Catherine’s hand touched his shoulder. ‘What a pair we are,’ she said gently. ‘Crying in the orchard.’
‘I’m sorry, Catherine.’ Mark took a deep breath. ‘For everything.’
‘Me too.’ She leant her head against his shoulder as they clung to each other in the finely tilled dirt under the apple trees.
42
February 1973
Catherine
The anniversary of the fire passed with the usual tears and regrets. After six long years from that awful day, so much remained unhealed. The countryside still bore the scars: chimneys standing in the ruins of burnt-out houses, dead gums like skeletons in the bush, and abandoned orchards overgrown and gnarled into a fester of codling moth and black spot. A despair had settled on the valley since the news of England’s defection to the Common Market. Catherine had been too hasty in resigning from her teaching job last year. She met with the headmaster of the school at Cygnet, hoping some work might be available, but he shook his head regretfully. ‘We’re expecting more families will leave the area and may be looking at composite classes. I’ll have to let teachers go, not employ them. I am sorry.’
Catherine left his office with little hope, despite his assurance she’d be the first to know if any relief teaching came up.
She dropped in at her parents’ place on her way home to see how the meeting with the property appraiser had gone that morning. She found her father in the kitchen, frowning at some paperwork. Catherine poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on the table and sat opposite him.
‘What did the appraiser say?’
‘Nothing good, I’m afraid.’ He ran his hand through his thinning hair. ‘With the bulk of the export market gone there aren’t many who want to take on an orchard, even one with a fine crop of Red Delicious and Asian markets to sell to.’
Catherine was relieved. Maybe the sale wouldn’t happen after all. ‘Really?’
‘They see the Asian market as fickle,’ her father said. ‘It’s “untested”. That was the word he used. I told him it’s a strong market and only going to get bigger, but he wouldn’t budge.’
Catherine turned her cup of tea in its saucer and wondered what her tea leaves might predict. She wanted to tell her father, yet again, the Asian market was why they should hold on to the orchard, but she knew what the result would be. Another argument and no ground conceded.
‘Why don’t you apply for a teaching job up in Hobart, Catherine? It’ll be easier to find a permanent position there.’
‘I have some money saved. We need to keep the orchard productive to show buyers what they’re getting.’ She was resolved to hang on until the last possible moment.
Her father sighed. ‘You’re throwing good money after bad. Your mother and I just want to get out. We have our eye on a nice little house in Hobart, but it’ll probably be gone by the time we sell this place.’
‘And if Peter was still alive?’ Catherine kept her head down, not wanting to meet his eyes. ‘Would you sell up? Or would you hand over the orchard to him in the hope he’d make a go of it?’
‘Peter’s gone and that’s that.’
‘But this is my home too.’ She persisted, despite the warning in his tone. If she was going to lose her dream of running the orchard, she wanted to know why. ‘It’s my inheritance. You can’t sell it out from underneath me.’
‘Your mother and I need to move on. It’s the best thing for you too. Go work as a teacher. It’s a cushy job with long holidays and good pay – more than you’ll ever get from this orchard. There’s precious little to show for all the work we’ve done. I’ll have to find a job in the city. I’m hoping for something with the council, standing around leaning on a shovel all day. That’d suit me fine.’
Catherine pressed her hand to her forehead. She and her father had been going around in circles for weeks now. She’d hoped he’d let her buy him out. She’d pay him half and the other half would be her inheritance. But he wouldn’t agree. It was impossible anyway. She couldn’t afford it and the bank wouldn’t give a woman a loan without a husband’s or father’s consent. She didn’t have a husband and her father would never agree. She pushed her chair away from the kitchen table. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad.’
‘I’ll be spraying the upper block at dawn.’
‘Right. I’ll meet you in the spray shed.’ She poked her head around the door to the living room. ‘See you, Mum.’
Her mother looked up from knitting another jumper for Charlie. ‘Leaving so soon? I was hoping you’d stay for tea.’
‘Can’t, Mum. Gotta go.’
‘Will Charlie be popping over this weekend? I thought we’d make lamingtons. You and Peter used to love rolling them in coconut when you were little.’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘Bye, darling.’ Her mother’s smile was enough to take the edge off the conversation with her father. Februaries were getting a little easier for her, mainly thanks to Charlie.
Catherine walked up the hill to the cottage. If her father did sell, she’d miss her pretty little weatherboard home. Over the past two years she’d made it her own with bright geometric curtains and abstract floral throw cushions. She’d even bought herself a beanbag, not that she found it at all comfortable, but she’d felt up with the times and Mickey liked it.
Mark sat waiting on her small verandah. They were slowly making their way back to each other. He was gentle and patient, but sometimes she felt like a skittish colt, spooked by an imagined wrong or remembered hurt. Thank goodness he’d never mentioned marriage again, although a few days ago he’d said he had a proposal for her. She’d immediately baulked, but he’d said it wasn’t that kind of proposal and he’d come over to go through the details. And here he was, sitting in the late February sunshine with a wide grin on his face as she walked up the steps towards him.
He stood and kissed her softly. Her body responded, yearning for more, but she pushed the sensations away, not wanting to be drawn down that enticing but dangerous slope. Slowly, slowly, she reminded herself as she pulled away. He had to earn her trust again, and she needed to find the faith that he would. It was getting easier.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I let myself in. I needed to set something up.’ There was something of Charlie in his expression, the boy hoping for praise for his latest drawing or admiration of his tadpole collection.
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘Come in and I’ll show you.’ He opened the door and stood aside so she could enter first.
Catherine looked around the room, wondering if something was out of place. Mickey was curled up on the beanbag as usual – it was as if he thought she’d bought it just for him. Then she saw it, sitting on a small table next to the standard lamp. ‘A record player.’
‘Yeah. I thought you might like it.’
Her parents used to have a radiogram but it had burnt in 1967 along with all the 78s, LPs, and Peter’s collection of singles. They’d never bought a new one and it wasn’t until this moment Catherine realised how much she’d missed it. She stepped towards the stereo and touched the perspex lid covering the turntable. Two speakers stood on either side. ‘But I don’t have any albums.’
‘We can go record shopping up in Hobart one day if you like.’
‘That’d be great.’
‘I did bring one record with me. It’s just a single but I want to play it for you.’
‘Okay.’ Catherine wondered whether it was one of the singles he’d released with his band. Was that the reason for his hopeful smile?
‘Take a seat and I’ll put it on.’
Catherine perched on the couch, sitting forward with her hands pressed between her knees. The needle hit the record with a slight hiss of static and the song began. ‘I know this song,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard it on the radio. Even the ABC.’
‘I’m not surprised. It’s been a hit just about everywhere.’ Mark’s face showed his pride.
Catherine listened carefully. ‘It’s Glen
Carter, isn’t it?’ Glen was an American singer who’d been massively successful in the 1960s. This was his comeback song.
‘Yep.’
‘I don’t get it. Why are you playing me this?’
‘It’s called “Cathy’s Song”.’
‘Yeah, I know. So?’
‘Hang on a sec.’ Mark stood by the record player waiting for the song to finish. He carefully removed the single from the turntable, holding the edges of the record with the flats of his hands and offered it to her as if it were a precious gift. ‘Have a look at what’s printed on the label, under the song title.’
Catherine peered at the record label. She saw three names in brackets: G Carter, M Davis and C Turner. ‘I don’t understand.’
Mark put the single back in its sleeve and sat beside her on the couch. ‘It was called “Catherine’s Song”, but Glen’s producer didn’t think it scanned well, so they changed it to “Cathy’s Song”. Glen gets a writing credit because, well, he’s Glen Carter, and he added a few flourishes here and there. But most of the song belongs to you and me.’ He took her hands in his own. ‘Us.’
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Do you remember at the pickers’ hut, when I was doodling around on my guitar and you sang a melody to it?’
The memory was vague. They’d spent so many afternoons and evenings with Mark playing guitar and her singing along.
‘When I was in Melbourne, missing you, I remembered that tune. I wrote a song about how I felt to your melody. It didn’t fit the band, so my publisher shopped it around. Getting a song placed in the States is a bit like winning the lottery. Doesn’t happen very often. It helped that Glen was desperate.’
‘I see,’ Catherine said, not seeing at all.
‘This was going to be my wedding surprise for you.’
Catherine pulled away at the mention of the word wedding. ‘A record player?’
‘It’s okay, I know a wedding is off the cards, but you need to know about this. They’re half yours.’
‘What are?’ Catherine frowned in confusion.
‘The royalties.’
‘Oh.’ Catherine faintly remembered Mark telling her about music royalties years ago and how they’d helped him survive despite the pittance Dave and Annie paid him.
‘At the time I thought when the money came through, we might buy a small farm with a house of our own, chickens and a small orchard. We’d stay in the valley, or go anywhere you chose. I didn’t care as long as we were together. But now, seeing how distraught you are about your father selling up, I have a different proposal in mind.’
Catherine’s mind reeled. He was going to buy her a farm? Or he wasn’t? None of this was making any sense.
‘I know I’ve caused you pain in the past, but that’s over. And now the cheque’s finally here, you can have what you’ve wanted for so long.’
‘What? How?’
‘We have the money, Catherine. We have enough money to buy the orchard.’
43
July 1974
Annie
Dave looked at the ground or at the lowering sky, anywhere but the orchard.
Annie touched his arm. ‘We’re doing the right thing.’
‘Thank God my dad’s not here to see it.’
‘He’d do the same.’
‘I’m going into town for a bit.’ Dave waved a hand in the direction of the bulldozer. ‘Jim knows what to do. He’s done a lot of this in the last year. He doesn’t need me around, or you. Go inside. Keep warm.’
Annie pulled her cardigan tighter. She should have grabbed a scarf. The air was cold and close with a dampness that insinuated itself into boots and clothing. It was one of those winter days when the sun barely rose above the hills, and the landscape was cloaked in a thin wispy mist. A southerly wind came in gusts, bringing the freezing air straight from the Antarctic. The apple trees looked like ghostly Christmas trees with hardly a leaf left, but still abundant with apples that weren’t worth picking. ‘Perhaps we can use the money to buy a bulldozer. Plenty of work around for one of those.’ Annie’s joke fell flat, as she knew it would.
‘Tomorrow, I was thinking, we could go up to Hobart.’ Dave turned his back on the bulldozer. ‘Have lunch at the Coles Cafeteria. Watch the Cat and Fiddle clock in the arcade just for fun. We’d be back before the kids get home from school. It’d be a nice break.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ Annie knew Dave was grieving, but he’d never admit it. He kept asserting that this was a sound financial decision. The orchard would drag them under. Being paid by the government to grub out the trees was an opportunity too good to miss. Yet here they were, on the first day of the bulldozing, and he couldn’t wait to leave.
Dave turned and waved at Jim standing beside the dozer. ‘Rightio. All set?’
‘Yep.’
Jim was bundled up in a heavy jacket, scarf, hat and work gloves. It would be a long cold day’s work for him today and into the following weeks. How did he feel, destroying the toil of so many generations? She supposed he was grateful for the work; anyone around here would be. A pall of depression had settled in the valley like a clammy fog. Orchards were disappearing under the relentless grunting pressure of bulldozers – the earth was raw where the roots had been torn away and long rotting windrows of ugly knotted stumps marred the hills where tourists once came to marvel at their beauty.
Dave hugged her briefly, and she sensed his apology in it. He felt he’d let her down. She grabbed his hand, clasping it tightly. ‘I love you, David Pearson. Don’t you ever forget that. I’ve never regretted one day of our lives together, and I won’t regret this one.’ She kissed him with the same passion she’d felt the day they’d met in the rain all those years ago. He clung to her like a drowning man.
It was only for a moment. Dave cleared his throat and straightened up, pushing his shoulders back with a sense of determination. ‘Right. I’ll be back before tea.’ He waved once more at Jim, who was shuffling in embarrassment by his bulldozer. ‘Thanks, Jim. I’m heading out. Any problems, we’ll sort them out later.’
His expression caused Annie’s breath to falter. Her husband had worked so hard to protect his family, provide for them and give them a good future. She’d seen the same look on the faces of the men in Cygnet and Huonville – shame and despair. Their livelihoods were gone, their sense of purpose and a place in this world snatched away. The apple industry had been faltering for years, but when England had joined the Common Market it was the death blow. The government had come up with the Tree Pull Scheme, but orchardists were still scrambling to find something to replace apples and support their families.
Jim climbed onto the dozer and the engine rumbled into life.
Dave recoiled from the sound; she could see it. Shoulders hunched, he walked to the car.
Annie waved goodbye as the roar of the dozer filled her ears. She’d have to get used to it; it would be the soundtrack of her life for the next few weeks.
It was always the same. Annie heard her horde of boys arriving home from school before she ever caught a glimpse of them. Today their whoops of excitement cut through the rumble of the dozer. Greg and Scott, her two youngest sons, threw down their schoolbags as soon as they tumbled through the door. ‘Can we go out in the orchard and play, Mum? Please?’
‘Change out of your uniforms and put your gumboots on first. And you might want to have a look in the kitchen before you go running off.’ She marvelled at their ability to see everything as an adventure. They’d be clambering over the grubbed-out stumps, turning them into imaginary forts and mysterious hiding spots, never realising the agonising nights of discussion that she and Dave had gone through to reach their decision.
Paul and Eric ambled up the steps, both young teenagers now, their shirts untucked and their schoolbags heavy with textbooks and homework.
‘We’ll have a grouse bonfire at cracker night this year,’ Paul was saying. ‘Pile all those trees up, and bang!’
‘I’m gonna ch
eck out the dozer,’ Eric said.
‘Bet he won’t let you drive it.’
‘Why not? Can’t be much different to the tractor or the crawler.’ Eric had proudly conquered the idiosyncrasies of their old tractor and had helped with the spraying in the early mornings before school over the past year. They’d keep the tractor – it would still be useful – but not the crawler, though no one would want to buy it now. It would lie useless and quiet, like the grader in the packing shed, gathering dust and mice.
‘Hi, Mum.’ They slouched into their room and emerged wearing old and patched farm clothes. She knew their school uniforms would be in a tangled mess on the floor. It didn’t matter how many times she told them.
‘I like cows better anyway,’ Eric said.
‘Cause you smell like them,’ Paul retorted.
‘There’s a chocolate cake in the kitchen.’ Annie cut into the brotherly taunts.
‘Wow. Really?’
She usually offered them bread and jam after school, and a glass of Milo if there was any left, since the boys ate it by the spoonful. But today she’d needed cheering up and thought the boys would too. She was wrong. It reminded her of the bushfires. At the time they were too young to understand the extent of the destruction and the pain of the consequences, instead seeing the fire as exciting and dramatic. That was in 1967, when it all began to unravel. The fire, and then their fruit trapped in the Suez Canal incident, left to rot as the war raged on. The canal was still closed, but at least the insurance company had finally paid out. The money had helped them get through the aftermath of the hailstorm last year. Freight and oil prices had begun escalating after the canal closure, wages kept increasing, as well as the cost of sprays and fertilisers. Then the erosion of their export markets by other countries saw smaller returns for their fruit. It had been one thing after another. The only good thing to happen in 1967 was Angela, but even that joy had come at a cost. Would she ever tell Angela the truth? How could she explain it? They’d only heard from Lara once since she’d appeared back from ‘the dead’. A parcel had arrived addressed to Emily. The postman had looked at Annie quizzically when he’d given it to her. Annie saw the British stamps and fear had gripped her. What did Lara want now? ‘Oh, it’s from my aunt,’ she’d explained. ‘She’s always getting the children’s names mixed up.’ Inside was the gold snake bracelet with emerald eyes. No card. No letter. Annie had kept the bracelet hidden at the top of her wardrobe behind the boxes and bits and bobs that accumulated over the years. And here was Angela now, clambering up the steps, her extraordinary golden eyes a constant reminder of Lara. God, how Annie wished they’d been any other colour, but this was the truth she lived with.
The Last of the Apple Blossom Page 29