Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Charles Hardy glanced at Rowland curiously before he replied. The senator kept himself well informed. “Oh you know Eric,” he said, unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. “He’s quite happy to go halfway across the world to have his photograph taken with that Hitler fellow.”

  “Damned fool,” Page muttered. “Courting the bloody Germans!”

  Wilfred kept his eyes on Hardy. The senator had co-operated with Eric Campbell in the past.

  “It’s probably not safe to write Eric off yet,” Hardy said cautiously. “Who knows what he may pick up in Europe. He’s not a stupid man and,” Hardy’s eyes flickered just briefly back to Rowland, “there are still many men who will settle his scores.”

  Wilfred’s voice was hard. “We’ll just see how successful this tour to meet the leaders of Europe proves to be,” he said quietly.

  The conversation moved to more local politics. It was then that Rowland understood the commonality between Wilfred’s guests; they were all secessionists: advocates of subdividing New South Wales into smaller states. He studied his brother who seemed to be directing the dialogue, subtly pointing out the benefits of an alliance of like minds.

  Like Rowland, neither Milton nor Clyde attempted to contribute to the discussion in any way. Wilfred was polite but it was clear this was not a conversation into which Rowland or his friends were welcome. And so the three observed in silence as the establishment dealt with the nation’s future.

  And then things became awkward. It was Earle Page who first raised the issue of the Communists and with them the trade unionists.

  “Of course you couldn’t expect the red vermin to do anything but stand in the way of the nation’s interests. They’ll fight any secession to the last man.”

  Rowland stiffened. Clyde and Milton were both Communists and unionists. There was only so much he could ask them to tolerate in the name of civility.

  In his condemnation of Communists, Page had an enthusiastic ally in Charles Hardy. “We’ve always had men more than ready to give the Bolshies a fight. They tend to be bloody cowards anyway.”

  Rowland glanced at Milton. The poet’s eyes were darkening. Even easy-tempered Clyde looked tense. Wilfred cleared his throat warily.

  Deciding on a peremptory exit, Rowland checked his watch and stood. Clyde and Milton followed suit.

  “At the risk of being frightfully rude, I’m afraid I must ask you gentlemen to excuse us. We have another long trip in the morning, so we might just bid the ladies good evening and retire.”

  “Good idea, Rowly,” Wilfred said, relieved. “You lads will have a rather early start to get yourselves organised.”

  Thus having been given leave to do so, they withdrew, pausing briefly in the drawing room to wish the ladies a good night. Edna remained, waving them away with a declaration that women did not tire so easily. Rowland smiled as he caught the tight purse of Ethel Page’s lips.

  “You know, Rowly, Hardy could have a point,” Clyde said, as they climbed the stairs to the upper floors.

  “What? About the Communists?”

  “No—of course not. I mean about Campbell and the New Guard. They might still be looking to teach you a lesson.”

  Milton nodded. “Could be it was Guardsmen who came a calling at the Hydro Majestic.”

  “But Campbell’s abroad.”

  “As the senator said—he still has men who do his bidding… and I reckon they’d still be smarting over what you did.”

  “It doesn’t help that half of Sydney thinks you tried kill Campbell,” Clyde added. “They won’t have forgotten, mate.”

  Rowland shrugged, leaning back on the banister as they paused on the landing. “Maybe. Hopefully.”

  “What do you mean hopefully?” Milton folded his arms. “They nearly beat you to death, if you remember.”

  “I do. But if it’s the New Guard, there’s no need for Wil to worry about the boys.”

  “There is that,” Clyde agreed. “But it doesn’t get you off the hook, Rowly.”

  Milton grinned. “On the other hand, we can’t be sure that it’s anything to do with Campbell. Your brother seems to be running the country. I’d bet there’s a few people who’d want the Sinclairs out of the way.”

  Rowland smiled. “Just Wil, old boy. I’m charming.”

  Although Rowland rose early the next morning, he arrived in the dining room to find Wilfred already seated with coffee and Smiths’ Weekly.

  “Rowly, good morning.” Wilfred lowered his paper and looked over his bifocals. “Sit down and tell Mrs. Kendall what you want for breakfast. We need to talk about the logistics of this excursion of yours.”

  “Just toast and coffee, thank you, Mrs. Kendall,” Rowland said, smiling at the plump motherly face of Wilfred’s housekeeper.

  “Nonsense!” Alice Kendall replied. “You’ll be wanting a proper breakfast… just leave it to me—I know what you want.” She bustled out of the room. “Just toast indeed!”

  Wilfred sighed, audibly.

  Rowland grinned. Mrs. Kendall seemed convinced he was still ten. He was aware it irritated Wilfred, but for him the housekeeper conjured the very warmest memories of his childhood.

  “I’ll drive into town and purchase what we need,” he said. “We might be a bit pressed for luggage room, though.”

  “You can put some trunks onto the train to Tumut and have the mail truck take it up from there. Just make sure you’re prepared for the weather.”

  Rowland poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard. “I’ll telephone through to Caves House,” he said, remembering the alpine guesthouse which had hosted his last skiing holiday. “We can stay there.”

  “You have the map of the lease boundary?” Wilfred looked to him for confirmation.

  Rowland nodded and pulled the map from his jacket.

  Wilfred opened it. “I believe the men are camped somewhere around here.” He pointed out a section of the area known as Long Plain. “I’m a little concerned they won’t know who the hell you are… Harry would have recognised you of course, but most of the stockmen were employed from Gundagai and Tumut.”

  “Who’s in charge in Harry’s absence?” Rowland took an artist’s pencil from his pocket and marked in the area which his brother had indicated.

  “A fellow called Moran. He’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at the Rules Point Guesthouse—it overlooks Long Plain… pretty rough by all accounts, but the men like to drink there.”

  “Right then—if this Moran chap is expecting me, I shouldn’t need a letter of introduction.”

  Wilfred paid no attention to his brother’s flippancy. “I want you to look into things up there… There’s something going on. It’s why I sent Harry up in the first place.”

  “I’ll talk to the men,” Rowland assured him.

  Wilfred met his eye. “Just you remember that these men work for us. Sack anybody you have to—we can always get more men.”

  “Sack them for what?”

  Wilfred bristled. “I’m not sending you up there to make friends, Rowly… though being employed they’re probably a bit beyond your usual social circle.”

  “Do you want my help with this or not?” Rowland asked coldly.

  Wilfred sighed. “I’ll have one of the trucks sent up with fuel.” The words were grudging. Even just refuelling Rowland’s German automobile went against the grain. “You might find that Fritz contraption is a little out of its depth in the High Country. You may be better off getting horses.”

  Rowland smiled faintly. He knew how to ride a horse but relying on the beasts for transport seemed unnecessary. “I’m sure my contraption will be fine, Wil. She’s a damned sporting car.”

  Mrs. Kendall came in with Rowland’s breakfast, a burgeoning tray of eggs and bacon, and toast cut into the strips he’d preferred as a child. She set it before him and hovered to ensure he ate.

  “That’ll be all, Mrs. Kendall,” Wilfred said impatiently. “Rowly’s quite adept with a knife and fork thes
e days.”

  Rowland laughed. “Thank you, Mrs. Kendall, it looks delicious.”

  “I’ll be baking today, Mr. Rowland,” she said, ignoring Wilfred’s dismissal entirely. “I’ll make you a batch of shortbread. I’m that pleased to have you home.”

  When the housekeeper finally left the room, Wilfred broached the subject of security.

  “Until this incident at the Hydro Majestic is cleared up I want you to take precautions.”

  Wilfred motioned towards a polished wooden box on the sideboard.

  Rowland didn’t need to look inside. He recognised the case. It held the service revolver Wilfred had given him over a year ago… ostensibly with which to shoot Communists. Rowland had never fired the gun, but he had been shot with it. He’d given the Webley back to Wilfred when he’d returned from abroad just months ago.

  “I don’t know, Wil.”

  “I presume you still have a licence for it,” Wilfred disregarded his brother’s obvious reservations. “Just make sure Miss Higgins doesn’t get hold of it again.”

  Rowland said nothing. He doubted Edna would ever voluntarily touch a gun again. It was probably a good thing. In the end he agreed to take it—it was easier than arguing with Wilfred. Instead, he decided to question his brother in line with Milton’s suspicions.

  “This business at the Hydro Majestic wouldn’t be connected to anything you’re involved in, would it, Wil?”

  “What do you mean?” Wilfred appeared a little affronted.

  “I won’t pretend to understand what you and the Graziers’ Association are planning, but I gather last evening’s soiree wasn’t about catching up with old friends.”

  Wilfred smiled faintly. “You didn’t enjoy my guests?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Hardy seems a regular sort of chap. Watson’s as dull as church and Page is an obnoxious prat.”

  Wilfred said nothing for a moment. Rowland waited for him to explode.

  “Earle likes to exploit a man’s weakness to gain the upper hand. It’s how he came to power, and how he’ll regain it I expect. Don’t take it personally, Rowly.”

  Rowland did not reply. Lack of war service was apparently his weakness.

  Wilfred put down his paper and sat back in his chair. “Earle has an interesting war record himself.”

  “I thought he made it abundantly clear that he served.”

  “He did—but on his own terms. He got himself released after a year, on the grounds that his practice could not survive unless he returned immediately.” Wilfred’s lips tightened. “Then he and Ethel took an extended tour of North America while the rest of us carried on.” Wilfred took off his spectacles and polished them absently. “Don’t let him bother you, Rowly. The Sinclairs did their bit, and not just when it was convenient.”

  Rowland was almost startled. This was the closest that Wilfred had ever come to talking to him of the war.

  “I thought Page had retired from public life for a while.”

  “This was a private dinner party, Rowly, not a public engagement.”

  “You chaps aren’t really going to try and carve up the state are you?”

  Wilfred smiled now. “It is to everyone’s advantage if Page, Watson and Hardy could work together despite their personal antipathy,” he said calmly. “The call for new states is more than just sound, it is the common ground that will help build alliances that are in the national interest.”

  “So you were giving them a common cause so they’d play well together?”

  “I didn’t give them anything—I just highlighted areas of mutual interest.”

  For a moment Rowland considered his brother’s words, and then he laughed. “Milt’s right—you are running the bloody country.”

  Wilfred stared at him, his eyes penetrating, unamused.

  Rowland returned to his breakfast. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Wil.”

  6

  MR. LYONS

  Visit to Gundagai

  GUNDAGAI, Friday

  The Prime Minister (Mr. Lyons) will go to Gundagai on Monday to participate in the “Back to Gundagai Week” celebrations and will unveil a monument in memory of the pioneers at the five-mile camping ground, outside Gundagai. The ceremony will be followed by a civic reception and luncheon at Gundagai.

  The monument has been erected on the old family camping ground of the bullock team days. Just behind the monument are the ruins of the old hotel known as Lazy Harry’s, the centre of hectic scenes in bygone years. Among the pioneers who are still resident at Gundagai are a former driver of Cobb and Co.’s coaches and an old man who drove bullock teams when the nearest railway was at Liverpool.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1932

  Rowland emerged to find the household waiting around his Mercedes. Clyde had the hood up and appeared to be polishing the engine. Milton was posing with Kate and the children while Edna took photographs. Ernest looked quite bored with the process, whilst young Ewan smiled toothlessly from his mother’s arms. Edna circled them, snapping from various angles. Photography had become her passion over the last year, despite Rowland’s refusal to concede that it was art. Wilfred stood sternly at the bottom of the stairs, checking his pocket watch intermittently.

  Preparations for their departure had been made with surprising speed and almost military precision. Additional clothing had been purchased from the gentlemen’s outfitters in Yass and delivered to Oaklea before ten, and two extra trunks had been placed on the train to Cootamundra for dispatch to Tumut. Clyde had spent the early morning checking over the Mercedes, tuning the elaborate motor to perfection. Wilfred had insisted that towropes and chains be added into the contents of the trunk. Wilfred’s revolver had been included as well. And Kate had insisted Edna take a couple of her own immaculately tailored riding habits.

  Wilfred snapped his pocket watch shut. “For heaven’s sake, Rowly, we’ve been waiting for fifteen jolly minutes!”

  “Sorry.” Rowland held up a basket. “Just popped into the kitchen.”

  “That’ll have to go into the cabin with you,” Wilfred muttered. “Nothing more will fit into the trunk with all that flaming paraphernalia you insist upon carting about.”

  Rowland paid no attention. He knew Wilfred was talking about his paintbox. He supposed it left less room for side arms.

  “It’ll only take you a few hours to get to Tumut, provided this contraption doesn’t break down of course.”

  “Mercedes don’t break down, Wil.” Rowland placed the basket of Mrs. Kendall’s shortbread onto the back seat and ran his hand soothingly along the tourer’s canopy. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that in front of her—she’s quite sensitive.”

  Wilfred glared at him. “You’d do well to stop in Tumut overnight.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to get stranded on the road to Kiandra after dark. You’ll be miles from any sort of assistance.” Wilfred handed him a business card. “Call in at the stock and station agents’ in Tumut and see if they know anything about Harry’s movements.”

  Rowland took the card.

  “I’ll track Harry down, Wil. He might just have gone looking for good fishing holes.”

  “I hope so, but I doubt it.” Wilfred’s brow furrowed for a moment. “If there’s anything else, I will send a message or phone through to Caves House. Remember, I’ll need you back in April.”

  “Of course,” Rowland said, somewhat unconvincingly.

  Wilfred looked at his brother sharply. “Kingsford Smith has insisted he meet you before he’ll admit you into this flying school of his. He’ll be in Sydney for the Easter Show.”

  Rowland smiled. Clearly Wilfred didn’t trust him to return simply for the Dangars board meeting. His brother had always been a careful man.

  Rowland opened the passenger door. “We’d better get on then.”

  Edna clicked a final picture and embraced Kate farewell, before she raced Milton for the front seat. He was not a gentleman about it, but she was victorious an
yway. Ernest cheered, and Rowland laughed. Wilfred shook his head, but he said nothing. Clyde closed the hood and adjusted the catches.

  They completed their goodbyes and were soon cruising down the long driveway at Oaklea, waving madly at Ernest who chased the car to the gate.

  Nestled into the lower slopes of the Snowy Mountains, Tumut was only a three and a half hour run from Yass. The temperature cooled noticeably as the road rose out of the Yass flatlands and into the hills. They stopped briefly en route near the township of Gundagai because Edna wanted to see the already celebrated monument which had been unveiled by Prime Minister Lyons a few months before. Rowland regarded the statue of a drover’s dog curiously. He liked dogs, but it seemed to him an odd thing to bring the head of government to Gundagai. Perhaps Lyons liked dogs too.

  Edna studied the bronze kelpie much more enthusiastically, noting features only visible to those in the trade. She had once collaborated with the dog’s sculptor, Rusconi.

  “Bronze isn’t Frank’s usual medium you know,” she said, studying the detail in the form of the seated dog. “He creates his masterpieces with marble generally—mortuary monuments mostly—you must recommend him to Mr. Foy, Rowly… he’ll need someone to carve those mermen we drew up for his tomb.”

  “Yes… of course… the mermen.”

  It was about three in the afternoon when they arrived in the Tumut valley. The town, built along a fast-flowing river, was a bustling mountain village which served as the immediate region’s major centre. There were still several hours of light in the day.

  Milton and the sculptress stopped at the railway station to check that their trunks had arrived on the train from Cootamundra and been duly dispatched on the mail truck. Rowland and Clyde set out to find the stock and station agent, whose office was in the main street.

  A son of the neighbouring town, Clyde knew Tumut well, and was greeted heartily by many of the local citizenry. As a result they made somewhat halting progress, though they eventually arrived at the well-appointed shopfront of Mandelson’s stock and station agency. They were shown into the office of the agent, a liberally proportioned man, who sat behind a desk littered with skewed stacks of carbon paper and a cross-cut saw.