‘Only one. I raised her on cow’s milk.’ Miki remembered the little white lamb in the kitchen, snuggled in a box near the stove. She’d named it Mary and fed it from the same bottle her mother had used when Miki was a baby. There had been something satisfying in that: the cycle of life, the versatility of reusing things instead of throwing them away. Her family had been good at that. They had to be creative with so little money.
‘You could relate to Bathsheba’s life on the farm, then?’ Geraldine said.
Miki smiled. ‘Not exactly. Bathsheba was rich, and we definitely weren’t.’
‘It’s hard for farmers, isn’t it?’ Geraldine picked up the book and flicked through it. ‘Any bits you didn’t like?’
‘Yes, the fire in the barn … I lost my parents in a house fire.’ This was the first time Miki had told anyone about her family, and she felt a tide of emotion rising under her skin. She looked away. She didn’t want condolences; they wouldn’t help.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Geraldine said.
Miki didn’t trust herself to look up.
‘Bathsheba lost her parents too. Like you.’
‘It wasn’t real.’ Miki was surprised by the harshness of her own voice. ‘Far from the Madding Crowd is a story. Thomas Hardy made it up. Bathsheba isn’t a real person. It’s not the same.’
‘I know,’ Geraldine said slowly, as if feeling for words. ‘But sometimes fiction can help us explore life. We can imagine how things might be in certain situations.’
‘I don’t want people imagining how it was to lose my parents in a fire,’ Miki said. ‘It’s too sad.’
Geraldine nodded. ‘Yes, good point—that did sound a little insensitive. I’m not trying to trivialise what you went through, Miki—it must have been terrible. What I’m trying to say is that books can help us to empathise with other experiences. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
Miki nodded, but she didn’t see at all. Why would you want to recreate suffering?
‘It’s a way of examining life and the world,’ Geraldine went on. ‘Books show us the lives of others, because we can’t live all those lives—we can only live our own. Books can take us back in time or into the future. They expand our thinking. They show us new worlds. That’s what fiction is, what it does. It’s so powerful.’
Miki smiled uncertainly, still confused. But Geraldine was right: Miki had learned through reading her books.
‘I thought Bathsheba would have benefited from the guidance of a mother,’ Geraldine was saying. ‘It might have helped her avoid several mistakes.’
‘Bathsheba needed to make those mistakes,’ Miki observed.
‘We all need to make mistakes,’ Geraldine agreed. ‘But it’s hard for a young woman without a mother, isn’t it? How do you cope?’
‘I miss my mother,’ Miki admitted. ‘She was my friend.’
‘I was thinking of other ways that mums are important. Like being there to talk to and ask questions about the world. Showing daughters how a woman should behave. Sharing information about feminine things.’
Miki blushed—she wasn’t used to speaking frankly like this. Mother had taught her that her body was sacred and that purity was important, but everything else had been shrouded in silence. When Miki had her first period at fourteen, Mother had handed her a bundle of rags. Miki thought she was dying until Mother explained it was her monthly fertility cycle. You’re carrying sacred eggs that could become babies and grow into God’s servants, like you. That was all Mother had said—the rest Miki had learned in the shop, listening to the women. She knew now that there was nothing sacred about her eggs because all women had them. She’d also heard about sex and condoms, diaphragms, the morning-after pill—the women discussed everything. It had been education by stealth, but Geraldine didn’t need to hear that. ‘I make do,’ Miki said.
Geraldine’s eyebrows lifted, but she let it go and Miki was grateful. ‘Bathsheba is a great character, isn’t she?’ Geraldine went on. ‘Different from Tess, but tragic in her own way. Her judgement wasn’t always good.’
‘Like not marrying Gabriel Oakes in the first place,’ Miki said.
Geraldine smiled. ‘Do you think they were ready for each other in the beginning? Bathsheba certainly wasn’t, wild young thing that she was. And did Gabriel have the maturity and understanding to handle someone like her?’
Miki thought about this. ‘Gabriel needed to learn about himself too. He was proud. He shouldn’t have assumed Bathsheba would say yes when he proposed.’
‘No. One should never assume. How do you think she handled herself when she inherited her fortune? It was certainly a change in circumstances, wasn’t it?’
Miki said, ‘Bathsheba was strong, even if she did make mistakes. She tried hard and that has to count. Trying is important. That’s how you learn.’ She was thinking how she would give anything to live and make mistakes rather than sit in the shop. Maybe she was making a mistake now, being here with Geraldine, but it felt good. Conversation made her feel larger and wiser.
‘What about Bathsheba’s love interests?’ Geraldine asked. ‘Did she conduct herself well?’
‘No.’
‘Foolish, perhaps.’
‘Yes. Sergeant Troy was bad and she couldn’t see it.’
‘Love is blind, they say. What about the way she treated poor Mr Boldwood? She ruined him, didn’t she? He was such a vulnerable soul.’
‘She shouldn’t have led him on.’
‘I agree. But how could someone like him keep themselves safe?’
‘He was who he was,’ Miki said.
‘You’re saying there’s no keeping safe?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Perhaps we all have to take risks, or we’d end up staying home and never experiencing anything.’ Geraldine looked at Miki pointedly. ‘Mr Boldwood was a little impetuous and far too passionate, but I suppose Thomas Hardy had to get rid of him somehow, or Bathsheba couldn’t have ended up with Gabriel. Prison was a dramatic place to put Mr Boldwood, don’t you think?’
‘Bathsheba married the right man in the end,’ Miki said. ‘I like Gabriel.’
‘A better ending than Tess?’
‘Happier.’
‘And we all like a happy ending.’ Geraldine pushed the book across the desk to Miki. ‘It’s yours to keep. Remember? I gave it to you.’
Miki didn’t know how to explain she couldn’t keep it. ‘We don’t have room for it at home.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Geraldine said, but in the quiet depths of her eyes Miki could see she understood. ‘I have another one for you.’ Geraldine produced a small thin book from her handbag and handed it to Miki: The Little Prince.
‘Thank you,’ Miki said. But she wasn’t quite sure what to think—the picture on the cover looked childish.
Geraldine smiled at her reticence. ‘Don’t be fooled. This book is magic. One of my favourites. For a little book, it contains a whole lot of wisdom.’ Her eyes shifted to a group of tourists, milling just outside the door. ‘Back to work,’ she murmured. Then she smiled at Miki. ‘Don’t get too wet out there or you’ll turn into a mushroom.’
At home, Miki curled up on the couch in front of the wood fire with The Little Prince. When she opened it, she felt a familiar thrill as she gave herself over to the story. Once when I was six years old, I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. This was a wonderful beginning; Geraldine knew she loved the forests and had hooked her with the very first line. It occurred to her that perhaps her friend wasn’t choosing books randomly.
She devoured the book in two hours, falling in love with the little prince and his fresh, unusual way of seeing the world. She could picture his tiny planet, which was ordered and predictable just like her shop. The prince loved his home and tended it carefully, just as Miki did hers. But he wanted more. His best friend was a rose, a demanding companion, and the prince felt burdened by her endless requests. He loved the rose. And h
e loved the beauty of the sunsets that he watched from his planet. But they were always the same, just as life in the shop was the same every day for Miki: always on the inside looking out.
Eventually, the little prince decided to leave his planet so he could discover the universe. He left behind everything he knew and loved to find what he needed and who he was. This was where the book had become exciting. The prince travelled to other worlds and met many strange people, and he learned something from each of them. He asked questions, searched for answers, made mistakes, nursed regrets. But he did it! And this was what Miki admired most. To find his own truth, the prince had left his cosy, habitual world. This had taken courage and Miki respected him for it. She feared for him during his journey, stressed over his vulnerability. Wept when, in the end, he faced death so he could return home to his rose.
She wanted this for herself too. Not to die, but to go out into the world in order to live. She wanted this even if, like the prince, she discovered in the end that everything she’d ever needed was already here. The prince had to confront the universe to know this, and she knew this was vital for her too. If someone had given the prince all the wisdom of existence in a box, he might have accepted it, but he wouldn’t have understood because he wouldn’t have lived it; he wouldn’t have felt the knowledge of it in his bones.
Miki yearned for knowledge too. She wanted to break away from the shop walls and windows. The key she’d taken from Kurt had given her freedom, but she wanted more. She wanted to make choices and to try things: school, study, friendships.
Even if she failed, she needed to do this. And, like the prince, she wanted to do it on her own.
18
‘Go on, Max. Get the ball. Get in there. Big kick. Big kick.’
Max was playing footy with the Devils and it wasn’t going well. He’d improved, practising with Leon, but he was having a bad day. And it didn’t help with Dad standing on the sideline shouting at him like that. He slipped in the mud, then he was down on the ground, and two boys ran over him, their studs digging into his leg.
‘Get up!’ Dad yelled. ‘You’re no use to anyone down there.’
Shut up, Max wanted to shout at him, just bloody shut up. But he couldn’t say it, because Leon had come along to watch too, and Max didn’t want to sound like an idiot. He picked himself up, scraped the mud off his jersey and flicked it away. Yuck.
‘Come on, Max,’ Mum called out. ‘Keep going. We can hose you off after the game.’
Max glanced over at Leon, who grinned and gave him the thumbs up. It made Max feel better. What was it that Leon had said when they were kicking balls over at his place the other day? Sometimes it all goes to shit no matter what you do. Yep. Max was having one of those days.
By now all the other kids had reached the far end of the field, and Max stumbled after them so he could join in again. He hadn’t quite caught up when the ball flew through the air and plopped in the mud at his feet. He couldn’t believe his luck—no one else was even close. He grabbed the ball and ran with it towards the goals.
‘Bounce it,’ Dad yelled. ‘Bounce the bloody thing.’
Max wasn’t going to try bouncing the ball because he knew it would stick in the mud and then someone would catch up and snatch it. He ran as fast as he could on the soggy ground till he heard the other kids gaining on him, then he took a shot for goal. It wasn’t a champion’s kick, but at least he remembered to hold the ball like Leon said and sink his boot into it. He stopped to watch the ball spin through the air. He could see it wasn’t going to make it as far as the goal, but he’d kicked it straight and that was good enough.
Then Dad was whooping and hollering because when the ball hit the ground it kept going, head over heels, and rolled between the goalposts. Max had his first-ever points on the board. He stuck his hands in the air like footy players on TV and sprinted around the oval high-fiving the boys in his team. Callum gave him a bearhug, and the other Devils were leaping up and down because Max’s goal had put them in front. They were winning.
Back in the centre of the field, waiting for the umpire to do the ball-up, Max looked at Leon and saw a huge smile on his face. Leon wasn’t standing with Dad and Mum; he was off by himself on the opposite side of the field. Max didn’t blame him—Dad was embarrassing. Max would have liked it if Leon could be friends with his family and come over to dinner, but Dad was always saying stuff about Parkie with a sneer in his voice, so Max knew he didn’t like Leon. Max did, though: Leon was the best adult around.
Max was still thinking about Leon when someone kicked the footy down the field, and he was left behind again. Sometimes this game got at him. All the running was annoying. Back and forth. Up and down. He hated it when he ran out of breath, and he hoped the game would be over soon so he wouldn’t have to run anymore. Maybe Dad would buy him a sausage sandwich for being a football superstar. He deserved it, didn’t he? His first goal of the season!
Now he was scoring goals, he could see himself playing for Hawthorn or Essendon when he was grown up. One time he’d overhead Robbo say that Dad used to have loads of potential and could have gone all the way if he hadn’t busted up his knee. Whatever had happened to Dad’s knee must have been serious to stop him playing for one of the big-time teams in Melbourne. Maybe Max could go all the way too. Then he could earn tons of money and buy food for Rosie and the pups, and keep them forever. He could also pay for cigarettes and not have to nick them for Jaden. Life would be a whole lot easier. Max couldn’t wait to grow up.
He didn’t have much luck for the rest of the game, but that was okay because he’d done his bit by scoring the goal, and his team was still in front. There wasn’t much time left anyway. A few minutes later, the umpire blew his whistle, and it was over. They had won!
Max was glad to stop. He went up and shook Leon’s hand because it seemed like the proper thing to do, like the footy heroes who won the Brownlow Medal each year.
‘Great work,’ Leon said. ‘You kicked the winning goal.’
Max hadn’t thought of that—he’d just been excited to kick his first goal.
Dad was watching him, so he went and shook Dad’s hand too so he wouldn’t get jealous of Leon. Max could tell from Dad’s smile that he was proud for once. ‘Good on you, my man,’ Dad said. Max was proud too.
He was so stoked about his goal he didn’t want to take his jersey off, even though it was covered in mud. It was like when the men played and got mud all over them. The more mud on their jerseys, the better they’d played—that was what Dad said. Leon was always muddy after a game, because he kept getting mushed on the ground. But he kicked heaps of goals too and never stopped running. Nobody on the men’s team ever said nice things to Leon, but maybe that was okay. It was a whole lot better than bad stuff; Max knew about that from Jaden and the school playground.
Dad was so pleased with Max’s goal he took him to the canteen and said, ‘What do you want?’ Normally, after a game, Dad stalked off and wouldn’t talk to him because he was too mad. Mum said Dad got cross because he was too damned passionate about the game. Dad said he just wanted Max to do well, and was that too much to ask?
Until Leon came along, footy had been terrible for Max, but now things had changed. Maybe Dad would be happier now that his son was a football champion.
Max took ages choosing what to have from the canteen. In the end he decided on a sausage sandwich, a can of Solo and a killer python. It was a bit greedy to ask for so much, but how many weeks had Max missed out when all the other kids got sweets? He shoved the python in his undies because he couldn’t carry everything in his hands; it would keep for later and didn’t take up too much room.
While Dad was buying the food, Mum and Suzie had wandered across to talk to Leon. Leon was laughing and Mum looked happy too. Max wondered if it was because of the goal he had scored. Then he felt worried because he didn’t know if he could ever do it again, and maybe he would never be a real footy star, and maybe Dad would be disappointed next week,
and maybe Max would wreck his knee in the mud and that would be the end of his great footy career.
Dad was talking to another parent, so Max went over to see Mum and Leon. When Mum kissed him on the head, he ducked away.
Leon laughed and patted him on the back. ‘You were in good form today. I knew you could do it.’
Mum was frowning. ‘Did you say thank you to Leon for coaching you?’
‘No need,’ Leon said. ‘He caught on really quick.’
‘Thank you, Leon,’ Max said in the same singsong voice he used at school to say good morning to Miss Myrtle.
Mum swiped him over the head, right where she’d just kissed him. ‘Cheeky bugger.’
‘He’s okay.’ Leon’s hands were in his pockets and he looked awkward. Max hadn’t realised Mum could make Leon feel that way, and he felt sorry for Leon. Hopefully Leon would kick goals today and win for the men’s team, so he would get some praise too.
On the way home, Mum dropped in at the takeaway to buy hot chips for lunch.
‘Hey, Max,’ Miki said, ‘how did you go today?’
‘We won. I kicked a goal.’ He felt himself grow a few centimetres taller.
‘Good for you.’
‘Leon’s been coaching him,’ Mum explained. ‘He’s good with kids.’
‘Yes, he seems very nice,’ Miki said.
Max noticed Kurt staring at Miki and looking unfriendly. Mum noticed it too; Max could tell by the way her smile faded into a frown. ‘Your brother could take a leaf out of his book,’ Mum said quietly to Miki. ‘Looks like he’s been eating lemons.’
Max knew Mum was trying to be funny, but Miki’s eyes went tight and she didn’t laugh.
‘You poor thing,’ Mum murmured. ‘Kurt needs to get off your back.’
At home, Mum wanted to put Max’s muddy jersey in the wash, but he wouldn’t let her because he wanted to wear it to the men’s game.
Mum shrugged and said, ‘You’re wet, and you’ll get cold in the wind.’ Max didn’t care. Six points he’d scored for his team today. He’d helped them to get their first win.
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