The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

6

  8 February 1967

  Catherine

  Catherine woke with a start after a restless, broken sleep. Everything hurt. Her eyes and throat felt as though they’d been scoured with steel wool. At first she was confused. The tongue-and-groove walls of the poky room were unfamiliar, and why was she wearing nothing but her undies and a filthy woollen shirt? She heard a muffled sob from an adjacent room and the memories came crashing back, raw and intense. Peter was dead, that much she knew, but how? Last night her parents had been too traumatised and exhausted to explain. Catherine pulled on her blackened jeans and boots, bracing herself to face what she dreaded most.

  In the kitchen she avoided looking out the window and instead searched for tea and sugar. Even without milk she knew her mother would benefit from a strong cup of tea. She ached to be able to offer her even a scrap of solace. The cupboards were bare of food, the old tea tin completely empty. She remembered how she’d helped her mother clean out the cottage after her grandmother had died last year, leaving nothing edible for the marauding ants, mice and possums. There was a kettle, but without electricity they’d have to use the old wood stove for boiling water and cooking. The thought of flames, even securely contained within the firebox, was too much to endure. She took a dusty glass from the cupboard and filled it with warm, rusty water from the tap. The sediment swirled in the glass. Is this all she had to offer her mother?

  Gently she knocked on the bedroom door. ‘Mum? Dad? Can I come in?’

  There was no answer, only a long, low moan. Catherine opened the door and waited while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Her mother lay, curled in a tight ball, on the bed. Her father was not there.

  ‘Mum? Do you want some water?’ Catherine sat tentatively beside her mother. She placed the glass on the bedside table.

  Her mother shook her head, keeping her eyes closed tight. Her face and clothes were still grimy from the fires. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked slightly from side to side. ‘My baby,’ she murmured. ‘My beautiful boy.’ A shudder racked her body and a low guttural sound escaped her mouth.

  Catherine reached out a hand to comfort her, but her mother flinched at her touch. Catherine put her hands in her lap, feeling useless. ‘Mum, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.’ Could she have done anything to help? She’d never know.

  ‘It was just me and Peter.’ Her voice was jagged and hoarse from crying. ‘My boy.’

  Catherine couldn’t bear to see her mother so broken, the woman she’d loved and looked up to for longer than she could remember. Her mother had always been the glue that kept the family and household together. But now she was unravelling and Catherine felt as helpless as a child.

  ‘I thought I was going to die,’ her mother moaned. ‘I wish I had. Why wasn’t it me instead of Peter?’

  Peter had grown up slowly and quietly, like a walnut tree taking years to fruit. Strange to think that at eighteen he was taller than their father and strong from working hard in the orchard. He was blond and blue-eyed like Catherine, but with slightly crooked front teeth. Not that it ever stopped him from smiling his wonderful, heartwarming smile. When he was little she’d loved pushing him around in the pram and playing with him for hours as if he were a doll. She looked out for him in the packing shed too – always fussing over him, to the amusement of her mother and the other women. When she started going to school she would rush home to tell him all about her day. And when it was time for him to join her at Cygnet Primary, she’d kept an eye out for him, protecting him from any perceived or real dangers. But when he’d really needed her, she was miles away.

  Catherine squeezed her eyes tight. She longed to crawl onto the bed beside her mother and give way to her grief, but her father was outside somewhere, dealing with the wreckage of their lives. ‘I’ll be back soon, Mum.’ She went to stroke her mother’s matted hair but she rolled away and began to sob once more. Catherine stood. She couldn’t avoid what awaited outside any longer.

  It was worse in the light. Catherine’s despondency grew as she walked past row after row of blackened apple trees. The wooden props used to support their heavy limbs still smouldered and the smell of burnt fruit lay heavy in the air. Only a week ago she’d picked some Gravensteins from the home orchard to take to Mrs Sampson back in Hobart. The Gravensteins were useless for export, since they didn’t keep, but her mother loved them for cooking, as did Mrs Sampson. Now those trees were blackened skeletons, the fruit withered and dead.

  She found her father by the remains of the house with his twenty-two rifle cradled in his arms and a hard, bitter frown on his face. Peter’s dog sat nearby, his golden fur completely blackened with soot.

  ‘Dad?’

  He shifted the barrel towards Benno. ‘The bloody dog deserves to die.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Benno had been Peter’s tenth birthday present. He’d named the puppy after his favourite cricketer but hadn’t quite got the spelling right. Peter and Benno had been inseparable. Until now.

  ‘The dog should be dead. Peter should be alive.’ Her father coughed, a spasm racking his body. He wiped a blistered hand across his reddened eyes. The layer of grime and ash on his face accentuated every wrinkle, every line of sweat and tears.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was fighting a fire at Lymington with some other volunteers. Saved another man’s house and lost my own.’ He hung his head. ‘Your mum and brother did the best they could but—’

  Catherine wanted to know, but couldn’t bear to hear it.

  ‘Peter couldn’t find his precious dog.’ Her father’s voice was like a snarl. ‘The house was on fire. Your mother tried to stop him. Tried to go in after him. But the heat, the flames, it was impossible … She saw the roof collapse and knew he was gone.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ It broke her heart to see him so defeated. And her mother? No wonder she was shattered after the horror she’d seen. Catherine gently touched his shoulder, but he shrugged her off. ‘Come on, Dad. Hasn’t there been enough death? I understand how you feel, but don’t you think—’

  ‘No.’ Her father spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I’m done with thinking.’

  Catherine knew if her father had wanted Benno dead he’d have shot him by now. But she had to tread carefully. ‘Peter loved Benno. Do you really want to destroy something he loved?’

  Her father shifted his stance, but said nothing.

  Catherine thought for a moment, desperate to find a solution. There was one possibility. ‘What if I promise you’ll never have to see Benno again?’

  ‘Never?’

  Catherine saw the softening around his eyes and sensed his weakening resolve. ‘Never.’

  His nod was barely perceptible.

  Gently, Catherine took the gun from his grasp.

  Catherine walked slowly along the dusty road towards Annie’s house, past the ruined orchard. Smoke rose in slow curls from felled fence posts. Benno padded beside her. She’d tied a piece of rope to the dog’s collar since his lead, like everything else, was lost in the fire. Benno hadn’t wanted to leave the ruins of their home. Peter – she stumbled, almost falling – Peter’s body was still in there. What would happen now? Would an ambulance come? Too late for that. The police, then. Someone had to take the remains of her brother. Catherine put one foot in front of the other, willing herself to keep going when all she longed to do was collapse to the ground and howl in despair. Benno whined softly, as if reading her thoughts.

  Tim had slept in the back of his EJ. He’d offered to come with her, but Catherine had told him no. If he wanted to help, she was sure there was something he could do, like going to the Four Square for supplies.

  The easy ten-minute walk to the Pearsons’ was one she’d done hundreds of times before, but this morning, with legs as heavy as her heart, it felt like an endless journey. The necessity of finding a new home for Benno, along with the thought of seeing her best friend, kept her trudging forward. Annie had arrived in Wattle Grove ten years ago, on the arm o
f Catherine’s handsome neighbour, Dave Pearson. Annie was only a few years older than her, but was much more mature – a woman compared to Catherine, who was still a young girl in so many ways. Catherine was thirteen at the time and Annie eighteen, but already married, and pregnant. She seemed so sophisticated and worldly, having grown up in Hobart with wealthy parents. Catherine thought Annie looked like Princess Margaret with her crown of dark waves and had always been jealous, since her own hair was straight and tawny blonde. When they’d first met, Catherine was shy, even intimidated, but Annie had put her at ease. They’d become unlikely friends. At first her parents had disapproved – Annie was a fallen woman, Dave had been forced into a shotgun wedding – but once they realised how devoted the couple were to each other, they’d relented. It helped that Annie had regularly attended church, for a while at least. Over the years their friendship had grown. Annie became the sister Catherine had never had, someone to share her first crush with, and her first heartbreak. As Catherine grew into a young woman she found herself seeking Annie’s advice, more than her mother’s. Her mother’s counsel was always the same: be a good Christian girl and keep yourself nice. When Catherine’s first period arrived, her mother handed her a belt and some sanitary pads in a brown paper bag. It was Annie who’d had to explain how to use them and what was happening to her body. ‘Let me be a warning to you,’ she’d laughed. Those friendly warnings continued through the years as Annie became mother to five boys. Catherine was honoured when Annie asked her to be godmother to Scott, her youngest. And now there was another baby on the way with Annie due next month. During the school holidays, which she always spent helping out around the orchard, Catherine loved catching up with Annie. She’d bring a slice or biscuits fresh from her mother’s kitchen to bribe the boys so she could chat with her oldest friend without being interrupted, if only for a while. This pregnancy had been unusually hard for Annie. Catherine had helped out when she could, even if it was just doing the washing up, or baking a pudding for the boys, but towards the end of the holidays Dave had apologetically turned her away, saying Annie needed rest. When Catherine had called in to say goodbye before heading back to Hobart to prepare for the start of the school year, Annie’s locked front door had baffled her. No one in the valley ever locked their houses, or their cars. Dave eventually came to the door looking wretched and apologised. Annie’s difficulties with the pregnancy were worse, he’d said, and she wasn’t up to seeing anybody. Now Catherine feared she might never see Annie again.

  An uneasy feeling made Catherine pause. She turned slowly, her eyes blurring across the charred orchard, to focus on the river below, the blackened hills across the water and in the distance the Hartz mountains shimmering through the smoky haze. Standing perfectly still, she held her breath and listened. An unearthly silence. Chattering wrens and finches would usually be busy flitting here and there. And where were the magpies? Her mother had told her that magpies lived as long as thirty years, staying in the same place, often with the same mate. Catherine had loved the magpies’ song ever since. But now there were no songs, or magpies. No birds at all.

  She quickened her pace up the slight incline, Benno panting beside her, and rounded the bend, steeling herself against the possibility of Annie and Dave’s house being reduced to nothing but a shell. A sudden lightness flooded through her when the large weatherboard house came into view, still standing on its brick foundations. The fence was burnt, and the house scorched, but by some miracle still intact. At the front door, the sound of Annie’s boys inside, their footsteps pounding across wooden floorboards, was a welcome reassurance. She went to knock, but the door opened before she had the chance. Michael, the oldest boy, stood there grinning.

  ‘We’ve got the day off school today,’ he announced. ‘I helped put fires out yesterday. With a hose.’

  ‘Me too.’ Eric was the second oldest. He pushed his brother out of the way. ‘I helped too.’

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t have a hose.’

  ‘I had a bucket.’

  Michael made a pfft sound with his lips, dismissing his younger brother. ‘I helped save the house—’

  ‘Did not. Dad had already saved it by the time we got home from school,’ Eric interrupted. ‘But other stuff burnt down. Lots.’

  Catherine steadied herself against the door frame at the unexpected onslaught. The boys were happy, even gleeful. To them, it was all a big adventure. They still had a home, and presumably parents, given their joyfulness, but she was having difficulty with their excitement. It was as if the fire was on a par with a trip to the Hobart Show.

  Eric crouched down and slapped his knees. ‘You’ve brought Benno. Here Benno, here boy.’ Benno gave a small wag of his tail. ‘Gosh, he’s dirty. So much soot on him. There’s ash everywhere.’ Eric stretched out his arms to indicate the entire valley.

  ‘Eric? Michael? Who’s at the door?’ Dave called from inside the house.

  ‘It’s Cath-er-ine,’ Eric sang out.

  ‘Dork.’ Michael elbowed him in the ribs.

  Dave appeared at the door. ‘Come in, come in.’ There was a tea towel over his shoulder and a bottle of milk in his hand. His face was grey with swirls of soot, as if he’d tried to wash with dirty water, and his eyes were bloodshot. ‘We’re having breakfast. Weet-Bix all round, with lots of milk before it goes off. No power. I’ll fire up the generator when I get a chance. That’s if I can get any fuel. Have you eaten?’ He spotted the dog, panting patiently at the end of his makeshift lead and frowned. ‘Why have you brought Benno?’

  Catherine took a breath, but it stuck in her throat. All she could do was shake her head.

  ‘Oh, God, Catherine. Are your folks all right? And Peter?’ Dave’s face was stricken. ‘It was such a hell of a day yesterday. I didn’t have a chance to check on them. Come on in.’ He took her by the arm and led her into the house.

  ‘Can we take Benno outside to play?’ Eric asked.

  Catherine nodded. ‘If it’s okay with your dad.’

  Dave hesitated for a moment. ‘All right.’ He turned to the boys, his expression serious. ‘Make sure you wash your hands after you pat him. And don’t go near your grandparents’ old place. Not till I get there.’

  ‘The old house burnt down,’ Michael said, proudly.

  ‘And the old packing shed too,’ Eric butted in, not to be outdone. ‘And the cool store.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said, although she didn’t know why. The boys seemed thrilled. She loosened the rope from Benno’s collar. ‘Off you go.’ She gave him a brief pat on his filthy back and tried not to cry.

  Michael and Eric ran off into the yard with Benno loping along beside them. Dave shut the door. ‘I know they weren’t born in tents, but honestly.’ He shrugged. ‘Come on, I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  As they passed the lounge room she noticed a man asleep on the couch, his body curled protectively around a young child. Annie had mentioned a friend of Dave’s had come to stay in Dave’s parents’ old house with his family, but with Catherine’s work in the orchard and Annie’s difficulties with the pregnancy, they’d never met. Could this be him?

  Dave sat her down at the kitchen table between Paul and Greg, who were shovelling soggy Weet-Bix into their mouths, and little Scott who was mushing his breakfast onto his high chair. Dave filled a billy with water from a bucket and lit a camping stove on the kitchen bench. Catherine put her head in her hands, leaning heavily on the kitchen table. Crumbs and grains of sugar pressed into her elbows. The babble of the children floated past her ears. All the little things of life Peter would never experience again, as simple as breakfast, and all the big things – like a wife and children.

  Dave put a cup of tea in front of her along with a bowl of Weet-Bix. ‘You look as though you need a bit of a feed. I’ve put lots of sugar in your tea, it’ll help.’ He sat down next to her. ‘What’s happened? Why have you brought Benno here?’

  Catherine shook her head, unable to speak.

  ‘
Are your mum and dad okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Thank God. And Peter?’

  Catherine wanted to tell him but the words wouldn’t come. Her tongue lay thick and useless in her mouth.

  ‘I’ll get Annie.’

  She sat staring blindly into her tea. The boys chattered around her but their voices were distant and muffled as if she were at the bottom of a deep well.

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder. Annie looked down at her, but she was different, changed somehow. Her face, usually ruddy from exertion and tanned from a life mainly spent outdoors, was a pale, ghostlike image of the woman she knew. The voluminous nightie she wore hung from sharp collar bones, reinforcing the ghostly appearance. Annie pulled up a chair and put her arms around Catherine.

  ‘Oh, Annie,’ Catherine sobbed, the tears coming at last.

  ‘There, there,’ she soothed, as if Catherine were one of her children. ‘There, there.’

  ‘Why is Catherine crying, Mummy?’ asked one of the boys.

  ‘She’s sad, that’s why.’

  ‘Is that why you cried all the time, Mummy?’

  Annie stood. ‘Let’s go into the bedroom. It’ll be a little more private, if we’re lucky.’

  Catherine stumbled after her, relieved to be with her dear friend. Of anyone, Annie would truly understand the depths of her grief, knowing how close she was to her brother. If it was at all possible, it was here she’d find the comfort she so desperately needed.

  Annie opened the door to the main bedroom and gently closed it behind them. The curtains were drawn and the room was warm and dark. ‘Catherine,’ Annie said.

  Catherine took a breath, willing herself to speak the words that hurt more than any words had a right to.

  Annie touched her arm. ‘I have a little surprise,’ she said, with such intensity that Catherine was momentarily startled. She led Catherine, almost reverently, to the other side of the double bed. There, lying on pink sheets, in a bassinet covered with frills, was a baby. She was a tiny thing, no more than days old. Annie bent over the bassinet and gently lifted her up. She turned proudly to Catherine, presenting the baby as if she were a prize. ‘This is Angela.’