Give the Devil His Due (14 page)

Rowland nodded. “Yes, I think so.” Clyde had always been the most orthodox of them. “How was your tea dance?”

“Perfectly lovely,” she replied. “But we're not talking about me, we're talking about Clyde.”

“Oh yes, Clyde. Did I tell you about Rosalina jilting him?”

“Just how much did you drink?”

“Quite a lot, I suppose.”

“So there's no point trying to talk to you tonight, I expect.”

“Marry me, Ed. I'll take you dancing every afternoon. Mornings, too, if you like.”

She laughed. He laughed too because he loved the way she did, and he'd had too much to drink.

“And what about Clyde?” she said.

“We'll adopt him. Milt too.”

“Errol might be a bit surprised.”

“We can give Flynn a very nice burial at sea.”

Edna pressed his hand to her cheek. “You shouldn't propose when you're drunk, Rowly. It's more dangerous than driving.” She pushed the hair out of his face.

“Why don't you want to get married, Ed? Almost every other girl I meet seems to be intent upon it.”

“That might have something to do with how charming you are.” She paused, her voice became wistful. “My parents weren't very happy, Rowly. At least my mother wasn't, and it made her hate my father in the end, no matter how much he loved her.” She kissed his forehead. “I really couldn't bear to hate you.”

“We could have a mad wanton affair instead, I suppose,” he murmured.

Her laugh was warm, entirely unoffended by the impropriety of the proposition. “If we did that, I'm afraid you'd finish up hating me.”

“I couldn't,” he said with iron certainty. “Ed, I—”

“Do you think you can remember where your bedroom is?” Edna brought the conversation to a gentle end.

“I'm really not that pickled.”

“Well, you go up and sleep it off. I'd best throw blankets over Milt and Clyde.”

The report from Canberra that, with the gradual lifting of the economic depression and the release of more money, the use of illicit drugs in Australia is increasing is disturbing. In the trail of the drug seller has always stalked the criminal, and in both Sydney and Melbourne, the drug trade has been blamed for the outbreak of the gang warfare which, until scarcity of money restricted trade, was such an unsavoury feature of the daily lives of these cities.

Thus on top of the harm done to young men and young women who fall victims to the drug habit is piled a growth in criminality. The “razor gangs” which terrorised a central part of Sydney for so long came into being in this way, their original purpose being the holding up of drug pedlars for the purpose of demanding a share in the profits. Where the pedlar showed reluctance to pay up a razor slashed. It did not stop at that; feuds sprang up, “razor gangs” grew in size, and Sydney for a long time had its weekly razor victim, a victim who would not speak to the police, but relied on his pals to avenge him.

Examiner, 1934

____________________________________

R
owland woke early the next morning despite the previous evening's consumption. He had a thumping headache and a vague memory that he'd asked Edna to marry him. He assumed she'd declined but he couldn't quite recollect anything other than that she'd laughed.

A shower did little to alleviate the pounding in his head and he was reminded that it was not a sensible idea to allow Milton to set the pace when drinking. Unfortunately he and Clyde had been already compromised when the poet joined them, and so they had not been in any state to mount a cautionary resistance.

They had discussed Rosalina and Crispin White and Rosalina again… none of it had been particularly useful or coherent.

Milton sauntered into the breakfast room while Rowland was having toast and coffee. The poet was, in his custom, unconventionally but meticulously attired in a candy-striped jacket and crimson cravat. It was very bright for the hour and Rowland's current disposition.

Milton grinned, sitting across from him. “And how are you on this fine morning, my friend?”

“Stop shouting,” Rowland muttered.

“I wasn't shouting.”

Your clothes are.”

Milton sniggered, thoroughly unrepentant and annoyingly unaffected, though he had imbibed far more than had Rowland. “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.”

“Yes, Byron would know, I suppose. How's Clyde pulled up?” Rowland asked.

“Still asleep on the couch. Someone very kindly brought us pillows and blankets last night.”

“That was Ed.”

“Of course. She's a good egg.” Milton stood and helped himself from the warming trays on the sideboard. “Have you seen the papers?” he asked, pointing to the neat stack at the centre of the table.

“No, I haven't had a chance to peruse them yet.” Rowland reached for
The Sydney Morning Herald
, which sat on the top of the pile. The Red Cross Charity Race was featured extensively on pages two and three—profiles of each of the racers, a social pages account of the opening event and a passing reference to the chequered histories of the Maroubra Speedway and the original Lucky Devil Cup.

Milton pulled out
Smith's Weekly
and
The Sun
and passed them to Rowland. “You're bound to find the coverage in these rags more interesting.”

Rowland winced. Clearly by “interesting” Milton did not mean reasoned and well researched. But then, that was not the reputation of either paper.

The Sun
ran the headline, “Race on the Killer Track”. It carried pictures of all the racers. The image of Rowland was that taken just after he'd been asked to give the Nazi salute. He looked murderous. The caption read, “Rowland Sinclair Esq. of Woollahra, determined to eradicate the competition in his German automobile.”

Rowland groaned and moved on to
Smith's Weekly
, choking on his coffee as he read its version of a racer profile.
Smith's
had used a photograph quite artfully taken with the Mercedes' mascot in the foreground, to which they had referred as the “Mercedes swastika”. The article carried details of Aubrey Sinclair's death fighting in France during the Great War, and made a point to mention that Rowland had not served before quoting him as follows: “Aubrey, from what I remember, was not shot by a Mercedes. I think you'll find the war is over.”

Rowland swore. “Bloody hell, that makes me sound like… What the devil are they doing?”

“
Smith's
is the diggers' bible, Rowly,” Milton reminded him.

Rowland rubbed the back of his neck. His headache was getting worse. “I knew they were going to cast me as the villain because of the car. I just didn't think they'd bring Aubrey into it.”

“It's bloody unsporting,” Milton agreed. “Who wrote it?”

“It doesn't seem to have a by-line,” Rowland said on inspection.

The telephone rang in the hallway.

“That'll be Wilfred,” Rowland said, knowing his brother read
Smith's.
He glanced at his watch. “Milt, would you mind checking on Mother? I don't want her to see this, if she hasn't already.” Although his mother seemed to read all references to Rowland as “Aubrey”, he was unsure of what a direct mention of his brother's death would mean for the fantasy to which she was so devoted.

Milton nodded. “I'll speak to the nurses and make sure she only sees
The Sydney Morning Herald
.”

“She's going to want to see what the other papers say about the race,” Rowland warned.

“Leave it to me, mate.”

Wilfred Sinclair was, not unexpectedly, furious with
Smith's Weekly
's coverage. While he had already telephoned Frank Marien to make his displeasure known, he did save a small measure of his ire for his brother's errant car.

“If you didn't insist on driving that bloody Fritz contraption people wouldn't get the wrong idea!”

“What idea, Wil?” Rowland demanded. “It wasn't so long ago that
Smith's
bloody
Weekly
was branding me a Communist. The blithering idiots don't seem to know the difference!”

“We're coming up to Sydney next week.”

“For God's sake, I'm not ten years old!”

“This isn't about you, Rowly. The Royal Easter Show opens in a week, in case you'd forgotten.”

Rowland had forgotten but he was not about to admit it. Like most pastoralists and graziers, Wilfred Sinclair took the Royal Easter Show very seriously.

“Kate's rather missing Ernie, so we thought we'd all come up for a couple of weeks. And naturally we'll stay for your race.”

“Yes, of course.”

“We'll stop at
Roburvale
,” Wilfred instructed. “It'll save you having to reorganise
Woodlands
or your… houseguests.”

Roburvale
had been the Woollahra home of Rowland's late uncle and namesake. Although the old man had been gone for more than two years, the elderly staff had been retained and the mansion kept ready as a second Sydney residence for the family's use. As Rowland and Wilfred Sinclair ran their houses very differently, the extravagance was proving fortuitous.

“I'll speak to Mrs. Donnelly,” Rowland promised, frowning. His uncle's housekeeper was ancient and quite deaf. He hoped she was still able to cope with the demands of a young family.

“How is Mother coping with all this nonsense?” Wilfred asked.

“She's perfectly well,” Rowland replied, hoping that was in fact the case. Wilfred was still very dubious about the idea of their mother living at
Woodlands
.

Wilfred sighed. “Very well. Try not to let this get out of hand, Rowly. There's only so much I can do.”

Rowland paused at the door to Clyde's studio. Edna sat on one of the plinths Clyde used for still life, talking softly while he sipped a cup of tea with his eyes closed. Rowland waited, not wanting to interrupt. As different as steady, country-born Clyde was from the free-spirited sculptress, Rowland knew that they had their own special relationship. It was Edna who had taught Clyde to dance, who teased him out of his more stuffy moods, and told him fiercely that “any girl would be proud to step out with him” on those occasions when he needed to hear it.

“Ed has ordered me to go upstairs and shower,” Clyde complained, when Rowland finally came in.

“That mightn't be a bad idea,” Rowland replied. “It was a long night.”

“Yes.” Clyde was a little unsteady as he stood. “I'm not sure I'm sober yet.” He glanced around the converted sunroom. “Who made this mess?”

Rowland blinked. Aside from a clutter of empty bottles and tumblers, and the bedding Edna had brought in the night before, the room was in fairly good order. But Clyde was fastidious. His studio usually looked as though it had been organised by a middle-aged librarian, every brush in its place arranged by type and size, only one canvass in progress at a time. It bore a stark contrast to the manner in which Rowland worked.