Give the Devil His Due by Sulari Gentill Page B

man. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
    â€œI see.” Rowland was a little confused now.
    â€œIt might have been the track, I suppose,” Rosaleen said thoughtfully.
    Rowland gave up pretending to follow. “I’m sorry… you might have to explain.”
    â€œThe speedway is cursed. It’s only killed drivers before, but perhaps Crispy got caught in the curse.”
    Rowland recalled that White had said something about the track being cursed. He was no more convinced of its veracity. His scepticism must have shown, for Rosaleen seemed annoyed.
    â€œI’d like to see your studio now,” she huffed, pulling out a notebook and a pencil from her pocket.
    Rowland wasn’t sure he wanted the reporter in his studio but there was no way he could politely refuse. He took her into what had, in his father’s time, been the opulent drawing room of the Sinclairs’ Sydney residence. The room afforded views of the grounds through generous bay windows. It was the light in this part of the house that had moved Rowland to select it as his workspace. The room faced northeast. It caught the first clean light of morning and remained well lit throughout the day. There were large studio easels in each of the bays and another behind the couch. They were all splattered with paint, the largest almost entirely red—the result of an accident with dilute vermillion. A wing-backed armchair faced the wall on which was hung a daunting full-length portrait of Rowland’s late father, Henry Sinclair.
    They found Milton ensconced there with a novel.
    â€œRowly, did you—oh hello.” Milton stood as he noticed Rosaleen.
    Rowland introduced the poet.
    â€œI should leave you alone so you can talk,” Milton said, preparing to depart.
    â€œNo,” Rowland said hastily. “You carry on. Miss Norton is interviewing me for the paper. We won’t be speaking in confidence.”
    Rosaleen Norton’s attention was, however, elsewhere. She rummaged carefully through the canvasses stacked against the wall with an eye that was appraising. “Do you always paint from life, Mr. Sinclair?”
    â€œWherever possible. Sometimes, by necessity, I work from sketches or memory.”
    â€œBut those sketches and memories are of actual things?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œBut don’t you think it’s far more interesting to paint those things that other people can’t see?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike whom,” she said sweetly.

Did You Know That— TRAVELLERS RETURN
    AMONG those at Warwick Farm on Saturday were Major and Mrs. George Cossington Smythe. The Cossington Smythes are just back from a trip to China, and are settling into a new home in Point Piper. Their son has been packed off to Tudor House.
    The Australian Women’s Weekly, 1934
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    M ilton was telling Edna and Clyde about the interview when Rowland joined them in the billiards room after seeing Rosaleen off. The poet had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the conversation between Rowland and the reporter, occasionally lowering his book to grin, but refraining from any input.
    â€œShe told Rowly he should paint spirits?” Edna’s legs swung as she perched on the edge of the billiards table.
    Clyde poked her with a cue. “Get off, Ed, you’re interfering with my shot.”
    â€œShe was of the opinion that your spirit would be far more interesting than your body,” Milton said as he watched Clyde take his turn.
    Edna shrugged. “I do wonder what my spirit looks like.”
    â€œFangs. You would definitely have fangs,” Milton replied.
    â€œA decent portrait is always more than visible features, I suppose,” Rowland offered in a gallant attempt to be fair.
    Milton snorted. “That’s not what she meant Rowly and you know it!”
    â€œI don’t suppose Miss Norton’s a