‘Thanks,’ she said softly.
‘What happened?’ Charlie asked. ‘Why did the festival stop?’
‘I don’t know. I was studying in Hobart by then. It’s a shame though. It was always such fun.’
‘Well, there’s always the Huon Show in November,’ Mark said.
‘Can we go to the show, Daddy? Please, Cat?’ Charlie looked at them both with imploring eyes.
‘What do you reckon?’ Mark shot her a hesitant smile. ‘Are you game?’
Catherine paused. Once the three of them were seen together in Cygnet this afternoon there’d be no stopping the gossip. She knew, as a woman, she’d suffer more from the slurs than Mark, but she’d promised herself she would never again let the meanness of small-minded people stop her from doing what she loved. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’
‘What does that mean?’ Charlie asked.
Mark chuckled. ‘It means some things will never change to decimal currency.’
‘What?’ Charlie looked confused.
Catherine kissed the top of Charlie’s head. ‘It means yes.’
In the last week of the school year, the headmaster called her into his office. Catherine’s heart beat faster at his summons. Annie had warned her once again about the gossip. It had been bad before, Annie said, but it was much worse now. Catherine had held fast. She and Mark had done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t stop seeing him or Charlie. Even so, when she walked into the Four Square supermarket or Varian’s Chemist and conversations stopped, she could imagine what was being said. A good Christian girl and a married man. Disgraceful. A teacher should set an example. Maybe someone had spoken to the headmaster. Was he calling her to his office to dismiss her?
‘Ah, Miss Turner.’ Mr Agnew rose from behind his desk, indicating she should take a seat. He was an old-fashioned man, his suit always neatly pressed and moustache perfectly trimmed. He preferred not to fraternise with his staff and was almost a stranger to her.
Catherine sat, sweaty hands folded on her lap, awaiting her fate.
‘Miss Turner, you’ve been with us two years now.’ His tone was grave.
‘Yes, Mr Agnew. I’ve enjoyed the work and the children have been wonderful.’ She clamped her lips together. She mustn’t grovel. If he was going to sack her then best he do it quickly. Her father would be furious, but she’d deal with that later.
‘Good. Good.’ Mr Agnew shifted in his seat. ‘It’s been rare to have one of our old students working with us as a teacher.’
Catherine nodded once, not trusting herself to speak, and waited. She was dreading having to pack the small mementos she kept in her desk drawer – the photo of her and Peter in the orchard, the kewpie doll Mark had won for her at the Huon Show and a pink plastic monkey Charlie had given her from a cereal packet. The walk from the classroom to her car would be worse. She could already imagine the whispers.
‘As always there’s an intake of young teachers coming through next year and there’s one I think will make an excellent Kindergarten teacher.’
‘I see.’ There it was. The end of her teaching career. She inhaled a shuddering breath. The laughter of children in the playground outside drifted through the window, a sharp reminder of what she was about to lose.
Mr Agnew picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. ‘Mrs Sadler is leaving us at the end of the year.’
Catherine was confused. Mrs Sadler was the Grade Two teacher. ‘Leaving?’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In the family way, so she informs me.’
‘Oh. I’m—’ Catherine stopped herself.
‘That’s the thing with women. You’re good teachers, but always going off to get married or have children.’ He frowned at Catherine. ‘You’re not planning on getting married, are you?’
Heat rose in Catherine’s cheeks. ‘No, Mr Agnew.’ She wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading.
‘I’m glad to hear it. The Arbitration Commission’s decision to grant women equal pay is all well and good, but it doesn’t take into account the turnover of female staff.’ Mr Agnew sat back in his chair. ‘You can depend on men. They’ll stay in a position for life. Mr Graves has been here for nearly twenty years.’
Catherine stayed silent. Mr Graves was the Grade Six teacher, set in his ways and lazy with it. He bossed the younger female teachers around terribly, insisting they make him cups of tea in the staffroom and bullying them into doing his playground duty. Most of the female teachers worked twice as hard as Mr Graves but still weren’t paid the same. The recent arbitration ruled that women’s wages would increase in stages. It would take another three years until their pay was equitable.
‘Mrs Sadler’s imminent departure means I’m in need of a Grade Two teacher,’ the headmaster continued. ‘I’ve looked over your performance both here and at the previous schools where you’ve taught. I see you’ve taught Grade One before and a composite class up to Grade Three.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ A lightness filled Catherine’s chest. She dared to look Mr Agnew in the eyes for the first time since she’d entered his office.
‘Given the circumstances, as of next year you’ll be our Grade Two teacher.’ He rose and stuck out his hand. ‘Congratulations.’
It was one of those perfect late summer days, the sun like honey and the air as soft as silk. Catherine and Mark were free of work and responsibilities for a few hours. She’d packed a picnic of Vegemite sandwiches, jam drops and homemade ginger beer and they’d decided to spend the afternoon at Petcheys Bay, a small and usually deserted cove of sand on the banks of the Huon River not far from the orchard. Charlie had embraced the water during the summer, learning to dog paddle with the help of Mark and Catherine.
After a swim, Charlie and Benno went hunting for crabs among the rocks, while Mark and Catherine took advantage of the break to laze on the sand.
Mark leant back on his elbows. ‘Are you looking forward to being the Grade Two teacher, Miss Turner?’
Catherine picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. ‘I know Charlie’s disappointed I won’t be his teacher, but it’s for the best. I’d be under too much scrutiny with him in my class. Hopefully, by the time he’s in Grade Two, the orchard will be in full production. Then I’ll quit and work full-time there.’
‘You’re always thinking ahead, aren’t you?’
‘If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I’m not sure who said it first, but my grandfather drummed it into our heads when we were kids.’
‘Luckily, I have a plan.’ He sat up and dusted the sand from his palms.
‘You do? What is it?’
‘Lunch.’ He grinned, then looked over to where his son was splashing around a shallow rock pool. ‘Charlie,’ he called. ‘Time to eat.’
Catherine dished out sandwiches wrapped in rainbow waxed paper. Charlie ate in quick bites, ripping off the crusts and throwing them to Benno. The dog caught every one, then turned in circles, snuffling around for any he might have missed.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Charlie said.
‘The ginger beer’s keeping cool in the water.’ Mark pointed to the spot.
Charlie bounced up to get it and came running back, proudly waving the bottle above his head.
Catherine laughed. ‘Oh dear. This’ll be a disaster.’
Sure enough, when Mark opened the bottle the ginger beer fizzed everywhere, covering them all in sticky liquid. Catherine and Charlie raced each other into the river to wash themselves clean, with Mark and Benno following closely behind.
While Charlie and Benno played in the shallows, Mark swam up to Catherine in the deeper water.
‘I love days like this,’ he said. ‘I wish it could last forever.’
‘Me too.’
Their faces were level, eye to eye, nose to nose, and lips to lips. He moved closer, the surface rippling gently around them. ‘If only the water wasn’t so cold, even in summer.
I think it’s time to go in. Would you like a lift?’
She smiled into his eyes. ‘Sure.’
He wrapped his arms around her, their bodies tight against each other, his bare chest pressed to the flimsy material of her floral Speedos. She saw his eyes change and felt the stirring of something hard against her leg. Catherine laughed and gently pushed him away, making her own way back to the shore, but the sensations the embrace stirred in her refused to be quietened.
Back at the pickers’ hut, Catherine taught Charlie and Mark the rudiments of gin rummy, surprised Mark had never played before. Tea was basic fare of eggs on toast, and afterwards she and Mark took it in turns to read bedtime stories to Charlie.
When Charlie was finally asleep, they sat on the porch, with Mark absentmindedly strumming his guitar.
‘What song is that?’ Catherine asked.
‘This? Nothing. I’m just making it up.’ He strummed a few more chords.
Catherine began humming a melody.
‘Hey, that’s pretty cool,’ Mark said. ‘Keep going.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I dig it.’
‘Wow, okay.’ Catherine fought nervousness as she sang along to his chord changes. She’d never made up a tune before but with Mark beside her it felt natural. The notes flowed easily as her hum turned to oohs and aahs. She didn’t need words; the melody was enough.
Mark’s last chord rang out in a slow sustain. ‘You’ve got a great ear.’
‘All that singing in the church choir.’
‘Well, praise the Lord.’ Mark grinned.
‘How about another song? Our favourite?’
‘Yeah.’
Mark played the intro to ‘Going Up The Country’, the Canned Heat hit, while Catherine sang the flute part. Mark had told her it had been the unofficial anthem of the Woodstock music festival. It had become their anthem as well. They sang it together on the porch, in the car and on walks by the river. Everywhere they went, it came with them.
When they got to the lyrics about jumping in the water, Mark’s eyes changed, the way they had when he was holding her close in the river. He stopped playing, put his guitar to one side, and reached for her. She didn’t resist. His lips were soft but insistent and his kiss resonated deep in the core of her. More than just in her heart, it was in every cell, and in her soul. It was as if a brilliant light opened up within her, racing outwards, engulfing both her and Mark, and changing the very air around them. She pressed against him, feeling his pulse against her skin, the heat rising in waves, their breath changing and quickening.
Then, like a switch being flicked, her thoughts took over. This was a sin. He was a married man. What would her parents say? Hadn’t they had enough pain? All those cruel gossips, she was proving them right with her wantonness.
‘I can’t.’ She pushed Mark away. Their connection broke with a crack.
‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes mirrored her own pain.
‘No, don’t be. I want to, but—’
‘I know.’ Mark stood up, looking out over the orchard, the trees dark against the night sky. ‘I think I should go to Melbourne.’
‘What?’ Panic rose in her throat. Was it because she wouldn’t do what they both wanted? Had he given up on her that easily? Even Tim had been more patient, although he had started to complain towards the end.
‘I’m going to find my wife.’
‘But—’
‘I’m going to find Lara and get a divorce.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m sick of waiting for her to come back and put me out of my misery.’ Mark turned to her. ‘I need to be free. So I can live my life with you.’
She struggled with the tumble of her emotions. Could they be together, Mark, Charlie and her, like a real family? Would it actually be possible? ‘But you’ve tried to find her before.’
‘I’m determined this time.’
She believed him. He was a man with something to fight for.
Mark left shortly afterwards, leaving Charlie with Annie. Catherine was off balance the whole time he was away, as if part of her was missing and she could no longer find her centre of gravity. She longed to tell Annie about the anguish, the excitement, the fear and the joy she was going through, but she knew she couldn’t. How would Annie respond if she knew that Catherine was falling in love with Mark? Annie had warned her, more than once, not to get involved – Mark was married, Mark would leave the valley eventually, in short, Mark was not to be trusted. And always the warnings about the gossip. Catherine couldn’t bear to hear those words again from Annie, but, without her friend’s counsel and with Mark gone, she was left rootless. The days stretched out and her nights passed with little sleep.
It was ten days later when he returned. Catherine had counted every one. She was at Annie’s, playing in the backyard with Charlie and her godson, Scott. The boys had become good friends over the past year, bonding over their love of frogs and Matchbox cars. The crunch of tyres in the gravel of the driveway announced the return of Dave from running an errand up in Cygnet.
‘That’ll be your daddy,’ Catherine said to Scott.
‘Not only his daddy,’ Dave said, rounding the corner of the house.
Catherine looked up to see Mark following behind Dave. Her breath stopped. A fierce hope blossomed in her chest.
‘Daddy.’ Charlie ran towards his father and wrapped himself around his legs.
Mark lifted his son into his arms and held him close. ‘I missed you.’
Catherine stood, dusting the dirt from her clothes. ‘I didn’t know you were coming back today.’ Something was wrong. He was avoiding her eyes.
‘Didn’t Annie tell you?’ Dave asked. ‘That’s why I was in Cygnet. To pick up Mark from the bus.’
‘No.’ Catherine kept her eyes on Mark, aching for any clue, but Mark hid his face in Charlie’s hair.
‘Well, here he is.’ Dave cleared his throat. ‘I’d better get back to it. I guess you two have some things to talk about.’
Catherine met Dave’s eyes and saw only kindness and concern. He knew. Of course he did. He and Mark were close. Mark would have told him everything – how he felt about her, why he went to Melbourne and what had happened there.
‘Let’s go home, Charlie.’ Mark put his son down and turned away. ‘Thanks, Dave, for everything.’
Dave clapped him on the back. ‘No worries, mate. But I think you’re forgetting something.’ He nodded towards Catherine.
Mark took Charlie’s hand. ‘I don’t know …’
The hope in Catherine’s chest turned to pain. She could barely breathe. She tried to speak but her mouth was dry.
‘Tell you what,’ Dave said. ‘Let’s grab your supplies from the ute and then why don’t you three head up to the pickers’ hut.’
Mark’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Okay.’
Dumbly Catherine followed Mark and Charlie to the pickers’ hut. This wasn’t the homecoming she’d envisaged, full of love and kisses and plans for the future. This was a funeral march.
Charlie, thankfully, was unaware. He chatted happily about all the things he’d done while his daddy was away. How he and Scott had slept in the same bed and got in trouble for talking after they were supposed to be asleep. About the games they’d played, what the big boys had got up to, the biscuits Catherine had brought over. Mark remained mute as they trudged up the hill.
Once the supplies were packed away and Charlie had talked himself out and was happily drawing a picture of a frog, Catherine and Mark sat on the porch, the air heavy between them.
Mark looked at his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine. I really am. More than I can say.’
‘Lara?’ It almost hurt to speak. Had he found her? Had she refused to get a divorce? Or worse, did she want him back? Had he agreed? Was Annie right and he couldn’t be trusted? Her head throbbed, her mind taunting her.
‘I tried. I really did. I looked everywhere, asked everyone. And then I looked and asked all over again. It wa
s pointless.’
‘You didn’t find her.’ Finally she let out the breath she’d been holding.
It was only then Mark met her eyes. ‘I failed. I failed you. I failed us.’
Catherine shook her head. She’d been an idiot to get her hopes up. There was no happy ending.
‘There’s no sign of her, anywhere. I have no idea what to do now.’ The pain in his eyes was intense. It matched the pain in her heart. She could hardly bear it. He had done his best. He had done it for her, for them. ‘Damn that woman,’ he muttered. ‘Damn her to hell.’
Catherine reached for his hand. He took hold of hers and there was a desperation in his grip. Lara might have disappeared, but she wasn’t gone. She’d become a ghost who haunted him. And Catherine.
23
March 1970
Catherine
Catherine enjoyed the challenges of being a Grade Two teacher, though she’d forgotten how much more work was involved. Today she’d stayed after class to catch up, which meant she was running late for the packing shed. On her way home to get changed, she popped in to apologise to Annie. Her friend was at the grader, tossing rejected apples into one of the bins bound for the factories.
‘Sorry,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s nearly teatime anyway. Why don’t you come over to the house and have it with us?’
Catherine smiled knowingly. ‘You’re hoping I’ll make a pudding, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, what a lovely idea.’ Annie grinned. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’ She took Angela by the hand, and together they walked towards the house.
In the kitchen, Catherine noticed the unusual quiet. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Making the most of the twilight. Either down at the river crabbing, or up in the bush building forts. Lately though, it’s billy carts. Michael and Eric are trying to outdo each other, seeing who can build the best one. And the younger ones watch on, dying to be like their big brothers. The old pram got taken apart for the wheels. Just as well I’m not having any more children. They’ll be back when they get hungry.’ Annie began preparing dinner, pricking sausages for the pan and choosing potatoes and carrots for the pot.
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 16