ARALUEN

Random House Australia - ISBN 9781741665970

It was a hot, harsh day, mid-January in the Southern Hemisphere. George and Richard stood on the portside bow of the barque Henrietta and watched the rugged coastline slipping by. Neither spoke. After three months at sea even Richard had run out of words. Bored and restless, no longer homesick, no longer seasick, they simply ached to set foot once more on solid ground.

But as the vessel rounded the southern headland, their torpor lifted and they gazed ahead, awestruck.

'My God!' Richard breathed. 'They told us it was beautiful. But look at it George. Just look at it!'

And the Henrietta sailed into the womb of Sydney Harbour.

The young brothers, George and Richard Ross are remittance men, banished to the Colonies by their wealthy irate father who is sick of buying them out of trouble. He's given them five hundred pounds each and told them if they haven't straightened themselves out in five years he'll wash his hands of them. They buy a property in South Australia and set about becoming farmers.

'Araluen. That's what we're going to call the place,' George announced.

'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 works hard, but it is Richard, the true wastrel of the pair, who comes up with the idea which will make their fortune. George's grandson, Franklin will utilise this fortune to create a business empire which will embrace the world of Hollywood and the movies.

'Vines!' We'll plant vines!' Richard exclaimed 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. '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.'