Wintering by Krissy Kneen

Author:Krissy Kneen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2018-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

There was a view. The house was tucked neatly up a steep concrete driveway with an aviary flanking the carport. A cockatoo arched its crest and screeched, stepping from foot to scaly foot. Jessica locked the car door out of habit and stood staring the cocky down. She had no desire to get closer to the bird but the front door was there beside it and she would have to eventually. She stood leaning against the car. She could see the sailing ships all moored along the Huon, the whole flotilla bobbing up and down on a gentle tide. The sun was out and it touched the water; made it seem viscous, like mercury poured out over the bay.

Murphy opened the door. ‘That’s Butch. He’s harmless but don’t put your finger in between the bars. Bites like a bastard.’

Murphy had a long balding head: a shining strip of skin flanked by thin grey hair on each side. He was dressed neatly in a pink shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers, and brown lace-up shoes. Everything about him clean and pressed and shining. Jessica walked over to shake his hand. His palm strong and dry.

‘I hope I’m not intruding.’

‘No, no. We’re virtually neighbours. Come in.’

The cockatoo shrieked again and she flinched.

‘Shush up, Butch.’ The bird spread his wings and upped the volume.

Murphy bent to his laces and slipped his shoes off at the door. She realised he must have put his shoes on to make the few steps out to the porch. Fastidious: not what she would have expected from a tiger hunter. She supposed she’d been expecting a cross between the rough types Matthew worked with at the fish farms and Indiana Jones. She stooped and pulled off her own boots.

The house was immaculate. Crocheted doilies on every wooden surface and neat watercolour landscapes. The couches were light brown leather. She perched on the edge of one, unable to shake the feeling that she was making the place untidy. She was wearing her clothes straight from the boat. Fish blood on her sleeve.

‘So you’re writing a story?’ he asked, smiling. Sitting straight-backed with his hands folded neatly in his lap. He was well over seventy but he was fit. She could see all the wiry energy in his wrists. She could imagine him hacking his way through virgin bush. No Indiana Jones, but a thorough and hard worker.

‘Researching. I’ll write it up if there’s anything in it.’

‘Oh, there’s something in it, all right. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’

‘The tiger.’

‘Sure.’

‘I read the interview in the paper.’

‘I have that here.’ He reached towards a manila envelope on the side table and opened it, and there were photographs and old letters and news clippings inside it.

‘This is my father.’ He tapped the fading photograph. A man, just as neatly dressed as Murphy, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, standing on a divot of wood that had been hammered into the gigantic trunk of a tree. It was the largest tree she had ever seen, the man dwarfed by it.

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