Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  That summer was hard and seemed to go on forever. George quickly realised that he’d lulled himself into a false sense of security when he’d pursuaded Richard to remain indoors and away from the spring frosts. Summer started early, suddenly and with a vengeance. And, as the hot winds seared through the vineyards, threatening to devastate the entire crop, George could see that any attempt to dissuade Richard from working was useless. All he could do was work alongside his brother, erecting whatever wind protection they could and tending the vines regularly to ensure their supplementary water supply.

  That was the summer that did it. George was sure of it. Richard lasted another five years, but it was the summer of 1860 that was his undoing. George watched, powerless, as his brother wasted away, refusing to give in to his illness until the very end.

  Richard died in 1865, six weeks before his thirty-sixth birthday, and he died content. His success as a vigneron was unquestionable - even Dr Penfold himself said so - and Richard toasted his own end with a glass of his finest Syrah.

  ‘Did you send that bottle off to father?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it went with Martin Longford on the Taglioni. He said he’d deliver it personally.’

  ‘But that was nearly six months ago. And there’s been no word?’

  ‘Come along now, Dickie, you know it can take all of nine months for word to get back to us.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Richard smiled. ‘Father’s disowned us and you know it.’ He coughed and, as usual, the cough took over.

  It pained George to watch his brother’s frail body fighting for air but finally the spasm was over and Richard lay back against the pillows, exhausted. He’s near the end now, George thought as he reached for a tumbler of water. Dr Penfold had said as much. Not to Richard himself, but Richard knew, George was sure of that.

  Waving the water aside, Richard gestured for the glass of wine he’d insisted George pour for him earlier. He sipped at it, examined it lovingly and, when he could finally trust himself to talk without precipitating another attack, he said with a proud nod, ‘Sixty-two - one of our good years. In ten years’ time it’ll be a prize drop. Get yourself a glass, George, I want to make a toast.’

  When George rejoined him with a fresh glass Richard was looking content and comfortable. Almost serene, George thought. Yes, he certainly knows.

  ‘Father always said we’d inherited the weak strain of the Ross family,’ Richard commented as he watched George pour the wine. ‘Me, at least. I suspect he held hopes for you somewhere along the line.’ He held his glass aloft. ‘Well, old chap, if we are the weak Rosses, God protect the world from the strong ones. To you, George.’ He clinked their glasses together. ‘You’re a fine brother.’

  ‘To us both.’ It was all George could trust himself to say. Any more and the tremor in his voice might betray him.

  ‘Mind you,’ Richard continued, oblivious to his brother’s emotion, ‘you’re also a very stupid fellow.’

  The insult was genuine and effectively curbed the threatening sting of a tear. ‘Stupid? How?’

  ‘Your letter to father all those years ago - which quite frankly I found a trifle pompous - when you promised to honour the family name in the new Colony.’

  ‘What of it?’ George demanded defensively. ‘I meant every word.’

  ‘Confound it, man, how are you going to honour the family name when there is no family?’ George looked at him blankly and Richard fought back the desire to laugh, it would only bring about another coughing fit. He smiled broadly instead and, emaciated though the face was, the smile was as engaging as ever. ‘Stupid, you see? Take a wife, man, take a wife. You’re thirty-eight years old and you’re not going to last forever. One of us has to start breeding and, at the moment, I’d say you’re the safer bet.’

  The laugh finally erupted. A coughing fit followed and it was several minutes before Richard could continue. By now he was so weakened and his chest ached so much that all he wanted to do was sleep. But he smiled at George nonetheless.

  ‘You’re so like father, with your determination to found a Ross dynasty.’ George was about to defend himself again but Richard continued. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ll do a good job and, unlike father, you’ll look after your own.’ He shrugged. ‘Personally, I couldn’t give a damn about the family but I’d like you to promise me one thing.’ George nodded and bent closer, Richard’s voice was now very weak. ‘Look after my vines.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ George nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Richard closed his eyes. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Wake me around dawn.’ And within seconds he was fast asleep.

  George didn’t wake him at dawn. The following morning Richard had lapsed into unconsciousness and he died at nine o’clock that night.

  George grieved for his brother and felt a loneliness he’d never experienced before. After the grief came the anger. He was convinced that Richard had died needlessly. If they’d been able to purchase modern labour-saving devices, if they’d been able to employ extra workers, if Richard had been hospitalised … In other words, if Howard had forwarded the funds George had requested, his youngest son would be alive today.

  The anger continued to gnaw away at George. He didn’t inform the family of Richard’s death - not even when, two years later, he received word from one of his sisters that his mother was dying. Although he was initially saddened by the news, he hardened his heart to it - Emily was an accomplice in Richard’s death, after all, as were his brothers and sisters. They had each denied their own.

  It was then that George made his decision. As far as he was concerned, the Ross family started here and now. His Ross family. Born of the Colonies. And he took Richard’s advice and searched for a wife worthy of the name.

  He found her in Sarah, the only daughter of strict Methodists, Henry and Elizabeth Cusack. Sarah’s parents were greatly relieved to see their daughter wed; she was twenty-five, after all, no great beauty, and her dowry was mediocre.

  ‘Sarah was sort of unexpected, you might say,’ Henry explained to George, a trifle embarrassed. ‘We’d put our money into getting the lads started by the time she came along.’

  ‘The lads’ were Sarah’s five older brothers and the reason George wanted to marry Sarah. She was strong, good breeding stock and males ran in the family.

  ‘No matter.’ George said, waving aside the dowry. ‘I have more than enough for our needs.’

  In the past few years George had done well. He had converted over half of Araluen to vines and was currently in the throes of purchasing a small neighbouring vineyard. All thanks to Richard, George thought. If only he’d lived to see it.

  For propriety’s sake, Elizabeth wanted to delay the marriage by several months. ‘After all, you and Sarah only met three weeks ago, Mr Ross.’

  But George was brutally honest. ‘I am forty years old and childless, Mrs Cusack. I need sons.’

  The truth did not endear George to Mrs Cusack but, as her husband pointed out in private, she really had no option. Her pride was salved a little, however, when George readily agreed that any offspring were to be brought up strictly in accordance with the Methodist teachings.

  George and Sarah were married on the first day of spring, 1868. Nine months and one week after the wedding, their first child was born, a strong healthy girl whom they called Catherine. For Sarah’s sake, George hid his disappointment as best he could. But a year later, when Sarah gave birth to a son, there was no disguising George’s elation. He handed out cigars with abandon and openly talked of Charles being the first in a new breed of Ross. One who was born to look after his own. No one knew what George was talking about but put it down to overexcitement at the birth of his first son.

  Mary’s birth two years later was a complicated one. Doctors fought to save both mother and baby and they succeeded. But they told Sarah that she would never have another child.

  It was surprising how quickly George came to terms with the fact that he was to be denied the family o
f sons he’d had his heart set on. So the dynasty would take a little longer to establish itself - what matter? he asked himself. It was quality not quantity that counted.

  The truth was that George had grown to love Sarah and the thought of losing her terrified him. They were a family now and the future would look after itself. Charles would have sons, the girls would marry strong men. The dynasty was founded.

  So secure was George in this knowledge that, when the letter arrived from his father’s personal secretary, he had no second thoughts as to how he should reply.

  ‘… in these the last few months of his life,’ the secretary’s letter read, ‘your father wishes to make his peace with you both.’ The letter went on to say that, if George and Richard were to make haste to their father’s bedside, Howard was prepared to reinstate them in his will. Evidently, he wished his entire family to be present at his deathbed and that included his two youngest sons.

  George’s reply was brutal and damning. ‘Inform my father that his youngest son is dead,’ he wrote. ‘His youngest son has been dead for eight years and his second youngest son hereby severs all ties with his father.

  ‘There is new Ross stock, bred from the Colonies, which, from this day, owes no allegiance to, and will accept none from, Howard Ross or any of his direct family.’

  There was certainly no going back now, George thought, and he felt elated as he put his seal to the envelope. There probably never had been, he supposed. But this - he looked down at the letter on the desk before him - this was irrevocable. This was uncompromising. This was the beginning.