Catherine was overwhelmed by a tumble of emotions. She was hoping to unburden her grief, to sob in Annie’s arms – a brief moment of comfort amid the trauma her life had become. Dave would have told Annie that Catherine’s parents were okay, but she didn’t know about Peter. She hadn’t asked what had happened nor talked about their own battles with the fire, which had clearly come so close. Instead Catherine was being shown a baby. Perhaps this was Annie’s way of consoling her, demonstrating that everything was going to be all right – even though their world was burnt and ravaged, new life had prevailed and would always do so. It was true, the baby was a miracle in a way, and a blessing after Annie had had such a tough time with the pregnancy. And Catherine knew how long Annie had longed for a baby girl. With a strength of will, Catherine pushed aside her grief and forced a smile. ‘Oh, Annie. I’m so happy for you. She’s perfect.’ She reached out to stroke one of Angela’s tiny fingers. ‘But isn’t she a bit early? I thought you weren’t due till next month.’
Annie snatched Angela away from Catherine’s touch. ‘She’s mine. My little angel.’ She shielded the baby with her body. ‘I might have got my dates slightly wrong. Not everyone is as organised as you.’
Catherine felt as though she’d been slapped. She staggered to the bed and sat down. It was so stuffy in here. The room was closing in on her. Peter was dead. Her home was gone. The orchard in ruins. But Annie had a new baby. A girl. Grief and joy. Death and life. Nothing stable. Nothing to hold on to. Her world was a swirling vortex. Then blackness descended.
7
8 February 1967
Mark
The wall of flames towered over him, wild and ferocious. The blistering heat singed the hairs on his arms. The smoke was like a savage animal, clawing at his eyes and throat. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see.
‘Charlie?’ His voice was swallowed up by the thick, roaring air. Panic hit him hard in the chest. His son. Where was his son? ‘Charlie!’
‘Daddy?’ The voice was distant, small and fragile. ‘Daddy.’ Closer now, the touch of small fingers on his cheek.
Mark opened his eyes. His boy lay in the crook of his arm, patting his cheek with clammy fingers. Mark hugged him to his chest. ‘Charlie. Thank God.’ He smelt the smoke in his son’s hair and the memory of yesterday broke through the remnants of his dream. Fire racing through the scrub, the winds whipping it into a fury. He and Dave with hoses, buckets and wet sacks, attacking every ember. The fence catching fire, the prayers he muttered into the flaming heat and smoke. His son was inside the house he was battling to protect. If Charlie died, it was Mark’s fault. The blame was on his shoulders. Not Lara’s. Not this time.
‘Bad dream, Daddy?’ Charlie asked. Mark’s heart swelled with love. His boy giving comfort, as Mark had comforted Charlie so many times.
Mark held him closer still. ‘Everything’s all right. Everything’s fine.’
Charlie giggled. ‘You’re squashing me.’
Mark rolled onto his back and lifted Charlie above him. ‘Better?’
Charlie chortled. ‘I’m an aeroplane.’
Mark’s arms ached with the effort. Every muscle and sinew screamed a reminder of the battle he and Dave had fought yesterday. He’d marvelled at his friend’s resourcefulness, at the preparations Dave had made before they’d left to check the rest of the property, and the calmness he’d shown while the fire roared around them. Dave was the reason they were all alive today. Although their survival was miraculous, even during the worst of it in his heart Mark knew that Dave would get them through. His friend had been his rock over the past few years. Through all the confusion and frustration with Lara there had been no one else he could turn to. Dave’s generosity and understanding were the reason Mark had brought Lara and Charlie to the valley a month ago. How could any of them have known it would turn out like this?
Even though Mark was sore and battered, he knew the real work, the heartbreaking grind, would begin today and stretch into the days to come. Thankfully the new packing shed was still intact. Dave was so proud of that shed. The orchard crawler – a strange beast, part tractor and part tank with caterpillar treads instead of tyres – was fine. The fate of the tractor and the ute were yet to be determined. Dave’s station wagon was okay, but Mark had no idea where his car was. Lara had taken it and she could be anywhere.
‘I’m hungry,’ Charlie said, wriggling off Mark’s chest and sliding to the floor. Mark winced as his son grasped his arm on the way down. He’d put some antiseptic cream on the burns last night and Annie had wrapped a bandage round his forearm. There’d be no lasting damage, and more importantly his hands were untouched, thanks to the thick gloves Dave had tossed his way before they’d started fighting the flames. His hands were his life. Or had been.
‘Let’s see what’s on the menu for breakfast then.’ Dinner last night had been Vegemite sandwiches, given the lack of electricity. Mark shifted his weary body off the couch. He and Charlie were lucky to have somewhere to sleep, now the old house was gone. But they couldn’t camp out in the lounge room forever. The house was already too small for Dave’s big family. When Lara came back, which she always did, they’d say their farewells. In the meantime he’d make himself useful. God knows there was plenty of work to be done.
Charlie reached for his hand as they walked down the hallway towards the kitchen and the noise of young boys, the clatter of bowls and plates, with Dave’s gentle murmurs providing the steady bassline. Dave’s boys had accepted Charlie into their clan without a moment’s hesitation, but the rough-and-tumble of country boys was foreign to him. In Melbourne Charlie had lived a strange half-life with a mother who often forgot he existed. And now Lara was gone, Charlie had no anchor at all except the hand he was holding.
In the kitchen, Dave and Mark greeted each other with the weary smiles of survivors. ‘Get some Weet-Bix into you,’ Dave said. He chucked Charlie under the chin. ‘You too, mate.’
Charlie dipped his head and pulled away. Dave shrugged and put a bowl in front of him. ‘Dig in.’ He turned to Mark. ‘You up for a tour of the property? See if there’s anything left to harvest?’
‘Sure.’ Mark marvelled at his friend. Years of work might have been destroyed in one day, but his tone was calm.
‘Plus I want to check on my neighbours, the Turners. Their orchard is a lot smaller and was right in the line of the main fire front. Copped it pretty bad, I reckon. Their daughter, Catherine, is here now, with Annie. She said her parents are okay, but she turned up with her brother’s dog. Something’s wrong there, for sure.’
‘Is the doggy hurt, Daddy?’ Paul, Dave’s six-year-old, had finished his breakfast, the remains of it clinging to the corners of his mouth.
‘Ah, no, son.’ An expression Mark couldn’t decipher crossed Dave’s face. ‘The dog’s fine. In fact he’s out the back playing with your big brothers. You wanna join them?’
Paul didn’t hesitate. His chair scraped across the linoleum as he hurried out through the back door.
‘Me too, Daddy?’ Greg always wanted to be with his brothers.
‘Sure, off you go. Just be careful though.’
In his highchair, Scott began to grizzle. He was missing out, as usual. ‘Yeah, I know,’ Dave said to him. ‘Life’s tough. But you know what? It will get better just before it gets really, really tough again. Now, finish your breakfast, if you can scrape it off your highchair.’
Scott let out a wail, picked up a handful of mushed Weet-Bix and threw it on the floor.
‘That’s enough of that,’ Dave said.
‘No, no, no!’ Scott’s voice raised in volume with each word as he threw more of the mush on the floor.
‘Dave?’ Annie called from the bedroom. ‘I need some help in here.’
‘Always the way.’ Dave sighed. He turned to Mark. ‘Mate, can you find out what Annie needs? I’ll take care of this little menace.’ He winked at his son.
‘Sure.’
Annie stood in the doorway to th
e main bedroom. ‘It’s Catherine, our neighbour,’ Annie said, frowning at him. ‘She’s fainted. Can you get me a damp washer, if we have any clean water left?’
‘There’s water in the kitchen, in a bucket. Is she okay?’
‘Yeah. But she’s not the kind of girl to faint.’
Mark stepped into the room where Catherine lay on the bed. At least she’d had the good sense to land somewhere soft. Her face was stained with smoke and tears and sweat. Her clothes were filthy. Clearly she’d been close to the fire front and had no time, or water, to wash. Probably no clothes to change into either. ‘What’s happened to her? And her family? Dave was worried about them being close to where the fire jumped the river.’
‘She didn’t say. Can you get the washer or not? I don’t want to leave Angela.’
Mark bit his lip and turned away. He found a washer in the bathroom. In the kitchen Dave was scraping Weet-Bix off the floor while Scott hiccupped after the exertion of his tantrum. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Your neighbour’s fainted.’ Mark dipped the washer into the bucket of water. ‘I’ll give this to Annie.’ He headed back down the hall.
Annie was next to the window with the baby in her arms. ‘Can you help Catherine? Angela needs me.’
Mark clenched his jaw and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He knelt beside Catherine and wiped the washer over her forehead, leaving a pale track across her face. She murmured something. A name? Reaching underneath her with his undamaged arm he gently edged her up so he could squeeze water down her back. Her eyes snapped open, wide and frightened.
‘Peter?’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘It’s okay.’ Mark kept his voice low and soothing.
She stared at him, her deep blue eyes close to his and so unlike Lara’s. His wife’s eyes were wild and extraordinary, a stormy sea of hidden dangers. These eyes were clear, but filled with sadness.
‘Everything’s all right,’ he reassured her.
‘No.’ Catherine slowly shook her head. ‘It’s not. And it never will be again.’
8
9 February 1967
Catherine
It was a strange and morbid procession that made its way to the ruins of the house. The police had the grim job of searching through houses for bodies, while the Army provided the transport. The officer in charge told Catherine and her father that Peter’s remains would be taken to Forensic Pathology, as a matter of protocol, and then released to the funeral director of their choice.
Her father gave one brief nod and walked a couple of steps away, his shoulders hunched.
‘How long—’ Catherine swallowed, the lump in her throat making speaking an effort. ‘How long will it take?’
The policeman sighed. He was a stranger to her, one of many who’d been assigned this unpleasant duty. ‘Hopefully, within the week.’
‘A week? But why? We know who he is. And how he died.’ It seemed cruel to string out the agony for both her and her parents.
The policeman avoided her eyes. ‘The forensic department has been rather busy.’
‘How busy?’
‘Over fifty cases so far.’
Catherine knew the fire had been widespread and horrendous, but so many dead? It was incomprehensible. Then the full weight of the policeman’s words hit her. ‘So far?’
‘The toll continues to rise.’
She nodded mutely, unable to think of a response.
Catherine could hardly bear to watch as the men, alongside her father, sorted methodically through the wreckage, shifting sheets of tin and searching through the piles of rubble. What would they find? A few bones? A skull? Her mother was right to hide from it. For the past two days she’d stayed in the stuffy bedroom with the curtains closed, shutting out the scorched reality of what their lives had become. Early this morning Catherine had heard her weeping through the thin wall separating her bedroom from her parents’. Her father’s voice had been soothing but the sobs continued. Later Catherine had tried to talk to her, but her mother was too traumatised to be reached. Instead Catherine had sat at her bedside, hoping her presence would be a form of comfort. Sometimes Catherine had murmured reassuring words, platitudes that fell like lies from her tongue. Other times she’d just sat and shed silent tears, heavy with the weight of grief as her mother sobbed beside her. If tears could water this parched land, the pastures and orchards would bloom back to life overnight.
‘Here,’ one of the policemen called.
Her father, his jaw held tight, moved towards him. Together they lifted a charred lump while two others brought a stretcher. Was that Peter? The bile rose in Catherine’s throat as she struggled to stop herself from vomiting. A strange sensation crept through her body, as if the earth beneath her feet was cracking wide open.
After the men had gone, Catherine found Tim at what was left of the packing shed. He was, she realised, respectfully staying out of the way of the morbid proceedings. His clothes and skin were black with ash. She watched as he shifted some debris aside, his arms strong and lean from surfing. ‘Hey,’ she called out softly, not trusting her voice.
Tim turned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a gloved hand, leaving a black smudge across his brow. ‘Hey,’ he answered, matching the softness in her voice. Today was not a day for loud noises, or sudden movements.
‘You’re still here.’ Parts of yesterday were still a blur. After coming back from Annie’s, she’d seen a tall, blond young man following her father around, helping put out spot fires and dousing the smoking ruins of the house. For a moment she’d thought he was Peter.
He made his way through the rubble towards her. ‘Reckon I’ll stick around for as long as you need, or till you get sick of me. Whatever comes first.’
‘Thanks.’ Tim’s kindness was a balm. The tightness in her chest shifted slightly. ‘But you’re going to need a change of clothes at some stage.’
‘You too.’ His crooked grin was a flash of white against tanned and grimy skin.
Catherine wiped her hands down her filthy jeans and shrugged. ‘I can always borrow some clothes from Annie or Mum, but you,’ she smiled back at him, ‘you’d look pretty funny in my dad’s clothes.’ The attempt at lightness ended up sounding strained as it hit her. The only clothes her dad had were the ones he was wearing. Same with her mother. Everything they owned and everything they loved was in the burnt ruin of their home, including Peter.
Tim stayed silent. Waiting. She appreciated the time to get her thoughts in order. ‘The, ah, the funeral won’t be for another week or so.’ The words were like jagged little rocks in her mouth. ‘I need to go back to town and pick up my car.’ She paused. ‘I have a few things I need to do.’
Tim searched her face with piercing blue eyes. ‘You’re going to quit your job, aren’t you? And move back here.’
‘I can’t stay in Hobart, not now.’
‘But you love your job. And the school.’
She dropped her head. It hadn’t always been that way. ‘When I was young all I wanted to do was work in this orchard. At first Dad was great, he’d take me along on the tractor while he was ploughing and spraying. He taught me how to prune, and all about black spot and codling moth.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was the year Nathalie Norris was crowned the Apple Queen at the Apple Festival. She ran a successful orchard just over the river. I was so excited I told Dad everything I’d do when I ran our orchard.’ Catherine was aware of the tension in her voice. Her father’s rebuke still stung even after all these years.
‘Didn’t go well?’
Catherine shook her head. He’d told her straight out to forget it. Peter would take over the orchard and that was that. Shocked and disappointed, she’d turned to her mother, but she’d only agreed with him. As long as there was a man around, he would always be in charge. Nathalie Norris was an exception. She was the only one in her family available to run their orchard and yes, she did it well, but she had no husband and no children of
her own. Was that what Catherine wanted? To be a childless spinster? Her mother didn’t think so. Catherine would get married and have children one day. ‘Peter was supposed to take over the orchard.’ She pressed her hand against her heart, still beating despite the pain.
‘So, teaching then.’ Tim’s voice was gentle, urging her on.
‘Well, first Mum suggested I marry the Fletcher boy, then I could run his packing shed during the season.’ Catherine tried to smile but it was more of a grimace.
‘Not your scene?’
Catherine couldn’t believe she was telling Tim this, but there was an odd comfort in it. The only other person she’d ever talked to about it was Annie, over many tear-filled teenage rants. ‘When it became clear I wasn’t interested, Mum and Dad sat me down for a talk. I could get a job at the cannery or the evaporating factory in Franklin. Because I was doing well in school, nursing was mentioned, but Mum thought I’d make a good teacher.’ Catherine suspected her mother hoped being around young children would make her daughter yearn for children of her own sooner rather than later. Her father was keen on the teaching idea too. It was clear he wanted to get her focus off the orchard and onto a career of her own. They were both pleased when she was accepted into the teaching course and with the scholarship that went with it.
‘For what it’s worth, Miss Downie reckons you’re a good teacher.’
‘She does?’ Catherine had been glad to land the job at Sandy Bay Infant School after two years of teaching in the country, even though Miss Downie terrified her. ‘She told you that?’
Tim smiled. ‘I gotta toe the line around her, like everybody else, but sometimes she lets her guard down and says something nice.’
‘I think she said something nice to me once too.’ Catherine had only taught there for a year, but during that time she’d come to admire Miss Downie and the way she ran the school. Everything had been going so well. Her garden flat, the beach, the walk to school, the students, the school itself – she enjoyed every aspect of her life. Tim was right, she had grown to love her job and the little school by the Derwent. But that was before. Catherine squinted at the sky, avoiding his eyes. ‘Everything has changed.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 5