Decline in Prophets (29 page)

“Ed won’t mind.” Milton slapped his thigh. “Come on Lenin—do you want to go to a party?”

It seemed that Lenin did, and so it was decided. The hound would accompany them to the home and studio of the often controversial artist, Norman Lindsay, where they would see in the New Year at
one of the parties for which he had gained notoriety.

They walked out and loaded their various carpet bags into the yellow tourer. Milton and Edna fought over the front seat. Edna prevailed by insisting the back seat gave her travel sickness and,
consequently, it was the poet who shared the back seat with Clyde and the greyhound.

The drive into the Blue Mountains was one they had made often. Both Rowland and Clyde had spent weekends at
Springwood
studying the brilliance of Lindsay’s pen draughtsmanship and
etching techniques. Edna had posed for him—her face and figure appearing regularly in his etched illustrations of classical translation and poetry. Occasionally, her likeness would find its
way into the political cartoons Lindsay produced for
The Bulletin
. She sometimes found this disturbing, but it was not for a model to dictate the forum through which the artist chose to
exhibit.

The mountains in late December were clear and fresh. The drying winds of January had not yet turned the grasses yellow. The air was sharper, cleaner than in Sydney; it filled the lungs and made
breathing a noticeable pleasure.

Lindsay’s house was a sprawling country home, surrounded concentrically by wide verandahs, lush lawns and the gum and wattle of the Australian bush. Rowland pulled around the lecherous
satyr who pursued a voluptuous nymph of naked cement—one of Lindsay’s works.

A number of cars were already parked in the driveway. Lindsay’s parties were by reputation, and in fact, elegantly raucous affairs. His guests were chosen from amongst the artistic and
literary communities: painters, sculptors, poets and novelists, and, of course, models. Nymphs of both flesh and cement had always run among the trees of the mountain property.

“It appears the festivities are in full swing,” Milton murmured as he fiddled with his yellow silk cravat and pulled at the cuffs of his cream jacket. The lively strains of a jazz
band and the distinct bubble of sparkling conversation drifted up from the bushland.

“They must all be at the pool,” Rowland said, nodding towards the path, which led into the trees. Lenin seemed content to lay in the shade of a mature elm, and so they left him to
it.

Though the pool was only a short stroll from the main house, it was set in the natural woodlands in a way that seemed to separate it from civilisation and give the site an air of pagan abandon.
It was probably why Lindsay chose it as the centre of celebrations.

An animated crowd gathered around the pool, some well-dressed, others undressed, very few in-between. Champagne had already loosened tongues and morals. Couples sat draped in each other by the
water and uninhibited women posed naked and carefree for photographs with Lindsay’s sculpted sirens.

Edna entwined her arm through Rowland’s and waved to Lindsay and his wife.

The artist came forth, his arms outstretched. “Rowly. Wonderful to see you… how did you find the Continent? Not long returned myself. Appalling weather—people not much better.
Edna, my darling. Did you see the new Siren by the herb garden… you might recognise her. And Clyde—welcome, welcome…”

He stopped short suddenly as his eyes fell on Milton.

“You!” he roared. “Who invited you? You Bolshevik vermin of dubious breeding. You parasitic, uneducated fraud, purveying your vulgar utterances amongst learned men.”
Lindsay paused and poked Milton in the chest. “You unmitigated Jew!”

The partygoers fell into an uneasy hush broken only by the isolated nervous giggle.

Milton met the great artist’s eye. “That’s correct,” he said dangerously. “Completely unmitigated, you pitiful has-been peddler of pornography. Masquerade as an
artist all you want, Lindsay, we both know your only talent is titillating the repressed middle classes with your finely etched filth!”

Rose Lindsay rolled her eyes and moved next to her husband.

Norman Lindsay’s wide, expressive mouth broke unexpectedly out of its angry line, and he laughed. He put his arm around Milton. “A drink?”

“Just one? You’re becoming a bit
Ike
, Norman…”

The conversation returned to its merry boil as if it had never been interrupted. Rowland glanced at Clyde and shook his head. Milton and Lindsay had always maintained a peculiar relationship,
from which had developed this rather alarming manner of greeting. It had become custom between them; good-natured, though Rowland suspected that neither spoke entirely in jest.

The jazz band resumed its music and soon their glasses were charged as they milled amongst the glittering personalities and creative minds about the pool. When the sun set for the last time in
1932, lanterns were lit and a picnic supper brought out. Milton lay indolently by the pool pouring champagne for the thirsty young things in the water, enjoying their attempts to entice him in.
Regrettably, the poet could not swim. Edna had disappeared into the moonlight, in the arms of one of Lindsay’s sons. Even Clyde was enjoying the amorous attentions of a young lady who was
probably not Catholic. Rowland sat talking with Norman Lindsay, who reclined with his head in the soft lap of Mrs. Lindsay. The great artist gazed admiringly at the slightly inebriated woman who
danced seductively by the pool dressed only in Rowland’s jacket.

“We’ve missed you all in Sydney,” their host said, locking his hands contently over his chest. “How was your time in New York? I’ve always found Americans rather
odd myself.”

Rowland smiled as he remembered the séance. Wryly, he recounted the story to the couple.

Lindsay sat up, attentive. “Did you speak to him yourself—Houdini, I mean?”

Rowland regarded Lindsay uncertainly. “No.” He did not add that he doubted that anyone had actually spoken to Houdini that night.

“I have conversed with Shakespeare and Apollo, and of course my brother Reginald—he died at the Somme you know—but not Houdini. Tell me, did she use the ouija board?”

“No… I don’t think so. She was channelling him I believe?”

Lindsay nodded knowingly. “It is a superb talent if one can master it. She was with the Theosophical movement you say?”

Rowland shook his head. “Not anymore. She left over some scandal—just before the war, I think.”

“Oh, Leadbeater.”

“You’re acquainted?”

“Yes. Eccentric chap.”

“Quite mad, I’d say.”

“Perhaps.” Lindsay lay back into his wife’s lap. “Might well send a fellow barmy, being disappointed by two World Prophets.”

“Two?” Rowland’s interest intensified. “I thought it was just Krishnamurti…”

“Before him,” Lindsay said. “Leadbeater found a prophet in America of all places. He didn’t last long.”

“What happened to him—this first prophet?”

“Not really sure. They say he accused Leadbeater of all sorts of things—publicity nightmare for the Society. I suppose he couldn’t really remain as the Theosophical messiah
after that—so Leadbeater found a replacement in India.” Lindsay looked sharply at him. “You’re not thinking of joining the movement are you, Rowly?”

“No, not at all.”

“Pity. Might help you shake that unfortunate respectability of yours.”

Rowland laughed, noting the sheer number of uninhibited young women churning up the water like some kind of exhibitionist whirlpool. “There are much more pleasant ways of doing that,
Norman.”

He turned his eyes to the girl who still danced alone by the pool. It was about time he retrieved his jacket.

28

T
he yellow Mercedes roared into the driveway of
Woodlands House
. Its passengers were in good spirits; two days at
Springwood
had
infused them with a kind of contagious bohemian abandon. Norman Lindsay’s genius, the creative force of his personality, had inspired ideas for their own work. They talked of art and
literature, of technique and passion and of Lindsay’s mastery of the female form.

Rowland allowed the car to idle.

“Have you noticed that men are rarely painted as nudes,” Edna mused, thinking of the hundreds of naked women in Lindsay’s work. She looked at Rowland who was guilty of the same
bias. “Why is that?”

“Men look better in suits,” Rowland replied simply, and quite honestly.

Clyde laughed. “I think you’ll find, Ed, that it has more to do with the preferences of the man holding the brush.”

“Small mercies,” Milton muttered as he opened the door and pushed Lenin out.

Rowland walked round to open the boot.

“Uncle Rowly!” Ernest Sinclair tore down the stairs and came to a stop before his uncle. “Good afternoon, Uncle Rowly. I trust you are well.” The boy put out his
hand.

Rowland shook the small hand. “Ernie… hello. I didn’t think you were arriving till tomorrow.”

“Can I sit in your motorcar, Uncle Rowly?”

“Of course.” He lifted his nephew into the driver’s seat and reintroduced his friends. Ernest had met them before, but the year that had passed since was a significant period
in the boy’s short life.

“Oh Rowly, you’re back.” Kate Sinclair appeared at the doorway of
Woodlands House
.

Rowland ran up the steps to greet her. “Hello Kate. I’m sorry we weren’t here when you arrived… where’s Wil?”

“He just popped out to check on
Roburvale
.” She smiled warmly at Clyde who was climbing the stairs with Ernest on his shoulders. Perhaps it was a result of having so many
younger siblings—Clyde had a way with children.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” the artist said almost shyly, as he swung Ernest to the ground with a single brawny arm.

Milton dropped their bags onto the verandah.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Terribly remiss of us not to be here to welcome you, marm.” He kissed Kate’s hand, bowing as he did so. “I can only hope you allow us to
redeem the transgression.”

“It appears Milt has mistaken you for Queen Mary,” Rowland muttered as Edna shoved the poet.

The sculptress kissed Rowland’s bewildered sister-in-law. “Hello Kate—you mustn’t mind Milt, he’s an idiot.”

“Really… he is,” Clyde added, nodding sincerely.

Kate smiled nervously. She had always found Rowland’s friends charming though they frightened her a little.

“Shall we go in?” Rowland asked standing aside for the ladies. “I trust Mary’s taken care of you.”

“Yes, of course,” Kate replied. She smiled uncertainly. “She and Mrs. Kendall are just getting reacquainted.”

Rowland grinned. Both Mary Brown and Mrs. Kendall were accustomed to running things. Both had worked for the Sinclairs since before he was born; Mary at
Woodlands
and Mrs. Kendall at
Oaklea
. Neither was likely to concede.

They walked into the main drawing room, whilst Kate called for tea. Elisabeth Sinclair sat in the armchair with a book. She clasped it rather than read, looking about her uneasily, without any
real recognition of the house that had once been hers.

Rowland bent down to kiss her cheek and her face softened with relief.

“Aubrey darling, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been feeling apprehensive since we came to this house. I was worried about you.”

“No need, Mother,” Rowland said calmly. “I’m fine. How was your trip?”

“Oh, very comfortable. Your father took care of everything—you know how particular he is.”

“You mean Wil, don’t you, Mother?” Henry Sinclair had died more than a decade hence.

“Yes, of course, Wilfred.” She laughed at her own mistake.

Rowland was relieved. To date it had been only he that Elisabeth Sinclair had forgotten, though her memory seemed to become a little more tenuous each time he saw her.

Milton eyed the sideboard with its various decanters regretfully, but he did not venture near it. Rowland reintroduced them all to his mother and they sat to partake of a civilised repast from
awkwardly fine Royal Doulton.

Rowland noted that Kate purposely chose a seat facing away from the austere portrait of his father. Having no longer to compete with the work of his youngest son, the image of Henry Sinclair was
once again the master of
Woodlands House
. Rowland smiled at his brother’s gentle, timid wife. His father would probably have scared the wits out of her.

Edna sat down beside Kate, chatting easily as she sipped tea and passed sandwiches. Young Ernest demonstrated his proficiency with the yo-yo to Clyde and Milton. Rowland took out his notebook
and drafted ideas inspired by Lindsay. It was into this agreeable gathering that Wilfred Sinclair eventually arrived. He seemed put out.