The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  Outside, in the forecourt, mourners milled around, talking in low voices. Catherine noticed Annie. Despite the circumstances she seemed deeply content, even happy, as she presented Angela to anyone who took an interest. Dave watched, his face creased in a frown, no doubt thinking it was the wrong time and place for such a display.

  The procession moved to the cemetery. Catherine had hoped Peter would be buried in the orchard. She knew he would’ve wanted to be part of the earth and the trees themselves, forever in the place he called heaven. But her father wouldn’t allow it. ‘Think of your mother,’ he’d said. ‘To bury him here would be a constant reminder.’ Reminder or not, Catherine doubted her mother would ever forget. None of them would. As Peter’s coffin was lowered into the ground her mother’s knees buckled. The cry that came from her was almost animal-like, a guttural wail of grief. Catherine and her father struggled to keep her upright, her body heavy with the agony of grief and both of them weak from their own.

  By the time the graveside ceremony was over it was clear that attending the wake in the church hall would be too much for her. Catherine ushered her mother towards the car before any other mourners had a chance to approach. Her father stayed on alone to represent the family.

  Once they were out of Cygnet, away from the cemetery, her mother began to speak in a low monotone. ‘I never thought it would be Peter, never. Your father, yes, but not Peter.’ She looked straight ahead as the road wound out before them. ‘You were a baby when he was away fighting the Japanese. I was always terrified I’d lose him. But he came home safe to me. Unlike so many others. Some of them never returned and others left part of themselves over there – a limb, or an eye, or their minds.’

  Catherine listened in silence. This was the most her mother had said since that awful day.

  ‘I was always grateful, to have him and two healthy children. It would’ve been greedy to ask for anything more.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Was I greedy? Did I want too much? So many husbands never came back, but I had everything I ever wanted.’ She began to cry.

  ‘Oh, Mum. You weren’t greedy. You never have been.’ Catherine’s mother had worked hard for the little they had. It wasn’t a life of luxury, but it was a good life. Until now.

  ‘I should have stopped him. I should’ve.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.’ If Catherine had been there, could she have prevented Peter from going into the house? The ache in her heart sharpened. She’d never know.

  ‘All creatures great and small.’ Her mother repeated the words from the hymn. ‘He cared more about that dog than he did for his own life.’

  ‘He loved Benno.’

  ‘And you. He thought the world of you. Why did you have to go filling his head with ideas?’

  Catherine gripped the wheel tighter. She knew what was coming. The idea was never hers, but what did that matter now?

  ‘Your father will never tell you this, but the last words he had with Peter were angry ones. He’ll never forgive himself. What a pair we are, your dad and me. So many regrets.’ She began to cry again, jagged sobs that wrenched at Catherine’s heart with guilt as well as grief.

  Peter had first told her of his dream of being a vet when he was sixteen. He was so intent on it she couldn’t help but get swept up in his fervour. It made sense for him to have a career saving the lives of the animals he loved so much. He’d planned to live at the orchard and work as a vet in the valley. ‘The best of both worlds,’ he’d said. Most boys his age were leaving school to help on the family orchard or farm by then. Peter had convinced their mother, who could never deny him anything, to let him stay on at school, much to their father’s annoyance. Catherine had helped Peter choose the matric subjects he needed to get into veterinary college, but when they’d discovered he’d have to go to Melbourne to study and the costs were prohibitive, Catherine had thought he’d give up. Instead, over the past two years, Peter’s resolve had grown. He’d surpassed himself at school and was confident his grades would get him an offer at the veterinary college. Their grandmother had left them both a small amount of money when she’d died last year and Catherine had immediately given her share to Peter along with money she’d saved from her wages. She’d assured Peter that if he got into the college he didn’t have to worry about the orchard because she’d come back to Wattle Grove and work alongside their father.

  The letter had arrived only weeks earlier, before Catherine went back to Hobart for the start of the new school year. Peter had not only been accepted, but he’d also won a scholarship. However, at the age of eighteen, it’d be almost three years until he could make his own decisions. He needed his parents’ permission. Over the years Peter had tried to broach the subject with their father, but he’d always dismissed the idea. Peter was conflicted and considered deferring until he turned twenty-one. Catherine had suggested he try talking to their father again, now that Peter’s dream was a reality.

  And now she knew the outcome of that conversation. Angry words. And her mother blamed her.

  12

  March 1967

  Catherine

  Usually in March the pressure was constant. Orchards couldn’t survive on second-grade fruit. Apples had to be harvested at exactly the right time, when their sugar levels were perfect for the lucrative export market. But this year there was no urgency at the Turners’ orchard. Instead Catherine’s father had begun grubbing out the badly burnt trees, leaving them to lie in gnarled, black windrows. There was plenty of damaged fruit from the other orchards in the valley to supply the factories. The Turners’ apples would stay on the trees, until the wind blew them off, or the possums and birds ate them.

  Tim came down to the valley to help out when he could, often staying overnight in his car. Catherine had been surprised at first, that he’d kept his word to her father. And even more surprised that her father accepted someone like Tim courting his daughter. He was as far from the respectable church-going country boy her father wanted for her as imaginable. In any other circumstances a ‘long-haired’ surfer would be totally unacceptable, but Tim put a lot of effort into winning over her father, knowing he wouldn’t have a chance of being with her otherwise. She found herself looking forward to his visits. Often they’d go walking together by the river. He’d always bring up the fact that she’d saved his life and was his angel, and she would shush him and ask him about the surf instead. Catherine listened to his tales of waves and salt water with wonder – it was like a foreign language to her. But when he talked about his work at the school she was strangely detached. It had only been a month, but already her life in Hobart felt like a dim memory. So much had changed since then. When Tim took her hand one afternoon while they walked, she didn’t resist. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head. It didn’t feel right when there was still so much grief in her heart.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  The pall of despair around the cottage weighed as heavy as the smoke on that awful day and Catherine was guiltily relieved when Annie asked her to help with the packing. Her father encouraged her to go. She sensed he’d be happier with her out of his sight. No more had been said about the argument he’d had with Peter. Her mother barely spoke and her father hadn’t brought it up. Catherine had been glad to avoid the topic. She was grateful for the opportunity to escape to the bustle of the packing shed where her body could swing into the familiar movements it knew so well, leaving no time for thinking. When she was studying and then teaching, she’d always come down on the weekends to pitch in at the family orchard. Arriving on a Friday after work as the autumn twilight stretched into evening, their packing shed would be a frenzy of activity with her mother at the helm. Picking might stop with the light but the packing continued. Catherine would slip into the routine and work into the night. On Saturday mornings the packing started again at eight and didn’t ease up until nine in the evening. Sundays were for church and housework. Catherine would return to Hobart, tired but happy to hav
e been part of the ongoing operations at the orchard.

  Her mother would joke that Catherine had the perfect job, with the first school term ending about the same time as the harvest. Catherine missed out on most of the work, but was home in time for the end-of-season parties. Her mother, like most wives of orchardists, was in charge of the packing shed – on her feet all day and most of the night, bending over the bins, packing, as well as doing all the organising and supervising. She was too exhausted to attend any events. In return Catherine joked that her job was to represent her mother at the parties, onerous as the task might be.

  That was back when her mother still laughed. Catherine despaired she ever would again.

  Despite wanting to be there, Catherine’s stomach trembled with nerves when she arrived at Annie and Dave’s packing shed. She was used to her family’s smaller shed, with its wooden floor and old pallet truck. The size of the Pearsons’ orchard justified them being set up for bulk handling, with a concrete floor, strong enough to support the forklift and the loads it carried, and a massive grader running the entire length of the shed. So much sound and movement compared to the last month of slow, heavy days on her family’s orchard.

  ‘Morning, Catherine.’ Annie slipped an arm around her shoulders in a quick squeeze. Her voice dropped as she murmured in Catherine’s ear, ‘You’ll be okay, but if you need a break at any time, just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Apart from Tim, Annie was the only person Catherine could talk to about her anguish over Peter’s death, a subject she never dared raise with her parents. There were many evenings when she’d cried on Annie’s shoulder after the children had gone to bed. She knew she could depend on her friend to keep an understanding eye out for her in the busyness of the packing shed. Catherine sought out any familiar faces. She knew a few women from church, but none of the packers Annie employed were as young as Catherine. Not that it mattered; any friendships from her school days had lapsed after her move to Hobart.

  Annie led her over to one of the rotary bins. ‘You’re here between Liz and Deb. Two of the best packers in the valley.’

  The two women beamed at Annie’s praise. They were both middle-aged, with worn faces and a comfortable layer of padding around their middles.

  ‘This is Catherine,’ Annie said.

  Liz’s face fell. ‘Catherine Turner? I’m so sorry about your brother.’

  ‘So awful,’ Deb added.

  ‘Thanks.’ Catherine looked away, unable to say more.

  ‘Right, girls,’ Annie said, putting an end to the conversation. ‘We’ve got apples to pack.’

  Catherine took her place at the grader as the apples began rolling off the conveyer belt into the bin beside her. She was pleased to be packing into the familiar wooden boxes this morning. They reminded her of a simpler, happier time. Sadly, the apple boxes, with their brightly coloured labels, were being phased out for cardboard cartons. She traced her fingers across the painted hills, stylised river and bright red apples of the Pearsons’ label. Catherine’s grandmother had designed the labels for their family orchard, with a spray of pink apple blossom and the name Turner proudly displayed across a bright blue sky. All of them were ashes now. A dull pain throbbed in her heart. With everything that had happened, and the changes in the industry, she might never see those beautiful labels again.

  The cardboard cartons were lighter and more time-efficient – individual cells for each apple meant the apples no longer needed to be wrapped in small squares of paper. However, some of the European countries continued to order their apples in the wooden cases and Catherine’s two-handed packing skills were still useful. The repetition of the task was soothing; the feel of the apples under her fingers, wrapping them in tissue paper and the careful placement into the boxes. There was a sense of accomplishment as each box was finished and whisked away. Catherine knew she would suffer aching hands and legs later, along with the physical exhaustion, but welcomed it. Her hope was when she finally crawled into bed at night, she’d sleep deeply and not wake in the early hours to the sound of her mother’s sobs.

  There might have been many changes in the packing shed but the chatter of the women stayed the same; the gossip, digs at their husbands, and boasts alternated with complaints about their children. This year, however, there was a new flavour to the words that flowed around Catherine.

  ‘When the Cascade Brewery got burnt out I thought my hubby was going to cry. But it’s back. He reckons it doesn’t taste the same though.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not. They’re selling Carlton in a Cascade can.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s true. Until they’re up and running again, Carlton is supplying them with Melbourne beer.’

  ‘Blasphemy, that’s what it is. I’m not going to tell my hubby. That’d be the last straw.’

  ‘How come people who didn’t have their places insured get a free house? The government’s rewarding shirkers. What about the hardworking people who kept paying their insurance anyway? What do they get?’

  ‘Our insurance payout won’t cover what we’ve lost. So, what does the government do? Offer us a loan, with interest! Where’s the fairness in that?’

  ‘Did you hear, the Governor’s Fire Relief Fund has got to over three million dollars. Three million!’

  ‘They reckon it might go as high as five million after the television appeal.’

  ‘Where’s the money going? We could all use some of it around here. The McPhersons are selling up. That’s the third family I know of who are leaving the valley.’

  ‘But selling to who?’

  ‘Hah. There’re some nasty characters skulking around trying to buy land cheap. Parasites. Should be a law against it.’

  ‘Talking about parasites, what about the bloody rubberneckers coming to gawk at the burnt-out houses?’

  ‘I don’t mind if they’re only gawking. The ones doing the looting are the problem. Stripping the houses of copper wiring and pipes.’

  ‘See ’em off with a twenty-two or a shotgun. That’d do the trick.’

  ‘Ooh, wait up. Here comes Dave’s mate. Still no word about his wife.’

  ‘She must have run off with another man. That’s the only explanation.’

  ‘Wish she’d run off with mine. Be welcome to him.’

  The women guffawed and Catherine glanced up. Her stomach twisted in shock. She knew that face. She’d seen it in magazines. But more than that, she’d seen it up close and in real life. After fainting at Annie’s place, Catherine’s impressions of that day were jumbled. She had a vague memory of a man with a calming voice. Later Annie had told her he was Dave’s friend Mark, staying with them from Melbourne. Whenever she’d visited Annie since then, Mark had either been out working in the orchard with Dave or in his temporary home, one of the pickers’ huts, with his son. Catherine had been relieved, not wishing to revisit the embarrassment and trauma of that day. But now, watching him, it came back to her in sharp relief. A wave of emotion and confusion crashed over her. How could this be? Dave’s friend was Mark Davis, the lead guitarist for The Scene, one of Australia’s most successful bands. Why had Annie never mentioned this fact? And how was it even possible? The Scene had gone to the UK months ago. What on earth was Mark Davis doing here?

  The other women took a break, but Catherine kept her head down and carried on working. She didn’t want to join the others. They’d talk about the fire, and Peter, and offer their condolences. She couldn’t face it. Everything was too raw. But when she sensed Mark approaching, she stopped wrapping apples and slipped out the side door. What could she say to the stranger who’d cradled her in his arms and woken her from her faint, especially now she knew that the stranger was none other than the famous Mark Davis?

  13

  March 1967

  Mark

  Not even lunchtime yet and his shoulders ached, his arms were sore and his back was throbbing. Mark reached up and picked yet another apple. He’d been doing this for weeks but h
is body still objected. And no wonder. Stretching, reaching, grasping, plucking, twisting, up and down ladders, filling the canvas bag that hung down his front, carrying it to one of the wooden bins and finally emptying the haul. Then doing it again and again. Dave hadn’t trusted him with the Golden Delicious, which were harder to pick and bruised easily. Instead Mark was picking Jonathans, day after day. It was surprising he still enjoyed the taste of them, sweet but with a bit of a tang. Charlie liked them because they were smaller than most apples, a better fit for little hands and small teeth.

  Over a month had passed since the day they’d dubbed Black Tuesday, but still no word from Lara. None of Mark’s friends in Melbourne had heard from her and their return ticket on the Princess of Tasmania hadn’t been used, so she must still be in Tasmania somewhere. And here he was, picking apples, waiting. Like all the other times she’d run off, he was sure she’d return, behaving as if nothing had happened. Then it would start again – blaming him for everything, demanding a divorce and insisting he have custody of Charlie because it was her turn to be free. It was true he’d spent too long away from his son. The band’s touring schedule had been punishing and even when he was home the number of gigs they did every week was crazy. Yet playing in a band was seen by others, including Lara, as an exciting, glamorous life. Honestly, he’d rather be picking apples in a fire-ravaged valley than be back on the road.

  He stretched his back, shifted the canvas bag and twisted another Jonathan off the tree. When he’d started picking, being surrounded by other people for the first time in weeks, he’d been worried he’d get hassled. But as Dave had explained, Go-Set never made it to Cygnet and not many people had televisions around here, so no one gave two hoots about The Scene. He’d been right.