‘Does it make you feel sad coming back?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I do feel very nostalgic. We had some good times here. The farm was a haven for us.’
Leon kept the vehicle idling on the verge and it seemed to be vibrating with the rhythm of life—accelerating backwards through seasons and years.
‘We came here on our holiday breaks from the lighthouse,’ she said.
‘Why here?’ Leon asked. ‘Why didn’t you get further away? Like up to Bicheno, or across to Victoria. Somewhere different.’
‘Jack didn’t earn much and our time off was short. Sometimes we stayed with my parents in Hobart. But mostly we came here.’
She looked once again at the cottage. Of course, for some years Rose had still been lurking around the Mason farm. Time had not altered Mary’s opinion of Rose, so during their stays, Mary ensured her family did not often cross paths with Rose. Her sister-in-law was still studiously glamorous and annoyingly self-focused, and Mary had little time for her. However, visiting the farm was always good for Jack. On the property and out of the wind, he seemed able to relax. They had passed their limited leisure time in simple ways: fishing down at Cloudy Bay, picnics on the mountain, sharing fish and chips from the Lunawanna store. When they were here, Mary saw glimpses of the man Jack used to be. He smiled more often; sometimes he talked, played games with the children: chess, Monopoly. All the things he never did at the lighthouse. In bed, they snuggled close. No sex, but he tucked his arms around her and she felt his breath in her hair. Remembered how to love him again.
Tears welled in her eyes and she waved Leon on.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said.
Just before Lunawanna they turned off on the Adventure Bay road, climbing into forest and slowing as the gravel deteriorated to potholes. This was the route Leon drove each day to and from Cloudy Bay. As it zigzagged up, the trees became taller and straighter with dense thickets of blanket leaf and mountain correa crowded round the trunks. The higher they went, the wetter the road became, and tree crowns rose in narrow spires with mist clinging to their tops.
‘Could we stop near the old mill?’ Mary said. ‘I want to get out and smell the air.’ Another item on her list.
Leon stopped at the pullout near the old Clennett’s Mill site. ‘Why here?’ he asked. ‘It’s just a few old bits of metal buried in the bush.’
‘This is where Jack’s brother used to work when it was a functioning mill. We came up here sometimes. I want to remember.’
He offered to help her out, and she swung her legs around. But she was weak and he had to hold her arm to stop her from sliding to the ground. Shuffling away from him, she tried to wrap distance around herself, opaque as a cloud. She wanted to stand in this place and remember the past. Underfoot were straps of wet bark and the air was thick with the tangy aroma of mint and eucalypt leaves.
Forty, fifty years ago, when Frank cut timber up here, the trees were enormous old giants with huge trunks. Now they were spindles. These days the forest was turned over too quickly. Sawlogs had given way to woodchips and the forest was not the same, no matter what the foresters said about the trees growing back. But it was still beautiful and she breathed it all in, trying to ignore the cough brewing in her lungs.
In the treetops, wind shuffled the leaves. Fog-drip spattered her head and mist touched her cheeks with wet fingers. If she closed her eyes she could make the years dissolve. She could merge with the timeless grandeur of the forests and be here again with Jack. Beneath those watching crowns they had embraced urgently, mindful not to be caught. She recalled the song of the wind tossing high in the trees. The distant rasp of saws. Winches groaning. Yells along the tramway.
After she and Jack had moved to Hobart, Frank died here in a forestry accident. He was working a saw, felling an immense old tree; misjudging the moment to stand back he was crushed as the tree crashed to the ground. It was a dreadful accident, violent and devastating. Frank was the jovial son, the lively one who always carried a joke and a laugh.
Losing Frank had rocked the poor Mason family. Everyone missed him, especially Jack’s older brother, Sam, who had been very close to Frank. And Frank’s legacy had not been a welcome one. Instead of going back to her own family, Rose had asked to stay on the farm. Mary had known Rose was dodging her ill mother, wishing to leave the arduous task of nursing to her younger sister. It was an appalling abrogation of responsibility, but Mary couldn’t say this to Jack’s parents who felt duty bound to care for her.
Mary had often wondered how differently things might have unfolded if Frank hadn’t died or if Rose had returned to her kin. But the past was set and could not be rewritten; and Rose was part of the story. Drawing in the mist and scents of the forest, Mary tried to fix on contentment. She could see the past shimmering in the leaves, but nothing could be changed and she must let it all go. Now was the time for acceptance.
She wasn’t sure how long Leon allowed her to stand there in the damp of the forest with the breeze swirling around her ankles. Eventually, he took her arm and guided her into the vehicle, and they drove down the mountain with the heater blowing and the trees flicking by the window. It had been a tiring trip, and she dozed most of the way home.
As they spun along Cloudy Bay towards the cabin, she turned her head to smile at him, wanting him to know how she appreciated his patience and sensitivity. She couldn’t tell him this, but he had helped her to achieve another goal in her pilgrimage for Jack. His nod acknowledged her thanks.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course. It’s Friday and your family’s not coming until the weekend.’
He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch and there, on the pale freckled flesh of his wrist, she saw dark bruises, purple and yellowish-green, in the shape of fingers.
‘What’s that?’ Her breath caught in her throat. Had he been in a fight?
He glanced at what she’d seen and his face closed. ‘Nothing.’ Resolutely, he pulled his sleeve down and stared out the windscreen, refusing to meet her eyes. His lips were firm and his face was tight, demanding silence.
At the cabin, he helped her inside. She wanted to ask more, but his face was unapproachable. Had someone hurt him? Or had he hurt someone else? She hardly knew him. She thought of his dark moods. Was it possible he might strike her? Or could he be harming himself?
She tried to conceal her uneasiness as he settled her on the couch. Then he was gone, swinging sharply into the vehicle and accelerating recklessly over the dunes. She went to the window to watch him race down the beach. He might run away with his secrets for now, but she knew he’d be back. Within the story of that bruise was the reason for his self-imposed exile on Bruny, she was sure of it. Exile was something she understood.
Reclaiming the couch, she tucked herself into the blanket and leaned into memory once more, further back now. The story was strong and clear and it sprang from the corners of her mind with vivid intensity. It had all taken place in apple season. She was sixteen. Ten days that had shaped her life. It was the time of ripening fruit, when Hobart flooded with people and apples. From all around the state the crates came in. They came on trucks and trains to be loaded onto steamers bound for overseas. Pickers arrived in town. Stands appeared in the streets selling apples of all kinds: Cox’s orange pippins, munroes, ribstons pippins, Rome beauties, New Yorks, sturmers and democrats.
She remembered the smell of stewing apples. Her parents’ old house in North Hobart was thick with it, and the hallways were always congested with boxes. They ate apples in everything: apple pie, apple tea cake, apple crumble, apple sauce. She spent hours in the kitchen with her mother, peeling and cooking apples. With the stove burning and the pots boiling it was hot, and when the work was done each day, she would go for a walk to release the sweet scent of apples from her skin.
In the park one afternoon, she stopped to watch a young man chasing a dog across t
he grass. They were playful and energetic, almost silly—running and tumbling in the carpet of brown leaves, the man whooping, the dog barking. It looked like ridiculous fun and she turned away reluctantly, knowing duty awaited her at home.
A shout made her glance back. The young man was bounding towards her across the park. He approached her confidently and she waited; perhaps he was someone her parents knew from church. About ten feet away, he stopped and kicked a pile of leaves in the air. Then, laughing, he caught the dog as it leaped into his arms. ‘I’m Adam,’ he said.
He put the dog down and came up to her, offering his hand. She accepted it hesitantly. But his grip was warm and strong and his smile was captivating.
‘I’m Mary,’ she said shyly. ‘Do you live around here?’
‘No,’ he said. His smile was still broad and he let her hand slip slowly from his grasp. ‘I’m not often in Hobart. I’m a picker. But I’m tired of work today. I had to get away from ladders and go out for a run.’ He glanced around the park and then focused back on her. ‘Tell me, what do Hobart girls do on windy autumn days?’
‘They cut and peel apples,’ she said. They laughed.
‘Well, my back’s had it,’ he said. ‘I’ve been picking apples and shifting ladders and loading crates for weeks. If I didn’t need the money, I’d be done with it.’
‘Does it pay well?’
‘Not particularly. And the huts are average. Grotty and old. But it’s what I do. And I like to be on the road.’ He stopped and swiped a hand through his messy blond hair. ‘Anyway, Mary . . .’ He paused to stroke her name with a fresh smile. ‘It’s so much nicer to have an afternoon exploring Hobart. And infinitely nicer to have met you. Shall we walk around the park?’
Turning slightly, he glanced at her hopefully and she laughed. ‘Oh, all right. I suppose it won’t hurt to walk awhile. The latest I can be back is dinner time.’
They wandered along the old stone fence, leaves swishing around their ankles. ‘I’ve come down from the north,’ he said. ‘We move south as the fruit ripens, picking our way through the orchards. I started up near Devonport. Then Beaconsfield and George Town. After this I’m off to the Huon Valley for a few weeks. Then I might see if there are any pears left on the Tasman Peninsula.’
‘You move around a lot,’ she said. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve been picking fruit since I was fifteen. It’s what I know. Tassie’s home, but I don’t mind going across Bass Strait to pick in Victoria. It’s grapes and pears and oranges up there. But apple season in Tassie is best. It keeps me in work for weeks. When it’s over I go back north. Maybe take a job on a farm for a while. But mostly I like to keep moving. It’s good seeing different places.’
They walked and talked for close to an hour, Mary bombarding him with questions. She had little of life to share, and he seemed to enjoy chatting, telling her of a world she’d never seen. When she went home, she was full of him, brimming with excitement. But she didn’t say anything to her parents. She didn’t think they’d approve of her conversing with a stranger.
The next day, she returned to the park, hoping to see Adam again. And there he was, waiting by the wall, his grin bright and welcoming. That was the beginning of her great deception. Each afternoon, she would tell her mother she was off for a walk, and then she’d meet up with Adam when his workday was done. They would sit against the stone wall and rekindle their conversation from the previous day. She’d never dared to think beyond the margins of her experience before, but Adam gave her new horizons. He fuelled her boldness. She talked to him as she had never talked to anyone.
Their attraction was mutual and magical. She was drawn by his assurance and worldliness. And he was fired by her naivety and the soft glow of her innocence. A young girl becoming a woman, she was vibrant with hope. She imagined his life to be bold and adventurous, so different from the strict confines of her family home. He told her he had witnessed things he hoped she’d never have to see; sordid events, like fights, domestic violence, gambling and theft. Human behaviour was rife in the pickers’ huts—mostly alcohol driven. He’d chosen not to get involved in any of it, but there were things he’d been forced to do to defend himself. This was a topic he elected not to expand on.
He had left home at an early age to escape his strict and bitter father. Being on his own was better than weathering his father’s criticisms and insults. His mother had been sad to see him go, poor oppressed woman that she was. He regularly sent her letters, but he hadn’t been back home. A transient way of life suited him better; seeing new places, new people. He was happy when he was on the road.
Listening to him, Mary’s world became larger. She believed they were destined for each other. Then, five days after they’d met, things shifted into new territory. They were sitting on the grass in the far corner of the park, conversing as usual, dreaming up plans for travels, when talk suddenly suspended. Adam was watching her, his eyes alight and his face luminous. She felt time lift and take flight. There was something different between them, something fresh but weightless.
He reached out and grasped her hand, the warmth of his fingers folding around hers, and her eyes locked with his. In his face was a liquid intensity, a hopeful question. A flush crept up her arm, spreading from the tips of his fingers. This was not right and she ought not to allow it, but the core of her was squeezed tight and she couldn’t let go.
Perhaps he sensed her turmoil, because for a brief moment he relaxed his hold, giving her an opportunity to pull away. But she left her hand lying lightly in his. She knew it was wrong, but she wanted to trust him, to go on this flight with him away from the ordinary. Even now, all these decades later, she could remember the smile that curled his lips. With her permission given, the world of sensual touch unfolded.
Turning her hand over, he began to trace lines and soft circles in her palm while her stomach contracted and her toes clenched. Then, with a tingle that was almost unbearable, his fingers crept spider-like to her wrist. Overcome by wild recklessness, suddenly she wanted to feel his fingers on her face, her arms, beneath her clothes. It was a hot, hot feeling. A shocking feeling.
He looked at her knowingly, and ashamed, she pulled away. What sort of girl was she to enjoy this? What was she doing? But she allowed him to take her hand again. It was what she wanted. She couldn’t pretend otherwise. Gently, he pushed up her sleeve and trickled his fingers along her arm to the tender crease at her elbow. The play of his fingertips made her shudder and tremble. She was a rose unfurling. Nothing else mattered. She was consumed. Lost in sensation.
By the end of the week they were kissing.
She was alarmed things had moved so quickly, but she’d never been gripped by such a sense of urgency. Artless and unsophisticated, she pulled him to her, seeking the taste of his lips. He was kind with her. Slow and in command. Gently steadying her with a smile. Between kisses they talked. Planning a future. Dreaming of a cottage and an orchard of their own. She was learning passion. And he’d met someone virtuous at last. A woman who was unharmed by hardship. Someone who adored him.
Then her parents found out. Her father was walking home from work and he saw them kissing. Icy with fury, he barked her name so loudly it rang across the park. Horrified, she wrenched herself from Adam’s grasp and ran home. When her father came in, the slam of the front door rocked the house. From her bedroom, she heard the fast sound of angry voices in the kitchen. Her mother’s cry of disbelief.
A knock on the front door brought sudden stillness and she rushed to the top of the stairs. But her father glared at her darkly from the bottom of the stairwell. He waved her back to her room and she went reluctantly, obediently, too frightened to argue. Through the bedroom window, she saw Adam on the doorstep, and then her father was out there, his back stiff and hostile. She watched their brief introductions. Her father was usually the correct gentleman, but this time he did not extend his hand. His body was tense, and beside him, Adam seemed forlorn and intim
idated. She watched them walk into the street and then they were hidden by the hedge.
Her father was back too soon. There had been no time for discussion, no time for Adam to show her father who he was and how inspiring he could be. She was called to the kitchen, summonsed by her father’s imperious voice. Her parents made her sit on a chair while they discussed her life.
‘He’s a fruit picker,’ her father said, with demeaning emphasis. ‘Entirely unsuitable. And she’s not to be trusted. She’s out of control. Ruled by impulse.’
Her mother’s face was sharp with spite. ‘What can we do about it?’
Her father had answers to everything. ‘I’ve sent him away.
He won’t come back.’
Mary’s heart contracted. Her breathing was tight.
‘And what should we do with her?’ her mother said.
‘She’ll have to go to your brother’s farm on Bruny. It’s the only place that’s far enough away.’
Over dinner they worked out her future while she dripped tears into her food. She was not to ask questions. She must pack her clothes and be ready to leave in the morning. Her parents were not being unkind. They were doing this to help her. Later, she’d understand.
When they dismissed her, she organised her things as instructed. Then she stood at the bedroom window, straining into the dark, wondering if Adam was out there, waiting for her. She loved him and wanted to go to him. But how to get out? Her father had locked the doors. And how to find him?
She was humiliated and helpless. But what could she do? She was young and her parents had responsibility for her. She dared not disobey them.
The next morning, before first light, she was on the bus to Middleton to catch the ferry. And in the shadows, Jack was waiting. Her future. Quiet and serious, so different from Adam. He was the result of her exile.
14
Leon drove furiously down the beach away from the cabin. It seemed this was going to be his usual Cloudy Bay exit policy. The trip to the mountains had been painless enough, and the ride home had been quiet, with Mrs Mason pleasantly worn out by memory and the cold. And it had been peaceful, almost comfortable. Sure, they had a prickly sort of atmosphere between them, but at least it was largely honest. No pretence at niceness or anything. He hated the overly polite exchanges of most humans. His mother often said it wasn’t sociable to be as blunt as he was, but he didn’t care.
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