by Judy Nunn
George smiled. Richard's response was eminently readable. ‘And don't confine your inquiries to the township, will you, Dickie? You must visit the properties and talk to the farmers.’
‘Yes, George, of course.’
But strangely enough, it was in the township that Richard found the answer.
‘Vines! We'll plant vines!’ Richard exclaimed three weeks later upon his return from the doctor. His cough had worsened and a worried George had insisted he seek medical advice.
‘What are you talking about, Dickie? I thought you'd been to see the doctor.’
‘I have, I have, and he says we should plant vines. He's given me some cuttings. They're in the dray. Come and have a look.’
‘But what about your chest? What about the blood you coughed up the other day? What did he say about ... ? George followed his brother out to the verandah.
‘Oh bother the chest — just look at this!’ Richard reached into the back of the dray and held aloft a handful of vine cuttings. ‘Here is our future, George.’ He joined his brother on the verandah and thrust one of the cuttings into his hand. ‘Here!’
George had never seen him so excited. He stared blankly at the cutting then back to his brother. ‘What sort of vines? What are you talking about?’
‘Grapes, man, grapes! When Dr Penfold came out here he brought grape cuttings with him from some of the finest wine areas of France and he's succeeding! Already! After only seven years!’
‘Wine?’ George said incredulously as realisation dawned. ‘You mean make our own wine?’
‘Yes, George, yes!’
‘But we're not wine-makers. Wine-making is a science.’
‘We're not farmers either. And the science is called oenology.’
‘But we know nothing about it.’
‘Then we'll teach ourselves. We'll start with these.’ Richard held up the cuttings. ‘Dr Penfold will help — he knows everything about viticulture — and in ten years we'll be among the top vignerons in the country. You see,’ he boasted, ‘already I know the language of wine.’
George was shaking his head but Richard continued regardless. ‘If we must become men of the land, why not grow something we can enjoy, for God's sake? I insist you come with me to look at Dr Penfold's property tomorrow — he's offered us an open invitation to The Grange.’
Again George tried to interrupt but Richard took no notice. ‘He'll be at his practice in town but his wife Mary will accommodate us. Now go and nag Emma about tea, there's a good chap, while I unharness old Ned here, who's dying for a drink too.’
‘And tell Emma plenty of cake and scones,’ Richard called as he led the horse and dray off to the stables. ‘I'm starving!’
As usual, Richard had his way and, although George maintained his doubts about the wisdom of cultivating grapevines, he agreed to donate ten acres of the property towards the establishment of a vineyard.
‘But if, in five years, it proves to be a non-viable proposition ... ’
‘Ten, George — you have to give me ten. It will take at least ten years to establish.’
‘Very well. Ten,’ George agreed. ‘But if, after ten years ... ’
Richard burst out laughing. ‘Listen to you, George, just listen! You sound like father at his pompous best.’ And George found himself laughing in agreement.
They were a hard ten years and there were many times when George wanted to give up but, surprisingly enough, it was Richard who insisted they persevere.
‘It takes time,’ he said when George repeatedly suggested they convert their vinegrowing acres to grazing land for the sheep he'd acquired. ‘It'll be worth it, believe me.’
George continued to be sceptical all through the early experimental years when failure constantly seemed to outweigh success but finally Richard's refusal to give in started to pay off and George was forced to admit his brother had been right.
But Richard's triumph was costly. Years of endless hard work took their toll, years of pruning, harvesting, and irrigating. And when he wasn't working among the vines, he was walking among them. Through the searing heat of summer and the biting mid-winter frosts, Richard walked endlessly between the rows and rows of his precious vines like a shepherd guarding his flock. Shortly after his thirtieth birthday, he became seriously ill.When Dr Penfold visited the property he warned George that Richard simply could not continue at such a pace.
‘Try to tell him that,’ George replied. ‘We have workers, of course, but he tends the vines as though they were his children and will allow no one else to oversee the operation, not even myself.’
Dr Penfold and his wife were among the most successful vignerons in the country and it was this fact rather than the good doctor's excellent medical reputation which finally persuaded Richard to employ an overseer. Dr Penfold was, in Richard's opinion, the only person qualified to announce that the vines were now firmly established and the only person qualified to recommend an expert worthy of the task of tending them.
Such an expert did not come cheap, of course. Neither did the extra labour George insisted hiring in order to impress upon Richard that there was no necessity for him to set foot outside the house. ‘At least not until the start of summer — the spring frost is not good for your chest.’
‘We can't afford it, George,’ Richard protested feebly. ‘We're only just starting to make good as it is.’
It was true. They had recently finished paying off their acquired debts, and funds were in short supply, the support from their father having long since been withdrawn.
Howard's remittances had arrived quarterly, as promised, for the first five years, always accompanied by a letter from Emily, but with never a word from Howard himself. At the end of the fifth year, a brief note informed them that there would be no further monies forthcoming and that George and Richard were to return to England within six months.
They had corresponded intermittently with their mother, but, apart from acknowledging receipt of their remittances, neither George nor Richard had seen any reason to communicate with Howard. Upon receiving his father's instructions, however, George wrote informing him that they would not be returning in six months, that they had no need of further monies and that they were happily settled in their adopted country. He concluded with a formal thanks for the assistance they'd received and a promise that he intended to honour and serve well the name of Ross in the new Colony. Richard added a postscript promising to send a bottle of his best vintage as soon as it should come available.
They didn't hear from Howard after that and even the letters from Emily dwindled over the years, as if she'd given up hope of ever seeing her youngest sons again. Or perhaps Richard's surmise was correct and Howard disapproved of her contact with them.
Whatever the reason, George and Richard managed to survive without their quarterly income. And, in accepting the fact that they were each other's sole family and that it was unlikely they would ever again see their home country, an even closer bond was forged between them.
It was with great difficulty, therefore, that George once again communicated with his father. Only Richard's illness and the fear for his brother's life could have forced him to take such a measure.
Ten years and two months after Howard had watched the Henrietta set sail for the Colonies, he opened George's letter informing him of Richard's illness and requesting funds.
The boy must think I'm an imbecile,’ he stormed. ‘What does he take me for?’ Despite Emily's pleas, he flatly refused to send any money. ‘It's a ploy,’ he said. ‘Richard's a scoundrel. Always was. And he's pursuaded George to join forces and milk what they can from their estate. I must say I'd have expected a little more of George. Well, they'll be back when they realise how uncomfortable it is to starve.’ And Howard would hear no more on the subject.
That summer was hard and seemed to go on forever. George quickly realised that he'd lulled himself into a false sense of security when he'd pursuaded Richard to remain indoors and away from the sprin
g frosts. Summer started early, suddenly and with a vengeance. And, as the hot winds seared through the vineyards, threatening to devastate the entire crop, George could see that any attempt to dissuade Richard from working was useless. All he could do was work alongside his brother, erecting whatever wind protection they could and tending the vines regularly to ensure their supplementary water supply.
That was the summer that did it. George was sure of it. Richard lasted another five years, but it was the summer of 1860 that was his undoing. George watched, powerless, as his brother wasted away, refusing to give in to his illness until the very end.
Richard died in 1865, six weeks before his thirty-sixth birthday, and he died content. His success as a vigneron was unquestionable — even Dr Penfold himself said so — and Richard toasted his own end with a glass of his finest Syrah.
‘Did you send that bottle off to father?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it went with Martin Longford on the Taglioni. He said he'd deliver it personally.’
‘But that was nearly six months ago. And there's been no word?’
‘Come along now, Dickie, you know it can take all of nine months for word to get back to us.’
‘Rubbish,’ Richard smiled. ‘Father's disowned us and you know it.’ He coughed and, as usual, the cough took over.
It pained George to watch his brother's frail body fighting for air but finally the spasm was over and Richard lay back against the pillows, exhausted. He's near the end now, George thought as he reached for a tumbler of water. Dr Penfold had said as much. Not to Richard himself, but Richard knew, George was sure of that.
Waving the water aside, Richard gestured for the glass of wine he'd insisted George pour for him earlier. He sipped at it, examined it lovingly and, when he could finally trust himself to talk without precipitating another attack, he said with a proud nod, ‘Sixty-two — one of our good years. In ten years’ time it'll be a prize drop. Get yourself a glass, George, I want to make a toast.’
When George rejoined him with a fresh glass Richard was looking content and comfortable. Almost serene, George thought. Yes, he certainly knows.
‘Father always said we'd inherited the weak strain of the Ross family,’ Richard commented as he watched George pour the wine. ‘Me, at least. I suspect he held hopes for you somewhere along the line.’ He held his glass aloft. ‘Well, old chap, if we are the weak Rosses, God protect the world from the strong ones. To you, George.’ He clinked their glasses together. ‘You're a fine brother.’
‘To us both.’ It was all George could trust himself to say. Any more and the tremor in his voice might betray him.
‘Mind you,’ Richard continued, oblivious to his brother's emotion, ‘you're also a very stupid fellow.’
The insult was genuine and effectively curbed the threatening sting of a tear. ‘Stupid? How?’
‘Your letter to father all those years ago — which quite frankly I found a trifle pompous — when you promised to honour the family name in the new Colony.’
‘What of it?’ George demanded defensively. ‘I meant every word.’
‘Confound it, man, how are you going to honour the family name when there is no family?’ George looked at him blankly and Richard fought back the desire to laugh, it would only bring about another coughing fit. He smiled broadly instead and, emaciated though the face was, the smile was as engaging as ever. ‘Stupid, you see? Take a wife, man, take a wife. You're thirty-eight years old and you're not going to last forever. One of us has to start breeding and, at the moment, I'd say you're the safer bet.’
The laugh finally erupted. A coughing fit followed and it was several minutes before Richard could continue. By now he was so weakened and his chest ached so much that all he wanted to do was sleep. But he smiled at George nonetheless.
‘You're so like father, with your determination to found a Ross dynasty.’ George was about to defend himself again but Richard continued. ‘There's nothing wrong with that. You'll do a good job and, unlike father, you'll look after your own.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I couldn't give a damn about the family but I'd like you to promise me one thing.’ George nodded and bent closer, Richard's voice was now very weak. ‘Look after my vines.’
‘Yes, of course,’ George nodded.
‘Good.’ Richard closed his eyes. ‘I'll see you in the morning. Wake me around dawn.’ And within seconds he was fast asleep.
George didn't wake him at dawn. The following morning Richard had lapsed into unconsciousness and he died at nine o'clock that night.
George grieved for his brother and felt a loneliness he'd never experienced before. After the grief came the anger. He was convinced that Richard had died needlessly. If they'd been able to purchase modern labour-saving devices, if they'd been able to employ extra workers, if Richard had been hospitalised ... In other words, if Howard had forwarded the funds George had requested, his youngest son would be alive today.
The anger continued to gnaw away at George. He didn't inform the family of Richard's death -not even when, two years later, he received word from one of his sisters that his mother was dying. Although he was initially saddened by the news, he hardened his heart to it — Emily was an accomplice in Richard's death, after all, as were his brothers and sisters. They had each denied their own.
It was then that George made his decision. As far as he was concerned, the Ross family started here and now. His Ross family. Born of the Colonies. And he took Richard's advice and searched for a wife worthy of the name.
He found her in Sarah, the only daughter of strict Methodists, Henry and Elizabeth Cusack. Sarah's parents were greatly relieved to see their daughter wed; she was twenty-five, after all, no great beauty, and her dowry was mediocre.
‘Sarah was sort of unexpected, you might say,’ Henry explained to George, a trifle embarrassed. ‘We'd put our money into getting the lads started by the time she came along.’
‘The lads’ were Sarah's five older brothers and the reason George wanted to marry Sarah. She was strong, good breeding stock and males ran in the family.
‘No matter.’ George said, waving aside the dowry. ‘I have more than enough for our needs.'
In the past few years George had done well. He had converted over half of Araluen to vines and was currently in the throes of purchasing a small neighbouring vineyard. All thanks to Richard, George thought. If only he'd lived to see it.
For propriety's sake, Elizabeth wanted to delay the marriage by several months. ‘After all, you and Sarah only met three weeks ago, Mr Ross.’
But George was brutally honest. ‘I am forty years old and childless, Mrs Cusack. I need sons.’
The truth did not endear George to Mrs Cusack but, as her husband pointed out in private, she really had no option. Her pride was salved a little, however, when George readily agreed that any offspring were to be brought up strictly in accordance with the Methodist teachings.
George and Sarah were married on the first day of spring, 1868. Nine months and one week after the wedding, their first child was born, a strong healthy girl whom they called Catherine. For Sarah's sake, George hid his disappointment as best he could. But a year later, when Sarah gave birth to a son, there was no disguising George's elation. He handed out cigars with abandon and openly talked of Charles being the first in a new breed of Ross. One who was born to look after his own. No one knew what George was talking about but put it down to overexcitement at the birth of his first son.
Mary's birth two years later was a complicated one. Doctors fought to save both mother and baby and they succeeded. But they told Sarah that she would never have another child.
It was surprising how quickly George came to terms with the fact that he was to be denied the family of sons he'd had his heart set on. So the dynasty would take a little longer to establish itself — what matter? he asked himself. It was quality not quantity that counted.
The truth was that George had grown to love Sarah and the thought of losing her terrified him. They we
re a family now and the future would look after itself. Charles would have sons, the girls would marry strong men. The dynasty was founded.
So secure was George in this knowledge that, when the letter arrived from his father's personal secretary, he had no second thoughts as to how he should reply.
‘ ... in these the last few months of his life,’ the secretary's letter read, ‘your father wishes to make his peace with you both.’ The letter went on to say that, if George and Richard were to make haste to their father's bedside, Howard was prepared to reinstate them in his will. Evidently, he wished his entire family to be present at his deathbed and that included his two youngest sons.
George's reply was brutal and damning. ‘Inform my father that his youngest son is dead,’ he wrote. ‘His youngest son has been dead for eight years and his second youngest son hereby severs all ties with his father.
‘There is new Ross stock, bred from the Colonies, which, from this day, owes no allegiance to, and will accept none from, Howard Ross or any of his direct family.’
There was certainly no going back now, George thought, and he felt elated as he put his seal to the envelope. There probably never had been, he supposed. But this — he looked down at the letter on the desk before him — this was irrevocable. This was uncompromising. This was the beginning.
BOOK TWO
The
Early Years
(1915 - 1946)
CHAPTER TWO
Young Franklin
FRANKLIN HAD VIVID MEMORIES of his grandfather despite the fact that he'd been barely ten years of age when old George died in the summer of 1915. The image was blurred — an old, old man with leathery skin, massive sideburns and a striking grey beard — but the impact Grandfather George had upon him remained with Franklin throughout his life.
Even on his deathbed Grandfather George was impressive. He ordered the entire family to his bedside and laid down the law for the final time. They'd heard it all before — George had laid down the law time and again over the years — but the fact that they were all together, his children, their spouses and his five grandchildren, made it quite an event. And the fact that he openly announced his intention to die within the week made it positively awe-inspiring. Certainly to Franklin, the youngest member of the family.
