s birthday special. She didn’t mind him overlooking her previous birthdays, but he should at least make a fuss for her eighteenth.

  He was quiet as they drove to the forest. The rain had stopped, and the road was damp and dark, walls of trees leaning in—it matched her mood. They turned onto the side road and Kurt drove through
the logged area where the sky yawned above, pearly and grey. Then he stopped the car and got out, leaving his door open. ‘Your turn,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re driving. This is your birthday present. A lesson.’

  Trembling, she inserted herself in the driver’s seat and adjusted it so her feet reached the pedals. The fearful memory of last time sank over her. ‘I don’t know if I want to do this.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ Kurt grunted. ‘If I get stung again, I want to be sure you won’t kill me on the way to get help.’ Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was smiling, and it was as if the sun had come out even though the sky was overcast. ‘You were scary,’ he said, chuckling. ‘How did we survive?’

  Miki contemplated the gearstick and the dashboard. She couldn’t remember what the pedals were for. She couldn’t remember anything except the overwhelming power of the car and her previous lack of control. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you can.’ He gave instructions and she tried to listen closely. Left foot on the clutch, right foot on the accelerator. Pressure on the accelerator as she let off the clutch. Kurt cursed as she misjudged everything, and the ute took a leap and shuddered to a halt, stalling. ‘Try again,’ he said.

  His patience held for the first few goes, then she started to hear the humming of bees deep inside him. His smile had been replaced with a frown. She wasn’t sure whether she was more scared of the car or her brother. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she said.

  ‘Not for some.’

  She tried again, and they worked their way along the track: starting, revving, jerking, stalling. She felt the ute getting angry. It growled when she pressed the accelerator and grumbled each time she made a mistake. Finally, she managed to do something right: the ute rolled forward. The front end jarred in a pothole, but they were off and running at last.

  ‘It’s going to take a bit of practice,’ Kurt said, gruff.

  ‘But I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ she said, elated. ‘When I get the hang of it, I can get my licence.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw his mouth twist. ‘No need for that. This is just in case of emergency.’

  ‘But if I have my licence, I can help you more.’

  ‘You have your jobs, and I have mine. Driving isn’t for women.’

  All the women in town drive, she wanted to say.

  The car stalled.

  ‘Try again,’ Kurt said. ‘And stop being so demanding.’ But he was smiling again.

  After they’d driven back and forth across the clearing several times, Kurt took over and drove into the forest; the lesson was over. He parked at the usual spot then took off up the trail with his rifle and backpack, telling Miki to stay in the car. She was miffed that he should expect her to sit there on her birthday when the forest was all around and she could come to no harm. As she watched him striding away, a tiny robin with a small splash of red on his chest and a patch of white on his forehead swooped down to inspect his reflection in the side mirror, tilting his head. Miki was convinced this was a sign—the bush was calling to her. She slipped out into the cold morning air and the robin fluttered away, flashing his tail at her.

  She walked up the trail, following Kurt’s boot prints in the mud. At a large blown-out stump, his prints stopped, and she saw the suggestion of a faint trail leading into the bush. She’d never come this far before, but now she was here she was curious. What was Kurt doing in there? She hadn’t heard any rifle shots.

  Pushing into the scrub, she made her way uphill, following a vague trail. The going was tricky, crisscrossed with roots and sticks and slippery logs. She took her time, placing her feet quietly. Kurt would be cross if he saw her. The bush folded around her, and she knew how to embrace it. Navigating the understorey was a knack—if you didn’t fight it, the forest let you in.

  After a hundred metres or so, the track steepened through young skinny trees in a close-packed area of regrowth. Another two hundred metres and she came to a boundary with open country, logged sometime during the past couple of years. Tiny seedlings and woven wire grasses were pushing up through the clumpy soil. Ahead, Kurt was picking his way over the uneven ground, obviously not in a hurry. He stopped, one foot resting on a stump, a puff of smoke rising from his cigarette. He looked relaxed, the usual tightness gone from his shoulders. Miki felt awkward encroaching on his private moment. She knew him well, yet it surprised her to detect relief in his posture, a hint of softness in his face. Maybe the forest spoke to him as it did to her, gave him space to leave behind his public self and go inner. She hadn’t thought about the impact of the daily drudge on him. Maybe looking after her was a kind of pressure and responsibility from which he enjoyed a break. As she watched, he bent and fiddled with his rifle, then took aim at something uphill. A loud crack, and bark sprayed from a stump. He finished his cigarette then strode off, disappearing into the forest.

  Miki waited, afraid to go further. After a while she heard hammering some distance away. The clang of metal striking metal rang through the bush, then a knocking sound. In the clearing, a currawong poked around on the ground, looking for grubs in rotting logs. He hopped towards her, staring with sharp yellow eyes.

  Silence had fallen, and Miki tensed. Was Kurt about to come back this way? She couldn’t risk him finding her here, so she hurried downhill.

  At the ute, she paused then continued walking. She had plenty of time: Kurt wouldn’t return for an hour, so she decided to look for the eagles. Their chick had fledged months ago, but the forest was more than a place to nest, it was also their home; they might still be about.

  The nest tree was a ten-minute walk back through the forest. Miki drew cold air into her lungs and her pace quickened as she strode along the track. It was exhilarating going where she wanted, under her own steam.

  When she was close to the eagles’ tree, she began searching. If the birds were there, her movements might startle them, so she slowed. The canopy was high above, but she knew the eagles often perched on branches down in the wattles, which were just starting to flower—spring was not far away. The forest was dense with dangling blanket leaf and minty Pomaderris so it was possible she might not see the birds, camouflaged in the foliage.

  But there they were. Three massive shaggy eagles roosting in a patch of silver wattle: two dark adults and their lighter-brown offspring. The chick sat slightly separate from its parents, even though he was as large as them now, and as strong. Miki remembered the first time she’d seen him, his bald head bobbing at the edge of the nest, his body all soft with white down. Living so high, he could easily have fallen, but somehow he’d known not to move from his nest. In three months he’d changed from a fluffy chick to an enormous fierce bird with hooded brow, ragged cloak and hooked beak. What amazed Miki most was how he’d known when it was time to leave the nest. Had his parents told him, or had he just known his wings were ready? She wondered if humans could know too.

  Near the nest tree, she sat on the damp ground to watch the birds and listen to the forest. The eagles knew she was there; they observed her carefully, peering along their severe black beaks, then jerking and swivelling their heads to check other sounds. The trees shifted constantly. Breathing. Sighing. Squeaking when two pieces of wood rubbed together.

  Miki heard a sharp crack somewhere and a loud rustle as a branch fell. Simultaneously, the eagles gathered themselves, crouched forward and launched into the air, feathery legs trailing. With heavy wingbeats, they climbed skywards, finding gaps between branches as they gained height. For several moments they disappeared, then Miki saw them aloft against the grey clouds, their finger-tipped wings spread wide, wedge-shaped tails like rudders driving the arc of their spirals on the wind. Free.

  She was euphoric. The eagles were the best birthday present ever.

  24

  At Tuesday night footy training after the forest festival, the vibe wasn’t good, and Leon felt as much on the outer as when he’d first joined the team. Negativity was coming off Mooney in waves,
and Leon figured they were blaming him because he’d been there when the tussle broke out over the machines. They had to blame someone, he supposed. But it annoyed him—was he always going to cop it just because they needed a scapegoat?

  To avoid Mooney, he positioned himself on the far side of the pack during the warm-up. But the blond man was crazy, and tonight he was boiling with the kind of fury that could end in a broken nose—Leon’s, not Mooney’s. Evasion was a fine plan, but throughout the session Mooney kept bumping into him, shoving and muttering, ‘What’s wrong, Parkie? Can’t stay on your feet?’ Leon picked himself up and went on as if nothing had happened, but inside he was seething. When Mooney blatantly thumped him in the guts during a drill and nobody said anything, it was the last straw. ‘Fuck off, Mooney,’ Leon said loudly when he’d regained his breath.

  The whole field came to a stop.

  ‘You got a problem?’ Mooney queried, lip curling.

  ‘Yeah, I have. I’m sick of your crap. It’s time you started playing the ball instead of the man.’

  Mooney moved closer, and Leon felt the air contract. Everybody was watching. If the coach didn’t support him, his season was over. Leon wouldn’t fight this arsehole, so he’d be forced to walk away and leave football behind. He waited, the silence thickening. He couldn’t believe the other bastards were all going to stand there and let Mooney rip in. It was poor repayment for the work he’d done to drag the team up the ladder. Hadn’t all those goals earned him even a pinch of respect?

  Mooney’s fists were curled, his square jaw jutting, and he was close enough that Leon could smell him; the blond man’s scent had always been rank. Leon was wired, senses sharp, the night alive around him.

  ‘Hey, Mooney,’ Robbo said at last. ‘Leave off, will you? We’re here to train. We’ve got a big game this weekend. Don’t want any injuries.’

  ‘I could punch you into next week,’ Mooney snarled at Leon. ‘And you’d bloody deserve it. Tree-hugging greenie.’

  Silence hovered over the field again.