Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Then he simply rubbed some of his remedy over the bite, got an onlooker to slightly lance each puncture, tied a handkerchief for a few minutes round the wound, and squeezed it a few times, then released the ligature again; again applied his remedy and went off apparently all right, and was knocking about town for the remainder of the evening.

  Queanbeyan Age, 1920

  The bar fell into a confused hush as Milton stared at the poised serpent.

  “Don’t move,” Clyde warned.

  There was a click as someone cocked a shotgun from atop the bar.

  “For God’s sake…” Milton started.

  “Don’t shoot! She’s one of mine.” A man stepped towards Milton. He was tall, his limbs long. A smart brown suit was tailored to his lean frame. The waistcoat was hung with a number of gleaming medallions, which jangled when he moved. His beard was grey and untamed, and seemed to have accumulated all manner of twigs and leaves. He held up a hand for quiet. “Just relax, son,” he said to Milton.

  Milton didn’t look exactly relaxed, but he didn’t move.

  The man squatted, sweeping his hand slowly from side to side. The snake’s head followed, its glittering eyes caught by the movement. The bar remained hushed, expectant, mesmerized.

  Milton cursed and rolled as the old man sprang and snatched the snake by the tail, holding it at arm’s length. The reptile writhed uselessly, harmless now.

  “Good on yer, Aug!” The cattlemen cheered as the man coiled the snake into a tackle basket and promptly closed the lid.

  Rowland pulled Milton up. “Are you all right?”

  Milton straightened his cravat before he answered. “No harm done. Good thing the old blighter knows how to catch a flaming python.” He walked towards the old man, who was still fastening the buckles on the basket, with his right hand extended.

  “Thank you, good sir. You have both talent and timing. Who may I say is my saviour?”

  The man grinned broadly, revealing blackened gums set with crooked teeth.

  “Professor August Eichorn,” he said, shaking the poet’s hand. “Don’t you pay Gladys no mind. She’s curious is all.”

  “Gladys?”

  Eichorn patted his basket. “Highly strung, the brownies… beautiful, but they can be temperamental.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Milton introduced his friends.

  “I take it Gladys is your… pet?” Rowland ventured.

  Eichorn laughed. “Struth! Blimey, don’t be daft, son. She’s a brown snake not a bloody cat!”

  “Yes, of course.” Rowland stared dubiously at the tackle basket which Eichorn hung on his belt.

  “Gladys here’s a working girl, star of the show really.”

  “The show?”

  “Eichorn’s Deadly Dancing Snakes.”

  “They dance?”

  Eichorn grinned again. “In a manner of speaking… gotta watch more than your toes, of course.”

  “You been bitten often?” Clyde asked.

  “I’ve been bitten plenty, it’s a real crowd pleaser.” Eichorn reached inside his jacket. “Of course I’ve had this.” He held up a bottle. “Eichorn’s Snakebite and Blood Poisoning Cure—excellent for bites and stings of all kinds; bruises, abrasions, bumps and scratches; cures irritations, sores, burns and ulcers; perfect for the treatment of strains, sprains, breaks and aches. Been using it every day of my life.”

  “You drink it?”

  “No son, you apply it topically.”

  “Well then, I guess I should buy you a drink, Professor Eichorn.” Milton took the bottle for a closer inspection.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a whisky,” Eichorn said quickly.

  “Allow me,” Rowland said, knowing the usual state of Milton’s finances.

  “I’ll have a Scotch in that case,” said Milton. “We couldn’t let the professor drink alone now, could we?”

  Rowland laughed. “No, we couldn’t do that.”

  By the time Rowland returned with a bottle of whisky, Milton had acquired several bottles of Eichorn’s miracle elixir. “These might come in handy if we’re going bush,” he claimed, as he held up the bottles.

  Eichorn looked Rowland up and down, noting the superior cut of his suit. The snake handler’s eyes moved to Milton—velvet jacket, crimson cravat and hair which hung well below his ears. “You boys don’t look like cow chasers…” He glanced at Clyde. “Well you could be, but you two…”

  “We’re just up here looking for a bloke,” Clyde said smiling.

  “Who?”

  “Chap by the name of Simpson. He works for Rowly.”

  “Simpson… hey, he wouldn’t be a blackfella would he? Big bloke…”

  Rowland sharpened. “Yes, that could be Harry. Do you know him?”

  Eichorn nodded enthusiastically. “Ran into him in Corryong a couple of days ago, came to a couple of shows.”

  Rowland’s eyes narrowed. “Corryong? Did you talk to him?”

  “Briefly, said he was going to follow the river, look for work. Those blackfellas love their rivers.”

  “And when exactly was this?”

  “Three… no, four days ago.”

  Rowland shook his head slowly but he said nothing. They talked with Eichorn for a while longer and then moved into other conversations. The cattlemen, however, were guarded and they learned nothing more about Moran or Simpson.

  “Well, what do you think, Rowly?” Clyde asked, rolling a cigarette. They had retreated to the verandah which was only slightly less crowded than the bar. It was cold but the air was clearer. Milton had stayed inside, sharing Wordsworth with the High Country once again.

  “I don’t know.” Rowland leaned against the rail. “Eichorn seems to be the only one willing to talk to us, but I don’t know.”

  “You think Simpson might just have walked like Moran says?”

  “Not unless there’s something else going on with him.” He shook his head again. “I can’t see it.”

  Clyde put the cigarette between his lips and struck a match. He didn’t press Rowland. For some reason the Sinclairs had an unusual faith in this particular worker. Who knew? Rowland Sinclair was his best friend, but Clyde did not pretend to understand the upper classes. They were, at best, odd.

  “We might have more luck tomorrow, at this Sports Day,” he said finally. “I take it you’re still intent on riding out with Moran?”

  “Yes.”

  Clyde placed his elbows on the rail. “Okay then. Perhaps you’d better bring that gun your brother gave you.”

  Rowland looked at him askance. “We’re not going into the Wild West, Clyde.’

  “Don’t you believe it, Rowly, don’t you believe it.”

  Edna checked over her shoulder before she knocked quietly on the door. It was very late. From the sounds of it, the bar was still lively, but the rest of the house was quiet. She had still been reading when she heard Milton’s voice in the hall. She’d waited a while in case they’d roused anyone else before she’d left her room for their door. Having lived with these men for years now, she was less circumspect about the propriety of visiting their quarters than she might otherwise have been.

  She put her finger to her lips when Rowland opened the door and slipped in. He’d removed his jacket and his tie was draped loose around his neck, but he was otherwise still dressed, as were Milton and Clyde. Not that it would have concerned Edna, but she was aware that they were not at Woodlands House, and she had no wish to upset Mrs. Harris.

  “Ed,” Rowland whispered, surprised she was still up. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, taking the only chair in the room.

  “Miss Brent’s novel?” Rowland glanced at the manuscript in her hands.

  Edna sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

  Milton took the sheaf of papers from her, reading the title aloud. “My Brilliant Monkey... less than inspiring. What’s it like?”

  Edna grimaced. “Oh Milt, it’s terrible. Simply awful. That’s w
hy I’m here really.” She regarded them all with her most becoming and appealing smile. “I was hoping you’d read it.”

  “Don’t say anything, Rowly,” Clyde said quickly. Then to Edna, “No.”

  Edna gazed straight at Rowland. “Please.”

  “Not a word, Rowly,” Milton pushed in front of him. “Why would you want us to read it, Ed?”

  “Sarah indicated she would like to talk about it tomorrow.”

  “With you, presumably, not us.”

  “But I thought you might be able to find something good about it. I can’t just tell her it’s awful!”

  Milton flicked through the manuscript, his interest obviously piqued. “What exactly is so terrible about it?”

  “Well, for one thing, the monkey’s annoying, not brilliant at all.”

  “The title’s easy enough to change.”

  “The characters all have ridiculous names.”

  “Exotic monikers have always been popular, Ed.”

  “The story rambles, I’m not sure it makes sense.”

  Milton exhaled. “For God’s sake, Ed, I don’t know what you think we can tell you.”

  Edna turned her smile back towards Rowland. “It’s just that Rowly’s so polite… I thought he might know how to phrase…”

  Clyde laughed. “You want Rowly to help you with a courteous lie?”

  Rowland took the manuscript from Milton. “I’ll read it,” he said, checking his watch. “It doesn’t seem that long, I’m sure there’s something praiseworthy about it.”

  Edna sprang out of her chair and hugged him. “Thank you, Rowly.”

  Milton shook his head. “You’re shameless.”

  Rowland laughed. “It’s all right. The monkey sounds rather intriguing.” He thumbed through the pages. “I’ll read it now. You’d better get back to your room, Ed. We haven’t got time for scandal at the present.”

  15

  NIBBLING AT THE PARKS

  It is not surprising that the proposal to lease the corner of Hyde Park fronting on Elizabeth and Liverpool streets to a private concern which will adorn it with a buck jumping arena has already met with strong criticism.

  There are many in Sydney who view with alarm the continual encroachments on the city’s open spaces. Buck jumping shows are a most excellent form of entertainment, but they have their proper place, and that place is not a park which has been reserved in the middle of Sydney as a lung for the city and is an oasis in a desert of bricks and mortar where our citizens can take their pleasure. In this particular case it has been argued that the public will suffer no real prejudice.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 16 December 1920

  The morning of the famous Rules Point Sports Day broke clear and cold. The frost was so thick that one might have mistaken it for snow. The cattlemen and the hotel staff were up before dawn preparing for the day’s events. Breakfast was served in the dining room and as a buffet on the verandah to feed the men who were camped outside. Courses had been marked for the races and dozens of horses were being prepared in the vicinity of the hotel.

  Rowland Sinclair was in his car discussing Sarah Brent’s manuscript with Edna. Unfortunately, she had not been wrong in her original assessment of the work.

  “Sarah’s very excited about it,” Edna said. “Apparently she believes crime fiction could be her genre.”

  “What did she write before?”

  “I don’t know… she’s incognito, remember. She could be Agatha Christie for all we know.”

  Rowland’s eyebrow arched dubiously. “That, I very much doubt.”

  “I’m glad you read it, Rowly,” Edna confided. “I was really worried that I was missing something, that it was a work of literary genius but I was too obtuse to see it.”

  Rowland laughed. “You’re far from obtuse, Ed.”

  “Do you think it’ll be published?”

  Rowland shrugged. “We’re artists, Ed, what would we know about books?”

  “So what should I tell her… should I just be honest?”

  “Lord no! Lie as though your life depended on it!”

  Edna looked relieved. It was not in her nature to be disingenuous, but neither did she want to hurt Sarah Brent.

  Rowland smiled. “What’s the worst that could happen? Some crazy publisher might decide to inflict it on the unsuspecting public, but that would hardly be your fault.”

  Edna giggled. “I suppose not.”

  Milton climbed into the car behind them. He shivered, rubbing his arms vigorously. “What are you two doing out here?” He noticed that Edna held the manuscript. “Oh that—you were right, Ed, it was dreadful.”

  “You read it?” she asked, surprised.

  “Rowly read bits of it aloud.”

  “Why?”

  “We wanted to know why he was laughing.”

  “We’d better get back,” Rowland said a little guiltily. “We might have better luck finding news about Harry today.”

  Milton said nothing for a moment. “You don’t think he was in Corryong then?”

  Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t see Harry at a snake show.”

  “Why would Eichorn lie?”

  “I don’t know.” Rowland turned to face the poet. “Harry always had a thing about snakes—he wouldn’t approve of their being harassed for public entertainment.”

  Milton frowned slightly. “Are you sure, Rowly? Eichorn’s story fits with what Moran was saying. Maybe your man Simpson just walked.”

  Rowland shook his head. “There’s something wrong. Not quite sure what yet, but I’m going to find out.”

  Milton regarded him intently as he sat back. “Good enough. Let’s go make some friends then.”

  The horse races were run first. A course of about four furlongs had been marked out from Long Plain, finishing at Rules Point. Entry into the event required that each participant provide his own horse. The atmosphere was already one of a country fair. The gathering of stockmen was now diluted with spectators—the well-heeled holidaymakers from Caves House and locals—ladies and children, as well as men. Rowland found that having Edna in tow made the cattlemen quite friendly, but then, they were not interested in talking to him.

  Clyde introduced Rowland to Lawrence Keenan, who managed the Long Plain Homestead. Keenan was an elderly gentleman who had a reputation for being willing to do anything for a price. He was a wily negotiator whose voice was none too quiet. He sized up the cut of both Rowland Sinclair and his suit, and decided the young man was not in need of a discount for the horses he wished to hire. Rowland was not concerned about the cost, but Clyde felt the need to intervene on principle. Aside from the issue of compensation, Keenan was unhappy with their plans to take Edna with them.

  “The High Country is no place for women,” he warned. “The huts ain’t no gentrified country inn… all right for a bloke but it’s not somewhere I’d be takin’ my young lady! How’s a pretty lass like this going to be sleepin’ in a swag… in a camp full of men… it’s just not right… not proper.”

  “Mr. Keenan!” Sarah Brent emerged suddenly onto the verandah in an apron, with a wooden spoon still in her hand. She pointed it at Lawrence Keenan. “Who, sir, are you to tell Miss Higgins what she can or cannot do? Who are you to curtail her freedom of movement simply because she is a woman? How dare you, sir! Miss Higgins is as entitled to the High Country as any of these gentlemen. Why should she be denied the glory of the mountains on the basis of her gender? For shame, sir! Miss Higgins shall make this excursion! Indeed I shall accompany her!” She fished a small purse from the pocket of her skirt and took some notes from within. She pressed them into Keenan’s leathery hand.

  “But Miss Brent…” Rowland started.

  She held up her hand. “No, Mr. Sinclair, I have observed that you are a generous man, but I have always paid my own way.” With that, she turned on her heel and returned to the kitchens.

  Keenan folded the bills and placed them into the pocket of his dusty jacket. “My p
rice has just gone up by two shillings a horse.”

  “What?” Clyde was outraged. “Why?”

  “You boys are taking a bleedin’ suffragette into a cattlemen’s camp. To my reckonin’ the horses are going to have to find their own way back.” The old man laughed, but he maintained the inflated hire fee. “It’s all about risk, boys. You’re lucky I’m not insistin’ you buy the nags. Those is my terms—take it or leave it.”

  “Done,” Rowland said quickly, before Clyde could protest again. “You’ll make sure we’re equipped with everything we need?”

  Keenan grinned. “I’ll even throw in a shotgun.” He jerked his head towards the kitchen. “You might need it.”

  “How the hell did that happen?” Clyde murmured, as Keenan moved on.

  Rowland shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you think he was serious about the gun?”

  “Take yours in case he wasn’t.”

  The buck jumping was staged in the large yard on the flat land beside the hotel. It was a popular event for both participants and spectators. The rules were quite simple: the entrant was required to remain on his mount for as long as possible and avoid being killed. So far that day everybody had managed to observe both rules to a greater or lesser extent.

  Milton was leaning on the rail watching enthusiastically.

  “What do you think, Rowly?” he asked, as a call was made for contestants. “Should we have a go?”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Milt. Rowly couldn’t do that,” Edna answered for him.

  “Why not? He can ride a horse.”

  “Polo ponies, not wild horses. He’ll break his neck.”

  Rowland looked out at the brumby which had just been led into the ring. It was a fine looking animal, well-proportioned with a glossy coat. It wasn’t quite as large as the horses he was used to riding, but already its nostrils flared and its ears were back. He was mildly irritated that Edna assumed he’d come to grief, though she seemed quite content for Milton to enter the event. He removed his hat and his watch and handed both to the sculptress. “Hold on to these, will you, Ed?”