Miles Off Course (5 page)

I
t was well after dark when Rowland Sinclair’s yellow Mercedes pulled up at the entrance gates of
Oaklea
. They had been travelling
since the early hours of that day. Even so, they had made a slight detour at the neighbouring farm to look in on the Gipsy Moth housed in its shed. Wilfred had purchased the
Rule Britannia
the previous year, along with the property itself. The land was consolidated into the Sinclair holdings and Rowland took enthusiastic possession of the plane. Now he had just to learn to fly.

Rowland and Edna had spent half the previous night designing Mark Foy’s tomb. They had amused themselves for a number of hours working on plans featuring pyramids, giant fish and Biblical
whales, challenging each other into producing greater absurdities, and they were consequently awake into the next morning trying to cobble their less fanciful drawings into something that looked
like they had taken the project seriously. Even so, the final drawings featured marble mermen and a mausoleum which was set into the cliffs and resembled the hull of a yacht.

Lack of sleep had forced Rowland to initially share the driving of his beloved car, but by the time they had reached Yass he was once again behind the wheel. A small part of him was quietly
convinced that the car preferred it that way.

The gates at
Oaklea
were locked, but Wilfred had left McNair, his taciturn one-armed gardener, to wait for his brother’s arrival. McNair cursed as he fumbled with the chains and
padlock. Somewhere in the string of profanity and grunts, Rowland made out the words “late” and “bloody daft”. It seemed that McNair was unimpressed by Wilfred’s
tightening of security.

Rowland climbed out to help him with the gates, but in the face of the gardener’s surly disposition, simply stood by. McNair had worked on
Oaklea
since returning from the Great War.
He answered only to Wilfred, and for the most part ignored Rowland.

Edna giggled audibly from within the car, and McNair realised suddenly that there was a lady present. He fell sullenly silent and stepped back, signalling that they should drive through.

“Does he speak to Wilfred like that?” Edna asked, still amused, as Rowland climbed back into the car. The Sinclairs’ staff were obviously very aware of the difference between
Wilfred and Rowland. Regardless, few were so openly hostile.

Rowland laughed. “Yes… and more often.”

“And Wilfred doesn’t object?”

“I don’t think it would matter if he did. McNair has his own way of doing things.”

“Is he a particularly good gardener?” Edna was still looking to somehow explain this unusual level of tolerance.

“Good Lord no. He’s constantly pulling out flowers to plant potatoes—drives Wil to distraction.”

Clyde snorted. “Can’t eat flowers, Rowly. Sounds like the old codger’s got a bit of sense.”

Rowland brought his Mercedes to a stop in the sweeping cobbled circuit in front of the
Oaklea
homestead. “It’s more likely that McNair’s suffering from a particularly
belligerent case of soldier’s heart,” he muttered as he allowed the engine to idle.

“Oh, of course, the poor man,” Edna said quietly. Too many men had returned from the war not quite whole, even if they still had all their limbs.

Clyde snorted. “Nonsense. It’s common sense not shell shock. My folks used every square inch of ground we had to grow vegetables—only way to feed us all. It’s only your
lot that wastes good ground politely growing flowers.”

Rowland laughed. “Flowers have their purpose, Clyde.”

“I’ll take a pound of potatoes over roses any day.”

“And that,” concluded Milton, “is why you can’t get a girl.”

They may have continued arguing over Clyde’s romantic successes, or lack thereof, had not
Oaklea
’s front door been opened to allow a small boy in pyjamas to hurtle out.

“Uncle Rowly, Uncle Rowly!” Six-year-old Ernest Sinclair jumped up and down on the spot excitedly until Rowland had alighted from the car. He stuck out his small hand. “Good
evening, Uncle Rowly. Did you bring Lenin?”

Rowland bent to shake his nephew’s hand. Lenin was Rowland’s dog, a particularly ugly and ill-bred one-eared greyhound that Milton had rescued from the track. “I’m afraid
Len stopped at home, Ernie.”

Ernest’s deep blue Sinclair eyes dropped in disappointment. Rowland swung the boy up under his arm. “Tell you what—you can catch up with Len at the Royal Easter
Show—how’s that? I’ll talk your father into bringing you to Sydney with him.”

Ernest squealed with delight. “That would be just splendid, Uncle Rowly.”

“For pity’s sake, Rowly, how am I supposed to say ‘no’ to him now!” Wilfred muttered as he came down the stairs to shake his brother’s hand.

Rowland smiled. Wilfred was besotted with his sons—he was unlikely to have refused Ernest anyway. “Hello, Wil.”

Wilfred looked over at Clyde and Milton who had just emerged from the car. “I didn’t realise you were bringing company… Good day, Mr. Jones, Mr. Isaacs… Oh, Miss
Higgins as well.” Wilfred greeted his brother’s friends politely if a little coolly. He pulled Rowland aside as the others were ushered into the house and Ernest was sent back to bed.
“Blast it, Rowly! I’m sending you up to find Harry and sort things out, not to take your freeloading friends on some flaming holiday in the mountains.”

Rowland bristled. “They thought I could use a hand. Damned decent of them actually.”

“For God’s sake, man, can’t you do anything without your troupe of unemployed hangers-on!”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business with whom I associate, Wil. I said I’d find Harry and I will. You can just…”

They were interrupted at that point by the gentle, elegant young woman who was Wilfred’s wife. A couple of years younger than Rowland, Kate Sinclair wore the mantle of mistress of
Oaklea
a little nervously. She was very fond of her somewhat disreputable brother-in-law, and she adored her thoroughly respectable husband. She had become quite accustomed to their fiery
relationship.

“Hello Rowly,” she said, allowing him to kiss her cheek. “You boys aren’t quarrelling already, are you?”

Wilfred glared at his brother. “No, of course not.”

“You look lovely, Kate.” Rowland noticed how glamorously she was dressed—best pearls and mink stole.

“Why thank you, Rowly,” Kate said, glancing briefly behind her.

Rowland’s eyes followed. A number of cars, black limousines, were parked on the far side of the circuit. “Oh, you have guests.”

Kate smiled. “It’s just a little dinner party—they’ve just arrived.”

“I say, I am sorry Kate. I didn’t realise. You get back to your party—we’ll grab something in the kitchen and make ourselves scarce.”

“Don’t be silly, Rowly… you’re not children,” Kate replied before Wilfred could accept Rowland’s offer. “You have time to wash up and join us for
dinner. Wil was discussing business with the gentlemen anyway, so we won’t be sitting down for at least an hour.”

“Katie… that might not be—” Wilfred started.

“Nonsense, darling. Rowly and his friends are only here for one night—they can at least have dinner with us.” Kate put a tender, persuasive hand on her husband’s arm.
“Everyone’s been admiring my portrait—I’m sure they’ll be delighted to meet the artist.”

“I really think it would be better if Rowly and his friends just said goodnight… I’m sure they’re rather tired. You can catch up with them all tomorrow,
Katie.”

“But everybody’s already heard them drive up,” Kate persisted. “Rowly’s motor car isn’t exactly quiet. If he doesn’t join us for dinner now
they’re bound to think it terribly odd.”

Rowland met Wilfred’s eye. Well, this was awkward.

Wilfred sighed, exasperated. “Just hurry up and get changed,” he snapped.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Kendall to set four extra places,” Kate added warmly.

They were taken to rooms by an upstairs maid while Wilfred and Kate returned to their guests. Rowland was directed to the room he’d occupied as a child. It was
fortunate that they had come directly from Medlow Bath—they might not have thought to pack dinner suits otherwise. As it was, they had the more formal attire they’d worn to the regular
concerts held in the Hydro Majestic’s Casino Room.

Nevertheless, it occurred to Rowland as he showered and dressed that they would need clothes more suitable for the mountains. He’d have to at least pick up some overcoats in town before
they set off. The last time he’d been to the High Country it was to ski—he remembered the weather in the mountains could be unpredictable and bloody cold even at this time of year.
Dinner suits would probably not be adequate.

He had a few minutes to talk to Clyde and Milton on the landing while they waited for Edna.

“So who are we getting gussied up for?” Clyde asked, as he pulled at his bow tie.

“No idea, I’m afraid,” Rowland replied. “But they’re quite likely to be easily offended.” He looked pointedly at Milton who was the most likely of them to
give offence.

Milton grinned good-naturedly. “I get your meaning, Rowly old boy. I’ll limit my conversation to the weather and the cricket… forgive me if I cannot speak definitively on
these mighty things.”

“Keats,” Rowland smiled. “No need to speak definitively… just try not to start a fight—don’t mention politics.”

Edna emerged finally, struggling to secure a locket around her neck. The fact that she was wearing gloves was making the clasp difficult to manage. Milton took the jewel from her and closed the
clasp in place.

“Thank you,” she said brightly. “Shall we go down? I’m frightfully hungry.”

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Rowland said as he offered her his arm. It may have been the gown, but she looked a little more like her old self.

Kate’s dinner guests were all still in the drawing room with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Wilfred’s business had obviously been concluded, as the gentlemen had joined the
ladies.

They paused at the doorway of the drawing room, taking in the impeccable society with whom they were about to dine. Kate sat upon the couch in conversation with two sophisticatedly coiffed
matrons of about fifty. The first was sombrely but stylishly dressed in black, a fur shrug draped across her shoulders though it was not a cold evening. Despite being seated, she held her walking
stick upright, clutching the pistol grip handle with both hands. Her face was tragic but controlled—a stoic mask. The second lady wore a pale pink gown, in a style unusual for someone her
age. In the armchair was a younger woman, small, attractive and very chic. A tendril of smoke twisted up from the end of the slim bakelite cigarette-holder in her hand.

Wilfred stood with the men at the sideboard, recharging glasses.

Rowland heard Clyde laugh softly behind him. “Of course—who else would it be?” Then, “Just keep your mouth shut, Milt.”

Rowland, too, recognised the younger man, handsome and brash in stance and manner. He had met Senator Charles Hardy Junior once before—at a rally in the main street of Yass. Wilfred had
introduced them just before the anti-Communist mob incited by the senator had abducted Milton with the intent of tarring and feathering the poet. Rowland and Clyde had gone to their friend’s
aid and things had quickly become ugly. The incident might have ended very badly had Wilfred Sinclair not intervened to rescue his brother from the vigilantes that Hardy had stirred to action. And
so now they were going to share dinner.

“Rowly, there you are.” Wilfred motioned them in as he began to make introductions.

Apparently Senator Hardy had no knowledge of the actions of the outraged pack he had inspired. He was not in any way disconcerted by the presence of Milton Isaacs, and recognised neither his
name nor his face. He greeted them all congenially.

Milton also performed admirably, giving no hint that he and the senator may ever have been at odds. Once, the poet might have been given away by the word “red” which right-wing
extremists had branded on his forehead with silver nitrate. But the effects of the developing chemical had now faded enough to be almost invisible, and Milton had in any case taken to wearing a
long fringe which hid what remained of the word.

“Well, well, the infamous Rowland Sinclair,” Hardy said as he shook Rowland’s hand.

Rowland’s left eyebrow rose slightly as he wondered to exactly which particular infamy the senator alluded. There’d been a couple of awkward situations that had found their way into
the headlines. He decided against enquiring.

“I’m afraid Kate’s been singing your artistic praises,” Wilfred said, motioning towards the painting which hung over the fireplace; a dramatic but touching work, in oil:
Kate with Ernest asleep in her arms. Rowland had painted it over a year ago now.

Rowland’s eyes met Hardy’s. Clearly the senator had not been thinking of art. But graciously, Hardy accepted the opportunity to keep the conversation free of controversy and needless
embarrassment. “Indeed, I have no doubt that Alice will not rest until she too is immortalised in paint.”

Wilfred then introduced an elderly gentleman: Sir Earle Christmas Grafton Page. Rowland recognised him, though they had not met before. For most of the twenties, Earle Page had held the second
highest office in the coalition government of the nation. That government had been defeated in 1929 and though the conservatives had been returned to power in ’32, Lyons and his United
Australia Party now held office in their own right. The support of the Country Party led by Page was no longer necessary and the direct influence of Page himself had been diminished.

The statesman had, however, featured in the papers earlier that year. The Pages had lost their eldest son to a lightning strike in January, and had retreated from public life. Indeed, Rowland
was very surprised to see them at
Oaklea
.

Page greeted him sternly, as if he was reprimanding him rather than making his acquaintance.

“How do you do, Mr. Sinclair? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He looked closely at Rowland, assessing him. “You weren’t at Newington, were you?”