8

9 February 1967

Catherine

It was a strange and morbid procession that made its way to the ruins of the house. The police had the grim job of searching through houses for bodies, while the Army provided the transport. The officer in charge told Catherine and her father that Peter’s remains would be taken to Forensic Pathology, as a matter of protocol, and then released to the funeral director of their choice.

Her father gave one brief nod and walked a couple of steps away, his shoulders hunched.

‘How long—’ Catherine swallowed, the lump in her throat making speaking an effort. ‘How long will it take?’

The policeman sighed. He was a stranger to her, one of many who’d been assigned this unpleasant duty. ‘Hopefully, within the week.’

‘A week? But why? We know who he is. And how he died.’ It seemed cruel to string out the agony for both her and her parents.

The policeman avoided her eyes. ‘The forensic department has been rather busy.’

‘How busy?’

‘Over fifty cases so far.’

Catherine knew the fire had been widespread and horrendous, but so many dead? It was incomprehensible. Then the full weight of the policeman’s words hit her. ‘So far?’

‘The toll continues to rise.’

She nodded mutely, unable to think of a response.

Catherine could hardly bear to watch as the men, alongside her father, sorted methodically through the wreckage, shifting sheets of tin and searching through the piles of rubble. What would they find? A few bones? A skull? Her mother was right to hide from it. For the past two days she’d stayed in the stuffy bedroom with the curtains closed, shutting out the scorched reality of what their lives had become. Early this morning Catherine had heard her weeping through the thin wall separating her bedroom from her parents’. Her father’s voice had been soothing but the sobs continued. Later Catherine had tried to talk to her, but her mother was too traumatised to be reached. Instead Catherine had sat at her bedside, hoping her presence would be a form of comfort. Sometimes Catherine had murmured reassuring words, platitudes that fell like lies from her tongue. Other times she’d just sat and shed silent tears, heavy with the weight of grief as her mother sobbed beside her. If tears could water this parched land, the pastures and orchards would bloom back to life overnight.

‘Here,’ one of the policemen called.

Her father, his jaw held tight, moved towards him. Together they lifted a charred lump while two others brought a stretcher. Was that Peter? The bile rose in Catherine’s throat as she struggled to stop herself from vomiting. A strange sensation crept through her body, as if the earth beneath her feet was cracking wide open.

After the men had gone, Catherine found Tim at what was left of the packing shed. He was, she realised, respectfully staying out of the way of the morbid proceedings. His clothes and skin were black with ash. She watched as he shifted some debris aside, his arms strong and lean from surfing. ‘Hey,’ she called out softly, not trusting her voice.

Tim turned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a gloved hand, leaving a black smudge across his brow. ‘Hey,’ he answered, matching the softness in her voice. Today was not a day for loud noises, or sudden movements.

‘You’re still here.’ Parts of yesterday were still a blur. After coming back from Annie’s, she’d seen a tall, blond young man following her father around, helping put out spot fires and dousing the smoking ruins of the house. For a moment she’d thought he was Peter.

He made his way through the rubble towards her. ‘Reckon I’ll stick around for as long as you need, or till you get sick of me. Whatever comes first.’

‘Thanks.’ Tim’s kindness was a balm. The tightness in her chest shifted slightly. ‘But you’re going to need a change of clothes at some stage.’

‘You too.’ His crooked grin was a flash of white against tanned and grimy skin.

Catherine wiped her hands down her filthy jeans and shrugged. ‘I can always borrow some clothes from Annie or Mum, but you,’ she smiled back at him, ‘you’d look pretty funny in my dad’s clothes.’ The attempt at lightness ended up sounding strained as it hit her. The only clothes her dad had were the ones he was wearing. Same with her mother. Everything they owned and everything they loved was in the burnt ruin of their home, including Peter.

Tim stayed silent. Waiting. She appreciated the time to get her thoughts in order. ‘The, ah, the funeral won’t be for another week or so.’ The words were like jagged little rocks in her mouth. ‘I need to go back to town and pick up my car.’ She paused. ‘I have a few things I need to do.’

Tim searched her face with piercing blue eyes. ‘You’re going to quit your job, aren’t you? And move back here.’

‘I can’t stay in Hobart, not now.’

‘But you love your job. And the school.’

She dropped her head. It hadn’t always been that way. ‘When I was young all I wanted to do was work in this orchard. At first Dad was great, he’d take me along on the tractor while he was ploughing and spraying. He taught me how to prune, and all about black spot and codling moth.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was the year Nathalie Norris was crowned the Apple Queen at the Apple Festival. She ran a successful orchard just over the river. I was so excited I told Dad everything I’d do when I ran our orchard.’ Catherine was aware of the tension in her voice. Her father’s rebuke still stung even after all these years.

‘Didn’t go well?’

Catherine shook her head. He’d told her straight out to forget it. Peter would take over the orchard and that was that. Shocked and disappointed, she’d turned to her mother, but she’d only agreed with him. As long as there was a man around, he would always be in charge. Nathalie Norris was an exception. She was the only one in her family available to run their orchard and yes, she did it well, but she had no husband and no children of her own. Was that what Catherine wanted? To be a childless spinster? Her mother didn’t think so. Catherine would get married and have children one day. ‘Peter was supposed to take over the orchard.’ She pressed her hand against her heart, still beating despite the pain.

‘So, teaching then.’ Tim’s voice was gentle, urging her on.

‘Well, first Mum suggested I marry the Fletcher boy, then I could run his packing shed during the season.’ Catherine tried to smile but it was more of a grimace.

‘Not your scene?’

Catherine couldn’t believe she was telling Tim this, but there was an odd comfort in it. The only other person she’d ever talked to about it was Annie, over many tear-filled teenage rants. ‘When it became clear I wasn’t interested, Mum and Dad sat me down for a talk. I could get a job at the cannery or the evaporating factory in Franklin. Because I was doing well in school, nursing was mentioned, but Mum thought I’d make a good teacher.’ Catherine suspected her mother hoped being around young children would make her daughter yearn for children of her own sooner rather than later. Her father was keen on the teaching idea too. It was clear he wanted to get her focus off the orchard and onto a career of her own. They were both pleased when she was accepted into the teaching course and with the scholarship that went with it.

‘For what it’s worth, Miss Downie reckons you’re a good teacher.’

‘She does?’ Catherine had been glad to land the job at Sandy Bay Infant School after two years of teaching in the country, even though Miss Downie terrified her. ‘She told you that?’

Tim smiled. ‘I gotta toe the line around her, like everybody else, but sometimes she lets her guard down and says something nice.’

‘I think she said something nice to me once too.’ Catherine had only taught there for a year, but during that time she’d come to admire Miss Downie and the way she ran the school. Everything had been going so well. Her garden flat, the beach, the walk to school, the students, the school itself – she enjoyed every aspect of her life. Tim was right, she had grown to love her job and the little school by the Derwent. But that was before. Catherine squinted at the sky, avoiding his eyes. ‘Everything has changed.’

Tim’s sigh was slow and heavy. ‘I’ll give you a lift. I need to get back too. There’ll be a stack of work to do at the school.’

They were silent for most of the long drive to Hobart. Words seemed empty in the midst of such devastation. Catherine had seen photos of bombed cities from World War II, and of the horrors of Hiroshima. These were the only comparisons she could make. North of Huonville the outline of Sleeping Beauty stood stark against the sky. Catherine usually delighted in the view of Collins Bonnet and Trestle Mountain forming the head and body of the mythical Beauty. As a child she had thought it was magical. But today there was no delight, no magic. Sleeping Beauty was not sleeping. She was dead, like everything else. Mile after mile of blackened paddocks, charred and bloated sheep and cattle, gutted houses with only the chimneys standing, and burnt-out cars. Catherine found it hard to breathe – her hands were clenched and her shoulders tight with tension.

Tim turned to her, his eyes full of concern, then returned his attention to the road. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s full on.’

Catherine appreciated he didn’t try to reassure her. How could he? How could anyone? His gentle understanding was enough to ease her anxiety. She pushed away the thought that she’d have to drive back through all of this again and next time she’d be on her own.

As they got closer to Hobart, the suburbs lined up like rows of broken teeth. Here a ravaged house, the despairing owners sifting through the wreckage, then right next door a weatherboard home completely untouched. There were many stories of fire razing homes to the ground while the adjacent house remained unscathed. Her family had experienced it, with their home gone while the fire skipped over her grandmother’s cottage. It made no sense to Catherine. Was it God’s will that some should lose everything and others nothing at all? That some should die while others lived?

After what felt like an eternity, Tim dropped her off at the school. He leant over the bench seat and gently touched her arm. ‘This isn’t the last you’ll see of me, Miss Turner. No matter what you say, you saved my life. Only a fool would let an angel slip away. Besides, I promised your old man I’d come down and help, so we’ll be seeing each other again real soon.’

Catherine couldn’t stop a tear from escaping. The future was uncertain, her little brother was dead, but this unexpected ally had accompanied her through hell and considered her an angel. It felt like a blessing in this desert of ash. ‘Okay,’ was all she could whisper.

Catherine’s car was covered with the blackened debris of the fire. She slipped into the driver’s seat, holding her breath as she willed it to start. She wasn’t ready to face Miss Downie yet. First things first, she thought, as the Hillman spluttered into life.

Mrs Sampson burst into sobs as soon as she answered her front door. Wrapping Catherine in a bosomy hug she said she’d been worried sick, truly sick, about her. Her landlady released Catherine from her damp embrace. ‘Oh dear, look at you. Filthy. And I am too now. Oh, but I couldn’t help but hug you. I honestly thought you were dead. It was a dreadful day, wasn’t it, dear? Dreadful. The smoke! I couldn’t breathe. The sky was orange and oh the sun!’ She looked skyward. ‘A big red giant.’

She led Catherine to the kitchen. ‘I was visiting my sister in South Hobart. She assured me everything would be all right,’ she continued. ‘She said we were safe. Bushfires belong in the bush, so she said.’ Mrs Sampson hurrumphed as she put the kettle on to boil and spooned tea into her much-used aluminium teapot. ‘Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? We were lucky to escape with our lives.’ Mrs Sampson lowered her voice as a solemn expression settled on her features. ‘Not everyone was so fortunate though. Have you heard? So many dead.’ She was breathless with the drama of it. ‘Those poor souls. May they rest in peace.’

Catherine’s heart lurched, but she said nothing. Much as she longed to pour out her overwhelming sorrow, she knew there were some, like her landlady, who would turn Peter’s death into a drama of their own. She needed time to grow a membrane over her grief. Fortunately Mrs Sampson didn’t expect Catherine to talk. She was more than willing to do enough for both of them.

‘But whoever would have thought that a bushfire, a bushfire, would come right into Hobart. It was only a wind change that saved the city, you know. We could’ve all been burnt. All of us pushed into the sea. Like those poor people in Snug. Huddled in the water, some with babes in arms. For hours they were stuck there. And when it was safe to come out of the water, there was nothing left. No houses, no school. All burnt.’

The kettle boiled and Mrs Sampson made the tea, gathering milk, sugar, and rock cakes from the biscuit tin, all the while keeping up her commentary.

‘People running everywhere, trying to save their precious possessions, their pets, their cars. Absolute bedlam! They even let the prisoners out to fight the fire. Criminals! Let them out, just like that. Never asked us if we were happy about it. But I have to say, they did their bit. Of course there are stories about looters, trying to steal whatever they could. Now those people should be locked up and never let out.’

Mrs Sampson sat down at the kitchen table and poured the tea. ‘I really did think you were dead, you know, or worse. I’ve heard the stories of those poor people in hospital. Some very badly burnt.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘Some of them not expected to make it.’

Catherine closed her eyes briefly, trying to control her emotions, then distracted herself from thinking about Peter by loading her tea with sugar and choosing the biggest rock cake from the pile. She took a sip from her steaming cup. Usually she didn’t take sugar, but Dave had been right, the sweetness helped.

‘Did you hear?’ Mrs Sampson didn’t let up. ‘The Prime Minister is here. Flew back specially from New Zealand. Harold Holt himself, having a look at all the damage. He’s gone down your way too. You might have passed him on the road. I think he’ll get a surprise. Those mainlanders have no idea what we went through. I’m so glad you’re all right.’ She patted Catherine’s hand. ‘Very dirty, but all right. Were you fighting the fire too? I’ve heard about children right in the thick of it, trying to put fires out with branches and watering cans. Kiddies! It’s not right, I tell you. But people did get desperate. A travesty all round. Still, here you are, safe and sound. Everything tickety-boo at the orchard then?’

Catherine took a breath and steeled herself. ‘Actually, the family home is gone and a lot of the orchard, plus the packing shed, the tractor and all our equipment.’ Her voice wavered – she couldn’t bear to dwell on the most important thing they’d lost. She pushed on before Mrs Sampson could interrupt. ‘My grandmother’s cottage is still standing, but apart from that there’s not much left. I’m sorry, Mrs Sampson, I’ll have to vacate your flat. I’ll pay to the end of the month, of course, but I need to move back home. As I’m sure you can understand, there’s a lot of work to do. I am sorry to leave you in the lurch, but it’s such a pretty little flat, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a new tenant.’ She tried to smile but failed, succeeding merely in holding back her tears.

Mrs Sampson surprised Catherine by expressing a ‘hah’ of relief. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Oh, not about your home and everything. No, that’s dreadful. My sister’s house survived but her friend was burnt out and has nowhere to go. She could stay at the camp the Army set up in Brighton, very well organised it sounds like, too. There’ll be close to 500 people living there, you know. So many people without a home to go to or friends or family to stay with. Oh, but they’ll have everything provided for them, including toys for the littlies and all meals prepared by Army cooks. Sounds like a holiday to me. But my sister’s friend wants to stay closer to town and her friends. I guess it’s bad enough losing your house, let alone be surrounded by strangers who’ve all had their places burnt down too. Anyhow, I saw it as my Christian duty to take her and her kiddies in.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The husband took off a while ago. Another woman.’ Mrs Sampson nodded in a conspiratorial way. ‘But we don’t talk about that.’ She herself was a widow with no children and never a whiff of scandal. ‘The trouble is, there’s not enough room here for all her children. The two youngest can bunk together but there’s the oldest, a boy.’ Mrs Sampson sniffed. ‘The garden flat will be perfect for him. Everybody will be a lot happier. Including you.’ Mrs Sampson patted Catherine’s hand again. ‘You’ll be back in the country with all that space and fresh air, not cooped up here with three children and a deserted wife.’

Catherine was left with the distinct impression that Mrs Sampson had taken in this unfortunate family not only for the altruistic value it bestowed upon her within her social circle, but also for the extra gossip she could extract from the situation. Ungraciously she found herself hoping Mrs Sampson would take a trip out to the country one day and see the truth of all that ‘space and fresh air’.

‘Where is this unfortunate family now?’ Catherine asked.

‘You’ve heard about all the appeals for clothing and food and such? Well, the response has been so enormous they’ve had to move all the donations to the Princes Wharf. Can you imagine? The entire pier is chockablock. My sister has taken them there to get some clothes. Toys for the kids and food too, canned mainly, but also butter and flour and suchlike. I’ve asked them to bring back what they can. Those children eat a lot. But they have everything at the wharf. You should go. Clothes, shoes, blankets, kitchenware – anything you need.’

There were sheets and blankets as well as crockery at her grandmother’s cottage but little else. Her parents needed clothes and her father needed new boots – his only pair had been ruined fighting the fires. Tim had stocked the cupboards with bread, cheese, jam, sugar and tea, for which she and her father were grateful, but her mother hadn’t eaten a bite. Catherine knew she’d need to rustle up something more substantial and also try to tempt her mother with some soup, but the power was still out and the wood stove remained too daunting. Even a cup of tea had been beyond her. ‘Do they have portable stoves? Those small gas-fired ones?’

Mrs Sampson’s face lit up. ‘Oh yes, I’ve definitely heard it mentioned. Because people have no power and they’ve got to cook on something.’

Catherine thanked Mrs Sampson and excused herself. She had a lot of packing to do as well as a trip to Princes Wharf. She opened the door to her garden flat for the last time, taking in all her little treasures on the window sills, the tea set neatly arranged next to her electric kettle, and the cushions she’d made out of the latest fabric from Silk and Textiles. There was so much she’d enjoyed about her life in Hobart; this flat, her friends, the vibrancy of the dances and cafes, and the children she nurtured as a teacher. She slumped in a chair and closed her eyes. Much as she loved the orchard, was she ready to say goodbye to all of this?

A memory of Peter came into her mind. They were young, running through the orchard in springtime, the air alive with apple blossom and bees. The scent was intoxicating, sweet with the promise of the fruit to come. Peter had stopped and turned to her, his eyes bright and smiling. ‘Every winter when I was little, I used to think the trees had died,’ he’d said. ‘They look so sad without their leaves. It made me sad too. Now I know they’re not dead at all, just waiting to come back to life. New life, every spring.’ He’d spun around in a circle. ‘This is heaven, Cat. Heaven.’

Catherine rubbed the ache in her chest, right above her heart. ‘I promise you, little brother, the orchard will bloom again. I promise it’ll be just like heaven once again.’