Miles Off Course (9 page)

Rowland stirred his tea. “Maybe.” He frowned slightly. “Seems I’ll have to look closely at what this Moran fellow is doing. Did they say what exactly he was up
to?”

“No.” Clyde propped his elbows on the table. “Those blokes aren’t precious Rowly… and they need the work. Sounds to me like Moran scares them—enough for them
to walk off the job rather than stand up to him.”

“You could just sack him,” Milton suggested, as he spooned jam generously onto his scone.

Rowland sipped his tea. “I could, but I want to find Harry first. And if I sack Moran, I’ll have to find someone to bring the cattle back in before the winter.”

Clyde nodded. “Play your cards carefully, mate. The hills are a law unto themselves.”

Rowland checked his watch. “What say I run you home, Clyde? If we leave now you can have dinner with your family. We’ll come and get you on our way out tomorrow.”

Clyde hesitated.

“We could come too if you like,” Edna said, wiping a stray spot of cream which had somehow found its way onto her nose. “I’d like to meet your family, Clyde. I’m
sure they’re curious about us.”

Milton laughed. “Of course they are. They have a right to know who you’re consorting with.”

Clyde began to look a little panicked.

“We’ll introduce ourselves tomorrow when we collect him,” Rowland interceded. “It wouldn’t be polite to descend on the Watson Joneses unannounced.”

Milton rolled his eyes.

Clyde stood hastily. “Yeah okay, let’s go Rowly. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

Rowland entered the dining room of the Batlow Hotel, just as Milton and Edna were being shown to a table. He removed his hat and joined them. Clyde’s parents farmed a
modest soldier settlement block just out of town. He had dropped Clyde at the gate with the assurance that they would pick him up early the next day. As he pulled away an unreasonable number of
children spilled out of the simple cottage to gawk at the departing yellow Mercedes.

The hotel must have been booked out that night for there wasn’t a spare table in the dining room. The establishment was now closed to locals so Rowland presumed the diners, mostly men,
were commercial travellers or itinerants of some sort.

Milton duly produced a map and they studied the route they would take the next day.

“I fear the road may get a bit rough for a while about here,” Rowland murmured, pointing, “though we should make Caves House by lunch.”

“Where are we meeting Mr. Moran?” Edna ignored the map and studied the menu. It was a set meal, but there was a choice of sweet—apple crumble or stewed quince.

“Rules Point.” Rowland moved his finger slightly on the map. “It’s just a little way from Caves House. We can pop down after lunch.” He glanced at the sculptress.
She looked well but he was conscious that they had cut short her convalescence. “But I can meet Moran on my own, Ed. I gather Rules Point is a rather rustic establishment.”

Edna smiled. “I’m perfectly well, Rowly. Mr. Moran doesn’t sound entirely trustworthy or pleasant, I don’t think you should go alone.”

“He works for me,” Rowland reminded her.

“We’re coming with you anyway. A man as important as you should have an entourage.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“We should really order? What does quince taste like?”

T
he cockerels were still crowing when the motor car approached the long drive of
Greenhills
, the block Clyde’s parents farmed. A boy
casting grain to the chickens, and another who was splitting wood, immediately downed tools and pelted up to the Mercedes in bare feet, jumping onto the running board.

“Nan! Look at us, Nan!” they shouted, waving towards the house. “Bruce get up here before he stops… keep driving Mister, Bruce ain’t had a ride yet.”

Rowland was just about to swing the motor car around the cottage so that Bruce, who had emerged from the henhouse with a basket of eggs, could have his ride, when a small woman ran out of the
door beating a pot with a wooden spoon. Clyde came out after her.

Rowland could see her lips moving, but with the roar of the engine, the children yelling excitedly in his ear and the clatter of the spoon against the pot, her words were lost. She didn’t
look pleased.

He brought the engine to idle and turned it off.

Clyde yanked the boys from the running board. “Mum’s going to skin the two of you,” he muttered. “Sorry, Rowly.” He opened the door for Edna.

“Wasn’t there another one?” Rowland asked, slightly concerned that he’d accidentally run down a boy in the bedlam of children and chickens.

“Bruce was smart enough to make himself scarce as soon as he saw Mum with her fighting face on.” Clyde looked pointedly at the two boys who stood sheepishly beside him.

The smaller of them shrugged. “I reckon it was worth it… Blimey, it’s a ripper of a motor.”

Rowland smiled as he slid out from behind the steering wheel. “Your little brother’s got taste, Clyde.” He was always pleased to hear the Mercedes given her due.

“Oh these scallywags aren’t my brothers—they’re my sister Mary’s kids—Mum keeps an eye on them when Mary’s working. This here’s Tom, and
that’s young Frank.”

Milton vaulted out of the car with such flourish that the boys looked like they might applaud.

Clyde glanced cautiously over his shoulder. “She’s stopped beating the pot,” he said quietly. “It might be safe to introduce you.”

“Lead on.”

By the time they reached her, Clyde’s mother had relinquished the pot, returned the wooden spoon to the pocket of her pinafore apron and was smoothing the tendrils of greying hair which
had escaped the tight knot on her head. She gave her grandsons a look that sent them scampering back to their chores, and regarded Rowland with a straight back and square shoulders.

A young woman had now also emerged from the little house. Her face was a very rounded version of Clyde’s, a smiling nervous presence in her mother’s shadow. Clyde hastily introduced
his mother and his sister, Eliza.

“Mr. Sinclair.” Mrs. Watson Jones nodded, glaring at her daughter who had dropped into an awkward half-curtsey. “Our Clyde has spoken of you often. It’s very kind of you
to call.” She moved her eyes to Milton and then Edna. Her expression did not soften. “You’d better come in then, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“I don’t think we’ll have time…” Clyde started.

“Nonsense, Clyde,” Edna was already following his mother into the house. “We have a few minutes, don’t we, Rowly?”

“Er—yes, of course.”

The cottage was very warm. The table had been covered with a starched white tablecloth and set for tea, and the kettle was boiling on the hotplate of a small cast-iron Metters stove. The
crockery was simple and a perfect teacake sat in the middle of the table beside a plain vase crammed with roses and lavender.

“Ma’s got out her wedding linen for you,” Clyde whispered. He sighed. “Rowly could I have a word?”

“There’ll be enough time to talk to Rowly later,” Edna said quietly. “Your mother’s gone to so much trouble.”

The room was smaller for the fact that there were now so many assembled within it. The walls inside were essentially unadorned except for a picture of the Madonna and a crucifix. Rowland
wondered briefly about the absence of Clyde’s artwork.

Young Frank squeezed into the room with an armload of wood, which he deposited into a makeshift bucket fashioned from a kerosene tin. The adults sat down at the table.

“I’m afraid Clyde’s father is away at the moment,” Mrs. Watson Jones murmured. “It’s a shame… if we’d known you were coming,”—she
paused to swat Clyde about the head—“Joe would have liked to meet you.” She brought a large enamel teapot to the table and proceeded to pour.

“This trip was somewhat spur of the moment, Mrs. Watson Jones,” Rowland offered in Clyde’s defence, as Milton poorly restrained a smile.

Mrs. Watson Jones sniffed as she cut cake. “Still, it is good of you to come, Mr. Sinclair. I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know that at least one of my boys has regular
work.”

Rowland’s brow arched slightly. Clyde worked hard on his painting and got the occasional commission, but it was a stretch to call it regular work.

Clyde met his eye uneasily.

“I’ve always told my boys to find a good employer and to work hard and be loyal. The world hasn’t changed so much that a good, loyal worker isn’t valued. Do I speak the
truth, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Er… indeed.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, Clyde knows what a good employer he’s found in you, and you’ll not find him wanting in diligence, or good character.” Mrs. Watson Jones
refilled Rowland’s teacup.

“Mum…” Clyde protested desperately.

Rowland kept his face unreadable. Apparently Clyde worked for him.

Milton broke the silence. “Clyde’s always been an impeccable character.”

Eliza giggled, stifled it quickly and glanced anxiously at her mother.

Mrs. Watson Jones regarded Milton and Edna sharply. “Do you both work for Mr. Sinclair, too?”

Edna smiled winningly. “Oh, it seems everybody works for Rowly.”

Mrs. Watson Jones frowned, clearly unamused by the response.

“I assure you, Mrs. Watson Jones, Clyde is a most valuable… employee. I couldn’t… do… without him.” Rowland wondered what exactly it was that Clyde was
supposed to do for him.

“I must say we’d never heard of a gentleman employing a man just for such a thing.”

Milton turned away to cough.

Rowland looked to Clyde for help.

“Some would call it a sinful extravagance,”—Mrs. Watson Jones was warming to her subject—“to have a man on call for such a thing.”

Clyde spoke up. “I told you, Mum, Mr. Sinclair is very particular about his motor and not every garage knows what to do with a car like his.”

Rowland relaxed—a mechanic. Clyde was masquerading as his personal mechanic for some reason. He should probably help. “I’ve never met anyone who knows as much about motor cars
as your son, Mrs. Watson Jones.”

Their hostess smiled faintly. “Our Clyde was always tinkering when he was a boy, took my clock apart I don’t know how many times. We never expected he’d make it his living, he
was so keen to go into the Church…” She sighed heavily and Clyde rolled his eyes. Mrs. Watson Jones pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid Clyde may have become too fond of
his creature comforts now.” She looked accusingly at Rowland.

The awkwardness was broken by the entry of a young man, who by features and stance was obviously a Jones.

“Jim!” Clyde exclaimed with ‘thank God’ in his voice.

The man put down the swag he’d been carrying over his shoulder.

“Clyde, I was hoping you’d be here. Oh...” Jim took in the crowd around the table. “Mornin’.”

Clyde introduced his brother.

“Well, Mr. Sinclair, most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Jim shook Rowland’s hand enthusiastically. “That’s a mighty fine motor car you have out there. We
don’t often see Jerry cars out here. She’d put a few noses out of joint I expect.”

“Every now and then,” Rowland admitted.

“Well, she’s a fine machine regardless. You mind if I have a gander under the hood?”

“Not at all.”

“Come out and have a look now, Jimbo. We should make tracks anyway, Row… Mr. Sinclair,” Clyde said, seizing the opportunity to make a graceful exit.

Rowland glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you’re right.” He stood. “Mrs. Watson Jones, thank you for your hospitality—it’s been a long overdue pleasure to meet
you. I feel privileged to count your son among my… staff.”