A Few Right Thinking Men (27 page)

“No, sir. I have my own reasons for looking into the New Guard's activities.”

It was Lang, not MacKay, who offered them both a seat. “So Mr. Sinclair, what cockeyed scheme has Eric concocted now?” MacKay's face was thunderous.

Rowland recounted his excursion to the Southern Highlands, the New Guard's astonishing plans for Berrima Gaol. Again he felt like he was telling some ludicrous fairytale.

When he'd finished, Lang sat back, his fist placed thoughtfully on his lips. Suddenly he laughed. “A swaggie, you say. I've seen the poor fool running for his life through the paddocks…capital bull that Ebenezer.” He held his hands about four feet apart, “Horns on him like that!” He laughed again.

MacKay turned to Rowland. “Did Campbell send you to Berrima?”

“Not exactly. Poynton filled me in…He said it was at Campbell's request.”

MacKay shook his head. “He's set up this Poynton to take the fall…Campbell will claim to know nothing, should it come out.”

“MacKay, I want this swaggie arrested for interfering with my bull,” Lang declared. “Exposure to an accountant could affect the yield this season.”

“Premier, we can't let them instigate the plan, however ridiculous it is,” MacKay looked up at Rowland. “Thank you for your information, Mr. Sinclair. We'll take it from here. Delaney, escort Sinclair home.”

Rowland stood, a little annoyed at being dismissed in so offhand a manner.

Lang stood also, and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sinclair. I could use a man like you.”

Rowland smiled. If anything would make Wilfred shoot him…“It's been a privilege, sir. I'll leave you gentlemen to defend democracy.”

“Well, if you're ever looking for work…” the Premier replied, beaming beneath his famous moustache.

MacKay cleared his throat and looked hard at Delaney, and with that, Rowland Sinclair and the detective departed.

“So, what did you think of our beleaguered Premier?” Delaney asked as he drove Rowland back to Woodlands House.

Rowland laughed. “Seems rather more fed up with the Communists than I expected,” he said, intrigued that the perceived champion of the Bolshevik cause, could be so.

“Oh, he hates them,” Delaney replied. “Always ranting about Jock Garden.”

***

Rowland found Milton pacing the floor. Clyde was sketching Edna onto a large sheet of drawing cartridge as she lay on the couch with Lenin.

“Problem?” he asked, as Milton all but walked into him.

“Call me difficult, Rowly, but I'm a little uneasy about leaving this situation in the hands of the police.”

Rowland ran them through his meeting with MacKay and the Premier.

Milton was in no way appeased. “Lang hasn't been able to do a single thing about the New Guard to date.”

“I did say I'd call Wil.” Rowland was now starting to doubt the wisdom of doing that.

“Hold off, Rowly,” cautioned Clyde. “With due respect to your brother, his lot don't sound a great deal more rational than the Boo Guard…They may even think kidnapping the Cabinet is a good idea, and then we'd just be giving Campbell more allies.”

“Wil's adamant that the Old Guard is purely defensive, but who the hell knows?” Rowland conceded.

“I still think we should make the Party aware of Campbell's plans,” said Milton. “We'll need to be ready.”

“No. Rowly's right.” Clyde was firm. “That would only start a war—which is exactly what Campbell wants, I reckon. Let's face it Milt, the Left is as organised as a traffic jam on Pitt Street—not like the Fascists. I'd never shirk a fight—you know that—but right now, we'd lose. It'd be pointless.”

“Listen to him, Elias.” Edna's voice was hard and low. It was not a request.

Milton shot her a dark look. Edna didn't often use his real name. He had been called Milton since he fashioned himself into a poet. “I won't say a thing,” he sighed. “But, Rowly…”

“If Delaney doesn't pull it off, we'll tell anybody who'll listen,” Rowland said, anticipating his friend's comment. “At the moment it's just a plan.”

Milton was sullen; persuaded but not entirely convinced. “I hope we're doing the right thing.”

“God, I do too.” Rowland was equally unsure.

***

Rowland did phone Wilfred that day. The call was unsuccessful, but not entirely so. He had hoped to find out what the Old Guard was up to. Of course, he knew that Wilfred would tell him nothing, but he wanted to ask all the same. He spoke briefly to Kate who told him that the elder Sinclair was in Canberra.

“What's he doing there, Kate?” Rowland asked.

“I'm not really sure, Rowly. Ernie…Shh!…Oh, all right, I'll ask…Rowly, would you mind saying hello to Ernie?”

“Sure, put him on.”

“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest bellowed into the phone.

“Hello, Ernie. No need to yell, mate. I can hear you.”

“Daddy's in camera.”

“I heard.”

“Daddy's very important.”

“I'm sure.”

“He's meeting the Pry Minster.”

Suddenly, Kate was back on the line. “You mustn't listen to Ernie.” She was obviously flustered. “He says the most nonsensical things.”

“Don't be cross with him, Kate,” said Rowland. “I won't mention anything to Wil.”

After hanging up, he walked to the window from where he could still see the black Oldsmobile parked on the other side of Woodlands' wrought-iron gates. What business did Wilfred have with the Prime Minister, he wondered.

Milton came into the drawing room and looked out the window with him. “Any luck?”

Rowland shook his head. “He's in Canberra. With the Prime Minister.”

“Social visit?”

Rowland smiled. “I don't think so, but who knows? Every man's got to have friends, I guess.”

“Our friends are still out there, I see.” Milton tapped the window. “It's quite flattering really…”

“I wonder who they're watching?”

“Good question. Why don't we ask them?” Milton moved toward the drinks cabinet. “They'd be whisky men, don't you think? Policemen always drink whisky…” He poured two quite generous glasses.

“Milt you can't…”

“Why not?”

“I don't think we're supposed to know they're watching us.”

“You think they'll be offended?”

Rowland groaned. “Just don't give them a reason to shoot you!”

Milton put the glasses on a silver tray and Rowland watched from the window as he strode out of the house and leant against the car before passing in the whisky. After a few minutes, he came back in, with the silver tray under his arm.

“Well?”

“They swore a bit, but they liked the drinks.” The poet shook his head sadly. “It's not me they're watching. Damn luck…thought I'd be able to dine out on that. Don't tell Clyde, but they had no idea who I was…”

“Well, who…?”

“They said they weren't watching—told me to bugger off. They were kind of tetchy.”

Rowland glanced out the window again. “They're going.” He watched as the Oldsmobile pulled away.

“You're kidding!” Milton looked out himself. “Ungrateful bastards!”

“What? You wanted to be watched?”

“They've got your bloody glasses!”

Chapter Thirty-two

Punishment for Default

Commonwealth Move To Bring
Mr. Lang To Heel

CANBERRA, Wednesday

Close secrecy is being observed concerning the details of an important bill to be introduced into the House of Representatives, the object of which is to enable the Commonwealth Ministry to compel the Lang Government to adhere in future to the provisions of the Financial Agreement.

The Canberra Times
, March 10, 1932

Rowland stood on the flagstoned courtyard outside what had once been a tack shed at Woodlands House. It hadn't been used as such for years, since the Sinclairs had moved to motorised transport.

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.