Araluen (12 page)

‘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 Franklin, 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.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, taking over, ‘if you’d care to place your orders with Mrs Tingwell or myself we’ll look after you throughout the evening. Cigars and cigarettes are on the table; feel free to take off your jackets.’

Half an hour later, as the game was about to get under way, Solly arrived. He knew the other players and was gracious in his apologies although no one seemed to mind, certainly not the American who was still busy ogling Millie.

Solly placed a request for a large vodka with Millie and sat himself down at the table, carefully avoiding eye contact with Franklin. Their earlier confrontation had been very upsetting. Solly had known that Franklin was right, that he was not behaving like a man of honour. After Franklin had walked off, he’d had to go home to boost his morale.

Half a bottle of vodka later, the self-loathing had disappeared. What did the Boss know? The
Boss was not a gambling man. Only a fool would ignore the signs, Solly told himself.

Solly was going to win tonight, he knew it. All the signs told him so: the law of averages told him … he’d lost three times in a row; the numbers told him – it was a nine day, things always went well for him on a nine day; and he had right on his side – he was playing for somebody else. He was playing for the Boss. And it was common knowledge that when you played for something other than greed the odds were in your favour.

Solly took the glass of vodka from Millie. He felt good. Positive. A winner. Tomorrow, when he handed back the money he’d borrowed, together with a healthy amount of interest, Franklin would know that he’d been right. Solly would then beg forgiveness, swear off gambling and once more be a man of honour. But tonight was his night. Solly leant forward and cut for the deal. He turned up a three.

An hour later, Robert Mitchell retired from the game. ‘Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll make an early night of it,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ The American was playing like a fool, he thought, forcing the stakes up too high too early. Robert preferred a more skilled, cautious approach to the game. Besides, if he popped into the downstairs lounge now, one or two of the beautiful women he’d seen dining might still be there. Admittedly, their husbands would also be there, lingering over their cigars and brandies, but that never bothered Robert.

Peter Lynell also rose and excused himself. ‘Maybe another hand a little later,’ he said, although he had no intention of returning to the game. He too was not enjoying the American. Not that he minded the style of play – he rather enjoyed a bold game himself. But the American, who was obviously an experienced player, was throwing his money around in such a vulgar fashion that Peter found it extremely insulting. It was as if the man couldn’t be bothered with the game at all. Furthermore, he was drunk and loud and Peter loathed drunkenness. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and stepped out on to the balcony.