“I don’t want to raise the poor girl’s expectations,” he said resolutely.
“After dancing with you for a while, she’s unlikely to be able to walk far,” Milton said as he dealt hands to Rowland and Edna. “You should take the car.” Clyde might have responded rudely, but there was a great deal of truth in what the poet said.
“You look very handsome, Clyde.” Edna kicked Milton under the table. “Any girl would be lucky to be on your arm.”
Milton snorted, but Clyde looked a little less nervous.
“Just remember not to count out loud,” Edna added helpfully.
“Why don’t you come along, Rowly?” Clyde stopped at the door. “There are plenty of girls at these things. I could wait while you…”
Rowland laughed. “And just which one of us would be Clyde Watson Jones?” he asked. “It could be a bit confusing for your young lady.”
“Right, I forgot.”
“Take the car,” Rowland said, rearranging his hand. “You can lower her expectations once she’s agreed to marry you. That’s how it’s usually done.”
“I’m just taking her to a dance,” Clyde muttered uncomfortably, but in the end, he took the car.
Rowland and Milton played poker with Edna, while Lenin lay under the card table between them.
Early next morning Rowland arrived at the house of Selwin Higgins in Burwood. Edna’s father had now become accustomed to Rowland’s unexpected appearances and was more than happy to accommodate the young man’s need for a humble address.
They heard Poynton’s horn blast on the dot of nine. Rowland climbed into the front of the blue Buick, tossing his small carpet bag onto the backseat. “Where are we off to?” he asked.
Poynton kept one hand on the steering wheel and removed his cigarette with the other. “Berrima.”
Rowland nodded. Berrima was only a couple of hours south of Sydney, not far from Bowral. “Why?”
“Reconnaissance…time well spent, you know.”
“For what?”
“As I’ve told you, Jonesy, there are big things happening. We’re going to see about accommodating some of those big things.”
“And how do I fit in?”
“The Colonel needs a plan of the facility drafted…so he can assess what has to be done…where to put men, weapons, that sort of thing.”
Rowland was becoming quite alarmed. “Look, Herb, you’re really going to have to tell me what this is all about.”
Poynton smiled smugly. “In times of war, Jonesy,” he said, tossing his cigarette butt out of the window, “it’s necessary to have somewhere to hold the enemy…prisoners of war, and all that.”
“What war?” demanded Rowland coldly.
“The one we’re about to start, Jonesy.”
Chapter Thirty
Poynton’s Buick pulled up at the gates of Berrima’s former gaol, and after a few knowing nose taps, they were waved through into the complex of imposing stone buildings. The site hadn’t been used as a criminal prison for decades; so-called enemy aliens had been interned there during the war, but it had since fallen into disuse. As Poynton parked, two men walked out from one of the buildings to greet them. He introduced them as Gerald Clarke and John Winslow. The younger man, Winslow, was the current lessee of the facility, and both were stalwarts of the New Guard.
“We’d better let you gentlemen get on with it,” Winslow said, pulling a cigarette from a slim gold case. “I’ve already prepared a summary for you with the position of dark cells and suitable places for officers’ quarters, cookhouses, latrines, and the like.” He opened an enamelled lighter and held the flame to his cigarette.
Rowland studied Winslow’s face. It was narrow, sculpted with high cheekbones. It might have been a cruel face if the man’s eyelashes had not been ridiculously long, giving him a feminine and theatrical air. “I think we can more than accommodate the numbers the Commander has in mind,” Winslow concluded.
“And, once you’re finished here, gentlemen, we shall expect you at Sunbury,” said the flame-haired and freckled Gerald Clarke. “It’ll give you a chance to meet the Princess.” He beamed proudly.
Rowland was startled by this latest revelation. What princess? Was Campbell planning to install his own monarchy? Winslow rolled his eyes, almost imperceptibly.
Clarke and Winslow took them on a brief tour of the facility, showing them the general cell blocks and other accommodations. When they came back into the yard, Winslow pointed to the roof. “With a few minor modifications, you could mount machine guns there…there…and there.”
“Machine guns?” Rowland exclaimed, before he could check himself.
“The Commander’s made it clear that escapees will be shot.” Winslow now regarded Rowland with suspicion. “You don’t have any war service, do you, son? If you had, you’d know this was no time for half-measures… You’ll learn that, if you’re lucky.”
Rowland bit back a response and decided that he did not like John Winslow. Their guides then left them to attend to some business of their own.
“I’ll book a call through to Eric,” Clarke said over his shoulder. “Let him know you have the job in hand.”
“Right,” said Rowland once he was alone with Poynton. “What the hell are we doing here, Herb? Just who is the Colonel planning to imprison here?”
Poynton smiled in his broad, simple way. “Settle down, Jonesy… You’re gonna love this.” Poynton spread out his arms. “This illustrious facility is soon where we’ll be holding the very bastards who are destroying this great nation.”
“The Communists?” Rowland was incredulous.
“No, the Premier…the Big Fella himself.”
“You’re going to imprison the Premier?”
“Not just the Premier, Jonesy, the entire State Cabinet—all Lang’s partners in crime. The Colonel says they’ve had their chance; our hand has been forced. If we don’t act soon, the Reds will take control. First it’ll be this State, then the nation. A nation under the Reds…imagine it, Jonesy. It’d be the end of everything we know and love.”
Rowland stared at him, staggered.
“So we have to make sure that this place can be made absolutely secure.” Poynton flung a friendly arm about his shoulders. “That’s where you come in. You’re going to draw up plans, a layout, so we can do what’s necessary to defend it.”
Rowland was at a loss. These people were truly insane. He thought quickly—he’d have to go to the police with more than the refurbishment of an old gaol. “So exactly how long have we got before you, er, kidnap the Cabinet?” He kept his voice as even as he could, a struggle in the circumstances.
Oblivious to the tension in Rowland’s voice, Poynton tapped the side of his nose. “All in good time, Jonesy. For now, we need to draw the plans of this place so the Colonel can make his decision.”
“Decision?”
“Whether this is the best place to hold the enemy. We have a couple of options, you know. The Colonel will choose after he’s seen your drawings.”
Rowland took a deep breath and extracted his notebook. He began to make drawings, first sketching the buildings in elevation and then a rough plan of each. It was an involved and time-consuming process. Rowland had an artist’s eye, trained for proportion and detail, but it was also necessary to work out the internal configuration of each cell block and the relative placement of each structure to the others. He didn’t usually work with this level of precision. Poynton asked him to take special note of access routes, ventilation, and vantage points for guards. Rowland did this work meticulously. He’d thought of making intentional mistakes but knew he had to keep Poynton’s trust.
Somehow—he had no idea how—he would have to make sure this plot to capture and incarcerate the New South Wales Cabinet failed, but simply producing a sloppy plan would not do that.
By the end o
f the day, Rowland’s head throbbed and he had to force his eyes to focus. He must have made a hundred drawings and as many pages of scribbled notes, but had no idea what he was going to do. “I’ll have to draw these up onto larger sheets,” he said, as he flicked through the pages.
“You can do all that at Sunbury—Clarke will make sure you have everything you need,” Poynton replied. “He’s one of the movement’s finest.”
Sunbury, the Clarke estate, was a sprawling homestead a few miles out of Berrima on lush irrigated lawns. Poynton turned the blue Buick into the sweeping driveway.
Gerald Clarke met them as they crossed the tiled verandah. “I say, good of you to come,” he effused as if they were making a social call. He clapped them both on the back, clearly excited. “Come along, gentlemen. You’ll be wanting to meet the Princess.”
Rowland caught Poynton’s eye, but the Colonel’s bodyguard gave no sign he was perturbed in any way by the proposed audience. Clarke led them on a long walk…around the back of the house, through the gardens, and toward a cluster of barns and sheds. When they reached the largest, he opened the doors.
“Here she is, gentlemen, a bonny lass, is she not?”
Rowland gazed at the gleaming Tiger Moth. He laughed. This was darn sight better than an audience with the bunyip aristocracy. Rowland walked past Poynton to inspect the aircraft more closely.
“You’ll not see a more beautiful thing in the sky,” Clarke said, stroking the plane.
Rowland was inclined to agree. She was, to his eyes, a magnificent machine.
“Gentlemen, the Princess is at your disposal… She’ll be perfect for the Bunnerong mission.”
Rowland’s attention sharpened at the mention of Bunnerong. South of the city centre, it was the site of the power station supplying Sydney with its electricity.
Poynton nodded. “She could be bloody useful, Mr. Clarke.”
“Let us use the modern technologies of the Empire to safeguard her, gentlemen.” The grazier’s voice was solemn.
“Do you pilot her yourself, sir?” Rowland made no attempt to hide his envy.
“Indeed, I do, young man… Served with the Royal Air Force last year of the war, you know. Of course the Princess is a ways ahead of the old crates we flew back then…but still, once a man has flown, it’s hard to ground him again.”
Rowland nodded. He’d never flown, but standing beside the Princess he was stirred by the very idea.
“You wouldn’t get me up there, I’m afraid,” said Poynton, as he lit a cigarette. “Too fond of solid ground, I am.”
“It’s not for everyone.” Clarke was sympathetic. “Take Charles Hardy…I took him up a couple of times, when he was marshalling the country against the Reds. Poor chap never took to it, either…white knuckles the entire way and had a jolly job cleaning her out afterwards.”
Clarke could see the glint in Rowland’s eyes, and the old airman was gratified. “Would you like to go up?” he asked. “I could take you out in the morning.”
“I’m afraid Jonesy still has work to do,” Poynton said before Rowland could respond. “And the Colonel wants those plans as soon as possible. We can’t be holding up the mission for joyrides, can we Jonesy?”
“I suppose not.” Rowland would have been perfectly happy to hold up Campbell’s plans for a ride, or for anything else, if truth be told.
Clarke gave them the run of the guesthouse, situated directly behind the homestead. Rowland commandeered a small oak table and began to draft his notes onto detailed layouts and plans, working solidly until they were summoned for dinner at the main house.
Gerald Clarke and his wife had three daughters, all unmarried. Attractive girls, well-schooled in the social arts, they brought a certain civilised frivolity to the meal. Rowland found himself having to be cautious in how he responded to their conversation. While Clyde Watson Jones was from a good family, his background and means were far more humble than either their hosts’ or his own. Consequently, he chose to remain a little subdued, feigning a sense of polite awe. The Clarke girls interpreted his reserve as a charming shyness and redoubled their attentions in an effort to draw him out of it. It wasn’t every day they had a famous artist in their very dining room. They’d never heard of him, of course, but their father had told them he was going to win the Archibald Prize, and the whole world knew about that.
The subject of Berrima Gaol didn’t come up until the ladies had retired and the men retreated to Clarke’s study for brandy. Poynton and Clarke did most of the talking. Rowland listened, now aware that, as mad as kidnapping the State Cabinet sounded, it was only half of the New Guard’s crazy plans. Secure he was one of them, his companions spoke without reservation in his presence. Clarke, like Poynton, had the utmost admiration for Campbell and saw the Guardsmen as defenders of the faith, the King and the Empire—in Australia at least. They spoke eagerly of the “Bunnerong mission.”
From what they said, Rowland pieced together that the New Guard planned to lay siege to Bunnerong Power Station in order to plunge the city into darkness. Under the cover of this orchestrated blackout, they’d take Parliament House and imprison the State’s highest-ranking elected representatives at Berrima. It occurred to Rowland that, given the time of year, and the fact that it was light till late, Parliament was unlikely to still be sitting after dark. The outcome of the mission could well be the abduction of Parliament House’s cleaning staff. He said nothing, however. The last thing he wanted to do was help the New Guard improve their plans for revolution.
“When exactly, will we be moving on the Cabinet?” Rowland asked tentatively.
“We haven’t decided.” Clarke was pleased to let the others know he was one of the inner core. “We can’t let Lang open the new bridge… Given Eric’s public pledge that he won’t, it would be humiliating if we didn’t deliver, so I think you’ll have your chance to fight within the month, my boy.”
Rowland tried to look pleased.
“Houghton will be relieved,” Clarke added. “Poor chap has been stationed outside Lang’s farm for the last six weeks, keeping an eye on the Lenin-loving blaggard. He’s heartily sick of living rough.”
“We’ve dressed Mr. Houghton as a swaggie,” Poynton explained to Rowland, “so he can keep an eye on the Premier without arousing suspicion.”
“Actually, he enjoyed it at first,” Clarke laughed. “But after a month of flies and being charged by Lang’s bloody bull, I think he’ll be rather happy to get back to his practice.”
“He’s an accountant,” Poynton added helpfully.
Rowland elected to say nothing. What could he say to people who would dress as hoboes and oust a democratically elected government in the dead of night?
Gerald Clarke filled their glasses and stood. “To Eric Campbell, gentlemen, and the right-thinking men who follow him. With a little luck, we will soon be running this State.”
Chapter Thirty-One
AT AN END
LYONS-LANG LETTERS
STATE PREMIER’S
BROKEN PROMISE
CANBERRA, Wednesday
After repeated efforts to obtain the amount of £958,763 representing interest payments to overseas bond holders which the Government of New South Wales failed to meet when it fell due between February 1 and 4, the Commonwealth has decided to cease negotiations with the Premier of New South Wales (Mr. Lang) in regard to the matter.
Action under the new Financial Agreement Enforcement Bill will probably be the next step.
—The Daily Telegraph, March 3, 1932
* * *
Clyde came out of the sunroom he used as a studio. “Rowly! You’re back… What’s wrong?” he asked as Rowland threw his notebook at the wall in disgust.
“Those idiots are planning to kidnap the State Cabinet!” Rowland walked to the phone in the hallway and rang through to Sydney Police Headquarters. He asked for Detecti
ve Constable Delaney.
Clyde picked up Rowland’s notebook and started flicking through it.
“Delaney, it’s Rowland Sinclair. I need to speak with you…It’s rather urgent. Could you come here? An hour, then.”
As he hung up, Milton emerged from the conservatory and Edna came down the staircase. Rowland motioned them all into the drawing room.
“Since when did you become an architect…?” Clyde started. He’d never known Rowland to have any interest in buildings.
“You’re not going to believe what those clowns are up to.” Rowland rubbed his temple, becoming aware that he had a headache. He told them the whole story.
Milton exploded and stormed toward the door. Rowland grabbed his arm. “Where the hell are you going?”
“To tell Ryan and the boys,” Milton spat angrily. “Those bloody Fascists’ll get a fight before we let them take over.”
Rowland held his arm. “No. We’re not going to start a flaming war.”
“We wouldn’t be starting it.”
“Milt, sit down! Listen to me. If you tell them, they’ll go after the Guard… It’ll give Campbell the very excuse he needs to justify his revolution, and the Fascists just might win.”
“Rowly’s right,” Clyde agreed. “This could get really ugly.”
“So what do you plan to do?” Milton demanded.
“I’ve just called Delaney. He’ll be here within the hour. The police might be able stop this quietly…”
“That’s it? That’s all? Leave it to the bloody useless coppers?”
Rowland held his gaze. “I’ll call Wil.”
“For God’s sake, Rowly—you’re planning to stop one Fascist army with another?”
Rowland stood. He was tall, but it was a fact that was not always noticed. “Milt, sit down,” he said calmly. “We may well be the only people in this State who are not completely mad. We are going to be careful.”
Milton stared at him, mutinously at first, and then he seemed to realise: This was Rowland Sinclair… He was not the enemy—perhaps he was wrong, but he was not the enemy. He sat down. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rowly.”
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