Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

‘Only in private,’ he said, also in a voice she hardly recognised. ‘This is the first time I’ve been able to do this with another woman, that is. With a woman, I should say. You don’t mind?’

  ‘It all seems very Weimar,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m sure it is an everyday thing there, a very natural thing in Munich.’ She also felt intensely that she was on the Continent and all unthinkable and arcane things were possible. And were they also permissible?

  ‘Yes — very Weimar.’ Ambrose was relieved and grateful for her approval.

  In further answer, she kissed him and they embraced and enclosed and joined. She found his newly released effeminacy softened their coupling, and she felt freed from expectations by the collapse of all decorum and at the same time she gained a sureness in her touch and movement. She surrendered to the release which flowed from their costumes, from the surging perversity of the atmosphere and the image of them both, which she kept glimpsing as she opened and closed her eyes. She kept glimpsing the attractive man in silk and lace and her silk-stockinged legs in the leather chaps and spurs. There was also an embrace of herself by herself, her embrace of Ambrose in her underwear which suggested her image back to her. With her legs wide around him, she brought the spurs to his buttocks and rolled them lightly into his flesh, giving a small calculated pain which caused him to hold her and to cry in a soft voice, ‘Oh yes.’ Much merging and confusing of selves and identities overtook them and pleasured them both as they lost themselves in a moaning and discharging which seemed out of time, and way, way outside of their orthodox world and the world she had known.

  During the night, clothing was shed, and by morning they awoke as normal, except for traces of make-up on Ambrose’s face. They smiled a wordless knowing and accepting.

  She busied herself as if to make sure things were back to normal. She had to hurry to the Richemond to return the costume and to say goodbye. She was sure the costume, while having been a happy thing, did not belong in her life. She could find no aesthetic which would admit it. It did not come out of her ancestry. Or did it? From a time when there were fewer rules maybe? Whatever, she felt no compulsion to keep it even by the Aesthetic of Memento or Trophy.

  It was quite a tearful farewell, and part of her still wanted to jump in with them and just go ‘to India’.

  ‘Come with us, Edith,’ Athena said, holding both her hands.

  ‘Plenty of room,’ said Mr Kennedy.

  Captain Strongbow however said, ‘No, she has to carry our mission here — diplomatically. This is Edith’s world.’ He gestured to Her World.

  She stood outside the garage and waved them off, watching until they were out of sight. She wiped her eyes.

  Although it was Saturday, she went to the Palais and, in the library, she read the Journal de Genève and a small report of the cavalcade. The women in national costume were mentioned. The ‘demure’ cowgirl, she was gratified to see, was singled out for mention.

  Captain Strongbow was quoted as saying he had ‘permit and authority from the World Court and the League of Nations to carry out his mission’.

  She snorted. That could never be controlled, that sort of thing, not with all the rules that could be devised. Not even by a world organisation with all its powers. At least she had that in perspective now.

  She went to her small, safe office to sit for a while and think about her and Ambrose’s behaviour the night before. She supposed his inclination to wear her underclothing was one of those impulses which a man might give in to, or which might pass through a man’s mind to do once. To try out things like that. Although she had never wanted to wear her brother’s clothing when she had been growing up. For Ambrose, though, it had been more than a trying-out. She had asked him that morning if he still wanted her ‘to stay’ at the week-ends. He’d answered, ‘More than ever.’ She took this as meaning that he wanted to be with her but as a woman — at least, at times. She saw very vaguely that it connected with things he’d tried to say, or implied, on the train on the way to Geneva. But she could not truthfully say that she understood.

  Edith was pleased that she had been able to follow her wilder self in the parade, for a short time, and although it wasn’t altogether related, to have been able to go also into her darker self that night, to those places of human behaviour about which she’d heard only whispers and jokes.

  She felt she had learned two things. The first thing concerned the nature of innovation in public policy: that good ideas did not always have the proper and most appropriate of exponents and did not always come from the expected direction — she believed the international police army was a good idea. Good ideas were sometimes propounded by people who were not always personally sound and not always decorous.

  The second thing Edith thought she had learned was the course of official inaction, of inoffensive passivity, together with discreet investigation. Simultaneous courses of incompatible action. Captain Strongbow’s ideas were new and, as Athena said, they were at a stage where ‘show business could be used to attract attention to them’. Good ideas would find their ways into the League policy through other doors. Sometimes what was required, she thought, laughing to herself nervously, was official inaction in combination with unofficial action. This action had to be what Ambrose would call a ‘detached command’. Action unseen, unminuted. She had also learned something of fast-talking showmen, if nothing about aura.

  She supposed, though, that she had to remember in which area she belonged, to knuckle down now and learn the ways of serious diplomacy.

  With that reasoning, and before Cooper could call her and raise the matter again, she took the file on Captain Strongbow and wrote in it with a flourish the words, ‘Recommendation: no action. ECB.’ She also wrote ‘Put Away’ in the action box, knowing thankfully that it would never again be referred to. She then called for Jules and sent it to Cooper.

  She admitted, in retrospect, that she was wrong in her argument that the pistol could be seen as a ‘gift from an admirer’ but it was too late to do anything about it now. It may have been a bribe but it had ‘come into her possession’ and there it would remain.

  And what would she put in the other report, the intimate report to herself about the ways of some men and their arousal, their wish to wear the clothing of women? The least she could say was that she had learned something about the power of costume.

  And what had she to report to herself about her own carnality and its arousal in such steamy and bizarre circumstances?

  Entrée à la Haute Direction

  As Under Secretary Monnet was away, and as Cooper was ill, and given that she was, according to Ambrose, seen as ‘pushy’ by the others, she decided to let their view of her personality work for her rather than to be forever trying to correct it, and consequently she’d suggested to the others in the bureau that she ‘go along and take notes’ at the weekly Directors’ meeting. She’d been the only one to realise that the section would have no one there. The others had agreed that she go as a rapporteur for the bureau but not, of course, as acting acting director or anything like that. Of course not. While deep in her heart she still believed she wasn’t pushy, Edith did sometimes see herself as an unwilling leader, in a Girl Guide way. She wasn’t sure that she had what was called leadership potential, but at times There Was No One Else and she had to step in, although she wasn’t sure that was necessarily true leadership. She thought she was perhaps best as second-in-command, a good lieutenant. A leader was someone who needed followers to fulfil their existence. She was not like that. She needed a prescribed commitment.

  ‘Of course, I will not be there pretending that I am acting acting head of section,’ Edith said to Florence, her Canadian friend from Finance, who was pushy and proud of it.

  ‘Of course not,’ Florence said, laughingly, there again implying that putting herself forward was exactly what Edith would do. Florence thought it an excellent move for Edith to get to a Directors’ meeting and be seen and, perhaps, even heard. Florence was teaching
her how to manoeuvre herself although, again, Edith was very unsure about whether one should ever ‘manoeuvre’ oneself. She could initiate and as in the Captain Strongbow incident, memory of which now caused her to flinch, she was even capable of taking the unorthodox path of action. That was not manoeuvring. Which was not to say that she wasn’t a feminist either, but not an acute feminist. All right, yes, Edith admitted to Florence that she wanted desperately to go to a weekly Directors’ meeting and she thought it would be good for her career to be seen at the Directors’ meeting and, yes, she intended, if possible, to have something to say. She did not see this as pushy, she saw this as being a functioning part of the League crew, as being a trainee in international diplomacy.

  She supposed she could be described as having ‘drive’.

  There’d been gossip at the Bavaria that the Directors’ meeting was now running the Secretary-General. Some went further and suggested that it was getting control of both the Council and the Assembly agendas and she thought, privately, never expressing it to anyone, that this was perfectly acceptable, that the Secretariat should have a big say in setting agendas.

  She did not challenge that you needed a masterful Secretary-General in the League. Whether Sir Eric was this sort of man was debated endlessly at the Bavaria. She always defended him. It was her aide-de-camp disposition, even though he was not her immediate superior. It was the tendency she had observed in herself and in the private secretaries and even among the stenographers — to have devoted loyalty to the person they were attached to professionally. She could see why it was efficacious for this to be so. You couldn’t be working closely with a person and be unsupportive — although she believed it should be a ‘considered’ loyalty which involved speaking your mind. A ‘seeing loyalty’ rather than a blind loyalty. A devotion to seeing meant that you worked to provide your superior with the right particulars, so that he made the desirable decision, and a good aide-de-camp emotionally strengthened her superior when a decision had been made and had to be fought through. Provided supportiveness, too, at times of defeat. She didn’t see anything demeaning about this. She wished she had someone to whom she could make this commitment. Cooper was not right for her, nor Monnet.

  With Ambrose it was not like that either. They had something of a snug liaison. Ambrose was of superior rank to her, although not in her section, and he was more a mentor, although also at times needed support, which she was able to give. How would she describe this liaison? They saw each other nearly every week-end, and Ambrose, although he earned more than she, seemed to borrow money from her.

  She told Florence that she felt tense at the idea of being there with the heads of section and other senior people. Even though she saw most of them daily, they were still fairly intimidating for her. Florence said some nervousness could be to one’s advantage, a configuration of electrical energy which produced a higher alertness. Edith doubted this.

  She made sure a memorandum went to Wilson as secretary of the Directors’ meeting, saying that she would be there. Florence insisted on helping her with the wording, wanting to make it sound grander, and they settled on saying that she was ‘representing the absent head of section’ in the first paragraph and then, giggling, Florence had her sign it ‘Head of section (rep)’ and then made her type it again with (rep) in small, almost unreadable, handwriting next to the typed words HEAD OF SECTION. Florence looked at the memorandum and then said, ‘I know. You must add an initial to your name. You must make them remember you.’

  ‘But I’m already using my second name.’

  ‘Go the whole hog,’ said Florence.

  Edith resisted and said that it would be excessive.

  ‘Then change Edith to an E — and sign yourself. “E. Campbell Berry”.’

  Edith tried it out a few times and had to agree that it looked good. She signed the memorandum E. Campbell Berry.

  She would say something at the meeting but only if she could naturally find something to say.

  On the day of the meeting the messenger, Jules, a limping refugee from Russia, complimented her on her dress and presented her with a yellow rose. He asked her to mention his family’s lost estate, but she knew he wasn’t serious. She wondered how he knew so much about her, but she guessed that there was talk about her going to the meeting. He probably read everything he carried.

  It had been obvious to the others that she had dressed ‘up’ for the meeting, not excessively — it was a pale blue crepe suit with a pleated front panel, not even eye-catching — but it confirmed that she belonged there at the meeting and that she was of their standard. She knew there’d be only two women at the meeting, she and Dame Rachel, head of Social Questions. She wanted to be singular but not stand out.

  At the door of the meeting, Under Secretary Bartou said to her in a comradely way, ‘Remember, Berry, that a meeting is a diplomatic activity: pursue your interests: exercise comity.’ He made a seat for her at his side. It would be good to be seen to have Under Secretary Bartou as an ally. However she thanked him and said that she’d sit with her friend Major Westwood. As she moved over to Ambrose, Dame Rachel indicated that she should sit next to her and Edith realised that the two women probably should sit together and went over to Dame Rachel. Dame Rachel was head of her section but they had not yet given her the full status of Director.

  ‘You’ll find it a little like a football scrum,’ Dame Rachel said, and Edith smiled at her, not quite understanding, worrying that Under Secretary Bartou would be wondering why she was sitting with Dame Rachel when she had said she would sit with Ambrose, thinking maybe that she had simply refused a seat beside him for no good reason. Oh well, it was one of those things that would go into history unexplained.

  She glanced down the agenda:

  Germany’s entry to League

  Filming in the Assembly

  Behaviour of Journalists

  Esperanto

  Purchase of Furniture

  Emergency Procedures

  Complaint from NZ

  Calendar Reform

  Lighting of Coasts Committee Meeting in Stockholm

  ‘Berry?’

  Edith raised her head.

  ‘Sir Eric?’

  ‘Miss — Campbell?’ Sir Eric paused and looked down at his notes, ‘Miss E. Campbell Berry, I wish to welcome you to our meeting — our first Australian.’ She hated the new form of her name and wanted to put her hand up like a schoolgirl and say, ‘Please call me Edith.’

  He went on, ‘And to welcome you also to the League Secretariat. Unfortunately I now rarely have a chance personally to meet all our newcomers. Although I should as a gentleman go out of my way to meet young ladies who join us.’

  The others chuckled.

  Still glancing in her direction, but with a change of tone, he said, ‘I hardly need to remind you, Berry, that you will hear discussed today things which are confidential to the Directors. I assume you will use judgement in conversation and, if in doubt, consult Under Secretary Monnet when he returns or Major Buxton or Major Westwood. Understood?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Eric.’

  Edith blushed. She wondered if Sir Eric knew of her connection with Ambrose. How many knew? They went out together but they did not, for instance, go to tea parties or dinner parties as a duo, although in League social life they were generally both there in their own right. She never took his arm in public. Ambrose and she looked across at each other correctly, without a flicker of anything improper. To think that they were sitting in the Directors’ meeting, the haute direction of the League, all of the men in their pinstripe trousers and dark jackets, blue or grey shirts and white Eton collars, all dressed fairly much in the same fashion as Sir Eric, when last week she had seen Ambrose dressed in her knickers and corset and stockings. My, the world had been composed of many wonders since she’d met Ambrose on the train trip from Paris to Geneva. He had taken her into a realm of experience the import of which she could not yet discern. He had, she suspected, inducted her into
the tempo and morality of the Modern Times. Oh dear, she thought, Mother, I’m a long, long way from home.

  Sir Eric then led off about work hours, which wasn’t on the agenda. She thought to herself that it was bad meeting practice to introduce matters that were not on the agenda. He wouldn’t get away with that back home. He said that he had received a staff petition from Internal Services arguing for a change in the winter hours. Edith was surprised; she hadn’t seen this petition.

  The change in winter work hours was opposed by Comert from Information, who pointed out that if staff of the League began leaving at 5.30 p.m. when the rest of Geneva stopped at 6 p.m, it would create an unfortunate impression that the League staff led a privileged life. He also argued that in winter, 5.30 p.m in Geneva was still only 4.30 p.m. in London and Paris and it would look very bad if people called up the League on the telephone from London and Paris and got no answer.

  Huston, who was from Internal Services, which came under her bureau, reminded the meeting that nearly all the members of section lived in pensions and had to observe the rather early pension hours for meals. When they left at 6 p.m. there was no time left for shopping.

  Edith decided to test herself and decide what action she would take if she were Secretary-General — apart, that is, from not introducing substantial items not on the agenda. On this matter she agreed with Comert and was for having the same hours as the rest of Geneva. In fact, she thought the League should work longer hours because their work was so urgent.

  Sir Eric ruled that because the petition for change had been unanimous he would give it a trial until December and then review the matter.

  She felt like shouting out that it wasn’t really unanimous — she, for one, hadn’t signed it. The matter of the petition offended her but she felt that to raise it now would be to make too big a thing of it. Still, within the League, those sorts of tactics were out of place. Maybe she’d been out of the office or away. Or perhaps the trades-union-minded members were being dishonest and using tactics. She’d find out.