Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  Mary didn't move. She gazed steadfastly out the window but there was the glistening of tears in her eyes and Catherine knew she was fighting the urge to cry.

  ‘Oh, Mary. Dear little Mary.’ She gathered her sister in her arms. ‘Let go, my darling, let go.’

  Mary resisted only for a moment, then the floodgates opened. She sobbed until her eyes were swollen, her nose ran and her chest ached and Catherine held her all the while.

  When the outburst was over, Catherine cleaned her face with a fresh tea towel and Mary blew her nose as she was told like an obliging child.

  Then, as Catherine rose to fill the teapot from the now boiling kettle, Mary leaned back, exhausted, and started speaking, more to herself than to her sister.

  ‘Father never knew that Harry didn't want his children to bear the name of Ross. He didn't know that it was I who insisted upon it and that Harry agreed simply to please me.’ Catherine looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘just for me, Harry did that — and it cost his pride, I can tell you. He received a medal in the Boer War, you know, and he was proud of his record and rank and name. Captain Harold Johnston of the Australian Light Horse Contingent. And just for me he allowed his children to become Ross-Johnstons. It was no mean thing, Catherine.

  ‘But then, Harry would do anything I asked him,’ Mary continued. ‘Anything except stay home from the war. From that filthy, shocking war.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and she started to cry, softly this time. ‘My Harry, my beautiful Harry, I begged him not to go, I begged him to stay home with me. But he said, “My country needs me, this is what I'm trained for.”’ She rocked back and forth in her chair. ‘I begged him. I begged him and I begged him and it was the only time he ever denied me.’

  Catherine put the pot on the table before them and sat quietly waiting for the tea to draw. She didn't dare say a word. Gradually, the sobs once more subsided and Mary, her energy expended, started to talk quietly.

  ‘Father never really liked me, you know. I think perhaps he blamed me for Mother's ill health, my birth being such a difficult one.’ She shrugged. ‘Whatever the reasons, he considered me weak and uninteresting, I'm aware of that. You were the one he admired, Catherine, you were the strong one and he loved you for it.’ Mary smiled, without animosity. ‘It doesn't matter now. Anyway, Mother's love was enough for me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine finally spoke. ‘I was always jealous of Mother's love for you.’

  ‘Were you?’ Mary looked genuinely taken aback. ‘So we were jealous of each other, then — how strange for us not to know it. When Mother died,’ she continued as she watched Catherine pour the tea, ‘I was perceived as the frail younger sister, of little value to anyone, and I didn't seem to have the voice to prove otherwise. I had neither your defiant courage nor Mother's quiet determination. But I did have a will of my own, Catherine. Truly I did. And that's what Harry recognised. I was my true self with Harry — he was the one person in the whole world who really knew me.’

  She stared guiltily down at the cup of tea Catherine placed in front of her. ‘God forbid I should say this, but I feel that even my own children don't know me.’ She stirred the tea, watching it swirl in the cup. ‘You escaped the destiny of the Ross women,’ she said. ‘We're breeders, you see — that's our sole purpose.’ She finally looked up at Catherine and there was no rancour in her smile. ‘Unless one subjugates one's will entirely to the men, this is a harsh family for women.’

  ‘This is a harsh world for women!’ Catherine felt an overwhelming mixture of emotions. She felt guilty that she'd never known her sister. She felt guilty that she, like the others, had assumed that Mary was weak and uninteresting. And all the while Mary had been crying out for recognition. Catherine was excited by the prospect of enlightening her.

  ‘But it won't always be a harsh world for us, Mary!’ She knocked her teacup over in her enthusiasm. ‘Things are changing. Already women have been granted the vote in Australia, it is why I came home. I tell you, my dear, this country is leading the world in women's rights.’

  Catherine grabbed the tea towel and dabbed at the mess. ‘Good heavens, within the last ten years three Nobel Prizes have been awarded to women. Well, two went to Marie Curie. And one of them she had to share with her husband,’ she admitted. ‘But I'm sure that was only a matter of protocol.’

  Catherine's zeal was so amusing that Mary surprised herself by laughing out loud. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Other what?’ Catherine also was taken aback by Mary's laughter.

  ‘The other Nobel Prize. Who won it?’

  ‘Oh. Baroness Bertha von Suttner, who died only last year. Her novel Lay Down Your Arms created a furore in the nineties. She was a great crusader — and she felt the same way you do, Mary. She actually called war “an obscenity” — isn't that brilliant? She was awarded the Peace Prize about six or seven years ago. So you see we can do anything! Anything!’

  Catherine's ineffectual dabbing had not stemmed the flow of tea which now found its way to the edge of the table.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Mary said. She reached over to take the tea towel but Catherine snatched it back.

  ‘No, don't dismiss me like that,’ she continued vehemently. ‘It's the duty of all of us to do things, you included. They don't have to be momentous. Just exercise your mind and your rights.’ She put down the tea towel and took hold of Mary's hand. ‘Read and study and ... ’

  ‘I read a great deal,’ Mary interrupted.

  ‘Then express your opinions on what you read. Let people know you, Mary. And when I open my art gallery in Sydney you must come over and see my first exhibition. You must — ’

  ‘Yes. I'd like that.’

  Catherine stared back at her. ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes, I'd like that very much.’

  ‘Oh my dear, please do come, please! You'll be proud of me, I promise. My gallery is going to specialise in the work of the Impressionists. Do you know of them?’

  ‘I've read of the French Impressionists, yes,’ Mary nodded. ‘But ... ’

  ‘Well, there is an Impressionist movement afoot in Australia. I've been in communication with them. A group of young artists, several of them women, are founding a modern school of art in Sydney and I intend to champion their cause. Oh, thank you.’

  Mary had put a fresh cup of tea into her hands and Catherine, who hadn't even noticed her pouring it, automatically took two sips before continuing anew. ‘Cezanne, one of the greatest of the French Impressionists, has had a vast influence upon the Australian Moderns ... and I knew him, Mary! I actually knew him!’

  As Catherine gabbled on, Mary watched her affectionately, aware that she was closer to her sister than she had ever been before. And, for the first time in two weeks, she relaxed. The painful sense of loss and the ache for Harry were still there, of course — the void would never be filled -but the raw, screaming nerves had gone. She would be able to cry now, even in front of the children, if she wished.

  ‘A wonderful man,’ Catherine was saying. ‘A gentle giant. Surprisingly humble, and such a liberal thinker. Now, there's a point, Mary -Cezanne never thought of women as inferior. Mind you, he never thought of his work as superior either.’

  Catherine laughed. And when she laughed, Mary laughed with her, even though she hadn't heard what her sister said. They talked for a further hour — well, Catherine did — before Mary finally left, resisting the invitation to stay the night.

  ‘Goodnight, Catherine,’ she said as they embraced. ‘I shall most certainly come to the opening of your gallery.’ And Catherine knew that she meant it.

  Two days later, when Catherine returned from town with her friend, she was surprised to see Mary waiting in the drive, her three children lined up either side of her.

  ‘Mary! What are you doing here?’ she said as she handed the reins to the stablehand.

  ‘We came to meet Gabrielle, of course.’ Mary walked over to the trap and offere
d her hand in assistance to the pretty, fair-haired woman seated on the passenger side. ‘These are my children,’ she said after she'd accepted Gabrielle's enthusiastic hug and a kiss on each cheek.

  That must have shocked her, Catherine thought. Mary was certainly not accustomed to the European form of greeting — and it was a particularly effusive one, at that. Gaby, having been warned to expect otherwise, was delighted by the welcome.

  Franklin and Kenneth charged down the steps from the verandah and were also introduced. Which left only Charles and his wife, Sybil. Catherine looked up at the house and saw them standing in the doorway. Charles’ eyes met hers and he initiated the move, Sybil taking the lead from her husband, as always. They walked slowly together towards the edge of the verandah; when Charles stopped, Sybil stopped. They didn't venture down the steps but waited for the others to come up to them.

  Yes, this is what I expected, Catherine thought and flashed an apologetic look in Gaby's direction.

  Gaby didn't see it, however. She didn't have time. In an uncharacteristically familiar gesture, Mary had taken her arm and was ushering her up the steps towards the house.

  ‘Come along, Gabrielle. Sybil has the kettle on and I brought over a batch of my scones which are delicious if I do say so myself.’ They were on the verandah now. ‘This is my brother Charles and his wife Sybil.’ Mary allowed only a moment for the nods of acknowledgement before sweeping Gaby inside the house. ‘Now do come inside and relax. It's such a jarring ride from town, isn't it?’

  Sybil and Charles were left on the front step, jaws agape, and Catherine bounded up to them laughing. She was still laughing as she went inside. Dear Mary, what a tower of strength. Who ever would have thought?

  Gaby was a personable woman and the children warmed to her immediately. She was blonde, petite and pretty. She spoke with an attractively pronounced French accent, and she had a bubbly, youthful personality which belied her thirty-nine years. Franklin found her fascinating.

  Aunt Catherine told him that Gaby was a talented sculptor, that her father was a prominent art dealer and that she knew all the most exciting people in Paris. It added to the allure and, to Franklin, Gaby represented everything that was romantic about the world outside. That vast world which lay beyond the Ross property, beyond Adelaide, beyond Australia itself. That world of adventure and opportunity which Franklin would one day conquer.

  It was Sunday, a week after Gaby had arrived and the day before the two women were to depart for Sydney, when Franklin did a wicked thing. I’ll meet you at the church, Mother; Aunt Mary is going to pick me up.’

  It was a lie and Franklin knew he would be heavily punished when it was discovered, but he was quite prepared to pay the consequences. Because he never lied, his parents didn't question him for a second.

  Franklin stood in his Sunday best watching the rest of the family drive off in his father's brand new automobile and, when they were out of sight, he went to his room and changed into his dungarees.

  Neither Catherine nor Gaby attended church, much to his father's disapproval. Half an hour earlier, they had taken their sketch books and gone walking.

  As Franklin wandered around the deserted grounds — the servants and labourers were also at church or visiting relatives — he wondered which was the most likely walk the women would have decided upon. The old vineyard probably.

  But they weren't there. And they weren't at the poplar grove near the eastern dam, another favourite sketching haunt of Catherine's.

  Franklin was frustrated. Thirty minutes had gone by and, if he was going to have to suffer the inevitable beating for his blatant disobedience, he wanted it to be worthwhile. It was his last opportunity to have Aunt Catherine and Gaby all to himself and he wanted to sit at their feet for hours, listening to their stories and watching their sketches appear magically on the page.

  They must have gone further afield than usual, he thought. The quickest way to find them would be to saddle up Old Black Joe.

  Franklin opened the stable door. He didn't see them at first. In fact he heard them before he saw them. A harsh, rasping sound. For a moment he thought one of the horses might have colic. He walked through the stables in search of the sound.

  They were in one of the empty stalls right at the far end, lying together in the fresh straw, their bodies entwined, and they were kissing, roughly, insistently.

  Franklin had never seen two people kiss in such a way. Only once had he seen his parents kiss and it had been gentle and discreet. It had also been very brief — when his father had noticed him watching he had immediately broken away. And here were these two women, feverishly feeding upon each other's mouths.

  Gaby's bodice was undone and her breasts were exposed. Franklin stared in horror as Catherine's mouth travelled down the long, slender neck. Her lips engulfed a quivering nipple and Gaby, eyes closed, mouth open in ecstasy, cried out, dragging at Catherine's skirts, exposing her legs and her undergarments and the rhythm of her grinding pelvis.

  As he watched them grunting together in the straw like animals, Franklin felt repulsed, but he couldn't turn away.

  Pulling herself up onto one elbow, Gaby lifted her own skirts and started to tear at her underclothes.

  Catherine's hand was between her legs and Gaby was parting her thighs, moaning loudly.

  Then Catherine's voice, thick and guttural. ‘Oh mon amour, mon amour tu est belle ... ’ Her hand moving quicker. Gaby, arching her back, her eyes opening wide ...

  ‘Oh God, the boy!’ Gaby hissed. ‘Kate, the boy!’ Quickly, Gaby covered her breasts and pulled her skirts down, but Catherine made no attempt to repair her disarray. Slowly she raised her head and looked at Franklin. Her skirts were bunched around her thighs, her thick, grey-black hair had broken loose from its pins and fell around her shoulders, pieces of straw sticking out of the tangled mess.

  She stared at Franklin for what seemed an age and he stared back at her, powerless to move. Gaby looked from one to the other, waiting for Catherine to say something.

  Eventually, Catherine sat up and straightened her skirts. ‘You'll tell your father, I suppose,’ she said. More a statement than a question. Franklin continued to stare back at her.

  Oh God, Catherine thought, how had she let this happen? Apart from holding hands on their walks together — and then in a way that could only be construed as friendship — she and Gaby had risked no physical contact. They hadn't visited each other's rooms in the dead of the night, they hadn't shared embraces when they were sure nobody was looking — it hadn't been worth the risk. And now, with only a day to go, convinced that the entire property was deserted, they'd abandoned themselves. If only they'd lasted one more day! Just one more day!

  Catherine cursed herself. And now, of course, the boy would tell his father. And Charles would withhold the allowance granted her under George's will ...

  But there was a regret far more important than the loss of her family inheritance. It was in the boy's eyes as he met hers. Utter disillusionment. She'd been his idol, she knew that. And Gaby had fascinated him.

  Oh well, one day he would come to understand sex, Catherine told herself. Then maybe ... But she knew it was futile. The boy would never understand the love she and Gaby shared. He was repulsed, sickened by the sight of the two of them.

  She tried to shake off his accusing stare. ‘I said, I suppose you'll tell your father,’ she repeated.

  ‘No.’ Finally Franklin found his voice. ‘No, I shan't tell him.’ Catherine looked at him disbelievingly. ‘You have my word,’ Franklin said, and he turned and walked out of the stables.

  That night Franklin received the beating he'd anticipated for lying to his parents but his mind was so preoccupied that he barely felt it. ‘The boy’, he kept hearing as the bamboo rod seared the back of his legs. ‘Kate! The boy!’ Gaby had hissed.

  Was that all he'd been to them — ‘the boy’? And all the time he'd accompanied them on their walks, had they been wishing he wasn't there so they could
do their filthy things to each other? He hated them. But he would keep his word. Like Grandfather George, he would always keep his word.

  The next day Catherine and Gabrielle left Araluen, bound for Sydney. It would be over fifteen years before Franklin saw them again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Franklin

  SURRY HILLS, SYDNEY'S seedy backyard, was still a colourful area in 1930, despite the City Council's determination to strip it of its original charm. But then its original charm had always been an arguable point. There were a few old-timers who recalled peaceful rolling hills, grand estates and sheep grazing in nearby Hyde Park. Others romanticised the turn of the century when the ‘larrikin pushes’ — the hooligan street gangs — pelted each other with ‘Irish confetti’, a mixture of gravel and broken bricks. And for some, Surry Hills was at its most alluring in the 1920s when the hardened criminals took over and business boomed for the sly grog and cocaine traders.

  So, when the Council started systematically demolishing whole blocks of Surry Hills under the guise of ‘cleaning up the rat-infested inner city streets', the die-hard residents pragmatically decided that it was just another phase the suburb was going through. Many of them refused to be pushed out of their homes to make way for the businesses, warehouses and factories that would command higher rates for the Council and higher rentals for the landowners. Surry Hills was a residential area, they said. Surry Hills was their home. And if it meant more people had to be crowded into fewer of the tiny terrace houses and cottages, then so be it. Everyone agreed, after all, that no matter how the face of the suburb changed over the years, it was the people who made Surry Hills. And in the face of adversity, the bond forged between the people of Surry Hills always became stronger. Always had and always would, they said.

  To twenty-five year old Franklin Ross, it was an exciting place. But then the whole of Sydney was an exciting place — if Franklin had any regret at all about leaving the comfort of rural South Australia, it was the fact that he hadn't done it earlier.