Give the Devil His Due

by Sulari Gentill

  “Standards old boy,” Rowland replied. “Anyway, there’s Ed and Joan.”

  Milton snorted.

  The dinner party would be rather imbalanced in terms of gender, but its purpose was primarily to discuss the race and team strategy. They found Edna and Clyde already entertaining their guests in what had once been the ladies’ drawing room. It had been used as a general reception hall since Rowland had claimed the main parlour as his studio.

  Noticeably feminine in style, the room was papered rather than panelled and the wainscoting painted a pale blue. The window dressings were soft and the furnishings were chosen for the delicate elegance that appealed to Elisabeth Sinclair.

  Elisabeth herself had retired early after a day spent at the Queen’s Club with her sister-in-law.

  Over pre-dinner drinks, the topic of discussion focussed on motorcars and race strategy. In truth, it was not so much a discussion as an issue and explanation of instructions by Joan Richmond. Flynn contributed nautical translations and Rowland simply listened. Joan drew up a plan of the speedway, grilling both men on which parts were most worn or dangerous and which sections were to be avoided at all costs. The heaviest, most powerful vehicles were scheduled to drive first, so Rowland and the Mercedes would begin the race.

  “You need to give Errol at least three laps head start,” she said matter-of-factly. “That way I’ll have an even chance of holding Hope Bartlett off in the last leg.”

  Flynn did not, as far as Rowland could tell, seem offended by the bluntness of Joan Richmond’s words. Instead, he offered insights into prevailing winds.

  Over dinner, Joan told stories of the various race meets in which she’d competed abroad and, more often than not, triumphed.

  It was only after they’d eaten that Rowland raised the issue of Reginald Stuart Jones and his compatriots.

  “The scoundrels wanted you to throw the race?” Joan gasped. “Why, that’s unsporting, simply outrageous! It’s not cricket!”

  “From what I can gather,” Rowland explained, “we are the favourites to win the Lucky Devil II. If we prevail then some of these characters stand to lose a great deal of money.”

  Flynn laughed. “Serves them right for underestimating us! They should have known from the beginning that this was the winning crew!”

  “Yes, but we’d be prudent not to underestimate them,” Milton said firmly.

  “I wonder why they’ve only targeted Rowly,” Joan murmured.

  “Well, you are a lady—they’re not animals—and Flynn here is the weakest driver. You and Rowly could probably replace him easily.”

  Errol Flynn laughed, assuming that Milton was speaking in jest.

  “They may just be trying Rowly first,” Clyde pointed out.

  Flynn seemed unconcerned. “Rest assured, Cap’n,” he said, saluting Joan. “I’ll be staying with the ship no matter what these pirates want!”

  They returned to the drawing room for brandy and Flynn, clearly fed up with conversation about the race, re-enacted his scenes from The Bounty with a commentary of amusing anecdotes about his fellow cast members and the occasional seafaring ditty. He demanded Edna stand in as his leading lady though Rowland was sure there hadn’t been a woman amongst the Bounty mutineers. Not to be outdone, Milton contributed verses from Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner presented as his own inspiration, and the time passed in an entirely nonsensical but good-humoured manner.

  It was Joan Richmond who responsibly declared the evening at an end, reminding the men on her team that they were expected at the track by nine the following morning for another practice run, and instructing them to stop drinking and get some sleep.

  Rowland telephoned through to the gatehouse to alert the guard, and they walked their guests to Joan Richmond’s Riley, discreetly averting their eyes and discussing the moon as Flynn kissed Edna good night with an extended cinematic passion. Milton laughed as he glanced back. “Actors!” he muttered. “You can see the flaming credits rolling.”

  “Edna does realise that Flynn’s a cad, doesn’t she?” Joan whispered.

  “Yes, I believe she does,” Rowland replied.

  “I’m afraid he might break her heart.”

  “Much more likely to be the other way around, Joan.”

  Joan looked at him searchingly. “I see.”

  Clyde scanned the outer perimeter fence of the Maroubra Speedway. “Wombat Newgate’s here,” he murmured.

  Rowland nodded. “I noticed. I believe I saw Stuart Jones skulking about earlier too.”

  Clyde shook his head in disbelief. “They must have a king’s ransom riding on this race.”

  “I wonder if that’s all it is,” Rowland said, as he pulled on his driving helmet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve begun to wonder why they haven’t approached Joan or Flynn. Perhaps there’s more to it than good manners and an indifference to Flynn.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I don’t know. But I do wonder if there’s something more to it.” Rowland pulled down his goggles. There was no time to think about that now.

  Clyde moved his head sideways to the infield. Rowland had seen her too. The Honourable Charlotte Linklater with a contingent of gentlemen.

  “I’m certain those blokes are New Guardsmen, Rowly,” Clyde said. “I recognise the little fellow with the spectacles from Campbell’s book launch.”

  Rowland climbed into the Mercedes.

  Clyde forgot about the spectators and gave Rowland instructions. “Don’t forget, let her find her place on the bank—the faster you’re going the higher that will be. If you get too close to the perimeter, for God’s sake slow down. Let me know if you think she’s pulling to the right at all—I can adjust that. The tyres will need a couple of laps to warm up so allow for that…”

  Rowland listened, not because he hadn’t heard it all before, but because Clyde’s instructions served as a mental checklist and helped clear his mind of everything but driving. Flynn’s Triumph slowed to a stop and pulled off the main track, signalling that it was his turn.

  The S-class roared onto the circuit, easing gently up to speed to give the tyres and the engine a chance to warm. Rowland drove precisely, efficiently, but he didn’t push the supercharged motor. His driving was tight but it was safe as he and Clyde had decided it would be at the boxing bag that morning. There was no reason for their competitors or the bookmakers to know how fast Rowland Sinclair could take his Mercedes around the bowl, no reason to signal what he would do in the race. The scheme had been soundly endorsed by Joan Richmond.

  “Yes, let the wretches believe they’ve got to you, Rowly. They may call off the dogs and then we’ll give them a bit of a shock in the race proper!”

  And so Rowland Sinclair resisted the urge to let his motorcar demonstrate her power, and finished his laps in a time that was respectable but sufficiently slow to put them out of serious contention. He glanced up at the spectators on the perimeter as he climbed out of the vehicle. Stuart Jones tipped his hat. It rankled that the nefarious doctor seemed to think they had an agreement, but for now the ruse appeared to be the most sensible solution.

  “Good show, Rowly,” Clyde whispered as Rowland got out of the car. “That was just slow enough to look like you’d lost your nerve.”

  Rowland ignored a vague sense of embarrassment that it would seem so. “Let’s get out of here before Stuart Jones sees fit to express his admiration once again.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes to check everything’s in order.” Clyde used a cloth to protect his hands as he unfolded the bonnet.

  Charlotte Linklater and her contingent approached as Clyde peered at the engine.

  “Miss Linklater,” Rowland said warily. “Allow me to offer my sincere condolences on the tragic passing of your brother.”

  “I don’t accept your apology, Mr. Sinclair,” she said fiercely.

  “He didn’t apologise, Miss Linklater,” Clyde said straightening. “I believe he was ex
pressing sorrow for your loss, nothing more.”

  Charlotte gasped. She shouted at Rowland, “Are you going to let your man address a lady in such an insolent manner?”

  The gentlemen by her side also declared displeasure at Clyde’s outburst. “Impertinence… how dare you… ill-mannered wretch… a good thrashing by your betters is what you need.”

  “As Clyde said,” Rowland replied slowly and clearly, “I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss Linklater. I understand you must be distraught. If there is anything at all I can do—”

  “You can go to hell, Mr. Sinclair!”

  Rowland did not respond. It was clear that Charlotte Linklater and the gentlemen with her were spoiling for a fight. How much of it was bereavement as opposed to political belligerence was difficult to glean. He could not help but liken Charlotte to Unity Mitford, the last Fascist Honourable he’d encountered. The acquaintance was not one he’d enjoyed.

  The bespectacled New Guardsmen stepped up and poked him in the chest. “What have you got to say for yourself, Sinclair?”

  Rowland looked down at the diminutive man and without really meaning to do so, he smiled. A blow may well have produced a less heated response. The guardsman pushed Rowland back against the Mercedes and the other men in Charlotte’s entourage closed in.

  Clyde leapt into the fray, grabbing Rowland before the jostling escalated to something more. “Is there something you want, gentlemen?” he demanded. “Because if not, I’m afraid we must get on.” He raised the tyre lever he held in his hand. The New Guardsmen stepped back.

  “I know you!” Spectacles peered at Clyde. “You’re the Commie dog that tried to break up the leader’s book launch at Town Hall.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Beejling emerged from wherever he had been lurking.

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Rowland said, further irritated by the presence of the bodyguard he’d been forced to tolerate and was trying to ignore. He suspected that in the current circumstances Beejling’s officious protection would serve only to exacerbate hostilities.

  Hope Bartlett arrived then. He assessed the situation quickly and acted to elegantly dissipate the tension. “Lottie, come along old girl, it’s your turn on the track. Sorry gentlemen, the lady is required to drive.”

  The Guardsmen hesitated, as Charlotte Linklater moved to follow Bartlett.

  “Perhaps you’d care to watch from the perimeter fence, gentlemen,” Bartlett called over his shoulder. “I hate to be a bore but the infield is restricted to the public.”

  “Remind me to buy Hope a drink,” Rowland murmured as he and Clyde climbed into the Mercedes. “He arrived in the nick of time.”

  “I don’t know.” Clyde put the car into gear and released the clutch. “Tyre levers can be very persuasive.”

  WHERE TO STAY WHILE IN SYDNEY Attractions During Easter Holiday ROYAL SHOW – A.J.C RACES – BEACH CARNIVALS

  …It is because we work so hard that we so thoroughly enjoy our holidays. This is particularly true of the man on the land who, after a year of unremitting toil, reaps his harvest of grain or wool or fruit, and then sets about a holiday.

  In New South Wales the harvest season is so arranged by Nature that the farmer is able to take his holiday at a peculiarly apt period of the year—Easter—when all Christendom is celebrating the resurrection of its Lord. The harvest is over, and the man on the land turns his eyes to Sydney, a place of many delights during the Easter season. Everything combines to make the Easter holiday period in Sydney most interesting and enjoyable. Railway fares are reduced and special concessions are offered to attract the country people to the city… The attractions of Sydney at Easter are so varied and so numerous that space permits only the mention of a few in these columns. First and foremost, of course, is the Royal Show, which will be the Mecca of thousands of country people during the holiday period. The chief sporting event is the Easter racing carnival, and there are many other minor events, such as surf carnivals, athletics, motor racing, boxing, tennis, grade cricket, and so on…

  The country people of the State are fortunate in their seasons, fortunate in the arrangement of the Easter holiday period, and fortunate that they may spend their holiday in the third greatest city of the British Empire, which offers attractions and delights unsurpassed by any other city in the world.

  Farmer and Settler, 1934

  ____________________________________

  “I do believe this might be them,” Rowland said as they caught sight of the train from the country platform.

  Ernest Sinclair held tightly to his uncle’s hand and leaned forward as far as he could to see around the press of milling bodies. The housemaster at Tudor House had put him on a train from Moss Vale early that morning so that he could join his uncle and meet his parents’ train in the afternoon. The platform was crowded: Sydneysiders meeting country relatives coming to town for the Royal Easter Show, eager faces anticipating reunion. Life-battered men and ragged boys collected discarded cigarette stubs and pounced on fallen change. Tobacconists and flower vendors walked the length of the platform with their wares. Rowland had bought Ernest a bunch of roses for his mother and slipped the change into the calloused hand of an old man competing with brash youths to earn a coin carrying travellers’ bags.

  Metal ground against metal as the Yass train slowed to a stop in a screeching cloud of steam. Rowland lifted Ernest up so the boy could see over hatted heads and they made their way to the front of the train and the first-class carriages. Ernest caught sight of his mother through the windows and waved and shouted excitedly, “Mater! Mater!”

  “Mater?” Rowland looked at his nephew quizzically.

  “It’s Latin for mother, Uncle Rowly.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m studying Latin.”

  “Capital.”

  Wilfred Sinclair was the first to alight onto the platform. At fortythree he was the uncontested patriarch of the Sinclair family. The epitome of dignity and conservative power, Wilfred wore the mantle well, astutely commanding a pastoral empire that now extended beyond Australian shores.

  “Daddy!” Ernest shrieked wriggling out of Rowland’s arms. He ran to his father and extended his hand. “Welcome to Sydney, Pater.”

  Wilfred shook his son’s hand solemnly. “Why thank you, son. You’re looking well.”

  “I’m taller I think.”

  Wilfred tousled his son’s head affectionately. “I do believe you are.” He turned to help Kate Sinclair down the carriage steps. With his mother, Ernest lost all pretence at decorum and Latin, throwing himself into her arms crying, “Mummy, I missed you, Mummy.”

  Rowland stood back for a while allowing his brother this time alone with his family. As much as Wilfred was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the country, it had always been clear that he valued his young wife and sons above all else. It was in stark contrast to the priorities of their own late father.

  Two nannies, attired in crisp grey uniforms, followed Kate Sinclair from the carriage, each bearing one of Wilfred’s younger sons. Though he had grown considerably from the newborn Rowland had last seen, Gilbert was still a babe in arms. Ewan, Rowland’s godson was now nearly two and not impressed with the confinement of his nanny’s iron grip.

  “Rowly, there you are!” Wilfred shook his brother’s hand.

  “Hello Wil. Good journey?”

  “Tolerable.” Wilfred signalled the porters he’d already paid to take the luggage as Rowland kissed Kate’s cheek.

  “Good Lord,” Rowland murmured as trunk after trunk bearing the Sinclair crest was unloaded from the luggage carriage.

  Wilfred sighed. “How many cars did you bring?”

  “Just two, and mine,” Rowland said a little concerned. Then a possible solution occurred. “We can put the extra trunks in Beejling’s vehicle. He may as well be useful.”

  “Who’s Beejling?”

  “He’s one of the men you’re paying to follow me about.”

 
; “I see.”

  “In fact, if you ride back with him he could probably apprise you of everything I’ve been up to.”

  “You’re too old to be petulant, Rowland. I acted for your own safety, and the safety of anyone who might be with you, for that matter.” He glanced pointedly at Ernest who was reciting Latin roots to his mother.

  Rowland stopped. He winced. “Yes, of course,” he said sheepishly.

  “But since he’s here,” Wilfred said, signalling the bodyguard, “he might as well take a trunk or two.”

  And so they arrived in convoy at Roburvale. Not quite as large as Woodlands House, the Sinclairs’ second Woollahra mansion was nevertheless a substantial property. Its gatehouse was already occupied by Wilfred’s security. Rowland had deployed Bessie to assist the elderly Mrs. Donnelly in preparing for the arrival of the greater Sinclairs. The more risqué artwork which Rowland’s late uncle and namesake had hung throughout his home had been taken down, and a nursery prepared for the children. A cook and a scullery maid had been borrowed from another grand house whose family was abroad to cater for the needs of Wilfred Sinclair’s household. Bessie had ensured all the rooms were prepared and fresh flowers set in every vase. The staff were lined up by the portico to meet and greet the family.

  Rowland stayed a while to play with his nephews. Young Ewan was a much less contained and more physical child than his elder brother. He demanded to be hung upside down and squealed in delight.

  “For pity’s sake, Rowly, I thought someone was murdering the children,” Wilfred muttered as he entered the room to find Rowland on the floor with both Ernest and Ewan on top of him. Ernest got off his uncle immediately but Ewan simply chanted, “Again, again, again…”

  Rowland stood up and swung the two-year-old into the air one more time. “Would you like me to take Ernest back to school?” he asked.

  Ernest’s face fell, his shoulders slumped but he said nothing. Rowland felt like the worst kind of traitor.

  “Do you have the time? I could have my driver take him back?” Wilfred asked. “I’m afraid I have to get straight down to Moore Park to make sure everything’s in order for tomorrow when the Show opens.”