The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  Around the field, other team members were emerging from their cars: all twin-cab four-wheel drive utes with long aerials, which seemed to be the go around here. Leon tugged on the footy boots he’d bought that afternoon. The shoe shop in town had only a small range so it was lucky they’d had something resembling his size. As he squatted to tie his laces, some of the men jogged onto the field. Leon reminded himself this was just a small town and he should be able to hold his own here. When he was a kid, he didn’t do juniors because Bruny Island was too small for a competition, but he’d played at high school and university, and he was a pretty good winger. He was quick on his feet and had solid skills. Now, he felt a rush of excitement. He was actually looking forward to knocking a ball around again. He didn’t mind a bit of rough and tumble. And there was something therapeutic about putting yourself to the test. He ducked under the rail and headed across the field to join in.

  Shane was standing alone, sucking on a smoke. In tracksuit pants and a black raincoat, he wasn’t dressed for playing. When he saw Leon, he turned away, but Leon was relying on him for introductions so he strode up and offered his hand. Shane inspected it lengthily before shaking. ‘Thanks for taking this on for me—I appreciate it,’ Leon said, ignoring the snub.

  Shane sniffed, and Leon figured Wendy must have pushed him into doing this introduction.

  ‘You’re not playing?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Nah. Did a knee years ago. I’m a runner now. And I help out with training.’

  ‘Bad luck about the knee. Doctors can’t fix it?’

  ‘Nothing I can afford, other than tablets.’

  ‘I’ve been lucky with injuries,’ Leon said. ‘A few knocks to the head, but nothing serious.’

  Shane broke into a lopsided grin. ‘Concussion, eh? Explains a lot.’

  Leon smiled too. ‘How’s the team going?’ he asked. ‘Where are they on the ladder?’

  ‘Near the bottom. Tough competition this year.’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  Shane glanced at him then spat on the ground. ‘Got tabs on yourself, have you?’

  ‘No. But I’ll run my butt off. Maybe kick a few goals.’

  ‘Maybe, eh?’ Shane shook his head. ‘Let’s get this intro over and done with so we can get on with training.’

  The coach was a stubby man with an enormous belly and beard, and an even bigger voice. ‘Carn, you guys,’ he was yelling. ‘Get your arses into gear. You going to warm up or what?’

  ‘Hey, Robbo,’ Shane said. ‘This is the bloke I told you about. Leon Walker. Wants to try out for the team.’

  Robbo eyed Leon like a piece of meat. ‘Not very big, are you?’

  ‘No, but I can run.’

  ‘You’ll need to around here if you don’t want to get squashed.’

  Leon almost laughed. Robbo was a bowling ball crossed with a doughnut—what did he know about running? Shane had said Robbo drove the log truck Leon had often seen in the street: a big blue Kenworth. That was what you got from too much driving—a belly Humpty Dumpty would be proud of.

  Robbo called the team in, and the men stared at Leon. They were a mixed bag: a couple of oldies in their thirties still trying to keep up, the rest in their twenties like Leon. Beards were the go and most had tattoos. Beside them, Leon felt like a cleanskin.

  ‘Okay, fellers,’ Robbo said. ‘This is how it is. Walker here is trying out with us, and if he’s halfway decent we’ll let him in. We’ve had some injuries this season, so it won’t hurt to have another player on the interchange bench.’

  The men’s faces were hard, and Leon heard murmurs of Parkie and wondered if they were all loggers. Robbo did nothing to stop the whispers and Shane wasn’t saying anything, so Leon knew he’d have to show them he was good enough.

  Then the rain set in, sheets of it rushing across the oval. He was used to bad weather, but this was still going to be tough.

  Robbo sent them on a warm-up jog, and they took off, jostling, spitting and cracking jokes, rain needling their faces. Leon tried to hover at the edge of the pack, out of the way, but he wasn’t going to get off that easy. A big bald bloke called Toby bumped into him and almost knocked him down. ‘Ah, sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there.’ Toby’s arms and legs were a tapestry of tattoos. ‘Who do you barrack for?’ he asked.

  ‘Carlton.’ Leon had chosen the Blues when he was a kid, even though most of his mates went for Hawthorn. He had no idea why he’d done it, maybe just to be different. Now Toby roared with laughter, and Leon knew he was done for.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Toby yelled. ‘He’s a bloody Blues supporter. Fucken silvertails.’

  The team jeered.

  That set the tone for the session and there was no winning any favours. Leon worked hard, but no one would kick to him. They roughed him up, elbowed him, crashed into him, and wouldn’t handball to him even if he was right alongside. A blond bloke called Mooney took an instant dislike and shoved him into the mud at any opportunity. Mooney’s attitude was contagious, and by the end of training Leon was bruised and annoyed. One of the blokes proposed a visit to the pub, but they all avoided looking at him so he knew he wasn’t invited. Just as well, because to admit he didn’t drink would have been suicide.

  When they left, Leon stayed back to have a word with Robbo, who glared at him with little pig eyes and no smile. Leon asked, ‘Am I in?’

  Robbo shrugged. ‘Suppose so. We need you to make up the numbers.’

  It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Leon decided it was enough. He would prove himself out on the field.

  ‘How’s your fitness?’ Robbo asked.

  ‘Not bad. I’ve been lugging sleepers up in the park. They’re pretty heavy.’

  ‘You realise the other lads come first. They’ve been training all season, so you’ll be spending time on the interchange bench. The boys like to win. They don’t take kindly to losing the ball.’

  This was a bit harsh, given that nobody had passed to him tonight. ‘Sure, I understand,’ Leon said, ‘but I hope you’ll give me a chance.’

  Robbo wasn’t making any promises. ‘We’ll see how things go. Can you make it to the game on Saturday?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Leon shook hands and then left. But a surprise was waiting for him in the car park. While he’d been chatting to Robbo, the others had let down his tyres. At least he had a foot pump in the back, so he could sort things out. He supposed he’d better get used to self-rescue round here.

  His mum rang as he was filling the tyres. ‘How did footy go?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he grunted, pumping with his foot.

  ‘That’s great, Leon. I’m so proud of you, making a go of it there.’ He heard the smile in her voice.

  ‘Any more visits from Stan?’ he asked. He was concerned about the influence of his dad’s old drinking mate. She was quiet, and worry welled through him like a fast-moving tide. ‘What’s going on, Mum? Has Dad been up to his old tricks?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re good here.’

  Leon thought her voice sounded strained. He would only know for sure if he saw her in person. ‘Glad everything’s okay, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’d better go. It’s raining and I need to get home for a shower.’

  On Saturday when Leon rocked up at the footy field for his first game, spectators were setting up folding chairs around the boundary fence so they could get a good view of the action. He sat in his car a few moments, psyching himself up. The big tattooed bald bloke—Toby—was walking across the oval with a woman, presumably his wife, while four kids gambolled around them like a small herd of goats. That nasty piece of work, Mooney, was there too, arguing with a thin blonde woman while two little girls watched on. The way the man stood over his wife, it was clear to Leon that the treatment he’d received from Mooney at training wasn’t out of the ordinary. The guy was a prick. Leon would do his best to avoid him; he wasn’t scared of the man, he simply didn’t want trouble.

  Seeing Mooney’s behavio
ur bugged Leon so much, his nerves were replaced by fierce determination. But when he joined the team, the men stared at him blankly and he knew they didn’t want him there. For a microsecond he considered walking away, but he wouldn’t give up. This was his new beginning. No way was he going to quit. His dad would say, I told you so, and Leon wasn’t having that.

  Warm-up was the ritual jog round the oval then some stretches and sprints. Robbo was a hard taskmaster. He yelled and clapped and hurled abuse, especially at Leon. But as Leon jogged laps with the men, he realised it was all show. Sounding tough was about impressing the spectators who were watching from the boundary. Wendy was there, leaning on the rail with Max and Suzie. The little girl was dragging her doll around and Max was glued to his phone. As the team jogged by, Max looked up and waved at Leon. ‘Rosie had her pups,’ he yelled. ‘I saw them being born.’

  Leon gave him the thumbs up. ‘How many?’

  ‘Six. And she didn’t eat any.’ The kid hadn’t worked out that Rosie had always been a good mum. ‘Come and see them this afternoon,’ Max yelled.

  ‘Sure,’ Leon called back.

  Just before kick-off time, the men performed their final stretches. Then the umpire tramped onto the field. Leon was exiled to the bench, of course. Usually eighteen players were on the field and four on the interchange bench, and the coach subbed players on and off for a breather. Today, however, Leon was the only one on the interchange for his team, so they were seriously down on numbers and needed him more than they were letting on. He sat alone, perched on a plastic chair, telling himself that the best way to break into a town like this was through sport. Problem was, he could end up here for the whole game. He suspected Robbo would only use him if they were desperate. And if they let him on the field, he would have to pull out something spectacular, like walk on water. But he was up for it. He just had to stick it out.

  The siren sounded, the umpire bounced the ball and the game was on. From the start it was brutal, neither side taking any prisoners. Robbo shouted and swore from the boundary, brandishing his fist at the opposition, the umpire, even his own team. Bodies thumped and clashed, men sweated and cursed, and everyone grovelled after that slippery mud-coated ball. Even though it looked like war, Leon couldn’t wait to get out there. But as the minutes ticked by and his body cooled down, he realised he was just another spectator. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t much of a game anyway, more like rugby than footy—a form of legalised murder. He didn’t want to be killed or put in a wheelchair or smashed to a pulp. But excuses didn’t make him feel better; there was no glory to be had on the sidelines.

  At quarter time the men huddled on the field, bending over with hands propped on knees while Robbo yelled at them. They slugged from water bottles passed round by Shane, and jiggled their mouthguards and spat on the ground. Leon stood beside them and stretched, but he felt too clean. The men wore their mud and scrapes like badges of honour.

  The second quarter was even rougher, and when the other team pulled ahead, the local crowd hissed and booed. At halftime, in the clubroom, Robbo roared at the men to start scoring goals. They glared at Leon in his clean blue shorts; they didn’t understand how much he would give to get dirty.

  Shortly after half-time, Mooney was thumped in a terrible tackle. From the boundary Leon heard the air go out of him as he collapsed to the ground. Outraged, the locals screamed and swore at the umpire, demanding justice, and Leon thought a fight was going to break out, maybe two—one on the field and one among the spectators. The umpire finally stopped the game and Mooney was carried off, blood streaming from his nose, groaning like he was in labour.

  That was when Robbo looked at Leon. ‘You’re on.’

  Leon had to go out there cold, but he wasn’t going to pass up his chance. He jumped up and down a few times, did some quick stretches and jogged onto the field. The way the men looked at him, he wasn’t sure which team was going to give him a harder time.

  It was a battlefield out there. Nothing like schoolboy football. And nothing like footy in Hobart. Both sides were out to get him. Everyone crashed into him, and every collision hurt. Nobody looked for him. No one kicked or handballed to him.

  Battered and bruised, he charged through the field, determined to do something useful. When the ball flew near, he sprinted and clawed for it, still running, and then he was scrabbling. But it was okay. He was out there on his own. The ball was his.

  As he bore down on it, he heard heavy breathing on his tail. Without taking his eye off the ball, he snatched it into his hands, glanced up, looking for a pass, and tried to get his boot to it. Then something crashed into him and he slammed face-down in the mud. The breath whooshed out of his lungs and pain ripped through as a player thundered over, juddering him in his wake. Dogged, he thrust his feet under him and kept running. He had to be strong: they’d be judging him for this. But as he dug his toes into the mud and struggled to regain momentum, he saw a face scowling back at him and, with a jolt, he realised it was Toby who’d crunched him. Incensed, Leon burst after him, so angry he felt rocket-powered. But, before he could get close, Toby was brought down by a tackle around the neck from the other team. The opposition took possession, and it looked like they were going to score another goal—until Leon hammered in and snatched the ball again.

  Suddenly, miraculously, he was clear. He tore down the field, bouncing the ball every few strides. The players were after him, but they couldn’t get traction in the mud. Leon was in command of the ball. He sized up the goal, found his balance and swung his boot through. At the critical point of contact between boot and ball, his support foot slipped a fraction, but there was margin for error. The ball sailed through the air on trajectory for a goal.

  Then it wobbled in a gust of wind and clipped the goal post, dropping through for a point.

  Leon was crushed and so was his team. They were going for him, he realised. He’d almost made it.

  ‘That was fucking bad luck,’ Toby said. ‘We could have used a goal.’ He hoicked and spat on the ground, then grinned. ‘I suppose that’s what you’d expect from a Parkie.’

  11

  On the designated devil-trapping night, just before seven, Miki fetched her hidden key and unlocked the back door with shaking hands. She was wired with excitement. As she closed the door behind her and stepped into the blue light of evening her skin tingled with the sweet joy of freedom.

  It seemed she’d been waiting for this day forever: a window of light in her ordinary week. She hadn’t known until late whether she would escape or not. This morning she and Kurt had gone to the forest as usual, but when they came home Kurt had retreated to the storeroom under the shop and spent hours down there while Miki busied herself in the kitchen, lining up mugs in the cupboard, organising tins in the pantry, listening to him bang around and hoping he’d leave. All day, she had worried he might not go and her plans would be ruined. Maybe he knew about the key and was going to confront her. But nothing was said.

  It was a relief when he’d finally locked her in the house and headed to Hobart. She had been sitting in the kitchen ever since, waiting in her overalls with a fast-beating heart.

  Now, in the lane, she slid the key in her pocket and inhaled deeply. It was cold and dark, the air thick with wood smoke. Up towards the mountains, silver stars blinked in the indigo sky. She glided along the laneway, where a crouching cat inspected her with green eyes and clawed its way over the fence. The main street was quiet—nobody about; everyone must be home eating dinner and watching TV.

  Down the footpath she strode, springy with anticipation. But the visitor centre seemed deserted: the front door was locked, and only night-lights glowed in the windows. A wave of disappointment washed through her—maybe the whole thing had been called off. Around the back, a white Toyota LandCruiser stood in the car park, but the rear door to the centre was locked too. Unsure what to do, she waited for a few minutes.

  She was about to give up and go home when the back door opened. Geraldi
ne peered out, her face lighting up when she saw Miki. ‘Oh good. We were worried you couldn’t come. Dale’s here, and a Parks ranger too. His name’s Leon.’ She called back into the building. ‘Miki’s here.’

  Dale, the scientist, reminded Miki of a regrowth sapling: tall and thin with lined cheeks and wild grey hair. He was wearing overalls, and he nodded approvingly when he saw Miki’s outfit—for once she was wearing the right uniform. She accepted his handshake even though she knew Kurt wouldn’t like it.

  Leon grinned as Geraldine introduced him. ‘We’ve met before,’ he said. ‘Miki makes a mean burger.’ Miki noticed scratches on his face, a lump over one eye—maybe he’d been in a fight. Then she remembered hearing he’d played footy on Saturday. Every week the walking wounded boasted about their cuts and scrapes in the shop. Now Leon was one of them.

  Dale and Leon swung into the front of the Toyota while Miki and Geraldine sat in the back. It was awkward being with strangers—Miki was so nervous she almost forgot her seatbelt. The car smelled of vinyl and disinfectant. Behind the safety cage, mountains of gear had been packed: white pipes, plastic boxes and milk crates.

  At the tip, they all clambered out. It was still and cold, and the rubbish was stinky. The men stood beneath the fluorescent light, hands in pockets, surveying the territory.

  ‘I wouldn’t have picked this as a hangout for devils,’ Leon said. ‘What’s their usual habitat?’

  ‘Dry forest and coastal woodlands, but there are good pickings in tips. Plenty of food.’

  ‘There’s shelter too,’ Miki said. ‘Places to hide.’

  Dale’s eyes settled on her as she pulled a bag of meat from her pocket. ‘You feed them?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes they eat from my hand.’

  He smiled. ‘Devil woman!’