Araluen (41 page)

Exhausted as he was, Michael slept fitfully. Visions of Emma raged in his mind. Emma naked. Emma abandoned. Emma offering herself. The man to whom she was offering herself was not identifiable -a nameless, faceless, naked form revelling in her body and the pleasure he was giving her.

In his past fantasies, the man had always been Michael, but tonight, as he tossed and turned, he knew that the image was not his. He knew that the image was that of a real person.

Suddenly Michael was wide awake. Emma was doing it. Even now, as he thought of her, she was doing it. Malcolm O'Brien was tasting the delights of Emma Clare and the mere contemplation of that fact was enough to drive Michael mad.

‘Michael, you look terrible.’ She kissed him on the cheek and bustled him into the apartment. ‘For God's sake, what on earth were you getting up to last night, you silly bugger? Of all times to go overboard with the coke, you pick the premiere. Honestly ... ’

‘Don't nag, Emma. I copped it all from Grandpa Franklin this morning. The old bastard's even threatened to withhold my trust account next year if I continue to muck up.’

‘Well, I don't blame him. You have to cut it out - that bloody stuff'll kill you ... ’

‘I know, I know, and I’m going to stop, I swear.’

Poor Michael, she thought, he looked utterly worn out. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

Michael sat on the sofa. ‘Where's whatsisname?’ He couldn't resist asking although he tried to make it sound casual. ‘I thought he'd be here.’

‘Whatsisname's called Malcolm O'Brien,’ she answered as she walked through into the open-plan kitchen area. ‘And no, he doesn't stay here, he stays at a hotel.’

Michael was dying to ask whether she'd gone back to the hotel with him after the premiere but he knew that would be a huge mistake. ‘Well, he seems a nice enough bloke but I hope he's not going to get in the way of our work.’

‘How do you mean? How could he get in the way of our work?’

‘He's a Queensland bigshot, isn't he?’ Michael had made a point of asking around last night. ‘Some shonky millionaire real estate whizz and he's bound to want to haul you off with him to the Gold Coast and shove you in some ritzy penthouse and - ’

‘Shut up, Michael.’ She stopped her coffee preparations and was staring at him frostily. ‘You have absolutely no right to be jealous of Malcolm. He doesn’t affect our friendship or our work in any way and if you’re going to become possessive ... ’

Michael realised in an instant that he’d gone too far. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Emma.’ He smiled his easy, lazy grin and sat back comfortably on the sofa. You stupid bastard, he told himself. Don’t scare her off.
‘I
couldn’t give a shit about your love life,
I
just don’t want you disappearing to Queensland when
I
need you in WA for
Blue Water History,
that’s all. It’s going to be a hands-on job, and I can’t communicate across the entire continent when the script’s going to change every half-hour.’ The grin had disappeared and he leaned forward, the excitement of creation banishing his fatigue. ‘Whatever happens during the filming of the actual race is going to affect the movie - we have to go with the flow, we have to - ’

Emma relaxed. Was that all it was? How stupid for her to have overreacted. ‘For God’s sake, Michael,’ she laughed,
‘Blue Water History
is just as important to me as it is to you. I wouldn’t miss out on one second of it. I’ll be in Perth whenever you want me to be there.’

Michael felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. She was his again. He could always excite her creatively. No one else could do that to her to the same degree. The physical was only an extension of that excitement. Perth. It would all happen in Perth.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Get the coffee, OK? I’m going to wash my face and get rid of this hangover - we’ve got work to do. Where’s the bathroom? Any Berocca?’ She pointed the way. ‘Great flat,’ he called as he walked through the bedroom to the en suite. ‘Fantastic views.’ He looked briefly at the double bed and wondered whether they’d done it there last night or at the hotel. Then he stopped himself.

He washed his face with cold water and took a Dexedrine. Just the one to get him going. Emma and Franklin were right, he decided. He snorted too much cocaine. He’d lay off for a while, just take the pills every now and then - they were harmless and easily accessible. He’d paid a doctor for a fake certificate stating he suffered from narcolepsy and was therefore legally qualified to obtain and carry amphetamines.

‘Look at the subs,’ he said coming back into the lounge room and gazing out the window. ‘When I was a kid I used to love crossing the bridge and counting how many submarines were in the base.’

The flat was on the fourth floor and had magnificent views of the harbour. ‘You know why it’s called Neutral Bay?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ she answered. ‘Tell me.’

‘Because in the Colonial days ships of all nations were allowed to berth here regardless of their warring state with each other. This bay was declared a neutrality zone.’

‘Look at that,’ he said, leaning dangerously out of the window. ‘Three subs - aren’t they amazing? I always wanted to be a submarine commander when I was a kid. Amongst a million other things, of course,’ he added.

‘Michael,’ Emma smiled. ‘Shall we get on with the script?’ She was pleased to see him looking so much better. His recuperative powers were truly amazing.

They worked for the next five hours and, once again, Emma thrilled to Michael’s creative energy. It was like doing mental gymnastics as he ripped her script to shreds. ‘It’s great, Emma, but what say we do this ... ?’ or ‘Love it, yes, but what if this happens ... ? Where do we go from there ... ?’ He kept placing hurdles and obstacles in their path only to leap over them or mow them down.

Twice during the work session Malcolm telephoned. ‘Can’t talk, Malcolm, we’re working.’ Emma couldn’t wait to get off the phone. ‘Ring back later.’

The third time he called he was obviously insistent upon planning their evening. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ she answered. Then to Michael, ‘We’ll be too burned out to work tonight, won’t we?’

‘I certainly won’t,’ he replied. ‘We could have a final draft by tonight.’

‘Great,’ she said, ‘we’ll get takeaway.’ Back to the phone. ‘Sorry, Malcolm, not tonight.’

Michael’s spirits soared. He took another speed pill in the late afternoon, and, by eleven o’clock that night, when they’d finished the script and read it through out loud, it was an utterly exhausted Emma who had to call a halt.

Michael gathered the script together. ‘I’ll have a final shooting script typed up and a copy to you by the end of the week,’ he said. ‘We’re off to Perth in a month, so get yourself prepared. We have to be there mid-January. Now go to bed; you were brilliant.’ He hugged her and was gone, leaving Emma drained and happy and wondering how the hell he did it.

Michael slept well that night. No visions of Emma and the naked man. Malcolm was no threat. In a month he would have Emma entirely to himself.

The following day, a parcel arrived at The Colony House addressed to Franklin Ross. It was from the solicitors handling the estate of the late Kenneth Charles Ross.

Franklin’s older brother had died six months earlier. Franklin hadn’t bothered going to the funeral. He’d been busy in New York at the time; it would have been inconvenient and, furthermore, he felt it would have been hypocritical to do so.

The only time Franklin had returned to South Australia since he’d left the family property over fifty-five years ago had been a one-day courtesy trip to attend his mother’s funeral. On that occasion, the members of the Ross family in attendance - Franklin’s surviving cousins, their children and their grandchildren - had been strangers to him. He’d barely recognised his own brother, who’d grown fat and indolent and who did nothing at the funeral but complain of financial hardship and the struggle his son was having keeping Araluen out of debt.

‘These are hard times for us on the land, Franklin,’ Kenneth had whinged. But Franklin hadn’t taken him seriously. ‘On the land,’ indeed. Franklin knew for a fact that Grandfather George had left not only Araluen, but vast property holdings and shares in a distillery and a bottling plant to his ‘first-born’. Furthermore, Franklin had never once asked for a penny from the family estate, although it would have been perfectly within his rights to have made such a request. He’d earned his fortune, every cent of it, on his own, and if Kenneth and his son were looking for a hand-out because they’d squandered their inheritance then they could beg till doomsday as far as Franklin was concerned.

He didn’t visit Araluen, although he would dearly have loved to walk through the old stone barn and to sit among the vines. There wasn’t time, he told himself. Besides, he couldn’t take any more of Kenneth’s company.

The letter from the lawyers informed Franklin that Kenneth had expressly requested that upon the event of his death the enclosed journals be forwarded to his younger brother Franklin. The letter further informed him that Kenneth’s firstborn son, as chief beneficiary of the will and custodian of the estate, was being forced to sell Araluen.

Franklin wondered if it was a ploy intended to bring him galloping to the rescue, but, several telephone calls later, his solicitors informed him that the report was correct. Araluen was up for sale.

‘Buy it,’ Franklin barked.

Those stupid incompetent bastards, he thought. Obviously Kenneth’s son was as piss-weak as his father.

Franklin ordered his solicitors to purchase the property under the name of one of his private subsidiary companies.

They’re not to know I’m the purchaser,’ he instructed. ‘Any member of the Ross family is welcome to stay and work on the property as an employee, but they must accept the total authority of the manager whom I shall appoint.’

Several hours later, in the study of his Colony House suite, Franklin opened the parcel which had accompanied the lawyer’s letter. The journals his brother had bequeathed to him were two large logbooks whose pages were filled with the neat, precise hand of George Howard Ross.

Grandfather George’s diaries! Franklin had never even known they existed. He skimmed through the pages, stopping every now and then to dwell upon a section that caught his attention.

I love this land. It claims me. We have cleared fifteen acres; the materials have been delivered, and tomorrow we start to build the stone barn. It will be an Herculean task and Richard thinks we are insane but I will finish it or I will die in the attempt. Poor Richard, his character leaves a lot to be desired and I feel sorry that there appears no goal he wishes to achieve ...

Franklin read on and on. For hours. He’d long since stopped skimming.

He never ceases to amaze me. He nurtures the vines as though they were his children. He is not well yet he works like a dervish. My brother, whom I judged so harshly - the land has claimed him too. It may well kill him, but it has been the saviour of his spirit...

It was late in the afternoon, yet still Franklin read on.

Richard is dying. It is painful to watch. But it is noble also. He is gallant upon his deathbed. He knows that the end is near, I am sure of it, yet he is as engaging and as playful of wit as ever. I wonder now whether that is where his strength has always lain but I have failed to recognise it.

Father maintained that Richard inherited the weak Ross strain and, indeed, there have been times when I myself have doubted Richard as a man of honour. What judgements we make of others when perhaps we should look to ourselves. Richard is honourable in death and his strength is his charm.

What right have I had to judge? I have been harsh and unkind on occasions, characteristics I have never once witnessed in Richard ...

Franklin rose and walked out onto the balcony for some air. The summer heat was oppressive and the ceiling fans afforded little relief. He could have retired to one of the air-conditioned lounges if he wished. But he didn’t. He’d steadfastly refused to allow an air-conditioning unit to be installed in his suite although he’d had to concede to its installation in other areas of The Colony House.

‘You don’t live here, Franklin,’ Penelope had insisted. ‘You have no right to demand the discomfort of those who do.’ He couldn’t really argue with that.

He gazed out over the harbour, but he didn’t see the last of the white yachts skimming over the blue water and heading for home in the gathering dusk. He was thinking of Grandfather George -the man whom, above all others, he had always deeply admired. He had tried to live like Grandfather George, a man of honour and conviction. To learn now that George had questioned himself and his judgement of others was quite a revelation to Franklin.

His gaze rested on the statue of the dueller on the far edge of the expanse of lawn that swept down to the harbour. Had he, like George, been a little over-harsh in his actions and judgements? Had it really been necessary to get rid of Sam? Was that the action of a man of honour? He hadn’t seen it as dishonourable at the time, but it certainly wasn’t the act of a friend.

For the first time in his life Franklin recognised the price he’d had to pay in his struggle for power and success. It had cost him his friends. He’d turned his back on human contact when he should have been learning from people like Sam. And Gustave Lumet. And Solly. Above all, Solly.

Too late now, he told himself. Too late to have regrets and too late to make new friends. When you were over eighty there were no new friends to be made. There were only old friends, and he’d let those go.

There was something else he’d lost, though. Something else that it was not too late to regain. The land. He’d turned his back on the land. But it was waiting for him. The land and the vines.

He remembered that night with Solly when he’d spoken of the vines. ‘They’re timeless Solly,’ he’d said. ‘They’re young and they’re old. They’re the past and the future. When you stand among them you, could be anywhere. In any place. In any civilisation.’ How had he ever allowed himself to forget that?