A Few Right Thinking Men

by Sulari Gentill

  “Unhand him, Kate—no man likes to be groomed in public”

  “Rowly, isn’t this exciting?” she said. “Did Wil tell you he was marching? Colonel Bruxner’s been so kind to invite us to stand with him. It’s so wonderful that you’re with us, too. What an historic day…”

  Rowland helped Kate into the Rolls while she enthused. Johnston drove them to The Rocks and they went the rest of the way on foot, slowly. It seemed like every man, woman, and child from the whole state, if not the country, had converged on Sydney. Rowland was glad Wilfred had asked him to accompany Kate and Ernest; navigating through the crowds today was no task for the faint-hearted. The streets were thick with people. Delighted, excited people, street jugglers hoping to make a few pennies, and vendors hawking memorabilia with pictures of the bridge. The route Rowland had expected to take was cordoned off for the movement of dignitaries and officials. He hoisted Ernest onto his shoulders for fear of losing him, while Kate clung to his arm. For what would normally have taken ten minutes, it was over an hour before they could take their places at the head of the bridge.

  “Rowland Sinclair.” Michael Bruxner, the new leader of the Country Party, their host for the day, shook his hand. “Good to see you. But I thought Wilfred said you were abroad?”

  “Just returned,” Rowland lied. “Wouldn’t miss this for quids. And let me introduce…”

  “Kate, and young Ernest. So good to see you both again.”

  Their situation afforded an excellent view of the proceedings. The official silk ribbon, which stretched from one side of the bridge to the other, was just a few yards in front of them, awaiting the Premier’s scissors. The man himself was nearby, talking to his colleagues in the government, standing a balding head above the height of most men. The press was out in force, well aware of Campbell’s threats to disrupt the ceremony. Rowland noted the Premier’s three-piece suit; the plan to bring him dressed as a beggar had obviously been foiled. Photographers and a Movietone News camera were positioned by the festooned dais. The New South Wales Police Force was present in large numbers. Rowland caught sight of both MacKay and Delaney standing unobtrusively, but close to the official parties. More dignitaries began to arrive, heralded in by marching bands and a flurry of flag waving.

  When the Governor-General, Sir Isaac Isaacs, was escorted in by the Royal New South Wales Lancers, Ernest tugged on Rowland’s jacket. “Can you draw the horses?”

  Rowland took out his notebook and obliged; he had in any case been itching to capture the pageantry. And because he was drawing, focussing on the details, he saw what everyone else was missing.

  A horse at the tail end of the mounted escort somehow seemed wrong. It was clearly no military charger. The chestnut gelding was too overweight for that. The rider, too, was out of place; though on first glance he blended with the others. His uniform was not quite right; it seemed too big for him. As the Governor-General’s escort approached the dais, closer to where Rowland’s party was standing, he saw that unlike the other Lancers, the odd rider’s sabre was tucked behind his belt rather than attached to his saddle. As the horseman’s face came into view, Rowland’s pencil lost momentum and dropped to the ground.

  It was Francis De Groot.

  Almost mesmerised, Rowland slipped his notebook back inside his jacket. Ernest tugged on his sleeve and handed him his pencil. “Can I see the picture?”

  “Sorry…here.” Rowland gave him the book, while his eyes searched for MacKay and Delaney. They were not far from De Groot, who had stopped his horse behind the Movietone camera stand, and they were looking right at him. Delaney had an expectant smile on his face. MacKay’s betrayed no emotion, though his hand was held in what Rowland guessed was a “hold firm” position at his waist. If it was a signal, it was a subtle one.

  The State Governor Sir Phillip Game opened the official proceedings with a message of congratulations from King George V. Rowland removed his hat for the national anthem and then Lang made his speech. The Premier stepped from the dais to cut the ribbon.

  Rowland’s eyes were fixed on De Groot, who was now inching his mount through the police lines. The constabulary moved out of the way to avoid his horse, but did nothing to stop his progress. Without realising he was doing so, Rowland stepped forward, toward the advancing steed. De Groot reached the ribbon before Lang and spurred his horse forward. The animal baulked at the crowd and reared. De Groot drew his sabre and attacked the ribbon valiantly with two upward cuts. The crowd gasped as one, women screamed, but the ribbon was unharmed. Undeterred, De Groot dropped his reins, seized the ribbon and started sawing through it. Eventually the silk gave way, and turning to face the cameras, he held his sabre aloft in elated triumph. “I declare this bridge open, in the name of the decent and respectable citizens of New South Wales!”

  It was only then the police surged toward him.

  “You can’t touch me. I’m wearing the King’s uniform!” De Groot shouted at the clamouring officers.

  At that moment, MacKay entered the fray, grabbing De Groot by the heel and propelling him bodily out of the saddle. With his other foot caught in its stirrup, De Groot remained half-suspended, hopping on a single leg. His horse began to panic. But with the police officers focussed on trying to free him from the stirrup, the horse’s distress was missed. Afraid the animal may bolt and drag De Groot through the crowd, Rowland jumped out, grabbed the dangling reins and tried to calm the beast.

  He was there for less than a minute before MacKay took the reins from him, but it was time enough for De Groot to recognise him, and to hear the Superintendent say, “Well done, Sinclair!”

  As De Groot was bustled away, the crowd cheered, though Rowland was unsure as to whether it was for De Groot or for his exit. The violated ribbon was re-tied and Lang cut it, this time in a fashion more sedate, though somewhat more efficient than that of De Groot.

  Delaney approached Rowland. “Glad to see you got a good spot, Sinclair,” he said. “Quite a show.”

  “It was rather…though it looks like my cover’s blown.”

  “Probably,” Delaney agreed. “De Groot won’t be telling tales for a while, though; MacKay’s going to have him committed.” He laughed. “Campbell will have his hands full, trying to get his Irish mate out of a straitjacket!” He looked at Rowland, his face suddenly pensive. “You’ll need to be even more careful now, Sinclair. Dynon’s dangerous and there were Guardsmen in the crowd. I’ll organise a detail for your house tomorrow.”

  Rowland shrugged. In the bright light of day, among the crowds, the Legion seemed more silly than threatening.

  The pageant parade which followed the official opening was over a mile in length, a vast cavalcade of floats and bands and marching groups. Rowland lifted Ernest onto his shoulders as Wilfred’s regiment passed, so the boy could see his father as the war hero he was. Once the pageant had crossed the bridge, the public followed, and Rowland walked with his sister-in-law and nephew across the length of the deck. At the other end, they met Wilfred as arranged and enjoyed Colonel Bruxner’s hospitality for lunch, an elaborate sit-down affair in a marquee on the harbour foreshore.

  It was past six when Rowland finally parted company with his brother’s young family. It took him well over an hour to battle the traffic and so he returned to Woodlands House long after the others had left for the Carnival Ball. He showered quickly and struggled into the eighteenth-century costume that Edna had left for him. He checked his reflection before donning the mask. He might have felt silly, but only a day ago he was wearing a black hood and robes and waving a playing card around—it was all relative.

  Johnston drove Rowland to the ball before he, too, went to some opening celebration. The foreshore had been decked out with lanterns and decorated tables, transforming the area into a magical glittering setting. Hundreds of softly lit boats floated nearby, creating an ethereal backdrop for the masquerade.

  Despite appe
arances, this was not a party hosted and funded by the wealthy, but by the arts community. The decoration, the costumes, and the atmosphere had been conjured by the resourceful talents of artists, poets, and performers and a few of their benefactors, who had united to celebrate the opening in a style that defied the economic times.

  Rowland felt easy here, not just for the fact that everybody present was as ludicrioiusly dressed as he, though it helped. Milton had been custodian of the tickets, but Rowland was recognised and waved through. The party area was not enormous, but as he tried to find his friends, he encountered many people he knew, who were already well-lubricated and all keen to discuss De Groot’s display. When he reached Edna, he’d found a glass himself. She and Clyde were on the dance floor.

  “Rowly!” Clyde shouted when he saw him. “For God’s sake, cut in.”

  Rowland obliged. “Where’s Milt?” He took the sculptress in his arms.

  “He went back to get the tickets,” Edna replied. “He left them behind…they let us in anyway, but he’d already gone.”

  “I must have just missed him,” Rowland said as he and Edna cut across the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Get Out of the Way

  Hitler to Hindenburg

  BERLIN, Wednesday

  Addressing 70,000 followers by means of loud speakers, Hitler deplored the loss of the pre-war system of government, which had made Germany the world’s greatest nation. The post-war system had destroyed everything.

  He honoured President Hindenburg as a field marshall, but was now compelled to say: “Worthy old man that you are, get out of my way.”

  The Canberra Times, March 20, 1932

  It was Edna who first thought to be concerned by Milton’s prolonged absence. Both Rowland and Clyde were initially inclined to believe he’d simply become distracted, as Milton was often.

  “Where could he go, dressed like that?” Edna argued. Milton had been gone three hours.

  “I’ll go back and find him,” Rowland volunteered.

  Clyde drained his glass. “We might as well call it a night and come with you. Otherwise, Ed’s only going to start worrying about you five minutes after you go.”

  When they got to Woodlands House, it looked deserted. The staff had all been given the day off for the bridge opening. Wilfred would probably have kept at least one person on duty, but Rowland tended to be more relaxed in the management of his servants.

  Clyde unlocked the door. “Milt! Where the dickens are you?” There was no response.

  They made a quick search of the house, and found the tickets to the Carnival Ball still on the sideboard. It seemed Milton had not made it back at all.

  Lenin was barking incessantly out the back—Milton never left him outside. Rowland walked out to the rear verandah and called out to the dog. Lenin continued to bark. Though it was late, there was enough moonlight for Rowland to make out the hound at the farthest end of the hedgerow. Obviously the neighbours were all out enjoying the festivities, or else the din would have brought complaints by now.

  He called again, but it made no difference. “Clyde, grab a torch and get out here!” Rowland was suddenly suspicious.

  Clyde emerged with torch in hand. “What’s wrong with the dog?”

  “Let’s find out,” Rowland glanced back at the sculptress as she came out onto the veranda. “Ed you stay here.”

  She nodded, too worried to quarrel.

  Rowland and Clyde moved quickly toward Lenin. As they neared, the dog came to them, but he kept barking. Clyde scanned the torch beam across the hedges and garden beds.

  And then they heard it. A groan. “Aah! Shut up you useless bloody mongrel!”

  Clyde moved the beam toward the voice. Milton lay facedown on the ground, almost completely obscured by English box and dahlias.

  “Milt, are you all right, mate?” They turned him over gently, tentatively.

  Slowly, Milton sat up. “Bastards jumped me.” Gingerly, he wiped his bleeding lip.

  “Come on, we’ll get you back to the house.” Rowland put his arm around Milton’s back and helped him stand. They took him in through the French doors. Once in the light, they could see the shocking state of the poet.

  “Clyde, send for a doctor,” Rowland said grimly. Edna ran to fetch a basin of water and cloths from the kitchen.

  “Lock the doors,” Milton closed his swollen eyes.

  “Why?

  “They might come back.” Rowland bolted both doors.

  “Stop looking at me like that!” Milton grimaced as tried to sit up. “I’ve had plenty of fat lips and bloody noses before this.”

  “Milt, your forehead…” Edna put down the basin.

  Milton put his hand to his brow. “Oh that…queer bastards held me down and painted something on my face.”

  Clyde came back in. “The doctor will be here in…” He stopped mid-sentence, then swore. He stepped forward and peered at the poet’s forehead and swore again.

  “What!” said Milton. “What the hell is the problem?”

  The poet’s forehead was blazoned with the word “Red” in purplish black letters. They told him.

  Milton was not particularly concerned. “Bloody gutless,” he muttered. He grabbed a wet cloth from Edna and wiped it across his face. The cloth took off nothing but blood. The word “Red” remained.

  Now Rowland started to curse. He knew what this was, so did Clyde and Edna. As artists, they had worked with photography. They recognised the effect of the developing chemical that turned the skin purplish-black on contact. Milton had been effectively branded.

  “What?” demanded Milton again.

  “The bastards have used silver nitrate, Milt. It’s not going to come off.”

  Milton was silent. Edna sat next to him, stroking his arm. Clyde poured him a large brandy and put the glass into his friend’s hands. “What happened?”

  “Rowly’s Legion mates,” he said finally. “They jumped me as I got back to the house—they were on the verandah.” He looked at Rowland. “They thought I was Rowland Sinclair.”

  “Me? Why didn’t you tell them?” Rowland felt sick.

  “I didn’t know whether you’d already come back,” Milton replied. “I thought you could turn up any moment. They did this to me just because to them I was Rowland Sinclair. Hell, if they knew you were also Clyde Watson Jones…” He shook his head.

  “They thought they were attacking Rowly?” Edna’s sympathies were now for both men. She could almost feel Rowland’s horror, and guilt, over the beating Milton had taken for him.

  “I’m afraid they know I’m not you now.” Milton gulped his brandy, sputtering a little as it went down. “After they did this,” he touched his forehead, “another couple of cars pulled up and more hooded idiots piled out. One of them took a look at me and started screaming they’d got the wrong man again.”

  “He recognised you?” Clyde asked.

  “He recognised that I wasn’t Rowly.”

  Rowland spoke, stricken. “Again? He said ‘they’d got the wrong man…again’?”

  Milton nodded.

  Rowland rubbed his face in his hands, “God, Milt, I am so sorry.”

  Milton looked at him. “None of this is down to you, mate. Not this, nor your old uncle.”

  “They killed your uncle because they got the wrong Rowland Sinclair?” Edna was aghast.

  “I doubt they meant to kill him, Ed…just teach him a lesson.” Milton’s concern furrowed the brand on his forehead. Rowland had always been slow to anger, but he was truly livid now. The poet could see it in his eyes—it worried him.

  “But why?” Edna asked. “You hadn’t done anything.”

  Rowland stood. “I’ll just go ask Campbell, shall I?” The ice in his voice chilled the entire room. “I’m going to change into something more sui
table for visiting. Clyde, would you call the police?”

  Edna picked up the voluminous skirt of her costume and followed him out.

  “Where are you going?” Clyde asked her.

  “I’ll get changed and go with him,” she replied. “Rowly won’t do anything stupid if I’m with him. You look after Milt, and call the police.”

  “Well, maybe I should come…”

  “No, Clyde.” Edna was adamant. “Rowly needs someone to calm him down now, not another set of fists to help him get into real trouble. These men are dangerous—they’ve already killed one man and attacked Milt, just to get to Rowly.”

  “Let her go, Clyde,” said Milton, shifting himself painfully on the couch. “Rowly might listen to her.”

  It took neither Rowland Sinclair nor Edna Higgins long to change. They argued for a while. Rowland did not want her to come, but she wouldn’t give him any option. With Clyde and Milton backing her up, Rowland relented. He wasn’t really sure what he planned to do, anyway. He wanted to shout at Campbell—to tell him what his insane followers had done. He wanted to hunt down Henry Alcott and break his neck.

  They left just as the doctor arrived to see Milton. Edna whispered to Clyde as she walked out, “Call Wilfred.”

  Rowland had barely driven out of the gate when Edna started to harass him to leave it to the police. On some level, he knew she was right. Still, for the most part, he ignored her. He hardly noticed this first time to drive his car over the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  “Rowly, you can’t just barge in and attack Campbell,” Edna pressed, wondering if he was even listening.

  “I’m not going to do that Ed,” he said, smiling faintly. “The man carries a gun.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He showed me—he’s quite proud of it.”

  “Then what are we doing, Rowly?”

  “I just want him to know, Ed. To know. He’s so bloody convinced he’s right; he doesn’t care what he’s unleashed. These men—Alcott, Poynton, De Groot—they all talk about him like he’s God. They do all this in his name. I want the names of the men who killed Uncle Rowland and attacked Milt, but frankly he’s as guilty as they are!”