Paving the New Road (4 page)

“It’ll be dangerous …”

“More so if there’s no one watching your back, Rowly.”

Rowland met Milton’s eye. “Germany is hostile to people like you right now, Milt.”

Milton smiled. “The Germans have never liked poets, you know … it’s not really a poetic language—too many slurping noises.”

Despite himself, Rowland laughed. “Goethe might disagree.”

Edna put her hand on his knee. “You can’t go on your own, Rowly.”

“I’m not a child, Ed.”

“Neither was Mr. Bothwell, I expect. He might be alive if he’d taken someone with him.” Edna stood suddenly and poked at her firepit with a stick. “When do we sail?”

Rowland sighed. “Not sailing. As it turns out, Hardy wants me in Germany as soon as possible. A boat is too slow … I’m flying.”

“You’re what?”

Rowland grinned, unable to disguise his enthusiasm for that part of Hardy’s plan. Obviously his friends had stopped eavesdropping before Hardy gave him these particular details. “Hardy’s managed to convince Kingsford Smith to take a passenger to Europe.”

“Kingsford Smith! You can’t be serious.”

Clyde laughed. “No wonder you agreed to go. Well, Smithy will just have to take four passengers.”

“I don’t know …”

Clyde pressed his shoulder. “Look, Rowly, we understand why you have to go. We’re not going to try to talk you out of it … but face it, mate, Hardy’s using you.” He moved to take the place Edna had vacated. He spoke calmly, sensibly, in a way that was very typical of Clyde. “You tell the good Senator that you’re not going without insurance, without us. If he wants you to go, he’ll make it work.”

Rowland dressed hastily, checking his watch as he knotted his tie. It was nearly three in the afternoon. He might have time for breakfast before Hardy arrived.

He had slept late. The residents of
Woodlands House
had spent most of the previous night keeping watch over Edna’s pit fire and continuing to argue over who exactly would be going to Germany. In the early hours of the morning Rowland had been worn down by either cogent argument or fatigue … he wasn’t sure which. He wondered how Hardy would take the news that Rowland Sinclair was taking a Communist painter, a Jewish poet and an unpredictable sculptress to Germany. Admittedly, he was rather looking forward to the Senator’s reaction.

Mary Brown was answering the door just as he hurtled down the staircase. Inwardly, Rowland cursed—Hardy was early.

But it wasn’t Charles Hardy.

Briefly, Rowland was startled, though he knew he should have expected this.

Wilfred Sinclair entered. Silently he removed his hat and handed it to Mary, who all but curtseyed. His blue eyes were livid. They glared at Rowland over the gold-framed rims of his bifocals.

Rowland was taller than his brother, but he had never felt so in Wilfred’s presence. Wilfred Sinclair had a stature that was much more than physical.

“Wil …” Rowland started awkwardly.

Wilfred didn’t bother with the niceties.

“A word,” he said, as he strode into the library.

Rowland braced himself and followed.

The library at
Woodlands
had, to him, always been a place of censure. It was to this room that Henry Sinclair had summoned his son to vent his displeasure and impose his will. Wilfred too seemed to prefer the library for the purpose of bringing Rowland into line … however futile that purpose had now become.

Decorated and furnished exactly as it had been when their father was the master of
Woodlands
, the library was an island of conservative, masculine style in a house that had, under Rowland’s reign, become somewhat artistically idiosyncratic. Perhaps that was why Wilfred felt most comfortable there.

For a time Wilfred said nothing, pacing angrily about the room. And then, “What the devil do you think you’re doing, Rowly?”

“Look, Wil, I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you first but Hardy—”

Wilfred ignited before he could finish. “You are not to have any part of this insane plan of Hardy’s. Do you understand, Rowly? I forbid it!”

“You what? I’m a grown man, Wil.”

“Then act like one. Use your common sense, Rowly. This is not a game.”

“I know that.” Rowland was beginning to flare himself.

“Not so long ago, Charles Hardy accused you of treason, for God’s sake. Now you’re going to drop everything because he asks you to go to Germany? Don’t be such a bloody fool!”

“I’m not doing this for Hardy,” Rowland said quietly.

Wilfred stopped. He sighed, sitting down in the studded leather armchair.

Rowland took the seat opposite and waited.

Wilfred took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief, regaining his composure. “Rowly, you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know,” Rowland replied, though he was glad to hear it from Wilfred. “You have a family Wil, and I can speak German.”

“You want to work for Hardy?” Wilfred asked. “You’ve always claimed to find the Old Guard abhorrent.”

“I have no interest in the Old Guard,” Rowland said. “Or in working for Hardy … And though I don’t mind working against Campbell and his fascist legions, I’m going only so you don’t have to.”

Wilfred’s mouth twitched. He nearly laughed. “
You
are trying to protect
me
?”

Rowland frowned. Wilfred made him feel like an idiot, a precocious child. “You have a family and I can speak German,” he repeated irritably.

Wilfred met his eye. “Rowly, don’t you see that they’re exploiting you? You’re disposable. If you get into trouble over there they’ll disown you, deny that you ever had anything to do with them.”

Rowland nodded. “Yes, that’s what Milt said.”

Wilfred stiffened. “You told that bludging Bolshevik …”

“He overheard … but yes, I told him as well. How else was I going to explain why I’m going to Germany a few days after Hardy visits out of the blue?”

Wilfred exploded again. “You have no concept of how dangerous and sensitive this is, do you? Rowly, this is not some jaunt designed for the amusement of your unemployed Communist friends!”

“That’s a pity—they’re coming with me.”

“What?”

Admittedly, explaining how exactly he came to invite his friends to accompany him to Europe was difficult. Wilfred was incredulous.

“What possible use would they be? Aside from the fact that they’re flaming Reds, they can barely speak the King’s English let alone any other civilised language.”

“Actually, Ed’s fluent in French, Milton speaks Yiddish and Clyde has picked up a bit of Italian.” The last claim was grossly exaggerated. Clyde had been seeing Rosalina Martinelli for a couple of weeks and now seemed able to apologise in Italian, but that was about it. “Anyway, they’re not coming as translators; they’re coming so I have more than your Old Guard to rely on.”

Wilfred groaned. “I should have you committed!” He pointed at his brother. “I’m going to have you committed!”

Rowland smiled.

Wilfred shook his head. “You’re out of my reach in Germany, Rowly, you do realise that? I won’t be able to help you.”

“I realise that. Look, Wil … we don’t know that Bothwell’s death was untoward. Perhaps there is no real danger. I’ll be careful.”

“Campbell knows you.”

“He knows you too. I won’t need to approach him directly, Wil. The idea is to give the man you have travelling with Campbell someone
with whom to work. If the good Colonel does happen to see me, the last thing he’ll think is that I’m spying on him for the Old Guard.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, word is that I’m a Communist.”

Wilfred extracted a cigarette from the case in his pocket, and lit it. He smoked sullenly, simmering. “This is bloody preposterous … Hardy’s gone too far this time …”

“It’s only for a couple of months, Wil.” Rowland ran his hand distractedly through his dark hair. “As much as I hate to agree with your lot, I think Campbell could be dangerous if he gains momentum. If he has the success that this Hitler fellow has …”

Wilfred turned away in exasperation. “Hardy knew just how to get to you, didn’t he?”

Rowland said nothing as he waited for his brother to face him again.

It was a moment before Wilfred did so. He smiled faintly. “At least we seem to be standing on the same side for once.”

Rowland laughed. “It’s a little disconcerting.”

Wilfred tossed his cigarette into the smoking stand. His face became stern again. “I want you to tell Hardy that you’ve changed your mind. That you will not go.”

“I’m sorry, Wil.” Rowland shook his head.

The Sinclairs argued for some time after that. It was heated, but not vindictive. Now that Rowland was convinced he would be protecting his brother by going to Germany in his stead, it was, it seemed, impossible to make him stand down. The elder Sinclair demanded, ordered and reasoned, to no effect. The exchange was interrupted eventually by a tentative knock on the library door.

“Senator Hardy to see Master Rowly, Mr. Sinclair.” Mary Brown automatically deferred to Wilfred when he was in the house.

“Send him in here, Mary,” Wilfred said tensely. “Rowly, I’d like to have a word with Hardy alone, if you don’t mind.”

“For God’s sake, Wil …”

“Rowly …”

“Fine.” Rowland relented. It seemed only fair that Hardy should have to deal with Wilfred for a while. Rowland was in any case hungry. He could find something to eat while Wilfred shouted at the Senator.

3

SOUTHERN CROSS

RUMOURS DENIED
KINGSFORD SMITH INDIGNANT

DELIBERATE AND MALICIOUS LIES

SYDNEY, May 17

Indignant denials were given by Squadron-Leader Kingsford Smith before the Air Inquiry Committee today, to rumours that the forced landing of the Southern Cross had been premeditated and arranged as a publicity “stunt”. He said that such rumours “were absolute, deliberate, and malicious lies”.

The Brisbane Courier, 1929

R
owland decided to take a breakfast of sorts in the conservatory. He settled for scones and bread and butter rather than try to convince his housekeeper that it was not sinful to eat eggs and bacon at four in the afternoon.

Edna was already there, cleaning up some of the successful firings from the night before. She wore a man’s shirt—which Rowland suspected might once have been his—over her dress as she worked with various brushes and picks to clean off the ash and polish the clay’s blackened surface. Lenin sprawled at her feet.

“What do you think?” Edna asked, holding up what appeared to be a large bulbous terracotta vase with multiple breasts.

“Can’t have too much of a good thing, I suppose,” he murmured, resisting the urge to handle it. Edna’s work always seemed to invite touch but on this occasion he feared it would appear somewhat lewd.

The sculptress rolled her eyes. “It’s based on the ancient goddesses … fertility, earth …”

“Uh huh … that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

Mary Brown wheeled in a silver service of tea, scones and fresh sandwiches. She glanced at Edna’s vase and sighed indignantly.

“Thank you, Mary,” Rowland said, winking at Edna, and piling several sandwiches onto a Royal Doulton bread and butter plate.

“Oh, breakfast!” Edna piped enthusiastically, eliciting another sigh from the housekeeper. Wiping her hands on the stolen shirt, the sculptress stepped over Lenin to the oaken traymobile. She heaped jam and cream onto both halves of a split scone and gave one to the greyhound, as Mary Brown made a disapproving exit. Lenin grunted happily, accepting the morsel and looking adoringly at his benefactor.

“Have you told Senator Hardy about our refinement of his plans?” Edna wiped the cream off Lenin’s nose with a starched linen napkin.

“I believe Wil may be bringing him up to speed now.”

“Wilfred’s here? Oh dear. Was he very cross?”

“Yes, but I gather he’s rather more livid with Hardy than with me.”