Cold Light

by Frank Moorhouse

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ve lost your name.’

  ‘Trevor, Trevor Gibson.’

  She felt like an actress – or a harlot – as she so fluently and attentively answered about ‘settling in’, her groin still flushed and tingling, and the good warm feeling that had crept up her waist from his hand, to her stomach, to her breasts.

  The strawberries and cream arrived, and his hand left her leg, causing her heart to skip again.

  Gibson said, ‘I could offer you diplomacy on another scale. Dealing with the squabbles over Canberra. May amuse you.’

  She didn’t quite understand what it was he was offering, and how it mattered to her. ‘My skills are, well, administrative – the making of plans and policies and plots. And what would be my job?’

  ‘To design this new city – this capital city.’

  If this was to be the whispered offering of the night, she was disappointed. ‘I am by background better suited for the diplomatic. And I take it you know that I’m married.’

  ‘A city the like of which has never existed before,’ he said, with a confused touch of self-sarcasm and ambition.

  Had all the women at the dinner had a man’s hand up their dress? She should have invited his hand up her dress. She was perhaps a little tipsy. The hand had not been up her dress.

  She brought herself back to Gibson. The offer of a position.

  She was about to give her full attention to his offer when a snatch of conversation came from the Prime Minister. ‘. . . And as most of you here know, we have legislation on its way to clean this up,’ he said.

  This fragment of conversation took away from the warmth of the wine and the clandestine under-the-table divertissement. The offer of the wrong job. She felt now tossed about by the whole evening. Tossed.

  The evening within minutes had somersaulted, and she felt that in the somersault she did not quite know where she had landed or how awkward her landing was, or whether she had injured herself.

  She wanted so much to be out of the dinner party. But they would have to wait out the coffee and liqueurs and port, and the obligatory hour of chattering, which was required after the serving of the coffee.

  She had to acknowledge that she had put her respectability at risk. What would he assume? Did she really want something to develop between them? In a way, her age, her poise, her mystery as a returned expatriate would probably explain her in gossip, if gossip were to occur, and allow her to ride through any complications. Then she realised that, frankly, she didn’t care so much as she might once have cared.

  ‘What would you require of me?’ she heard herself say to Gibson, in a voice lacking sureness. She winced at the innuendo of her wording and rephrased it. ‘Given my background. How could I be of use to you?’

  ‘As I said, diplomacy we could surely use.’ He laughed. ‘Wouldn’t you like to help make the caput mundi?’

  To her dismay, her own Latin did not come to her rescue. She was flustered. She so much wanted to be able to respond in Latin. Her mind tried to translate, but stumbled. Mundi – world – easy, but she couldn’t for the life of her come up with the word caput, or guess at his meaning.

  Gibson saw this.

  ‘Excuse me for throwing about my Latin – caput mundi – the centre of things . . . Not strictly accurate, anyhow.’

  Her Latin woke up. ‘Oh, of course, caput mundi – Rome, the centre of civilisation – I do have some Latin . . .’ And then, reasserting herself as a Latinist, she said, ‘Surely novum caput mundi – the new centre of civilisation.’

  Something she doubted very much.

  ‘I accept amendment.’

  She regained her sureness, at least in her voice. ‘So you are planning the point around which all of Australia revolves?’

  ‘That is a way of putting it.’

  Perhaps it would be a suitable position. ‘Tell me again, what it is you would want from me?’

  ‘To organise a Congress – the Regional and Town Planning Institute Congress.’

  Another congress. Australia was awash with congresses and conferences. This one less threatening.

  She caught fire. ‘Canberra as the point from which Australia grows and flourishes. Yes. I see that.’

  ‘It is the first such congress. Lord Holford will be coming out from the UK.’

  Edith’s mind was beginning to fly. ‘It is, after all, the city where our lives are decided,’ she said. ‘That’s why it has to say, “Here we do something special; here we are different because of what we do.” ’

  He nodded to show he was impressed by her.

  There was a vision being conjured here. She felt she was not making the best of the situation, and people were now standing up – there must have been a suggestion that they move to the drawing room. Usually she was in favour of the tradition of breaking after the dinner, of moving to another place – it took you away from the exhausted conversation of your dinner guests and allowed for mingling. Tonight, however, she had not finished her business with Gibson, and she was unprepared to deal with Richard, which the rising would bring about, and where the hand on the knee now led. If anywhere.

  She gave a glance to Richard to see what he intended, but he was distracted. She turned to Gibson, who, now standing, pulled her chair back for her, and she said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I will give you my business card,’ he said, taking one from his wallet. She read it: Senior planner of the National Capital Planning and Development Committee.

  She took from her card holder in her handbag her carte de visite and presented it to him.

  It read simply:

  Edith Campbell Berry BSc (Syd)

  (Formerly Assistant Chef de Section to Undersecretary General Bartou, League of Nations, Geneva)

  (Formerly Officier de liaison, UNRRA, English Sector, Vienna)

  He read her card and placed it in his wallet. ‘You worked for the United Nations Organisation in Vienna, I see. Why did you leave?’

  She almost blushed. This was not strictly true, or at least was misleading. And painful. She had worked with UNRRA before it had become part of the new United Nations Organisation. She wanted to transfer across from the Committee for Europe, but they had not wanted her. She had been seen as belonging too much to the League old guard.

  ‘I worked with UNRRA before it became part of the UNO. When everything was a mess.’

  She also realised that the card used her maiden name, which would link her to her brother. Gibson would not show it, and he was unlikely to make the connection. She would have to change the card. She should tactically remain hidden behind her married name if she were to get anywhere. Or was that cowardice? Or was it simply a ruse de guerre?

  ‘Please, telephone my secretary and arrange an appointment,’ he said. ‘That is, if you are in any way interested.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, ‘but really I doubt that I can be of use.’ No, she shouldn’t say that. She had quick visions of Canberra as capital – ideas filled her head – but she was not drawn to the idea of organising a conference. It was a long time since she had organised a conference. She had others to organise conferences. This was not the position as first Australian Woman Ambassador. It was, indeed, a long way from that.

  ‘No,’ she said, taking Gibson’s elbow as he moved away towards the drawing room. ‘I think I am inspired by the offer. I am sure there is something to offer. I know all there is to be known about congresses and conferences.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Until our appointment, then.’

  ‘I will call your secretary, thank you.’

  She moved with him to the drawing room and joined Ambrose. He asked how she was surviving.

  She whispered, ‘I was offered a position – the wrong position – however, a position from which I could, perhaps, build an empire.’

  She grasped his elbow with a surge of affection, perhaps to ease her delinquency. ‘More later.’

  Ambrose and she moved over and thanked Bruce for suggesting her
to Gibson, and the three of them chattered for a time. Bruce gave nothing away about his part. As they chattered, she recalled that Bruce’s family business had been women’s corsetry. She smiled to herself.

  She kept darting a look in Richard’s direction, expecting a glance from him, but not wishing to stare or to appear to be seeking his eyes.

  It was making her nervous. She wanted to leave. She looked to Ambrose and her eyes flashed their signal of time-to-leave, as the ancient Greeks flashed their battle signals with their polished shields.

  They went to the Prime Minister to take their leave and, after the niceties, she said to Menzies, without much thought, ‘I am for Adam Lindsay Gordon.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are? I fear he is a one-poem writer.’

  ‘For Australia, one immortal poem from a lifetime of poetry is all, perhaps, we can ask. Or for a poet of any country.’

  Ambrose kept smiling to jolly-up the conversation.

  ‘You’ve bowled me out, Edith.’

  She collected her gloves and handbag, and Ambrose and she then moved through the small throng towards the door.

  The man, Richard, who had taken liberties, had not moved to speak with her in the drawing room, and nor had he come to bid her farewell. With hurt pride, she simply left, arm in arm with Ambrose, not permitting herself to turn around and search for his face one last time.

  In the waiting High Commission car, Ambrose said, ‘You may contradict a newly elected PM such as Mr Menzies, but remember to never contradict a PM who has been in office for a long time.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, dear.’

  That was not what was on her mind.

  ‘Let us despair; let us despair awfully and enormously’

  Delivered back to the hotel after the Prime Minister’s dinner by the High Commission car, Edith kicked off her shoes in the bedroom, extricated herself from her stockings and corselet, and removed her make-up and pearls. It was a relief to pull on her loose claret-coloured satin nightdress, her favourite, though she had a nightdress for each night and this night was not, strictly speaking, its ‘turn’ to be worn. She put on its matching robe, returned to her sitting room, poured them both a port nightcap, and flopped.

  Legs stretched out, she arched her feet and admired her dark-red varnished toenails, and her slender feet and toes – one of her best features. What was now left of her best features? Her ankles weren’t thickening, not at all. Would the man on her left have enjoyed the sight, would he have stroked and kissed her out-stretched hairless legs? At least she had found a beauty salon to take care of things.

  Ambrose, having shed his suit, came in from the second sitting room in his nightgown and negligee – matching hers. Did she buy these negligees for them both in London? She couldn’t remember. He picked up his port and, wrapping his nightgown gracefully around himself, gave a small twirl before slipping into the other armchair.

  She toasted him with her glass. ‘A matching couple in claret silk. We must smarten our wardrobes, darling. The ladies tonight tell me that Melbourne is the place to shop.’

  ‘Silk,’ he said, fondling the nightgown. ‘Where would a boy be without a silk negligee? Allah forbids boys to wear silk.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘It is said that Allah created silk for women’s use only. Makes men into women. I think he was right, don’t you? At least, I hope he’s right. Decidedly, it makes me somewhat unmanly, and I am thankful for that. Allah Almighty knows best. But given that man I must by nature be, I have to say that I am happy we can now buy new dinner suits. And waistcoats. Did you notice the number of new suits and waistcoats worn tonight? I would have preferred formal dress.’

  ‘We both.’

  ‘It elevates us as humans – as well as adding something of the theatrical to this oh-so-untheatrical world. And you, Edith, you were très élégante, my dear. How was your side of the table?’ he asked.

  ‘The ladies admired my Dior. I told them it was a copy. As for my side of the table, I’m trying to make up my mind. Or rather compose my mind, or rather quiet my mind about it.’

  ‘Why so? Tell me all – you were offered a position?’

  ‘There was more than that happening on my side of the table.’

  ‘You heard the PM say that the CP is to be banned?’

  ‘If my relationship to Frederick becomes public, they may say solicitously to my face that his beliefs do not blemish me, but it will blemish me . . . for me to seem not to care will be seen as being superior in attitude. I will be suspected as being some sort of effete cosmopolitan who does not care about these matters. Socially, they will use my brother as a pretext to turn on us.’

  Ambrose laughed. ‘We are effete cosmopolitans. Only some of that crowd will turn. Not all.’

  ‘It is the only crowd we have.’

  ‘Being effete cosmopolitans is our protection.’ He then added, ‘In all matters. They know not what to think of us or, at least, what to think of you. You said that you were offered a position?’

  ‘The position is temporary and, I suspect, honorary – it has to do with organising a conference. Hardly a blossoming of my grand destiny. Bruce was behind it, although he didn’t say as much.’

  The further she was from the small glitter of the dinner party, the less burnished the offered position was.

  Her mind kept circling back to the hand on her knee. She was uncharacteristically unsure whether to tell Ambrose about this. In the past they had found that telling all about any amourette, in all its salacious detail, could become for them an erotic alchemy, arousing them both, and thus using the outsider. It made the breach of whatever sexual fidelity had occurred theirs in a very special way. Especially Ambrose’s tales for her. She had sometimes, in the past, embroided her amourettes – there were not that many – for his erotic delectation. And for her delectation also, she should add. His were, by nature, more exotic.

  For the life of her, though, she still could not remember whether she had told him of the night of the Negro musician way back in Paris in their younger days. If it were a case of not-telling back then, it was because of the rupture it had caused with Robert. And because of a wish to keep that beautifully bizarre occurrence now forever her possession alone. Ambrose had never raised it face-to-face, although she seemed to recall a letter asking her about it when he had been living in Wiltshire. But she couldn’t remember what she had replied. In an outburst of loving unreservedness, she had told Robert before their marriage and he had seemed to receive it at the time as the loving gift of candour that it was.

  But that telling had been a mistake. Or had it? It had broken apart their marriage – or precipitated the break – but it could be seen as having, thankfully, revealed early in their marriage that they were not the right people to live out their lives together. His seemingly accepting, oh-so-modern, reaction before they married, compared with his reaction after marriage, revealed how fraudulently had been his pose of a Bloomsbury-bohemian and freedom-loving man-of-the-arts-and-of-the-mind. He had accepted her revelation before marriage, she saw now, as a way to gain her approval, but his reaction after marriage showed him to be what he truly was – a boorish, hidebound, unsophisticated male. She thought that the revelation that one’s husband was boorish, hidebound and unsophisticated should be accepted legally as sufficient grounds for divorce.

  But that was from the other side of the world, another life. This was the first escapade here, if an escapade it was. And she found herself unsure of how to reveal it to Ambrose – at least, while their lives generally were in such a precarious condition.

  She was tipsy.

  ‘Deep in thought?’ he said. ‘Any old position would keep your hands busy.’

  Busy hands might do the devil’s work. ‘I did not come back to Australia to organise a conference of town-planning people – who will talk about whether to put electric and telephonic lines above ground on poles or underground in concrete pipes. I am all for concrete pipes and indoor toilets but, darl
ing, in Geneva we were disarming the world. We came this close to disarming the world in ’32.’ She held her fingers an inch apart. ‘Or perhaps this close.’ She widened her fingers to three inches. ‘In Vienna, with UNRRA, I pulled displaced people from where they hid in sewers shivering with fear. And saved them from the Reds. Organising a conference is not really my destiny. What’s become of me?’ She gave out a histrionic Gallic gust of self-dissatisfaction. And then another.

  Ambrose gazed at her, as if taking into himself her dissatisfaction, and then he said, also with dissatisfaction, ‘Tell me again why we came here to this place?’ He said it quietly, without acrimony, but with bafflement. Not so much responding to her, but allowing out from within himself – for the first time – pent-up, sharply-felt disharmony. ‘I utterly do not know what we are doing here.’ The defeat in his voice hurt her heart. He had not spoken like this before.

  ‘I take it your side of the table was not inspiring.’

  She saw that he was close to tears. Very rare.

  And then he burst out, ‘Here we are in this diplomatically insignificant country, playing out petty imitations of distant places – the private schools are imitations; the parliament and courts are imitations, with their wigs and robes and maces; the HC pretends he’s an ambassador, and I pretend to be on ambassadorial duties with him. The whole place has insufficient identity or heritage or skills. The PM and his ministers refer to themselves as Ministers of the Crown, for God’s sake. They are role-playing imitations.’

  She sat quietly taking this in, finding, to her surprise, that some degree of defensive patriotism rose in her, but she said nothing. And her patriotism was very weak.

  Softly, she said, ‘Surely the 40,000 or whatever men who died in the last war, and how many in the other war, weren’t pretending . . .’

  ‘They were. They were imitating the European armies – trying to pretend they were significant – thinking that their bravery would prove to the Europeans that they were worthy. Nothing would have changed had they stayed at home and farmed the land.’