Decline in Prophets Read Free Page B

Socialist Workers’ Party. “We were bloody lucky to get out in one piece, you know.”
    Rowland nodded. They had visited Berlin, naively, unwisely. The avant-garde had once been strong in Berlin, and so the city had attracted them, but they found that the classical tastes of Adolf
Hitler had effectively shackled the modernist school. Indeed the political turmoil in which Germany was embroiled had been confronting. Hitler’s Brownshirts roamed the streets in groups,
singing Nazi songs and looking for fights. German communists obliged, and gun battles were commonplace. Rowland and his friends were tourists, but Milton Isaacs was one of their number. The
long-haired poet was everything that was most unpopular in Germany at the time, and he’d had the word Red tattooed across his forehead.
    “It was ugly,” Rowland said, staring at his glass. Germany disturbed him.
    “Good thing you can sprecken de Doych—we would never have got Milt out otherwise.”
    Rowland winced at Clyde’s dreadful rendition of German, but did not bother to correct him.
    “I studied languages at Oxford,” he explained. “Actually I was rather surprised it all came back so easily.”
    “Oh,” said Clyde. “Really?”
    “You’re surprised?”
    Clyde shrugged. “Never considered what you actually studied at University. I thought you’d just gone to play cards and meet the odd girl.”
    “Well, there was a lot of that,” Rowland admitted. “But I did get a degree while I was there.”
    “Turned out to be a handy thing,” Clyde said thoughtfully. “Who would have the thought the King’s English was not enough.” He swirled his scotch. “Kind of an
odd skill for a sheep farmer though.”
    Rowland laughed. The Sinclairs were pastoralists, but he was hardly a sheep farmer. If truth be told, he spent very little time on the Yass property where the family fortune had been founded. He
preferred to reside in Sydney.
    “I had to study something—it was either that or read law.” He recalled that his brother, Wilfred, had been quite keen that he study law.
    “You would have been a bloody awful solicitor.”
    “Good Lord, I wouldn’t have been allowed to actually practise,” Rowland replied, amused by the very thought. Sinclairs did not put up shingles.
    “Banco!” Milton’s voice raised above the murmur in the room.
    “Sounds like Milt’s winning,” Clyde said.
    Rowland looked over. “Splendid. Hope he knows when to stop.”
    Clyde grinned. “Somewhat unlikely. I’ll drag him away in a few minutes.”
    Rowland put down his glass. “I’m going to turn in.” He stood, rubbing his right thigh unconsciously as he retrieved his stick.
    Clyde glanced towards the gaming tables. “I doubt we’ll be long.”
    Rowland made his way to the upper decks where the first class accommodations were located, gritting his teeth against the burning in his leg as he climbed the staircase with his stick over his
shoulder. He did this when no one watched; each time it was easier than the last.
    He shared the luxurious three-bedroom Reynolds Suite with Clyde and Milton. Edna had taken the adjoining stateroom. It was quiet in the corridors—the Depression had seen a decline in the
numbers of first class passengers and so, many of the staterooms were empty. It was in any case quite late.
    Just as he was about to push open the door of his cabin, Rowland caught Edna’s voice on the draught that came in from the promenade just outside. There was something in her tone that made
him stop. He walked to the doors that led out to the deck. He could hear a man’s voice—an Englishman. He could make them out vaguely on the darkened promenade, embracing.
    “Come on sweetheart,” the man cajoled. “You’ve been calling me hither all evening. Don’t be coy now.”
    Rowland bristled, but he hesitated. Edna would not thank him for interrupting her romantic tryst.
    “Orville, stop.”
    The couple began to struggle. Then Edna slapped him, hard. She