Cold Light (24 page)

He looked down at himself. ‘You could be right. I feel excessive tonight.’ He then said, more to himself, bridling at a sense of restriction, ‘Oh God, do I feel excessive. I am a beautiful plumed bird in a hotel-room cage.’

‘At least the British came up with the idea of conscientious objection.’ She went over and ruffled his hair. ‘Be excessive, darling.’

‘You are to blame,’ he said. ‘You lavished pearls on me.’

For all her playfulness, she heard the cry in him – the cry to be back with his London crowd, to be back with the Molly Club crowd, to be out in public
en femme,
sliding out from a wonderful shining car in his lavish frock to frolic in one of his private clubs.

She also feared that she heard some of the old sickness coming out in him, that all the constraint of their lives – the politesse and punctilio of the High Commission and the small community in which they moved – was about to break him.

She remembered how he had cracked before at the League. It was not from any obvious cause, and was in a way that strangely resembled a parody of normality. He had fallen apart within the conventions through a bizarre aping of the conventions.

He returned to his thoughtful voice. ‘I think some of them are decent chaps who want a better sort of life. A life they’ve dreamed up. Anyhow, I see you’re reading John Maynard Keynes – capitalism can be fixed up. Better to work on fixing up what we’ve got. Tinkering-at-the-edges is the only decent political philosophy. And feather boas.’

‘Surely socialism is simply the best we can imagine for the human race.’

‘Just because we can imagine it, doesn’t mean that we can make it happen. Taming capitalism is probably the best we can do.’

This discussion they’d had before in different shapes. She mused, as she tried another blouse to go with the heavy suede jacket, ‘As a species we can imagine the happy impossibility. Utopia. The happy impossibility. Another curse of the human consciousness.’

‘The problems begin when what you can imagine becomes mixed up with what you can make happen,’ Ambrose said.

‘Ha! But we do not know what is impossible until we’ve tried it.’

‘The CP is full of a type who hang around with the revolutionaries to play with fire – bohemian romantics, artists and political adventurers. They wouldn’t last long after the revolution.’

Was there some thrillseeker in her?

‘I fear that the revolution, however necessary it may prove to be, will not approve of me.’

‘You think they will be uncomfortable with Carla, the secret chorus girl, the louche decadent?’

‘I do. I could sing the Red Flag dressed in the flag of the hammer and sickle. I will demand to be shot in my finest satins and silks.’

He again put down his book. ‘Remember, the Communist Party is three parties: at the top it is an instrument of Stalin, and at the bottom good old workers wanting an extra pound in their pay packet. The third is somewhere in between – the educated Australian bohemians who have a dreamy view of things. You cannot
dabble
in these things, Edith. Look, learn, but do not dabble.’ He was worried for her. He went back to his book.

Or was her thrillseeking really all about Janice?

‘Tam o’ Shanter or beret?’

He looked up. ‘Oh, the tammy. And throw a silk scarf around your neck. Or cloth cap might suit. Leave the gloves.’

‘Too cold.’ She went to the mirror. The neck; she would throw a scarf around her neck.

He looked at her sternly. ‘Remember, you are the wife of an English diplomat – behave diplomatically.’

Janice picked her up in her new car. She leapt from the car to open the passenger door for Edith, and said, ‘You look stunning. Love the Tam o’ Shanter – is that what it is?’ She reached out and felt the jacket. ‘Suede?’

‘Chamois. You do? I thought beret, but then decided tammy. But oh, the car! The car! Let me inspect.’

They walked around the shining car. She let her fingers stroke the enamel paint. ‘What make is it?’

‘It’s a Ford Anglia.
Father
.’ She made a gesture of guilt. ‘Frederick wanted me to buy a Czech Škoda. I thought that would surely attract unnecessary attention. May as well put a hammer and sickle pennant on the bonnet.’

‘Have you given it a name?’

‘I’ve christened it – Svetlana.’

Of course.

They got into the car and Edith breathed deeply of the enamel paint and leather.

‘Fred will use it and the Party will pay running expenses. Don’t tell Father.’

‘Perhaps I need a car,’ she said, as she settled into the luxury of the seat. ‘Oh, it purrs nicely. But we do have the use of the HC car when we need it.’

‘You need a car, believe me. Just to drive away – just to go to somewhere that’s finished. Goulburn even. Goulburn for a Chinese dinner. We’ll go for a spin there soon. Now petrol’s unrationed.’

Edith didn’t mention to Janice that she had sufficient dollars in her American bank account from Firestone to buy an American car, if she chose. Perhaps a Packard. She found the dollars useful for importing American records of the new musicals, which Ambrose especially liked.

She gave a sideways glance to see what Janice was wearing – as a measure. Yes, informal, a touch of the unconventional in her black leather jacket over a cream high polo-neck sweater; a touch of her background also in her plaid skirt. Perhaps she should wear a polo-neck. It looked jaunty.

At the Liberty Café they drank strong tea, sending the first pot back – ‘This time, stronger.’ Edith suggested that they ‘liven it up’ and, when the waitress wasn’t looking, strengthened it even further with a dash or two of cognac from her flask. Janice reached over to take the flask and examined it, running her fingers over it.

‘How beautifully worn – is it from France?’

‘Worn and with a dint. It is, and it comes with a saucy story, which I will one day tell you when we know each other better.’ Taking the flask back, Edith patted it affectionately, and put it against her cheek. ‘One of the most intrepid – no, the most intrepid thing I’ve done in my life is celebrated by this flask. And I’ve done some. Also, one of the most voluptuous things I’ve done. The dint is another story.’

‘Tell all!’

‘At the right time.’ She placated Janice with a confiding smile and put the flask back in her handbag. ‘Will we need to take a bottle tonight? You said there was to be a bottle party?’

‘I’ve looked after that. In the boot.’

‘Where’s Frederick?’

‘At the hall – putting out chairs, leaflets and booklets. The usual thing. Looking after our Party VIPs from Melbourne. Some of us knew each other in Prague. Were at Party school there just after the war. In the new socialist republic. Great days.’

Frederick was doing the sort of work she had done at the League when she was young. Perhaps it was in their genes. She’d had staff to work for her at his age. Look at her now – she had fallen backwards in her career. She was holding on to a working life by her fingernails.

Janice sipped her tea. ‘Cognac in tea. This will brighten me up. I might be too talkative. Frederick says I drift away from the Party line when I’ve had a tipple or two. Actually, I think that I am more aware of the European line than he is.’ She sipped her tea and cognac. ‘This is what in my family we called a “livener”.’

‘We called it a shoehorn.’

‘And what did Major W. think of your going out political campaigning with the Reds?’

Edith found herself hesitating about revealing too much about Ambrose, in that she had anything much to reveal about his work.

‘He was grumpy.’ She left out that he might be interested for British diplomatic reasons.

As they drove to the hall, Janice said, ‘I haven’t prepared you for the Causeway. It’s not the
Palais des Nations
. Not even Albert Hall. Couldn’t get the Albert. The Causeway hall is just a leftover from pre-war Canberra. It’s a little forgotten village of workers who live there – was a workers’ camp. It’ll be demolished. Fairly Catholic, but strong on union. Frederick likes it because it’s old working class, but, of course, they don’t particularly like him. Tonight is a meeting to plan a meeting – to plan something bigger in the Albert Hall, if they’ll let us hire it.’

‘Who’ll turn up?’

‘There’ll be some people who just think it’s wrong to ban a political party – the tweedy milquetoast socialists.’

‘People such as me, you mean?’

Janice looked away from the road at Edith and said, ‘Don’t know in what category we will place you.’ She laughed. ‘Catholic groupers might be hanging around. They might make trouble.’

‘You seriously think there’ll be trouble?’ She visualised a scene of baton-wielding police on horseback, and thrown bricks and bottles. She had picked up enough from the papers about Catholic groupers. ‘Perhaps I should have brought my pistol as well as my hip-flask.’

‘Pistol? Edith, you never cease to surprise me. And don’t ever cease surprising me.’

Edith recognised the tone. Wasn’t that something lovers said to each other while courting? Was there some affection Janice wasn’t getting from Fredrick that she felt she could find with her? Or was she herself tiptoeing in fantasy land? ‘That’s a rather strong demand to place on a friendship, Janice,’ she said lightly. ‘I will be forever thinking up things to surprise you, and when I can’t, I will fear losing you.’

‘One surprise every six months will do.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

‘There shouldn’t be any trouble from the groupers, but you can never be sure. We have a few waterside workers from Sydney coming up. Just in case. I expect it’ll be just heckling. Frank Hardy’s going to be there, the writer. Fred worked with him on
Salt
, the army newspaper.’

‘Haven’t read his book. In fact, I haven’t seen a copy. Read
about
it.’

‘It will be there on sale,’ Janice said. ‘He published it himself.’

‘How many communists are there?’

They pulled in and parked outside a weatherboard hall. ‘During the war we had about 25,000 – now it’s down to 15,000. We’ll need another depression. Nearly 100,000 votes for us at the last election. And we didn’t contest many seats. Didn’t win a seat. Never have.’

‘We should pray for a depression, then?’

Janice laughed. ‘The important thing is how many communists there are outside Australia – China, the republics of the Soviet Union, Korea. And strong parties in Italy and France. They could govern France after the next election.’

‘Not that strong in France, Janice,’ she said, and regretted her tone. She must stop asserting herself as an expert on all things European.

‘There are the unions we lead – about 270,000 union members.’

‘They haven’t joined the Party, though.’

‘Truth be told, I think the Party membership is closer to 7000,’ Janice said, the swagger removed from her voice. ‘I was puffing it a bit. And only 89,000 voted for us – not 100,000.’

Janice always struggled to be scrupulous with her.

‘There’ll be other young people there.’ She saw Janice pull herself up at her mistaken inclusion of Edith with the young, and smile away the remark.

Edith relished it. She felt quite youthful with the tammy, and the jaunty silk scarf flung around her neck. And, experimentally, her tailored slacks. ‘I’m flattered, even if it were a generous mistake of the tongue.’

‘You are very young, Edith.’

For your age.

She squeezed Janice’s arm. ‘I am young. And from you I expect one flattering slip of the tongue every month.’

‘Agreed.’ Janice pointed out into the darkness. ‘Out there somewhere is the Molonglo river, and the Causeway.’ She pointed to some huts. ‘That’s the mess hall over there and the huts where some drifters live – some of the single men. They say around the Causeway, “A feed and a fight, all in five minutes.” ’ She took Edith’s arm, as they strolled towards the hall. ‘Some factories and stuff down that way.’ She pointed. ‘The Causeway is what Canberra wants swept under the carpet. No slums in Canberra.’

Then Janice looked at her, as if making a decision. She leaned in to her ear and whispered, ‘They really say, “A fight, a fuck, and a feed, all in five minutes.” ’

Edith felt warmed by being included by Janice in her ribald mind, and chuckled. At the same time, she thought what a long way we have to go as a species – men still bolting down their food, expecting no more than animal sex, and fist-fighting as a sport. Again, she wondered about the sexual compatibility of men and women. How ill-fitted they were, men and women. The sad hearsay and rest-room chatter among women. Men not knowing what to do. She was thinking, of course, of her first marriage, to Robert Dole. How supposedly worldly and Bloomsbury he had pretended to be, yet how skimpy and limited he had been in bed. And, ultimately, tiresome. What a mystery and a mess it all was.

She feared women were happier with women or with effeminate men, and needed men only for breeding and bringing in the pay packet. Women were happier dancing with women. She had talked to Dr Vittoz about this back in Geneva. She remembered him looking at her after she’d plucked up the courage to reveal what sort of man Ambrose was. She remembered him staring at her and saying, ‘What do you think it means about you?’ She had worried that she had revealed Ambrose, and had, of course, revealed herself. For good or for ill, as a young woman she had met Ambrose and, of course, had recoiled but then accepted him. Things were good enough with Ambrose and had been quite titillating in the earlier years, revealing what could happen between men and women, even if it had slacked off somewhat now. Age. Men were better off with street girls who expected nothing but the money.