The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  She leant back in her chair. ‘You certainly are a charmer. How many girls have you spun this line to?’

  His face fell. ‘None. Only you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  It was getting late. She should be locking up the chickens and feeding the cat. But it was nice here, with him. It had been so long since she’d been flattered or admired. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll think about it.’

  He sighed. ‘I know you, Catherine Turner, and that means no.’

  Did he know her? They’d been together, if you could call it that, for little over a year, one of the hardest years of her life. So much had changed since then.

  ‘And I know that look,’ he said. ‘Can’t blame you. Here’s me lobbing up out of the blue and saying come away with me.’ He shifted closer. ‘Tell you what, I’m going to change your mind. Being on call at the port, the hours are crazy, but every chance I get, I’m gonna be here with you. I want you to be my lady. Sure, I’ve met a lot of fine women, but none I dig as much as you. You’re a fox and you’re strong. You gotta be a bit tough in Bali. It’s blissful but basic. What do you say?’

  Most women would jump at the chance to live in paradise with a handsome man. And here was Tim – with his brilliant eyes, winning smile and golden tousled hair – throwing himself at her. Still, she hesitated. He said he’d changed, but had he? He’d once thought of her as an angel keeping him alive. His fixation had scared her and pushed them apart. Now he’d waltzed back into her life assuming she’d want to be Jane to his Tarzan, in some place called Bali. He hadn’t seen her for years and yet had already mapped out her future. Wasn’t this the very thing she was trying to escape? Men deciding what she could and couldn’t do?

  Catherine and her father had come to an awkward truce. There was no avoiding each other, even with her living up the hill in the cottage. Without ever mentioning that day and the harsh words spoken, they’d managed to come to a working agreement. Catherine knew she was stubborn. She and her father were the same in that regard. Peter had been more like their mother, gentle and dreamy, with a tendency to waver between joy and melancholy, but always seeing the beauty in everything. Catherine was tougher – not physically stronger, but definitely stronger in mind and spirit.

  Tim reached over and caressed her cheek. ‘What are you thinking? Am I in with a chance?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Catherine knew she was taking a risk. Tim had made it clear that everything was on his terms. He’d only be able to see her when he had a break from the wharf and, she reminded herself, if the surf wasn’t pumping.

  ‘Let’s see if I can make that a yes.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her neck.

  She took a steadying breath, fighting the sensations that swamped her body. But why? Tim was offering an escape from the drudgery her life had become. Since Mark and Charlie had left, her life had seemed little more than a husk – dried out and brittle. She needed something more. In a blink she made up her mind. He wanted a strong woman? She’d show him one.

  Catherine kissed him back, hard.

  29

  April 1971

  Catherine

  In summer, when the sun rose early, Catherine never needed to set an alarm, but now the valley was deep in autumn, with its crisp mornings and a sharp bite to the air. Even the sun seemed reluctant to get out of bed. She leant over and switched off the alarm, stretching out to touch the warmth of Tim’s body but only finding the cold space where he’d lain. He must’ve had another early start at the port and not wanted to wake her. She hugged herself tight, remembering the things they’d done last night. In the month they’d been together, she’d broken every edict imposed by teachers, doctors, the church, her parents and society. The world hadn’t ended, and God hadn’t struck her down. In the mirror, she could see no change at all, except a secret smile at the corners of her mouth. Sometimes, when thinking about Tim, a warm glow would spread from deep between her legs. She’d have to pull away from the sensuous echo of the night before, back into the present of her workaday life.

  They did what they could to prevent their affair being discovered. Tim had swapped cars with his friend from the wharf so if her father saw a car at Catherine’s place, he wouldn’t recognise it. Usually Tim left the car in Huonville, a natural halfway point between Port Huon and Wattle Grove, where Catherine would pick him up. Last night had been unexpected – a last-minute change to the roster at the wharf. Tim had turned up late, promising he and the car would be gone before dawn. A promise he’d kept. Catherine touched her swollen lips, delighting in the memory of his ardent kisses.

  In the kitchen, she thanked him silently for stoking up the wood stove before he’d left. The kettle sat on the edge of the hot plate, warming gently for her morning cup of tea. When she’d moved into the cottage she’d cleaned her grandmother’s old stove, sweeping out the flue and the firebox, and scrubbing the oven and hot plates. It had taken a while to work out how much wood was needed to keep the fire going overnight, to keep the draughty old cottage warm as summer had stealthily slipped away. Getting the temperature right for cooking was another skill she was slowly mastering. Even so, the old camp stove and toaster oven were used more often than she’d hoped as she battled the vagaries of the wood burner.

  Catherine gazed out over the apple trees and the mist nestling in the valley, as the day slowly lightened. The kettle came to the boil, its whistle a happy promise of a hot cup of tea. Mickey yowled outside, demanding to be let in after a night’s hunting. She opened the door just wide enough, closing it quickly as a blast of chilly air rushed in. The cat wrapped himself around her ankles, then settled into his favourite spot in front of the stove. Tim had taken a shine to Mickey, and the feeling was mutual. What was it about Tim? He was thoughtful, funny and a sensational lover, not that she had a basis for comparison, yet she hadn’t fallen in love with him. When he went to Bali she’d miss him, but not badly. Sometimes she wondered why love hadn’t come, but in her heart she knew the answer. Catherine closed her eyes, remembering the cold winter evenings playing cards and singing songs by the fire in the pickers’ hut, and warm summer twilights eating peaches and wading in the river. Tim was fun, and a guilty pleasure, but she could never love him. There was only room in her heart for one man, and he had left without a word.

  April turned to May and the season drew to a close. Night came early as the pickers finished up, rubbing icy fingers and bustling into the packing shed to pick up wives and children before heading home to a hot meal. The wives would return after tea, to continue with the packing, having put children to bed or settled them with their homework.

  Dave came over to Catherine as she was getting ready to leave. ‘Haven’t seen you at our place for a while,’ he said. ‘Not avoiding us, are you?’

  Catherine went to object, given she saw Annie and the kids in the packing shed every day. Then she noticed the twinkle in his eye. ‘Just waiting for an invitation,’ she teased.

  ‘Since when do you need one? But if that’s the way it is.’ He spotted Annie by the grader. ‘Hey, Mrs Pearson, is it okay if I extend an official invitation to Miss Turner to come for tea tonight?’

  Annie looked puzzled. ‘Since when does Catherine need an invitation?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Dave looked pleased with himself. ‘Consider yourself invited, if you can stand the thought of a rowdy meal with our tribe.’

  ‘It sounds delightful.’ Catherine wasn’t expecting Tim tonight, and the prospect of her humble tea of eggs on toast didn’t compare.

  On the short walk to the house Dave turned to her. ‘So, what does your dad think about the Board of Inquiry’s decision?’

  Catherine masked her annoyance. Why did Dave assume her father was the only one in the family with an opinion? ‘Our lack of long-term planning is a disaster. Have you read the report?’

  Dave shook his head. ‘Nah, just going on what I’ve heard from other growers.’

  A major restructuring of marketing was vit
al to the survival of the apple industry. Catherine had read everything she could get her hands on. ‘It’s damning. Unless things change soon, our livelihoods could be gone within a few years.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘We need to be organised and speak with one voice.’

  Annie laughed. ‘You sound like one of those leftie pinkos.’

  ‘If that’s true, the Board of Inquiry must consist purely of Communists,’ Catherine replied. Annie’s flippancy irked her. The work of generations was at stake.

  ‘I’m glad we diversified,’ Dave said. ‘But I gotta say, the prices for cattle aren’t good. Our mainstay will always be apples.’

  ‘And the mainstay of our puddings and cakes will always be apples,’ Annie said, as they arrived at the house. ‘I was thinking of an apple charlotte tonight, to use up some apples and stale bread. What do you think, Catherine?’

  ‘I think she’s volunteering you to make it,’ Dave warned.

  ‘Well?’ Annie smiled at Catherine. ‘It’ll fit right in with your philosophy of all for one and one for all, comrade.’

  ‘How could I refuse?’

  Dinner was indeed a rowdy affair. Michael, now thirteen and starting to test his boundaries, was sent from the table without pudding. Eric, not to be outdone by his older brother, attempted to be banished as well. Scott argued with Paul about who was going to win the TFL grand final, which was months away, and Greg, who was in Catherine’s Grade Two class, attempted to impress her with his knowledge of rocks. Only Angela was quiet, as she sat in her chair, bolstered by cushions, and ate her dinner of shepherd’s pie without any fuss.

  Dave pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Delicious dinner, girls. Eric and Paul, you’re on washing-up duty. Decide between the two of you who’s washing up and who’s drying.’

  ‘But, Dad,’ Eric whined.

  ‘You know the roster. That’s why your mother had so many children – to help with the chores around the house. You want to eat, you’ve gotta work. A hard lesson in life, son, best learnt early.’

  Annie whispered to Catherine, ‘I’ll have to wash them again afterwards but they are getting better.’

  ‘I’m going to warm up the TV.’ Dave stood, stretching his back. ‘Gotta watch GTK tonight.’

  ‘No, Dave.’ Annie’s voice held a warning.

  ‘What’s on the show?’ Catherine didn’t have a TV at the cottage. She had books and a transistor radio to keep her company, and Tim.

  Dave hovered awkwardly. ‘Oh, nothing really.’

  Catherine didn’t believe him. ‘I think I’ll watch it too. Consider it payment for making the apple charlotte.’

  Annie seemed perturbed. ‘Boys, time to do your homework.’

  ‘So we don’t have to wash up?’ Paul asked.

  ‘You can do it later,’ Annie said, her mouth pinched. ‘Out. Now.’

  As the children filed out of the kitchen, Annie was quiet.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Catherine was baffled.

  It was Dave who answered, keeping a careful eye on Annie. ‘Mark’s new band is on GTK tonight to launch their latest single. Mark tells me it’s the best song he’s ever written.’

  Catherine swallowed. Part of her wanted to make excuses and leave, but her overwhelming desire to know more won out. ‘So, he’s been in touch with you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Catherine realised how naive she’d been in assuming Mark had cut off everyone when he’d left the valley. Of course Mark had kept in contact with his best mate. And he hadn’t missed a beat from the sound of it. He’d happily carried on with his glamorous, famous life while she pined for him back in Wattle Grove, wondering what she’d done wrong and agonising over why he’d never got in touch with her. ‘I want to watch it.’

  ‘What?’ Annie looked startled.

  ‘Let’s hear this fantastic new single.’ Anger stirred inside her.

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’ Annie looked to Dave for support.

  He moved towards the door. ‘I promised Mark I’d watch it. If either of you want to join me, that’s fine.’

  Catherine followed him out of the kitchen, leaving Annie at the table staring at her hands.

  Mark has a beard, Catherine noticed. And longer hair. Apart from that he looked exactly the same. He began to sing. That’s his voice, she thought, the one I’ve sung harmonies with. The camera cut to his fingers playing guitar. Those hands have held mine and pressed against my skin. The song was melodic, with an easy loping beat. It was about having a simple life in the country and being free. Mark had a harmonica in a cradle around his neck and replicated the riff he was playing on his guitar. It was effective. She could see this being a hit. It caught the fantasy of a generation, fitting right into Tim’s ethos and those like him. But it was far from her reality. Country life was about work and toil; battling the elements and bureaucracy to eke out a living.

  The song ended and the host appeared, asking Mark what had inspired the band’s new single. ‘Some of the best days of my life were spent living on an orchard in Tasmania,’ Mark said. ‘I still long for the happiness I found there.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ the host asked.

  A shadow crossed Mark’s face. ‘They say the greatest writing comes from pain.’ Then he laughed, a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘Not that I’m saying this song is the greatest. But it’s about something I long for every day.’

  The GTK theme song began as the credits rolled. Catherine realised she was crying.

  Dave touched her hand. ‘Guess that’s why Annie didn’t want you to watch. She knew you’d be upset.’

  Catherine rummaged in the pocket of her cardigan for a hanky. She nodded as she wiped her eyes.

  ‘If you missed him so much why didn’t you write back to him?’ he asked, his eyes gentle and concerned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘His letters. He told me you never answered them.’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘He sent them to your house. And rang your folks’ place all the time. Charlie really wanted to say hello too, but you’d never come to the phone.’

  Catherine blinked. None of this made any sense. She hadn’t received any letters from Mark, or calls. Then slowly, memories hit her like cold metallic blows. Her father always insisted on answering the phone at the house. He’d jump up to get it, leaving the room to stand in the hallway and talk, though rarely for long. Sometimes he’d just hang up, saying it was a wrong number. Catherine had never considered her father might be lying to her.

  ‘Mark asked me to talk to you,’ Dave continued. ‘But Annie thought it wasn’t a good idea. Best not to get involved, she said.’

  Catherine shivered despite the warmth of the fire. Bellbird was on the television now, but she wasn’t interested in what Lori was up to with Charlie Cousens or what Adeline Phillips had to say about it. Her own soap opera was unfolding right here in the Pearsons’ lounge room.

  ‘He was worried when you didn’t answer that first letter. But when you didn’t reply to any of the others either, he was really hurt.’

  ‘I never received that letter. Or any others.’ Catherine couldn’t think clearly. There was a buzzing in her head.

  ‘He gave it to me to give to you. I left it in the kitchen. When it was gone I assumed Annie—’

  They both turned to see Annie standing in the doorway, her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

  ‘You gave it to Catherine, didn’t you, darl? We talked about it.’

  ‘I thought I had. We’d all had a big shock with Lara being dead and all. It was a tricky time. And hectic, with the harvest and the kids to look after. Maybe one of the kids got hold of it. I don’t know.’

  Catherine listened to her excuses knowing none of them rang true. Annie hadn’t given her the letter. She’d admitted to never liking Mark. She was always warning Catherine about him. And as for the other letters? If her father was capable of blocking Mark’s calls, what was he capable of doing
with his letters? Catherine was never home when the post arrived. She was at school, making money to keep the orchard afloat. A cold blackness threatened to engulf her, but she refused to let it. Other priorities were more urgent.

  ‘I have two questions,’ she said to Dave, deliberately turning away from Annie. ‘Do you have a phone number for him?’

  ‘Yes. What’s the other question?’

  ‘Can I use your phone?’

  30

  May 1971

  Mark

  Mark had never meant to lie. And he hadn’t meant to stay away so long. But after Lara’s funeral some old friends had persuaded him to come over for a jam session. One session turned into many more. Their drummer, Tigger, booked them some gigs at the Thumpin’ Tum, then word spread and the crowds increased. When the record companies started sniffing around, the band found a manager and from there the whole thing had escalated. Mark went along for the ride. After years of heartache, confusion and hard physical labour, he was happy to be swept up in the flow. Gigging and touring with this band was different from the start – they were older, wiser and battle-scarred. Mark was thirty-two now, and the rest of the band were a similar age, happily no longer the target for screaming teenagers. Television made it easier to reach a wider audience without having to drag themselves around the country. Even so, on the back of this new single, and the album, Mark had committed to an Australia-wide tour. Why not? He had nothing to lose.

  He knew he’d pushed Catherine away before he’d left Wattle Grove, but at the time he was capable of little else. Lara’s death had been such a visceral shock. Guilt tormented him. The fact her body had been down a gully for so long, ravaged by fire and animals, disturbed him still. Any emotional reserves he had left went to comforting his son. Charlie barely remembered his mother, being only two when she’d left, but he knew he was supposed to feel sad. But it was Catherine Charlie had yearned for after they returned to Melbourne. When Mark’s letters went unanswered he’d been hurt but unsurprised. Lies escalated, even the small ones. He should never have kept anything from her. He’d said that, in his letters. But instead of bringing them closer his words had blown them apart. It had been nearly a year now and Mark could only blame himself.