A House Divided

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland knew what he meant. There was a memorial at the Sinclair chapel. “That’s not me, Ernie; that’s your uncle Aubrey.”

  “It looks like you. What happened to him?”

  “He was a soldier. He died.”

  “Daddy was a soldier.”

  “Yes. They went to war together.”

  “Were you a soldier?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Wouldn’t Grandma let you go?”

  “Something like that. I was too young.”

  “Daddy gets sad when we go to the pointy stone.”

  Rowland was quiet for a moment. “He probably misses your Uncle Aubrey.”

  “Daddy’s cross with you, isn’t he?”

  Again Rowland smiled. Young Ernest seemed to have his finger right on the pulse of everything.

  “Yes, but we’re brothers. Brothers get cross with each other sometimes. It doesn’t really matter.”

  Ernest nodded sagely. “You’ve got to do as you’re told,” he advised. “Then Daddy won’t get cross.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, Ernie.”

  Ernest returned to steering. When Kate came outside, Rowland was sketching the Mercedes into a page of his notebook, with his nephew watching intently.

  “Oh, Rowly, you’re back.” Kate took in the car a little anxiously. “Your mother has been asking for you. She wants you to play the piano for her.”

  Rowland sighed. “I can’t play the piano, Kate.” He tore out the page for Ernest and climbed out of his car without mentioning that Aubrey had been a brilliant musician.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MACHINE GUNS,

  ALLEGED DISAPPEARANCE

  FROM STORES

  CANBERRA, Monday

  In the Senate yesterday, the assistant Minister (Senator Dooley) was asked by Senator Duncan whether an investigation of the stock of ordinance stores in Sydney had revealed that a number of machine guns had disappeared mysteriously.

  Senator Dooley said that he was not acquainted with the facts, but if the question were placed on the notice paper, he would endeavour to obtain information.

  —The Canberra Times, January 12, 1932

  * * *

  Rowland looked up and waved to Edna, who leaned out over the hotel balcony and blew him a kiss. Two matrons walking past turned their heads in together and tutted disapprovingly of the exchange. Rowland tipped his hat politely.

  He waited in the Mercedes for his friends to join him for the trip back to Oaklea. Kate was excited at the prospect of meeting his friends from the city. He hadn’t seen the need to mention it to Wilfred, who had gone to Galong for yet another meeting.

  Milton vaulted into the backseat. Clyde used the door, and Edna climbed into the front, pausing to check her reflection in the side mirrors and pull her hat down over her ears. Milton leant over and yanked it off her head as she shouted at him to give it back.

  Rowland looked back over his shoulder and saw Milton was sporting a black eye. “What have you been doing?” he asked.

  “A minor altercation,” Milton replied, waving off the question.

  “Milt found himself in disagreement with some of the local lads,” Clyde cut in. “One of them decided to make a point on his face.”

  Milton sniffed indignantly. “Don’t mean to slag off your hometown, Rowly, but the place is full of misinformed rednecks!”

  “What on earth were you brawling about?”

  “Milt decided to educate the locals on the principles of Communism,” Clyde replied, recalling the moment with a grin.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Because the good people of Yass have no idea what they’re talking about.” Milton adjusted his cravat. “It irritated me. They seem to think the Communists are responsible for everything, including the drought!”

  “So you decided to give a lecture?”

  “Yes.”

  Edna laughed. “You should have been there, Rowly. It was really funny—until they hit him…and then Clyde had to rescue him.”

  Rowland smiled. “Well, try to keep your head down from now on,” he warned. “People out here don’t seem to be all that rational when it comes to Communists.”

  As they drove out to Oaklea, Milton and Clyde saw fit to sing drinking songs at the top of their lungs. Between the engine’s roar and their hearty voices, they arrived at the property in a manner that announced itself. Ernest ran down the steps and Kate came out to greet them.

  Edna was again taken by the homestead. “My goodness, Rowly, it’s so huge!”

  Rowland looked round. “I suppose it is.” He’d never really thought about it. Rowland made the appropriate introductions, hoping his friends would not frighten his sister-in-law unduly. Hers was a polite and quiet world, in which the modern-living flappers were spoken of only with a note of scandal.

  Kate was, of course, gracious, if a little nervous. Edna decided to make a friend of her, and soon the two were chatting without any distance. The party became relaxed. Clyde refused to let Ernest be banished to the kitchen to eat, and pulled the boy onto his knee for the meal. Rowland was not surprised. Clyde was from a large family. He had left his parents’ home as soon as he was able, not because he didn’t love them, but because there were too many mouths to feed. Without him, there was a little more for his younger brothers and sisters. It was not an uncommon story; many boys had been forced into early independence in the supposedly “roaring twenties.” For a lot of people, the hardship began long before the markets crashed.

  Edna was at her charming best. She talked to Kate about the Red Cross, listened to tales about young Ernest, and showed more than polite interest in the remodelling of Oaklea. Even her vowels became more rounded and her manners more genteel. She ate petitely and said “Goodness me!” quite often. The men who lived with her found it all rather amusing, but said nothing, as it seemed to make their hostess more comfortable.

  It was while they were taking tea in the parlour that Elisabeth Sinclair made her entrance.

  Kate glanced anxiously at Rowland.

  “Aubrey, where have you been? I told you not to go out there.” Elisabeth’s voice shook slightly.

  Rowland didn’t flinch. He kissed his mother’s cheek and settled her in an armchair, before he introduced his friends. He didn’t bother to introduce himself.

  Elisabeth seemed delighted to meet new people and enquired of each how they knew Aubrey.

  Rowland had never mentioned the peculiarities of his mother’s memory outside the family. Clyde and Milton took it in their stride, appearing not to notice. Edna was flustered, calling him both “Aubrey” and “Rowly,” and then deciding not to refer to him at all, to avoid the problem. While the older Mrs. Sinclair was cordial and seemed quite cheered by the company of “Aubrey’s friends,” Kate fluttered about nervously with a teapot.

  It was late in the afternoon when Edna asked after the sheep. So far, she hadn’t seen a single animal on the grounds.

  “They’re in the paddocks, Ed,” Rowland replied. “We don’t keep them at the house.”

  “Goodness, no!” said Kate. “Wil would be inconsolable if they came near his roses!”

  “I’ll drive you out to see some before I take you back, if you like.” Rowland checked his watch. “Though they’ve not long been shorn; they’ll look somewhat pathetic.”

  Keen to experience the real countryside, and to escape the discomfiture of the parlour, Edna stood enthusiastically.

  “You’re not going are you, Aubrey?” Elisabeth was panicked again.

  Rowland squeezed her hand gently. “I’m not going far, Mother. You should have a rest now. I’ll be back before supper.”

  * * *

  “How long has your mother…?” Edna began as soon as they were in the car.

  Milton frowned. “Ed, shut up.”


  “It’s fine,” Rowland said quietly. “It’s been a few years now—since I came back from abroad.”

  “Rowly, I’m so sorry,” Edna said, distressed for him. “It must be awful.”

  “More awkward than awful.” He turned over the engine. “My mother’s always been a bit emotionally fragile. Aubrey’s death was more than she could take, and then, when my father died…”

  Edna rested her head on his shoulder as he drove. “Still, I’m sorry.”

  Rowland didn’t respond. As he said, it was awkward.

  He drove them out along the road that branched from the driveway to the house. The borders of the homestead paddock were defined by the stark change from green to scorched yellow. Still, the paddocks were not short of feed. To Edna’s delight, Rowland found a mob of sheep that had lambed late. Clyde climbed through the fence and chased after a ewe, catching it quickly and expertly so that Edna could hold her lamb.

  “I worked on a property, roustabouting, for a while,” Clyde tried to catch his breath, releasing the bleating sheep while Rowland handed her leggy offspring to Edna. He jiggled the top wire of the fence. “This is a bit loose, Rowly. I could restrain it for you…”

  Rowland laughed. “Sixty-two men work on Oaklea, Clyde. I’m sure someone will get round to it.”

  Edna held the lamb, burying her face in the springy, oily softness of its short fleece, pondering how she could reproduce the texture in clay. She had been contemplating a rural series since they started their drive out here. Unlike Rowland, Edna never made sketches. Her sculptures drew on feelings and sensation rather than visually accurate form. She let the lamb go, and as it sprang back to its mother, she closed her eyes and memorised the sense of its energy.

  The gentlemen she lived with waited patiently until she’d committed all she needed to memory and opened her eyes once again.

  “What’s that, Rowly?” Edna pointed to a massive building, surrounded by yards, in the middle of the paddock.

  “That’s the shearing shed. The wool clip’s been in for about a month, so there’s nothing in there now.”

  “Can we look inside?”

  “Yes, if you wish, but it’s not that interesting.” Rowland led the way to the great shed and stopped to allow Edna to enter first. The smell of lanolin was heavy in the heat. The wooden boards and beams had been impregnated and darkened by the natural oil after years of exposure to fleece.

  Rowland pointed out the pens and shearing stands and showed Edna where the wool classers would do their work. Clyde was fascinated by the motor housed in a large side room.

  “That’s the lister.” Rowland watched as his friend tugged at the belts and pulleys. “It mostly runs the stands, though Wil’s had a line run out to the battery house so he can listen to the wireless of an evening.”

  “You could power Sydney with this,” Clyde said in awed admiration.

  “Wil does have a tendency to over-engineer,” Rowland agreed. He returned to Edna. “The bales are put into the wool room so they can be moved easily onto the stage when the trucks pull up.” He pointed to the large sliding doors, beyond which was the stage.

  “Do you put all the wool in crates?” Edna asked.

  “Crates? No, they’re baled.”

  “Oh, what are these then?” Edna jumped up beside two large wooden crates.

  “I don’t know, machinery maybe. Wil was talking about getting another engine so he could run more stands; this would be the most sensible place to deliver things like that, I guess.”

  “They’re pianos.” Milton read the stamp on the closest crate. “Beale’s pianos.”

  “Really?” Rowland approached and saw that Milton was right. “That’s odd.”

  “Why?” asked Edna. Two pianos seemed a bit excessive, but having seen the grandeur of the estate, it was not extraordinary that they would find space for more than one.

  “Well, because there are already two pianos at Oaklea,” Rowland replied. “And since Aubrey died, nobody really plays.” He looked at the crates. The events and revelations of the past days had made him suspicious. He looked around for something with which to force open the lid. In the end, he found a box of tools stowed near one of the shearing stands. He rummaged through and brought out a large flat-headed screwdriver.

  “What are you doing?” Clyde climbed onto the stage behind him.

  “I’m going to open it.” He began to pry at the edges of the crate.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Just wondering why Wil wants a piano in every room.” With a little effort, and the occasional swallowed profanity, he managed to lever off the lid.

  He pulled aside the straw packing. “Bloody oath.” He gazed at the contents in disbelief. Milton and Clyde peered over his shoulder, and Edna stood on tiptoe. The crate was packed to the top with guns.

  Milton exhaled a whistle. “Could have a hell of a sing-along with these.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  PULL LANG’S NOSE

  SENATOR HARDY TALKS BIG

  YASS, Monday

  “It would give me great pleasure to go to Macquarie Street and pull Lang out by the nose,” said Senator Hardy, addressing a meeting of farmers.

  He added that trades-unionism and city capitalism were not going to help the country man in the least.

  —The Canberra Times, January 12, 1932

  * * *

  Rowland tapped the nails back in with the handle of the screwdriver.

  Clyde looked at him. “Clearly, your brother’s serious about this secret army thing. Is he planning to march on Parliament?”

  Rowland shook his head. “No…they’re just stockpiling to halt the advance of the Red Army. Wil must think Stalin has his eye on Yass.”

  Milton sniggered, but even he was unnerved.

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” Edna asked tentatively, aware that his brother’s involvement put Rowland in a very unpalatable position.

  “I’ll talk to Wil.” Rowland glanced at Milton. “Don’t get into any more fights,” he advised. “They’re probably all carrying guns.”

  “Wonderful.” Clyde shook his head. “The countryside is teeming with Fascist lunatics, all armed to the teeth.”

  “People out here have always had guns”—Rowland spoke more casually than he felt—“mostly, they shoot rabbits.”

  Milton’s brow arched. “So they’ve been practising.”

  They walked to the car, in a mood that was decidedly subdued, and Rowland drove them straight back to the Royal. He shook Milton’s hand as they parted. “Remember, try not to be noticed until we can get out of here.”

  “Don’t worry.” Milton winked. “I’ll be good.”

  Rowland smiled. “Just try being quiet.”

  * * *

  The Sinclair brothers spent the following morning at the offices of Kent, Beswick and Associates. There were papers to sign to settle their uncle’s substantial estate. Rowland was content to allow Wilfred to make the decisions, despite his growing doubts as to his brother’s judgment in other respects. Indeed, even as the learned gentlemen talked and advised, Rowland’s mind drifted back to the rifles packed in the piano crates. It was difficult to fathom what Wilfred could be thinking. He wondered if the Old Guard was dangerous. For some reason he found that hard to believe, regardless of the arsenal in the shearing shed.

  Having signed whatever was put in front of him, Rowland followed his brother out into the main street. They were to attend a lecture of some sort, sponsored by the local Graziers’ Association. Rowland trailed unenthusiastically behind as Wilfred walked briskly toward the Soldiers’ Memorial Hall, wondering all the time what had made him agree to spend the next hour stuck in a disquisition about the marvels of the wool clip. Still, he hoped, it might give him the opportunity to speak to his brother about the guns, though he had no idea what he could possibly s
ay to make Wilfred see sense. Nothing he’d said, thus far, had had any impact whatsoever. Short of setting the shearing shed on fire, there was nothing Rowland could think of to get rid of the weapons himself. He pondered if it was illegal to have so many guns—he wasn’t sure.

  The main street had become densely crowded in the time they had been at the solicitors’—there were hundreds of men gathering near the hall’s entrance. Rowland began to pay attention. Surely sheep and fodder couldn’t be this exciting.

  Wilfred led the way through the press of bodies, many in the crowd stepping back to allow them to pass.

  They stopped outside the two-storey hall building. No expense had been spared in the construction of the memorial, raised in honour of the district’s fallen and returned soldiers. It was a large building, but not so large it would hold the crowd already gathered in the street outside it. Rowland could now see the men on the freestone balcony above the columned entrance. He assumed they were waiting to speak. There was an unmistakable air of anticipation.

  A soloist, a baritone, opened the proceedings with “God Save the King.” Rowland scanned the gathering—an excessive, but respectable, congregation of the middle and upper classes. Many kept their jackets on despite the oppressive heat in the January sun. They sang the anthem with something akin to religious fervour, as they clutched their hats over their hearts.

  The Mayor of the Yass Shire stepped forward to introduce the speakers, the first being a local of sorts, Harold McWilliamson. He spoke of the plight of rural New South Wales labouring under the weight of its Socialist government, the insanity of the Lang Plan, and the economic disaster it would wreak. By the time he sat down again, the crowd was ringing vocal in support of McWilliamson’s indictment of the Premier. Rowland watched, keenly observant, eye and mind recording faces and figures, movement and manner. He reached inside his jacket for his notebook. Wilfred’s eye caught him, and a warning jerk of his head stayed Rowland’s hand.

  The mayor introduced the second speaker, Senator Elect Charles Hardy Jr. of Wagga Wagga. Rowland was immediately alert to the name: it had been mentioned in the library, when the Old Guard met at Oaklea. It seemed Wilfred was still trying to recruit him.