Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

“Get in the car, Rowly. We haven’t got much time.”

  Rowland climbed in. “Whatever for?”

  “Polo match. We seem to be a man short. You can change at the field.”

  “I can what?”

  “I’ve had ponies taken to the field for you,” Wilfred continued, ignoring the horror in Rowland’s voice.

  “You want me to play? Have you lost your mind?”

  “As I said, we’re a man short. If I could get someone else, I would.”

  “Wil, be reasonable. I haven’t played polo in years. I haven’t been on a bloody horse in…”

  “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how to ride,” Wilfred dismissed his protest. “Come on, Rowly. I don’t want to cancel the match—people have come from all round the district.”

  “I was shot,” Rowland said feebly.

  “You’re barely limping… it’ll be the horse that’s running, not you.”

  “It’s the middle of summer—why are you playing now?” Rowland persisted.

  “It’s a friendly exhibition match,” Wilfred replied, as the Rolls started to move.

  “Who’s playing?” Rowland asked wearily. It appeared he was going to play regardless of what he said.

  “English team.” Wilfred sat back. “Some chaps who came out to watch the cricket… thought they’d play a spot of polo between Tests.”

  “So couldn’t you have just called in the Ashtons?”

  The Ashton brothers were indisputably the elite of Australian polo. Their victorious tour of Britain had already become smug legend in polo circles.

  “The Englishmen are staying at Markdale,” Wilfred said with reference to the Ashton property near Crookwell. “Using Ashton ponies, in fact. Philip thought some of the other fellows would enjoy playing them.”

  “Jolly decent of him,” Rowland said irritably. Bloody Philip Ashton and his great ideas.

  Wilfred smiled. “Chin up, Rowly. It’s only four chukkas. Kate tells me that every young lady in the district is coming out to watch.”

  Rowland laughed despite himself. Wilfred never missed an opportunity to throw suitable young women in his path. “I really don’t think I’m going to impress anyone playing polo, Wil. Have you forgotten?”

  Wilfred ignored his trepidation. “Just stay on your horse and you’ll be fine—it’s a goodwill match.”

  Rowland looked at his brother sceptically. Goodwill or not, Wilfred was competitive.

  “Wil, almost anyone can play better than I can—couldn’t you have found someone else?”

  “No time—Penfold only pulled out about an hour ago.”

  Rowland knew Skippy Penfold—he was as polo mad as Wilfred. “Why did Penfold pull out?”

  “He’s not conscious yet.”

  “What?”

  “A mishap at practice.”

  “What kind of mishap?”

  “Got hit in the head with a mallet.”

  22

  POLO

  Molonglo Club

  The Molonglo Polo Club had a practice last Saturday, on the grounds near Duntroon, and will have another practice next Saturday, when it is hoped to have a full muster of players. This club had a most successful season, and, in view of the number of clever young players, the prospects for next season are equally as bright.

  The Canberra Times

  Rowland emerged from the players’ marquee in the knit jersey shirt, jodhpurs and high boots that Wilfred had brought in for him. He carried a pith helmet under his arm and looked for all the world like a man who could play polo.

  The field was on the McWilliamson property. Its boarded perimeter was crowded with spectators in their race-day best. The broad-brimmed sunhats of the district’s ladies surrounded the playing field like milling beds of flowers. Union Jacks and Australian flags were both waved in politely even numbers. Rowland muttered under his breath. He was about to be publicly humiliated.

  He had played polo before, but he had never been very good at it, even when he’d played regularly. Now, it was a couple of years since he’d picked up a mallet.

  “Rowly!” Wilfred called him over to where the ponies were being readied, and introduced their teammates. Rowland shook hands with Bradley Wainwright and Jeffery Kynaston, both men of Wilfred’s ilk.

  “Jolly relieved to see you, Rowly,” said Wainwright, smiling broadly. He winked at Wilfred. “This should even up the handicap—the English chaps are a seventeen-goal team.”

  Rowland glared at his brother. So that was it. Polo teams played with handicaps that were an aggregate of each player’s. Having a lower handicap than the opposing team could be a distinct advantage. Wilfred was a six-goal player. Presumably Wainwright and Kynaston were similar. Rowland’s handicap was one.

  Wilfred handed him a mallet. “Mount and get your eye in, Rowly,” he suggested. “You’ll play at number one—we have about fifteen minutes.”

  Rowland glanced at the English team who were already on the field warming up, mallets swinging in wide strong arcs. Wilfred was going to get him killed… with spectators.

  He mounted, trying to get used to the saddle after a considerable absence. Wilfred had selected the horse. An excellently sized and proportioned animal, obviously well-trained. But then, Wilfred knew how to select horses… it was his choice of players that Rowland found dubious.

  The tournament opened with “God Save the King”, the anthem of both nations. Rowland patted the side of his pony’s neck nervously. Hopefully, the horse knew what it was doing.

  The teams lined up, the ball was tossed midfield and the match was underway. The first seven-minute chukka was, to Rowland, a blur. The game was played at a gallop, the ponies churning the three-hundred-yard field at speed. He concentrated on following Wilfred in attack, avoiding the mallets and staying on his horse.

  Wilfred shouted instructions.

  “Tail it!”

  “Take the man, Rowly!”

  “Turn it now!”

  “Rowly, what are you doing?”

  All the other members of Rowland’s team stepped in to play his position from time to time.

  Rowland Sinclair had been struck by the bamboo ball twice and by mallets often, by the time the first change of horses was called. He’d committed one foul and collided with an umpire.

  “We’re two goals behind,” Wilfred told him as they mounted fresh ponies.

  “Oh. That’s not good.” Rowland had lost track of the score as he tried desperately not to be noticeably incompetent.

  Wilfred did not seem worried. He looked towards the English four. They were sweating profusely, their faces bright red beneath the white helmets.

  “The heat will knock them up by the next chukka,” Wilfred advised.

  Rowland nodded. “Heatstroke. Good strategy.”

  “We’re going to have to work on your swing, old boy,” Wilfred said, ignoring his comment. “I’d swear you were playing tennis out there.”

  Rowland was about to do some swearing of his own, when they were called back onto the field. True to Wilfred’s prediction, the English team started to flag.

  The score was tied by half-time. The spectators surged onto the field for the traditional treading in of the turf dug out by the horses’ hooves.

  “I say, Sinclair, your brother’s digging more divots with his mallet than all the ponies combined,” Wainwright noted dubiously.

  Wilfred found this extremely funny, Rowland less so.

  By the third chukka, the Australians were three goals ahead, despite having to compensate for Rowland, who was being reminded that polo was a contact sport.

  As they changed horses for the final chukka, Wilfred spoke quietly of strategy. “They’ve realised Rowly’s out of his depth,” he said.

  “I must say, it’s bloody obvious,” Kynaston agreed, taking Wilfred’s lead on tact. “I thought you said the lad had played before.”

  “What say we leave Rowly with defensive plays,” Wilfred said quickly, as he saw his brother rile. “We can keep up the
offence between the three of us. Rowly, you just make yourself a nuisance to the English—particularly their number one—but leave the ball alone.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Rowland mumbled.

  They rode out for the last chukka. In this final seven minutes, the English team seemed to find a second wind. Suddenly the game was tied again. As instructed, Rowland did not attempt to take control of the ball and confined his play to riding off the opposing players or hooking their mallets to prevent a stroke.

  At some point, one of the English players retaliated. Rowland wasn’t really sure which, or how. All he knew was that he came off his horse. The crowd gasped dramatically making him feel like even more of a fool. A foul was declared and a penalty awarded against the English team. There were now only a few seconds of play left. Rowland had remounted now and found himself the beneficiary of a free hit for goal when the match was tied.

  Wilfred looked worried. Rowland couldn’t blame him. The shot wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t entirely straightforward. He’d have to hit the ball fairly hard to make the distance, and the goal was defended. It was the kind of shot one practised time and again in the hitting pit… but then, he hadn’t been near a hitting pit for at least three years. Still, here was an opportunity to redeem a little dignity.

  Wilfred leant over to him. “Straighten up your back swing and follow through properly.”

  Rowland lined up the goal. His head was still spinning a little from the fall. He swung—Wilfred’s advice remembered only midshot. He listened for the crack of bamboo against bamboo. The sound was more of a thud. He’d missed—not entirely, but almost. The ball deflected with enough momentum to roll only a few yards. Annoyingly, the crowd gasped again. The English team took a second to realise that the ball was going nowhere near the goal and turned to charge towards it. Wilfred galloped up behind his brother and swung. The ball fired into the now undefended goal like a shot. The crowd cheered: male voices and the enthusiastic clapping of ladies, too genteel to shout. The whistle blew shrill and the match was theirs.

  Wilfred rode back to Rowland and slapped him on the back.

  “Brilliant feint, Rowly,” he said loudly. “Cleared the goal completely.”

  Wainwright reined in his horse beside Wilfred. “Got to admit,” he said to Rowland, grinning, “I thought you’d really cocked it up for a moment. Should have known you Sinclairs were cooking something up.”

  Rowland was just glad it was over and that he had finished the match astride his horse.

  The victory was applauded appropriately with speeches from the back of a truck festooned with bunting and flags. The Sinclair brothers received particular approbation from the spectators. Rowland accepted the congratulations in Wilfred’s shadow, wondering if anybody had actually watched the match. He was well aware that he hadn’t done much of use.

  The McWilliamsons were hosting a garden party to follow the match and soon he was being plied with flutes of champagne and canapés.

  “Uncle Rowly!”

  Rowland turned as a five-year-old boy tore through to him.

  “Ernie!” Rowland dropped to one knee and ruffled the child’s wet-combed hair. “Good Lord, you’ve grown.”

  Ernest put out his hand.

  Rowland shook it solemnly.

  “Welcome home, Uncle Rowly. I trust you enjoyed your time on the broad.”

  Rowland smiled. “Abroad, Ernie. Yes, I had a jolly nice time abroad. Where’s your mother?”

  “Kate’s back at Oaklea with the baby.” Wilfred came to stand behind his son. “You know what new mothers are like.”

  Rowland had no idea, but decided to take Wilfred’s word for it. “Shall we go then?” he suggested. “I’m keen to meet this new nephew of mine.”

  “Mrs. McWilliamson insists I introduce you to a few people first,” Wilfred said firmly. “Ernie, go and play for a while. I’ll come and find you when your uncle and I are done.”

  Ernest nodded obediently.

  “There’s a good boy.”

  Rowland turned to his brother suspiciously. “Mrs. McWilliamson? I barely know the woman—who could she possibly want me to meet?”

  “I couldn’t say, Rowly, but she’s our hostess. It would be most impolite to refuse.”

  Wilfred took Rowland up to the main house, a grand federation homestead with wide, tiled verandahs.

  Mrs. McWilliamson was on the verandah having tea with a perfumed, pastel congregation of young women.

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Rowland exploded under his breath as he turned to leave.

  Wilfred grabbed his arm and hailed their hostess.

  “Why Mr. Sinclair, how lovely to see you back in Yass,” Mrs. McWilliamson effused. “Won’t you sit down and tell us about the match. I must say I haven’t watched a game so thrilling in years.”

  “I’m sure Rowly would love to stay and chat with you ladies,” Wilfred said pleasantly. “I must speak to Harold for a moment—he’s in the house, is he? I’ll leave you to it shall I, Rowly? Righto, then.”

  Rowland smiled courteously and took the seat Mrs. McWilliamson offered him, silently plotting the murder of Wilfred Sinclair.

  It was at least an hour before Wilfred returned. By then Rowland had made the acquaintance of several suitable young women who had bombarded him with competing charm and light repartee. They had twittered and giggled over his every word, being careful to appear neither aloof nor forward. It was probably a good thing that their hostess was serving tea to this cloistered gathering, as Rowland may otherwise have resorted to drinking.

  When Wilfred appeared, he got to his feet so quickly that the wicker chair on which he had been sitting overturned. He apologised and righted it without taking his eyes off Wilfred, in case his brother decided to disappear again.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to drag you away, Rowly,” Wilfred said, though he was perfectly aware that no dragging would be necessary. “Kate and Mother will be anxious to see you again.” To the refined gaggle of young women, he said, “I trust we will be seeing you ladies at Oaklea on Boxing Day.”

  The Sinclairs had hosted a Boxing Day garden party in aid of the Red Cross since the War. It was quite the social event of the region.

  Rowland made his farewells politely, graciously, for he was a gentleman of impeccable breeding.

  “Charming girls, don’t you think,” Wilfred said as they set out to find Ernest. “You wouldn’t believe the number of couples Alice McWilliamson has introduced at polo matches—she’s got quite a knack.”

  Rowland glanced at his brother. “You’re bloody lucky I haven’t got a mallet.”

  23

  SOUTHERN CROSS

  Damaged in Night Landing

  Air-Commodore Kingsford Smith after returning from participating in the display of illuminations at the Harbour Bridge on Saturday night, suffered a mishap at Mascot in which the plane Southern Cross was damaged.

  The Sydney Morning Herald

  Oaklea had changed a little since Rowland Sinclair had last been home. His sister-in-law had been renovating the original building for a number of years now, adding modern features to the massive Victorian mansion. The art deco additions were probably not in keeping with the Romanesque features of the original structure, but Rowland didn’t mind them. He rather liked the eclectic quirks that Kate had introduced, probably quite unintentionally, to the traditional magnificence of the Sinclair residence.

  Kate met them at the foot of the entrance stairway. A quietly lovely young woman, a couple of years younger than Rowland and sixteen years her husband’s junior.

  “Welcome home, Rowly,” she said with genuine warmth as he kissed her cheek. She looked at the polo uniform he still wore. “You played! Oh, I’m so sorry I missed it. Did you win?”

  Rowland smiled ruefully. “Yes, but that had little to do with me. Wil was the hero of the hour.”

  Kate looked adoringly at her husband. “Of course he was, but I’m sure you’re just being modest, Row
ly.”

  Wilfred laughed. “No, he isn’t.”

  “Well, come inside and meet Ewan,” Kate said tactfully, as she grabbed Ernest’s hand. “Your mother is resting at the moment but she’ll be so glad to see you.”

  Rowland was introduced to Ewan Dougal Baird Sinclair, a pudding-shaped infant who gazed passively at him with the dark blue eyes that distinguished all the Sinclair men.

  Kate told Rowland proudly of how the child had grown, how well he ate and how much he adored young Ernest.

  “He looks just like Wil, don’t you think?” she said as she kissed the chubby cheek.

  Rowland looked from the drooling six-month-old in her arms, to his brother, with no clue as to the similarity of which she spoke. “Spitting image.”

  “I’m going to shower and change before Mother gets up.” He nodded towards young Ewan. “You’ve done well, Kate.”

  Wilfred smiled at his wife as he swung Ernest up under his arm. “She has rather.”

  Rowland went up to his room to wash off the perspiration and dirt of the polo field. His trunks had already been taken upstairs and unpacked.

  He was just buttoning a fresh shirt when there was knock at his door.

  “Uncle Rowly?”

  “Come in, Ernie.”

  The boy opened the door and came in, dragging an ugly one-eared greyhound behind him.

  “Lenin! How are you, mate?” Rowland bent to greet the ill-bred hound Milton had rescued from the track.

  The dog recognised him. Its stump of a tail wagged so hard that its entire body writhed like a snake and its paws slipped and skittered on the polished hardwood floors.

  Rowland picked the creature up and dropped it onto the bed. Lenin rolled onto his back, continuing to twist with excitement.

  “Daddy won’t let us call him Lenin,” Ernest said sombrely as he watched his uncle romp with the dog.

  Rowland tickled Lenin’s single ear. “What are you calling him, then?” he asked.

  “Daddy calls him, ‘Rowly’s bloody dog’.”

  Rowland laughed. “Thank you for bringing him up to me, Ernie.”

  “Don’t tell Mummy—I’m not ’sposed to.”

  “I’ll cover for you.”

  “What are you two plotting?” Wilfred walked in unexpectedly. He glanced at Lenin who was now circling into the bedclothes. “Oh, I see.”