Araluen (23 page)

Franklin contained his bitter disappointment. With his help, Penelope made a speedy recovery from the operation.

The doctor appeared pleased with her progress. The carcinoma had been fully arrested, he said. But what he was really pleased about was the vast sum of money Penelope had transferred to his bank account.

There had been no cancer, just as there would be no more children. Penelope had paid her price. Now she would collect her payment as matriarch of the Ross dynasty.

B
OOK
T
HREE

The

Middle Years

(1966 - 1968)

W
OOK-A, WOOK-A, WOOK-A, WOOK-A
. The sound was deafening. The helicopter blades sliced the air crazily as the vast machine hung only feet above the ground like a giant bird of prey. It hovered for a moment and the men leapt from its open fusellage, rifles at the ready.

He was a conscriptee. He'd been stationed in Nui Dat for three months but this was the first time he'd come in contact with the enemy and he was frightened. So were all the others. Even the experienced ones, even the ones who used bravado as a mask back at camp. They were all frightened.

His ankles jarred as he hit the ground and he quickly rolled and rose to his knees. There was no enemy in sight. Nothing but thick, tangled bush surrounding the clearing as the helicopter settled behind him. Above the roar of the ‘Huey’, there was no sound of returning gunfire.

But the enemy was there, all right. ‘Twang! Twang! Twang!’ Although he couldn't hear the shots, he could hear the bullets ricocheting off the blades of the helicopter. He fired back crazily, blindly, into the trees. So did the others.

He started to run for cover. They all did. But they could have been running directly into the enemy fire for all they knew – it was impossible to tell.

The man in front of him fell. He tripped over him. He picked himself up and ran three more steps. Only three. Then he was hit. A massive blow to the chest. No pain.

He didn't know how much later it was, but suddenly he was being lifted. A man held his shoulders, another his legs.

The man holding his legs nearly dropped him. ‘Careful, careful,’ he heard the other one say. And he was hoisted back into the helicopter. The pain was excruciating.

Other men were there, groaning, crying out. But he couldn't see them as he stared up at the ceiling of the helicopter.

He heard the terrified voice of the man who'd scrambled in after him, the one who'd nearly dropped him. ‘Oh, Jesus, why doesn't he take off? Jesus Christ, why doesn't he take off?’

‘Easy does it, son.’ He recognised the voice as that of the sergeant in command. ‘There's a couple more to collect – now get yourself back out here.’ That was when he blacked out.

He came to briefly as the helicopter took off. He felt a vague soaring sensation. Relief. He was going home. Then nothing. Nothing at all.

Penelope knew what was in the telegram before she opened it. She'd done this many times before.
Regularly in her nightmares she'd opened telegrams from the Department of Defence. ‘Private James Ross killed in action in Phuoc Tuy Province, South Vietnam, on February 12, 1966’ ... But this wasn't a nightmare. This was real ... ‘in the service of his country ... ’ Penelope's eyes scanned ahead. The Brigadier went on to express his deepest sympathy, but she didn't read that far. She fell to the floor in a crumpled heap and the servants came rushing to her aid.

They called her doctor and Zofia, who arrived twenty minutes later. Zofia was always there when Penelope needed her. Not Franklin. Franklin was in New York.

The doctor prescribed sedatives, Zofia rang Franklin, and Penelope lay staring numbly at the ceiling, her mind wandering in a thousand directions.

Her James. Her darling. He was only twenty one years old. Why did he have to be one of the unlucky ones?

If only Franklin had bought off that man from the Department of Labour and National Service. Others had. Then James wouldn't have had to go to that ghastly war. Other men's sons had cheated conscription, why couldn't James? If only Franklin had ...

But for once Penelope couldn't altogether blame Franklin. He had at least tried. At her insistence he'd tried.

She remembered with great clarity the argument when Franklin announced that he'd arranged a deal so James wouldn't have to go to Vietnam. Well, it hadn't been an argument really. James had simply stood firm. Dear, sweet-natured James had stood up to his father. It was such a surprise. James had always been so agreeable, so helpful, never any trouble, even as a baby. He'd always been Penelope's favourite.

‘Well you'll just have to un-arrange it, Dad,’ James had said.

‘Don't be a fool, boy,’ Franklin growled. ‘What's the sense in going off and getting yourself killed in someone else's war? No one's going to thank you for it, I can tell you that now.’

‘Dad . .. ’ Although James felt that he'd never really known his father, he admired him enormously. ‘ . .. you've always said we must remain “men of honour”. I remember once, when we were kids, Terry laughed about it. He laughed and called you pompous and old-fashioned. Do you remember?’

Franklin remembered. He hadn't been offended at the time. As a boy, Terry had been wayward and undisciplined, but he'd been a charmer and it had been impossible to take offence when he looked at you with that twinkle in his eyes.

Franklin didn't answer and Penelope watched as he stood looking at his son and saying nothing. Good God, her mind screamed, surely the man wasn't going to stick to his ridiculous principles at a time like this? Not when the life of their son was at stake!

She'd pleaded with him to demand obedience. ‘The boy will do anything you say, Franklin, just tell him. Order him,’ she'd begged. But Franklin did nothing.

And now James was dead, Penelope thought. The whirling ceiling fan became a blur as the sedatives took effect. Their son had been killed in a lottery. A lottery in which the numbers could have been changed. Franklin could have changed them. He could have insisted. But he hadn't. Beneath Penelope's grief was a bitter resentment.

Bound for Sydney on his private jet, Franklin was also recalling that night.

‘How can I stand by and watch the others go off to war,’ James had continued relentlessly, ‘knowing that I got out of it just because my old man's stinking rich? How do I remain a “man of honour” after that, Dad?’

Franklin hadn't pursued it. Of course he hadn't. He had no answer. And that night, he developed a newfound respect for his youngest son.

He cursed himself for not having recognised and valued the boy's strength of character. He'd been too busy concentrating on Terry. Terry, his firstborn, the heir to the Ross empire. Terry, with his quick charm and his winning ways and his talent for getting into trouble which Franklin had fondly put down to the foolhardiness of youth. Terry didn't have half the spine that James had, Franklin could see that now.

He remembered the family holidays at Mandinulla. Never-Never and Jacky teaching the boys to ride. There were the inevitable spills and Terry would always boast of his cuts and bruises and how he got them.

‘I took old Nell over the western fence, Dad,’ he'd announced one day. ‘She was cranky and she didn't want to go and I had two falls before she'd jump but we did it.’ And Franklin had been proud.

James, who was six years younger, never had as many falls as his brother had had at the same age. He didn't show off as much either and Franklin had assumed it was because he didn't have as much to show off about, that he wasn't as courageous as Terry.

It had proved to be a foolish assumption. James had become the far superior rider. Franklin remembered watching the boys in the saddling yard one afternoon. Jacky constantly criticised fifteen-year-old Terry for pulling too hard on the horse's mouth.

‘Don't fight him,’ he said. ‘Don't fight him and don't hurt him. No good, a horse with a hard mouth.’

And, while Terry had been showing off in front of his father, trying to get the animal to buck, nine-year-old James had been quietly practising his dressage in the corner of the yard, concentrating on his knees and his hands and being at one with his horse.

As Franklin looked out of the jet's windows at the lights of Sydney below, he wondered whether the favouritism he'd shown his eldest son was simply due to the boy's daredevil charm or the fact that young James was obviously Penelope's darling.

‘You pamper him,’ he'd said on a number of occasions. ‘No wonder he's so docile, no wonder he's got no spine.’ Franklin cringed now as he recalled his words.

‘How would you know?’ Penelope had retorted. ‘You're hardly ever here these days. If you can find the time to worry about one of your sons, worry about Terry. He's out on the town and drunk most nights and he's barely eighteen.’

‘He's sowing his wild oats – it's normal in a boy of his age.’ In his youth, Franklin had never been ‘out on the town and drunk most nights’, but he always defended Terry, convinced that Penelope victimised him simply because she couldn't handle the boy's high spirits. And, because she doted on James, Franklin had ignored his youngest son. He'd dismissed James as a ‘mummy's boy’.

And now James was dead, killed in battle serving his country, without ever knowing his father's love and respect.

Then, as the wheels of the jet touched down, the image of James’ face flashed into his mind. The light shining in his son's eyes as they shook hands that night. ‘How do I remain “a man of honour” after that, Dad?’ Franklin hadn't answered, but he'd nodded and offered his hand. And the boy had smiled as they shook hands. Yes, thank God, he knew. James had gone to his death knowing that his father respected him for it. It was no consolation, but it was of vast importance to Franklin.

Over the ensuing days, there was little comfort Franklin could offer Penelope. There was little comfort he could offer himself. He held his grief deep inside, refusing to respond to her recriminations.

‘The boy died an honourable death,’ was all he would say. But, deep inside, his heart ached. He longed to cry like Penelope, to berate the system for the loss of his son. Anything to purge the pain he felt.

Several days later, James’ body was flown home and a private burial service was held at The Colony House. James was the second member of the family to be buried in the Ross mausoleum Franklin had had erected at Waverley Cemetery after the stillborn birth of his daughter twenty-five years ago.

The pallbearers were Franklin, twenty-seven-year-old Terry, Solomon Mankowski and his son Karol. That night the four men went out to a bar in Kings Cross and got drunk.

Solly, now in his mid-seventies, had recently retired from the corporation. Although he was white-haired and weathered and looked his age, he was still a strong, virile man who very much enjoyed his life with a wife nearly twenty years his junior. He and Zofia lived in a fine house near Bondi Beach and each day Solly would go to the little shop he'd always kept in Surry Hills to work on private orders for fine leathergoods. He enjoyed working with his hands, working with leather, but he no longer wanted to match Franklin's pace.

‘I am a wealthy man,’ he said. ‘At my age, why work for more than one needs? I leave that to Karol.’ And, indeed, his son had taken over his father's position as right-hand man to Franklin.

Although similar in appearance to his father as a young man – dark Polish looks and solid build, Karol was as unlike Solly as he could possibly be. He was a solemn young man, not given to frivolous conversation, gambling or heavy drinking, and he took his job as Franklin's personal assistant very seriously. Franklin liked to travel as inconspicuously as possible and Karol, physically able as he was, doubled as his minder and bodyguard, always carrying a revolver.

That night, as they drowned their sorrows, Terry got very drunk. As usual. These days Terry always got very drunk. It annoyed Franklin, who wished his son could practise a little more self-control. He wished his son could take life a little more seriously, as Karol did. Handsome and debonair, Terry seemed to think his charm was enough to get him by. Very often it was. It was still difficult to bear a grudge when Terry flashed that disarming grin of his and said, ‘I made a mistake, I'm terribly sorry.’ He was always prepared to admit his mistakes, Franklin observed, but apparently he was unable to learn from them.

‘Take him home, Karol,’ he said as he watched Terry at the other end of the bar chatting to two attractive young women. It was his brother's wake, for God's sake - couldn't he leave the women alone for one night?

Three years ago Franklin had had to pay off the father of a pregnant factory girl and now he was biding his time for the next ‘mistake’, which was inevitable. Terry's sexual appetite was voracious and indiscriminate. Franklin had given up on the boy and his choice of women. He could damn well marry the next mistake, he swore to himself.

‘Take him home,’ he said.

The women didn't know how drunk Terry was and they were loath to see him leave, both finding him immensely attractive.