Miles Off Course (38 page)

“Thank God,” Clyde muttered. “Commercial contemplations don’t suit you, Rowly… I don’t think you’re cut out for it, mate.”

Rowland nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me, Clyde old son.”

Clyde smiled. “So now you just have to survive this party.”

“What could go wrong?”

Clyde looked hard at him. “Rowly, you’ve invited every Communist you know, and half the police force, as well as our usual crowd—who aren’t exactly quiet. And just to
make things really interesting, you’ve asked ‘society’ to come too... it’ll be a bloody miracle if there isn’t a riot.”

“Now you’re being hysterical.”

“Talking of hysterical, you might need to warn Humphrey that half the people he’s been ducking and hiding from will be dropping by to welcome him to Sydney.”

“Rowly, stop! What are you doing?”

Rowland dropped his brush, startled.

Edna pushed him away from the canvas. “You’ll get paint on your dinner suit.” She stopped to take in the painting.

The goddess, Psyche, knelt by a river, weeping. The scene was both dramatic and poignant. Rowland had captured not only misery, but a deep resentment and a faint pride in the face of his
goddess. He had cast Rosalina Martinelli in the perfect classical role.

“Oh Rowly, this is heartbreakingly beautiful. I’m so glad you gave Rosalina another chance.”

Rowland smiled. “I miss painting you, Ed.”

She met his eyes and for a moment neither said a word.

“Don’t be silly, Rowly,” Edna laughed finally. “You can’t be a chef with just one recipe.”

“You look lovely.” He changed the subject though he allowed his gaze to linger upon her. She wore a gown of palest green which just skimmed the gentle curves of her figure before
floating to the floor. The neckline was scooped and daringly low, and if not for the long gloves she wore, the sculptress’ arms would have been bare.

Edna curtsied. “Why thank you, sir. And you have just enough time to change your shirt.”

“My shirt?” Rowland looked down. The pristine white of his dress shirt was marred by a large splash of Pthalo blue. “Damn! How did I do that?”

“One wonders,” Edna murmured, as she picked up his brush and dropped it carefully onto the tray of his easel. “Have you seen the garden?” She smiled excitedly.
“They’ve strung up lanterns, and put up the marquees. There are floating candles in the pond, and garlands of roses in the ballroom… It all looks magical, Rowly. I’ll be
rather sad to see it all taken down tomorrow.”

Rowland smiled. “It’ll all have to stay then.”

She giggled. “Yes, that’d be very practical—you’d better go and change.”

Rowland checked his watch. “You’re right. Have you seen Humphrey at all?”

“He’s still getting ready I believe. I saw Michaels coming in and out of his room with shoes and that sort of thing.”

“I’ll check on him after I change—prepare him a bit. It wouldn’t do to have the guest of honour hiding under the table in terror.”

As it was, however, Rowland had only just managed to find and don a dress shirt which had not been ruined by paint when the music started, and the first of his guests arrived. He then discovered
droplets of colour on his waistcoat and was further delayed in replacing it. Consequently he was in a hurry when he stuck his head into Abercrombie’s room. The Englishman was fussing with the
lapel of a white mess jacket.

“Rowly!” Abercrombie beckoned him into the room. “Could I possibly have a word, old man?”

Rowland stepped in. “Yes, of course, in fact there was something…”

“I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking with Mr. Watson Jones about this board matter of yours.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I must say, Rowly, I’m surprised you would seek the counsel of a person so ill-qualified to advise you on a matter of such import.”

“Indeed.”

“Mr. Watson Jones is a capital fellow but I doubt he has anything more than a basic colonial education. It was, if you don’t mind my saying, quite unfair of you to put the weight of
a decision which could ruin a company on such unprepared shoulders.”

Rowland regarded him silently.

“And the fact that you would dismiss my own advice after the hours I committed to assisting you… well… it’s just too bad… too bad.”

Rowland took a deep breath. “Look Humphrey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t realise…”

“Have you considered how Mr. Watson Jones is going to feel when his advice leads you to ruining Dangars and destroying your own reputation in business?”

“No, I can’t say I had.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. You’re an outstanding fellow, Rowly, but I must say you’ve always been a bit oblivious.”

“Oblivious? To what exactly?” Annoyance was challenging Rowland’s initial reluctance to continue the conversation.

“Rowly! There you are!” Edna appeared at the doorway. “You must come down—everybody’s arriving. Mr. Joynton Smith is demanding to know why you think you’re
Jay Gatsby all of a sudden.” She grabbed Rowland’s hand insistently.

Rowland allowed himself to be pulled away. He’d deal with Abercrombie’s wounded feelings later.

The party seemed to have exploded immediately into full swing. Rowland’s guests milled, appraising each other warily. His staff mixed gaily with those they had served and attended on other
occasions. The small army he’d retained to serve at the party kept glasses charged and moved through the crowd with silver trays of dainty hors d’oeuvres.

Edna led him towards an elderly moustachioed gentleman who stood by the mantel, smoking a cigar and observing the room with a single monocled eye. The other was glass—a fact made obvious
by contrast with the constant movement of its partner. Sir James Joynton Smith was the founder of
Smith’s Weekly
, Wilfred’s newspaper of choice. Whilst Joynton Smith loved his
paper, the conservatively patriotic perspective of the publication had more to do with the man who now stood stiffly by his side.

“Sinclair!” Joynton Smith boomed. “You know Robert?”

“Mr. Packer—pleased you could make it.” Rowland extended his hand.

Robert Packer shook it, but cautiously. He was ostensibly retired now but had been largely responsible for the success of
Smiths Weekly
in the twenties. He looked about him much as
Rowland envisaged Wilfred would—with a kind of well-mannered horror. Rowland couldn’t remember inviting Robert Packer.

“I insisted Robert come along,” Joynton Smith said, his good eye twinkling. “Knew he’d enjoy your crowd.”

Rowland smiled. The newspaperman was a notorious practical joker—he probably thought it would be funny to bring Packer to one of Rowland Sinclair’s parties. “I hope
you’re right, James.”

“You’re with Dangar Gedye aren’t you, Sinclair?” Packer asked. “I hear the board is at odds over this Lister franchise.”

“You’re well informed,” Rowland replied, startled.

“Nothing wrong with a boardroom stoush, my boy,” Joynton Smith said, slapping Rowland on the back. “What I’d give for something so simple at the Royal South
Sydney.”

Rowland looked at him curiously. Joynton Smith was the president of the Royal South Sydney Hospital Board, among others. “Problems?”

The old newspaperman sighed. “Bloody doctors are running riot.”

“I had dinner with Charles Hardy last week,” Packer interrupted. “Your name came up, Sinclair.”

“The senator dined with my brother and his wife a couple of weeks ago,” Rowland responded evenly. “I happened to be there.”

“Indeed.” Packer’s tone was non-committal but his eyes were sharp, assessing.

“Rowly, there you are!” Milton put an arm about his shoulder. “You’ve got to circulate, old mate…”

Rowland introduced the poet, who had elected to enhance his dinner suit with a red brocade waistcoat and a boutonnière of Cootamundra Wattle.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I must steal Rowly away.” He pulled Rowland aside and whispered. “Humphrey hasn’t come down yet.”

“Right.” Rowland straightened his shoulders. “I’d better go and get him.” He wondered if Abercrombie was pouting over the Dangars matter or just so terrified by the
sight of Communists that he had chosen to remain in his room.

Rowland ran up the staircase leaving Milton to play host in his absence. Abercrombie’s room was on the third floor. Receiving no response to his knock, Rowland pushed the door open.

“Humphrey, it’s just me…” The room was empty.

He made a quick search, even pausing to check under the bed. It seemed a ridiculous place to search for a grown man, but he vaguely remembered that Abercrombie had often hidden under beds and in
cupboards when they were boys. He had been an odd child. And he seemed to have grown into an odd man.

The search yielded nothing.

I
nitially, Rowland searched for Abercrombie, but in amongst greeting guests, the odd conversation and being dragged occasionally onto the dance
floor by both old flames and potential ones, the quest became impossible. Despite Milton’s fears, there was no real trouble that evening. At one point Jock Garden had taken exception to
something Robert Packer had said, but Rowland had been on hand to keep things civil. On the whole the opposing extremities of Rowland Sinclair’s social world seemed to regard each other as
curiosities more than sworn enemies. As the night wore on, they may even have guardedly shared a drink.

Rowland was in the grounds watching the fireworks display, when Edna found him. She pulled him down and spoke directly into his ear so he could catch her words over the noise. “Rowly,
Wilfred’s here.”

“Who?” he asked, sure he had misheard over the whirring squeal of a Catherine Wheel.

“Wilfred… your brother, Wilfred.”

“Oh.” He allowed her to lead him away from the noise a little. “Where is he?”

“He’s waiting for you in the library.”

Rowland straightened. “I’d better go and see him then.”

Edna grabbed his sleeve. “Rowly, he’s really angry.”

Rowland put an arm around the sculptress. “I’m not afraid of Wil, Ed. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you stay here. There’s no reason we should both miss this party… You haven’t seen Humphrey, have you?”

“I don’t think so.” Edna wasn’t interested in Humphrey Abercrombie at that time. “Wilfred’s really angry, Rowly. I’ve never seen him
so…”

“What did he say to you?” Rowland asked, frowning now. “Was he…”

“No… nothing like that… he was perfectly civil to me, but he looked like he wanted to kill you.”

Rowland laughed. “He looks like that a lot, Ed. Don’t worry. Stay here… keep an eye out for Humphrey and I’ll deal with Wil.”

The door was shut when Rowland reached the library. The party immediately outside it was getting a little uninhibited. A couple of shapely young ladies were performing some kind of cabaret in
the drawing room, accompanied by Joynton Smith on a concertina. Robert Packer seemed to have left.

Rowland watched regretfully for a few moments. He wondered how much of the party he would miss while Wilfred made his feelings on this matter, and probably a couple of others, clear. Inhaling
deeply, he walked in, closing the door behind him.

The library, largely unused since his father’s time, was the room Rowland liked least in his home. It had been from this room that Henry Sinclair had controlled his empire and his sons. It
was to this room that Rowland had been summoned as a child when his father was displeased. Its solid traditional furniture, dark colours and stately style all spoke of power—but that power
had never been his. Just briefly, it occurred to Rowland that Wilfred always chose the library in which to bring him into line.