Tim’s sigh was slow and heavy. ‘I’ll give you a lift. I need to get back too. There’ll be a stack of work to do at the school.’
They were silent for most of the long drive to Hobart. Words seemed empty in the midst of such devastation. Catherine had seen photos of bombed cities from World War II, and of the horrors of Hiroshima. These were the only comparisons she could make. North of Huonville the outline of Sleeping Beauty stood stark against the sky. Catherine usually delighted in the view of Collins Bonnet and Trestle Mountain forming the head and body of the mythical Beauty. As a child she had thought it was magical. But today there was no delight, no magic. Sleeping Beauty was not sleeping. She was dead, like everything else. Mile after mile of blackened paddocks, charred and bloated sheep and cattle, gutted houses with only the chimneys standing, and burnt-out cars. Catherine found it hard to breathe – her hands were clenched and her shoulders tight with tension.
Tim turned to her, his eyes full of concern, then returned his attention to the road. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s full on.’
Catherine appreciated he didn’t try to reassure her. How could he? How could anyone? His gentle understanding was enough to ease her anxiety. She pushed away the thought that she’d have to drive back through all of this again and next time she’d be on her own.
As they got closer to Hobart, the suburbs lined up like rows of broken teeth. Here a ravaged house, the despairing owners sifting through the wreckage, then right next door a weatherboard home completely untouched. There were many stories of fire razing homes to the ground while the adjacent house remained unscathed. Her family had experienced it, with their home gone while the fire skipped over her grandmother’s cottage. It made no sense to Catherine. Was it God’s will that some should lose everything and others nothing at all? That some should die while others lived?
After what felt like an eternity, Tim dropped her off at the school. He leant over the bench seat and gently touched her arm. ‘This isn’t the last you’ll see of me, Miss Turner. No matter what you say, you saved my life. Only a fool would let an angel slip away. Besides, I promised your old man I’d come down and help, so we’ll be seeing each other again real soon.’
Catherine couldn’t stop a tear from escaping. The future was uncertain, her little brother was dead, but this unexpected ally had accompanied her through hell and considered her an angel. It felt like a blessing in this desert of ash. ‘Okay,’ was all she could whisper.
Catherine’s car was covered with the blackened debris of the fire. She slipped into the driver’s seat, holding her breath as she willed it to start. She wasn’t ready to face Miss Downie yet. First things first, she thought, as the Hillman spluttered into life.
Mrs Sampson burst into sobs as soon as she answered her front door. Wrapping Catherine in a bosomy hug she said she’d been worried sick, truly sick, about her. Her landlady released Catherine from her damp embrace. ‘Oh dear, look at you. Filthy. And I am too now. Oh, but I couldn’t help but hug you. I honestly thought you were dead. It was a dreadful day, wasn’t it, dear? Dreadful. The smoke! I couldn’t breathe. The sky was orange and oh the sun!’ She looked skyward. ‘A big red giant.’
She led Catherine to the kitchen. ‘I was visiting my sister in South Hobart. She assured me everything would be all right,’ she continued. ‘She said we were safe. Bushfires belong in the bush, so she said.’ Mrs Sampson hurrumphed as she put the kettle on to boil and spooned tea into her much-used aluminium teapot. ‘Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? We were lucky to escape with our lives.’ Mrs Sampson lowered her voice as a solemn expression settled on her features. ‘Not everyone was so fortunate though. Have you heard? So many dead.’ She was breathless with the drama of it. ‘Those poor souls. May they rest in peace.’
Catherine’s heart lurched, but she said nothing. Much as she longed to pour out her overwhelming sorrow, she knew there were some, like her landlady, who would turn Peter’s death into a drama of their own. She needed time to grow a membrane over her grief. Fortunately Mrs Sampson didn’t expect Catherine to talk. She was more than willing to do enough for both of them.
‘But whoever would have thought that a bushfire, a bushfire, would come right into Hobart. It was only a wind change that saved the city, you know. We could’ve all been burnt. All of us pushed into the sea. Like those poor people in Snug. Huddled in the water, some with babes in arms. For hours they were stuck there. And when it was safe to come out of the water, there was nothing left. No houses, no school. All burnt.’
The kettle boiled and Mrs Sampson made the tea, gathering milk, sugar, and rock cakes from the biscuit tin, all the while keeping up her commentary.
‘People running everywhere, trying to save their precious possessions, their pets, their cars. Absolute bedlam! They even let the prisoners out to fight the fire. Criminals! Let them out, just like that. Never asked us if we were happy about it. But I have to say, they did their bit. Of course there are stories about looters, trying to steal whatever they could. Now those people should be locked up and never let out.’
Mrs Sampson sat down at the kitchen table and poured the tea. ‘I really did think you were dead, you know, or worse. I’ve heard the stories of those poor people in hospital. Some very badly burnt.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘Some of them not expected to make it.’
Catherine closed her eyes briefly, trying to control her emotions, then distracted herself from thinking about Peter by loading her tea with sugar and choosing the biggest rock cake from the pile. She took a sip from her steaming cup. Usually she didn’t take sugar, but Dave had been right, the sweetness helped.
‘Did you hear?’ Mrs Sampson didn’t let up. ‘The Prime Minister is here. Flew back specially from New Zealand. Harold Holt himself, having a look at all the damage. He’s gone down your way too. You might have passed him on the road. I think he’ll get a surprise. Those mainlanders have no idea what we went through. I’m so glad you’re all right.’ She patted Catherine’s hand. ‘Very dirty, but all right. Were you fighting the fire too? I’ve heard about children right in the thick of it, trying to put fires out with branches and watering cans. Kiddies! It’s not right, I tell you. But people did get desperate. A travesty all round. Still, here you are, safe and sound. Everything tickety-boo at the orchard then?’
Catherine took a breath and steeled herself. ‘Actually, the family home is gone and a lot of the orchard, plus the packing shed, the tractor and all our equipment.’ Her voice wavered – she couldn’t bear to dwell on the most important thing they’d lost. She pushed on before Mrs Sampson could interrupt. ‘My grandmother’s cottage is still standing, but apart from that there’s not much left. I’m sorry, Mrs Sampson, I’ll have to vacate your flat. I’ll pay to the end of the month, of course, but I need to move back home. As I’m sure you can understand, there’s a lot of work to do. I am sorry to leave you in the lurch, but it’s such a pretty little flat, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a new tenant.’ She tried to smile but failed, succeeding merely in holding back her tears.
Mrs Sampson surprised Catherine by expressing a ‘hah’ of relief. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, not about your home and everything. No, that’s dreadful. My sister’s house survived but her friend was burnt out and has nowhere to go. She could stay at the camp the Army set up in Brighton, very well organised it sounds like, too. There’ll be close to 500 people living there, you know. So many people without a home to go to or friends or family to stay with. Oh, but they’ll have everything provided for them, including toys for the littlies and all meals prepared by Army cooks. Sounds like a holiday to me. But my sister’s friend wants to stay closer to town and her friends. I guess it’s bad enough losing your house, let alone be surrounded by strangers who’ve all had their places burnt down too. Anyhow, I saw it as my Christian duty to take her and her kiddies in.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The husband took off a while ago. Anot
her woman.’ Mrs Sampson nodded in a conspiratorial way. ‘But we don’t talk about that.’ She herself was a widow with no children and never a whiff of scandal. ‘The trouble is, there’s not enough room here for all her children. The two youngest can bunk together but there’s the oldest, a boy.’ Mrs Sampson sniffed. ‘The garden flat will be perfect for him. Everybody will be a lot happier. Including you.’ Mrs Sampson patted Catherine’s hand again. ‘You’ll be back in the country with all that space and fresh air, not cooped up here with three children and a deserted wife.’
Catherine was left with the distinct impression that Mrs Sampson had taken in this unfortunate family not only for the altruistic value it bestowed upon her within her social circle, but also for the extra gossip she could extract from the situation. Ungraciously she found herself hoping Mrs Sampson would take a trip out to the country one day and see the truth of all that ‘space and fresh air’.
‘Where is this unfortunate family now?’ Catherine asked.
‘You’ve heard about all the appeals for clothing and food and such? Well, the response has been so enormous they’ve had to move all the donations to the Princes Wharf. Can you imagine? The entire pier is chockablock. My sister has taken them there to get some clothes. Toys for the kids and food too, canned mainly, but also butter and flour and suchlike. I’ve asked them to bring back what they can. Those children eat a lot. But they have everything at the wharf. You should go. Clothes, shoes, blankets, kitchenware – anything you need.’
There were sheets and blankets as well as crockery at her grandmother’s cottage but little else. Her parents needed clothes and her father needed new boots – his only pair had been ruined fighting the fires. Tim had stocked the cupboards with bread, cheese, jam, sugar and tea, for which she and her father were grateful, but her mother hadn’t eaten a bite. Catherine knew she’d need to rustle up something more substantial and also try to tempt her mother with some soup, but the power was still out and the wood stove remained too daunting. Even a cup of tea had been beyond her. ‘Do they have portable stoves? Those small gas-fired ones?’
Mrs Sampson’s face lit up. ‘Oh yes, I’ve definitely heard it mentioned. Because people have no power and they’ve got to cook on something.’
Catherine thanked Mrs Sampson and excused herself. She had a lot of packing to do as well as a trip to Princes Wharf. She opened the door to her garden flat for the last time, taking in all her little treasures on the window sills, the tea set neatly arranged next to her electric kettle, and the cushions she’d made out of the latest fabric from Silk and Textiles. There was so much she’d enjoyed about her life in Hobart; this flat, her friends, the vibrancy of the dances and cafes, and the children she nurtured as a teacher. She slumped in a chair and closed her eyes. Much as she loved the orchard, was she ready to say goodbye to all of this?
A memory of Peter came into her mind. They were young, running through the orchard in springtime, the air alive with apple blossom and bees. The scent was intoxicating, sweet with the promise of the fruit to come. Peter had stopped and turned to her, his eyes bright and smiling. ‘Every winter when I was little, I used to think the trees had died,’ he’d said. ‘They look so sad without their leaves. It made me sad too. Now I know they’re not dead at all, just waiting to come back to life. New life, every spring.’ He’d spun around in a circle. ‘This is heaven, Cat. Heaven.’
Catherine rubbed the ache in her chest, right above her heart. ‘I promise you, little brother, the orchard will bloom again. I promise it’ll be just like heaven once again.’
9
15 February 1967
Annie
Annie stood cradling Angela in her arms, rocking gently from side to side, as she watched the men. She’d never imagined seeing this – the Army working on the property. But here they were, shovelling rubble and carting away the twisted metal of the coolroom. She was glad Dave’s father wasn’t around to see it. Keith had built the coolroom, with its double-frame weatherboards, vapour seals and wood chips for insulation. Not many properties had cool storage, but the Pearsons’ orchard was large enough to make it worthwhile. She missed Keith, who’d been a steadying presence during the furore of her hastily arranged wedding to Dave. He, and Dave’s mother Dorothy, had loved her with as much fervour as her own parents had rejected her.
The shriek of grinding metal made Annie wince. She was glad to see the buckled roofing iron go. A decent gust of wind could pick it up and the sharp edges do any amount of damage. Yesterday the Army boys had dealt with the old house, knocking down the chimney and removing anything that could be a threat. Mark had poked through the ashes, but all he’d found were a few lumps of metal that might have been anything; Charlie’s toys, taps, cutlery. The fierce heat had melted them all. Miraculously, two of the old pickers’ huts were left standing. Mark had cleaned up the larger one and he and Charlie had moved in. Annie was glad to have her lounge room back, but she wondered how much longer Mark planned to stay – it had been five weeks now, surely he’d return to Melbourne soon. With the shortage of labour because of the fires, Dave needed an extra pair of hands, it was true, but with them came another boy, meaning two more mouths to feed. A wry smile flickered across her lips. She hoped Mark would be gone by next month, but if he stayed on he’d have to help with the picking. It would be interesting to see how the city boy, with his long hair and dark brooding eyes, would cope, day after day.
Annie headed back to the house where yet another load of washing waited for her. The old washing machine was a workhorse but needed constant attention, and the hand wringer, while effective, was laborious. She wondered why she bothered. The smell of burnt apples, dead livestock and charred eucalypts hung like a shroud over the entire valley, tainting the washing on the line. It was impossible to get anything clean – the fine dusting of soot was never ending. Having three boys at school made her days a little easier. Not all children in the area had returned to school after the fires, with many families now homeless. She knew her family was fortunate, but today, soot-smudged and weary, unable to keep anything clean let alone herself, she didn’t feel it. In the backyard her two youngest boys played with Charlie and Benno. The sight of the charred orchard behind the house still shocked her. Death had come so close. The upper orchard had copped the worst of it. Dave had summed it up: ‘Nothing worth salvaging there.’
Their other blocks had fared better. The fire had burnt only the outer rows of trees. In the middle of the orchard, where not one blade of grass was allowed to grow, the trees were largely untouched. Dave had done the right thing leaving the tractor and ute there. A lot of the fruit was badly damaged, only good for factory fruit or juicing. It remained to be seen, as the season continued, how much of the crop would qualify for the domestic market, let alone for export where the real money was. No matter the outcome, Annie would be in the shed as she’d been for the last nine seasons, packing and supervising. She smoothed Angela’s downy head.
‘Not the life I’d imagined for myself, my little angel. And my parents certainly didn’t either. But don’t worry, whatever you choose to do, and whatever so-called mistakes you might make, I will never disown you.’ She glanced over at Charlie – such a quiet child, despite the wildness of his mother, Lara. She stroked Angela’s cheek. ‘And I will never abandon you.’
The crunch of car wheels on the gravel of the driveway caused Annie to frown. The men were in Huonville. Dave was sorting out the insurance and Mark was hoping to get help from the police to find Lara. Good luck with that. The coppers were run off their feet right now without looking for runaway wives. As far as Annie was concerned Lara had done them all a favour by disappearing. Before she and Mark had arrived from Melbourne, Annie already knew all about Lara. For the last few years, since Charlie had been born, Dave had been a constant support for Mark, who’d been worried and confused about Lara’s behaviour. Mark thought that with Dave being a father so many times over, he might have some insight or advice. None of Mark’s other friends had
children, which was no surprise to Annie. They weren’t the kind to settle down. After every phone call, Dave would tell her what a hard time Mark was having with Lara. She could barely look after herself, let alone their child. Dave had felt hopeless to help but did what he could, even if it was only to lend an ear. When Mark was at his wit’s end, Dave, being the generous soul that he was, suggested his friend bring his family to stay with him and Annie for a while, to help get them on an even keel. Annie huffed. Look how that had turned out.
Annie found a late-model Holden parked in the driveway, and two smartly dressed women standing beside it.
‘Good morning.’ One woman walked towards Annie in high-heeled shoes, her hand extended. ‘I’m Mrs Carter from St Barnaby’s Women’s Auxiliary, and this is Mrs Worthington.’ The other woman nodded her head. ‘We’re doing a tour of affected properties and providing whatever aid we can. We’re aware that many people in outlying areas can’t make it to the distribution centres in Hobart, so we’re coming to you.’
Annie shook the offered hand. It was soft, with the faint scent of lavender soap. ‘Mrs Pearson.’ She usually introduced herself as Annie Pearson but these women preferred formality. ‘The Salvation Army have set up a centre in Huonville, so we have most of the necessities.’
Mrs Carter shook her head daintily. ‘We only deal in quality goods. All new. Nothing second-hand, or shop soiled.’
Annie was confused. Was this woman offering help, or trying to sell something? Either way, her manner was condescending. ‘We’re happy with the goods we’ve been given, and very grateful.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 6