The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  Max went into the shop. No one else was there. Only Miki behind the counter. This was better than Kurt.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’ He mooched around, looking at the fridge and the shelves. Then he checked out the lollies and chocolates and bags of chips. How was he going to do this?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Miki asked. ‘It’s so sad about the pups.’

  Max ducked his eyes away. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t give one a home. But I heard Leon’s got one. That’s nice. Can you go over to see it?’

  ‘Yeah, every day. I’m helping him train her.’

  ‘I bet that isn’t easy.’

  ‘Yeah, she just wants to play. She misses the others.’

  ‘I bet you miss them too.’

  Max did, but right now he had other things on his mind. He scanned the shelves as if he was going to buy something.

  Miki watched him. ‘Can I help?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘No thanks. Just having a look.’ He peeked out the window and saw Jaden and Callum still waiting across the road. Why couldn’t they just go away? He took a can of Coke from the fridge and put it on the counter. ‘How much is this?’

  ‘Three dollars.’

  He pretended to feel for money in his pocket. ‘I haven’t got that much.’

  ‘How about a packet of chips?’

  He shook his head. ‘Haven’t got enough for that either.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re not having much luck today, are you?’

  She was right. Max didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t go back outside with nothing. Maybe if he kept talking to Miki she might get distracted, and then he could nick something. ‘What days are you shut?’ he asked.

  ‘Monday and Tuesday.’

  ‘I’ll tell my mum. She asked me to check.’ This was a lie and Miki knew it—Max could tell from her face. ‘Why do you wear those plaits on your head?’ he asked.

  Miki touched her hair and her cheeks went pink. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always done it. My mum wore her hair this way too.’

  She turned away to check the fryer, and Max took his chance. He grabbed the nearest thing, a packet of Fruit Tingles, and shoved it in his pocket. When Miki turned back, Max wasn’t sure if she’d seen. He said, ‘Thanks, see ya,’ and walked out of the shop.

  He crossed the road and went fast up the hill, Jaden and Callum following.

  ‘Did you do it?’ Callum asked.

  Max said nothing. His heart was banging so hard he couldn’t speak. He went around the corner before he stopped. Then he opened his hand and held out the Fruit Tingles.

  Jaden sneered, but Callum was excited. ‘Sick! You did it. You did it, Max.’

  Max felt all weak like he might fall down, but he’d got away with it—at least he thought he had. Miki might have seen him, but she hadn’t said anything; she hadn’t stopped him.

  Jaden snatched the packet of lollies and tore it open and stuffed some in his mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ Callum said. ‘Those are Max’s. He stole them.’

  Jaden smiled and chucked two lollies on the ground. ‘There you go. I’m sharing.’

  Max picked up a Fruit Tingle and put it in his mouth, but it didn’t taste right. Maybe it was off. Or maybe he just felt awful for stealing from Miki.

  ‘What next?’ Callum said, and Max could have killed him.

  Jaden grinned nastily. ‘A can of Coke.’

  This wasn’t too bad because Max could get a Coke from the fridge at home. He tried to look scared so Jaden wouldn’t choose something trickier—but the smile on the older boy’s face told Max he wasn’t going to get off that easy.

  ‘A cold one,’ Jaden said. ‘You have to get it from the shop while we wait, like today.’

  ‘That’s too hard,’ Callum said. ‘They’ll see him get it from the fridge.’

  Jaden’s grin widened. ‘You’ll work it out, won’t you, Max? If you don’t, I’ll punch your lights out.’

  Max stared at the footpath, trying to hide his fear. He would have to come up with a plan. There had to be a way.

  ‘Have you ever nicked anything from that shop?’ Callum asked his brother.

  ‘Shut your face, Callum. Or you’ll get it instead.’

  Max kept his eyes down. ‘I’m going home,’ he said, and walked off without looking back.

  22

  On the morning of the forest festival, Leon collected Grandpa from the old people’s home and helped him into the car. It took a bit of juggling to settle him in the passenger seat, but it was worth it just to see the old man smile. Glenys had decided not to come. ‘She has trouble walking,’ Grandpa explained. ‘She wants us to have a good time. A boys’ day out—that’s what she called it.’

  They drove along the water, then through farmlands and orchards, then back to the water, Grandpa leaning this way and that, taking everything in. ‘Why do they have nets on those trees?’

  ‘Cherries, Grandpa, worth a fortune.’

  ‘And that ship—why do they need one so big?’

  ‘Salmon farming. It runs up and down the river all day. They must be supplying the universe.’

  ‘Salmon’s good fish. Wish I got to eat it more often.’

  ‘I can’t afford it,’ Leon said.

  ‘Glenys likes it.’

  Leon smiled. Grandpa was like a love-struck schoolboy.

  They passed through Leon’s home town, and from there followed the signs to the festival. It was in a big field. The adjacent paddock was being used as a car park and it was packed. Vehicles were also parked in lines along the road. At the gate, a Rotary rep in a fluoro vest jingled a bucket, and Leon wound down his window and dropped in some coins. The rep pointed to the far side of the car park. ‘Can I drop my grandfather somewhere closer?’ Leon asked. ‘He can’t walk very far.’

  The rep grumbled, but when he saw Grandpa’s lively face he broke into a grin. ‘Hey, old-timer, looking forward to a fun day?’

  ‘Sure am. They don’t let me out often, so I’m going to live it up.’

  ‘You do that,’ the rep said. Then to Leon, ‘Let the old fella out near that big white tent over there, then try your luck for a parking spot.’

  Leon deposited Grandpa at the tent. When he came back after parking the car, Grandpa was sitting on the walker, easy to spot in his grey suit, collar and tie, and old trilby hat with a feather in it. ‘Took your time,’ Grandpa said. ‘A man could die waiting.’

  Leon folded the walker and hooked it under his arm. They made their way onto the field, which was teeming with people. It was quite a set-up. Tents and gazebos in rows. Log trucks and utes along fences. A central wood-chop arena near a tall pole rigged for tree-climbing. Draught horses dragging loads. Food stalls. Big-bellied men in Akubras and flannelette shirts. Kids running around, while their mums failed miserably at keeping them under control.

  Leon led Grandpa towards a crowd around a four-wheel-drive ute in a roped-off ring. A driver sat in the cab and three men stood behind it; Leon recognised Toby and Mooney from footy. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked a man beside him.

  ‘It’s the Bush Push, mate. Just about to start.’

  ‘Want to watch?’ he asked Grandpa.

  ‘Yup. I want to see everything.’

  Leon set up the walker near the front, and they were just in time; the start-gun went off and the men shouldered into the tailgate of the ute, faces screwed up with effort while the crowd shouted encouragement: ‘Carn. Get into it, boys.’

  At first nothing happened, then the ute started to roll forward. It moved slowly—but somehow the men pushed it a full thirty metres to a white line sprayed on the grass.

  Leon thought it was over, but then Mooney donned chaps and a helmet from the tray of the ute, grabbed a chainsaw, slapped on goggles and earmuffs, and cranked up the saw. Near the white line, a log had been racked on a frame, and now Mooney zipped off two rounds of wood before killing the motor and tossing his safety gear over to Toby. With mu
scles and tattoos popping, Toby dragged on the gear and grasped a shiny silver axe and split each wheel of wood into five pieces. The last team member loaded the wood onto the back of the ute while the crowd roared. The men were red with exertion as they pushed the ute back to the starting line.

  Leon couldn’t help laughing. What a crazy competition! When one team finished, the next one lined up. He and Grandpa cheered with everyone else; Grandpa, bouncing on his walker, waving one spindly arm.

  Afterwards, they watched the gumboot-throwing competition. Then they followed the racket of chainsaws across the field to a cordoned-off area where men in earmuffs and safety glasses were lined up at numbered racks bearing logs, clamped horizontally. When the starter dropped a flag, the men stepped to their blocks, chainsaws screaming, and deftly zipped off wheels of wood: the first with an up-cut, the second with a down-cut, and the third by inserting the saw into the log and slicing outwards.

  Shane was in the second group; Leon recognised his neighbour’s bony bum and workman’s cleavage. Balanced and relaxed, Shane cut his wheels quickly and accurately, leaving small piles of sawdust on the ground. Wendy was watching with the kids; Suzie had her hands over her ears to block out the noise. When Shane won first prize—a meat tray donated by the butcher—he sidled over to give it to Wendy, but she turned away. Leon overheard Shane pleading with her. ‘Come on, Wendy. It’s for you. I want to come home.’

  She cast him a glare that would have stopped a truck. ‘Give it to Liz. It’ll help pay your board.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have to pay board if you’d let me come home.’

  ‘Should have thought about that before you killed those poor pups.’

  Leon caught Max’s eye and waved, and the boy waved back. He seemed to be having a good time: hot-dog in one hand, phone in the other. He slouched over.

  ‘Hey, Max,’ Leon said. ‘This is my grandpa.’

  ‘Hi.’ Max bit into his hot-dog.

  ‘Any good’ Leon asked.

  The boy shrugged. ‘Not enough sauce.’

  ‘This is the boy who gave me Bonnie,’ Leon told Grandpa.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Grandpa squinted at Max. ‘You look like a boy who knows about dogs.’

  Max puffed up proudly. ‘She’s a good dog, isn’t she? I’m trying to train her.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Grandpa said. ‘A dog’s no good unless it’s obedient.’

  ‘We’re making progress—aren’t we, Max?’ Leon winked at the boy.

  Max nodded. ‘She knows how to sit now. And I’m trying to teach her to drop.’

  ‘Come is the most important command,’ Grandpa said. ‘Come or I’ll give you a hiding.’

  Max looked confused. ‘She won’t come if she’s scared.’

  Grandpa nudged Leon. ‘See. I told you he’s clever.’

  A roar of voices from across the field distracted Leon. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  Max glanced in the direction of the noise. ‘Truck Pull. I’d better go. I want to see Toby and Mooney.’ He took off on skinny stick legs.

  Leon and Grandpa ambled across the field to join the crowd. Robbo’s Kenworth was in the ring with Toby, Mooney and Shane standing in front of it, a thick rope hooked across their chests. When the starter gave the signal, the men started pulling, heads down as they leaned into the load. Heaving and grunting, they eventually shifted the truck off the start mark and dragged it ten metres, eyes bulging. At the finish line, Robbo was waiting; he punched the air and slapped the men on their backs.

  Grandpa was shaking his head. ‘The things people do for a prize.’

  After that, Leon and Grandpa watched draught horses pulling a truck. Then they watched a tree-climber shimmy up a tall timber pole.

  Next, Grandpa wanted to see the carving competition in which sculptors created works from large blocks of wood using chainsaws. Robbo was moulding a log truck out of a swamp-gum block; Leon hadn’t known he knew how to use a saw. Toby was there too, shaping a koala in a tree. Then Shane turned up, cigarette in his mouth, and got to work. Leon hadn’t figured Shane for an artist and was surprised to see the sculpture emerging from his neighbour’s hands: some sort of owl. Grandpa wanted a closer look, so Leon introduced him. ‘Hey, Shane, this is my grandpa, Thomas Walker.’

  Shane sucked on his smoke, staring at Leon. He looked the old man up and down and must have liked what he saw, because he offered his hand. Grandpa shook it enthusiastically.

  ‘This is bloody amazing, Shane,’ Leon said. ‘I didn’t know you were so talented.’

  ‘I’m oozing talent.’ Shane grinned. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘Masked owl,’ Grandpa said. ‘You can tell by the beak.’

  Shane studied the old man with interest. ‘You know about this stuff? Spent some time in the forest?’

  Grandpa’s back straightened and his eyes shone. ‘Retired logger. Cut trees for years on Bruny Island. Cut a few down this way too. Big ones. Not so many left now.’

  ‘Still plenty of big trees,’ Shane said.

  Naturally loggers would defend their industry to the last old-growth log, Leon thought, just as cod fishermen had defended their right to take cod until there were none left.

  Grandpa was eyeing Shane keenly. ‘Tough job, working on the saw. Not like those men on machines.’

  Shane nodded. ‘Makes me laugh when they say they’ve done a hard day’s work.’

  ‘Those machines cut the forest too fast,’ Grandpa said. ‘Friend of mine says they’re bad for the industry. You fellers are cutting yourselves out of a job.’

  Shane shrugged. ‘Not me, old man. I cut the trees on steep slopes where machines can’t go, so my job’s safe.’ He slapped his arse. ‘That’s why I’m so frigging skinny. Walking up and down hills all day. But blokes like me are few and far between. The day of the chainsaw is over.’

  ‘Shame,’ Grandpa said. ‘It’s because of those machines, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yup. But it’s no good being upset about it. That’s just how the industry is nowadays. The machines cut more trees in a day than I’ll ever manage.’ He tilted his head. ‘Have you seen what they can do? If not, you should take a look. There’s a demo over the far side of the field.’ He stubbed his cigarette butt on the ground. ‘Better get on, I suppose.’

  Grandpa wanted to see the machines, so they meandered across the field to where the metal beasts stood, claws folded, stinking of oil and diesel. There was no one around. Leon unfolded the walker and Grandpa sat down to wait. ‘Your neighbour was good,’ the old man said. ‘I liked his owl.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leon didn’t want to compliment Shane. ‘I suppose you get good with a saw, if that’s all you do.’

  Grandpa was onto him. ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

  ‘He hasn’t exactly been welcoming … And he’s a puppy killer.’

  ‘So he was the one, was he? He has different values from yours, and that’s hard for you.’

  Leon shrugged. ‘People who can’t look after animals shouldn’t be allowed to own them.’

  ‘You didn’t expect it to be easy fitting into a new town, did you?’

  ‘No. That’s why I play footy—to meet people and find a way in.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘I’m trying my best to be neutral.’

  ‘That might be your problem. Maybe they can’t work you out. A man has to stand for something or he’s nobody.’

  ‘It’s a timber town, Grandpa. No one will kick to me if I tell them I want to save trees.’

  ‘You can’t let them walk over you.’

  ‘Nobody’s walking over me.’

  Grandpa cocked an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’ He switched his gaze to the machines with their specialised claws. ‘Don’t know where the industry’s heading.’ He frowned. ‘It’s all woodchips now.’

  ‘High turnover for quick cash,’ Leon said. ‘The loggers say trees are renewable so the government ought to give them access to more forest so they can get enough sawlog.’

/>   ‘That’s bull,’ Grandpa said. ‘Trees for sawlog take a lifetime to grow. Don’t they want jobs in twenty years’ time?’

  While they were talking, Leon had noticed a small group of people striding across the field towards them: three young men and two women. The men wore fleece jackets and jeans, and one was carrying a medium-sized camera with a microphone attached. One woman was older and grey-haired, in a stylish beige coat, while the other looked much younger, probably mid-twenties, and she was dressed more like the men. Leon’s mental radar started beeping. They didn’t look like loggers—something about their clothes and their determined way of walking. Instinct told him to move away. ‘We need to go,’ he said, tugging Grandpa to his feet and packing up the walker. ‘We can come back later.’

  Grandpa resisted. ‘I want to see the machines in action.’

  As the group passed them, Leon saw the men toting backpacks. ‘That lot are up to something,’ he said. ‘And we don’t want to get caught in it.’

  Then he wished he hadn’t said anything, because Grandpa wouldn’t budge after that.

  The group arrived at the machines and the men slipped off their backpacks, pulled out bundles of fabric and unfolded them. Two men climbed the machines, then the women passed the fabric up, helping to drape it from the mechanical arm—two large bedsheets with messages painted in black capital letters: Machines Cost Jobs. Save the Eagles, Save the Forests. The man with the camera started recording while the young woman produced a loudhailer and began shouting through it. ‘Can I have your attention, everyone? All eyes this way, please.’

  Leon glanced across the field and saw people in the crowd turning to look.

  ‘I am the Lorax and I speak for the trees.’ The girl’s voice was shrill and metallic. ‘It’s time to stop raping our forests. We have the best forests in the world, and they belong to the taxpayers of this country, not the timber industry. The forests are our lungs. They give us oxygen, and they lock up carbon. It doesn’t make sense to cut them down. Loggers aren’t making money from trees—they’re subsidised by our taxes. We’re paying them to destroy our heritage. It has to be stopped.’