Give the Devil His Due (22 page)

“Dr. Stuart Jones,” Rowland said.

“For pity's sake, it's Reg!” He held out his hand and pumped Rowland's enthusiastically.

Rowland introduced Clyde, who had not been present when last he'd encountered the dubious gynaecologist at one of Sydney's seediest nightclubs.

“Phil Jeffs sends his regards and salutations, incidentally,” Stuart Jones said opening his cigarette case and offering its contents to both men.

Rowland declined the cigarette, nodding politely in response to the conveyance of good wishes. Phil “the Jew” Jeffs' regards were not something for which he cared, but they were preferable to the gangster's presence. Not that Dr. Reginald Stuart Jones was much of an improvement. Stuart Jones' medical title, at least, was not an affectation. He had married his fortune but had made his name as a gynaecologist by assisting unmarried women in trouble. He catered particularly to those parts of society who could afford to pay him well for the service. They all knew that Stuart Jones' purpose was not social, but the doctor insisted upon a preliminary charade of niceties and chitchat.

It wasn't until Rowland said, “I'm afraid we really must be going”, that Stuart Jones came to the point.

“You know your team is the favourite, don't you, Sinclair?”

“No, I can't say I am aware of that.”

“Oh yes, especially now that Charles Linklater is dead. Hope Bartlett's team was the favourite till that happened. It's understandable, of course.” He patted the Mercedes' bonnet. “You looked good on the track just now, and Joanie Richmond is very well regarded. Even Flynn isn't driving too badly.”

“Yes… well… thank you.” Rowland's eyes narrowed. He was aware of Stuart Jones' connections with greyhound racing. In fact, Milton had acquired Lenin as a reject from the doctor's stable of dogs. He was, however, fairly sure that the notorious punter was not a devotee of motor sports. But perhaps Stuart Jones did not care what form his dogs took.

“Not at all, old chap, not at all. How do you think you'll go? Are you confident?”

Rowland didn't reply.

Stuart Jones continued regardless. “You be careful out there, Sinclair. You wouldn't want to end like Linklater, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rowland stepped towards Stuart Jones.

“Just friendly concern, old bean. Good luck, break a leg and all that.” Stuart Jones patted Rowland's shoulder cheerfully before departing quite hastily.

Rowland stared after him, and then turned to Clyde. “What the hell was that about?”

“Bookies don't make any money when a favourite wins, Rowly. The bastard's just trying to unnerve you.”

Rowland glanced up at the crowd gathered on the fence at the top of the bowl. It had been growing each day. “I just hope that's all it was, Clyde.”

Norman Lindsay and Mae West

Dear Cynthia,—

…I must tell you a story about a work of art that was not disclosed to the public's gaze on the opening night. This was a huge picture by Norman Lindsay, which arrived some time before. It was unwrapped in the upstairs foyer before several of the “Heads,” not to mention interested workmen. Like most pictures by this artist, its subject was several rather startling feminine figures—one even more striking than the rest. So much so, in fact, that it drew from one of the open-mouthed workmen the comment, “Look, Bill! Mae West's come up to see us!”

Table Talk, 1934

____________________________________

R
owland slipped his own notebook into the inside breast pocket of his jacket before taking the folio from its place of last discard on the sideboard. He glanced out the window. Wilfred had organised a private security detail of half a dozen men to replace Delaney's two constables. One was stationed permanently at the gate, which was locked, another at the stables-cum-garage. The other four patrolled the grounds ensuring the tall hedges hid nothing more sinister than a cloistered garden bench.

Where Wilfred had found these men, Rowland did not ask. His brother was a powerful man, he had his own enemies and he'd always had his own security, too. The men had a bearing and collective manner that evoked the military. Whether that was because they had known Wilfred in service or because they were associated with some clandestine army of the establishment, Rowland did not know. He assumed he would be rid of the intrusion, however discreet, once the gunman was caught or a sufficient time without incident had passed.

“Are you going somewhere, Aubrey?”

Rowland glanced up to see his mother at the door. She looked well. Always elegant, Elisabeth Sinclair had decided today to wear a jaunty feather in her cloche. The embellishment was bright red—not a colour Rowland had seen his mother wear in many years. “I had planned to call on a friend, Mother, but I could leave that till later if you require me for something.”

“No, I don't require you, but I had hoped you might have some time for me… But no, you go. Enjoy the morning calling on your friend and don't worry about me.”

Smiling, Rowland offered a compromise. “Why don't you come with me, Mother? You might find Norman's studio interesting and we could take tea in town somewhere afterwards if you fancy it.”

“Tea? Heavens, Aubrey, when did you become so stuffy? We're not Presbyterians! Couldn't we go for a drink? Where is it young people go these days?”

Amused, Rowland regarded his mother, her eyes sparkling now with rebellious enthusiasm. “We'll find somewhere, I'm sure. Would you like to accompany me then?”

“Only if you comb your hair. I'm not stepping out with a vagrant.”

Rowland gave the nurse on duty the morning off, assuring her that he would look after his mother. They took the Rolls Royce and the elderly chauffeur, Johnston, because Elisabeth Sinclair had never thought it entirely gentlemanly to drive oneself. In any case Rowland was becoming increasingly cautious about his all too conspicuous vehicle. The Mercedes had been vandalised once and Stuart Jones' interest made him wary.

Norman Lindsay had moved from Springwood to the Bridge Street studio earlier that year. Rowland was aware that the artist had felt creatively exhausted for some time and unable to paint or write. For an artist of Lindsay's prolific, frenetic nature the inability to make art had been torturous. He had left his wife and children in Springwood to chase a muse who had turned her face away. She had led him, it seemed, to Bridge Street, where he now resided in a studio convenient to the offices of
The Bulletin
which had first made him a household name.

Interestingly, Rowland quite intentionally saw him less often now that they inhabited the same city. Lindsay had always been unconventional, outrageous and prejudiced in his outlook, but it seemed to Rowland that his mentor had adopted much darker views of late.

“Would you prefer to wait, Mother?” Rowland asked hopefully, as they pulled up outside the studio. Three young women whom he recognised as models were walking out. They waved when they saw him and suddenly Rowland realised that bringing his mother to the studio of Norman Lindsay might not have been the most sensible idea. “I shouldn't be long.”

“Absolutely not! I used to sketch a little as a girl, you know. My governess declared my watercolours quite accomplished. Perhaps I shall take it up again.”

Rowland grimaced. “Mr. Lindsay is what is called a life artist, Mother. You might find some of his work—”

“For pity's sake, Aubrey, my education was not so neglected that I am unaware of, or offended by, the classical nude! You young people seem to believe you invented the risqué!”

Appropriately chastised, Rowland got out of the car while Johnston opened the door properly for Elisabeth Sinclair. The pace of the elderly chauffeur was such that Rowland had time to straighten his tie, adjust his cuffs, walk around the car and still offer Elisabeth his hand as she alighted.

Lindsay's studio was on the second floor, an ample space with a residence attached. It was in the chaotic studio that they were received. Elisabeth Sinclair held onto Rowland's arm as they picked their way through sculptures in progress and laden easels. The artist was at work on a large oil painting while he chatted with a gentleman who watched his progress.

“Rowland!” Norman Lindsay said as he stood back from his canvas, regarding the image with one eye closed. “What do you think? I fear it's a little overworked but I'm still becoming accustomed to oils. Even so, it's not entirely incompetent.”

Rowland studied the Ruebenesque nude. The painting did not have the lightness of touch that was characteristic of Lindsay's etchings and watercolours.

“I can't tell you how much I have been renewed by oils,” Lindsay continued. “I viewed the work of the classical masters in Europe you know, the beautiful reality of the human form. It reinvigorated my faith, reinspired me despite the perverse obsession of the masses with modernism—Oh, I say! You've brought a friend!” Lindsay seemed to notice Elisabeth Sinclair for the first time.

Rowland introduced Norman Lindsay to his mother.

“Mrs. Sinclair, you are most welcome in my humble studio,” Lindsay said graciously. “Allow me to introduce my friend and one time publisher, Mr. Inky Stephensen.”

Rowland shook hands with Stephensen whom he'd known for some years, having first met the man at Oxford. The publisher had been a Rhodes scholar and though they had not moved in the same circles, their paths had crossed on occasion.

Stephensen shared a political affiliation with Milton and Clyde, and while they too were acquainted with him, Rowland knew his friends had little time for the publisher. Milton maintained that Stephensen simply liked to wave his fist, that his commitment to Communism was more to do with an oppositional nature than philosophy.

“I take it you are no longer with Endeavour Press?” Rowland asked for the sake of making conversation.

“Regrettably, Endeavour Press and I had an irreconcilable difference of opinion. I've struck out in my own right, now—P. R. Stephensen & Co.” Stephensen handed Rowland a business card.

“What brings you here, dear boy?” Lindsay asked. Rowland handed him Rosaleen's folio. “I promised the young lady who made these drawings that I'd show them to you. She's an ardent admirer of your work.”

Lindsay preened, gratified, and took the folio. He spread the sheets of paper on an oak table along the wall, studying each work in turn. “This friend of yours, did she train at the East Sydney Technical College?”

“Yes. How did you—”

“Because the Tech produces artists with technique and, alas, no spirit. The drawings are unsophisticated and rough. I doubt she has a great future.”

“She's only seventeen, Norman.” Rowland found himself speaking in Rosaleen's defence. “I'm sure her technique will mature as she does.”

Lindsay shrugged and seemed to lose interest. “Perhaps.” He glanced at Elisabeth Sinclair, who was studying a sculpture a few steps away and lowered his voice and winked. “I take it this girl, Norton, has replaced Miss Higgins as your muse?”

“Great Caesar's, no! She's just rather insistent that I show you her work, and inform you that she models. As I said, Miss Norton is an admirer of your work.”

“Of course, of course.” He shook his head. “Pity. I had hoped you'd send Edna back to me if you're finished with her.”

Rowland laughed. “I don't send Ed anywhere, Norman, she goes where she pleases. If you want her to model for you, ask her, by all means. But I won't ever be finished with Ed.”

Lindsay sighed. “I once believed that about Rose, but creativity and desire are linked, Rowland. Your paintings of Edna are extraordinary but what will happen to them, I wonder, when your lust for her has been sated.”

Rowland was well accustomed to the intimate bluntness of Lindsay's philosophies but the sating of lust was not something he wished to discuss with his mother in the room.

Inky Stephensen rescued him from the uncomfortable direction of the conversation by showing an interest in Rosaleen's drawings. “Rowland, this is fascinating,” he said holding up one of the surrealist depictions of Pan. “More black magic than Bacchanalian. I published Aleister Crowley when I was with Mandrake, you know. He might have liked this.”

“You don't say.” Rowland was unsure of what endorsement the favour of the legendary Satanist held.

“I do.”

Lindsay snorted. “If this girl is after advice, tell her to study the masters, not to be swayed by the modernist rubbish that Jewish dealers are trying to pass off as art!”

Rowland stiffened. “For pity's sake, Norman. I'm not telling her that.”

“Why?”

“Because it's idiotic!”

“What! You've become a modernist, have you?”

“Whether or not I'm a modernist has nothing to do with any imagined Jewish conspiracy!” Rowland said hotly.