Edna relaxed. “I’m not a Communist either, Rowly. I really do understand… and it is a good idea—an exhibition about the horrible reality of what’s happening to Germany under Hitler’s Fascists.”
“I’ll have to make it sound like a collection of mountain landscapes painted on a walking holiday through the Pyrenees, of course.”
“Whatever for?”
“I was considering putting my family connections to good use for once.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“I don’t need to convince the Socialists and trade unions that the Nazis are dangerous, Ed. They know. And even if they didn’t, Milt and Clyde will tell them. But if I play my cards carefully, every influential conservative in New South Wales will attend the opening of Wilfred Sinclair’s little brother’s exhibition.”
Edna’s eyes widened. “That’s brilliant! You’re brilliant.”
“I like to think so,” he said gravely.
She shoved him, laughing now.
“I do wonder if I ought to put this off for the time being, though,” he added pensively.
“Why?”
“Milt… this issue with White’s murder. Maybe it’s not the time to be preoccupied with another fight… or a car race, for that matter.”
Edna shook her head. “Milt knows you’d drop everything to help him if it came to that. But he’ll tell you himself that we have to do whatever we can to make sure people realise how truly dangerous the Nazis are.”
“You don’t think I should return to my corner after all, then?” His eyes glinted.
Poking him playfully, Edna conceded the inconsistency of her advice. “It’s not polite to hold a lady to what she’s said nearly an entire conversation ago!”
“Evidently. I do beg your pardon.” In truth, he was comforted by her change of heart—it made his own uncertainty seem less culpable.
She continued airily. “The world doesn’t stop so we can deal with one thing at a time. Life’s more an all-in brawl than one of your very proper boxing matches.”
“You might have to explain that,” Rowland said, laughing.
“A single identifiable opponent is an unrealistic luxury,” she replied with conviction. “As is an umpire to make sure everything’s sporting, that you all shake hands, adjust your ties and have a cup of tea afterwards.”
“Referee.”
“What?”
“They’re called referees. And I believe you’ll find that pugilism is not quite so genteel.”
Edna rolled her eyes. “Milt’s already spoken about what we saw in Germany at Trades Hall and Speakers’ Corner. He’ll be delighted you’re doing the same with an audience of toffs. This isn’t just a Communist fight.”
Rowland kissed the sculptress’ hand. “I’d best weigh in then.”
“Shall we make ourselves presentable for this party?” she asked as she stood.
Rowland glanced at his watch. “As I said, you look smashing.”
“Well you look like you’re wearing a drop sheet!” She ran her eyes archly over the variety of colours on his waistcoat and the streak of green in his hair. “Go and make yourself look dashing, while I round up the others.”
Rowland did as she directed, returning half an hour later in a dinner suit and with his hair free of paint. Edna had also changed into a gown she had not planned to wear that night, but which, at least, was not the worse for Rowland’s brush. Clyde was waiting with her.
“Milt’s gone on ahead with your mother, Rowly,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his dinner jacket. Clyde had never become accustomed to what he considered polite society’s obsession with dress-ups. “She was getting anxious that we were running late—Milt thought it best…”
“Yes. That’s good of him,” Rowland agreed. Milton seemed to bring out the best in his mother. She was almost girlish in the poet’s company and Milton, having been brought up by his grandmother, was particularly kind to Elisabeth Sinclair.
Smiling, Rowland wondered what his conservative brother would think of their mother’s friendship with the disreputable Communist. Still, Wilfred was no longer quite as censorious of his brother’s set as he once had been.
The venue for the evening’s event was the Maroubra Speedway itself. A grand marquee had been erected on the grassed area at the centre of the concave track, the acoustics of the graded cement bowl proving ideal for a twenty-piece orchestra. Rowland parked the Mercedes within the cordonned area reserved for vehicles taking part in the invitational. Running slightly late, theirs was the last car to arrive and so the gaggle of newspaper photographers had no other distraction.
“What the devil!” Rowland blanched under the onslaught of flashing cameras as he made his way around to open Edna’s door. Her emergence seemed to only intensify the explosions of light. When Clyde alighted there was a little confusion as the pack moved their focus.
“They’re not sure which one of you is Rowland Sinclair,” Edna whispered.
Rowland grabbed her hand. “Let’s go before they realise.” The strategy might have worked if Clyde had not called out, “Hey Rowly, where are you going, mate?”
Edna laughed as Rowland groaned. Unable, within the bounds of decorum, to do anything else, they posed for photographs by the Mercedes. Edna sparkled in the spotlight, Rowland looked, at best, bemused, and Clyde tried to hide behind the car. The photographers made requests: Edna on Rowland’s arm, Clyde and Rowland leaning on the grille, Edna kissing Rowland’s cheek. With all this they complied relatively amicably, until Rowland was asked to raise his arm in a Fascist salute. He said nothing, glaring at the offending photographer, his face suddenly dark, his anger undisguised. The cameraman took a photograph of that instead, and Rowland’s temper flashed in return. The exchange may have escalated if Milton had not appeared.
“Rowly, there you are!” The poet pushed his way through the media huddle. “Are you aware the prime minister’s here? He’s dancing with that American actress. Frisky old blighter!”
The photographers instantly lost interest in Rowland Sinclair and his Mercedes.
“Thank heavens for Lyons,” Rowland murmured, as they were finally able to make their way unmolested towards the marquee.
Milton grinned. “It might not have been the prime minister,” he said, winking. “Could have just been some short bloke with white hair dancing with his wife. I’m not really sure…”
“A perfectly understandable mistake,” Rowland assured him.
“JACKO—THE BROADCASTING KOOKABURRA”
Who has not heard Jacko, the broadcasting Kookaburra. Surely no picture fan has missed his merry chuckle, which acts as introduction to so many Australian films. Now we have the story of his life narrated interestingly by his owner, Dr. Brooke Nicholls, and charmingly illustrated by Miss Dorothy Wall. We find it a little hard to make up our minds as to whether this story is meant for children or grown-ups. We certainly think it will be read as eagerly by the one as by the other. Jacko must be easily the most famous bird in existence, for he has broadcast, he has appeared in more films than has any human star, his laugh has been recorded for the gramophone, and he has made a 4,000 miles caravan tour of Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, laughing heartily to illustrate his master’s lectures on nature. His master’s is hardly the word, for
Jacko is such a valuable bird that his owner is very much his servant. His value lies particularly in his intelligence, for Jacko has learned to laugh by request, and no wild Kookaburra ever laughs except when he feels like it.
Albany Advertiser, 1933
____________________________________
The marquee had been decorated with paper lanterns and great sheaves of blue gum leaves, which surrounded the golden banksia flowers wired onto supporting poles, and scented the air with the fragrance of eucalypt. Advertising billboards for various fuel and tyre companies were tastefully displayed beside Red Cross banners. Fondant automobiles raced around the five tiers of a massive cake displayed on a linen-draped table
at the centre of the marquee. In dinner suits and evening gowns, the racers were indistinguishable from the motor enthusiasts, philanthropists and dilettantes who made up the crowd.
“Aubrey, finally!” Elisabeth Sinclair greeted her son with relief and mild disapprobation. “I sent Mr. Isaacs to look for you.”
“He’d been waylaid by photographers, Mrs. Sinclair,” Milton said in Rowland’s defence. “Your boy’s a celebrity now.”
Elisabeth smoothed Rowland’s lapel. “I would prefer he be uncelebrated and punctual.”
Rowland laughed, pleased with how well his mother seemed. This was the most assured he’d seen her in years. A nurse stood within arm’s reach as always. This evening it was Sister Kathleen O’Hara, a stout sensible woman of Irish stock who had, in light of the occasion, swapped her uniform for an elaborately frilled gown from an era thankfully past.
The formalities began with a welcome address by the President of the New South Wales Light Car Club, who outlined the rules of the endurance event. The contestants would compete in teams of three cars, one from each of three weight divisions, completing two hundred laps of the track apiece. All this Rowland knew. He was more curious to see who else had been conscripted for the race. He had heard rumours of international racers.
The radio station 2GB was broadcasting live from the marquee and Australian Cinesound was recording the event on film.
Various sponsors took their turn at the microphone and the race trophy was unveiled with abundant fanfare. The extravagant gold cup had been fashioned, in a nod to the speedway’s heyday, as a replica of the “Lucky Devil” Cup which had been awarded in the past. The new trophy was rather unimaginatively dubbed the “Lucky Devil II” to somewhat subdued commendation.
“The last bloke to win the Lucky Devil crashed and died on the speedway soon after,” Milton informed them under his breath. “Let’s hope the Lucky Devil II is less of an exercise in irony.”
To assist in the task of announcing the contestants, the star power of an international luminary had been enlisted. Jacko the Broadcasting Kookaburra, whose distinctive laugh heralded Radio Australia’s programs, was introduced to applause and cheers as the honorary patron of the Maroubra Invitational. Perched securely upon a steering wheel inside his cage, he oversaw the proceedings quite silently. Indeed, Jacko appeared to be asleep.
The announcements were made nonetheless.
The teams had supposedly been drawn in lots, and yet there was a surprising even-handedness in their composition. Celebrities, experienced racers, locals and women seemed to be equitably distributed.
“Flynn?” Clyde murmured when the name was read out with that of Rowland Sinclair and Miss Joan Richmond.
“Ed says he’s a film actor of some sort,” Milton whispered in reply, having just made the same enquiry of Edna.
“I met him at the Cinesound studio last year,” the sculptress said quietly. “He’s very handsome.”
“Well that’ll be useful on the racetrack,” Rowland muttered.
After catching the eye of Cinesound filmmaker Ken Hall, Edna had, over the last couple of years, secured a number of minor parts on screen. As the men she lived with had never considered films art, they treated her forays into the form, and the actors who inevitably accompanied her home, with a kind of amused indifference.
With Joan Richmond, Rowland was himself acquainted, through the social networks of the establishment. Having won the British 1000 miles race in 1932, her abilities as a driver were beyond reproach.
“Rowly, give me your notebook.” Milton held out his hand.
“My what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t have it. I need a notebook.”
Rowland handed over the slim leather-bound artist’s journal, wondering what on earth Milton wished to draw.
The poet set to work making a list.
“What are you doing?”
“Just jotting down the names of your competition,” Milton replied. “You’ll need to know what you’re up against. There are a couple of Honourables in here, you know.”
“As long as I’m not racing the Kookaburra.”
The list, as it turned out, contained the names of actor Roy Rene, racing identities Hope Bartlett and Murray Maxwell, as well as a couple of English aristocrats—a brother and sister team—the Honourables that Milton mentioned. Glasses were charged and the gathering drank to the good health of all the contestants before putting down their drinks and raising their voices for “God Save the King”. The formalities thus concluded, the orchestra struck up again and the crowd mingled with purpose.
Rowland spotted Joan Richmond. Years ago they’d been attendants in the same wedding party. Tall and slim, there was a practical sophistication about the young racing driver. Dark hair bobbed and parted cleanly in the middle, she was clearly at home at events of this kind.
“I say, Rowly Sinclair! Long time no see,” she said warmly. “I didn’t know you raced.”
“I don’t generally,” Rowland confessed. “You’ve been saddled with at least one novice I’m afraid.”
“You can drive can’t you?”
“Of course I can drive—”
“Well the rest is just experience. We’ll have a jolly time!”
“I must say, I’m very pleasantly surprised to find you here. Aunt Mildred told me you were racing around Europe.”
Joan nodded. “I’m due back for the Alpine Rally, but I thought it would be rather fun to come home and see my brother, Alan, for a bit,” she explained. “This came up—thumping good cause and all that. Victor Riley’s been kind enough to lend me a car. Now where’s this chap Flynn? We’d better check he can drive.”
Rowland was relieved that Joan seemed to be taking charge. “I haven’t had the pleasure as yet.”
“What does this fellow look like?” she said, scanning the marquee.
“An actor, I presume.”
The problem was solved by Edna, who found Errol Flynn and brought him to meet his teammates.
“Rowland Sinclair, Mr. Flynn. How d’you do?”
Flynn shook Rowland’s hand enthusiastically. “Very well, Mr. Sinclair. Delighted, Miss Richmond. I say, shall we have our picture taken with Jacko?”
“Jacko?” Rowland asked.
“The bird,” Clyde reminded him.
“Come on! It’ll be a lark… or at least a kingfisher!” Flynn signalled a photographer and bustled them towards the kookaburra. He then attempted to engage the bird in conversation.
“Come on fella, do you want a cracker? Give us a laugh.”
Jacko ignored him.
Rowland could see Milton and Clyde laughing as they watched, even Edna seemed amused, but the bird was clearly not. It remained sombre indeed. Mercifully, the photographer took a picture anyway and they could leave Jacko in peace.
“What do you drive, Mr. Flynn?” Rowland asked, trying to distract him from the beleaguered bird.
“I believe it’s a Triumph,” Flynn replied.
“You believe?” Joan said curtly. “Surely you know?”
Flynn smiled, a charming disarming smile. “I’m really more of a sailor, you know.”
Joan Richmond exhaled impatiently. “We may well need to do some practice runs,” she said. “I’ll arrange for some time on the speedway and be in touch.”
“I say, she seems a trifle put out,” Flynn whispered as the motorist walked away.
“Miss Richmond is competitive,” Rowland conceded. “But she’s an excellent driver and on the whole, a rather good egg.”
“Mr. Sinclair!” A young woman interrupted before Flynn could reply. She was somewhat extraordinary to look at. Small and slight, she wore a black silk scarf with one end tied around her neck and the other about her waist as a blouse of sorts. It only barely served that function.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, Miss…?”
“Norton. Rosaleen Norton from Smith’s Weekly,” she said, lifting her chin to meet his eye with a dark intense ga
ze accentuated by brows carefully groomed to sweep upwards. Her features lent themselves to line drawing, he thought, contemplating the sharp planes of her face.
“I’ve already spoken with Smith Weekly’s Mr. White—” Rowland began.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she said enthusiastically. “Mr. White’s dead. Murdered! I’ve been assigned to replace him. He didn’t write up your interview before he died so we’ll have to do it again.” She beamed at him, revealing crooked teeth behind scarlet painted lips. “You don’t have a cigarette do you, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I’m afraid I don’t smoke, Miss Norton.”
Flynn, who, up until this point, the reporter had ignored, extracted a silver case from his breast pocket. He offered her a cigarette as Rowland introduced him.
Beyond his cigarettes and a light, Rosaleen seemed to have no interest in Errol Flynn at all. She directed her conversation at Rowland, explaining that she was a cadet with Smith’s, engaged as writer and artist. She had heard he too was an artist. Rosaleen’s movements were gangly, loose, those of an adolescent still becoming accustomed to the length of her limbs.
Rowland handed her his card. “Why don’t you call by the house tomorrow, Miss Norton. I can tell you what I told Mr. White before his untimely passing.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sinclair. But I won’t be asking the same questions Crispy did. You’ll find that he and I are very different on that score. I am first and foremost an artist, after all.”
“I have no doubt, Miss Norton.” Rowland paused before he asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about what happened to Mr. White?”
“His throat was cut at Magdalene’s I heard—ear to ear.” She pressed her lips together and studied him. “You know Mr. Sinclair, I think I may have had a premonition about what happened to Crispy.”
“A premonition?”
Rosaleen glanced at her watch, and sighed. “It’s nearly midnight. I really must go! We can discuss premonitions and art and death tomorrow.” She backed away, blowing him a kiss as she went.
Rowland stared after her.
“I suppose she’ll want to interview me as well,” Flynn murmured. “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, as he caught sight of Edna again. “I must ask that glorious damsel to dance. You don’t mind, do you Sinclair?” Rowland did mind, but he said, “I don’t own Miss Higgins, Flynn.”
Give the Devil His Due Page 4