Araluen (7 page)

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 offensive. 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.’

‘Very well,’ Franklin answered stiffly. He didn't like being laughed at.

After lunch, they drank their coffee in the
garden outside the studio, Catherine smoking little black cigars, much to Franklin's disapproval. Through the leafy green trees he could see the bustling streets of Kings Cross and he listened with interest as Gaby told him a little of the suburb.

‘It is Sydney's Montmartre,’ she said. ‘Very Bohemian.’ Her accent was as charming as Franklin remembered from his childhood. ‘I feel at home here,’ she continued, ‘despite the fact there is a dangerous underworld influence.’

‘Rubbish,’ Catherine interrupted. ‘That only makes it all the more colourful. What about that bust you're doing of Nellie Cameron? One of the best things you've done in years — you find her quite inspirational, you said so yourself.’

Catherine lit up a fresh cigar. ‘There are a lot of powerful women in Sydney, Franklin. Particularly in the art world.’ She puffed at the cigar and coffee slopped from the cup in her other hand.

‘And the underworld,’ she added. ‘The underworld has very powerful female leaders. There is a current war between Tilly Devine and Kate Leigh as to who is the true queen, even though they operate in different fields. Tilly controls the prostitution racket and Kate deals in sly grog and cocaine.’

Franklin missed the sharp glance from Gaby and the bravado in the tilt of Catherine's head as she returned the look. ‘Now let's discuss this job you're after,’ she said, changing the subject.

Half an hour later, Franklin had to admit that Catherine's offers of help were very generous.
Gross, vulgar, offensive she might be, but she was prepared to offer him invaluable assistance and he was extremely grateful. She knew of the right position for him — it would be lucrative and he was bound to secure it so long as they went about it the right way.

‘Gustave Lumet is his name,’ Catherine said. ‘And you must meet him socially — impress him with your style and breeding and the fact that you don't really want the job at all but you might accept it as a favour to him.’

Gustave Lumet, it appeared, was the chef-owner of the very chic restaurant next door to Catherine's art gallery.

‘He passes himself off as French aristocracy, born in Paris,’ Catherine explained, ‘but we all know he's half-Belgian and that he started out as an assistant pastry cook in Lyons.’

Gustave's restaurant was a very popular meeting place for the Bohemian set of Kings Cross, as was Catherine's art gallery, and the two of them worked closely together to their mutual advantage.

Over the past twelve months Gustave had been dissatisfied with the succession of managers he'd hired and he constantly complained to Catherine and Gaby. ‘No style,’ he'd say, ‘they have no style. I do not mind if they know little of managing a restaurant — my staff is good, my maitre d’ superb. All I ask is that they meet, greet and welcome my diners with style!’

‘“Style” is Gustave's favourite word,’ Catherine explained to Franklin. ‘Gaby, for instance,’ she said, waving her cigar in Gabrielle's direction, ‘he's convinced that Gaby's the only woman in
Sydney with true style. The silly man's nearly twenty years younger than she is but he's madly in love with her. Sees her as a fellow aristocrat, probably. The French are such snobs.’

Franklin looked at Gaby to see if she was offended but she was smiling indulgently at Catherine and seemed genuinely amused. Franklin could quite understand how Gustave could be madly in love with her and he agreed with the man implicitly — she had great style.

Catherine's plan was perfectly simple. There was to be a minor showing at the gallery the following week. ‘A trial half-dozen pieces by a new artist,’ she said. ‘But everyone will be there to check out the latest competition. I shall introduce you to Gustave and I suggest you offer him a sample range of The Ross Estate wines. It means you'll be meeting him on equal ground and that should do the trick.’

Several minutes later, as Franklin was preparing to take his leave, the side gate leading to the street swung open and a burly, casually dressed man carrying a gladstone bag sauntered through the garden and up to Catherine. He didn't remove his cloth cap — Franklin thought him terribly rude. He wondered whether he should reprimand the fellow.

‘Delivery from Kate,’ the man muttered and Catherine waved him towards the studio door.

‘Wait for me inside, please,’ she said. ‘I'll be with you shortly.’