A Few Right Thinking Men (7 page)

“I'll be here for a couple of weeks,” Rowland said as Mrs. Kendall took his mother's arm. “You go and rest; I'll come up to see you later.” Elisabeth Sinclair smiled, sunshine again. “Yes, I believe I am a little tired.” She stopped briefly at the doorway. “Aubrey, darling, did Wilfred tell you? Rowland has died…it's so sad.”

There was an awkward silence after she left.

“I'm sorry, Rowly.”

“You don't need to be, Wil,” Rowland replied. He turned to his sister-in-law and kissed her briefly on the cheek. “How are you, Kate? And where's my nephew?”

Kate Sinclair smiled shyly. She was a pretty young woman, a couple of years younger than Rowland. Naturally slim, the slight swell of her belly was already obvious, though Wilfred had not yet mentioned that they were expecting a second child. She had married Wilfred when she was barely twenty. To Rowland, she still seemed nervous in her role as the mistress of Oaklea.

“How lovely to see you, Rowly,” she said. “It's been too long…Ernest has gone out with Gerard to select a suitable horse. Gerard will start breaking it for him, so it's ready when he's old enough to swing a polo mallet.”

Rowland nodded. The selection of one's first polo pony was something of a Sinclair tradition. By the time young Ernest was of an age to start playing, the animal would be both experienced and quiet.

Wilfred considered his brother critically. “There's a match next Saturday. Do you want to play?”

“Polo?”

“You still look reasonably fit—the city doesn't appear to have softened your body at least.”

“Yes, why don't you play?” Kate piped in.

Rowland grimaced. “No, thanks. I'm afraid that riding around in the midst of several men wildly swinging mallets never seemed very sensible to me.”

“But you used to play,” Kate persisted.

“I wasn't ever very good—just ask Wil.” Rowland tapped his temple. “Too scared of head injuries.”

“You always were a bit skittish for polo,” Wilfred agreed, remembering the few matches that Rowland had played. “Stop alarming Kate—next thing she'll be telling me that it's too dangerous for Ernest.”

“Well, we couldn't have that.” Rowland nodded toward the drawing room. “Who's here?”

“The Hamiltons, the Castlemaines, and the Oldmans,” Kate replied. All three families were cousins of sorts to the Sinclairs. “And Canon Radford, of course.”

***

The small chapel on Oaklea had been built by the first Mrs. Sinclair, and it was here the service was conducted, before Rowland Sinclair was laid to rest in the family plot behind it.

Elisabeth Sinclair didn't attend either the service or the burial. Rowland suspected the decision was Wilfred's, not her own. His brother did not want the world to know how unsteady their mother's mental state had become and, with her insistence that he was Aubrey, it would be obvious. Rowland suspected her frailty was no secret, but he did not blame Wilfred for trying to protect her dignity.

Wilfred and Rowland shouldered their uncle's coffin with the men who had been the old man's closest friends. The lacquered oak casket was heavy. Rowland wondered, fleetingly, if the weight would finish off any of the aged pallbearers who shuffled and wheezed beside them.

But the elderly men did not falter, and Rowland Sinclair was placed into the ground without incident. A large crowd attended to see him to his final rest, most of whom Rowland recognised only vaguely. They all returned to Oaklea afterwards, where the funeral guests took refreshments in the cool of the Sinclair ballroom.

It was not until after all the guests had finally departed that Wilfred spoke again to Rowland about their uncle. “What do you want to do with the house, Rowly? He left it to you, you know.”

“The inspector mentioned it.” Rowland shrugged. “I don't really care, Wil. Do whatever you think best…Just make sure Mrs. Donelly and the others are taken care of.”

“Inspector Biscuit thinks Mrs. Donelly was involved.”

“It's Bicuit,” Rowland smiled. “No ‘s'. He told me his theory…frankly it's idiotic.”

“They have to investigate everything, I suppose.” Wilfred absently fingered the Returned Soldiers' badge on his lapel.

“Did Bicuit tell you about the stockings?”

“Yes.” Wilfred exhaled with vexed disapproval. “I don't want to speak ill of the dead, Rowly, but it would be just like the old bugger to have some harlot on the side.”

Rowland grinned. “Could be worse, Wil—maybe they were his.”

Wilfred glared at him, unamused. “With respect to the house,” he said, “there's no need to do anything yet…It might be handy to have another house in the city once Ernest starts school…particularly since you've…”

“You're right,” interrupted Rowland before his brother could relight the fiery topic which had led to them parting in anger just days before. “Another house in the city would be useful.”

At that moment, a little boy slipped quietly into Wilfred's lap. He did not say anything, but stared at Rowland from the safety of his father's knee with bright blue Sinclair eyes.

Wilfred ruffled the boy's hair. “Are you going to talk to your Uncle Rowly?”

Ernest shook his head. Rowland smiled. The boy had not yet said a word to him, but he wasn't surprised—he had no talent for small children. To him, they were strange inexplicable creatures.

“Let him be, Wil,” Rowland said as his brother tried coaxing some conversation from the boy. “I'm going to sit with Mother for a while.” Rowland stood and removed his jacket, retrieving his notebook and pencil from the inside pocket. He liked to have something to do while his mother chatted to him, or rather to Aubrey, about things that happened years ago as if they had occurred only yesterday.

Chapter Eight

Trotsky's Plans

Australian Visit Mooted!

MELBOURNE, Monday

A Melbourne journalist has received a letter from a friend in Paris stating that Leon Trotsky is endeavouring to secure permission to visit Australia in order to study conditions here and write a book.

From other quarters, however, it is reported that Trotsky's desire to visit Australia is part of his effort to reconcile with Stalin.

The Canberra Times
, December 16, 1931

Rowland sat on the verandah with the latest edition of
Smith's Weekly
. The paper gave a particularly patriotic and conservative perspective on events. Favoured by returned soldiers and old men, it was not Rowland's usual fare.

The front page carried an alarmist account of supposed Communist plots aimed at setting the countryside ablaze. According to the journalist, the hot dry summer was just what the Bolshevik insurgents required to bring rural Australia to its knees. Rowland regarded the article with amusement, though not surprise. For some time, the popular press had been inflaming the public's fears of a Communist uprising by painting bleak and bloody pictures of a Socialist future. Socialism, even Communism, was regarded far more kindly among the artistic and intellectual communities of Sydney. In any case, Rowland was fairly sure that the man the press vilified as Australia's Trotsky was rarely sober enough to lead any sort of offensive.

Wilfred approached, and regarded his chuckling brother with clear disapprobation. Rowland stopped smiling, and put down the paper. Wilfred took
Smith's Weekly
very seriously.

“Thought we might go out and look at Ernest's new pony,” Wilfred said curtly. Dressed for a day on the property, he wore a tweed waistcoat and jacket over his crisp white shirt; his wool trousers pushed into knee-high gumboots. It was early, but already the day was hot.

“Yes, of course.” Rowland stood. He grabbed his notebook from the wickerwork chair on which he had tossed it earlier.

“Don't you want your jacket?”

“For God's sake, Wil, it's over a hundred degrees!”

“If you wish to be mistaken for one of the shearers…”

Rowland groaned. He'd never seen a shearer dressed as he was, and he didn't really care, but it was clear that Wilfred did. He dragged on his jacket irritably.

“I'm not wearing gumboots,” he muttered. “It hasn't rained in six weeks—you look like you're going for a walk in the marshes at bloody Balmoral.”

Wilfred ignored him, flicking his eyes over the paper Rowland had discarded. “They'll find we're ready for them.”

“Who?” Rowland slipped his notebook into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“The Communists, who else? They'll find we're not so complacent here as in the city!”

Rowland thought about responding, but only briefly. It was in moments like these that the years between them seemed greatest. He sighed. “Let's go look at this horse then.”

They strode out over the lawns at the rear of the house, past tennis courts flanked by rose beds in full bloom.

Rowland took in the colour. “Flowers look good, Wil.”

Wilfred had been passionate about the rose gardens since his return from the war. He oversaw their planting and spent hours designing extensions to the beds. He had even managed to breed a new cultivar. Rowland usually avoided reference to the blooms as Wilfred took any such mention as an invitation to expound on the finer points of pruning or grafting. This time was no exception.

“Kendall's brought on a Chinese lad to help McNair with the beds,” he said. “It's made all the difference.”

Rowland glanced at McNair who was shuffling about with a hoe. Another veteran of the Great War, McNair had returned without his right arm and with a permanent limp. It was amazing he managed to do anything at all, but his job at Oaklea was secure. Over the years, Wilfred had simply hired extra men to compensate.

They stopped to discuss aphids with McNair who had a great deal to say on the subject. It amused Rowland to watch the gardener in conversation with his brother. McNair spoke in consecutive strings of profanity, making no attempt to modify his speech for Wilfred's sake. Wilfred, for his part, did not seem to notice and responded with his customary, genteel civility. Although Rowland found McNair quite difficult to follow, he gathered that the veteran wished to rout the “bloody flowers” to make room for vegetables. Wilfred listened patiently, and then suggested that McNair put the vegetables in the kitchen garden, where they were traditionally planted. In any case, he would certainly not tolerate his driveway and tennis court being lined with tomatoes and pumpkins. McNair seemed to find his employer's attitude somewhat frustrating and stalked off with words which may have been translated as “Be it on your own bloody head!”

They watched him go in silence, though Rowland could not keep from smiling. McNair had always been thus.

“He's a good man,” was all Wilfred would ever say.

It was over an hour after they'd originally left the house that they reached the exercise yard beside the stables. Regardless of his brother's protestations, Rowland had again removed his jacket, and carried it slung over his shoulder.

Ernest was hanging over the rails as Gerard, the groom, handled a young colt in the yard. It was a sizable bay animal, well-proportioned and with an intelligent head.

Ernest jumped down from the rail and ran to his father. “So, what do you think, Rowly?” Wilfred tipped his head toward the horse.

“He's rather big.” Rowland folded his jacket over the fence.

“Ernest will grow. Won't you Ernie?” Wilfred tousled the boy's hair.

“He'd better…It's a good looking horse, Wil. Where'd you get him?”

“Crookwell—Philip Ashton—they did jolly well last year.”

“So I read.” The Ashton brothers' triumphant polo tour of England had been enthusiastically reported. Rowland had known them most of his life, and had gone to school with Philip, the youngest of the four. On matters of polo they had no peer, and Rowland could not remember Philip ever expressing an interest in anything but.

Wilfred caught his eye and seemed to know his mind. “Philip hasn't changed,” he said, “but he does know his horses.”

“What did you call your horse, Ernie?” Rowland asked.

“Fred.” Ernest gazed up at him.

“Good name…I had to ride a horse called Bubbles.”

Wilfred laughed. “I'd forgotten about that. Why did…?”

“Mother named him.” Rowland shook his head. “Fred is a much better name, Ernie.”

Gerard walked Fred over to them, and Rowland stroked the horse's sleek neck while Wilfred discussed its progress with the groom. Fred was a steady animal despite being a colt. In time, he would be an ideal first polo pony.

Wilfred climbed into the yard still deep in conversation with Gerard.

Rowland took out his notebook and drew quickly; the lean, weathered face of the groom, sharp eyes, tight mouth and strong hands; Wilfred, straight-backed, confident, his jacket still buttoned in spite of the draining heat.

“What are you doing?”

Rowland looked down and was met by Ernest's solemn eyes. He squatted so the boy could look over his shoulder.

“That looks like Daddy,” Ernest said, pointing to the sketch.

“I'm glad you think so.”

“Could you draw my horse?”

“Perhaps.” He sketched the colt on a clean page, and when it was completed to his nephew's satisfaction, he tore it out and handed it to the boy. Ernest accepted the drawing silently and held it tightly in both hands.

“What's that Ernie?” Wilfred rejoined them.

Ernest showed him. Wilfred tickled the back of his son's neck. “Do you go anywhere without that flaming notebook, Rowly?”

“Swimming maybe,” Rowland replied as he closed it. “It helps me see.”

“What's wrong with your eyes?”

“Nothing.” Rowland tried to explain. “I just see things more clearly once I've drawn them.”

Wilfred rolled his eyes and then glanced at his pocket watch. “We had better get back—see what Mrs. Kendall's organised for lunch.” He swung Ernest up onto his shoulders. Rowland grabbed his jacket from the fence and farewelled Gerard with a wave.

Walking back across the paddocks to the house, they were on the lawns when Kate beckoned them over to the conservatory. “It's so terribly hot, I thought we might eat out here,” she said as Wilfred lifted Ernest off his shoulders.

“Off you go, Ernie. Mrs. Kendall will have lunch for you in the kitchen.”

The child nodded in his grave, quiet manner, and ran into the hallway still clutching the page torn from his uncle's notebook.

“Mother won't be joining us today.” Wilfred turned to Rowland. “Mrs. Kendall will take her a tray—she's a little tired.”

Rowland looked suspiciously at the round table. Set for four, it was draped with starched white linen and centred with a massive arrangement of roses and spinning gum.

“You boys go and wash up for lunch,” Kate said brightly, as she fussed nervously with an elaborately folded napkin.

“Are we expecting someone?” Rowland asked.

“Just an old friend from school,” Kate looked away. “She's just returned from abroad.”

Rowland glared at Wilfred and walked into the house.

“You'll want to put this back on,” said Wilfred, tossing him the jacket that he had discarded over the back of a chair.

When Rowland returned to the conservatory, Lucy Bennett was sipping lemonade from a tall glass and chatting with Kate. She was a pretty girl, fashionable, but in a very wholesome way. Her hair was blond, almost white, beneath a pink hat that matched her shoes and dress. She spoke with studied tone and inflection and played with the pearls about her neck as she talked.

Rowland closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“Rowly, here you are!” Kate moved quickly to his side and touching his arm, ushered him toward her guest. “You remember my dear friend, Lucy Bennett.”

“Of course,” Rowland replied. “Miss Bennett.”

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Sinclair.” Lucy looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat and smiled.

“Lucy's just returned from a tour abroad.” Kate initiated the conversation like the perfect hostess she was.

“Yes, Wil did mention that.” Rowland glanced at his brother.

“Lucy was just telling us about Paris when you walked in.”

Lucy continued her tale of Paris, a jocular account, gushing in its enthusiasm for France's fashions and peppered with clever witticisms about the peculiarity of its citizens. Rowland played the polite guest, listening quietly and feigning interest. It was a familiar charade.

By the time the first course arrived, Kate had noticed that the conversation was clearly one-sided. She seized the opportunity when Lucy mentioned some apparently riotous misunderstanding at the Louvre while viewing the
Mona Lisa
, and interjected. “Did you know that Rowly paints, Lucy?'

Wilfred snorted, and Rowland almost choked on his bread.

“Don't be like that, Wil.” Kate patted her husband's hand. “Ernie showed me the picture Rowly drew of Fred; he's really quite good.”

“How interesting, Mr. Sinclair,” Lucy effused. “My Aunt Mildred Bennett took up painting when her eyes grew too weak for embroidery. Her pictures had quite the impressionist feel to them.”

Rowland held down his urge to laugh.

“Fred is Ernest's pony, isn't he?” Lucy carried on. “Do you only do horses, Mr. Sinclair?”

Rowland cleared his throat. “No, I—”

“Rowly draws just about everything, he's always sketching,” Kate answered for him.

“Why don't you show Lucy your notebook, Rowly?” Wilfred forked the last of his fruit cocktail into his mouth.

Rowland glanced darkly at him. “I'm sure Miss Bennett would not be interested…”

“Why, Mr. Sinclair, I'd be fascinated!”

They all looked at him expectantly. Reluctantly, Rowland reached inside his jacket and retrieved the slightly battered, leather-bound notebook. Kate mistook his hesitance for modesty and smiled encouragingly. “You mustn't be shy, Rowly.”

He handed the notebook to Lucy Bennett, and she thumbed through its pages eagerly. “Why this is very accomplished, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” Rowland replied, hoping she'd give back the notebook and return to her trivial tour of Europe.

“I've always thought it lovely to have a hobby at which one can achieve some level of proficiency,” Lucy twittered. “Look Kate, here's a picture of your Wilfred.” She laughed, though Rowland couldn't see why the drawing was so hilarious. Her laugh was high and tinkling. It reminded Rowland of breaking glass. He thought briefly of Edna, who often laughed so hard that she often forgot to breathe and ended gasping in the nearest chair.