Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  Elisabeth Sinclair returned to her son’s side, and bade Lindsay and Stephensen farewell, before allowing Rowland to escort her from the studio.

  Elisabeth patted Rowland’s hand as they sat in the back of the Rolls Royce, much as she had done when he was a child beset with emotions he needed to control.

  “I am sorry about that, Mother,” he said, furious with himself for so many reasons.

  Elisabeth sighed. “You mustn’t worry about me, Aubrey. I gather you and Mr. Lindsay had a falling out?”

  “Yes, I expect we have.”

  “I heard Mr. Lindsay mention Mr. Isaacs. Does he not have a good regard for Mr. Isaacs?”

  “No, I don’t think he does.”

  “Well, that won’t do. Mr. Isaacs is a thorough gentleman.”

  Rowland rubbed his face. He leaned forward and gave Johnston an address in Woolloomooloo.

  “Where are we going Aubrey?”

  “Dancing,” Rowland replied. “I’m taking you dancing.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s two in the afternoon!”

  Rowland nodded gravely. “It is decidedly scandalous, but I believe dancing in the afternoon is all the rage now.”

  A PROGRESSIVE MOVE

  According to “Newspaper News” of 18th instant, Mr. P. R Stephensen, who visited Melbourne last month, says the objective of P. R. Stephensen and Company Ltd., is the publishing of one book a week. He has come with his partner, Mr. E. C. Lemont, to establish a Melbourne branch of the business. The Commonwealth he considers is happily placed for the book industry. The South African market is as accessible to Australia as it is to Great Britain, in Japan, the second language spoken is English, and elsewhere throughout the East there are communities of English people whose interest could be attracted to novels and other works by Australian writers. The exchange rate, too, is an advantage in marketing books to that public. “Australian authors in England,” said Mr. Stephensen, “are asked to write about some other country more acceptable to English readers than Australia. We can put a stop to such effrontery only by developing our own literature on our own soil, as the Americans have done.” Mr. Stephensen hopes to reprint many worthwhile Australian books which have been allowed to go out of print by the original publishers.

  The Central Queensland Herald, 1934

  ____________________________________

  Elisabeth Sinclair bubbled excitedly as she told her son’s houseguests about her day out. Already, the specific memories of where she had been, and their sequence were a little muddled, but the fact that she had willingly participated in something quite outrageous had not. “Heavens, who would have thought a woman in her forties would suddenly take up dancing in the afternoon!” she said blithely.

  Rowland smiled at his mother’s diminishing age and the manner in which his friends accepted her frailty without question. The tea dance had for the most part been attended by fresh-faced couples and hopeful, unchaperoned singles. For their five pence entry, there had been tea and scones as well as punch on a linen-draped trestle, a sixpiece band and a bunting-decorated hall. A cheeky young man had asked Elisabeth to dance and hinted that Rowland should request the same of his sister, who stood nearby in mortified expectation. Rowland had done so, as declining seemed impolite and possibly unkind. Plump and pale, the young lady was unsure of her steps and painfully shy. She appeared to blush with all of her body, her rounded arms suffusing pink with her cheeks. Rowland spoke gently to her while they danced and by the end of the bracket elicited that her name was Jane, but that was all. Now, he sketched her into his notebook from memory while he listened to his mother explain the nuances of foxtrotting as if the dance were some new fad. He would have liked to paint Jane, to capture her shyness and uncertainty on canvas, but that disposition in itself would probably ensure she would never pose.

  Exhilarated and exhausted by an afternoon of dancing, Elisabeth Sinclair elected to retire early.

  “Right, Rowly, what’s bothering you?” Edna asked when it was just the four of them again. She peered sternly into his face as if she could read the truth in the dark blue of his eyes. “You’re brooding, my darling.”

  Rowland told them of his conversation with Norman Lindsay and Inky Stephensen.

  “He said that?” Edna said, unconsciously grabbing Milton’s hand. Rowland shook his head, too furious to speak.

  “I’ve always said Stephensen was an idiot,” Milton said calmly.

  “But Norman?”

  “I did wonder sometimes, you know, but you want to believe a man like him is not… I guess we all wanted to believe it was just his cracked sense of humour.”

  Rowland groaned. In hindsight he could see that Lindsay’s anti-Semitism was not new found. He had dismissed it because he wanted to believe in the artist. And now he was as appalled with himself as he was with Lindsay, ashamed that his principles had been so conveniently forgotten in his esteem of Lindsay.

  “Look, Rowly.” Clyde was philosophical. “Norman is rude to just about everyone. He doesn’t like Catholics, or Freemasons, hates Europeans and regards modernists as a scourge on the earth. Is it any wonder we assumed that he was just being characteristically offensive on this matter, too?”

  “It’s unnerving,” Rowland murmured. “Norman is one of the cleverest people I have ever known. That someone like him could possibly think that way…” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Probably a good thing, comrade,” Milton said coldly. “Far too many people understand hating Jews.” He stood. “Can I borrow your dog, Rowly?”

  “Len? He’s in the kitchen with Ed’s kittens, I expect.”

  “I’m going to take him for a walk,” he said, declining offers of company.

  Rowland let him go, recognising the poet’s need to be alone with his anger. For Milton Isaacs this was all the more personal.

  Once Milton had gone, Edna embraced Rowland gently. “I’m sorry you’ve lost Norman, Rowly. I know how much you admired him.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Not anymore.” For some reason, he felt personally betrayed by Lindsay, and by his own naive assumption that men of art and literature were above ridiculous prejudice.

  Edna perched on the arm of Rowland’s chair. She had modelled for Lindsay often and learned much from him as an artist. It was under his guidance that she’d begun to sculpt. But Rowland Sinclair had been Lindsay’s particular protégé. Edna combed Rowland’s dark hair back from his face with her fingers, sensing the self-recrimination in his thoughts. “We were mistaken about him, darling, that’s all. When we visited Springwood we were distracted by art and poetry and Norman’s wild soirées.”

  “I daresay we won’t be invited to any of those again.”

  “Well, perhaps you should invite Norman to your exhibition,” Edna suggested. “You may be able to reach him with your work.”

  Rowland closed his eyes. “I sincerely doubt it, but I will invite him.”

  “Are you going to repaint this?” Clyde asked, standing before the painting the bullet had pierced.

  “Actually, I thought not,” Rowland replied, sitting forward. “The bullet hole is fitting somehow.”

  Edna nodded. “I agree. There’s a quite portentous violence in the painting, and Mr. Röhm did, after all, attempt to have you shot.”

  “I was contemplating patching the painting from behind with black canvas… a bullet hole through which to glimpse Röhm’s soul.” He glanced at the work. “I’m tempted to shoot it a few times, myself.”

  Clyde smiled slightly. “Sounds dangerously modernist.”

  Edna laughed. “I took the pages of your notebook in to be framed today,” she informed Rowland, making sure the conversation did not return to Norman Lindsay.

  “Thank you, Ed.” He stood. “I ought to telephone Wil while I think of it… make sure he brings his Old Guard chums.”

  “Are you going to tell him what you’re doing?”

  “I’ll tell him I’m having an exhibition.”
/>   “Won’t he think it odd? He knows what happened in Germany.”

  Rowland frowned. That was true. How was he going to explain a sudden desire to exhibit? He didn’t want to make his brother complicit, but Wilfred was not a fool.

  As it happened, Wilfred was not at home when Rowland telephoned and he spoke instead to his sister-in-law. Kate Sinclair was delighted to learn of his upcoming exhibition.

  “Why Rowly, how exciting. I’ll write to everyone I know in Sydney, and all the families who’ll be in town for the Royal Easter Show to tell them they simply must come!”

  And then it occurred to Rowland that the powerful men in Wilfred’s acquaintance had wives in Kate’s. In this respect, she probably had more influence than Wilfred. His brother’s young wife did not even think to ask about the motivation behind the exhibition. “That would be very kind of you, Kate. I’m afraid I haven’t exhibited in so long that nobody may come otherwise.”

  “Of course they’ll come, Rowly,” Kate said determinedly. “Once I tell them what a talented artist you are…” She trailed off. “Rowly will you be exhibiting paintings of… of models?” she asked hesitantly. She had seen some of Rowland’s portraits of Edna when she’d visited Woodlands the year before.

  Rowland chuckled. He had not been home when Kate Sinclair, and her chum Lucy Bennett, had entered his studio, but Clyde and Edna had given him lurid accounts of the shock and horror and fainting spells which ensued. “There’s not one naked person in the exhibition, Kate. I promise.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” The words were breathy with relief. “Leave it with me, Rowly. As soon as Wil returns, we’ll get in touch with everyone we know.” Her voice rose in pitch as she became excited again. “I know Premier Stevens and Mr. Bruxner will come. Perhaps Wil could persuade Prime Minister Lyons to attend.”

  “You’re a brick, Kate.”

  It was late when Milton came in behind the greyhound Rowland had loaned him. His long hair was damp with perspiration and his usually pristine attire askew. Lenin went immediately to the water bowl Rowland kept by the hearth and drank noisily before he collapsed.

  Milton fell onto the couch and loosened his cravat, pointing at Rowland as he tried to catch the breath to speak.

  Rowland and Clyde put down their playing cards and Edna stood to make the poet a drink.

  “What happened?” Rowland asked. “Why have you been running?”

  “To… get… away.” Milton paused to swig the drink Edna handed him, choking when he realised it was whisky.

  Rowland and Clyde slapped him on the back while Edna poured him a glass of soda water.

  “Who were you running from?” Rowland asked when it looked as though Milton might be able to speak coherently.

  The poet shook his head and reclaimed the whisky. “I don’t know… I just know Len and I were being followed. We tried to lose him… Must have run at least two miles back.”

  “Did you lose him?” Clyde asked.

  “No idea.” Milton removed his cravat completely and used it to mop his brow. “At first I thought I was imagining things… getting jumpy because of the attempt on Rowly, you know. And then it struck me that I had left Rowly’s house with Rowly’s dog.”

  Clyde remained sceptical. “You figured someone thought you were stealing Lenin and gave chase?”

  “No, you idiot. I thought someone may have mistaken me for Rowly and be looking to finish the job!”

  Clyde glanced at Rowland.

  “It’s possible, I guess,” Rowland said uncertainly. “Are you certain you were being followed?”

  “Yes, definitely. He came after me when I bolted.”

  “We should notify Detective Delaney,” Edna said. “Perhaps the police have a suspect by now.”

  “We’ll call him in the morning,” Rowland decided. “In the meantime, I’ll have a word to Armstrong.”

  Percy Armstrong was in charge of the security force Wilfred had retained. He insisted on questioning Milton in private and did so for more than thirty minutes, before stepping out to inform Rowland that the matter was in hand.

  “I suspect Mr. Isaacs overreacted to a simple passer-by who happened to be taking the same route. I would recommend, however, that you in particular do take every precaution until the police identify and locate the assassin.”

  “Are you sure?” Rowland said. In his experience, Milton was not prone to panic.

  “I’m quite certain,” Armstrong replied. “These… well, highly strung chaps, you know, sir.”

  “What makes you think Mr. Isaacs is, as you say, highly strung, Armstrong?”

  “It’s obvious, sir. Just look at his hair.”

  “I see. Thank you, Armstrong. Would you have your people check the grounds, just in case?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Milton was understandably unhappy that his story was being dismissed as hysteria.

  “Armstrong’s an old soldier,” Rowland said apologetically. “He thinks everybody under thirty-five is hysterical by definition.”

  Milton cursed under his breath. The great divide between those who’d served and those who had not, had often been used against the latter regardless of whether they’d been old enough to enlist.

  “Mr. Armstrong doesn’t know you,” Edna said, clutching Milton’s lapel. “If he understood just how fearless you are, he would never have suggested such a thing!”

  Clyde laughed.

  Milton called Edna an ill-mannered harridan.

  “I’ll telephone Delaney first chance tomorrow,” Rowland said, trying not to smile as Edna mocked Milton, distracting the poet from whatever damage Armstrong might have done to his ego by inflicting some of her own.

  They played poker until midnight, at which time Clyde insisted that Rowland retire.

  “You’ll need to be up at five tomorrow.”

  Rowland groaned. He’d hoped Clyde would forget this nonsense about a training regimen.

  “Five!” Edna exclaimed. “What on earth do you plan to do in the middle of the night?”

  Clyde responded with the laboured patience of a parent to an errant child. “Rowly’s about to take part in an endurance race.”

  “But he’s driving not running.”

  Clyde cleared his throat. “My dear Edna, driving in an endurance event is as physically demanding as running a marathon. When you are behind the wheel of a motorcar you cannot let your attention falter for a moment. If Rowly is not prepared he’ll get himself killed.”

  Edna made a face, but she let it be. Over the years, she’d become inured to the peculiar enthusiasms of the men with whom she lived. Clyde Watson Jones had always been excessively diligent… and perhaps there was more to driving a car in circles than she could see.

  The MODERN Fighter has lost his PHYSICAL Fitness! | By JIM DONALD. |

  IT is the opinion of veteran ringsiders that Australian pugilists of to-day are less tough, hardy, resolute and enduring than those of the olden time.

  The Mick and Charlie Dunns, Jim Barrons and Chiddy Ryans, of old Sydney town, are emphatic in their septuagenarian scorning of the pluck, condition and capabilities of the modern mitt-slinger, and his man Friday, the ‘la-de-da trainer,’ as grim old Charlie Dunn expresses it.

  There’s a large slab of truth in the old ‘uns’ contention that there is a certain slackness and softening in the timbre of Thumpia. A stiff old-time preparation would prostrate the majority of present-day pugs, and conditioners. Let us go back to the dawn of things and swings. The great days of the prize ring. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the days of the “Bloods” and the “Whips,” “Tom Cribb’s Parlour,” and the yellow “Belcher,” and “Blue Birdseye”; when a “petof-the-Fancy” rode to the ringside on the box seat of a noble man’s coach and four—and the windy echoes of the tootling horn awakened the sleeping villagers in the dark hour before the dawn. The majority of the pugilists were publicans and ginners—ardent followers of the great god Lush. In all bar the actual tr
aining and fighting was a spacious, leisurely attitude towards the job in hand…

  ONLY AN IRON FRAME COULD STAND IT!

  Spartan treatment brought the warrior lean and hard and phenomenally fit, to the ringside for the fray… The trainer was king, and he was a hard taskmaster. He took his man to a camp on the outskirts of the city, and never left him day or night until he stepped into the ring. He talked, walked, ate, and slept with the boxer in training. Ten miles on the road, walk, jog, trot, and sprint, and a solid hour and a half in the gym was the order of the daily grind…

  Until the boxers get back to the old regime of genuine oldfashioned roadwork and stiff, sturdy application in the sparring rooms, and favour the conditioners who insist on this procedure, the boxing game so far as the production of dyed-in-the-wool champions is concerned, will remain on the wane in Australia. Fisticuffs is a hard game, and its rotarys must accustom themselves to hard usage in preparation for the fray—as it is, the proper conditioning of pugilists is almost a forgotten art in Australia.

  Referee, 1933

  ____________________________________

  The heavy leather bag creaked on its chain, groaning under the assault as Rowland rained blow after blow. Clyde stood by, one eye on his watch as he counted the minutes, assessed his charge’s progress and kept his thoughts from Rosalina Martinelli. That Rowland had boxed at Oxford was clear, as was the fact that he’d not forgotten the technique. Clyde was a little surprised with the ferocity with which his friend was want to punch, regularly cautioning Rowland to pace himself.

  They had been at it for nearly an hour, though the sun was barely free of the horizon. Rowland’s dark hair was wet with his exertions, but his breath was still relatively even and he was not flagging. Clyde was, if truth be told, astounded that Rowland’s lifestyle had not taken more of a toll on his fitness. One would not have thought that painting, dancing and the occasional brawl was enough to counteract the effects of luxury. Clyde pushed Rowland further than was probably fair in the search for some evidence that the indolent lifestyle of the upper classes had some deleterious effect.