At Home With The Templetons (3 page)

She was prepared to argue her point for days if necessary, but to her amazement her parents gave in that night. She’d started researching the best boarding schools herself and quickly decided on one in Melbourne, far enough away from Castlemaine for independence yet not too far to prevent her coming home on the train at weekends. It was only later she discovered that while she’d been complaining about the local school, the local school had been complaining about her. She was ‘a disruptive influence’, according to the letter from the principal she happened to find in the desk in her father’s study. ‘Her arrogance prevents her from easily making friends, and the teachers find her lack of regard for their methods off-putting and unacceptable.’ Charlotte took great pleasure in tearing the letter up into pieces and mixing them in with the kitchen scraps. Her father wouldn’t miss it, she knew. His filing system was a mess.

At least she’d spared Audrey the horrors of that principal and her half-witted cronies. When the time came for Audrey to move from homeschooling to secondary classes, there was no question of the local school. She was enrolled in the same boarding school as Charlotte, and the two of them had been students there since. Charlotte preferred not to let Audrey forget it, either. ‘If it wasn’t for me …’ she liked to say, until Audrey turned on her one day.

‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d be happily living at home with friends from my own area rather than exiled with girls from miles away. But if banging on about it makes you feel less guilty about your own bad behaviour, you go right ahead.’

Charlotte just laughed. She knew they both liked being away from the family for weeks of the year, far from the Hall, far from being tarred with the ‘one of the Templetons’ brush and, best of all, far from the tedium of trying to maintain a property as large as theirs without the help of an army of servants or a tribe of gardeners.

Charlotte argued with her father about that too. ‘It’s ridiculous. Here we are recreating the authentic colonial experience, giving visitors a glimpse into yesteryear, yet we’re doing it with out the most basic element of life in that era: maids. How can I act the part of an aristocratic miss if twenty minutes earlier I was cleaning the toilet?’

‘We call it a lavatory, Charlotte. And you know why we don’t have servants. Because unlike your esteemed ancestors, we don’t have a gold fortune to pay them.’

That was the most annoying thing of all, really. There she was, not just snatched from her happy life in London and forced to leave all her friends behind, but locked in this strange historical bubble that was Templeton Hall, gaily spouting detail after detail about life in the goldrush days, wearing the clothes, pretending - pretending, for God’s sake, the humiliation of it - that they were living in that era, and yet it all seemed to be built on such flimsy financial foundations.

Oh, she knew

her father was still dealing in antiques, heading away from the Hall now and again on buying and selling trips. Selling with some success too, from what she’d occasion ally overheard him say to her mother. Not that Charlotte cared much for old glassware or furniture, but she’d always known her father had a very good eye for spotting valuable pieces and selling them on just as quickly. But was the antique trade as lucrative a business in Australia as it had been back home in England?

One day she’d had a poke around her dad’s study in search of some answers. She was the oldest of his four children, after all. Someday, all this would be partly hers. It was only right she should have some knowledge of the family’s financial picture beforehand.

Unfortunately the snooping session was interrupted before Charlotte had time to even work out which was the best drawer to start looking through. Aunt Hope came in, silent as ever, giving her a fright, though Charlotte did her best not to show any alarm, not until she could work out what her aunt’s mood was that day.

Fiery, it turned out. Aunt Hope was melodramatic at the best of times. At the worst of times too. Catching her niece in her brother-in-law’s out-of-bounds office was a heavensent

situation. She slammed the door, gave a great intake of breath and said in her mannered, husky voice, ‘And what do you think you’re doing, young lady?’

Charlotte knew it annoyed Hope to hear the relaxed hybrid English-Australian accent in her nieces and nephew, after the elocution lessons she and Eleanor had suffered back in England. ‘They just sound so common,’ Hope liked to say, with a theatrical shudder. But that Australian accent could come in very handy, Charlotte had discovered. She used it now, dragging out her vowels, leaving out letters, enjoying the sight of Hope’s disgust.

‘Just havin’ a look around, Hope.’ She pronounced ‘around’ as ‘arind’. ‘I’m doin’ a school project on the psychological impact of clutter’ - she pronounced it ‘cludda’ - ‘and Dad’s office seemed a perfect place to start.’

‘He wouldn’t be happy to find you here.’ Hope’s vowels were as sharp as diamonds.

‘Nor you, I’d wager,’ Charlotte answered, switching to a well-bred English accent to deliberately annoy Hope further. ‘What were you doing here? Dad’s office is out of bounds to all of us, isn’t it?’

Charlotte watched with interest as Hope, flustered by the direct question, changed the subject and started to talk in great detail about the hot weather instead. Quickly bored, Charlotte decided to get out before Henry came in and started interrogating the pair of them.

For as long as she could remember, Charlotte had disliked Hope. She felt plenty of other emotions towards her as well. Anger, mostly, when Hope drank too much and threw the tantrums that upset not just Eleanor, but the whole family and any

poor visitors who happened to be in earshot. Hope in full flight could be a terrifying spectacle, with tears and shouts and objects being hurled around the place.

‘She can’t help it. She’s unwell.’ They’d heard the excuses from their parents for years.

‘So send her to a hospital,’ Charlotte snapped back one night. She’d been angry and hurt on that occasion, just a few months after they arrived in Australia. It was her birthday, the only day in the Templetons’ newly established family schedule when the birthday girl, or boy, was truly able to be the centre of attention, get out of tour-guiding, cleaning and gardening and instead spend the day doing just as they pleased, finishing with a dinner made up of all their favourite dishes.

That day, though - Charlotte’s fifteenth birthday - Hope had one of her ‘episodes’. Not a standard plate-throwing or screaming one, but a get-completely-drunk-and-slash-at-herself with-a-broken -glass one. They were all in the kitchen, about to start serving dinner, the usual teasing and joking flying around, Charlotte the centre of attention. One moment Hope was standing at the sink, obviously drunk, yes, but apparently happy, the next she was weeping loudly, a broken wine glass in one hand and a gash down her other arm. Pandemonium followed, Charlotte remembered; attempts to stop the blood with a tea towel, then a bath towel, before a rushed trip to the Castlemaine hospital, Henry driving and Eleanor in the back cradling her sister. There was no time for apologies to Charlotte about her ruined birthday dinner. By the time they’d arrived back, after midnight, her birthday was over in any case.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Eleanor had said, coming into her room. ‘What did you do, darling? Did you manage to have any fun at all?’ Charlotte took perverse pleasure in telling her the truth. ‘How did I spend my birthday? As a matter of fact, I spent it cleaning your drunken sister’s blood off the kitchen floor.’

She’d regretted it afterwards, seeing the hurt expression on her mother’s face, but anger had eventually won over regret. Her mother needed to know the impact Hope had on the family. Secretly, when they were sure their mother wasn’t listening, it amused Charlotte and Audrey to call their aunt Hopeless, to imagine the joys of a life without Hope, to bemoan the fact that Hope springs eternal. But no matter how they joked, before long the same drama would play out, the whole family held hostage to Hope’s drinking, her mood swings and temper. The only saving grace was that Templeton Hall was so big they could at least try to avoid Hope as much as possible, except on days like today when there was a fuss about something and she would place herself in the centre of it.

Sighing, Charlotte turned her pillow over, thumped it twice, then lay down again. The sooner she finished school, turned eighteen and could get away from this madhouse, the better. On the bright side, her father owed her now, for having given up her day off.

It had to be worth double pocket money. As she lay there waiting unsuccessfully for sleep to come, she took great pleasure in concocting a long shopping list.

In her bedroom, Audrey couldn’t sleep either. She pulled out the sheet of paper from under her pillow and read it one more time. She’d intended to show it to her family today, but changed her mind after the drama with Gracie. She wanted everyone’s full attention when she made her announcement. Charlotte already

knew, of course, but she’d been sworn to secrecy until Audrey decided the time was right to tell the others. For once, Charlotte had seemed to understand how important it was, and also what a recognition of her talent it was. The drama teacher had said it too, in front of the whole class, after he announced the cast. ‘I think we have the makings of a fine production of Hamlet, girls, with a very special Ophelia in Audrey Templeton. Here’s to a marvellous end-of-year production.’

It was like a wonderful dream, except it was actually real, Audrey thought, gazing down happily at the play’s rehearsal schedule. There it was, in black and white, a list of cast members, with her name beside one of the lead roles!

This wasn’t just some ordinary school production, either. Word had it that drama scouts for film production companies, acting schools and advertising agencies came to all the Galviston Girls’ School productions. Whether it was because their daughters attended the school, Audrey didn’t know and preferred not to think about. This was her chance, her moment and, more importantly, the only way to show her parents she was serious about a career as an actress.

When she’d tentatively raised the subject a year before, armed with brochures from her school career guidance counsellor, she hadn’t got very far. Her parents hadn’t even looked at the information on drama studies. They both concentrated on the weighty documents explaining the courses on offer at Melbourne University, the best tertiary institution in the state, in their opinion. A chemistry degree for Audrey, they’d decided.

That day, and many days since, Audrey had cursed her own easy ability with scientific formulations and chemical compounds. So what if she could sort out formulae in her head?

She could run fast too, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be an Olympic athlete. But any hints from her about chasing her dream met with blank stares from her parents.

‘Acting’s not really a career, darling. It’s a hobby.’

‘We didn’t even know you liked acting. You never show much interest in it here.’

This isn’t acting, she’d wanted to shout. This is some weird family business involving ill-fitting costumes and dull facts, spouting information to motley groups of tired and sweaty people in shorts and Tshirts who think it is somehow funny to follow a costumed teenager around an old building for a family outing. Acting was different. Acting on a stage, in a darkened theatre, was a suspension of disbelief, a way of blocking out the real world, of seeing other people’s lives and stories brought to life - she had listened attentively through every one of her drama theory classes and had her arguments ready. Except her parents didn’t ask for her arguments. Before she’d a chance to object, Henry had filled out the form requesting she be coached towards a chemistry degree.

‘And don’t worry, of course you can keep acting,’ Henry had said. ‘Melbourne University has a terrific drama society. It’ll be a great outlet for you - give that right brain of yours a workout after all the left-brain study.’

But this piece of paper in her hand could change everything. Her parents’ minds, her future, everything. Once they saw her as Ophelia, they would realise just how talented she was and how serious she was about acting. After the play was staged, she’d ask her drama teacher to write a letter, begging for their understanding, urging them not to make the mistake of denying the world a great dramatic actress.

Audrey climbed out of bed, too excited to sleep now. Silently crossing the room, she took a seat on the elegant antique stool in front of her dressing table, lit two of the candles that formed a waxen guard around her extensive collection of make-up brushes and hair ornaments, and stared at her reflection in the bevelled mirror. She’d decided recently that the best way to describe her looks to any possible casting agent was ‘classic English beauty’. Pale skin, high cheekbones (not high enough, in her opinion, but her experiments with various shades of blusher were helping towards her ideal look) and shoulder-length dark-red hair that she liked to wear in, yes, ‘classic’ styles. Her role models, she’d decided, were the silent screen goddesses of the 1920s, with their immaculate grooming and strong femininity. Elegance never went out of fashion.

Not that she’d shared her thoughts with anyone in her family. Her mother had started to grow very impatient with the time Audrey spent sitting in front of the mirror. Audrey suspected it was jealousy. Her class had studied female psychology at school recently and it was apparently a common phenomenon that ageing mothers became envious of their daughters’ blossoming beauty. Not that that was a problem in Charlotte’s case. In Audrey’s opinion, Charlotte might look reasonably attractive if she took a bit more care and particularly if she went on a diet, but Charlotte just didn’t seem to bother, pulling that thick mop of hair of hers back into a ponytail and wearing any old baggy clothes around the place. As for Gracie, while it was too early to tell for sure, Audrey thought her little sister might turn out quite striking when she was older, with her dark eyes and eyebrows, and that unusual white-blonde hair. If it stayed blonde and didn’t go mousy, of course. Most annoyingly, it was Spencer who’d got