Give the Devil His Due (19 page)

“But what if she—”

“Look, Clyde, it's not my only or last painting, or even my best work.” It was not a convenient depreciation. While Rowland had in the end been happy with
Psyche by the Styx
, they all knew that there was no one he painted quite like he painted Edna Higgins. There was a certain elusive quality to his work when she was his model which elevated it into the realm of greatness. Critics and commentators saw it as a subtle variation in technique, or a change of palette, or light; Clyde and Milton could see that it was because the artist was in love with his model.

The argument continued back and forth for most of the journey back to
Woodlands
, but by the time they drove through the wroughtiron gates, Rowland had persuaded Clyde to gift the painting to Rosalina.

“How'd he go?” Milton addressed the question to Clyde, who'd accompanied Rowland to the gallery primarily to see for himself that Rowland's driving had not been affected by the accident.

“He was fine. We'll just have to see how he does on the actual track.” Clyde set down the painting, facing it against the wall.

“Randolph sold it back to you then?” Milton asked.

“Yes, and he's agreed to host my exhibition there,” Rowland said before Clyde could bemoan the cost of the exercise yet again.

“Splendid!” Edna said. “We'll have to start thinking about invitations, framing, that sort of thing. How many paintings have you finished, Rowly?”

Rowland frowned. “Not enough. All this blessed racing nonsense… I'll be pushing it to have enough pieces by the middle of April.”

“I had a thought about that,” the sculptress said, going to the shelves on which were stacked his old notebooks. She rummaged through to find the sketchbooks he'd used in Germany. “We could take this apart, frame the sketches you made in Munich. There's a wonderful sense of immediacy about them. I expect they'll work as their own collection of sorts.”

Rowland took the notebook from her and flicked through the pages. There were at least twenty sketches of Brownshirts, rallies, citizens going about their business past vandalised shops on which the word “Jude” had been scrawled. There were occasional notes in the margins made to remind himself of what exactly was happening. Some of the sketches had been made the day after, so he would not lose the image of what went before. “Yes,” he said quietly. “This might work.”

Rowland moved to the bookshelf and found a second notebook. He'd used it in London after they'd escaped Munich… once he found himself able to draw again. The sketches had been made with his left hand as his right arm had been broken. Rowland was ambidextrous— if anything, the use of his left hand made his line work more fluid if a little less detailed. The drawings in the second book were starker than those in the first. He'd been drawing to exorcise images of torture and violence from his head.

“Yes, these will shock the caviar out of them,” Milton murmured looking over his shoulder.

Clyde agreed. “They'll make an interesting retrospective.”

The four of them spent some time planning how the exhibition would be hung, descriptive plaques, publicity. It was decided that Clyde's landscapes would hang in the corridors leaving the main exhibit room for Rowland's more confronting work.

“Let's lull them with pretty pictures until they're in the heart of the exhibition,” Clyde said.

“Perhaps we could construct a display of the books they burned at the Königplatz,” Edna said, excited now.

Rowland nodded. It was an excellent idea. “I've a list of the books the Nazis banned somewhere.”

They discussed lighting and grouping and bit by bit the exhibition was built.

“We'll have to make sure no one gets wind of what exactly you're planning to exhibit,” Milton warned.

Edna agreed. “We might have to stop letting every man and his dog into your studio.”

“Speaking of which, where's Len?” Rowland asked, looking around for his greyhound.

“He's in the kitchen with Ed's kittens,” Milton said clearly unimpressed. “I fear he's had some kind of breakdown… Seems to think he's a cat.”

Rowland was determined to return to his easel that evening, but Edna would not have it. “Don't be an idiot Rowly. You were involved in a serious car accident this morning! Go to bed!”

Rowland resisted. After the horror and mayhem of the day he felt a need to paint, simply to clear his mind. “I'm not sure I'd get much sleep tonight, Ed,” he said, as he faced off against the painting of the book burning.

“I wonder why this image in particular is giving you so much trouble,” Edna mused, studying the canvas as she stopped beside him.

“Perhaps I'm afraid something will burst out of the canvas and eat me.” Rowland laughed as he placed an arm around Edna.

The sculptress sighed. “As much as I suspect Rosaleen Norton is a little mad, her story did give me the creeps.”

“You're not—”

“Of course not.” She broke away from him and grabbed the slim volume of poetry Milton had left on the sideboard before curling up in the wing-backed armchair. “You paint. I'm just going to read for a bit.”

Rowland smiled. “I'm perfectly safe, Ed.”

“I'll stay anyway… keep a weather eye on the back of your canvas.”

Weather eye?” Rowland winced. “You're spending too much time with Flynn.”

Edna laughed. “It's rather like a having a shipboard romance on solid ground. But he is handsome and very charming.”

Rowland retreated behind his easel where it would be less difficult to feign indifference. He painted till late. Edna kept him company, though she fell asleep, at which point Rowland was distracted by the exquisite shadow of the sculptress' lashes on the curve of her cheek. He began painting her sleeping figure onto a clean canvas.

FROM FASCIST BLACKSHIRTS
“PROUD OF RECORD”

LONDON, June 12

The Black shirts offer no apology, declared Sir Edward Moseley, at a Fascist meeting in Shrewsbury, regarding the allegations of brutality by eye-witnesses attending the British Fascists meeting at Olympia. Moseley declares that the allegations are evidently of corrupt alliance and are the frame up of a case against the new movement, threatening them with political destruction. Moseley adds: “We are proud of our record in restoring free speech in the face of red terror.” He continued: “I challenge half a dozen Cabinet Ministers who attacked me to debate with me on a public platform instead of running about carefully picketing our meetings and lying about Fascism.”

Albany Advertiser, 1934

____________________________________

B
y morning there was a bevy of reporters at the gates of
Woodlands
House
. The daily papers carried lurid accounts of the accident. Both
The Sun
and
Smith's Weekly
made much of the involvement of Rowland Sinclair and his German car in the accident.

The Honourable Charlotte Linklater, youngest daughter of Lord Chancy, champion horsewoman and game hunter, spoke to the
Herald
, and although she refrained from accusing Rowland Sinclair directly, she did address the aggressive driving which she felt caused her brother's death.

“Hold on,” Milton said, looking closely at the article. “The Honourable Charles Linklater was a Blackshirt.”

“It doesn't say that!” Clyde muttered, taking the paper from the poet. Milton pointed. “Miss Linklater says she's received a telegram from Oswald Mosley, who was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of his old friend and compatriot.”

“Well, the papers might have to decide whether Rowly's a Nazi or a Communist if they want to accuse him of something,” Clyde muttered. He was wearing his best suit—one of those purchased on Rowland Sinclair's account before they last went abroad masquerading as well-to-do art dealers.
Psyche by the Styx
had been carefully wrapped in brown paper.

“Where is Rowly?” Edna asked, pouring tea. Rowland was usually the first of them to come down to breakfast.

“He took Lenin for a walk to get him away from your cats,” Milton replied.

“Rowly doesn't mind the kittens,” Edna declared, poking the poet.

“He's concerned that Len has started to purr,” Milton replied.

Clyde looked at his watch. The anxiety was plain on his weathered face. “I'd better go get this over with.”

“Are you taking Rowly's car?”

“Struth, no, I've booked a taxi. I don't want to announce my arrival until it's necessary, and the Mercedes is not a subtle automobile.”

“Would you like some company, mate?” Milton offered. “Considering what happened last time, you might need a second.”

Clyde shook his head. “I'm just going to leave the painting and a note with her landlady.”

“Enclose the receipt or they might fear it's stolen,” Milton advised.

Clyde nodded glumly.

Edna embraced him. “Poor darling, Clyde. I'm so sorry it worked out this way.”

Clyde sighed. “It's probably for the best. Rosie seemed quite impressed with this Antonio chap.”

“Did she indeed?” Edna's words were terse. As much as the sculptress' own loves were fleeting she had never promised anyone anything else. She could not bear the thought of Clyde alone and heartbroken as he called on Rosalina this one last time. “I'm going with you,” she said.

“Ed, I don't—”

“I'm coming.” Edna put down her tea and began looking for her bag and gloves. “Milt, would you tell Errol when he calls that I've stepped out with Clyde for a moment and won't be able to go sailing with him today?” She paused and turned back to the poet. “You should go if he still wants company.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I rather think you and Errol would rub along beautifully.”

“I can't swim, remember.”

“That won't matter unless he's a particularly bad sailor which I'm sure he isn't,” she said sweetly.

Milton groaned. “Go,” he said. “I'll keep Errol occupied.”

Woodlands House
was almost empty when Rowland and Lenin returned. Mary Brown was visiting family in Burwood, leaving Bessie, as the most senior downstairs maid, to attend to the running of the house in her absence.

“Mrs. Bainbridge collected Mrs. Sinclair for luncheon and matinée, sir,” she said, when Rowland enquired after his mother.

“Thank you, Bessie.” Rowland removed his jacket and loosened his tie. His Aunt Mildred, Mrs. Bainbridge, was his father's sister. Rowland had always thought her an old dragon, but she was fond of his mother and had been kind since Elisabeth Sinclair had moved back to Sydney.

Lenin followed Bessie back to the kitchen in search of his kittens, and Rowland proceeded into his studio, shutting the door behind him before discarding his jacket on the couch.

His easel held a completed painting of Edna asleep in the armchair, curled up like a child with her head pillowed by her hands. Her lashes were dark against the natural rose of her cheek. He stared at it for a while and then removed the painting, replacing it with the canvas he should have been working on the night before.