Araluen (27 page)

Following Terry’s death, Franklin had insisted
that Vonnie and her child move into The Colony House. Despite the fact that his business schedule was as hectic as ever and that, at seventy, he showed no signs of easing up, he always made time for his grandson.

Michael loved The Colony House. From his bedroom window he could see the old bronze statue of the dueller pointing across the water to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Time and time again he begged his grandfather to tell him the story of that night and the duel with Samuel Crockett.

Michael had met old Sam Crockett once. When he was six, Sam and Lucy-Mae had visited The Colony House. The boy had been in awe of the giant American. Between his crippling bouts of gout, Sam was as big and as boisterous as ever.

There were many influences on young Michael. Grandpa Franklin was the most awesome, certainly, but there was Penelope too. Penelope, who always refused to be called Grandma, was, to the boy, the epitome of glamour.

In her sixties, Penelope had acquired a regality which was charismatic. Heads turned when she walked into a room. It was her carriage and assurance which created the effect as much as her beauty which, although as arresting as ever, now had a slightly hard quality to it, the skin being a little taut after her second facelift.

Penelope’s added confidence was a direct result of her elevated social position and her role as chairman of Ross (Australia) Productions. After Terry’s death, it had been Franklin’s idea that she play an active part in the administration of their Australian film and television interests.

His offer had been by way of compensation or to keep the peace – Franklin was never quite sure which. Compensation for the loss of her sons or a gesture to keep the peace following the scene they’d had which had nearly escalated into a heated argument. Franklin and Penelope never argued. On occasion Franklin was brusque or remote, depending on his mood, and Penelope was at times acid or sulky, depending on hers, but they never raised their voices at each other. Both detested any display of temper in themselves or others.

It had happened the week after Terry’s funeral. One night, at dinner, Penelope had more than her customary single glass of wine to aid the digestion and became morose. She’d been depressed since the accident and Franklin hadn’t inquired too deeply, putting it down to mourning whilst he sorted out his own feelings about his son’s death.

‘What is there to live for, Franklin?’ she’d asked as she stared at the dregs of her fourth glass of wine. She was obviously affected by the alcohol and Franklin assumed the question was rhetorical, so he didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to. ‘We killed our sons – you know that, don’t you?’ This time she looked at him, obviously expecting a reply. He said nothing. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ she persisted. ‘We killed them, you and I, we killed them.’

‘You’ve had a little too much wine, my dear,’ he said gently. ‘You’re distressing yourself unnecessarily. Perhaps you should go to bed.’

Penelope ignored him and poured herself another glass. ‘You never loved James and you
sent him to his death.‘ Several drops of wine spilled onto the tablecloth and she covered them with a linen napkin. ‘And I didn’t pay enough attention to Terry and he killed himself.’

Her tone was maudlin. Franklin looked at her and felt a surge of irritation. She was wallowing in the drama of it all and whitewashing herself at the same time. Her guilt was a mere oversight and his was murder.

‘I did love James,’ he answered stiffly. ‘And I most certainly did not send the boy to his death. He died a hero in the service of his country.’

‘Rubbish and you know it!’ Penelope raised her voice and the sound was grating to Franklin. ‘He only went to war to prove to you that he was a man. And when he died you made him a hero and then Terry couldn’t do anything right. He tried. I watched him try.’

Franklin’s irritation was rapidly becoming anger. So now he was responsible for Terry’s death too. He’d thought about whether there was anything he could have done to prevent the deaths of his sons and he’d come to the conclusion that there was nothing. He was absolved. James had been conscripted into the army and had died in battle. Heartbreaking but simple. And Terry? Terry had been weak, a loser. His own deficiency of character had been his undoing. Indeed, Franklin had been a fool not to see the weakness in the boy from the very beginning.

As he looked at his wife, Franklin felt a white-hot fury growing. How dare she? He had nurtured his anger at fate and the hand he’d been dealt. He’d kept it raging inside him and he’d be damned
if he’d let Penelope undermine his belief.

‘Go to bed, woman, you’re drunk.’ He tried not to raise his voice but there was such a venomous edge to it that he might as well have. Penelope recognised his anger and realised that she’d gone too far. She hadn’t really meant to goad him, but it was all so unfair. There was nothing left in her life. It was empty. Someone had to be to blame.

‘It’s not fair,’ she said, putting down her glass. ‘It’s not fair.’ Tears welled in her eyes.

‘Of course it isn’t.’ Franklin recognised that the danger was over and his fury abated. She was unhappy and lashing out at him, that was understandable. ‘It isn’t fair and it isn’t anyone’s fault.’ He put his arm around her, gently easing her out of the chair. ‘Now go to bed like a good girl and we’ll talk about things in the morning when you feel better.’

They hadn’t talked about things the following morning but Franklin had suggested that she take on a full-time administrative role with Ross (Australia) Productions and Penelope allowed herself to be persuaded.

It wasn’t long before Penelope regained her love of power and position. Franklin was delighted with the result. Now, years later, she was literally running the business and Franklin was left free to concentrate on his American studios and production company.

His trips to the States were now more important than ever to Franklin. Penelope had long since refused to have sexual intercourse. In retrospect,
he’d realised that it was around the time of James’ death that she’d started to lose interest in sex, and he’d supposed it was understandable. But as a result, the convenient affair he’d been having in New York with Helen Bohan had become a far more significant feature in his life.

He hadn’t intended it to be that way. He’d always been honest with Helen. He’d told her from the outset that theirs was an expedient affair, that he would never leave his wife. Helen chose to accept the conditions.

Then, years later, when his feelings for her deepened, he worried that he might be ruining her life. ‘You’re nearly thirty years younger than I am, my dear,’ he said. ‘You need someone close to your age. You need children.’ Still Helen chose to stay with him.

Her love and loyalty gradually took effect and Franklin’s annual three months in New York became four and then five. His only regret was seeing less of the grandson upon whom he doted, but time would rectify that. In eight or nine years the boy would be old enough for a position in the company and then they would work and travel together. Such were Franklin’s plans for Michael.

Michael had his own plans, which didn’t particularly conflict with Franklin’s. At ten he’d decided he was going to make movies. He didn’t want to act in them, he wanted to create them. Fantasies. His head swarmed with stories and visions and characters who belonged to a special world.

His glamorous grandmother, who had once been a Hollywood movie star and who had the photos to prove it, was more than encouraging.
Penelope was proud of her creative, imaginative grandson and she, too, had plans for Michael.

Everyone had plans for Michael, it appeared, except his mother. Vonnie seemed to have disappeared in the scheme of things, and yet it was she who, in reality, was the greatest influence of all upon the boy. Quiet, colourless Vonnie, ‘the mouse’, was the one responsible for Michael’s private world of fantasy and the belief that, through it, he could achieve anything.

Ever since she’d been absorbed by the Ross household – absorbed to the point of oblivion -Vonnie had retreated into her own world. In that world she was important. In her own world she was beautiful, she was deeply loved and she could do anything she wanted. It had started with books and radio and television – they’d been enough of an escape for her in the beginning. But after Terry had died and they’d moved into The Colony House, she needed more.

One day she had overheard Penelope referring to her as ‘the mouse’. Vonnie supposed a comment like that was to be expected from someone as glamorous as Penelope. But Penelope had always professed to be her friend. That was when Vonnie finally disappeared. She retreated into her magic world where anything was possible, and she took her baby with her.

Little Michael loved it. He loved the endless possibilities of the fantasy land she built for them and, by the time he was ten, something that had begun as an escape for Vonnie had become an extension of the real world to Michael. He couldn’t wait for the day when he would bring his
visions to life, when he would create happenings, control the lives of the people in his mind.

In the meantime, he wrote plays and stories and made puppets and scenery and even a makeshift theatre in which to perform his inventions.

Franklin was so impressed that he had an extravagant marionette theatre made for the boy, complete with electronic curtains and backdrops and scenery changes. He also purchased a dozen hugely expensive handmade marionettes in an assortment of characters both classical and modern.

Michael was happy to use the theatre and its attendant equipment, but he left the marionettes alone. He only wanted to play with the puppets he had made. To Michael it was important that the characters in his plays and stories, and what happened to them, were of his creation. And one day, he told himself, those puppets would be real people. One day he would create and control the lives of real people.

Michael’s was an idyllic childhood. Although he was spoilt by his wealthy grandparents, it didn’t seem to tarnish his amiable disposition. A generous-natured boy to whom money and possessions meant little, he loved giving presents, which made him very popular at school. His natural exuberance and sense of mischief led him into trouble now and then but even the teachers who punished him realised that his behaviour was a natural extension of the child’s creative imagination. Everyone liked Michael. And Michael liked everyone.

Everyone, that is, except Karol. Michael was unsure of Karol, even a little frightened of him. But then everyone was a little frightened of Karol Mankowski.

Karol Mankowski was his grandfather’s personal assistant but even Michael knew that he was really Franklin’s personal bodyguard and that the man was an expert in the martial arts and always carried a gun.

It wasn’t that there was anything particularly violent about Karol. To the contrary, he rarely spoke and, when he did, his voice was so quiet that Michael could barely hear it. But there was no vitality in him, no humour.

Even Grandpa Franklin told the odd joke, Michael thought. Karol never did. And when Grandpa Franklin said something funny everyone laughed. Everyone except Karol. Michael wondered if he knew how.

As a young man, Karol Mankowski had always been of a serious disposition. Now, in his late thirties, he had reason to be. His wife and only child had been killed in a car crash three years before. A crazy, meaningless car crash. Police chasing two youths in a stolen car. An innocent mother and child waiting at an intersection. The youths had been unhurt, one policeman had an arm broken, the mother and child …

Karol was a bitter man. He’d always been a private person to everyone but his family. He’d never had friends but that didn’t worry him. He had his parents and his wife and child. And, of course, Franklin. Franklin Ross was a second father to Karol. Then came the terrible accident
and, a year after that, the death of his father.

Solly Mankowski died peacefully in his sleep of a heart attack when he was in his eighties. But Karol was convinced that his father would have lived another ten years had it not been for the accident. Solly grew old in the year that followed. Then he let himself die.

In Karol’s life now there was only his mother and Franklin. Zofia was strong. She loved her son but she didn’t need him. She devoted herself to her daughter and her two grandchildren. That left Franklin. Only Franklin needed Karol, and Karol’s whole existence now revolved around the protection of Franklin Ross. Franklin Ross and his sole heir.

Karol was always watching Michael. Quietly… furtively. Michael hated it. It gave him the shivers. When his grandfather left for the States, and took Karol with him, Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Of course there were the general security guards who patrolled The Colony House – he knew they’d been told to keep an eye on him and one of them usually tagged along when he went out – but they were good fun and he could share a joke with them. When he went to the studios with Penelope or to the zoo with Zofia and her grandchildren, there was always a security man in attendance but he didn’t spoil the outing – he managed to disappear into the background.

Not Karol. Michael could never get Karol out of his line of vision. Wherever he looked, there was Karol, somewhere in the corner of his eye. Stolid, immovable, except for the eyes beneath the
heavy Polish brow. The piercing black eyes which missed nothing.

One day, shortly after his twelfth birthday, Michael decided that it was time to stop being frightened of Karol. The man was probably a fool anyway, he told himself, and he invented a convenient character.

Karol was really all show. That was it. A moron. Hired by his grandfather because of Franklin’s close friendship with Solly. And Franklin had agreed years ago to disguise the fact that his friend’s son was a halfwit by having him serve in a position as bodyguard. His appearance suited the purpose and nobody would question his wits. Perfect. It was a good scenario, Michael decided, and he persuaded himself that it was fact. Of course there was only one way to prove it.

‘Can I come to the studios with you, Penelope?’ he asked his grandmother one day. It was school holidays and he knew she’d say yes. Just as he knew that Karol would accompany them, Franklin having called an all-day conference at The Colony House. During the long, hot summers, Franklin regularly called meetings for his senior administrators at The Colony House rather than the city offices. It was cooler and more comfortable for all concerned.