Araluen Read Online Free PDF Page A

in an hour.’ Such trust must not go disappointed, he thought, and as he drifted off, he felt a great sense of joy. The boy had what the others lacked. The boy had spirit.
    The next day, when Franklin brought in his lunchtime soup, they smiled at the secret theyshared and, later that same night, at around eleven o'clock, George died peacefully in his sleep. Franklin was deeply impressed. Grandfather George had been a man of honour — he'd remained true to his word until the very end.
    Franklin noticed a lot of changes after the death of Grandfather George. Uncle Harry, Mary's husband, went off to the war and Aunt Catherine stayed on in the family home — only for three months, she said, while her belongings were shipped out from France. Then she was going to Sydney to open an art gallery.
    Catherine became a firm favourite with Franklin. She was ‘different’ and he deeply admired her. His brother Kenneth also liked her, as did Mary's brood who lived only a few miles away. But, popular as she was with the younger members of the family, the adults kept their distance. Catherine was too Bohemian for them. They took their lead from Charles who actively disliked his older sister. He maintained that she had deserted the family and he didn't approve at all of her single lifestyle.
    ‘A very selfish woman,’ he said one day at the luncheon table. ‘And decidedly peculiar.’
    ‘Well, of course she's "peculiar",’ Franklin boasted later to Kenneth. ‘She's an artist.’
    Two months after the death of Grandfather George, Charles announced stiffly to the family that a friend of Aunt Catherine's would shortly bearriving from Paris and staying for a week before accompanying Catherine to Sydney. It was quite obvious he disapproved of the visit.
    How exciting, Franklin thought. Catherine had told them she was going to Sydney to open an art gallery, but she'd said nothing of a friend from Paris.
    ‘Is your friend French?’ Franklin asked as he watched the bold charcoal strokes take form on the page before his very eyes. Like magic, they became a vineyard. Rows and rows of vines stretching into the distance. Franklin never tired of watching Catherine sketch.
    It was nearly dusk and they were seated beside the old stone cellar, Catherine on her little camp stool and Franklin on the ground beside her.
    Catherine looked out over the vineyard. These were the oldest vines, planted by her uncle Richard. They had always been her father's favourites. ‘Yes, French — like the vines.’ She looked up at the sky, then back at her sketch and smudged the clouds with her thumb. The cloud and light formations over the vines were thrilling. ‘Very French, and very nice, and you'll get on famously, I know it.’
    Catherine leaned back against the cool stones of the cellar walls. Second only to the homestead the cellar was the oldest building on the property and she remembered hearing her father's proud boast when she was a very young girl, ‘Of course, it was just a barn in the beginning. Huge, it was. Nearly broke our backs building it.’ Then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Whoever would have thought it would one day be the birthplace of some of the finest wines in the country.’
    Catherine had stared spellbound as her father held a half-filled glass of rich purple wine to the light.
    ‘Because they are, Catherine. Among the very finest. And one day they'll be among the finest in the world.’ Catherine always loved the way her father spoke to her as an adult. ‘Here. Try it.’ And he handed her the glass.
    It was the first time Catherine had tasted wine and, despite the strict rulings of the Church, she didn't question her action for a moment. To the contrary, she felt deeply privileged to be sharing such an experience with her father. And of course George loved her for it. There was such pride in his voice as he said, ‘I knew I could rely on you, Catherine.’ She hadn't known that, only two days before, her father had been