Caroline Ashworth checked her watch: 4.30 pm. Fern would be home from school soon, but she was having difficulty quelling her impatience. She needed to talk to her daughter. She studied the movement of people up and down the leafy avenue and idly gazed at the banked-up traffic across the river. She wasn’t really interested in what was happening outside the apartment; she was strangely restless. No, not strangely. The reason for her disquiet resided in the pocket of her skirt: her brother’s letter. The letter had been read and re-read several times.
Unconsciously, she flexed and tightened the fingers of her right hand several times, a reflex action. The smallest digits responded more sluggishly than the others. Rheumatoid arthritis in both hands had developed quite suddenly about twelve months ago and taken hold with a vengeance. Stiffness, swelling joints, pain — oh, yes, she knew about that. And visits to specialists, both orthopaedic and rheumatic. They offered medication, exercises, physiotherapy and, finally, when it became too painful, surgery. None held out any hope for a reversal of the condition. For several months she had struggled on, performing, keeping up appearances, pretending that nothing was wrong, until a review by a music critic in Cologne had asked what had happened to Caroline Ashworth’s musical expertise.
His words had forced her to take stock of the situation, and acknowledge that her hands were damaged. It wasn’t fair to the public who had supported her loyally for over ten years to give a less-than-perfect performance. She had announced her retirement and for a long time cocooned herself in the Paris apartment, shunning social engagements, limiting friends’ visits, almost drowning herself in a pool of self-pity. Until — the memory of it made her smile — her mother had visited and told her to get on with her life.
There had been casual offers to conduct small orchestras, though she had no conducting experience. She had been offered a position at La Scala in Milan, coordinating performances and doing media liaison. There’d been other offers, too, but none had interested her. The thought of being so close to the music she loved, yet unable to perform it, held little appeal. Presently, she and Fern were living on the money she’d saved over the years plus the dividends of a modest share portfolio but, for the first time since she’d taken to the concert stage, she had to think twice before she spent her francs and sous. Consequently, she wondered whether she should sell the apartment and move to a less expensive suburb in Paris. As well, with treatment and exercise, the arthritis hadn’t worsened, and her specialist was confident that if she continued to keep up the exercises, watched her diet and took the prescribed medication, she would cope with the disease for many years.
Caroline turned away from the window to stare at the grand piano that dominated the living room. On the wall behind it rested a bank of photographs that spanned her life as a concert pianist. Tours through Central Europe, the USA and parts of South America. Centred on the wall was a poster of a much younger Caroline, and the proclamation: ‘Caroline Ashworth at Covent Garden, 20 June 1974’. That had been her debut solo performance.
With a determined effort she shook the melancholy off. She could do that successfully now, but it had taken months to come to terms with the fact that the career she loved was over. And she had become very much aware that she had to find something constructive to do with her life, other than playing the piano. Joel’s letter had given her the impetus to think in a new direction. For the first time in her life, her mother needed her, though she’d be the last one to admit to the need. She fingered the letter in her pocket, listening to the paper rustle against her cotton skirt, then she glanced at her watch again and frowned. Where was Fern?
Had she and some of her school friends gone to a favourite café for coffee? Blue eyes glanced at the photo of her daughter on the top of the grand piano; it had been taken last year when she was at her gangliest twelve-year-old worst. To look at, Fern resembled Nick: shiny black hair, slightly wavy; dark brown eyes and olive skin — so different from Caroline’s own fair colouring. Fern had several of Nick’s expressions, too, which was amazing considering her parents had divorced when their daughter was very young. And, with Nick living in Australia, even though he was doing well, business-wise, he could still only manage to see Fern a couple of times a year, though father and daughter talked on the phone every week. So the inherited traits continued to be a source of wonder to her.
The click of the front door alerted Caroline to Fern’s arrival. She listened to her footsteps on the polished timbers as she came down the short hallway, paused at her bedroom to throw her scungy backpack inside the door, then continued on towards the living room.
‘Bonjour Maman.’ Fern, as tall as her mother, gave Caroline a brief peck on the cheek. She reverted to speaking in English — something her mother insisted she do in the apartment. ‘What a day! Monsieur Reynard was in such a mood. Science was the pits. And Madame Blanchard, well, one student, Patrice, said something to her and she burst into tears. We’ — she nodded her dark head sagely — ‘reckon she’s either pregnant or her lover has left her. And Josephine told us her parents are moving back to London at the end of the month. She’s very unhappy about that.
And …’
As they gravitated to the kitchen, where Caroline made them both a cup of milk coffee, she let her daughter talk a blue streak — she always did so after school. She was grateful that Fern hadn’t become too sophisticated at the expensive Catholic high school Nick paid for to enjoy sharing confidences with her.
After several minutes Fern ran out of gossip. She looked at Caroline and asked, ‘So what did you get up to today?’
‘The usual. Lunch at Mimi’s apartment, then a stroll through the park. I bumped into Georges Brewer. Do you remember him? He’s a young, struggling composer who lives in the Latin Quarter. Georges is just starting to get recognition. And’ — she tried to make it sound nothing out of the ordinary — ‘we got a letter from Joel.’ She took the letter from her pocket and pushed it over to Fern’s side of the table. ‘Read it, love, it’s mostly about Gran.’
There was silence in the kitchen for several minutes, during which Caroline watched a gamut of expressions race across Fern’s young face as she read the three-page letter. She didn’t tell her daughter that Joel had phoned her almost two weeks ago and that the letter was, really, to confirm in greater detail what he’d said on the phone. She’d had that length of time to think things through, work on a plan, and now it was time to talk to Fern about it.
‘Poor Grand-mère,’ Fern said finally, a wealth of emotion in her voice. Her dark eyes looked across to her mother. ‘What can we do, Maman?’
‘I think we should go home.’
‘For a visit, but of course,’ Fern agreed with a Gallic shrug of her shoulders.
‘I think we should go home permanently.’
Fern’s smooth forehead puckered in a frown. ‘But is this not our home, Maman?’
‘For you, maybe, you’ve lived the last eight years of your life in Paris. But home, real home, to me, is and always will be Sydney. Your grandmother needs us, though she’d be the last person to say so. I want to be there, with her and for her.’
As she spoke Caroline had to wonder why she still considered Sydney home. She had spent most of her adult years in Europe, chasing the dream of becoming a concert pianist. The memories of home should have blurred, but 52 Waratah Avenue remained firmly in her mind as … home. She wanted to be useful, too, and believed that going home to help her mother cope with her declining health and retirement, and perhaps to play a role in Ashworths, was her best opportunity to move in a new direction. The prospect of doing something so different, so completely out of her field of expertise, was daunting, but also exciting.
Over the years Caroline had been grateful that Laura had never tried to chain her to her by the invisible yet strong bonds of their love for each other. Her mother had encouraged her to reach for her dream — as she had herself in building her own company — even if it meant that they saw each other infrequently.
Another thing too: she was banking on Fern’s love for her grandmother to sway her into agreeing — she knew that it was deep.
‘Oh!’
Fern’s response, or rather the lack of it, warned Caroline that her daughter was thinking hard about what had been in the letter and what she had said. She steeled herself for a ‘healthy’ discussion — with Nick’s Italian blood running hot in Fern’s veins, they had had many interesting stoushes over a variety of subjects.
‘Are you sure, Maman? Wouldn’t it be wiser to go just for a while, maybe six months or so?’
‘I thought about that. Frankly, love, I’m seeing it as an opportunity to start fresh. There’s nothing for me in Paris or the rest of Europe, now that my music career’s over. I’d rather try my hand,’ she smiled, ‘pardon the pun, at something entirely different. Sydney could be a good place to do that.’ She looked at her daughter for a moment, then added, ‘However, I know it will be harder on you than me. You see Paris as your home. You have your friends, school, etc., and in that regard you’d have to start over again. Still, on the plus side, we’d live at Waratah Avenue, at least until the apartment here is sold and we have funds to buy something of our own.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘You’d see more of your grandmother, and Joel and Michaela too, every day. And get to know our other relatives — the McRaes. You’ve only heard me talk about them, Uncle Frank and Auntie Elsie and their children.’
Fern didn’t answer straight away. Then, with a beaming smile, she said, ‘And Dad … I’d see him more often too, wouldn’t I?’
The question threw Caroline for a moment, especially when she heard the upsurge of interest in Fern’s tone. ‘Yes. Of course.’
She hadn’t thought that particular angle through. Living in Sydney, Nick being close. Did she want that? Despite the years — they’d been divorced for more than ten — old resentments flared. His raging jealousy, his possessiveness. Stop! It was easy to get the anger under control, now. She was over Nick Beaumont. Had been for years. There had been other men in and out of her life since Nick, and she knew he had had other partners. Holly, for one, who’d been half his age. So … what did it matter if she saw him more regularly? It didn’t. Even so, for a few irritating seconds, his image swam before her fixed gaze. If only he weren’t so handsome and charismatic, like Jack, she wouldn’t have fallen so hard in the first place. Damn Nick and the pain he’d caused her.
‘What if I don’t want to stay in Sydney permanently?’ Fern posed the question, her chin firming into a stubborn line.
Knowing her daughter as well as she did, Caroline had a ready answer. ‘I just want you to think about everything I’ve said. We don’t need to decide today. I feel strongly about going home, and I expect you to come with me.’
Caroline leant forward to pat her daughter’s hand. ‘Look, love, don’t stress out about it. There’s a lot to think about. Take your time and we’ll talk again in the morning.’
Fern smiled quickly, with relief. ‘Okay, Maman.’
Lying in bed that night, unable to sleep as she made a mental list of all the things that had to be organised soon, Caroline wasn’t surprised to hear a gentle knock on the bedroom door and to see Fern put her head around the half-open doorway.
‘I’ve decided.’
Caroline looked at her daughter dressed for bed in an oversized T-shirt — it reached down to her knees — and fluffy pink slippers. She was growing up alarmingly fast. Her heart swelled with love and a tinge of melancholy, knowing that all too soon their relationship would undergo subtle changes. ‘Yes, Fern?’
‘We should be with Grand-mère. She’s going to need us, you know.’
Sunday morning breakfast, or more correctly, brunch, was the one leisurely meal the Beaumonts had. Joel, still sleepy-eyed and unshaven from a late night, sat across the table in the breakfast room off the kitchen, only half enjoying the hearty breakfast prepared by their housekeeper, Daphne, who was also Porter’s wife. Michaela wasn’t there. She had gone away for the weekend with her friend Jordana and her two children. Later, over coffee, taken on the sofa by the plate-glass window that overlooked the patio, the professionally landscaped garden and the pool, Laura and Joel chatted about this and that.
‘What have you decided with regard to Rupert’s suggestion, Mum? You’ve had nearly two weeks to think about it.’
As Laura looked at her son, her gaze softened with love, not irritation, even though he was becoming a nag on the subject of her retirement. She couldn’t scold him for it because she knew he had her welfare in mind. ‘It’s not as simple as you might think. If I had an ordinary kind of job I could stop tomorrow. Ashworths is a big concern, it’s now a public company. I have to consider the staff and the shareholders. And really, who can take over?’
‘Daniel Blumner, naturally. Mum, you’ve been grooming him for the position for years, until Michaela has more experience under her belt.’
‘I do have complete faith in Daniel, and in time maybe Michaela will work her way into the top job. But now that Caroline’s coming home, well, if she wants to, and though we haven’t discussed it, she might want to play a role in Ashworths.’
Between sips of coffee, Joel snorted with amusement. ‘That’ll put Michaela’s nose out of joint well and truly. You know she sees herself as heir apparent with regard to Ashworths.’
Several years ago Joel had made it clear that running his mother’s company wasn’t to his taste. He wanted to be a doctor and was in his fifth year of medicine at Sydney University, scraping through in most subjects because he was something of a party animal instead of a studious student.
‘I know about Michaela’s passion for Ashworths. Still, we have to remember that Caroline’s world has been turned upside down. Her musical career is finished and she’s too young to sit around and vegetate or live on memories of past glory — not that I think she’d want to, anyway. She needs an involvement, with Ashworths, or maybe something else. There’s room for Michaela and Caroline to play a part in the company.’ Laura looked at her son as she said, ‘Caroline would have to learn how the company functions and only if she has what it takes, would I, or Daniel, look to raising her to an executive position.’ She let Joel consider that for a moment or two. ‘I don’t believe that Michaela’s position as merchandising manager is in jeopardy, nor are whatever other long-term career aspirations she might have.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to delay making any decision about yourself until you see which way Caroline wants to go?’
Laura recognised the note of disapproval in his tone, but chose to ignore it. Sometimes her son’s directness, a trait he and Michaela had inherited from their father, was off-putting, even though she had to admit, if only to herself, that time was running out for her. She felt tired all the time. That she was running out of puff couldn’t be denied, only disguised from her children and Ashworths staff for as long as she could.
‘Perhaps,’ she responded. Then she had a thought to get him onto another tack. ‘Maybe what I need is a nice long holiday, a cruise.’
‘A holiday might pep you up for a while,’ he agreed, ‘but you know it’s not the long-term answer to your problem.’
‘Joel, you sound like a doctor already,’ Laura quipped back at him.
Daphne came to the breakfast room door. ‘Laura.’ Her employer refused to let herself be called ‘Mrs Beaumont’ at number fifty-two. ‘You said you wanted to be reminded that Mrs Smithers is calling for you at twelve. It’s now eleven-thirty.’
‘Thanks, Daphne.’
‘Where are you and Kitty off to?’ Joel asked, half believing that his mother was using Kitty’s arrival as an excuse to cut short their continuing debate about when she would retire.
‘We’re going to a matinee performance at the Opera House. I’d better hustle and get ready. Kitty gets peevish if I keep her waiting.’
Joel watched his mother move in a spritely fashion towards the doorway that led into the hall. Physically one woul
d never think that anything was wrong with her and, in a way, for someone with a medical problem, that could be a serious deception. After speaking to Rupert MacIntosh, he knew the situation was the opposite. He shook his head as he pushed his empty coffee cup away. Caroline would be home soon. Thank God. He and Michaela were pinning their hopes on their older sibling’s ability and closeness to their mother to bring about her decision to retire.
Chapter Two
On the tenth floor of an office building in Church Street, in the heart of Parramatta, west of Sydney, the monthly finance meeting was complete, and most of the executives of B & S Construction Corporation filed out of the boardroom. Only Lou Sardi and Nick Beaumont remained.
‘Vince’s overall projection looks sound,’ said Lou slowly. Never one to wax lyrical about the success of their construction company, he was of the mould that tended towards conservatism — liking to see the ‘proof of the pudding’ before he extolled the company’s success.
Nick, at the other end of the board table, was only half listening, had been only half listening since the meeting began an hour and a half ago. Normally, he lived for the business and was known to be a tough negotiator. Not today. He had lain awake half the night after the phone conversation he’d had with Fern, thinking up all kinds of scenarios. They were coming home. For good, because Laura, his stepmother, wasn’t well. His relationship with Laura had been moderately strained since his and Caroline’s divorce, but that was to be expected. Be that as it may, he genuinely liked Laura Ashworth-Beaumont and respected her business acumen.
52 Waratah Avenue Page 3
