“It was just one exhibition, not my life’s work, Hec.”
“Perhaps, Rowly, but you will always be remembered as the man who libelled poor Germany in the Communist cause. Your work will always be viewed in that light.”
“Sadly, I fear Germany herself will vindicate me.”
Hector placed his arm around Rowland and shook off the sombre conversation. “Well, in the meantime we shall celebrate your resurrection!”
“As long as you’re not expecting me to provide the wine.”
As the sun slipped low in a sky beginning to bruise, a bonfire was built and paper lanterns hung in the trees. There was music and dancing until it became too cold to remain. The gathering then moved back to Hillend, a grand if slightly shabby homestead. Mabel Hansen had inherited the property but little else, and consequently the sprawling abode was currently run without staff. As a result, the servants’ quarters were available, albeit a little dusty, for the Hansens’ guests. Sufficient beds were found and allocated though most remained undisturbed till the early hours of the next morning when passionate conversations about the state of art and mankind gave way to sleep.
Accordingly the house was largely silent until nearly noon the next day. Only Rowland Sinclair awoke in what could still be called morning. As Hillend’s water supply—a series of poorly maintained rainwater tanks forever springing leaks—was unable to cope with so many guests it was a tradition of necessity that the gentlemen bathe in the stream about a quarter mile from the homestead. Rowland was quite happy to use the waterway, but, excruciatingly aware of the swastika that had been burned into his chest, he was not enamoured with the idea of communal bathing. The brand had not been applied with his consent—far from it—but still, it embarrassed him. Recounting how it came to be there was awkward and, to his mind, humiliating. It was easier to avoid situations in which the scar would be noticed.
Being September, the water was icy to the point of being painful. Rowland bathed and redressed as quickly as possible, wondering why the Hansens didn’t simply pump to the house from the stream. It would solve the water supply issues and ensure their guests didn’t die of hypothermia. Hector had thoughtfully secured a shaving mirror to one of the riparian trees, and basins, Sunlight soap and a methylated spirits burner were stored in the lean-to beside it. Rowland lit the burner to heat water so he could shave. He smiled as he noticed a vase of wildflowers that had been left in the lean-to—Mabel’s attempt to make the rustic ablutions more civilised, he supposed.
Now that his blood flow was returning, Rowland found himself quite enjoying the alfresco bathroom. The stream was lined with willows through which the muted light of late morning made its way gently. Though it was nearly eleven o’clock, a wispy fog persisted, casting the world into watercolours. Gurgling birdsong, the distant screech of a flock of black cockatoos disturbed, and the running of the stream—there was a noisy quiet about it all. He poured the warmed water into a basin and unfastened the top button of his shirt before lathering his face.
He was still shaving when he became aware of the feeling that he was not alone. Some instinct told him it was not one of the other guests. Rowland wiped his face but he kept his razor open, studying the mirror for any sign of someone behind him. A crack in the undergrowth and then another.
He turned.
“What the—bloody hell! What are you doing here?”
“A little jumpy, Sinclair?” Arthur Howells eyed the razor in his hand.
“What are you doing creeping up on a man?” Rowland folded the razor into its Bakelite handle. He felt a bit silly now.
“I’ve been following you since you left the meeting.”
“What? Why?”
“Precautions. We know there’s a spy in our organisation, we just don’t know who. With your background, you understand, you are a definite possibility.” Howells took a tin of tobacco and papers from his pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “I must say, when I saw you with the coppers, I thought we’d found our traitor.” He lit the cigarette. “Then I saw the papers… poor woman… terrible business.”
Rowland turned back to the mirror and knotted the tie which he’d slung round his neck while he shaved.
“Then you call at some fancy joint to play tennis with the Canberra set and I thought, here we go…”
“We were simply collecting Miss Higgins,” Rowland said. “Is that why you’re here, Bluey? Because you’re under the misapprehension I’m a spy of some sort?”
Howells shook his head. “I came to talk to you… you were walking across here as I pulled in. Gotta admit, I thought ‘Who’s he meeting while everybody is still asleep?’ So I followed you… just one last check. Interesting scar you’ve got on your chest, I must say, Sinclair.”
“I can assure you it wasn’t self-inflicted.”
Howells drew on his cigarette. “Who?”
“The SA, while I was in Germany.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t like the way I painted.”
“So that’s a review?”
“They broke my arm and forcibly burned a swastika into my chest with cigarettes,” Rowland said, hoping that would be the end of Howells’ curiosity. “I met Egon Kisch when I was trying to escape Germany.”
Howells dropped his cigarette and crushed it under the ball of his foot. He shrugged. “Fair enough.”
Rowland buttoned his waistcoat over his tie and grabbed his jacket from the low hanging branch on which he’d hung it.
Howells took a seat on a fallen trunk, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped loosely together. Clearly he had more to say. “Look, Sinclair, our intelligence is that there’s a plot afoot to scuttle Kisch’s visit.”
“A plot?”
“We think that they intend to convince the Commonwealth Government to deny Egon a visa.”
“Who’s they?”
“To be honest, we’re not sure. There are plenty of candidates in the Fascist corner.”
“I see.”
“I don’t suppose you fancy a trip to Canberra, Sinclair?”
Rowland didn’t. Indeed he couldn’t think of any sane individual who actually fancied a trip to Canberra. There was very little there aside from the seat of parliament. “Just what exactly do you want me to do, Bluey?”
“We were hoping you might be our man in Canberra.”
“You want me to spy for the Communist Party?” Rowland’s tone made clear what he thought of the proposition.
“No, we know you’re not a member. Look, we’re a little concerned that the Fascists will do anything to keep Egon out. We just need a man in Canberra to speak for Egon in the right circles.”
“I’m not exactly welcome in the right circles anymore.”
“You’re the best we’ve got.”
“Surely you’ve got an actual Communist you can send to Canberra.”
“We do have a man in Canberra. He’s quitting.”
“What do you mean quitting?”
“Exactly that. Something’s spooked him. He says he’ll give us till the end of this month to replace him and then he’s done.”
For a moment, Rowland paused, and then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’m not a spy, Bluey, and I’m certainly not a Communist.”
“This is important, Rowly.”
“I know, and I’ll do what I can, but I can’t—I won’t—report to the Communist Party.”
Howells regarded him silently for a moment. “Well, can’t say fairer than that, I suppose. All right, Rowly, we’ll send one of the faithful.”
Rowland was mildly surprised albeit relieved that Howells abandoned any further attempts to persuade him. They talked then about motorcars, the Airflow in particular. And in that way they walked amiably back to Hillend. A good part of the household was now awake and Arthur Howells was invited to join them for breakfast or whatever a first meal taken after noon was called. He accepted gladly and sat down at the massive table in the homestead’s grand dining room to what was a str
ange buffet of whatever the Hansens’ houseguests were capable of cooking at that time, rather than a coherent meal.
His appetite stirred by bathing in the frigid creek, Rowland partook heartily of honey on bread, ham, quince paste and field mushrooms. A tureen of coffee was placed on the table and cups of brew ladled out. As a poet, Howells fitted rather well into the informality of the Bohemian gathering. Indeed, after eating his fill and participating in heated debate on A.D. Hope, he accompanied Hector and the other male guests back to the stream.
Rowland sat on the wide verandah with the women, sketching lazily into his notebook.
“I’m sure Hector imagines he’s off to the Roman baths!” Mabel laughed as they watched her husband lead a troop of men with towels across the paddocks. “Poor man seems to believe bathing in freezing water with a dozen men is some kind of virility ritual.”
Rowland grimaced.
Edna laughed. “Good Lord! I wonder what they get up to!”
“Let’s try not to think about it,” Rowland murmured.
Nora Blackwick, a printmaker, picked up the newspaper that Howells had brought with him and gave it a cursory perusal. “They still haven’t identified that poor girl.”
“What girl?” Edna asked.
“How could you not have heard?” Mabel was shocked. She handed the paper to Edna. “Poor lass was murdered and left in a culvert near Albury. Apparently the body was so horribly damaged—burnt, I understand—it’s hard to be sure what she looked like.”
Edna glanced at Rowland.
Mary Creswell shuddered. “Simply ghastly, and to think it happened so close by. Mabel, you must be careful.”
“Don’t be silly, Mary! We’re all perfectly safe here.” Mabel removed a tabby cat from the wicker settee and sat down.
Edna folded the paper and held her hand out to Rowland. “Shall we go for a stroll, Rowly?”
“If you’d like.” He closed his notebook and took her hand.
They stepped out into the once formal garden. The box hedges had not been clipped in some years and the concrete statues looked somehow alive in a garden allowed to run wild. Mabel and Hector had repurposed the rose beds for growing vegetables. At the moment they were mostly fallow but for a few rows of parsnip and broccoli.
“Rowly, I’m so sorry.” Edna looked up into his face.
He placed an arm around her shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“You really thought that poor girl was me?”
“I feared it might be. Until I saw the body.”
“You saw the—oh, Rowly.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” He lied for her sake. “I knew the moment I saw her that she wasn’t you.”
“That’s why you were so cross,” she said.
“I wasn’t cross with you.”
She sighed. “Bertie promised he’d left a message… I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”
On that, Rowland did not comment. But he did break his usual rule with respect to Edna’s loves. “What exactly do you see in Middleton, Ed?”
“I know you find Bertie tiresome, Rowly. But you mustn’t judge him by the way he is with you.”
“How else am I supposed to find him, Ed?”
“You intimidate him, I think. He’s not like that otherwise.”
“Why in heaven’s name would I intimidate him?”
“Because everything comes so easily to you, darling. Wealth, social graces, connections… Bertie’s not a Communist—he values those things. You don’t even struggle with your art. You decide to paint something and suddenly it’s there… perfect and magnificent.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Nonetheless, it’s how it seems to Bertie. He’s been writing the same novel for seven years and I don’t think it’s anywhere near finished. He’s working for The Canberra Times reporting on parliament to make ends meet, and it’s boring him silly.”
“I see.” Rowland had never before considered how Edna’s loves regarded him. “You still haven’t explained what you see in Middleton.”
Edna smiled. “Bertie’s a writer. He has a rather clever turn of phrase.”
“If I’d known you could be won with adjectives…”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Rowly. I can’t be won.”
7
TRAGEDY OF YOUNG LOVE
Calf love is the easiest thing in the world to laugh at. That it is less easy to endure was revealed by a boy criminal last week in a strange letter to the magistrates who tried him. In that document he described the stages of his downfall from the moment when he realised that his first love could not be reciprocated.
Happily most boys and girls recover from the shock of their first love affair without ruining themselves in the process. Yet no one who has studied the adolescent mind can doubt for a moment that, as a rule, the struggle is a severe one (writes John Dean in the London ‘Daily Mail’). The first love affair is far more serious, far more anxious, than people who have grown up are ready to admit. Nor are its dangers made less, or its burdens lightened, by the attitude commonly adopted towards the vicinity—those who should be his friends. Almost invariably they laugh and deride when a word of sympathy is most eagerly desired and most urgently needed… This does not mean, of course, that boys and girls are to be encouraged in sentimentalism. But their feelings, however exaggerated, must be accepted as genuine for the moment and honoured as such. They must be taken if not seriously, at least respectfully. If they feel that their strange emotional experience is being understood and regarded sympathetically, their own common sense will come to the rescue…
Kalgoorlie Miner, 11 January 1923
They were several hours into the long drive to Sydney when Milton mentioned the task entrusted to him by the Communist Party of Australia.
“You’re going to Canberra?” Edna said.
“Well, Rowly’s doing his bit to make sure Egon’s visit goes without a hitch—I thought I should too.”
“What exactly are you going to be doing?”
“Apparently the Fascists have sworn to stop Egon from speaking. The Party’s worried that they might use political channels.”
“And how do you plan to stop the Fascists?” Edna asked sceptically.
The poet shrugged. “They don’t expect me to stop anything… just to keep them informed. Surveillance. They have a man there already, but he’s got to leave before the end of this month.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. His wife probably wants him home. Anyway, all I’ve got to do is relieve him. I’ll meet with a few friendly parties, attend a few Party meetings, settle myself in the public gallery when parliament sits again, hang around the corridors eavesdropping, talk to people, drink at the right places… that sort of thing. Canberra’s a small place—if they are planning to legislate against Egon it won’t be difficult to find out.”
Rowland recalled his discussion with Howells at the stream and shook his head as the reason why Howells gave up so easily became clear.
Milton noticed. “What?”
“Won’t the New Guard be more likely to kidnap Kisch when he gets into the country? Abduction is more their style.”
“Possibly, but it’s not the New Guard. Rumour is the latest Fascist army is calling itself the Commonwealth Legion,” Milton said. “The government will be wary of them too. The Party’s worried that Lyons will feel obliged to legislate to stop Egon if for no other reason than to prevent a Fascist backlash.”
Edna addressed more practical considerations. “How long do they want you to remain in Canberra? Where will you stay?”
“Until Egon arrives, I guess. I’m not sure where I’ll stay… I was hoping to find a comrade to put me up.”
“What about Bertie? He’s minding a cottage in Ainslie for a friend… I could come with you if you like.”
“Why don’t we all go?” Rowland said, in no doubt that it was what Howells had intended all along. “We’ll find a hotel. If Middleton is a
part of Ley’s tennis set, I doubt very much he’ll want a Communist Party operative staying with him.”
“I think operative might be overstating the case,” Milton muttered. He brightened. “But why not—if we all go it might not be so unbearably dull.”
It was with a little sadness that Rowland manoeuvred the Chrysler Airflow into the space that had been once occupied by his Mercedes in the converted stables at Woodlands. Milton and Clyde had mounted the mangled grille of the wrecked motorcar on the brick wall as a kind of memorial. Rowland had relinquished the Airflow’s steering wheel to Clyde between Holbrook and Goulburn, and they had driven through, stopping only to refuel.
It was now ten in the evening but their arrival at Woodlands was amply announced by the voluble joy of a one-eared greyhound. The lights came on in the mansion before Rowland could calm his dog, and Mary Brown opened the door in her housecoat.
“Good evening, Mary,” Rowland said sheepishly. “I’m so sorry we woke you.”
The housekeeper sighed, conveying irritation, vexation and resignation in that single exhalation of breath. “If you’d telephoned, Master Rowly, I might have had some supper ready.”
“We don’t need supper, Mary. Please go back to bed.”
“It’ll have to be bread and butter! I can’t do anything more!”
“Mary, we really don’t…”
But she was already on her way to the kitchen.
They carried in their bags, Rowland taking Edna’s up to her room, and though they might all have preferred to retire immediately, they returned to the breakfast room to eat a supper of bread and butter. The housekeeper had, it seemed, also managed to find a plate of cold roast beef, pickled eggs and a round of cheese which she served with a pot of tea and another of coffee. All this regardless of her employer’s repeated instructions that she return to her bed. Mary, like many of the older servants in the Sinclairs’ employ, still seemed to consider Rowland a child. Even in the house of which he was, for all intents and purposes, master.
It was a subdued meal as they went determinedly about the business of eating so that they could all be allowed to turn in. Rowland reached back to the sideboard to grab the silver tray of letters and messages which had accumulated in their absence. There were a number of telephone messages left by Detective Delaney from the previous week, the cause of which he now knew. A few invitations to dine, but none of the invitations to submit to exhibitions which had once filled his correspondence tray. Doubtless, the establishment was using its power to ensure that Rowland Sinclair was not given the opportunity to pedal his pro-Communist, alarmist views to the Australian public again.
A Dangerous Language Page 6
