Araluen Page 5

  He sorely missed Araluen and the vineyards, but that couldn't be helped. One day he would buy a vineyard of his own, he promised himself. One day. In the meantime, he had to make his fortune.

  The break with the family hadn't been all that difficult — but then of course he'd presented his arguments with clarity and precision.

  ‘Kenneth is the next in line, Father. He will be here to look after the family. And if we don't start broadening our horizons, the wines of The Ross Estate will always be considered colonial.’

  Charles wondered what was wrong with ‘colonial’ — it suited him perfectly — but he didn't say so. He'd never really understood his youngest son. Franklin had many of the qualities Charles most admired: he was a serious, responsible young man, not in any way frivolous. But there was a ruthlessness in him, an ambition, that was quite foreign to Charles.

  ‘Your grandfather was proud of being colonial, Franklin. He worked hard to establish our roots here and I'm sure — ’

  That was when Franklin knew that he'd won and he couldn't disguise the triumph in his voice as he interrupted. ‘Grandfather also worked hard to break into the Sydney retail market. He hoped it would be the first step to an international reputation. And it's not happening, Father! The distributor's doing nothing! Grandfather George would be the first person to send me to Sydney. I know he would!’

  That clinched it. Charles stopped arguing. He gave Franklin a sizeable sum of money to get started and agreed to send him a comfortable monthly allowance for a period of ‘ ... shall we say three years?’ he suggested.

  ‘It may take longer, Father,’ Franklin replied diplomatically. ‘I intend to work very hard at establishing our interstate market.’ He didn't think it was necessary to tell his father his true intentions. He felt his father didn't quite have the vision to understand.

  Franklin's true intentions were to conquer as much of the civilised world as he could lay claim to in his lifetime.

  He had told his father no lies; he would most certainly deal with their Sydney distributor, and the wines of The Ross Estate would one day rank among the finest in the world — Franklin would make sure of that. But his vision was far broader.

  Franklin had sensed very early in his life that his father was not a leader. His father was the protector of a small rural community and he was training his first-born son to follow in his footsteps. Surely that couldn't have been what Grandfather George had intended for The Ross Estate, Franklin reasoned. Not Grandfather George!

  Franklin meant to follow his grandfather's patriachal doctrines to the letter. He believed in them implicitly. He would marry sensibly, sire as many sons as possible and allow the eldest one to take over the reins. But the reins to what? That was where the difference lay. Franklin Ross's first-born would not simply inherit ‘a family’ — he would inherit an empire.

  What's more, he would be trained to do so. He would be trained to be strong. A leader. And Sydney was where it all started.

  Sam Pritchard, the distributor, was a tough little cockney who didn't like being ordered about by a smooth-talking member of the landed gentry who'd probably never seen a hard day's work in his life. ‘I'm aware The Ross Estate wines are good, son, of course I am. I know my business.’

  ‘Do you?’ Franklin stared down at the man, willing him to look up from his order books. ‘Do you really know your business?’

  It worked. Sam looked up. And he met such a steely glint in the young man's eyes that he decided not to push his luck.

  ‘Look, Mr Ross,’ he explained patiently, ‘I can't spare a salesman to personally deal with your range — be reasonable now, you couldn't expect me to, could you? But I’m quite prepared to give you a full list of all our outlets and you can have a bash at them yourself. I can't be fairer than that now, can I?’

  ‘Thank you. I would appreciate it.’

  Sam was annoyed as he watched Franklin Ross walk out of the offices. Why had he allowed himself to be intimidated? On first appearances there was nothing unusual about the young man. He was well dressed, well spoken, pleasant looking — a gentleman, certainly. But there were plenty of those around. A minute or so in his company, however, and one realised that there was something dangerous about Franklin Ross. Something unrelenting. You wouldn't want to cross him, Sam thought.

  Franklin stepped out into the hustle and bustle of Goulburn Street and looked up at the bright blue sky. The glorious summer's day seemed to heighten the grime and diversity of Surry Hills. Squalid little terrace houses were jammed in between factories, shops and warehouses. Around one corner was a hive of industry, around another, the unemployed. Dozens of them, spilling out of pubs, lounging around in tiny doorways of tiny houses. Children and dogs played on the dusty curbside. Unemployment. Overpopulation. The Great Depression. But it wasn't depressing to Franklin. This was a big city — weakened and wounded, certainly, but not dead. It was the perfect place to make things happen.

  Surry Hills was where he would live, he decided. He would find accommodation this very afternoon and book out of his city hotel immediately.

  It had always been Franklin's intention to find cheap lodgings. He had already invested most of the money his father had given him and he meant to bank all of his considerable monthly allowance and exist upon whatever part-time job he could get while he serviced the wine outlets and investigated business prospects.

  ‘Perfect,’ Franklin said, as he looked around the sparsely furnished room. It was clean, it was tidy and it overlooked busy Riley Street — that was what Franklin liked best about it. He glanced out of the window before turning back to the nuggety, dark-haired man leaning in the doorway. ‘Perfect,’ he repeated. ‘I'll take it, Mr Mankowski.’

  Solomon Mankowski grinned and offered his hand to Franklin. ‘Solly,’ he said. ‘My friends call me Solly. And you have not yet seen the bathroom. Follow me.’

  Solly led him back down the single flight of stairs to a workshop on the ground floor and out through a door at the rear. A small weatherboard shack had recently been attached to the house — in it were an enamel bathtub and a washstand with basin. There wasn't room for anything else.

  ‘You see?’ Solly turned on the bath tap to prove that it worked and stood back proudly. ‘Good, yes? A whole many houses in Surry Hills do not have bathrooms.’

  The lavatory wasn't quite as impressive. It was housed in a rickety wooden box right down the end of the narrow backyard. ‘No matter,’ Solly said reassuringly. ‘The owner, he say he will give me a new one next year.’

  Franklin had presumed from his proprietorial air that Mankowski himself was the owner but it appeared that Solly rented the house, conducted his successful boot-making business on the ground floor, lived in the basement and sub-let the two rooms on the first floor.

  ‘Millie Tingwell, she has the other room upstairs. Do not concern yourself,’ Solly added hastily, ‘she is very quiet.’ Then his face became a mask of tragedy. ‘Poor woman, two years ago she lose her husband. A factory accident, very sad.’ He led the way back to the shop at the front of the terrace house. ‘I do what I can to help her, of course. For no extra rent I let her use my kitchen.’ He stopped at the door which led from the workroom to the shop.

  The smell of leather was overpowering but not unpleasant, Franklin decided. Just as the chaos of the workroom itself was not unpleasant. The half-finished boots, the heavy industrial sewing machine on the scarred wooden table, the strips of leather and twine hanging from hooks everywhere — it all spelt industry.

  ‘For a little extra rent you maybe want to use my kitchen too?’ Solly asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Franklin shook his head and followed the man into the shop.

  They sat opposite each other across the counter, surrounded by displays of boots, shoes, belts and assorted leather goods and for a full ten minutes they haggled. Franklin was aware that Solly had assessed the quality and the price of his suit, his waistcoat, his shirt, his hat and, above all, his boots and had come to t
he conclusion that here was an easy bet.

  Having already enquired as to the average price of rooms in Surry Hills, Franklin was also aware that Solly was asking over four times the accepted amount.

  Eventually they agreed upon a sum to their mutual satisfaction. Franklin could have pushed it down a little further but he decided to let Solly have the extra couple of shillings. Mankowski was a shrewd fellow, he knew the area and its people well and he could prove useful.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mr Ross.’ Solly grinned amiably; he enjoyed a good haggle.

  Franklin paid him three months rent in advance — unheard of in Surry Hills — and said he would move in the following morning. I shall no doubt be doing some business locally and would appreciate your advice from time to time,’ he said.

  Solly pocketed the money and nodded eagerly. ‘Anything, Mr Ross. Anything you want, you ask Solly Mankowski. And I tell you what — for no extra rent you use my kitchen. Come. I show you.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Franklin rose and crossed to the door. ‘That won't be necessary, I prefer to dine out.’ Useful as Mankowski may prove to be, he didn't want to encourage over-familiarity.

  As he opened the door Franklin collided forcefully with a woman on her way in. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said and put out a hand to steady her.

  ‘I'm perfectly all right, thank you,’ the woman replied and smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Millie, this is Mr Franklin Ross — he's going to be your neighbour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Millie Tingwell looked taken aback. She had presumed the posh gentleman leaving the shop was someone from the outer suburbs purchasing a pair of Solly's boots. Solly had a number of wealthy customers. ‘Well, fancy that.’ Millie smiled again, her dimples flashing alluringly. ‘How do you do, Mr Ross.’

  ‘Mrs Tingwell.’ Franklin raised his hat and tried not to stare too hard. The woman was astonishingly attractive.

  Millie was in her early thirties and she wasn't beautiful. Her features weren't fine enough to be beautiful. Her mouth was a little too generous and her jaw was a little too wide. What's more, she was a redhead, and her curls were a little too lavish to be in good taste. They were natural — everything about Millie was natural — but, like her hair, everything about Millie was unruly. It was a constant source of frustration to her. She was conscious of style, very much wanted to be ‘chic', and tried desperately to maintain some control over her appearance. But no amount of pins successfully anchored her hair, her generous body refused to be disguised by her modest choice of dress and her dimples flashed disobediently even when she was at her most serious.

  ‘Welcome to Solly's,’ she said. ‘I'm sure you'll be comfortable here.’ Then she excused herself and went up to her room. She had just finished a ten hour shift at Gadsden's Fabric Bag and Sack Factory and she was exhausted.

  Solly had noticed Mr Ross's reaction. It was the same reaction he noticed in every red-blooded male who came in contact with Millie. Indeed, it was the same reaction Solly himself had experienced when she'd first moved in five years ago.

  So attractive had Solly found her that, after Millie's husband died, leaving her in financial trouble, he had even suggested there might be an alternative method of rental payment he would be happy to discuss. As a landlord he had never before contemplated such an arrangement — Solly never mixed business with pleasure.

  But Millie appeared unaware of his proposition, agreeing that she would be only too happy to do his washing, ironing and mending in exchange for the rent.

  ‘That wasn't exactly what I had in mind,’ Solly said.

  There was a definite plea in Millie's voice as she added, ‘Perhaps even a little cooking now and then?’ Solly shook his head and started to feel embarrassed, not wanting to spell it out. Finally, Millie straightened her back, looked him directly in the eye and said, I shall be moving out next week, Mr Mankowski’.

  Solly felt terrible. So terrible that he did a totally uncharacteristic thing, surprising not only Millie but himself into the bargain. He let her forgo the following month's rent altogether until she found herself a factory job. They never again mentioned his proposition and a genuine fondness grew between them.

  Now, despite his soft spot for her, Solly prayed that her presence would not disrupt the household. He prayed that she would not overly distract or upset Mr Ross. In the fifteen years Solomon Mankowski had been sub-letting around Surry Hills, he had never once had a tenant as classy as Mr Ross. It was an excellent sign. Money bred money, class bred class and Mr Ross had both. And he had something else as well. He had determination. Solly recognised a winner when he saw one — and one must cultivate winners, particularly in a Depression. But one had to be subtle, one mustn't be intrusive — Mr Ross was a private man who didn't welcome intruders. No, Solly decided, he would wait until he was needed. Over the next few days while Franklin settled in, Solly kept well out of his way.

  Much as he would rather have avoided it, Franklin knew he had to contact his Aunt Catherine. She was a prominent figure in Sydney, with a successful art gallery and many worthwhile contacts. If anyone could help him secure a well-paying job, she could.

  ‘Franklin! My dear!’ He was engulfed in a fervent embrace. A strand of her hair found its way into his mouth and he could feel her ample breasts against his chest. The strong, musky scent she was wearing, mingled with the smell of oils and varnish and tobacco, was suffocating. Finally she released him. ‘Let me look at you,’ she said.

  Franklin attempted a smile as she held him at arm's length. There was no point in alienating her — she was too useful. But he found her repulsive. She's gross, he thought, gross and vulgar.

  Catherine was certainly large. She'd always been a big woman. Big-boned and handsome. But at sixty-one she'd lost her looks. Her thick, grey-black hair was still abundant but now it was white with a yellowish tinge, like straw. She was no longer statuesque but shapeless, and the face had become fleshy and dissipated. But if Franklin had cared to look closer he would have noticed that the smile was as generous as ever and the eyes as clever and humorous as they'd always been.

  But Franklin didn't care to look closer and Catherine sensed it immediately. She too had not forgotten that day in the stables but she'd hoped by now Franklin may have developed some tolerance. Obviously he hadn't. Well, she'd just have to work on him and see if she could break through. She hoped he hadn't turned into a boring prig like his father.

  ‘Come on through to the studio. Gaby's working and she's dying to see you.’

  Catherine led the way. It was an elegant house, built in 1860, and Catherine had retained its original splendour. Strange that she could be so slovenly herself and yet live so graciously, Franklin thought.

  As though she'd read his mind, Catherine said, ‘Gaby looks after the house. I live mostly in here.’ And she flung open the doors to the studio.

  Anything but elegant, it was a huge modern open-plan room built onto the side of the old home. Its massive windows looked out through a leafy green garden to the streets of Kings Cross. There was a long work bench against one wall, with an assortment of brushes and jars and tubes and tins scattered all over it. The floor was made of bare boards and leaning against the walls were dozens of paintings and sculptures in various stages of completion. The sun streamed in over everything and the effect was one of highly lit chaos. Franklin had to admit that it was rather exciting — in a Bohemian way.

  ‘Franklin!’ Gaby looked up from her work. She was in one corner of the room by the windows, a plaster cast on a pedestal before her and, although she was messy from her elbows down and had a smudge of plaster on her face, she managed to look neat, presentable and very attractive — the antithesis of Catherine.

  ‘I am so sorry I couldn't come to the door, but look at her.’ She gestured to the bust on the pedestal. ‘If I let her dry, I am lost.’

  Franklin joined Gaby and she kissed him on both cheeks, holding her wet hands aloft. He didn't find the physical contact with her at all o
ffensive. In fact, if he eradicated the repulsive image of her in the straw with Catherine, he found her immensely attractive. She would be well into her fifties by now, Franklin thought, and yet she looked so young.

  ‘She's beautiful,’ Franklin said, nodding at the bust. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A prostitute,’ Catherine said before Gaby could reply. Gaby flashed her a look of rebuke but Catherine ignored it. The boy needed a dose of the truth. ‘A notorious prostitute, famous in the underworld, very beautiful and quite a nice girl too.’

  She's doing it deliberately to shock me, Franklin thought, annoyed.

  ‘It will be a bronze,’ Gaby said, getting back to her work. ‘This is the early stage.’ Much as she loved Catherine, Gaby wished she wouldn't go out of her way to antagonise people the way she did. And not Franklin, she felt like begging. Not your Franklin. You've been so looking forward to seeing him, don't ruin it for yourself.

  And Catherine thought irritably, ‘Dear, stylish, oh-so-nice Gaby. She'll go out of her way to be all the proper things the boy expects people to be. Someone has to teach him a lesson. And I suppose I'll have to be the ogre who does it.’

  Franklin lunched with the two women and, throughout the meal, Gaby continued to charm him and Catherine continued to grate on him.

  ‘What timing, Franklin!’ Catherine laughed, when he told them of his plans. ‘We are in the grip of a Depression, there is a massive labour movement afoot in the city and you decide to make your capitalistic bid for fame and fortune!’

  ‘And I shall succeed, Aunt Catherine.’

  Catherine didn't need Gaby's warning glance — even she couldn't fail to notice the steely glint in her nephew's eyes.

  ‘I'm sure you will, my dear.’ An attempt at mollification. ‘And let's drop the “Aunt”, shall we? Call me Catherine.’