Bittersweet

by Colleen McCullough

  Eyes opaque, she sat with her left ear cocked toward him — was she a little deaf? — and both hands curled around her teacup. What was she thinking? His generosity was stunning and he knew it, but, looking at her, for the life of him he couldn’t be sure whether she was overwhelmed by his open-handedness, or secretly convinced she was worth every penny. Gratitude, or rightful due? She was not about to grant him a victory over her by letting him see how she felt.

  So he struck back at her, thanks to Kitty. “You’ll have to dress much better.”

  “If I take your job, I’ll be able to afford to.”

  “And are you taking it?”

  “If your solicitor draws up a contract of employment.”

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed, the film star on display. “Now I must go, Miss Chandler. I’ll see you in my office at the hospital on the second day of January at ten o’clock. We can sign the papers there, then I’ll bring you out to Burdum House and I’ll show you the empty shell of your office as well as your home. The cottage comes fully furnished, but the interior is very bland, so I’m sure you’ll be able to put your stamp on it. You are the only one who can furnish your office, down to its books.”

  She opened her battered handbag, put the notepad and pencil inside, and slipped her hands into frayed fabric gloves. “I’ll use my spare time to make a list of books, but I won’t order any until I know which works you already have.”

  “No, no, order your own copies,” said he, extending his hand to shake hers warmly. “Thank you, Dorcas. Until the second.”

  His spirits soared for the rest of the day, didn’t even sink at the prospect of an evening at home alone with a wife whom he had failed to keep enchanted. Where had he gone wrong? Why did she seem to blame him for the loss of their children? Still, it was old hat, and Dorcas Chandler was someone new and different. Someone with whom he could talk, especially politics.

  Humming some tune the wireless was playing frequently, he entered the sitting room to find Tufts with Kitty. Typical!

  “My dear, how nice,” he murmured, kissing Tufts’s cheek.

  “Nice to see you too, Charlie,” said Tufts, matter-of-fact.

  “Liam couldn’t come tonight to balance us?”

  “If you spent more time behind your superintendent’s desk, Charlie, you’d know Liam is in Brisbane.”

  Kitty brought him a Scotch. “It’s a three-legged dinner, Tufts on your right and me on your left,” she said, smiling. “You look like the cat that got the canary — very pleased.”

  “I am very pleased. Today I found a person vital to my ongoing welfare — a political adviser.” The drink tasted smooth. “You alone can make me a drink, Kitty. This is perfect.”

  “I know about your drinks, but nothing about any adviser,” Kitty said, glad of her sister’s company. It was so difficult these days, but it seemed he would never retract his statements about Edda, and that meant the war continued.

  “It’s no secret that I have political aspirations,” he said, sipping luxuriously, “and at one time I’d hoped today’s elections would see my standing. I abandoned that idea because of my lack of experienced advice — or enthusiasm in those closest to me.”

  Kitty stiffened. “Actually that’s not true,” she said in a controlled voice. “I was enthusiastic and I did try.”

  “No doubt,” he said, wanting to get on. “Whatever the cause, I lacked enthusiastic support. Nor had I understood how different Australian politics are from British politics. I needed a shrewd and capable political adviser, and despaired of finding one — it is a rare creature, you see. Those with sufficient knowledge of the field usually have political ambitions of their own.” He tried to sound detached, but his happiness was too great to let him. A dazzling smile dawned. “Today I actually encountered the ideal person — a woman, into the bargain, which does rather kill personal ambitions. Her name is Dorcas Chandler, she’s thirty-five, single, and a journalist by profession. You don’t know her — she’s just arrived in Corunda. But if you encounter a six-foot-tall skeleton with a horsey face, pounds to peanuts it’s Dorcas. A sad, homely thing, I admit, but a rare political brain, and one I’ve hired to keep for my own exclusive use.”

  “You’re collecting a harem, Charlie,” Tufts said.

  He stared. “A harem? I?”

  “Women to fill your needs. There’s Tufts — me — who does your dirty work as Deputy Superintendent at the hospital. Kitty, the ravishingly beautiful wife all men envy you. Until she did the unspeakable and married high above her, Edda to substitute for Kitty on long-distance trips. Cynthia Norman, your slavishly devoted private secretary who can’t even begin to separate her hospital from her non-hospital duties. And now Dorcas Chandler, to advise you on federal politics in Australia.” Tufts sniffed derisively. “Honestly, Charlie, you’re the outside of enough. I’m tempted to call you Pasha Burdum.”

  Both pairs of eyes were gazing at him unsympathetically, yet he had to have their consent if this was to work — he needed their co-operation! He was proposing to import this new employee into his private home, even house her in its grounds, and while the Lilac Suite was a long way from the master bedroom, it was still a domestic situation. Talk, Charles Burdum, talk!

  “Oh, come on, Tufts, where do I differ from any other man with too much to do and insufficient time to do it in? Perhaps to a cynical observer it does look a little like a harem, but that is a body of bodies whose purposes are sexual satiation and plenty of undeniable sons. Certainly I have chosen to elevate women rather than men, simply because I think women are more loyal, work harder, and I treasure their importance greatly. Don’t forget that most of the jobs I’ve given to women are more traditionally held by men, even secretarying.” He paused to draw a deep breath and make sure they were still listening — damn Tufts! “Passing to Miss Dorcas Chandler, I confess her sex is an accident. Most political advisers are men. That her value in this field hasn’t been appreciated is just one more indication that I, Charles Burdum, am a progressive thinker whose attitude to women is ahead of the times. A harem? Rubbish! It is simply that the nucleus of my staff is female. You should be thanking me, not deriding me.”

  Tufts inclined her head. “I do thank you, Charlie, and you have the right of it.” An impish grin spoiled the words, but at least she did say them. “A nucleus of female staff, not a harem. Actually you’re born for politics. You can make a heap of shit look like a bouquet of roses. I can’t wait to meet Miss Dorcas Chandler.”

  “A six-foot-tall skeleton with a horsey face,” said Kitty. “That won’t last.”

  “What do you mean, won’t last?” He took the offered Scotch.

  “I know you, is what I mean,” Kitty said, smiling. “A good wage will fatten her up and enable her to dress better, to start with. You wouldn’t condone a laughing-stock in any public position, and her job says she’ll be fairly public in places like Canberra, Sydney and Melbourne.” Her slender throat curved back, her eyes contemplated the ceiling. “Look at how your taste changed me from an over-frilly fluff to an extremely well-dressed woman. And you’ll do it the same way — produce a hat or a dress or a belt that you thought would suit — and no, Miss Dorcas Chandler won’t get the wrong idea because gangling horsey skeletons know their limitations. You have an eye for women’s clothes, Charlie, and she’ll soon see that. If she doesn’t, she’s a dead Dorcas, no matter how much she knows about politics.”

  “All right, all right!” Charles held up his hands in surrender. “In the case of Miss Chandler, I fear it will take some time to wave my magic women’s wear wand. I’ve never seen a worse-dressed female — as if she shops at the Salvation Army.”

  “Perhaps she does,” Kitty said thoughtfully. “How many of her family is she supporting?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You must have some idea,” Tufts said.

  “According to her, they lost everything in 1929, but there don’t seem to be any other children in her personal sphere. She supports her
parents, both of whom are alive. They live in — Lawson, I think she said.”

  “A poor part of the Blue Mountains,” said Tufts, nodding. “I suspect they’re cuckoos, or someone undisclosed is a cuckoo. She has never been out of work, you say, and while women are paid less, hers is a profession, therefore something rather bigger than old parents must be draining her purse. Lawson is low rents, gardens big enough for chooks and vegetables — it’s an artists’ colony.”

  “Blast and damnation!” Charles exploded. “I knew it was too good to be true!”

  “Speculation only,” Tufts said practically. “If you need her, Charlie, you need her, and must make full use of her. What this means is that forewarned is forearmed. If she’s supporting shiftless relatives or a boyfriend — just because you don’t find her attractive, brother-in-law, doesn’t mean all men will — then it won’t come as a bolt out of the blue.”

  “She demanded a contract,” he said.

  “Then make sure it’s craftily worded. If she’s as clever as you say, she’ll spot the relevant clauses, but she can’t very well object, can she?” Kitty said, enjoying herself. “Your ignorance and her knowledge endow her with the ability to play on your weaknesses. It’s a pity that you had to wait so long to experience the effect of women at the centre of your life, but now that women are in it, be prepared for women’s tricks.” She laughed. “There! That’s sincerely meant, Charlie. Learn!”

  And the oddest thing about that advice, Charles thought, is that it says Kitty is finished with me in her soul. What did I do? It’s far more than Edda.

  He turned to Tufts. “I’m taking Cynthia Norman out of the hospital, Tufts. From now on she’ll be working purely as private secretary to Charles Burdum Esquire, not Dr. Charles Burdum. I am building more office space onto this house. And you’re right about doing my dirty work. I couldn’t run Corunda Base without you. Therefore you are going to choose the secretary who takes Cynthia’s place. She’ll be yours far more than mine. By 1934 I won’t be attached to the hospital at all. You graduate at the end of this year, and your accountancy qualifications will follow very quickly afterward.”

  “Thank you,” said Tufts, rather winded. Had he come in tonight with all this already decided, or was he thinking on his feet? Liam will be sorry to lose him, but I don’t feel a qualm.

  “Dinner is ready,” said Kitty, rising. “How extraordinary! Burdum House used to be an echoing mausoleum, but I’ll grant you this, Charlie, you’ve devised a way to fill it.”

  23

  Burdum House was becoming something of a village; in front of it and, so to speak, down a level, a row of cottages had appeared. Each stood in plenty of ground, was two-storeyed, had three bedrooms, a bathroom upstairs and a second toilet down, and its own garage. To Kitty it seemed a long-term project, since four cottages were in existence before the first tenant, Coates, was more than a wistful wish for a valet. Next to move in was Cynthia Norman — two down, two to go, thought Kitty.

  Then, hard on Cynthia’s heels, came Dorcas Chandler. To live in one of these desirable residences would have suited Mrs. Mary Simmons, who was Kitty’s housekeeper, but when she had asked him for this favour well before Coates, Charles had said a firm no. The cottages were for his employees. Mrs. Simmons was dowered with a car to pick her up from her (rented) home and deposit her back there; that was quite generous enough. Had he only paused to set himself aside, Charles would have understood that decisions of this kind contributed greatly to his wife’s taking against him, for she saw them as actions aimed at demonstrating her inferior status. He was so rich! An Englishman, he also knew perfectly well that housekeepers “lived in”. So his valet lived in and his secretary lived in, but his housekeeper, who answered to his wife, lived out. His secretary had a car in Charlie’s gift; so too, it turned out, did Miss Dorcas Chandler.

  “You have to stop this, Kitty,” said the Reverend Latimer on a visit, and getting an earful of these domestic biases. “I approve of your working at the orphanage because it takes you out of yourself, but I do not approve of manufacturing ills where none should exist. Has Mrs. Simmons complained to you?”

  “No,” said Kitty, bewildered, “but that doesn’t make Charlie’s discrimination more praiseworthy.”

  “Rubbish! It’s you who feels discriminated against, not Mrs. Simmons. My child, there is no need for this! Whether you like it or not, Charles is at liberty to spend his income how he pleases. I find his actions sensible — he accommodates those he may need at a moment’s notice. Think, Kitty, think! Would you like to be so far in someone’s power? When you were a nurse, you lived in for the sake of the hospital, which could summon you back to work without searching the district for you. I suspect Mrs. Simmons is very happy with her present arrangement — she doesn’t live under her employer’s nose, but she does get driven to and from work, as there is no public transport.”

  Because in all save Charlie she was a fair and just person, Kitty acknowledged the truth in her father’s words, and simmered down. She was also dying to meet the gangling horsey skeleton.

  Miss Chandler had been given the best of the four cottages, she had already noticed; on the far end of the row, it alone had its own entrance off the street, and was hidden from its neighbour, still vacant, by a hedge of a fast-growing tree called a fiddle-wood. Its decor was blandly beige, but its furniture was better quality and its rainwater tank that collected from its roof was a ten-thousand gallon one, very generous for a sole occupant. It also had its own septic system, whereas the others were linked together. Hmmm… Miss Chandler was very definitely important to Charlie, no doubt about that, thought Kitty.

  The proper thing to do, she decided, was to invite the new tenant of Burdum Row to morning tea on a date of her choosing, as Kitty’s graceful letter said when Miss Chandler picked it up off the hallway floor. An equally graceful reply named the day after moving in, as Dr. Burdum wouldn’t need her until noon.

  Naturally Dorcas Chandler knew that her employer’s wife was commonly held one of the most beautiful women anywhere, but she hadn’t really been ready for Kitty’s striking colouring, the flaxen-blonde hair too transparent to call gold, the icy brows and lashes, the chiselled bones, the dimples, the amazing eyes, the trim yet voluptuous body. Of course he had to have her! She contributed to his myth, and Charles Burdum was a man very busy constructing a history of himself that future chroniclers of Australia would turn into a myth. Beautifully dressed too, in fine cotton suitable for the time of day, her hair cut shorter than the new fashion because gamine became her, no jewellery save a glorious diamond wedding pair — very interesting grist to Miss Chandler’s mill, after so many years of society events. The only thing wrong with Mrs. Burdum was her nature, inclined to domestic retirement, as was true of so many wives of men in politics. No, Mrs. Burdum wasn’t a perfect politician’s wife.

  On Kitty’s part, she found herself liking Miss Chandler, who was far from an object of pity. This, Kitty divined, was a brilliant woman of driving ambition who was sensible enough not to kick at the restraints her sex made inevitable; knowing she herself could never be prime minister, she would work with mind, heart and soul to be the power behind a prime minister. And in Charlie she had found the right man.

  They had plenty to talk about.

  “If I am to advise Charles properly,” Dorcas said once they had abandoned last names and pretences, “then I must know about his family and personal connections within Corunda. It won’t be prurient interest, but it will be probing.”

  “Probe away,” said Kitty blithely, offering pikelets, jam and cream. “Eat up, we have to get some weight on you — not a lot, about the same as my sister Edda, who is very tall, slender and graceful. Charlie hates dowdy women, but he’s probably told you that already.”

  The slightly leathery skin went pink. “As a matter of fact, he has. It will be much easier on a good income.”

  “You don’t make your own clothes?”

  Dorcas looked blank. “No.”


  “Edda always did, and magnificently, so she always looked wonderful.” Remembering the debate with Tufts as to whether this woman was being drained by a human leech, and anxious to help her, Kitty took a pad from a side table and wrote on it. “This is my dressmaker, Pauline O’Brien. She’s in Edda’s league, but her charges are quite modest — the Depression means she’s lost a lot of clients and is grateful for new ones. She’s good on style and she’ll shop for materials for you honestly. I used to buy all my clothes in Sydney, but since I married, Pauline is who I need.”

  The wife’s intentions, thought Dorcas, are pristine; she wants to see me succeed in this job! Not a scrap of jealousy or self-interest — or is it that she sees herself negated by any public exposure? I can’t ask her about the miscarriages, but she has scars, and she was a children’s nurse. Now she’s a volunteer at the orphanage. I can make capital out of that, but she won’t like it. A private person, Kitty Burdum.

  “I’d love to see Lady Schiller,” Dorcas said.

  Kitty laughed. “No chance of that! She’s a medical student in Melbourne, and about as happy as any human being can be. Her gender denied her Medicine, now she can have it thanks to Rawson.”

  “You like him?”

  “Very much. He’s made my sister happy. That’s all any of the Rector’s daughters asks, that her sisters be happy.”