by Judy Nunn
Julian was frozen, staring in horror at the gun. Suddenly he looked across the stage to the opposite side of the wings. Alex followed his eyeline and saw that Maddy had arrived and was standing there, also staring at the gun.
Alex started to relax. Good. They were all here. All the special people. His gift would be for them too.
For the first time, the audience started to get a little restless and Alain began to curse the actors up on stage. Don’t fuck up now, you wankers, he silently urged. Get on with it!
Naomi had left to find out why the hell Julian hadn’t brought the curtain down.
Alex was the only one who knew what was going on. The ache in his head had gone as swiftly as it had arrived.
He could see them all. The audience. The television cameras which signalled all those people in their cosy homes. And of course, watching silently in the wings, the stage management crew, the director, and, on either side of him, Julian and Maddy.
Julian, who loved him and knew him so well. Julian, who had written his life for him.
And Maddy. How had he ever forgotten Maddy? She was so beautiful. And she’d given him the most precious possession in the world. She’d given him his daughter. His Katie. His own flesh and blood. Just as Tim had been. Only closer, closer than Tim. Katie was part of him.
He looked down at her beside him. She was staring back, trembling, not daring to move.
‘Yes, we must treasure this moment, Katie,’ he said, and he was concerned when her eyes flickered with fear. ‘Oh no, no, you mustn’t be frightened.’
He stroked her hair with the hand that held the gun. The cold metal of the muzzle caressed her temple. Jenny whimpered with terror.
‘Yes, soon, my darling, soon,’ Alex promised soothingly.
The image of Tim flashed through his mind. Tim’s body. A river of red seeping towards the door. Then Jonathan Thomas. Jonathan lying in a crimson bath. Yes. Blood. There would be lots of blood. They’d like that. Alex slowly rose from the bed and crossed to centre stage.
Although she was released from his grip, Jenny couldn’t move. She watched Alex, mesmerised, like a rabbit in a spotlight.
Julian had also remained as still as possible, aware that any movement of his could push Alex over the edge. Now that Jenny was freed, though, should he risk trying to reason with him, or even try to wrestle the gun from him? Julian didn’t know what to do.
‘I share with you all the ultimate gift,’ Alex said to the audience. And he smiled, first at Maddy, then Julian, then at Jenny.
‘Watch, Katie. Watch closely,’ he commanded as he turned to Jenny and raised the gun. She stared down the barrel, unable to move. ‘This gift is for you, Katie, my darling daughter.’
Then Alex shot himself. Through the temple. Just as he’d planned.
After several seconds of horrified silence, the entire audience rose to its feet. The theatre resounded with cries of ‘Bravo!’ ‘Author! author!’
The Network Five News Department picked up the scoop of the year. Footage of Alex Rainford’s death went to air at eleven o’clock and the viewers of Centre Stage who hadn’t switched channels or gone to bed discovered that the cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Author! Author!’ were shortlived.
For several minutes after it had happened, the opening night audience had no idea that Alex had shot himself. With the exception of the horrified onlookers in the wings, everyone was stirred and impressed by the powerful finale of the play.
A theatre critic in row B thought the special effects employed when the leading character suicided were unnecessarily graphic for a play that had been so cleverly symbolic throughout, but those further back in the audience didn’t see anything specific. They heard the report of the gun, saw the actor slump to the stage and, as he lay twitching, they rose to their feet applauding and cheering.
Some members of the audience seated near the prompt side exit heard a cameraman say ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ very loudly. Then they watched, annoyed, as he muttered frantically into his headset.
In the live transmission van set up outside the stage door, the director punched the network button. ‘Go to commercial break,’ he ordered. ‘There’s a cock-up here. Roll the credits over that last wide shot. And tell the news department to stand by.’ Then he sent the command through to the cameramen. ‘Keep rolling. And get in close.’
He stared at the monitor screens with their close-ups of Alex. ‘Christ,’ he said. The eyes were open, the smile was triumphant and a river of red channelled its way across the stage. Seconds later the curtain came down and Alex’s image was blocked from the cameras.
The director pressed a button and barked an order to the cameraman backstage operating the hand-held. ‘Over to you, Ned. Get in close.’
The door to the van was flung open and Alain stood there. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘The wimp on camera three said you’d punched back to the station. We want to cover the audience! We’ve got a standing ovation here!’
‘We’ve got something a damn sight bigger than a standing ovation,’ the director answered. ‘Look at this.’
‘Holy shit!’ After the initial shock, Alain’s reaction was one of anger. You bastard, he thought. You bastard, Rainford. You’ve stuffed up a hit production. Advance bookings all but sold out … UK rights bought up … Then it occurred to him that a television special culminating in the actual death, on screen, of the leading actor, would be worth a fortune.
And the rights belong to me, thought Alain. Well, to me and Julian. The production deal had always been a three-way split. Alex, Julian and Alain. So with Alex gone, that left two.
‘Get on to the news department,’ he said to the director.
‘I already have.’
It’ll cost them a fortune, Alain thought smugly. And he made sure it did.
Lurking in his mind was one other strange reaction. Alain felt caught out, embarrassed. How could he ever have thought that Alex and he were alike? Alex Rainford was a loser. Alain hoped he hadn’t boasted to too many people about the affinity he’d felt with Alex. It could be very embarrassing.
As it turned out, apart from the news bulletins, Alain didn’t make a fortune from the rest of the deal. Julian made sure of that. He refused to allow the rights to a special called ‘Death of an Actor’ which Alain wanted to make from the televised production of Centre Stage and, when the case ended up in court, Julian won.
After the court case, Julian decided to give up writing for a year or two. ‘Directing’s so much easier,’ he said to Maddy. But they both knew it would be quite a while before Julian would once more put pen to paper.
Together they did everything they could to help Jenny through the aftereffects of that ghastly night.
It took a while but, six months later, Jenny was acting again. She accepted a role in a production at the Sydney Opera House. The production was to be directed by Julian Oldfellow.
‘So what if we are being nepotistic?’ Julian said to Maddy. ‘She’s one of the best there is and if she’d auditioned for the part I’d have given it to her anyway.’
They agreed that it was the perfect role to get Jenny started again. Not too demanding, but showy enough to gain attention and pick up good reviews.
Jenny seemed content in Sydney so Maddy decided that was where they would stay. She found them a very attractive flat with fewer stairs than any flat she’d ever had and then she accepted the lead in an ABC miniseries.
Douglas was always at the back of her mind, though, and sometimes she wondered whether she should go back to London. No, she thought. Jenny needs me. He’ll just have to come and find me.
She remembered with horror Jenny’s catatonic state after the shooting. Then the lethargy that followed and the long weeks she and Julian spent trying to break through to the girl.
When Maddy tried to explain why she’d never told her about her father, Jenny just answered with a lacklustre shrug. ‘Well, why would you want to tell me about him? He was mad.’
&n
bsp; ‘But I didn’t know that,’ Maddy insisted. ‘Julian knew. He told me several times over the past couple of years but I didn’t really believe him. I suppose I put it down to his playwright’s sense of drama.’
She tried to explain the tremendous power Alex had always had over people. ‘Once someone gained his interest, he wasn’t content until he’d become the focal point of their lives.’ And she thought of Harold, Julian, herself—Alex had exercised his power over all of them. She wondered how many more there were.
‘I worried that he’d exercise that power over you too, Jen,’ she said.
Gradually, Maddy broke through. After several weeks, the walls Jenny had built around herself slowly began to crumble.
The pressure of her guilt had been unbearable. Alex lived in her mind. She couldn’t forget the initial electricity between the two of them, her fantasies about him as she made love to Paul and, most vivid of all, the kiss in her dressing room on opening night. Alex could have had her on the floor then and there. He could have had her at any time. Her own father!
One night she told her mother the truth. Maddy’s relief at the breakthrough was tempered by the hideous prospect that Alex may have seduced his own daughter.
‘He didn’t, did he?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t …’
‘No.’ Jenny shook her head. Unshed tears started to burn her eyes. ‘But I wanted him to. I wanted him to, Mum.’ Then she burst out sobbing, loud, healthy sobs, and Maddy wrapped her arms around her and held her close.
‘I’ve been feeling so guilty!’ she sobbed. ‘I thought it was me! I thought-’
‘Sssh, it’s all right.’ Maddy rocked her like a baby. ‘It wasn’t you. You were reacting to him exactly the way he wanted you to react.’
It was only then that Maddy started to breathe freely. It would take time she knew, but they were finally on the road to recovery.
Late one Saturday afternoon Maddy was wandering along the Opera House forecourt, enjoying the Harbour view. She’d been to a matinee of Jenny’s play and they’d had a coffee together in the greenroom afterwards. It was the fourth time Maddy had seen the show but she enjoyed playing proud mother. She felt a little intrusive, though, when the younger members of the cast decided to eat in the canteen before the evening show.
‘No, no thanks, I’m really not hungry,’ she said in reply to their invitation to join them. She was. She was starving.
I’ll go home and cook a couple of chops, she told herself. ‘I’d better get home and study some lines,’ she said to Jenny as she kissed her goodbye. She smiled as she watched the young actors walk off to the canteen, talking nineteen to the dozen about the show, Jenny the loudest of them all.
Maddy went outside, leaned against the railings and looked at the harbour and the ferries and the early evening yachts for a full ten minutes. This play was the best possible form of therapy for Jenny, she thought. There were still the nightmares—there probably always would be—but Jenny had recovered. She was even talking about moving into a flat with one of the other girls in the cast. Maddy would miss her dreadfully, but it was a healthy sign and she was pleased. As she watched the yachts sail under the Harbour Bridge, she wondered idly whether she should get a smaller flat when Jenny moved out or whether she should go back to London.
Maddy gave a shiver-it was getting chilly. As she turned to go, she became aware of a man standing close by, staring at her, and she suddenly had the feeling that he’d been there for quite a while.
Without glancing in his direction, she walked briskly towards Circular Quay. Dusk was gathering and her car was parked in one of the dark alleys there. She hoped he wouldn’t follow her.
He did. She quickened her pace. He quickened his. Damn. She’d better tell him to piss off while she was still in the relatively crowded, brightly lit Opera House walkway.
She stopped and turned. And then she just stared.
‘I was wondering how long it’d take,’ he said.
‘Douglas!’
They kissed for a very long time, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by.
‘Your place or mine?’ he asked when they finally drew breath. Maddy laughed. ‘I suppose you’re staying in some nameless, faceless middle-of-the-road hotel …’
He nodded.
‘My place,’ she said.
As they walked along the embankment towards the Quay, Douglas put his hand into his breast pocket. ‘I have a present for you.’ He guided her to the nearest light by the embankment railing. ‘And I want to give it to you now. No waiting.’
Maddy was surprised when he drew out an envelope. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I thought it was going to be a ring.’
He gestured dismissively. ‘No, no, plenty of time for that. This is far more important. Open it.’
Maddy did. And she stared at the contents in disbelief.
‘My army discharge papers. I figured if you wouldn’t come to me I’d have to come to you.’
Maddy felt a little frightened. ‘Is this what you really want?’
‘Bit late now, isn’t it?’ he said jokingly.
‘But if it isn’t—’
‘It’s what I want, Madeleine,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s what I really want!’ And he kissed her.
‘Sydney or London?’ he asked as they started walking to the car. ‘Where do you want to live?’
‘Wherever you want-I don’t care.’ Maddy knew she was grinning like an idiot but she couldn’t stop.
‘Let’s try Sydney. I’ve never lived here before.’
‘Fine,’ she said happily, taking his arm.
‘You’ll probably get sick of me when I’m around all the time,’ he warned. ‘There’ll be no mystery left.’
Maddy shook her head firmly. ‘Oh no I won’t.’
‘Actually I will have to go away for the odd short trip, so you’ll have a rest from me now and then.’
Maddy looked at him sharply.
‘Don’t worry,’ he added reassuringly. ‘Pure retirement stuff. A bit of private consultancy work here and there. Is this yours?’
They had arrived at Maddy’s car and she fumbled in her handbag.
Douglas automatically held his hand out for the keys. ‘Where are we headed?’
‘Elizabeth Bay.’
He looked at her blankly as he opened the passenger door.
‘That way.’ She pointed to the right. ‘I’ll direct you,’ she said, as she climbed in thinking, ‘The same Douglas, bossy as ever’.
Douglas closed the door after her and crossed to the driver’s side. He paused for a second, looked at the nondescript cream Holden pulled up in the main street beside the laneway with its engine running, and rubbed the right side of his nose with his right index finger.
Then he got into the car and they drove off. The cream Holden followed.
He sorely missed Araluen and the vineyards, but that couldn’t be helped. One day he would buy a vineyard of his own. One day. In the meantime, he had to make his fortune …
Build an empire. Lead a dynasty. At any cost.
From the South Australian vineyards of the 1850s to mega-budget movie-making in modern-day New York, Araluen tells the story of one man’s quest for wealth and position and its shattering effect on succeeding generations.
Turn-of-the-century Sydney gaming houses … the opulence and corruption of Hollywood’s golden age … the New York party set … the colour and excitement of the America’s Cup … the relentless loneliness of the outback … Judy Nunn weaves an intricate web of characters and locations in this spellbinding saga of the Ross family and its inescapable legacy of greed and power.
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The Rape of Lucrece
Come ye back to Araluen
Ancient warrior distant traveller
Tread ye softly wake me gently
Whisper to me all your woes.
Let the place of waterlilies
Soothe your pain and ease your sorro
w
Sleep forever on my hillside
Where the timeless vine doth grow.
ANON
CHAPTER ONE
George and Richard
IT WAS A HOT, harsh day, mid-January in the Southern Hemisphere. George and Richard stood at the portside bow of the barque Henrietta and watched the rugged coastline slipping by. Neither spoke. After three months at sea even Richard had run out of words. Bored and restless, no longer homesick, no longer seasick, they simply ached to set foot once more on solid ground.
But as the vessel rounded the southern headland, their torpor lifted and they gazed ahead, awestruck.
‘My God!’ Richard breathed. ‘They told us it was beautiful. But look at it, George. Just look at it!’
And the Henrietta sailed into the womb of Sydney Harbour.
George and Richard Ross were remittance men. They’d been banished to the Colonies by an irate father who was sick to death of buying them out of trouble - gambling and women, mainly. Howard Ross had paid for their passage to Australia, given them each the healthy sum of five hundred pounds to get started and told them not to return to England for five years.
‘Both of you will receive one hundred pounds remittance every quarter,’ he announced. ‘If you’ve not straightened yourselves out within five years, then I wash my hands of you. You forfeit any further monies and you’re on your own.’
Howard was a tough man and he meant it, despite the tearful protestations of his wife, Emily, who was particularly worried about Richard, the youngest of her brood of seven.
‘He’s not yet twenty, Howard, and he has a weak chest.’
‘Rubbish - it’s all those cigars. He’s a malingerer.’ Before his wife could protest further, he added, ‘If he’s consumptive, the dry climate’ll do him good.’ And that was the end of the argument.
Howard didn’t like Richard much, he never had, but he was sorry to see George go. He had a soft spot for George. But he couldn’t show favouritism, he told himself. Both boys appeared to have inherited the weak strain that ran in the Ross family and the only way to strengthen them was to boot them out of the nest. The remaining boys had proved that they were more than capable of running the highly successful family business and the two girls had been satisfactorily married off. The House of Ross had a reputation to uphold, a reputation not only for the manufacture of the highest quality steel cutlery, but for the exemplary behaviour of its members - members of one of the finest families in the county, or so Howard firmly believed.
