Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  Quietly, Clyde took Edna onto the dance floor, so that Rowland would not be forced to introduce her. Jeffs was not someone any of them wanted to know, but it would be dangerous to snub him.

  “Enjoyin’ yerself, Sinclair? Top joint, don’t yer think?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of acquirin’ the place. Cater to a better class of criminal.” He laughed loudly, slapping Rowland on the back in acknowledgement of a shared joke.

  “It certainly looks as though it could be a good investment, Mr. Jeffs.”

  Jeffs waved at a table on the other end of the room. A stout woman, wearing a fur and enough jewels to be noticeable from across the dance floor, waved back. She sat beside a barrel-chested man in a dark suit. “I met Tilly and Jim ’ere for a drink to check the place out,” Jeffs said. “Come on, Sinclair, I’ll introduce yer…never met a gentleman who didn’t have need of Tilly’s services from time t’ time.”

  “I’m afraid I have a meeting myself,” Rowland said hastily. He already knew more underworld figures than he cared to without adding Tilly Devine, the notorious madam, and her thug of a husband to the list.

  “Come on, Sinclair,” Jeffs cajoled. “I’m certain Tilly’ll take a real shine to yer.”

  Rowland glanced at his watch. “Regrettably, Mr. Jeffs, I really must leave it till another time.”

  Jeffs’ tone hardened. “Tilly might be offended…She’s a lady, yer know…”

  “Rowly!” Milton strode up to stand beside him. “We’re going to be late.” He nodded at Jeffs. “Hello, Phil. You don’t mind if I drag Rowly off, do you? We’ve got a prior.”

  Jeffs considered them both icily. Rowland kept his eyes on the gangster’s hands. He’d had personal experience of how suddenly Jeffs’ hands could move for a concealed razor, how quickly that razor could end up pressed against your face.

  Then Jeffs seemed to accept that he was not being slighted.

  His face relaxed. “Another time, Sinclair. Next time yer come, tell the blokes at the door that yer a friend of The Jew…I’ll own the joint by then.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Jeffs.”

  The 400 Club offered discreet dining rooms for patrons who required privacy. It was in one of these opulently decorated rooms that the residents of Woodlands House first met Sir Charles Kingsford Smith.

  It was difficult to tell whether it was the airman’s person or reputation which cut such a dashing figure. Both were larger than life. Even his voice seemed loud.

  “Sir Charles,” Rowland said, offering his hand as Hardy introduced them. “It’s an honour, sir.”

  “You can drop the ‘sir’…it’s Smithy.” Kingsford Smith looked piercingly at Rowland. His expression was not necessarily warm.

  Rowland had been prepared for this. Eric Campbell was Kingsford Smith’s solicitor, perhaps his friend. The airman was a member of Campbell’s New Guard and rumour had it that Rowland Sinclair had attempted to assassinate its Commander. Of course, that was not quite true, but then the truth would probably not endear him to Kingsford Smith, either.

  Indeed, if it had not been for the fact that Kingsford Smith was once again on the verge of bankruptcy, and that he was desperate to prove the viability of an aerial mail route between England and Australia, he almost certainly would not have considered Hardy’s proposition. Even so, it was essential that they keep the true reason for the journey from him.

  Kingsford Smith led with a jibe, an undisguised challenge. “You have a rather interesting reputation, Sinclair.”

  Rowland’s face was unreadable, but there was nothing in his voice that sounded like any sort of retreat. “I might. I don’t pay a lot of attention.”

  “Why not?”

  Hardy muttered something about drinks, keen to diffuse the tension.

  Rowland shrugged. “Reputations are easily lost—there’s not a lot one can do about what people choose to believe. I take a man as I find him.”

  Kingsford Smith stared as the words hit their mark. The airman’s own reputation had been all but destroyed for a time—probably quite unjustly—by what had become known as the Coffee Royal Affair. Rescuers had died in what the media had labelled a publicity stunt staged by Smithy and his co-pilot. The public had turned against the pair almost overnight and Kingsford Smith had gone from Australian hero to the worst kind of scoundrel.

  “Fair enough, Sinclair.” The airman nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s you and me start with a clean slate, then.”

  “I would appreciate that, sir…Smithy.”

  And so, over exorbitantly expensive and illegal drinks, they became acquainted. Smithy, as he insisted they all address him, was gregarious, a booming optimist with ready tales of death-defying courage.

  “Once you fly, you’ll never be happy with the ground again,” he promised them.

  Hardy looked dubious. “Never took to it myself…a few too many near-misses,” he muttered, his lips pressed around the mouthpiece of a cold pipe. Having been gassed in the war, Hardy was unable to smoke but clearly he had adopted the pipe as some kind of oral habit.

  Rowland watched quietly while his friends regaled the legendary airman with questions. Kingsford Smith was exuberant, reassuring in his confidence that man was meant to fly.

  Although he was as fascinated by the famous aviator as the others, Rowland held back a little, observing Kingsford Smith. His fingers itched to extract the leather-bound artist’s notebook from his jacket and draw the man, capture the animation of the large face made familiar through the front pages of every newspaper in the country…the easy smile, the weathered brow, the slightly mad glint in his eye as he talked of flight.

  “How long will it take us to reach Germany?” Edna asked.

  “Well, considering this a passenger flight,” Kingsford Smith replied, “I’d say about fourteen days.” He winked at Edna. “If it was just me and the boys we’d be able to do it much faster, but I wouldn’t expect a lady to put up with the inconveniences and indignities of a long-distance flight…so we’ll hop.”

  Rowland heard this with relief. He wasn’t that keen on inconveniences and indignities himself.

  “Fourteen days!” Edna was incredulous. “All the way across the world in fourteen days. Why, that’s unbelievable!”

  “Of course, the Old Bus is rather less comfortable than a liner.” Kingsford Smith grinned proudly, nevertheless. “But she certainly doesn’t dilly-dally.”

  With the passing of time and the consumption of liquor, the gathering became quite festive. Milton began to speak of their intended “expedition” in terms that were almost Homeric. Rowland laughed and Clyde snorted, but Kingsford Smith matched the poet’s hyperbole, and one may have been forgiven for thinking that Rowland Sinclair and his friends were setting out to discover the New World.

  Even Senator Charles Hardy seemed to relax, exchanging war stories and comparing tattoos with Kingsford Smith.

  “A toast—we should have a toast,” Hardy announced, rising a little unsteadily to his feet.

  “Allow me,” Milton insisted, pushing the Senator down as he stood.

  “Here we go,” Clyde murmured.

  Milton raised his glass to Kingsford Smith and delivered the tribute with the deep sincerity of a slightly inebriated man. “Better than all treasures, that in books are found, thy skill to poet were,”—at this point he bowed slightly—“Thou scorner of the ground!”

  The aviator was visibly moved. “You, sir, have a gift!” He turned to Rowland to support the sentiment. “Have you ever known anyone to put a thought so well as this very, very insightful gentleman?”

  Rowland lifted his glass. “Only Shelley, perhaps.”

  Chapter Four

  AIR MAIL

  AUSTRALIA AND ENGLAND

  ANOTHER COMPANY

  Australian National Airways, Limited, is in the process of
voluntary liquidation. Mr. C. T. P. Ulm, joint managing director with Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, stated last night that a new company was being formed, to be known as British International Airlines, Limited.

  This company, he said, would have for its immediate object the tendering for Government air service contracts, and, particularly, for the section of the Australia-England service between Darwin and Singapore.

  Mr. Ulm stated that, on commercial routes, triple-engined aeroplanes should be used. The company would tender for the new service with triple-engined planes, which would be such that they would be able to fly with safety with one engine out of action.

  Mr. Ulm also stated that the new company would be wholly Australian, employing Australian capital and Australian administrators, pilots, and mechanics. He hoped that it would be possible to construct most of the equipment in Australia.

  —The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

  Rowland could not take his eyes off her. He knew he was staring like some love-struck fool but it was beyond his control.

  Milton nudged him. “Rowly, mate, you’re leering. It’s unseemly.”

  “Bloody hell…she’s gorgeous, Milt.”

  “Surely you’ve seen her before.” Milton laughed.

  “Not up close,” Rowland murmured. “She’s magnificent…crying shame we can’t tell anyone.”

  The Southern Cross waited before them on the runway. The Fokker F.VII had appeared so often in the newspapers that the cigar-shaped fuselage and massive wingspan were familiar to most Australians, but newsprint failed to show the true blue-and-white paintwork. In colour, the celebrated plane seemed to be a part of the nation’s standard, a flagship of Australian identity and pride.

  They would be taking off after dark. The Old Guard was operating with its customary secrecy. Two dozen motor cars stood ready to light the runway with their headlamps. Among them was Wilfred’s dark green Rolls-Royce Continental.

  At some point in the last couple of days, Wilfred had come to a grudging acceptance that his brother would go to Germany in his stead. He remained furious and Rowland was in no doubt that Hardy would learn what it meant to cross Wilfred Sinclair.

  Hardy had, through channels which may or may not have been official, obtained all the papers and passports they would require. Rowland was, if truth be told, intrigued by the flamboyant Senator. Officially, Hardy did seem to be involved with intelligence and national security, though his role was vague, and might well have been a manifestation of his patriotic fervour. That he was now aligned with the Old Guard was not surprising. The Riverina Movement, which had hailed him as their anointed, had lost a lot of its zeal once the controversial premier, Jack Lang, had been removed from office. The Old Guard had probably welcomed the popular Senator as one of their own, a right-thinking man…but Rowland wondered if a man of Hardy’s past fame could resign himself to being a mere foot soldier in the clandestine army of the establishment.

  At Rowland’s suggestion, it was decided that they would pose as art dealers. Art was a language they could all speak. Rowland’s documents named him as Robert John Negus of Melbourne. Milton, with his hair cropped short, and divested of his recently cultivated Leninesque goatee, was taking the name of Albert Greenway; and Edna had been allocated the part of his sister, Millicent. It was an extra precaution. Edna’s auburn hair and green eyes would belie whatever hint of Jewish heritage existed in Milton’s features. Clyde had been given the documents of a Sydney art collector named Joseph Aloysius Ryan. And so they were disguised, on paper at least.

  “Perhaps you should go talk to her, mate.” Milton nodded towards the smartly dressed blonde in a white stole who stood by one of the motor cars. “She looks a bit glum.”

  Rowland groaned. He wasn’t entirely sure why Lucy Bennett was there at all, let alone looking as though she was sending her sweetheart to war. “I don’t want to encourage her,” he muttered.

  “What on Earth is she doing here?”

  “My sister-in-law, Kate,” Rowland replied tightly, “seems to have given Miss Bennett the impression that I am an appropriate catch, and that persistence will win the day.”

  Milton laughed. “It might be the only time anyone considers you appropriate, Rowly. She appears to be waving at you.”

  Rowland looked and saw that, indeed, she was. She increased the vigour of her wave as she noticed him turn. Rowland sighed. Continuing to ignore Lucy Bennett would be difficult, not to mention impolite. He set his face and walked briskly over to attend to the demands of courtesy.

  Lucy was not alone. By her side was an elderly gentleman who bore himself with a military rigidity. Rowland had met the man before in his brother’s company.

  “Miss Bennett, what an unexpected pleasure. Colonel Bennett, how do you do, sir?”

  Morris Bennett beamed and slapped him on the back. “Well, son, are you ready?” He nodded towards Lucy. “I’m afraid Lucy would not stop weeping and carrying on until I allowed her to come along…not really protocol, but, all things considered, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Pater!” Lucy gasped.

  Rowland glanced at her. A mortified blush was spreading upwards from her neck. He felt a bit sorry for her.

  “How I envied your father his sons,” Morris Bennett continued, ignoring his daughter. “The good Lord saw fit to bless me with four girls. Four!” He looked at the sky resentfully. “And each one sillier than the last!”

  Lucy Bennett looked like she might cry.

  “Believe me, Colonel Bennett, my father wasn’t always so pleased with his sons,” Rowland said, smiling briefly at Lucy.

  She burst into tears. It took him by surprise. For a moment he just stared at her.

  “Come now, Lucy, pull yourself together, old girl,” Bennett said irritably. “I’m afraid Lucy seems to have formed quite an attachment to you, Sinclair. Lucy! That’s enough now!”

  Silently, Rowland handed Lucy Bennett his handkerchief, wondering how on Earth she could have formed such an attachment. He hadn’t seen her in months and even then he had paid her only the minimum attention that good manners would allow. She began to cry quite desperately now.

  Bennett rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we should go and sit in the car.” He shook Rowland’s hand. “Well, son, good luck.” He looked at his sobbing daughter and shook his head. “When you get back, you best come and see me, and we can sort out the formalities.”

  “Formalities?”

  “Come on then, Lucy.” Bennett shuffled her away firmly. “You’re making rather a spectacle of yourself, my girl….”

  Rowland stared after them. Lucy gave him a teary wave as she climbed into the backseat of her father’s Armstrong Siddeley.

  Responding with only the barest of nods, Rowland wondered uncomfortably what she was expecting, and, suspiciously, how exactly those expectations were created. He might have thought to clarify the matter with her then and there, if Wilfred had not beckoned him over.

  “I say, Wil, what exactly has your wife been telling the Bennett girl?” Rowland demanded, accusingly.

  “Who?…Oh…Lucy. For pity’s sake, Rowly, now is not the time to worry about courting.” Wilfred handed his brother an envelope. “A copy of the letter I have already sent to the Deutsche Bank in Munich. It will allow you to access whatever funds you may require.”

  “Hardy’s already taken care of…”

  “Yes, I’m sure he has. You need to watch your back, Rowly…If things go wrong, Hardy will make sure there’s nothing to connect you and your friends to the Old Guard. If you need it, the funds are there.”

  Rowland slipped the envelope into his breast pocket. “If things get awkward, we’ll leave, Wil.”

  “See that you do.” Wilfred glanced at the Old Guard motorcade waiting to light the runway and lowered his voice. “Rowly, there has been a suggestion that Peter Bothwell was betrayed by someone within our r
anks.” He frowned, shaking his head. “It’s probably just loose speculation…there’s no reason to believe Peter’s death was not the accident it seemed…but you watch your back.”

  Rowland nodded. He wondered about Bothwell, grazier-cum-spy. “Did you know the poor blighter, Wil?”

  “Yes, of course…He was a good man, excellent soldier.” He regarded Rowland with his traditional severity. “Don’t you get cocky, Rowly. Peter spoke German, and he served in the Special Forces during the war. He was no wide-eyed novice.”

  “I’ll be all right, Wil. I’ll be careful.”

  Wilfred sighed. “Ernie’s in the car…I thought he might like to see you off. Don’t tell him where you’re going.”

  Rowland smiled. His brother’s elder son missed nothing. The six-year-old quite possibly already knew exactly where his uncle was going and why. “I won’t tell him.”

  Ernest Sinclair was understandably excited by the goings-on. He offered Rowland his hand like a gentleman, though he jumped up and down on the spot as his uncle shook it. He pulled Rowland down and whispered in his ear. “That’s the Southern Cross, Uncle Rowly.”

  “I believe it is, Ernie.”

  “Are you trying to break a record?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “We’re just going on a little holiday. You’ll look after Lenin for me, won’t you?”

  “Of course…But you’ve just got back from holiday. Isn’t it time you settled down, Uncle Rowly?”

  Rowland glanced at Wilfred, who tried to restrain a smile. “I’ll think about it, Ernie.”

  The wicker armchair creaked as Rowland sat down. It had been bolted to the floor of the Southern Cross, as had three others, in preparation for the passengers who would make this trip. The Fokker F.VII was a long-distance craft. While she had been designed to carry up to a dozen passengers, under Kingsford Smith’s stewardship, she had been pushing the edges of aerial endurance and speed. Her interiors were a little rudimentary.