Milton vaulted out of the car with such flourish that the boys looked like they might applaud.
Clyde glanced cautiously over his shoulder. “She’s stopped beating the pot,” he said quietly. “It might be safe to introduce you.”
“Lead on.”
By the time they reached her, Clyde’s mother had relinquished the pot, returned the wooden spoon to the pocket of her pinafore apron and was smoothing the tendrils of greying hair which had escaped the tight knot on her head. She gave her grandsons a look that sent them scampering back to their chores, and regarded Rowland with a straight back and square shoulders.
A young woman had now also emerged from the little house. Her face was a very rounded version of Clyde’s, a smiling nervous presence in her mother’s shadow. Clyde hastily introduced his mother and his sister, Eliza.
“Mr. Sinclair.” Mrs. Watson Jones nodded, glaring at her daughter who had dropped into an awkward half-curtsey. “Our Clyde has spoken of you often. It’s very kind of you to call.” She moved her eyes to Milton and then Edna. Her expression did not soften. “You’d better come in then, I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“I don’t think we’ll have time…” Clyde started.
“Nonsense, Clyde,” Edna was already following his mother into the house. “We have a few minutes, don’t we, Rowly?”
“Er—yes, of course.”
The cottage was very warm. The table had been covered with a starched white tablecloth and set for tea, and the kettle was boiling on the hotplate of a small cast-iron Metters stove. The crockery was simple and a perfect teacake sat in the middle of the table beside a plain vase crammed with roses and lavender.
“Ma’s got out her wedding linen for you,” Clyde whispered. He sighed. “Rowly could I have a word?”
“There’ll be enough time to talk to Rowly later,” Edna said quietly. “Your mother’s gone to so much trouble.”
The room was smaller for the fact that there were now so many assembled within it. The walls inside were essentially unadorned except for a picture of the Madonna and a crucifix. Rowland wondered briefly about the absence of Clyde’s artwork.
Young Frank squeezed into the room with an armload of wood, which he deposited into a makeshift bucket fashioned from a kerosene tin. The adults sat down at the table.
“I’m afraid Clyde’s father is away at the moment,” Mrs. Watson Jones murmured. “It’s a shame… if we’d known you were coming,”—she paused to swat Clyde about the head—“Joe would have liked to meet you.” She brought a large enamel teapot to the table and proceeded to pour.
“This trip was somewhat spur of the moment, Mrs. Watson Jones,” Rowland offered in Clyde’s defence, as Milton poorly restrained a smile.
Mrs. Watson Jones sniffed as she cut cake. “Still, it is good of you to come, Mr. Sinclair. I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know that at least one of my boys has regular work.”
Rowland’s brow arched slightly. Clyde worked hard on his painting and got the occasional commission, but it was a stretch to call it regular work.
Clyde met his eye uneasily.
“I’ve always told my boys to find a good employer and to work hard and be loyal. The world hasn’t changed so much that a good, loyal worker isn’t valued. Do I speak the truth, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Er… indeed.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, Clyde knows what a good employer he’s found in you, and you’ll not find him wanting in diligence, or good character.” Mrs. Watson Jones refilled Rowland’s teacup.
“Mum…” Clyde protested desperately.
Rowland kept his face unreadable. Apparently Clyde worked for him.
Milton broke the silence. “Clyde’s always been an impeccable character.”
Eliza giggled, stifled it quickly and glanced anxiously at her mother.
Mrs. Watson Jones regarded Milton and Edna sharply. “Do you both work for Mr. Sinclair, too?”
Edna smiled winningly. “Oh, it seems everybody works for Rowly.”
Mrs. Watson Jones frowned, clearly unamused by the response.
“I assure you, Mrs. Watson Jones, Clyde is a most valuable… employee. I couldn’t… do… without him.” Rowland wondered what exactly it was that Clyde was supposed to do for him.
“I must say we’d never heard of a gentleman employing a man just for such a thing.”
Milton turned away to cough.
Rowland looked to Clyde for help.
“Some would call it a sinful extravagance,”—Mrs. Watson Jones was warming to her subject—“to have a man on call for such a thing.”
Clyde spoke up. “I told you, Mum, Mr. Sinclair is very particular about his motor and not every garage knows what to do with a car like his.”
Rowland relaxed—a mechanic. Clyde was masquerading as his personal mechanic for some reason. He should probably help. “I’ve never met anyone who knows as much about motor cars as your son, Mrs. Watson Jones.”
Their hostess smiled faintly. “Our Clyde was always tinkering when he was a boy, took my clock apart I don’t know how many times. We never expected he’d make it his living, he was so keen to go into the Church…” She sighed heavily and Clyde rolled his eyes. Mrs. Watson Jones pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid Clyde may have become too fond of his creature comforts now.” She looked accusingly at Rowland.
The awkwardness was broken by the entry of a young man, who by features and stance was obviously a Jones.
“Jim!” Clyde exclaimed with ‘thank God’ in his voice.
The man put down the swag he’d been carrying over his shoulder.
“Clyde, I was hoping you’d be here. Oh...” Jim took in the crowd around the table. “Mornin’.”
Clyde introduced his brother.
“Well, Mr. Sinclair, most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Jim shook Rowland’s hand enthusiastically. “That’s a mighty fine motor car you have out there. We don’t often see Jerry cars out here. She’d put a few noses out of joint I expect.”
“Every now and then,” Rowland admitted.
“Well, she’s a fine machine regardless. You mind if I have a gander under the hood?”
“Not at all.”
“Come out and have a look now, Jimbo. We should make tracks anyway, Row… Mr. Sinclair,” Clyde said, seizing the opportunity to make a graceful exit.
Rowland glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you’re right.” He stood. “Mrs. Watson Jones, thank you for your hospitality—it’s been a long overdue pleasure to meet you. I feel privileged to count your son among my… staff.”
There was a clatter of chairs as they all rose and thanked their hostess. Clyde embraced his mother who spouted last minute advice over his broad shoulder.
“You work hard, keep your hands and mind clean. The good Lord hears even wicked thoughts, don’t be getting ideas above your station… and you remember that Sundays are for God.”
“Oh, Clyde gives him Mondays and the occasional Thursday as well.” Milton chuckled.
Eliza inhaled sharply and glanced apprehensively at her brother.
Clyde ignored the poet and put a reassuring arm about his mother. “Don’t worry, Mum, I drop into St. Augustine’s regularly.”
Rowland smiled. Clyde had stepped out with Augustine Mitchell the previous year… though she was hardly a saint. Still, he had no intention of blowing his friend’s cover, they all had their convenient subterfuges.
They dribbled out of the humble, shingle-roofed cottage and Clyde opened the Mercedes’ bonnet. The shoeless boys once again left their chores to join Jim in gaping and exclaiming at the engine in a manner that quite endeared them to Rowland. He didn’t hurry them.
Mrs. Watson Jones was directing proceedings as Milton and Edna argued over how best to secure a crate of apples from the Joneses’ orchard to the running board.
“Rowly, come here a minute.” Clyde beckoned Rowland quietly whilst his mother was preoccupied. “Jim’s heard something about your
Mr. Moran.”
Rowland looked expectantly at Clyde’s brother. “You know Moran?”
Jim shook his head. “Nah—never met him… only know what I heard. Peter Henson told me Clyde had been asking about Moran so I figured I’d let him know.”
“What did you hear?”
“Moran’s been meeting with Patrick O’Shea.”
“Who’s he?”
“He holds the snow lease next to yours, Mr. Sinclair. Has property around Tumbarumba.”
“Do you know why he’s meeting with Moran?”
“Not a clue… but men like Patrick O’Shea don’t often sit down with their own workers—let alone someone else’s.”
Rowland bit his lip thoughtfully. Moran was looking more and more dubious and yet there was no tangible accusation with which to confront the man. “Thanks, Jim. Would you keep your ear to the ground? If you hear anything, just send word up to Caves House—I’ll reimburse the telegram.”
Jim grinned. “Sure, Mr. Sinclair, I’ll let ya know.”
A few further farewells, another box of apples and a jar of plum jam later, they pulled away from the cottage and turned the pointed grill of the Mercedes towards the High Country.
9
THERMAL SPRINGS
YARRANGOBILLY CAVES, Friday
The Minister added that Yarrangobilly was situated in a valley surrounded by precipitous limestone cliffs and beautiful timbered country with several limestone caves open for public inspection. The beauty of the formations was unsurpassed elsewhere in the Commonwealth. The thermal spring discharged 30,000 gallons of crystal clear warm water each hour. At a temperature of 82 degrees the water flowed into a bathing pool which was constructed for public use.
The Sydney Morning Herald, 1927
Caves House sprawled into the side of the mountain, a grand vestige of Federation civility against the rugged country that loomed around it. The limestone caves that attracted holidaymakers and honeymooners to the area were just a short stroll away, as were a myriad of mountain streams which offered the gentlemanly sport of fly-fishing to the well-to-do occupants of the guesthouse.
Rowland noticed the Hudson truck, which had brought their extra baggage from Tumut, parked outside. He could see his own monogrammed trunk still strapped to the truck’s tray and wondered why their belongings hadn’t been taken in and unpacked. It was just a fleeting thought. It would all be taken care of as soon as they checked in. He glanced at his watch: 11 o’clock. They’d have time to get settled and take a leisurely lunch before making the short trip back up the main road to meet Moran at Rules Point.
The polished foyer of Caves House provided a welcome respite from the bracing chill outside. A generous open fire warmed the wood-panelled reception. Rowland and Clyde went to the counter whilst Milton and Edna decided, despite the cold, to take a turn about the gardens.
Rowland introduced himself to the manager. “I believe we have a reservation.”
The manager was a diminutive man, and completely bald. The only hair on his head sat under his nose in a small square moustache. He fingered his collar nervously. “I am afraid, Mr. Sinclair, sir, that we are… regrettably, completely booked out. We have tried to reach you…”
Rowland stared at the man blankly. “Do you mean to say you haven’t any rooms?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We had expected one of our guests to leave today but he’s decided to stay on, with his entourage.”
“Well then,” Rowland said, “it is this other guest and his entourage, who have overstayed their reservations and are consequently without rooms.”
“I’m afraid that the senator is a regular patron, sir, and is accustomed to a certain indulgence.”
“Good Lord, man, isn’t there something you can do?”
“I’ve taken the liberty, sir, of making a reservation for you at the Rules Point Guesthouse. The proprietress, Mrs. Harris, advised that she had two rooms available.”
“Rules Point!”
“I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, it’s a perfectly sanitary establishment, even if it doesn’t have the refinements that Caves House is able to offer its guests. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable there until we are able to accommodate you.”
“Splendid… sanitary.” Rowland glared at the hapless manager until an eager cry diverted his attention.
“Rowly? It can’t be… Can it be Rowly Sinclair?”
Rowland and Clyde turned simultaneously.
A gentleman stood behind them. He wore a riding jacket and breeches with impeccably polished black boots—the ensemble was completed with a top hat and a silver-handled riding crop, wedged under his armpit. His complexion was extraordinarily pale, though his face was flushed red.
For a moment Rowland frowned and then, finally, he responded. “Good Lord, Humphrey? Humphrey Abercrombie! What the blazes are you doing here?”
Abercrombie’s face broke joyously, and he hastily removed his glove to offer Rowland his hand. “I say, old man, what a delight, what an unexpected pleasure! You’re the last chap I expected to see in this godforsaken place.”
Rowland shook Abercrombie’s hand, while the man effused, rushing to fully express his happiness at their reacquaintance.
Then Rowland remembered the formalities. “May I introduce my good friend, Mr. Clyde Watson Jones. Clyde, Mr. Humphrey Abercrombie.”
“It’s actually the Honourable Humphrey Abercrombie, should you wish to correspond with me,” the gentleman said, smiling diffidently.
Rowland blinked. “Humphrey and I were at school together.”
“Kings?” Clyde asked, offering Abercrombie his hand.
“Heavens no.” Abercrombie seemed aghast at the idea. “Rowly and I were chums at Pembroke House. Somewhat a family tradition, fine education of course.”
Clyde nodded. “Of course.”
“What brings you here, Humphrey?” Rowland asked.
“Mama thought it would be good for my constitution to get away from the city for a spot of fishing. We’d not long arrived in Sydney and with one thing and another…” Abercrombie trailed off. “I say, Rowly, are you staying here too? I’ve just checked in myself, what a splendid coincidence.” The Englishman’s smile broadened further and he nodded excitedly.
“I’m afraid not, Humphrey. It appears there are no rooms at the inn… this inn anyway.”
Abercrombie gasped. “Why that’s outrageous! I’ll have a word Rowly. Of all the colonial cheek!”
Rowland glanced uneasily at Clyde as Abercrombie prepared to berate the management. “Thank you, Humphrey, but I think we’re simply out of luck—can’t be helped.”
“But this is just preposterous. I won’t have my old chum treated in so off-hand a manner.”
The manager—present for the entire exchange—was clearly affronted. “I assure you, Mr. Sinclair, if there was anything I could do to—”
Rowland nodded. “I understand, Mr… Wilson,” he said, reading the name on the brass plate on the counter. “I’m sure Rules Point will be more than adequate. Thank you for arranging it.”
“Royal’s Point? Well that sounds rather super. Perhaps I’ll check out and join you…” Abercrombie stuttered.
“Rules Point,” Rowland corrected. “I think you’ll find Caves House is a great deal better appointed. There’s no need for you to give up your rooms.”
Abercrombie seemed quite put out. “I say, Rowly, this cock-up is damned inconvenient. It would have been jolly to catch up and reminisce about the old days at Pembroke.” The Englishman nodded emphatically as he spoke of the school.
Rowland shifted uncomfortably. This was awkward.
“You know, old man, I have an entire suite to myself. I’m sure you could have the second bedroom…”
“Thank you, Humphrey, but I think I’d better stay with my party for now.”
Abercrombie turned on the unfortunate manager. “I’ll have you know this is exceedingly unsatisfactory—just appalling! I shall be speaking to—”
; “Rules Point is just a few miles up the way,” Rowland said hastily. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunity to catch up. In fact why don’t you join us for luncheon, Humphrey. I’m sure Mr. Wilson will be able to accommodate us in the dining room at least.”
“Of course, Mr. Sinclair,” Wilson said gratefully. “We are terribly sorry about this regrettable mix-up, sir, and I’m sure Caves House will have rooms for you in just a few days.”
“So what do you say, Humphrey? Will you join us for lunch?”
“Oh I say, may I?” Abercrombie’s voice lifted with his face.
“Certainly, old man.” Rowland tried to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.
“Capital! That’s just splendid Rowly—we’ll have a jolly time… it’ll be just like the old days back at Pembroke!” He beamed enthusiastically. “The shenanigans we got up to…”
Rowland’s face was controlled. He returned to the manager. “Mr. Wilson, would you be so kind as to arrange for our trunks to be taken up to Rules Point, whilst we are at lunch.”
“Certainly, sir, and shall I arrange for your motor to be refuelled?”
“Yes, I suppose you’d better.”
“I say.” Abercrombie looked down at himself. “I’d better change if we’re sitting down for lunch. I’ll just be a few minutes… By George, it is quite marvellous to see you again…”
And so they left Wilson and Abercrombie, and strolled towards the dining room. Milton and Edna had apparently determined that it was too cold to appreciate the gardens and were already seated. Clyde called for drinks while Rowland explained both the change of accommodation and the imminent arrival of the Honourable Humphrey Abercrombie.
“He was certainly happy to see you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “Remarkably happy…”
Rowland laughed. “I suppose I should be offended that you find that so extraordinary, but Humphrey’s always been a bit keen.”
“He seems eager to relive your school days.”
Rowland frowned. “I can’t, for the life of me, see why—he had a terrible time of it.”
Miles Off Course Page 7
