discuss. As a landlord he had never before contemplated such an arrangement — Solly never mixed business with pleasure.
But Millie appeared unaware of his proposition, agreeing that she would be only too happy to do his washing, ironing and mending in exchange for the rent.
‘That wasn't exactly what I had in mind,’ Solly said.
There was a definite plea in Millie's voice as she added, ‘Perhaps even a little cooking now and then?’ Solly shook his head and started to feel embarrassed, not wanting to spell it out. Finally, Millie straightened her back, looked him directly in the eye and said, I shall be moving out next week, Mr Mankowski’.
Solly felt terrible. So terrible that he did a totally uncharacteristic thing, surprising not only Millie but himself into the bargain. He let her forgo the following month's rent altogether until she found herself a factory job. They never again mentioned his proposition and a genuine fondness grew between them.
Now, despite his soft spot for her, Solly prayed that her presence would not disrupt the household. He prayed that she would not overly distract or upset Mr Ross. In the fifteen years Solomon Mankowski had been sub-letting around Surry Hills, he had never once had a tenant as classy as Mr Ross. It was an excellent sign. Money bred money, class bred class and Mr Ross had both. And he had something else as well. He had determination. Solly recognised a winner when he saw one — and one must cultivate winners, particularly in a Depression. But one had to be subtle, one mustn't be intrusive — Mr Ross was a private man who didn't welcome intruders. No, Solly decided, he would wait until he was needed. Over the next few days while Franklin settled in, Solly kept well out of his way.
Much as he would rather have avoided it, Franklin knew he had to contact his Aunt Catherine. She was a prominent figure in Sydney, with a successful art gallery and many worthwhile contacts. If anyone could help him secure a well-paying job, she could.
‘Franklin! My dear!’ He was engulfed in a fervent embrace. A strand of her hair found its way into his mouth and he could feel her ample breasts against his chest. The strong, musky scent she was wearing, mingled with the smell of oils and varnish and tobacco, was suffocating. Finally she released him. ‘Let me look at you,’ she said.
Franklin attempted a smile as she held him at arm's length. There was no point in alienatingher — she was too useful. But he found her repulsive. She's gross, he thought, gross and vulgar.
Catherine was certainly large. She'd always been a big woman. Big-boned and handsome. But at sixty-one she'd lost her looks. Her thick, grey-black hair was still abundant but now it was white with a yellowish tinge, like straw. She was no longer statuesque but shapeless, and the face had become fleshy and dissipated. But if Franklin had cared to look closer he would have noticed that the smile was as generous as ever and the eyes as clever and humorous as they'd always been.
But Franklin didn't care to look closer and Catherine sensed it immediately. She too had not forgotten that day in the stables but she'd hoped by now Franklin may have developed some tolerance. Obviously he hadn't. Well, she'd just have to work on him and see if she could break through. She hoped he hadn't turned into a boring prig like his father.
‘Come on through to the studio. Gaby's working and she's dying to see you.’
Catherine led the way. It was an elegant house, built in 1860, and Catherine had retained its original splendour. Strange that she could be so slovenly herself and yet live so graciously, Franklin thought.
As though she'd read his mind, Catherine said, ‘Gaby looks after the house. I live mostly in here.’ And she flung open the doors to the studio.
Anything but elegant, it was a huge modern open-plan room built onto the side of the old home. Its massive windows looked out through aleafy green garden to the streets of
But Millie appeared unaware of his proposition, agreeing that she would be only too happy to do his washing, ironing and mending in exchange for the rent.
‘That wasn't exactly what I had in mind,’ Solly said.
There was a definite plea in Millie's voice as she added, ‘Perhaps even a little cooking now and then?’ Solly shook his head and started to feel embarrassed, not wanting to spell it out. Finally, Millie straightened her back, looked him directly in the eye and said, I shall be moving out next week, Mr Mankowski’.
Solly felt terrible. So terrible that he did a totally uncharacteristic thing, surprising not only Millie but himself into the bargain. He let her forgo the following month's rent altogether until she found herself a factory job. They never again mentioned his proposition and a genuine fondness grew between them.
Now, despite his soft spot for her, Solly prayed that her presence would not disrupt the household. He prayed that she would not overly distract or upset Mr Ross. In the fifteen years Solomon Mankowski had been sub-letting around Surry Hills, he had never once had a tenant as classy as Mr Ross. It was an excellent sign. Money bred money, class bred class and Mr Ross had both. And he had something else as well. He had determination. Solly recognised a winner when he saw one — and one must cultivate winners, particularly in a Depression. But one had to be subtle, one mustn't be intrusive — Mr Ross was a private man who didn't welcome intruders. No, Solly decided, he would wait until he was needed. Over the next few days while Franklin settled in, Solly kept well out of his way.
Much as he would rather have avoided it, Franklin knew he had to contact his Aunt Catherine. She was a prominent figure in Sydney, with a successful art gallery and many worthwhile contacts. If anyone could help him secure a well-paying job, she could.
‘Franklin! My dear!’ He was engulfed in a fervent embrace. A strand of her hair found its way into his mouth and he could feel her ample breasts against his chest. The strong, musky scent she was wearing, mingled with the smell of oils and varnish and tobacco, was suffocating. Finally she released him. ‘Let me look at you,’ she said.
Franklin attempted a smile as she held him at arm's length. There was no point in alienatingher — she was too useful. But he found her repulsive. She's gross, he thought, gross and vulgar.
Catherine was certainly large. She'd always been a big woman. Big-boned and handsome. But at sixty-one she'd lost her looks. Her thick, grey-black hair was still abundant but now it was white with a yellowish tinge, like straw. She was no longer statuesque but shapeless, and the face had become fleshy and dissipated. But if Franklin had cared to look closer he would have noticed that the smile was as generous as ever and the eyes as clever and humorous as they'd always been.
But Franklin didn't care to look closer and Catherine sensed it immediately. She too had not forgotten that day in the stables but she'd hoped by now Franklin may have developed some tolerance. Obviously he hadn't. Well, she'd just have to work on him and see if she could break through. She hoped he hadn't turned into a boring prig like his father.
‘Come on through to the studio. Gaby's working and she's dying to see you.’
Catherine led the way. It was an elegant house, built in 1860, and Catherine had retained its original splendour. Strange that she could be so slovenly herself and yet live so graciously, Franklin thought.
As though she'd read his mind, Catherine said, ‘Gaby looks after the house. I live mostly in here.’ And she flung open the doors to the studio.
Anything but elegant, it was a huge modern open-plan room built onto the side of the old home. Its massive windows looked out through aleafy green garden to the streets of
Similar Books
