Araluen Read online

  There was another awesome event occasioned by George's imminent death — the return of the infamous Aunt Catherine.

  Franklin stared at her, mesmerised. To think that she lived in Paris! That she was an artist! That she had rebelled against Grandfather George! Rebelling against Grandfather George was the most astonishing fact of all. And here she was answering back to him, even on his deathbed.

  ‘I'm sorry I kept you waiting, Father,’ she was saying, ‘but ships can only travel so fast, you know.’

  ‘And you've still not married,’ George complained. ‘Good God, woman, you must be nigh on forty years of age by now.’

  ‘I'm forty-six.’ Catherine held her handsome head high. She even looked like an artist, Franklin thought, with her wild grey-black hair. ‘And yes,’ she continued as she saw George about to interrupt, ‘I'm well aware I'm past child-bearing age but you have your grandchildren from Charles and Mary and four of them males at that, so I don't see what you have to complain about.’

  It was said with good humour but it was shocking nonetheless. Franklin stared at his grandfather and waited for the explosion. But there wasn't one. Something quite different happened instead. Something quite astonishing. George actually smiled.

  ‘Twelve years since I've seen you, girl, and you haven't changed a bit, have you?’ His voice had lost its edge.

  ‘No, Father, and I don't intend to, but I have always been thankful for your support. You know that.’

  There was something in the old man's face that Franklin had never seen before and it suddenly occurred to the boy that Aunt Catherine was very special to Grandfather. He had certainly never looked at Father like that, Franklin thought. Or Aunt Mary, for that matter.

  The adults in the room had also registered the old man's fondness but it was no surprise to them — certainly not to Charles and Mary. Catherine had always been their father's favourite. She'd nearly broken his heart when she'd announced she was going to Paris to study art. George's refusal to allow her to go had meant nothing — she'd merely threatened to run away and work her passage aboard the next ship bound for Europe.

  True to his doctrine of ‘always look after your own', George had funded her studies and her trips home to see the family but he'd missed her sorely between times. Her rebellious, carefree spirit reminded him so much of Richard that at times his heart ached and deep down, he knew that she was the son he wished he'd had. It made him feel guilty that he couldn't love Charles the same way. His son was a good man, he knew that: solid, reliable, trustworthy — his word was his bond. Not unlike George himself, really. But that was where the similarity ended. Charles had no romance in him, no true love of the land or the vines. The man didn't even drink, for God's sake. The only time wine passed his lips was when they tasted the new vintage.

  It was the one thing George hadn't reckoned on when he'd allowed Sarah full rein with the children. A promise was a promise, after all, and he'd given his word to her parents that all offspring were to be brought up in strict accordance with Methodist teachings. For ten years George hadn't afforded it another thought as Sarah took the children off to church regularly each Sunday morning and read to them from the bible for half an hour each evening. It was only when Charles was ten and steadfastly refused the first taste of wine offered him that George remembered with horror that Methodists didn't drink alcohol. Sarah had told him as much years ago and of course she never touched a drop herself, but George hadn't thought for a moment that such a doctrine should apply to his own children.

  ‘For God's sake, woman, the boy's going to inherit a vineyard!’ he exploded. ‘How in hell can he not drink?’

  But Methodist they were and, at ten years of age, Charles was the staunchest of them all. It was Catherine who had thrown her religious instruction to the winds and become a free spirit and, yet again, George wished that she'd been his son.

  His youngest daughter, Mary, was another matter altogether. Mary was quiet, calm, acquiescent. Mary was also enigmatic, and George felt that he'd never really known her and probably never would.

  George looked at his family gathered around his deathbed. They weren't such a bad lot, he supposed. A good enough start for a dynasty. Then why did he feel vaguely dissatisfied? Because something was lacking, that was why. There was no spirit or challenge. No adventure. Maybe he'd made life too easy for them — maybe they hadn't had to fight hard enough. Surely they couldn't all have inherited the weak Ross strain, he reasoned, but as yet he'd seen no indication of the fighting spirit. With the exception of Catherine, that is -and of what value was the fighting spirit in a woman who insisted upon remaining childless? Moreover, because she'd refused to return to the family home for the past twelve years, he hadn't even been able to enjoy the pleasure of her company.

  Not long to go now, George told himself, as he ploughed on with his address to the family. He'd already given his lecture on ‘looking after one's own’ and ‘the family comes first'.

  ‘Control of The Ross Estate must pass to the first-born male of each generation,’ he continued. ‘So when your father dies ... pay attention, boy!’ He'd turned to Kenneth, Franklin's older brother, and caught him gazing out the window.

  ‘So when your father dies, you will be the one to inherit Araluen and you will be responsible for the welfare of the family ... Are you listening to me, boy?’

  ‘Yes, Grandfather. I'm sorry, Grandfather,’ Kenneth said guiltily, aware of the admonishing looks from both his mother and father. But he was bored. On such a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon he should have been out riding with his cousin. They'd planned on racing the horses to the far north paddock and swimming in the dam.

  The old man was aware of the unrest amongst the young ones. ‘Very well,’ he said finally, as he allowed his head to sink back on the pillows, ‘that is all I have to say. You may go.’

  The younger members of the family left the room with indecent speed. All except Franklin -he remained transfixed, staring at the old man in the bed. Then the adults filed out slowly until only Catherine and Franklin were left.

  ‘Shall I come back and read to you after your nap, Father?’

  ‘Yes.’ The old man closed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Catherine, I'd like that.’ He felt tired. There was no real pain apart from the general ache of old age but he longed to leave this world. There was nothing left for him. There'd been nothing left for a long time now. The exercise of hanging on to a life he didn't want until Catherine came home had been an interesting one. Quite a test of strength. A number of times he'd wanted to slip away in the night. As he'd felt himself drift off to sleep he'd had to consciously remind himself that he must wake up in the morning. It was like setting an alarm clock, he thought. And now there was no need to set the clock any more. How peaceful.

  ‘Come along, Franklin.’

  George opened his eyes. Catherine was at the door, her hand held out to Franklin who had remained staring at his grandfather.

  Over the years, George had taken few pains with his grandchildren — they were still not at an age to be of interest to him — but something in the boy's face now arrested his attention. It was natural for a child to be fascinated by old age and death: fascinated or repulsed or just plain bored by something so foreign — it was to be expected. But as the boy stared unwaveringly at him, there was something else in the face that intrigued George. It was a challenge.

  ‘It's all right, Catherine. Leave him with me for a moment.’ Catherine closed the door quietly behind her. ‘What is it, boy?’

  Franklin took a deep breath. ‘Can you really do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You said you were going to die within the week. Can you really do it?’

  Yes, George thought, it was a challenge, all right. The boy was personally challenging him. He smiled. ‘I think people can do whatever they set their minds to,’ he said, ‘if they're strong and they have the will.’

  Franklin nodded. That made sense. ‘When will you do it?’

&nb
sp; ‘Not tonight. Maybe the night after.’ George paused. No, that wasn't fair, he thought, he needed to be more decisive than that. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the night after. Sunday seems a good idea, don't you think?’

  Again Franklin nodded. He believed Grandfather George implicitly. ‘I won't tell anyone,’ he promised.

  ‘Good,’ George agreed and he closed his eyes once more. ‘Instruct your Aunt Catherine to wake me in an hour.’ Such trust must not go disappointed, he thought, and as he drifted off, he felt a great sense of joy. The boy had what the others lacked. The boy had spirit.

  The next day, when Franklin brought in his lunchtime soup, they smiled at the secret they shared and, later that same night, at around eleven o'clock, George died peacefully in his sleep. Franklin was deeply impressed. Grandfather George had been a man of honour — he'd remained true to his word until the very end.

  Franklin noticed a lot of changes after the death of Grandfather George. Uncle Harry, Mary's husband, went off to the war and Aunt Catherine stayed on in the family home — only for three months, she said, while her belongings were shipped out from France. Then she was going to Sydney to open an art gallery.

  Catherine became a firm favourite with Franklin. She was ‘different’ and he deeply admired her. His brother Kenneth also liked her, as did Mary's brood who lived only a few miles away. But, popular as she was with the younger members of the family, the adults kept their distance. Catherine was too Bohemian for them. They took their lead from Charles who actively disliked his older sister. He maintained that she had deserted the family and he didn't approve at all of her single lifestyle.

  ‘A very selfish woman,’ he said one day at the luncheon table. ‘And decidedly peculiar.’

  ‘Well, of course she's "peculiar",’ Franklin boasted later to Kenneth. ‘She's an artist.’

  Two months after the death of Grandfather George, Charles announced stiffly to the family that a friend of Aunt Catherine's would shortly be arriving from Paris and staying for a week before accompanying Catherine to Sydney. It was quite obvious he disapproved of the visit.

  How exciting, Franklin thought. Catherine had told them she was going to Sydney to open an art gallery, but she'd said nothing of a friend from Paris.

  ‘Is your friend French?’ Franklin asked as he watched the bold charcoal strokes take form on the page before his very eyes. Like magic, they became a vineyard. Rows and rows of vines stretching into the distance. Franklin never tired of watching Catherine sketch.

  It was nearly dusk and they were seated beside the old stone cellar, Catherine on her little camp stool and Franklin on the ground beside her.

  Catherine looked out over the vineyard. These were the oldest vines, planted by her uncle Richard. They had always been her father's favourites. ‘Yes, French — like the vines.’ She looked up at the sky, then back at her sketch and smudged the clouds with her thumb. The cloud and light formations over the vines were thrilling. ‘Very French, and very nice, and you'll get on famously, I know it.’

  Catherine leaned back against the cool stones of the cellar walls. Second only to the homestead the cellar was the oldest building on the property and she remembered hearing her father's proud boast when she was a very young girl, ‘Of course, it was just a barn in the beginning. Huge, it was. Nearly broke our backs building it.’ Then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Whoever would have thought it would one day be the birthplace of some of the finest wines in the country.’

  Catherine had stared spellbound as her father held a half-filled glass of rich purple wine to the light.

  ‘Because they are, Catherine. Among the very finest. And one day they'll be among the finest in the world.’ Catherine always loved the way her father spoke to her as an adult. ‘Here. Try it.’ And he handed her the glass.

  It was the first time Catherine had tasted wine and, despite the strict rulings of the Church, she didn't question her action for a moment. To the contrary, she felt deeply privileged to be sharing such an experience with her father. And of course George loved her for it. There was such pride in his voice as he said, ‘I knew I could rely on you, Catherine.’ She hadn't known that, only two days before, her father had been bitterly disappointed when Charles had refused to take even one sip.

  She'd been eleven then. Around the same age as Franklin is now, she thought. And that moment in the cellar had formed the basis of the lifetime bond she had shared with her father.

  ‘Why have you stopped drawing, Aunt Catherine?’

  Startled out of her reverie by young Franklin, she looked up at the sky. ‘We're losing our light. Let's do something else instead, shall we?’ Catherine packed away her sketching things. ‘Come along.’ And Franklin clasped the hand she extended to him and followed her into the cellar.

  Franklin had been inside the cellar only twice before. And then briefly and in the company of his father, the children being forbidden to enter unless accompanied by an adult.

  It was a fascinating place. Dark but not gloomy; cool but not dank; musty but not stale. It excited him and, as he drank in the smell and the look and the feel of it all, he barely noticed Catherine pouring a glass of wine from one of the sample bottles on the heavy wooden counter.

  Suddenly the half-filled glass was before him. ‘Try it,’ she said. And he stared at the rich purple wine. ‘Go over there and hold it up to the light. It's a beautiful colour.’ He crossed to the doorway and held up the glass.

  ‘If you roll the wine around gently you can see where it sticks to the glass,’ Catherine said. ‘That's a very good sign.’ She watched as the boy examined the wine from every angle. It was a solemn exercise and he was utterly engrossed — just as she herself had been at his age. She watched as he gently sipped from the glass. A bond was being forged between the two of them, just like the bond that had been created between her and her father all those years ago.

  ‘Do you like it, Franklin?’ she asked.

  Franklin paused for thought. ‘It tastes like wet flour sacks,’ he said finally.

  Catherine laughed. ‘Have you ever tasted wet flour sacks?’

  ‘No. But it tastes the way wet flour sacks smell like they'd taste.’

  It was a very serious assessment so Catherine didn't laugh again. ‘Is it a taste you like?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Franklin wasn't sure whether he liked the taste or not. But ‘taste’ wasn't really the right word anyway, he thought. It wasn't a big enough word. He was enjoying the whole experience — the smell, the texture, the colour of the wine. And he was enjoying being in the cellar and the closeness with his Aunt. How could he put all that into words? He took another sip instead. ‘Yes, I like it,’ he said.

  How unlike his father he is, Catherine thought fondly. ‘Come along, we'd better go inside. It'll be dark soon.’

  Two days later, the shocking news arrived. Uncle Harry, Captain Harold Johnston, Sixth Division, South Australian Light Horse, had been killed in action. He was one of many, many Australians who had fallen in battle at a place called Gallipoli.

  Mary contained her grief and it was frightening to see. She closed herself off from them all. She was fine, she said. People died in a war; it was to be expected — she wasn't the only widow. She must accept her lot.

  Her behaviour wasn't natural. They all felt disturbed by it. The whole family. But no one could break through the barrier. She insisted on seeing to the funeral arrangements herself, she didn't shed a tear during the service and, the day after Harry was buried, she started packing away his clothes and personal belongings for Charles to deliver to the Salvation Army headquarters in town.

  Surprisingly enough Catherine was the one who finally made the breakthrough.

  Late one afternoon, Mary turned up in the trap, a large trunk on the seat beside her. ‘Charles says you're going into town to collect your friend tomorrow.’

  ‘That's right,’ Catherine nodded.

  ‘I've packed the last of Harry's belongin
gs and I wondered whether you might drop them at the Salvation Army for me. It would save Charles an unnecessary trip later in the week.’

  ‘Of course. Come on, hop down and have a cup of tea while the boys unload the trunk.’ Catherine signalled to one of the farm hands who was sweeping out the stables.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Mary kept a firm hold on the reins.

  ‘For heaven's sake, Mary. We can't unload it ourselves. Well, I certainly don't intend to. What's more, your horse looks as if he could do with a drink.’

  After a moment's hesitation, Mary agreed. ‘Very well,’ she said, but she ignored the helping hand Catherine extended.

  ‘You can't go on like this, you know that, don't you?’ Catherine spoke brusquely and she didn't look at her sister as she busied herself stoking the fire in the wood-stove. ‘You've closed yourself off for a fortnight now and everyone's too unnerved to talk to you.’

  Mary sat staring into the open grate, mesmerised by the sparks produced by Catherine's vigorous stirring.

  ‘Well, I'm not letting you out of this kitchen until you talk to me.’ Catherine slammed the grid closed and Mary was startled. ‘Did you hear me?’ She knew she was being brutal but maybe bullying Mary was the only way to get a response.

  ‘Talk to me!’ she demanded. ‘Cry, for God's sake! Get angry! Why did he have to die? Tell me how much you loved him!’ As Catherine pressed on relentlessly, she saw Mary's cheeks start to flush. ‘Please, Mary. Talk to me!’