A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Milton moved on to monetary reform.

  Harrison recovered somewhat and argued with more certainty.

  Milton had some suggestions for the alleviation of unemployment, the facilitation of industrial harmony, and working hours.

  Harrison became angry. “Mr. Isaacs, if you have come here to put the Labor cause—”

  “Not the Labor cause, Mr. Harrison, my cause. And you represent me, sir! So go to Mr. Lyons and the other members of the UAP and jolly well represent!”

  “Milt…” Edna warned.

  “Mr. Isaacs, it behoves you to remember that the United Australia Party has just been returned to government on the basis of our sound and credible policies, and not those of the Labor Party! Now you and Miss Higgins will have to excuse me… I have rather a lot to do today.”

  “Just one more matter, Mr. Harrison. The Melbourne Herald reports that we will have the privilege of a visit from a most eminent speaker next month, a gentleman by the name of Egon Kisch. Don’t you think it behoves the government to organise some kind of reception? A drinks party, perhaps something simple in the gardens?”

  Edna sighed.

  Harrison looked like he might explode. “Did you say Kisch… Ewart Kisch?”

  “Egon… not Ewart.” Milton smiled. “I believe he’s quite famous on the Continent. Certainly better known than the king’s third son whom every arm of government seems desperate to fete.”

  “How dare you, sir! Your words come very close to treason!”

  Milton snorted.

  “And what’s more, the Commonwealth is not in the habit of throwing soirees for known Communists!”

  Milton banged the desk. “You are my representative, sir. I demand you put my request to the parliament.”

  “Why that’s absurd!”

  “And here I was thinking that you’d been won over to democracy despite your dalliance with the All for Australia League.”

  Harrison was truly furious now. “I believe it would be prudent for you to leave before I’m forced to have my secretary call security and have you arrested for… for… have you arrested!”

  “A fine way to treat a constituent!”

  “You would do well, Mr. Isaacs, to reconsider your present course. I don’t know what you call democracy, but it does not entitle you to march in and demand of a Minister of the Crown that he entertain a known dissident who has already been deported and banned from the United Kingdom!”

  Milton stopped. “Yes, well thank you, Mr. Harrison. It’s been a pleasure.” He stood. “Keep up the good fight and all that, old bean.” He opened the door for Edna. “We’d best let you get on.”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Harrison,” Edna said sweetly.

  Harrison stared after them as they waved cheerio and disappeared down the corridor.

  15

  FEDERAL MINISTRY

  PERSONNEL ANNOUNCED MR. HARRISON THE SURPRISE

  Mr. W.M. Hughes Included

  MELBOURNE, Wednesday

  The new Federal Ministry was announced tonight, by the Prime Minister as follows:

  Prime Minister and Treasurer: Mr. J.A. Lyons.

  Minister for External Affairs and Territories: Sir George Pearce.

  Attorney-General: Mr. R.G. Menzies.

  Minister for Defence: Mr. Archdale Parkhill.

  Minister for Trade and Customs: Colonel T. White.

  Vice-President of the Executive Council and Minister for Health: Mr. W.M. Hughes.

  Postmaster-General and Minister in Charge of Development: Senator A.J. M’Lachlan.

  Minister for Commerce and Industry: Mr. F.H. Stewart.

  Minister for the Interior: Mr. E.J. Harrison.

  Assistant Treasurer: Mr. R. Casey.

  Minister without portfolio directing trade treaties: Sir Henry Gullett.

  Minister without portfolio in charge of repatriation and War Service homes: Mr. J. Francis.

  Assistant Minister for Commerce and Interior: Senator T.C. Brennan.

  Assistant Minister until the conclusion of the royal tour: Mr. C.W. Marr.

  The only surprise was the inclusion of Mr. Harrison in the Cabinet. He represents Wentworth.

  Wagga Wagga Daily Advertiser, 11 October 1934

  “Would I be right to suppose you had some purpose in goading Mr. Harrison into losing his rag?” Edna whispered as she and Milton walked down the main stairs, avoiding the spot on which they knew Jim Kelly had died. For some reason it seemed disrespectful to step there.

  “I was simply raising some very valid concerns, Ed. But apparently Egon has been banned in the United Kingdom.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I’m not sure. But the fact that Harrison is aware of it before Egon is anywhere near this country makes me wonder about the source of his information.”

  “He’s the Minister for the Interior—isn’t it his business to know?”

  “Harrison’s only been minister for a few days. A week ago he was a backbencher.” Milton stroked his short beard, his brow furrowed. “Arthur Howells thought there was a spy in the movement.”

  Edna smiled. “Of course there is. The police have spies everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary Brown was a member of the New South Wales police force!”

  “That’d explain a few things.”

  “What do you think will happen, Milt?”

  “The Lyons government will try to revoke Egon’s visa or something equally daft. But the movement’s ready for that, though it would be handy if we could tell the barrister under what authority they will seek to exclude him.”

  “The movement has a barrister?”

  “I don’t think he’s on retainer but if Egon is prevented from landing there’s a former judge of the High Court ready to act on his behalf. But, as I said, that’s not our greatest worry.”

  “And what is?”

  “I don’t believe Kelly was killed by a disgruntled husband. I think he was killed by someone who knew he was a Communist.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a Communist badge pinned on his lapel.”

  “So…”

  “He was undercover—our signal was the red scarves. Why would he wear a red star badge?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t that bright,” Edna countered. “We’ve never met Jim Kelly, Milt, how could we begin to guess what his motivations were?”

  “The badge was pinned too low on the lapel,” Milton tapped his own lapel just above the jacket button. “I don’t think Kelly would have worn a pin at all, let alone in such an odd position. No, I suspect the killer left it there to make sure the police knew full well that Jim was a Communist.”

  They stepped out together to cross the street, their arms entwined, their heads together.

  “We need to visit Sunshine Studios and establish why Kelly had those photographs—Ed! Watch out!”

  The black Ford Tudor had been travelling on the other side of the road, which is why they hadn’t noticed it until it swerved towards them. The sound of its engine rose to a roar as it accelerated. Milton pushed Edna out of the vehicle’s path just a breath before the Ford’s grille impacted with his body. He flew over the bonnet and landed in a motionless, crumpled heap on the bitumen. Screams and shouts and the screech of tyres as the Ford reversed and sped away.

  Rowland strode into the Canberra Hospital. The moment he arrived back at the Hotel Canberra, the concierge had informed him that Mr. Isaacs and Miss Higgins had been involved in an accident. He hadn’t waited to ask for details. He spotted Clyde first.

  “Where are they, Clyde? What the hell happened?”

  “A hit and run… Milt took the brunt of it. Ed’s a little bruised from the fall, but they say she’ll be all right.”

  “What fall?” Rowland asked, confused.

  “Milt shoved her out of the way. The car hit him.”

  “And Milt?”

  “A dislocated hip. He hasn’t come round yet.”

  Rowland cursed.

  Clyde nodded. “Quite.
The police have been taking Ed’s statement. They left just before you arrived. We should be able to go in now.”

  Edna smiled to see them. Still in a hospital gown, the grazes on her arms were visible, as was the bruise on her forehead. “I fell on some gravel,” she said. “I don’t know why they’re making a fuss.” She embraced them each in turn. “How’s Milt? They won’t tell me anything.” Her voice broke.

  “I’ll find out,” Rowland promised, kissing her hand.

  He left her with Clyde and went in search of someone who could update them on Milton’s condition. He managed to speak to a doctor who assured him that the poet, while seriously injured, was not in danger. The bones in his hip had been realigned under anaesthetic.

  It was a couple of hours before they were allowed into Milton’s room.

  He was awake, but groggy with pain medication. Eventually the staff asked them to go.

  “Mr. Isaacs is not in any danger,” the matron said as she ushered them out. “The doctors simply want him to rest. You can come back in the morning.”

  Edna shook her head. “Someone tried to kill Mr. Isaacs, Matron. What if they try again?”

  “The police didn’t say…”

  “They are convinced it was an accident.” She looked earnestly at the nurse. “But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.”

  The matron frowned. “You need to rest too, Miss Higgins. Clearly you’re still distraught.”

  Rowland handed his car keys to Clyde. “Please take Ed back to the hotel. Make sure she rests. I’ll look out for Milt.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, this is a hospital,” the matron puffed to her full volume.

  Rowland stepped away from his friends, and towards her. “I do realise it’s an imposition, Matron,” he said quietly. “But I fear that Miss Higgins will fret for Mr. Isaacs’ safety, and, considering the shock she’s just had, the worry might impede her recovery… I’ll just sit outside Mr. Isaacs’ room… I won’t disturb him.”

  “You’d sit in a chair all night just so Miss Higgins won’t be upset?” The matron glanced at Edna. With burly Clyde’s arm about her, she looked very young and pale. And she was close to tears.

  “It would set all our minds at ease.”

  The matron sighed. “Perhaps you can sit in his room… as long as you don’t disturb him.” She folded her arms over an ample breast. “I will not have you cluttering my corridors by loitering outside Mr. Isaacs’ door.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rowland paused to farewell Clyde and Edna. He resisted the impulse to take the sculptress in his arms and handed her his handkerchief instead. “I’ll keep an eye on Milt, you mustn’t worry.”

  “The car swerved from across the road and accelerated to hit us, Rowly.” She took his hand in both of hers. “You be careful.”

  “I will. You try and rest and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  Rowland settled in the easy chair beside Milton’s bed. Despite her initial resistance to the idea, the matron brought him a pillow and a blanket.

  “Thank you, Matron, you’re very kind,” Rowland whispered. “But I wouldn’t be much of a bodyguard if I fell asleep.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Sinclair. If, however, you disturb my nurses in their duties you will have to go. I’ve asked one of the younger nurses to bring you some supper.”

  Once again Rowland thanked her.

  Milton’s legs were elevated in traction, his hips packed in ice and surrounded by counterweights. Rowland winced, glad his friend seemed as yet oblivious to any pain. He did not for a moment doubt Edna’s claim that this had been no accident.

  A young nurse brought in a cup of tea, some sandwiches and a bowl of jelly. She checked on Milton and chatted to Rowland as he ate.

  “Mr. Isaacs will be all right, sir.” She responded quite willingly to his enquiry. “There weren’t any fractures and the doctors were very happy with the realignment. He’ll be able to walk on crutches in a week or so.” She adjusted Milton’s pillows. “They say he saved Miss Higgin’s life. One doesn’t often think of a Communist being heroic.”

  Rowland looked up sharply. “How did you know Milt was a Communist, Miss…?”

  “Owens. The badge on his jacket.” She giggled. “And when he was coming out of the anaesthetic, he started singing that Communist song—the one about the flag—at the top of his voice. Nearly scared Neville, the wardsman, half to death. The doctor thought it was best to give him something to calm him down.”

  “Neville?”

  “No, Mr. Isaacs.”

  “I see.”

  Whatever it was that had been administered to Milton it was a number of hours before he was awake enough to be coherent. At first he just cursed a string of profanity through gritted teeth.

  Concerned, Rowland stood to summon a nurse. Milton called him back.

  “Rowly, is that you?”

  “Yes. What can I do?”

  “I dunno. What the hell happened?”

  Rowland told him what he knew.

  “So Ed’s all right?”

  “She is, thanks to you, old boy. Do you remember anything?”

  “I remember the car swerved onto our side of the road. Nothing after that.” He raised his eyes to his feet suspended well above his head. “I must say I’m a little surprised to wake up slung up like a brace of rabbits.”

  “Are you in a lot of pain?” Rowland asked.

  “I’m not sure. My nether regions are pretty bloody cold.”

  “That’ll be the ice… I’ll call someone.”

  “No, never mind about that. What did the police say?”

  “They’re sure this was an accident… Milt, were you wearing a Communist badge today?”

  “Of course not! I’m not daft.” Milton paused, closing his eyes against a wave of pain.

  “God, Milt, I should call the doctor—”

  “No. I’m all right. Just have to remember not to move—at all.” He caught his breath. “The only reason I got into see bloody Harrison was because he thought I was you. I’m hardly going to announce I’m a member of the proletariat by wearing a badge.”

  “That’s what I thought. Nurse Owens mentioned there was a badge on your jacket when they brought you in.” Rowland hoped Milton would not become too agitated by the news.

  The poet started, swearing as the movement told. “Like Kelly.”

  “Yes.” Rowland did call for a nurse this time.

  It was the matron who responded. He waited as she attended to her patient, making notes in a clipboard and extending a kind of firm maternal sympathy. “I’ll fetch the doctor and see about something more for the pain, pet,” she promised as she left the room once again.

  Rowland pressed Milton’s shoulder. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Milt. I’ll organise professional security in the morning and, until then, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Look, comrade,” Milton said urgently. “You’ll have to send word to Howells. He can’t send anyone to replace me and he’ll need to warn anyone else he has stationed here.”

  “I’ll send a telegram tomorrow morning.”

  “I need to speak to Clyde.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a Communist and you’re not.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  Despite everything, Milton smiled. “I trust you with my life, mate. I just don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

  The doctor arrived then. He seemed a little surprised to see Rowland, but aside from a pointedly raised brow, he said nothing. Rowland watched Milton’s face visibly relax as the morphine took effect.

  Clyde and Edna arrived early the next morning. The sculptress looked herself again, the grazes on her arms covered by the drape of a short navy cape, the bruise on her face disguised by the jaunty set of her hat. She came in with a bunch of pungent gardenias, but Rowland could only smell roses. It might have been her perfume or simply an association, he wasn’t sure. Even after all these years, there was a familiar stirring in h
is chest at the sight of her.

  “Oh, Rowly, you look exhausted!” Edna said as he rose from the chair in which he’d spent the night watching for anything untoward, and ready to fight.

  Clyde placed the keys to the Airflow into his hands. “You go back to the hotel and grab a shower and a kip. We’ll keep an eye on Milt.”

  “He wants to speak to you about something… remind him before they give him another dose of pain medication.”

  Clyde nodded.

  Before he left the hospital, Rowland asked the nurse for the clothes Milton had been wearing. “I’ll have them cleaned for when Mr. Isaacs is ready to leave.”

  “That’s good of you, sir.” He was given a large paper bag marked “Isaacs”.

  Back at the Hotel Canberra, Rowland pulled a Communist badge from the breast welt pocket of the jacket of what looked very much like one of his own suits. The badge had a new minted shine to it. Other than that, there were no identifying marks. He showered quickly, ordered coffee and toast, and then made some telephone calls.

  He rang through to Major Harold Jones and explained events such as he knew them to be. “Someone appears to be trying to kill Communists, sir.”

  On the validity of that conclusion they argued for a time. Jones suggested that it might be best if Milton return to Sydney.

  Rowland agreed. “Unfortunately the nature of Mr. Isaacs’ injuries are such that he will not be able to travel for at least a week.”

  A further exchange of differences in opinion. Finally Jones grudgingly agreed to provide two men at the hospital until such time as Milton was physically able to leave the capital.

  Next, Rowland arranged for a telegram to be sent to Arthur Howells, advising him that Milton had been injured and that there was reason to believe that Communists in the capital, or at least in the vicinity of Federal Parliament, were in danger.

  He slept for two hours then, before returning to the hospital.

  He was surprised to find that the men Jones had promised had arrived so promptly and in such number. There were two officers in place outside the hospital and another three inside. There seemed to be a general state of excitement about the place.

  The matron bustled past. “You should have given us some warning, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, beaming. “We could at least have shaved him.”