Decline in Prophets (25 page)

“Daddy calls him, ‘Rowly’s bloody dog’.”

Rowland laughed. “Thank you for bringing him up to me, Ernie.”

“Don’t tell Mummy—I’m not ’sposed to.”

“I’ll cover for you.”

“What are you two plotting?” Wilfred walked in unexpectedly. He glanced at Lenin who was now circling into the bedclothes. “Oh, I see.”

Rowland dug into the pocket of his trousers. “I have something for you, Ernie.”

In truth, he had an entire trunk of gifts for his nephews—he and his friends had reverted to childhood and become somewhat carried away in the magnificent toy stores of London and New
York. But the trunk could wait until Christmas. He handed a flattened spool to the boy.

“Thank you very much, Uncle Rowly.” Ernest looked at the gift perplexed.

Rowland took the toy back from him and demonstrated. “It’s called a yo-yo, I believe. All the rage in New York. Here, you try.”

They watched Ernest struggle with the yo-yo for a few minutes.

“Why don’t you go outside and practise, Ernie,” Wilfred suggested, grimacing as the wooden spool crashed against the floorboards yet again. “I’ll take your uncle to
visit with your grandmother for a while… oh, and take Rowly’s bloody dog with you.”

Ernest did as he was told, studiously throwing the yo-yo into the floor and trying to jerk it back as he walked out.

“How’s Mother?” Rowland asked, as he knotted his tie. He gathered that was what Wilfred had come to speak to him about.

“She’s no better.”

“I hadn’t really hoped for that, Wil,” Rowland assured him quietly.

“Still, Rowly…,” Wilfred frowned.

“It’s all right, Wil. I know what to expect by now. I didn’t imagine Mother had suddenly recovered whilst I was abroad.”

“I guess not,” Wilfred replied.

Rowland finished with his tie. Somehow he found his mother’s particular malady easier to accept than Wilfred.

“Is Mother coming up to Sydney?” he asked as he buttoned his waistcoat. Elisabeth Sinclair hadn’t returned to
Woodlands House
since Aubrey had been listed amongst the
fallen of Ypres.

“Of course,” Wilfred said, a little grimly. “The war’s been over for fourteen years. Mrs. Kendall will come along to attend to her.”

Rowland pulled on his jacket and followed his brother to their mother’s rooms.

A handsome woman, Elisabeth Sinclair belied her sixty-seven years. She still dressed fashionably, and meticulously, her snowy hair coiffed elegantly. It was only her eyes that hinted the toll
taken by years and loss. For Rowland, there was a bittersweet gratification in the way those eyes elated when he walked in. It was not really him that she was so glad to see, but still, it made her
happy.

“Aubrey, you’ve come home at last. Where on earth have you been?”

It was many years since his mother had recognised Rowland as anyone other than Aubrey Sinclair. It had been easier to forget that her youngest son ever existed than to accept the death of his
brother. Perhaps it was also easier for Rowland to be Aubrey than to accept her disappointment that he was not.

Rowland sat with his mother for a while. He did not ask or expect that she recognise him. Elisabeth Sinclair spoke to him of music and polo, and all those things that Aubrey had loved. Rowland
didn’t say a great deal. It was just his presence, his countenance, with its startling resemblance to Aubrey’s that the old woman needed.

In time, he escorted her down to dinner.

Rowland seated his mother and took his own place at the formally set table. He winced. His muscles were starting to stiffen, his body protesting the punishment of the polo field. The ache had
returned to his wounded leg. Aside from having been battered by ball and mallet, and knocked from his horse, he was unused to riding. Reacquainting himself with the saddle at a gallop had probably
not been the best idea, but then, it had not been his idea.

Wilfred invited him to say grace.

“No—you go ahead. Just make it short.”

Ernest’s jaw dropped.

Wilfred glanced at Kate. “Are you sure you want him to be Ewan’s godfather?”

Kate smiled. “I’m sure Rowly will do a wonderful job.”

“Of course, I will,” Rowland replied. “My godfather taught me to play poker. A fine tradition.”

Kate assumed he was joking and laughed. Wilfred appeared less sure. In her fashion, Elisabeth Sinclair ignored any conversation inconsistent with the belief that she was sitting beside
Aubrey.

Wilfred said grace, and they broke bread over talk of the approaching christening. An unfaltering hostess, Kate asked Rowland of his time abroad. He told her of London and Paris, of Berlin and
Cairo, consciously avoiding mention of his troubled journey home. Neither did he speak of Ypres in his mother’s presence.

Young Ernest talked gravely of the impending arrival of Father Christmas in Yass’ main department store, and Wilfred discussed the sorry state of wool prices.

Once the ladies and Ernest had retired, Wilfred casually informed his brother that he had purchased a neighbouring farm. The proprietors had apparently been less able to weather the decline in
wool prices than the Sinclairs.

“You can come out with me tomorrow to have a look at it.”

“And the owners?” Rowland asked, uncomfortable with the notion. These people were their neighbours.

“Left the property some time ago, Rowly. Poor Jefferies hung himself in June.” Wilfred lit his pipe frowning. Rowland flinched, aware that his brother had known Stanley Jefferies
well. “He’d been very exposed in the stock market—lost almost everything,” Wilfred went on grimly. “Clarice tried to keep things afloat for a couple of
months—but it got too much for her. Selling to us allowed her to walk away with a little dignity. Enough money for a house in the city and a small income. It wouldn’t have been so if
the bank had foreclosed.”

“What about James?” Rowland had been at school with James Jefferies.

“He’s a solicitor now—been living in Sydney for some time… not happy about losing the property, but that’s hardly our fault.” He looked at Rowland over the
top of his bifocals. “This is business, Rowly. We helped them while we could but they were not viable.”

Rowland nodded, resigned. “You know what you’re doing, Wil.”

The following morning they set out for what had been the Jefferies’ property, whilst Kate and the nanny took the youngest Sinclairs into town to see the Christmas
pantomime.

The Jefferies homestead was an overbearing federation building with an excess of leadlight and unnecessary finials. It had been extended several times. An elaborately engraved shingle swung from
a post at the entrance declaring the property name as
Emoh Ruo
. Wilfred was indifferent to the house—it would probably end up as a manager’s residence.

They followed the road which divided the property, surveying paddocks and assessing fence lines. Wilfred pointed out the water sources, the large spring-fed dams and bores marked by iron
windmills. Rowland gathered that it was the water that interested his brother. The countryside had suffered a couple of dry summers. Reliable water could mean a significant difference to yield.

“Half the property is under crop,” Wilfred motioned towards the western paddocks. “Wheat and barley mainly… of course there’s still not much point in growing wheat
but we’re putting in more silos.”

“Uh huh.”

“We’ve picked up some properties in Gundagai and I’ve purchased a snow lease for next season… it’ll probably be a good idea to put in a few hundred acres of
oats.”

Rowland nodded vaguely. Wilfred was just updating him, not asking his opinion. Apparently the Sinclairs were expanding.

The Rolls-Royce pulled up outside a collection of machinery sheds. The chauffeur opened the door for Wilfred. Rowland let himself out.

“What’s in here?” Rowland asked.

“Possibly the reason why poor Jefferies went under in the end.”

Wilfred took out a key and unlocked the padlocks that secured the largest shed. “Stanley had to have the latest tractors and headers. Always buying new equipment and then trading the
moment something bigger came onto the market.” He pulled open the doors. Rowland followed him inside.

“He bought this about two years ago—it’s barely been out of the shed. I’ll have to put the word out and find a buyer.”

Rowland gazed up at the Gipsy Moth. The silver wings extended from a two-tone fuselage in British racing green and white. The name
Rule Britannia
was emblazoned near the tailplane. She
was magnificent.

“No, don’t do that,” he said.

“Why?”

“We should keep her.”

“Whatever for? What could you possibly want with a plane?”

“I’ll learn to fly her.”

“Why?”

“I might crash her otherwise.”

“Don’t be smart, Rowly,” Wilfred said curtly. “Why do you want to fly a plane?”

“Do I have to have a reason, Wil?” Rowland said, climbing onto the lower wing and into the cockpit. He inspected the instrument panel. She was beautiful.

“God forbid you fail to indulge every passing whim,” Wilfred muttered.

“Don’t sell the plane,” Rowland said again.

Wilfred studied him disapprovingly. “For pity’s sake, Rowly, you’re nearly twenty-eight—isn’t it about time you started acting responsibly… found some
direction…?”

Rowland refused to be drawn. He tapped the dash. “As luck would have it she has a compass, Wil.”

“One good reason, Rowly,” Wilfred demanded. “Just give me one good reason why we need a plane.”

Rowland had now climbed onto the fuselage to examine the fuel tank housed in the bulging airfoil that formed the centre section of the upper wing.

“We don’t want to be the last people to get one, Wil,” he said smiling. “How would it look?”

He climbed down and stood next to his brother. “She could make the trip to Sydney in an hour. That’s got to be useful.”

Wilfred looked at
Rule Britannia
dubiously. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Believe me, I’m much more likely to die in a polo match,” Rowland replied ruefully. It had taken him considerable willpower to get out of bed that morning.

Wilfred seemed to give up. “Fine,” he said shaking his head. “God knows, once you get some cockeyed notion into your head…”

“Capital!”

Wilfred took off his glasses. “Sadly, Stanley Jefferies’ passing has left another vacancy, Rowly.”

“Oh yes?” Rowland murmured, preoccupied with the aircraft. “God-awful name…” He wondered if it would be bad luck to change it.

“His position on the board of Dangar’s hasn’t been filled as yet.”

Rowland nodded absently. Dangar, Gedye and Company was some kind of wool-broking firm, in which the Sinclairs had a significant shareholding.

“I want you to take his place on the board.”

Rowland stopped. Of course—he should have known—this was a transaction then. “Wil, what would I know about sheep?”

“About time you learned—the company’s moving further into mechanisation—tractors, generators, even refrigeration. You might find it interesting.”

“I doubt it.”

“It’s just a quarterly meeting,” Wilfred began to polish his spectacles. “It’ll do you good to have some form of responsibility.”

Rowland regarded his brother coldly. “I don’t need a job, Wil.”

Wilfred smiled faintly. “You know, Kingsford Smith is setting up some sort of flying school later this year.” He put his glasses back on. “Oversubscribed as you’d expect,
but I could have a word…”

Rowland swore.

Wilfred ignored him.

Rowland thought momentarily about telling his brother what he could do with Dangar, Gedye and Company, and then he looked again at the Gipsy Moth. She really was a glorious machine. He laughed.
Maybe Wilfred knew him better than he thought. He didn’t have a chance of getting into the Kingsford Smith School without his brother’s influence.

“Fine then, I’ll sit on your board until they realise the bloody tea lady knows more about running companies than I do.”

“I knew you’d come round, Rowly.”

Rowland wasn’t listening. He was back in the cockpit, convinced that he had just agreed to pay dearly for the
Rule Britannia
. It was not something he could help, however.

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