One day she’d had a poke around her dad’s study in search of some answers. She was the oldest of his four children, after all. Someday, all this would be partly hers. It was only right she should have some knowledge of the family’s financial picture beforehand.
Unfortunately the snooping session was interrupted before Charlotte had time to even work out which was the best drawer to start looking through. Aunt Hope came in, silent as ever, giving her a fright, though Charlotte did her best not to show any alarm, not until she could work out what her aunt’s mood was that day.
Fiery, it turned out. Aunt Hope was melodramatic at the best of times. At the worst of times too. Catching her niece in her brother-in-law’s out-of-bounds office was a heaven-sent situation. She slammed the door, gave a great intake of breath and said in her mannered, husky voice, ‘And what do you think you’re doing, young lady?’
Charlotte knew it annoyed Hope to hear the relaxed hybrid English-Australian accent in her nieces and nephew, after the elocution lessons she and Eleanor had suffered back in England. ‘They just sound so common,’ Hope liked to say, with a theatrical shudder. But that Australian accent could come in very handy, Charlotte had discovered. She used it now, dragging out her vowels, leaving out letters, enjoying the sight of Hope’s disgust.
‘Just havin’ a look around, Hope.’ She pronounced ‘around’ as ‘arind’. ‘I’m doin’ a school project on the psychological impact of clutter’ – she pronounced it ‘cludda’ – ‘and Dad’s office seemed a perfect place to start.’
‘He wouldn’t be happy to find you here.’ Hope’s vowels were as sharp as diamonds.
‘Nor you, I’d wager,’ Charlotte answered, switching to a well-bred English accent to deliberately annoy Hope further. ‘What were you doing here? Dad’s office is out of bounds to all of us, isn’t it?’
Charlotte watched with interest as Hope, flustered by the direct question, changed the subject and started to talk in great detail about the hot weather instead. Quickly bored, Charlotte decided to get out before Henry came in and started interrogating the pair of them.
For as long as she could remember, Charlotte had disliked Hope. She felt plenty of other emotions towards her as well. Anger, mostly, when Hope drank too much and threw the tantrums that upset not just Eleanor, but the whole family and any poor visitors who happened to be in earshot. Hope in full flight could be a terrifying spectacle, with tears and shouts and objects being hurled around the place.
‘She can’t help it. She’s unwell.’ They’d heard the excuses from their parents for years.
‘So send her to a hospital,’ Charlotte snapped back one night. She’d been angry and hurt on that occasion, just a few months after they arrived in Australia. It was her birthday, the only day in the Templetons’ newly established family schedule when the birthday girl, or boy, was truly able to be the centre of attention, get out of tour-guiding, cleaning and gardening and instead spend the day doing just as they pleased, finishing with a dinner made up of all their favourite dishes.
That day, though – Charlotte’s fifteenth birthday – Hope had one of her ‘episodes’. Not a standard plate-throwing or screaming one, but a get-completely-drunk-and-slash-at-herself-with-a-broken-glass one. They were all in the kitchen, about to start serving dinner, the usual teasing and joking flying around, Charlotte the centre of attention. One moment Hope was standing at the sink, obviously drunk, yes, but apparently happy, the next she was weeping loudly, a broken wine glass in one hand and a gash down her other arm. Pandemonium followed, Charlotte remembered; attempts to stop the blood with a tea towel, then a bath towel, before a rushed trip to the Castlemaine hospital, Henry driving and Eleanor in the back cradling her sister. There was no time for apologies to Charlotte about her ruined birthday dinner. By the time they’d arrived back, after midnight, her birthday was over in any case.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Eleanor had said, coming into her room. ‘What did you do, darling? Did you manage to have any fun at all?’
Charlotte took perverse pleasure in telling her the truth. ‘How did I spend my birthday? As a matter of fact, I spent it cleaning your drunken sister’s blood off the kitchen floor.’
She’d regretted it afterwards, seeing the hurt expression on her mother’s face, but anger had eventually won over regret. Her mother needed to know the impact Hope had on the family. Secretly, when they were sure their mother wasn’t listening, it amused Charlotte and Audrey to call their aunt Hope-less, to imagine the joys of a life without Hope, to bemoan the fact that Hope springs eternal. But no matter how they joked, before long the same drama would play out, the whole family held hostage to Hope’s drinking, her mood swings and temper. The only saving grace was that Templeton Hall was so big they could at least try to avoid Hope as much as possible, except on days like today when there was a fuss about something and she would place herself in the centre of it.
Sighing, Charlotte turned her pillow over, thumped it twice, then lay down again. The sooner she finished school, turned eighteen and could get away from this madhouse, the better. On the bright side, her father owed her now, for having given up her day off. It had to be worth double pocket money. As she lay there waiting unsuccessfully for sleep to come, she took great pleasure in concocting a long shopping list.
In her bedroom, Audrey couldn’t sleep either. She pulled out the sheet of paper from under her pillow and read it one more time. She’d intended to show it to her family today, but changed her mind after the drama with Gracie. She wanted everyone’s full attention when she made her announcement. Charlotte already knew, of course, but she’d been sworn to secrecy until Audrey decided the time was right to tell the others. For once, Charlotte had seemed to understand how important it was, and also what a recognition of her talent it was. The drama teacher had said it too, in front of the whole class, after he announced the cast. ‘I think we have the makings of a fine production of Hamlet, girls, with a very special Ophelia in Audrey Templeton. Here’s to a marvellous end-of-year production.’
It was like a wonderful dream, except it was actually real, Audrey thought, gazing down happily at the play’s rehearsal schedule. There it was, in black and white, a list of cast members, with her name beside one of the lead roles!
This wasn’t just some ordinary school production, either. Word had it that drama scouts for film production companies, acting schools and advertising agencies came to all the Galviston Girls’ School productions. Whether it was because their daughters attended the school, Audrey didn’t know and preferred not to think about. This was her chance, her moment and, more importantly, the only way to show her parents she was serious about a career as an actress.
When she’d tentatively raised the subject a year before, armed with brochures from her school career guidance counsellor, she hadn’t got very far. Her parents hadn’t even looked at the information on drama studies. They both concentrated on the weighty documents explaining the courses on offer at Melbourne University, the best tertiary institution in the state, in their opinion. A chemistry degree for Audrey, they’d decided.
That day, and many days since, Audrey had cursed her own easy ability with scientific formulations and chemical compounds. So what if she could sort out formulae in her head? She could run fast too, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be an Olympic athlete. But any hints from her about chasing her dream met with blank stares from her parents.
‘Acting’s not really a career, darling. It’s a hobby.’
‘We didn’t even know you liked acting. You never show much interest in it here.’
This isn’t acting, she’d wanted to shout. This is some weird family business involving ill-fitting costumes and dull facts, spouting information to motley groups of tired and sweaty people in shorts and T-shirts who think it is somehow funny to follow a costumed teenager around an old building for a family outing. Acting was different. Acting on a stage, in a darkened theatre, was a suspension of disbelief, a way of blocking out the real world,
of seeing other people’s lives and stories brought to life – she had listened attentively through every one of her drama theory classes and had her arguments ready. Except her parents didn’t ask for her arguments. Before she’d a chance to object, Henry had filled out the form requesting she be coached towards a chemistry degree.
‘And don’t worry, of course you can keep acting,’ Henry had said. ‘Melbourne University has a terrific drama society. It’ll be a great outlet for you – give that right brain of yours a workout after all the left-brain study.’
But this piece of paper in her hand could change everything. Her parents’ minds, her future, everything. Once they saw her as Ophelia, they would realise just how talented she was and how serious she was about acting. After the play was staged, she’d ask her drama teacher to write a letter, begging for their understanding, urging them not to make the mistake of denying the world a great dramatic actress.
Audrey climbed out of bed, too excited to sleep now. Silently crossing the room, she took a seat on the elegant antique stool in front of her dressing table, lit two of the candles that formed a waxen guard around her extensive collection of make-up brushes and hair ornaments, and stared at her reflection in the bevelled mirror. She’d decided recently that the best way to describe her looks to any possible casting agent was ‘classic English beauty’. Pale skin, high cheekbones (not high enough, in her opinion, but her experiments with various shades of blusher were helping towards her ideal look) and shoulder-length dark-red hair that she liked to wear in, yes, ‘classic’ styles. Her role models, she’d decided, were the silent screen goddesses of the 1920s, with their immaculate grooming and strong femininity. Elegance never went out of fashion.
Not that she’d shared her thoughts with anyone in her family. Her mother had started to grow very impatient with the time Audrey spent sitting in front of the mirror. Audrey suspected it was jealousy. Her class had studied female psychology at school recently and it was apparently a common phenomenon that ageing mothers became envious of their daughters’ blossoming beauty. Not that that was a problem in Charlotte’s case. In Audrey’s opinion, Charlotte might look reasonably attractive if she took a bit more care and particularly if she went on a diet, but Charlotte just didn’t seem to bother, pulling that thick mop of hair of hers back into a ponytail and wearing any old baggy clothes around the place. As for Gracie, while it was too early to tell for sure, Audrey thought her little sister might turn out quite striking when she was older, with her dark eyes and eyebrows, and that unusual white-blonde hair. If it stayed blonde and didn’t go mousy, of course. Most annoyingly, it was Spencer who’d got the best looks in the family – a mass of blond curls that Audrey would have killed for, dark-blue eyes like their father and lashes so long they could have been false. Still, Audrey thought again now, leaning in towards the mirror and practising arching her left eyebrow, the mark of true talent was making the best of your attributes, wasn’t it? Growing into oneself. Having faith in oneself and one’s place in the universe, staying grounded and yet confident at the one time.
‘Breathe, Audrey, breathe,’ she said to her reflection in the low voice she was trying to cultivate. ‘Centre yourself. Trust in yourself. Believe in yourself.’
A noise outside made her jump. She swiftly blew out the candles and hurried back to bed. Charlotte had walked in on one of these private moments once, and after howling with laughter, ‘Who do you think you are, Audrey, Sophia Loren?’, had spent the next week mimicking her: ‘Breathe, Audrey, breathe, or else you will die, Audrey, die.’ Audrey knew it was counter-productive to waste valuable emotional energy on negative feelings, but sometimes she really did hate Charlotte. What would she know about the trials of having an artistic spirit? All Charlotte cared about was annoying teachers and spouting her ill-informed opinions. What would any of her family know about her hopes and dreams, if it came to that? Her parents barely gave her any attention when she was home on the weekends any more. It was always all about the stupid Hall. Even Hope got more attention than she did these days. It wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t. She was truly starting to believe she was the cuckoo in the Templeton family nest.
To hell with them all, she decided now. Liking the sound of that sentence, she said it out loud, in a melodic deep voice. She tried it again, in an American accent. She was good at accents, her drama teacher had told her as much. Perhaps she could even try doing Ophelia in a foreign accent? What a great idea! Checking the schedule again, she was happy to see the next rehearsal was three days away. Plenty of time to prepare a convincing case about the accent. Already imagining the applause on opening night, she slipped the schedule under her pillow and fell asleep with a smile on her face.
Spencer was too busy to sleep. What a great day that had been. He liked to think of a day’s events as being divided into Good Things and Bad Things. Today had definitely been more Good Things. He made a list of them in his head as he rummaged around in the cupboard in search of ingredients for his current project.
The Good Things were:
Successful stink bomb
Gracie’s crash
Police visit
The Bad Things were:
Crackdown on kids driving
That was exactly how his mother had put it. ‘There’s going to be a crackdown on the children driving from now on.’ Spencer was hiding behind the curtains in the dining room after the police arrived back with Gracie and he’d heard a big fight between his parents. Lots of soft shouting about whose fault it was, about the children running wild ever since Hope had started drinking again. That wasn’t true, in Spencer’s opinion. He’d been running pretty wild before Hope had started drinking again, it was just his parents didn’t know about it. But it was a shame about Gracie’s accident. Charlotte had promised to start teaching Spencer to drive now he’d turned ten, but it looked like there wouldn’t be much chance of that for a while, at least until all the fuss had died down about Gracie’s crash.
In the meantime, there was still plenty of other stuff for him to do around the place. His new friend, Tom, who lived in a farmhouse a few paddocks away, thought Spencer had it made. No school. A huge house to roam around. Spencer had put him right on a few things. He did have school, it was just that he did it at home and his mother was his teacher. Tom had asked loads of questions about it, as if he’d never heard of home-schooling. What happened if Spencer misbehaved? Did his mother get him to stand outside the classroom? Did he still have to sit exams? Wasn’t it lonely sometimes? What if he woke up one morning and felt sick? Did he still have to go to school if his home was also his school? Spencer hadn’t even thought about all that stuff before. He’d just always been taught at home and that was that.
‘Is it because you’re so rich?’ Tom had asked.
‘We’re not rich.’
‘Everyone in town says you are. Look at the size of your house.’
‘Dad inherited it. We didn’t buy it. His grandfather gave it to him. Or his uncle. Someone, anyway.’
Spencer wasn’t completely sure of the facts. He’d sort of listened when his father gave him the lessons about what to say when he was showing visitors around, but they couldn’t expect him to remember everything. He’d never told his dad or his mum or Gracie – especially not Gracie, who would go crazy if she knew – but sometimes he just made up any old thing about where a painting or a piece of furniture had come from.
It didn’t help that Spencer’s dad was always arriving home with new clocks or paintings or small tables, all excited, saying they were ‘great finds’. Spencer thought at first he was saying ‘grapevines’ but Audrey put him right. A week or two later, some of those new ‘great finds’ would turn up on top of the long cupboard in the big dining room, or in one of the glass cabinets in the morning room, or in one of the bedrooms they showed their visitors. Their father would give them a little speech about what to tell visitors: how valuable it was, how it had found its way into the Templeton family and been a treasure for generations
now, blah blah blah. Spencer had found it all a bit strange at first. How could it have been in the family for generations if his father had just bought it in a shop?
He’d mentioned it to Gracie once, who got a bit funny, the way she did whenever any of them said anything about the Hall not being the most perfect place in the entire universe. ‘Dad knows what he’s talking about,’ she’d said. Fine, Spencer thought. If Dad wants to tell visitors that the blue jug he’d bought the week before in some junk shop was six hundred years old and had arrived in Australia on a ship with Captain Hook or Cook or whatever, then that was his business.
It had been funny one day recently when Spencer was showing a group around. His dad appeared in the dining room, all dressed up and with that cloth thing around his neck as if he was going to a wedding, putting on the really posh voice he used in front of visitors, calling Spencer ‘son’. ‘That’s right, son. I couldn’t put it better myself.’ Spencer found it a bit weird. Of course he was his son. He was hardly the family dog.
His dad had taken over, telling all sorts of stories and making a fuss about the big glass vase on the table between the two windows. It was from the nineteenth century, he told everyone. It had been lying covered in dust in the Hall’s pantry for years, until he, Henry Templeton, at the time living in England and working in antiques, had learnt of his inheritance of the Hall and arrived in Australia with his wife and four children.
The Hall had been full of hidden treasures like that, he told them. A treasure trove of wonders. People nodded a lot, Spencer remembered, although a boy his own age just stood there pulling faces at him and picking his nose. Then a man who’d been having a close look at the vase put up his hand and started talking really loudly. He was an expert in that sort of glass, he told Spencer’s dad, and that vase wasn’t even fifty years old, let alone one hundred.
At Home with the Templetons Page 3
