A Few Right Thinking Men

by Sulari Gentill

  Nowadays, it was Edna’s studio, where she worked on the larger pieces that couldn’t easily be moved. He knocked.

  “Come in.”

  He pushed open the door and entered. The walls inside were extensively shelved. Originally they had held the saddles and harnesses, which were now stored in the building’s loft. The shelves were packed instead with various kinds of clay, chisels, bags of plaster, and the other tools of the sculptress’ trade. There was only one small window to light the room, but Edna claimed the dimness enhanced the texture and movement in her work by forcing her to rely on her hands and her heart more than her eyes.

  The sculptress was working on a piece that was as tall as she, the first on this scale she’d attempted for a while. Before the downturn she had received several commissions for cenotaphs and memorials, with every town and community across the country seeking to honour their servicemen. Even now, Edna Higgins was occasionally approached to produce a soldier in bronze for a park monument. Though the work was largely traditional, it had always moved her, and it paid what bills she had. Edna’s natural sensibilities were with the Modernist movement, and it was in one of these conceptual pieces that she was now engrossed.

  As Rowland entered her studio, Edna was burnishing, working the leather-hard clay in circular movements with the back of a teaspoon, to crush the silicates and smooth and polish the surface.

  She kept going as he watched. The sculptress wore overalls, her hair tied up in a cotton scarf. Her arms were covered to the elbow with a fine film of dark clay. This was messy work.

  “Well,” she said, without looking up, “what do you think?”

  Rowland studied the sculpture. To him, it looked a little like a tree, with two intertwined trunks emerging from a common base. They wove in and out of each other with a fluidity and urgency that made it seem that each was repelling, attempting to escape the other. And yet, he could see that the branches were codependant, supportive. If either branch were removed, the structure would be unstable. “It’s remarkable, Ed. Are you going to be able to cast it?”

  “I’m not sure…I might have to cut it up to bronze it in a few pieces and then weld them back together.”

  Rowland stepped closer and ran his hand over the sculpture, tracing the smooth flow of the clay—Edna’s creations always begged to be touched. “What are you calling it?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Brothers in Arms.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve sat for you so often, I thought it was time you modelled for me.”

  “It’s not a commission, then?”

  “An indulgence.”

  “Will you let me buy it?”

  Edna laughed. “No. But I will give it to you. If you like it.”

  “I like it.”

  “It’s settled then.” She put down the teaspoon.

  Rowland picked it up and turned it over. “Mary told me the silverware was disappearing,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure she thinks it’s Milt.”

  Edna giggled. She’d always used cutlery, even with the array of clay-working tools she’d acquired over the years.

  “I have to go to Pyrmont this afternoon to check on some of my castings.” She scrubbed the clay off her hands in the corner trough. Edna had most of her pieces cast into bronze at the Rose Foundry, in the dockside suburb. “Come with me…we can have tea somewhere.”

  Rowland agreed and Edna disappeared to change out of her overalls into something more befitting an afternoon in the city.

  They jumped onto a tram to Darling Harbour and walked across the Pyrmont Bridge. It was a warm day but the harbour breeze was cool, helping to disperse some of the pungent odours from the docks and factories nearby. They strolled along Union Street, where the spewing smokestacks of the small, closely set factories declared which among them had not yet closed. Brick walls were papered with layer after layer of political posters, some in support of Communism and others railing against the Red Terror.

  Rose & Rees was a commercial iron foundry, but with the lack of industrial work around, it also accommodated sculptors. Familiar with this part of the city, Edna and Rowland, deep in discussion, were oblivious to the men who had fallen into step behind them. Neither did they notice the motorcars that slowed as they passed by. It was not until they crossed one of the side lanes between two warehouses that Rowland noticed the heavy steady footfall. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Half a dozen of them, big men…and he recognised the man who walked at their fore: Harcourt Garden.

  “Ed,” he said quietly as he took her hand. “Don’t turn round, and when I give the word, we’re going to run.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Harry Garden…run, now!”

  They took off, pelting down the alley into the next street. Garden and his mates were startled for only a second before they were hotly in pursuit, shouting taunts and threats. There were other pedestrians around but the roads weren’t particularly populated, and it seemed such skirmishes had become so commonplace that no one sought to interfere.

  Rowland made his mistake early on. He cut through another side lane in the hope of getting back to the main street but a gate barred the way through. He and Edna turned, but Garden and his gang blocked their way out.

  Rowland glanced at Edna. He didn’t think they’d hurt her.

  “Sinclair, you bloody two-faced traitor!”

  Rowland noticed the short length of pipe in Garden’s hand. Obviously, the Queensbury Rules weren’t going to be much use to him.

  But women were different. “Let Ed out of here first, Harry,” Rowland was backed against the wall.

  Garden nodded. “Go,” he said to Edna, pointing to the street with his pipe.

  “Like hell!” she replied.

  Garden shrugged. “Then you’ll have to watch what we do to spies.” He lifted the pipe above his head.

  “Harry, no!” Edna screamed.

  Garden hesitated, not because of Edna, but because of the horns and shouting from the motorcars that screeched up to block the mouth of the alley. He turned as a dozen men, with pick-axe handles held high, burst out of the vehicles and laid siege to the lane. Rowland recognised them, too.

  “Jones, get your girl out of here!” one of the Guardsmen shouted. “We’ll show these Red mongrels not to take on one of ours.” He swung his weapon at Garden who blocked it with his pipe and retaliated. The brawl was on.

  Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand. More dangerous than Garden’s mob, was standing between the Communists and the New Guard. Especially, while he was both Rowland Sinclair and Clyde Watson Jones.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Black Hoods

  SYDNEY, Wednesday

  A New Guard official today, referring to the existence of the black hoods and gowns, declared that talk of the Fascist Legion was “all bunk” but added that he knew of six such hoods.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, March 17, 1932

  Rowland used raw sienna to mark in the basic shapes of the large work. Eric Campbell stood before him, posed in a manner that, by itself, seemed a little bizarre. The Colonel had insisted on being painted with his hat on for some reason, but Rowland had managed to accommodate the request. Campbell stood with one arm raised triumphantly and the other grasping the empty air. On the canvas Rowland would later add figures into the scene with whom the painted Campbell would interact. That was the plan, anyway. Right now he used his brush to knead the shapes he’d marked, so that very quickly he found a sepia shadow of his subject.

  Campbell chatted amiably as Rowland worked, unguarded in his conversation. Clyde Watson Jones had proved reliable.

  “I’m afraid your plans of the Berrima facility, outstanding as they were, will be for naught, Clyde,” he said, speaking gently in an attempt to soften the blow.

  “Has something happene
d, sir?”

  “What hasn’t happened?” Campbell sighed. “The man we posted at Lang’s farm was picked up for vagrancy…Winslow’s lease on the gaol has been terminated…unlawfully, but that will take an age to fight…and they’ve started bloody roadworks outside the Bunnerong power station, so the access routes are completely compromised. I’ve recommended that the Council of Action votes to stop.”

  Inwardly, Rowland cheered for Delaney. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “Me, too, Clyde. Still, it’s a delay not an end.”

  Campbell went on to talk, in more general terms, of his plans for the state, the benefits of government by commission and, of course, the scourge of the Communists. Rowland worked quickly, pulling pigment into a tonal representation. After an hour or so, he let Campbell leave but continued to paint in the sunny sitting room at Boongala, which his subject had designated a studio.

  Poynton wandered in a little while after Campbell had returned to his office, and sat smoking, watching the artist at work. “John Dynon is furious.”

  “Why?’

  “Stupid bastard thinks someone’s leaked the plan…But if that were true, we’d have a bloody sight more problems than roadworks.” Poynton exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “Dynon’s on some kind of quest to find this spy. Good luck, is what I say.”

  “This unit that Dynon heads…you called it the Legion…what is it, exactly?”

  Poynton grinned. He got up and shut the door to the room. “The Fascist Legion,” he said, lowering his voice. “Special forces—assassins, of sorts—but they don’t go that far…they deal out a hiding when it’s called for.”

  “They’ve never been arrested?”

  “They’re pretty hard to identify…only Dynon knows who they all are.”

  “How do they manage that?” Rowland continued to dab paint as he spoke.

  “They do everything in disguise—meetings, operations, the lot. They don’t use names, their membership changes regularly…it’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “So these people they deal out hidings to—who decides who gets it?” Rowland tried to ask the question without weight. “The Colonel?”

  “God, no!” said Poynton. “I suppose if the Colonel had a request, Dynon would take care of it…but he doesn’t involve himself in that level of detail. He’s a busy man.”

  “Who, then?”

  Poynton shrugged. “Dynon and the Kings, I guess” Rowland put down his brush.

  “The Kings?”

  “Dynon’s men,” Poynton kept his voice low. “Not a nice bunch—cut from the same cloth as Dynon—the numbers just do as they’re told.”

  Rowland stared at the bodyguard. “The numbers?”

  Poynton smiled. “The Legion never uses names, so they’ve all taken a card as identity—a deck of forty-nine.”

  “There are fifty-two cards in a deck,” Rowland pointed out.

  “Well, naturally nobody wanted to be a Queen, so that’s forty-eight.” Poynton sniggered. “And Dynon made himself the Joker.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Rowland. Apparently, men who dressed up to assault innocent citizens drew the line at being called “Queens.”

  “Why are you so interested in the Fascist Legion, Jonesy?”

  “You’ve got to admit they’re a bit odd,” Rowland said casually. “I’m just curious.”

  Poynton’s grin returned. “Do you want to go to a meeting?” he asked slyly. “You know, see how they work?”

  “But how…surely they don’t allow spectators?”

  “We wouldn’t go as spectators.” Poynton motioned for Rowland to take the chair next to him. “As I said, they go to the meetings in disguise—the numbers don’t really speak—they just hold their card. There’s forty of them currently and they don’t all come to every meeting.”

  “So, what are you proposing?” Rowland asked, trying to get past the absurdity of the deck of cards.

  “I’ll find out who isn’t going to be there—we’ll go in their place. Robed up we won’t be recognised…It’ll be a lark.”

  “Where do we get the robes?”

  Poynton looked a little embarrassed. “I have my own set,” he admitted. “I was in the Legion before Dynon decided I wasn’t made of the right stuff—I’ll just get my old mum to run up a set for you…She’s amazing with a sewing machine, my mum…and the robes aren’t exactly high fashion.”

  Rowland hesitated. “It sounds a bit risky.”

  “Come on, Jonesy!” Poynton was excited now. “What could happen? It’s just a bit of a joke. You’re the Colonel’s blue-eyed boy at the moment—even Dynon’s not going to mess with you.”

  Rowland smiled. “Fair enough. So, when?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Poynton said as he predictably tapped the side of his nose. “When are you next coming back to paint?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Perfect—I’ll have your robes by then and I’ll know when and where, and whose cards we can carry…” The bodyguard was clearly relishing his plan.

  ***

  Back at Woodlands House, Rowland shrugged off his secret life as Clyde Watson Jones, and began preparing canvases for another series that he’d been mulling over since the evening at the 50–50 Club. There was something about the grittiness, the debauched misery of the place. It was raw, a shocking base reality. Women who—even fully clothed—reeked of depravity in a way that his nudes never did, and men who were completely indifferent to the law. The unselfconscious ugliness of it all intrigued him, challenging him to capture it in paint. It was a stark contrast to the carefully orchestrated, lyrical image he was painting of Campbell; and it interested him far more.

  It was only when he had stretched a half dozen canvases that he remembered his paint box was still at Boongala. He cursed, frustrated. Clyde was home, so he was able to cadge a basic palette and a couple brushes, at least, to begin while the muse still had him. Having not been at the 50–50, Clyde watched while the other painter played with compositions of prostitutes and patrons. Rowland spoke to his friend of the Fascist Legion, the pack of cards without Queens, and Poynton’s plan.

  To his surprise, Clyde wasn’t overly concerned. “You and Milt walked in and out of a confrontation with Phil The Jew.”Clyde stretched out on the couch. “If you can get away with that, nothing you do with the New Guard is going to worry me again.” He glanced at the ceiling. “It’s obvious somebody up there’s looking after you.”

  Rowland grinned. “Maybe.”

  “So, are you back to thinking the New Guard is responsible for your uncle’s death?” Clyde asked.

  “I don’t know, really.” Rowland squeezed titanium white onto his palette. “Jeffs could be lying…I guess I’m just trying a process of elimination.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if it turns out the Fascist Legion has nothing to do with Uncle Rowland, I’ll start looking at Jeffs and the 50–50 again.”

  “What are you going to do…Offer to paint The Jew?”

  “I could,” Rowland laughed. “I’ll worry about that if I turn out to be wrong about the Legion. For the moment, I think I believe him…It sounds like Uncle Rowland was a source of funds that asked no questions.”

  “Does it bother you that your uncle was so involved with these people?”

  “It didn’t, till I met them.”

  “And now?”

  Rowland continued painting. “How could it not bother me?”

  “Well you’re rid of it now.” Clyde had no doubt that the squalid unattractive amorality of the 50–50 troubled his friend. Rowland had chosen a more libertine life than that to which he was born, but it had been sanitised by his name and his wealth.

  ***

  Poynton did not disappoint. The bodyguard entered the makeshift studio after the Colonel had finished his session and thrus
t a parcel at Rowland. “Your uniform,” he said tapping the side of his nose in his fashion.

  Rowland took the package as Poynton pulled a playing card out of his pocket. He handed the artist the three of hearts. “Don’t lose this,” he said. “You’re going in for Bob Russell. I’m going to be Mal Marshall—he’s the deuce of clubs.”

  “Why aren’t they going?”

  “Bob’s got some business out of the city, and Mal’s wife won’t let him go. Anyways, they both think I’m relaying their apologies to Dynon, so nobody will be surprised to see their cards.”

  “When?”

  “Couple of hours. The King of Diamonds has been abroad, so they haven’t met for a while. They’re gathering at one of De Groot’s warehouses in Rushcutters Bay.”

  “Is De Groot in the Legion?”

  “I doubt it,” Poynton replied. “I can’t see him as one of the numbers kowtowing to the Kings.”

  “Give me a minute to clean up.”

  Poynton was making a night of it. The actual meeting was for late in the evening, so he took Rowland to a nearby hotel for a meal. Rowland decided he quite enjoyed Poynton’s company. Talking to the man, he could as easily have been a Communist as a Guardsman, or anything in between. Poynton just had a need to belong to something, to be a part of what was happening. It just so happened that he found the New Guard first, and brought to it all the enthusiasm of a child allowed to join his big brother’s gang.

  They caught a train from Turramurra and then a ferry from Milsons Point to Circular Quay. From there, they hailed a motorcab, which let them out at Rushcutters Bay to make their way the few blocks to De Groot’s premises. As they approached the warehouse, Poynton took them into an alleyway. “Here’s where we put on our uniforms, Jonesy,” he said. “Legionnaires have gotta arrive in robes to maintain secrecy…wouldn’t want to be recognised.”

  Rowland watched Poynton and then pulled on his own long black robe and hood, courtesy of the bodyguard’s mother. He felt utterly ridiculous.

  As they skulked out of the alley and into the grounds outside the warehouse, Rowland could only hope that they wouldn’t be noticed or, worse, arrested for wandering Rushcutters Bay in such bizarre outfits. Under the hood he winced with embarrassment at the mere thought. How would he explain it? He’d have to shoot himself…it’d be the only honourable way out…If it hit the papers, Wilfred would shoot him anyway.