As the song ended Catherine begged off any more dancing. ‘I need a drink.’ She smoothed her hair into a semblance of respectability, and headed in the direction of her creaming soda, probably warm and flat by now.
She didn’t notice Tim until she almost bumped into him.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Come here often?’
‘Tim.’ She was aware of sweat under her arms, and a flush on her cheeks. He in comparison was cool and serene, with his blond hair and those blue eyes. She touched his arm, the suede of his sheepskin jacket soft under her fingers. ‘You’re here.’
‘And you seem to have some fans.’ He nodded behind her.
She turned and saw Charlie and Mark had followed her. ‘Oh, this is Charlie.’ She put out a hand for him to take but he hid behind his dad’s legs.
‘And this,’ Tim looked Mark in the eye, ‘is Mark Davis.’ He turned to Catherine. ‘You didn’t tell me you were hanging out with pop stars.’
Something in Tim’s voice pulled her off balance. It was a tone she hadn’t heard before. ‘I’ve been hanging out with Charlie, mainly.’ Why did she suddenly feel so defensive? ‘I told you about him.’
‘Ah, yes. Little Charlie.’ Tim shoved his hand towards Mark. ‘I’m Tim Walsh. I’m sure Catherine’s told you all about me.’
Mark shook Tim’s hand. ‘Sorry, mate, we usually talk about Charlie,’ he glanced around the packing shed, ‘or apples.’
‘Right.’ Tim nodded tightly. ‘So, mate, why aren’t you in the UK with the rest of The Scene? I hear they’re doing really well.’
‘Family obligations,’ Mark said, his face impassive.
‘Yeah, I read that in Go-Set.’
Catherine’s sense of unease grew. She’d never seen either of them like this. Tim must have meant what he said about her saving all the dances for him. And she knew Mark was sensitive about being a so-called pop star.
‘You’re a married man, aren’t you?’ Tim nodded sharply at Charlie. ‘With a kid even.’
‘Yep.’
‘Right then.’ Tim turned to Catherine. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’ He took her arm in his and started moving away, then stopped and looked over his shoulder towards Mark. ‘Nice to meet you, mate.’
‘What was that about?’ Catherine asked, once they were out of earshot.
‘You know what everyone here is talking about?’ Tim didn’t look at her.
‘No.’
‘You really can’t guess?’
His grip was tight on her arm. Some of the women were staring, but not in the way she’d hoped. She shook her head in confusion.
‘You and Mark.’ His voice was a low growl. ‘So, you ask me what that was about?’ He looked at her now, his eyes dark with anger. ‘You know that reputation you’re always so worried about? Well, that was me, saving it.’
16
February 1968
Catherine
A year after Black Tuesday, Tasmania still bore the scars – swathes of scorched trees and scrub, the crumbling bones of burnt-out homes, and a sense of despair that was rarely voiced. The death toll had risen to sixty-two with the passing away of a few poor souls who’d succumbed to their burns. Nearly 1,300 houses had been destroyed leaving over 7,000 people homeless. More than 1,700 other buildings had been burnt, including churches, schools, shops and factories. All of this in the course of one day, with the worst of the firestorm lasting only five hours. Recovery was slow, but ironically the rebuilding had created a kind of economic boom.
Catherine’s father’s pigheadedness had come in handy when it came to their new house. He’d pushed through the bureaucracy and paperwork, then badgered a local construction team into doing the build. The result was worth it. A model home higher up the hill, and a different outlook without a glimpse of their old place, as her mother had wanted. After a year of living in the poky old cottage, it was a luxury to unpack their possessions into the clean expanse of the three-bedroom brick house. The new home was pristine; creamy white walls, carpet in a stippled green, a screened verandah to keep the flies out, and generous-sized bedrooms with built-in wardrobes. But the pride of the house, and her mother’s favourite room, was the kitchen. When it was finally finished, Catherine’s mother had opened and closed the olive-green laminated cupboards and touched every new appliance, from the refrigerator with its separate freezer compartment to the shiny chrome pop-up toaster. ‘It’s all so easy to keep clean,’ she’d murmured. ‘So much more efficient.’
The recent anniversary of Peter’s death had seen her regress to shutting herself away in the darkened bedroom again. Catherine had enticed her out by begging her to cook something delicious in her new kitchen. ‘You’re such a wonderful cook, Mum, much better than me. I think Dad’s pretty sick of my efforts. And I know how much you love the new oven.’ It was such a pleasure to use after the portable gas stove and toaster oven they’d made do with in the old cottage. Even through the winter, when Catherine was long over her reluctance to use the wood stove, her mother had refused to have any form of fire in the house. Instead, they’d spent the long evenings huddled around a two-bar radiator.
Eventually Catherine’s mother had emerged and her father had patted Catherine’s hand in silent gratitude at seeing his wife busy in the kitchen instead of crying in the bedroom. And it had worked, to a degree. As long as she was absorbed in making something, her mother seemed almost content, if only fleetingly. This morning she’d baked a batch of Anzac biscuits. ‘Why don’t you pop over to Annie’s,’ she suggested to Catherine. ‘I’m sure her boys would love some of these biscuits.’
It was Saturday afternoon and Catherine’s chores were done for the day. She’d been looking forward to reading one of the many books waiting in a pile by her bed but she knew it would make her mum happy if she took the biscuits over to Annie’s. ‘That’s a lovely idea.’ Catherine filled the biscuit tin and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She’d do anything to see her mother smile.
On the way, Catherine made a slight detour. Last year she’d planted a walnut tree at the site of the family home where she and Peter had grown up together, a tree that would grow slowly and spread its strong branches over the place where her brother had died. She knelt beside the sapling and opened the biscuit tin, placing an Anzac beside its slender trunk. ‘There you go, little brother,’ she whispered, brushing away her tears. ‘I know how much you loved Mum’s Anzacs.’ The biscuit would most likely be eaten by birds or a possum, but she liked to think Peter’s spirit appreciated the sentiment.
Along the familiar road to Annie’s, the small scrubby bushes were beginning to grow back, along with the ever-tenacious bracken. Some of the eucalypts on the hill line sprouted fluffy new growth, but others would stay as they were, stark reminders of a day no one would forget. Before she reached Annie’s house, Catherine could hear the familiar ruckus of the boys. She didn’t bother to knock, calling out a ‘yoo-hoo’ as she made her way down the hall. The scene greeting her was the usual chaos of the Pearsons’ kitchen. Four muddy boys, a screaming toddler and little Angela, looking like a doll in her pink romper suit. She kept herself upright by clutching on to the leg of the kitchen table and watching her brothers with her amazing eyes. They’d been blue when she was first born but had quickly begun to change.
‘The boys have been fishing.’ Annie put her hands on her hips. ‘Or so they say. I don’t see any fish. All I see is mud.’ She stared at each of her four oldest in turn. ‘This one,’ she nodded at Scott, ‘is going through the terrible twos, and terrible it is.’ To prove her point Scott started his wailing again, falling to the lino floor and pounding it with his fists. ‘But my little girl …’ Annie’s face opened up in a joyful smile. ‘She’s a treasure, aren’t you, my darling.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and smoothed down Angela’s dark hair.
‘A treasure with the most extraordinary eyes,’ Catherine said. ‘They really are beautiful.’
Annie tensed. ‘It’s a family thing.’
An
nie rarely spoke about her family. Who could blame her after the way they’d treated her? Cutting her off completely like that. Even after the devastating fires there’d been no contact.
‘Aunt Marjorie,’ Annie added. ‘She had eyes just like Angela’s.’
Something in her tone told Catherine not to pursue it. She cleared a space on the table crowded with baby bottles and sippy cups, glasses coated with the dregs of Milo, and plates with discarded crusts from Vegemite sandwiches. ‘Mum made Anzacs and thought you might like some.’
‘Great,’ Michael said. ‘All we ever get are apples.’
‘Can we have one now, Mum?’ Eric begged.
‘Okay. But only one each.’ Annie waggled a finger at them.
The two older boys immediately grabbed the tin and started to battle over it.
‘Boys! One biscuit each. And take them outside.’ Annie shook her head as her brood grabbed their biscuits and ran out the back door. She handed one to Scott who immediately stopped his wailing. ‘Please thank your mum for me. Her biscuits are better than a dummy. How’s the new house?’
‘Very new, very shiny. Mum loves it. You’ll have to come over and have a look.’
Annie snorted. ‘As long as I don’t bring my lot. They’d destroy it within moments.’ She sighed. ‘Lord, how I’d love a new house. Mind you, I’d settle for just a new kitchen. Rip this one out and start again.’
‘And replace it with what?’ Catherine had always loved the warm familiarity of this room combined with the nurturing Annie brought to it and the thriving, tumbling, endless energy of her brood. The kitchen in her parents’ new home was certainly impressive but the clean lines and shiny surfaces stirred no emotion. There was no history there. Catherine knew that was exactly the point for her mother. Still, the room seemed soulless, even when filled with the sweet scent of oats and golden syrup.
Annie surveyed the mess around her. ‘I’d rip it out and build everything out of concrete. Hose it down three times a day, along with the boys. Just like at a fish market.’
Catherine laughed. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Only if you’ve got a concrete mixer out the front.’
Annie started collecting dirty dishes and Catherine gave her a hand. ‘It’d be nice to see you at the new house,’ Catherine said. ‘Why don’t you ask Mark to look after the kids so you and Dave can come over for lunch one day?’
She huffed. ‘I wouldn’t trust him with Angela, not one bit.’
Catherine didn’t think Annie would trust anyone with Angela. Every time she’d offered to babysit, Annie had come up with an excuse.
Annie filled the sink with hot water and detergent. ‘How’s the new job?’
‘I’m getting used to it. Teaching Kindergarten is a lot different from Grade One. Instead of exercise books and pencils, I’m dealing with smocks and finger-painting. I’m brushing up on my piano playing for the morning sing-a-longs. And I always have a pile of clean underpants in my desk drawer for the inevitable accidents.’ It had been tough to find teaching work, especially as she’d refused to leave the valley. Before landing the position in Cygnet, Catherine had picked up some relief teaching from time to time, but mostly she’d spent the months since last year’s harvest alongside her father; grafting, hoeing, spraying and thinning. She’d learnt about the irrigation system, gravity fed from the dam at the top of the property, and had grown stronger lugging the heavy pipes around. Her face and arms were sunburnt, her hands callused, and her body leaner and more capable than it had ever been. Her father never thanked her as they worked the long days together, but she knew he was glad of the help. Even though it was heartbreaking in some respects, it felt right to be working in the orchard again. It was how she’d grown up, working and playing in the open spaces of the countryside and river. When she’d started her new job a few weeks ago her parents were pleased, but the more time Catherine spent in the orchard the more she was convinced it was where she was supposed to be. There was still so much that needed doing. The grafts and young trees she and her father had planted to replace the rows of burnt trees would take years to bear fruit. Catherine missed the long days in the orchard, but at least she came home to it every day.
‘And how’s it going with Tim?’ Annie asked as she began washing up. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be seeing him tonight?’
Catherine chewed her bottom lip. Annie had been her Agony Aunt over the past few months as Tim’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic. The gallant, kind-hearted and patient Tim was frequently replaced by someone whose glazed eyes and strange behaviour was often worrying. ‘Yeah, we were supposed to go up to Hobart. The Kravats are playing at the Beachcomber.’ She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘Were?’
Catherine instinctively reached for a tea towel and started drying up. ‘He was surfing down at Cloudy Bay. Missed the last ferry.’
‘Really.’ The disdain in Annie’s voice was obvious and Catherine knew why. Tim ‘missing the ferry’ from Bruny Island meant the surf must be pumping.
‘Why don’t you go out anyway?’ Annie asked. ‘I know how much you love the Kravats. You could catch up with some of your old friends from Hobart. You haven’t seen them for ages and you can’t spend every Saturday night at home with your parents.’
‘Why would I want to go up to Hobart when I’m having the time of my life with my best friend, doing the dishes?’ Catherine’s laugh fell flat. The truth was her old friendships had fallen away. Time, distance and, more crucially, the way her life had been changed by the fires and Peter’s death meant she had little in common with those friends now. In contrast, the tragedy and loss had only strengthened her bond with Annie. Annie was always the one she turned to, as she had from the age of thirteen. ‘Besides, Tim said he’ll come over tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’ The sarcastic arch of Annie’s eyebrow spoke volumes.
Scott began crying again, indignant his biscuit was gone. Relieved by the distraction, Catherine put down the plate she was drying and scooped up Scott instead. ‘What’s all that noise about, my little godson?’ She jiggled him on her hip. ‘My, you are becoming a big boy.’ Scott let out another wail. ‘With a very big voice.’
‘I think he’s overtired.’ Annie dried her hands. ‘Nap time for you, young man. And Angela too.’
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘Nah. But thanks.’
Catherine said her goodbyes and began the short walk home, while the summer light slowly began to fade and the afternoon shadows lengthened. Annie was right. She couldn’t spend every Saturday night at home with her parents. Instead of heading back to the house she turned in the other direction, further up the gentle slope towards the pickers’ hut Mark called home.
17
February 1968
Mark
He watched her walking through the orchard towards him. Strange how his heart lurched at the sight; half joyful, half full of dread. It had been over a year since Lara had left and still no word. It was as if she were a figment of an imagined other life, so different from the one he lived now that it was hard to reconcile. But he was a married man, no matter how estranged his wife might be, and the ache remained every time he saw Catherine. Charlie ran towards her, his love clear for all to see, while Mark sat stoically on the porch of the pickers’ hut, his arms wrapped around his guitar. Benno lumbered to his feet, his tail the only spritely thing about him. He clambered off the porch to greet Catherine.
‘Daddy, it’s Cat,’ Charlie whooped in delight. He tugged on her hand, pulling her towards the hut.
‘Hi, Mark.’ Catherine waved, a little awkwardly, with her free hand. ‘I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d drop in and say hello to Charlie.’
He nodded. Their friendship started and ended with Charlie. There could be nothing else. Not in this close-knit valley. ‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he said. ‘Always good to see you. And Charlie’s stoked. He hides his fe
elings well, but I can tell.’
Catherine laughed. ‘Old poker-face Charlie.’ She swung Charlie’s hand in hers.
He looked up at her quizzically. ‘Poker face? Like what you poke the fire with?’
‘No.’ Catherine bobbed down. ‘It’s a card game like Go Fish.’
‘Can we play Go Fish? Can we?’
Catherine turned towards Mark. ‘Looks like your dad is playing the guitar.’
‘But you can play with me while Daddy plays music.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ She looked up at Mark. ‘Is that okay?’
Mark shrugged. He was grateful Catherine had kept in contact with Charlie after the picking season was over, even though it caused Mark some anguish. ‘Sure. Go get the cards, Charlie.’
Charlie raced up the steps onto the porch, ‘One, two, three,’ he counted.
Catherine bent to pat Benno, her fair hair swinging to cover her cheeks. She looked up at Mark with a questioning frown. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see Benno here.’
‘Didn’t Annie tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
A familiar tension gripped his stomach. Bloody Annie. ‘Well …’ He hesitated but the truth was best. ‘She was worried about having a dog around Angela, now she’s walking. Annie thought it would be better for everyone if Benno came and lived with us.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Her hand reached up to touch the base of her throat. ‘I was just over there and wondered why Benno didn’t come and say hello. Annie probably meant to tell me, but she’s always so busy.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 11