A Few Right Thinking Men (8 page)

Kate caught the softening in his expression and smiled with satisfaction.

“And who is this?” Lucy asked studying a sketch. “He looks terribly dangerous—Daddy says the city is full of criminals these days and the streets are just teeming with the unemployed. Something should really be done—it's not safe.”

Rowland glanced at the page. It was Clyde.

Lucy then found a series of drawings of Edna. She flicked through them slowly at first.

“I know!” Kate said suddenly, “Rowly, you must paint Lucy.” Rowland looked up, his face blank.

Lucy blushed, laughed inexplicably again and fluttered her lashes so hard that Rowland thought her afflicted with a tic. “Oh, I couldn't trouble you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Nonsense,” boomed Wilfred. “Rowly needs something to do instead of following me about all day!”

Lucy turned another page of Rowland's notebook, then snapped it shut. Her face was flushed a much deeper shade of pink than her hat. “No, I really couldn't,” she said. “I just couldn't.” She pushed the notebook back across the table toward Rowland.

Kate looked at her friend, dismayed. Wilfred appeared distinctly disgruntled. Rowland's lips hinted a smile, but he tried to seem politely disappointed. He slipped his notebook back into his pocket. He knew Lucy had found the pencil studies he had done of Edna for the nude he'd given his uncle. He was relieved. There was nothing interesting about Lucy Bennett; nothing worth capturing on canvas. As far as he knew, she didn't even own a poodle.

After that, the meal was somewhat subdued. Lucy seemed unable to look at him, which only aggravated his conviction that she was ridiculous. Poor Kate became increasingly distressed as her meticulously planned luncheon floundered.

Three awkward courses later, Lucy Bennett made her farewells, despite Kate pressing her to stay longer in a last attempt to salvage the day from disaster. At his brother's pointed suggestion, Rowland walked the young lady to the motor waiting for her in the driveway. Since what she'd seen in his notebook had mortified her into silence, he felt forced, finally, to make some conversation.

“It's been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennett,” he lied, though admittedly, it had not been entirely unentertaining.

“Goodbye, Mr. Sinclair. I hope you understand why I cannot sit for you.”

“Of course,” he replied with painstaking civility.

Lucy Bennett smiled coyly as she climbed into the backseat. “Perhaps then I shall see you again, Mr. Sinclair.”

***

Wilfred was in the drawing room when Rowland got back to the house.

“Don't ever do that again, Wil,” Rowland warned as Wilfred handed him a glass of whisky.

“Lucy's an old chum of Kate's. Perfectly natural we should have her to lunch.”

Rowland put down his glass. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and dropped into the armchair.

Kate walked into the room with her son. Ernest left his mother's side and climbed into Rowland's lap. “Will you draw me another picture of Fred?”

“Please, Uncle Rowly,” his mother corrected.

Rowland sat up. “If you'd like…or I could show you how you can draw Fred.”

Ernest looked at him as he considered the proposal. “No, I'd rather you did it.”

Rowland smiled. “He's a Sinclair already, then,” he said, taking out his notebook once again. He found a clean page and drew Fred from memory. Ernest watched every stroke carefully. Rowland glanced at him, and added a small boy astride the horse. He tore the page out and Ernest ran to show it to his mother.

“You know, you really are very talented, Rowly.” Kate looked closely at the sketch. “Why don't we have any of your work here? We really should. Would you paint something for us?”

Rowland suspected his sister-in-law was trying to make up for Lucy Bennett's lack of enthusiasm. “Of course.”

“Perhaps you could paint the billabong,” Kate continued. “It's the prettiest part of Oaklea. Of course the arboretum is best in the autumn, but even now it's lovely.”

“I've been told I don't paint trees very well.” He looked at her intently. “But why don't I paint you, Kate? You could sit for me…you're a lot prettier than Lucy anyway.”

Kate coloured. “Me…Really…? I don't know…What do you think, Wil?”

Wilfred looked dubiously at Rowland. “I agree—you're much prettier than Lucy.”

Kate gazed so adoringly at her husband that Rowland began to feel quite uncomfortable.

“Excuse me for just a minute,” she said picking up her son. “I'll just put Ernie down for a nap.” She hurried out of the drawing room, still blushing.

Rowland watched her go, amused. “You need to compliment that girl more often, Wil. That one surprised her so much she had to leave the room.”

Wilfred's eyes narrowed accusingly. “What are you playing at Rowly? I've seen what you call a painting!”

Rowland faltered, surprised, but only for a moment, and then he laughed. “For the love of God, Wil, she's your wife! She can keep her clothes on.”

Chapter Nine

What Shall We Do
With Communists?

CANBERRA, Wednesday

…
Of course we all believe in free speech—with certain limitations. A man may be free to advocate the adoption of any system, whether Communistic or anti-Communistic. But this freedom should not extend to advocacy of revolution. Let the Russian people enjoy their own methods—if they can. That is their affair. But when they send emissaries into other countries to sow the seeds of revolt, the people so attacked are surely justified in defending their own liberties. They are not exceeding their rights when they deport foreign disruptionists or declare an organisation which teaches revolution an unlawful association. They are merely acting in self-defence.

The aim of Communism is to break up and destroy the “capitalist” state. With this object, religion is attacked and derided, children are taught subversive doctrine, strikes are encouraged and industry is held up, basher gangs are organised or assisted, the police are assaulted, and trouble is fomented in every way.

The Canberra Times
, December 17, 1931

Rowland was trying to coax his sister-in-law to relax. “Just be comfortable, Kate. I'll work out the rest.”

Kate Sinclair shifted, but returned to her stiff, tense pose. Rowland stepped away from his easel and sat in the armchair opposite her.

“I'll tell you what,” he said, opening his notebook. “I'll do some quick sketches first. It'll let me work out the best angles and you can get used to me looking at you…all right?”

Kate gave a tiny nod, trying hard to move her head as little as possible.

“You don't have to sit still for this part…” He tried to distract her from his scrutiny. “Tell me, what's this meeting of Wil's all about?”

Having established there'd be no nudity, Wilfred had become quite a proponent of the portrait. It was he who had suggested that they start right away, that same evening. He'd been quite insistent about it, as he had a meeting and could not entertain his brother.

“I don't need to be entertained,” Rowland had protested. “Don't you need me to be at this meeting, too?”

Wilfred usually took the rare opportunities of Rowland's visits to drag him through various items of family business, to sign documents, meet with solicitors, and the like. This time, however, he was adamant that Rowland was not required, a shift which piqued the younger man's interest.

Wilfred's meeting was to be conducted at Oaklea in the library. He directed Rowland to use one of the sunrooms at the back of the house for the sitting, ostensibly to avoid the artistic process being disturbed by visitors. Rowland was reluctant to start work without natural light, but Wilfred was determined he should spend the evening that way. Eventually, Rowland conceded, allowing himself to be banished, with Kate, to a room as far from the library as possible. He was certain there was more to the arrangement than Wilfred would admit. All of which intrigued him even more.

“I don't really know,” Kate replied. “Something to do with politics, I expect.”

“So why was Wil so determined that I stay out of sight? You'd think he was ashamed of me.”

Kate missed his attempt at humour and was at pains to assure him otherwise. “Oh, no, Rowly, I'm sure he's not. He's always this way about his meetings. Even the servants aren't allowed near the library while his guests are here.”

“Who is he meeting with?” Rowland scribbled quickly now that she had relaxed. Ernest, who had been playing on the floor by his mother's feet, came to stand by him and watch.

“I don't know.” Kate beckoned her son to come over to her. He climbed into her lap. “Wil doesn't talk to me about them at all.”

“What makes you think it's politics then? Wil isn't standing for office is he?”

“Oh, no.” Kate stroked Ernest's dark curls as he climbed into her lap and lay drowsily in her arms. “He's far too busy for that. It's just that he's always so agitated after these meetings. Wil's very concerned about the Communists, you know.”

Rowland sketched Kate with Ernest asleep in her embrace. He liked the gentle composition, the natural tenderness in her face. Already he knew that this was how he would paint her. “So, what is Wilfred planning to do about them? The Communists, I mean.” He spoke with a smile, not really expecting an answer. Raging against the Communists had become something of a populist pastime among the armchair armies.

“I'm not sure exactly,” Kate said quietly. “But I know he's doing something. Wilfred wouldn't let us be unprotected…Your brother's an amazing man, Rowly. I know he seems stern at times, but that's just because he's making sure we're all safe.”

Rowland started pencilling a closer study of her face. He liked the expression in her eyes when she spoke of her husband. He hadn't really expected to find Kate such an interesting model. He was also becoming more and more curious about this meeting of Wilfred's.

“You know, he worries terribly about you,” Kate continued, a little hesitantly.

“Really, why?”

“He says you don't understand the way these people work. He believes you're too trusting.” Her voice was almost a whisper now. “These people are clever—wicked, but clever.”

“Oh, Kate…” Rowland wasn't sure what to tell her. She seemed genuinely frightened for him.

“Rowly, you must listen to Wil,” she said earnestly. “He knows about these things.”

“Uh huh…” Rowland concentrated on shading his nephew's sleeping face. There was no point trying to persuade Kate that her husband might be overreacting. She was obviously convinced that Wilfred Sinclair was all that stood between them and the Red Army.

“How often does Wil have these meetings?”

“It's hard to say, more often lately…Rowly,”—Kate changed the subject—“what do you think of the changes?”

“Changes?”

“To the house. Wil says I must do whatever I want, but it's difficult to know what's right. I don't want to upset anyone.”

“Kate, you're Mrs. Wilfred Sinclair.” He felt a little sorry for her. Kate's family hailed from Glen Innes in the north—he was only now starting to understand that she must be feeling somewhat alone on the property. “This is your house. Paint it pink if you want. For the record, I think your remodelling looks smashing.”

“Sometimes I suspect your mother…”

“My mother is living in 1913.” Rowland was firm. “Try not to let her upset you.”

“Oh, she doesn't. She's very kind, really,” Kate said quickly.

Rowland knew his mother was polite and softly spoken; but she was formidable, even now. She did not always remember that there had been a changing of the guard, that she was no longer the mistress of Oaklea. “In a couple of years, Ernie will be at school and you can spend more time in the city,” he offered as consolation, despite her assurances that his mother was kind.

Mrs. Kendall stepped into the room, whispering so as not to wake the boy. “Shall I take Master Ernest up to bed now, Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Yes, I think so,” Kate kissed Ernest's head. “I might come up with you…” She glanced apologetically at Rowland, “He likes me to sing to him if he wakes up.”

“You go ahead,” he replied. “I've got everything I need for tonight…I'm going read for a bit and turn in myself.”

Mrs. Kendall took Ernest from Kate's arms. “It seems only yesterday I was carrying Mr. Rowland up to bed.”

“What are you reading?” Kate turned as they walked out of the door.

Rowland held up the dog-eared copy of Lawrence's
Kangaroo
. “I've been trying to finish it for about a year,” he admitted.

“Is it dull?”

“No…just a little farfetched.”

Rowland waited until he heard their footsteps fade on the staircase. He slipped his notebook into the pocket of his trousers. The night had not cooled the stifling heat, and once again his jacket lay discarded on the back of an armchair. He left it there and padded quietly down the long hallway toward the library.

He saw that the door to the library was shut and two men stood outside. Rowland was baffled. Why would Wilfred feel the need to post guards in his own house? Now he was determined to find out who was cloistered inside the room.

He retraced his steps, then climbed out of the large open window onto the verandah. The library was on the south side of the house where there was no verandah. Rowland did remember, however, that there was an old oak tree right outside the window. His father had always thought it too close to the house, but his mother had refused to allow its removal as its shade kept the library cool. Dark, but cool.

Rowland cut across the lawn toward the tree, slipping unnoticed past the limousines and saloons parked in the driveway with their waiting chauffeurs chatting amongst themselves. The oak's branches were pendulous away from the house, but on the other side, had grown up against the wall. The trunk was only a few feet from the library window, which had been opened to catch any breeze. He could see why his father had wanted to remove the oak—it was an absurd place to plant a tree that would grow so large.

Rowland looked up and decided on his path through the branches. He had often climbed this tree as a child, but both he and it had grown since then. He hoisted himself up slowly and silently. He could already hear the murmur of voices just a few feet above his head. The canopy was dense—he would be able to get right up to the window without detection.

He smiled, feeling ridiculous. Somehow he had regressed to his eight-year-old self, stalking his older brothers in the hope he'd be included in whatever they were doing.

Rowland shimmied along a branch as close as he dared to the window. It creaked somewhat, but he was pretty sure it would hold his weight. He stopped just a couple of feet from the opening where he could see and hear what was going on inside.

The library was crowded with at least a dozen men. A dozen dark suits in a haze of cigarette and pipe smoke. Rowland didn't recognise anyone except his brother, but that was not surprising. He and Wilfred had moved in different circles for several years now. A tall, slim man with a military moustache was formally chairing the meeting. His manner was measured and purposive, with an obvious air of authority. Rowland heard one of the other men call him Roger. Wilfred sat to his right. It seemed Kate was correct that the meeting was about politics. The conversation concerned the impending Federal election. Rowland was a little disappointed.

Carefully, he pulled out his notebook and with the pencil he kept sheathed in its spine, he began to draw the faces of those gathered in the library.

For some minutes, he was engrossed—concentrating in the dim light and because he was hanging in a tree—but then he caught something that made his pencil stop. The speaker was a heavy-faced man in a tweed jacket that stretched to button over his portly torso. Rowland had already captured his face in full round lines.

“We have received further confidential intelligence from the Victorian organisation that the time is nearly at hand for the Communists to initiate their final effort. As reported earlier, they mean to act on one of two plans—a general strike or a
coup d'd'état.”

Rowland listened in sceptical amazement as possible paths of revolution were detailed, as well the measures taken to meet such an uprising, including the procurement of arms. The man in the taut tweed then went on to describe the “cleaning up processes” where “right-thinking citizens” such as themselves would expel local subversives from towns across the state, whether the constabulary helped or not. It became clear to Rowland that preemptive frontier-style justice was to become the order of the day—the country was going mad and somehow he hadn't noticed.

Finally the speaker concluded his disturbing report with an allusion to an internal betrayal. “The membership has been warned to take no further notice of Millar who, as we know, has defected to the New Guard. That blaggard Campbell may find his new country organiser is far less effective than he hoped.”

The last statement was greeted with a murmur of assent and the odd “Hear! Hear!”

“A lot of damage has already been done.” Wilfred leaned forward. “Campbell has been recruiting from our ranks for months and there is a groundswell in his favour among the younger men.”

“Surely that's just in the city,” protested a grey-haired man who puffed on a pipe with the rhythm of an industrial machine. “Campbell's megalomania will not wash here.”

“I have spoken to our people in the Graziers' Association,” said the man they called Roger. “Campbell's funds will begin to dry up shortly, and he will soon find he has no friends to bankroll his narcissistic bid for power.”

“Reid's staff has called a meeting to discuss amalgamation,” Wilfred replied. “Obviously Campbell feels that there are enough among us who will fall in behind his reckless campaign, and Reid seems to agree.”