Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland started on his eggs and bacon. He may have been inclined to protest, but Lawrence Keenan’s belligerent arrival had saved them from being shot. As long as the old man hadn’t damaged the Mercedes, Rowland was happy to pay him whatever he wanted.

  “With whom are you meeting then?” Rowland asked.

  “O’Shea.” Wilfred’s eyes narrowed.

  “Shouldn’t the police…?”

  “They’ll deal with Moran and his thugs. I’ll sort the rest out with O’Shea.”

  Rowland let it go. He had no doubt that O’Shea had more to fear from Wilfred. His brother could exert much more than just the full force of the law.

  28

  LISTER SHEEP-SHEARING MACHINERY

  A two-stand portable shearing and crutching outfit complete with the well-known Fairbanks-Morse ‘Z’ kerosene engine can be seen at the company’s exhibit in the machinery hall. Many of the largest sheds in Australia, in fact, throughout the world, are Lister fitted, and over 20,000 stands of Lister shearing machines are at work in Australia.

  The Register, 1924

  Rowland had barely finished breakfast when the housekeeper came in to say that there was a gentleman to see him. Clapton had apparently accompanied Wilfred to his meeting with O’Shea. Hoping that it was Clyde, Rowland stepped into the drawing room.

  “Babbington! Hello… what are you doing here?” Rowland greeted his fellow Dangars director with blunt surprise.

  “Just paying my respects, old man. I heard you’d been found. Jolly pleased to hear it.”

  “Quite pleased myself,” Rowland replied carefully, unsure of how much Babbington knew.

  “I say, you’ve been injured.” Babbington was looking at the sling.

  “Not seriously. I thought you might have headed back to Sydney by now.”

  “I will be quite soon; I was hoping to have a chat about the Lister vote.”

  “The Lister vote?” Rowland invited Babbington to take a seat.

  “It was all in your board papers.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rowland tried to remember what he’d done with the papers.

  “As you have no doubt read, Dangars holds an option over the Lister franchise.”

  Somewhat deceitfully, Rowland nodded.

  “The option must be exercised by the first of April or it lapses and Lister is free to sell its licence to the highest bidder.”

  “I see.”

  “The fact of the matter is, old chap, I don’t think Dangars is in a position to take up the option. I’ve been through the books… the company has not the financial strength to take on such an investment.”

  Rowland was curious. To his recollection Babbington had been a great champion of the Lister pumps and generators. “I was of the impression that you were rather excited by Lister.”

  “This has nothing to do with the quality of Lister products, Sinclair. There is no demand at the moment… Dangars has so far survived the financial downturn but we cannot continue as if it were still the twenties.”

  “So you don’t want Dangars to exercise its option?”

  “Precisely. It’s the only rational path.” Babbington leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Can I count on your support, Rowly?”

  “I’ll have a look at the board papers… again… and I’ll talk to Wil.”

  Babbington studied him. “May I speak plainly?”

  “Please do.”

  “I understand that Wilfred has been… an invaluable mentor since you joined Dangars, but I believe that you are now ready to trust your own judgement. Your brother is a very capable man, but he is from a world where loyalty dictates decisions of business. That world has changed… we cannot simply support Lister to our own detriment. That is why young men like you bring an essential objectivity to the board. Can I urge you, Rowly, to step outside your brother’s directive in this matter and act in the best interests of Dangars.”

  “It’s always been in the best interests of Dangars for me to take Wilfred’s advice,” Rowland said coolly, not entirely sure if he should be offended, but feeling irritated nonetheless.

  Babbington took a measured breath. “I too have an elder brother, Rowly. I have always respected his opinion, valued his experience, but there came a time when I became my own man, and I like to think he respected me for it.”

  “I’m very happy for you, Babbington.”

  “I have always considered you to have a great future in business.” Babbington stood. “I look forward to seeing you make your own mark on the commerce of the nation.”

  “Indeed.” Rowland stood too, glad that Babbington seemed to be leaving. It was all rather odd. “I’ll walk you out to your motor,” he said, holding open the front door.

  It was later that morning when Edna stepped out, restored after rest and breakfast. Rowland and Harry Simpson were both leaning on the rail which surrounded the verandah, deep in earnest exchange. There was a closeness to the conversation, a confidence between the two men. Rowland’s face was in his hands. Simpson spoke quietly, his shoulder squared up against Rowland’s, their backs to the house.

  Edna’s smile faded as she approached them. “What’s wrong?”

  Rowland did not look at her.

  “Miss Higgins,” Simpson said uncomfortably.

  “Good morning, Mr. Simpson. What’s the matter with Rowly?”

  “I’ve got to go see a man about a dog.” Simpson replaced his hat upon his head, nodded to Edna and left.

  “Maybe we should follow him,” Edna said, as she took Simpson’s place at the rail. “See if we can’t save that poor dog.”

  Rowland smiled, but still he seemed unable to meet her gaze. To Edna, who was accustomed to his eyes upon her, it was unsettling. A flutter of panic as she wondered if he’d remembered. She forced courage and asked again, “What’s wrong, Rowly?”

  Finally he looked at her.

  “Harry told me, Ed—what happened in the cave.” The words came in a rush of remorse. “God, I’m so sorry…”

  Edna moved backwards just slightly, startled by the fact that he should be ashamed. “Why did he… What did Mr. Simpson tell you, Rowly?”

  Rowland turned to face her now. “That he woke up to find me forcing myself on you.” He flinched as he said it. “I’m sorry, Ed, I truly apologise. I don’t know why… I would never…”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Rowly.”

  “There’s no possible excuse…”

  “You were delirious, you had no idea what you were doing.”

  “I…” He stopped.

  “Do you remember?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

  Edna placed her hand firmly on his arm. “Rowly darling, stop. I won’t have it. It wasn’t your fault. I should have been more careful… you were very ill.”

  “I couldn’t have been that flaming ill if I was…”

  Edna shoved him. “For pity’s sake, Rowly, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

  He almost laughed. “You tried to ravish me then?”

  She smiled, and reached up to turn his face towards hers. Wistfully, she remembered what it was like to kiss him. “Stop looking like that. Nothing’s broken.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve forgotten it, and you can’t remember it at all.”

  29

  WOMAN’S WORLD

  By CLIO

  …it is interesting to see how a writer recently on the vexed question of manners, sums up the position. He takes for his text a delightful little half-page in a recent “Punch”, showing an up-to-date governess in the shortest and skimpiest of garments, cigarette in mouth, sprawling on a sofa, and a pretty little pupil making the pathetic request, “Oh, Miss Gazzleton, do tell us a story about the time when there were ladies and gentlemen and not old beans and things.” The writer says that a hundred years or more ago the manners of the English upper class were coarse, and now they are merely vulgar, which, so far, is an improvement.

  The Mercury 1922


  Rowland looked up from his notebook as Wilfred and Clapton walked in. Edna was coiled on the couch beside him with the paper, reading aloud the articles that caught her eye or amused her. It was a moment before she noticed they were no longer alone. She unfurled her legs and sat up hastily.

  Wilfred cleared his throat. “Miss Higgins.” Removing his hat, he looked her up and down. “I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered from your ordeal,” he said, with nothing but his actual words to indicate that he was in fact pleased.

  “Why thank you, Mr. Sinclair.” Edna smiled at Clapton who stood rigidly beside his guest. “Mr. Clapton has been most kind to accommodate us so well. Hot and cold running water seems positively miraculous after the last few days.”

  Clapton puffed, gratified, and nodded in acknowledgement. “Piped from a tank over a mile away, you know. We at Australian State and Mortgage have always felt that homestead living should not require one to abandon the conveniences of civilisation.”

  “An admirable sentiment, Mr. Clapton,” Edna agreed.

  “How’d it go, Wil?” Rowland asked. While he too appreciated the plumbing, he was anxious to find out how his brother had fared with O’Shea.

  Wilfred frowned, glancing pointedly at Edna.

  Rowland ignored him, but Edna stood. “I might take a walk about your garden, Mr. Clapton, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen.”

  Rowland smiled faintly. Wilfred had an old-fashioned aversion to discussing any form of business in front of women. Edna’s polite exit may have seemed deferential but Rowland had no doubt she would simply eavesdrop from behind the door.

  “O’Shea and I have come to an acceptable arrangement,” Wilfred said finally.

  “That’s it?”

  “What did you expect, Rowly—pistols at dawn?”

  “No… but…”

  “I’ve hired most of the men who joined the search to see to things up here. We’ll be cutting out a thousand head from O’Shea’s herd. They’ll need to be rebranded properly and we’ll also need to rebuild the hut you burnt down.”

  “Any sign of Moran?” Rowland asked, electing to avoid an argument about who burnt down the hut.

  Wilfred shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  “We’ll keep looking,” Clapton assured him. “The police are sending men up from Albury to continue the manhunt. I’ll be taking a personal interest in it myself.”

  “More than happy to leave it in your capable hands, old man,” Wilfred said, nodding. “We should get moving, Rowly. I’d like to reach Gundagai before dark and we have still to retrieve your paraphernalia from Rules Point.”

  Rowland sighed. Apparently his car and his friends were paraphernalia. “I’ll get Ed,” he said. As they had arrived at Pocket’s Hut as fugitives with nothing but what they were wearing, there was no need to pack.

  He left Wilfred talking to Clapton and stepped out onto the verandah. He expected to find Edna lurking nearby, but the verandah was clear. He found her eventually near the stables with Harry Simpson. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest and, even from a distance, Rowland could tell the conversation was heated. From her part at least. Simpson was scratching his head—he looked both abashed and amused. As Rowland approached, the exchange fell silent.

  “What have you done, Harry?” he asked, grinning.

  “You heading off then?” Simpson replied, nodding towards Wilfred’s Continental which was idling at the front of the house.

  “Yes… aren’t you coming?”

  “Naw… I’ve got cattle to muster.”

  “You’re going back out?” Rowland was surprised, and uneasy. Moran had not yet been apprehended.

  “The new blokes that Wil’s taken on seem pretty sound, Rowly. That chap Jim Jones is a good hand. I want to finish the job.”

  “But Moran…”

  “He won’t risk coming in again,” Simpson laughed. “Wil’s summoned the Graziers’ Association.”

  Rowland smiled. “Wouldn’t underestimate them, Harry.”

  “I’m going to say goodbye to Mr. Clapton.” Edna turned to Simpson and, after looking at him reprovingly for a moment, she held out her hand and smiled warmly. “I’m really pleased to have met you, Mr. Simpson. I do hope we’ll meet again often.”

  Simpson took her hand in both of his. “Likewise, Miss Higgins. You look after yourself.”

  They watched Edna walk back towards the house. “So why was Ed dressing you down, Harry?”

  “Miss Higgins believes I’ve been speaking out of turn.”

  For a moment Rowland was perplexed and then, “Oh, this is about the cave… No, I’m glad you told me.” He frowned. “At least I could apologise, for what it was worth.”

  “I didn’t tell you so you could feel bad, gagamin. Just thought you and Miss Higgins should talk.”

  “We did.”

  “And…”

  “I apologised. She was gracious and insisted we never speak of it again.”

  Simpson sighed loudly and shook his head. Rowland’s eyes were still on Edna as she stopped on the verandah to stroke a cat.

  “Wil’s convinced that girl’s going to make a fool of you, Rowly.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s probably right.” Rowland dropped his eyes to the ground as he tried to explain. “Edna’s got plans.”

  “They don’t include you?”

  “They don’t include being Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Simpson shrugged. “Who could blame her?” He smiled broadly. “You know I had a dog called Edna once, bitzer, entirely untrainable… wouldn’t sit, or come or stay… did just what she pleased…”

  “Did you shoot her?” Rowland asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “Naw… I loved her. Best dog I’ve ever had. She ran away one day…”

  The Rules Point Hotel was crowded with the men who had joined the search for Rowland Sinclair. They had come in from surrounding settlements and stations, for the promise of work or because they were sent by employers who had, for one reason or another, cause to do Wilfred Sinclair a favour. Some were staying on to work the Sinclair lease, others because Wilfred had opened the bar to all those who had assisted.

  The Sinclair brothers and Maguire had called in first at Long Plain Homestead to rescue the Mercedes which Lawrence Keenan was holding as collateral. Keenan itemised at length the charges that made up the debt, complaining bitterly that he was forced to retrieve Rowland himself to ensure that he survived to settle the bill.

  Rowland produced his chequebook and soothed the situation with his signature.

  “I’ll be glad to see the back of it,” Keenan muttered. “Taking up half my shed, bloody Fritz contraption…”

  Regardless, the old man had polished the automobile until she gleamed and, though a large ginger cat was evicted from the back seat, the car was pristine.

  Despite his injuries, Rowland managed to drive his beloved car with Edna leaning in to operate the gearshift. Fortunately, the lurching, stalling journey, was not a long one and they arrived at Rules Point with both vehicles.

  Milton and Clyde emerged from the bar to greet them with a train of well-lubricated spectators.

  “Rowly, thank God.” Clyde clapped Rowland on the back. He looked tired. “We were beginning to fear the worst… We found the cave but lost your trail in the rain.”

  “Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by.”

  Rowland looked down at Milton’s arm, heavily bandaged to the elbow. “Good Lord, Milt, Frost isn’t even dead.” Milton usually only robbed the deceased. Rowland shook the grinning poet’s good hand with his own as Edna threw her arms about Clyde.

  “Cripes, Rowly, what have you done to yourself?”

  “Snake… I’m fine.”

  “Well, it’s certain you have the luck of the Irish!” Mick Schulz boomed. “Come, young’un! We’ll have a drink to your good health.”

  A general roar of approval followed. It seemed that everyone was happy to drink to Rowland whi
le a Sinclair was paying the bill.

  Rowland glanced back at Wilfred, expecting his brother would be anxious to leave, but Wilfred was deep in conversation and waved him on. They seemed somehow to have acquired the status of heroes by virtue of being rescued, and even Edna was made welcome in the bar. Indeed she was plied with glasses of shandy before she even sat down and the seats about her were taken quickly. The feeling was high and festive, and the stockmen were keen to hear all. Though it seemed that Moran’s duplicity was not quite a scandal by mountain standards, it was the subject of great interest.

  Rowland gave his attention to a beer and allowed the story to be told by Milton and Edna. Between them the poet and the sculptress had all the necessary theatrical inclination to turn the tale into an epic of survival. Rowland spoke quietly with Clyde instead, giving his friend a slightly more accurate account of the events since they last parted ways.

  Clyde in turn told him of the Chevy which had been bogged on the track between Long Plain Homestead and the charred remains of Rope’s End.

  Rowland shook his head. “Just who are they? There’s got to be more to it than a bit of cattle stealing.”

  “Sarah!” Edna exclaimed, pushing her way out of the centre of the crowd and towards the door. Sarah Brent strode into the bar.

  Rowland and Clyde stood hastily.

  “Edna, my dear,” Sarah said, clasping the sculptress’ hands. “I was positively sick with worry for you. Of course I wanted to ride out with the search party, but the closed-minded fools would not hear of it… but that’s by the by. I am so glad to find you safe and well.”

  “We’re very grateful to you, Sarah, for all you did for Milt.”

  The writer shrugged dismissively. “I understand Wilfred is taking you all back with him.”

  “You’ve spoken with Wilfred?” Rowland asked. Wilfred hadn’t mentioned Sarah Brent whilst they were at Pocket’s.

  “Of course… he was a little astonished to find me here. He’s become the man I expected he would.”