“And I take it you didn’t see a motorcar coming the other way?”
“No, but we cut across past the shearing shed from here,” Simpson said. “If they took the other lane…” He frowned. “We’d better let Wil know what’s happened, and inform the police I suppose.”
The gentle but persistent tapping woke him eventually. Reluctantly Rowland opened his eyes. It was barely light. It had been a late night, explaining the events to Wilfred and then the police, who seemed amused that he was reporting an assault upon his dog.
“Did the dog bark often at night? We find that disgruntled neighbours can often take matters into their own hands.”
Too tired to argue with what he concluded was the force’s most dim-witted constable, Rowland had let it go.
“Uncle Rowly, it’s me, Uncle Rowly.”
“Come in, Ernie.”
Wilfred’s elder son was still in his pyjamas.
“I came to check on… Lenin,” he said, whispering the dog’s name as if it were a profanity. Ernest tiptoed over to the chaise longue on which the injured hound had been settled.
“What are you doing out of bed, Ernie?” Rowland asked, as the boy scrutinised the dog anxiously.
“Is he alive, Uncle Rowly?”
“Of course—he’s just asleep.”
“I was worried,” Ernest said, climbing onto Rowland’s bed. “I heard Aunt Lucy crying and then Mummy started crying too.”
Rowland groaned. “That probably wasn’t about Lenin, Ernie.”
“Was it about you, Uncle Rowly?”
“Possibly.”
“Did you get shot too?”
“No, not this time.”
“Have you fallen out with Aunt Lucy?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Realising that going back to sleep was probably not an option, Rowland sat up. “Would you keep an eye on Lenin while I get dressed?” he asked his nephew.
Ernest nodded, slipping off the bed to take up a vigil beside the slumbering hound. By the time Rowland had showered and dressed, the Sinclairs’ nanny was searching for her missing charge. Charlotte de Waring had joined the Oaklea household only recently, after the family returned from abroad. Knowing his brother’s preference for a certain moral severity in his staff, Rowland assumed that Kate must have selected the pleasant, loquacious young woman.
He watched, amused, as the nanny tried valiantly to invoke some sense of authority and control. “Ernest!” she exclaimed when the boy emerged from his uncle’s room. “Whatever are you thinking going visiting in your pyjamas?”
“Uncle Rowly was in his pyjamas, too!” Ernest replied.
“It was five in the morning!” Rowland protested. “I was asleep.”
“Why, you cheeky devil!” The nanny folded her arms in a manner designed to appear stern, and scolded Ernest in a tone too kind to have any disciplinary effect at all. “You can’t be calling on a gentleman at that time!”
Rowland laughed. “Ernie was just keeping an eye on Len while I dressed,” he said. “It was very thoughtful of him.”
Ernest nodded solemnly.
Nanny de Waring’s round, wholesome face softened. “Oh, yes… how is the poor creature, Mr. Sinclair? Mrs. Kendall has cooked up some bacon for its breakfast, I believe.”
“I’m sure Len will make a complete recovery, Miss de Waring, particularly if there’s bacon involved.” Rowland moved back so she could see the hound. The nanny stepped past him to the chaise and knelt to fuss over the patient.
Lenin played his part, lifting his muzzle weakly to offer her a feeble lick.
“Poor, sweet puppy,” she said stroking his head softly. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea, Miss de Waring.”
“Well, I must say that I can’t think of anything more wicked than trying to murder an innocent animal!” The nanny placed her hands on her hips. “I hope they catch the scoundrel, Mr. Sinclair. Lord knows what he’ll shoot next.”
“Indeed.”
She left her hands on her hips. “Now Master Ernest, do you propose to spend the day in your pyjamas?”
Rowland laughed. “Hurry up and get dressed, Ernie. We’d best go down to breakfast before all the bacon is requisitioned for Lenin.”
“Miss Bennett hasn’t left, has she?” Rowland caught his brother in the library.
“For God’s sake, Rowly, don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?”
“About Miss Bennett? No.”
“Then why—?”
“I know Kate was rather looking forward to her visit. Ernie mentioned they were both upset.”
Wilfred sighed. “Lucy was under the impression that you admired her. I’m afraid Kate may have encouraged her in her devotion to you, expecting that you would eventually see sense.” Wilfred scanned the shelves in search of a title. “I did warn Kate that seeing sense was not your strong suit, but she is optimistic by nature. As you can understand, Miss Bennett feels both disappointed and humiliated. Kate is also quite disappointed.”
Rowland cursed. “That wasn’t my intention, Wil. I wouldn’t upset Kate for the world. I had hoped Colonel Bennett’s disapproval would end the matter.”
Wilfred’s mouth twitched. “Unfortunately Lucy’s romanticised her father’s opposition. She’s fond of novels, I believe.” He found what he was looking for and pulled An Account of the State of Agriculture and Grazing in New South Wales by James Atkinson from the shelf. Rowland had seen the book in his brother’s hand many times before. Wilfred put a great deal of stock in the wisdom of Atkinson and was known to quote the one-hundred-year-old text at length.
“You could give her that,” Rowland suggested. “I’m sure Mr. Atkinson would cure her of sentimentality. Probably cure her of consciousness too.”
“James Atkinson brought the Merino sheep to this country Rowly.” Wilfred pointed out, unamused.
“The Merino? I thought that was Macarthur?” Rowland said, recalling absurdly that one of Lucy Bennett’s ridiculous friends had married a Macarthur.
“Macarthur bought a lame ewe from James Atkinson’s Saxon merino flock and—” Wilfred stopped, and regarded Rowland suspiciously over the top of his spectacles. “As much as I applaud your sudden interest in agriculture, I believe we were discussing this appalling situation between you and Miss Bennett!”
“Yes, of course. I should apologise,” Rowland said, though he was not sure what for. He certainly did not want to retract his refusal. “I haven’t seen Miss Bennett this morning, has she left?”
“Arthur invited Lucy to the pictures in town. He thought it might cheer her up. He’s been very kind to her since yesterday’s drama.”
“Oh.”
Wilfred regarded him sharply. “I think it was jolly nice of him.”
“Yes, of course. He’s a decent chap.”
“We should talk about the shooting,” Wilfred said, moving on brusquely.
Rowland agreed. “Sadly, I didn’t see anything of use. I was dazzled by the headlamps and then…”
Wilfred nodded. “You know, Rowly, I expect it was some half-drunk hothead shooting at rabbits. I suppose he panicked when he heard you shout and fled. I’ve been planning to withdraw the permissions for shooting on Emoh Ruo in any case.”
Rowland paused, more than a little surprised that Wilfred was taking the incident quite so casually. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Good. That’s settled then. Now, there are some gentlemen whom I expect to call on you shortly. They telephoned last night to make an appointment.”
“Who?” Rowland asked, guardedly.
“I’ll let them explain when they get here,” Wilfred replied. “I believe they could be very good for you. Give you some purpose.”
Rowland groaned. “I’m not joining the Country Party.”
Wilfred returned to the writings of James Atkinson. “It’s not the Country Party. I doubt the U.C.P. would have you anyway. Just don’t wander off.”
&nbs
p; 10
TRESPASS NOTICE
ANY PERSON found fishing, shooting, or otherwise trespassing at EMOH RUO will be prosecuted. All previous permissions cancelled.
W.H. SINCLAIR
Riverina Advertiser, 1933
Rowland helped himself from the platters of cakes and pastries set out in preparation for Wilfred’s mysterious guests. He broke a shortbread biscuit in half and gave the larger segment to the convalescing greyhound now settled beneath the table. The edges of a white damask tablecloth fluttered in the light breeze that cooled the broad verandah.
Clyde sat in a wicker armchair with a cup of tea and his legs stretched out like a man who had no intention of moving for quite some time. The verandah was certainly a great deal more pleasant than the iron shed in which he and Rowland had originally planned to spend the morning finishing work on the Rule Britannia.
“So who are these people Wilfred wants you to meet, Rowly?”
“No idea. He wouldn’t say.”
Clyde’s brow rose. “He hasn’t called in the church, has he?”
Rowland laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Clyde drained his tea and sighed in satisfaction. “Wilfred really believes that some local poacher shot at you by accident?”
“Not a poacher. A lot of people have permission to shoot on Emoh Ruo.”
“I don’t know, Rowly… you don’t look much like a rabbit to me.”
“Rowly!” Kate Sinclair stepped out onto the verandah.
Clyde and Rowland stood hastily.
“Oh, there you are,” she said.
“Good morning, Kate.”
“Are you all right, Rowly? You’re not hurt at all are you? How is Lenin?” Kate’s concern bubbled out as she studied Rowland.
“I’m perfectly well, Kate. And Len is getting fat with all the bacon-flavoured sympathy he’s been receiving.”
Kate took a breath, relieved. “I’m so glad.”
Rowland looked at his sister-in-law. She was, as always, dressed elegantly, in a simple cream sheath and embroidered shawl. Her make-up was flawless but there was just the slightest taint of red in the whites of her eyes. Ernest had said she’d been crying.
“Kate,” Rowland said quietly. “I am dreadfully sorry about this business with Lucy Bennett. I didn’t mean to make such a mess of it all.”
Kate blinked. “Oh Rowly, are you absolutely sure you—”
“Yes, I am.”
For a moment she looked away. The silence stretched awkwardly. “But why?” Kate blurted suddenly. “Lucy is so well suited to you… to us! I don’t understand why you can’t see that! What could you possibly want that you couldn’t find in Lucy?”
Rowland’s smile was fleeting and almost imperceptible. He’d never before heard Kate raise her voice. He found himself unexpectedly touched by her loyalty to her friend. “I want to be as in love with my wife as Wilfred is with his,” he said.
Kate faltered.
“But, I should have been clear with Colonel Bennett,” Rowland admitted. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to have upset you and Miss Bennett.”
Kate Sinclair’s eyes filled and she pressed her lips together in an attempt to stop them trembling. Rowland gave her his handkerchief.
“Oh dear, I am sorry, Rowly. I just feel badly for poor Lucy—she is so very fond of you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It would have been perfect. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt last evening. If you’ll excuse me… I must be… excuse me…” Kate turned and hurried back inside the house.
Rowland groaned.
Clyde, who had tactfully decided to inspect the Staghorn fern which hung on the verandah post a few paces away, was philosophical. “There wasn’t a lot else you could do, Rowly.”
“I suppose not.”
Clyde pointed to the car turning into Oaklea’s long drive. “Better look sharp, old mate. I believe the people Wilfred wants you to meet have arrived.”
The black Chrysler pulled up in front of the house. Two men and a smartly turned out woman alighted. The elder of the gentlemen was burdened with two heavy leather briefcases.
“Good Lord, what’s this?” Rowland murmured.
“They’re not your lawyers are they, Rowly?” Clyde asked, squinting at the arrivals.
“I don’t think so,” Rowland replied. It had been a couple of years since he’d had dealings with the Sinclair solicitors, but he doubted very much that Kent, Beswick and Associates had taken on a female partner. And it was only ever the partners that called at Oaklea.
“Oh Rowly… you’re here, very good,” Wilfred came out onto the verandah. “I expect you’ll find this extremely interesting.”
He began the introductions with the gentlemen: Messrs Olaf Oberg and Charles Ludowici. Oberg cut a tall athletic figure and seemed about Wilfred’s age. Ludowici was possibly ten years his companion’s senior, though clearly, he deferred to Oberg. Both men sported moustaches and an air of robust goodwill.
“Allow me to present Mrs. Diana Drosher,” Oberg said, taking over the introductions.
Diana Drosher smiled and nodded. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.”
Mrs. Drosher was neither old nor young, her manner was pleasant and everything about her well-groomed person was extremely neat, from the precise ordered crimp of her hair to the military shine of her patent leather shoes. She rather reminded Rowland of a Sunday School teacher. He began to wonder if he should have been so hasty to dismiss Clyde’s concern that Wilfred had summoned the church.
“I’m afraid we’re having a spot of bother with one of the harvesters, so I won’t be able to stay.” Wilfred turned to Clyde. “Indeed, Mr. Watson Jones, I was hoping I could prevail on you to accompany me—Rowly tells me you have a talent for mechanics.”
“Yes… yes, of course, Mr. Sinclair,” Clyde said, startled. He glanced at Rowland uncertainly.
“I’m sure Rowly can manage to entertain the gentlemen and Mrs. Drosher,” Wilfred said, patting Rowland’s back. “Kate will be down shortly. You can manage to pour tea till then, can’t you, old chap?”
“I expect I can,” Rowland said tightly.
“Good show. Well, we best be off. Come along, Mr. Watson Jones.”
Oberg broke the awkward, tense silence left in Wilfred’s wake. “Shall we sit down, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Shall I pour?” Diana Drosher asked.
Rowland nodded, realising that he was the only one who did not know what this meeting was about. Clearly these people had conspired with Wilfred to get him alone. He slipped a finger sandwich to Lenin, taking perverse pleasure in the knowledge that he had an ally hidden beneath the table.
“Allow me to introduce myself and my colleagues more fully, Mr. Sinclair,” Oberg said. “I have the very great honour of being president of an organisation known as the Sane Democracy League. Mr. Ludowici here is my vice-president and Mrs. Drosher is one of our most dedicated members. I wonder if you are aware of our activities?”
“I have seen your advertisements,” Rowland said cautiously. The Sane Democracy League was, as far as he could tell, some form of conservative lobby group. They had peppered the print media during the reign of the last Labor government with various inflammatory depictions of the then premier, Jack Lang, and dire warnings of the destruction his government would bring. To be honest, Rowland had always considered the “Sane” part of their title highly suspect.
“Our mission, Mr. Sinclair,” Oberg said solemnly, “is public education.”
“You see, Mr. Sinclair,” Ludowici took up the baton, “Communism plays on the naivety of the working man, it takes advantage of his trust to manipulate him into believing the employer is his enemy rather than the means by which he earns a living.” He opened one of the briefcases and took from it several pamphlets and a book entitled Sane democracy: some radio lectures conducted by the Sane Democracy League from the Trades Hall, Sydney. “The S.D.L. believes in a dialogue between employer and worker.
It is the intermediaries who foster misunderstanding and antagonism between the industry and its workforce.”
Rowland accepted the cup of tea that Diana Drosher offered him. It was excessively sugared.
“Sadly, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “subversive elements have already gone a long way to creating an impenetrable barrier of mistrust.”
“Subversive elements?” Rowland asked.
“The Communists, the trade unions and the Socialists, Mr. Sinclair. If they actually cared anything for the worker they would support trade and industrial growth, for how is the worker to prosper without a demand for his labour?”
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me, Mrs. Drosher.”
“If you don’t mind my saying Mr. Sinclair,” Oberg said, smiling, “you have a certain reputation for maintaining unconventional friendships.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“What Mr. Oberg means to say is that as an artist you are well-acquainted with and trusted by people who are susceptible to the divisive propaganda and rhetoric of the Left.” Ludowici proceeded with more caution. “Of course with your background, your breeding and your education—I understand you are a man of letters—you, sir, are able to see through the manipulation of the Communists and recognise Bolshevik propaganda for the vile lie that it is.”
Rowland concentrated on eating cake.
“Our aim, Mr. Sinclair, is to bring about a better understanding between employer and employee for the common good,” Mrs. Drosher said earnestly. “Communism feeds on antagonism between the classes fuelled by militant unionism. The working class is being used by the Communists to further their ambitions of revolution. The S.D.L. seeks to redress that with education, empowering the working man and furthering the interests of every stratum of society.”
Mrs. Drosher paused. It was a moment before Rowland realised that the silence was in expectation of some response from him. He feared arguing with the delegation would only prolong their visit and yet he could not bring himself to even feign agreement. So he attempted to return the S.D.L. to Wilfred.
“Perhaps you should be talking to my brother?”
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