The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  Mrs Worthington stepped forward. ‘What a lovely house,’ she said, casting an eye over the weatherboard structure. ‘And how wonderful to see it unscathed.’

  ‘Yes, a bit of scorching round the side but that’s it. My husband had precautions in place.’

  ‘But not so fortunate with the other dwelling and outbuildings, I hear.’ Mrs Carter raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  Who’d been talking to this woman, Annie wondered. Someone in Cygnet? If gossip was currency they’d all be rich. Or maybe it had been Dave, when he was looking into the many forms of government relief.

  ‘And what a lovely baby.’ Mrs Worthington crooned over Angela. ‘She’s so tiny. How old is she? Barely weeks, from the look of her.’

  Annie took a step back. She didn’t want these women near Angela. Why were they here, with their lipstick and fashionable clothes? Both of them so clean. What Annie wouldn’t give for a long shower. She hadn’t washed her hair in over a week. These impeccably dressed women were a reminder of a time long gone. Annie missed her life in Hobart sometimes, especially when the kids were noisy and the work was endless. As if he’d read her thoughts Scott started wailing in the backyard.

  ‘Thanks for dropping by,’ Annie said with a tight smile. ‘But we’re fine. The Salvos, Red Cross and St Vincent de Paul have all been to visit. Honestly, it’s a full-time job talking to you lot.’

  Mrs Carter’s mouth turned down in a faint frown. ‘There isn’t anything you need?’ She looked Annie up and down, making her acutely aware of her old and grubby housecoat.

  Scott’s cries increased in volume. ‘Mummy!’

  Annie looked Mrs Carter in the eye. ‘I need to see what’s wrong with my son and feed my daughter. I need good soaking rain. I need the power and telephone back on. And workers for the harvest. Are either of you any good at grading or packing?’

  Mrs Carter stiffened. As she opened her mouth to reply, the other woman laid a calming hand on her arm. ‘We understand.’ Mrs Worthington’s voice was low and smooth. ‘It’s a trying time for everyone. Please be assured we’re here to help if you do discover you need anything, anything at all. Except perhaps packers.’ Her laugh was tight. ‘I’m afraid we’d be more of a hindrance in that regard. But wait, we might have something.’ She delved into the boxes in the back of the car. ‘Here we are. Just the thing.’ It was a small teddy bear in a pink tutu. ‘I think a certain little girl might like this, don’t you?’

  Annie accepted the bear. Angela deserved it.

  ‘Mummy,’ wailed Scott again. Benno began to bark and Annie was struck with a terrifying thought. ‘I must go. There might be snakes. The fire’s driven them out of their usual places and they’re looking for water.’

  ‘Oh my.’ Mrs Worthington backed away. ‘We’d best be going.’ The women hastily seated themselves in the car, shutting the doors firmly. Mrs Carter wound down her window, but only halfway. ‘Remember,’ she said. ‘We have nice dresses, new, and in this season’s style. Donated by the finest boutiques. We might even have one in your size.’ And with a wave of her hand they were gone.

  Annie muttered a word she didn’t want Angela to hear, even if she couldn’t understand it. Some things about her upbringing she didn’t miss, like those women; judgemental and disapproving. In fact, Mrs Carter reminded her a little too much of her own mother.

  ‘Right,’ Annie said, too busy to let a snobby stranger get under her skin for long. ‘Let’s see what your brother is screaming about.’

  10

  15 February 1967

  Catherine

  Her father surveyed the ruined trees. ‘We worked so hard. Me, my father and my grandfather. Through rough times and more than a few bloody disasters. But this fire,’ he paused, looking down at his bandaged fingers, ‘it’s knocked something out of me.’

  Catherine felt the pain in his words. She watched the river, beyond what was left of the orchard. The reflection of the fire-ravaged bank on the opposite shore shimmered in the grey waters of the Huon, too far to swim but close enough for a strong man to row on a calm day. The blaze had jumped it as if it were a puddle. ‘What will happen to the trees, Dad? Are any salvageable?’

  His sigh carried the weight of many failed harvests. ‘Possibly. Someone from the Ag Department will help me decide, once they’ve finished with all the dead stock. Horrible business. And now there’s the lack of feed for the cattle and sheep that managed to survive. Apple trees are down the list in importance.’

  Catherine knew supplies of hay from the north were meagre and the rains still hadn’t come. Tim was taking lawn clippings from the school to the Queen’s Domain on Saturday for Operation Grass Clippings. Many in Hobart were doing the same. The clippings were for farmers to use as feed for their stock. Catherine was amazed there was enough grass left anywhere for the scheme to be a success. Everything around her was black.

  Her father frowned at the orchard. ‘The first four rows haven’t survived, and need to be grubbed out. Most of the remaining trees will have to be chopped back at least. Even if they pull through, those ones will be unreliable croppers. I think we’ll have to rework the lot with new grafts. Best not to make them struggle. A stressed tree is an unhappy tree—’

  ‘And an unhappy tree brings pests and diseases.’ Catherine completed his sentence. ‘Yes, I know.’ She remembered well her father’s lessons from when she was younger, before Peter had taken her place in the orchard. She’d never resented Peter – he hadn’t had a choice either. Their father’s attitude was cut and dried – men ran the orchard, a woman’s place was in the packing shed, and that’s where Catherine had spent every harvest, first as a baby nestled in an apple box, then in one of the big wooden bins with the other toddlers. From the age of six she was standing on a box beside her mother, copying her as she packed. Catherine could do it in her sleep. Take an apple in one hand and a square of tissue paper in the other, place the apple nose down into the middle of the paper, twist the apple around and then pack it on its side in the box. Two-handed packing was preferable to grab packing, her mother explained, because you could see the blemishes. Catherine was astounded by how fast all the women were, their hands flying over the fruit, wrapping them neatly and filling the wooden boxes with such speed. At first, her apples with their scrunched tissue paper and lopsided efforts were given a special box all of their own. Even so, her mother was proud. ‘Good work, Catherine,’ she’d say. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

  ‘Could be for the best,’ her father said.

  ‘What?’ Catherine was startled from her reminiscences.

  ‘Markets are changing. There isn’t the demand for some of the crop any more. Granny Smiths and Golden Delicious will always do well, but we needed to grub out some of the older varieties anyway. Red Delicious are the way to go, and we need more of them.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Catherine hated Red Delicious. They were like vain, handsome men – great to look at but under the skin lay nothing but disappointment.

  ‘I know. No good for cooking, or eating. But the research station reckons they have some beaut new varietals. Plus we’re making inroads into the Asian market and they love them. England will take anything, so …’ He shrugged. ‘It makes sense.’

  ‘As long as we always have some Cox’s for home use. And a Lady in the Snow.’

  ‘We’ll always have a Lady; your mother loves them too. But the business is changing. Costs keep going up and there’s a lot more competition out there. We have to keep ahead of the game and if we can’t, then at least keep up with it.’

  Catherine had a lot to learn if she was going to help run the orchard now her brother was gone. The changes had been rapid and the irrigation system was one of them. During the recent summer holidays she’d watched Peter and her father lugging the irrigation pipes around. It was hard, constant work and she’d been happy to stay out of it. Now it would be her instead of Peter bending her back to the task – but that could wait. The irrigation system was a wreck like everything else.


  ‘Are we going to have to pick all the ruined fruit?’ she asked.

  ‘If we can avoid it we will. There’s no point bothering with the trees that’ll be bulldozed. Most of the other trees are scorched. Even in the centre of the orchard there are patches where the fire rolled over the top and randomly touched down.’

  Her father’s jaw clenched, a small muscle twitching with tension. Was he thinking about her mother, alone in the middle of the orchard, with fire all around her, after watching their home explode in a fireball with her son trapped inside? She’d fled, fire licking at her heels and raging over her head through the canopy of the trees. In all that smoke she’d found Petunia in the middle of the orchard. Their house cow had instinctively sought the safest place. The same couldn’t be said for the chickens. There was still no sign of them. For all his talk about the ruined trees being for the best, Catherine knew her father was deeply heartbroken over the loss of his son, anxious about his wife’s emotional state and worried for the future of the orchard. It was too much for either of them to bear on their own. Together though, if he’d let her, they might pull through.

  ‘Hopefully some fruit will be salvageable. We should get a premium price for them at the evaporating factory. The fire’s done half the work for them already.’

  Catherine smiled at his attempt at humour. The evaporating factory paid very little at the best of times, but at least it was better than anything they’d get for juicing.

  He cleared his throat. ‘If we do end up doing any picking, I’m sure your fella would be keen to help.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Young Tim.’

  Catherine felt herself reddening. ‘He’s not my boyfriend, Dad.’

  ‘Really? He said you knocked him off his feet.’

  ‘He told you that?’ Catherine spluttered. ‘He didn’t mean what you think. We were caught in the fire, with a wall of flames coming at us. I had to do something.’

  ‘It’s okay. He told me what happened. You probably saved his life.’

  ‘But it was my fault.’ A shudder ran up her spine. ‘I can’t bear to think of him telling people I saved him when I almost got him killed.’

  He waved her concerns away. ‘His hair is a bit long for my liking, but he’s a decent bloke, I reckon.’

  Catherine raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Tim’s hair barely touched his collar. In one of their schoolyard chats he’d bemoaned the fact that Miss Downie was always policing the length of his hair.

  ‘You could do worse,’ her father continued. ‘He’s been a great help. Couldn’t have been much fun, mucking in all day and then sleeping in his car. And he’s keen to come back on his days off. As I see it there can only be one reason for it.’

  Catherine wasn’t sure how she felt about Tim. Their casual acquaintance had turned into something deeper when they were thrown together, literally, in the inferno of Strickland Avenue. He’d been such a support to her on that horrible day, she doubted she could have got through it without him. She’d had boyfriends before, but nothing serious. It was only last year that the marriage bar had been abolished, but women still had to leave their careers if they became pregnant. In the end it was simpler to stay single. Not that it was an issue for her any more. Last week Catherine had resigned from the Education Department. She hadn’t told her parents yet. That was a discussion for another day.

  ‘There’s too much work to do to even think about a boyfriend.’ Catherine changed the subject. ‘How can we pick apples without a tractor to lug the bins?’ The tractor was a write-off, the chassis congealed, its metal fused in the furnace of the fire.

  ‘Insurance will cover it. And we’re in no hurry. Even if any of the apples are worth picking, they won’t be worth exporting. The factories won’t care if the apples have been left on the trees too long.’

  Their heads turned towards the sound of a car coming up the rutted driveway. Catherine was surprised by the flutter in her stomach at the thought it might be Tim. Did she have feelings for him after all? But the car was a blue Holden sedan so new not even the dust could mask the shine of the duco. It pulled up in front of the cottage and two women alighted, both wearing bright dresses in the latest fashion, one a yellow floral and the other a red polka dot.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman in yellow said. ‘I’m Mrs Carter and this is Mrs Worthington.’

  11

  17 February 1967

  Catherine

  Catherine couldn’t help but hope that Peter’s funeral would be sparsely attended. It wasn’t out of lack of love for her brother, but concern for her mother. Judith hadn’t left the bedroom since the fires ten days ago. The constant crying had eased to fitful sobs, but the thought of leaving the cottage to face people, no matter how sympathetic, was overwhelming to her.

  At least Catherine had thought to ask the women from the Women’s Auxiliary if they could provide a simple black dress for her mother. Mrs Worthington and Mrs Carter had returned within days with a beautifully cut dress in her mother’s size plus a few other items. It had been difficult persuading her mother to wear the dress and taken a good half hour to coax her outside and into the car on yet another stifling summer’s day.

  As they reached the church, Catherine baulked at the number of people who’d come to pay their respects. She knew she should be pleased her brother was so well regarded, but helping her mother past the crowded pews was an effort of pure endurance. Every face turned as they shuffled past, many of them already dabbing at tears and nodding in sympathy. Her mother acknowledged no one. She kept her eyes downcast and clung to Catherine with a strength surprising in a woman who’d barely eaten or slept for over a week. Catherine guided her mother to the front of the church where a pew was reserved for them.

  Her father was one of the pallbearers, along with Dave and four of Peter’s friends. Catherine watched the young men as they set down the coffin in front of the altar. They were strong and healthy, ‘strapping lads’ as her father would say. Each of them would’ve helped fight the fires and each one of them was still alive. She could imagine their mothers silently thanking their lucky stars, while her mother sat, almost catatonic, shutting everything out.

  Her father joined them, sitting on the other side of her mother, to shield her as best they could from concerned but curious eyes. Dave sat in the pew behind, where Annie cradled a sleeping Angela. Their older boys were at school and the younger ones at home in the care of Dave’s friend, Mark. ‘A funeral’s no place for a child,’ Annie had said. Catherine had agreed at the time, but now wondered if a few noisy boys might not serve as a much-needed distraction. She stared at the coffin with its brass handles and splay of limp flowers on the lid. Was her brother really in that box, or what was left of him? She’d seen the charred lump pulled from the debris of the house. How could one so full of life and love be reduced to such an awful thing? She bit her lip, willing the pain to come. Anything to stop her mind delving into dark places. She must remember Peter the way he’d been, joyful and alive. Catherine scrabbled in her handbag for a handkerchief. She should have brought more than one.

  The service flowed around them in the steady patterns of ritual. Her father gave one of the readings, his voice a monotone and his face a rigid mask. With a sinking heart Catherine made her way to the lectern when it was her turn. She wished she’d never agreed to do the other reading. The Bible lay open in front of her while the rector regarded her with sympathy and encouragement. She tried to focus on the words and began.

  ‘The reading is taken from Ecclesiastes, Chapter Three, verses one to four.’ She paused and took a breath.

  To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens:

  A time to be born, and a time to die—

  Her voice wavered. The Byrds had had a massive hit a couple of years ago with a song based on these words. Peter had bought the record with his pocket money and played it endlessly.

  A time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted …
>
  Every word reminded her of her brother. As kids they’d been given small plots beside the vegetable garden where they could grow whatever they wanted. Peter had planted potatoes and carrots while Catherine grew sweet peas and fragrant roses; Peace with its pink-tinged yellow petals and the vigorous pink blooms of the Queen Elizabeth. They’d tended their gardens all through their teenage years, although Catherine’s had fallen into neglect while she was away studying and then teaching. When Peter realised, he took care of her roses as well. Everything he touched had thrived. Now there was nothing left of their gardens except ashes. Was Peter tending another garden in another place? Oh God, she hoped so.

  A sob escaped from deep within her. She gripped the lectern and stared at the Bible, willing herself to continue even as her tears blurred the words. She sensed the congregation holding their breath, waiting for her to crumble. She looked desperately towards her father, but he was holding her mother and both their heads were bowed. A movement from the pew behind them caught her eye. Dave. He came and stood beside her, inclining his head towards the Bible in a gesture of permission. She nodded and he began to recite.

  A time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to break down, and a time to build up,

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

  He smiled at her with compassion. Dave had known Peter all his life, and being ten years older had been like a big brother to him. In years to come he and Peter would have worked their neighbouring orchards, sharing tips and ideas, borrowing equipment, and celebrating or commiserating at the end of each season as their fathers had done before them. Peter’s loss reverberated throughout the valley in ways Catherine hadn’t considered.

  Dave turned back to the congregation. ‘Thus endeth the lesson.’ He took her arm in his, guiding her back to her place before he returned to his seat.

  Catherine was numb to the proceedings as the service continued, until the organ played the introduction to the final hymn. Her father left her mother in her care and took his place by the coffin with the other pallbearers. Together they carried her brother out of the church to the strains of Peter’s favourite hymn: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.