by Judy Nunn
‘Grandpa!’ he cried.
Michael’s head didn’t shatter. Karol shot him clean through the heart. It seemed kinder to Franklin to do it that way, he thought, as Michael fell dead to the floor.
EPILOGUE
FRANKLIN DIDN’T TRY to suppress the story. He didn’t try to whitewash the events of that terrible night in order to preserve the Ross name. In fact, it was Franklin himself who handed the videotape over to the police.
‘There’s your evidence,’ he said. ‘The murder of the girl, the attack on the man, it’s all there - even the performance he put on for the camera. He obviously intended to frame Stanley Grahame.’
Franklin was tired. He felt empty, defeated. He wanted to get the whole wretched business over so he could return to Australia. He would never come back to New York.
‘The one incident not covered on that tape,’ the old man continued, ‘is the killing of my grandson and that was carried out upon my instruction. It was the only way to save the girl.’
‘Emma Clare,’ the lieutenant said, nodding to the young officer who was taking notes.
‘That’s right. Emma Clare. My granddaughter.’
As soon as the inquest was over, Franklin took Helen to Australia. They were married at Araluen.
Emma didn’t attend the ceremony. She stayed in New York to be near Stanley. His skull had been severely fractured and he’d been in a coma for three days, so the doctors had feared permanent brain damage. For several months after he regained consciousness, he suffered bouts of memory loss but slowly, with Emma’s help, he regained the threads of his past and, six months after leaving the hospital, he was ready to start work again. He accepted an offer on a big-budget Disney film due to start shooting around Christmas. ‘Special effects only,’ the doctors warned. ‘No stunt work. Another skull injury and you won’t be so lucky.’
‘Oh well,’ he shrugged philosophically, ‘it’s time, I guess. Nobody loves an aging stuntie.’
Emma refused his offer to come and work with him. She’d long since left the Ross Corporation and had started writing her novel. The novel she had promised herself she’d write since she was a young girl. She had the time to do it now. And more than ample funds to support herself while she wrote. Since the death of Michael Ross, Halley’s, Blue Water History and Earth Man had become three of the greatest money-spinning movies of the decade. Even The Breeders had a resurgence at the box office when it was re-released. As co-producer Emma had points in all four films and it came as a surprise when she found herself a wealthy woman.
‘What’s the novel about?’ Stanley asked.
‘Oh, a family saga style thing,’ Emma replied vaguely. She didn’t tell him about the journals. The journals were her inspiration.
When the invitation to Franklin and Helen’s wedding had arrived, it had arrived with a large parcel and an accompanying note from Franklin. ‘This is your heritage, Emma,’ the note had said. ‘You’re a Ross, whether you like it or not. Come to Araluen. Please.’
Inside the parcel were the journals of George Franklin Ross. Emma couldn’t help herself; she was drawn to them like a magnet. The sense of history captured her completely. The sense of belonging. Her great-great-grandfather was speaking directly to her. Franklin was right. Like it or not, she was a Ross.
The urge to go to Araluen was strong. She wanted to see the old stone barn that George had built, she wanted to walk amongst the vines that Richard had planted … But she resisted the urge. She refused to be dictated to by Franklin Ross. Besides, she told herself, she couldn’t leave New York until Stanley was well again.
But Stanley had been out of hospital for months and had accepted the Disney job when the telephone call came. There was no excuse for her not to go back.
‘Penelope died early this morning.’ Franklin’s voice sounded strange down the line. Not as authoritative as she remembered. ‘The funeral’s on Tuesday. Will you come to Sydney?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Will you stay long?’ Stanley asked when he saw her off at the airport.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay for Christmas, then see what happens. I might even have the book finished by the new year.’ Now that Emma had made the decision, she was glad she was leaving. She needed space. Space from New York and space from Stanley.
She knew she loved him. She knew she always would. But she didn’t want an affair. Not yet. He was too much a part of her past. Too much a reminder of Michael. Memories of the three of them were inescapable when she was with Stanley. And Emma needed to forget Michael.
Stanley sensed her evasion. ‘Do you want me to butt out, Emma, is that what you want? Just tell me to leave you alone and I will.’
‘For a while, Stanley,’ she answered. ‘Just for a while.’
‘Fine. How long’s “a while”?’
She smiled and kissed him.
Penelope’s funeral was a grand affair. She would have been pleased. All the right people were there, all the pomp and ceremony. Franklin had arranged it himself and he’d spared no expense. There was no more animosity left in him. It was the least he could do for her.
‘Will you come to Araluen?’ he asked Emma.
‘Yes.’ She’d known she would.
Franklin was a different man, she thought. Was it just because he’d aged rapidly over the last six months? Or was it Araluen? Probably a mixture of the two, she decided. But there was a sense of peace about him now. The desire to dominate had gone. She watched him as he sat with Helen on the front verandah overlooking the vineyards. It was early evening, Franklin was sipping a glass of his best hermitage, and they were chatting and very comfortable together.
New Year’s Eve tomorrow, Emma thought. She’d nearly finished the book - another two weeks should do it. What then? she wondered. Back to New York? She missed Stanley. But she would probably miss Araluen more if she went back.
‘I’m just going for a walk,’ she said as she crossed the verandah.
‘Dinner in an hour, dear,’ Helen reminded her.
Emma loved Araluen. She loved it with a passion she’d never known was in her. She walked through the vineyard watching the patterns of light play on the vines and the colour of the earth change in the deepening dusk.
She’d joined the workers amongst the vines all through the hot December. She’d wanted to. She’d revelled in the smell of the soil and the feel of her hard-earned sweat. And now she was as brown and fit as any of the farmhands. She often saw Franklin watching her as she worked; his expression was unfathomable, but somehow touching.
There was no point agonising over a decision now, she told herself as she looked back at the homestead in the distance. She’d worry about whether to stay or go in two weeks when she’d finished the book.
Emma hurried back to the house. She mustn’t be late for dinner. Unpunctuality annoyed Franklin.
As it turned out, Emma didn’t have to wait two weeks to make her decision. Franklin made it for her the following night. New Year’s Eve.
The three of them dined alone. The cook had the evening off and Helen prepared a beautiful meal. Chopin’s ‘Nocturne’ was playing quietly in the background. Franklin was still dictatorial enough to insist that nothing but Chopin was played at Araluen and Helen couldn’t be bothered rebelling. It wasn’t worth it. Anyway, she liked Chopin.
They dined late and it was eleven o’clock before they left the table and took their coffees and liqueurs out onto the verandah. It was a hot summer night, but the verandah was positioned and designed to pick up the slightest breeze that wafted up from the valley. Old George had made sure of that, Franklin thought. For someone with no experience he’d been a clever builder. But then Grandfather George had always been ruled by common sense. He should have learned that from the old man, Franklin thought; it was something he hadn’t applied too much to his own life. Franklin had always wanted power. Too much power.
He was feeling very mellow tonight. Perhaps it was t
he wine. He took another sip from the glass; a good red - one to be proud of. Franklin never drank liqueurs or spirits. He’d even given up his evening Laphroaig. These days he could only drink wine.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was New Year’s Eve, he thought. Nineteen ninety-four. He was eighty-nine years old. It had been a long life. Not much more of it to go now.
He looked at the two women as they sipped their liqueurs. It had taken him all of these years to understand women, he thought. Well, that was wrong of course - he didn’t understand them. Not one bit. But it had taken him all of these years to appreciate them. He wondered at the mess he’d made of his life. But it wasn’t too late, was it? Not for the future generations.
‘Half an hour to midnight, Emma,’ he said. ‘And then it will be the new year. A good time to make decisions.’
‘What decisions?’ she asked. He’d taken her by surprise. How had he known she’d been agonising over what to do?
But he hadn’t. ‘I have an offer to make you. And you must decide whether or not to accept. I think now is a good time.’ He looked at Helen. It was obviously something that they’d discussed.
‘I want you to take over,’ he announced.
‘Take over what?’ Emma asked, confused. Was this going to get complicated? she wondered. She’d had a little too much to drink.
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Well, primarily Araluen,’ he added, as an afterthought. ‘Araluen is obviously where you belong, there’s no decision to be made there.’ He put his glass down and sat back in his comfortable wicker chair. ‘I shall die soon and I want to leave it all to you. There has to be a Ross at the helm.’ Emma stared at him blankly.
‘It’s not as daunting a prospect as it appears,’ Franklin continued. ‘The Ross Corporation runs itself, you’ll have a wealth of experts at your beck and call. And of course Helen will be around to help you.’ He glanced at Helen who nodded and smiled back at him. She and Franklin had discussed the matter fully. ‘Of course, you would have to change your name to Ross, but that’s a mere legality.’
‘Oh. Is it?’ Emma felt a dangerous surge of rebellion. The old man was reverting to type. The dictator was rising to the surface.
But Franklin refused to recognise the danger signs. ‘Emma,’ he said leaning forward in his chair. ‘You are my blood. You are my sons and my grandsons and I’m asking you to accept what is rightfully yours. And to take responsibility for it.’
Emma couldn’t resist. She laughed. The wine had certainly gone to her head. ‘You mean you’re asking a woman to take over the Ross empire?’ she said.
‘Yes, I am.’
Her smile faded. ‘You really want your pound of flesh, don’t you?’
He nodded.
Emma and Franklin stared at each other for a long time. Then she asked, ‘Does that mean I get to change the music?’
Franklin considered for a moment. ‘I think Helen has some Mozart there.’
Three months later Stanley arrived at Araluen. ‘Okay, so you told me to butt out for a while,’ he said. ‘But it’s a week short of five months. I figure a week short of five months constitutes “a while”.’
She showed him around the property with pride, quoting George’s journals as she took him on a guided tour through the old cellars and the original vineyard. ‘Cuttings brought out from France, Stanley. Grenache and hermitage. Richard got them from Dr Penfold.’
‘How’s the book going?’ he asked.
‘I’m about to do a deal with Pan,’ she grinned. ‘They seem really excited about it. Hey, I can show you the Grange, Penfold’s original home.’
Stanley was quickly realising that he would have to rethink his plans. Emma was not about to allow herself to be whisked off back to New York. Not now, possibly not ever. Sure, this was a pretty part of the world, he thought, but, hell, they were moviemakers. ‘Don’t you miss it, Emma?’
‘What?’
‘New York. The movies.’
‘No.’
Yes, he’d definitely have to rethink his plans.
It happened a fortnight after Stanley’s arrival. Franklin went for a walk. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Just down to the old stone barn, sit in the sun for a while.’
‘Take your scarf, Franklin,’ Helen said, handing it to him. It was a fine afternoon but there was an autumn chill in the air.
Franklin dutifully took the scarf. He’d decided to tell them where he’d be. There was no point in causing unnecessary worry. If all went according to plan, they’d find him at dusk. He hoped he had the strength of will that Grandfather George had had.
‘Can you really do it?’ he could remember himself asking. These days it was easy to remember one’s childhood.
‘I think people can do whatever they set their minds to,’ Grandfather George had answered. ‘If they’re strong and they have the will.’
He walked through the cellars feeling the coolness of the stones and breathing in the smell of wet hessian and he marvelled at the fact that some things never changed.
Then he walked around the side of the old stone barn. The side away from the homestead. Where he’d sat with Aunt Catherine as she’d sketched the old vineyard. Gently, he eased himself down on the ground and looked around at his world. It was a good world. And he was leaving it in good hands.
Franklin had discussed his imminent death with Helen. She was prepared. And Emma? Well, Emma was like Grandfather George, wasn’t she? All the passion of the land and the common sense to run it. Pity he hadn’t known her earlier - he might have learned something from her.
No, he wouldn’t have, he told himself. He wouldn’t have learned at all. He only ever learned from his mistakes - and then always too late to rectify them. Catherine. Millie. Penelope. He’d been wrong, hadn’t he? Wrong every time. Not that it mattered now. Emma would make up for all that. And she had a good man by her side, which pleased him. That was right. A woman needed a man by her side.
He could hear Catherine laugh at the thought, but he didn’t care. So he was old-fashioned - was there anything wrong with that? A man needed a woman too, he was prepared to admit that, and he thought fondly of Helen.
He looked out over the old vineyard as the autumn sun warmed his face. The timeless vines. They would outlive him. They would outlive Emma. And they would outlive Emma’s children. They would always be there. It was a wonderful thought.
The light was changing now. Was dusk coming on? It was early if it was. ‘Use your peripheral vision, Franklin,’ he heard Catherine say, ‘and you’ll find … that the earth is red and the mountains purple, and … ‘ Then Never-Never Everard’s voice took over and Franklin was at Mandinulla … you’ll see colours you’ve never seen before,’ Never-Never was saying. ‘They shimmer like magic. And then, beyond the shimmer, mirages. Sometimes a whole lake.’
Franklin could see it all. His world was a shimmering lake of colour. And beyond the shimmering lake was the timeless network of the vines. It was truly marvellous.
They found him just as he had anticipated they would. At dusk.
Read on for an extract of
Elianne
Available November 2013
CHAPTER ONE
1964
Some people didn’t like the smell. Some people found it overly rich and cloying, some even used the term ‘sickly’. But they were strangers, visitors from the city.
There had always been visitors to the mill. Overseas dignitaries, politicians, even the odd prime minister had enjoyed the lavish garden parties and general hospitality f on offer at Elianne. At times there might be dozens of them, strolling about the grounds of The Big House, or lolling in the wicker chairs on its broad verandahs and upper balconies, while the more active opted for tennis and bowls on the grass courts and greens.
In earlier times, before dirt tracks became accessible roads, and before motor vehicles were the ready form of transport, guests would stay for days on end. The arduous trip by horse and carriage demanded its reward, and
Elianne had much to offer – not least of which was the mandatory trip to the nearby mill. The intrepid would climb to the lofty heights of the lookout tower and drink in the panorama of cane fields, stretching like a vast green ocean to the horizon while those without a head for heights would be taken on a tour of the massive metal complex with its varying levels and intricate steel walkways, its giant vats and machines and eighty-foot-high ceiling, and they would marvel at the magnitude of its scope and industry.
During the crushing season, from mid-year until December, the cacophony of heavy machinery was overwhelming as the mill’s giant rollers and presses smashed and mashed and ground the cane through every stage of its transition to raw sugar. Nothing was wasted. The fibre that was left from the crushing was burnt in the furnaces to generate steam power; the mud filtered from the cane through the presses was returned to the field as fertiliser; and after the painstakingly long crystallisation process, the molasses residue was mixed in with the stock feed or sent to the distillery for the making of rum. The whole exercise was highly efficient as men and machines went about their tasks with precise teamwork.
The mill was a busy, buzzy place during the crushing season, like a beehive where each worker knew precisely the purpose he served. The men took pride in the fact they were Elianne workers. They thrived on the noise and the industry and the smell of the mill, the very smell that some of those from the city professed to find ‘sickly’.
Kate and her brothers loved the smell of the sugar mill. They found the toffee-scented air heady and intoxicating. It was the smell they’d grown up with, all three of them. It was the smell of home.
