A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  “Has he?” was the response, in a tone which betrayed no emotion.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not surprised. All babies have first teeth. If ours didn’t have any I’d manage to work up some excitement—maybe.”

  “I thought you’d be ever so pleased and happy about it.”

  “No; I don’t see that it’s any occasion for especial congratulation. The baby has my deepest sympathy.”

  “What for?”

  “For having his first tooth. He has just struck the opening chapter of a long story of trouble. Pretty soon he’ll have other teeth.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “Every one he cuts will hurt him. Then his second teeth will come along and push these out. That will hurt him again. Some of the new ones will grow crooked, as likely as not, and he will have to go to the dentist and have a block and tackle adjusted to them to haul them into line. Then he’ll cut his wisdom teeth. They will hurt a lot. After that he’ll have to go to the dentist and let him drill holes and hammer until his face feels like a great palpitating stone quarry. I shouldn’t like him to go through life without teeth. But I may say that I don’t see any occasion for the customary hilarity over an event that means so much in the way of sorrow and humiliation.”

  Camperdown Chronicle, 14 March 1933

  When Rowland returned to the Oaklea homestead with his nephews, he discovered that the Bruces were also back from a morning in Canberra visiting old friends and colleagues. And so, they were to be a party for dinner, the eminence of which dictated that they would be dining formally.

  Rowland found his dinner suit had been laid out in the bedroom that had been his as a child. He showered and changed, wondering whether his friends had reached Woodlands House without incident. He might have telephoned then, had not Ernest Sinclair knocked on his door to remind him that he had not yet seen Gilbert’s tooth. An immediate visit to the nursery was necessary to rectify the oversight. Not yet a year old, the youngest of Wilfred’s brood had not seen his uncle enough to know him. He gazed at Rowland suspiciously with the dark blue eyes which seemed to mark all the Sinclair men.

  “Gil doesn’t do much yet,” Ernest confided. “But he’s not as embarrassing as Ewan.”

  “Give him time, Ernie mate.”

  Rowland bade his nephews goodnight, promising he would see them in the morning before he left, and proceeded to the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks.

  With the Bruces present, the tension between Rowland and Wilfred was mitigated somewhat by the simple fact that it was not absolutely necessary that they speak directly to each other.

  Over a five course supper, Wilfred and Stanley Bruce chatted about the price of wool and the animosity of Prime Minister Lyons. It appeared that Lyons felt Bruce’s presence in the country was destabilising to his leadership. Consequently, the current visit of Australia’s High Commissioner to the United Kingdom had been kept low key and unofficial. Ethel Bruce spoke to Kate and Rowland about snippets of gossip and her own investigations into who had run down Milton Isaacs. She had, it seemed, telephoned Major Jones herself to ensure that he was expending all efforts to identify the culprit and bring him to justice.

  Stanley Bruce broke into the conversation. “Sadly, unlike your rather extraordinary automobile, Rowland, black Ford Tudors are not at all unusual, and so finding that particular vehicle may prove difficult. In any case, it’s best left to the relevant authorities.”

  Rowland was reminded of Bruce’s earlier request.

  “I had the pleasure of Mrs. Roche’s company for tea the day before yesterday,” Kate volunteered shyly. “She’s a childhood friend of Rowly’s who’s just returned to Meredale next door,” she added for Ethel Bruce’s benefit. “We had such a delightful time. She’s quite beautiful, so very charming, and she was wonderful with the children.”

  Rowland looked up, a little startled. If he didn’t know better he would think his sister-in-law was matchmaking again. Kate Sinclair was committed to seeing him settled happily with a suitable girl, but Jemima Roche was a divorcee.

  “It’s very sad that she was widowed so young.”

  Rowland quite admirably kept the surprise from showing on his face. Widowed? He realised suddenly that Jemima had never said she was divorced, just that her marriage had been unhappy. He’d made that assumption.

  “Yes, a most tragic circumstance,” Ethel agreed. “But still, perhaps, as she’s young and pretty, Mrs. Roche will be able to remarry, someday.”

  Rowland sipped his wine as he listened to what he guessed was a prearranged conversation to press the case for Jemima Roche. Clearly, Mrs. Bruce had been recruited to the cause.

  “I did telephone to ask Jemima to join us for dinner today,” Kate went on. “But I’m afraid she left for Melbourne yesterday.”

  “What a coincidence!” Ethel glanced knowingly at Kate. “You’re on your way to Melbourne, aren’t you, Mr. Sinclair? Perhaps you might see her there.”

  Rowland smiled. “Perhaps.”

  “What exactly will you be doing in Melbourne, Rowly?” Wilfred asked sharply.

  “I’m going down to see the finish of the MacRobertson Air Race.”

  “I must say I find that hard to believe,” Wilfred said almost under his breath.

  Rowland replied evenly. “I’ve always had an interest in aircraft, Wil.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never known you to go anywhere without those friends of yours before.” Wilfred glared at Rowland from the head of the table. “Just what are you up to?”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, Wilfred,” Ethel chided. “I would have thought it was perfectly obvious why your brother is rushing to Melbourne!”

  “I’m sure we have no idea what you’re talking about, Ethel,” Bruce said, shaking his head.

  Ethel sighed. “How like a man—not a romantic notion in your head! Rowland is pursuing Mrs. Roche.”

  Rowland choked on his wine.

  “Is that true, Rowly?” Wilfred asked.

  “Great Caesars, no.”

  “Oh my giddy aunt, you don’t expect a young man to declare himself to his family before he speaks to his intended? That’s really too old-fashioned.” Ethel was quick to Rowland’s defence once again. “Look at him. Poor boy is mortified. You men really have no subtlety in matters of the heart.” She raised her glass. “Let us say no more about it, apart from wishing the happy couple good luck.”

  When the ladies left the gentlemen to brandy and cigars, Rowland excused himself to take some air on the verandah. The evening was cool. Indeed it was the kind of clear, sparkling night that hinted at a late frost—a concern for the new lambs. Rowland smiled at himself. Despite his best efforts to avoid all things agricultural, it seemed his brother had managed to impart at least that skerrick of pastoral insight.

  He turned as he heard someone step onto the verandah behind him.

  Wilfred Sinclair cupped his hands to light the cigarette he held between his lips. He replaced the lighter in his pocket and inhaled before he spoke.

  “Kate is expecting you for coffee in the parlour.”

  “Wil, couldn’t we—”

  “Just come in and drink coffee,” Wilfred said coldly.

  “Wil!” Kate Sinclair closed the verandah door after her. “I’ve had enough. This can’t go on!”

  “Katie, this matter is between Rowly and me.”

  “No, Wil, listen to me. Whatever he’s done, this is your brother! This is the man who ran into a blazing house to save our son. I don’t care that his friends are Bohemians or Communists, I truly don’t care what he paints…”

  Kate was crying now. Rowland looked on, horrified. He had never heard her disagree with Wilfred ever before. “Kate, it’s not Wil’s fault—”

  Wilfred embraced his wife. “It’s all right, Katie. Of course, you’re right.”

  “This can’t go on, Wil.”

  “I know, I know.” He wiped her tears with his own handkerchief.

 
Rowland turned away. He felt intrusive, guilty.

  “You go back to Ethel and Stanley,” Wilfred said quietly. “I’ll talk to Rowly.”

  “Oh, Wil, I’m so sorry.” Kate hesitated now. “I didn’t mean to make such a fuss.”

  “No, my darling. You are perfectly correct.”

  Kate slipped back into the house and left the Sinclair brothers alone.

  Rowland spoke first. “Wil, I’m sorry. I had no idea Kate—”

  “She’s right, Rowly. I’ve been taking your stubborn idiocy too personally.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what she said.” Rowland smiled faintly.

  “It’s what she should have said.” Wilfred stubbed out his cigarette. “You’re a damnable fool, and sometimes your behaviour is so utterly disgraceful that I forget that you were willing to go to prison in my stead, and that if not for you and your disreputable friends we would have lost Ernie and Ewan last year.”

  “They’re my nephews, Wil.”

  “And they are my sons.”

  Rowland hesitated. He did not want Wilfred to forgive him only to feel betrayed when his involvement with Egon Kisch was discovered. “Wil, we shall disagree again, you know that. I will do things that you… that you won’t approve of, that you won’t understand.”

  Wilfred stared at him. “No doubt.”

  “I have to do what I think is right, Wil.”

  “That’s dangerous rhetoric, Rowly. Your personal conscience does not eclipse your obligation to this country, to its laws.”

  “I assure you I’m not a Communist and I’m not a traitor. I’m not doing anything illegal.”

  Wilfred flinched. “My God, Rowly, just what are you involved in? Why are you going to Melbourne?”

  Rowland shrugged. “You could call it a romantic notion.”

  “I could have you committed, you know,” Wilfred muttered. “I should just have you committed and be done with it.”

  “That might be even more embarrassing than my paintings.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Rowland broached a new subject tentatively. “Did you by any chance know the fellow Jemima Fairweather married, Wil? Do you know how he died?”

  “Ozzie Roche? Yes, I escorted Mother to the wedding—you were abroad, of course. He was from Western Australia, I believe. A banker of some sort. They went to America after the wedding.” Wilfred frowned as he tried to recall. “He died in an accident, I think. I can’t tell you much more than that.” Wilfred lit another cigarette. “Do you intend to ask Jemima Roche for her hand?”

  “Not especially.”

  “It might be time for you to give up your ideas of Miss Higgins. Aside from the fact that she’s entirely inappropriate, Rowly, she won’t have you. The Fairweathers are a very respectable family. Sometimes a man’s got to admit defeat and move on.”

  Rowland said nothing.

  Wilfred studied his brother. “You might find that relinquishing your absurd infatuation with Miss Higgins will allow you to have the proper regard for a more suitable young woman.”

  “Proper regard?” Rowland laughed. “I have a proper regard for the law, the Queensberry rules, and the king. I’d hoped to have rather more for my wife.”

  Kate opened the door again. “You’re talking,” she said obviously relieved. “Stanley thought we might play a round of cards, if you’re finished.”

  Wilfred placed his hand on Rowland’s shoulder. Perhaps it was to demonstrate to Kate that they had indeed reconciled, or perhaps it was because her appearance served to remind him that his young wife enjoyed much more than his proper regard. It was in any case as effusive a gesture of fraternal friendship as Wilfred Sinclair was ever likely to make. “Capital idea, Katie.”

  22

  CENTENARY AIR RACE

  Scott Leads to Darwin

  Numbers of planes have flown over Roma since Saturday on their way to Charleville for the purpose of witnessing the result of the Centenary Air Race at that town. Visitors have also travelled from all quarters by car. On Monday four planes passed over Roma from the east, and the only plane left Brisbane on Tuesday was the Qantas mail plane. Charleville residents are suffering from stiff necks owing to watching the visiting planes over the town.

  The great race began from Mildenhall at 6.30 a.m. on Saturday, when the first plane, piloted by the Mollisons took off, and was followed at intervals of 45 seconds by the others. All machines were in the air within 18 minutes.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mollison reached Bagdad, the first compulsory stop in the speed race, at 7.10 p.m. Saturday, having flown nonstop from Mildenhall, the distance covered being 2553 miles. Scott was the next to land at 9 p.m., nearly two hours behind Mollison, and he was followed by Parmentier (Holland) at 11.50 p.m., Roscoe Turner (U.S.A.) at 2 a.m. Sunday, Cathcart-Jones (England) at 5.12 a.m., and the Dutch Pander at 6 a.m.

  The Mollisons departed at 8.40 p.m., and Scott took off about 40 minutes later. The Mollisons made a perfect landing at Karachi at 4.45 a.m. Sunday, and after staying an hour took off again, but were forced to return 10 minutes later owing to some mechanical trouble. Scott went on from Bagdad to Allahabad, and reached that stopping place at 9.18 a.m. In an interview he said he and Black were very tired, but were determined to proceed within half an hour, flying direct to Singapore.

  Scott arrived at Singapore with a lead of about 1500 miles over his nearest competitor, and arrived at Darwin at 9.30 p.m. Monday, Australian time, having been 52 hours 34 minutes on the journey from England.

  Parmentier was in second place, with Roscoe Turner third, and the Mollisons following.

  Western Star and Roma Advertiser, 24 October 1934

  The influx of visitors into Melbourne for the centenary celebrations, as well as the Spring Racing Carnival, meant finding accommodation was difficult. Rowland had eventually secured a suite at the Federal Hotel in Collins Street only because a late cancellation preceded his enquiry.

  The newspapers spruiked the impending conclusion of the MacRobertson Air Race, which was expected to be won by the following day. The Grosvenor House was in the lead. For the first time Rowland began to believe Edwards’ claim that she would triumph. It seemed he would have the privilege of flying the Comet, but he would not be able to keep her.

  The next day, over fifty thousand people had gathered at the Flemington racecourse to welcome the Grosvenor House which had crossed the final mandatory checkpoint at Charleville in Queensland that morning. The crowd was undaunted by the inclement weather. After all, the clouds blocked the sun and made it easier to gaze skyward for the race winner.

  Rowland turned up the collar of his overcoat against the rain as he waited at the nearby Laverton aerodome with the aeroplane’s owner and various race officials. He had already settled Edwards with a significant sum in accordance with their agreement. Though the sum was of no great consequence to the Sinclairs, Rowland had been careful to take the funds from the profits of a lucky investment he’d made in Hugh McIntosh’s Black and White Milk Bars in Britain. That money was more truly his than any funds he drew through the Sinclair Trust. He was cognisant of the fact that his brother would not only disapprove, but also object to this latest venture, and, with that in mind, he did not want to make Wilfred an indirect sponsor of Egon Kisch’s visit.

  The Comet would cross the finish line over Flemington and then land at Laverton. The pilots would be taken back to the racecourse to be cheered and acclaimed, but before that, Charles Scott would give him a Cook’s tour of the Grosvenor House.

  “You won’t have long,” Edwards warned. “The public will be anxious to receive the pilots, but then you’ve flown de Havillands before.”

  Rowland nodded. The Rule Britannia was a de Havilland Gipsy Moth and he had also piloted a Gipsy Six.

  “From what I understand the engines are just upgraded versions of the standard Gipsy Six,” Edwards said, already puffing on a celebratory cigar. “But Scott will be able to tell you all that. Oh yes—I believe there was a problem with
one of the port engines… lost power over the Timor Sea… you should probably ask Scott about that. I say, here it is!”

  Rowland’s eyes were already on the red Comet which had come in low over Flemington in a final flourish. Long-nosed and thin-winged, the Grosvenor House was gloriously streamlined. There was no doubt she was designed for speed. Her landing gear lowered and she touched down in a cloud of spray on the wet tarmac.

  “Come along, Sinclair.” Edwards raised his umbrella and walked out as the plane taxied to a stop.

  The cockpit canopy was opened and the airmen clambered out. Limping, Scott leant heavily on Black. There was, by that time, a number of people gathered around the Comet and for several minutes the triumphant pilots were subsumed in back-slapping congratulations.

  “Rowly!” Scott staggered over to shake Rowland’s hand the moment he could break away. “How are you, old chap?”

  “Utterly impressed, if you must know. Congratulations, Charles! What the hell have you done to yourself!”

  “Cramp.” Scott’s voice was husky. “Had to compensate for uneven power levels between port and starboard by pressing the bloody rudder the whole way… but you’ll know all about that too soon.” He introduced Rowland to his co-pilot Tom Black. “Rowly’s an old chum. He’s taking the plane out in a few days. We’ve got about ten minutes to show him how to fly her.”

  Black was a smaller man than the burly Scott, and more reserved. He accepted Scott’s declaration without question.

  “How long have you been licensed?” Scott climbed up to look at the cockpit. He groaned, stretching out his right leg. The rain thankfully had eased to a general mist. Below them, race officials, Edwards and various aeroplane mechanics drank champagne and toasted the win.

  “About eighteen months.”

  “Have you flown a twin-engine before?”

  “Yes, once or twice.”

  “Are your affairs in order?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Good show! Let’s introduce you to the red lady then.”

  In the next fifteen minutes the pilots imparted as much information as they could. The cockpit was snug and, as a result, Scott warned, the instruments on the right fuselage wall were quite awkward to use. To Rowland’s relief, the main instrument panel was conventional.