A Few Right Thinking Men (25 page)

“We need to get someone out of gaol, but we don't want to risk the car.”

Mick seemed somewhat confused. He scratched the thinning hair on his head as he gazed at the immaculate yellow tourer. “Yeah, all right, I'll keep an eye on 'er.”

“Thank you.” Rowland offered Mick his hand.

Mick shook it, still a little vague. He had, after all, been woken in the middle of the night. “Do yer mind if I bring the young fella out to have a look at it?—He'll be living the life of Riley.”

“Certainly,” Rowland replied. “We'll drop by and take him for a ride one day, when things have calmed down. Hopefully, we won't be too long tonight.”

“Yeah, if they haven't already hanged him,” Clyde added.

Having ensured the Mercedes was defended, they made their way to the Bankstown Police Station. It was well after midnight and though the station was active, calm had returned to the streets. As they walked in, they could hear a rowdy chorus of “The Red Flag” being sung from behind the door that led to the cells.

“
…Then raise the scarlet standard high, Within its shade we'll live and die…
”

Rowland approached the desk sergeant and informed him that he wished to secure the release of a man who had been arrested earlier for “riotous behavior.”

The officer's thick moustache bristled. “Would that be one of the Messrs. Eric Campbells, or one of the Messrs. Francis De Groots?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nine men were arrested at the, ah, events.” The sergeant checked the numbers off his charge sheet. “Five have given their names as Eric Campbell, the other four as Francis De Groot. For which of these men do you wish to pay the fine, sir?”

Rowland heard Clyde laugh behind him.

“How about I just pay all the fines?” Rowland pulled out his chequebook.

“Then I would thank you…Damn infernal noise!”

“The Red Flag” rang through the station yet again. “
…Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, We'll keep the red flag flying here…
”

And so, Rowland Sinclair secured the release of nine men who had been arrested, rightly or wrongly, for riotous behaviour during what the newspapers would later report as the “Battle of Bankstown.”

Milton was in extraordinary spirits for a man who had spent the last several hours incarcerated, as were all the men who emerged from the cells. Rowland and Clyde politely declined invitations to celebrate the mass release, and returned to the car with a slightly reluctant Milton. The poet was exhilarated by his own minor martyrdom, and he subjected his friends to solo renditions of the Communist anthem on the walk back.

They found Mick sitting in the Mercedes, with a cricket bat in his lap, while his young son sat awestruck behind the wheel. They thanked him, threatened to assault Milton if he didn't stop singing, and returned to Woodlands House. It was still a few hours before dawn.

Rowland flung his jacket at the coat stand, loosened his tie, fell into the couch and looked at Clyde and Milton, who had taken to the armchairs in a similar fashion. He started to laugh. He had maintained his composure as he bailed the multiple Eric Campbells and Francis De Groots and ushered the same improbably named group out of the station as they triumphantly sang “The Red Flag.” But now, he laughed.

Milton grinned, relieved. They had driven back with the top down, making conversation impossible. He had been a little unsure of how Rowland felt about personally signing for the release of nine Communists accused of riotous behaviour. As he watched him laugh, he was reminded of what an uncommon man Rowland Sinclair was.

“Thank you, Rowly.” The poet was sincerely grateful. “I didn't expect you to bail the entire party.”

Rowland sat up. He wiped his eyes. “God, it was worth it!”

Milton stood and poured drinks, and as was often the case when he had a glass to hand, he was moved to poetry. “Thou who art victory and law, when empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, and calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!”

“Wordsworth,” groaned Rowland. “And very tenuously relevant.”

“I'll give you bloody frail humanity,” Clyde muttered.

“We'd better toast the freedom of Eric Campbell then.” Milton was undeterred. “To Eric Campbell—any one of them!”

“To Rowland Sinclair,” corrected Clyde, “who, it appears, has released the Red Army from the Bankstown watch house.”

Rowland laughed again and shook his head. “The whole state's gone mad…we're all following lunatics into revolution.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Clash with Communists

New Guard in Sydney
POLICE RESTORE ORDER

SYDNEY, Friday

There were wild scenes in Thompson Park, Bankstown, tonight when a detachment of the 200 New Guard in 37 vehicles clashed with Communists holding a rally.

Earlier in the night members of the New Guard broke up a meeting of the Unemployed Workers Movement at Newtown, at which revolutionary statements were alleged to have been made.

Large detachments of police were hurried to Bankstown and, after a number of arrests, order was restored.

The Argus
, February 28, 1932

They had all slept late the next morning, and so it was over luncheon that they exchanged the various morning papers which reported the violence from the night before. Edna was the last to emerge and came in to find Mary Brown's elegant meal buried under the open broadsheets.

“What time did you get in last night?” Milton remembered her absence.

“I didn't.” She poured lemonade from a large jug.

“Oh, that's all right then.”

No one enquired further; they were none of them the sculptress' keeper, and nor were they monks themselves. In any case, only Rowland really cared, and he kept that to himself.

“
The Herald
has the Guardsmen victorious,” Rowland said, calmly moving the conversation back to the reports in the newspapers.

“
The Workers' Weekl
y says the people taught the Fascists a lesson they'll never forget,” said Clyde from behind that paper. “Apparently they thrashed the Guardsmen and then attacked their cars.”

Rowland winced. Damaging cars was uncalled for.

“They're calling it the Battle of Bankstown.” Milton peered over Clyde's shoulder, clearly pleased with the epic nature of the title. “Here…‘several rowdy men were arrested and fined for riotous behaviour'…that'd be me.”

“You were arrested?” Edna looked up, alarmed.

Milton told her what happened, with more embellishments than even
The Workers' Weekly
, when it came to his own involvement.

“Perhaps now you won't have to look over your shoulder for Harcourt Garden's mates.” Clyde was hopeful.

“I wouldn't count on it,” Milton warned. “Harry doesn't let go of things that easily.”

“I'd like to be a fly on Campbell's wall right now.” Clyde searched under the newspaper for his plate. “Do you think he knows he was arrested last night—several times?”

“I don't think the New Guard is as friendly with the police as Campbell has the world believe.” Rowland stirred his coffee. “And that's the only way he'd know.”

Rowland spent the next few hours finishing his ‘statesman' series of drawings—Campbell among the New Guard in salute, in the midst of a fiery address, and being backslapped by his minions. After rolling up the large sheets into a manageable parcel, Rowland left for Boongala, where he was due at four o'clock. The Colonel had a military obsession with punctuality.

The Commander of the New Guard was pleased with the sketches. It seemed to him that Jones had benefited from his attendance at Belmore, and the Town Hall. He did wish that he still had a full head of hair, but perhaps he could get Jones to paint him in a hat. De Groot would be satisfied anyway; he was sure of it.

Rowland had expected to make arrangements for Campbell's first formal sitting that day, but the Colonel was called away to talk to the papers about the “Battle of Bankstown.” He sent Herbert Poynton to deal with the artist who waited for him in the sitting room outside his study.

“Afraid the Colonel's not going to be finished for a while, Jonesy,” the bodyguard said, taking the armchair beside Rowland and placing two glasses of whisky on the side table between them. Rowland left the drink.

“He's very happy with your sketches…got us both thinking you're the man to help us with a little job.”

“Oh?” Rowland doubted very much that Campbell consulted with the bodyguard on such matters. It was more likely that he simply instructed Poynton to engage Rowland…Still, he was intrigued.

“Yes, a man of your artistic talents is just what we need…,” Poynton swirled the whisky then held the glass up to the light. “What do you say, Jonesy? Shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Well, I can't really tell you more until I know you're in.” Poynton tapped the side of his nose. “Let's just say, you'll need your pencil.”

Rowland relaxed. For a minute, he thought he was going to be asked to do something illegal. They just wanted him to draw some other fist-waving Fascist; he wondered who it was.

“Very well. I'll do it…whatever it is.”

“I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine.” Poynton finally took a sip. “We'll be away overnight, so bring what you need.”

“Where are we going?”

“Need to know, Jonesy,” Poynton replied. “I'll fill you in on the way.”

Rowland wondered whether he should have been so quick to agree, but the time to back out gracefully had passed.

***

“I don't know, Rowly.” Clyde was clearly troubled. “It's a bit stupid to go off with no idea what they're expecting you to do. What if they want you to assassinate Lang?”

“With a pencil? I'm not much of a shot even with a gun,” Rowland replied. “No, they'll just be wanting me to paint someone.”

“So why all the secrecy?”

Rowland shrugged. “I gather Herb Poynton gets a bit carried away with his own importance.”

“We'll have to go with you,” Milton decided.

“How do you plan to do that? Poynton's picking me up.”

“We'll follow.”

Rowland laughed. “In my car? I don't think so, Milt—she's not exactly discreet.”

“He's right.” Even so, Clyde was not happy

“It'll be all right,” Rowland assured him, smiling. “Poynton's not a bad chap really…he's just fallen in with a bad crowd.”

“I'm glad you find this amusing,” Clyde muttered.

“What do we do if you…disappear?” Milton pulled a coin from his pocket and made it vanish.

Impressed though he was by the poet's sleight of hand, Rowland didn't think that his own disappearance was likely. “Get in touch with Constable Delaney,” he said. “And phone Wil.”

Edna, when she returned, was more intrigued than concerned. “I wonder where he could be taking you.”

“I'll find out tomorrow.”

“If you had a less ostentatious car, we could follow you.” The sculptress sighed.

“Ostentatious!” Rowland was affronted. “I think you mean distinctive.”

“Yes, of course, that's what I meant.”

They passed the evening in their usual fashion. Clyde departed early to attend the charity twilight dance for which he had been practising. Rowland offered him the Mercedes, but the painter declined.

“I don't want to raise the poor girl's expectations,” he said resolutely.

“After dancing with you for a while, she's unlikely to be able to walk far,” Milton said as he dealt hands to Rowland and Edna. “You should take the car.” Clyde might have responded rudely, but there was a great deal of truth in what the poet said.

“You look very handsome, Clyde.” Edna kicked Milton under the table. “Any girl would be lucky to be on your arm.”

Milton snorted, but Clyde looked a little less nervous.

“Just remember not to count out loud,” Edna added helpfully.

“Why don't you come along, Rowly?” Clyde stopped at the door. “There are plenty of girls at these things. I could wait while you…”

Rowland laughed. “And just which one of us would be Clyde Watson Jones?” he asked. “It could be a bit confusing for your young lady.”

“Right, I forgot.”

“Take the car,” Rowland said, rearranging his hand. “You can lower her expectations once she's agreed to marry you. That's how it's usually done.”

“I'm just taking her to a dance,” Clyde muttered uncomfortably; but in the end, he took the car.

Rowland and Milton played poker with Edna, while Lenin lay under the card table between them.

Early next morning Rowland arrived at the house of Selwin Higgins in Burwood. Edna's father had now become accustomed to Rowland's unexpected appearances, and was more than happy to accommodate the young man's need for a humble address.

They heard Poynton's horn blast on the dot of nine. Rowland climbed into the front of the blue Buick, tossing his small carpet bag onto the backseat. “Where are we off to?” he asked.

Poynton kept one hand on the steering wheel and removed his cigarette with the other. “Berrima.”

Rowland nodded. Berrima was only a couple of hours south of Sydney, not far from Bowral. “Why?”

“Reconnaissance…time well spent, you know.”

“For what?”

“As I've told you, Jonesy, there are big things happening. We're going to see about accommodating some of those big things.”

“And how do I fit in?”

“The Colonel needs a plan of the facility drafted…so he can assess what has to be done…where to put men, weapons that sort of thing.”

Rowland was becoming quite alarmed. “Look, Herb, you're really going to have to tell me what this is all about.”

Poynton smiled smugly. “In times of war, Jonesy,” he said, tossing his cigarette butt out of the window, “it's necessary to have somewhere to hold the enemy…prisoners of war, and all that.”

“What war?” demanded Rowland coldly.

“The one we're about to start, Jonesy.”