by Judy Nunn
Several days later Millie read a newspaper article on the death of young James Ross, son of prominent citizen and businessman Franklin Ross. James had become one of the early Australian casualties in the Vietnam War. So that's why, she thought. Still, she didn't regret keeping the knowledge of her grandson a secret. Maybe when the boy was old enough to decide for himself, he might wish to trace his antecedents. But by then she would probably be dead and it would no longer be her problem. What will be will be, she told herself. She was too old to be bothered with that now.
Penelope's disapproval of Franklin's binge with Solly was evident the following day. She'd heard them come in after midnight and her bedside clock told her it was three in the morning when she heard Franklin come upstairs to his bedroom. (She and Franklin had long since had separate bedrooms.)
‘It doesn't look good for a man in your position to be out drinking, Franklin,’ she said. She meant ‘with someone like Solly’. For all of his success and despite her bizarre friendship with Zofia, Penelope had never been able to approve of Solly. In her eyes, he had never acquired the style a man of his wealth and circumstances should have, and she simply could not understand the regard Franklin had for him.
‘The evening of your son's funeral people would surely expect you to be at home mourning with your family,’ she continued when he refused to anwer. ‘It's not correct for you to be seen ... ’
‘You're nagging, Penelope,’ he said and he poured himself another cup of tea.
It was Saturday and they were breakfasting on the terrace as they always did during the summer weekends when Franklin was at home. The harbour sparkled in front of them and small sailing craft glided across the waters.
Penelope kept quiet, but she was furious. How dare he? He always knew how to make her feel unattractive. She never ‘nagged'. She merely tried, as any decent wife would for a man in his position, to safeguard his image. She picked up the newspaper and nodded curtly as he offered to pour her another cup of tea.
Franklin knew he had hurt her. He hadn't wanted to, but it was the only way to keep her quiet and he needed to think. God only knew why she was so insecure anyway; she was still one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.
At fifty-two years of age, Penelope could well have passed for thirty-five. She'd insisted on a facelift three years earlier, although Franklin hadn't been able to understand at all why she'd felt she needed it. She was an extremely handsome woman, he told her, why was she so preoccupied with her fading youth? But Penelope had merely laughed and said men didn't understand these things.
It was a good relationship in many ways. Penelope had made a career out of Franklin's business and position. Or rather, her position as the wife of so prominent a man. And with the exception of her refusal to accompany him to America, her refusal to have the knife twisted in the wounds of her thwarted career, she was a perfect ally for him.
He, in turn, had resigned himself to the fact that there were only to be two sons in his marriage. He would have liked five, but that was hardly Penelope's fault. She had been a good wife, a good mother, and now she was a good business partner.
They had even come to a tacit understanding about their sex life which maintained the status quo.
‘It's so much better for one's health to sleep alone,’ Penelope had insisted when he had been taken aback by her suggestion they have separate bedrooms. ‘It's better for one's spine, therefore better for one's breathing, therefore better for one's skin. All the books say so. Penelope was in her mid-forties at the time and paranoid about the loss of her beauty. She tried every treatment which professed to magic youth-enhancing ingredients and she read every book on the subject and she was already insisting she must have a facelift in the next couple of years.
Franklin took her insistence upon the separate bedrooms for exactly what it was, a healthier night's sleep, but he also assumed that it meant her beauty was of more importance to her than her sexual desires.
He hadn't been too disappointed by her decision at the time. He'd been spending several months of the year in New York anyway. In those days, Franklin had been devoting as much time as he possibly could to the amalgamation of Ross Entertainments and Minotaur Movies, which he and Sam Crockett had formed. Ross Industries, the major arm of the Corporation, he'd been happy to leave alone, as it had stood the test of time, but the production of television and movies for the world market demanded his personal attention.
Penelope loathed New York and the reminder that this had been the life she had originally planned for herself. Franklin had had no interest in the entertainment industry before he'd met her, but now his was one of the major international production companies. It was a bitter twist of the knife and Penelope always refused to accompany him on his trips to America.
Penelope's insistence upon separate bedrooms had not only failed to disappoint, it had signalled a certain freedom for Franklin. It meant he could now, in all conscience, set up an apartment for Helen so that they could live together during his New York visits.
Helen Bohan was an attractive thirty-year-old career woman, one of the junior directors of Minotaur Movies. Franklin had been having an affair with her for several years.
By Penelope's standards, Franklin supposed, Helen was no classic beauty, but he'd been attracted to her from the moment of their first meeting.
‘You're the formidable Franklin Ross - how do you do? Helen Bohan.’ The handshake had been firm, no-nonsense, and the expression in the eyes bold but not challenging. Friendly more than anything. ‘I think this amalgamation's an excellent idea. Minotaur needs an injection of fresh blood and new ideas.’
They were at the cocktail party held specifically for the directors of both companies to acquaint themselves with each other and Helen was making sure she did just that. It wasn't a flirtatious introduction. Franklin watched her as she continued on her rounds and each fresh handshake was just as open, just as friendly.
She wasn't slim and svelte like Penelope; her body was a little too thickset to wear clothes elegantly. Her face was not fine-boned and patrician but a little too square and almost devoid of makeup. Her hair was not styled fashionably but practically. This was a woman who couldn't be bothered spending hours each morning making herself beautiful.
Franklin had always been an admirer of cultivated feminine beauty. He liked women who went to great pains to look elegant. So why did he find Helen Bohan so attractive? He didn't for the life of him know, but there was something in the woman's directness, something honest in her eyes, something warm and humorous in the curve of her mouth that made him want to get to know her.
‘You appear to be without a drink, Miss Bohan,’ he said, approaching her with two glasses of champagne he'd taken from a waiter's tray.
‘Helen, please,’ she smiled, ‘and no, thank you, no champagne. It goes straight to my head.’
‘But you'll have to have a drink,’ he insisted. ‘This is an introductory party, after all, we have to toast the amalgamation with something. What will it be?’
Helen was taken aback by the man's friendliness. She'd been told that Franklin Ross was a hard man, usually brusque and not one for social niceties. ‘Well, I drink the occasional scotch and ice but ...’
‘A scotch and ice it is then.’ Franklin signalled to a waiter. ‘Noisy, isn't it? Cocktail chat always is. Like hens at feeding time. Shall we find a quiet spot?’
He found them some seats in a corner away from the mass of people and, when the waiter had delivered her scotch, they drank to the amalgamation.
‘A toast, Helen,’ he said. ‘To Ross and Minotaur. Long may they reign.’
‘Yes, Franklin, to Ross and Minotaur.’ She studied him as she sipped her drink. There it was, she told herself, she'd been right, just the barest trace of surprise. He'd expected her to call him Mr Ross and wait to be invited onto a first-name basis. Helen was all for equality. Not that she didn't believe in mutual respect as well. If, being an older man and therefore possibly old-fash
ioned in his business etiquette, Franklin had insisted upon calling her Miss Bohan then she most certainly would have stuck to Mr Ross. She decided that, as his reaction had been infinitesimal, he'd passed the test. She smiled at him.
Although he'd covered well, Franklin was far more than a little surprised, he was startled. It wasn't the proper practice at all for a junior director, particularly a female, to assume a first-name basis with the president of the company.
Under normal circumstances, Franklin would have put the subordinate in his or her place. But the moment Helen smiled, he realised that this was what he liked about her. Not only her honesty, but her nerve. Helen Bohan had guts.
‘How long have you been with Minotaur?’ he asked.
During the rest of Franklin's stay in New York, he saw quite a bit of Helen Bohan. Board meetings followed by lunches, always at his suggestion and always under the pretext of necessary business discussions, although they both knew there was no earthly reason for the company president to take a junior director to lunch. Then, finally, just before he returned to Australia, Helen accepted his invitation to dinner. She knew she shouldn't. She knew he was married. She also knew she was in love with him.
They didn't sleep together that night but, on Franklin's return to New York the following year, Helen was the first person he phoned. And when, after dinner, they went back to her apartment, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
I'd like to stay, Helen,’ he'd said.
‘Yes, I'd like you to,’ she'd answered.
Their affair continued for the next several years, Franklin always staying in his rooms at the Broughton Arms – one of the luxury hotels owned by the Ross Corporation – and spending several nights a week at Helen's apartment. Helen accepted the fact that theirs was a relationship which existed for only three months of the year.
Then one day Franklin suggested that he find her a larger apartment. ‘I spend so much time in New York, my dear, we might as well be comfortable together,’ he said.
Helen wondered at the reason for the change in their arrangements. Franklin had openly stated from the outset of their affair that he would never leave his wife. But he offered no reason. He didn't tell her that his guilt had been assuaged when Penelope had insisted upon separate bedrooms.
Helen accepted the offer and life progressed smoothly for Franklin. He didn't realise that, against her better judgement, Helen was desperately in love with him and that, although she wouldn't admit it even to herself, she lived in the delusion that one day he might leave his wife.
Penelope suspected that Franklin might have a mistress in New York but she never confronted him. It wasn't wise to rock the boat, she told herself, and she felt in no way threatened. Penelope was fully confident of her place in the scheme of things, secure in the knowledge that she was the co-ruler of the Ross Empire.
The maid came to clear away the breakfast things and Penelope continued to read the paper, still smarting at Franklin's comment about nagging. But he appeared oblivious, staring out over the harbour, his mind on other things.
He hadn't asked Millie about her daughter, he realised. But Millie had seemed so much her own person that he hadn't wished to intrude. Besides, if she'd wanted to talk about the daughter she would have, wouldn't she? No, it was safer to leave things as they were. And, with a tinge of sadness, Franklin realised that he would never see Millie again.
He looked over at Penelope and noticed that her eyes were not scanning the page. She was sulking.
‘How would you like to go to Mandinulla?’ he asked. ‘I can afford a month off.’
‘It'll be boiling at this time of the year.’
‘So? That's never bothered you before. What do you say? Just the two of us.’
Penelope recognised the suggestion as a peacemaking offer, and smiled. ‘Very well.’ It would be nice to see Never-Never. It would be nice to ride out to the creek, to catch yabbies and to pretend she was a girl again.
But they didn't go to Mandinulla. Several days later, Terry came to Franklin with the news his father had been dreading.
‘How far gone is she?’ Franklin asked, so annoyed he scarcely dared speak.
Terry could hear the anger in his father's voice and he started to feel a little nervous. It was obvious his charm wouldn't get him far this time. As a child, his father's anger had always terrified him. Franklin never shouted, never swore, never even raised his voice, but the tone was so threatening and the eyes so menacing that they instilled a genuine fear in the boy.
‘She's not sure. She thinks about two months,’ he said.
‘And what does she do?’
‘She works at the cannery.’ Before his father could say anything, Terry continued hastily. ‘But she's not a factory worker, she's a receptionist in the delivery office.’ That sounded a lot better, he thought.
‘I don't give a damn what she is. This time you'll marry her.’
For once Terry was at an utter loss for words. Vonnie was a nice little thing, and madly in love with him, but she was mousy – not his type at all. And they'd only done it a few times. Surely his father couldn't mean it? Not marriage. An allowance for the baby, if Vonnie wished to have it, or he could buy her out like he had the last girl ... But not marriage, surely?
‘You can't be serious,’ he said. ‘Dad, you can't be.’ Franklin still didn't answer. ‘But she's a receptionist,’ Terry insisted. How could his father force him to marry one of his factory employees? ‘At the cannery,’ he stammered.
I don't care if she licks the labels,’ Franklin said, his voice like ice. He could feel his right hand clench into a fist and he knew he would dearly love to hit his son. ‘You will marry her. That is, if she's fool enough to have you. And then you will set up a decent home for her and the child, and you will give her more children and you will give her an honourable life.’
‘Oh, come on, Dad.’ Terry's mouth was dry but he tried to smile. Nine times out of ten the smile did the trick. ‘You don't mean it ...’
‘You'll do as you're told, boy,’ Franklin snarled. ‘You'll do as you're told or you'll be disinherited. Now get out.’
When Penelope met Veronica, she expressed her concern to Franklin. The girl was definitely mousy and, Penelope suspected, not very bright. Certainly not the stylish, well-bred young lady one would have hoped Terry might marry.
‘The boy should have thought of that,’ Franklin growled and Penelope realised she would have to make the best of the situation.
As usual, it didn't take her long. Vonnie's lack of vivacity was to her advantage, she decided. A dowdy daughter-in-law would be no competition at all.
Penelope quickly befriended little Vonnie. And Vonnie, who was overwhelmed by the Ross household, was only too grateful for the support. Mrs Ross – ‘Penelope, you must call me Penelope’ – was the nicest person she had ever met.
Terence George Franklin Ross and Veronica Mary Slater were married on April 12, 1966 at St Mark's Church in Darling Point and there followed a grand reception at The Colony House. Twenty-two-year-old Vonnie felt like a princess. It was more than a dream come true - she would never have had the temerity (or the imagination) to dream that such a thing could be possible.
Six months later, Michael Terence Franklin Ross was born.
The birth of his grandson appeased Franklin. He'd been dismissive of his daughter-in-law. Not deliberately – she was simply invisible to him. Now that she had presented him with a grandson, he instinctively offered her more attention. And she was a good mother. Terry, too, was a good father who enjoyed his baby far more than Franklin had his own children when they were infants.
As he watched Terry dandle little Michael on his knee, Franklin was prepared to forgive his son all his previous misdemeanours. Everything had worked out for the best, Franklin thought, and there would be more grandchildren. He was content.
It was Vonnie who realised that things hadn't really changed that much. At least not as far as Terry was concerned. She knew
he still had affairs. Well, not so much affairs as conquests. She was aware that Terry couldn't resist a pretty woman. He couldn't resist the drink either but, when he came home, barely able to walk, and cried drunkenly on her breast, she had to forgive him. He was gentle and kind and he never abused her. Not the way her drunken father had abused her mother. He was a good provider and a good father and Vonnie supposed that his infidelity was her lot to bear. This was the price she was expected to pay for the elevated position she now held as wife to the heir of the Ross empire and mother to his son.
Barely a year after the birth of his grandson, Franklin was shocked out of his complacency. He'd just returned from New York and the successful conclusion of a television network deal between CBS, Ross Entertainments and Minotaur Movies. Things had gone extremely well.
‘Mr Ross?’ the girl said the moment he walked in the door. But she knew she didn't need to ask. She knew it was him. Terry had told her all about him.’
‘Yes?’ he said warily. The girl was in her twenties, fair-haired and physically quite attractive but there was a tough tilt to the chin and a glint in her eye which said she meant business. Penelope had told him she'd been waiting for two hours. Something to do with Terry, the girl had said, but she would speak to no one but Franklin. Penelope, frustrated, had been able to do nothing but wait with her.
The girl didn't beat about the bush. ‘I’m carrying your son's child,’ she said and she waited for the stunned reaction. She got it. Then she continued. ‘I thought you might like to do something about it.’
