‘But your voice, mate,’ Dave said. ‘Why didn’t you ever sing in your band?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Just one of those things, I guess.’
‘I know they’re doing really well overseas,’ Dave continued. ‘But I reckon they’d be doing even better if you were still with them.’
Annie tried to catch Dave’s eye. They both knew Mark had his reasons for quitting the band, but with The Scene so famous now, he must regret it.
‘More, more,’ Michael shouted, and the rest of the boys joined in.
‘Encore,’ Dave cheered.
Catherine shushed them all, like the school teacher she was. ‘We do have another song. Dave, I hear you can’t decide whether you’re a Beatles or a Stones man.’ She looked up at Mark with a shy grin. ‘Maybe we can help you choose.’ She settled herself at the keyboard and nodded to Mark.
As soon as Annie heard the first notes she knew what they were going to play. It might have been a hit around the world a few years ago, but she didn’t think it was appropriate. A song about not getting any satisfaction – could the implications be any more obvious? Her older boys ran into the kitchen and returned with saucepans and wooden spoons, banging along with gusto. The cacophony threatened to drown out Mark and Catherine, which might’ve been a blessing, under the circumstances.
When the song finished to enthusiastic applause, Mark turned to Dave. ‘Well, Dave, does that help you make up your mind? Beatles or Stones?’
Dave shook his head. ‘I don’t know, mate. What I do know is you’re bloody good.’
‘Language, Dave,’ Annie said.
‘What, darl? You didn’t mind when I said the Beatles song was bloody bonza.’
The boys tittered among themselves like sparrows.
Annie raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I guess it’s obvious who gets my vote.’
‘I think you’re right. I’d love to hear “Hey Jude” again. It’s a cracker of a song.’
A single note from the piano rang out in a slightly out-of-tune way. Then another. Angela had edged closer to the piano and was steadying herself with one hand while reaching up with the other to hit the notes.
Catherine laughed. ‘You might have a little musician in the family.’
Mark shot a glance at Annie, but she avoided his eyes.
Catherine bent down to Angela. ‘Would you like to play along with me?’
Angela nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Well, you put your fingers up here.’ She guided her small fingers to the top of the keyboard. ‘And when I start playing, you hit this note as many times as you like.’
Mark and Catherine began to play ‘Hey Jude’ again, and the energy in the room lifted. Angela’s one note was completely out of place but it didn’t matter. Even Michael and Eric’s percussion was bearable. Before the song reached its crescendo there was a banging on the front door. Dave turned to Annie. She shrugged and got up.
The cold air slipped around her as she opened the door. The night was still and clear, with the moon fat and low in the sky. Everything looked silver, including the two policemen on her front verandah. She’d sometimes wondered whether they’d show up. The thought always turned her stomach to water. These two weren’t local. An unwelcome thought popped into her head – out of towners to do the dirty work.
‘Mrs Pearson?’ the taller one asked.
‘Yes?’ It came out as a question. Their presence made her unsure of everything. She shifted her gaze out towards the valley where the moonlight shimmered.
‘We’re looking for Mark Davis. We believe we might find him here. Is he in?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘We need to speak to him regarding a matter of importance.’
‘Ah.’ She paused. ‘I’ll get him.’
Annie walked inside, but stood by the lounge room door for a moment watching Mark and Catherine play, with Angela hitting her one note, and her boys singing along with enthusiasm. Only Dave, with his gold paper crown slightly askew on his head, turned to her, a question in his eyes. She took in the scene with a chilling knowledge. It was all about to change.
25
Hobart, April 1970
Mark
The buzzing of fluorescent ceiling lights set Mark’s teeth on edge. One of them flickered in an arrhythmic tic that stretched his strained nerves further. He placed his hands on the table in front of him. Tanned by the sun and roughened through his work in the orchard, they didn’t seem to belong to him. There was a time when his hands were precious things, to be cared for, and the only calluses were on the fingertips of his left hand from years of pressing metal strings to a wooden fretboard. Now his hands were covered in scars and multiple calluses from pruning, digging, fencing and the endless hoeing around the trees. Three years he’d been living and working at the orchard. Years of wondering and waiting. And now this.
The policeman sitting opposite him wrote a few notes then turned his attention back to Mark.
‘And that was definitely the last time you saw her?’
‘Yes.’ Mark rubbed a hand over his eyes. How many times did he need to answer the same questions?
‘February fifth, 1967. Two days before the fires?’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. Why was she still in the valley?’
‘You never reported her as missing.’ He looked at Mark with a questioning expression.
‘My wife had a habit of running off. She was what you might call highly strung. She’d usually come back after a few days, once it was weeks.’ Mark cleared his throat. His mouth was bone dry. Lara. Found in the burnt-out wreck of his car.
‘But why not report her missing?’
Mark’s voice rose. ‘The fire came through on the seventh of February. All phone lines were down and no power. People were dying. A young man was burnt alive on the neighbouring property and—’
The policeman interrupted. ‘Just answer the question, Mr Davis.’
‘Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?’
‘You’re not under arrest. In any reportable death we are required to collect statements and evidence for the coroner’s report. You are Mrs Davis’s next of kin and the last person, that we know of, to see her alive. And I fully understand the circumstances of the seventh of February 1967. I was on duty here, in Hobart.’
Mark noticed the hitch in the policeman’s voice. What kinds of things had he seen that day? Much worse than anything Mark had encountered, for sure. The best thing was to cooperate fully and use the kind of language they understood. ‘Because my wife had gone missing before the fire, I didn’t think there was any connection or concern. I waited for her to return.’
‘To the Pearson farm at Wattle Grove.’
‘Yes. The clean-up after the fire was exhausting, and I didn’t think to follow up at first.’
‘And after that?’
‘I tried. Contacted all my wife’s friends and family then returned to Melbourne to try to find her. We have a young son. I left him with the Pearsons to see if I could find her in any of her usual haunts. I wondered whether she’d asked her friends not to tell me where she was.’
‘Why was that, Mr Davis? Did your wife fear you for any reason?’
‘No. In fact quite the opposite. Lara was the one who used to lash out. As I mentioned, she was highly strung.’
The policeman made a note. ‘She “lashed out”.’ He looked Mark straight in the eye. ‘And you were never tempted to retaliate?’
‘No. Never. I’d leave her alone. Get Charlie out of her line of fire and leave.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you concerned for his safety?’
Mark hesitated. He was away so frequently, and even when he was based in Melbourne the band had so many gigs he often wouldn’t see them all weekend.
‘Lara could be … unpredictable.’
‘Did she ever hurt your son, Mr Davis?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ He wasn’t sure, but he couldn�
�t give the cops a reason. Could they possibly think he’d murdered Lara?
‘How did you get that scar?’
‘Pardon?’ Mark frowned.
‘The one on your chin?’
His hand reached up to touch it. The skin was raised in a small, jagged line from below his bottom lip to the left-hand side of his chin. ‘I got caught up in a fight, not of my making or of my choosing.’
‘Where was this fight?’
‘In Melbourne, at a gig. The sharpies decided they wanted to kill the mods. Nothing to do with me.’
‘At a gig?’
‘I used to play in a band.’
‘So you weren’t always a farm labourer?’
‘No.’
‘An interesting change of career.’
There was a knock on the door of the interview room. The door opened and another policeman entered, handed over a plastic bag and left. The policeman’s face assumed a different expression, gentler, more concerned.
‘May I be honest with you, Mr Davis?’
Mark swallowed but nodded.
‘Your car, as you know, was found down an embankment, deep in a gully. The vehicle had exited the road with some force.’ The policeman looked down at the contents of a slim folder in front of him. ‘From what we can deduce, the car must have been engulfed in flames during the fires of the seventh of February 1967. But as the body remained in situ for over three years there were disturbances—’ He pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘Wild dogs, most likely.’
‘Oh.’ The room swayed. Mark closed his eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. The room steadied.
‘Mr Davis? Would you like a glass of water?’
‘No. Thank you.’ He wanted to get this over and done with.
The policeman continued, his words slow and measured. ‘The forensic pathologist will be able to ascertain the sex and the age of the victim, but any further identification will be difficult under the circumstances. However, we did find this.’ He pushed the evidence bag across the table to Mark.
Tentatively, Mark smoothed out the plastic for a closer look at the contents. The silver chain was blackened and melted, but the stone was recognisable. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He’d found the pendant in a tiny shop hidden away in Flinders Lane. It’d caught his attention in among the other necklaces and bracelets, moonstones, crystals and incense. He knew it was meant for Lara. ‘His Lara’ as she was back then – wild and free and beautiful. Their passion was limitless. His friends warned him she wasn’t the kind of woman you married and it would only lead to trouble. But her eyes had haunted him day and night. He’d wanted her, always and forever. Charlie made his presence known soon after the wedding, although Lara had baulked at the idea of a child. When the baby arrived, squirming and screaming, she’d handed him to Mark. That was the first time she disappeared. Only for a few days. But history repeated itself, again and again, until finally—
‘Mr Davis? Do you recognise this pendant?’
‘Traditionally, it was carried as a way of fending off curses.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Tiger’s eye. It’s also supposed to help alleviate fear and anxiety.’ It hadn’t worked. Her moods had grown worse. Mark called in favour after favour as he learnt how to look after his young son. Lara’s parents were a godsend. Her mother was eager to spend time with her grandson, especially under the circumstances. That first year had been hell for all of them. When Lara was home she spent most of her time crying, or pacing and fretting. The weight fell off her already slim frame and her hair became dull and brittle. She couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Charlie and would sleep on the couch, if she slept at all. Mark turned to his old friend Dave, the only person he knew who had kids. He rang him regularly for advice, even though Dave had little, Annie having never behaved in such a way. But Mark could always rely on him for words of comfort and encouragement. During the worst of it, it was Dave who prevented him from being crushed under the weight of it. Then when Charlie was just over a year old, something changed. Lara seemed to accept the situation, and although the boy was still a toddler, he would go where she went, and do what she did. As Mark’s band became more popular he spent less time at home. Lara had sometimes forgotten Charlie, leaving him at a cafe once, and a wine bar late at night. Charlie had, by necessity, grown so quiet and compliant as to be almost invisible. In the months preceding their trip to Tasmania, she’d grown restive again, disappearing all day and sometimes overnight. Mark saw the old pattern repeating itself – the anxiety, mood swings, and insomnia – and had hoped a complete change of scene would help. He’d been wrong.
‘Mr Davis. Again, for the record, do you recognise this pendant?’
Mark pressed the plastic tight against the stone, trying to feel the tiger’s eye beneath his fingers, to somehow conjure the soul of Lara and touch her one more time. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And did it belong to your wife, Lara Virginia Davis?’
‘Yes, yes it did.’
‘And was she wearing it the last time you saw her, on the fifth of February 1967?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you for your cooperation. We will need to speak to Mr and Mrs Pearson to corroborate your statement. Unless there are any complications we should expect a report from the coroner within the next few days. You will be informed of the findings. Do you have any questions?’
Mark’s eyes remained fixed on the tiger’s eye. Did he have questions? None the policeman could answer. His wife was dead. But was she finally at peace? And would she ever forgive him?
26
Late April 1970
Catherine
‘Hello?’ Catherine called. ‘Where are you?’
Sometimes Charlie would hide when she arrived on Sunday afternoons, prompting a game of hide and seek, but today there was an odd stillness to the pickers’ hut. Mark wasn’t on the porch waiting for her, and Charlie hadn’t given away his hiding spot by giggling as he usually did.
Her sense of unease grew as she walked inside. The small rooms were silent and bare. In the bedrooms, the beds were made, with sheets and blankets tucked in tight and the pillows in straight lines. It was as if Mark and Charlie had never lived there.
It had been almost a fortnight since the discovery of Lara’s body. During that time Mark had become withdrawn and distracted. She’d wanted to offer comfort, but he’d kept her at a distance. He’d been impatient for the coroner’s report and anxious to put Lara’s remains to rest. Catherine had known he’d have to go to Melbourne to sort things out, but she’d thought she would’ve seen them before they left. Why hadn’t Mark said goodbye?
She moved heavily to the porch, disappointment creating its own sense of gravity. Her eyes scanned the ground where Charlie had played with his hand-me-down Matchbox cars, making roads in the dirt, but there was no trace of the young boy she loved. She walked down the steps, counting in her head the way Charlie used to – one, two, three – and headed to the back of the hut. There, in the small clearing before the rows of apple trees began, a small wooden cross still stood. One thing had not been erased.
‘Good boy, Benno,’ she whispered. ‘Good boy.’
Ever faithful, Peter’s best friend and then Charlie’s beloved companion, Benno, had succumbed to old age with patience and acceptance. He’d made it clear when he was ready to go, and the vet had come to them. Benno went to sleep peacefully among the apple trees where he’d spent his life. Catherine had cried so much, even the vet was moved to tears. Another part of Peter gone.
And now Mark and Charlie were gone as well.
They’d had their own loss, of course, and it had been unexpected and shocking. Catherine would never admit it to anyone, but her first thought when she’d heard Mark’s wife was dead was that finally they could be a happy family. That she could become, legally, the mother Charlie had always needed. She knew she should feel guilty for having such thoughts, but the relief of Mark finally being free had been overwhelming. Pe
rhaps their sudden disappearance was her punishment.
She stumbled back to the porch. They’d sat there so often. Catherine remembered Mark’s eyes, his hands, his touch. The memory of their only kiss, his lips firm and warm against hers, still lingered like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. The colour had faded, but the imprint remained, fragile and thinner than paper, but still real, and more precious because of its frailty. She’d put a stop to the kiss because he was married. And all that time, Lara was dead, down a gully along the treacherous Huon Road. All the slander she and Mark had endured. For what? Now, when they were finally free to take up from where that kiss had been leading, he’d shut her out then left without a word. Had she been a fool all this time? A diversion to entertain him while he was playing at being an orchard hand? Had Annie been right? He couldn’t be trusted. A hard lump formed in her throat. No. She refused to believe it.
Catherine didn’t know how she found the strength to get up. She walked through the trees towards Annie’s house. The pickers had done the first pass through this part of the orchard and the remaining apples were colouring up. They’d need to be harvested within a few days to be right for export. These thoughts kept her mind busy; a distraction she knew wouldn’t last.
Annie’s kitchen was in its familiar disarray with piles of washing heaped on the table.
‘Have you come to help with the ironing?’ Annie looked exhausted. Two months into the picking season, her workload was relentless. ‘I could use a hand.’
The sound of the boys playing footy in the backyard filtered through closed windows, along with the crack and clatter of Dave splitting wood. Angela was playing with her dolls under the table. Catherine couldn’t believe everything was so normal here. ‘Mark’s gone. And Charlie.’
Annie kept her head down, busying herself with the washing. ‘Other pickers are moving into the hut tomorrow. Mark doesn’t know when he’ll be back. Couldn’t have come at a worse time. As if I didn’t have enough to organise with the harvest.’
‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘You knew he had things to take care of. The funeral.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 18