17 February 1967
Catherine
Catherine couldn’t help but hope that Peter’s funeral would be sparsely attended. It wasn’t out of lack of love for her brother, but concern for her mother. Judith hadn’t left the bedroom since the fires ten days ago. The constant crying had eased to fitful sobs, but the thought of leaving the cottage to face people, no matter how sympathetic, was overwhelming to her.
At least Catherine had thought to ask the women from the Women’s Auxiliary if they could provide a simple black dress for her mother. Mrs Worthington and Mrs Carter had returned within days with a beautifully cut dress in her mother’s size plus a few other items. It had been difficult persuading her mother to wear the dress and taken a good half hour to coax her outside and into the car on yet another stifling summer’s day.
As they reached the church, Catherine baulked at the number of people who’d come to pay their respects. She knew she should be pleased her brother was so well regarded, but helping her mother past the crowded pews was an effort of pure endurance. Every face turned as they shuffled past, many of them already dabbing at tears and nodding in sympathy. Her mother acknowledged no one. She kept her eyes downcast and clung to Catherine with a strength surprising in a woman who’d barely eaten or slept for over a week. Catherine guided her mother to the front of the church where a pew was reserved for them.
Her father was one of the pallbearers, along with Dave and four of Peter’s friends. Catherine watched the young men as they set down the coffin in front of the altar. They were strong and healthy, ‘strapping lads’ as her father would say. Each of them would’ve helped fight the fires and each one of them was still alive. She could imagine their mothers silently thanking their lucky stars, while her mother sat, almost catatonic, shutting everything out.
Her father joined them, sitting on the other side of her mother, to shield her as best they could from concerned but curious eyes. Dave sat in the pew behind, where Annie cradled a sleeping Angela. Their older boys were at school and the younger ones at home in the care of Dave’s friend, Mark. ‘A funeral’s no place for a child,’ Annie had said. Catherine had agreed at the time, but now wondered if a few noisy boys might not serve as a much-needed distraction. She stared at the coffin with its brass handles and splay of limp flowers on the lid. Was her brother really in that box, or what was left of him? She’d seen the charred lump pulled from the debris of the house. How could one so full of life and love be reduced to such an awful thing? She bit her lip, willing the pain to come. Anything to stop her mind delving into dark places. She must remember Peter the way he’d been, joyful and alive. Catherine scrabbled in her handbag for a handkerchief. She should have brought more than one.
The service flowed around them in the steady patterns of ritual. Her father gave one of the readings, his voice a monotone and his face a rigid mask. With a sinking heart Catherine made her way to the lectern when it was her turn. She wished she’d never agreed to do the other reading. The Bible lay open in front of her while the rector regarded her with sympathy and encouragement. She tried to focus on the words and began.
‘The reading is taken from Ecclesiastes, Chapter Three, verses one to four.’ She paused and took a breath.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens:
A time to be born, and a time to die—
Her voice wavered. The Byrds had had a massive hit a couple of years ago with a song based on these words. Peter had bought the record with his pocket money and played it endlessly.
A time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted …
Every word reminded her of her brother. As kids they’d been given small plots beside the vegetable garden where they could grow whatever they wanted. Peter had planted potatoes and carrots while Catherine grew sweet peas and fragrant roses; Peace with its pink-tinged yellow petals and the vigorous pink blooms of the Queen Elizabeth. They’d tended their gardens all through their teenage years, although Catherine’s had fallen into neglect while she was away studying and then teaching. When Peter realised, he took care of her roses as well. Everything he touched had thrived. Now there was nothing left of their gardens except ashes. Was Peter tending another garden in another place? Oh God, she hoped so.
A sob escaped from deep within her. She gripped the lectern and stared at the Bible, willing herself to continue even as her tears blurred the words. She sensed the congregation holding their breath, waiting for her to crumble. She looked desperately towards her father, but he was holding her mother and both their heads were bowed. A movement from the pew behind them caught her eye. Dave. He came and stood beside her, inclining his head towards the Bible in a gesture of permission. She nodded and he began to recite.
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up,
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
He smiled at her with compassion. Dave had known Peter all his life, and being ten years older had been like a big brother to him. In years to come he and Peter would have worked their neighbouring orchards, sharing tips and ideas, borrowing equipment, and celebrating or commiserating at the end of each season as their fathers had done before them. Peter’s loss reverberated throughout the valley in ways Catherine hadn’t considered.
Dave turned back to the congregation. ‘Thus endeth the lesson.’ He took her arm in his, guiding her back to her place before he returned to his seat.
Catherine was numb to the proceedings as the service continued, until the organ played the introduction to the final hymn. Her father left her mother in her care and took his place by the coffin with the other pallbearers. Together they carried her brother out of the church to the strains of Peter’s favourite hymn: ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.
Outside, in the forecourt, mourners milled around, talking in low voices. Catherine noticed Annie. Despite the circumstances she seemed deeply content, even happy, as she presented Angela to anyone who took an interest. Dave watched, his face creased in a frown, no doubt thinking it was the wrong time and place for such a display.
The procession moved to the cemetery. Catherine had hoped Peter would be buried in the orchard. She knew he would’ve wanted to be part of the earth and the trees themselves, forever in the place he called heaven. But her father wouldn’t allow it. ‘Think of your mother,’ he’d said. ‘To bury him here would be a constant reminder.’ Reminder or not, Catherine doubted her mother would ever forget. None of them would. As Peter’s coffin was lowered into the ground her mother’s knees buckled. The cry that came from her was almost animal-like, a guttural wail of grief. Catherine and her father struggled to keep her upright, her body heavy with the agony of grief and both of them weak from their own.
By the time the graveside ceremony was over it was clear that attending the wake in the church hall would be too much for her. Catherine ushered her mother towards the car before any other mourners had a chance to approach. Her father stayed on alone to represent the family.
Once they were out of Cygnet, away from the cemetery, her mother began to speak in a low monotone. ‘I never thought it would be Peter, never. Your father, yes, but not Peter.’ She looked straight ahead as the road wound out before them. ‘You were a baby when he was away fighting the Japanese. I was always terrified I’d lose him. But he came home safe to me. Unlike so many others. Some of them never returned and others left part of themselves over there – a limb, or an eye, or their minds.’
Catherine listened in silence. This was the most her mother had said since that awful day.
‘I was always grateful, to have him and two healthy children. It would’ve been greedy to ask for anything more.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Was I greedy? Did I want too much? So many husbands never came back, but I had everything I ever wanted.’ She began to cry.
‘Oh, Mum. You weren’t greedy. You never have been.’ Catherine’s mother had worked hard for the little they had. It wasn’t a life of luxury, but it was a good life. Until now.
‘I should have stopped him. I should’ve.’
‘There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.’ If Catherine had been there, could she have prevented Peter from going into the house? The ache in her heart sharpened. She’d never know.
‘All creatures great and small.’ Her mother repeated the words from the hymn. ‘He cared more about that dog than he did for his own life.’
‘He loved Benno.’
‘And you. He thought the world of you. Why did you have to go filling his head with ideas?’
Catherine gripped the wheel tighter. She knew what was coming. The idea was never hers, but what did that matter now?
‘Your father will never tell you this, but the last words he had with Peter were angry ones. He’ll never forgive himself. What a pair we are, your dad and me. So many regrets.’ She began to cry again, jagged sobs that wrenched at Catherine’s heart with guilt as well as grief.
Peter had first told her of his dream of being a vet when he was sixteen. He was so intent on it she couldn’t help but get swept up in his fervour. It made sense for him to have a career saving the lives of the animals he loved so much. He’d planned to live at the orchard and work as a vet in the valley. ‘The best of both worlds,’ he’d said. Most boys his age were leaving school to help on the family orchard or farm by then. Peter had convinced their mother, who could never deny him anything, to let him stay on at school, much to their father’s annoyance. Catherine had helped Peter choose the matric subjects he needed to get into veterinary college, but when they’d discovered he’d have to go to Melbourne to study and the costs were prohibitive, Catherine had thought he’d give up. Instead, over the past two years, Peter’s resolve had grown. He’d surpassed himself at school and was confident his grades would get him an offer at the veterinary college. Their grandmother had left them both a small amount of money when she’d died last year and Catherine had immediately given her share to Peter along with money she’d saved from her wages. She’d assured Peter that if he got into the college he didn’t have to worry about the orchard because she’d come back to Wattle Grove and work alongside their father.
The letter had arrived only weeks earlier, before Catherine went back to Hobart for the start of the new school year. Peter had not only been accepted, but he’d also won a scholarship. However, at the age of eighteen, it’d be almost three years until he could make his own decisions. He needed his parents’ permission. Over the years Peter had tried to broach the subject with their father, but he’d always dismissed the idea. Peter was conflicted and considered deferring until he turned twenty-one. Catherine had suggested he try talking to their father again, now that Peter’s dream was a reality.
And now she knew the outcome of that conversation. Angry words. And her mother blamed her.