A Few Right Thinking Men (17 page)

Rowland thought this plan more ridiculous than anything else Milton had come up with. For one thing, he did not speak like that…God, nobody spoke like that. But he had nothing else to offer Clyde and hopefully he would never need to rely on the poet's preposterous impersonation. “Okay, I'll tell Mary to hand all my calls to you…I'm not sure how I'm going to explain this to her. Good enough, Clyde?”

“Not really.” He sighed. “But I guess there's nothing I can do but wait until you get tired of being me.”

“Afraid so.”

“Have you actually drawn anything yet?” asked Edna.

Rowland reached inside his jacket for his notebook and tossed it to the sculptress. “Pages of Fascists-in-training.” He watched her flick through the sketches. “I'm a bit worried about the portrait, to be honest.”

“Why?”

“I can't really produce one, can I?”

“Why not?' Milton looked over Edna's shoulder. “You don't have to like someone to paint them. And the Archibald rules require subjects to be ‘distinguished' not ‘sane.'”

“Oh, that's not the problem,” Rowland replied. “I can't even say I dislike Campbell—he's quite congenial as far as aspiring dictators go.”

“So?”

“Well, I've got to sign his portrait as Clyde…it might get tricky with the Prize trustees.”

“Hopefully, you'll find out what you need to and be out of there before we have to worry about that.” Clyde pointed at his friend. “Honestly, Rowly, considering what you're doing, the trustees should be way down on your list of concerns!”

“Are we still going to the races tomorrow?” Edna tried to change the subject. Clyde worried too much.

“Of course.” Rowland, too, was relieved to talk about something else. The picnic races at Bowral were a highlight of both the racing and social calendar.

“We'll have to get up early to catch the train,” Milton moaned. He was not at his best in the mornings and he hated trains.

“Why the train?”

“You can hardly drive, Rowly. If you and your car are seen together, it'll all be over. Bowral will be full of the Fascist classes in racing attire.”

Rowland cursed. Milton was right.

“Though of course there's no reason why the rest of us shouldn't take the car,” Milton added, pleased with the realisation. “We could meet you there with the food and refreshments…save you struggling with the load on the train.”

Rowland glared at him. He didn't like anyone else driving his car. “Fine!” He conceded eventually, grudgingly. “Take the blasted car. Just be jolly careful.”

“I'll take the train with you, Rowly,” Edna volunteered, feeling rather a bit sorry for him. “You'll look a bit tragic going to the races on your own.” And so it was agreed. The conversation turned to their plans for the next day, and to the most recent issue of
Art in Australia
, which was devoted to the work of Thea Proctor. Edna and Rowland had both studied under Proctor at the Ashton school. She had introduced them to linocut printing and was one of the founding members of the Contemporary Group, formed to encourage young avant-garde artists. These days, many considered her work dangerously modern, but she was a particular hero of Edna's. The sculptress had been taken by the strength and simplicity of her work. In this way, the intrigues of the New Guard were for a time forgotten, as they discussed the revolutionary movements of the artistic world.

Chapter Twenty

Edna adjusted the angle of her hat, securing it in place with the pearl-encrusted hatpin that had been her mother's. That done, she pulled on her gloves and checked herself in the mirror, allowing the gentle folds of her skirt to swirl about her as she swayed from side to side to critique the fall. The dress was new, a stylish creation of palest pink which had cost her everything she'd earned for the last six months. The Bong Bong Picnic Races had been well-attended by Sydney society since their inception. It was not an event for which one dressed carelessly, regardless of one's social class.

It was still dark outside. Edna and Rowland were to catch the early train to Bowral in the Southern Highlands. A motorised cab waited in the driveway to take them into Central Station.

Finally satisfied with her reflection, Edna went down to the dining room where Mary Brown had organised a pre-dawn breakfast. Rowland was already there, talking to Clyde while he drank his coffee. He had managed to find a suit free of paint. It was custom-tailored from the best English fabric; but then all Rowland's suits were such, regardless of how he treated them. They looked up as Edna came in. She was, like many beautiful women, accustomed to the glances of men, and so she barely noticed the admiration in their eyes.

“You look pretty, Ed,” Rowland said as he returned to his coffee.

“Do you really think so?” She smiled in a way that made it difficult for him to swallow naturally.

“No, he doesn't.” Clyde buttered his toast. “Rowly's just abominably polite.”

“The taxi's here.” Edna reached over and grabbed the toast from Clyde's plate. “Where's Milt?”

“Still asleep. We won't need to leave for awhile.”

Rowland sighed, thinking of his car in Milton's hands. “We'd better get going.” He rose from the table. “Just make sure Milt doesn't wear anything too ridiculous.”

Milton's extravagant sense of style risked becoming a degree too experimental at times. And Bowral was a measure more conservative than Sydney.

Clyde snorted. “I'll do what I can.”

They arrived at Central in good time and took their seats in the first-class carriage. The train was full. Despite the Depression, the Bong Bong Picnic Races were still popular among those more insulated from the downturn. Perhaps, more so.

Edna chatted about the technical difficulties of casting her latest sculpture. It was the largest piece she'd ever attempted. Rowland sat opposite her in their compartment and sketched, murmuring sympathetically on occasion, but not really listening.

Eventually, the train pulled into Bowral station and they disembarked into a crush of elegantly dressed bodies. Rowland grabbed Edna's hand to ensure they wouldn't lose each other in the crowd walking to the track. Men in shabby, worn jackets surged forward to carry hampers and bags for the well-to-do racegoers, in return for change. Rowland and Edna had no bags, but he slipped some coins into the hand of a man wearing a Returned Soldier's badge on an otherwise threadbare lapel.

“You have a good day, sir.” Rowland looked from the badge to the haunted hungry face before him. The man checked his palm—it was more than change. He met Rowland's eyes and nodded with the very last of his dignity.

Edna and Rowland moved on with the crowd. Despite the fact that it was February, the Highlands were mild and so the walk to the track was no great inconvenience.

They were caught in the bottleneck of racegoers heading into the grounds when Rowland heard the friendly shout. “Clyde!”

At first he did not turn.

“I say, Clyde Watson Jones!”

Eric Campbell stepped out of a nearby car, smiling. He signalled for them to come over as he assisted his wife from the backseat of the sedan. A handsome woman, she wore the very latest cinch-waisted style, complemented with a fur stole that the weather did not warrant. Mrs. Campbell sported a fitted cap adorned with a spray of peacock feathers, teased and tortured beyond reason. Rowland noticed Poynton in the front seat, beside the chauffeur. The bodyguard acknowledged him with a nod.

“Well, hello, Clyde.” Campbell extended his hand. “I didn't expect to see you here. You've met my wife, of course.”

“Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Campbell.” Rowland hesitated. “May I introduce Miss Edna Higgins, my…”

“Fiancée,” Edna entwined her arm intimately in his.

If Eric Campbell had not been so captivated by Edna, he might have noticed the startled look on Rowland's face. “Clyde, you didn't mention you were engaged.”

“Didn't you?” Edna looked up at Rowland, pouting. “Clyde, how could you? I've been telling simply everyone.”

Rowland was lost for words.

“I'm sure it's just that I didn't give him the opportunity,” Campbell said graciously.

They conversed for a while longer, though Rowland said very little. Edna was charming and delightful. She was good at that. After several minutes' chatting, Campbell invited Clyde and his fiancée to join them in the members' stand. Rowland declined, saying, quite truthfully, that they were meeting friends.

“Then you must come for cocktails tomorrow,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Eric will be home, for once, and we're having a small drinks party.” She turned to Rowland. “We must hear more about your work; we're all so looking forward to seeing your painting.”

Rowland glanced at Edna. He hadn't actually started the painting. Edna accepted the invitation to cocktails enthusiastically, for them both, and they said goodbye.

“You're a lucky man, Clyde,” Campbell whispered as he shook Rowland's hand.

“Apparently,” Rowland replied.

They watched in silence as the Campbells walked toward the restricted members' grandstand. Herbert Poynton followed the couple discreetly.

“What the devil are you playing at, Ed?” Rowland asked, without turning to look at her.

“I'm making you look more respectable.” Edna was unrepentant. “And helping you get close to Campbell; nobody invites single men to parties.”

Rowland groaned.

“Come on, Rowly.” She hooked her arm through his. “We've been invited to cocktails. There'll probably be all sorts of New Guard people there—I can help you.”

“This is not a game, Ed.”

Edna refused to be chastised. “All the more reason I should come along.”

Rowland started into the race ground. “We'd better find Milt and Clyde and tell them what you've done.”

It took some time to find Clyde and Milton among the crowds now gathered on the grassy surrounds of the track. Some had set up their parties beside their motorcars, others were locals who had walked to the track, or Sydneysiders who had travelled by train. Edna caught sight of them first, reclining on a picnic blanket, enjoying a drink as they each leant against opposite sides of the massive hamper. She waved and led Rowland toward them, weaving through the other picnickers.

“Milt, you look so handsome!” she declared as the poet stood to greet them. He smiled and turned slowly, so she could get the full effect of his finery.

Rowland looked at him carefully. “Isn't that my suit?”

Milton held open the jacket, so that they could see the embroidered label of Rowland's Macquarie Street tailor. “I don't think you ever wore it so well though, Rowly.”

“You told me to make sure he didn't look ridiculous.” Clyde poured drinks for the new arrivals. “All his own clothes are ridiculous.”

Rowland took a glass and sat on the blanket.

“The car ran well.” Milton filled his glass. “Took us no time to get here.”

“Where is she?” Rowland looked around for his beloved Mercedes.

“Flat tyre.” Milton grimaced. “Had to leave her at the local mechanic's. She's a bit too conspicious to bring here anyway.”

“Don't worry, Rowly,” Clyde noticed the trepidation on Rowland's face; there were many mechanics who still refused to work on German cars, even all this time after the Great War. “I spoke to the bloke—he's all right…”

Rowland decided to be reassured. Clyde knew more about mechanics than he did.

“How was the train?” Milton opened the hamper, in search of food.

“Splendid,” Rowland replied, draining his glass in a single swig. “Ed and I had a great time, and now it seems we've got to get married.”

“What?”

Edna rolled her eyes and explained.

To Rowland's chagrin, the news was not greeted with any sort of alarm. Indeed, Milton was miffed that it was Edna who'd insinuated her way into what he considered some grand caper. Even Clyde wasn't unduly concerned.

“Well, as long as Ed remembers to call you ‘Clyde,' and not ‘Rowly', she might actually be useful.”

“Even if she does accidentally call you ‘Rowly,' you could pass it off as one of those ridiculous pet names that couples insist upon,” Milton suggested. “Ed can talk to the women. Surely, one or two know something about what their husbands are up to.”

Rowland thought of Kate, who seemed to have no notion of Wilfred's secret manoeuvring. He shrugged. “Maybe…perhaps they prefer not to know.”

“You'll have to behave yourself, Ed,” Clyde lifted a plate of sandwiches out of the hamper. “You can't be flirting with every man in the room if you're supposed to be engaged to Rowly, I mean Clyde. You'll find the imperial classes are a lot less understanding about that sort of thing.”

“You'd be surprised,” Rowland murmured.

“I don't flirt!” Edna's protest was vehement.

“Like hell,” retorted Clyde.

Rowland smiled. Edna's eye-fluttering claims of innocence bordered on the absurd. The sculptress was a siren of myth—she bewitched men; she couldn't possibly be oblivious to the fact.

“Well, you needn't worry,” she declared. “I'll be utterly devoted. The Boo Guard will think Rowly the luckiest man in the world.”

“Rowly is the luckiest man in the world,” Milton said casually. “It's Clyde Watson Jones who has to be convincing.”

“Well, it's done now.” Rowland put his hat back on. “We'll just have to go along with it and hope it doesn't end badly. So, have you placed any bets yet?'

“No, I'm skint again, so is Clyde,” Milton replied. “There's a Depression, you know. We were tempted to wager your car on a filly called Painter's Fortune, but we thought that would upset you…”

“Come on,” Rowland got to his feet. “Let's find a bookmaker…Who do you like, Clyde?”

“Peter Pan,” Clyde replied as he handed the form guide to Edna. She, too, chose a horse and Rowland and Milton set off to place the bets. With Rowland's money, of course. But that was not something that concerned any of them.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, companionably, and with no further mention or thought of Eric Campbell and his earnest men. Milton's horse won the cup and Edna considered how she could capture the speed and grace of a galloping beast in bronze. Clyde and Rowland discussed the work of William Dobell, who had recently emerged as a force on the Australian art scene. Rowland deeply admired Dobell's unique style; Clyde was more reserved. The excellent contents of the hamper were consumed and at some point Milton fell asleep for an hour. And so the day was spent.

Rowland and Edna returned to Sydney by train. Rowland was inclined to risk driving his car back, but Milton was insistent that he could not be seen in the flamboyant Mercedes—particularly with the New Guard's Commander in attendance. Rowland suspected it was more to do with the fact that Milton liked driving his car. He could hardly blame him, and gave in.

The train trip back to the Central Station was a little more subdued than the one they had taken out in the morning. The racegoers were tired after the rigours of watching, cheering, and celebrating. Rowland sketched the slightly dishevelled parties who continued drinking in the dining car, while Edna poured tea for them both. In quick, sharp lines, he caught the drooping feathers that had begun the day in pert protrusion from fashionable hats, the loosened ties, and the wisps of hair that had escaped carefully coiffed styles.

Edna raised the Campbells' cocktail party, musing over what she should wear. Rowland murmured something unintelligible.

“I should probably have a ring,” she said looking at her hand. “Is it proper to announce your engagement without a ring?”

Rowland glanced up at her. She was not looking at him, having pulled off her glove to consider how the said ring would look on her hand. A day in the sun had brought out just a few freckles across her nose.

“I'll buy you any ring you want, Ed,” he said quietly. “But then, you really would have to marry me.”

Edna laughed. Her eyes caught his, and her expression softened. “Don't be stupid Rowly,” she said gently. “There's no reason to go that far.”

He returned to his notebook with a faint smile. It was not as if he expected anything else. “Don't say I didn't offer.”

“I have my mother's ring,” Edna continued, pouring milk into her cup. “I'll wear that. It's not extravagant—just the kind of ring an emerging artist would give his love.”

“Uh huh. Sounds fine.”

Edna watched him draw, his eyes deliberately glued to the page. She bit her lip, aware that she was just a breath, an unguarded moment away from falling in love with Rowland Sinclair. Sometimes when they were alone like this, her art and her plans seemed trivial, they receded, replaced completely by him alone. It frightened her. She could lose herself in him. Unconsciously she shook her head and pulled back. The Bertie Middletons of the world were a less dangerous distraction—she could love them when she had nothing important to do. But still.