He kissed his mother goodnight and left her to the kindly, watchful eye of Nurse Samuels, who was on duty that evening.
“Your mama seems very well, sir,” she whispered before he departed. “She’s talking of taking up golf again.”
“Well as long as it’s not tap dancing,” he murmured, taking his leave and returning to the main part of the house to wait for his friends.
“Why are you wearing a dinner suit?” Milton demanded when Clyde finally came down.
“I thought…” Clyde began uncertainly. “Ed always said…”
Rowland bit his lip. It was Edna’s oft-declared opinion that every man looked his best in formal wear. Clearly sensible, practical Clyde had been paying more attention than any of them realised.
“Oh mate…” Milton groaned.
“Clyde’s right,” Rowland said. “Dinner suits are the appropriate attire for proposals.”
“No, I look daft.” What small confidence Clyde had was dissipating quickly.
“Ten minutes,” Rowland said. “Milt and I will change. We’ll look like we’re all on our way to dinner somewhere.”
Milton glared at Rowland, but he agreed and they too donned dinner suits.
“So what exactly are we doing?” Milton asked from the back seat as they pulled out of the drive.
Rowland glanced at Clyde who sat rigidly beside him with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. “Clyde?”
Clyde stared at his friends for a moment. “I’m going to speak to her father. Ask him for Rosie’s hand.”
Neither Rowland nor Milton said anything. Clyde seemed to be choosing the most dangerous possible course of action.
The Martinellis were staying at Sorrentino’s Guesthouse in Leichhardt, a respectable but modest establishment that catered to families and commercial travellers.
Upon enquiry at the reception desk, they were informed the Martinellis were in the communal dining room. “Will you be dining here, sir?” the manager asked eyeing their dinner suits.
“Umm… yes, we will,” Rowland replied.
“Will anyone be joining you, sir?”
“No.”
The manager’s gaze lingered on the bouquet in Clyde’s hand before he invited them to make their way into the dining room.
“Right,” Clyde exhaled. Milton and Rowland fell in behind him.
Rowland wasn’t sure what he’d expected to be the reaction to Clyde’s appearance, but he wasn’t surprised that Rosalina burst into tears. In his experience, she did that a lot. When Miss Martinelli had been his model, he’d resorted to painting her weeping because she seemed to hold no other pose for long. It was also not a shock that Rosalina’s father seemed angered by the intrusion. They had, after all, been hearing for some time how much he disliked Clyde. It was the other men that he had not anticipated: seven of them, who stood when Clyde entered.
Guesthouse patrons at other tables looked on with interest at what was clearly a drama about to unfold.
Clyde continued nonetheless, addressing the patriarch at the head of the table. “Mr. Martinelli, sir, I’d like to speak with you if that’s possible.”
Martinelli’s moustache bristled. He glanced at his daughter who was sobbing into her mother’s ample breast. Mrs. Martinelli shouted in Italian, as indeed did almost everybody else at the table. Only Rowland understood the language but they all gathered that their presence was not welcome.
Finally Martinelli spoke. His English was slow but clear. “My wife and daughter are upset. We’ll speak outside.” He nodded towards a door that led out to a courtyard garden.
Clyde nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Awkwardly, he left his bouquet of flowers on the table, and stepped out. Martinelli did likewise.
Rowland and Milton hesitated. It was only when the other gentlemen at the table moved to follow Martinelli that they realised the meeting was not going to be private and they, too, stepped into the courtyard.
“So speak!” Martinelli demanded.
JOAN RICHMOND’S UNIQUE SUCCESS
AUSTRALIA’S greatest success in classic motor racing for years past, was secured during the weekend by Joan Richmond, a Melbourne girl.
WITH Mrs. Wisdom, an English driver, she won the 1000 miles race at Brooklands—most important of the British long distance races. It was the first time women had won the race, which is a two-day handicap event.
The winners used a Riley: averaged 84.4 m.p.h. and in a vicious skid at a spot where one of the drivers fatally crashed, had a perilously close escape.
Referee, 1932
____________________________________
Clyde cleared his throat. “Mr. Martinelli, I’d very much like to ask for your daughter’s hand—”
“No, no, no… No hand, no finger, no toes!” Rosalina Martinelli’s father poked the man who would be her husband in the chest. “You go! Speak never to Rosalina again!” Clyde was oblivious to the string of Italian insults that followed but he did recognise, “Comunista!”
Valiantly, he stood his ground. He seemed more confident now. “Rosie cares for me, Mr. Martinelli. I promise you, I’ll look after her.”
“No! She is for Antonio, not you.”
“She doesn’t know Antonio. Just ask her what she wants.” Clyde turned back towards the dining room. “Rosie!” Three men charged, dragging him back as he tried to get Rosalina’s attention.
“Hey!” Rowland and Milton stepped in, as did the other four men who’d followed Martinelli outside. The first punch was swung by the Martinelli camp, but it was returned unequivocally. Waiters from the dining room came out to join the fray, their allegiances clearly with the Martinellis.
“Clyde!” Rowland dragged off the man who’d had his friend pinned, as he tried to get Clyde to his feet before the next blow descended.
“Time to retreat, comrades,” Milton shouted, defending a blow and delivering one of his own.
Rowland doubted they would be given a chance to retreat. He was right. Outnumbered, they were, in the end, subdued and thrown out, unceremoniously with no regard whatsoever for their dinner suits.
Rowland was the first to rise gingerly to his feet. “Milt, Clyde, are you chaps all right?”
Milton cursed. Clyde grabbed Rowland’s hand and pulled himself up.
“Bloody hell!” Rowland murmured as he looked at Clyde’s bruised face.
Clyde took out a handkerchief and mopped his bloody nose. Milton moved his jaw tentatively, wincing as he did so. “That went well.”
Rowland reached inside his jacket and extracted his notebook. He handed it to Clyde. “Write her a note,” he said. “We’ll get it to Rosie.”
“Her father isn’t going to allow—”
“Leave that to me. Just write.”
Clyde stared at the open page. “I don’t know how to start.”
“How about, Dear Rosie?” Rowland suggested.
“My beloved Rosalina,” Milton amended.
Clyde wrote.
“You could compose a sonnet in her honour,” Milton suggested. “What about, O! I shall soon despair, when I shall see, that thou lovest mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.”
“Sadly, John Donne’s already composed that one,” Rowland cautioned. “And I believe it’s a religious exaltation, not a romantic one.”
Clyde cursed and crossed out the words, “O! I shall soon despair”.
Over the next ten minutes Clyde wrote his heart onto several pages of Rowland’s notebook. Milton and Rowland both tried to help when words eluded him. Clyde made his admiration and devotion plain and asked only that Rosalina let him know, somehow, if she welcomed it. If so, he promised he would press his case and marry her. He tore the pages from the notebook and handed them to Rowland who slipped the missive into his pocket.
“Righto, just give me a few minutes.” Dusting off his trousers, Rowland slipped around to the rear of the guesthouse. The back door was open and he could see the kitchen. A couple of children stood outside with empty cooking pots, which a waite
r soon came out to collect. Rowland waited until he reappeared with the pots filled and had returned them to the children.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly, stepping out of the shadows to catch the man’s attention. He spoke in Italian, quickly offering the waiter a pound note if he would slip Clyde’s note to Rosalina Martinelli.
The man shook his head, alarmed.
Rowland doubled the incentive, emptying his pocket book.
Still the waiter resisted.
“Please,” Rowland said. “My friend is in love with Miss Martinelli. She ought to know that before she marries someone else.”
“Amore?” The waiter waivered and then relented. Perhaps he was a romantic. Even so, he took the money as well as the note.
“So what do we do now?” Milton asked when Rowland returned with the news that the letter would be delivered.
“We go home and wait for Miss Martinelli to reply.”
“If she replies,” Clyde said miserably.
“Did you work out which one the imported husband was, Clyde?” Milton asked.
“I believe he was sitting next to Rosie. The other blokes are her brothers and cousins. I’ve met them all at some time or other.”
Rowland glanced back at the restaurant. “Come on, let’s go, before the Martinellis come out and find us still here.”
Mary Brown sighed as she directed a late supper be prepared. She had not asked what had happened to cause Rowland Sinclair and his companions to return in such a state. She assumed that Mr. Isaacs had taken them to some disreputable premises, where at some point he’d involved them in a common brawl. It wasn’t the first time. The housekeeper had never understood why a young man of Rowland Sinclair’s breeding would insist upon consorting with men who were beneath him in every way. She had hoped he might see sense and settle down once Mrs. Sinclair had come to live at Woodlands, but it appeared that hope had been in vain.
She delivered a cold supper of venison pie and new potatoes to the drawing room. One of the maids could have done it, of course, but Mary Brown would not allow young girls into the desecrated parlour lest they be distressed, or worse, corrupted by what the master of the house did in there.
“Let me help you with that, Miss Brown,” Clyde said, attempting to take the laden tray from her.
The housekeeper’s glare was so hostile that Clyde stepped back. Mary Brown sniffed, and very purposefully placed the tray on the sideboard before she picked up the dinner jackets which had been hung over the back of the couch.
“I shall send these to be repaired,” she said tightly.
“Yes, thank you, Mary,” Rowland replied, trying not to smile. His housekeeper’s ability to strike terror into the hearts of his companions amused him. He was not entirely inured to Mary Brown’s ire himself.
For some minutes they said nothing.
Then Milton suggested they drink. Surely Clyde had good reason, and it would be churlish to allow him to drink alone. Rowland was not unwilling, but Clyde would not hear of it.
“Rowly’s got to drive tomorrow,” he said firmly.
“It’s just a practice run,” Rowland argued.
“Do you know how many men have been killed practising on that track?” Clyde replied. “It’s got a bad name, Rowly, you’ll need your wits about you.”
Rowland grimaced. “You and Milt can drink.”
“I need to keep an eye on your motorcar.” Clyde was resolute.
Milton rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass of whisky.
Rowland pushed up his sleeves and studied the work on his easel. He squeezed a tube of burnt umber onto a clean palette and selected a palette knife.
Clyde considered the painting from his armchair. “That’s Germany again,” he said, recognising the scene—the cowering prisoner under the brutal shadow of the Stürm Arbeitslung. He scowled. Rowland was not a man to speak of what was troubling him, and the last time he’d painted like this, he’d been in a bad way. “Is there anything wrong, Rowly?”
“Wrong?”
“Yes. Are you sleeping all right?”
“Me? Yes, of course.” He realised suddenly why his friend was concerned. “I’m not painting to expel demons this time.” Rowland looked back at the scene on the canvas. “My head’s not here, not all the time anyway.” He told them about his plans for an exhibition.
“So you want to trick people into coming?” Milton asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You’re going to need some landscapes,” Clyde said.
“Why?”
“Decoys… for publicity, programs, that sort of rigmarole. You don’t want anyone to guess what you’re up to until they’re actually at the exhibition.”
“Rowly doesn’t paint scenery,” Milton pointed out. “What’s more, he’s not particularly good at painting scenery.”
“That’s true, his landscapes border on horrible,” Clyde agreed. He pointed to a full-length portrait of Edna, a frontal nude that managed to be gentle and wistful despite the starkness of the pose. There was a softness in Rowland’s brushwork that seemed to caress his subject as much as define her. Clyde shook his head. “I’ve never understood how you could paint something like that and not be able to draw a tree.”
Rowland couldn’t offer anything in his own artistic defence. He’d given up painting landscapes for good reason.
“I could paint something for you, Rowly,” Clyde offered. “I have some sketches I did at the Starnberger See as well as Ed’s photos I could work from. You could just sign the finished product.”
Rowland hesitated. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Clyde laughed. “There are some very fine portraits with my name on them thanks to that caper you pulled on the New Guard, so let’s call it even.” He paused. “Actually, I’d like to help. Doing nothing after what we saw in Germany doesn’t sit well with me either.”
“You and Milt haven’t done nothing…”
“Addressing the crowds at Trades Hall is preaching to the converted and a few surveillance officers, mate.” Milton considered the painting of the book burning which sat on one of the other easels. “What you’re planning could change the minds and attitudes that matter. I can’t paint, Rowly, but count me in too.” He glanced at Clyde. “If nothing else it’ll be a relief to think about something other than our current troubles.”
Joan Richmond was already at the speedway when they arrived. Clyde and Rowland watched her taking the Riley around the track. The day was cool and clear. Dark-suited men with notebooks and briefcases stood alongside cheering children and looked down over the bowl from the outer perimeter fence.
“Sydney’s SP bookies are taking an interest, I see,” Clyde muttered, glancing up at the onlookers.
“Are they taking bets?” Rowland asked, looking for the characteristic boards.
“No. I’d say they’re sizing up the runners before they set the odds.”
Joan brought the little Riley to a stop.
“Hallo there,” she called, climbing out of the car.
“Miss Richmond,” Rowland said, tipping his hat.
“For pity’s sake, Rowly, it’s Joan!”
“Of course. May I introduce my friend and the chief of my pit crew, Mr. Clyde Watson Jones?”
“Charmed,” Joan said, pumping Clyde’s hand. “Let’s not waste any time, Clyde. You must call me Joan, too. By the end of all this we’ll be well acquainted enough to warrant it.” She beckoned to the man checking over her engine and introduced him as Bucky Oldfield, her mechanic.
“Righto, Rowly, are you ready? We’ve already cleared the track of snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Oh yes. The cement holds the heat, you see. You don’t want a blessed snake getting caught up in your axle.”
“Indeed.”
“I might drive in front of you for a while, till you get used to the bowl.” She pointed out the parts of the speedway where the cement track was crumbling. “Just jolly well try to avoid those patches if you c
an, especially if you’re at speed.”
Clyde handed Rowland his driving helmet and goggles. “Good luck, mate.”
Joan Richmond slid in behind the wheel of her Riley and waved. “Try and keep up, Rowly.”
Over the next hour Rowland followed the Riley, becoming accustomed to driving in the bowl by staying in Joan Richmond’s tracks. He learned not to fight his Mercedes, allowing it to take its natural position on the banking. It became much easier to control despite the ever-increasing speed at which he took each circuit. Even so, he did not have the need or opportunity to engage the supercharger. In time, the Riley pulled out so he could give his larger engine its head. He did so, being careful to remember where the cement bowl had deteriorated since its construction just over a decade earlier. Eventually, Rowland pulled back allowing the Mercedes to slow, lapping lower and lower on the bank until he eased her to a gradual stop.
Joan met him as he got out of the vehicle. “Good show, Rowly! You probably don’t have to give her so many laps to slow down, though.”
“Oh, I was just following your lead.”
“No need. The Riley’s never had much in the way of brakes, but Clyde tells me that your braking system is top drawer. Might as well use it, there’s a good chap.”
“I see,” Rowland said, impressed that Joan seemed to regard brakes an unnecessary luxury.
He spotted Errol Flynn’s silver Triumph. “I see Flynn’s arrived,” he said. “Good Lord, what is he doing?” Flynn was standing on the bonnet addressing a small gathering.
“Talking to the press,” Joan said, clearly exasperated. “I say, Rowly, I don’t suppose you could distract the journalists long enough for me to teach him to drive?”
“Distract them? How am I supposed to do that?”
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