Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Very well,’ Franklin answered stiffly. He didn't like being laughed at.

  After lunch, they drank their coffee in the garden outside the studio, Catherine smoking little black cigars, much to Franklin's disapproval. Through the leafy green trees he could see the bustling streets of Kings Cross and he listened with interest as Gaby told him a little of the suburb.

  ‘It is Sydney's Montmartre,’ she said. ‘Very Bohemian.’ Her accent was as charming as Franklin remembered from his childhood. ‘I feel at home here,’ she continued, ‘despite the fact there is a dangerous underworld influence.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Catherine interrupted. ‘That only makes it all the more colourful. What about that bust you're doing of Nellie Cameron? One of the best things you've done in years — you find her quite inspirational, you said so yourself.’

  Catherine lit up a fresh cigar. ‘There are a lot of powerful women in Sydney, Franklin. Particularly in the art world.’ She puffed at the cigar and coffee slopped from the cup in her other hand.

  ‘And the underworld,’ she added. ‘The underworld has very powerful female leaders. There is a current war between Tilly Devine and Kate Leigh as to who is the true queen, even though they operate in different fields. Tilly controls the prostitution racket and Kate deals in sly grog and cocaine.’

  Franklin missed the sharp glance from Gaby and the bravado in the tilt of Catherine's head as she returned the look. ‘Now let's discuss this job you're after,’ she said, changing the subject.

  Half an hour later, Franklin had to admit that Catherine's offers of help were very generous. Gross, vulgar, offensive she might be, but she was prepared to offer him invaluable assistance and he was extremely grateful. She knew of the right position for him — it would be lucrative and he was bound to secure it so long as they went about it the right way.

  ‘Gustave Lumet is his name,’ Catherine said. ‘And you must meet him socially — impress him with your style and breeding and the fact that you don't really want the job at all but you might accept it as a favour to him.’

  Gustave Lumet, it appeared, was the chef-owner of the very chic restaurant next door to Catherine's art gallery.

  ‘He passes himself off as French aristocracy, born in Paris,’ Catherine explained, ‘but we all know he's half-Belgian and that he started out as an assistant pastry cook in Lyons.’

  Gustave's restaurant was a very popular meeting place for the Bohemian set of Kings Cross, as was Catherine's art gallery, and the two of them worked closely together to their mutual advantage.

  Over the past twelve months Gustave had been dissatisfied with the succession of managers he'd hired and he constantly complained to Catherine and Gaby. ‘No style,’ he'd say, ‘they have no style. I do not mind if they know little of managing a restaurant — my staff is good, my maitre d’ superb. All I ask is that they meet, greet and welcome my diners with style!’

  ‘“Style” is Gustave's favourite word,’ Catherine explained to Franklin. ‘Gaby, for instance,’ she said, waving her cigar in Gabrielle's direction, ‘he's convinced that Gaby's the only woman in Sydney with true style. The silly man's nearly twenty years younger than she is but he's madly in love with her. Sees her as a fellow aristocrat, probably. The French are such snobs.’

  Franklin looked at Gaby to see if she was offended but she was smiling indulgently at Catherine and seemed genuinely amused. Franklin could quite understand how Gustave could be madly in love with her and he agreed with the man implicitly — she had great style.

  Catherine's plan was perfectly simple. There was to be a minor showing at the gallery the following week. ‘A trial half-dozen pieces by a new artist,’ she said. ‘But everyone will be there to check out the latest competition. I shall introduce you to Gustave and I suggest you offer him a sample range of The Ross Estate wines. It means you'll be meeting him on equal ground and that should do the trick.’

  Several minutes later, as Franklin was preparing to take his leave, the side gate leading to the street swung open and a burly, casually dressed man carrying a gladstone bag sauntered through the garden and up to Catherine. He didn't remove his cloth cap — Franklin thought him terribly rude. He wondered whether he should reprimand the fellow.

  ‘Delivery from Kate,’ the man muttered and Catherine waved him towards the studio door.

  ‘Wait for me inside, please,’ she said. ‘I'll be with you shortly.’

  Franklin was aware of a sudden tension and he made his farewells as brief as possible. ‘No, please,’ he insisted as Gaby shepherded him towards the studio. ‘It's just as easy for me to go through the side gate. You have your business to attend to and I want to explore the streets of Kings Cross for a while.’

  Gaby pointed him in the direction of the art gallery which was only two blocks away. ‘Roslyn Street,’ she said. ‘You can't miss it.’

  ‘But don't go into the Cafe Gustave,’ Catherine warned. ‘He mustn't meet you until next week.’

  Franklin thanked them again and left. Gaby watched him go, then frowned and was about to say something but, before she could, Catherine kissed her quickly and forcefully upon the lips.

  ‘You've done it again, you temptress,’ she said with a cheeky smile. ‘The boy's mad about you.’ Then she disappeared into the studio.

  Gaby remained staring after her. The cocaine was more than just fun now, she thought, it was an essential part of Catherine's life. But there was nothing one could do about it. Catherine was incorrigible. She refused to grow up and still thought of herself as the young rebel Gaby had first met in Paris forty years ago. She would never change and, apart from a futile hope that the cocaine would not damage her health, Gaby didn't want her to.

  When Franklin returned to Surry Hills he was surprised to see a gathering of people on the pavement outside the terrace house two doors down from Solly's. Solly himself was there, as were Millie and several other faces Franklin recognised as neighbours.

  ‘What's going on?’ he asked, joining Solly and tipping his hat in acknowledgement to the flash of Millie's dimples.

  There was a motley collection of furniture on the pavement and a large, balding man in the centre of the crowd was holding aloft a cracked porcelain washbasin.

  ‘Old Arch is way behind with his rent,’ Solly explained, ‘so the bailiff's auctioning off their stuff.’

  Franklin looked at ‘old Arch’ and his wife. They were seated on their front doorstep watching the proceedings with a profound lack of interest. It was difficult to tell whether Arch was really ‘old’ or not and the same applied to his wife. They both carried the careworn, lacklustre stamp of poverty and over the years they had come to look alike. Franklin felt sorry for them.

  Nobody bid for the washbasin. Nobody bid for the chamber-pot. Nobody bid for the rickety old bed with its broken springs. So, when the bailiff pointed at a small chest of drawers and still no bids were made, Franklin felt such a sense of pity that he was compelled to raise his hand.

  ‘Don't, Mr Ross,’ Solly muttered and Franklin quickly lowered it.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘They need the money for their rent. Why is no one helping?’

  ‘They are.’ It was Millie who answered. ‘They're helping by not bidding.’ Franklin looked confused. ‘Arch's belongings wouldn't fetch a quarter of the rent they owe. Whatever money they made would go straight in the bailiff's pocket and they'd be evicted anyway.’

  ‘Oh. What will happen then?’

  ‘They'll pilfer whatever they can of the smaller stuff and they'll be gone by the morning. The bailiff doesn't know it but this ... ’ she gestured at the mock auction ‘... this buys them time.’

  ‘Surry Hills people — we stick together,’ Solly explained, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. ‘Sometimes if it is a widow being sold up, everyone put in money. Buy all her stuff. Then give it back to her the next day.’

  The entire gathering of locals stayed for the duration of the ‘auction’ to ensure no stranger put in a bid
. Everyone was quiet, and there was no heckling or jeering at the bailiff, which made the unfortunate man's job even more frustrating. When he finally called an end to the farce there was a polite round of applause and people drifted away.

  The bailiff started stacking the belongings and Franklin walked over to him. ‘How much rent is owed?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Six pounds, five shillings, Guv',’ the bailiff said.

  ‘Here.’ Franklin pressed a ten pound note into the man's hand. ‘And give them back their furniture.’ As he turned to go he noticed Solly and Millie several yards away, staring at him. They had both witnessed the transaction. They were impressed. But they didn't acknowledge it — it wasn't the done thing.

  ‘You come to my place for a vodka, Mr Ross, yes?’ Solly asked. He deliberately ignored Millie even though it was quite obvious she would love to be included in the invitation. Now was the time, Solly decided, to start convincing Mr Ross of the true value of Solomon Mankowski. If the evening evolved into a business discussion, Millie might prove a little too distracting. ‘Good Polish vodka,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you, Solly, I accept.’

  ‘Greedy, you see? The landlords, they are too greedy.’ It was an hour later. An hour, and three-quarters of a bottle of vodka later. Solly had explained to a fascinated Franklin the background of Surry Hills and the rigours that beset its inhabitants. The property owners had moved out long ago. And, from their comfortable existences in the wealthier outer suburbs, they were ruthless landlords. The fact that their tenants were forced to live in decaying houses with rats and shocking drainage and sewer problems appeared to be of little concern to them.

  ‘My landlord, he is of course different,’ Solly admitted. ‘Just as I was different. I too was a good landlord.’

  Franklin had been about to excuse himself. Interested as he was, the vodka was starting to have an effect upon him and he didn't like to drink too much. But the fact that Solly had been a man of property was too interesting to go unquestioned.

  ‘You were a landlord?’

  ‘Yes,’ Solly answered. ‘A good one.’ He was pleased with himself. He'd sensed that Mr Ross was about to leave and he'd timed it perfectly. ‘Two houses I owned. One here in this very street. Number sixty-four.’ He picked up the vodka bottle. The other, in Darlinghurst, near the police station. I sell them both fifteen years ago.’ He filled their glasses again and Franklin didn't protest. I was a good businessman, Mr Ross. Still I am a good businessman. But ... ’ He left it hanging in the air and Franklin, aware of the man's theatricality, refused to ask ‘but what?’.

  ‘But ... I gamble,’ Solly finally admitted. He downed his drink in one gulp. ‘Not always. Only when I drink too much vodka.’ He picked up the bottle as if to emphasise the point and poured himself another. Then he proceeded to tell Franklin his story.

  Solomon Mankowski came from the wide, sandy plains and heathlands of central Poland. He was the youngest of nine children and an unwelcome mistake — there was nearly ten years’ difference in age between him and the next youngest. It was a lonely childhood; his brothers and sisters didn't want to know him and to his poverty-stricken parents he was merely an added burden. So at fourteen he left the small poultry farm near Poznan and found his way to Krakow. He apprenticed himself to a leather merchant and worked hard. By twenty he was an accomplished craftsman, had done well at his trade and was ready to conquer the world.

  ‘Such a big world, so much to see.’ Solly held his arms out expansively. ‘You drink your vodka, Mr Ross, do you good.’ Franklin did. He was starting to enjoy it. ‘So, I decide to go to America.’ He filled up their glasses. ‘But I come here instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I meet an Australian woman. She is married, travelling with her husband. But not happy,’ he hastened to add as if to vindicate himself. ‘Her husband, he is wealthy, but he does not love her, so ... ’ He swigged back the vodka and poured the remaining half-inch from the bottle into his empty glass.

  ‘When she leave Poland,’ he continued, ‘I follow her to Australia, but when I get here ... ’he shrugged philosophically, ‘ ... it seems she is happy after all.’ Solly grinned and rose to get another bottle of vodka. ‘I was nineteen and foolish. She was a middle-aged woman and I was her holiday.’ He took a fresh bottle from the cupboard and nodded at Franklin. ‘Come along, drink.’

  Franklin automatically did as he was told. There was something very authoritative about Solly. Far from making the man drunk, the alcohol seemed to be giving him a strength and a charm that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had been and Franklin hadn't noticed. Whatever it was, Franklin thought as he held out his glass, there was something eminently likeable about Solly Mankowski.

  Solly could feel the young man relax. Good, he thought. This is what Mr Ross needs. A night of vodka and talk and camaraderie. Soon we will be friends. He needs friends. He is too stern for one so young.

  ‘Yes,’ Solly heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. ‘A boy I was. Just a boy. Not much younger than you, Mr Ross.’

  Franklin sensed a question. He didn't mind. ‘I'm twenty-five,’ he answered.

  ‘And I shall be forty in one month.’ Solly's grin was triumphantly boyish. ‘I do not look forty, hey?’

  Franklin laughed and shook his head. It seemed the right thing to do.

  The grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Solly leaned forward in his chair. ‘I have saved, Mr Ross. Since my ruin I have worked hard. When you start your business, you think of Solly, hey? I would make good partner.’

  Franklin downed his drink, held his glass out for another and only vaguely questioned why teaming up with Solly seemed like quite a good idea.

  They drank the second bottle of vodka and talked until three o'clock in the morning. Franklin told Solly of his love for the vines.

  ‘They're timeless, Solly. They're young and they're old. They're the past and the future. When you stand among them, you could be anywhere. In any place. In any civilisation.’ Franklin had never talked like this in his life before. He was enjoying it.

  ‘Rows and rows of them,’ he said, seeing them in his mind, ‘stretching across the hills and the valleys — and what do they symbolise, Solly? Tell me, what do they symbolise?’ Solly shook his head and waited for the answer. He didn't want to break the mood; it was good to see Mr Ross so freed of his inhibitions. ‘Harmony,’ Franklin announced. ‘Harmony, friendship, conviviality ... and I'll tell you why.’

  There was no stopping Franklin now. He desperately wanted Solly to understand, he needed to explain. ‘They're not cultivated for survival, you see? They're not wheat grown for bread or cattle raised for beef. The vines are grown to make wine. Wine for men to share at their table — they're the bond between us all.’ He downed his vodka. ‘There can be no war among men who share a love of the vines,’ he concluded.

  Solly waited a full thirty seconds before he replied. He wanted to be sure Mr Ross had finished. Then he nodded gravely. ‘You must travel, Mr Ross,’ he said. And, in Franklin's eyes, a fresh dimension was added to the man's strength and charm — Solly was wise. ‘You're right,’ he said, ‘You're right.’

  Then Solly talked about Poland. It had been twenty years since he'd left, but he thought of her daily. His Poland. His beautiful Poland.

  Solly didn't actually think of Poland daily but, when he was drunk, he could swear he did. And it was true he did love his motherland. He had blocked out the harsh reality of his childhood and remembered only the good parts. He communicated regularly with several of his brothers and sisters and always planned one day to go back.

  ‘I worry, Mr Ross. I worry. This Austrian with his National Socialist Party, this Hitler — oh sure, he is doing good things for Germany, but he is greedy. Just like the landlords, you know? He will want more, only a matter of time. And Poland will be first. Always she is. Always, Poland is the sandwich.’ Solly drained the last of the bottle and then noticed that Franklin had passed out.


  ‘It was a good night, Mr Ross,’ Solly said the next morning. He was fully aware that Franklin's reserve was back in place. No matter, the breakthrough had been made. There would be other times. ‘You remember what I say.’ He nodded conspiratorially. ‘When you are ready to do business, we talk, hey? You ask around Surry Hills. The people, they tell you I am a good businessman.’

  Franklin did ask around Surry Hills. He wasn't sure why. Just a passing interest, he told himself -Mankowski was a colourful character. His inquiries revealed that Solly had not only been a man of property, he had been a good friend to many. A bit of a rogue at times but a kind-hearted man and one who kept his word. A terrible gambler with vodka in him, Franklin was warned. But then Solly had admitted that himself, hadn't he?

  Franklin was quite impressed. Yes, he thought, Solly Mankowski could well prove useful.

  Several days later, as Franklin left for the art gallery and his designated meeting with Gustave Lumet, he bumped into Millie Tingwell on the landing. It was ten o'clock in the morning and an odd time to find her home. Her shift hours at the sack factory were from five in the morning till three in the afternoon.

  Franklin raised his hat in greeting. ‘Mrs Tingwell. You're home early.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Ross,’ Millie replied. She'd been laid off that morning. Always the way with casual labour, she thought wearily — they never gave you any notice. Seeing Mr Ross cheered her up. Such a fine man, helping old Arch the way he had. She admired him tremendously. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I handed in my notice at Gadsden's — the hours were simply too long.’ No point in being depressing company, she thought. ‘Perhaps you'd like to celebrate with me over a cup of tea in Solly's kitchen.’

  ‘I'd like that,’ Franklin said, and most certainly would have, ‘but I have an engagement this morning.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind.’ Millie opened the door to her little back room. It was much smaller than Franklin's front room and overlooked rows of narrow backyards, disintegrating picket fences and sagging clotheslines always heavy with the weight of the daily wash. Millie found comfort in the uniformity of it all. She would like to be married again. She would like to stay at home, keep house, wash and cook. She hated factory work. ‘Another time, perhaps,’ and she smiled once more as she started to close her door.