Beneath those watching crowns they had embraced urgently, mindful not to be caught. She recalled the song of the wind tossing high in the trees. The distant rasp of saws. Winches groaning. Yells along the tramway.
After she and Jack had moved to Hobart, Frank died here in a forestry accident. He was working a saw, felling an immense old tree; misjudging the moment to stand back he was crushed as the tree crashed to the ground. It was a dreadful accident, violent and devastating. Frank was the jovial son, the lively one who always carried a joke and a laugh.
Losing Frank had rocked the poor Mason family. Everyone missed him, especially Jack’s older brother, Sam, who had been very close to Frank. And Frank’s legacy had not been a welcome one. Instead of going back to her own family, Rose had asked to stay on the farm. Mary had known Rose was dodging her ill mother, wishing to leave the arduous task of nursing to her younger sister. It was an appalling abrogation of responsibility, but Mary couldn’t say this to Jack’s parents who felt duty bound to care for her.
Mary had often wondered how differently things might have unfolded if Frank hadn’t died or if Rose had returned to her kin. But the past was set and could not be rewritten; and Rose was part of the story. Drawing in the mist and scents of the forest, Mary tried to fix on contentment. She could see the past shimmering in the leaves, but nothing could be changed and she must let it all go. Now was the time for acceptance.
She wasn’t sure how long Leon allowed her to stand there in the damp of the forest with the breeze swirling around her ankles. Eventually, he took her arm and guided her into the vehicle, and they drove down the mountain with the heater blowing and the trees flicking by the window. It had been a tiring trip, and she dozed most of the way home.
As they spun along Cloudy Bay towards the cabin, she turned her head to smile at him, wanting him to know how she appreciated his patience and sensitivity. She couldn’t tell him this, but he had helped her to achieve another goal in her pilgrimage for Jack. His nod acknowledged her thanks.
‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course. It’s Friday and your family’s not coming until the weekend.’
He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch and there, on the pale freckled flesh of his wrist, she saw dark bruises, purple and yellowish-green, in the shape of fingers.
‘What’s that?’ Her breath caught in her throat. Had he been in a fight?
He glanced at what she’d seen and his face closed. ‘Nothing.’ Resolutely, he pulled his sleeve down and stared out the windscreen, refusing to meet her eyes. His lips were firm and his face was tight, demanding silence.
At the cabin, he helped her inside. She wanted to ask more, but his face was unapproachable. Had someone hurt him? Or had he hurt someone else? She hardly knew him. She thought of his dark moods. Was it possible he might strike her? Or could he be harming himself?
She tried to conceal her uneasiness as he settled her on the couch. Then he was gone, swinging sharply into the vehicle and accelerating recklessly over the dunes. She went to the window to watch him race down the beach. He might run away with his secrets for now, but she knew he’d be back. Within the story of that bruise was the reason for his self-imposed exile on Bruny, she was sure of it. Exile was something she understood.
Reclaiming the couch, she tucked herself into the blanket and leaned into memory once more, further back now. The story was strong and clear and it sprang from the corners of her mind with vivid intensity. It had all taken place in apple season. She was sixteen. Ten days that had shaped her life. It was the time of ripening fruit, when Hobart flooded with people and apples. From all around the state the crates came in. They came on trucks and trains to be loaded onto steamers bound for overseas. Pickers arrived in town. Stands appeared in the streets selling apples of all kinds: Cox’s orange pippins, munroes, ribstons pippins, Rome beauties, New Yorks, sturmers and democrats.
She remembered the smell of stewing apples. Her parents’ old house in North Hobart was thick with it, and the hallways