Araluen (24 page)

When the two younger men had gone, Solly turned to Franklin. ‘And now, Boss ... now we get seriously drunk, okay?’

Franklin nodded. They went into the back room of the bar and Solly ordered a bottle of vodka and a bucket of ice.

Two hours later, he called for a second bottle. Neither of them felt particularly drunk, but Franklin was talking. The best thing for him, Solly thought. He had only seen the Boss this voluble once before. It had been the vodka then too. He'd been twenty-five and had spoken with great passion about the vines, Solly remembered.

‘I'm sixty years old, Solly, and I'm worth millions. What's it all for? Why did I do it? I did it for my two sons. For them and for their children and for their children's children.’ Solly wisely didn't say a word. He could have said that Franklin did it for himself, to prove that he could. That's what Solly was thinking. But he didn't say it. The Boss was talking and that was good.

‘And now what do I have?’ Franklin asked. A rhetorical question. ‘One son dead and the other a wastrel.’

Still Solly said nothing. He poured a glass for each of them from the fresh bottle.

It was a long time before Franklin spoke again and, when he did, his eyes demanded an answer. ‘What was it, Solly? You know, don't you? You've always known.’

Solly looked at Franklin, genuinely mystified.

‘Millie's child. What was it? A boy or a girl?’

Solly swallowed his vodka. He'd promised Millie years ago that he would keep everything a secret. Her child, her whereabouts, everything. It hadn't been a difficult promise to keep. Franklin had never asked. But now he was. Surely the promise wasn't one that he had to take to his deathbed? Surely not, Solly thought. It had happened over thirty years ago. Surely the death of a man's son was reason enough to talk freely?

‘It was a girl,’ he said, knowing that it would alleviate Franklin's suffering just a little. Although for the life of him, Solly couldn't understand why. His own daughter was the most precious thing in his life.

Solly was right. It helped Franklin to know that he had not denied himself a son, albeit a bastard.

‘Is she well?’ he asked and when Solly looked confused he added, ‘Millie – is she well?’ Solly nodded. ‘I'd like to see her,’ Franklin said.

Solly didn't know why he did it, but there seemed no reason not to. They were old, for God's sake. Well, he and Millie were, Franklin never seemed to change. Where was the harm?

It was closing time when they walked into the Surry Hills pub. The bar was deserted and a large woman was wiping down the tables. ‘Sorry, fellas,’ she said amiably, ‘bar's closed.’

‘Hello, Millie,’ Solly said and the woman looked up.

‘Solly,’ she smiled. Then she saw the man standing beside him. The same ramrod back, the same stern face and steel-blue eyes. The hair was silver-grey now and the lines in the cheeks were deep, but there was no mistaking him.

‘Franklin,’ she said and she looked at Solly, who shrugged an apology. What the hell, she thought, and she smiled her forgiveness. We're old now. At least Sollly and I are – damn you, Franklin, why haven't you changed?

‘It's good to see you, Millie,’ Franklin said. And it was. Millie was over seventy and obese. The once luscious body was lost in a fat, old woman but, when she smiled, the years dropped away and there was the Millie he remembered. The dimples danced and the eyes were warm and inviting.

‘It's good to see you too, Franklin,’ she said and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Come on and sit down. Vodka?’ No need to ask Solly, the query was directed to Franklin. He nodded.

They sat at a table and chatted. The conversation was easy and relaxed but impersonal. They talked about Franklin's business, his travels, and then he inquired about her job at the bar.

‘Why are you still working? Surely you don't need to?’ The inference was indirectly aimed at Solly. Solly had been instructed years ago to make sure that Millie and her child were never to want for anything.

Millie laughed. ‘No, Franklin, I don't need to work. I do it because I love it. I own this place. It's my life.’

‘This hotel? You own it?’ She nodded. Franklin was impressed. He supposed she was widowed but he wasn't quite sure if he should ask. ‘Your husband ... ?’ he said tentatively.

Millie laughed again and this time it was a boisterous laugh, full-bodied and throaty. ‘Bless you, Franklin, I did it myself,’ she said finally. ‘Started out as a barmaid and fifteen years later I bought the pub.’ Millie couldn't resist the gentle dig. ‘Such success stories can happen, you know. Even to a woman.’

An hour later the men went home and Millie was left wondering why Franklin hadn't once inquired about his daughter. She was sure Solly must have told him. Just as she was sure Franklin would have displayed some interest if it had been a son. She also wondered briefly whether she should have told him that he had a two-year-old grandson. No, she would never tell him that. Franklin Ross was a powerful man who, if he wished, would have no trouble in taking over his grandson's life.

She was grateful that she'd never told Solly about the boy. Millie sighed as she cleared up the glasses. Dear, garrulous Solly. It was a miracle that he'd stayed silent for so long. But then it was quite likely that Franklin had shown no interest all these years. She wondered why he'd wanted to see her tonight. Mere curiosity? But she'd sensed a great sadness in him. It was strange. She'd read about his vast success, of course, and of his marriage years ago to the beautiful Penelope Jane Greenway. So why, all of a sudden, had he wanted to go back in time?

Several days later Millie read a newspaper article on the death of young James Ross, son of prominent citizen and businessman Franklin Ross. James had become one of the early Australian casualties in the Vietnam War. So that's why, she thought. Still, she didn't regret keeping the knowledge of her grandson a secret. Maybe when the boy was old enough to decide for himself, he might wish to trace his antecedents. But by then she would probably be dead and it would no longer be her problem. What will be will be, she told herself. She was too old to be bothered with that now.

Penelope's disapproval of Franklin's binge with Solly was evident the following day. She'd heard them come in after midnight and her bedside clock told her it was three in the morning when she heard Franklin come upstairs to his bedroom. (She and Franklin had long since had separate bedrooms.)

‘It doesn't look good for a man in your position to be out drinking, Franklin,’ she said. She meant ‘with someone like Solly’. For all of his success and despite her bizarre friendship with Zofia, Penelope had never been able to approve of Solly. In her eyes, he had never acquired the style a man of his wealth and circumstances should have, and she simply could not understand the regard Franklin had for him.

‘The evening of your son's funeral people would surely expect you to be at home mourning with your family,’ she continued when he refused to anwer. ‘It's not correct for you to be seen ... ’

‘You're nagging, Penelope,’ he said and he poured himself another cup of tea.

It was Saturday and they were breakfasting on the terrace as they always did during the summer weekends when Franklin was at home. The harbour sparkled in front of them and small sailing craft glided across the waters.

Penelope kept quiet, but she was furious. How dare he? He always knew how to make her feel unattractive. She never ‘nagged'. She merely tried, as any decent wife would for a man in his position, to safeguard his image. She picked up the newspaper and nodded curtly as he offered to pour her another cup of tea.

Franklin knew he had hurt her. He hadn't wanted to, but it was the only way to keep her quiet and he needed to think. God only knew why she was so insecure anyway; she was still one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

At fifty-two years of age, Penelope could well have passed for thirty-five. She'd insisted on a facelift three years earlier, although Franklin hadn't been able to understand at all why she'd felt she needed it. She was an extremely handsome woman, he told her, why was she so preoccupied with her fading youth? But Penelope had merely laughed and said men didn't understand these things.

It was a good relationship in many ways. Penelope had made a career out of Franklin's business and position. Or rather, her position as the wife of so prominent a man. And with the exception of her refusal to accompany him to America, her refusal to have the knife twisted in the wounds of her thwarted career, she was a perfect ally for him.

He, in turn, had resigned himself to the fact that there were only to be two sons in his marriage. He would have liked five, but that was hardly Penelope's fault. She had been a good wife, a good mother, and now she was a good business partner.

They had even come to a tacit understanding about their sex life which maintained the status quo.

‘It's so much better for one's health to sleep alone,’ Penelope had insisted when he had been taken aback by her suggestion they have separate bedrooms. ‘It's better for one's spine, therefore better for one's breathing, therefore better for one's skin. All the books say so. Penelope was in her mid-forties at the time and paranoid about the loss of her beauty. She tried every treatment which professed to magic youth-enhancing ingredients and she read every book on the subject and she was already insisting she must have a facelift in the next couple of years.

Franklin took her insistence upon the separate bedrooms for exactly what it was, a healthier night's sleep, but he also assumed that it meant her beauty was of more importance to her than her sexual desires.

He hadn't been too disappointed by her decision at the time. He'd been spending several months of the year in New York anyway. In those days, Franklin had been devoting as much time as he possibly could to the amalgamation of Ross Entertainments and Minotaur Movies, which he and Sam Crockett had formed. Ross Industries, the major arm of the Corporation, he'd been happy to leave alone, as it had stood the test of time, but the production of television and movies for the world market demanded his personal attention.

Penelope loathed New York and the reminder that this had been the life she had originally planned for herself. Franklin had had no interest in the entertainment industry before he'd met her, but now his was one of the major international production companies. It was a bitter twist of the knife and Penelope always refused to accompany him on his trips to America.

Penelope's insistence upon separate bedrooms had not only failed to disappoint, it had signalled a certain freedom for Franklin. It meant he could now, in all conscience, set up an apartment for Helen so that they could live together during his New York visits.

Helen Bohan was an attractive thirty-year-old career woman, one of the junior directors of Minotaur Movies. Franklin had been having an affair with her for several years.

By Penelope's standards, Franklin supposed, Helen was no classic beauty, but he'd been attracted to her from the moment of their first meeting.

‘You're the formidable Franklin Ross - how do you do? Helen Bohan.’ The handshake had been firm, no-nonsense, and the expression in the eyes bold but not challenging. Friendly more than anything. ‘I think this amalgamation's an excellent idea. Minotaur needs an injection of fresh blood and new ideas.’

They were at the cocktail party held specifically for the directors of both companies to acquaint themselves with each other and Helen was making sure she did just that. It wasn't a flirtatious introduction. Franklin watched her as she continued on her rounds and each fresh handshake was just as open, just as friendly.

She wasn't slim and svelte like Penelope; her body was a little too thickset to wear clothes elegantly. Her face was not fine-boned and patrician but a little too square and almost devoid of makeup. Her hair was not styled fashionably but practically. This was a woman who couldn't be bothered spending hours each morning making herself beautiful.

Franklin had always been an admirer of cultivated feminine beauty. He liked women who went to great pains to look elegant. So why did he find Helen Bohan so attractive? He didn't for the life of him know, but there was something in the woman's directness, something honest in her eyes, something warm and humorous in the curve of her mouth that made him want to get to know her.

‘You appear to be without a drink, Miss Bohan,’ he said, approaching her with two glasses of champagne he'd taken from a waiter's tray.

‘Helen, please,’ she smiled, ‘and no, thank you, no champagne. It goes straight to my head.’

‘But you'll have to have a drink,’ he insisted. ‘This is an introductory party, after all, we have to toast the amalgamation with something. What will it be?’

Helen was taken aback by the man's friendliness. She'd been told that Franklin Ross was a hard man, usually brusque and not one for social niceties. ‘Well, I drink the occasional scotch and ice but ...’

‘A scotch and ice it is then.’ Franklin signalled to a waiter. ‘Noisy, isn't it? Cocktail chat always is. Like hens at feeding time. Shall we find a quiet spot?’

He found them some seats in a corner away from the mass of people and, when the waiter had delivered her scotch, they drank to the amalgamation.

‘A toast, Helen,’ he said. ‘To Ross and Minotaur. Long may they reign.’

‘Yes, Franklin, to Ross and Minotaur.’ She studied him as she sipped her drink. There it was, she told herself, she'd been right, just the barest trace of surprise. He'd expected her to call him Mr Ross and wait to be invited onto a first-name basis. Helen was all for equality. Not that she didn't believe in mutual respect as well. If, being an older man and therefore possibly old-fashioned in his business etiquette, Franklin had insisted upon calling her Miss Bohan then she most certainly would have stuck to Mr Ross. She decided that, as his reaction had been infinitesimal, he'd passed the test. She smiled at him.

Although he'd covered well, Franklin was far more than a little surprised, he was startled. It wasn't the proper practice at all for a junior director, particularly a female, to assume a first-name basis with the president of the company.