Wilfred caught his eye and seemed to know his mind. “Philip hasn’t changed,” he said, “but he does know his horses.”
“What did you call your horse, Ernie?” Rowland asked.
“Fred.” Ernest gazed up at him.
“Good name…I had to ride a horse called Bubbles.”
Wilfred laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. Why did…?”
“Mother named him.” Rowland shook his head. “Fred is a much better name, Ernie.”
Gerard walked Fred over to them, and Rowland stroked the horse’s sleek neck while Wilfred discussed its progress with the groom. Fred was a steady animal despite being a colt. In time, he would be an ideal first polo pony.
Wilfred climbed into the yard still deep in conversation with Gerard.
Rowland took out his notebook and drew quickly; the lean, weathered face of the groom, sharp eyes, tight mouth and strong hands; Wilfred, straight-backed, confident, his jacket still buttoned in spite of the draining heat.
“What are you doing?”
Rowland looked down and was met by Ernest’s solemn eyes. He squatted so the boy could look over his shoulder.
“That looks like Daddy,” Ernest said, pointing to the sketch.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Could you draw my horse?”
“Perhaps.” He sketched the colt on a clean page, and when it was completed to his nephew’s satisfaction, he tore it out and handed it to the boy. Ernest accepted the drawing silently and held it tightly in both hands.
“What’s that Ernie?” Wilfred rejoined them.
Ernest showed him. Wilfred tickled the back of his son’s neck. “Do you go anywhere without that flaming notebook, Rowly?”
“Swimming maybe,” Rowland replied as he closed it. “It helps me see.”
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing.” Rowland tried to explain. “I just see things more clearly once I’ve drawn them.”
Wilfred rolled his eyes and then glanced at his pocket watch. “We had better get back—see what Mrs. Kendall’s organised for lunch.” He swung Ernest up onto his shoulders. Rowland grabbed his jacket from the fence and farewelled Gerard with a wave.
Walking back across the paddocks to the house, they were on the lawns when Kate beckoned them over to the conservatory. “It’s so terribly hot, I thought we might eat out here,” she said as Wilfred lifted Ernest off his shoulders.
“Off you go, Ernie. Mrs. Kendall will have lunch for you in the kitchen.”
The child nodded in his grave, quiet manner, and ran into the hallway still clutching the page torn from his uncle’s notebook.
“Mother won’t be joining us today.” Wilfred turned to Rowland. “Mrs. Kendall will take her a tray—she’s a little tired.”
Rowland looked suspiciously at the round table. Set for four, it was draped with starched white linen and centred with a massive arrangement of roses and spinning gum.
“You boys go and wash up for lunch,” Kate said brightly, as she fussed nervously with an elaborately folded napkin.
“Are we expecting someone?” Rowland asked.
“Just an old friend from school,” Kate looked away. “She’s just returned from abroad.”
Rowland glared at Wilfred and walked into the house.
“You’ll want to put this back on,” said Wilfred, tossing him the jacket that he had discarded over the back of a chair.
When Rowland returned to the conservatory, Lucy Bennett was sipping lemonade from a tall glass and chatting with Kate. She was a pretty girl, fashionable, but in a very wholesome way. Her hair was blond, almost white, beneath a pink hat that matched her shoes and dress. She spoke with studied tone and inflection and played with the pearls about her neck as she talked.
Rowland closed his eyes briefly and sighed.
“Rowly, here you are!” Kate moved quickly to his side and touching his arm, ushered him toward her guest. “You remember my dear friend, Lucy Bennett.”
“Of course,” Rowland replied. “Miss Bennett.”
“How nice to see you again, Mr. Sinclair.” Lucy looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat and smiled.
“Lucy’s just returned from a tour abroad.” Kate initiated the conversation like the perfect hostess she was.
“Yes, Wil did mention that.” Rowland glanced at his brother.
“Lucy was just telling us about Paris when you walked in.”
Lucy continued her tale of Paris, a jocular account, gushing in its enthusiasm for France’s fashions and peppered with clever witticisms about the peculiarity of its citizens. Rowland played the polite guest, listening quietly and feigning interest. It was a familiar charade.
By the time the first course arrived, Kate had noticed that the conversation was clearly one-sided. She seized the opportunity when Lucy mentioned some apparently riotous misunderstanding at the Louvre while viewing the Mona Lisa, and interjected. “Did you know that Rowly paints, Lucy?’
Wilfred snorted, and Rowland almost choked on his bread.
“Don’t be like that, Wil.” Kate patted her husband’s hand. “Ernie showed me the picture Rowly drew of Fred; he’s really quite good.”
“How interesting, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucy effused. “My Aunt Mildred Bennett took up painting when her eyes grew too weak for embroidery. Her pictures had quite the impressionist feel to them.”
Rowland held down his urge to laugh.
“Fred is Ernest’s pony, isn’t he?” Lucy carried on. “Do you only do horses, Mr. Sinclair?”
Rowland cleared his throat. “No, I—”
“Rowly draws just about everything, he’s always sketching,” Kate answered for him.
“Why don’t you show Lucy your notebook, Rowly?” Wilfred forked the last of his fruit cocktail into his mouth.
Rowland glanced darkly at him. “I’m sure Miss Bennett would not be interested…”
“Why, Mr. Sinclair, I’d be fascinated!”
They all looked at him expectantly. Reluctantly, Rowland reached inside his jacket and retrieved the slightly battered, leather-bound notebook. Kate mistook his hesitance for modesty and smiled encouragingly. “You mustn’t be shy, Rowly.”
He handed the notebook to Lucy Bennett, and she thumbed through its pages eagerly. “Why this is very accomplished, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” Rowland replied, hoping she’d give back the notebook and return to her trivial tour of Europe.
“I’ve always thought it lovely to have a hobby at which one can achieve some level of proficiency,” Lucy twittered. “Look Kate, here’s a picture of your Wilfred.” She laughed, though Rowland couldn’t see why the drawing was so hilarious. Her laugh was high and tinkling. It reminded Rowland of breaking glass. He thought briefly of Edna, who often laughed so hard that she often forgot to breathe and ended gasping in the nearest chair.
Kate caught the softening in his expression and smiled with satisfaction.
“And who is this?” Lucy asked studying a sketch. “He looks terribly dangerous—Daddy says the city is full of criminals these days and the streets are just teeming with the unemployed. Something should really be done—it’s not safe.”
Rowland glanced at the page. It was Clyde.
Lucy then found a series of drawings of Edna. She flicked through them slowly at first.
“I know!” Kate said suddenly, “Rowly, you must paint Lucy.” Rowland looked up, his face blank.
Lucy blushed, laughed inexplicably again and fluttered her lashes so hard that Rowland thought her afflicted with a tic. “Oh, I couldn’t trouble you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Nonsense,” boomed Wilfred. “Rowly needs something to do instead of following me about all day!”
Lucy turned another page of Rowland’s notebook, then snapped it shut
. Her face was flushed a much deeper shade of pink than her hat. “No, I really couldn’t,” she said. “I just couldn’t.” She pushed the notebook back across the table toward Rowland.
Kate looked at her friend, dismayed. Wilfred appeared distinctly disgruntled. Rowland’s lips hinted a smile, but he tried to seem politely disappointed. He slipped his notebook back into his pocket. He knew Lucy had found the pencil studies he had done of Edna for the nude he’d given his uncle. He was relieved. There was nothing interesting about Lucy Bennett; nothing worth capturing on canvas. As far as he knew, she didn’t even own a poodle.
After that, the meal was somewhat subdued. Lucy seemed unable to look at him, which only aggravated his conviction that she was ridiculous. Poor Kate became increasingly distressed as her meticulously planned luncheon floundered.
Three awkward courses later, Lucy Bennett made her farewells, despite Kate pressing her to stay longer in a last attempt to salvage the day from disaster. At his brother’s pointed suggestion, Rowland walked the young lady to the motor waiting for her in the driveway. Since what she’d seen in his notebook had mortified her into silence, he felt forced, finally, to make some conversation.
“It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennett,” he lied, though admittedly, it had not been entirely unentertaining.
“Goodbye, Mr. Sinclair. I hope you understand why I cannot sit for you.”
“Of course,” he replied with painstaking civility.
Lucy Bennett smiled coyly as she climbed into the backseat. “Perhaps then I shall see you again, Mr. Sinclair.”
***
Wilfred was in the drawing room when Rowland got back to the house.
“Don’t ever do that again, Wil,” Rowland warned as Wilfred handed him a glass of whisky.
“Lucy’s an old chum of Kate’s. Perfectly natural we should have her to lunch.”
Rowland put down his glass. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and dropped into the armchair.
Kate walked into the room with her son. Ernest left his mother’s side and climbed into Rowland’s lap. “Will you draw me another picture of Fred?”
“Please, Uncle Rowly,” his mother corrected.
Rowland sat up. “If you’d like…or I could show you how you can draw Fred.”
Ernest looked at him as he considered the proposal. “No, I’d rather you did it.”
Rowland smiled. “He’s a Sinclair already, then,” he said, taking out his notebook once again. He found a clean page and drew Fred from memory. Ernest watched every stroke carefully. Rowland glanced at him, and added a small boy astride the horse. He tore the page out and Ernest ran to show it to his mother.
“You know, you really are very talented, Rowly.” Kate looked closely at the sketch. “Why don’t we have any of your work here? We really should. Would you paint something for us?”
Rowland suspected his sister-in-law was trying to make up for Lucy Bennett’s lack of enthusiasm. “Of course.”
“Perhaps you could paint the billabong,” Kate continued. “It’s the prettiest part of Oaklea. Of course the arboretum is best in the autumn, but even now it’s lovely.”
“I’ve been told I don’t paint trees very well.” He looked at her intently. “But why don’t I paint you, Kate? You could sit for me…you’re a lot prettier than Lucy anyway.”
Kate coloured. “Me…Really…? I don’t know…What do you think, Wil?”
Wilfred looked dubiously at Rowland. “I agree—you’re much prettier than Lucy.”
Kate gazed so adoringly at her husband that Rowland began to feel quite uncomfortable.
“Excuse me for just a minute,” she said picking up her son. “I’ll just put Ernie down for a nap.” She hurried out of the drawing room, still blushing.
Rowland watched her go, amused. “You need to compliment that girl more often, Wil. That one surprised her so much she had to leave the room.”
Wilfred’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “What are you playing at Rowly? I’ve seen what you call a painting!”
Rowland faltered, surprised, but only for a moment, and then he laughed. “For the love of God, Wil, she’s your wife! She can keep her clothes on.”
Chapter Nine
What Shall We Do
With Communists?
CANBERRA, Wednesday
…Of course we all believe in free speech—with certain limitations. A man may be free to advocate the adoption of any system, whether Communistic or anti-Communistic. But this freedom should not extend to advocacy of revolution. Let the Russian people enjoy their own methods—if they can. That is their affair. But when they send emissaries into other countries to sow the seeds of revolt, the people so attacked are surely justified in defending their own liberties. They are not exceeding their rights when they deport foreign disruptionists or declare an organisation which teaches revolution an unlawful association. They are merely acting in self-defence.
The aim of Communism is to break up and destroy the “capitalist” state. With this object, religion is attacked and derided, children are taught subversive doctrine, strikes are encouraged and industry is held up, basher gangs are organised or assisted, the police are assaulted, and trouble is fomented in every way.
The Canberra Times, December 17, 1931
Rowland was trying to coax his sister-in-law to relax. “Just be comfortable, Kate. I’ll work out the rest.”
Kate Sinclair shifted, but returned to her stiff, tense pose. Rowland stepped away from his easel and sat in the armchair opposite her.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, opening his notebook. “I’ll do some quick sketches first. It’ll let me work out the best angles and you can get used to me looking at you…all right?”
Kate gave a tiny nod, trying hard to move her head as little as possible.
“You don’t have to sit still for this part…” He tried to distract her from his scrutiny. “Tell me, what’s this meeting of Wil’s all about?”
Having established there’d be no nudity, Wilfred had become quite a proponent of the portrait. It was he who had suggested that they start right away, that same evening. He’d been quite insistent about it, as he had a meeting and could not entertain his brother.
“I don’t need to be entertained,” Rowland had protested. “Don’t you need me to be at this meeting, too?”
Wilfred usually took the rare opportunities of Rowland’s visits to drag him through various items of family business, to sign documents, meet with solicitors, and the like. This time, however, he was adamant that Rowland was not required, a shift which piqued the younger man’s interest.
Wilfred’s meeting was to be conducted at Oaklea in the library. He directed Rowland to use one of the sunrooms at the back of the house for the sitting, ostensibly to avoid the artistic process being disturbed by visitors. Rowland was reluctant to start work without natural light, but Wilfred was determined he should spend the evening that way. Eventually, Rowland conceded, allowing himself to be banished, with Kate, to a room as far from the library as possible. He was certain there was more to the arrangement than Wilfred would admit. All of which intrigued him even more.
“I don’t really know,” Kate replied. “Something to do with politics, I expect.”
“So why was Wil so determined that I stay out of sight? You’d think he was ashamed of me.”
Kate missed his attempt at humour and was at pains to assure him otherwise. “Oh, no, Rowly, I’m sure he’s not. He’s always this way about his meetings. Even the servants aren’t allowed near the library while his guests are here.”
“Who is he meeting with?” Rowland scribbled quickly now that she had relaxed. Ernest, who had been playing on the floor by his mother’s feet, came to stand by him and watch.
“I don’t know.” Kate beckoned her son to come over to her. He climbed into her lap. “Wil d
oesn’t talk to me about them at all.”
“What makes you think it’s politics then? Wil isn’t standing for office is he?”
“Oh, no.” Kate stroked Ernest’s dark curls as he climbed into her lap and lay drowsily in her arms. “He’s far too busy for that. It’s just that he’s always so agitated after these meetings. Wil’s very concerned about the Communists, you know.”
Rowland sketched Kate with Ernest asleep in her embrace. He liked the gentle composition, the natural tenderness in her face. Already he knew that this was how he would paint her. “So, what is Wilfred planning to do about them? The Communists, I mean.” He spoke with a smile, not really expecting an answer. Raging against the Communists had become something of a populist pastime among the armchair armies.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Kate said quietly. “But I know he’s doing something. Wilfred wouldn’t let us be unprotected…Your brother’s an amazing man, Rowly. I know he seems stern at times, but that’s just because he’s making sure we’re all safe.”
Rowland started pencilling a closer study of her face. He liked the expression in her eyes when she spoke of her husband. He hadn’t really expected to find Kate such an interesting model. He was also becoming more and more curious about this meeting of Wilfred’s.
“You know, he worries terribly about you,” Kate continued, a little hesitantly.
“Really, why?”
“He says you don’t understand the way these people work. He believes you’re too trusting.” Her voice was almost a whisper now. “These people are clever—wicked, but clever.”
“Oh, Kate…” Rowland wasn’t sure what to tell her. She seemed genuinely frightened for him.
“Rowly, you must listen to Wil,” she said earnestly. “He knows about these things.”
“Uh huh…” Rowland concentrated on shading his nephew’s sleeping face. There was no point trying to persuade Kate that her husband might be overreacting. She was obviously convinced that Wilfred Sinclair was all that stood between them and the Red Army.
A Few Right Thinking Men Page 8
