The Orchardist's Daughter

by Karen Viggers

  ‘Once a week.’

  ‘I’m going up there today.’

  Miki glanced at him, unable to contain her curiosity. ‘Have you come to see the eagles’ nest?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s another tree they want me to look at too. An old forest giant not far from the nest.’

  Miki’s breath caught. ‘Why do you want to look at it?’

  The man smiled again. ‘I’m into big trees, and this one might be the tallest in Tasmania. We’re waiting for a film crew to come with us. If you watch the news tonight, you might see the tree.’

  ‘I know that tree,’ Miki said.

  ‘You do? Well, I’m going to make sure we save it for all Tasmanians. It’s part of my life’s work to fight for trees. And I get the impression you might understand. Am I right?’

  Miki nodded. She had worked it out at last: this was Bob Brown. He loved nature, like her, and he wanted to stop logging. He wanted to keep wild places wild and stop humans from destroying the Earth—she’d heard him say something like that on TV one time.

  He winked as he left with his salad

  That night, Miki’s tree was on the news as Bob Brown had promised. She was in the kitchen spooning stew into bowls when she heard the story come on, and she rushed in to see him standing in front of her tree. Kurt was scowling at the TV, arms folded across his chest, a dark frown on his face.

  Bob Brown was staring into the camera, hands clasped in front of him, fingers interlaced. ‘It’s fantastic to find this big tree so near to town,’ he was saying. ‘It’ll help raise awareness of forest issues. Because it’s time for us to do more to protect our forests. This tree is a symbol of our past and our future, and it belongs to all of us. To our children, and to our children’s children—that’s how far ahead we should be thinking. A tree like this has been here longer than whitefellas have been in Tasmania.’

  Kurt’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything. When the report was over, he switched off the TV and went to his room.

  Miki wasn’t quite sure how to read her brother. Since he’d been stung by those bees, he’d been more unpredictable than ever. She knew he must be concerned about strangers invading the forest, but was that the only reason for his present bad mood?

  She boiled the kettle and made a coffee to appease him, approaching his room with a shiver of fear. He was at his desk, papers spread before him, Father’s black leather folder to one side. As she came in, he snapped the folder shut. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I made this for you.’ She offered the coffee.

  He ignored her and picked up a coloured brochure, waving it about. ‘I’m thinking about buying a boat.’

  Stunned, Miki stood with the mug held out in her hand. ‘What for?’ Kurt had never been into boats.

  ‘To go boating.’

  ‘But we never go boating.’

  ‘We will when we have a boat.’

  What about the farm they were saving for, their future escape from the shop? It would never eventuate if Kurt kept spending their money. ‘How much will it cost?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know … I want a good one, maybe twenty thousand.’

  Knots tangled in her stomach. She couldn’t hold back. ‘What about our farm?’

  ‘What farm?’

  ‘The one we’re saving to buy.’

  Kurt shrugged as if he’d forgotten it. ‘A farm is a big investment. Saving that much money takes time.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What are you going to do with that coffee?’

  She set the mug on the desk, trying to still her tremoring hand. Her eyes were drawn to the brochure with its glossy picture of a gleaming white boat. ‘Where will we go boating?’

  ‘On the river.’

  ‘Will we stop going to the forest?’

  ‘I don’t know. Too many people hanging round there right now.’

  ‘But I like the forest.’

  ‘You’ll like the water too. Now get lost. Too many questions.’

  On the cusp of crying, Miki withdrew to her room. What was Kurt doing? First the new ute and now a boat. Where was he getting the money? Had he taken out a loan? She’d heard the women discussing finances over coffees in the shop. They’d said you could be in debt and keep borrowing if you could convince someone to lend you more money. Was that what Kurt was doing? Why wouldn’t he include her in decisions? She was eighteen now. Would he ever give her a chance?

  Dejected, she slumped onto her bed. What could she do? Her brother controlled everything and told her nothing. And now he might force her away from the forest. The thought brought forth tears, and she dashed them away with her sleeve. She must not let him destroy her. Staying internally strong was her one small triumph.

  She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, and gradually her breathing slowed and her angst eased. It was best to think about other things, like the fact her tree had made it onto the news—another type of victory. It changed the status of her secret forest forever, but if this was required to save the tree, it was worth it. Her sacrifice was everyone’s gain.

  As she lay there, she could hear Kurt shuffling papers next door; every time he shifted in his chair, it made a soft squeak. She wondered if feelings could penetrate walls too, whether he sensed her frustration. If he did, it wouldn’t bother him. He never seemed to care what she felt. She heard him grunt to himself, then the rumble of drawers opening and closing; he must be packing his papers away in the filing cabinet. His footsteps plodded down the hall, paused outside her room. She held her breath. He walked on. Soon she heard the fridge door open and close, then the TV—a sports commentary of some sort. She peered out, tentatively testing the waters. ‘Can I watch too?’ She wasn’t interested in sport, just wanted to ensure he wouldn’t disturb her.

  ‘Stay in your room,’ he growled. ‘I don’t like the way you speak to me.’

  She closed her door quietly. She was safe now. Punishment by banishment, except it was exactly what she wanted tonight.

  She changed into pyjamas and snuggled up in bed with The Old Man and the Sea—the latest novel Geraldine had lent her. A small book, only one hundred pages. She flicked to the beginning. He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. A book about fishing! How ironic when she and Kurt had just been talking about boats. She sighed. Geraldine couldn’t have known.

  Two hours later, Miki had finished the book. Kurt was asleep, but she was alive and awake. The book had surprised her; like all of the novels Geraldine had lent her, it was full of revelations. It was a story about an old man, a boy and a swordfish, which sounded simple but wasn’t. She hadn’t imagined she would like a book such as this, but the writing was magical—it had made her feel as if she was there with the characters. In the fishing village where the old man lived, she could smell the salt air. She could see his squalid home and imagine him rolling his trousers to make a pillow, padding them out with newspaper. When he went fishing on his small boat, it was as if she was with him on the sea, chasing the swordfish, watching the light shift on the water. She could see flying fish leaping into the air, which seemed impossible; they crossed from water to air and then back again, unfettered by walls or windows or locks.

  As she read, she felt like she was fighting the swordfish with the old man, the line cutting into her hands. She loved the swordfish as he did. She saw the changing colours and moods of the sky and the sea.

  When she closed the book at the end of the journey, she realised with a jolt that the swordfish was not just a fish—it was meant to represent life. Suddenly, she could see parallels. The old man fought to catch the swordfish, just as she would have to fight to claim her life from Kurt sometime in the future. The swordfish was invisible in the water, just as everything she wanted was out of reach. She was the one in the boat, trying to hook on to life. The old man’s fishing trip was about patience, hard work, perseverance and skill. But it was also about striving for what he believed. The swordfish had resisted bei
ng caught, even when it was dying. With a hook in its mouth, it had clung to freedom because freedom was worth fighting for, worth dying for.

  Miki understood that she was the swordfish struggling for freedom, while Kurt held her in check on the line. She was his captive, but hope bubbled under her skin. She thought of the life she would lead one day, and it was so much more than this shop: large and free. She would visit the sea. Watch sunrises and sunsets. Walk in the rain. Finish school and go to university. Be independent. Own a dog. Her own home. Read books. Make choices. Meet friends. Maybe even find love and have a family.

  Geraldine had given her this book for a reason: Miki saw that now. Geraldine wanted to give her the world, and she wanted Miki to strive for it.

  Miki slid the book under her mattress and lay back, resting her head on her pillow, eyes closed. In the vast unfenced freedom of her mind, she could see a clear star-crusted sky spreading over the sleeping blanket of forest.

  One day, she would be free to go. The time was coming—she could feel it.

  28

  Leon should have known that troubles always come one after the other. The demonstration at the forest festival. The run-in with Mooney. The graffiti attack on his car. And now this: he knew something was wrong as soon as he heard his mum’s voice on the phone. ‘Leon,’ she said quietly. ‘Your father’s in hospital. We’re in Hobart.’

  Leon had just arrived home from a long day of work up in the park. He was tired and didn’t feel much sympathy for his dad, but his mum sounded worried. A cloud of concern sank over him like weather descending on the mountains. ‘Stan again?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. He hasn’t been round in a while—not since you visited with the dog. But things have gone downhill. A couple of weeks ago, your father’s belly blew up and his legs went all puffy.’

  ‘Did you take him to a doctor?’

  ‘He wouldn’t go. Then today, his belly was sore, and he started having chills and fevers.’ Her voice was tight. ‘He soiled himself in bed, Leon. It was a terrible mess. I had to clean him up. He was too sick to help.’

  ‘Oh, Mum. That’s awful.’ He imagined the smell as she walked in, imagined her getting a bucket of water and gently cleaning his sickly father. It was too much, after all she had borne.

  ‘Can you come, Leon? They’ve got him on a drip and they’re doing tests. They think he might have an infection. They have to find the right antibiotic.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll have a quick shower then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Can you bring Grandpa?’

  Leon paused. ‘Is it that bad? Is he dying?’

  ‘It might help your father. Grandpa’s so strong.’

  ‘So positive, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be there soon as I can.’

  Leon rang ahead to warn Grandpa, and the old man was waiting in the foyer of the home when Leon arrived. He was dressed up in collar, tie and trilby, but he’d fallen asleep and was slouched in a chair, head tipped back, mouth open. He looked small and vulnerable, hollow-cheeked, lips caving in, barely alive. Leon wondered how much lifetime his grandfather had left. Normally Grandpa’s vibrant personality made him seem large, but now Leon could see his fragility. The ageing process was confronting.

  Leon tapped the old man on the shoulder and watched him wake, eyes widening with surprise, lips smacking, a blast of bad breath. Leon forgave him for that—a blotch of toothpaste on his lapel showed he’d at least tried.

  In the car, Grandpa talked while Leon drove. He spoke of Leon’s dad as a boy, how wild and cheeky Reg had been, always pushing boundaries, always getting into trouble. Reg had never really left the island except for a few years when he was at high school, and even then he’d caught the bus home every night, just as Leon had when he was a teenager. Reg had left school at fifteen and taken a job at a mill where he’d worked for twenty-something years until the accident.

  Leon remembered his dad coming home each weekday evening, sweaty and with wood shavings stuck to his socks, fine grains of sawdust in his hair. Sometimes during the school holidays, Leon had been allowed to tag along to the mill. Reg had given him a pair of earmuffs and allowed him to wander around, so long as he didn’t get in the way. It was interesting to see how they carved up the logs. Leon used to like watching the dripper trickle water onto the saw so it wouldn’t overheat. He liked to watch the mounds of sawdust growing, the logs turning into timber for building houses. It seemed useful work.

  As he’d grown older, he’d seen the industry change. Mills had become few and far between. It was hard to get sawlog because most trees were downgraded to woodchip. Leon had started looking more closely at the process, trying to understand what was happening. His dad hadn’t liked it—the Walkers had always been loggers or sawyers, so he was furious when his son turned greenie. It was a betrayal.

  But betrayal was a double-edged sword where Reg was concerned. When the accident had ruined his hand, and Reg could no longer work at the mill, his self-esteem had plummeted and he’d slid into drink. Alcohol had been a problem back when he was young, and he’d become a teetotaller to control it. After he’d lost his job, depression had struck, or something very much like it—the drink had been the simplest solution. But it brought out the buried aggression in Reg, and Leon’s mum was an easy target. Right now, people might say Reg had run out of luck, but Leon believed you made your own luck. There were many things his dad could have done other than surrendering to violence. Losing his job might have challenged his manhood, but beating his wife was no way to reclaim it.

  At the hospital in Hobart, Leon and Grandpa followed the receptionist’s directions to the critical-care ward. Reg was strung up on a drip and had oxygen buds looping into his nose. He looked yellow, and for a moment Leon felt a flash of sympathy. His father’s eyes were hollow and sad, as if perhaps he might have taken a different path had he realised it would come to this. Under the covers, his belly domed like a pregnancy, and the foot that was hanging out was pallid and swollen.

  Mum was sitting by the bed, and she rose quickly to hug them, Grandpa first, Leon second. Her face was puffy and she had tears in her eyes. Her embrace made Leon feel like a bollard with a rope wrapped around it, but he let her cling to him. He sensed the shifting of responsibility as she foisted onto him a burden he didn’t want to bear. Grandpa, meanwhile, had taken a seat by the bed and was talking to Dad, so Leon followed Mum out into the corridor.

  ‘He has peritonitis,’ she said, ‘an infection in his belly. He could die. They’re going to suck out all the fluid in his abdomen and put him on antibiotics.’ Her face crumpled, and she leaned against Leon’s shoulder.

  Leon put his arms around her and held tight. She was so wracked with pain for that man—didn’t she remember what he’d done? Leon hadn’t forgotten her bruises, the loss of light in her eyes. Even now he couldn’t kick his old habit of checking his watch at four-thirty each afternoon, because that was the time he used to start driving home so he could be there when his dad arrived, tanked and on fire, ready to lay into his mum. This illness was karma, Leon thought. What goes around comes around. If there was a god, then he had come to get his dad at last.

  He unwrapped his arms from his mum and gently held on to her shoulders so he could look into her face. ‘How long is he going to be in here?’

  ‘A few days, maybe a week …’

  ‘Well, you can’t live here with him.’

  ‘No, I’m going to check into a hotel.’

  Back in the room, Grandpa was sitting on the bed, holding Reg by the hand. Was it that serious, Leon wondered? Was his dad going to die?

  Driving home with Grandpa, Leon probed himself to detect any softening towards his dad, but it seemed his heart had turned to stone. Grandpa knew it, the discerning old bastard, and Leon sensed he was about to be attacked with a pick. When they pulled up outside the old people’s home, Grandpa laid in. ‘The last man as perfect as you walked on water,’ he said
.

  Leon was offended. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You have to forgive, lad. Nobody’s perfect.’

  ‘Some are less perfect than others.’

  ‘Your father is sick as a dog. Where’s your heart?’

  ‘You didn’t see what he did to her.’

  ‘And I’m glad I didn’t—I’m sure it was a terrible thing. But she’s forgiven him, so why can’t you?’

  ‘She shouldn’t.’

  ‘But she has. So you have to too.’

  ‘I can’t. This is what he deserves.’

  ‘Live in anger. Die in anger. Live in peace …’

  ‘Yeah, all right … Die in peace.’

  ‘Think about it, lad. Promise me you will.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Leon gripped the steering wheel. He was still living in anger. There was no peace in sight.

  ‘Can you take me again tomorrow?’ Grandpa asked.

  ‘Can’t go till the weekend now, after Saturday’s game.’

  ‘What if he’s dead then?’

  ‘He won’t be. Only the good die young.’

  He waited while Grandpa punched a code into the security pad and the front sliding doors eased open. Grandpa looked back and waved. ‘Just climbing the stairway to heaven,’ he called with a crooked grin.

  It’s buying, Leon thought.

  But as he pulled out of the car park, the lyrics of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ started up in his mind. He whizzed along the highway beneath the pale light of the moon, which reflected white on the water, and he sang the words out loud. It was as if he was hearing the song for the first time. He wondered how it was, after all these years of singing the lyrics that it had only occurred to him tonight what they were truly about. He’d never really thought about the words before, simply shouted them at parties and around campfires as part of mateship and having fun.

  No doubt the song spoke differently to everyone, but for him, tonight, it was about many things. The journey of life. Making choices and getting it wrong. Facing death. Gaining wisdom. Confronting the past. Forgiveness and redemption.