Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

“Because it’s bloody dull!”

  “So what do you and your Communist mates discuss, Sinclair?”

  “Art mainly, women occasionally… not things that would interest you, Mr. Middlemiss.”

  Middlemiss reared, affronted. Bruxner tried to soothe matters.

  “Rowland, it is in acknowledgement of the sacrifices the Sinclairs have made for King and Empire that we are here tonight. If you have found yourself involved with the wrong people then it is not too late to do the honourable thing. We can help you extricate yourself from this situation without embarrassing your good family.”

  Rowland had had enough. “Go to hell, Bruxner!” He didn’t wait, shaking off Wilfred’s hand and storming out of the library.

  Kate and the others were at dinner when he found them in the dining room.

  “Rowly, you’re finished… I’ll have Mrs. Kendall set a place for you.”

  “Don’t bother, Kate, I’m not hungry.” He was aware that his friends were staring at him. Rowland tried consciously to make his face relax. “I just came to say good night actually… I might turn in.”

  “Rowly darling, are you all right?” Edna’s was not the only concerned face at the table.

  He smiled briefly. “Yes, of course.”

  “Where’s Wil?” Kate asked hesitantly.

  “He’s not quite done with his guests,” Rowland hoped that his fury with Wilfred was not betrayed in his voice.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to play a hand or two after dinner?” Milton ventured.

  Rowland shook his head. “Don’t play too late,” he said. “We’re leaving for Sydney in the morning.”

  31

  HAND OF MOSCOW

  BEHIND BRITISH RIOTS

  INSTRUCTIONS TO RED AGENTS

  (British Official Wireless)

  LONDON, March 10

  A series of questions was put to Mr. Henderson (Foreign Secretary) in the House of Commons regarding the announcements made at Moscow that instructions had been issued by the Third International to its agents to organise strikes and riots in Great Britain and the British dominions and colonies.

  One member asked whether the Foreign Secretary’s attention had been called to the fact that last Thursday’s unemployment demonstrations in Great Britain were organised by the Communist party on representations from Moscow.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1930

  Rowland dropped the bandage, startled by the knock on the door. Before he could answer, Edna entered, balancing a plate, generously but precariously piled with shortbread.

  “Good Lord, Rowly, what are you doing?” she asked, closing the door quietly behind her and placing the plate on the dresser. Rowland stood shirtless by the washstand with a bottle of iodine and various items from a first-aid box.

  “I’m trying to change this flaming dressing.”

  Edna picked up the gauze roll from the floor. “Shouldn’t you get Dr. Maguire to do this?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Here, sit down… I’ll do it.”

  For a while neither said anything as Edna fumbled with disinfectant and replaced the dressing and bandages. Rowland glanced at the finished product. “It’s a bit lumpy,” he murmured.

  “Shall I get Dr. Maguire then?”

  “No, it’s fine, thank you.” He slid his arm back into the sling. “You’d better go to bed, Ed. It’s getting late.”

  “Eat something,” she ordered. “Mrs. Kendall is very upset you didn’t have dinner. She wanted me to steal this up to you.”

  Rowland smiled. “She must think I’m being punished.” When he was a child, the housekeeper would soften his father’s discipline with surreptitious plates of shortbread.

  Edna studied him. “Are you going to tell me what happened, Rowly? What did Wilfred want?” she asked gently. “What’s made you so angry?”

  Rowland rubbed his good hand through his hair. He doubted Edna would let this go, so he told her who had been in the library… what they had wanted with him.

  Edna listened in disbelief. “They think you’re a Communist spy?” She giggled. “Why, Rowly, that’s ridiculous. Are you sure they were serious?”

  “I think they were willing to believe that I was being manipulated by Milt. Apparently he’s some kind of criminal mastermind.”

  Edna fell back on his bed, laughing.

  Rowland watched her, and his mood lifted a little.

  Eventually, she sat up, wiping the tears from her eyes, and took his hand in hers. Her face became serious. “It’s just silly, Rowly.”

  “I know, Ed.”

  “They can’t have anything but their absurd theories or they would have arrested you, darling.”

  Rowland nodded. “I know that too.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Then why do you look so winded?”

  He looked away from her. “I’m not winded, Ed—I’ve been called a Communist before. Just wish I’d decked that prat, Middlemiss.”

  Edna did not seem convinced. She may have said more but there was another knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Rowland called, expecting it to be either Clyde or Milton. It was not.

  Wilfred strode into the room with Maguire at his elbow.

  They both stopped short to see Edna perched on Rowland’s bed. Rowland, who had not yet managed to put on his shirt, had no doubt his brother would view the scene as grossly improper. At this point, however, he was not inclined to care about Wilfred’s moral sensibilities.

  Edna smiled cheerfully. “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. Fancy running into you here.”

  Faintly, Rowland smiled. He loved the complete unflappability of the sculptress. Not even Wilfred Sinclair could make her step backwards.

  “Miss Higgins. I trust you’ve found your guest room comfortable.”

  “Why it’s delightful, Mr. Sinclair. You have a very lovely home.”

  Wilfred cleared his throat. “Would you mind excusing us, Miss Higgins? I’d like to have a word with Rowly.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sinclair.” She released Rowland’s hand and stood. “Goodnight gentlemen.”

  Rowland said nothing as the sculptress left. She took any improvement in his humour with her.

  Maguire moved to check Rowland’s arm.

  “It’s been done,” Rowland said, standing to retrieve his shirt from the bedroom chair on which he’d tossed it.

  “Rowly…” Wilfred started.

  “Go to hell, Wil.”

  Wilfred glanced at Maguire and motioned towards the door. The surgeon left them alone.

  Wilfred watched Rowland struggle with his shirt. “Rowly, I can understand you’re upset but…”

  “You didn’t even warn me, Wil.”

  “I only allowed them to question you.”

  “They didn’t question me, they accused me—and you just stood there.” Rowland gave up wrestling with the shirt and threw it into a corner.

  Wilfred sat down on the bed. “Rowly, you’ve got to understand that your lifestyle, your associations will raise questions…”

  “Of course I realise that! I couldn’t give a toss what Hardy and his well-connected buffoons think!” Rowland turned on his brother. “But you, Wil… How could you think that? I’m only on that flaming board because you insisted. Forget about bloody King and country, how could you think I’d betray you like that?”

  Wilfred stared at him, jolted.

  “Look Rowly, I have a responsibility to…”

  “Would you just get out, Wil. I’m tired and there’s really nothing more to be said.”

  Wilfred stood. “We can talk tomorrow, once you’ve cooled down.” They left the next morning. Wilfred was not there. Kate apologised, informing them that her husband had gone to Wagga Wagga at first light. Rowland frowned. Charles Hardy lived in Wagga Wagga.

  Kate Sinclair put her hand anxiously on her brother-in-law’s arm. “Wil wants you to wait for him, Rowly. He barely slept last night… he wouldn’t have gone if he didn’t really have to.”
/>   Rowland shook his head. “I need to get back, Kate.”

  Kate’s eyes moistened. “You’ve really quarrelled this time haven’t you?”

  Rowland smiled. “As opposed to every other time?” He didn’t wish to distress his brother’s gentle wife. “I’ll get over it, Kate. Don’t worry.”

  Ewan, who had been crawling about his mother’s feet, clung to Rowland’s leg and used it to pull himself up. Rowland scooped his nephew into his good arm. Clyde had helped him re-bandage the other that morning, after Edna’s efforts had completely unravelled in the night.

  Ewan gurgled and bounced excitedly, and Rowland was forced to use both arms to hold onto him. “By George, you’re a big lad,” he murmured, wincing. “Ernie will have to be careful to stay on your good side.”

  Clyde took the wheel of the Mercedes for the drive back to Woodlands House. Being unable to drive didn’t help Rowland’s mood. Clyde approached the task with the same conscientious caution with which he did most things. Milton often said he drove like an old woman. While Rowland would probably not have expressed it in the same words, Milton did have a point. The trip back to Sydney would be a slow one.

  Neither Clyde nor Milton had asked Rowland about their abrupt departure from Oaklea, or the cause of his barely concealed brooding. They had known Rowland long enough to leave it until he was ready to talk, happy to trust that he had his reasons. Rowland appreciated the space, but the unquestioning faith of his friends only put his brother’s lack of it into sharper relief.

  It was not until they reached the outskirts of Sydney that Rowland spoke of what had gone on in the library at Oaklea. Like Edna, Milton and Clyde seemed to find the notion more funny than anything else. Indeed, Milton was clearly flattered that he was considered a “dangerous insurgent”.

  “I always wondered what happened to your brother’s crazy Fascist mates after Lang was dismissed.”

  “They went into parliament, I believe,” Rowland said, shifting so that Lenin’s bony legs didn’t stick into his ribs.

  “So, have they sacked you from the Dangars Board?” Clyde asked.

  “No… I think only the board itself can do that,” Rowland replied. “I’m going to resign anyway.”

  “You can’t do that, Rowly.” Milton was adamant. “It’ll make you look guilty.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re just wild with Wilfred, mate,” Clyde said calmly. “As funny as the idea is, you don’t want to be branded a Communist spy. Things could get ugly.”

  Edna knelt on the front seat facing Rowland and Milton in the back. “Clyde’s right, Rowly. Being a Communist is one thing—being a traitor, another entirely.”

  “There’s a car following us,” Clyde informed them suddenly, as he checked the mirrors.

  Rowland twisted round to see, recognising the black Studebaker not far behind.

  Clyde engaged the supercharger. “Hang on.”

  32

  JACK AND JOCK

  In the well-known political school from which Messrs. Lang and Garden have graduated with almost equal honours, and to which in spirit, they are both believed to be loyal to this day, it is customary for the alumni to address one another as “Comrade”, at least for ceremonial purposes.

  Obedience to this unwritten rule formerly posed no hardship upon Comrade Lang and Comrade Garden. As, when gentle folk meet, compliments pass, so when these notable demagogues met there was a cordial exchange of the proper party honorifics.

  Indeed, during a series of weary years Comrade Garden and Comrade Lang, fighting side by side, as they averred, for the fellowship of men and other exalted causes, made comradeship seem a frigidly inadequate term for the mutual love and strong community of purpose.

  They were the David and Jonathan of New South Wales politics: and as though conscious of the fact that, between themselves, the word “Comrade” must thus have had altogether too formal a sound, they addressed one another, in private, if not always in public, as “Jack” and “Jock”. It may be doubted whether, when Messrs. Lang and Garden were thus most closely associated, there was ever a nearer approach to the ideal of Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the politics of any country.

  The Advertiser, 1936

  The established serenity of Woollahra was shattered by the roar of the yellow Mercedes as it hurtled up the driveway of Woodlands House and then screeched to a stop. For a moment the motor car’s occupants sat in silence.

  “I think we lost them,” Clyde said.

  “That was bloody terrifying,” Milton murmured.

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Milt,” Edna said, adjusting her hat. “We don’t even know what they wanted.”

  “I was talking about Clyde’s driving… he’s a lunatic.”

  “At least I lost them,” Clyde retorted.

  “Maybe not.” Rowland rubbed his neck, which had taken quite a jarring as Clyde swerved and wove at speed through the traffic of Sydney. “I think that may have been those chaps from the Commonwealth Police—they know where I live.”

  “The feds? I thought… why didn’t you say?”

  Rowland laughed. “You were having such a good time, it seemed a shame to tell you…” Rowland looked over to the base of the mansion’s grand entrance stairs. “What on earth is this?” The entire household staff seemed to be gathered there in formal rows.

  He climbed out, shoving Lenin before him, and looked carefully. It was indeed his staff. He wondered what they were doing outside.

  A prim, starched woman stepped forward from the head of a row. Rowland didn’t recognise her.

  “Mr. Sinclair, sir,” she said, dipping into a quick curtsey. “I’m Agnes Carstairs. Mr. Wilfred Sinclair retained my services while Mary Brown is indisposed. Welcome home, sir. I trust everything will be to your liking.”

  “Thank you, Mrs.—oh, I beg your pardon—Miss Carstairs.” Rowland glanced at the formal receiving line of servants. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Very good, sir.” Agnes Carstairs lifted her chin. “I’ll just have your luggage taken up and unpacked. Would you like to take tea in the conservatory, sir? I’m afraid the main drawing room is somewhat cluttered… but I did want to consult with you before throwing anything out.”

  Rowland blinked. The main drawing room was his studio. “Yes… the conservatory, smashing idea,” he replied awkwardly. Although Mary Brown had clearly disapproved of the way he conducted himself, they were used to each other. She had been at Oaklea since before he was born. It seemed odd, vaguely adulterous, to have some other woman run his household.

  And so they retired to the conservatory, where tea was poured from a silver service into fine Royal Doulton. Woodlands was, if anything, more immaculate than it had been under Mary Brown. Every surface had been polished to a glassy finish, every nook and cranny dusted. Most noticeably the staff went about their work in complete silence. It was not that Rowland remembered his servants being particularly chatty or noisy before, but he was aware of the silence now. It was a little unsettling.

  Aside from meddling with his staff, it appeared that Wilfred had also installed security at Woodlands House. The gates were manned and guarded, and there were more men patrolling the grounds. A chap called Jenkins reported shortly after they arrived to inform Rowland of the precautions his brother had taken.

  Agnes Carstairs brought in the post that had been delivered in the time he had been away. Rowland groaned as the neatly stacked envelopes were placed on the table beside him. “It’ll be weeks before I get through this.”

  Milton handed him a tall glass of gin. “This might help, Rowly.”

  Rowland flicked unenthusiastically through the envelopes… then one caught his interest. There was no postmark—it had obviously been hand delivered. Dropping the rest of the mail onto the table, he opened it. He smiled.

  “It’s from Humphrey,” he announced, as he read the meticulous copperplate. “It appears he got back to Sydney all right—still thinks someone’s trying to kill
him.”

  “Where is he staying?” Edna asked, walking behind Rowland’s chair to peer over his shoulder.

  “The Grace, though he’s thinking of finding somewhere quieter. Apparently it’s full of Americans.”

  “You should invite him here, Rowly,” Edna suggested. “At least the poor man will feel safe with all this security.”

  Rowland grimaced. “I suspect that’s what he’s hinting at. His mother has gone to visit a cousin in Melbourne and so he is ‘at something of a loss’.”

  Milton laughed. “His mother? Good Lord Rowly, what were you thinking knocking about with this bloke?”

  Rowland sighed. “Mostly I was trying to ignore him.”

  “Don’t be mean, Rowly,” Edna chided. “The poor man doesn’t know anyone here but you.”

  “Here we go…” Milton muttered.

  “It’d probably do him the world of good to spend time with people his own age.” Edna was persistent.

  Rowland laughed. “You want me to invite him out to play?”

  “We could take him out to some parties or to the races… perhaps he’d like to come to the Easter Show?”

  “If he falls in love with Ed, we’ll never get rid of him,” Clyde warned, flicking open the paper and settling into an armchair.

  “Yes, Rowly,” Milton agreed. “Your houseguests never seem to leave, mate.”

  “He’s not going to fall in love with me,” Edna protested. “Mr. Abercrombie’s still heartbroken over Lady what’s-her-name.”

  “He writes that he’s leaving Sydney at the end of the month,” Rowland said, glancing at the letter again. He sighed. “It might be safe to ask the poor blighter to stay… I’ll phone.”

  “You’ll regret it,” Clyde said from behind The Sydney Morning Herald.

  “No doubt, but I can’t have Edna thinking I’m mean.”

  Edna ruffled his hair fondly. “You’re not mean, Rowly, you’re really very sweet.”

  Milton shook his head. “You know, mate, there’s something particularly sad about a hen-pecked bachelor.”

  Rowland returned to his mail. “Yes, I know.”