The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  A glass of water sat on an apple box beside Charlie’s bunk, the dissolved aspirin turning the water cloudy. With a rising sense of helplessness, Mark dribbled some of the liquid into Charlie’s mouth, hoping his son would swallow more than last time. He’d learnt to cope with scrapes, bruises and bee stings, along with colds and coughs, but nothing like this. It had been days now of fever and coughing, telling his daddy that ‘everything hurt’. Charlie’s bright eyes had dulled over the previous few days, clouding over with pain and confusion. And disappointment. He’d been looking forward to his birthday. Turning five meant so much to him. He’d be able to go to school next year and see Catherine every day.

  ‘I miss her, Daddy,’ he’d said. ‘Why doesn’t she come and play any more?’

  Mark had tried. Over the past month, he’d hand-delivered letters to the Turners’ house but they went unanswered. Once Catherine’s father had intercepted him at their gate. ‘Best leave it alone, son,’ he’d said. ‘No good can come of it.’

  A week ago he’d asked Annie to invite Catherine to the party for Charlie’s birthday, but she’d been dubious.

  ‘Catherine has the right idea,’ she’d said. ‘You can claim your innocence until the cows come home, but the only thing that’ll stop this gossip is if you two never see each other again. Honestly, Mark, it would be best if you left the valley altogether.’

  ‘Better for who?’ He’d felt the familiar anger rising in his throat.

  Annie had glared at him. ‘You can ruin your own life any way you choose, but I’ll be damned if I let you ruin the lives of those I love.’

  Her meaning was clear but the words rankled. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday at the party,’ he said, through tight lips. ‘Please ask Catherine to come. For Charlie.’

  Then Charlie had fallen ill. The party was cancelled and now Mark hovered by his side, frantic with worry and a sense of inadequacy. Annie had said that kids got sick, and if she went into a tizzy every time one of her boys had a cold or an earache she’d have worried herself into an early grave. Hadn’t she seen them all through the measles, not to mention chicken pox? She’d maintained Charlie would get well soon enough, but Charlie was far from well, and getting worse.

  A gentle knock cut through the relentless wind. Mark hurried to open the door.

  Catherine stood on the porch, clutching her rain jacket to her neck as the southerly threatened to whip it from her grasp. Her hair was wild and her cheeks flushed with the cold. Had she grown more beautiful since he’d seen her? It had been over a month but felt like an age. Mark ushered her inside, out of the bitter weather.

  She shed her rain jacket, water dripping onto the floorboards. ‘I’ve come straight from Annie’s. I didn’t know Charlie was sick until just now. I would have come sooner—’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Her mere presence was enough to make him feel as though everything was going to be all right.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She ran her hands through her tangled hair. ‘About everything.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here. Charlie’s getting worse and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Right.’ She pointed to the room on the left. ‘Is he in here?’

  Mark followed her to the bedroom where Benno lay on the floor next to the bunks. He hadn’t left Charlie’s side since he’d become ill.

  ‘Hello, Benno,’ Catherine said. ‘Have you done a good job looking after Charlie?’ The old dog’s tail whumped against the floorboards. ‘Good boy. Now, how’s my little mouse?’

  Mark heard her catch her breath as she pressed her hand against his son’s forehead.

  ‘He’s so hot. Annie said it was just a winter bug.’

  Charlie opened his eyes at her touch, murmured some gibberish and closed them again.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ Her voice had an edge that made Mark’s stomach contract.

  ‘The fever? A couple of days. Much worse since last night. He had a cough first, about a week ago, and was a bit wheezy in the chest. It got worse from there. He’s been sick before, but nothing like this.’

  ‘When was the last time you took his temperature?’

  ‘What? With a thermometer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  Catherine lifted Charlie’s pyjama top, revealing his pale chest. She checked his arms, his back, and gently touched his neck under his jaw.

  ‘Has he been able to drink anything? Flat lemonade is best. Or some sugar water with a pinch of salt.’

  Flat lemonade? Sugar water? His mind was spinning. How could he not know any of this? ‘Just water with an aspirin dissolved in it and not much of that.’

  Catherine kept her attention on Charlie. ‘It’s not measles or mumps. But I’m worried—’

  ‘You think it might be the Hong Kong flu?’ Thousands of Americans had died from the flu brought into the USA by soldiers returning from the Vietnam War. Then it had reached Australia, first in the West and then spreading rapidly to the other states.

  ‘I don’t think we should take any chances. It would be best to take him to the health centre. They can put him on a drip if necessary, to keep his fluids up. I’ve got my car here. I drove because of this weather.’

  ‘What do I need to bring?’

  ‘Some clean pyjamas. And a change of clothes. When he’s well I doubt he’ll want to leave the health centre in his pyjamas.’ He knew she was trying to ease his fears, but there was no way he’d relax until Charlie was running around, getting muddy and catching tadpoles again.

  The smell of antiseptic greeted them as they pushed through the doors of the Cygnet Community Health Centre. Charlie lay limp in Mark’s arms, his hair plastered to his forehead with a combination of sweat and sleet. The nurse sat behind the counter in her starched uniform and cap.

  ‘Please,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Can someone help us?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Oh, my,’ she said taking in the pale and shivering child in Mark’s arms.

  Mark realised how young she was, probably fresh from nursing training and sent to a country posting. ‘My son. We think he has influenza. It’s bad.’

  ‘Right. I’ll pop down your details.’

  ‘My name is Mark Davis, and this is my son Charlie.’

  The nurse scribbled a few lines on a form. ‘And how old is he?’

  ‘He’s five. It’s his birthday today.’

  ‘Oh, the poor darling. What a horrible way to spend his birthday.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mark was impatient. It should be obvious, even to an inexperienced nurse, that his son was extremely ill. ‘If you could look at him urgently we’d be grateful.’

  Catherine touched his back, a soft reassurance against the emotions raging inside him. ‘I think he’s dehydrated,’ she said. ‘And we’re worried this could be the Hong Kong flu.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Davis. I’ll get Sister Mason. Take a seat. She’s just with one of the other patients.’ She left through a pair of swinging doors.

  Mark sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, Charlie murmuring feverishly in his lap.

  ‘It’s okay, little mouse.’ Catherine wiped the damp hair from Charlie’s forehead. ‘Cat is here. You’ll feel better soon, I promise.’

  Mark relaxed, just a little. Catherine was by his side. Charlie would recover. Everything would be okay. A smile formed slowly on his lips. ‘Mrs Davis, eh?’

  Catherine tensed beside him. ‘She’s new. She doesn’t know who we are. Sister Mason will set her straight.’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ He’d put his foot in it. She was skittish after the gossip she’d endured. ‘I kind of thought it was funny.’

  Catherine kept her attention firmly on Charlie. ‘There’s already a Mrs Davis and it’s not me.’

  ‘You’re right. But she’s not here. Her son is seriously ill and where is she?’ His mind churned with anguish, regret and anger. ‘It’s his birthday, for God’s sake. She’s missed the last two. Not even a c
ard.’ He knew because he’d rung their old place in Melbourne. He checked in with his friends there regularly to ask whether Lara had turned up or written or sent her son a present for Christmas or even remembered his birthday. Nothing.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Davis?’ Sister Mason stood in front of the still swinging doors, clipboard in hand, glaring at Catherine.

  Catherine scrambled to her feet. ‘An innocent mistake, Sister. It’s Charlie’s birthday today and he was supposed to be having a party at the Pearsons’ place but as you can see—’ she gestured towards Mark and Charlie. ‘I drove them here. I think Charlie might benefit from a saline drip. He’s very ill and dehydrated.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, Miss Turner.’ Sister Mason turned towards the young nurse behind her. ‘Bring the gurney.’ She addressed Mark. ‘If it is Hong Kong influenza we’ll need to keep the boy isolated. Influenza has been rife this winter but everyone under my care has recovered. I’m sure this young boy will too.’

  Mark laid Charlie gently on the gurney.

  ‘Family only, Miss Turner.’ Sister Mason stared hard at Catherine before indicating that Mark should follow her. Mark turned to apologise to Catherine, and to thank her, but saw only a glimpse of her faint smile as the doors swung shut behind him.

  The afternoon disappeared in long anxious hours by Charlie’s bedside. ‘Nasty chest infection,’ the Sister said. ‘The antibiotics will help.’ She hadn’t gone as far as to mention the word ‘pneumonia’ but Mark was certain that’s what she’d inferred. At least it wasn’t the Hong Kong flu. When Charlie was finally resting comfortably, Sister Mason insisted Mark take a break. ‘There’s nothing you can do here. Your son will recover.’

  Wearily, Mark pushed through the swinging doors into the waiting room. He was surprised to see Catherine, huddled on a plastic chair. ‘You’re still here.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave.’ She looked as exhausted as he felt. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Sister Mason has decreed he will survive.’ He tried to smile but his face hurt from hours and days of worry. ‘He’ll take some time to recover but he’s going to be okay.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Why? Whatever for?’

  ‘I should have been there. For Charlie. But those men, at the school.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘It was so … horrible.’

  Mark longed to put his arms around her and hush her anguish away. Instead he just nodded. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘I couldn’t—’ She faltered.

  ‘It’s okay. I understand.’

  Her eyes flashed, shimmering with her tears. ‘No. It wasn’t okay. Those men stole something from me that I loved. They made it dirty and small and—’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know people could be so disgusting. And so mean.’

  A bitter taste rose in Mark’s throat. He should have punched those men.

  ‘I thought if I stayed away, if I never saw you again …’ Catherine’s freckles were stark against her pale winter skin. ‘But all I did was cause more pain. I couldn’t answer your letters, or visit. I didn’t dare. I missed Charlie so much. When Annie gave me the invitation to his birthday party I thought, well, it’d be safe. At Annie and Dave’s place with all the kids there. No one could turn it into something smutty, could they?’ Her tears spilled, slowly etching a path down her cheek. ‘We did nothing wrong. Nothing. But their filthy minds turned something innocent into something so … so …’

  Mark couldn’t bear it. Gently he took one of Catherine’s hands in his own. ‘I understand. I do.’

  ‘But did Charlie? How could he when I deserted him? And now he’s so sick.’

  Charlie hadn’t understood. He’d waited for Catherine every afternoon after school. On weekends, he wouldn’t leave the pickers’ hut in case she turned up. His mother had abandoned him and now Catherine. It had broken Mark’s heart to see his happy, outgoing son become withdrawn and sullen again.

  A different young nurse approached, carrying two cups of tea. ‘I thought you might like these,’ she said. ‘I’ve put sugar in them both. It’ll help.’ Visiting hours had come and gone. Mark and Catherine were the only ones in the waiting room. ‘He’s going to be all right, your son.’ She put down the cups on a small table beside them. ‘He’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mark was genuinely touched by the young woman’s thoughtfulness.

  The nurse nodded at Catherine, who was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘It’s always tougher for the mums.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not – never mind.’ Catherine paused and smiled up at the nurse. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please let me know if you need anything.’ The nurse returned to her station.

  Catherine hadn’t corrected the nurse. Mark wondered if she was too tired to bother, exhausted from the unfolding of an emotional day. Catherine snuffled beside him. He thought she was crying until he realised her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Catherine looked up. ‘How wonderful it would be. How simple.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘If it didn’t matter what anybody else thought? If all that mattered was what we thought? What then?’

  Mark knew what he’d do, but didn’t dare say.

  ‘You know what I’d do?’ Catherine’s eyes brightened.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d take Charlie to the Saturday matinee at the Town Hall every week. The three of us would have chocolate milkshakes at CB Thorp’s shop and cream buns from the bakery. We’d walk down Mary Street together and swing Charlie between us. I’d move back into my grandmother’s cottage and live there, on my own and independent. That’s what Peter was planning to do if …’ Her face paled again. ‘I miss him. And then to miss Charlie as well – it was too much. I’ve lost so much. I can’t lose Charlie as well.’

  ‘It’s okay, Catherine. He’s going to pull through.’

  ‘It’s not that. I refuse to let bullies and gossips ruin my life and take away the little happiness I have.’ She nodded her head once in a determined fashion. ‘I’ve decided.’

  ‘Decided what?’ He waited, not daring to hope.

  ‘I’m going to do all those things. Move into my grandmother’s cottage. And talk to my father about working full-time in the orchard.’ She turned to him, clasping his hands in her own, her soggy handkerchief pressing into his skin. ‘And I’m going to keep seeing Charlie. Go to the movies and on picnics, all of us. We’re going to play cards and read. Oh, guess what I bought him for his birthday?’

  ‘A frog? He does like frogs.’

  She smiled. ‘He finds his own frogs. No. I bought him a set of Little Golden Books, about fire engines and trucks, space ships and puppies.’

  ‘He’ll love them.’ Charlie’s books were all hand-me-downs from Annie – scribbled on, dog-eared and ripped.

  ‘I’ve missed him so much.’ Catherine sighed.

  ‘And I’ve missed you,’ he blurted. And he had, so sharply it made his chest ache.

  Catherine looked at him shyly. ‘I’ve missed you as well.’

  Mark met her gaze, not trusting himself to say anything more. How could he tell her how much he longed to be with her? How the days without her had been agony and how, much as it pained him to realise it, he was grateful to Charlie for getting sick. It had brought her back into his life. Outside, the sun had long since set. The darkness held nothing but biting cold and black ice. But inside, with Catherine beside him, Mark was encircled in warmth and light. And hope.

  22

  Spring 1969

  Catherine

  The snows on the range across the river had finally thawed and the sun gradually shed its winter reluctance. Fine weather and bright skies brought the tourists back to the valley for a springtime pilgrimage. They came in their thousands, indulging in the stunning display of pink and white, and the sweet, heady scent of apple blossom. Catherine and Charlie counted the tour buses as they lumbered by, while Mark navigated the narrow
road in Dave’s old farm ute. The three of them sat along the bench seat with Charlie wedged in the middle. After a slow and careful month, Charlie was finally well again. To celebrate, the three of them were going to the pictures. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was showing at the Town Hall. Afterwards they’d promised Charlie a milkshake and a cream bun.

  In front of them, one of the buses pulled over to the side of the road. An excited group of tourists spilt out to take photos of the sea of blossom.

  ‘It’s such a shame the Apple Festival doesn’t happen any more,’ Catherine said. ‘You’d have loved it, Charlie. There was a parade, and lots of games and competitions. One year they made the world’s largest apple pie. It was on a huge trailer and they needed a knife as tall as your dad to cut it.’

  ‘Wow,’ Charlie said. ‘Did you get a piece?’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Everybody got a piece and there was still plenty left over.’

  ‘Where was it held?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Just up the road in Cygnet. Thousands of people came. The traffic backed up for miles.’ She remembered the days when their parents helped out with the stalls and chatted with friends while she and Peter ran free. ‘The parade was always the highlight and the Apple Queen had a special float of her own. When I was younger I always dreamt of being the Apple Queen.’ She laughed to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘The Apple Queen?’ Mark turned to her with a small smile.

  ‘Yeah, silly, I know, but there was a time I thought I was in with a chance.’

  ‘You’ll always be our Apple Queen, won’t she, Charlie?’ Mark’s eyes were gentle and she knew he wasn’t making fun of her.