by Judy Nunn
Gustave was often at The Colony House, not because it was necessary but because he loved the place. The Bohemian set of Kings Cross bored him now; he preferred to mingle with the international crowd. He always posed as a guest, though, never letting it be known he was Franklin’s partner.
Gustave particularly liked the evenings when they hosted a night of blackjack or poker. Those were the nights when the really big spenders swarmed about The Colony House like bees around a honey pot. Not that Gustave himself was much of a gambler. He put in bids just high enough to keep him in the game and lost only the amount he was prepared to lose, but he adored people who spent money. Lots of it. With style.
The gambling nights, always organised at the request of a well-known or well-referred guest, were as borderline illegal as Franklin was prepared to go. The Colony House did not operate as a gambling casino, it merely hosted the evenings of its guests’ choice. And if the guests chose to gamble with their own money, Franklin reasoned, who was he to stand in their way?
Solly was a problem on gambling nights – or rather, when gambling nights coincided with vodka nights, Solly was a problem. And it was difficult to escape him. With a bottle of fine Polish vodka inside him, Solly could sniff out a poker game a mile away. Three times he’d lost every penny he owned.
‘With the American in town it will be a big game tonight – what are you going to do about Solly?’ Gustave asked as he finished setting up the bar in the corner of the suite. Gustave didn’t care much for Solly. The man was colourful, certainly, but he had very little style.
Franklin shrugged. ‘Solly won’t be any trouble. He can’t be, he has nothing left to gamble.’ He opened the french windows and stepped outside onto the balcony. He didn’t think it necessary to tell Gustave that just last week Solly had gambled away his bootshop. Franklin had been appalled.
‘I know, I know, Boss.’ Solly had been deeply penitent. ‘It’s the vodka. I tell you, no more, never again.’
It was Millie who’d persuaded Franklin to loan Solly the money to buy back his business.
At first Franklin had refused. ‘Why should I?’ he’d demanded. ‘Solly’s a fool. Good God, next time he’ll probably put up his share in The Colony House – that’s all he’s got left to gamble.’
Millie had quickly seized upon the fact. ‘Then take that as your security,’ she said. ‘Make Solly sign over his share of The Colony House to you until he repays your loan.’
Eventually Franklin did as she suggested – it was sound reasoning after all – and Millie was the one left a little confused. She didn’t know why she had fought Solly’s case so vociferously. Something had warned her that if Solly was ruined, she would be too. Perhaps it was a case of Surry Hills people sticking together. Perhaps it was just that. But things were changing, Millie could feel it – they were moving too fast, and she didn’t want them to. She wanted the comfortable faces and places from the past around her and she often wished Franklin was still living in the front room above the bootshop in Riley Street.
Not that Millie didn’t love The Colony House. She did. She not only loved its beauty but, during that first year, she loved the hard work as they struggled together to make a success of the restaurant.
Solly had been quite right when he told Franklin she would do the work of three. Millie was maid, housekeeper, and kitchenhand. Each morning she would walk from Surry Hills to Point Piper. Her first job was to service the suites. As she opened the french windows to air each room, she loved to step out onto the balcony and look at the sparkling blue harbour waters and the occasional big ship steaming its way towards the far distant heads and the open sea. She loved sitting in the parlour making out the lists of housekeeping supplies needed and she loved polishing the beautiful crystal wine glasses in the restaurant and setting the tables the way Franklin had taught her.
Millie didn’t hostess or wait at table. Franklin never asked her to and she was rather grateful for that. But a year or so after the restaurant was established, when the gambling evenings started to prove popular, he suggested she host them with him.
‘They don’t want regular waiters and maitre d’s,’ he said. ‘They want to feel they’re among friends.’
Millie was very flattered and she came to love the evenings, for several reasons. She was working closely with Franklin, for a start – with the burgeoning success of the business, she had been seeing less of him – and it kept her away from the restaurant. Millie was a little in awe of many of the people who now dined at The Colony House. She was self-conscious and aware she was out of her class. The gambling nights were different. The atmosphere was far more relaxed and, as the company was predominantly male, Millie was more often than not a major attraction. She enjoyed the mildly flirtatious attitudes of the men – they meant no harm, and it was good for her ego.
But what Millie loved most of all about the gambling nights was the fact that they started late and invariably went through until the early hours of the following morning, which meant that she spent the remainder of the time in Franklin’s bed.
They allowed themselves to sleep in and ‘dawdle into the day’ as Millie put it. As they drank their morning tea together gazing at the harbour, Millie would fantasise that they were married. This is how it would be, she would think.
‘The American has stamina.’ Gustave lit up one of his foul-smelling imported cigarettes. (‘They taste much better than they smell,’ was his jovial excuse when people turned away in disgust.) ‘His ship does not arrive until late afternoon and he wants a poker game his first night in town.’ Gustave nodded approvingly. I shall look forward to meeting him.’
No one had met the American but he came with excellent references and credentials. Not only did he own property all over the globe, including film studios in Hollywood and a cattle station in Queensland, he had been referred to The Colony House by no less than three well-respected guests, each of whom had suggested that a poker game, involving major players only, be set up for Big Sam.
Samuel Crockett was indeed a big man. In every sense of the word. Big in body, voice and temperament. ‘How do, Mr Ross,’ he said, taking Franklin’s hand into his massive paw and shaking it effusively. ‘Samuel David Crockett, and I’m happy to make your acquaintance.’
Sam’s grandfather had always claimed that Davy Crockett was his first cousin, so Sam’s father had been called David, Sam’s middle name was David and Sam himself, always prepared to go one step further, had recently christened his first-born son Davy. The fact that no relationship to the legendary hero had ever been traced was immaterial to the entire family. ‘Hell, nobody kept records back then!’ They were Crocketts from Tennessee and Davy, they maintained, was their ancestor.
‘I’ve heard a lot of fine things about your magnificent establishment,’ Sam continued. They were standing on the front verandah, and he looked about at the lavish grounds and the wide stretch of grass sloping down to the harbour. ‘And I see that it’s all true.’
‘You must be weary, Mr Crockett. My driver tells me your ship docked less than an hour ago.’
‘Weary? Hell, no. Nothing like a sea voyage to get you up and going.’ Sam gestured at the harbour. ‘What a remarkable sight.’ He shook his head admiringly and Franklin realised he was referring to the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
‘Yes. Two years old now. Magnificent, isn’t it?’
‘It surely is.’ Sam walked to the edge of the verandah and gazed across the water. The bridge was indeed impressive in the early gathering dusk. ‘It surely is,’ he repeated.
‘Your first visit to Sydney, Mr Crockett?’ Franklin asked, joining him.
Sam nodded. ‘I got me a cattle station in Queensland four years back. Near Quilpie.’ He laughed. ‘I thought Sydney’d be kind of like Brisbane.’ Franklin wondered whether the man intended to patronise or whether he was actually a bit stupid.
I thought all Australian cities’d be like Brisbane.’ Sam continued to stare at the bridge and, when he turned to Frank
lin, it was with a huge grin of genuine admiration. ‘I sure didn’t think you’d have a place like this down here. It’s some town, I tell you.’
Franklin realised that Sam was not being intentionally patronising, nor was he stupid. With the exception of his cattle station in outback Queensland, he was genuinely ignorant of anything pertaining to Australia, and he was the first person to admit it.
Sam Crockett was exceedingly arrogant and Franklin didn’t much like him but he recognised an honesty in the man which demanded respect.
Sam’s staying power also demanded respect. Dismissing the idea of a rest before dining, he insisted Franklin join him for champagne on his balcony so that they could watch the sunset over the harbour. ‘Bring some friends,’ he said. ‘Introduce me to some company.’
Sam had already boasted of his newborn son, Davy, and his wife of one year, Lucy-Mae, so Franklin wasn’t sure if he meant ‘female company’. In any event, not associating himself with such requests, Franklin discreetly referred the enquiry to the maitre d’, who did. But it appeared Sam simply required convivial drinking companions. So Franklin asked Gustave and Solly to join them.
Solly was the first to arrive. Despite the fact that he still worked hard in his boot-making shop and, although he had recently come close to ruin, Solly looked prosperous. He enjoyed his elevated position as Franklin’s partner and for some time now he’d consciously set about improving his image. Always easy company, he was quick to delight the American.
‘You know, when they build the bridge, Mr Crockett,’ he said as Sam once more admired the construction from the balcony, ‘they start from both sides of the harbour and when the two halves meet in the middle they are less than one inch apart.’
‘No, you’re kidding me.’ Sam was fascinated.
‘It is true. An engineering masterpiece.’
The sun was setting over the harbour and the old-fashioned gas lanterns, which Franklin had insisted on installing at great expense, had just been lit. There were thirty of them. They lined the main circular driveway and the grass harbour frontage, their reflections shimmering in the darkening waters. Beyond them, across the bay, reared the massive Harbour Bridge and the combination of old and new was breathtaking. The three men sat admiring the view for several minutes before Solly broke the silence.
The champagne was mingling rather unpleasantly with the half-bottle of fine Polish vodka he’d consumed a little earlier, but it was certainly not apparent. Apart from his compulsion to gamble beyond his means, Solly’s behaviour never appeared drink-affected.
‘Of course you have wonderful bridges in America too,’ he said expansively. ‘San Francisco, I have always wanted to see San Francisco.’ He encouraged Sam to talk about his homeland in general, his Hollywood film studio, his Queensland cattle station, and, by the time Gustave arrived, the air was thick with camaraderie.
Solly had his reasons for charming Sam. He’d heard of the impending poker game and he fully intended to participate. He had not yet paid back his creditor and Franklin’s money was burning a hole in his pocket.
Solly loathed being in debt and he’d become obsessed with the notion of doubling the money on a poker table, buying back his business and repaying Franklin in one fell swoop. When he’d accomplished that, he swore to himself, he would never gamble again.
Sam insisted that his new friends join him for dinner and he was effusive about The Ross Estate wines.
‘Amongst the finest I’ve tasted,’ he enthused. They were the words Franklin always loved to hear from an overseas visitor. Through The Colony House, The Ross Estate wines were earning an international reputation. Not only did guests take wines back with them to their homelands, but in the past year Franklin had received orders for six consignments from various small buyers in Britain.
Tonight, however, Sam’s opinion meant little to Franklin. The man was swilling the wine as if it was water, just as he had the champagne earlier, and he was becoming noticeably drunk.
Over coffee and cognac Franklin made a tentative suggestion. ‘I’d be quite happy to postpone our game tonight, Mr Crockett, if you’re weary.’
‘No. Good God, man, no! And it’s Sam. All my friends call me Sam.’
‘It would be no trouble at all to inform the other players, I assure you,’ Franklin persisted. ‘We could just as easily arrange it for tomorrow evening if you wish.’
‘I do not wish, Mr Ross.’ The big face lost its joviality and the brown eyes burned into Franklin’s. Sam had sensed the inference and he was angry. Very angry. Was this young upstart of an Australian daring to insinuate that Samuel David Crockett couldn’t hold his liquor? Although Sam was only five years Franklin’s senior, he felt superior in every way. ‘I most definitely do not wish,’ he repeated scathingly, defying Franklin to pursue the matter.
‘Very well.’ Franklin gestured to the waiter for more coffee and sighed inwardly. He could sense trouble ahead. Drunkenness and gambling were not a good mix and he tried to avoid it whenever possible.
‘And the two of you are going to join me for the game, are you not?’ Sam’s large toothy grin was once more back in place and his voice reverberated with bonhomie as he turned to Gustave and Solly.
‘Thank you for the invitation, but I am afraid the stakes will be a little high for me,’ Gustave smiled apologetically.
‘I accept with pleasure,’ Solly said and he pretended not to notice Franklin’s reaction.
For the next fifteen minutes, while they finished their coffee, Solly resolutely refused to meet Franklin’s eyes, but finally there was no avoiding the confrontation.
‘Well, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.’ Franklin rose from the table and looked at his watch. ‘The other players will be here in an hour and there are things to be done. Solly, I need your help.’ Solly put down his coffee cup and rose reluctantly. ‘We shall meet in your suite at eleven, Mr Crockett, if that’s suitable.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’ Sam nodded affably and helped himself to another cognac.
When they were safely out of earshot Franklin turned to Solly. His voice was like ice. ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’ Solly tried to look bewildered but Franklin continued. ‘How the hell do you intend to gamble if you have no money and you’re in debt to me?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Solly nodded, pretending a sudden realisation. ‘I am sorry, Boss, I should have paid back your money last week.’ Franklin continued to stare at him. ‘I have big win in a game last Friday,’ Solly explained. ‘Yes, yes … ’ He held up his hand as if to ward off interruption even though it was evident Franklin was not about to say anything. ‘I should not have been playing I know, but, well … ’ A shrug and an apologetic smile. ‘ … the vodka.’
Franklin continued to stare back at him. Solly’s charm had been wearing decidedly thin for quite some time now.
‘I have your money,’ Solly insisted. ‘Honest I do. It was a big win.’ Somewhere in Solly’s brain he was justifying the lie. He did have the money, didn’t he? It was waiting for him. On the poker table. All he had to do was double what was in his pocket. He’d done it before.
‘I’ve never known you to be a liar, Solly.’ Franklin felt deeply disappointed. The money was not the issue to him. If Solly’s gambling addiction had reached such proportions that he could renounce his honour, then Franklin had lost a friend. ‘It doesn’t become you,’ he said and walked away.
The other players arrived punctually and Franklin and Millie escorted them to the suite. Each of the three men had been hand-picked by Franklin. Robert Mitchell was ‘old family’. His parents owned half of Sydney and he was a womaniser, a rake and a very astute card player. Paddy Conway was a one-time sea captain who had retired early in life. No one knew where his money came from but it was rumoured he used to run guns. He was a bold gambler who won big and lost big. Viscount Peter Lynell was one of the richest men in the Commonwealth. He lived in London but regularly visited Australia to oversee his vast mining interests. He always stayed
at The Colony House and genuinely enjoyed the fine wines. He and Franklin got on particularly well.
‘Mrs Tingwell, this is Mr Crockett.’ As Franklin started on the introductions, he realised that the American was even more inebriated. He wasn’t staggering and his speech wasn’t slurred but there was a general air of aggression and Franklin sensed that the man had done away with niceties. Crockett obviously considered himself to be among inferiors and seemed to hold them all in contempt.
‘Mrs Tingwell.’ Sam lifted Millie’s hand and brushed his lips over the back of it. The gesture was somehow obscene. Franklin bristled - surely the man would not behave like that amongst his own set. Did he think Millie was a whore?
‘Sam Crockett, this is Robert Mitchell … ’ Curbing his annoyance, Franklin introduced the other players. Sam shook Robert Mitchell’s hand vigorously but still allowed himself to be distracted by Millie. ‘ … Paddy Conway and Viscount Peter Lynell,’ Franklin concluded, hoping that the men were not as aware as he was of Crockett’s blatant rudeness.
‘Sam. Call me Sam.’ The American finally gave his attention to the others and pumped their hands effusively. ‘Let’s not stand on ceremony. Drinks!’ he roared. ‘Where are the drinks?’ He took Millie by the arm and shepherded her towards the bar with a familiarity bordering on lewd. ‘What about you, little lady, what are you having?’
Millie gave him the prettiest smile and gently disengaged her arm. ‘I rather think that’s my job, Mr Crockett.’ The dimples danced. ‘What may I get you?’
Although Millie lacked confidence in sophisticated mixed company, she was perfectly in control among men. Particularly when she knew they were attracted to her – which was invariably the case. It had always been a talent of hers. Even before Franklin had tutored her in the social graces, she’d been able to manipulate men with ease, never offending, never annoying.
Now, as the American nodded amiably and ordered a bourbon, Franklin felt very proud of her. She was a great asset.
