Cold Light

by Frank Moorhouse

  Edith was as nervous as she had been about anything in her life.

  She had met the children a few times at picnics and at dining-out occasions, and they knew that their father and she were increasingly together. On these occasions things had gone well enough – well, they had been polite.

  She greeted the three of them at the door, and together they moved the boys’ things from the car into their upstairs shared room. The boys seemed impressed with the idea of living in a house with an ‘upstairs’ and were goggle-eyed.

  They each had a box of their mother’s things – a memory box – which they held on to while the larger move-in was finished.

  Richard told them to put the boxes down for now and that they would find a place for them later.

  They reluctantly put their boxes down on their respective beds. But then George, the elder, turned and went back to his box and took out a photograph of his dead mother in a silver frame and put it on the table beside his bed.

  Osborne then copied him, taking his framed photograph from his box and putting it on his bedside table.

  It was, she supposed, a tender moment. Or it was a challenge to her presence in their lives. Richard smiled at her and she gave back a smile.

  George pointed at her arm and said, with deliberation, ‘That’s our mother’s bracelet.’

  She looked down at her arm and felt dismay. Oh God. It was something she often wore, and she had vaguely ceased to be aware of its origin.

  ‘Oh yes, you’re right, George. How clever. I was hoping that you boys might want it.’ She began to undo the clasp. ‘To have. To look after.’ She freed it from her arm and gave it to George, who took it and examined it, as if looking for damage. But he seemed to believe her. She felt glad to be rid of it. It had served a purpose that had now passed.

  She put a gentle hand on each of the boys’ backs and they then all went downstairs.

  She offered them lemonade with ice cubes and a slice of lemon in the Waterford crystal glasses.

  They turned to their father and questioned the lemon slice. He said that it was a ‘classy way’ of serving lemonade. ‘Edith will bring a bit of class into our lives.’

  They both removed the slice with their fingers and put it on the coffee table. Their father said, ‘If you don’t want it, put it on the bread-and-butter plate.’

  ‘There is no bread-and-butter plate,’ Osborne said.

  ‘Then use the ashtray.’

  Edith laughed and said, ‘Who needs a slice of lemon in a glass of lemonade, anyhow?’ And kept laughing as she removed the unwanted slices with two fingers and took them to the kitchen.

  When she came back, they were talking to their father about the glasses being too heavy, and he was explaining about there being lead in the glass.

  She took over the explanation of glass-making and what distinguished a lead crystal glass from an inferior potash glass, laughing, talking too quickly. ‘Really, there is no crystal at all in the glass, but that’s how it’s described – and the lead means that the glass can be made more decorative . . . attractive.’ She found herself trying to break down the more adult words into simpler words.

  They responded well enough to her questions about favourite school subjects and sports achievements and hobbies, which she knew about in a scattered way from their earlier meetings and about which she had been briefed a little by Richard.

  Amelia said hello to the boys and introduced herself, smiled encouragingly at Edith, and then scurried back to the kitchen.

  ‘Who’s she?’ George asked.

  ‘Amelia – a friend. She’s helping out today.’

  ‘Why do you need help?’ Osborne asked.

  ‘So I can spend time with you without being distracted. During the week, I have another . . . friend . . . who helps with the household.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it?’

  ‘I like to have my time free for my work.’

  She asked about the cub pack to which they were signed up, but they were not forthcoming. Richard urged them to speak but they didn’t seem inclined. The younger boy, Osborne, seemed willing to talk, but was taking his cue from George.

  It was, she thought, time for the presents.

  She announced that she had something special for them – ‘housewarming gifts’ – and left the room.

  As she returned, she paused at the door and looked at the two boys and their father seated in the drawing room, and recalled the night that Ambrose had performed his song-and-dance routine in the room. My, how the wheel of life revolved. She held the four large boxes as best she could behind her back.

  She came into the room and presented the presents with a flourish. Each of their names was written boldly on the wrapped boxes. She had thought about coloured paper, but had decided that brown might be more boyish.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it is really a family-warming day, not a housewarming day. The house has already been warmed.’

  Osborne was puzzled and looked to George, who shrugged.

  ‘Amelia brought bread, salt and wine when we had the housewarming party.’ Oh God, that was of no interest. She may as well go on. ‘A custom from Europe: bread, that the house may never know hunger; salt, that life may always have savour; and wine, that good times may reign.’

  The boys – and Richard also – stared at her.

  ‘But as I said, this is a family-warming and I am not sure that there are customs for that.’ She pulled a face of helplessness at Richard and also at Amelia, who was standing at the doorway.

  Richard clapped her for encouragement.

  She had their attention.

  They accepted the parcels.

  ‘You may open them now,’ she said.

  ‘Go on, boys, open them, and thank Edith,’ Richard said.

  They thanked her in a low, mumbled way.

  She had a strange feeling that she was competing with their memento boxes upstairs, but knew that that would not cross their minds.

  ‘You may get down on the floor to open the boxes,’ Richard said, and they left the lounge and sat down on the floor.

  They ripped away the brown paper from the largest boxes to reveal the Meccano boxes.

  They took off the lids of the Meccano boxes with the dozens of metal pieces laid out, fixed with rubber bands to shadow boards.

  ‘Osborne has a number 7 because he is seven years old and George a number 8 because he is eight years old.’

  ‘They’re the wrong colour,’ Osborne said.

  ‘Osborne’s right,’ George said, taking his hands away from his box.

  ‘How do you mean, the wrong colour?’ she asked. ‘They came from England. They were sent out especially for you. By airmail.’

  ‘Our friends have Meccano and they’re a different colour.’

  She couldn’t understand what they were talking about and looked across to Richard, who seemed also to be mystified. She looked to Amelia, but she had disappeared back to the kitchen.

  George said, ‘The bits are supposed to be green and red – these have yellow stripes and the plates are blue with yellow criss-cross lines on them.’ His voice implied that she was obviously ignorant of the way of the world, or the way of the world of boys.

  ‘They look smart to me,’ she said, her mind racing to comprehend why the colouring should worry them or why the English sets should be different.

  Richard came to the rescue and said to the boys, ‘These are special English sets – probably better than the ones your friends have.’

  They stared at the sets without touching them.

  George said, ‘They won’t be the same as the sets of our friends.’

  Osborne said, ‘I don’t want different colours; I want the right colours.’

  ‘Does the colour really matter?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure the models you can build will be the same as those of your friends.’

  They stared at her as if she had said something foolish. She said, ‘Your models will be quite smashing – in the English colou
rs.’

  ‘I’d rather have the Australian colours,’ George said.

  She said, ‘It means you won’t get the pieces mixed up with your friends’ sets.’

  George said, ‘Can’t you send them back?’ He was grumpy.

  Richard said, in a jollying voice, ‘We can hardly send them all the way back to England.’ He looked to her and smiled comfortingly, and then turned to the boys. ‘Say thank you to Edith.’

  ‘We already have.’

  They then opened the boxes with the Corporal missiles, and these pleased them. They fired the missiles over and over across the room at ‘the Russians’.

  After watching the missile-firing with strained smiles of interest, Edith said, ‘Who would like some sandwiches and cocktail frankfurts?’

  They nodded.

  She left the room and found Amelia. ‘I am too old; they are too young.’

  Amelia hugged her and said, ‘It’ll work out. But it won’t be easy – you’re breaking the ice.’

  ‘They say that the Meccano sets are the wrong colour. Can you believe that?’

  ‘With boys I can believe it,’ Amelia said. ‘I didn’t know there were different colours.’

  ‘I cannot explain why but, yes, there are, it appears, different colours.’

  She leaned on the sink.

  She pulled herself together and took a plate of mixed sandwiches. Amelia drained the frankfurts and gathered up some coloured paper serviettes, and together they returned to the party.

  She was relieved to see that they had at least begun unpacking the Meccano sets and had put the missiles aside.

  Osborne complained that George’s set was larger.

  She explained, ‘That’s because you’re different ages. At your next birthday, I will give you a 6A and that will make your set a 7.’

  That seemed to satisfy him, but then he did a calculation. ‘But you’ll give him a 7A and his set will be ahead of mine again.’

  ‘You could share your sets.’

  George mumbled something about how that ‘wouldn’t work’.

  Richard told them to take a napkin and have some food. Osborne turned to his father and said, ‘What do we call her?

  Edith thought, Oh God, we haven’t discussed the name business.

  ‘You can call her . . .’ He stopped, looking to her.

  She did not want to be called stepmother; she did not want to be an evil character from a fairytale.

  ‘You could call me Mam.’

  George said, ‘That’s another word for mother.’

  She said, ‘You could call me Edith.’

  George said, ‘Children don’t call grownups by their first name.’

  She wondered if she could be called Mrs Westwood. Or go back to her maiden name – Mrs Berry. That would be madness. Her new official married name would be same as that of their dead mother and was thus disqualified.

  Osborne said to George, ‘We could call her What The Cat Dragged In.’ And they both giggled.

  There was humour in it, but it was mostly malicious.

  Richard said, ‘Don’t be rude. You will call her Mother. That is what she will be from now on.’

  They were sullenly silent.

  Then George said, ‘I won’t.’

  Osborne said, ‘I won’t either.’

  ‘What about Mrs E?’ she offered. It made her sound like a charlady. What a mess.

  They didn’t reply.

  ‘We’ll work something out,’ Richard said.

  ‘For today,’ she said, trying hard, smiling so that it hurt, ‘you may call me What The Cat Dragged In.’

  Osborne smiled and George tried not to.

  She called out for Amelia to join them. ‘And bring three beers.’

  The boys went to bed and she said goodnight to them in their room. They accepted kisses from Richard, but not from her. She didn’t force it, simply running her hand over their hair.

  In bed that night, Richard comforted her and they agreed that it was a difficult thing for the children to take on.

  He went to sleep before she did, and she lay there fearing that it had all been a wrong move; that her love for this man did not spill over to the children and nor did his love for her.

  She could see now that that was not how it worked. It would take time and other approaches.

  A Career of Sorts

  She continued to see Janice and Frederick outside the house over coffee, but not as frequently.

  They never ceased to tell her the Soviet Union looked good: that it seemed ready to overtake the US in industrial production and that its wealth-per-head would also leave the US behind. Communism was turning out to be the success story of the century. Even when she did what Ambrose did – halve the Soviet figures – they looked good. Who knew the facts?

  They were leading in nuclear science, had nuclear weaponry and the first nuclear power plant. Frederick said the Soviet Union would also be the first into space and would dominate it. They still admired the success of Czechoslovakia as the first independent communist republic outside the Soviet Union.

  She had told him that she really didn’t read the Communist Party’s Tribune, but it was still regularly put in their letterbox each week, rolled up tightly and tied with string for discretion. She did try the Communist Review – the so-called theoretical magazine. She also flicked through the glossy Soviet propaganda magazines – well, socialist glossy, the colours seemed off – which he gave her every time they got together.

  Richard invited her to visit the Rum Jungle uranium mine, with her travelling as his researcher, which required security papers. She told Richard about the interview with the ASIO and about her brother, but he had laughed. ‘I doubt very much you would have a security problem.’ She did not know why he would be so sure.

  The security clearance came and she was relieved that the ASIO did not seem to have any objection to her going. As they flew to Rum Jungle, the cabin-window blinds were drawn so that the passengers could not see the layout of the mine.

  The mine gave off an atmosphere of important purpose and secrecy. Those working there were aware that their work was with something new, valuable and very potent, but the site was open-cut and unspectacular, and the buildings make-shift. Only the reputation of its product was in any way spectacular.

  Back home, Richard and she listened to President Eisenhower’s ‘Atoms for Peace’ broadcast.

  Even with the most powerful defence, an aggressor in possession of the minimum number of atomic bombs for a surprise attack could probably place a number of his bombs on the chosen targets to cause hideous damage – but to stop in our efforts to stop this would be to confirm the hopeless finality that two atomic colossi are doomed malevolently to eye each other indefinitely across a trembling world . . . would be to accept helplessly the probability of civilisation destroyed, the annihilation of the irreplaceable heritage of mankind handed down to us from generation to generation, and the condemnation of mankind to begin all over again the age-old struggle upward from savagery towards decency, and right, and justice. Surely, no sane member of the human race could discover victory in such desolation? Could anyone wish his name to be coupled by history with such human degradation and destruction?

  President Eisenhower foreshadowed the creation of an International Atomic Energy Agency to control the use of uranium.

  She saw that it would be a small League of Nations, and that this sort of organisation could be the future of international diplomacy – specialised organisations to solve one problem rather than one organisation attempting to solve all the world’s problems.

  ‘Nuclear power is the future,’ Richard had said, and, standing up, he pulled her to her feet. ‘We are on the winning team.’ He was excited. ‘We are the future.’ He said that since the discovery of uranium, Menzies was preoccupied with making Australia a uranium power among nations. He wanted to be in on the secrets – wanted to be seated at the table with the Brits and the Americans.

  She decided that
, because of the way things were going in the world, uranium and nuclear energy was where she should put her efforts.

  She resigned from her dogsbody job with Gibson at Interior and actually felt a little sorry at giving up on the planning of the city. Gibson seemed sorry to see her and her office furniture go.

  Mr T was weepy and she gave him one of her cumquat trees.

  ‘I won’t have the courage to put it in my corner.’

  ‘Yes you will, Mr T. It’s the one you saved with your first aid. You saved its life.’

  He looked down at the cumquat, reaching down to touch its leaves. ‘The others will be jealous.’

  ‘Let them be.’

  He picked up the cumquat, cradling it in his arms. ‘I will let them be jealous. And I will treasure it.’

  ‘We will still see each other?’

  ‘Definitely. Oh yes. Please.’

  After considerable research and with Richard’s guidance, she wrote a scientific essay, ‘Atoms for Peace and the Future of Specialised Diplomacy’, a commentary on Eisenhower’s speech, for the ANZAAS journal Search, signed Edith Campbell Berry BSc (Syd), and she was thrilled when they accepted it. It was the most substantial thing she had done since returning to Australia.

  Richard and their friends celebrated the publication of her essay at the Gloucester.

  She then decided to expand the essay into a handbook for schools on nuclear energy – The Nuclear Environment: A Handbook on Nuclear Power for Schools and the Community. Richard thought that the government would fund it, and it did. Most of the state education departments distributed it and she even made some money on royalties.

  At first Richard worked with her on the book – his library on uranium was very useful – but that led to disagreements over grammar and style, and she found he always wanted to be accepted as the final arbiter. They agreed that collaboration was not for them. He sometimes looked over her shoulder while she typed but made no comment. She wished he wouldn’t.