The Orchardist's Daughter Page 4

  She clambered onto the ute with an old straw broom to sweep off the remnants of rubbish, while Kurt climbed a pile of dirt to make phone calls. It was the same every Saturday; he would spend nearly an hour up there, attending to his business interests in Hobart. Often she would try to eavesdrop, but he kept his voice low and scowled at her if she came too close. Investments and decision-making were for men, he said. Women were destined to serve.

  Miki used this time to explore. Once the tray was swept, she took the torch from the ute and set off among the garbage. The stench of rotting rubbish was horrible, but she didn’t mind. She was outside, away from the shop, and the food scraps at the tip attracted plenty of wildlife. Coming here was a highlight of her week.

  As she wandered away from the ute, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she began to see small scurrying movements among the trash. When something rattled, she swung her torch to a spotty quoll dragging a piece of paper with its teeth. It froze in the light, eyes wide. Slowly, Miki pulled out a chunk of meat from the plastic bag in her pocket, and lobbed it towards the quoll, but it ran away, a shadow slipping over a mound. Then it reappeared, snatched the meat, gulped it down and glanced at her briefly before scuffling away again.

  Quolls used to visit the chicken coop on the farm, but they killed the chickens and ate the eggs, so Father and Kurt shot them. Miki hated that the quolls murdered chickens and left them strewn in bits across the yard, but killing quolls didn’t fix anything—they needed to eat too. After Kurt had shot the fourth quoll and strung it up on the fence, Miki had quietly spent a few afternoons roofing the coop with wire. She’d also filled the holes under the fence with rocks. Then there had been no more dead chickens or quolls.

  She liked the quolls and their pretty spotted coats, but the Tasmanian devils were her favourites. They used to visit the farm too; she would hear them at night, shrieking and growling like monsters up near the shed and off in the forest. Father always complained about the mess they made of the compost heap. Devils sounded large and frightening, but they were only the size of a small dog. Miki liked them because they were feisty. They had black fur, bulbous noses, pink ears and whiskered muzzles, and a family of them lived here at the tip: two adults and three young. There used to be more, but last year the other two adults had developed sores on their faces then disappeared. Miki had persuaded herself they’d run away, but she was afraid they might have died.

  Near the devils’ hangout, she squatted and made a line of meat scraps on the ground, then turned off her torch to wait. If the devils came out, she would ride on the thrill of it for a week.

  After a while she saw movement in the shadows and a black shape loomed from the darkness. It was the female devil; Miki recognised the white crescent moon on her chest. The devil loped closer and stopped, forepaw raised, then sniffed the air and yawned, wide jaws and white teeth. Three small black youngsters scuttled to join her and snuffed across to the meat, hissing and gurgling as they wolfed it down.

  Cross-legged on the dirt, Miki switched on her torch. The devils moved off a little, then the mother lay down and the young ones played around her like puppies, climbing over her, biting her face, ignoring her warnings. They were like children in the shop, Miki thought, scrapping over lollies, hitting their siblings, dragging at their mums. The mother devil growled at her babies, but she put up with their nips and bites and squabbles. Her patience made Miki think of her own mother because, unlike the devils, Miki and her mother had got along well—working together in the kitchen, kneading bread, churning butter, baking cakes. Evenings they’d sat by the fire knitting, while Father read aloud from the Bible and Kurt carved pieces of wood he’d found in the forest.

  Miki had been friends with her mother, but Kurt and Father had clashed frequently, arguing over everything—farming techniques, decisions, even minor procedures in the orchard. They were too much alike, Miki thought. Both keen for power.

  A new rattling sound in the rubbish announced the arrival of the male devil. He was making a grand entry, like most of the men Miki knew. He hissed loudly when he saw Miki, but quickly grew bold and moved in on the other devils, grumbling and complaining. The female tucked in her head and shrieked at him, like the mothers in the shop telling off their husbands. But the male devil yelled back, startling the little ones. He was like Father and Kurt. Bossy and overbearing. My way or the highway.

  The female devil took off with her young towards the rear of the tip while the male sniffed around in the torchlight. Miki saw scratches on his face and ears, a small sore on his lip—devils were always fighting. After a while he loped away, and soon she heard more screeching as he caught up with the others in the rubble. It sounded like a family argument, and Miki couldn’t help smiling. Maybe that was the way of all animals.

  4

  When Leon opened his door Sunday morning, Max was on the doorstep with a football under his arm. Leon was still busy cleaning, so it was a bit inconvenient. And from the slumped way the kid was standing, Max didn’t seem keen either—Wendy must have pushed him into coming over. But now Max was here, there was no dodging the fact that a ball must be kicked, and Leon had better make it fun—he was the one who’d invited the boy.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Front yard or back?’

  Max shrugged. ‘Somewhere Dad can’t see.’

  The slope of the block was a problem, but Leon figured the front yard was best because it was less visible from Shane’s shed. If he took the downhill side, he could stop the ball from bouncing onto the road. Not that much traffic came along here; after Leon’s place, the road turned to dirt.

  They found a suitable spot to one side of the woodpile that the delivery truck had dumped on the driveway yesterday. Leon was lining up his first kick when his phone rang. He dropped the footy to the ground, mouthed sorry to the kid and tugged the phone from his pocket. It was his mum.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said. ‘Everything okay at home?’

  She gave a small laugh. ‘Same, same.’

  ‘Great.’

  A pause. ‘Actually, do you know if we have any rat baits? I heard rats in the roof last night, so I’ll have to put some baits in the ceiling.’

  Leon felt bad. This was a job he usually did for her. ‘There’s a box of baits in the cupboard out in the garage. Any chance Dad could help you?’

  ‘He’s not strong enough to get out of bed.’

  ‘Sorry I can’t do it for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Leon. I can manage. I’m not completely incapable, you know.’

  Leon smiled. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. That’s it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be off then. I’m playing footy with the boy next door.’ He slotted his phone in his pocket and picked up the ball.

  ‘Let’s start with handballing,’ he said, knocking the footy to Max.

  The kid managed to catch it, but his body language smacked of self-doubt, and Leon knew it would take some work to build up his confidence. He punched another easy pass, and this time Max fumbled the ball to the ground and was immediately downcast. ‘See,’ he said, ‘I told you I’m useless.’

  ‘No, you’re not. There’s a better way to hold your hands so you can catch it. Like this.’ Leon showed him. ‘Now let’s try again.’ He stayed close and passed short, looping balls that were simple to catch.

  After a few successes, Max’s face started to light up. Then he dropped one again and kicked at the grass. ‘Bloody ball. It’s such a stupid shape.’

  ‘Yes, it is. But we can’t change that, so we just have to go with it. When the ball hits the ground, you have to guess which way it’s going to bounce—that’s half the fun. Sometimes you get it right. Sometimes you get it wrong. And when you get it wrong, you just have to laugh. Now pass the ball back to me.’

  Max punched it high, and Leon feigned a miss. He let the ball bounce and did a dive to the wrong side, allowing the ball to roll down the hill. Then he leaped up and raced after it, scooping it up and punching a high lob ba
ck to Max, who was laughing. ‘Get under it,’ Leon called. ‘That’s the way. Get your arms ready and it won’t hurt.’

  The boy seemed to surprise himself by gathering the ball to his chest.

  ‘See?’ Leon said. ‘When you get your hands right and get in position, it isn’t so hard.’

  They worked on handballs for a while, Leon gradually increasing the distance between them and the difficulty of the passes, so Max caught most of them and missed just a few. Then they moved on to kicking. Leon punted a short ball, which Max marked easily. Then the boy took hold of the ball, screwed up his face and rammed his foot at it, sending it curving and spinning way off to one side. Leon tried to defuse the kid’s dismay by clowning around, but the bad kick was obviously a blow to Max’s pride and Leon could see he was ready to go home.

  ‘Hang on,’ Leon said. ‘Let’s not finish like that.’ He retrieved the ball and demonstrated the best way to hold it, hands wrapped around the contours, fingers spread. ‘I’m going to show you some tricks. And if you’re willing to work with me each day, then you’re going to improve.’

  ‘How soon?’ Max asked, bottom lip jutting.

  ‘A couple of weeks.’

  ‘What if I can’t come every day?’

  ‘Then it might take a bit longer.’

  The boy nodded. ‘Show me again and I’ll have another go.’

  Leon set the kid up, and Max booted the ball over the fence and ran home after it, happy to be let off the hook.

  Neighbourly duties completed, Leon strolled down the street to buy lunch. Last night’s burger had been tasty, and there had also been that chocolate frog—he hadn’t had one of those since he was a kid. The man behind the counter hadn’t been friendly, so the girl must have given it to him. Had it been a mistake?

  The takeaway shop was halfway down the street between the supermarket and the bank. Mullers Takeaway in yellow capital letters on the front window, and beneath that: Good Food Fast. Inside, it seemed very ordinary. Bain-marie and high counter. Salad bar. Stainless-steel fryers and fume hoods. A few tables and chairs. Fridges stacked with drinks. The mandatory racks of chips, chocolates and lollies. But that was where the ordinary ended and the unusual began. On shelves above the magazine rack were tubs of honey for sale, and carefully laid-out knitted goods with prices pinned to them—beanies, tea-cosies, socks, booties, doilies, baby clothes, tiny little dresses and jumpers, stuffed toys—the kind of things his grandma would have made when she was still alive. Leon had seen craft like this in country stores before, but never in a takeaway shop.

  He scanned the chalkboard menu to see if he’d missed anything last night, but it was the usual takeaway fare: fish and chips, burgers, steak sandwiches, pies and sausage rolls. In the bain-marie: slices of battered pineapple, crab sticks, potato cakes, Chiko rolls. An array of salads at six dollars for a medium tub, nine dollars for a large. The young woman from yesterday was behind the counter, staring at him boldly with big blue eyes. Leon felt awkward. She looked very young—a teenager—with few social skills, apparently. And she was wearing a long, heavy, old-fashioned skirt and a shapeless pink blouse tucked in at the waist, like someone from a bygone era, plaits twisted on top of her head like a halo. ‘Who’s the knitter?’ he asked, pointing at the shelves of woollen goods.

  ‘Me,’ she said.

  This struck him as strange. Most teenagers were into phones, not knitting needles.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked, wiping her hands on an apron tied round her small waist.

  ‘I’ll have fish and chips. What kind of fish do you have?’

  She indicated the board. ‘Flake, trevalla and flathead.’

  ‘Anything fresh?’

  ‘No, but the flake is good.’

  ‘I don’t want to eat shark. They’re overfished. I don’t want to support that.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Maybe you could try the flathead. It’s usually nice.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll have that.’

  She measured out a serve of chips and dipped the fish in batter before lowering it into the fryer. ‘You were here last night, weren’t you?’ she said, turning back to him.

  ‘Yes, the burger was good. Oh, hey, and thanks for the Freddo.’

  ‘Did the chocolate melt?’ She seemed concerned about this.

  ‘No. It was fine.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Do you do give frogs to everyone?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘Well, if we’re on a chocolate-frog basis, I’d better introduce myself. I’m Leon. I’ve just moved into town.’

  ‘I’m Mikaela,’ she said. ‘But you can just call me Miki.’

  ‘Hey, Miki. Nice to meet you.’

  She gave a small smile and swivelled to check the fish and chips.

  ‘What’s it like living around here?’ he asked.

  She glanced to the rear of the shop as if she was expecting someone. ‘I like it,’ she said quietly. ‘The forest is nice. And the sky walk is supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘You haven’t been? Isn’t that the main attraction around here?’

  ‘My brother hasn’t taken me yet. Maybe one day.’ She turned back to the fryer and gave his order a shake.

  ‘That guy yesterday was your brother?’

  ‘Yes. Kurt.’

  ‘What do you do when you’re not working? Are you still at school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wow, you look young to have finished.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But you went to school around here?’

  ‘No. I was home-schooled.’

  Leon couldn’t get his head around this. ‘All the way through?’

  ‘I stopped when I was sixteen, when we came here.’

  She turned pink, and Leon wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  She drained the oil from the frying basket and turned his fish and chips onto paper. ‘Salt?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She flicked it on, added a few slices of lemon, then wrapped the order with deft hands. There was a noise out the back, and she cast an anxious glance towards the rear door as it opened and her brother came in. Leon hadn’t realised yesterday what a big guy he was, intimidatingly tall with hair cut short and eyes wide apart. He was muscular—maybe he worked out—and right now he was clearly unhappy. He glared at Miki, who dropped her eyes and picked up a cloth to wipe down the bench. Leon felt himself being inspected too, and knew he’d been judged and found lacking. But he met the big man’s eyes and would not look away.

  ‘Hurry up, will you?’ Kurt grunted at Miki. ‘You’re taking forever.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Leon said. ‘We’re done. I’m just heading out.’ Miki took his payment, her brother watching like a hawk guarding prey. It was unsettling. Leon pocketed his change and smiled at her as if nothing was out of the ordinary. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you another time.’ Poor kid. Her brother didn’t cut her much slack.

  He ate his fish and chips on a bench seat further down the street, surprised to discover Miki had given him two pieces of fish when he’d only paid for one. He couldn’t work out when she’d added the extra. Hadn’t he been watching her batter the fish? He was sure he’d seen her every move.

  While he was eating, Max came down the street with Rosie, whose belly seemed even bigger today. The kid tied the dog outside the takeaway, went inside and came out with a bulging bag of lollies. Leon waved, but Max didn’t see him—he was too busy plunging a hand in the bag to pull out a sweet.

  Two other boys arrived while Max was untying the dog: a skinny kid like Max, and an older boy with a pimply face. When the bigger boy tapped Max on the shoulder, Max gave him a handful of lollies. Then Max high-fived the smaller boy and took off up the street with the dog.

  Something about Max’s rapid departure made Leon think he didn’t like the big boy. Looking at his smug face, Leon decided he didn’t like him either.

&nbs
p; 5

  The old people’s home where Grandpa lived was down by the water, a fifteen-minute drive from Leon’s new town. It was an imposing building that overlooked the wide silver stretch of the river: a view probably wasted on a good portion of its inhabitants. Leon felt bad that he hadn’t visited in years, but he hated the place. It was the smell. When he opened the door, there it was: the stench of disinfectant, musty clothes and sour skin, exactly the same as last time. He hated the decor too—it tried hard to be cheery but was fake and depressing, just one step away from a hospital.

  In the foyer, he realised he’d forgotten the way to Grandpa’s room, so he had to ask at reception. The woman behind the desk was plump and middle-aged. Her name tag read Maryanne, and she was all red-lipstick smiles as she led him down the corridor. Leon ran a hand along the railing, which was there to help shipwrecked oldies who’d lost their sea legs. The walls were white, and it was deathly quiet. Was anyone alive in here? Maybe they were sleeping. Maybe it was that time of day.

  Maryanne pointed out Grandpa’s room, then retreated, her dimples deepening. ‘He’ll be so happy to see you.’

  Leon tapped on the door. No answer. He knocked louder; Grandpa was a bit deaf. Still no response, so he opened the door and peered in. There was the old man, hunched on a large armchair with a checked woollen blanket tucked round his knees. He was thinner than Leon remembered, and his eyes lit up at the sight of a visitor. ‘I thought I heard someone. Is that you, Leon?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s me, Grandpa.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  The room was as bland as a motel suite. Leon hoped never to live in a place like this, but Grandpa didn’t seem to mind. After Grandma died, years ago, he hadn’t coped on his own, so he’d moved in here where his meals were cooked and his washing was done and there was help if he needed it. It suited him, Leon supposed.

  Grandpa was chuffed to see him and kept shaking his head. ‘It’s been a long time. Come closer, boy. Let me have a look at you.’ He examined Leon through Coke-bottle glasses. ‘You haven’t grown any.’