Most of the pickers stayed in the orchard at lunchtime with a sandwich and a thermos of tea, but Mark always headed back to the packing shed. Often, by the time he got there he could only stay for fifteen minutes, but he never missed lunch with Charlie. A Vegemite sandwich and orange cordial tasted great as long as he was with his son. The men who worked in the shed – driving the forklift, wiring the apple boxes and lugging them onto pallets, or working the grader – sat on upturned boxes outside the big wooden doors, smoking and yarning, their faces weather-beaten and hands work-worn. In the age-old Australian tradition, the men kept to their space while the women had lunch inside with the children. Usually Charlie came running as soon as Mark appeared, but today there was no sign of him. Mark sought out Annie and found her in the centre of the group with Angela, as always, clasped in her arms.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Annie’s eyes were bright. ‘Prince Philip is making a special visit. Today.’
‘What – here?’ Mark looked around the dusty shed; full wooden boxes were stacked on pallets near the door, the grader silent for the moment, the boxes yet to be packed, and the open bins of rejected apples, ruined by the fire or black with sunburn. The scent of warm apples, overpowering and cloying, almost drowned out the smoky aroma that still persisted weeks after the fires. But where were the Union Jacks and the red, white and blue streamers? People generally went to a great deal of effort whenever a royal turned up.
‘No, silly.’ Annie’s laugh was girlish. ‘He’s going down the Channel though, after he’s had a look around the worst of Hobart.’
‘Strickland Avenue,’ one of the other women said. ‘He’ll definitely go there.’
‘He’ll be in the general area,’ Annie added. ‘Snug, for sure.’
‘Right.’ Mark gave a tight smile. Snug was miles away.
‘Such a shame,’ another of the packers said. ‘Almost completely wiped out. He’s visiting Camp Snug, the temporary village they’ve set up until the homes can be rebuilt.’
Mark knew about Camp Snug. It had become world famous. ‘Have you seen Charlie?’ he asked Annie.
‘Such a quiet boy.’ It was a woman with red hair and faded blue eyes. ‘Wish my boys were more like him. Gawd, they’re a rowdy bunch.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s fine,’ Annie said. ‘He was a bit upset, so Catherine’s having lunch with him outside. Round the side of the shed, I think.’
‘She’s good with the littlies,’ the red-haired woman said. ‘A teacher up in Hobart, but she’s staying close to home for a while after … well, you know.’
‘Yeah.’ He’d seen Catherine every day in the packing shed, but only from a distance, her fair hair tied back in a ponytail and her sad eyes fixed on the monotonous job in front of her. Dave had told him what happened. Mark wanted to say something to her, but what? ‘Hi, I’m the guy who dribbled cold water down your back when you fainted. Sorry about your brother.’ Not a good idea. Anyway, when he’d tried to talk to her she’d avoided him, so he’d let it be.
‘Thanks.’ Mark headed back out into the unrelenting sunshine. He’d seen more daylight these past few weeks than in the last ten years.
They were sitting in the shade of the shed, with their heads almost touching, her fair hair a stark contrast to his son’s. Her voice was assured and gentle. Charlie said something that made her laugh, a sound Mark hadn’t heard before. In the throng of chatting women, Catherine was always quiet, and so full of sorrow. She leant towards the boy and began to tickle him. Charlie retaliated and then both of them were giggling and squirming, finding the ticklish spots and trying to avoid each other’s fingers. It struck Mark that he’d never once seen his wife and Charlie play together.
Charlie struggled to his feet, and spotted Mark. ‘Daddy!’ His short legs broke into a run.
Catherine’s face changed. It was if a wall came down behind her eyes. She ducked her head to brush the dust from her clothes. When she looked up, her expression was a polite mask. ‘Hi,’ she said.
Charlie pulled at Mark’s hand. ‘Come and meet Cat. She’s not really a cat but she said I can call her that. Only me though. No one else is allowed to. She said I’m special.’
‘Charlie was having a bit of trouble with my name,’ Catherine explained. ‘It has a few too many syllables.’
‘And I’m a little mouse,’ Charlie said. ‘So Cat has to chase me.’ He began to run towards the trees, laughing. ‘You can’t catch me.’
‘Oh, I think I can.’ Catherine pretended to try but let him keep just out of her grasp as they wove between the trees. Charlie stumbled to the ground in his gleeful haste and his face crumpled. Mark rushed to pick him up as Catherine stood back, chewing her lip.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should know better than to get him overexcited. It’s just—’ She stopped. The sorrow was back in her eyes.
‘It’s okay,’ Mark said. ‘No harm done.’ He hugged Charlie to his chest. ‘You’re a good boy.’ Charlie mumbled something into Mark’s shirt. Mark tilted him back a little. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m not a boy. I’m a mouse.’ And there was his cheeky grin, the grin that never failed to melt Mark’s heart.
‘A mouse who hasn’t finished his lunch,’ Catherine said. ‘And I guess you haven’t even started yours,’ she said to Mark.
‘No. It’s in the shed. I’ll get it.’
‘Don’t bother. We’ve got enough to share and goodness knows there are plenty of apples.’ Her smile was tight, as if she was making an effort. She hadn’t been like that with Charlie.
They settled themselves in the shade and Catherine handed Mark her sandwich. ‘You don’t want it?’ he asked.
‘I had a big morning tea.’
Mark sensed she was lying but didn’t pursue it. He was famished, and the devilled ham sandwich hit the spot. Charlie nibbled at the remains of his Vegemite sandwich while Catherine sat in silence, gazing at the trees.
Mark washed down the last of the sandwich with a mouthful of orange cordial and stroked his son’s hair. ‘I’ve been told this little mouse was upset today.’
‘Nope.’ Charlie shook his head.
‘Ah,’ Mark said. ‘Then maybe it was Charlie who wasn’t happy.’
He stuck out his bottom lip but said nothing.
‘I think it’s time you had a nap,’ Catherine said. ‘All mice need a little sleep in the afternoon.’
Charlie’s mouth trembled. ‘I don’t want to go back in the shed.’
‘Then you don’t have to.’ Catherine’s voice was soothing. ‘I’ve heard little mice often sleep outside under trees, curled up nice and safe. Would you like to do that?’
His face brightened. ‘Yes.’
Catherine stood up and reached for his hand. ‘Let’s find you the perfect spot then.’ Charlie held her hand as they picked a shady tree and piled some leaves into a soft mound. After a few words Mark couldn’t hear, Charlie curled up and closed his eyes. Catherine walked back with a pensive expression. She sat down and leant back against the shed wall. ‘He thought you weren’t coming.’ She kept her eyes on Charlie, not looking at Mark. ‘The other children all have their mothers, which makes him the odd one out. Then today you were late.’
‘We’re working in the northern orchard and it’s a bit of a hike. I’d have run all the way if I’d known.’
‘He’s a very quiet child. Withdrawn even.’ Catherine spoke softly so Charlie couldn’t hear. ‘Is he usually, or is it because he misses his mother?’
‘He wasn’t quiet or withdrawn with you.’ Mark was caught off guard. No one had talked to him about Charlie this way before.
‘Ah, but I’m a cat and he’s a mouse. That’s different. I’m talking about with other children. What’s he usually like with his friends, back in Melbourne?’
So, she knew he was from Melbourne. He wondered what else she knew. A familiar tension tightened his jaw. He’d been lucky so far, but Catherine was much younger than the other workers and
until recently she’d been living in Hobart. He’d play it cool. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘You don’t know?’
Mark shrugged defensively. Charlie was a quiet kid. Lara had liked that about him at least. Now this pretty school teacher was telling him it was a problem. ‘He never spent much time with other children. His mother …’ He paused. ‘Lara has some unusual views.’
‘Such as?’
‘She expects Charlie to do what she does. He doesn’t play with other kids.’ Mark clasped his hands around his knees, hugging them close to his body. He didn’t dare tell Catherine everything. ‘I wasn’t home enough to have much say in it.’
Catherine turned towards him. ‘Annie mentioned you and Dave are old friends from school and that you came down here for a holiday. It seems an odd choice though, staying on an orchard miles from anywhere.’
A holiday. So that’s how Annie described it. If Catherine had heard the story from Dave, it would have painted a different picture. Dave had been Mark’s steadfast friend since they were twelve years old. At boarding school, when it became clear that Mark’s globetrotting parents hardly ever returned for holidays, celebrations or birthdays, Dave began inviting him to stay at the orchard. They formed a bond that distance and fame had never tarnished. When Mark started making a name for himself on the mainland he’d send Dave newspaper and magazine clippings, and later the 45s his band released. Dave, proud father that he was, would reply with photos of his boys and letters full of their latest antics. Part of Mark had envied Dave’s life – steady, reliable, surrounded by family and with a sense of belonging within a community, none of which he’d ever known. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across his fingertips, feeling the hardness there. ‘We needed to get away.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I can understand that.’
‘You can?’
‘Your life, the band …’ She hesitated and her cheeks flamed. ‘I can’t even imagine.’
‘Right.’ So Catherine did know.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell the newspapers.’ Her shy smile was genuine. ‘And Annie has never said anything about it, so clearly she’s not the slightest bit impressed.’
‘You’re right about that. Dave’s grateful to have me helping out, but I think Annie would prefer it if I packed up and left.’ He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Not that I’ve got much left to pack.’
‘Of course. You were in Dave’s parents’ old house. Did you save anything?’
‘My son and my guitar. The two most precious things in my life.’ He looked over at Charlie, sleeping in the nest of leaves. ‘I won’t always be able to make it in time for lunch.’ He let out a slow breath. ‘Would you mind, I mean, if it’s not too much bother, could you take care of Charlie for me, just until I can get here? You have a way with him.’
Catherine nodded, her lips curving into a near-smile. ‘I think I can manage that.’
14
Late May 1967
Annie
Begrudgingly Annie had to admit that, after a shaky start, Mark had pulled his weight as a picker. All new pickers were sore, stiff and slow, until they got the hang of it. By the end of the season Mark had managed to pick a respectable four bins a day. But now the harvest was over, surely it was time for him to leave. His wife still hadn’t returned and there was no guarantee she would. It had been almost four months. Tasmania was a small island. Lara would have found her way back by now if she’d wanted to. It was likely she’d hooked up with another bloke, that was all there was to it. If Annie had her way, she’d be waving goodbye to Mark, today. Dave felt differently. Warily she’d watched his friendship with Mark deepen even more over the months and when she protested, he kept insisting he needed Mark around. Sure, after the fire Dave had needed another man to help out, but now things were settling down there was no reason for Mark to stay. He should cut his losses and get back to Melbourne and his real life, if ‘real’ was the word to describe what he did. Playing guitar to screaming teenage girls wasn’t a fitting occupation for a grown man. She’d need to have another talk with Dave.
But right now, Annie had a party to plan and it had to be the best one yet. The months since the fire had been hard, with precious little to celebrate. A real shindig would be a tonic for the gloom that had settled on the blackened fields. With the lack of work and ongoing drought, families continued to leave the district. She’d been lucky to pull a packing team together and was grateful Catherine had been crazy enough to throw in her teaching job and move back to the valley. Catherine was a good worker, often continuing through her breaks. Annie could understand her reticence to socialise with the other women. They were forever going on about the fire and the growing death toll. Only one thing had made Catherine smile in the past months. She’d really taken a shine to Mark’s boy, Charlie. He was coming out of his shell now, thanks to Catherine. Annie didn’t approve of the growing friendship between Mark and Catherine though. There was only trouble down that road.
Annie shifted Angela on her hip as she stirred the pot of stewed apple. The steam fogged up the windows and scented the kitchen with cloves and cinnamon. She never got tired of the smell. It was the aroma of home to her now. Gently she put Angela in her bassinet on the kitchen table, tucking her up under a pink quilt. ‘You’re such a good girl,’ she whispered. Not like her boys, always cawing about something like little crows, from the day they were born.
Dave barged into the kitchen from the backyard, leaving the screen door banging in his wake and letting in a blast of ice-cold air. The rains still hadn’t arrived and as the bright days grew colder the air was as sharp as mountain water.
‘For heaven’s sake, close the door and do it gently,’ Annie said. ‘You’ll startle Angela and wake the boys. It’s rare for Greg to have an afternoon nap these days. God knows what I’ll do when he won’t go down at all.’
‘Sorry, love.’ Dave closed the door firmly but quietly. ‘I just saw Jack Turner. Thought it was time to talk about the packing shed idea, among other things.’
Annie took in her husband’s expression. ‘Didn’t go well then?’
‘Stubborn old bastard.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told him we’re going to grub out the upper orchard.’
‘Uh huh.’ They’d agreed it made sense. The upper block had fared the worst, being so close to the bush. It was harder to irrigate because of the steep slope where the water tended to wash the topsoil away if they weren’t careful. And Annie always worried when Dave was up there ploughing or spraying, even with the crawler. Those things could tip over just as easily as a tractor in the wrong circumstances. ‘What did he think about your plan to go with fat cattle instead?’ They’d always run a few cattle and it would be simple to expand the herd. It was getting harder to make money out of apples. At least this way, if prices kept dropping and expenses kept rising, they’d have something to tide them over.
‘He thought it was a good idea. He’s planning to do some rationalising himself and get rid of the less popular varieties.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’ She turned the hotplate off. The apples would keep cooking under their own heat.
Dave sat down heavily at the kitchen table. ‘I told him we’re going to buy the Fletchers’ orchard.’
‘And? What did he say?’ The Fletchers’ place would almost double their forty acres. They had the capacity in the new packing shed to handle the extra fruit from the viable trees. The rest they’d grub out for more cattle, once the drought broke.
Dave looked up at her with a hurt expression on his face. ‘He accused me of profiteering. Taking advantage of other people’s calamities, he called it. I was gobsmacked.’
‘But we’re offering a fair price. Market value.’
‘Yeah, he scoffed at that. Told me the market had plummeted and I knew it.’
Annie was concerned. They’d always had a good relationship with Catherine’s family. ‘We’re doing the Fletchers a favour. They want to get
out, and we’re offering them a way.’
‘You and I know that, darl, but Jack Turner sees it differently. And you know what he’s like. Always thinks he’s right and everybody else is wrong.’
‘Did you get a chance to talk about him using our packing shed?’
‘Yeah, but he’d already got his back up. He knows it makes sense and it’s what the Ag Department wants, rationalisation of the industry and all that bureaucratic mumbo jumbo, but he still wants his own packing shed.’ Dave threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Maybe he thinks I’ll price gouge him on the agreement, who knows. But the man’s hardly going to need a packing shed until the new trees start bearing. The block he’s managed to save won’t yield much. I was just trying to help out.’
‘I know.’ Annie started scrubbing potatoes at the sink. They were old and soft. Good produce was hard to get with the drought and the aftermath of the fire. It was time to get their veggie garden going again, now the harvest was done. The boys could help. And she wanted some new chooks. She missed those girls with their endless clucking and fresh eggs. Poor darlings. All of them gone in the fire.
Dave was silent, staring at his callused hands. Annie frowned at him. ‘Something else is wrong. Come on, spit it out.’
Dave huffed out a long breath.
‘Come on. What is it?’
‘I might have put my foot in it.’
‘Really? Not one of those big, booted, farming feet of yours? Surely not.’ Annie’s voice was gentle and teasing. He’d just shut down if she was pushy.
‘We were talking about insurance, grants and loans for rebuilding, the endless to and fro we’ve all been going through.’
Annie had heard little else lately. The government had been generous in some respects, but frustratingly dense in others, especially when it came to primary producers.
‘And how they won’t replace houses unless it’s the principal place of residence.’
‘Yes,’ Annie said in a slow encouraging way. This was a particular bugbear of her husband’s. His parents’ old place wasn’t eligible for a replacement grant. When Michael, as the oldest son, took over the running of the orchard, the house would have been his, to raise a family of his own.
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 9