“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.
“How often does Wil have these meetings?”
“It’s hard to say, more often lately… Rowly”—Kate changed the subject—“what do you think of the changes?”
“Changes?”
“To the house. Wil says I must do whatever I want, but it’s difficult to know what’s right. I don’t want to upset anyone.”
“Kate, you’re Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair.” He felt a little sorry for her. Kate’s family hailed from Glen Innes in the north—he was only now starting to understand that she must be feeling somewhat alone on the property. “This is your house. Paint it pink if you want. For the record, I think your remodelling looks smashing.”
“Sometimes I suspect your mother…”
“My mother is living in 1913.” Rowland was firm. “Try not to let her upset you.”
“Oh, she doesn’t. She’s very kind, really,” Kate said quickly.
Rowland knew his mother was polite and softly spoken, but she was formidable, even now. She did not always remember that there had been a changing of the guard, that she was no longer the mistress of Oaklea. “In a couple of years, Ernie will be at school and you can spend more time in the city,” he offered as consolation, despite her assurances that his mother was kind.
Mrs. Kendall stepped into the room, whispering so as not to wake the boy. “Shall I take Master Ernest up to bed now, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Yes, I think so.” Kate kissed Ernest’s head. “I might come up with you…” She glanced apologetically at Rowland. “He likes me to sing to him if he wakes up.”
“You go ahead,” he replied. “I’ve got everything I need for tonight… I’m going read for a bit and turn in myself.”
Mrs. Kendall took Ernest from Kate’s arms. “It seems only yesterday I was carrying Mr. Rowland up to bed.”
“What are you reading?” Kate turned as they walked out of the door.
Rowland held up the dog-eared copy of Lawrence’s Kangaroo. “I’ve been trying to finish it for about a year,” he admitted.
“Is it dull?”
“No…just a little farfetched.”
Rowland waited until he heard their footsteps fade on the staircase. He slipped his notebook into the pocket of his trousers. The night had not cooled the stifling heat, and once again his jacket lay discarded on the back of an armchair. He left it there and padded quietly down the long hallway toward the library.
He saw that the door to the library was shut and two men stood outside. Rowland was baffled. Why would Wilfred feel the need to post guards in his own house? Now he was determined to find out who was cloistered inside the room.
He retraced his steps, then climbed out of the large open window onto the verandah. The library was on the south side of the house where there was no verandah. Rowland did remember, however, that there was an old oak tree right outside the window. His father had always thought it too close to the house, but his mother had refused to allow its removal as its shade kept the library cool. Dark, but cool.
Rowland cut across the lawn toward the tree, slipping unnoticed past the limousines and saloons parked in the driveway with their waiting chauffeurs chatting amongst themselves. The oak’s branches were pendulous away from the house, but on the other side, had grown up against the wall. The trunk was only a few feet from the library window, which had been opened to catch any breeze. He could see why his father had wanted to remove the oak—it was an absurd place to plant a tree that would grow so large.
Rowland looked up and decided on his path through the branches. He had often climbed this tree as a child, but both he and it had grown since then. He hoisted himself up slowly and silently. He could already hear the murmur of voices just a few feet above his head. The canopy was dense—he would be able to get right up to the window without detection.
He smiled, feeling ridiculous. Somehow he had regressed to his eight-year-old self, stalking his older brothers in the hope he’d be included in whatever they were doing.
Rowland shimmied along a branch as close as he dared to the window. It creaked somewhat, but he was pretty sure it would hold his weight. He stopped just a couple of feet from the opening where he could see and hear what was going on inside.
The library was crowded with at least a dozen men. A dozen dark suits in a haze of cigarette and pipe smoke. Rowland didn’t recognise anyone except his brother, but that was not surprising. He and Wilfred had moved in different circles for several years now. A tall, slim man with a military moustache was formally chairing the meeting. His manner was measured and purposive, with an obvious air of authority. Rowland heard one of the other men call him Roger. Wilfred sat to his right. It seemed Kate was correct that the meeting was about politics. The conversation concerned the impending Federal election. Rowland was a little disappointed.
Carefully, he pulled out his notebook, and with the pencil he kept sheathed in its spine, he began to draw the faces of those gathered in the library.
For some minutes, he was engrossed—concentrating in the dim light and because he was hanging in a tree—but then he caught something that made his pencil stop. The speaker was a heavy-faced man in a tweed jacket that stretched to button over his portly torso. Rowland had already captured his face in full round lines.
“We have received further confidential intelligence from the Victorian organisation that the time is nearly at hand for the Communists to initiate their final effort. As reported earlier, they mean to act on one of two plans—a general strike or a coup d’état.”
Rowland listened in sceptical amazement as possible paths of revolution were detailed, as well the measures taken to meet such an uprising, including the procurement of arms. The man in the taut tweed then went on to describe the “cleaning up processes” where “right-thinking citizens” such as themselves would expel local subversives from towns across the state, whether the constabulary helped or not. It became clear to Rowland that preemptive frontier-style justice was to become the order of the day—the country was going mad, and somehow he hadn’t noticed.
Finally the speaker concluded his disturbing report with an allusion to an internal betrayal. “The membership has been warned to take no further notice of Millar, who, as we know, has defected to the New Guard. That blaggard Campbell may find his new country organiser is far less effective than he hoped.”
The last statement was greeted with a murmur of assent and the odd “Hear! Hear!”
“A lot of damage has already been done.” Wilfred leaned forward. “Campbell has been recruiting from our ranks for months, and there is a groundswell in his favour among the younger men.”
“Surely that’s just in the city,” protested a grey-haired man who puffed on a pipe with the rhythm of an industrial machine. “Campbell’s megalomania will not wash here.”
“I have spoken to our people in the Graziers’ Association,” said the man they called Roger. “Campbell’s funds will begin to dry up shortly, and he will soon find he has no friends to bankroll his narcissistic bid for power.”
“Reid’s staff has called a meeting to discuss amalgamation,” Wilfred replied. “Obviously Campbell feels that there are enough among us who will fall in behind his reckless campaign, and Reid seems to agree.”
“The big worry is Charles Hardy. He has far more appeal out here than Campbell.” Roger was clearly frustrated. “Hardy will be able to bring men to the New Guard through the Riverina Group, and he has been campaigning vigorously.”
At this, the portly man who had spoken of the coup d’état, exploded into a tirade abo
ut Eric Campbell and his New Guard.
Rowland was intrigued. What exactly was this organisation considering amalgamation, albeit reluctantly, with the New Guard?
“Obviously, Hinton, you will speak against the motion,” Wilfred said when the man’s outburst finally subsided.
“Most certainly!”
“Well then, the future of the Old Guard will be decided in Cootamundra, my friends.” Wilfred looked grim. “In the meantime we must not lose sight that the real enemy is Lang and the Communist hordes into whose hands he plays!”
The Old Guard? Rowland looked up sharply, too sharply. What on earth was the Old Guard, he wondered as he struggled to regain his balance. He tried to right himself, but the branch he grabbed for was weak and brittle. It snapped and he fell.
Rowland heard the alarmed voices as he hit the ground, but he did not stop to look up. There were shouts and then a gunshot from the window. The bullet grazed him. He clutched his side gasping as he pressed himself into the shadows of the house.
He could hear Wilfred’s voice. “Put that damn thing away, you fool! You’ll have the entire district here!”
Rowland moved quickly. He slipped back onto the verandah as the chauffeurs ran toward the sound of the shot. Lights were switched on in the house. He climbed back in through the window, trying to catch his panicked breath. Cursing, he removed his hand from his side. There was no time to examine it properly. He hoped it wasn’t too bad, but saw it had already bled a telltale red patch on his shirt. There was movement in the hall—if he didn’t emerge soon, it would look suspicious. He slipped on his jacket and buttoned it. Wiping his hands on the rags he kept in his paint box, he poured himself a drink and after taking a large gagging gulp, he walked out with the glass in his hand.
Rowland could hear engines starting in the driveway. Wilfred was outside the library door, which was now ajar. He was speaking to Mrs. Kendall. “Just tell Kate and mother there’s nothing to worry about. One of the boys mistook a possum for a burglar… No need to worry,” he repeated. “I’ll be up in a moment.”
“What the hell is going on, Wil?” Rowland asked. “Did you shoot someone?”
“Just a mistake.” Wilfred scowled. “One of the chaps overreacted.”
“Solicitors and accountants carry revolvers these days, do they?” Rowland knew it would be odd if he did not appear at least a little interested.
“Where were you?” Wilfred asked.
“Where you bloody put me.” Rowland did not hesitate. “I was having a drink when I heard the shot.”
Wilfred looked at his brother’s glass. “Since when do you drink whisky?”
Rowland smiled. “As you keep pouring it for me, I thought I’d better give it a chance.”
Wilfred assessed his brother. Rowland was pale and his hair was damp with perspiration. “You don’t look so too well.” The comment was sharp with accusation.
Rowland put his glass on the hall table. “Precisely why I don’t drink whisky,” he said as calmly as he could. The warm sticky patch under his jacket was spreading. He felt a little light-headed, but he waited a moment until Mrs. Kendall had left. “So what happened, Wil?”
Wilfred’s eyes narrowed. “It might have been a burglar, but there’s no need to alarm Kate.”
“So you didn’t see him?”
“No, it was just a noise really.”
“Bit risky to shoot at a noise.”
“Riskier not to.”
“Well, if nobody’s dead…” Rowland started brightly.
Wilfred continued staring at him.
“Unbutton your jacket, Rowly.”
“Not words I thought I’d ever hear from you.” Rowland battled to maintain his smile.
Wilfred had had enough. He reached forward and tore open Rowland’s jacket. They both gazed mutely at the red, which now soaked half of Rowland’s shirt, as a jacket button rattled to rest on polished floorboards.
Wilfred only just caught his brother as he stumbled.
Chapter Ten
THE DRUG HABIT
GROWTH AMONG SOLDIERS
ADELAIDE, Wednesday
Attention is drawn to the annual report of the Inspector of Inebriate Establishments (Dr. W.E. Jones) to the growth of the drug habit. He said some returned soldiers had exhibited this failing. He could not help an uncomfortable feeling that the medical profession was responsible for many cases of the drug habit through the indiscreet provision of prescriptions.
—The Advertiser, December 17, 1931
* * *
Rowland sat on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table with a towel pressed against his side, and waited. Wilfred had made some calls, then disappeared upstairs briefly to reassure Kate and their mother. He’d put Rowland in the empty kitchen and directed him not to move. He hadn’t said much else, too furious even to speak to his brother. Mrs. Kendall and the servants had retired to their own quarters under Wilfred’s direction. When Wilfred returned to the kitchen, he was accompanied by a bearded man with a leather bag.
Rowland recalled him from the meeting in the library.
“As I said, Maguire” —Wilfred closed the kitchen door—“this is my idiot brother. Just make sure he doesn’t bleed to death.”
Maguire’s expression was almost as hostile as Wilfred’s. He spoke only to instruct Rowland to remove his shirt and the towel he’d been holding against the wound. While the bullet hadn’t actually lodged, it had gouged a four-inch lesion as it passed. It wasn’t dangerously deep, but it did require stitching.
“A little to the right and this could have been ugly.” Maguire sounded almost disappointed. “I could give him some morphine before I start.”
“Absolutely not.” Wilfred was resolute.
Rowland didn’t argue. Having served with men who were destroyed, not by the enemy’s guns, but by their addiction to the morphine they’d been given for their injuries, Wilfred was adamant it be used only in the most extreme circumstances. Clearly, he also felt any pain was, in this case, deserved.
Maguire didn’t pursue the matter either, muttering only, “Hold still,” before he started to clean and sew the wound.
Rowland gripped the table and hoped the man was actually a doctor. As Maguire silently stitched and dressed the lesion, Wilfred looked on without the slightest flicker of compassion.
Eventually Maguire replaced his instruments into the leather bag and turned to Wilfred. “I should inform Roger about this.”
Wilfred shook his head and shot Rowland another look of disgust. “There’s no need. I’ll take care of Rowly—he will not present a problem.”
“I don’t know, Sinclair. This is too important…”
Wilfred put a kettle on the Aga cooker. “I think I still know how to make a cup of tea. Sit down Maguire.” He motioned Rowland to the door. “For pity’s sake, Rowly, go and get dressed. You’d think you were raised by savages!”
For a moment the brothers glared at each other, then Rowland limped painfully out of the kitchen, leaving Wilfred to negotiate with Maguire.
Back in his room, he found a clean shirt and tie, tossing the bloody shirt into the back of the cupboard. He made a mental note to see his tailor; between paint and bullets, he was running out of clothes. Rowland gingerly tested his side. Perhaps morphine would not have been such a bad idea. He wondered what kind of lunatic organisation met in secret and shot at shadows…though admittedly he had not been a shadow.
He would much rather have slept at this point. He was tired and in pain, but he was also fed up with Wilfred trying to send him away like a child. They’d shot him, for God’s sake—he wasn’t going to just sit quietly in his room. Resolved and now quite ready for the inevitable confrontation, he had turned the handle to head back to the kitchen, when Wilfred pushed his door open and stepped inside. “Suppose you tell me what the hell you were doing, Rowly!” Wi
lfred’s voice was flat but livid.
“I was trying to figure out what it is you’re doing.” Rowland used the bedpost to steady himself. “What is this Old Guard, Wil? What’s all the cloak and dagger about?”
Wilfred stepped toward him. “That is not your concern… I want the truth. Were you spying for your Bolshevik friends?”
“For pity’s sake, Wil! I know you think there’s a Communist lurking behind every tree, but on this occasion it was only me!”
Wilfred’s face reddened. “This is not a game, you idiot. It’s about time you grew up.”
“Look, Wil, I’m sorry. It was stupid to be hiding in a tree…but what are you mixed up in? Who were those men?”
Wilfred turned away from him, his fist clenched. “Honestly, Rowly, if you weren’t my brother… You are to mention nothing of this to anyone… Do you understand?”
“Believe me, I’d rather no one knew my brother was involved with the New Guard!”
“I am not involved with the damn New Guard! The men you saw tonight…” Wilfred stopped and studied Rowland, deciding how far he could trust brotherhood. “Our intent, the Old Guard’s intent, is to counter the coming revolution, to protect law and order, and to defend our way of life against the Communist threat. Campbell was originally among us, but we saw his militant approach was almost as dangerous as Lang’s coddling of those bloody Red traitors. Campbell was invited to resign—an invitation he accepted.”
“But now his New Guard wants to amalgamate back with your Old Guard?” Rowland said, confused.
“Campbell is seeking validation.” Wilfred turned away, pacing. “We will hear him out, but he will not get what he wants. As I said, the revolution Campbell is advocating simply plays straight into the hands of the Communists.”
“So why all the secrecy, Wil?”
“We are on the verge of civil war, Rowly. One never shows one’s hand to the enemy.”
Rowland laughed, wincing as he did so. “Civil war? You can’t be serious.”
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