Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland smiled. Wilfred was besotted with his sons—he was unlikely to have refused Ernest anyway. “Hello, Wil.”

  Wilfred looked over at Clyde and Milton who had just emerged from the car. “I didn’t realise you were bringing company… Good day, Mr. Jones, Mr. Isaacs… Oh, Miss Higgins as well.” Wilfred greeted his brother’s friends politely if a little coolly. He pulled Rowland aside as the others were ushered into the house and Ernest was sent back to bed. “Blast it, Rowly! I’m sending you up to find Harry and sort things out, not to take your freeloading friends on some flaming holiday in the mountains.”

  Rowland bristled. “They thought I could use a hand. Damned decent of them actually.”

  “For God’s sake, man, can’t you do anything without your troupe of unemployed hangers-on!”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business with whom I associate, Wil. I said I’d find Harry and I will. You can just…”

  They were interrupted at that point by the gentle, elegant young woman who was Wilfred’s wife. A couple of years younger than Rowland, Kate Sinclair wore the mantle of mistress of Oaklea a little nervously. She was very fond of her somewhat disreputable brother-in-law, and she adored her thoroughly respectable husband. She had become quite accustomed to their fiery relationship.

  “Hello Rowly,” she said, allowing him to kiss her cheek. “You boys aren’t quarrelling already, are you?”

  Wilfred glared at his brother. “No, of course not.”

  “You look lovely, Kate.” Rowland noticed how glamorously she was dressed—best pearls and mink stole.

  “Why thank you, Rowly,” Kate said, glancing briefly behind her.

  Rowland’s eyes followed. A number of cars, black limousines, were parked on the far side of the circuit. “Oh, you have guests.”

  Kate smiled. “It’s just a little dinner party—they’ve just arrived.”

  “I say, I am sorry Kate. I didn’t realise. You get back to your party—we’ll grab something in the kitchen and make ourselves scarce.”

  “Don’t be silly, Rowly… you’re not children,” Kate replied before Wilfred could accept Rowland’s offer. “You have time to wash up and join us for dinner. Wil was discussing business with the gentlemen anyway, so we won’t be sitting down for at least an hour.”

  “Katie… that might not be—” Wilfred started.

  “Nonsense, darling. Rowly and his friends are only here for one night—they can at least have dinner with us.” Kate put a tender, persuasive hand on her husband’s arm. “Everyone’s been admiring my portrait—I’m sure they’ll be delighted to meet the artist.”

  “I really think it would be better if Rowly and his friends just said goodnight… I’m sure they’re rather tired. You can catch up with them all tomorrow, Katie.”

  “But everybody’s already heard them drive up,” Kate persisted. “Rowly’s motor car isn’t exactly quiet. If he doesn’t join us for dinner now they’re bound to think it terribly odd.”

  Rowland met Wilfred’s eye. Well, this was awkward.

  Wilfred sighed, exasperated. “Just hurry up and get changed,” he snapped.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Kendall to set four extra places,” Kate added warmly.

  They were taken to rooms by an upstairs maid while Wilfred and Kate returned to their guests. Rowland was directed to the room he’d occupied as a child. It was fortunate that they had come directly from Medlow Bath—they might not have thought to pack dinner suits otherwise. As it was, they had the more formal attire they’d worn to the regular concerts held in the Hydro Majestic’s Casino Room.

  Nevertheless, it occurred to Rowland as he showered and dressed that they would need clothes more suitable for the mountains. He’d have to at least pick up some overcoats in town before they set off. The last time he’d been to the High Country it was to ski—he remembered the weather in the mountains could be unpredictable and bloody cold even at this time of year. Dinner suits would probably not be adequate.

  He had a few minutes to talk to Clyde and Milton on the landing while they waited for Edna.

  “So who are we getting gussied up for?” Clyde asked, as he pulled at his bow tie.

  “No idea, I’m afraid,” Rowland replied. “But they’re quite likely to be easily offended.” He looked pointedly at Milton who was the most likely of them to give offence.

  Milton grinned good-naturedly. “I get your meaning, Rowly old boy. I’ll limit my conversation to the weather and the cricket… forgive me if I cannot speak definitively on these mighty things.”

  “Keats,” Rowland smiled. “No need to speak definitively… just try not to start a fight—don’t mention politics.”

  Edna emerged finally, struggling to secure a locket around her neck. The fact that she was wearing gloves was making the clasp difficult to manage. Milton took the jewel from her and closed the clasp in place.

  “Thank you,” she said brightly. “Shall we go down? I’m frightfully hungry.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign,” Rowland said as he offered her his arm. It may have been the gown, but she looked a little more like her old self.

  Kate’s dinner guests were all still in the drawing room with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Wilfred’s business had obviously been concluded, as the gentlemen had joined the ladies.

  They paused at the doorway of the drawing room, taking in the impeccable society with whom they were about to dine. Kate sat upon the couch in conversation with two sophisticatedly coiffed matrons of about fifty. The first was sombrely but stylishly dressed in black, a fur shrug draped across her shoulders though it was not a cold evening. Despite being seated, she held her walking stick upright, clutching the pistol grip handle with both hands. Her face was tragic but controlled—a stoic mask. The second lady wore a pale pink gown, in a style unusual for someone her age. In the armchair was a younger woman, small, attractive and very chic. A tendril of smoke twisted up from the end of the slim bakelite cigarette-holder in her hand.

  Wilfred stood with the men at the sideboard, recharging glasses.

  Rowland heard Clyde laugh softly behind him. “Of course—who else would it be?” Then, “Just keep your mouth shut, Milt.”

  Rowland, too, recognised the younger man, handsome and brash in stance and manner. He had met Senator Charles Hardy Junior once before—at a rally in the main street of Yass. Wilfred had introduced them just before the anti-Communist mob incited by the senator had abducted Milton with the intent of tarring and feathering the poet. Rowland and Clyde had gone to their friend’s aid and things had quickly become ugly. The incident might have ended very badly had Wilfred Sinclair not intervened to rescue his brother from the vigilantes that Hardy had stirred to action. And so now they were going to share dinner.

  “Rowly, there you are.” Wilfred motioned them in as he began to make introductions.

  Apparently Senator Hardy had no knowledge of the actions of the outraged pack he had inspired. He was not in any way disconcerted by the presence of Milton Isaacs, and recognised neither his name nor his face. He greeted them all congenially.

  Milton also performed admirably, giving no hint that he and the senator may ever have been at odds. Once, the poet might have been given away by the word “red” which right-wing extremists had branded on his forehead with silver nitrate. But the effects of the developing chemical had now faded enough to be almost invisible, and Milton had in any case taken to wearing a long fringe which hid what remained of the word.

  “Well, well, the infamous Rowland Sinclair,” Hardy said as he shook Rowland’s hand.

  Rowland’s left eyebrow rose slightly as he wondered to exactly which particular infamy the senator alluded. There’d been a couple of awkward situations that had found their way into the headlines. He decided against enquiring.

  “I’m afraid Kate’s been singing your artistic praises,” Wilfred said, motioning towards the painting which hung over the fireplace; a dramatic but touching work, in oil: Kate with Ernest asleep in h
er arms. Rowland had painted it over a year ago now.

  Rowland’s eyes met Hardy’s. Clearly the senator had not been thinking of art. But graciously, Hardy accepted the opportunity to keep the conversation free of controversy and needless embarrassment. “Indeed, I have no doubt that Alice will not rest until she too is immortalised in paint.”

  Wilfred then introduced an elderly gentleman: Sir Earle Christmas Grafton Page. Rowland recognised him, though they had not met before. For most of the twenties, Earle Page had held the second highest office in the coalition government of the nation. That government had been defeated in 1929 and though the conservatives had been returned to power in ’32, Lyons and his United Australia Party now held office in their own right. The support of the Country Party led by Page was no longer necessary and the direct influence of Page himself had been diminished.

  The statesman had, however, featured in the papers earlier that year. The Pages had lost their eldest son to a lightning strike in January, and had retreated from public life. Indeed, Rowland was very surprised to see them at Oaklea.

  Page greeted him sternly, as if he was reprimanding him rather than making his acquaintance.

  “How do you do, Mr. Sinclair? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He looked closely at Rowland, assessing him. “You weren’t at Newington, were you?”

  “No, sir—Kings initially, and then abroad.”

  “I see.” Page, a surgeon, studied him as if he were some kind of perplexing symptom. Rowland stood his ground, but he was uncomfortable. “I’ve known your brother for a number of years—upstanding man—but I must say he’s not spoken of you a great deal.”

  Rowland’s lips twitched upwards. No doubt Wilfred felt the less said the better.

  “And what is it that you do, Sinclair?”

  “I paint.”

  “Rowly’s with Dangar, Gedye and Company.” Wilfred glared at Rowland.

  “Oh yes… I forgot… the Dangars Board.”

  “Of course. Dangars. A fine establishment.”

  Wilfred briefly introduced Milton and Clyde as Rowland’s colleagues and quickly moved their conversation to a discussion of the latest Lister diesel generator which was currently being imported by Dangars. It sounded too much like a board meeting to maintain Rowland’s interest. He glanced towards Charles Hardy, who had escorted Edna over to meet the ladies. Judging by the refined laughter, the senator was making charming and witty introductions.

  Wilfred nudged his brother’s arm, directing his attention back as he introduced, or rather, reintroduced, a third man. Rowland had met Dr. Frederick Watson before. His property, Gungaleen, was between Yass and Canberra, which in loose terms, made them neighbours. If Rowland’s recollection was correct, the good doctor was a writer of sorts, with a talent for ponderous referential texts.

  “Dr. Watson, how do you do, sir?”

  “Rowland,” Watson returned, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “It’s good to see you back at Oaklea. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure myself what with one thing and another.”

  “Freddy’s just published a volume on constitutional reform,” Wilfred said. “A very comprehensive work.”

  “I think you’ll find the full title is Constitutional Reform as the Basis for the Economic Reconstruction of Australia.” Watson rocked back on his heels beaming eagerly.

  Rowland shifted uncomfortably.

  Watson continued. “I’ll have a copy sent over for you—a young man with your prospects should understand the issues… of course, I’m happy to discuss it with you at any time.”

  Commendably, Rowland’s reaction was polite, though slightly less than enthusiastic.

  “Capital idea,” Wilfred approved. “Rowly has some business to see to, but I’m sure he’ll be very keen to call on you at Gungaleen as soon as he’s back—won’t you, old boy?”

  “Indeed,” Rowland replied a little tensely.

  “Come on, Rowly, we’d best get you a drink.” Wilfred guided his brother away from the doctor. “The Watson girls have grown into very handsome young ladies,” he said quietly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get reacquainted.”

  “Sod off, Wil.”

  Wilfred smiled faintly as he poured a whisky and handed the glass to Rowland.

  Rowland glared at him. Wilfred knew full well that he detested whisky.

  “Just try it, Rowly,” Wilfred insisted. “It’s jolly time you started to drink like a man.”

  “Well said, Wilfred.” Earle Page was back.

  Rowland left the whisky on the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry, ignoring them both. Wilfred had always considered his refusal to drink the malted liquor as a character flaw.

  Page shook his head. “I say, we didn’t see many sherry drinkers at the front, did we, Wilfred? Of course I don’t know what old Fritz was drinking. It might well have been sherry.” He looked Rowland up and down. “But I don’t suppose you saw service did you, my boy?”

  Wilfred started to look a little uneasy. “We didn’t enlist children, Earle.”

  “Nonsense… I can’t tell you the number of boys I patched up—some no more than fifteen.”

  Rowland glowered but he held his tongue. He had not been ten when the war started, but somehow he was marked by his lack of military service all the same. There was nothing he could politely do, but allow Page to rub his nose in it.

  Page continued as if Rowland was not there. “You know, Wilfred, that fellow Menzies has been getting in Joe Lyons’ ear—it seems he fancies his chances in the federal sphere.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Wilfred was non-committal.

  “I can’t imagine he’ll get far. It seems he didn’t enlist either.”

  Now Wilfred looked distinctly irritated.

  Rowland maintained a stony silence. He had no idea why this Menzies chap had not enlisted but he deeply resented Page’s implication.

  Kate joined her husband, suddenly. Perhaps she sensed the tension in that corner of the room. “Wil, you must stop monopolising Rowly. The ladies wish to meet your mysterious brother.”

  5

  RIVERINA MOVEMENT

  Ridding Land of Communism

  ALBURY (N.S.W.), Tuesday

  Addressing a large meeting at Walla Walla, Mr. Charles Hardy Jun., leader of the Riverina Movement, said Fascism stood for individuality, and though he had been called a Fascist, he would prefer that title to one of Communism, which stood for disintegration and not rehabilitation. The question today was not one of getting rid of the Premier, but of ridding the land of Communism. There was too much preaching of class consciousness where the worker was supposed to be under the heel of the capitalist.

  The Argus, 1932

  The seating plan at the table of Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair had been somewhat disrupted by the addition of so many extra guests, and the fact that the gentlemen now outnumbered the ladies. It did cause the hostess a little consternation, but it could not be helped. Rowland found himself seated between Ethel Page and Charles Hardy.

  It was an interesting gathering. The senator was charismatic and quick with wit and compliments, which he showered upon all the ladies present, though Edna seemed to receive the lion’s share. Rowland watched Alice Hardy glance disdainfully at her husband on more than one occasion, but she seemed otherwise accustomed to the liberality of his attentions.

  On the other side of the table, Watson referred repeatedly to his various publications bringing them into the conversation in a manner which was indirect and often quite inventive. It appeared there was no topic to which The History of the Sydney Hospital, The Beginnings of Government in Australia or some other of his weighty manuscripts, did not relate in some way worth a mention. For a while, Clyde, who was seated beside the literary surgeon, tried valiantly to steer the conversations away from Watson’s tedious publications, but to no avail.

  Mrs. Page regaled Kate with the benefits of securing a French governess; it seemed Kate was hesitant about relinquishing
young Ernest to the care of a boarding school.

  “He’s just so small,” she said, clearly reluctant.

  “The other boys will be too,” Wilfred said firmly. The Sinclair men had always gone away to school before they were seven.

  Earle Page was expounding the details of the great hydroelectric schemes of North America, about which it seemed he had considerable and detailed knowledge.

  Rowland noted with interest that Hardy, Watson and Page seemed to have little time for each other. Indeed, it was Wilfred who appeared to be keeping any exchange between them amiable. It was intriguing. Rowland wondered what business could have brought the three men to Oaklea. He was aware that, despite having never sought office, his brother was politically powerful. Perhaps it was Wilfred’s political enemies who had accosted him at the Hydro Majestic.

  In time, all the courses were complete, and the ladies retired to the drawing room while the gentlemen remained to smoke and drink brandy. Watson and Page produced pipes. Although Clyde usually rolled his own, on this occasion he followed the lead of his host and partook from the mahogany box of fine cigarettes which was placed on the table. Neither Milton nor Rowland smoked. Senator Hardy pulled a pipe from his jacket but he did not fill nor light it, seemingly content to simply chew the mouthpiece.

  “Mustard gas… during the war,” he confided when he noticed Rowland’s glance. “Wrecked my lungs.” Hardy sucked on the pipe and winked. “Still… don’t like to be unsociable.”

  “Tell me Charles,” Wilfred asked, as he lit a cigarette. “What does Campbell hope to achieve with this tour he’s undertaking?”

  Rowland looked up. Colonel Eric Campbell was the commander of the New Guard, a citizen’s army which had at one time threatened a revolution in New South Wales. Somehow Rowland had found himself acting as a spy within the New Guard’s ranks, a sequence of events which had ended badly and seen him exiled abroad for most of the previous year. Indeed, in some quarters it was claimed that Rowland Sinclair had attempted to assassinate Eric Campbell.