Leonard Payne pulled the pipe from his mouth with his left hand and offered Rowland his right.
“Rowland Sinclair, Mr. Payne,” Rowland said as he shook the man’s hand. “This is Mr. Jones.”
Payne laughed. “Mr. Jones indeed—I’ve known Clyde since he was a little tacker. How’re your folks, Clyde?”
“Haven’t had a chance to call in yet, Leo. We only just got here.” Clyde shook Payne’s hand with a warm familiarity.
“Capital people, the Joneses—salt of the earth,” Payne said as he offered them seats. “I hear your brother’s found work with the forestry.”
“Really… which one?”
“Joe.”
“Well, that’s good news.”
“Now, you didn’t drop in to catch up on the news… what is it I can do for you gentlemen?”
“Actually, it is news that we’re after,” Rowland began.
“Harry Simpson.” Payne interlaced his hands over the generous protrusion of his belly as he nodded sagely.
“Yes—you know him?”
“Came in once or twice for supplies and to hire a couple of extra men. I heard he walked off the job… they do, I guess.”
Rowland ignored the last. “He hired extra men?”
Payne nodded. “Apparently he had to let a couple of fellas go—some of the boys don’t like taking orders from his kind.”
Rowland’s brow arched upwards. “I see. Did he find the extra men he needed?”
“Couple of boys from Batlow signed up, but they didn’t last long. Came back just after Simpson walked off.”
“Who were they, Leo?” Clyde asked.
“Bumper Norris and the boy Henson.”
Clyde nodded. He knew both men.
“What do you know about this chap Moran?” Rowland asked carefully.
“Ned Moran? Not much I’m afraid. Comes from near Talbingo I believe. That’s about it.”
A few more questions gleaned little more, and so they thanked the agent and took their leave.
They walked back to the car—Rowland was quiet, thoughtful.
“Leo seems to think your man walked off, Rowly,” Clyde ventured.
“Perhaps he did,” Rowland replied. “But it’s not like him. Not without a word.”
Clyde nodded. “Fair enough. What now?”
“We find Ed and Milt and we take a drive to Batlow.”
“Batlow?”
“I’d like to talk to these chaps—Norris and Henson. I take it you are acquainted with them?”
“Yes, but…”
“It’s less than an hour out of our way. We can head up to Yarrangobilly through Buddong Falls. I’ve been that way before—the road’s quite good. We’ll stay in Batlow tonight and you can introduce us all to your folks.”
Clyde appeared distinctly alarmed.
Rowland laughed. “Clyde, old man, I think you might be ashamed of us.”
“Of course not—well, maybe Milt—no, it’s just… my mother is very set in her ways.”
Rowland looked at his friend, amused. He had gathered that Clyde’s mother was a formidable matriarch who disapproved of Clyde’s lifestyle most vocally.
“She can’t be as bad as Wil.”
Clyde looked vaguely ill.
“Well, you can’t not call in, since we’re up here. She’ll find out.”
Clyde groaned. “Good Lord, you’re right.”
“Relax, Clyde. I assure you we can appear respectable.”
“Mate, respectable is only the half of it. Mum’s going to object to you for a whole bevy of reasons.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re just not our sort of people.”
“No… I suppose not.”
Clyde slapped his forehead. “God, how am I going to explain Ed?”
“I find it’s best not to explain Ed,” Rowland said, as he slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes. “Don’t worry… we’ll win your mother over.”
“Like we’ve won over Wilfred?”
Rowland stopped. Clyde had a point. “We’ll make it a short visit.”
7
MINES AND METALS
COMPANY NEWS
Gold Mines of Australia, Ltd.
Gold Mines of Australia, Ltd., made a loss of £26,787... The director’s report revealed that the company had abandoned operations at Batlow (N.S.W.) because values were proving irregular.
The West Australian, 1933
The swill had not yet begun when the yellow Mercedes pulled up at the Batlow Hotel. There was still over an hour till six, and so plenty of time for panicked drinking before the bar was formally closed to local patrons. Clyde Watson Jones’ hometown had been founded in the gold rush. The creeks and tributaries of the area had been extensively worked by hopeful miners, but the rich strikes had become a distant memory. Batlow was a rapidly evolving orcharding district now, though the Depression had seen a resurgence in men willing to try their luck at fossicking.
Rowland climbed out and inspected his car. The road to Batlow was by no means the worst on which he’d driven, but it had been rough, gouged by heavy drays. He gave the grille a comforting rub. She’d held up well.
“Oh for goodness’ sake! It’s Clyde Jones!” A plump woman in a shapeless floral dress hurried up from the street, waving.
“Hello, Mrs. Merritt.” Clyde all but hid behind the car.
“Well, haven’t you moved up in the world, Clyde.” Mrs. Merritt eyed the Mercedes and then moved her hawkish gaze to each Clyde’s friends in turn. Rowland and Milton tipped their hats politely but the matron did not wait to be introduced. “Must run. Your mother will be so thrilled to see you.” She bustled off, periodically turning her head to look back at them.
Clyde groaned.
“Who’s that?”
“The local exchange telephonist. The entire district will know I’m here in a matter of minutes.”
They checked into the Batlow Hotel. A proud modern building, its new brick construction contrasted with the surrounding weatherboard cottages and shopfronts. Clyde struck up a conversation with the publican, a Mr. Davis, who, like nearly everybody else they’d encountered, seemed to know him. He rejoined them just as Edna descended the stairs.
“Rightio, Rowly, shall we go find Norris and Henson? Old Davis reckons they’d both be in the billiard hall about now.”
“What about Ed?” Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. The country observed the conventions of gender segregation a little more strictly than Sydney, and billiard halls were not generally places where ladies were welcome. The sculptress would no doubt take the saloon in her stride, but the patrons of the hall could well be disgruntled.
“I’m more worried about Milt,” Clyde replied glancing at the poet’s green velvet jacket and purple cravat. “Walking in with him might get us killed.”
Rowland nodded—he was inclined to agree. Even in Sydney, Milton’s elaborate sense of style could raise eyebrows. Here it would probably raise more.
Milton preened, pushing Clyde aside to access the hall mirror and adjust his cravat just so. “Let us make a memorable entrance then, gentlemen.” He grinned, clearly complimented by the possibility that his attire might offend the locals.
“How about you take Ed to the Refreshment Rooms over the road… we’ll join you as soon as we’re done,” Rowland suggested.
Milton was unmistakably offended, but in the end he relented and agreed to remain behind, though not without an appropriately outraged and indignant speech.
“It’s just this once, Milt,” Rowland said, by way of apology. It did seem rude to hide the poet. “I need to get these chaps to talk to me… We don’t want to make them feel… underdressed.”
Clyde snorted.
Milton held his arm out for Edna, his chin raised imperiously. “Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear!”
“Oscar Wilde.” Rowland smiled. “Flaming appropriate.”
The billiard hall seemed to stop in silence when Rowland and Clyde wa
lked in. The locals scrutinised them, squinting through air that was thick with cigarette smoke in a hall that was, in any case, dimly lit. Finally someone shouted, “Clyde, what the hell are you doing here?” and the general buzz resumed.
Clyde returned the greeting and soon both he and Rowland were armed with drinks. He pointed out Norris and Henson, shooting balls on the far table. Both were tall men, long limbed and lean. They played with intense concentration in shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbow.
“Bumper, Pete—what’s news?” Clyde took Rowland over and introduced him.
Bumper Norris put down his cue. Peter Henson wiped the chalk off his hand and offered it to Rowland.
“Sinclair, you’d be—”
“Yes.”
“Simpson worked for you then?”
“He’s one of our men.”
“You blokes got a minute?” Clyde said. “Rowly needs to know what went on up there.”
Bumper Norris raised a single brow. “You came all the way up here after Simpson? What’s he done?”
Rowland met the man’s eye calmly. “As I said, he’s one of our men. I just want to find him.”
Norris shrugged. “What do you want to know, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Anything you can tell me… about Simpson… where he could be…?”
Norris picked up his cue again. “No idea what happened to Simpson. Didn’t seem a bad bloke for an Abo, though some of the lads thought he was getting a bit above himself.”
“I see.” Rowland’s jaw tensed slightly. “And did they give him any trouble?”
“I take it they had done… but he sorted it. Sacked a couple of blokes—that’s when Pete and I joined the gang.”
“But you left?”
“Didn’t fancy working for that Moran,” Peter Henson muttered. “Moran’s boys didn’t welcome outsiders—they’ve been droving together for a while.”
“Still, it was a job,” Clyde said, frowning. “Don’t tell me you fellas haven’t noticed the bloody Depression.”
Norris and Henson exchanged a glance. “Heard the forestry was looking for men.”
“So you just quit?”
“Didn’t fancy Moran,” Henson repeated, as he lit a cigarette.
“Why?”
Norris shrugged once more. “Dunno really. Tell you what though, Simpson didn’t like him much either.”
“They argued?”
“Not really—you could just see it. Simpson kept his thumb on Moran. But they was like two dogs on ropes, if you know what I mean.”
Rowland nodded.
“Simpson went out by himself one day… didn’t say where he was going… didn’t come back.”
“How long did you and Pete stick around after that?” Clyde asked.
“Four or five days—it became clear Simpson weren’t coming back. Moran decided he was the boss and we didn’t fancy him.”
“Why?” Rowland persisted.
Again Norris seemed evasive. He shook his head and returned to the billiard table. “Just didn’t fancy him.”
Clyde tried. “Come on, Bumper, a bloke doesn’t walk out of a paying job because the boss ain’t pretty. Nobody was asking you to marry him.”
Norris did not look up from the table. “Rack off, Clyde.”
Peter Henson glanced at Rowland and then back to Clyde.
“I might get another round,” Rowland decided. “What are you chaps drinking?”
He left Clyde with them and took as much time as he possibly could purchasing drinks from the small bar. When he returned to the table Clyde tossed him a cue.
“Come on, Rowly, let’s show these blighters how to play.”
The game was quick… because Clyde threw it. Apparently they were just playing to be polite. They left Norris and Henson gloating over the minor victory and walked round to the Refreshment Rooms on Pioneer Street where they found Edna and Milton and a mound of scones.
“Did they tell you anything?” Rowland asked Clyde, as they joined the sculptress and the poet for tea.
“Not a great deal. They think Moran’s involved in something—they’re not sure what. The way Pete tells it, Moran made life bloody difficult for your man Simpson—reckons Simpson got jack of it and walked off.”
Rowland stirred his tea. “Maybe.” He frowned slightly. “Seems I’ll have to look closely at what this Moran fellow is doing. Did they say what exactly he was up to?”
“No.” Clyde propped his elbows on the table. “Those blokes aren’t precious Rowly… and they need the work. Sounds to me like Moran scares them—enough for them to walk off the job rather than stand up to him.”
“You could just sack him,” Milton suggested, as he spooned jam generously onto his scone.
Rowland sipped his tea. “I could, but I want to find Harry first. And if I sack Moran, I’ll have to find someone to bring the cattle back in before the winter.”
Clyde nodded. “Play your cards carefully, mate. The hills are a law unto themselves.”
Rowland checked his watch. “What say I run you home, Clyde? If we leave now you can have dinner with your family. We’ll come and get you on our way out tomorrow.”
Clyde hesitated.
“We could come too if you like,” Edna said, wiping a stray spot of cream which had somehow found its way onto her nose. “I’d like to meet your family, Clyde. I’m sure they’re curious about us.”
Milton laughed. “Of course they are. They have a right to know who you’re consorting with.”
Clyde began to look a little panicked.
“We’ll introduce ourselves tomorrow when we collect him,” Rowland interceded. “It wouldn’t be polite to descend on the Watson Joneses unannounced.”
Milton rolled his eyes.
Clyde stood hastily. “Yeah okay, let’s go Rowly. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
Rowland entered the dining room of the Batlow Hotel, just as Milton and Edna were being shown to a table. He removed his hat and joined them. Clyde’s parents farmed a modest soldier settlement block just out of town. He had dropped Clyde at the gate with the assurance that they would pick him up early the next day. As he pulled away an unreasonable number of children spilled out of the simple cottage to gawk at the departing yellow Mercedes.
The hotel must have been booked out that night for there wasn’t a spare table in the dining room. The establishment was now closed to locals so Rowland presumed the diners, mostly men, were commercial travellers or itinerants of some sort.
Milton duly produced a map and they studied the route they would take the next day.
“I fear the road may get a bit rough for a while about here,” Rowland murmured, pointing, “though we should make Caves House by lunch.”
“Where are we meeting Mr. Moran?” Edna ignored the map and studied the menu. It was a set meal, but there was a choice of sweet—apple crumble or stewed quince.
“Rules Point.” Rowland moved his finger slightly on the map. “It’s just a little way from Caves House. We can pop down after lunch.” He glanced at the sculptress. She looked well but he was conscious that they had cut short her convalescence. “But I can meet Moran on my own, Ed. I gather Rules Point is a rather rustic establishment.”
Edna smiled. “I’m perfectly well, Rowly. Mr. Moran doesn’t sound entirely trustworthy or pleasant, I don’t think you should go alone.”
“He works for me,” Rowland reminded her.
“We’re coming with you anyway. A man as important as you should have an entourage.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“We should really order? What does quince taste like?”
8
BLACK COAT PROFESSIONS
WOULD-BE PRIME MINISTERS
WOULD MAKE BETTER BLACKSMITHS
In his review of the work of the year at the Horsham (V.) High School, the headmaster (Mr. L. R. Brookes) described as folly the notion of thousands of parents that their boys should be trained for the “black-coat professions.”
Mr Brookes said “I would warn the ambitious mother against the inclination to make her pet son a Prime Minister or a High Court judge, when he would make a far more efficient farmer, blacksmith or orchardist. That is why I say – ‘intelligently’ guide the youngsters.”
The Mercury, 1933
The cockerels were still crowing when the motor car approached the long drive of Greenhills, the block Clyde’s parents farmed. A boy casting grain to the chickens, and another who was splitting wood, immediately downed tools and pelted up to the Mercedes in bare feet, jumping onto the running board.
“Nan! Look at us, Nan!” they shouted, waving towards the house. “Bruce get up here before he stops… keep driving Mister, Bruce ain’t had a ride yet.”
Rowland was just about to swing the motor car around the cottage so that Bruce, who had emerged from the henhouse with a basket of eggs, could have his ride, when a small woman ran out of the door beating a pot with a wooden spoon. Clyde came out after her.
Rowland could see her lips moving, but with the roar of the engine, the children yelling excitedly in his ear and the clatter of the spoon against the pot, her words were lost. She didn’t look pleased.
He brought the engine to idle and turned it off.
Clyde yanked the boys from the running board. “Mum’s going to skin the two of you,” he muttered. “Sorry, Rowly.” He opened the door for Edna.
“Wasn’t there another one?” Rowland asked, slightly concerned that he’d accidentally run down a boy in the bedlam of children and chickens.
“Bruce was smart enough to make himself scarce as soon as he saw Mum with her fighting face on.” Clyde looked pointedly at the two boys who stood sheepishly beside him.
The smaller of them shrugged. “I reckon it was worth it… Blimey, it’s a ripper of a motor.”
Rowland smiled as he slid out from behind the steering wheel. “Your little brother’s got taste, Clyde.” He was always pleased to hear the Mercedes given her due.
“Oh these scallywags aren’t my brothers—they’re my sister Mary’s kids—Mum keeps an eye on them when Mary’s working. This here’s Tom, and that’s young Frank.”
Miles Off Course Page 6
