Rowland dug into the pocket of his trousers. “I have something for you, Ernie.”
In truth, he had an entire trunk of gifts for his nephews—he and his friends had reverted to childhood and become somewhat carried away in the magnificent toy stores of London and New York. But the trunk could wait until Christmas. He handed a flattened spool to the boy.
“Thank you very much, Uncle Rowly.” Ernest looked at the gift perplexed.
Rowland took the toy back from him and demonstrated. “It’s called a yo-yo, I believe. All the rage in New York. Here, you try.”
They watched Ernest struggle with the yo-yo for a few minutes.
“Why don’t you go outside and practise, Ernie,” Wilfred suggested, grimacing as the wooden spool crashed against the floorboards yet again. “I’ll take your uncle to visit with your grandmother for a while… oh, and take Rowly’s bloody dog with you.”
Ernest did as he was told, studiously throwing the yo-yo into the floor and trying to jerk it back as he walked out.
“How’s Mother?” Rowland asked, as he knotted his tie. He gathered that was what Wilfred had come to speak to him about.
“She’s no better.”
“I hadn’t really hoped for that, Wil,” Rowland assured him quietly.
“Still, Rowly…,” Wilfred frowned.
“It’s all right, Wil. I know what to expect by now. I didn’t imagine Mother had suddenly recovered whilst I was abroad.”
“I guess not,” Wilfred replied.
Rowland finished with his tie. Somehow he found his mother’s particular malady easier to accept than Wilfred.
“Is Mother coming up to Sydney?” he asked as he buttoned his waistcoat. Elisabeth Sinclair hadn’t returned to Woodlands House since Aubrey had been listed amongst the fallen of Ypres.
“Of course,” Wilfred said, a little grimly. “The war’s been over for fourteen years. Mrs. Kendall will come along to attend to her.”
Rowland pulled on his jacket and followed his brother to their mother’s rooms.
A handsome woman, Elisabeth Sinclair belied her sixty-seven years. She still dressed fashionably, and meticulously, her snowy hair coiffed elegantly. It was only her eyes that hinted the toll taken by years and loss. For Rowland, there was a bittersweet gratification in the way those eyes elated when he walked in. It was not really him that she was so glad to see, but still, it made her happy.
“Aubrey, you’ve come home at last. Where on earth have you been?”
It was many years since his mother had recognised Rowland as anyone other than Aubrey Sinclair. It had been easier to forget that her youngest son ever existed than to accept the death of his brother. Perhaps it was also easier for Rowland to be Aubrey than to accept her disappointment that he was not.
Rowland sat with his mother for a while. He did not ask or expect that she recognise him. Elisabeth Sinclair spoke to him of music and polo, and all those things that Aubrey had loved. Rowland didn’t say a great deal. It was just his presence, his countenance, with its startling resemblance to Aubrey’s that the old woman needed.
In time, he escorted her down to dinner.
Rowland seated his mother and took his own place at the formally set table. He winced. His muscles were starting to stiffen, his body protesting the punishment of the polo field. The ache had returned to his wounded leg. Aside from having been battered by ball and mallet, and knocked from his horse, he was unused to riding. Reacquainting himself with the saddle at a gallop had probably not been the best idea, but then, it had not been his idea.
Wilfred invited him to say grace.
“No—you go ahead. Just make it short.”
Ernest’s jaw dropped.
Wilfred glanced at Kate. “Are you sure you want him to be Ewan’s godfather?”
Kate smiled. “I’m sure Rowly will do a wonderful job.”
“Of course, I will,” Rowland replied. “My godfather taught me to play poker. A fine tradition.”
Kate assumed he was joking and laughed. Wilfred appeared less sure. In her fashion, Elisabeth Sinclair ignored any conversation inconsistent with the belief that she was sitting beside Aubrey.
Wilfred said grace, and they broke bread over talk of the approaching christening. An unfaltering hostess, Kate asked Rowland of his time abroad. He told her of London and Paris, of Berlin and Cairo, consciously avoiding mention of his troubled journey home. Neither did he speak of Ypres in his mother’s presence.
Young Ernest talked gravely of the impending arrival of Father Christmas in Yass’ main department store, and Wilfred discussed the sorry state of wool prices.
Once the ladies and Ernest had retired, Wilfred casually informed his brother that he had purchased a neighbouring farm. The proprietors had apparently been less able to weather the decline in wool prices than the Sinclairs.
“You can come out with me tomorrow to have a look at it.”
“And the owners?” Rowland asked, uncomfortable with the notion. These people were their neighbours.
“Left the property some time ago, Rowly. Poor Jefferies hung himself in June.” Wilfred lit his pipe frowning. Rowland flinched, aware that his brother had known Stanley Jefferies well. “He’d been very exposed in the stock market—lost almost everything,” Wilfred went on grimly. “Clarice tried to keep things afloat for a couple of months—but it got too much for her. Selling to us allowed her to walk away with a little dignity. Enough money for a house in the city and a small income. It wouldn’t have been so if the bank had foreclosed.”
“What about James?” Rowland had been at school with James Jefferies.
“He’s a solicitor now—been living in Sydney for some time… not happy about losing the property, but that’s hardly our fault.” He looked at Rowland over the top of his bifocals. “This is business, Rowly. We helped them while we could but they were not viable.”
Rowland nodded, resigned. “You know what you’re doing, Wil.”
The following morning they set out for what had been the Jefferies’ property, whilst Kate and the nanny took the youngest Sinclairs into town to see the Christmas pantomime.
The Jefferies homestead was an overbearing federation building with an excess of leadlight and unnecessary finials. It had been extended several times. An elaborately engraved shingle swung from a post at the entrance declaring the property name as Emoh Ruo. Wilfred was indifferent to the house—it would probably end up as a manager’s residence.
They followed the road which divided the property, surveying paddocks and assessing fence lines. Wilfred pointed out the water sources, the large spring-fed dams and bores marked by iron windmills. Rowland gathered that it was the water that interested his brother. The countryside had suffered a couple of dry summers. Reliable water could mean a significant difference to yield.
“Half the property is under crop,” Wilfred motioned towards the western paddocks. “Wheat and barley mainly… of course there’s still not much point in growing wheat but we’re putting in more silos.”
“Uh huh.”
“We’ve picked up some properties in Gundagai and I’ve purchased a snow lease for next season… it’ll probably be a good idea to put in a few hundred acres of oats.”
Rowland nodded vaguely. Wilfred was just updating him, not asking his opinion. Apparently the Sinclairs were expanding.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up outside a collection of machinery sheds. The chauffeur opened the door for Wilfred. Rowland let himself out.
“What’s in here?” Rowland asked.
“Possibly the reason why poor Jefferies went under in the end.”
Wilfred took out a key and unlocked the padlocks that secured the largest shed. “Stanley had to have the latest tractors and headers. Always buying new equipment and then trading the moment something bigger came onto the market.” He pulled open the doors. Rowland followed him inside.
“He bought this about two years ago—it’s barely been out of the shed. I’ll have to put the word out and
find a buyer.”
Rowland gazed up at the Gipsy Moth. The silver wings extended from a two-tone fuselage in British racing green and white. The name Rule Britannia was emblazoned near the tailplane. She was magnificent.
“No, don’t do that,” he said.
“Why?”
“We should keep her.”
“Whatever for? What could you possibly want with a plane?”
“I’ll learn to fly her.”
“Why?”
“I might crash her otherwise.”
“Don’t be smart, Rowly,” Wilfred said curtly. “Why do you want to fly a plane?”
“Do I have to have a reason, Wil?” Rowland said, climbing onto the lower wing and into the cockpit. He inspected the instrument panel. She was beautiful.
“God forbid you fail to indulge every passing whim,” Wilfred muttered.
“Don’t sell the plane,” Rowland said again.
Wilfred studied him disapprovingly. “For pity’s sake, Rowly, you’re nearly twenty-eight—isn’t it about time you started acting responsibly… found some direction…?”
Rowland refused to be drawn. He tapped the dash. “As luck would have it she has a compass, Wil.”
“One good reason, Rowly,” Wilfred demanded. “Just give me one good reason why we need a plane.”
Rowland had now climbed onto the fuselage to examine the fuel tank housed in the bulging airfoil that formed the centre section of the upper wing.
“We don’t want to be the last people to get one, Wil,” he said smiling. “How would it look?”
He climbed down and stood next to his brother. “She could make the trip to Sydney in an hour. That’s got to be useful.”
Wilfred looked at Rule Britannia dubiously. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“Believe me, I’m much more likely to die in a polo match,” Rowland replied ruefully. It had taken him considerable willpower to get out of bed that morning.
Wilfred seemed to give up. “Fine,” he said shaking his head. “God knows, once you get some cockeyed notion into your head…”
“Capital!”
Wilfred took off his glasses. “Sadly, Stanley Jefferies’ passing has left another vacancy, Rowly.”
“Oh yes?” Rowland murmured, preoccupied with the aircraft. “God-awful name…” He wondered if it would be bad luck to change it.
“His position on the board of Dangar’s hasn’t been filled as yet.”
Rowland nodded absently. Dangar, Gedye and Company was some kind of wool-broking firm, in which the Sinclairs had a significant shareholding.
“I want you to take his place on the board.”
Rowland stopped. Of course—he should have known—this was a transaction then. “Wil, what would I know about sheep?”
“About time you learned—the company’s moving further into mechanisation—tractors, generators, even refrigeration. You might find it interesting.”
“I doubt it.”
“It’s just a quarterly meeting,” Wilfred began to polish his spectacles. “It’ll do you good to have some form of responsibility.”
Rowland regarded his brother coldly. “I don’t need a job, Wil.”
Wilfred smiled faintly. “You know, Kingsford Smith is setting up some sort of flying school later this year.” He put his glasses back on. “Oversubscribed as you’d expect, but I could have a word…”
Rowland swore.
Wilfred ignored him.
Rowland thought momentarily about telling his brother what he could do with Dangar, Gedye and Company, and then he looked again at the Gipsy Moth. She really was a glorious machine. He laughed. Maybe Wilfred knew him better than he thought. He didn’t have a chance of getting into the Kingsford Smith School without his brother’s influence.
“Fine then, I’ll sit on your board until they realise the bloody tea lady knows more about running companies than I do.”
“I knew you’d come round, Rowly.”
Rowland wasn’t listening. He was back in the cockpit, convinced that he had just agreed to pay dearly for the Rule Britannia. It was not something he could help, however.
24
CRITICAL WOOL POSITION
EFFECT ON NATIONAL INCOME
MATTER FOR GRAVE ANXIETY
By TJA Fitzpatrick of Warre Warral
“The time has come” the growers said
“To talk of many things;
Of wool—and prices—and interest rates,
Of wages, cost—and rings,
And why the market has gone to pot,
And whether sheep have wings.”
Wagga Daily Advertiser
The next days at Oaklea passed in a congenial blur, fuelled by eggnog and goodwill. Unashamedly besotted, Rowland took Kate and Ernest to visit his plane, extracting from them the excitement and admiration he so felt the aircraft deserved. He relegated to the back of his mind the promise Wilfred had extorted in return for the indulgence. He knew full well that his brother had manipulated him—but then, it was just a quarterly meeting. Wilfred probably had the right to expect that much from him.
His good humour survived even the onslaught of suitable young things, to which his well-meaning sister-in-law subjected him. By Boxing Day he had been introduced or reintroduced to every young debutante in the district.
“You know, Rowly, my dear friend Lucy is still very taken with you,” Kate confided, as the family shared breakfast.
Wilfred snorted as he ate his eggs. It was unclear whether it was in response to Lucy or the fact that she was taken with Rowland.
“Lucy Bennett?” Rowland asked, stirring his coffee. “Hasn’t someone married the poor girl yet?”
“I believe, she rather hoped you would,” Kate said pointedly.
Rowland laughed. Lucy Bennett and her well-rehearsed charm. He couldn’t remember giving her any reason to assume her interest was reciprocated. In fact he was sure he’d offended her—unintentionally of course, but fortuitously.
“Good Lord—she won’t do. I couldn’t let Wil have the prettier wife,” he said, winking at Ernest who noted everything.
“You may just have to get used to it,” Wilfred muttered without looking up from his plate.
Kate blushed and glanced shyly at Wilfred. She stood, flustered. “Excuse me… I should check on Ewan.”
Wilfred didn’t appear to notice.
Rowland smiled. Kate had always seemed unable to remain in the same room as a compliment from her husband. It was a good thing that Wilfred Sinclair was not an effusive man or they would never see her.
After breakfast, Rowland rang through to Delaney in Sydney. He spoke quietly, not wanting his interest in Isobel Hanrahan’s murder to be overheard. He was unsure how much of the affair Wilfred had told Kate.
Delaney informed him that he was looking into the background of several of the passengers who had sailed on the Aquitania, but to date had discovered little.
“I don’t know, Sinclair,” the detective admitted. “One would expect there to be a connection between so many murders in such proximity, but there doesn’t seem to be anything consistent. Urquhart and Waterman were Theosophists, but Isobel Hanrahan was a Catholic… and then someone shot at you. As unlikely as it seems, perhaps the incidents are unrelated.”
Rowland told Delaney of his conversation with Matthew Bryan, and his plans to speak to Murphy about whether Isobel found her uncle the morning she died.
“Good,” Delaney agreed. “You do that. I have to be careful going after Hanrahan in an official capacity. Archbishop Mannix is already alleging religious persecution… and Mannix has enough connections in the Force to threaten more than just damnation. You let me know what you find out.”
Next, Rowland called St Patrick’s Seminary. After going through a succession of intervening clergy, he spoke with Father Murphy. The young deacon seemed nervous but agreed to meet with him on the 29th of the month.
Satisfied, Rowland returned to being gracious as guests began to arrive
for Oaklea’s annual garden party. The marquees had been festooned in red and white bunting, the arbours and walkways more naturally decorated with wisteria in full bloom. The gardeners had dressed the fountain with plantings of primrose and violas, nurtured to be at their best on this day. Wilfred’s beloved roses were resplendent.
Once again, Rowland was introduced to an inordinate number of young women. He bore it stoically, guessing that his entanglement with Isobel Hanrahan must have intensified Wilfred’s determination to see him settled with an appropriately well-bred Protestant.
Wainwright and Kynaston also arrived, apparently intent on reminding him of his dismal performance on the polo field.
“Of course, Wilfred told us you were a one-goal player,” said Kynaston. “We thought it must have been an aberration. You’re a Sinclair, after all.”
Wainwright took over. “Imagine our surprise, old man, when we realised that one goal was in fact optimistic.”
“Yes, imagine,” Rowland replied.
“I daresay your stroke needs work,” Kynaston informed him, “but some solid days in the hitting pit might sort that out.”
“Your main problem is that you’re a tad skittish,” Wainwright speculated. He looked Rowland up and down, perplexed. “I was sure Wilfred said you boxed at Oxford.”
“The point of boxing is to avoid getting hit,” Rowland said flatly. He had tried his hand at boxing, quite successfully in fact… because he knew how to move out of the way.
Wainwright was not convinced. “You can’t flinch every time the ball comes near you. Five times out of ten it won’t hit you.”
“And the other five?” Rowland asked curtly.
Kynaston looked at him. “Well, you have a helmet, old boy. You didn’t see service did you? That would have sorted you out.”
Rowland had never before considered war as preparation for polo. Images of Wainwright and Kynaston in the trenches with their mallets and pith helmets came too easily to mind. Between the sycophantic admiration of the unmarried minions and the brutal honesty of Kynaston and Wainwright, he was drinking rather a lot.
At some point Wilfred took him aside. He seemed a little amused.
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