The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  ‘I know, but I thought he’d say goodbye before—’

  ‘I don’t understand why he lied about going to the police.’ Annie sounded angry, suddenly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A couple of weeks after the fires, Dave and Mark went to Huonville. Mark said he was going to the police station to report Lara missing. Thing is, he never did. He told us he did, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Catherine was already bewildered by Mark’s disappearance. Annie’s words added to the doubts she was desperately trying to push aside.

  ‘We didn’t know he’d lied until the police interviewed us after her body was found.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Put us through our paces. Those coppers ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘No. Mark.’

  ‘Not a lot.’ Annie looked Catherine in the eye for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘I never did like him or his wife. Something off about the pair of them. He’s done you a favour by leaving without letting you know. Shown his true colours. You should forget about him.’

  Catherine was shocked by Annie’s words. ‘How could you say—’

  ‘He doesn’t belong here, he never did. Mark turned your head and it was a disaster. I never told you the worst of the gossip. I’m glad he’s gone back where he belongs. You should be too.’

  ‘But Charlie—’

  ‘Honestly, Catherine. I have a ton of work to do. If you’re just going to mope I’d rather you left.’

  Annie had never spoken to her like this. She’d come here hoping for answers, but instead found hostility. This day had brought nothing but confusion and sorrow. Mark and Charlie gone, and now Annie angry with her for a reason she couldn’t fathom.

  Despite her mounting turmoil and despair, Catherine held it together. ‘You know what? I’ve got work to do at home, the kind I can do while moping.’

  She walked down the hallway, expecting Annie to call her back with an apology. By the time she reached the front door, Catherine knew it wasn’t going to happen. At the end of the driveway she turned towards the ever-flowing river, beyond to the purple peaks of the Hartz Mountains and the arcing vault of cold blue sky. So much space. So much emptiness. And her, so small in the midst of it. So small and so utterly alone.

  27

  7 February 1971

  Catherine

  The year unfurled through the seasons; a bleak winter, a bright spring and then the long clear blue days of summer. Not a word from Mark. The grief that had roared through her in the weeks and months since he’d left had now steadied to a constant familiar pain. It had become part of her, like the stone she carried in her heart for Peter.

  It was four years to the day since she’d lost her brother.

  The rector was at the door as she left the church. Usually he would shake hands with his parishioners after the Sunday service but Catherine was supporting her mother.

  ‘Bless you, Catherine,’ the rector said. He laid a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder. ‘And may God give you strength, Judith.’

  Catherine’s mother dabbed her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief.

  Catherine’s father was behind them. ‘Wonderful sermon, Rector.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack. Are you joining us in the church hall for morning tea?’ He always asked. Catherine thought he should know by now what the answer would be.

  ‘Not today.’ He inclined his head towards his wife. ‘A quick visit to say hello to Peter and then home. I think that’s best.’

  The rector nodded. ‘If I can do anything, please let me know.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  A few women approached Catherine and her mother with the concerned expressions Catherine had come to know so well – pity tinged with the relief it wasn’t their son who’d died in the inferno of Black Tuesday. Soon they would be talking in low serious voices about how, yes, they’d spoken with Judith Turner and no, she wasn’t doing well, even after all these years. Catherine fended off their platitudes with a few of her own and helped her mother towards the cemetery, with her father beside them, his steps almost as slow. The anniversary of the fire was always hard, and it falling on a Sunday this year made it worse. Her mother had been fragile even before the sermon began. The rector’s words were too much – he spoke of loss and tragedy, the heroism of those who fought the fires, and the ultimate sacrifice some had made. He’d gone on to talk about resilience and the new growth that occurs after fire, but those words had been lost on Catherine’s mother as she sobbed in the pew beside her husband and daughter.

  At the cemetery, Catherine’s father stopped by the gate. ‘Perhaps it’s best to leave it for today. We could come back tomorrow.’

  ‘He would’ve been twenty-three this year.’ Her voice was surprisingly clear. ‘A man. Married, even children. I need to see him. He needs to know I haven’t forgotten.’

  Catherine had tried, but her mother had refused to see a social worker, saying no amount of talking could ever bring Peter back. Not even the rector had been able to help, she’d said, and he had a direct line to God. Catherine watched her mother diminish a little more with every anniversary, lost in her grief. She took no interest in the orchard even though the new trees were finally bearing. Every tree was productive again and Catherine was determined to work full-time beside her father. It was time.

  As soon as they arrived back at the house, he disappeared into the bedroom and emerged wearing work clothes. ‘Just off to check the irrigation system,’ he said, picking his battered old hat off the hook by the back door.

  The new drip irrigation saved time, water and electricity, but it had its drawbacks. Sometimes the drippers got blocked, and frogs and tadpoles needed to be cleaned out of the lines daily.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Catherine said.

  ‘No.’ His voice was firm. ‘Look after your mother. It’s a tough day for her, you know that.’

  ‘If I was working in the orchard full-time I could be here more for her. She might start feeling better knowing her daughter was close by at all times.’

  ‘We’ve talked about this.’

  ‘But all the trees are in fruit. We’ll have a good crop this year, enough to make up for my teaching wage.’

  Her father’s jaw was set in a grim line. ‘The new trees are still coming good. The fruit might be small this year and you know the prices for apples fell last year. New Zealand and South Africa beat us on every level and shipping rates have gone up again. Best you stay a teacher if you want to keep this orchard going. That’s where you’re the most help.’

  ‘But, Dad—’

  ‘Catherine, you’re the first person, ever, in this family to receive a tertiary education, and you want to throw that away? To do what? Work like a slave, day in and day out, year after year, for just enough money to live on if you’re lucky?’

  Catherine took a shaky step backwards. ‘If that’s how you feel then how could you have expected Peter to do it?’

  ‘It’s what he wanted.’ He glared at her, daring her to deny it.

  Catherine held her tongue. This wasn’t a wound she wanted to reopen. Instead she took another tack. ‘You’ve been asking around for someone to work in our orchard. Annie told me.’ Catherine’s father had been overheard in the hardware store, asking about experienced orchard workers. Catherine had been furious. She still was. ‘Why not let me do it, instead of using my wages to pay someone else?’

  ‘What I do here is my business.’ Her father’s face was rigid with anger. ‘Do you know how much he’ll be paid? If you did, you wouldn’t be mewling about wanting to do the work. You’d be grateful for the job you’ve got.’

  ‘But the orchard is why I quit my job in Hobart. It’s why I came back to Wattle Grove. It’s what Peter really wanted.’ Despite her previous intention, the words were out before she could stop them.

  ‘Peter?’ Her father stepped towards her, his voice harsh and his eyes fierce. ‘You think your mother would
feel better if you were here all the time? You’re wrong. She doesn’t want her daughter close by. All she wants is her son back. You can never, ever, replace Peter. Not for her. Not for me.’ He opened the door, letting in a gust of hot air and closed it hard behind him.

  Catherine slumped against the wall, breathless. It was as though her father had slit her open and gutted her like a rabbit. Tears of frustration and rage ran down her cheeks. She should pack her car and drive away. Leave this valley and not look back, just like Mark. But she couldn’t. With Mark and Charlie gone, the only sense of belonging she had was in the orchard. She measured her weeks and months by the turn of the seasons, the cycle of the trees, the steady repetition of the work. Peter’s spirit lived on in this orchard and she wouldn’t desert him. Neither could she leave her mother, racked by a grief that didn’t abate.

  Catherine took a deep breath and dashed away her tears. Annie had been right. Catherine had become a martyr. But no more. It was time she began to shape her own destiny. She’d help her mother with the Sunday dinner. But she wouldn’t sit down and eat at the same table as her father, not today. Maybe not ever again. She would leave this house. Her father had forbidden her from moving to her grandmother’s cottage because he feared the gossips more than he trusted her. But after today, she no longer felt the need to obey his commands. She’d read The Female Eunuch, secretly in her room at night, devouring every word. It had questioned everything she’d thought was true. There was one truth remaining that couldn’t be denied. She was a grown woman with her own life to lead.

  28

  March 1971

  Catherine

  The sound of wheels on gravel confused Catherine for a moment. No one ever drove up this way. She stood on the verandah and shielded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. A familiar car came into view. Could it really be Erica Jane? How long had it been since she’d watched the car hightailing it off their property with a bleeding Tim at the wheel? Catherine ran her fingers through her hair and regretted her work clothes of shorts and a faded blouse. Then she caught her thoughts. It didn’t matter what she looked like, not any more.

  A figure emerged from the old Holden, leaner and more tanned than she remembered. His hair was still bleached by the sun, but longer. Miss Downie would never approve. And was he wearing an earring? He looked up at her and waved. ‘Hi ya, babe, long time no see.’

  She shook her head at the incongruity of his words, but was surprised to feel a frisson of excitement.

  ‘Didn’t want to go near the new place,’ he drawled. ‘Not after last time. But I saw the Hillman parked up here. So here I am.’

  ‘Here you are.’ She smiled despite herself. Could she actually be pleased to see him? ‘Come on up.’

  ‘You sure? The old man’s not around, is he? Don’t want to cause any hassles.’

  ‘No. Just me, the chickens and a cat.’ Catherine had felt lonely when she’d first moved back into the old cottage. The solitude had wrapped around her day and night. She’d needed more than the breeze blowing through the trees and the screech of cockatoos as they helped themselves to another feed of apples for company. She’d come to love the chickens, each with unique personalities and strange little quirks, but with them came rats which in turn attracted snakes. A cat was the logical answer. Mickey was not only good company, he was also a stone-cold killer, depositing proof of his prowess on her doormat every morning.

  Tim hoisted himself up the steps. ‘Cool.’

  They stood face to face, a little shy.

  ‘This is kinda weird,’ Tim said. ‘What do you say to a chick when the last time you saw her everyone was a bit unglued?’

  ‘You start by telling her what on earth you’re doing back in the valley. Come and sit down.’ Catherine indicated the two wicker chairs. In her grandmother’s day they had been pristine and white, now the paint was all but gone and the wicker missing in places.

  He sat beside her and casually touched her hand. ‘No rings. Thought you’d’ve got hitched by now. That ex-pop star seemed a bit keen. What happened to him?’

  Catherine shrugged. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Mark.

  ‘That’s right, he was married. Wife disappeared or something.’

  She was suddenly restless. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Nah. Just wanna drink you in.’ He gave her the lazy grin she remembered so well.

  Catherine laughed. It sounded strange, in a place where there’d been so much silence. ‘What are you doing here, Tim?’

  ‘Gotta job at the wharf.’ He nodded towards the river. On the opposite bank to Wattle Grove lay Port Huon, where ships from all over the world waited three deep to load their holds with Tasmanian apples.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Got my stevedoring ticket through a mate whose old man’s a wharfie. We’re both doing a season to save up some dough. I’ll be here for months.’

  ‘A girl in every port.’

  ‘Nah, just this one.’ He smiled at her, his tanned skin crinkling around his sea-blue eyes.

  ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’ Catherine relaxed into the harmless flirtation.

  ‘You might know her. Pretty. Obsessed with apples. Makes me wish I was an apple.’ He chuckled.

  Catherine hadn’t missed Tim, hadn’t even thought about him over the past few years. But now he was here, sitting next to her, she found herself remembering the good times they’d had together, before he became jealous and obsessive.

  ‘There’s something different about you,’ she said.

  His face became serious. ‘I’m real sorry about when we were together. I stuffed it up. Kinda went a bit crazy, you know? All those magic mushies.’

  Catherine nodded silently. That explained Tim’s strange behaviour. She’d heard about magic mushrooms, a kind of hallucinogenic available for free in the fields. The information had come with a warning. They were dangerous and best avoided.

  ‘After what I said that day …’ Tim touched his nose. ‘Don’t blame your old man for having a go at me. But I was right about Vietnam.’

  Catherine chewed her lip. She could barely bring herself to follow the news with its endless depictions of the suffering in the war.

  ‘I was there at the marches.’ His eyes burnt with a zeal that both scared and excited her. ‘They were unreal, massive. People waking up, coming together. And it made a difference. Our troops are coming home. We should be out of this shithouse war by next year. Shoulda never been involved in the first place.’

  ‘It’s horrible, for both sides.’ Catherine had thought about going to Hobart for the moratorium march last year. Over 200,000 people had marched, Australia wide. After what had happened to those women in My Lai, and countless others, she’d wanted her voice to be heard. But the thought of what her parents would think, especially her father, had stopped her.

  ‘I’m stoked to hear you say that. Got this idea in my head you’d be more tuned in these days.’ He leant in, his eyes searching hers. ‘You should come to Bali with me.’

  ‘Where’s that? In Vietnam?’ She’d heard of Saigon, Hue, Khe Sanh and Long Tan, but Bali?

  ‘Nah, Indonesia. An island off the east coast of Java. Went there over summer with some dudes I met on the march. Blew my mind. That’s why I’m here, working on the wharf. Saving up my bread to go back. You can live like a king there for next to nothing. The surf’s radical, rolling barrels all the time. And it’s paradise. Just narrow dirt roads and shacks on the beach. Living on fish, rice, and the most amazing fruit you’ve ever eaten. Pineapples, bananas, mangoes and things called dragon fruit – bright pink and purple. You scoop out the flesh and eat it, tiny black seeds and all.’

  ‘Dragon fruit?’ She’d never heard of such a thing.

  ‘Yeah, and coconuts so fresh you just knock the top off them and drink the juice. Unreal. But you probably wouldn’t like the place. No apples.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re probably right. What do you do there?’

  ‘Surf, babe. W
hat else is there?’

  Catherine raised an eyebrow; there was a lot more to life than surfing. ‘And you’re going back?’

  ‘Yep. Reckon I can save enough to live over there for the rest of the year. The waves are unreal and the water, it’s so warm, not like here. You can surf all year round without freezing your bits off. Hardly anyone else out there surfing. A few Yanks, some Aussies and that’s about it.’ His eyes grew distant. ‘There’s something about the place, you know. The people are real cool. They leave these little offerings outside their homes every day – fruit and flowers – as gifts for the spirits. They’re happy all the time and it rubs off on you. So different from being here where everyone’s so aggro. Working on the wharf? Well, enough said.’

  Catherine was hypnotised by his words. This place called Bali did indeed sound magical.

  ‘Once the cold season hits, I’ll be gone. It’s perfect there in winter.’ Tim grasped her work-roughened hands. ‘Come with me, if only for a holiday. You’ll be warm, and far away from the frost and ice and sleet.’

  ‘But I don’t surf.’ Much as she was enjoying his attention, the idea was ludicrous. ‘What would I do there?’

  ‘Do? Nothing. That’s the point. Relax, eat, swim. You gotta be respectful of the locals, they’re a modest bunch, but there are spots where the only creatures watching you are the monkeys. You can strip off and swim, sunbake on the white sand without a stitch on, just as nature intended. We’d be like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.’ His thumb gently rubbed the back of her hand.

  His blue eyes were so clear. She’d forgotten. ‘Adam and Eve didn’t come to a happy end.’

  ‘Ah, but remember what I said about Bali? No apples.’ He winked.

  The picture he painted of a tropical paradise, his hands on hers and the closeness of his body stirred something she’d suppressed since Mark had left.

  ‘I’ve never forgotten you,’ he said. ‘Or the day of the fire. How could I?’ She pulled away, remembering his fixation on her as his saviour.

  ‘Hey, don’t worry.’ He lifted her hand to his mouth. His lips brushed her skin, setting off tiny sparks of electricity through her body. ‘For sure, I was a bit crazy back then. Guess I freaked you out. That’s history. The Balinese have taught me about respect for others, for nature and for myself.’ He was still holding onto her hand. ‘That’s not to say I don’t want to kiss you right now. What do you say? Come to Bali. You’d fall in love with the place. And me.’