The Orchardist's Daughter Page 2

  ‘Is the house all right?’ his mum asked.

  He couldn’t tell the truth or she’d be here tomorrow, trying to fix things, calling a friend to find him some furniture. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Everything’s great.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ She sounded relieved. ‘Hope all goes well at work on Monday. And don’t forget to visit Grandpa. I told him you’d drop in, so don’t leave it too long.’

  Three years had passed since he’d visited the old man, so rocking up now would be awkward. Leon felt guilty. It was easy to forget people in aged-care homes, easy to assume they had all they needed: food, assistance, other ancient friends. But he’d learned a little about old people last year. He’d befriended an old lady on the island and checked on her every day, providing groceries and occasional conversation—a small commitment he’d been able to manage. She’d been interesting, full of tales of the past, lighthouse stories. And he’d realised old people had many memories to share. Maybe he could get Grandpa talking. Who knew what skeletons the old man might have in his closet? And Grandpa might be able to shed some light on why Leon’s dad had turned out so badly. There was no love lost between the two men; Leon’s dad never rang the old man. It was another fraught and fractured father–son relationship. The world was littered with them.

  ‘Don’t forget to eat properly,’ his mum was saying. ‘And you’ll have to find a laundromat. You should change your clothes every day.’

  ‘Mum, you don’t need to worry. There’s a laundromat in town.’

  ‘I miss you, Leon. Come and see us sometime.’

  Four hours since he’d left, and she was already inviting him back. ‘I’ll come when I can. But it’ll be a few weeks. I have lots to organise.’

  ‘All right then. I suppose I’d better let you go. Don’t forget your lunch.’ She’d made vegemite and cheese sandwiches on white bread, just like for school.

  ‘See you, Mum.’

  He fetched his sandwiches and sat on the front doorstep. The neighbours’ dog came to the fence, weaving through bikes and balls on the lawn. It growled at him, ears pricked, hackles raised. In the backyard, a woman with streaky blonde hair was hanging washing on the line, and down the back in the tilt-door garage, a skinny man with jeans that sagged off his bum was tinkering with something at the workbench, the pre-game footy commentary blaring on the radio. Leon could hear them talking over the din: the wife paying the husband out. ‘What are you doing, Shane, making love to that chainsaw? You’ve been working on it all day.’

  ‘Chain’s stuffed and I only sharpened it Thursday.’

  ‘Buy a new one then. Don’t cost much, do they? Chain or smokes, you choose.’

  ‘Smokes. Can’t do without them.’

  ‘Can’t do without a chain either, can you? Or we’ll have no money at all.’

  ‘I’ll try sharpening this one again first.’

  A scruffy boy in a footy jersey came pumping up the hill on a bike, no helmet. He wheeled the bike through the gate next door, dumped it on the grass then ran inside, reappearing soon after with a pack of chips in one hand and an iPhone in the other, the dog panting at his heels. He came to the fence and looked over at Leon. He was thin with a mop of mousy brown hair, hollow cheeks, pale skin.

  ‘Hi,’ Leon said. ‘How are you going?’

  ‘Good. Who are you?’

  ‘Leon.’

  The boy opened the chips and pulled out a handful, which he shoved in his mouth while the dog ogled him hopefully.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Nice dog.’ The dog curled its lip and snarled.

  ‘She’s Rosie,’ the boy said, stroking the dog’s back. ‘She’s Dad’s dog, not mine. Dad takes her up to the forest to guard his ute against greenies. He wanted a boy-dog but Mum said we had to have a girl because boy-dogs piss on everything.’

  ‘You like dogs, don’t you?’ Leon said.

  ‘They’re okay.’

  Max ran a hand over Rosie’s head while she panted up at him.

  ‘She likes you,’ Leon said.

  ‘That’s because I feed her chips.’

  ‘What’s with her teats?’

  ‘She’s had pups before. But she ate them.’

  That didn’t sound likely. Was the kid having him on? ‘Why don’t you get her spayed if she’s no good as a mum?’

  ‘Costs too much.’

  Leon wondered how many litters the dog had delivered. More than one, judging by those dangly teats. Looking at the size of her belly, another one was probably on the way. ‘How old are you?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘You’re tall for ten.’ The kid stood up straighter. ‘You play footy too.’ Leon pointed at the kid’s jersey. ‘What’s your team called?’

  ‘The Devils.’

  ‘How did you go today?’

  ‘We lost.’

  ‘That’s too bad. But you can’t always win.’

  ‘We never win.’

  ‘Bad luck, eh?’

  ‘Dad says it’s nothing to do with luck. He says it’s because we’re crap.’

  ‘Nobody’s good when they’re ten.’

  ‘Callum’s brother Jaden is good.’

  ‘Is he ten?’

  ‘No, twelve.’

  ‘You’ve got two years to get good then.’

  Max shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m useless.’

  Those were Max’s father’s words, Leon was sure of it. He could almost hear them echoing across the backyard. It reminded him of kicking footies with his dad down on the beach. His dad would yell at him whenever the ball bounced into the water: Go get it out. Can’t you kick straight? But most of the time they’d had fun knocking a ball around together—it was the way they’d connected when Leon was small. Fishing hadn’t worked because he kept tangling the line and losing his tackle on the rocks, so footy had been their best currency. Pity it didn’t work anymore. ‘I’m all right at footy,’ he said to Max. ‘I can help, if you want. A bit of practice and you’ll improve really fast.’

  Max shrugged and put his phone on a fence post so he could eat more chips. ‘Are you going to live in that house?’

  ‘Yep. I moved in today.’

  ‘It’s haunted, you know. Mrs Westbury died in there. Someone was supposed to check on her, but they forgot. Dad noticed the stink and called the cops. They said she was rotten. Like soup.’

  Leon imagined the old lady dead in bed. A heart attack in the middle of the night? Or had she faded slowly away, waiting for help? It was sad no one had been looking out for her. Maybe it was better to be in a home like Grandpa. But, then again, maybe not—Leon hated the hospital-feeling of those places. Maybe Mrs Westbury had preferred to die in her own bed.

  A small girl carrying a baby doll emerged from Max’s house and came across the lawn. She was brown-eyed, dark-haired and snotty-nosed with a jagged home-cut fringe and a finger up one nostril. Obviously Max’s sister: same face shape, same jaw.

  ‘This is Suzie.’ Max knocked the little girl’s hand from her face. ‘Stop picking your nose.’

  The blonde woman was watching from the clothesline—she must have heard them talking.

  Leon smiled and waved. ‘Hi, I’m Leon. Just having a chat with your kids.’

  She lit a cigarette and came over. Up close, Leon saw she was younger than he’d thought, not much older than him, only she’d lived harder and had kids. With her blonde hair and blue eyes, she was actually quite pretty, but she looked worn out. ‘I’m Wendy,’ she said, squinting at him through a curl of smoke. ‘You moving in, are you?’

  ‘Yeah. Six-month lease. Just got a new job.’

  ‘Forests?’

  ‘No. Parks. I’m a ranger.’

  There was a short silence and Wendy’s lips tightened. ‘My husband’s a logger. Cuts trees on slopes where machines can’t go.’

  That would explain the chainsaw, Leon thought. ‘He’s a
rare species then. Not too many using chainsaws these days.’

  Her mouth twisted. ‘You know something about forests?’

  ‘Family history. We go way back. My grandpa was a logger on Bruny Island, and his father before him, and so on. Dad worked at the mill till he nearly cut off his hand.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been hard on him. Hard on Mum too. Dad hates being on a pension. He’d rather be earning a proper wage.’ Leon couldn’t believe he was telling Wendy all this. And why was he defending his father? ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’ll be cleaning loos and emptying bins.’

  Wendy dodged his eyes and passed a hand over her daughter’s head. ‘I’d better get the kids in for some lunch. And you have to clean up your room, Max.’

  As she herded the kids away, Leon spotted Max’s phone, still sitting on the fence post. ‘Max,’ he called. ‘You’ve left your phone. Better grab it in case it rains.’

  Wendy clipped Max on the arm. ‘If you don’t look after that phone, I’m taking it back.’

  The boy slouched to the fence and scooped the phone from the post. ‘It’s not going to rain today anyway,’ he grumbled.

  Leon felt sorry for him. ‘Bring a footy over sometime and we’ll have a kick.’

  The kid nodded.

  Wendy was watching from the front porch, and Leon thought perhaps there was a glimmer of surprise on her face. She slung an arm around Max’s shoulders and guided him inside. Leon heard her say, ‘How about that, Max? We can get Dad to pump up your footy.’

  When they closed the door, Leon was alone again—except for the dog, which looked at him and wagged its tail.

  He didn’t trust it. He didn’t know much about dogs, but he knew one thing: they could look like friends and then bite your hand off.

  2

  Max didn’t want to tidy his room, because that was boring. He couldn’t see the point when he was just going to mess it up again. Mum kept going on as if it was important, but the rest of the house wasn’t tidy. Not like Robbo’s house down the street. His wife, Trudi, kept everything neat. Just like a display home, Mum always said. Mum reckoned Trudi had nothing else to do because she didn’t have kids and only worked part-time. But Mum didn’t work at all, so she should have had plenty of time. Max sometimes wondered what she did all day. He and Suzie weren’t hard to look after, so why couldn’t she clean his room for him? Max had other stuff to do. Like take the dog for a walk.

  He liked taking Rosie for walks on weekends to get away from Mum. He was sick of all the jobs. Pick up your bike. Put the balls away. Dry the dishes. Put out the rubbish. The rubbish was Dad’s job, only he never did it. And why couldn’t Suzie put the balls away? It was easy. And why did he need to pick up his bike anyway? He would use it again tomorrow.

  He went out to the shed to get Rosie’s lead.

  Dad was still working on his chainsaw and he looked grumpy. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said, cigarette bobbing on his lip.

  ‘For a walk with Rosie.’

  ‘No, you’re not. It’s nearly lunchtime.’

  Max dropped the lead on the f loor. Rosie would be disappointed; she was watching him with her tail wagging and her mouth in a big happy smile. ‘Later,’ he said to her. ‘Dad says we can’t go now.’

  Dad shot him a look, but Max just mooched back to the house.

  In the lounge room, the TV was on as usual—Mum never turned it off. She said the sound of voices kept her company when no one else would talk to her. Max couldn’t understand it. She was on her phone doing Facebook all the time. Wasn’t that talking to people? Dad was in the forest all day, so of course he couldn’t talk to her. And Max was usually at school. When he was home she kept giving him jobs, so he didn’t have time to talk either. And Suzie was only little, so all she did was whinge and cry. What did Mum expect? She should talk to Rosie. You could say anything to dogs and they just listened.

  He threw himself on the couch but there was only boring stuff on TV. Car racing and other sports. Max was sick of sport. Mum was banging plates and pots in the kitchen, cooking sausages for lunch—Max could smell them. She popped her head in at the door. ‘You ready to eat? Go tell your dad and Suzie.’

  Max sighed. Couldn’t she see he’d just sat down? He was tired. All that running round at footy this morning. Up and down the field. Never getting the ball. Always losing. He was over it. Adults said winning wasn’t everything, but Max knew losing was nothing. He could tell by the way Dad turned away from him after the game. Dad didn’t have time for losers.

  Lunch was quiet to start with. Dad served himself first because he was man of the house. Then Mum made a sausage sandwich for Suzie, and Max had to wait even though he was starving. When Mum gave him the nod, he grabbed a bit of bread and a sausage and squirted on tomato sauce.

  ‘Go easy,’ Mum said. ‘You don’t need that much.’

  Dad frowned. ‘Who do you reckon’s paying for that sauce?’

  Dad ploughed through four sausages, but Max didn’t have space for more than two. Then Dad asked him to get a beer from the fridge. He said it all bossy like Max was his slave. Max got up slowly and fetched a can of Cascade for Dad, who opened it and took a swig.

  ‘Who’s that new bloke next door?’ Dad asked Mum.

  ‘Name’s Leon,’ Mum said.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Parks ranger.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Dad groaned. ‘I don’t need a neighbour like that. He’d better not expect me to be nice.’

  Max wasn’t sure what sort of neighbour Dad thought Leon was. Dad hadn’t even spoken to him yet.

  ‘He seems okay,’ Mum said. ‘He offered to help Max with footy—didn’t he, Max?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Max was surprised Mum was saying good stuff about Leon. She hadn’t been nice to him when they were talking; she hadn’t even looked at him. That was what she always told Max to do: Look at someone when you’re speaking to them. But she didn’t do it with Leon.

  Dad wagged a finger at Max. ‘Don’t you go talking to strangers.’

  What did Dad mean? It wasn’t like Leon was going to kidnap Max or something. And he was more interesting than old Mrs Westbury.

  Mum said to Max, ‘Ignore your father. Leon’s all right. You should go over tomorrow. Take a footy.’ She looked at Dad. ‘Can you pump up a ball for him?’

  ‘If I can find one. Can’t find anything in all that long grass.’ Dad was making another sausage sandwich. He squeezed on tons of sauce.

  ‘What are you doing after lunch?’ Mum asked Dad.

  ‘Working on the chainsaw, then I have to go to the footy.’

  ‘You said were going to mow the lawn.’

  ‘No time today. Max can do it.’

  ‘But I’m taking Rosie for a walk,’ Max said. ‘And I can’t start the mower.’

  ‘I’ll start it up for you,’ Dad said. ‘You can take Rosie later.’

  Max was sick of later. He hated mowing the lawn—that meant he had to pick up all the bikes and scooters and balls. Or maybe he could just mow around them. Wouldn’t that be good enough?

  Dad stood to go, but Mum said, ‘What about all the other jobs you were going to do this weekend?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘But you were going to fix the drain and help with the shopping. And the toilet’s not flushing properly.’

  ‘Kids use too much toilet paper.’

  ‘It needs to be sorted.’

  ‘Call a plumber.’

  ‘And pay with what money?’

  Dad headed for the door.

  ‘If you’re not going to help, I’m not cooking tonight.’ Mum’s voice was getting louder. ‘I’m on strike. You’ll have to cook.’

  The door banged behind Dad. ‘It’ll be takeaway then,’ he yelled.

  ‘Save some money and cook instead.’

  ‘I’m saving money by fixing the chainsaw.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll still be fixing it tomorrow.’ Mum was screeching
now, and Max covered his ears. He hated them arguing. Always about money. That’s why Max liked hanging out with Rosie. Dogs didn’t make you do jobs or argue or tell you what to do. They were warm and happy and fun. The more he thought about it, the more he liked dogs better than people.

  ‘Your dad’s bone-lazy,’ Mum muttered. ‘Always tomorrow.’ She pointed at Max. ‘Don’t you grow up like that.’

  ‘I don’t want to do the lawns,’ Max moaned. If he sounded sad enough, maybe Mum would do it for him.

  She shrugged. ‘No one else to do it. You’d better pick up those bikes first. I don’t want a patchy job like last time. And don’t forget to tidy your room.’

  Max finished his sausage and went to his room. He stuffed his pyjamas under the pillow then tossed some toys in the cupboard and shut the door. Hopefully Mum wouldn’t look in there. If the floor was clear, that might be enough. He took some pocket money out of the drawer before fetching Rosie’s lead. They would go down to the shop and buy lollies. That would make him feel better.

  But Dad had the mower out and was checking the fuel. ‘Empty,’ he said. He pulled the fuel can from the shelf and shook it, but it was empty too. He shoved the can at Max. ‘Go and get it filled up at the servo.’

  ‘It’s too heavy,’ Max said.

  ‘Take Suzie’s pram. You can wheel it back in that.’

  ‘Please, Dad, can you fill it up? Kids aren’t allowed.’ Max didn’t want to be seen with Suzie’s pram. Everyone would laugh. Suzie shouldn’t have a pram anyway—she was big enough to walk.

  Dad opened his pack of cigarettes and took one out. ‘Haven’t got time to get fuel today,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow.’

  That sounded good. Mum might not like it, but Max hoped Dad would forget and then Max wouldn’t have to do the lawns. He grabbed Rosie’s lead, and she trotted up, ready to go. He snapped the lead onto her collar.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dad said.

  ‘Taking Rosie for a walk.’

  ‘Make sure you’re back in time for the game.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Bad luck. You’re coming. You can watch the big blokes and learn.’