15 February 1967
Catherine
Her father surveyed the ruined trees. ‘We worked so hard. Me, my father and my grandfather. Through rough times and more than a few bloody disasters. But this fire,’ he paused, looking down at his bandaged fingers, ‘it’s knocked something out of me.’
Catherine felt the pain in his words. She watched the river, beyond what was left of the orchard. The reflection of the fire-ravaged bank on the opposite shore shimmered in the grey waters of the Huon, too far to swim but close enough for a strong man to row on a calm day. The blaze had jumped it as if it were a puddle. ‘What will happen to the trees, Dad? Are any salvageable?’
His sigh carried the weight of many failed harvests. ‘Possibly. Someone from the Ag Department will help me decide, once they’ve finished with all the dead stock. Horrible business. And now there’s the lack of feed for the cattle and sheep that managed to survive. Apple trees are down the list in importance.’
Catherine knew supplies of hay from the north were meagre and the rains still hadn’t come. Tim was taking lawn clippings from the school to the Queen’s Domain on Saturday for Operation Grass Clippings. Many in Hobart were doing the same. The clippings were for farmers to use as feed for their stock. Catherine was amazed there was enough grass left anywhere for the scheme to be a success. Everything around her was black.
Her father frowned at the orchard. ‘The first four rows haven’t survived, and need to be grubbed out. Most of the remaining trees will have to be chopped back at least. Even if they pull through, those ones will be unreliable croppers. I think we’ll have to rework the lot with new grafts. Best not to make them struggle. A stressed tree is an unhappy tree—’
‘And an unhappy tree brings pests and diseases.’ Catherine completed his sentence. ‘Yes, I know.’ She remembered well her father’s lessons from when she was younger, before Peter had taken her place in the orchard. She’d never resented Peter – he hadn’t had a choice either. Their father’s attitude was cut and dried – men ran the orchard, a woman’s place was in the packing shed, and that’s where Catherine had spent every harvest, first as a baby nestled in an apple box, then in one of the big wooden bins with the other toddlers. From the age of six she was standing on a box beside her mother, copying her as she packed. Catherine could do it in her sleep. Take an apple in one hand and a square of tissue paper in the other, place the apple nose down into the middle of the paper, twist the apple around and then pack it on its side in the box. Two-handed packing was preferable to grab packing, her mother explained, because you could see the blemishes. Catherine was astounded by how fast all the women were, their hands flying over the fruit, wrapping them neatly and filling the wooden boxes with such speed. At first, her apples with their scrunched tissue paper and lopsided efforts were given a special box all of their own. Even so, her mother was proud. ‘Good work, Catherine,’ she’d say. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
‘Could be for the best,’ her father said.
‘What?’ Catherine was startled from her reminiscences.
‘Markets are changing. There isn’t the demand for some of the crop any more. Granny Smiths and Golden Delicious will always do well, but we needed to grub out some of the older varieties anyway. Red Delicious are the way to go, and we need more of them.’
‘Ugh.’ Catherine hated Red Delicious. They were like vain, handsome men – great to look at but under the skin lay nothing but disappointment.
‘I know. No good for cooking, or eating. But the research station reckons they have some beaut new varietals. Plus we’re making inroads into the Asian market and they love them. England will take anything, so …’ He shrugged. ‘It makes sense.’
‘As long as we always have some Cox’s for home use. And a Lady in the Snow.’
‘We’ll always have a Lady; your mother loves them too. But the business is changing. Costs keep going up and there’s a lot more competition out there. We have to keep ahead of the game and if we can’t, then at least keep up with it.’
Catherine had a lot to learn if she was going to help run the orchard now her brother was gone. The changes had been rapid and the irrigation system was one of them. During the recent summer holidays she’d watched Peter and her father lugging the irrigation pipes around. It was hard, constant work and she’d been happy to stay out of it. Now it would be her instead of Peter bending her back to the task – but that could wait. The irrigation system was a wreck like everything else.
‘Are we going to have to pick all the ruined fruit?’ she asked.
‘If we can avoid it we will. There’s no point bothering with the trees that’ll be bulldozed. Most of the other trees are scorched. Even in the centre of the orchard there are patches where the fire rolled over the top and randomly touched down.’
Her father’s jaw clenched, a small muscle twitching with tension. Was he thinking about her mother, alone in the middle of the orchard, with fire all around her, after watching their home explode in a fireball with her son trapped inside? She’d fled, fire licking at her heels and raging over her head through the canopy of the trees. In all that smoke she’d found Petunia in the middle of the orchard. Their house cow had instinctively sought the safest place. The same couldn’t be said for the chickens. There was still no sign of them. For all his talk about the ruined trees being for the best, Catherine knew her father was deeply heartbroken over the loss of his son, anxious about his wife’s emotional state and worried for the future of the orchard. It was too much for either of them to bear on their own. Together though, if he’d let her, they might pull through.
‘Hopefully some fruit will be salvageable. We should get a premium price for them at the evaporating factory. The fire’s done half the work for them already.’
Catherine smiled at his attempt at humour. The evaporating factory paid very little at the best of times, but at least it was better than anything they’d get for juicing.
He cleared his throat. ‘If we do end up doing any picking, I’m sure your fella would be keen to help.’
‘Who?’
‘Young Tim.’
Catherine felt herself reddening. ‘He’s not my boyfriend, Dad.’
‘Really? He said you knocked him off his feet.’
‘He told you that?’ Catherine spluttered. ‘He didn’t mean what you think. We were caught in the fire, with a wall of flames coming at us. I had to do something.’
‘It’s okay. He told me what happened. You probably saved his life.’
‘But it was my fault.’ A shudder ran up her spine. ‘I can’t bear to think of him telling people I saved him when I almost got him killed.’
He waved her concerns away. ‘His hair is a bit long for my liking, but he’s a decent bloke, I reckon.’
Catherine raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Tim’s hair barely touched his collar. In one of their schoolyard chats he’d bemoaned the fact that Miss Downie was always policing the length of his hair.
‘You could do worse,’ her father continued. ‘He’s been a great help. Couldn’t have been much fun, mucking in all day and then sleeping in his car. And he’s keen to come back on his days off. As I see it there can only be one reason for it.’
Catherine wasn’t sure how she felt about Tim. Their casual acquaintance had turned into something deeper when they were thrown together, literally, in the inferno of Strickland Avenue. He’d been such a support to her on that horrible day, she doubted she could have got through it without him. She’d had boyfriends before, but nothing serious. It was only last year that the marriage bar had been abolished, but women still had to leave their careers if they became pregnant. In the end it was simpler to stay single. Not that it was an issue for her any more. Last week Catherine had resigned from the Education Department. She hadn’t told her parents yet. That was a discussion for another day.
‘There’s too much work to do to even think about a boyfriend.’ Catherine changed the subject. ‘How can we pick apples without a tractor to lug the bins?’ The tractor was a write-off, the chassis congealed, its metal fused in the furnace of the fire.
‘Insurance will cover it. And we’re in no hurry. Even if any of the apples are worth picking, they won’t be worth exporting. The factories won’t care if the apples have been left on the trees too long.’
Their heads turned towards the sound of a car coming up the rutted driveway. Catherine was surprised by the flutter in her stomach at the thought it might be Tim. Did she have feelings for him after all? But the car was a blue Holden sedan so new not even the dust could mask the shine of the duco. It pulled up in front of the cottage and two women alighted, both wearing bright dresses in the latest fashion, one a yellow floral and the other a red polka dot.
‘Hello,’ the woman in yellow said. ‘I’m Mrs Carter and this is Mrs Worthington.’