Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

Briefly, Rowland was startled, though he knew he should have expected this.

  Wilfred Sinclair entered. Silently he removed his hat and handed it to Mary, who all but curtseyed. His blue eyes were livid. They glared at Rowland over the gold-framed rims of his bifocals.

  Rowland was taller than his brother, but he had never felt so in Wilfred’s presence. Wilfred Sinclair had a stature that was much more than physical.

  “Wil…” Rowland started awkwardly.

  Wilfred didn’t bother with the niceties.

  “A word,” he said, as he strode into the library.

  Rowland braced himself and followed.

  The library at Woodlands had, to him, always been a place of censure. It was to this room that Henry Sinclair had summoned his son to vent his displeasure and impose his will. Wilfred, too, seemed to prefer the library for the purpose of bringing Rowland into line, however futile that purpose had now become.

  Decorated and furnished exactly as it had been when their father was the master, the library was an island of conservative, masculine style in a house that had, under Rowland’s reign, become artistically idiosyncratic. Perhaps that was why Wilfred felt most comfortable there.

  For a time, Wilfred said nothing, pacing angrily about the room. And then, “What the devil do you think you’re doing, Rowly?”

  “Look, Wil, I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you first, but Hardy—”

  Wilfred ignited before he could finish. “You are not to have any part of this insane plan of Hardy’s. Do you understand, Rowly? I forbid it!”

  “You what? I’m a grown man, Wil.”

  “Then act like one. Use your common sense, Rowly. This is not a game.”

  “I know that.” Rowland was beginning to flare himself.

  “Not so long ago, Charles Hardy accused you of treason, for God’s sake. Now you’re going to drop everything because he asks you to go to Germany? Don’t be such a bloody fool!”

  “I’m not doing this for Hardy,” Rowland said quietly.

  Wilfred stopped. He sighed, sitting down in the studded leather armchair.

  Rowland took the seat opposite and waited.

  Wilfred took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief, regaining his composure. “Rowly, you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “I know,” Rowland replied, though he was glad to hear it from Wilfred. “You have a family, Wil, and I can speak German.”

  “You want to work for Hardy?” Wilfred asked. “You’ve always claimed to find the Old Guard abhorrent.”

  “I have no interest in the Old Guard,” Rowland said. “Or in working for Hardy…And, though I don’t mind working against Campbell and his fascist legions, I’m going only so you don’t have to.”

  Wilfred’s mouth twitched. He nearly laughed. “You are trying to protect me?”

  Rowland frowned. Wilfred made him feel like an idiot, a precocious child. “You have a family and I can speak German,” he repeated irritably.

  Wilfred met his eye. “Rowly, don’t you see that they’re exploiting you? You’re disposable. If you get into trouble over there, they’ll disown you, deny that you ever had anything to do with them.”

  Rowland nodded. “Yes, that’s what Milt said.”

  Wilfred stiffened. “You told that bludging Bolshevik…”

  “He overheard. But, yes, I told him as well. How else was I going to explain why I’m going to Germany a few days after Hardy visits out of the blue?”

  Wilfred exploded again. “You have no concept of how dangerous and sensitive this is, do you, Rowly? This is not some jaunt designed for the amusement of your unemployed Communist friends!”

  “That’s a pity—they’re coming with me.”

  “What?”

  Admittedly, explaining how exactly he came to invite his friends to accompany him to Europe was difficult. Wilfred was incredulous.

  “What possible use would they be? Aside from the fact that they’re flaming Reds, they can barely speak the King’s English, let alone any other civilised language.”

  “Actually, Ed’s fluent in French, Milton speaks Yiddish, and Clyde has picked up a bit of Italian.” The last claim was grossly exaggerated. Clyde had been seeing Rosalina Martinelli for a couple of weeks and now seemed able to apologise in Italian, but that was about it. “Anyway, they’re not coming as translators; they’re coming so I have more than your Old Guard to rely on.”

  Wilfred groaned. “I should have you committed!” He pointed at his brother. “I’m going to have you committed!”

  Rowland smiled.

  Wilfred shook his head. “You’re out of my reach in Germany, Rowly. You do realise that? I won’t be able to help you.”

  “I realise that. Look, Wil…we don’t know that Bothwell’s death was untoward. Perhaps there is no real danger. I’ll be careful.”

  “Campbell knows you.”

  “He knows you too. I won’t need to approach him directly, Wil. The idea is to give the man you have travelling with Campbell someone with whom to work. If the good Colonel does happen to see me, the last thing he’ll think is that I’m spying on him for the Old Guard.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Well, word is that I’m a Communist.”

  Wilfred extracted a cigarette from the case in his pocket, and lit it. He smoked sullenly, simmering. “This is bloody preposterous…Hardy’s gone too far this time….”

  “It’s only for a couple of months, Wil.” Rowland ran his hand distractedly through his dark hair. “As much as I hate to agree with your lot, I think Campbell could be dangerous if he gains momentum. If he has the success that this Hitler fellow has…”

  Wilfred turned away in exasperation. “Hardy knew just how to get to you, didn’t he?”

  Rowland said nothing as he waited for his brother to face him again.

  It was a moment before Wilfred did so. He smiled faintly. “At least we seem to be standing on the same side, for once.”

  Rowland laughed. “It’s a little disconcerting.”

  Wilfred tossed his cigarette into the smoking stand. His face became stern again. “I want you to tell Hardy that you’ve changed your mind. That you will not go.”

  “I’m sorry, Wil.” Rowland shook his head.

  The Sinclairs argued for some time after that. It was heated, but not vindictive. Now that Rowland was convinced he would be protecting his brother by going to Germany in his stead, it was, it seemed, impossible to make him stand down. The elder Sinclair demanded, ordered, and reasoned, to no effect. The exchange was interrupted eventually by a tentative knock on the library door.

  “Senator Hardy to see Master Rowly, Mr. Sinclair.” Mary Brown automatically deferred to Wilfred when he was in the house.

  “Send him in here, Mary,” Wilfred said tensely. “Rowly, I’d like to have a word with Hardy alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “For God’s sake, Wil…”

  “Rowly…”

  “Fine.” Rowland relented. It seemed only fair that Hardy should have to deal with Wilfred for a while. Rowland was, in any case, hungry. He could find something to eat while Wilfred shouted at the Senator.

  Chapter Three

  SOUTHERN CROSS

  RUMOURS DENIED

  KINGSFORD SMITH INDIGNANT

  DELIBERATE AND

  MALICIOUS LIES

  SYDNEY, May 17

  Indignant denials were given by Squadron-Leader Kingsford Smith before the Air Inquiry Committee today, to rumours that the forced landing of the Southern Cross had been premeditated and arranged as a publicity “stunt”. He said that such rumours “were absolute, deliberate, and malicious lies”.

  —The Brisbane Courier, 1929

  Rowland decided to take a breakfast of sorts in the conservatory. He settled for scones and bread and butter, rath
er than try to convince his housekeeper that it was not sinful to eat eggs and bacon at four in the afternoon.

  Edna was already there, cleaning up some of the successful firings from the night before. She wore a man’s shirt—which Rowland suspected might once have been his—over her dress as she worked with various brushes and picks to clean off the ash and polish the clay’s blackened surface. Lenin sprawled at her feet.

  “What do you think?” Edna asked, holding up what appeared to be a large bulbous terracotta vase with multiple breasts.

  “Can’t have too much of a good thing, I suppose,” he murmured, resisting the urge to handle it. Edna’s work always seemed to invite touch but on this occasion he feared it would appear somewhat lewd.

  The sculptress rolled her eyes. “It’s based on the ancient goddesses…fertility, Earth…”

  “Uh huh, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  Mary Brown wheeled in a silver service of tea, scones, and fresh sandwiches. She glanced at Edna’s vase and sighed indignantly.

  “Thank you, Mary,” Rowland said, winking at Edna, and piling several sandwiches onto a Royal Doulton bread-and-butter plate.

  “Oh, breakfast!” Edna piped enthusiastically, eliciting another sigh from the housekeeper. Wiping her hands on the stolen shirt, the sculptress stepped over Lenin to the oaken traymobile. She heaped jam and cream onto both halves of a split scone and gave one to the greyhound, as Mary Brown made a disapproving exit. Lenin grunted happily, accepting the morsel and looking adoringly at his benefactor.

  “Have you told Senator Hardy about our refinement of his plans?” Edna wiped the cream off Lenin’s nose with a starched linen napkin.

  “I believe Wil may be bringing him up to speed now.”

  “Wilfred’s here? Oh, dear. Was he very cross?”

  “Yes, but I gather he’s rather more livid with Hardy than with me.”

  Edna smiled. “Good. So, are we still flying to Germany?”

  “I expect we are. Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind, Ed? Aside from anything else, flying is not the safest way to travel…they still haven’t found Bert Hinkler.”

  “He was trying to break some silly record,” she said, pouring tea for both of them. “He’ll probably walk out of the African jungle sometime soon…” She handed Rowland an excessively sugared cup of tea. “A single man travelling alone will make people wonder, Rowly. Together, we are just tourists.”

  At this juncture Charles Hardy strode briskly into the room. “Good afternoon, Miss Higgins.”

  “Senator Hardy.” Edna looked up. “How nice to see you again. How is Mrs. Hardy?”

  “Alice is well, thank you, Miss Higgins…I don’t mind if I do,” he added, as she offered him tea.

  “Where’s Wil?” Rowland asked, as Hardy became visibly distracted by Edna’s vase.

  “He’s making telephone calls. Wilfred has some reservations about your involvement…but I’m sure he’ll come to see that I’m right.”

  Rowland gave his attention to the sandwiches. “I really wouldn’t count on it.”

  “He mentioned that you have some notion about taking Miss Higgins and two other gentlemen with you.”

  “You could call it a notion.”

  “It’s not possible, Sinclair.”

  “It is, if you want him to go and us to keep quiet,” Milton announced, as he and Clyde walked into the conservatory.

  Hardy turned stiffly, casting disdainful eyes over the poet’s deep purple jacket and spotted cravat. They had, of course, met only a month before, but then Hardy had believed Milton to be a business associate of Rowland’s. He had since been made aware of the petty criminality of the poet’s past and the Communist allegiance of his present. “If you don’t mind my saying, Mr. Isaacs, that’s a very reckless threat.”

  “Not a threat,” Milton replied blithely. “It’s a statement of fact.”

  “We will hardly agree to send known Communists on a mission of such importance.”

  “Why not? We Communists are just as disturbed by Campbell’s ambitions as you are. If Campbell models himself on Europe, believe me, Senator, life will be more difficult for us than you.”

  Hardy stared at him, stunned by both the man’s affront and his logic.

  “He’s right, Charles,” Rowland said calmly.

  “You want me to send a Communist, particularly one of Mr. Isaac’s heritage, to Germany. Don’t you see how ludicrous that is?

  “Call him Smith and he could pass as a Protestant,” Clyde snorted. “And we’re hardly going to announce our party memberships—we’re not fools.”

  “No! It’s out of the question!”

  “Senator Hardy, sir,” Clyde said, helping himself to tea. “If Rowly were to suddenly disappear, leaving us in charge of his home, you can imagine that questions would be asked. There’d be rumours. We’d be forced to tell people where they could find him, lest it be concluded we’d done him in.”

  Rowland smiled faintly.

  Hardy’s contemplation was sullen. “And why do you gentlemen wish to go to Germany?” The question was accusatory.

  Milton took a seat and looked directly at Hardy. “The thing is, old mate, our Rowly’s not a Communist. If he was, we wouldn’t need to keep an eye on him.”

  “You see, we don’t completely trust you, Senator Hardy,” Edna said sweetly.

  “What’s more, the housekeeper, although one of the proletarian classes, is a bit of an old dragon when Rowly’s not here,” Milton continued gravely. “She scares us.”

  “Why, that’s outrageous!” the Senator declared, affronted.

  “I’m afraid she can be rather set in her ways.” Rowland glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mary Brown wasn’t within earshot.

  “I was referring to the implication that I am not to be trusted,” Hardy snapped. “I’m a Senator, for God’s sake—I will not stand here and be insulted.”

  “Then sit down,” Milton muttered.

  “We don’t mean to offend you, Senator Hardy.” Edna took a seat beside Rowland on the wicker settee. “But you must understand that we simply will not allow Rowly to go on his own. We’ll make a terrible fuss.”

  Hardy turned to Rowland in exasperation. “Sinclair, surely you’re not—”

  “It might seem more natural if I travel with a party,” Rowland said, as he handed the plate of scones to Clyde.

  Hardy eyed them all intently. He walked over to the window and gazed out onto the remains of the firepit in the otherwise immaculate gardens of Woodlands House. He sighed loudly and returned to place his teacup on the table.

  “Desperate times, strange bedfellows,” he said, offering Milton his hand.

  Milton accepted the handshake. “I trust you sleep soundly, Senator Hardy.”

  The dance floor was lively: a rhythmic kaleidoscope of couples moving to the slick tempo of a twenty-piece orchestra. To the blast of brass and bounce of strings, they swung. The night spot was stylish, risqué but not quite scandalous. The affluence of its patrons gave it a de facto respectability that eluded less opulent sly groggeries.

  Elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling roses. The round tables which surrounded the parquet dance floor were draped with crisp white linen. Waiters delivered trays of drinks from one of several bars within the club, to the dancers at pause and to the committed drinkers.

  Edna laughed in Rowland’s arms as the number finished.

  “Shall we have a drink, Rowly? Poor Clyde looks a bit lonely. Perhaps I should dance with him.”

  “I think he might prefer to drink,” Rowland said, as he allowed her to lead him back to their table. Clyde was neither a proficient nor an eager dancer. Indeed, Rowland suspected that Clyde had not invited Rosalina Martinelli to accompany them that night so that he would not feel obliged to dance with her.

  “
Where’s Milt got to?” Edna asked, as Rowland called for drinks.

  “He’s performing,” Clyde muttered tossing his head towards the crowded floor.

  They noticed the poet now, taking far more than his fair share of space with flamboyant moves that invited applause. He danced with a glittering and noticeably intemperate blonde.

  “Who’s that?” Rowland asked.

  “Said her name was Dulcie.” Clyde grinned. “She and Milt seem…acquainted.”

  Rowland watched Dulcie entwine herself about Milton as the music slowed into a sultry foxtrot. “We’ve got a few minutes—he may as well make the most of them.”

  They had all been a little surprised when Sir Charles Kingsford Smith had suggested they meet at The 400 Club. The man was, after all, a national hero—so they had expected to be summoned to some utterly respectable establishment that would admit only Rowland.

  The past days had been consumed by the Old Guard, by suspicion and conspiracy, plans and warnings, and so they had jumped at the opportunity to relax and enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of the exclusive club, arriving well before the appointed time.

  “Sinclair! Blimey…fancy runnin’ into you ’ere.”

  Rowland turned sharply.

  A sallow man approached their table smiling broadly. He was dressed in a dinner suit like all the gentlemen present, but on him it seemed a disguise. His face was angular, shrewd; his eyes twitched constantly around the crowd. Several men followed him.

  Inwardly, Rowland groaned. It was Jeffs. Called The Jew, he was a gangster, a violent ruffian who specialised in sly groggeries and extortion, and who may or may not have been Semitic. He owned and ran Darlinghurst’s 50-50 Club, an establishment which, like The 400, plied sly grog and promised wanton pleasure, but did so without any pretence of refinement or basic hygiene. Rowland had once inherited a half-share in the 50-50 from a beloved but disreputable uncle, and though he had managed to extricate himself from the partnership, Jeffs seemed intent on maintaining some sort of familiarity.

  “Mr. Jeffs,” he said as The Jew extended his hand.