A Murder Unmentioned (19 page)

“Come on, mate, put your dukes up!”

Still crying, Ernest raised his fists in front of his face. “That’s right, Ernie, a good boxer protects his head.” Rowland tied the rope securely under his nephew’s raised arms. He twisted the rope around his hand and forearm and began to lower the boy to the ground. Terrified, Ernest struggled and kicked, forcing Rowland to step back to keep from over-balancing. He felt the bay roof give way a little.

“Ernie! Don’t move! Do you hear me? Don’t move!” Wilfred roared, seeing what was happening.

His father’s voice seemed to shock Ernest into compliance. Rowland worked quickly, against the heat, against panic. Men positioned themselves below ready to catch Ernest should the rope or Rowland give way.

The coir skinned Rowland’s hands as it slid through. Ernest’s eyes were closed and he cried for his mother. For a time everybody seemed to hold their breath. And then cheering as Ernest reached his father’s outstretched arms.

Rowland stumbled, relieved, exhausted. He had been so determined to get Ernest out that now, with the boy safe, his body just wanted to stop, to rest. His head was beginning to swim.

“Rowly!” Wilfred did not pause to celebrate, handing his son to Arthur, and bellowing at his brother to pull himself together. The rope was sent back up.

Rallying, Rowland forced his limbs to move, this time to secure the rope to the balcony rail.

Below him the windows of the bay shattered outwards with the heat. The surge of flame forced the men on the lawn back. There wasn’t time to think. Rowland swung himself over with only his grip on the rope to support him. He was about halfway down when the bay structure finally collapsed.

15

FIRST AID AT HOME

Asphyxia

Continuous insensibility when breathing is absent is known as asphyxia…

The treatment applicable to all cases of insensibility should be given. Ensure that breathing is possible, by making sure that the air passages are not obstructed, that pressure does not prevent the necessary expansion of the chest, and that there is abundance of pure air… To ensure the possibility of breathing, direct action should be as follows: Strangulation: Cut and remove the band constricting the throat. Hanging: Do not wait for the arrival of a policeman. Grasp the lower limbs and raise the body to take the tension off the rope, cut the rope, and free the neck… Suffocation by smoke or gases: Remove the patient into fresh air. Before entering a building full of smoke, tie a handkerchief (wet if possible) over the nose and mouth. Keep low, or even crawl, while in a room full of smoke or gas that rises.

The West Australian, November 1930

T
he Lister pumps which had been installed to irrigate the new garden designed by Edna Walling deluged the bay window and its surrounds with water as the structure disintegrated. In the fire, and smoke and water, there was a while where no one was sure what had happened to Rowland Sinclair.

His friends, his brother and Harry Simpson plunged into the chaos to find him.

Rowland was aware he was on the ground, and that he was having difficulty breathing. Beyond that, he could not seem to focus.

“Rowly, thank God!” Wilfred’s voice.

Two sets of shoulders under his arms… he wasn’t sure whose. And then the world became hazy and incomprehensible.

When Rowland was next aware, he was lying on the lawn a distance away from the burning wing. Every breath was painful, but it was air at least.

“Rowly?” Edna loosened his tie and released the first button of his shirt. She rubbed his back as he coughed violently. “Wilfred’s just gone to check on Kate. Rowly? Can you hear me?”

Rowland nodded, falling back exhausted. His ears were ringing but he could hear Edna. He began to take in what was happening around him: people running, shouting, carrying buckets and blankets. Bells, sirens, someone barking orders. The cars had been driven up so that their headlamps could illuminate what the full moon didn’t. He tensed when he saw the clergyman. “What the hell’s the Canon doing here?”

Edna calmed him, stroking the hair away from his forehead. “He came to help with the fire, Rowly. No one’s died.”

“Oh… good.” Rowland closed his eyes still unable to think clearly, but glad. Wilfred returned with a blanket, spoke to him briefly and was called away again. Edna cradled his head in her lap, answering his questions, telling him repeatedly that his nephews were safe. Later he would remember that she kissed him—tenderly—a kiss that was so out of context that he became sure he’d imagined the softness of her lips on his.

By the time Wilfred returned once more, the fog in Rowland’s
mind had cleared to some extent and he’d recovered enough clarity to recognise the bearded gentleman standing by his brother’s side.

“Maguire,” he said weakly, wondering how and from where Wilfred had managed to produce the renowned Sydney surgeon.

Maguire nodded and with no further pleasantry proceeded to examine Rowland. He addressed his findings directly to Wilfred as if his patient were a child. “I’m optimistic that his lungs have not been damaged. His ribs seem to have been bruised by the fall.” Rowland gasped as Maguire poked him to illustrate his point. “The pain when breathing is related to that. And there’s quite a tremendous bump on his head which is why he’s so disoriented. Rope burns on his hands, a few minor lacerations—from falling on the glass, I presume—but miraculously he seems to have avoided any burns.” He stood up, using his hat to dust off his trousers. “However, as I was always taught to be cautious, I want you to keep him quiet, see that he rests, send for me immediately if he loses consciousness or begins to vomit.”

The surgeon moved on to attend the next casualty in what was beginning to resemble a field hospital.

“Give me a hand, Wil.”

“Are you sure you should—”

“Yes. I am.”

Rowland grabbed the hand Wilfred offered him and, slowly, pulled himself to his feet.

“Are you all right?”

Rowland nodded, gazing at the ruined wing where the fire had started and was now successfully confined. The fire fighters were working to keep the flames away from the sandstone walls of the older part of the house. “How’s Kate… and Mother?”

“Mother is coping surprisingly well—more worried about the fire spreading to the stables than anything else. Kate will be all right now that the boys are safe.”

Rowland flinched as another beam crashed in the inferno. “Good.”

“I’m sending Kate, Mother, Lucy and the children to lodgings in town,” Wilfred said grimly. “I want you to go with them.”

Rowland shook his head. “No, I’m all right. I’d rather stay.”

“Rowly, I need to oversee the mop up. I can’t—”

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Rowland said irately.

“Very well, just stay out of the way.” Wilfred replied with his customary gruffness. Even so, he braced his brother’s shoulder before he returned to direct the men now consolidating control of the fire and attempting to finally extinguish its flames.

Edna, who had somehow avoided being sent away with the women and children, slipped her hand into Rowland’s. She looked critically into his face, frowning as she studied the bloody bruise on his brow now visible even against the soot. “Are you sure you’re all right, Rowly?” She reached up to test the temperature of his forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Like the house fell on me… but otherwise fine. Where’s—”

“Milt and Clyde are still helping out with the fire. Harry too, and Lenin is safely asleep in the back seat of your car.” Edna pre-empted a number of questions. She rubbed his arm. “I’m so sorry, Rowly. It must be heartbreaking to watch your family home—”

He placed his arm around her shoulders. For a moment he fancied he could smell her rose scent through the smoke and the smoulder. “The older part of the house is untouched, see,” he said, pointing. “Fortunately, the blessed fire seems to have been confined to that one wing.” He surveyed the destruction. For some reason, he thought of Ernest’s rocking horse in the flames. “I’m just jolly glad we came back from town when we did.”

Edna shuddered. She had been present when Kate had realised both her children were inside the burning building. She’d watched
Kate’s joy and her terror when Clyde had delivered Ewan with the news that Rowland and Ernest were still inside. “You’re right, it could have been a lot worse.”

They watched McNair, the one-armed gardener, limp between the pump and the flames with a wet hessian bag, cursing and beating the fire as if it were a cognisant enemy that could be turned back by the ferocity of his threats.

“Rowly!” Milton spotted them from amongst the men on a bucket line. He handed the tin pail to the next man in the line and ran over to shake his friend’s hand.

Clyde too appeared from somewhere to clap Rowland on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, Rowly. That was too close, mate.”

It was a few hours before Wilfred was satisfied that the fire was completely out. In that time many men stopped to shake Rowland Sinclair’s hand and to confirm for themselves that he had survived what seemed impossible.

The grounds of
Oaklea
were crowded: all the men who worked on the property, Edna Walling and her contractors, neighbours, volunteers, the Yass Fire Brigade and reporters from local papers. Mrs. Kendall returned to her kitchen and, as the sun rose, tray after tray of fresh scones, sandwiches, treacle tarts no longer needed for the picnic races, and pots of tea were sent out to feed the hungry. With the danger over, the mood became almost festive.
Oaklea
, and more importantly, the children, had been saved.

Eventually the Sinclair men and their Sydney guests retired to the intact part of the house, to wash and change. Maguire returned to reassess Rowland’s condition in the light of day. In between prodding and poking, the physician spoke cryptically to Wilfred of meetings and telephone calls. Rowland assumed that the influence of the estimable men of the Old Guard was being called to Wilfred’s aid.

“If Gilbey and Angel don’t pull their heads in, we’ll have to have them shot!” Maguire muttered darkly.

“What?” Rowland demanded.

Wilfred smiled. “You’ll find that Freddie is speaking in jest, Rowly.”

“Of course,” Rowland muttered. As a doctor, Maguire had the bedside manner of a melancholic executioner. Rowland had never even seen the man smile. That he was capable of jest was debatable.

“Yes, yes,” Maguire said, accepting a cigarette and a light from Wilfred. He inhaled deeply and sighed. “We don’t shoot people anymore.”

Wilfred nodded and for a moment both men smoked and contemplated that regrettable fact.

Then the surgeon turned sternly to Rowland. “All frivolity aside, my boy, I’m prescribing bed rest for at least the next twenty-four hours. I do now suspect you may have cracked a rib in that fall, and whilst your lungs do not appear to be damaged, you did inhale a great deal of smoke.” He drew again on his cigarette.

Rowland protested but, in honesty, he felt like he could easily sleep for a day. Any careless breath was still painful and he had a thumping headache. He didn’t bother to put his shirt back on, falling onto the bed the moment Wilfred accompanied Maguire out. He might have slept then if Wilfred had not returned.

“Rowly, may I have a word?” he said taking the armchair beside the bed.

Rowland did not lift his face from the pillow. “What? Now?”

Wilfred cleared his throat. He stared at the livid rope burns on Rowland’s forearms and hands, sustained in lowering Ernest to safety. “I am aware that I have not yet had the opportunity to thank you.”

“For what?” Rowland murmured.

“For pity’s sake, Rowly, you saved my children!”

“Clyde—”

“I’ve already spoken with Mr. Watson Jones.”

“Really? What did he say?”

“Not a great deal. He seemed embarrassed.”

Rowland closed his eyes. “Sounds like Clyde.”

Wilfred struggled for words. “What you did, Rowly…”

“They’re my nephews, Wil.”

“Would you just allow me to thank you?”

“Pleasure, Wil. Now go away and let me sleep.”