The Last of the Apple Blossom

by Mary-Lou Stephens

  Catherine rubbed her temple, easing the sudden headache that bloomed there. ‘I see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The piano. It’s not for me. You bought the piano as a ruse to get Angela over here, using me as the bait.’ She couldn’t even look at him.

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘Is it? A piano arrives, and next you’re asking me to give your daughter piano lessons. Not only that, but you distract me with sex, and when I’m all softened up and pliant you spring your real objective on me.’ Catherine pushed the plate away. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Hey, it wasn’t my idea to have sex. You literally dragged me into the bedroom. And as for pliant? When have you ever done anything you didn’t want to do? It’s your way or no way. Every single time.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case how come …’ she stopped.

  ‘How come what?’

  Catherine concentrated, thinking back over their time together. There had to be something. Some instance where he’d got his own way even though it went against what she wanted. He’d wanted to get married, she’d said no. He’d wanted to buy half the orchard and make them equal partners, and she’d refused. ‘Izzy and Stardust.’ She glared at him. ‘That was your idea, not mine. You talked me into it.’

  ‘You could have said no at any stage. It was always your decision.’

  ‘Still.’ She realised she was acting like a petulant child, but was unable to stop herself.

  ‘And?’ He lifted his hands in a questioning gesture. ‘You love them. Was that so hard?’

  ‘You never told me about Angela.’

  ‘Not fair. We’ve been over that, more than once. It wasn’t my secret to tell. Well, it was, but I couldn’t. Anyway, I thought we’d got past it.’

  He was right. She had understood, eventually, and forgiven him. She wasn’t playing fair. ‘Well, I think you’re being underhand buying a piano and pretending it’s for me.’

  ‘It is for you. It’s for us. You, me, and Charlie if he wants to learn. For Izzy and Stardust when they drop over. I bet Stardust can play the ‘Moonlight Sonata’, or ‘Für Elise’ at least.’

  Catherine laughed despite herself. Every girl who learnt those pieces played them hoping to appear waif-like and ethereal. Stardust would pull it off better than anyone.

  Mark took a breath. ‘And I’m hoping it will be for Angela as well. I know Annie will object, but half an hour once a week, is that too much to ask? I miss her.’

  Catherine’s heart constricted. Of course he did. When Mark lived in the pickers’ hut he’d see Angela almost every day – in the packing shed during the season, at the house whenever he’d go there, probably often just to catch a glimpse of his daughter. Angela was the secret he couldn’t share, the lonely burden he carried. He’d had to watch her grow up from a distance, never being an integral part of her life. It was the kind of pain Catherine would never know, but one she could help ease. She studied his face and saw the anguish there, etched in the lines around his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He reached for her hand. ‘You’ll ask Annie then? She has a piano at home for practice. Just half an hour here a week, that’s all.’

  Catherine felt small and somewhat petty. Mark had missed Angela all this time but he’d never complained. She hadn’t noticed, too wrapped up in her own troubles. He’d never said a word until he had a plan in place to change it. Her part here was simple. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will.’

  49

  March 1976

  Annie

  Annie turned the envelope over to read the address embossed on the back, just to be certain. Tentatively, as if it would come to life and bite her, she opened the envelope and unfolded the thick, textured paper inside. The words, in her mother’s unmistakable handwriting, were sparse and blunt.

  Dear Anne,

  Your father is dead. The funeral was last week.

  I’ll expect you and Angela at the house this Thursday at 2 pm.

  Cynthia Nettlefold.

  Annie reread the letter. Her father was dead. Why hadn’t her mother called? Or her brothers? And the funeral. Why hadn’t they told her about it? Annie stared at her mother’s signature on the letter. Her mother had signed off with her entire name as if her own daughter was a stranger. She might as well be. Annie and her mother had never been close; Cynthia wasn’t the kind of woman who was close to anyone. Annie and her brothers had been kept at a distance by nannies and housekeepers. Dinner was always a formal occasion where neither she nor her brothers were allowed to speak unless spoken to. It was very different to Annie’s rough-and-tumble table with laughter, songs and the natural exuberance of children. If her mother had been a stranger, then her father could only be compared to a complete foreigner. He’d been a solemn and impeccably dressed man who appeared at dinner and sat in the same pew as them at church, but his life and thoughts had remained a mystery to her. Annie clutched the expensive stationery to her chest, waiting to feel grief, or regret, but there was only a sense of irritation at her mother’s words. Two pm on Thursday. No ‘please’ or ‘if it’s convenient’. It was a letter of demand. She wanted to screw it up and toss it in the basket with the kindling, but instead folded the paper and carefully inserted it back into the envelope. Part of her was tempted to write ‘Return to Sender’ on the envelope and take it straight back to the post office, but her curiosity was too strong. What on earth did her mother want? And why insist on Angela being present? Only one thing was reassuring – her mother must have read the Christmas cards and letters Annie had sent her over the years, even though she’d never once responded.

  When Dave came in for lunch, Annie was waiting in the kitchen with slices of cold lamb, home-grown tomatoes and lettuce, pickled onions, mustard, thick slices of white bread and the letter.

  ‘What’s this, darl?’ He washed the dirt off his hands at the sink.

  ‘Lunch.’

  ‘And it’s a beaut spread.’ He inclined his head to where the letter was propped up against the salt shaker. ‘But what’s that?’

  ‘Read it.’

  Dave dried his hands and sat down opposite her. His face closed in as he read the few words. His jaw tightened as he read it again and then placed the letter on the table. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’

  ‘Are you? I tried to be, but—’ Annie lifted her shoulders in ambivalence. ‘I didn’t really know him.’

  ‘But still, he was your dad. And not to be invited to the funeral? That’s inexcusable.’

  ‘I suppose they thought I’d be an embarrassment to the family. He was a pillar of society, after all, as my brothers are now, from all accounts. Can’t have the black sheep sullying the ceremony.’ It was only then she felt tears pricking at her eyes. Not because of her father’s death, but from the way her parents had treated her. The hurt was still there. They’d cut her off completely, as if it was she who’d died.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Dave paused. ‘Are you going to go and see her?’

  Annie nodded. Curiosity had won.

  ‘And will you take Angela? You’ll need to take her out of school for the afternoon.’

  ‘I want Angela to meet her grandmother. Worst comes to worst, we’ll just leave. And who knows? Now my father is dead perhaps my mother has softened. She might even consider investing.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like she’s softened.’ Dave sounded dubious. ‘Do you really want to go?’

  ‘This might be my only chance.’ Annie had thought it through. They were in trouble. Her mother’s wealth was their last chance. What did she have to lose that she hadn’t already lost?

  ‘Be careful.’

  The concern in his eyes almost caused her to falter. Instead she clenched her hands under the table. ‘There’s nothing she can do to me she hasn’t already done. Nothing at all.’

  The house in Lower Sandy Bay was more impressive than she remembered. Most people would think of it as a mansion. A two-storey structure with huge bay windows looked out over the Derwent
River, the tennis court and croquet lawn, and the immaculately trimmed hedges with a central rose garden. The size and grandeur of the residence caused Annie to pause for a moment. She was aware of her clammy palms, her racing heart and the fine sheen of sweat on her nose. Her mother had always made her nervous, but now a whole band of drummers were playing in her stomach, beating an erratic tattoo of anxiety. She stopped the car outside the converted stables that used to house her father’s Bentley and her mother’s Mercedes. She wondered if one of her brothers had claimed the Bentley, then realised her stupidity. The cars would’ve been upgraded many times over the years.

  ‘Here we are, darling.’ Annie pulled on the handbrake.

  Angela swivelled in her seat, taking it all in. ‘It’s a very big house.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Annie checked her watch. She was five minutes early. Should they sit in the car for a moment? But her nerves were fast getting the better of her. Time to get this over with.

  The doorbell rang its familiar chime deep within the house, and a woman she didn’t recognise opened the door. ‘Mrs Nettlefold is expecting you,’ the woman said. They were ushered into the formal drawing room. ‘Mrs Nettlefold will be with you shortly.’ She gave a stiff nod and left the room.

  Annie stood in the middle of the room, wondering how long her mother would keep them waiting. Just the right amount of time to make Annie more uneasy, she was sure. She glanced around at the couches and chairs, all upholstered in new material, and recently. The plush beige carpet was unfamiliar, as were the curtains. The view outside the bay window was almost unchanged though. The wide blue of the Derwent River and the hills beyond gave Annie a slight sense of nostalgia. The sight of the broken span of the Tasman Bridge brought her back to reality. Disaster could happen at any time and without warning. She had to stay on her guard.

  Angela wandered over to one of the antique oak side tables, tentatively putting a finger on a small ivory carving of a woman. ‘Don’t touch that, darling,’ Annie warned. ‘In fact, don’t touch anything.’ Annie moved to one of the couches and sat on the edge of the seat. ‘Come sit here beside me while we wait for your grandmother.’

  It was another seven minutes before Cynthia Nettlefold swept into the room. Her mother’s skin was as pale and fine as porcelain, showing minimal signs of ageing, and her nails perfectly manicured. Her hair was permed and coloured a faint shade of blue. The skirt suit was Chanel, as was the perfume, and her figure was as trim and her posture as perfectly correct as when Annie had last seen her, eighteen years ago. Annie stood, conscious of the extra pounds around her middle, the roughness of her hands, and the permanent tan of her face and arms.

  ‘Just as I suspected,’ her mother said in her cultured tone. ‘Being a farmer’s wife wreaks havoc.’ She turned to peer at Angela. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, her voice warm for the first time. ‘I’m your grandmother and I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Angela curtsied shyly, making Cynthia smile in delight. ‘What wonderful manners.’

  Annie was gobsmacked. A curtsy? Did Angela think Cynthia was the Queen? Never mind, it had gone over well with her mother. Annie was glad she’d brought freshly ironed clothes and Angela’s patent leather Mary Jane shoes when she’d picked her up from school. With her hair brushed and her favourite pink hairband keeping her long dark hair in place, Angela looked perfect. Her mother couldn’t fault her there.

  ‘Come here, child,’ Cynthia commanded. ‘Let me look at you.’

  Angela stepped forward to stand in front of her grandmother.

  ‘What extraordinary eyes,’ Cynthia murmured. ‘Must be on the father’s side.’

  Annie flinched but stayed silent.

  Cynthia placed a finger under Angela’s chin, lifting her face. ‘Yes.’ She nodded once and then walked around the young girl as if inspecting a piece of livestock. Angela stood stiff as a board, watching her grandmother with those wide golden eyes. ‘Yes,’ Cynthia said again. She picked up a small bell and rang it. The housekeeper arrived within a second. ‘Mrs Parkes, accompany my granddaughter to the kitchen.’ She turned back to Angela. ‘There’s a lovely afternoon tea waiting for you, and a rather large doll I think you’ll like. She walks and talks and is wonderfully polite, just like you.’

  ‘Thank you, Granny,’ Angela said.

  Cynthia came close to a frown. ‘No, dear, that won’t do at all. I am your grandmother and at all times you will call me Grandmother, and only Grandmother. Understood?’

  Annie watched with concern. How could she have forgotten how terrifying her mother could be? Angela’s bottom lip quavered for a moment and Annie stepped forward, ready to take her daughter and leave, but then Angela straightened and nodded her head. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

  ‘Good. Now off you go.’

  ‘I’ll be right here,’ Annie said, smiling in a way she hoped was encouraging.

  Cynthia waved her hand at the couch, inviting Annie to sit. ‘I don’t think either of us are in need of afternoon tea, are we,’ she said, eyeing Annie’s waistline. ‘Let’s sit and I’ll tell you what is going to happen.’

  Annie was famished and thirsty after the long drive to Hobart but would never admit it.

  Her mother sat on a chair to one side of the couch. ‘As you know, with your father dead, I am now the head of the family.’

  Annie wondered what her older brother thought of that, but in all honesty he’d probably agree. Their mother was indeed the matriarch.

  ‘My granddaughter is in dire need of a proper education,’ Cynthia continued. ‘We should have removed her from that provincial country school years ago, but your father would never agree. How old is she now?’

  ‘Nine.’ Annie kept her voice steady. An ice-cold sensation clutched at her stomach.

  ‘Best to have started sooner. No matter.’ She smoothed down her skirt. ‘We can soon correct any bad habits and traits. I’ve pulled a few strings and she’s been offered a late enrolment at St Michael’s Collegiate School. The school year has hardly begun and I’m sure, with some tutoring, she will catch up.’

  Annie sat with a sense of growing horror blooming inside her. Her mother had planned this in advance, without so much as consulting Annie. The woman’s sense of entitlement had not diminished but grown over the years. She struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘Are you talking about boarding school?’

  ‘No, not boarding school.’ Her mother’s tone had the edge that Annie remembered so well. ‘She will live here, with me, during the week.’

  The tension mounted in Annie’s chest. So this is why her mother had summoned her and Angela. Cynthia planned to claim Angela for her own. Despite her rising panic she played along. She wanted to know the extent of her mother’s scheme. ‘And weekends?’

  ‘I’m a busy woman with my charity work, tennis and bridge. It’s best if she goes home to you on weekends, but I don’t want my granddaughter working in the fields like a navvy. You have enough boys for that. In time she will make new friends and be invited to their homes on the weekends from time to time.’

  Her mother’s arrogance was shocking. She had mapped out Angela’s life without a thought for what Annie or Angela might want. ‘What about school holidays?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Suitable friends may invite her to holiday with them, and when she’s older I will take her travelling to expand her education. There are no decent art galleries or museums in Australia,’ she sniffed. ‘So little culture.’

  Annie’s anger began to build. She struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘There are other considerations. Angela is learning piano. She’s very good.’

  Cynthia dismissed this with a wave of her elegant hand. ‘She’ll have the best of teachers in Hobart. Piano, ballet, and elocution to correct her speech.’

  Her mother was waiting for her objections, not that she would take any of them into consideration. Cynthia’s plans were always immutable. Annie held her nerve. ‘She’s my daughter. She’s happy at Wattle Grove.’

  Cynthia didn’t
blink. ‘I find that hard to believe – a young girl with as much beauty and, as you’ve told me, talent as she. And as her mother, I would think that you’d desire her to achieve her full potential. A well-educated, accomplished daughter who can hold her own in society. I hardly think that’s possible in Wattle Grove.’ Her lips curled in distaste.

  ‘I see.’ Cynthia wanted to turn Angela into the daughter she’d always wanted. Annie’s one mistake had deemed her ineligible and her mother expected Angela to fill that void while demanding Annie pay the price. The woman’s egotism and selfishness were boundless. She was about to say as much, to stand and leave, taking her precious daughter with her, when the reality of what she and Dave were facing hit her. She’d watched with love and admiration as Dave had slogged away at the potatoes and tomatoes. He’d improved the herd but it was touch and go whether beef prices would rally. They’d even considered selling off some land to the hippies, or ‘new settlers’, as they liked to call themselves, but the money they offered was too low. Nothing was working. They were sinking further into debt. The broken remains of the apple trees mocked them from the windrows and heaps where they waited to be burnt. Their past was a twisted ruin. They had to look to the future and were certain what it was. They’d done their research and had endless discussions with the Ag Department. But the bank wasn’t convinced and refused to lend them the money. They were already carrying too much debt and the word ‘foreclosure’ had been mentioned. Foolishly she’d hoped her mother might offer her some money today, as part of her father’s legacy. But her mother had presented another option. Annie pushed down the nausea that rose at the thought – desperate times call for desperate measures. She swallowed. ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Cynthia straightened her shoulders in an effort to appear affronted, but Annie knew her mother too well. This is where the bargaining began. Annie said nothing, hating herself for what she was about to do.

  The silence stretched between them. Birds twittered in the garden and the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked on steadily. Annie kept her hands clasped together, feeling the pulse in her fingertips keeping time. Her mind was in turmoil, as was her heart. Her mother could offer Angela the best of education and culture, but what about love? And how would Annie’s days be without her daughter to brighten them? She was appalled at the bargain she was willing to strike, but her family was in danger. The threat of poverty and homelessness was real. Even those who had left the valley struggled to find work elsewhere. Businesses were laying people off, not employing them.