Give the Devil His Due (6 page)

“What the devil!” Rowland blanched under the onslaught of flashing cameras as he made his way around to open Edna's door. Her emergence seemed to only intensify the explosions of light. When Clyde alighted there was a little confusion as the pack moved their focus.

“They're not sure which one of you is Rowland Sinclair,” Edna whispered.

Rowland grabbed her hand. “Let's go before they realise.” The strategy might have worked if Clyde had not called out, “Hey Rowly, where are you going, mate?”

Edna laughed as Rowland groaned. Unable, within the bounds of decorum, to do anything else, they posed for photographs by the Mercedes. Edna sparkled in the spotlight, Rowland looked, at best, bemused, and Clyde tried to hide behind the car. The photographers made requests: Edna on Rowland's arm, Clyde and Rowland leaning on the grille, Edna kissing Rowland's cheek. With all this they complied relatively amicably, until Rowland was asked to raise his arm in a Fascist salute. He said nothing, glaring at the offending photographer, his face suddenly dark, his anger undisguised. The cameraman took a photograph of that instead, and Rowland's temper flashed in return. The exchange may have escalated if Milton had not appeared.

“Rowly, there you are!” The poet pushed his way through the media huddle. “Are you aware the prime minister's here? He's dancing with that American actress. Frisky old blighter!”

The photographers instantly lost interest in Rowland Sinclair and his Mercedes.

“Thank heavens for Lyons,” Rowland murmured, as they were finally able to make their way unmolested towards the marquee.

Milton grinned. “It might not have been the prime minister,” he said, winking. “Could have just been some short bloke with white hair dancing with his wife. I'm not really sure…”

“A perfectly understandable mistake,” Rowland assured him.

“JACKO—THE BROADCASTING
KOOKABURRA”

Who has not heard Jacko, the broadcasting Kookaburra. Surely no picture fan has missed his merry chuckle, which acts as introduction to so many Australian films. Now we have the story of his life narrated interestingly by his owner, Dr. Brooke Nicholls, and charmingly illustrated by Miss Dorothy Wall. We find it a little hard to make up our minds as to whether this story is meant for children or grown-ups. We certainly think it will be read as eagerly by the one as by the other. Jacko must be easily the most famous bird in existence, for he has broadcast, he has appeared in more films than has any human star, his laugh has been recorded for the gramophone, and he has made a 4,000 miles caravan tour of Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, laughing heartily to illustrate his master's lectures on nature. His master's is hardly the word, for

Jacko is such a valuable bird that his owner is very much his servant. His value lies particularly in his intelligence, for Jacko has learned to laugh by request, and no wild Kookaburra ever laughs except when he feels like it.

Albany Advertiser, 1933

____________________________________

T
he marquee had been decorated with paper lanterns and great sheaves of blue gum leaves, which surrounded the golden banksia flowers wired onto supporting poles, and scented the air with the fragrance of eucalypt. Advertising billboards for various fuel and tyre companies were tastefully displayed beside Red Cross banners. Fondant automobiles raced around the five tiers of a massive cake displayed on a linen-draped table at the centre of the marquee. In dinner suits and evening gowns, the racers were indistinguishable from the motor enthusiasts, philanthropists and dilettantes who made up the crowd.

“Aubrey, finally!” Elisabeth Sinclair greeted her son with relief and mild disapprobation. “I sent Mr. Isaacs to look for you.”

“He'd been waylaid by photographers, Mrs. Sinclair,” Milton said in Rowland's defence. “Your boy's a celebrity now.”

Elisabeth smoothed Rowland's lapel. “I would prefer he be uncelebrated and punctual.”

Rowland laughed, pleased with how well his mother seemed. This was the most assured he'd seen her in years. A nurse stood within arm's reach as always. This evening it was Sister Kathleen O'Hara, a stout sensible woman of Irish stock who had, in light of the occasion, swapped her uniform for an elaborately frilled gown from an era thankfully past.

The formalities began with a welcome address by the President of the New South Wales Light Car Club, who outlined the rules of the endurance event. The contestants would compete in teams of three cars, one from each of three weight divisions, completing two hundred laps of the track apiece. All this Rowland knew. He was more curious to see who else had been conscripted for the race. He had heard rumours of international racers.

The radio station 2GB was broadcasting live from the marquee and Australian Cinesound was recording the event on film.

Various sponsors took their turn at the microphone and the race trophy was unveiled with abundant fanfare. The extravagant gold cup had been fashioned, in a nod to the speedway's heyday, as a replica of the “Lucky Devil” Cup which had been awarded in the past. The new trophy was rather unimaginatively dubbed the “Lucky Devil II” to somewhat subdued commendation.

“The last bloke to win the Lucky Devil crashed and died on the speedway soon after,” Milton informed them under his breath. “Let's hope the Lucky Devil II is less of an exercise in irony.”

To assist in the task of announcing the contestants, the star power of an international luminary had been enlisted. Jacko the Broadcasting Kookaburra, whose distinctive laugh heralded Radio Australia's programs, was introduced to applause and cheers as the honorary patron of the Maroubra Invitational. Perched securely upon a steering wheel inside his cage, he oversaw the proceedings quite silently. Indeed, Jacko appeared to be asleep.

The announcements were made nonetheless.

The teams had supposedly been drawn in lots, and yet there was a surprising even-handedness in their composition. Celebrities, experienced racers, locals and women seemed to be equitably distributed.

“Flynn?” Clyde murmured when the name was read out with that of Rowland Sinclair and Miss Joan Richmond.

“Ed says he's a film actor of some sort,” Milton whispered in reply, having just made the same enquiry of Edna.

“I met him at the Cinesound studio last year,” the sculptress said quietly. “He's very handsome.”

“Well that'll be useful on the racetrack,” Rowland muttered.

After catching the eye of Cinesound filmmaker Ken Hall, Edna had, over the last couple of years, secured a number of minor parts on screen. As the men she lived with had never considered films art, they treated her forays into the form, and the actors who inevitably accompanied her home, with a kind of amused indifference.

With Joan Richmond, Rowland was himself acquainted, through the social networks of the establishment. Having won the British 1000 miles race in 1932, her abilities as a driver were beyond reproach.

“Rowly, give me your notebook.” Milton held out his hand.

“My what?”

“Don't pretend you don't have it. I need a notebook.”

Rowland handed over the slim leather-bound artist's journal, wondering what on earth Milton wished to draw.

The poet set to work making a list.

“What are you doing?”

“Just jotting down the names of your competition,” Milton replied. “You'll need to know what you're up against. There are a couple of Honourables in here, you know.”

“As long as I'm not racing the Kookaburra.”

The list, as it turned out, contained the names of actor Roy Rene, racing identities Hope Bartlett and Murray Maxwell, as well as a couple of English aristocrats—a brother and sister team—the Honourables that Milton mentioned. Glasses were charged and the gathering drank to the good health of all the contestants before putting down their drinks and raising their voices for “God Save the King”. The formalities thus concluded, the orchestra struck up again and the crowd mingled with purpose.

Rowland spotted Joan Richmond. Years ago they'd been attendants in the same wedding party. Tall and slim, there was a practical sophistication about the young racing driver. Dark hair bobbed and parted cleanly in the middle, she was clearly at home at events of this kind.

“I say, Rowly Sinclair! Long time no see,” she said warmly. “I didn't know you raced.”

“I don't generally,” Rowland confessed. “You've been saddled with at least one novice I'm afraid.”

“You can drive can't you?”

“Of course I can drive—”

“Well the rest is just experience. We'll have a jolly time!”

“I must say, I'm very pleasantly surprised to find you here. Aunt Mildred told me you were racing around Europe.”

Joan nodded. “I'm due back for the Alpine Rally, but I thought it would be rather fun to come home and see my brother, Alan, for a bit,” she explained. “This came up—thumping good cause and all that. Victor Riley's been kind enough to lend me a car. Now where's this chap Flynn? We'd better check he can drive.”

Rowland was relieved that Joan seemed to be taking charge. “I haven't had the pleasure as yet.”

“What does this fellow look like?” she said, scanning the marquee.

“An actor, I presume.”

The problem was solved by Edna, who found Errol Flynn and brought him to meet his teammates.

“Rowland Sinclair, Mr. Flynn. How d'you do?”

Flynn shook Rowland's hand enthusiastically. “Very well, Mr. Sinclair. Delighted, Miss Richmond. I say, shall we have our picture taken with Jacko?”

“Jacko?” Rowland asked.

“The bird,” Clyde reminded him.

“Come on! It'll be a lark… or at least a kingfisher!” Flynn signalled a photographer and bustled them towards the kookaburra. He then attempted to engage the bird in conversation.

“Come on fella, do you want a cracker? Give us a laugh.”

Jacko ignored him.

Rowland could see Milton and Clyde laughing as they watched, even Edna seemed amused, but the bird was clearly not. It remained sombre indeed. Mercifully, the photographer took a picture anyway and they could leave Jacko in peace.

“What do you drive, Mr. Flynn?” Rowland asked, trying to distract him from the beleaguered bird.

“I believe it's a Triumph,” Flynn replied.

“You believe?” Joan said curtly. “Surely you know?”

Flynn smiled, a charming disarming smile. “I'm really more of a sailor, you know.”

Joan Richmond exhaled impatiently. “We may well need to do some practice runs,” she said. “I'll arrange for some time on the speedway and be in touch.”

“I say, she seems a trifle put out,” Flynn whispered as the motorist walked away.

“Miss Richmond is competitive,” Rowland conceded. “But she's an excellent driver and on the whole, a rather good egg.”

“Mr. Sinclair!” A young woman interrupted before Flynn could reply. She was somewhat extraordinary to look at. Small and slight, she wore a black silk scarf with one end tied around her neck and the other about her waist as a blouse of sorts. It only barely served that function.

“I don't believe we've been introduced, Miss…?”

“Norton. Rosaleen Norton from
Smith's Weekly
,” she said, lifting her chin to meet his eye with a dark intense gaze accentuated by brows carefully groomed to sweep upwards. Her features lent themselves to line drawing, he thought, contemplating the sharp planes of her face.

“I've already spoken with
Smith Weekly's
Mr. White—” Rowland began.

“Oh, didn't you know?” she said enthusiastically. “Mr. White's dead. Murdered! I've been assigned to replace him. He didn't write up your interview before he died so we'll have to do it again.” She beamed at him, revealing crooked teeth behind scarlet painted lips. “You don't have a cigarette do you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I'm afraid I don't smoke, Miss Norton.”

Flynn, who, up until this point, the reporter had ignored, extracted a silver case from his breast pocket. He offered her a cigarette as Rowland introduced him.

Beyond his cigarettes and a light, Rosaleen seemed to have no interest in Errol Flynn at all. She directed her conversation at Rowland, explaining that she was a cadet with
Smith's
, engaged as writer and artist. She had heard he too was an artist. Rosaleen's movements were gangly, loose, those of an adolescent still becoming accustomed to the length of her limbs.

Rowland handed her his card. “Why don't you call by the house tomorrow, Miss Norton. I can tell you what I told Mr. White before his untimely passing.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sinclair. But I won't be asking the same questions Crispy did. You'll find that he and I are very different on that score. I am first and foremost an artist, after all.”

“I have no doubt, Miss Norton.” Rowland paused before he asked, “I don't suppose you've heard anything about what happened to Mr. White?”