A Few Right Thinking Men (9 page)

“The big worry is Charles Hardy. He has far more appeal out here than Campbell.” Roger was clearly frustrated. “Hardy will be able to bring men to the New Guard through the Riverina Group, and he has been campaigning vigorously.”

At this, the portly man who had spoken of the
coup d'état,
exploded into a tirade about Eric Campbell and his New Guard.

Rowland was intrigued. What exactly was this organisation considering amalgamation, albeit reluctantly, with the New Guard?

“Obviously, Hinton, you will speak against the motion,” Wilfred said when the man's outburst finally subsided.

“Most certainly!”

“Well then, the future of the Old Guard will be decided in Cootamundra, my friends.” Wilfred looked grim. “In the meantime we must not lose sight that the real enemy is Lang and the Communist hordes into whose hands he plays!”

The Old Guard? Rowland looked up sharply, too sharply. What on earth was the Old Guard, he wondered as he struggled to regain his balance. He tried to right himself, but the branch he grabbed for was weak and brittle. It snapped and he fell.

Rowland heard the alarmed voices as he hit the ground, but he did not stop to look up. There were shouts and then a gunshot from the window. The bullet grazed him. He clutched his side gasping as he pressed himself into the shadows of the house.

He could hear Wilfred's voice, “Put that damn thing away, you fool! You'll have the entire district here!”

Rowland moved quickly. He slipped back onto the verandah as the chauffeurs ran toward the sound of the shot. Lights were switched on in the house. He climbed back in through the window, trying to catch his panicked breath. Cursing, he removed his hand from his side. There was no time to examine it properly. He hoped it wasn't too bad, but saw it had already bled a telltale red patch on his shirt. There was movement in the hall—if he didn't emerge soon it would look suspicious. He slipped on his jacket and buttoned it. Wiping his hands on the rags he kept in his paint box, he poured himself a drink and after taking a large gagging gulp, he walked out with the glass in his hand.

Rowland could hear engines starting in the driveway. Wilfred was outside the library door, which was now ajar. He was speaking to Mrs. Kendall. “Just tell Kate and mother there's nothing to worry about. One of the boys mistook a possum for a burglar…no need to worry,” he repeated. “I'll be up in a moment.”

“What the hell is going on, Wil?” Rowland asked. “Did you shoot someone?”

“Just a mistake.” Wilfred scowled. “One of the chaps overreacted.”

“Solicitors and accountants carry revolvers these days, do they?” Rowland knew it would be odd if he did not appear at least a little interested.

“Where were you?” Wilfred asked.

“Where you bloody put me.” Rowland did not hesitate. “I was having a drink when I heard the shot.”

Wilfred looked at his brother's glass. “Since when do you drink whisky?”

Rowland smiled. “As you keep pouring it for me, I thought I'd better give it a chance.”

Wilfred assessed his brother. Rowland was pale and his hair was damp with perspiration. “You don't look so too well.” The comment was sharp with accusation.

Rowland put his glass on the hall table. “Precisely why I don't drink whisky,” he said as calmly as he could. The warm sticky patch under his jacket was spreading. He felt a little light-headed, but he waited a moment until Mrs. Kendall had left. “So what happened, Wil?”

Wilfred's eyes narrowed. “It might have been a burglar, but there's no need to alarm Kate.”

“So you didn't see him?”

“No, it was just a noise really.”

“Bit risky to shoot at a noise.”

“Riskier not to.”

“Well, if nobody's dead…” Rowland started brightly.

Wilfred continued staring at him.

“Unbutton your jacket, Rowly.”

“Not words I thought I'd ever hear from you.” Rowland battled to maintain his smile.

Wilfred had had enough. He reached forward and tore open Rowland's jacket. They both gazed mutely at the red, which now soaked half of Rowland's shirt, as a jacket button rattled to rest on polished floorboards.

Wilfred only just caught his brother as he stumbled.

Chapter Ten

The Drug Habit

Growth Among Soldiers

ADELAIDE, Wednesday

Attention is drawn to the annual report of the Inspector of Inebriate Establishments (Dr. W.E. Jones) to the growth of the drug habit. He said some returned soldiers had exhibited this failing. He could not help an uncomfortable feeling that the medical profession was responsible for many cases of the drug habit through the indiscreet provision of prescriptions.

The Advertiser
, December 17, 1931

Rowland sat on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table with a towel pressed against his side, and waited. Wilfred had made some calls, then disappeared upstairs briefly to reassure Kate and their mother. He'd put Rowland in the empty kitchen and directed him not to move. He hadn't said much else, too furious even to speak to his brother. Mrs. Kendall and the servants had retired to their own quarters under Wilfred's direction. When Wilfred returned to the kitchen, he was accompanied by a bearded man with a leather bag.

Rowland recalled him from the meeting in the library.

“As I said, Maguire,” Wilfred closed the kitchen door, “this is my idiot brother. Just make sure he doesn't bleed to death.”

Maguire's expression was almost as hostile as Wilfred's. He spoke only to instruct Rowland to remove his shirt and the towel he'd been holding against the wound. While the bullet hadn't actually lodged, it had gouged a four-inch lesion as it passed. It wasn't dangerously deep, but it did require stitching.

“A little to the right and this could have been ugly.” Maguire sounded almost disappointed. “I could give him some morphine before I start.”

“Absolutely not.” Wilfred was resolute.

Rowland didn't argue. Having served with men who were destroyed, not by the enemy's guns, but by their addiction to the morphine they'd been given for their injuries, Wilfred was adamant it be used only in the most extreme circumstances. Clearly, he also felt any pain was, in this case, deserved.

Maguire didn't pursue the matter either, muttering only, “Hold still,” before he started to clean and sew the wound.

Rowland gripped the table and hoped the man was actually a doctor. As Maguire silently stitched and dressed the lesion, Wilfred looked on without the slightest flicker of compassion.

Eventually Maguire replaced his instruments into the leather bag, and turned to Wilfred. “I should inform Roger about this.”

Wilfred shook his head and shot Rowland another look of disgust. “There's no need. I'll take care of Rowly—he will not present a problem.”

“I don't know, Sinclair. This is too important…”

Wilfred put a kettle on the Aga cooker. “I think I still know how to make a cup of tea. Sit down Maguire.” He motioned Rowland to the door. “For pity's sake, Rowly, go and get dressed. You'd think you were raised by savages!”

For a moment the brothers glared at each other, then Rowland limped painfully out of the kitchen, leaving Wilfred to negotiate with Maguire.

Back in his room, he found a clean shirt and tie, tossing the bloody shirt into the back of the cupboard. He made a mental note to see his tailor; between paint and bullets he was running out of clothes. Rowland gingerly tested his side. Perhaps morphine would not have been such a bad idea. He wondered what kind of lunatic organisation met in secret and shot at shadows…though admittedly he had not been a shadow.

He would much rather have slept at this point. He was tired and in pain, but he was also fed up with Wilfred trying to send him away like a child. They'd shot him, for God's sake—he wasn't going to just sit quietly in his room. Resolved and now quite ready for the inevitable confrontation, he had turned the handle to head back to the kitchen, when Wilfred pushed his door open and stepped inside. “Suppose you tell me what the hell you were doing, Rowly!” Wilfred's voice was flat but livid.

“I was trying to figure out what it is you're doing.” Rowland used the bed post to steady himself. “What is this Old Guard, Wil? What's all the cloak and dagger about?”

Wilfred stepped toward him. “That is not your concern…I want the truth. Were you spying for your Bolshevik friends?”

“For pity's sake, Wil! I know you think there's a Communist lurking behind every tree, but on this occasion it was only me!”

Wilfred's face reddened. “This is not a game, you idiot. It's about time you grew up.”

“Look, Wil, I'm sorry. It was stupid to be hiding in a tree…but what are you mixed up in? Who were those men?”

Wilfred turned away from him, his fist clenched. “Honestly, Rowly, if you weren't my brother…You are to mention nothing of this to anyone…Do you understand?”

“Believe me, I'd rather no one knew my brother was involved with the New Guard!”

“I am not involved with the damn New Guard! The men you saw tonight…” Wilfred stopped and studied Rowland, deciding how far he could trust brotherhood. “Our intent, the Old Guard's intent, is to counter the coming revolution, to protect law and order, and to defend our way of life against the Communist threat. Campbell was originally among us, but we saw his militant approach was almost as dangerous as Lang's coddling of those bloody Red traitors. Campbell was invited to resign—an invitation he accepted.”

“But now his New Guard wants to amalgamate back with your Old Guard?” Rowland said, confused.

“Campbell is seeking validation.” Wilfred turned away, pacing. “We will hear him out, but he will not get what he wants. As I said, the revolution Campbell is advocating simply plays straight into the hands of the Communists.”

“So why all the secrecy, Wil?”

“We are on the verge of civil war, Rowly. One never shows one's hand to the enemy.”

Rowland laughed, wincing as he did so. “Civil war? You can't be serious.”

Wilfred stepped toward him again, his eyes incensed. Rowland instinctively stepped backwards.

“Yes, civil war! Perhaps it's time you behaved like a man and decided on which side you will fight.” Wilfred leant forward and poked Rowland in the chest, ignoring his wound. “If I find out you are indiscreet with anything you've learned here, I will let them bloody well shoot you!”

“They already shot me.” Rowland refused to be drawn into his brother's madness.

The comment seemed to startle Wilfred. “Well, next time, you may not be so lucky.”

Rowland moved his hand to the wound. Lucky? It hurt like blazes. “Who in their right mind shoots out of a window into the darkness? It might have been anyone out there. Doesn't that strike you as even a little bit crazy, Wil?”

Wilfred's face hardened again. “It wasn't anyone. It was you. You'd better bloody well hope that Maguire trusts me enough to keep his mouth shut!”

Chapter Eleven

Communism

New Regulations Against
Seditious Literature First Step In Policy

CANBERRA, Saturday

The first step taken by the newly-elected Lyons Government against the threat of Communism is likely to be the tightening of regulations covering the importation of literature and propaganda.

The Canberra Times
, December 20, 1931

Rowland leant against the wall, observing the celebrations in the ballroom at Oaklea. The newly formed United Australia Party was now in control of the Federal Parliament under the leadership of J.A. Lyons. Wilfred and Kate were hosting an election party—an elegant and formal affair, befitting the glorious restoration of the nation to the conservative forces. Elisabeth Sinclair had made a brief appearance at the start of the evening, but had long since retired.

The ballroom glittered with the rural establishment. Rowland wondered idly if this change in Federal government would do anything to lessen the rampant paranoia of a Communist revolution.

He sipped his champagne enjoying a brief respite from the rigours of eligibility. Kate seemed determined to introduce him to every unmarried graduate of finishing school west of the Divide. He had done his best to be gracious and conceal his lack of enthusiasm. The effort had left him a little weary.

Wilfred, he'd noticed, had spent the evening moving between tight furtive circles, in a series of earnest conversations with stalwarts of the Right. He had barely spoken to Rowland since the meeting in the library.

Rowland saw Lucy Bennett moving in his direction, and slipped away. Regrettably, Miss Bennett had recovered from her shock at the scandalous sketches in his notebook. Back in the sunroom which had become his studio for painting Kate, he removed his dinner jacket and resumed work on her portrait. The new hostility between him and Wilfred had seen him seek refuge in front of the canvas, and the work had progressed quickly as a result. He stretched gingerly. Maguire had removed the stitches that morning, but he was still a little tender.

He lost himself in painting. For a while he forgot where he was, consumed by pigment and stroke.

It was morning when Wilfred walked in. “My God, Rowly, have you been here all night? You're getting a bit fanatical…”

Rowland laughed. Wilfred, who was raising a secret army, was calling him a fanatic. “Everyone's gone then?”

“You're not hiding are you, Rowly?”

“Your wife's rallied every spinster in the State to Oaklea. What else could I do?”

Wilfred smiled. “Kate does get a bit carried away…But there are worse things than settling down—you've been sowing your wild oats for years now.”

“Wish that were true, Wil,” Rowland mumbled as he cleaned his brushes. “Haven't we already had this conversation?”

“Probably,” Wilfred admitted. He looked toward the canvas, which was faced away from him. “Are you finished?”

“Pretty much.”

“May I look?”

Rowland stepped back so his brother could come behind the easel. Wilfred gazed at the painting for some time.

Rowland became a little nervous in the extended silence. “Well, what do you think?” he asked, tentatively.

For a further moment, Wilfred said nothing. Then, when he spoke his voice was thick, plainly emotional. “I didn't know you were painting Ernest as well.”

Rowland was surprised, but gladly so. He'd never really hoped to reach Wilfred. “You have a beautiful family, Wil.”

Wilfred nodded.

Rowland returned to cleaning his brushes while his brother continued to stare at the painting.

“I have a meeting,” Wilfred said eventually. “I'll be back tomorrow.”

“Cootamundra?” Rowland remembered the discussion in the library about amalgamating the Old and the New Guards.

Wilfred nodded, warily.

Rowland didn't know quite what to say next.

Wilfred spoke first. “Rowly, I don't like leaving Oaklea at this time…God knows what might happen…”

“It's only one night, Wil.”

“It could start at any time…we right thinking men need to be ready.” Wilfred reached into his jacket and extracted a revolver.

“Oh, for God's sake!” Rowland recoiled from the gun.

“Rowly, I'm leaving my family in your care…The threat is real and it is imminent! The Communists are armed—and we must be too.”

Rowland shook his head. “Wilfred, the Communists are not about to do anything.”

Wilfred pointed at his brother. “That is exactly why they are so dangerous! They lull the complacent into thinking they're harmless—poets, painters, clerks, labourers, even accountants and lawyers—they infiltrate every level of society, all arms of government.” Wilfred grabbed Rowland's hand and pressed the revolver into it. “Rowly, it's time you stood up and took some responsibility. This country needs men like us to stand against the Red tide!”

Rowland met his brother's eyes. Wilfred was absolute and sincere in his conviction that revolution was at their doorstep. “Wil…this is insane…I'm not shooting anyone!”

“Bloody hell, Rowly! You're a Sinclair. How about you give something back to this family for once?”

“So you want me to sit on the verandah, with a gun, in case Trotsky drops by!”

“Just bloody well take the gun and be watchful. As you said, it's only one night!” Wilfred stalked out of the room leaving his brother staring after him with a revolver in his hand.

Rowland knew how to use a gun. Paramilitary training had been part of the curriculum for boys who had gone to school in the shadow of war. Even so, he had no intention of shooting anyone in the streets of Yass. He wondered uneasily how widespread this lunacy was. He really had to get back to Sydney.

He placed the firearm in his paint box, burying it beneath tubes of paint and colour-stained rags. He closed the lid and secured the latch, and decided to forget about it.

Refusing to concede a single thing to Wilfred's call for vigilance, he showered, changed, and slept for a couple of hours. By the early afternoon, he was ready to accompany his mother for a walk in the gardens. Despite the dense shade of the oaks and claret ashes, it was oppressively warm. In the absence of Wilfred, Rowland walked in the relative comfort of unjacketed shirtsleeves.

Elisabeth Sinclair chatted happily, to Aubrey, chastising him gently for coming home so infrequently. Occasionally she referred to “the baby,” but that was the closest she came to remembering her youngest son.

As Rowland listened to his mother, his conscience was pricked with vague feelings of guilt. It seemed that his entire family was mad—his mother conspicuously and his brother secretly. Kate was lucid, but she believed unquestioningly in her husband's paranoid ramblings. Rowland wondered if he might have abated their slip into insanity if he had not absconded to Sydney. He thought of his nephew—the aptly named Ernest—and resolved to visit more often, if only to give the boy some link to reality.

At about three o'clock, Rowland took tea with his mother and Kate on the verandah. It was the elevation that allowed him to see over the hedges and make out the car parked outside the entrance to Oaklea. A black Oldsmobile. He wondered if it had broken down; it had been there for the entire hour they had been enjoying their tea and cake. Wilfred's misgivings came back to him but he put them firmly aside. This was silly. “I'm just going to walk down and see if that car needs help,” he told Kate as he stood.

“McNair can go. I'll call him…”

“No, it won't take a minute. I know a bit about engines.”

He grabbed his hat and set off down the driveway. It was a good quarter mile to the gate. As he approached, he could see there were two men in the Oldsmobile looking at him. As he raised his arm in a greeting, the engine gunned and the car pulled away. Rowland watched it disappear, wondering whether it was odd or whether he was just succumbing to Wilfred's suspicions.