The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  ‘Yeah.’ Mark didn’t trust himself to say anything else. ‘Are you okay with Benno being here? Charlie adores him.’

  ‘Of course, if you are. I can take him to the hydatid station to have him checked. And bring food for him too.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll be careful.’ Mark and Dave were still at school when Dave’s father had first been diagnosed with hydatid cysts in his liver. His friend had explained how people became infected from dogs that had eaten offal. The dog would be okay, you might never know it was infected, but hydatid cysts in humans could be fatal. The last time Mark saw Dave’s father he was almost unrecognisable – a frail jangle of bones and jaundice. Who’d have thought a tiny tapeworm could do so much damage?

  Her shoulders relaxed. ‘As long as you’re sure.’

  ‘Charlie’s never had a pet and takes his responsibility seriously. And they have a lot of fun playing together. I think it’s good for them both.’ Plus it would give her another excuse to come and visit. Charlie, now Benno. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

  Mark strummed a C chord. He hadn’t played for anybody except his son in a long time. ‘Charlie’s not a big fan of my songs,’ he said apologetically. ‘But he likes nursery rhymes.’ He only played the songs he’d written for the band when Charlie was asleep. In the evenings, with no one else around, he’d let his fingers settle on the frets in the old familiar patterns and softly sing the words he knew so well, though it had always been someone else who’d sung them. He’d wanted to sing his own tunes, but the rest of the band had voted him down. ‘What am I going to do if you’re singing?’ their lead singer had said. ‘Play the fucking tambourine?’ Mark had resigned himself to the situation, but Lara was furious. ‘You’re the brains of the band. You should be the star as well.’ She’d wanted to be the wife of a front man and made his life miserable for weeks.

  Catherine sat on one of the old rickety chairs while Benno flopped down beside her. ‘If you had a piano we could perform a duet. All I ever play are nursery rhymes too. I’ll know all the words.’

  ‘How’s it going, being back in the teaching gig?’

  ‘It’s not quite what I had planned, but it’ll be a while before the orchard is fully productive again. And the children are wonderful.’ Charlie came rushing out, waving a pack of faded cards. ‘None as wonderful as this one though.’

  Charlie had flourished in the year they’d been here. He was much more confident with Annie’s boisterous clan and he’d grown more adventurous. He was turning into a country kid, catching tadpoles, running around until he was exhausted and falling asleep as soon as Mark started reading him a bedtime story. Charlie was proud of the scabs on his knees and the dirt on his clothes. Annie’s kids had taught him how to be a boy, but Mark knew it was Catherine who’d led him there. He’d always be grateful to her.

  Charlie gave the cards to Catherine so she could deal. ‘When do I get to go to school, Daddy? I want Cat to be my teacher.’

  ‘You’re not quite old enough yet.’

  ‘But I’m almost four.’

  Mark laughed. ‘Of course you are.’ Charlie’s birthday was over six months away.

  Catherine leant towards Charlie. ‘You can go to school when you’re five, but I mightn’t be a teacher by then. I’m just waiting for the trees to grow so I can work in my orchard all the time.’

  Charlie’s face crumpled. ‘But I want you to be my teacher.’

  ‘If I was your teacher you’d have to call me Miss Turner and never Cat. Where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘That’s no fun at all.’

  ‘We’ll still be friends. And I’ll teach you things outside of school.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How many cards do you have?’

  Charlie picked up his cards. ‘One, two, three …’ As he counted he laid them on the table, face up.

  ‘Charlie,’ Mark said. ‘You’ve got to keep your cards hidden or Catherine will know what you’ve got in your hand.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Catherine said. ‘Be like your dad, keep your cards close to your chest. Oh, I didn’t mean—’ She was flustered. ‘Why don’t we start again and this time keep your cards hidden.’

  Mark watched as she shuffled the cards. She was right. He knew he was guarded. He’d had to be. When the band became big, everyone wanted something from him. Here in the valley he was more relaxed and open with Catherine than with anyone else besides Dave. Even so, he had to keep his feelings for her a secret. Another thing he needed to keep hidden.

  Catherine began to deal the cards. ‘Can you count along with me, Charlie? Five cards each.’

  ‘I can count to ten,’ Charlie said proudly. ‘Sometimes twenty.’

  ‘You’re very clever for your age. Most children can’t play Go Fish when they’re almost four.’

  ‘I can catch fish. Real fish. In the river.’

  Mark smiled. ‘Yeah, but mainly tadpoles in the creek.’

  ‘They turn into frogs. I like frogs.’ Charlie watched Catherine as she dealt the cards. ‘One, two, three, four, five.’ He beamed at her.

  ‘Very good.’

  The game continued with Charlie winning more than his fair share of hands. Mark suspected Catherine was complicit in the results. He strummed a few nursery rhymes and Catherine sang along, her voice a smooth alto. He was delighted when she sang a harmony; it seemed instinctive to her.

  ‘You’ve got a great voice,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘Really? You think I’ve got a good voice? Wow.’

  ‘Have you done much singing?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Church choir, school choir and now nursery rhymes. Nothing like you.’

  He humphed. ‘All I sang were backing vocals.’

  ‘But still—’

  Charlie stood up, clearly impatient with the adults talking. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Mark looked at Catherine. ‘We eat early around here. You’re welcome to join us. It’s just mashed potatoes, sausages, carrots and peas though.’

  Catherine hesitated. ‘That would be lovely. I like bangers and mash.’

  ‘Me too,’ Charlie beamed. ‘And fish fingers and baked beans and egg on toast.’

  ‘That’s about my entire repertoire,’ Mark admitted.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘That’s okay. The kitchen’s tiny and not really a kitchen. Only room for one, if that.’ It was true. The pickers’ hut had three small rooms. The middle one with the fireplace served as their lounge room, dining room and kitchen. The two smaller rooms on either side were bedrooms. The bathroom, if it could be called that, was a drop toilet out the back and a wood-chip heater and rusty old bath in the lean-to. Mark propped his guitar carefully against the wall and went inside. God, he hoped he didn’t burn anything.

  Later, when Charlie was asleep, Mark and Catherine sat on the porch, Benno happily snoring between them.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s still so light,’ Mark said, topping up her wine. ‘It’s after eight.’

  ‘The delights of daylight saving.’ Catherine raised her glass.

  ‘Why does Tasmania have daylight saving? None of the other states do.’

  ‘Because of the drought. Our electricity runs on hydro power. Less water means less power. Daylight saving gives us an extra hour of light at the end of the day. No one needs to turn the lights on until late in the evening.’

  ‘I’m lucky Charlie runs around all day. If we were still in Melbourne and they brought in daylight saving, I’d never get him to sleep while it was this bright.’ He downed the last of his wine and watched the patterns of twilight flicker in the apple trees. The first of the earlies would be ready to pick any day. At least he knew what to expect this time.

  ‘Why aren’t you back in Melbourne, where it would be an hour earlier right now?’ she asked, almost dreamily. ‘Why have you stayed here?’

  Mark stood, swaying slightly. ‘More wine? I can’t believe the bottle’s empty.’

  ‘Not for me.’ He watched her as sh
e swirled what was left of her wine in the Vegemite jar that served as a glass. ‘I haven’t drunk wine for ages.’

  ‘Me neither. Dave was given a couple of bottles by a mate, but Dave’s more of a beer man.’

  ‘And he pegged you for a wine buff?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, the bottles have been gathering dust. I’ve had no one to drink with. Charlie prefers orange cordial.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘That I’ve had no one to drink with or that Charlie prefers orange cordial?’

  The colour flushed in her cheeks. ‘Charlie never struck me as either a beer man or a wine man.’

  ‘I’ll get the other bottle.’ He knew his question had been a bit forward. The wine had loosened his tongue. It had been a while since he’d drunk this much but it was a beautiful night and he was with a beautiful girl. He returned with the wine and settled in happily beside her. ‘Won’t your parents be wondering where you are?’ he teased. ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘They’ll think I’m at Annie’s. That’s where I went first and then …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Mark studied her profile. Fair hair, bleached lighter by the summer sun, strong tanned limbs in shorts and cotton shirt, and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She looked like a kid on summer holidays. Catherine turned to him and caught him staring. He looked away, too late.

  ‘When I tell them what I had for dinner they will think I was at Annie’s.’ She laughed lightly.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t too horrible.’

  ‘Nope, it was delicious. Especially with lots of tomato sauce.’

  ‘Damning with faint praise.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘No, really. It was great. Annie couldn’t have done better.’

  ‘You won’t tell your folks you were here?’

  Her gaze shifted again, away from him. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ His glass was empty again. How had that happened?

  She shrugged. ‘It’s just easier.’

  Mark knew what she was getting at. No matter how innocent their friendship was, he was a married man.

  ‘And what about your parents?’ Catherine asked. ‘Are they in Melbourne? Or here in Tassie?’

  ‘Nah. They’re overseas somewhere.’ He thought his parents were in Hong Kong, but wasn’t sure – they were always moving. His father worked all over the world while his mother enjoyed the indulgent expat lifestyle. Mark, an only child, had been raised by nannies and then shunted off to boarding school at a young age. He quickly changed the subject. ‘It’s Saturday night. Why aren’t you out on the town with Tim?’

  A frown crossed her face, then turned into a smile of resignation. ‘The surf’s pumping.’

  ‘Oh.’ He always suspected Tim was an idiot. What bloke would stand up a girl like this for a slab of seawater?

  ‘He sees himself as a pioneer, of sorts.’

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘Yeah. There aren’t many like him. Not in Tasmania. He and his mates drive all over the place searching for waves. Places where nobody’s been before. They’re mapping new territory. He sees it as a bit of a mission.’

  ‘Right. And you don’t want to be a pioneer alongside him?’

  She chewed her bottom lip. ‘Not really my style. Besides I have too much to do. A full-time job plus the orchard.’ She turned to him again. ‘I’ve answered your questions, but you haven’t answered mine. I understand you needed to get away from Melbourne. I’m sorry about your wife and I know you were hoping she’d come back. But now? I don’t know why a guy like you is still here, living in a pickers’ hut so far away from everything.’

  Mark filled his glass. ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I like using my hands for something else other than playing guitar. I like learning about the seasons and apples—’

  ‘And fat cattle.’

  ‘Hmm, not so much.’ He waggled his hand from side to side with fingers splayed. ‘And there’s Charlie. He’s a different boy here. A happy one.’

  ‘I’m going to be really nosy, but how do you afford it? I mean, I’ve had to go back to teaching. Dave and Annie’s orchard is doing a whole lot better than ours but still, the fire and this drought has made things tough.’

  ‘I don’t pay much rent. Actually I don’t pay any rent.’ He grinned. ‘Dave and Annie pay me a bit for the work I do around the place. Plus I have money coming in from my songs.’

  ‘How does that work?’ She shifted forward, her elbows on her knees, as the old chair creaked in complaint.

  ‘Royalties. Every time my songs get played, I get paid. Not a lot. But enough.’

  ‘Wow. I never knew that.’

  ‘Most people don’t. Most musos don’t either. They get themselves stitched up in bad contracts and never see a shilling.’

  ‘A shilling?’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘Get with the times, mister.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. They never see a dollar.’ Two years after the change to decimal currency he was still getting used to it.

  ‘Well, strictly speaking a shilling is ten cents, but okay.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’ Mark poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Here’s to a Saturday night in the country. If I was back in Melbourne I’d have done at least one gig by now and have three more left to go.’

  ‘Your band played four times a night?’

  ‘Yeah. Saturdays were the busiest. We’d start in the afternoon and just keep going. But every week was pretty full on. Touring was rough. Weeks on the road in a smelly van packed with all the gear along with the band, our roadie usually off his face on something. We were lucky to get back alive.’ He raised his glass in a mock toast. ‘Good times.’

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’

  ‘What part?’ Mark scoffed. ‘The groupies tearing my clothes and ripping out my hair? Trying not to get stuck in a clash between the sharpies and the mods?’ He rubbed the small scar on his chin. ‘All the men wanting to fight me and all the women wanting to—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Nah, it’s cool.’ He leant towards her, his vision slightly blurred. ‘Wasn’t just me who got jack of it. Lara loved the fame but hated everything else about it.’ He felt a sudden surge of anger towards Lara for the mess she’d left behind. ‘She got so jealous. Made my life hell. For no reason. I was always a one-woman man.’ He took another slug of wine. ‘The only good thing about going on tour was leaving all that shit with Lara behind.’

  Catherine stood quickly. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Too late, Mark realised he’d offended her. It was the last thing he wanted to do. He stood. ‘Sorry, I—’

  ‘No, it’s my fault. I’m too curious for my own good.’ She began to walk away.

  ‘It killed the cat, you know.’

  She startled and turned towards him.

  ‘Oh, God. I don’t mean you.’ He was horrified at his faux pas. ‘Only Charlie is allowed to call you Cat, so I couldn’t have meant you.’

  She stared at him as if he was an idiot. He was an idiot. He’d had way too much wine.

  ‘He loves you, you know.’ Mark needed to make things right.

  ‘Pardon?’ She touched the base of her neck.

  ‘Charlie. He loves you.’

  A strange expression crossed her face. He couldn’t read the mix of emotions. ‘I love him too.’ It was almost a whisper. She walked away into the fading light.

  18

  February 1968

  Catherine

  Tim’s car was parked beside the house when Catherine and her parents returned home from church. Catherine’s first thought was the surf must have dropped off, blown out or whatever happened to waves that rendered them useless to him. He jumped out of his car, tousled and salty, and beamed at them as they pulled up.

  ‘Howdy, Mr and Mrs T. Hi, Catherine.’ He opened the car door for her, gave her a brief kiss on the cheek then rushed around to
open her mother’s door.

  ‘You’ll do me out of a job,’ her father joked.

  ‘Never,’ Tim said. ‘There’s only one man for your wife. Isn’t that right, Mrs T?’ He winked.

  Catherine usually loved how attentive and respectful Tim was to her mother, but today it felt jarring. There was something off about his demeanour.

  ‘Oh, Timothy.’ Did her mother actually blush? ‘Would you like to stay for lunch? Or do you and Catherine have plans?’

  ‘Love to. Sure it’s okay?’

  ‘It would be our pleasure.’ Her mother led them into the house, basking in Tim’s compliments about the decor and the furnishings. Catherine knew her mother hoped for news of an engagement soon. She and Tim had known each other for a respectable amount of time and Catherine had recently turned twenty-four. There was nothing her mother would like more than to see her married and with a baby on the way as soon as possible.

  ‘Can I help?’ Tim asked.

  ‘A man’s place isn’t in the kitchen.’ Catherine’s mother had already slipped on her apron. ‘Catherine and I look after Sunday lunch. I do hope roast lamb suits.’

  ‘Cool. But can I have a word with your daughter first, before she disappears into your beautiful kitchen?’

  Catherine wondered if she had a say in any of this.

  ‘Of course. Why don’t you go out on the verandah? You’ll have some privacy there and it’s screened, so no flies.’

  ‘Great idea.’ Tim took Catherine’s arm in a hard grip. ‘Come on, Catherine.’ His tone was brisk, not like the sweetness he’d used with her mother.

  She was unimpressed. After he’d cancelled their plans yesterday, flowers would have been a nice apology, even if he’d stolen them from someone’s garden like he usually did.

  As the door shut behind them, Tim threw a grubby white envelope onto the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘It’s got your name on it.’ His eyes were wild. ‘That man delivered it while I was waiting for you.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘That pop star.’ He snorted. ‘Ex-pop star since he chucked it in and his mates got famous without him. That married man.’