A Few Right Thinking Men (15 page)

Edna glowed. “I'm going to be an actress.”

“You had a good time, then?” murmured Rowland.

“Oh, Rowly, it was exhilarating. Inspired, actually.” She threw herself dramatically onto the settee. “It's so amazing to be a part of someone's vision, part of the artwork itself.”

“Really.” Rowland was slightly put out. “New experience, was it?”

“For pity's sake, Ed!” Milton snorted. “It's a comedy about country hicks—hardly Shakespeare—I can tell you it doesn't quite count as art.”

“It's a reflection of Australia's rural heritage told in the great comic tradition,” Edna replied loftily. She smiled jumping up with an enthusiasm she could barely contain. “It was so exciting.”

“Who did you play?” Clyde tried to show an interest.

“I was a member of the crowd in two scenes.”

They laughed at her, rather rudely. She ignored them. Edna found promise and glory in the most surprising places—it was in her nature. Already, she could see a film career complementing the success she would eventually achieve through her sculptures. And when she so decided, nothing would diminish her joy.

After they grew tired of poking fun at her cinematic dreams, Rowland brought her into their plans. Edna shared none of Clyde's trepidation and approved of the scheme wholeheartedly.

“We should find out what the Boo Guard is up to,” she said adamantly. “That trek of theirs out to Cobar…the one in the papers…was about a lot more than putting out fires. I'm sure of it.”

“I suspect the only thing they put out was a few local noses,” Clyde muttered.

The Guard's heroic charge to Cobar to fight bushfires had received substantial coverage in the press. Depending on the newspaper's leaning, it was either applauded as an act of altruism, or ridiculed as a grandiose display. Edna inclined at least to the latter view, though she strongly suspected the operation had a more sinister purpose.

“I'm not planning on becoming a general spy,” Rowland pointed out before Edna's expectations became too militant.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Someone's got to keep an eye on Campbell. Remember what happened in Yass.”

“That wasn't Campbell's doing,” Rowland reminded her, but Edna was not interested in the demarcation lines between the various far-Right movements.

“So how exactly are you going to become the court artist of the great Colonel Campbell?”

“I'll ring for an appointment,” Rowland said casually. “Then, I'll just go see him with some of my work.”

“Not the picture of Edna.” Clyde smiled apologetically at the sculptress.

“Use the returned soldiers series you did last year,” Milton suggested. “Campbell's a veteran.”

Clyde nodded. “You'll have to change the signature.”

Rowland walked over to rummage through the stacks of canvases piled against the studio wall. He found what he was looking for, and pulled out a number of portraits. They had been removed from their stretchers and so he lay them flat on the card table. Rowland had drawn the original sketches at the Anzac Day commemorations and, working from both his notebook and his memory, had painted the portraits in oil.

He took up his brush and carefully changed the signature to the name of Clyde Watson Jones.

“This might be the best work I've ever done.” Clyde observed the wistful intensity Rowland had captured in a soldier's eyes as he leant against a post, watching a child place a wreath at the cenotaph.

“As long as I'm not destroying your reputation—as a painter, anyway.” Rowland moved on to the next canvas.

He and Clyde painted in very different styles, but their professional admiration was mutual. Clyde's portraits were traditional and startlingly true to life. He posed his sitters in sparse settings and told their stories through the turn of their heads, the set of their shoulders, and the placement of their hands. And of course, unlike his friend, Clyde could paint trees. If anything, his landscapes surpassed his portrait work.

Rowland's brushwork was less defined; his work was more influenced by the Impressionist school and the tonal approach of the artistic renegade, Max Meldrum. His backgrounds were rich with context and movement. Rowland's particular talent was an ability to capture moments, fleeting expressions of the soul of which even his subject was often not aware, until they saw the completed work.

Once the reassignation of Rowland Sinclair's paintings was done, Milton poured everyone a drink and raised his glass. “To bringing the Fascists to justice.”

“I just want to find out why my uncle was killed.” Rowland refused to participate in the toast. “I don't really care about Campbell's politics.”

“Sure you do,” Milton insisted, “you just don't want to be a class traitor. We understand.”

Rowland was startled. “What do you mean, you understand?”

“Wealth is seductive,” Milton said, pouring himself another glass of Rowland's fifteen-year-old Scotch.

“We haven't all got Milt's stoic resistance to the finer things in life,” Clyde interrupted dryly.

“Don't worry, Rowly.” Edna's eyes were merry. “We don't expect you to lead the revolution.”

For some reason, that irritated Rowland—not that he even remotely wanted to lead a workers' revolution, or any other sort, for that matter. But it rankled him to be dismissed, particularly by Edna.

She laughed when she saw his scowl. “Don't be silly, Rowly.” She rubbed his arm fondly. “You are who you are. Given your gilded background, you could be insufferable, but you're not. I wouldn't have you be anything else.”

Rowland gazed at her intently for a moment. Finally he reached over and placed the deck of cards before her. “Just deal,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

Deport Agitators

Eric Campbell's Advice

SYDNEY, Sunday

Eric Campbell, leader of the New Guard, told a meeting last night that while the United States deported 1,000 Communist agitators every week, Australia tolerated the presence of these alien dregs, and permitted them to indulge in their widespread propaganda to ferment unrest and create strikes.

He added: “The real voice of Australia is becoming more insistent—‘Deport all foreign Communist agitators'.”

The Canberra Times
, January 18, 1932

Rowland climbed out of the taxi at Turramurra. Though the New Guard kept offices in the city, Campbell had asked him to his home instead. Separated from both Woollahra and the city centre by Sydney's famous harbour, Turramurra wasn't in the most convenient of locations. Rowland had caught a ferry from Watsons Bay, then a train, and finally the motorcab to the architecturally pleasing Ku-ring-gai Close. Here the well-to-do lived on the fringes of parklands, with room for their horses.

He looked toward Boongala. Even here amid the opulent surroundings of Turramurra, the mansion stood out. Many considered it ostentatious, demanding more attention than was polite or tasteful among the discreetly grand houses of Sydney's Northern Shore.

Rowland hesitated at the porch, debating whether a painter should approach the front door, or go in search of a tradesman's entrance. In the end, he decided to knock and enquire—he wouldn't expect Campbell to answer his own door anyway.

The servant who greeted him wore a starched face to match her uniform. She led him into a small sitting room, indicating that Campbell was on the phone, but would be ready to receive him shortly.

The room was furnished in a traditional masculine style: chesterfield couches, oak paneling, and deep-piled maroon rugs. Gilded frames on the curlicued mantle held pictures of the world's most prominent Fascist leaders, most notably Mussolini. The bookshelves were crammed with leather-bound volumes and beside each chair was a Bakelite smoking stand. An Airedale terrier reclined in front of the hearth, padded over to him. Rowland patted the hound while he waited. He'd always been fond of dogs. He wondered absently, why he didn't own one himself.

A short while later, the door to Campbell's office opened, and Eric Campbell stepped out to greet the man who he thought was Clyde Watson Jones. The Airedale sprang up enthusiastically on sight of his master.

Campbell ruffled the dog's ears. “Down now, Paddy.”

Rowland offered his hand. “Colonel Campbell, it's an honour to meet you, sir.”

Campbell cut an impressive figure. He was a tall man of about forty years, broad-shouldered and immaculately dressed in a double-breasted suit of fashionably light fabric. He was bald on top with the remaining fringe cropped short in military style. His face was surprisingly soft, his smile broad under a small brush-like moustache. He addressed Rowland as “Clyde,” though he did not invite the artist to call him “Eric.”

Rowland made his case while Campbell flicked through the samples of his work. Milton had guessed correctly: the retired Colonel was clearly moved by the portraits.

“Last year's ANZAC Day commemorations?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was there, you know, with my regiment. I didn't notice you.” Campbell studied the men marching in the background of one of the paintings.

“I'm an artist, Colonel Campbell,” Rowland replied. “To record history, it's best that I'm not part of it.”

Campbell seemed satisfied, but remained cautious. “I'm a busy man, Clyde.” He unrolled the last canvas. “It is not in my nature to spend hours sitting still.”

“That's not really the way I work, sir,” Rowland assured him. “I prefer to observe my subjects as they go about their business; it gives the portrait context and atmosphere. The actual ‘sitting still' time is minimal.”

Campbell shuffled through the references Rowland had handed to him.

“Would you be so good as to wait here?” he asked as he took the documents into his office.

Rowland waited, nervous that any moment Campbell would spring out from behind a door screaming, “You're Rowland Sinclair!” He had no doubt that Campbell was checking his references. Surely he would be undone.

It was several minutes before Campbell emerged again. “It seems that tours abroad are all the rage this season.” The colonel chuckled. “But Lady McKenzie couldn't sing your praises more highly. My contact at the Arts Council tells me that you have been exhibiting in a number of the smaller galleries very commendably…it is his opinion you could be an established name in a few years.”

“He's most kind.” Rowland made a mental note to relay the praise to Clyde. “The chance to paint a man of your standing would certainly be a step in that direction.”

Campbell nodded. “Quite. I am inclined to accept your proposition, Clyde.”

Rowland was more than relieved; he was almost incredulous, but replied calmly, “Thank you, sir.”

“So how do you propose to run this?” Campbell looked again through the portraits.

“With your permission, sir, and at your convenience,” Rowland started slowly, making it up as he went, “I'd accompany you on occasion, making sketches and getting to know what makes you Eric Campbell, Commander-in-Chief of the New Guard.” Rowland tried to sound as though the title impressed him. “It will allow me to decide the best composition—how you are posed, what symbols I include in the background, that sort of thing. Only then do I paint.”

“My correct title is General Officer, Commanding,” Campbell informed him. “An Archibald Prize would be another affirmation of the movement's importance. You realise that, don't you Clyde?”

“I can't guarantee I'll win, sir.” Rowland's response was a little alarmed. He hadn't actually thought as far as submitting the portrait.

Campbell took the nervousness in Rowland's voice as modesty. “I don't see why you wouldn't win, my boy,” he said. “Of course, those trustees will have to get over their obsession with the Victorians.”

The comment jolted Rowland, taking him back to his final rendezvous with his uncle when the old man had said something similar. His resolve to continue strengthened. “I'll try to do you justice, Colonel Campbell.”

Without asking, Campbell poured them both whiskies and sat back in one of his generous leather armchairs. “Tell me, Clyde,” he asked, “where did you go to school?”

Rowland smiled. He knew he'd have to deny the old school tie of Kings Parramatta. “Fort Street,” he replied, aware the select government school would place him within a wide range of classes. “I travelled abroad, painting for awhile,” he offered vaguely.

“I take it you're too young to have seen service?” Campbell was probing, almost sympathetic.

Service seemed to be a passport of trust in the circles of returned soldiers. “I had a brother who served in France,” Rowland said carefully. He didn't like using Aubrey's memory in this way, but there was no point to what he was doing unless Campbell came to trust him.

“Had?”

“He didn't return.”

Campbell nodded, warming visibly. It wasn't as good as actual service, but family sacrifice did evidence some sort of proximate patriotism.

“Tell me, Clyde,” Campbell said, “with whom does a young man like you align himself in times like these?”

Rowland was prepared for this, but it was still uncomfortable. Considering the current tensions, and Campbell's position, it was only to be expected he would want to know the politics of those who wished to associate with him. “The Joneses are all Country Party men,” he replied. “I'm from Yass originally.”

Campbell seemed well pleased with this. Lady McKenzie had mentioned that the young portrait painter was a rural lad, a further confirmation to Campbell that he could be trusted. “I'm from the country myself,” he said. “Stout men, the men of the land. Not so susceptible to malcontent and insubordination as the labour forces in the city.”

Rowland forced a nod. Campbell was nobody's fool, but it appeared that luck was with him.

With Campbell's permission, Rowland took out his notebook and sketched while they conversed. Campbell was surprisingly affable company. He seemed to accept, and be completely comfortable with, the focus of attention. He spoke of his wartime service and showed Rowland his Distinguished Service Order. Rowland looked curiously at the medal. He knew Wilfred had one too, but he had never seen it. Wilfred never spoke of his actual service, and never used his military title.

“Of course, we went as diffident boys,” Campbell told him. “And we came back as men used to more responsibility and leadership than those who had remained—and were now our superiors—could ever have imagined.”

Rowland's mind slipped momentarily, to the secret and not so secret armies that seemed to be arising in every quarter. Perhaps it was the natural tendency of Diggers accustomed to military command.

Campbell went on to denounce the Socialist agitators he saw as a mortal threat to both democracy and decency. He became more animated, his voice more strident

When their drinks and appointed time were finished, Campbell said, “I'm afraid I will be quite busy for the rest of the month.” His face creased into self-satisfied smile. “I have to attend the Police Central Court where I'm charged with praising the Premier's bull.”

Rowland knew what he meant. Eric Campbell had been arrested and charged with insulting Premier Jack Lang. Apparently he had publicly claimed to prefer Lang's bull, Ebenezer, to the Premier himself, for the simple reason that there was no law against shooting a bull. His arrest was probably an overreaction, and had in fact played straight into his hands. Now, Campbell could portray himself as a political martyr, a victim of a partisan police force.

“With your permission, sir,” Rowland said, returning the smile, “I might attend.”

“You may have trouble finding a seat, Clyde.” Campbell winked broadly, as he showed his guest to the door. “Come early.”

And so, Rowland Sinclair took leave of the man who had pledged to defend New South Wales from the insidious force of the “Red Wreckers.” Paddy the Airedale followed them out and Rowland paused to make a fuss of the hound before he left. He liked dogs.

Edna, Milton, and the real Clyde were waiting anxiously back at Woodlands House to hear the news.

“So?” asked Edna as soon as he was in the door.

“He has a nice dog.” Rowland dropped his hat on the couch. “An Airedale. We should get a dog. I don't know why I've never bought one…”

Edna slapped his shoulder. “Don't be an idiot, Rowly. What happened?”

“No, really…I want a dog.”

“Are you painting our favourite Fascist, or not?” asked Milton.

“It wasn't all that hard to convince him.” Rowland told them the details of the meeting, and his discussion with Campbell.

Milton let out a low whistle. “I can't believe it worked.”

“What do you mean, you can't believe it worked?” Rowland demanded. “It was your flaming idea!”

“Yes, it was,” Milton preened. “Damn clever, too.”

“So, what now?” asked Clyde.

“He's agreed to allow me to follow him around, making sketches and so on, while he's being statesman, patriot, and hero of the people. And he's got this trial next week. I thought I'd go and have a look.”

“You can't,” said Milton flatly.

“Why not?”

“Use your head, Rowly.” Milton shook his own. “You've been dealing with the police as Rowland Sinclair. You can't just wander into the Police Central Court as someone else. What if you encounter Campbell and Bicuit at the same time? The game will be up. What on earth are you thinking, comrade?”

Rowland hadn't thought of that. “Right, so I'm a hopeless spy.”

Clyde's face was a map of worry. “Actually, there's no guarantee that some New Guardsman won't recognise you at some point. But since you're determined to do this, I guess there isn't a lot we can do about that.”

Rowland was not about to admit to being concerned. “It's my name that's well known,” he said, “not my face.”

“Still,” Clyde exhaled, “you've been recognised once, already…remember the bloke at the Domain?”

Rowland was thoughtful. Henry Alcott had recognised him, true, but Henry had been Aubrey's best friend. “You're right,” he conceded. “There isn't much we can do about it. I'll just have to make sure I see the Guardsmen before they see me.”

“I still don't like it,” Clyde grumbled.

“You'd best let one of us know where you're going at all times.” Milton's dark eyes narrowed. “You know, in case you disappear.”

Rowland laughed. “They're not gangsters, Milt. I don't think I'll end up in the harbour.”