The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  Catherine watched Tim with a steady gaze. The more he ranted, the less attractive he became. He’d been a hero to her once, a man of salty mystery. She’d been amazed anyone as cool as him would be interested in her. Because of that, she’d put up with more than she should have, she realised that now. Catherine picked up the envelope. A jagged rip exposed a slip of paper inside. ‘It’s been opened.’

  ‘Had to check what my chick was up to, didn’t I?’

  Tim had always been jealous of Mark, while Mark had never shown the slightest interest in Tim. Even last night when she’d let slip that Tim had stood her up, Mark didn’t criticise him. Who was the better man in that equation?

  ‘You’ve read it,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘What does it say?’

  Tim shifted his stance. ‘Something about being sorry and Charlie.’

  Catherine closed her eyes for a moment in relief. Mark was sorry. Last night had confused her. Even though his ugly words had given her a much better idea of why he’d left Melbourne, she wished he’d never said them. Then there was that strange interaction before she’d left. She thought she’d heard him say he loved her. The idea had thrilled her, much more than Tim’s proclamations of devotion ever had. Neither she nor Tim had ever mentioned the word love, but even so, last night she’d felt guilty about her response to Mark saying it. But no, he was talking about Charlie. Catherine put the envelope back on the table. She was an idiot to think Mark could love her. It was Charlie who adored her and she loved him back with a fierce intensity. Catherine had grown wiser and sadder since her brother’s death. Only Charlie brought the sun back into her heart.

  Catherine took a slow breath to ease the aching in her chest. ‘I went to see Charlie, not Mark.’

  ‘So why the sorry note? Did he try something on? Pop stars are all the same. Think they can screw anyone they like.’

  ‘Tim, stop it.’ It was like dealing with a child. ‘Like I said. I was there to see Charlie.’

  ‘At his place?’ Tim’s voice was a whine.

  ‘Honestly, Tim, you’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s not interested in me and I’m only interested in Charlie.’

  ‘Is that true? For real?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tim was right about one thing. Mark was a married man. They could never be anything but friends.

  Tim reached out and held her, his strong arms pressing their bodies together. ‘I get scared, Catherine.’ His voice was a fraught whisper in her ear. ‘We almost died in the fire. You were my angel. You saved me. We have to be together. If we’re not, we’ll die, don’t you see? This morning, I got dumped by a massive wave. The ocean was pushing me down, pinning me under her weight. My chest was bursting, my head was exploding. I’ve been dumped before but never like this. Everything was black, freezing, and so heavy. Then I heard a voice. It was the ocean herself, giving me a warning, telling me what I had to do. She said she’d release me if I came straight here to you. Told me I’d die if I didn’t. That you were the only one who could save me, again, always. I made a promise in that darkness, to her and to you. Then the light broke through. I headed towards it. And here I am. Don’t you see, I can’t live without you.’

  Catherine felt that same pressure, as if she was being crushed under a wave. Tim’s arms were too tight. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He was suffocating her. ‘Tim, please.’

  His grasp tightened further. ‘Then I saw that man, here, with that letter, for you. He’s the devil, Catherine, he wants to keep us apart. He wants me to die.’

  She heard her father’s polite cough. ‘What are you two lovebirds up to, eh?’

  Tim released her. ‘Sorry, Mr T. Got carried away. Your daughter is so beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, well, Catherine’s mother needs her in the kitchen. Something about the potatoes not peeling themselves.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Catherine tried to smooth down the creases in her dress caused by Tim’s intense embrace. Her thoughts were in turmoil. Was Tim mad? The fire had been horrendous and many people hadn’t recovered emotionally or mentally. Could Tim be one of them? Had the experience altered him in some way? That could explain his erratic behaviour. The mood swings. Or was it something else? Annie had asked her if Tim was into drugs. He’d offered her some marijuana once, but her staunch refusal ensured it had never happened again. But she wasn’t naive. She was sure he smoked it when she wasn’t around.

  She left Tim and her father talking about cricket and fishing, things Tim wasn’t the slightest bit interested in but would never admit to her dad. She knew her father would take Tim on a tour of the orchard, showing him the new trees and the growth on the block they’d managed to save. The equipment and spray sheds had been rebuilt and the packing shed was next on the list. Tim would say the right things and nod in the right places, but now Catherine knew it was all an act. Underneath that extremely thin veneer lay an unstable mind.

  Catherine sat quietly during lunch. Warily she watched Tim, waiting for another outburst, but he maintained an air of civility, flattering her mother and listening politely to her father. A few questions were sent her way, about her new teaching position and whether she’d help Annie and Dave again this season. There’d be very little to harvest in their own orchard this year, so Catherine would spend her after-school hours and Saturdays in Annie’s packing shed. The extra money would help, but more than that, Catherine was yearning to see Charlie every day, with no questions asked.

  Her father patted his stomach after two bowls of dessert. ‘Fabulous lunch, girls.’ He turned to Tim. ‘We know what Catherine will be doing in the coming months. You’ll hardly get a chance to see her. So, what’ll you be doing with yourself?’

  ‘Glad you asked, Mr T. Some interesting things coming up. The Summer of Love is over and it’s time to protest.’

  Catherine’s father leant back in his chair. ‘And what, exactly, will you be protesting?’

  ‘A bunch of us are marching against the Vietnam War. I was hoping Catherine would join us.’

  ‘Catherine?’ Her father frowned at her.

  Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’ There was only one direction this conversation was going to go. She was tempted to leave the room, but part of her was fascinated by what was about to unfold. Like a spectator at a car crash.

  ‘You don’t believe we should be involved in the war?’ her father asked Tim.

  ‘No, siree. Not us. Not the Yanks. Not anybody.’

  ‘You don’t believe in freedom then.’

  ‘But I do. Absolutely. That’s why we oppose the war.’

  Her father leant forward and placed both hands on the table. ‘Son, are you a Communist?’

  ‘No.’ Tim’s voice wavered.

  Catherine watched him closely. Surely he must realise he was in dangerous territory. Should she save him? She could suggest they retreat to the kitchen to do the washing up, but there was a part of her that really didn’t want to protect him, and that part was winning.

  ‘I fought against the Japanese in World War II,’ her father said. ‘I didn’t have to, but once they bombed Darwin nothing was going to stop me. I fought on the Kokoda Track, you heard of it?’

  Tim nodded. ‘Papua.’

  ‘The terrain was much like our brave young men are in now, fighting for freedom against the Commies.’

  ‘But it’s not our fight. It’s not like anyone is bombing us this time round.’

  ‘The Reds are everywhere, all through Asia and heading this way. Why on earth would we wait until they’re dropping bombs on us again?’

  ‘We’re only there because Harold Holt was putty in LBJ’s hands.’

  Catherine’s father slapped his hand on the table. ‘If you’re going to go up against something, at least get your history straight. It was Menzies who committed Australia to supplying infantry.’

  ‘That’s my point. Conscription. If I had a draft card, I’d burn it.’

  ‘And you’d be sent to ja
il.’

  ‘Better jail than the stinking jungle, killing innocent people.’ Tim turned to Catherine. ‘How old was Peter?’

  Catherine tensed. Why was he asking?

  ‘Eighteen.’ Her mother’s voice was shaky. ‘He would have been nineteen last June.’ She clutched at the serviette beside her plate.

  Catherine reached for her mother’s hand but it remained a hard fist and didn’t yield. The anniversary of Peter’s birthday last year had been hard for them all but especially tough on their mother. She’d insisted on recognising the date and even wanted to go as far as cooking his favourite meal for dinner, roast chicken. But the primitive nature of the makeshift kitchen at the cottage and her ongoing grief had caused the plan to unravel. She’d returned once again to the darkened bedroom and her sobs had continued late into the night.

  ‘So he’d have turned twenty this year, right?’ Tim was oblivious to the pain that clung as heavy as mud to the others around the table.

  Her father’s face grew livid. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘He would’ve had to register for the draft this year.’ Tim blundered on. ‘Sent to fight an unfair war we shouldn’t be in. He’d’ve had to murder people. Could’ve come home crippled or died in some swamp, shot by a sniper. The way I see it, he was lucky.’

  The silence had an edge to it so sharp that Catherine was afraid to move. Tim looked around the table. ‘All I’m saying is he had a pure death. Better than dying far away with blood on his hands.’

  The crack of her father’s chair falling over was like gunfire. He stood, moving faster than Catherine thought possible.

  When he left the house, Tim was bleeding. Possibly a broken nose. Catherine searched herself for any sliver of sorrow or heartbreak, but all she felt was relief. The decision had been made for her. Tim would never be welcome in this house again.

  19

  May 1969

  Annie

  Where was Dave? He was the only one who could adjust the grader. It was a mystical art, passed down from father to son through the generations. It appeared to be such a simple thing to rejig the graduated roller. When an apple fitted under the roller, it went into a particular bin depending on its size. But if you didn’t get it right there’d be trouble. Trying to pack three-and-a-halfs when you thought you were packing three-and-three-eighths was a disaster. The last of the Red Delicious had been packed and the team needed to start on the Democrats – big, round, easy to grow and easy to pick. Annie found them tasteless, but the Germans loved them. Because the apples were different shapes, the grader needed to be adjusted. Annie paced impatiently while Angela played close by in an apple bin, unaware of the tension. The shed team waited around uselessly. Some had gone outside for a smoke and others sat on apple boxes, resting their legs. It was hard work standing on concrete all day.

  A commotion by the front doors caught her attention. Dave came rushing in followed by most of the pickers.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She worried constantly about accidents in the orchard. The three-legged wooden ladders were handy on the sloping blocks, with the third leg used for balance, but even so there were falls. Whatever was going on now looked serious. Had the tractor rolled?

  ‘Stan just got back from taking the last load to the dock,’ Dave explained, his face bright with excitement. ‘The ship was topping off and was 10,000 cases short.’

  Stan pushed forward. ‘They told me if I could get back by 4 pm we could have a free load.’

  Dave slapped him on the back. ‘So the good man came racing back.’

  ‘Took out a few guideposts along the way.’

  The men laughed. During the season the trucks wiped out every guidepost along Huon Road. The road was so narrow, trucks couldn’t pass each other if they didn’t.

  ‘Free space?’ Getting room on the ships was tough. The valley grew more apples than the ships could take, so the exporters gave out coupons to allocate a certain number of cases per grower per ship. If the growers couldn’t get enough space, the apples went to the factories, or worse, had to be tipped. It meant a dramatic drop in income. Annie did a visual check of the pallets of Red Delicious packed and ready to go. They didn’t have enough. She glanced at her watch. It was 45 miles to Hobart, along steep and winding roads. ‘I don’t think we can do it.’

  ‘I think we can,’ Dave said. ‘This is why we have our own truck, Annie, so we can take advantage of fortune when she smiles on us. Let’s face it, she hasn’t been smiling much lately.’

  Annie knew it. It had been more than two years since the fires, but making a profit from apples was becoming even tougher. There was a lot more competition from other countries for the export market. Thank goodness Australia had preferred nation status with Britain. Without it they’d be sunk. She lifted her chin. ‘What are we waiting for? You’ll have to adjust the grader. We’ve got bins of Democrats ready to go.’

  Dave winked at her and called all the pickers over. ‘Beer’s on me if we get this done. We’ll have to pack flat out, but I reckon we can do it. But be careful. We don’t want inspectors sending the whole lot back.’

  The inspectors at the wharf knew and respected Dave, but it wouldn’t stop them from unloading the truck and checking the boxes. Some growers tried all sorts of tricks to pass off bad fruit as fancy grade – if their fruit wasn’t coloured enough they’d hide all the green ones down the bottom, or they’d put a case with spider mite or bitter pit in the middle of the load. If they were caught, the inspectors put their name in a little black book and sent the whole lot back to the orchard. Annie and Dave would never try to cheat the system, but mistakes could be made. All it took was three bad apples and the whole lot would be rejected. Dave worked his magic with the grader while Annie organised the men into teams of graders, packers and luggers. An air of excitement filled the shed. All of them wanted to beat the clock, and not just for the free beer. The grader leapt back to life with a noisy roar. Annie took her place at one of the rotary bins, ready for the apples to start rolling towards her.

  Exhausted but happy, Dave and Annie sat together in the kitchen drinking their last cup of tea for the day. The kids were asleep, the packing over for now. The night gang had finished getting the boxes and cartons ready for tomorrow. Finally they could relax.

  ‘That’ll make a nice addition to the balance sheet,’ Dave said. ‘My dad always said having a truck would pay for itself.’

  Annie smiled despite the exhaustion seeping through her body. What a day. She’d never seen her team pack so fast. They’d all done well. Mark had worked at the grader and seemed to have an eye for it. And maybe for more than that. Catherine was spending more time at his place. It was a bad combination – a married man, a single woman, and the speed at which gossip spread through the valley. Why couldn’t Catherine settle down with a nice man? It’d been over a year since Tim had been on the scene. Annie couldn’t say she was unhappy to see the back of him. It had never been a good match. Catherine was straight as a pin and Tim loose as a wonky bicycle wheel. Annie understood circumstances could bring people together, but couldn’t keep them that way. Unless there was love. Like the love she had with Dave.

  Annie leant over and kissed him gently. ‘You’re a good man, Dave Pearson.’

  He kissed her back. ‘What’s that about, darl?’

  ‘There are some men out there who aren’t so good, that’s all. I’m glad you’re not one of them.’

  ‘Like those bloody wharfies.’

  Annie stood up. ‘Time for bed.’ If Dave got wound up about the wharfies they’d never get to sleep before midnight.

  ‘They’re ruining us. Waterside workers in New Zealand can load a ship three times faster than our blokes.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she said, collecting the tea things and taking them to the sink.

  ‘And the waterfront strike at the start of the season. Could have sent us all under.’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  ‘They hold everyone to ransom.’

&nbs
p; Annie filled the sink with soapy water. She didn’t mind washing up in the colder months when the water was warm and her hands chilled. ‘Look on the bright side. We got free space on a ship. A whole load. And it was loaded by the wharfies. We’re going to make money we weren’t expecting. It’s been a good day.’

  Dave joined her at the sink and nuzzled her neck. ‘You’re right. It has been a good day. Shall we make it even better?’

  ‘Why, David Pearson, are you propositioning me?’ She turned to face him.

  He answered with a kiss which deepened as she pushed herself against him despite her soapy hands. Even after all these years, he always awoke the desire in her. Her wet hands in his hair reminded Annie of the day they’d met back in 1957 in all that rain. When her bus had arrived he’d asked for her phone number but she’d said no, her mother would never allow it. Instead he gave her his number and asked her to call him. When Annie finally got up the courage, she told her mother she was ringing a friend to ask about a homework question. Dave’s mother answered. She already knew about Annie and was delighted. Annie could only think of how her own mother would’ve responded. A country boy would be okay as long as he was from an old sheep and wheat family in the Midlands, but an orchardist? It would not be tolerated. But Annie liked Dave in a way that surprised her. Dave told her he’d been in town the day they’d met to take his father to the hospital for tests. His health was failing and the doctors had confirmed another hydatid cyst. Dave would be in Hobart again soon to take his dad to the hospital for an operation. When he asked her whether she’d meet him, she said yes.

  They met at the Green Gate Milk Bar one afternoon after she’d finished school. As soon as they began to talk she found herself relaxing, letting down the defences she kept in place with boys – always on guard, hoping to impress, but not trying too hard, not wanting to be seen as easy or as a prude. It was a constant guessing game and exhausting. With Dave there were no games. His plain way of speaking was reassuring to her – he had no pretences, nor strange angles she couldn’t see around. When he touched her hand it was the most natural thing in the world to entwine her fingers with his. From then on he’d come up to town whenever he could, even though it was at least a three-hour round trip along the treacherous roads.