Miles Off Course (20 page)

“You’re getting a bit above yourself, Clyde.” Keenan looked from Clyde to the car. “All right, I’ll keep an eye on ’er… but you lot had better take
care of me horses.”

And so it was with some misgivings that Rowland left his car in Lawrence Keenan’s reluctant care and rode out with the others. “She’ll be right, Rowly.” Clyde placed a
reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Laurie’s a cantankerous old bugger, but he’s all right.”

Moran and the three stockmen who had come across for the Sports Day rode through about a half hour later. Moran appeared to have forgotten his earlier hostility and was, if anything, congenial.
He led an extra horse which carried provisions to replenish the camp’s supplies. He was particularly conciliatory towards the ladies.

“Just let me know if you’d like to stop awhile, ladies,” he said, smiling. “It’s quite a ride. The Sinclair lease is one of the farthest from here, just before Blue
Waterholes.”

Sarah Brent sniffed. “You’ll find, Mr. Moran, that Miss Higgins and I are more than capable of keeping up. I was born in the mountains, you know, and in the saddle when I was just
months old.”

The other stockmen Moran introduced as Jacob Crane, Bob Fisher and Clancy Glover. They were unsmiling men who spoke only when absolutely necessary, and even then the speech was terse and
impatient as if the conversation was keeping them from some other matter of greater importance. Rowland spoke with them anyway. He started with Crane. “Did you work with Harry Simpson, Mr.
Crane?”

Crane uttered a barely audible grunt that sounded vaguely affirmative.

“Do you have any thoughts on what happened to him?”

“He took off.”

“And why would he have done that?”

Crane shrugged. “In their blood ain’t it? Can’t turn him into a white man just by makin’ him boss… damn fool thing to do.”

“Crane!” Moran brought his horse up alongside. “You may wanna remember that we all work for Mr. Sinclair.”

Crane glowered at Rowland. “Didn’t mean nothin’, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland shrugged it off. “Was he seen at all, afterwards?” He turned his head to Moran, remembering what Clyde’s brother had told him. “The neighbouring lease belongs to
O’Shea, doesn’t it?”

Moran nodded warily.

“Did you ask him if he’d seen Simpson?”

“Never met O’Shea or his men. They keep to themselves.”

Rowland’s face did not betray him, did not reveal that he knew this to be untrue. Why was Moran hiding his association with O’Shea?

They stopped to water the horses at one of the small streams which networked the plain. Their canteens did not yet require refilling as the day’s chill had kept thirst at bay. Many of the
streams were just trickles, narrow enough to jump. Occasionally it was necessary to walk the horses through the cold water.

“Rowly, look!” Edna pointed excitedly. A lone young stallion appeared on the plain ahead. The muted sunlight glistened on its glossy black coat as it lifted its head, alert but
unafraid. It studied them for a moment before turning and heading on, picking its way in a jagged line across the ground. Moran pulled up his horse.

“Bog,” he said. “The brumbies know how to get through it, but we’ll have to ride round. Could lose a horse if we get stuck.” He turned his mount west and motioned
them to follow. The detour took them on a wide berth around the boggy ground. They picked up the fence line again and rode along it to the gate and, in doing so, rejoined the trail. Sarah Brent
rode beside Edna, explaining her book.

“But what made you choose a monkey, Sarah?” Edna asked. “Have you owned one yourself?”

“No, of course not,” the writer replied. “The monkey, Percy, is the key to the underlying message of the novel. It symbolises the selfish frivolity of the upper classes. A
victim of fashionable excess, taken from his natural environs to be paraded for the amusement of the idle rich, and yet the hero of this tale.”

Edna bit her lower lip and nodded sagely. “Yes, of course. I suppose that’s why they had to bring the monkey.”

“Of course they had to bring the monkey!” Sarah replied. “Percy is a simian metaphor for the best and worst of humankind.” The writer became quite fierce.
“Mysteries, as a rule, have no claim on literary subtly, but one does not need to lower one’s intellectual standards simply because the genre has been underwritten in the
past.”

Rowland thought he’d better help Edna. He pulled up his horse till they caught up. “Miss Brent, I was hoping to have a word with you.”

She looked at him intently. Her face softened. “About Aubrey?”

Rowland let his horse fall into step beside hers. “You seem to have known my brother much better than I did.”

The writer sighed. “Perhaps. He had a prodigious talent, you know. I tried to guide it.”

“Miss Higgins mentioned that. I didn’t know he wrote.”

“Oh yes.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “He might have been great if he’d survived, and if he’d been willing to mix outside his comforts.”

“Outside his comforts?” Rowland was a little puzzled.

“To test his character amongst the working classes—to truly understand people, one must walk in their shoes. I suggested he adopt a cover and go into service, but I’m afraid he
did not take the idea seriously.”

“And going into service would have…?”

“Given him a perspective outside the privileged one to which he had been born. Not all artists are born to struggle, Mr. Sinclair, but struggle we must if we are to truly unleash and then
realise the potential of our talent.”

“I see.”

Milton laughed loudly from a little distance behind them. Whether his mirth was unrelated, or whether it was the idea of a Sinclair in service that amused him, was hard to determine.

“There are hardships other than poverty, Sarah,” Edna said quietly.

Sarah Brent agreed. “Yes, there is of course gender, but being a woman is not something one can experience if one is not born to it.”

Rowland said nothing. The conversation was getting dangerously close to the subject of gender equality once again.

The ageing writer looked sharply at Rowland. “You really had no idea that his muse was literary?”

“I was a child when he died. It was not something he confided in me.”

“Yes, of course. It’s a pity. You may have understood one another.”

Rowland nodded. It was more than a pity.

“I believe I have one of Aubrey’s manuscripts among my things in Sydney. He sent it to me for critique just before he enlisted.”

Rowland looked at her, unsure of what to say.

Sarah paused in thought for a moment. “I could send it to you if you would like to have it.”

Rowland cleared his throat. “Yes… I would like to have it… very much.”

“I should have sent it to your parents when he died, I suppose, but I wasn’t sure what Aubrey might have wanted, and I was abroad myself…”

“I’ll have it copied and returned to you,” Rowland offered. The manuscript had after all been entrusted to the writer.

“No, Mr. Sinclair, you send me the copy. Your family should have the original written in dear Aubrey’s own hand. Your mother would find comfort in it, I’m sure.”

Rowland’s eyes clouded just faintly. Elisabeth Sinclair’s mental health had never recovered from her middle son’s death. Even now, she refused to accept it, preferring instead
to forget the existence of Rowland so that she could call him “Aubrey”. He was unsure what she’d do if faced with Aubrey’s manuscript. In the end, “Thank you,”
was all he said.

I
t was late afternoon by the time they first sighted the modest hut on the Sinclair lease. It stood, or leaned, beside a couple of very large
boulders and an old snow gum which had seen better days. Originally built in the last decade, successive gangs of stockmen had added to the structure over the years. Named Rope’s End, the hut
was by no means as elaborate as its counterpart on Long Plain from which they had collected the horses. It was the most basic of buildings, constructed of split logs and ripple iron. There was a
lean-to for firewood and another which housed saddles and equipment as well as a dozen cattle dogs on chains. The other four men who made up Moran’s crew sat around a large fire pit outside
the hut.

Moran and Rowland rode up first and dismounted.

Moran made the introductions. “These here are the Cassidy brothers: Joe, Blue, Andy and the big one’s Lofty. Boys, this is Mr. Sinclair… he owns the lease.”

The four men looked Rowland up and down for a moment and then laughed.

“Yeah, and I’m the king of bloody England,” Joe Cassidy said, grinning.

Blue Cassidy removed his hat to expose a shock of citrus-coloured hair. He bowed to his brother. “Your majesty…”

“Fellas…” Moran started.

Joe Cassidy slapped him on the back. “Come off it, Ned, this bloke doesn’t even look as fancy as that joker you brought out here with his snake bite potion.” He looked at
Rowland. “What are you selling, mate?”

Rowland was caught a little off guard. “Actually, I’m not…”

The rest of the party caught up and approached the hut. Joe looked up, squinting at Milton who had chosen to ride across Long Plain in a green velvet jacket and crimson cravat. “Jesus,
Mary and Joseph… you’ve brought the whole flaming gypsy caravan with you!”

Rowland looked back at his companions and sighed. Milton perched on his horse adjusting his cravat as if he were posing for some heroic painting; Edna was beautiful, but in Kate’s riding
habit she did look like she was embarking on a fox hunt; and Sarah Brent, riding side-saddle with greying wisps of her crowning glory blowing out on the wind. As a group they did conjure images of
fortune tellers and crystal balls. He could see Joe Cassidy’s point. Only Clyde looked vaguely like he belonged on Long Plain.

Rowland offered Joe Cassidy his hand. “Rowland Sinclair, Mr. Cassidy. I’ll be happy to introduce the caravan once they dismount.”

Cassidy looked at Moran who nodded slowly. Rowland’s hand was extended. The stockman shook it reluctantly. His manner darkened. It seemed he may in fact have preferred it if Rowland had
some snake oil to sell. His brothers likewise lost their good humour with the realisation that the man who owned the lease was among them.

Joe Cassidy did not ask what Rowland was doing on the plain and when he spoke to him next, his voice was surly and brittle. “You’ll have to give us a minute to clean out the
hut… weren’t expectin’ no visitors.”

“Of course,” Rowland replied evenly, as he surveyed the hard unkempt men before him. He was beginning to get an idea of the hostility Harry Simpson had faced as overseer. There was
something going on here. Wilfred had sensed it; so obviously had Harry. They’d have to be careful.

Moran’s men scrabbled around inside the hut. Milton grinned as they all heard the clink of bottles being collected amongst poorly restrained cursing. Rowland smiled too. He didn’t
expect there was much to do at Rope’s End once the livestock had been seen to.

They led the horses down to the stream, which ran not far from the hut, and allowed them to drink as they waited for the stockmen to finish their housekeeping. Sarah Brent was in excellent
spirits and chattered happily about the importance of the High Country in the identity of the nation.

On their return, Moran showed them inside the hut. Though it was basic, Rope’s End was large. There were two rooms, but the opening between them was so wide that they might as well have
been one. The walls had been lined with old newspapers to plug the gaps between the timbers, and the ceiling was a canopy of hessian sacks. The floor, also constructed of split logs, was uneven. A
stone fireplace took up one entire wall. A mirror and a green enamel medicine cabinet were propped on its mantel behind a kerosene lamp and several bottles of Eichorn’s Snakebite and Blood
Poisoning Cure.

“I’m afraid the ladies won’t find much by way of creature comforts here,” Moran murmured.

“Don’t be concerned, Mr. Moran—we won’t be staying long,” Rowland replied. “I just want to have a look around, see if I can’t pick up Simpson’s
trail somehow.”