Free Araluen by Judy Nunn Page A

good businessman.’
    Franklin did ask around Surry Hills. He wasn't sure why. Just a passing interest, he told himself -Mankowski was a colourful character. His inquiries revealed that Solly had not only been a man of property, he had been a good friend to many. A bit of a rogue at times but a kind-hearted man and one who kept his word. A terrible gambler with vodka in him, Franklin was warned. But then Solly had admitted that himself, hadn't he?
    Franklin was quite impressed. Yes, he thought, Solly Mankowski could well prove useful.
    Several days later, as Franklin left for the art gallery and his designated meeting with Gustave Lumet, he bumped into Millie Tingwell on the landing. It was ten o'clock in the morning and an odd time to find her home. Her shift hours at the sack factory were from five in the morning till three in the afternoon.
    Franklin raised his hat in greeting. ‘Mrs Tingwell. You're home early.’
    ‘Hello, Mr Ross,’ Millie replied. She'd been laid off that morning. Always the way with casual labour, she thought wearily — they never gave you any notice. Seeing Mr Ross cheered her up. Such a fine man, helping old Arch the way he had. She admired him tremendously. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Ihanded in my notice at Gadsden's — the hours were simply too long.’ No point in being depressing company, she thought. ‘Perhaps you'd like to celebrate with me over a cup of tea in Solly's kitchen.’
    ‘I'd like that,’ Franklin said, and most certainly would have, ‘but I have an engagement this morning.’
    ‘Oh well, never mind.’ Millie opened the door to her little back room. It was much smaller than Franklin's front room and overlooked rows of narrow backyards, disintegrating picket fences and sagging clotheslines always heavy with the weight of the daily wash. Millie found comfort in the uniformity of it all. She would like to be married again. She would like to stay at home, keep house, wash and cook. She hated factory work. ‘Another time, perhaps,’ and she smiled once more as she started to close her door.
    Although it was unintended, the twinkle in Millie's eyes and the dancing dimples appeared to hold such promise that Franklin was loath to relinquish the opportunity. ‘Perhaps you'd care to dine with me?’ he said. It came out with such a rush that it took him by surprise.
    Millie was equally surprised. ‘When?’ she asked.
    ‘Tomorrow evening?’
    ‘Oh.’ Dine with Mr Ross? This couldn't be happening. For dignity's sake she appeared to give it a moment's thought — as though she were regularly extended invitations to dine from gentlemen of the calibre of Franklin Ross — and then she nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said.
    When the door was safely closed behind her Millie kicked off her shoes and tried not to squeal too loudly. Dinner with Mr Ross! Fancy that!
    As Franklin hailed a cab, he wondered why on earth he'd done it. What would they talk about over dinner? He had nothing in common with the woman. Nothing at all.
    But the subject of Millie bore no analysis. Franklin sat back in the cab sure of only one thing. He desperately wanted Millie Tingwell. He looked out the window and thought of Bronwyn. Bronwyn was the only woman Franklin had ever slept with.
    Franklin Ross was still a virgin at twenty when Bronwyn came to work as mess cook for the farmhands.
    Bronwyn was a big woman — not fat, but buxom. And capable. Strong. She must have been thirty, Franklin supposed, and definitely experienced.
    ‘One of the young masters,’ she said when she first met him. The voice, with its soft Welsh lilt, came as a surprise. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, sir.’ The token curtsy which followed teased and mocked him and suddenly he found her highly desirable.
    Over the ensuing weeks, Franklin observed that she never behaved the same way with Kenneth, nor any of the farmhands, for that matter. Surely she couldn't have set her sights on him.
    But Bronwyn had.
    It was a Sunday, in the stables.