Catherine turned to face him. ‘What rumours, Dad? There’ve been so many.’
‘He lied about reporting his wife missing. There’s some suspicion he might have—’
Catherine threw her hands up in frustration. ‘The police investigated and found there was no foul play. Who do you believe? Them or some troublemakers at the pub?’
‘If you’re sure—’
‘I love him, Dad. And Charlie. And they love me. It’s as simple as that.’
Her father sighed. ‘Well then, I guess you’d better bring him home to meet your mother.’
Later in the week, Mark and Charlie arrived at Catherine’s cottage dressed in their best clothes. Charlie’s hair was neatly brushed, and Mark looked more like the man she’d first met, now he’d shaved off his beard.
Catherine touched his smooth cheek. ‘I kinda liked that beard. I’m going to miss it.’
‘Well, I can always grow it again.’ He held her fingers in his own. ‘But for now it’s best to look less like a hippy and more like a respectable suitor.’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘Of course. Your dad is formidable.’
‘What does that mean, Dad?’ Charlie asked.
‘It means he’s a tough old guy. So make sure you’re on your best behaviour.’ His smile softened his words.
Catherine was on edge as well. Not only was she marrying a man widowed in extraordinary and much talked-about circumstances, but one with a young son. She wasn’t sure how her mother would be, as her moods were often bleak. It might have been better to ease her into the situation, Mark first, then the both of them. But Mark had joked that her father would be less inclined to punch him if there was a child present, having heard the story about Tim.
Charlie dawdled on the walk to the house, wrapping his woollen scarf high around his chin. The winter sun was already waning and the temperature dropping with it. Mark and Catherine held hands and said little. Mark had generously forgiven Catherine’s father for his subterfuge but seeing him face to face would be a test of his resolve.
At the house, Catherine’s father met them at the door but instead of ushering them inside he joined them in the cold, closing the door behind him. Catherine’s heart dropped. What was he playing at? He’d wanted this meeting to happen. Had he changed his mind?
She held her voice steady. ‘Dad, this is Mark Davis, and Charlie. This is my father, Jack Turner.’
Mark reached out a gloved hand. ‘Good to see you, Mr Turner.’
Catherine held her breath as her father hesitated. Finally he took Mark’s hand and shook it, but with little more than a grunt.
‘Is there a problem, Dad? Why are we out here?’
He crossed his arms. ‘Before we go in, I want to know if you’ve set a date. For the wedding.’
Catherine looked at Mark in surprise. They hadn’t talked about it. ‘The sooner the better I think. A spring wedding.’
Mark nodded. ‘I agree.’
Catherine’s father looked less than pleased. ‘No. That’s not a good idea. And I’m only thinking of your mother here.’
‘Mum? What do you mean?’
‘You know how fragile she is. All of this is going to be a shock for her. She hasn’t heard any of the—’ He cleared his throat. ‘As far as she’s concerned, you two hardly know each other. She doesn’t get out much and hasn’t heard any different. The proper thing would be to introduce Mark as a friend first, announce your engagement in six months’ time and set the wedding for next spring.’
‘A year away?’ Catherine was aghast.
‘I think it would be best, for your mother.’
Catherine seethed. She should have known he’d try to complicate things, but how dare he use her mother as leverage. This was just a ruse. He had so little faith in her, or Mark, that he expected they’d break up before a year had passed. Or hoped they would. ‘No, Dad. I have a ring on my finger and I’m not going to hide it from Mum. Have you stopped to think that a wedding might make her happy? Having something to celebrate would lift her spirits.’
Mark stepped in. ‘With all due respect, sir. I love your daughter and she loves me. I know the circumstances haven’t been ideal—’
‘You’re right about that,’ her father growled.
‘But we’ve waited long enough. I think it’s important Mrs Turner know how much I treasure her daughter and will do until the day I die. I don’t want to lie to your wife, do you?’
Catherine stiffened, catching the hint of aggression in Mark’s tone. How would her father respond?
‘There are some things she might be better off not knowing,’ he said, staring Mark in the eye.
Charlie was restless. ‘It’s cold. When are we going to go inside?’
‘Soon, Charlie,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve just got to sort something out first.’
‘When people see the ring, they’re going to know I’m engaged.’ Catherine’s voice had an edge. ‘Do you want me to lie to everybody?’
‘All right, all right. Keep your voice down. You can announce your engagement today, but for God’s sake, postpone the wedding for a while.’
Catherine looked at Mark. He nodded. She turned back to her father. ‘Under duress. But not until next August. How about January?’
‘It’s too close to the anniversary of the fire. Your mother won’t cope.’
‘I’ll be back teaching in February.’
‘And then there’s the harvest. No time then.’
Catherine knew her father was playing her, but she was willing to let this slide, for everybody’s sake. Her father had done his best to keep her and Mark apart. He’d failed. Mark and her were committed to each other, the formality of a wedding could wait. ‘June. Right after the harvest. But no later.’
‘Done.’
‘My June bride.’ Mark squeezed her hand.
Laughter drifted from inside the house along with the enticing smell of home baking. Catherine noticed the door was ajar. ‘Charlie?’
They found him in the kitchen with Catherine’s mother, eating a chocolate biscuit. ‘I’ve got a new granny.’
‘What’s that, son?’ Catherine’s father looked horrified.
Her mother put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘This young man tells me he has a granny in Melbourne but doesn’t have one here.’
‘So, I asked her to be my granny here,’ Charlie said.
Catherine’s mother smiled wistfully. ‘I always wanted to be a grandmother.’ She looked at Mark and then to Catherine with a quizzical expression. ‘Do you have something to tell me, dear?’
34
February 1972
Catherine
The season turned, the trees blossomed and budded, and now the fruit was ripening on the trees. Catherine’s father slowly came around to accepting Mark, mainly thanks to his wife’s devotion to Charlie. The two of them spent many afternoons cooking up treats in the kitchen or piecing together jigsaw puzzles. Catherine was grateful to see a contentment and happiness, missing for so long, returning to her mother’s life. Her father never acknowledged it, but Catherine was sure he knew his wife’s wellbeing improved with each of Charlie’s visits.
During the long summer break from teaching, Catherine worked with her father in the orchard; ploughing, hoeing, spraying for codling moth, looper grub and red spider mite, and checking and thinning the budding fruit to ensure the best crop possible. And it was going to be a good one this year. They were expecting a record harvest now the Red Delicious had finally come good. Hong Kong had opened up a brand-new market for Tasmanian apples, and the exporters and agents were beating a path to her father’s door. He was smiling more these days, and easier to get on with.
Spraying was done early in the morning before the breeze picked up, so later in the day her time was her own. When Mark wasn’t needed on the Pearsons’ orchard, they spent long, slow afternoons with Charlie down by the river, swimming and fishing. Tea would often be flathead cooked over an open fire on the small
beach at Petcheys Bay, followed by juicy apricots and nectarines from the home orchard. The twilights ebbed away slowly, with Catherine wrapped in Mark’s arms, gazing across the river to the mountain ranges beyond, while Charlie waded through the shallows in his endless hunt for crabs. On the afternoons he wasn’t with them or his granny, Charlie often played with Annie’s boys. They were building a top-secret fort up in the bush beyond the orchard, no adults allowed. Today Mark and Catherine were grateful to the secret fort and the few hours alone it gave them.
Catherine took Mark’s hand in hers and led him towards the cottage. She paused to kiss him on the verandah, their lips warm against each other’s. His hands brushed gently along her arms and enfolded her in an embrace. Catherine leant her head against his chest.
‘Happy?’ Mark asked.
‘Very.’
‘Only three more months until you’re my wife.’
‘Three months?’ She smiled up at him. ‘Just as well we don’t have to wait until then.’ She opened the front door and backed slowly towards the bedroom, keeping her eyes on his.
Mark kicked the door closed with his foot as he followed her, taking hold of her outstretched hands. They fell on the bed in a tangle of hands and lips and arms. Catherine was always astounded by the passion she felt for Mark and the freedom she experienced when naked in his arms.
It was the distant rumble that roused her from a late-afternoon drowsiness. Catherine raised her head to find Mark smiling at her.
‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
She stretched and pressed against him, indulging in the sensation of his body strong against her own. Then she noticed the dimness of the room. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s only three. We still have plenty of time.’
‘Then why’s it so dark?’ She clambered out of bed, instantly awake. Outside the bedroom window the sky was ominous. Huge banks of dark cloud tinged with an eerie green shifted and billowed, coming in fast from the south-west. ‘No, no, no.’ Catherine grabbed her clothes and began to dress, the panic rising in her chest.
Mark raised himself on an elbow. ‘What’s wrong? It’s just a thunderstorm.’
‘I’ve seen this before. The green light in the clouds. This is bad.’
‘Why?’ Mark swung his legs off the bed and sat up.
‘I have to talk to my dad. The hail rockets went up in the fire and we didn’t replace them. But someone must have one somewhere.’
‘Hail rockets? What, like fireworks?’
‘Not quite but the same concept. Two pounds of TNT blasted into the clouds to stop hailstones forming.’
The wind picked up, rushing through the valley along the river and pushing the storm towards them. A flash of light filled the room and within seconds a crack of thunder shook the window panes in their frames. Catherine stamped her feet into her boots and headed towards the door. Hail had ripped through the valley, wiping out the apple crop every leap year from the 1940s through to 1964. She’d heard the stories and seen the damage; the year’s work gone, useless ravaged fruit going to waste, the trees damaged and battered. There hadn’t been hail for so long now, they’d become complacent.
The rattle of wind and rain on the tin roof grew stronger, drowning out Mark’s voice as he called out to her. ‘Don’t go out there.’ He was shouting to be heard over the roar of the storm.
‘It’s 1972.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a leap year.’
Mark shook his head, clearly thinking he’d heard her wrong through the howling wind buffeting the cottage. Catherine tried to open the door but the storm snatched it from her and slammed it shut. She tried again but Mark laid a hand on her arm. ‘You’ll never get to your dad’s place. Not in this.’
Another crack of thunder, so close the floorboards trembled under her feet. Mickey jumped from his comfortable spot on an armchair and ran to hide under the couch.
There was so much fear in Catherine, stirring from deep inside. She’d seen the hail rockets go up when she was a kid, always from a safe distance, but even so the boom they made shook the ground. She and Peter would watch as the trail of smoke headed into the inky darkness of the clouds. It was like magic. The blackest of clouds would turn white. The hail melted and fell as rain. She had to talk to her dad, now. As she reached for the phone, Mark blocked her way, shaking his head. She could see his mouth forming the word ‘no’, but couldn’t hear him over the storm. Lightning flooded the cottage with a light so pure it made her wince and the force of the corresponding thunder almost threw her off her feet.
The sharp tapping on the roof sounded like hungry birds trying to peck their way in. The tapping grew stronger, fiercer, until it was as if nature was throwing rocks at them in her fury. Catherine closed her eyes and ached at the sound of destruction. All that work, and heartbreak. So many disappointments over the years and then the jubilation of a record harvest on the way, until this. She threw herself at the front door, forcing it open against the wind and cracking it back against its hinges. The storm rushed in around her, lashing her with its brutality. The sharp hard ice of the hailstones ripped her skin and bruised her body. Catherine fell to her knees and screamed into the howling wind in frustration.
Strong arms pulled her back into the living room. Mark cradled her as they crouched dripping on the floor, her body leaning into his. He whispered in her ear, words of comfort and love, words she could barely decipher over the sound of the storm. They stayed, huddled together, until the wind dropped and the roof no longer rattled under the weight of the hail.
‘It’s okay, Catherine. Everything will be all right.’ Mark’s voice was like a chant, soothing her as her heartbeat steadied and her breathing eased.
A calm settled over the cottage. Sunlight broke through the dispersing clouds. Catherine scrambled to her feet. She had to see the damage. Like pulling off a Band-aid, it was best done quickly. She knew what she would see. The orchard in ruins, the apples destroyed, all of the years of sweat and toil since the fires wasted. She took a breath and walked outside. Hailstones littered the ground like ice cubes glinting in the sun, out of place but oddly beautiful. The trees around the cottage were shredded, battered and stripped by the storm. She lifted her gaze to take in the rest of the orchard. Mark came and stood beside her, taking his hand in her own. She frowned through narrowed eyes, not making sense of what she was seeing.
‘Far out,’ Mark said. ‘That’s crazy.’
Catherine nodded. She’d heard hailstorms could happen this way – ravaging one block of orchard or one complete strip, leaving the trees on either side untouched – but she’d never seen it so clearly demonstrated before. The cottage sat in a line of ruined trees barely four rows deep. On either side the leaves glistened green in the sunlight, the small apples perfectly preserved, the trees healthy and whole. The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted her astonishment. She walked in a daze to pick up the receiver.
‘Catherine, it’s your father.’ He always introduced himself to her on the phone as if she’d never recognise him otherwise. ‘I can hardly believe it. The Red Delicious are good. They’re undamaged.’
‘Oh, Dad. When the hail started …’ She took a breath, the nightmare still so close.
‘I know, I know.’ His voice held a warmth she’d missed for so long. ‘But the orchard has survived. We’re going to harvest a record crop and by next year I reckon we’ll be set.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s time.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Next year you can give away the teaching and come work in the orchard full-time.’
Catherine held her hand to her heart, feeling it race under her fingers. Mark stood beside her, a questioning look in his eyes. She grabbed his hand and held the receiver between them so they could both hear her father’s words. ‘Sorry, Dad, could you say that again? I couldn’t quite hear you.’
‘Next year,’ he boomed down the line, ‘I’d like you to
work with me in the orchard full-time. What do you say?’
35
March 1972
Annie
The wooden bulk bins piled up around Annie, all of them full of ruined fruit. She took a cursory glance at the latest load, picked up a scarred apple and threw it back. She’d held a faint hope that some of the pitting caused by the hailstorm would grow out. No chance now. The entire crop was going to the factories this year, and mostly for juicing for a fraction of the price she and Dave would normally get. Another lean year. And would the government help them out? No. They’d done away with the hail insurance back in 1966 because it was costing them too much. She scowled at the bulk bins; nothing worth packing there. A lot of the crop had rotted on the trees after the hail left ragged holes that made the apples fester and spoil. The air in the packing shed was thick with the sickly reek of decay. Annie was worried though. With so many orchards damaged by hail, the factories had a glut of fruit at their disposal. This lot might have to be tipped, all of it left to rot up in the bush, feed for possums and insects.
Dave and Mark were doing most of the picking this year. There were no wages to pay their usual gang. Usually at this time the shed would be full of women yelling over the sound of the grader, laughing and gossiping, their hands flying, dipping in and out of the rotary bins and filling the boxes for export. But instead it was as if something had died; the silence and the stench. It made her feel wretched, but where else did she have to go? Her home was empty and silent as well. Angela was in Kindergarten this year, and much as it broke Annie’s heart to be parted from her every day, it had made sense at the time. Annie would be free to run the packing shed without the additional responsibility of children to look after, at least during school hours. But now? What an absolute debacle.
She turned at the sound of footsteps. Mark. A rush of anger filled her chest.
‘Dave asked me to drop over and tell you we’re finishing up for the day. The rest of the Goldies aren’t worth picking and he wants to leave the Sturmers for a few days, possibly a week.’
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 23