Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  George was devastated by his father’s decision. Although he was only twenty-one, he had a strong sense of family and had presumed that, after sowing a few wild oats, he would take his correct place in the dynasty. He would work alongside his older brothers. He would marry and he would produce sons as a true Ross should.

  No amount of argument could dissuade his father and George certainly refused to beg. Not that begging would have changed the situation. Even if it could have, George would beg to no man. Despite his father’s opinion, young George was not a person of weak character. His penchant for women and gambling had been directly attributable to youth and to the influence of his younger brother. Indeed, it was his younger brother who was George’s one true weakness. He had inherited his mother’s need to nurture Richard. Richard was fully aware of this and used it unashamedly.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, George, old man,’ he chaffed, ‘stop being so melodramatic. It’s only for five years. We’ll have a wonderful time - it will be an adventure.’ The idea of travelling halfway round the world was exciting to Richard and he was not the least bit daunted by the prospect of what might be in store for him at the other end. After all, George was with him. George would look after him. George always did.

  So it was, then, that on a crisp autumn day in mid-September, 1849, George and Richard Ross set sail for the Colony of New South Wales aboard the Henrietta.

  It was a sweltering Sydney summer. Even the nights afforded no relief from the oppressive heat. ‘It’s not always like this,’ George and Richard were informed. ‘This is a heatwave - things will get better.’ But such reassurances couldn’t change Richard’s mind. His desire for adventure quickly waned in Sydney. It wasn’t just the heat. After the first flush of excitement at the sight of its magnificent harbour, he had decided that Sydney was a grubby town. He missed the green hills of Cheshire.

  ‘This is a hateful place,’ he complained. ‘Look at it! Space all around us and yet people build these horrid little terraced houses in imitation of the squalid parts of London! You’d think they’d know better.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ was George’s retort. ‘There are some magnificent houses in Sydney.’

  But, as usual, Richard wasn’t listening. ‘There’s nothing here but dust and heat and flies and scrawny trees with no colour,’ he continued. ‘Can’t we go somewhere green?’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ George answered dismissively. ‘The whole of the country’s like this - you’d better start getting used to it.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Richard insisted. ‘Do you remember that German chap on the boat? The one who was joining his brother in Adelaide? He said there were valleys outside the town that reminded him of the Rhine. Why don’t we go there? Please, George, let’s go there.’ When George looked as if he might be starting to weaken, Richard coughed pathetically and added, ‘Besides, this dust is shockingly painful to my lungs.’

  George laughed out loud. ‘And you are shockingly painful in your transparency, Dickie.’

  Richard just grinned back. It was wonderful having a big brother like George.

  Three months after their arrival in Australia, George and Richard Ross bought fifty acres of prime, green land in a valley not far from the township of Adelaide.

  Richard was not strong enough to involve himself in physical labour so he stayed in town while the homestead was being built. Between sating his desires at night and trotting out in the dray several times a week to see how George and the men were going with the building, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Adelaide was a far more pleasing town to Richard than Sydney. It was less grubby and cramped, and he found the freestanding stone cottages charming. Although Sydney Harbour had been impressive, he preferred the tranquil beauty of the Torrens River, and the surrounding green hills reminded him of Cheshire.

  But it wasn’t just the bucolic aspect of the town which appealed to him. Beneath its tranquil facade, Adelaide had plenty to offer the hedonist in Richard. He quickly acquainted himself with its more select brothels and gambling dens and soon became a popular member of the flamboyant Adelaide society which flourished after sundown.

  George was aware that Richard was behaving true to form, but after one token lecture he gave up trying to amend his brother’s behaviour. He didn’t have time to reform Richard. There was too much to be done. He kept a tight hold of the purse strings, however, handing over a moderate weekly allowance and turning a blind eye. If Richard wished to lose his money in a poker game, then that was his choice.

  George was also fully aware that Richard was using his weak physical condition to escape any form of physical labour, but he didn’t care. It didn’t bother him one bit, because George was filled with a joy he’d never known was possible. He loved this land. He revelled in the physical exertion and the feeling of well-being it gave to his body, which was turning harder and browner by the day. And he loved the freedom from his domineering father and the stultifying family business. Who the hell needed cutlery anyway? he decided with abandon. Eat with your hands. Do everything with your hands - fell your trees, build your houses, till your soil. And, as the sweat poured from his brow, he’d clutch fists full of earth to his chest and laugh for sheer happiness.

  ‘Araluen. That’s what we’re going to call the place,’ he announced one day.

  ‘Araluen?’ Richard queried. ‘What on earth does “Araluen” mean?’

  ‘ “Place of water lilies”,’ George explained. ‘It’s an Aboriginal term. I learnt it from one of the locals.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any water lilies.’

  ‘That’s because you never look. Take a trip to the creek down at the eastern end of the valley. There’s a waterhole there covered in them.’

  ‘Very well. Araluen it is, then.’

  George didn’t pay too much attention to Richard’s many helpful suggestions regarding the building. They were usually made to impress whichever young woman had accompanied him that day to view the site and the emerging homestead.

  ‘But don’t you think the door should go there, George?’ Richard would question his brother with a nudge and a wink that said ‘make me look good’, and George would grin and reply, ‘Good idea, Dickie, damn good idea’. Despite everything Richard’s charm was irresistible, and he invariably managed to make George laugh. He’s incorrigible, George thought with a wealth of fondness.

  Once the homestead was completed, Richard was bored. He sat on the spacious verandah watching George and the men building the barn and wished he was back in town. It was much more diverting there.

  ‘You’d be less bored if you did something,’ George finally snapped back. He was becoming a little fed up with Richard’s whinging.

  ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ Richard asked petulantly. ‘Digging up mulga roots? Building woodsheds?’ The cough that followed was deep and rasping and, although George knew it was a bid for sympathy, he was concerned. The Australian climate had had little effect on Richard’s lungs.

  ‘Father was right,’ he said sharply. ‘Give up the cigars.’

  ‘You get more like him every day,’ Richard answered. ‘You’re turning into a tyrant, George.’ But he smiled as he sipped his port and puffed his Havana and, as usual, it was impossible for George to take offence.

  ‘I know what you can do, Dickie,’ George said one night as they sat on the verandah in the gathering dusk watching Thomas cart wood up from the shed.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Richard answered warily. ‘And what is that?’

  Thomas went through the side door into the kitchen where they could hear him talking with Emma. Thomas and Emma were a middle-aged ticket-of-leave couple George had hired several months earlier and they were proving invaluable. Most of the Colony’s domestic labour was employed from the ranks of convicts granted a ticket-of-leave, the conditions of which allowed them to serve their sentence under parole conditions but forbade them ever to return to England.

  ‘Study. That’s what you can do,’ George continued
. Richard stared blankly at him and sipped his wine in silence. George rose, walked to the verandah rail and spread his arms expansively. ‘Look at that. Isn’t it magnificent? And it’s ours, Dickie. All ours.’

  The view was certainly impressive. The long straight drive up the hill to the homestead, the massive stone barn to the right and, to the left, the stables above which were the servants’ quarters. But Richard knew that George was referring to the land. The acres and acres of land which had been painstakingly cleared. Richard didn’t think it looked magnificent at all. He thought it looked embarrassingly denuded and he vastly preferred the green trees and grasses that had been there before. But of course one had to clear the land and plant one’s crops to survive, so he nodded dutifully.

  ‘Yes, George, it’s magnificent. You’ve done a fine job. So what exactly do I study?’ he asked, feigning interest and hoping Emma would soon announce dinner. He was starving.

  ‘Crops,’ George answered. ‘Wheat, I presume - that’s what most of the locals seem to favour. The land will be ready for planting soon and we need to know the correct time, the correct depth, the correct -’

  ‘Good God, how am I supposed to go about that?’

  ‘The locals, Dickie. Charm the locals and learn their methods.’

  ‘Oh.’ Richard was suddenly interested. Here was a valid excuse to get away from the homestead and into town. ‘Very well. I shall start my inquiries tomorrow.’

  George smiled. Richard’s response was eminently readable. ‘And don’t confine your inquiries to the township, will you, Dickie? You must visit the properties and talk to the farmers.’

  ‘Yes, George, of course.’

  But strangely enough, it was in the township that Richard found the answer.

  ‘Vines! We’ll plant vines!’ Richard exclaimed three weeks later upon his return from the doctor. His cough had worsened and a worried George had insisted he seek medical advice.

  ‘What are you talking about, Dickie? I thought you’d been to see the doctor.’

  ‘I have, I have, and he says we should plant vines. He’s given me some cuttings. They’re in the dray. Come and have a look.’

  ‘But what about your chest? What about the blood you coughed up the other day? What did he say about …? George followed his brother out to the verandah.

  ‘Oh bother the chest - just look at this!’ Richard reached into the back of the dray and held aloft a handful of vine cuttings. ‘Here is our future, George.’ He joined his brother on the verandah and thrust one of the cuttings into his hand. ‘Here!’

  George had never seen him so excited. He stared blankly at the cutting then back to his brother. ‘What sort of vines? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Grapes, man, grapes! When Dr Penfold came out here he brought grape cuttings with him from some of the finest wine areas of France and he’s succeeding! Already! After only seven years!’

  ‘Wine?’ George said incredulously as realisation dawned. ‘You mean make our own wine?’

  ‘Yes, George, yes!’

  ‘But we’re not wine-makers. Wine-making is a science.’

  ‘We’re not farmers either. And the science is called oenology.’

  ‘But we know nothing about it.’

  ‘Then we’ll teach ourselves. We’ll start with these.’ Richard held up the cuttings. ‘Dr Penfold will help - he knows everything about viticulture - and in ten years we’ll be among the top vignerons in the country. You see,’ he boasted, ‘already I know the language of wine.’

  George was shaking his head but Richard continued regardless. ‘If we must become men of the land, why not grow something we can enjoy, for God’s sake? I insist you come with me to look at Dr Penfold’s property tomorrow - he’s offered us an open invitation to The Grange.’

  Again George tried to interrupt but Richard took no notice. ‘He’ll be at his practice in town but his wife Mary will accommodate us. Now go and nag Emma about tea, there’s a good chap, while I unharness old Ned here, who’s dying for a drink too.’

  ‘And tell Emma plenty of cake and scones,’ Richard called as he led the horse and dray off to the stables. ‘I’m starving!’

  As usual, Richard had his way and, although George maintained his doubts about the wisdom of cultivating grapevines, he agreed to donate ten acres of the property towards the establishment of a vineyard.

  ‘But if, in five years, it proves to be a non-viable proposition …’

  ‘Ten, George - you have to give me ten. It will take at least ten years to establish.’

  ‘Very well. Ten,’ George agreed. ‘But if, after ten years …’

  Richard burst out laughing. ‘Listen to you, George, just listen! You sound like father at his pompous best.’ And George found himself laughing in agreement.

  They were a hard ten years and there were many times when George wanted to give up but, surprisingly enough, it was Richard who insisted they persevere.

  ‘It takes time,’ he said when George repeatedly suggested they convert their vinegrowing acres to grazing land for the sheep he’d acquired. ‘It’ll be worth it, believe me.’

  George continued to be sceptical all through the early experimental years when failure constantly seemed to outweigh success but finally Richard’s refusal to give in started to pay off and George was forced to admit his brother had been right.

  But Richard’s triumph was costly. Years of endless hard work took their toll, years of pruning, harvesting, and irrigating. And when he wasn’t working among the vines, he was walking among them. Through the searing heat of summer and the biting mid-winter frosts, Richard walked endlessly between the rows and rows of his precious vines like a shepherd guarding his flock. Shortly after his thirtieth birthday, he became seriously ill. When Dr Penfold visited the property he warned George that Richard simply could not continue at such a pace.

  ‘Try to tell him that,’ George replied. ‘We have workers, of course, but he tends the vines as though they were his children and will allow no one else to oversee the operation, not even myself.’

  Dr Penfold and his wife were among the most successful vignerons in the country and it was this fact rather than the good doctor’s excellent medical reputation which finally persuaded Richard to employ an overseer. Dr Penfold was, in Richard’s opinion, the only person qualified to announce that the vines were now firmly established and the only person qualified to recommend an expert worthy of the task of tending them.

  Such an expert did not come cheap, of course. Neither did the extra labour George insisted hiring in order to impress upon Richard that there was no necessity for him to set foot outside the house. ‘At least not until the start of summer - the spring frost is not good for your chest.’

  ‘We can’t afford it, George,’ Richard protested feebly. ‘We’re only just starting to make good as it is.’

  It was true. They had recently finished paying off their acquired debts, and funds were in short supply, the support from their father having long since been withdrawn.

  Howard’s remittances had arrived quarterly, as promised, for the first five years, always accompanied by a letter from Emily, but with never a word from Howard himself. At the end of the fifth year, a brief note informed them that there would be no further monies forthcoming and that George and Richard were to return to England within six months.

  They had corresponded intermittently with their mother, but, apart from acknowledging receipt of their remittances, neither George nor Richard had seen any reason to communicate with Howard. Upon receiving his father’s instructions, however, George wrote informing him that they would not be returning in six months, that they had no need of further monies and that they were happily settled in their adopted country. He concluded with a formal thanks for the assistance they’d received and a promise that he intended to honour and serve well the name of Ross in the new Colony. Richard added a postscript promising to send a bottle of his best vintage as soon as it should come available.

  They
didn’t hear from Howard after that and even the letters from Emily dwindled over the years, as if she’d given up hope of ever seeing her youngest sons again. Or perhaps Richard’s surmise was correct and Howard disapproved of her contact with them.

  Whatever the reason, George and Richard managed to survive without their quarterly income. And, in accepting the fact that they were each other’s sole family and that it was unlikely they would ever again see their home country, an even closer bond was forged between them.

  It was with great difficulty, therefore, that George once again communicated with his father. Only Richard’s illness and the fear for his brother’s life could have forced him to take such a measure.

  Ten years and two months after Howard had watched the Henrietta set sail for the Colonies, he opened George’s letter informing him of Richard’s illness and requesting funds.

  ‘The boy must think I’m an imbecile,’ he stormed. ‘What does he take me for?’ Despite Emily’s pleas, he flatly refused to send any money. ‘It’s a ploy,’ he said. ‘Richard’s a scoundrel. Always was. And he’s pursuaded George to join forces and milk what they can from their estate. I must say I’d have expected a little more of George. Well, they’ll be back when they realise how uncomfortable it is to starve.’ And Howard would hear no more on the subject.