“Perhaps if you just give the reporters someone else to talk to. We only have the jolly track for another hour.”
“I’ll try,” Rowland said uncertainly.
He and Joan walked over to the Triumph. Flynn greeted them cheerily. “And here, gentlemen, is my crewmate and our intrepid captain.” Flynn saluted and then introduced them to Mr. Murray from The Sydney Morning Herald, Mr. Caletti from The Guardian, Mr. Bergin from The Times and their respective photographers.
“I’m sure you gentlemen are as eager as I am to see Mr. Flynn behind a wheel,” Rowland said.
“There’s plenty of time for that!” Flynn replied. “I was just telling these gentlemen about my time aboard The Bounty.”
“Oh, I thought that was a film set?”
“Yes, yes it was, but I’m from seafaring stock, Sinclair. Just show me a horizon towards which to point my prow—”
Joan Richmond reached the end of her tether. “Get in the car, Mr. Flynn!” Her tone invited no further discussion.
Flynn was plainly startled.
Joan reached into the driver’s seat of the Triumph and tossed Flynn his helmet and goggles, and fixed the actor with such a glare that he meekly put them on.
“Right,” she said. “Follow my car.”
“She’s bloody fearsome,” Flynn whispered to Rowland as Joan returned to the Riley. “I find it rather fetching myself. If I hadn’t just spent the evening with Miss Higgins, I’d be tempted…”
“I suggest you get into your car, Flynn,” Rowland said tersely.
“Oh yes, right. Don’t want to upset the captain. Heave-ho, then!”
When the time came to hand the raceway over to another team, Errol Flynn somehow invited himself back to Woodlands for a late luncheon. “Nothing like a meal and few drinks to get the crew pulling together,” he declared.
Joan Richmond declined to join them despite, or perhaps because of, Flynn’s appeals that it was her duty as captain to “come ashore with the crew”.
Flynn’s Triumph had been blowing light grey smoke. Joan and Bucky Oldfield volunteered to have a look at it and adjust the carburettor, refusing hastily when the other gentlemen offered to stay and assist. “Just take Errol,” Joan whispered to Rowland. “Please.”
And so Errol Flynn was in the back seat of the Mercedes when they approached the underpass that led in and out of the Maroubra Bowl. The motorcar’s canopy, having been removed for racing, was still down. The gentleman who flagged them was just outside the underpass.
Assuming that the man was in need of assistance of some sort, Rowland pulled over and stepped out. It was only then that he noticed the half-dozen other men who exchanged cigarettes in a haphazard contingent behind the first. Flynn and Clyde had also alighted, so it was too late to reconsider stopping.
“Wombat Newgate! What are you doing here?” Clyde singled out a fat man with a large flat nose who did, in brutal truth, look rather like a wombat.
“Good day to you, Mr. Watson Jones,” Newgate said nervously.
Clyde introduced Rowland Sinclair and Errol Flynn to Milton’s SP bookie.
Newgate said nothing. Instead, the man who had flagged them down spoke on the group’s behalf, introducing himself as Redmond Barry, a businessman, entrepreneur and motor racing enthusiast. “So are we all,” he said, waving a hand towards his companions, “all motor racing enthusiasts.”
“Indeed,” Rowland said. “What can we do for you, gentlemen?”
Barry grinned, exposing a gold tooth which caught the light in a manner that was almost dazzling. “Nothing at all, Mr. Sinclair. We just wanted to tell you of our interest, and wish you the best of luck.”
Rowland glanced briefly at Clyde. “That’s very civil of you, sir.”
“How do you rate your chances, Sinclair?”
“Chances of what?”
“Of taking home the Lucky Devil, naturally.”
“Why, excellent!” Flynn interjected. “I’d say we’re the team to beat, wouldn’t you, Rowly?”
Rowland’s face was inscrutable. “We’ll do our best, but you should understand that Mr. Flynn and I are complete novices to the sport. I expect the competition will be rather fierce.”
The gathered men regarded them solemnly for a moment. “You’re being modest, Mr. Sinclair,” Barry said suddenly. “I’m willing to wager that Mr. Flynn here is dead on. You’ll be leaving with the Devil.”
“You’re most kind,” Rowland replied. “Thank you for your good wishes, gentlemen, but we’d best be on our way.”
“We’d hoped you gentlemen might join us for a spot of luncheon,” Barry said a little too pleasantly. “As our guests, of course—a show of our esteem.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barry, but we are expected elsewhere,” Rowland said calmly.
For the most fleeting moment Barry’s face became hard, and then he was beaming again. “Well, we’re disappointed, but rest assured we’ll ask again. Good day, gentlemen. And drive carefully.”
“I say, very decent of them to want to treat us to lunch,” Flynn said as they got back into the Mercedes.
Rowland pulled back onto the road before he said, “They were bookies, Flynn. They are at best trying to get some kind of inside information before they set their odds.”
“And at worst?”
“Well, that would also be about setting odds,” Clyde replied. “Just not so sporting.”
IN THE WAKE OF THE BOUNTY NEW AUSTRALIAN PRODUCTION
Travelogues and dramas have drenched the screen with the spray of South Sea beaches until the filmgoer imagines that he knows every angle from which a palm can be photographed. Then an Australian, Mr. Charles Chauvel, makes “In the Wake of the Bounty,” and presents the Pacific under a strange and cloudy beauty such as has never before been filmed… …the first part of the film is a glamorous reconstruction of history, with young Errol Flynn playing the part of Fletcher Christian, Mayne Lynton that of Bligh, and Victor Gouriet that of the blind fiddler, who tells the tale.
The West Australian, 1933
____________________________________
There was a kitten asleep on the greyhound’s head, and four more snuggled into the crevices of his bony body as he lay on the hearth. The sight might have been alarming if it weren’t apparent that the felines were in charge. Lenin did not greet his master with more than a martyred glance. Rowland bent to scratch the hound’s single ear. He had been worried that Lenin would eat Edna’s rescued litter, but it seemed the small fluffy creatures had elicited a misplaced maternal instinct in the dog. Lenin was as besotted as a child by his kittens, tending them like a fussy hen and even poking his long sharp nose in when their mother was nursing. Milton called it embarrassing. Edna told the hound he had a better heart than most men.
Errol Flynn was delighted to find Edna at home when he arrived at Woodlands with Rowland and Clyde. But her presence did make proceedings somewhat awkward. Rowland was rarely hostile to the men who pursued Edna—after all, being so would have put him at odds with half of Sydney. But he did try to avoid anything more prolonged than the occasional handshake. Flynn, however, seemed eager to not only woo Edna, but also Rowland, who he’d taken to calling “the first mate”. Milton, who clearly found it all amusing, encouraged the familiarity.
“Wombat Newgate!” Edna exclaimed, when Flynn finished recounting a somewhat more confrontational version of their encounter.
“Be careful,” Milton warned. “Wombat’s slow and harmless on his own, but he does have a tendency to mix with some nasty types.”
“What do you know about Barry?” Rowland asked. Milton’s connections within the criminal classes were extensive.
“Not much, but I’ll find out. Just watch your back, Rowly. They may well be trying to fix the race.”
“Well, they’d best reconsider that idea!” Flynn declared. “The first mate and I will send that notion to the bottom of the sea.”
“Does he think he’s a pirate?” Clyde whispered.
“Shhh!” Edna replied, giggling.
“I gather you’re a sailor, Flynn,” Rowland asked, keeping his face straight.
“Indeed, I am, mate!” Flynn replied. “Nothing like the roll of a deck on the waves, the taste of salt on your lips and a fair wind at your back…” He put his arm around Edna’s waist and pulled her towards him. “A beautiful woman in every port!”
Clyde and Milton both waited for Rowland’s cue, but he said nothing.
Edna laughed at Flynn, quite openly, and Rowland was heartened by the fact that she did not seem to care in the least that the man was a cad.
They sat down to luncheon in the conservatory as the day had become warm. Flynn was garrulous company, and though he was only twenty-five had already had quite the adventurous life. A Tasmanian by birth, he’d been educated in England and then at the Shore School in Sydney, from which he’d been expelled.
Having himself been expelled from Kings, Rowland was not particularly shocked by Flynn’s almost boastful admission.
But the actor seemed keen to offer details.
“A youthful indiscretion with the school’s obliging laundress.” Flynn grinned, observably pleased with the story. “She was a very understanding lady. Shore was less so.”
After his expulsion young Errol Flynn had gone to Papua New Guinea, seeking his fortune in tobacco plantations and mining. Sadly, fortune proved elusive, though he did do a lot of sailing.
Only the previous year had Flynn discovered his talent for acting, and now he’d set his sights on a career in films, where he expected his success with the ladies would be less of a problem. All this he recounted with such little malice that it was difficult to hold his cockiness against him.
If anything, Rowland was relieved. Flynn would not hold Edna’s attention for long, however handsome he was supposed to be. Rowland had become accustomed to the sculptress’ loves, and as long as they remained fleeting he could bear it.
When luncheon was concluded, Edna and Flynn decided to take a stroll. Clyde and Rowland retreated to their respective studios. Milton went with Clyde, and Lenin, having reluctantly relinquished the kittens to their mother, kept Rowland company. The artists were painting with purpose: Rowland images of oppression and violence and Clyde the pretty landscapes behind which they would hide.
Rowland had always worked quickly. Already a number of paintings were complete. There was one image, however, with which he struggled—a likeness of Ernst Röhm, whom he had first met in the Königplatz in Munich. His second encounter with the Nazi had ended badly. It was not that he’d forgotten the scarred, flaccid contours of Röhm’s face. He had not forgotten any of it. Perhaps that was the problem. Whatever the reason, the painting of the book burning was still unfinished.
He worked intensely for the next few days. That was not unusual and, in a household of artists, perfectly acceptable. It had always been Rowland’s way to paint feverishly when the muse was with him, late into the night and again at first light. He’d eat by his easel and come away from it only to shower or visit with his mother. She’d scold him for the state of his suit and send him on his way.
His houseguests came in and out of his studio: Milton read and intermittently poured drinks; Clyde borrowed pigments and commented collegially on the progress and the challenges of whatever piece was on his easel at the time; and Edna visited to chat about all manner of subjects and left him feeling somehow lighter. Occasionally all three would come at once and play cards, but he would paint.
It was Thursday when Mary Brown came in to inform him that Miss Rosaleen Norton of Smith’s Weekly had called to see him. Rowland frowned, a little irritated to be interrupted. He’d thought he’d finished with the decidedly strange Miss Norton.
Still, it would not do to be discourteous.
“Ask her to come in, Mary. Don’t worry, she’s already seen the studio.”
The housekeeper sighed fiercely, but she showed the reporter in.
Rosaleen Norton was once again wearing a scarf as a blouse. Rowland couldn’t help but think it was a distinctly precarious way to dress with rather too much reliance being placed on corners remaining tucked. She carried a large cardboard folio awkwardly under her arm.
Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands on his waistcoat. “Miss Norton. Hello, again. What brings you back to Woodlands?”
“I felt a need to share my drawings with you, Mr. Sinclair. I thought you might like to see them.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Rowland said, though he could not remember expressing interest in the reporter’s drawings.
She glanced at the canvas on his easel—the book burning. “Weren’t you working on that last Sunday?”
“I have been painting other pieces since,” Rowland replied. “I’m just now resuming work on it.” This was not strictly true. While Rowland had worked on other pieces he had also tried several times to complete the painting.
“I do like it,” she said. “There’s a sense of ominous ghastliness about it… as though there’s something monstrous lurking behind the canvas.”
Rowland glanced at the space in the composition waiting for Ernst Röhm. Perhaps there was.
He cleared the brushes and palettes off the card table so that Rosaleen could lay out her folio. The first drawings were those she’d drafted for Smith’s Weekly. Visual jokes really… Two fat ladies with cigarettes captioned “heavy smokers”, two cats dressed as women making catty comments about the attire of a third. They were well drawn. Rosaleen’s line work was competent if unremarkable. But she seemed young, so Rowland expected that she would, in time, develop a more individualistic style. Then, as he leafed through, the drawings became more confronting. A circle of young mothers devouring their babies and laughing hysterically, and esoteric pieces of fantastic and explicit figures.
“As you can see, I too have been influenced by the works of Norman Lindsay, and am also a great admirer of Pan,” she said, pulling out a detailed pencil sketch that depicted the god on his cloven haunches, a rearing snake in place of a phallus.
“Do you mind if I ask how old you are, Miss Norton?”
Her chin pulled back as she smiled. “I see you’ve read my story in Smith’s Weekly. I know it states I’m fifteen, but that was just when I wrote the story. I’m seventeen now.”
“Actually, I’m afraid I haven’t come across your work.”
“Oh.” She rummaged through the folio. “Never mind. I do believe I have a copy of it here. It was published in January.” She handed him a newspaper cutting. “You can keep that if you like.” She rolled her eyes. “My mother bought about sixty copies, so I have plenty.”
“Thank you, that’s most kind,” Rowland murmured, not quite sure what to do with the cutting.
“Mr. Marien—Frank—employed me on the basis of my writing, but I’m an artist really. I’m sure the paper will publish my drawings soon, but it’s peculiar that they’re so much more conservative about drawings than stories.” Rosaleen walked about the room studying the paintings on its walls, commenting occasionally in a manner designed to demonstrate her knowledge of technique. She stopped before the portrait of Henry Sinclair which glowered over his son’s studio. “I do like this. There’s a delicious rage in his face, don’t you think? And the hint of wickedness and danger. It’s exciting.”
“I didn’t paint that one. It’s a McInnes,” Rowland informed her.
“Oh, pity.” Rosaleen moved onto the nude of Edna. “This is one of yours?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
She considered it thoughtfully. “I model, you know… if you need someone new.”
“Thank you, I’m well accommodated in terms of models… but I’ll pass your details on to Norman Lindsay next time I see him, if you like.”
Rosaleen beamed. “Oh, would you? That would be splendid!”
“Consider it done.”
“Perhaps Mr. Lindsay would like to look at my drawings.” “Perhaps.” Rowland was beginning to feel sorry for the
young reporter. She seemed to be quite desperate for attention. He’d have to warn Lindsay to be kind. The artist could be brutally blunt and he wasn’t sure how well Rosaleen would take criticism.
“I’m going to leave these with you,” she announced, putting the drawings back into the folio and leaving it on the card table. “Perhaps you could show them to Miss Higgins or even Norman Lindsay if he calls on you.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Lindsay will call by anytime soon, but I’m certain Miss Higgins will be interested to see your work,” Rowland replied.
Rosaleen nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll pick the folio up next week.”
“I could return it to you at the paper, if that’s more convenient?”
“Oh, yes! I could show you where Crispy used to sit. They won’t let anyone use his desk, but you can feel his presence in the office.”
Rowland struggled for an appropriate response. He opted for simple courtesy in the end. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Well, I’d best get on and let you get back to your monster,” she said, nodding at the unfinished canvas.
He walked her out to a waiting motor taxi.
Rowland’s houseguests all barged into the studio the moment he returned, making no secret of the fact they’d been waiting for Rosaleen Norton to leave before showing themselves. Milton and Clyde had decided she was odd, and Edna, who had not yet met the reporter, was trying to be considerate of any burgeoning attachment.
“For pity’s sake, Ed, she’s seventeen!” Rowland said horrified, though he had only just discovered that fact himself. “And Milt and Clyde are right. She’s quite odd.”
Edna laughed. “We were all a little odd when we were seventeen.”
“Not this odd,” Clyde murmured, leafing through her folio. “These drawings are rather macabre, aren’t they? Come and have a look, Ed.”
Edna did so, spreading the drawings out on the table.
“What do you think?” Rowland asked. “Miss Norton was particularly interested in your assessment.”
“Mine? Why?”
“Because of the sculptures of Pan in the garden, I expect. I told her in passing that they were yours. I suspect she’s concluded the two of you have a common obsession.”
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