Blueberry

by Glenna Thomson

  At home, I went to the garden and sat on the stone wall. Along the length of the front veranda were the first frilly yellow buds on the climbing rose. The builders were working inside and the only time I couldn’t hear the bass of their rap music was when it was drowned out by their circular saws cutting through lengths of Sydney blue gum. And when the planks were wedged into position, the nail guns blasted for irregular bursts. I tried to think who I could speak to about Charlie and I mulled over going to the police, or a lawyer, or his doctor, but when I played out these conversations, the story sounded lame or exaggerated.

  I started pulling out healthy weeds around the stone path and the whole time I felt disquiet in my body, anxiety about where Sophie was and an urgent need to go get her. And somewhere in that longing for her I thought of Nick and as quickly pushed him away. He had only phoned the night before and talked and sung to Sophie on a Skype call.

  Renee’s long, straight driveway was lined with olive trees. In the paddocks were white sheep with black heads and heavy layers of motley wool on their backs.

  I knocked on the flywire screen and waited. Boots were lined up neatly and a straw broom was leaning against the wall. The place suddenly struck me as too quiet, like no one was home – and just as I felt panic rise Renee answered the door.

  ‘Sorry for keeping you waiting out here – I was just putting the baby down,’ she said, smiling.

  She pushed the door open and stood back to make way for me to come inside. I didn’t want to enter her house – and had to push down the urge to just call Sophie and leave. I didn’t belong there and felt displaced. She wasn’t like any of my girlfriends in Melbourne – girlfriends I hardly spoke to anymore. I hesitated, searching for an excuse to stay where I was, to ask for my daughter to be handed back to me. She waited, as if in no hurry.

  ‘Don’t worry about your boots, they look clean,’ she said.

  As if an invisible hand pushed me from behind, my weight moved forward and I lifted my left foot and stepped up and my right foot followed and there I was standing inside her house. I had the immediate impression of order and cleanliness. Her kitchen looked new, with brown granite benches and cream-coloured cupboards quite similar to what I had ordered and now could not afford. Her appliances were all stainless steel and her dishwasher was an Italian brand I had considered. The floor was polished oak.

  Renee’s moves were fast yet graceful – filling the kettle and putting it back on the stand, then to the fridge for milk, the cutlery drawer for teaspoons and a waist-high drawer where she pulled out two fine china mugs.

  I sat on a bar stool beside the island bench.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ she said, making tea. She didn’t sit but leaned against the sink and told a story about a paraglider who had only that morning, without warning, landed in their front paddock. He had flown two hundred and thirty kilometres south with the air currents from Deniliquin to break his distance record and her husband was now driving him to the Hume Highway where he was going to hitch back to pick up his car.

  ‘It was the weirdest thing,’ she said. ‘But his name was Sebastian and he was Swiss and good-looking so I invited him to stay for lunch.’

  She laughed and looked to me to join in. And I did smile – not just because of her funny story, but because I liked her.

  When I finished the tea, she hurried to the back door and I got the sense she had other things to do, that it was time for me to leave.

  ‘They’re with the chooks.’

  We walked along a paved path and behind a small shed. I could hear happy voices and there was Sophie inside a wire enclosure holding a brown hen, Freya chasing another, trying to catch it.

  ‘Want some eggs?’ Renee asked.

  As I was taking a photo of the girls holding the chooks, Renee told me Isa Browns were the best layers and I said I might get some for the empty pen at my place. We drove away with a dozen eggs, a jar of homemade pickled olives and Meyer lemon marmalade.

  It was later, around seven, when Shane called. I had the kettle boiling for a sponge bath.

  ‘Has Blondie turned up?’ I asked.

  ‘No. But, if you like, come around for a shower and I’ll fill you in.’

  Shane’s spacious bedroom was femininely toned, presumably by Jess, who must have taken the doona cover with her, because the brown-and-black striped one on the bed was the only thing in the room that didn’t blend in. Bay windows were on either side of his bed, which was positioned where a fireplace had once been.

  He led Sophie and me to his ensuite and gave us towels.

  He left us and the door clicked as it closed.

  The blue shower mat on the tiled floor had the wet imprint of his feet. A white plastic laundry basket was in the corner and I opened the lid as if I’d be surprised, but there were only a jumble of a man’s working clothes.

  We showered and I washed my hair and stayed under too long. There was no dryer and I’d forgotten to bring mine. I did the best I could, towel-drying and ignoring the damp around my neck.

  Enrico had showered in the main bathroom and his thick dreadlocks were wet, free, long and uneven. There seemed to be some mystery about managing dreadlocks, how they never seemed to get washed properly, or itch. He took Sophie for a walk to see the horses.

  ‘So you can do the talking,’ he said. ‘It is no problem.’

  They left with two apples and when the back door closed, Shane sat at the dining table and put his elbows on the table. I sat opposite. He didn’t offer tea or coffee. I would have liked a glass of wine.

  ‘The story is, Warren told Charlie that if he cooperated and stayed in the unit, he’d pay for your floor.’

  ‘I don’t want Charlie’s money. What’s the worst Warren can do if I bring him back to my place?’

  ‘Charlie’s asked if he can give me power of attorney over his estate.’

  ‘Warren won’t be happy.’

  ‘You want a drink?’

  We settled on a red.

  ‘How can Warren be so horrible to his father?’ I said.

  So Shane told me how his parents used to despair at how hard Audrey worked. ‘She was always in the orchard, slaving to keep the family going. And Charlie was always painting with his music playing, not making any money. He was a big boozer back then, often sleeping in his studio, passed out. Mum told me when Warren was a kid he could be crying, hungry, whatever, and Charlie still wouldn’t pay him any attention.’

  The cat slinked through my legs and I quietly nudged it away.

  ‘Warren believes Charlie is using you,’ he said. ‘He always depended on Audrey to look after him. Then you came along. And now you’re running after him.’

  I moved in my seat, realising I wasn’t surprised to hear that. I’d already witnessed Charlie’s obsession with his painting, and his vanity, his glasses of scotch before lunch, his sad pleading eyes. Lately he seemed to have forgotten how to boil the kettle. Mostly now he sat waiting for me to make him a cup of tea. And I did.

  ‘Funny how it works out,’ Shane said. ‘Before Celia came along, maybe fifteen or more years ago now, Charlie didn’t sell much. She takes the lot. Warren told me she’s sold three this year.’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of that. I just want Warren to get off my case.’

  ‘Well, I guess he is,’ he said. ‘He’s left and I’m taking Charlie to a solicitor to sort out his finances.’

  The back door opened and Enrico and Sophie were coming inside.

  Shane stood. The meeting was over and I wondered what the hurry was. I’d not finished the wine; I took one final long sip.

  ‘Thanks for the shower.’

  He wiped his hand across his beard, a thinking pause. ‘I’m out and about, but the house is mostly unlocked, so if I’m not here just get on with it.’

  Later, when I was putting Sophie to bed, I missed a call from an unknown number. Then a message came through. It was from Charlie. He sounded distant, like the mic wasn’t close to his mout
h. Blondie is here. A girl from the vet dropped her off. I think she’s all right. There was a long pause, I could hear his slow breaths before the message ended.

  Charlie didn’t answer when I phoned him back. I tried a second time and he still didn’t pick up. I sent Shane a text telling him the good news and sat waiting for his reply.

  Then it came.

  I stared at the stupid emoji, and was happy. Blondie was safe, Charlie was going to come home and Shane had sent me a smiley face.

  The next evening, as we drove down the mountain to Charlie’s, the sky was striped with veins of opal, and to the west a canola crop shimmered like a yellow desert. We headed along the flats, past the horse studs and under the freeway overpass. We were ready for our next shower and had towels, toiletries and changes of clothes with us. A pot of heavy garlic-smelling spaghetti bolognaise was wedged between Enrico’s feet.

  The Venetian blind in the lounge room moved when we turned into the narrow driveway, then the front door opened and Charlie came out to greet us. He was unshaven and wearing the baggy tracksuit I had only ever seen him wear to bed. He looked pale, gaunt and very tired. Blondie stood in front of me and stared up with her dark eyes and pointy ears, as if she wanted to tell me something.

  Enrico and Charlie embraced.

  ‘Papa,’ Enrico said, ‘I have missed you very much.’

  We sat around his laminate table and Enrico served the meal. There was no music and the conversation didn’t flow between us, even though there was so much to say.

  ‘We’ve been dragging pruned canes from the orchard to the paddock near the dam,’ I said.

  ‘For the big bonfire,’ Enrico added.

  ‘And we’re having marshmallows,’ Sophie said.

  All Charlie wanted to know was when he was coming home.

  ‘The floors won’t be finished until Friday. Then we’ve got to get your furniture back. It’ll be early next week,’ I said.

  Charlie put his fork down.

  ‘What’ve you eaten today?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.

  ‘Are you taking your tablets?’

  He looked at me with those tired blue eyes.

  ‘Does it matter?’ I wandered around the unit. It was dark and drab, the worst punishment you could give an artist as a home. The light bulbs metred out a yellow glow and his big furniture cramped the space, but there was no colour or atmosphere. The spare room was his studio. His palette board was back in his actual studio, but even without it, I knew, he would never paint here.

  In the kitchen, Charlie was still seated, staring into his now cold tea.

  ‘Let’s pack your bags. Come back with us tonight. You can sleep in Sophie’s bed till your furniture arrives. She can sleep with me.’

  He shyly smiled, flashing a glimpse of his dimples. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘I don’t like you being here.’

  ‘Damn stupid, isn’t it? All this moving.’

  We drove back up the mountain watching a golden full moon play peek-a-boo behind the arched eucalypts along Josephs Road. My grip was light on the wheel and I was cruising at eighty, maybe ninety kilometres an hour with the headlights on high beam.

  From the left, the first thing I saw was its head and rising back. I braked as it smashed into the front bumper, a violent, loud thud. The kangaroo jumped in a dazed lopsided circle, then darted back from where it came and disappeared.

  ‘Bloody things,’ Charlie said and Enrico yelled a long sentence in Italian.

  I pulled over and stopped the car, sick about what this meant. I’d half-killed an animal and wrecked my car, another hit to my credit card.

  We stepped out onto the bitumen. Bracken and wattles filled the space between the road and Shane’s paddocks. It was cold. The white light from the headlights shimmered in the hazy air and along the road. I knelt in front of the car. Dead insects coated the smashed-in bumper and grille – a smaller dent was on the left fender. Water was dripping from the radiator. The solid, brutal thump of the kangaroo slamming into my car kept repeating in my head.

  I stood and looked around, thinking.

  ‘Call Shane,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll sort this out.’

  Sophie put her hand in mine. Enrico was in the bracken, calling for the kangaroo like it was a pet.

  I looked across to Shane’s place. In the moonlight, I could make out the shapes of his four chimneys and the tufty arcs of the big trees behind the hedge. He might be home. Or he might not. I pressed his number and he didn’t answer.

  ‘We must help it,’ Enrico said.

  ‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Charlie said. ‘You’ll never find it or catch it.’

  We were standing in the middle of the road arguing when pin dot headlights appeared in front, on the crest. We stood back, beside an oval-shaped granite boulder, and waited for the car to pass. The flash of a fox crossed the road; its redness was faint in the headlights. The lights grew and the white twin-cab stopped. It was Shane. The window slid down. His face was in moon shadow.

  I explained the accident.

  ‘You’ve got Charlie with you.’

  ‘He didn’t want to stay,’ I said.

  ‘You’re a softie.’

  Shane was framed in the open window, looking untouchable or distracted, I couldn’t quite tell which.

  ‘You’d better all climb in,’ he said, swiping his arm across the passenger seat, pushing things to the floor.

  When I was perched beside him, elevated a metre higher off the ground than in my car, I positioned my feet between a power drill and a mess of ropes.

  There was beer on his breath.

  ‘Charlie’s old Merc is in my shed near the stable,’ Shane said. ‘Drive that until you get yours fixed.’

  ‘Is it roadworthy?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with it,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Should do you for a week or so,’ Shane said. ‘Just go easy.’

  I settled Charlie into bed, then Sophie. When I finally put my head on the pillow, I couldn’t sleep. Somewhere out in the night was an injured kangaroo. Was it slowly dying? Or was it already dead? I put myself out in the darkness, stepping through bracken looking for it, but I was afraid. So I thought of something else, and one worry led to another. Money was now a problem. The excess on my car insurance would be five hundred dollars. And everyone else had their hand out – the blueberry distributor, the packaging company, the agriculture supplier. The supermarkets who would sell my blueberries wanted a cut before I had even sent them a single punnet. A compulsory certification course needed to be completed to prove my orchard was run properly – that every picker would be trained in hygiene, that no dangerous chemicals were used, that I had a tracking system to identify every day’s picking. Fair enough, but it cost two thousand dollars. I had started eating into the pickers’ money I’d set aside for the harvest. I lay there, staring into the wardrobe, wondering what to do. Perhaps I would get a second credit card. This growing debt was my big secret and I hardly dared calculate what I owed. And with all that going on, if the harvest for some reason failed I was in serious trouble.

  Sophie’s head was on the second pillow, and the length of my back felt cold, untouched. That association led me to Nick and I remembered him in our bed, skin on skin, sleeping entwined. But I would not go there, so I switched to Shane. Who had he been drinking with? Then Sophie sighed and turned onto her side and, somewhere about then, I drifted to sleep.

  19

  IN the morning, I walked through the cypresses to the orchard. Mist soundlessly fizzed off the ground and everything was calm and still.

  I was trying to identify the different blueberry varieties: Brigitta, Denise, Caroline and Northland. There were slight variations in the colours and shapes of the flowers and forming blueberries. Pale pink hues were developing on the base of some blueberries, but not on all bushes. I assumed some varieties ripened earlier than others and, if so, I wondered when the harvest would start. Charlie said sometime around mid-D
ecember, which was only ten weeks away. I wanted to know if there had been a deliberate planting pattern to make one variety run into the next so the harvest period was longer. Or did they all ripen around the same time? Perhaps the different varieties existed to assist in pollination? When I asked Charlie, he shook his head.

  ‘There’s different sorts, love. But don’t make it complicated – a blueberry is a blueberry.’

  During the months of pruning, I had marked some bushes with pink fluoro tape so I could assess different kinds of cutting and shaping. I wanted to understand if one way was better than another and I had photos and notes logged in my laptop.

  This morning I had blue fluoro tape to tie onto a few sample bushes I had identified as different. I would take photos and continue to develop my log, and if one variety performed better than another they would be the replacements for the couple of dozen bushes that had died. They would also be the variety I’d plant if I decided to expand the orchard.

  The cypresses threw a long shadow, so I walked to the bottom of the orchard where there was more light. I looked carefully at a bush and knew from a Google search it was sure to be a Brigitta. On the outside, but also hidden inside and underneath the bush’s skirt, were clusters of tiny green blueberries, like bunches of hard miniature grapes. There were single blueberries and pairs, as well as small groups of threes and fours. I wasn’t quite head-high to the bushes and couldn’t see into the next row, or across the expanse of the whole orchard. But I understood, in that moment, that there would be literally millions of blueberries growing in these twenty acres. The harvest might be all right. It might go well. I felt something rise up inside me – fear and excitement, and the revelation that nature knew its work and of its own accord somehow turned ten thousand dormant bushes – that required seven hundred hours of temperatures below 4C – into full-bodied, fertile blueberry mothers. It had nothing to do with me; I was just the orchardist, the caretaker. Standing there between Rows 48 and 49, I felt afraid of the responsibility I had as the keeper of this extraordinary thing unfolding all around me. And I remembered then the first time I had held Sophie, naked and bloody and wet, and I’d gazed down on her, in awe that somehow this beautiful creation had occurred.