Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  She found herself standing, at last, in the foyer of the Palais Wilson, in the foyer of the League of Nations, in Geneva. Here, in the foyer of the League of Nations, Edith Campbell Berry stands.

  This, she thought, is the very centre of the political universe. ‘But only if you think the world is made up of a centre with all else being periphery,’ the Queen commented. True, there are various systems of spherical co-ordinates, she told the Queen, and I have studied celestial mechanics.

  Edith saw that the foyer area ran all the way through the building from ‘front’ to the ‘back’, to the door at which she had first arrived. She looked up, up the huge central stairwell rising from the foyer and around which the building was constructed, up the five floors to the skylight. She saw four clocks, one on each landing, all saying 8.29.

  She breathed the odour of the building’s life and savoured it.

  In French, she asked the concierge to direct her to the office of a Mr Cooper, who was, she understood, her immediate superior. She hesitated about giving the concierge her card, confused about the protocol of such an action.

  ‘This way, madam.’

  She was disappointed that he had reverted to English, as if he assumed she would have difficulty in French.

  The concierge had a St Bernard dog which she knelt and patted, glad to be able to touch an animal.

  As she rose, she said, ‘Oh, is that the Glass-house?’ and pointed to the large hall off the foyer.

  ‘“Glass-room”. The Council room. Yes, madam.’

  ‘“Glass-room”. Of course. Would you show it to me?’

  ‘Of course, madam.’

  He led her into the room saying, ‘It was formerly the ballroom, madam, when the Palais was the Hotel National.’

  She gazed at the room, allowing its authority to ripple through her.

  ‘Two wars have been stopped in this room,’ the concierge added, with a knowing pride.

  She looked around at him and smiled. She liked people who loved their work. ‘Were you here when it was the Hôtel National?’

  ‘Some of us from the hotel were taken on by the Société des Nations. Do you begin work here, madam?’

  ‘This is my first day.’

  ‘May I welcome madam. You will be working in Internal Services?’

  ‘In the office of Under Secretary Monnet. For a time, anyhow. Until they find something to do with me. Or send me home.’

  ‘You will be one of my chiefs,’ he said.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose,’ she said smiling, unwilling just yet to claim any command.

  She again breathed deeply, savouring the dignified, wax-polished aroma of the council room.

  ‘From which nation does madam come?’

  ‘Australia. All the way from Australia. And you? Are you Swiss?’

  ‘Austrian. Viennese.’

  ‘Then you are the first Austrian I have spoken to.’ She smiled and held out her hand. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

  ‘I will escort you,’ he said, and they went towards the lift but she said she would rather take the stairs.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He pointed at his leg. ‘It is the third floor.’ He entered the lift and the lift boy closed the clanking grill.

  Before going up the stairs, she gazed at the board which showed the location of the sections and services:

  POLITICAL

  LEGAL

  INFORMATION

  MANDATES

  DISARMAMENT

  INTELLECTUAL COOPERATION

  ECONOMIC

  COMMUNICATIONS AND TRANSIT

  HEALTH

  SOCIAL QUESTIONS

  REFUGEES

  TREASURY

  INTERPRETING AND TRANSLATING

  PUBLICATIONS AND PRINTING

  PRÉCIS-WRITING

  REGISTRY

  PERSONNEL

  LIBRARY

  To her they seemed like the names of hallowed battlefields.

  She trailed her hand on the banister, thinking to herself that her three heroes, Briand, Benes and Lord Cecil, had touched the same banister.

  Or maybe they took the lift?

  On the third floor, the concierge was waiting for her. He asked for her name, apologising for not remembering it.

  ‘Edith Berry,’ she said, ‘Edith Campbell Berry, to be precise.’

  He knocked on the door which said Chief of Section and they were admitted. The concierge announced her and withdrew, giving her an encouraging smile. Did she look as though she needed the supporting smile of a concierge?

  She saw a file with her name on it on Mr Cooper’s desk. She removed her gloves and took her card from her handbag and offered it to him but he waved it away. ‘I know who you are. We expected you today.’ He smiled and shook her hand. They looked at each other but for Edith it was a blur of unfocused smiles.

  ‘It’s no good me trying to explain how everything works,’ he said, ‘the rouages. I think you should just plunge in. When you need to know something, ask someone. Think that’s best.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ And she understood the French word rouages.

  He said that she would be ‘on loan’, as it were, from the Under Secretary’s office to Internal Services. He would see that she was given experience throughout the internal administration. ‘Do you know anyone here?’

  ‘I know Major Westwood.’ To give the association a certain firmness, she restrained herself from saying they’d just met on the train coming down from Paris. And had kissed.

  Twice.

  ‘Good. At least you’re not completely orphaned. I’ll introduce you around at lunch. Now I’ll take you to see Under Secretary Monnet and then I’ll show you your office.’ He stood up and came around to where she was standing.

  Outside Under Secretary Monnet’s office she asked Cooper whether she would be expected to proffer her hand to M. Monnet. She couldn’t remember what Theodosia Ada Wallace said about the etiquette of that.

  ‘Proffer your hand?’

  ‘To be kissed. In the French way.’

  ‘Oh no. Only married women. A handshake will be enough.’

  At the office of the Under Secretary Monnet she was introduced. She spoke nervously in her best French and she was duly welcomed. M. Monnet asked two questions about the animals of Australia and then she and Mr Cooper withdrew.

  In the corridors, the building had come alive with people going around and about her on the business of the world. She glanced at their faces, trying to determine what manner of people they were. She looked at the smart way the women were dressed but did not feel dowdy. They seemed so much in command of themselves.

  Cooper took her to a small office, opened the door of the office and she stepped in.

  It was small but grand. It had a window overlooking the lake. She went over and looked out. A window box of dead soil awaited a spring planting. Her first window box. She touched the soil — her first touch of European soil, or was it international soil?

  She turned, elated, and looked around the room. Her desk had a blotter and pen and inkstand. Glass and Bakelite. A fireplace and also a steam-heater.

  ‘Are officers permitted to put things on the walls? I mean, etchings and so forth?’ she asked, trying to sound in command of herself.

  ‘Forge ahead. We in Internal Services decide those sorts of things. We are the Masters. Masters of the floors and walls, at least.’

  She rushed to smile at his joke.

  There was another door in the office which she tried. It opened on to a second door. Both doors were padded for sound-proofing. She turned to him, puzzled.

  ‘They are the connecting doors to the other office. It’s from the days when this was a hotel and people took connecting rooms. You can lock your side if you wish.’

  ‘Oh.’ She closed the connecting door. She wasn’t familiar with hotels with connecting rooms.

  ‘I suggest you spend the morning finding your way about the building. Have a look round. Good luck.’ He
again shook her hand and left her.

  She looked at the documents in the incoming tray which were only Roneoed notices to staff about remembering to lock doors and drawers and such things. There was a water flask and glass on her desk. She thought she would look for a fine cut-glass water flask and glass for her desk. And a new pen and inkstand, perhaps of polished wood. And a vase. There were three newly sharpened pencils which she noted were from Germany, and which she smelled. She imagined that she was smelling the Black Forest but then the sawmill at Tomerong back home wished to be remembered. There was a notepad and other stationery with a letterhead which she touched with her finger, drawing authority from it.

  She took off her coat and hung it on the door hook. She undid her blouse cuffs and turned them back. She stood staring out the window.

  The telephone rang. She picked it up, wondering whether to speak in French or English. ‘Oui. Yes.’ Then she added, ‘Berry speaking.’

  ‘Bienvenue. Welcome. Welcome on board, Berry.’ It was Ambrose Westwood.

  ‘Thank you, Ambrose — Westwood — Major Westwood.’

  She heard him chuckle. ‘In the office “Major” will suffice. I’ll pick you up for lunch. Unless, of course, you’ve made arrangements?’

  She told him that, yes, in fact, she had.

  ‘Quick work. I’ll have to be swift if I want to see more of you.’

  ‘Maybe after we finish for the day?’

  ‘Right. Drinks at the end of the day. Fine. What is the number of your office?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s on the door.’

  She put down the telephone and went to the corridor and looked at the door.

  It was 366. The number of her parents’ telephone back in Australia. Since beginning her travels, she’d had a couple of such coincidences. She told Ambrose the number and the coincidence.

  ‘Oh, travellers’ coincidences. Happen all the time when you move about the world. Think nothing of it. We look for connections, I suspect. I will call for you at 6.36.’

  ‘6.36?’

  ‘6.36 at 366. Just playing around.’

  She worried about the pension which had its meal rather early. She could call them on the telephone and say that she would not be in for dinner, if that were permitted.

  And she was presuming, presuming that she would eat with Ambrose Westwood. She could hardly go to a café and eat alone.

  ‘Will we dine together?’ she asked in a hesitant voice, hoping she was not too forward. ‘I ask only because of the pension.’

  ‘Good idea. Yes, let’s dine together.’ He hung up.

  Part of her wanted to go to the pension after work and sit in her rooms until they melded with her — and to move the furniture perhaps. She had to make her house. But she also wanted to make her way.

  To make romance, even, and with an older man.

  What did two meals together in three days and two impetuous kisses on a train mean in Europe? Impetuous kisses had happened on the ship coming over but that was something else — the shipboard romance. When the boat docked the romance was assumed to have ended.

  Perhaps this evening she would find out about romances begun on trains with older men. Perhaps kisses on trains and meals taken together counted for nothing in Europe.

  Or had she already begun a romance? Surely she should know whether she had. She put that aside, sat at her desk and assumed a serious posture.

  She unpacked her personal office belongings: her hand towel, her soap, her tooth cleaning things, a desk photograph of her parents and brother, her poor lost brother, and a photograph of herself and John Latham on the steps outside the Parliament in Melbourne — she thought to herself that her clothing in the photograph looked so out-of-fashion, although it had been taken only a year ago.

  She took out a framed Punch cartoon, showing a hotel named ‘League of Nations’ whose advertisement read, ‘The League of Nations Hotel. Healing Air. A Peaceful Outlook from every Window. No Hot Water.’ It had been given to her by John Latham and the others in the office when she had left. She briefly considered whether to put this up or whether it was, perhaps, a joke against the spirit of the League. She tried it on the wall in a couple of places and made a note to get someone to fix it in position. She had her framed bachelor’s degree in science which she would also hang. She put her four reference books — Karl Pearson’s The Grammar of Science and Butler’s Handbook to the League, and an Oxford English Dictionary and her dictionary of French and English — in the small bookcase against one of the walls. She had one desk ornament, an antique brass microscope from the late eighteenth century which her mother had bought for her as a graduation present, and she had a silver envelope knife which her father had given her when she first went to work with John Latham and a fruit knife he’d given her when she had left for Europe. She smiled. Had both gifts been his way of arming her for life?

  After trying it in different places on the desk, she decided that the microscope looked outlandish and she put it in the cupboard to be taken back to the pension.

  The telephone rang again. It was Claude Cooper. He told her that he was plunging her straight in. That afternoon she was to take minutes at a committee meeting. Had she taken minutes? She said she had sat on committees and taken minutes since she was eleven years old. He said, ‘Fine,’ and told her she was to minute a committee meeting on future League accommodation.

  ‘You can fight for your office,’ he said, chuckling.

  Indeed she would, if that were required.

  She spent the rest of the morning prowling about the building, from the restaurant in the cellar to the maintenance platform on the roof. She stood atop the building and gazed around Geneva.

  She then sat for a time in the library, reading minutes, reading the background of the sub-committee for which she was to take the minutes, and reading League publications. At lunch she met people from Internal Services and then at two o’clock Cooper took her to committee room B. She was pleased to see Ambrose there.

  ‘Major Westwood from the Secretary-General’s office, whom I believe you know,’ said Cooper.

  Ambrose rose and winked at her. ‘Yes, Berry and I know each other well.’

  Well?

  ‘Berry will take minutes,’ Cooper said to Ambrose.

  Cooper introduced her to the representatives on the accommodation sub-committee, one from each section and service — too many, she thought, for a sub-committee. She went around the table shaking hands with people as she was introduced. There were two women, one from Social Questions and one from Information.

  It was as if the directory in the lobby had sprung to life as a playlet. Or at least a junior version of it, because those at the meeting were obviously not senior staff.

  Edith drew a map of the table and the seating. She put the date and name of the committee at the top of the page, then drew a margin and wrote in it ‘Present’, listing the names of those at the meeting, and putting herself first. Her first official League of Nations duty. ‘Present: Edith Campbell Berry (minutes secretary).’

  She asked each person to spell their name for her.

  The man from Legal thought it a great joke. ‘S-m-i-t-h.’

  She said to him, lightly enough, that there were three ways of spelling Smith.

  He said, ‘Oh — I suppose there are.’

  Back in Australia, she’d liked astonishing people by saying that she revelled in a good committee meeting. She thought of committees as parlour games where each person’s contribution was their throw of the dice from which followed certain moves around the board. For her, committees were the Great Basic Unit. When you understood the workings of a committee, John Latham said, you understood the workings of an empire. Of course, there should be a place in administration for dashing individualism and for grand leadership, but in her experience it was never a bad thing for lofty plans to be brushed down and combed by the committee. And she had known the committee itself, at times, to be an initiatory engine.


  Bad committees, she admitted, were the intellectual drudgery of democracy. It was said that some national temperaments were not suited to it. Tolstoy had said the Russians, for instance, couldn’t endure the drudgery of democracy.

  ‘I’ll be in the chair,’ Ambrose said.

  ‘Mr Chair,’ she said, ‘do you want full minutes?’

  ‘Put down everything of importance. Sir E. would like to see what people feel about the issue.’

  Ambrose outlined the business. He said that the Secretary-General had authorised the renting of sixty more rooms in a building which would be known, imaginatively, as ‘the Annex’, so as to ease the pressure on accommodation in the Palais.

  The problem was, which section or sections should move from the Palais? He grimaced at them. ‘Sir Eric suggested Health or Economic might like to move.’ He raised his eyebrows and looked at Health and Economic.

  There were shuffles of resistance from Health and Economic.

  ‘Sir Eric wants to make it clear that any move shouldn’t be taken as derogatory. That is, whoever goes is not being kicked out into the cold.’

  ‘Only into the damp,’ someone said. There were chuckles.

  At this point a latecomer entered the room. Ambrose introduced him. ‘Liverright, I would like you to meet Berry. A new arrival from Australia. Our first Australian.’

  The young, but worn man shook her hand. He spoke English with only the slightest accent. ‘Nice to meet you. Fine cricketers, the Australians. Don’t play cricket, do you?’

  She smiled. ‘I played vigaro.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘What’s your section?’ she asked.

  ‘My section?’

  ‘For the minutes.’

  ‘I’m from the Commission Inquiring into the Admission of Zembla.’

  She wrote this down. ‘Zembla? Z-e-m-b-l-a?’

  ‘Up there north of Bulgaria, up that way. A principality, Monaco style of thing, about the size of Parma.’

  She felt herself facing her first embarrassment. She could not place Zembla. She knew there were a few of these principalities and kingdoms dotted about, untidily left over from history. She could bluff.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she was about to say, but realised immediately that was not the right move. Her mind hovered, trying to alight on a safe perch, to defend itself against pitfall. She could not find a Way. She would take the route of embarrassed ignorance. ‘No. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember it at all,’ she confessed, colouring, knowing that in their eyes she would for ever be a dummy.