A Few Right Thinking Men (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

There was already quite a throng at Boongala when they arrived. Edna was noticeably quiet. She tugged at the beaded fringing of her favourite gown. The dress had taken her weeks to make and she delighted in wearing it still, although now it was a couple of years old. Styles had changed quite dramatically in the past few seasons. Waistlines had gone up, and hemlines down. The men she lived with assured her she looked fine. But then, they were men. In the circles in which she usually moved, being a couple of seasons behind the latest fashion rarely warranted notice. Especially now. But of course, people like the Campbells did not need to show that kind of restraint. They would be dressed beautifully.

Rowland fiddled absently with the sleeve of his black dinner jacket. He had only just noticed a streak of crimson paint on the cuff. He couldn't remember painting in his dinner suit, but he must have done so. It didn't really concern him. It wasn't too noticeable and he was, after all, a painter. He turned to Edna, noting the way she glanced at the society women who were entering the house ahead of them. Her eyes were large, mildly panicked. He was surprised. Surely Edna could not be uncertain about the way she looked. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Unexpectedly, it was Eric Campbell himself who welcomed them warmly at the front door. Their host took them through to the manicured gardens, which had been laid out for a most elegant occasion. Nancy Campbell received them graciously, and after a barely perceptible pause, complimented Edna on her attire. “My dear, what a sweet dress. I used to have one quite like it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Campbell. Your home is just lovely.”

Eric Campbell took Rowland with him, leaving his wife to introduce Edna to the ladies.

“De Groot,” Campbell summoned a slim, slightly built gentleman, “I want you to meet Clyde Watson Jones, who will win the Archibald this year with a portrait of yours truly. Clyde, this is Captain Francis De Groot.”

“Indeed,” De Groot responded in an accent that was distinctly Irish. He shook Rowland's hand. “May I say, Mr. Watson Jones, you have timed the selection of your subject well.”

Campbell laughed. “We shall see, Frank, we shall see.”

Rowland chatted with De Groot as Eric Campbell moved among his other guests. De Groot was a softly spoken retired soldier, now manufacturing period furniture and dealing in antiques. While he did not say so explicitly, Rowland gathered he was quite highly positioned in the New Guard hierarchy. De Groot's admiration for Campbell was clear.

Over De Groot's shoulder, Rowland saw Edna holding court among the ladies. The sculptress seemed to have overcome her earlier self-consciousness, and simply sparkled. Rowland sipped his drink, and watched as she engaged those around her with her gentle wit. She was not really his, but he was quietly pleased that the other men in attendance thought she was.

De Groot regained Rowland's attention with a polite cough, introducing him to another guest, a younger man, John Dynon, who described himself as a glass merchant. There was something about the man's demeanour that Rowland found disquieting—a grating slyness in his manner. Dynon immediately moved the conversation to what he called the “Red Terror,” and the need for decisive action to squash the threat. Even here, among fascist sympathisers, Rowland suspected Dynon's politics were extreme. Having assumed Rowland was a Guardsman, Dynon did not temper his comments, declaring that things would not be right until Campbell was installed as dictator of the state, and every Communist expelled, one way or another. Initially, Rowland laughed, sure the man was joking, but he sobered hastily when he heard De Groot's cautious approval of the sentiments.

“You must encounter a few Bolsheviks in your line of work.” Dynon addressed Rowland. “Filthy vermin, so-called artists with a preference for red, don't you think?”

“I tend to keep to myself,” Rowland was noncommittal.

“They're everywhere, I expect,” Dynon continued, with contempt. “It's important to be vigilant, to keep an eye on people.” He and De Groot exchanged a look, laden with a meaning to which Rowland was not privy.

“Didn't see you at the races, John,” said De Groot.

“Met the boys for cards.” Dynon winked theatrically.

The conversation was becoming laboured as De Groot and Dynon continued their parallel coded exchange. Rowland muttered something about paying his fiancée some attention, and excused himself.

“Jonesy!”

Rowland turned to the generous face of Herbert Poynton. He shook the bodyguard's hand, mildly surprised to find him here, among the guests, as opposed to outside.

“Poynton, are you working or drinking?” he asked, raising his own glass.

“Both,” Herbert Poynton grinned.

“Surely the Colonel is safe in his own home?”

Poynton took a long drag of his cigarette. “I see you've had the pleasure of meeting our Mr. Dynon.” He exhaled.

“You're acquainted with him?” Rowland noted the distaste that tightened Poynton's fleshy lips.

“Arrogant, self-important bastard!” Poynton spat. “Don't get involved with him, Jonesy. That would be my advice.”

“Why not?” asked Rowland, though he had no thought of getting involved with Dynon.

At first, Poynton said nothing, and then, “I can't really talk about it…but maybe I'll show you one day. I like you, Jonesy.” The bodyguard slapped him on the back. “The Colonel needs men he can rely on…there are big things happening.”

“And Mr. Dynon's involved in these big things?”

“He thinks he is,” Poynton smirked. “He's made a couple of blunders lately—he's impatient, fires without looking, if you know what I mean.” He pulled a cigarette case from inside his jacket, and offered one to Rowland, who declined. “The New Guard is like any army, Jonesy—mostly good loyal men; but occasionally an idiot appears in the ranks.”

Rowland chatted with the bodyguard for a while. He didn't mind Poynton; he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, and his faith in Campbell was almost childlike, but he wasn't unpleasant. For some reason Poynton had taken to him, a fact which made him a little uncomfortable. He was not by nature deceitful, but he couldn't turn back now.

There were now a number of men in the circle around Edna. Rowland thought that he'd best go act like a possessive fiancé, and made his way toward her. He was intercepted, this time, by his host.

“Clyde, over here,” Campbell said from across the room. “There are some chaps I want you to meet.” He introduced ‘Clyde' to the New Guard's zone commanders.

Rowland gathered that they were his lieutenants. He was unsure whether Campbell was trying to impress him with the men who followed his command, or impress those men with the prospect that his picture would be hung alongside other eminent Australians in the Archibald.

As they drank, the talk moved freely to matters of membership and organisation. It seemed that Campbell, too, had forgotten that the artist was not actually a member of his movement, and Rowland was careful not to remind him. He listened as the Guardsmen argued over what they called A- and B-class men. Apparently, the A's were the younger, more able-bodied members of the Guard, the B's those who had some technical qualification. Rowland concluded that the C-class men, who were also mentioned in passing, were the more feeble-bodied Fascists, relegated to administration and catering.

“As you can see, Clyde,” Campbell, turned back to him, “the New Guard is in position—ready and able to act as the circumstances demand.”

“You certainly have a formidable organisation at your disposal, sir.” Rowland replied.

De Groot joined them. He had heard the last exchange. “You should bring the lad along to Belmore, Eric,” he suggested. “We can't dismiss the kind of publicity the Archibald could give us—Belmore will give Jones here a real taste of how history will remember the New Guard.” He put his hand companionably on Campbell's shoulder. “After all, old boy, we wouldn't want him to paint you pruning your bloody roses!”

Instantly, Rowland wanted to paint Campbell in exactly that way.

“That's not a bad idea, Frank.” Campbell tapped the side of his glass as he considered the logistics. “Clyde, perhaps you could meet my ferry on the thirteenth…about midday? I'll take you from there, myself.”

Rowland agreed, intrigued. He glanced toward Edna, who in turn was trying to catch his eye.

“I think we should let you return to your charming fiancée,” Campbell laughed. “I daresay she's feeling somewhat neglected.”

Rowland looked again as several young Guardsmen jostled to stand about her. “She doesn't look too lonely.”

He slipped in next to Edna, who grabbed his arm and introduced him. Rowland could tell, by the how firmly her hand was pressing on his wrist, that she was excited. He wondered what she had discovered.

The evening gave them no opportunity to converse alone. An elegant buffet supper was served, and afterwards the party segregated in the usual manner with the ladies retiring to the parlour for coffee, and the gentlemen in the library with snifters of brandy and cigars. Rowland didn't smoke. He didn't consider it a wise habit when he spent so much of his time surrounded with oil-based paint and highly flammable thinners. He had known artists who had accidentally sent their studios up in flames.

The congregation of men was in good spirits. The New Guard was at the height of its power, and the men in the room were its leaders. Most were ex-servicemen, proud that they were serving their country again.

Rowland put his brandy on the mantel, and took out his notebook. He sketched Campbell moving among his faithful officers, the men who hoped to follow him into history. For the first time, he became interested in the man artistically. He was caught by the camaraderie, the sense of noble purpose in the room. And then Campbell broke the spell, speaking without circumspect of the groups of unemployed the New Guard had broken up in the past days, and the Communists who had been taught a well-deserved lesson. He reiterated his pledge that Premier Lang would not open the Harbour Bridge, that the New Guard would do whatever necessary to deny him that privilege.

His words were met with cheers and postulating, reminding Rowland that this was no mere meeting of a local Masonic Club. These were men looking for revolution. As the hooting got louder, his drawings became darker, more conspiratorial.

He felt a man's breath in his ear. “Rowland Sinclair.” Jolted, Rowland faced his accuser.

Chapter Twenty-two

Unconsciously, Rowland's hand went to his side, over the scar hidden beneath his clothes. He knew the bearded face well: Maguire, who had sewn his wound that night at Oaklea, and who may well have fired the shot that caused it.

They were interrupted briefly as another Guardsman introduced himself to Clyde Watson Jones. Maguire said nothing until the man had gone. Rowland was almost too panicked to wonder why.

Maguire smiled. It was a surprising thing on a face which seemed chiselled out of severity itself. “I see you finally decided to stand up and be counted,” he said quietly. “Must say, I'm surprised Wilfred didn't tell me he planted you here, too. Still,” he looked Rowland up and down, “it makes sense, I suppose. I'm glad you haven't let your brother down again.”

Maguire did not seem to expect a response; he certainly didn't wait for one. He simply walked away, leaving Rowland sweating, but safe, on the sharp edge of exposure.

***

Clyde Watson Jones and his fiancée disembarked the ferry at Circular Quay. They farewelled the many others of Campbell's guests who'd taken the same trip, and headed for the waiting line of taxicabs. Rowland noticed a Riley on the other side of the road, stopped with its engine idling, although its seats were full. As they walked past it, he recognised the man behind the wheel from the cocktail party. For some reason, Rowland felt wary. He climbed into a taxicab after Edna, and gave the driver her father's address in Burwood. Edna looked at him questioningly, but he grabbed her hand and brought a finger to his lips before she could say a word. For all he knew, the man driving their taxi was a Guardsman, too.

Though Edna and Rowland didn't talk a great deal on the journey, the driver seemed happy to fill the silence with news of his day. He was a little tedious but far from sinister. Rowland was beginning to think the paranoia of the Guardsmen had rubbed off on him, until he caught sight of the Riley he'd noticed earlier. Every so often, he turned and saw the vehicle following at a judicious distance. It stayed with them until they pulled up at the house where Edna had been raised, an unassuming brick cottage. They alighted and paid the driver, trying not to be obvious as they watched the car drive past and out of the street, apparently satisfied that Clyde Watson Jones was, as he claimed, a resident of Burwood.

“What was all that about?” asked Edna.

“I think they were checking up on us.” Rowland removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. “I gather that spying is standard practice in the movement.”

The lights came on in the house.

“We're going to have to go in now,” Edna warned.

“That's all right,” Rowland stepped aside so she could climb the steps first to the small front verandah. “I rather like your father; and it's not that late; not for him.”

Selwin Higgins taught philosophy at the university. He had often told Rowland that he would have been an artist himself if he'd possessed even a modicum of talent, but was forced instead to content himself with academia. He had spent several years in France where he'd seduced an emerging artist away from her hopes of greatness into becoming his wife and Edna's mother. He spoke of it with regret, a kind of guilt that he had clipped his Marguerite's wings. As a consequence, he encouraged his daughter's commitment to her own freedom, an unusual position for a father.

“You'd better take off that ring,” Rowland knocked on the door, “or your father will kill me.”

Edna slipped her mother's ring into her purse. Rowland was right. Her father was determined that she not abandon her talent for any man. He would not idly allow her to do for some “young buck” what her mother had done for him.

Selwin opened the door with surprise. He was still a handsome man, identifiably bohemian, despite his advanced years. Even at this hour, he wore a black beret. Rowland was aware that Milton had always coveted that beret. Fortunately, he thought, Selwin was attached to it, too. “Darling! What are you doing here? And Rowly Sinclair! Come in, come in.”

The Higgins' home was in the middle bracket of Burwood houses which varied from the merchant-built mansions of the last century to the more recent low-cost railway housing. Despite a population of almost twenty thousand, the place still had a rural feel—or what Sydneysiders considered rural, anyway.

Inside, the house was a mess. Books were stacked almost anywhere but on the bookshelves, creating precariously skewed towers around which they had to weave. Just about every square inch of wall space was hung with artwork, many by Edna's mother, and a few by the sculptress herself. Several of Edna's early works balanced on randomly positioned book plinths. It had been a while since anyone had dusted.

Selwin Higgins moved some papers and a large grey cat from the couch, and invited them to sit while he went scrummaging for tea in the kitchen.

“Well, where have you two been in your Sunday best?” he called out, pouring tea into mismatched cups.

“At a party at Eric Campbell's,” Edna blurted before Rowland could stop her. Selwin came out of the kitchen with such an instant look of horror and betrayal that they had no choice but to tell him the whole story. He listened without a word.

When they'd finished, he took off his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully with his tie. “I must say, I'm glad it wasn't your politics that led you to Campbell.” He shook his head. “That would have been intolerable…simply intolerable.” He looked intently at Rowland. “Even so, isn't this game of yours dangerous?”

“Well, sir,” Rowland tried to explain, “there's no need for Ed to accompany me again. I don't think I'm in any real danger, either—the New Guard seems to be more talk than anything else.”

“Didn't you say your uncle was beaten to death?”

“Yes.”

“Rowly will be all right, Papa,” Edna saw she needed to comfort her father. “You mustn't worry.”

“You be careful, son,” Selwin cautioned. “Men who take extreme positions are more likely to take extreme action.”

“Oh, stop lecturing, Papa!” Edna stood. “We should get back, Rowly, or the others will worry. We'll have a bit of a walk to find another taxicab; it's too late to hop a tram.”

Rowland drained his tea and stood with her. “I'll be glad when I can start using my own car again.”

***

As Edna had expected, Clyde and Milton were up, playing billiards on the full-sized table in what had once been the ballroom. It was only then that Rowland remembered his suspicion that Edna had discovered something at the party—they hadn't really been able to speak freely since then, and he had of course been distracted by spies and the like. “So Ed, what have you been bursting to tell me all evening?”

She smiled, a little smugly, and launched into an account of her conversations with the ladies. “After they rabbited on and on about fashions, Mrs. Campbell asked me who made my dress, and I told her that I had. At first I thought I'd made a real faux pas because, well, they seemed to be a little shocked. And then they all started talking about sewing.”

“Sewing?” Rowland was surprised. Still, what would he know about the conversations of women.

“They started talking about their misadventures with their Singers. Mrs. Dynon told a story about how she made one of her husband's robes so tight he could barely walk…and then another woman, whose name I can't remember, said her husband was furious when she made a hood without eyeholes.”

They all stared at her.

“A hood?” asked Milton. “Like a black, pointed hood?”

“I don't know,” Edna shrugged. “They all laughed and then Mrs. Campbell changed the subject—I didn't want to seem unduly interested so I left it there.”

“Probably a good idea,” Rowland told them about John Dynon and his apparent lust for confrontation. And about Poynton's warnings.

“You need to get this fellow Poynton to tell you more.” Milton chalked his cue.

“I'll try,” Rowland promised. “Luckily, he's a talkative sort of chap. In fact, they're all pretty chatty—a bit of a contrast to Wilfred's lot,” he added, recalling his brother's obsession with secrecy. He relayed the other conversations to which he had been privy, and mentioned the Riley that had followed them to Burwood. Finally he admitted that Maguire had recognised him.

Clyde's reaction was, as he expected. “You're pushing your luck, Rowly. You need to stop this now.”

Rowland tried to reassure him. “Maguire's with the Old Guard, and he's apparently one of their spies in Campbell's movement. The Old Guardsmen who are shadowing the New Guard will simply assume I'm spying for Wilfred, too. They may even help me out if I'm exposed—this is a good thing, Clyde.”

Clyde was dubious. “You're going to have to be ruddy careful, Rowly,” he said. “If they find out you're anything but a sympathetic artist…When are you seeing Campbell next?”

“He wants me to go out to Belmore with him on the thirteenth.”

“Why?”

“No idea. De Groot was worried that I'd paint his illustrious Commander as a gardener or something…not the right image, apparently.”

“So what's at Belmore?” Clyde persisted.

Rowland sighed as he removed his bowtie. “More beware-the-red-terror speeches, I expect.”