Araluen (9 page)

Millie was equally surprised. ‘When?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow evening?’

‘Oh.’ Dine with Mr Ross? This couldn't be happening. For dignity's sake she appeared to give it a moment's thought — as though she were regularly extended invitations to dine from gentlemen of the calibre of Franklin Ross — and then she nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said.

When the door was safely closed behind her Millie kicked off her shoes and tried not to squeal too loudly. Dinner with Mr Ross! Fancy that!

As Franklin hailed a cab, he wondered why on earth he'd done it. What would they talk about over dinner? He had nothing in common with the woman. Nothing at all.

But the subject of Millie bore no analysis. Franklin sat back in the cab sure of only one thing. He desperately wanted Millie Tingwell. He looked out the window and thought of Bronwyn. Bronwyn was the only woman Franklin had ever slept with.

Franklin Ross was still a virgin at twenty when Bronwyn came to work as mess cook for the farmhands.

Bronwyn was a big woman — not fat, but buxom. And capable. Strong. She must have been thirty, Franklin supposed, and definitely experienced.

‘One of the young masters,’ she said when she first met him. The voice, with its soft Welsh lilt, came as a surprise. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, sir.’ The token curtsy which followed teased and mocked him and suddenly he found her highly desirable.

Over the ensuing weeks, Franklin observed that she never behaved the same way with Kenneth, nor any of the farmhands, for that matter. Surely she couldn't have set her sights on him.

But Bronwyn had.

It was a Sunday, in the stables. The same stables where Franklin had witnessed the shocking coupling of Catherine and Gaby.

He was saddling his horse to ride to church. He never travelled in the trap with Kenneth and his parents. His father had disapproved at first; the family should arrive together, he said. But when Franklin turned eighteen, Charles was forced to concede that as long as the boy attended the Sunday service, his means of transport should be his own choice.

One Sunday, Bronwyn was waiting in the stables for him.

‘The young master,’ she said. ‘You look grand.’ She was sitting amongst the fresh straw at the end of the stables, leaning back against the wooden planking of the far wall.

He stood there, framed in the light of the doorway, the bridle in his hand. He knew what was going to happen. He wasn't sure how to go about it, but he knew he'd been aching for it for weeks. The bridle dropped from his hand as Bronwyn came towards him.

‘We wouldn't want to spoil our Sunday best now, would we?’ she murmured as she slipped his jacket from his shoulders. ‘And the trousers, such a nice fabric’ He scarcely dared breathe as she knelt before him and undid the buttons, sliding the trousers down. So slowly down. Everything had become slow motion to Franklin and, as she rose to her feet, he still didn't move.

She took his hand. ‘Come, young master, let us lie down in the comfy hay.’

She'd undone the buttons of her blouse and he
longed to touch the swell of her breasts as he blindly followed her to the straw, but he was powerless.

Then, with the strength of a farmhand, she pulled him down upon her and Franklin was no longer mesmerised. He ripped at her blouse, at her skirts, he thrust his hand between her legs and, in an equal frenzy, laughing all the while, she ripped at him.

His mouth was full of her breasts, her lips, her neck. His hand was discovering territory he'd never known existed. She was soft and moist and she kept laughing as he felt her. Then she was wet and open and inviting and, before he knew it, he was plunging himself into her.

It was over in seconds but Bronwyn didn't seem to mind. ‘Next time will be better, I promise you.’ Franklin left the stables in utter bewilderment. Better? How could anything be better?

Their affair continued twice a week for the following four years. They would steal into Bronwyn's room in the servants’ quarters above the stables in the dead of night. Their couplings were always furtive as they choked back their grunts and animal noises for fear someone might hear them in the still darkness.

It was the furtive aspect itself which excited Franklin. He found the blackness and the strangled grunts and the anonymity immensely erotic as they bucked about on her tiny bed in the corner of her tiny room.

Their sexual encounters were always aggressive and the more energetically he pounded away at her, the more forcefully Bronwyn thrust herself
back at him until, having both made full use of each other's bodies, they exploded in an orgy of fulfilment.

Then she'd get up, turn on the light and douche herself in the basin of cold water she'd set under the bed in anticipation of their rendezvous. ‘You wash it all out, you see,’ she'd explain to him in her soft Welsh lilt. ‘That way you don't have a baby.’

Franklin looked away when she douched. He found it disgusting and wished she would go to the servants’ bathroom downstairs. He would concentrate on dressing himself as quickly as possible by way of distraction.

Bronwyn didn't seem to mind the haste with which he left. ‘I'll see you next Wednesday, yes?’ she'd whisper as she opened the door. ‘Save it up for me, mind.’ And she'd smile and he'd leave and he'd tell himself he wasn't coming back. But of course he always did.

Then, very abruptly, Bronwyn fell in love with the new foreman employed on Mary's neighbouring property. She married him and, six months later, was once again giving Franklin the eye. But, by this time, Bronwyn had become thoroughly abhorrent to Franklin and he found it very easy to resist her advances.

That had been the limit of Franklin's sexual experience and the year of celibacy which followed was no hardship to him. He decided that sex was a little disgusting and, pleasurable as it was for one brief moment, it was considerably overrated. What's more, it was distracting — one could be far more productive by concentrating all of one's
energies on work, achievement and success.

And now here was Millie, reminding him of the beast within. Franklin found it rather unsettling.

Catherine's friends were just as pretentious as Franklin had anticipated. At least that's what he told himself. Having no knowledge of art, he actually found some of them a trifle daunting but he refused to admit that, even to himself.

‘But a wheat field isn't that colour,’ he said to Catherine and a group holding court before a particularly gaudy landscape. ‘I've lived in the country all my life,’ he insisted, ‘and wheat fields simply are not that colour.’

‘Oh yes they are. To many people they are.’ Catherine smiled. She wasn't being patronising and she wasn't being aggressive either, which was a welcome change. ‘Yours is not the only vision, my dear.’ And then she introduced the artist. ‘This is Margaret,’ she said.

Franklin refused to be daunted. ‘But I see what I see and a wheat field is not bright orange.’ He looked argumentatively about at the group. Who the hell did they think they were, anyway? ‘I realise that impressionism must mean it's some person's impression of what a wheat field looks like to them,’ he said, glaring an accusation at Margaret, whose expression was particularly patronising, ‘but I don't have to recognise that and I don't have to like it.’

‘Of course you don't.’ Catherine refused to be offended. ‘But quite possibly you see what you
expect
to see: brown earth, green trees, yellow
daisies. Perhaps you need to liberate your senses a little more. Allow yourself to see more freely.’

‘And how exactly do you suggest I liberate my senses?’ he asked.

There was a touch of scorn in his voice but Catherine refused to acknowledge it — he was only being defensive. ‘You need to free your eye from the focal point,’ she said. ‘Come on, I'll show you.’ And she led the way out to the small back garden, Franklin reluctantly following.

‘Look up at the sky,’ she instructed. Franklin did. Might as well keep the peace, he thought. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said, ‘and try and think of nothing.’

Catherine watched him as he stood with his head back and his eyes closed. He was so young and so serious. She wanted to hold him to her and tell him that there was joy in the world, and magic. She wanted to teach him to let go, to say yes to it all.

But then the first few sniffs of cocaine always made Catherine feel like that. Vital, attractive, inspired, as if she were young again and it were her mission in life to share the magic of the universe. She knew she abused the drug. She knew that later in the day she became loud and aggressive. But what of it? Many of her friends indulged too. They understood, Gaby understood.

‘Now open your eyes,’ she said, ‘and without focusing on anything, be aware of the colours in your peripheral vision.’

Franklin concentrated on doing exactly as she instructed. He was starting to find the exercise rather interesting and, as he stared ahead at the
empty sky, he became aware of an insistent yellow glare to his right and a flash of red somewhere down near Catherine's feet to his left.

Catherine could see the young boy holding the glass up to the light. She could see him study the wine reverently and she could hear his solemn pronouncement, ‘It tastes like wet flour sacks.’

‘The red flowers,’ Franklin said and he pointed at the patch of geraniums in the corner. ‘Those ones. They stood out the most. And so did the balcony of the restaurant.’ He pointed next door to the wrought iron which Gustave had painted an outrageous yellow.

‘Excellent,’ Catherine applauded him. ‘Now apply that lesson during certain times of the day when the light plays tricks or in places where the colours are deeper and you'll find that the wheat fields really are orange and that the earth is red and the mountains purple, and all sorts of astonishing things. It's very exciting.’

She didn't want to push it any further than that. She felt she'd made a remarkable breakthrough. She wanted so much to win back Franklin's love and respect. ‘Let's go inside. I'm deserting my guests.’

As they passed by the gaudy painting of the wheat field Catherine said, ‘Have another look at it. And concentrate on the sky this time; you might like it.’ Then she smiled wickedly and muttered, ‘Even if you don't, it's going to be worth a lot of money one day.’

Franklin looked at her, surprised. ‘I'm not mad on it myself, actually,’ she said, casting a critical glance at the wheat field, ‘but I sure as hell know
what the critics like and Margaret's it.’ She took him by the arm. ‘Come and meet Gustave,’ she said.

Franklin was relieved to discover that Gustave Lumet held no mystery for him whatsoever. Here was no connoisseur of art, no man with a magic vision of the world. Here was an out-and-out snob, a self-made businessman with pretensions of grandeur. Franklin had met his type often before in the wine trade, where they abounded. And he knew exactly the way to play him. Within an hour of their meeting Gustave was taking him on a guided tour of the restaurant next door and suggesting Franklin sell him a selection of Ross Estate wines. Of course he knew of The Ross Estate, he insisted; there would be no need for samples, he wanted to lay in stock immediately.

‘Very well, I'll deliver them myself,’ Franklin offered graciously. ‘We'll have a small private tasting of the newly released vintages, shall we?’ It would be interesting to test the man's palate as well as his business sense.

The idea of a private tasting with the vigneron himself was very appealing to Gustave, who prided himself on recognising a genuine patrician when he met one, and Franklin Ross was definitely that. If he had thought for one moment that he could secure Franklin's services, he would have gone down on bended knee.

Gustave insisted on breaking open a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate their agreement and they sat talking about wine, food and restaurants and thoroughly enjoying one another's company.

When Franklin called in next door to thank
Catherine nearly two hours later, the exhibition was well and truly over. Many of the guests had gone and those remaining were very loud and gregarious. A lot of champagne had been consumed, more was being passed around and a party was obviously well under way.

Catherine was nowhere to be seen so he tapped quietly on the little sitting room door marked ‘Private’ at the rear of the studio. It was ajar and, as there was no reply, he pushed it open gently and peeped in.

She was slumped in an armchair, her chin resting on her ample bosom. Her right hand was also resting on her bosom, her fingers loosely curled around a tiny silver spoon. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone and Franklin could see that the spoon was attached to a slim chain around her neck.

Catherine's eyes were closed but he could tell that she wasn't asleep. She was breathing deeply and rhythmically but each exhalation was like a groan. Painful. There was white dust encrusted around her nostrils and her lips and, from one corner of her mouth, a slow dribble of saliva was starting to wind its way down among the several layers of her chin.

The door to the bathroom opened and Gaby appeared, carrying a glass of water. She saw Franklin immediately but she barely acknowledged him. ‘Come along, my darling,’ she said, kneeling beside Catherine. ‘Drink some water.’ She removed the silver spoon from Catherine's hand and replaced it with the glass, firmly pressing Catherine's fingers around the base. ‘Come along now.’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Catherine's eyes sprang open and she pulled the glass away. ‘I can do it, I can do it.’ As she gulped greedily at the water, spilling it down her chin, Gaby slipped the silver spoon on its chain back inside the blouse and did up the top two buttons.

‘Franklin has come to say goodbye,’ she said. And she rose to her feet and crossed to him. ‘Be kind,’ she whispered, ‘it is the cocaine.’

For the first time Franklin noticed the small, open-lidded silver box full of white powder on the coffee table beside the armchair.

‘Goodbye, Aunt Catherine,’ he said tersely, forgetting to drop the ‘Aunt’. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

Catherine focused on him for a second or so, registered who he was, and mustered up a dignity from somewhere out of the past. She inhaled deeply. ‘Goodbye, my dear, thank you so much for coming,’ she said. And Franklin disappeared into the afternoon, grateful to be gone.