Cold Light (49 page)

Edith and the others now sat following this domestic exchange.

‘There is so much stuff in the book – about the use of prostitutes, masturbation, even position in bed and whether the lights are on or off. All that. I’d never, for example, thought about the possibility of bisexuality.’

‘So?’

‘It didn’t persuade me to try it, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

He continued to show discomfort. ‘Oh, and how many bisexuals are there?’

‘The book’s about America, remember. I seem to recall that it was about thirty-something per cent of men had tried both – had sex with men and with women – but only ten per cent preferred only homosexual sex. And there were statistics about how many sexual partners people had in their life – more than you would think.’

Frederick said, ‘On the question of promiscuity, Lenin said that it was like drinking from a dirty glass.’ He began saying this as a serious pronouncement, and then made a face that seemed to disown it. ‘Now I come to think about it, it sounds rather too . . . prissy.’

‘Yes,’ Amelia said, ‘it does.’

‘Look, to a degree I don’t care what people do outside the Party. I just don’t want them doing it inside the Party. The Party has to be above reproach.’

Janice looked at Frederick. ‘I’ve never heard you challenge anything Lenin said before in your life. I might bring you before a comrades’ court.’

Frederick tamped his pipe. He now seemed to relax, and smiled his hugely charming smile. Perhaps he had learned that when you smile rarely, your smile has more effect. There was, too, that contradictory change of tone she had often observed in him, as if he had caught sight of himself forcing communist theory down their throats, and perhaps also realising that he was revealing his own insecurities. ‘I do remember when Jean Devanny came back from a cadre course in the Soviet Union – this was in the thirties – she said that sex was different under socialism. Devanny had strong views on sex life. Not necessarily Party views.’

Janice giggled. ‘Devanny was always talking about
big
and
little
men, and that socialists were generally
big
men. I heard her talk at the Kings Cross branch in Sydney about this Russian man in the wheat fields with rippling muscles and how magnificent he was. I presume she meant in bed. That night, Jean argued that women had the right to enjoy sex as much as men did. I can tell you that the comrades at the meeting were like stunned mullets.’

Even Frederick laughed and told his own Devanny story – that at a Waterside Workers’ Federation meeting, Devanny became quite carried away, announcing to the wharfies and others, ‘In the Soviet Union, sexual intercourse is wonderful!’ A wharfie called out politely, ‘It’s not too bloody bad here, either, lady.’

They all laughed.

‘Everyone in the Party has a Devanny story,’ Frederick said. ‘But we had to kick her out.’

‘Why?’ Amelia asked.

‘The Party is not a bohemian club.’

Janice said softly, ‘There’s a little more to it than that.’

A glance passed between her and Frederick, which closed the matter.

Edith said she wondered whether the publication of the statistics on sex in Kinsey would mean that those who wanted to do something
sexually colourful
, but who had been frightened that their feelings were horribly abnormal, would now feel free to express their feelings, knowing that many others had the same feelings. ‘The book could bring about great changes in behaviour, because people will feel released from their private inhibitions.’

Amelia mentioned the recent newspaper reports about Chris Jorgensen, a man who had gone to Denmark and had a sex-change operation.

Frederick said that it was a form of madness.

Janice said she thought it raised many questions. ‘Some of which I am not sure I am bold enough to ask.’

Theodor said he had heard a joke at the university common room ‘that Christine Jorgensen went abroad, and came back a broad’.

Edith was now unsure about this conversation. She and Ambrose had read the newspaper reports and she had asked him how it made him feel. He had raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt that I will dash off to Denmark.’ He had then become serious. ‘Berry, you know as no other person in the world knows that I do not believe that in a thousand years, or by any medical drama or any amount of make-up, I could become a woman. All I qualify for is membership of the Molly Club. The club for those in happy confusion. All I ask of the world is that when dressed as a gal I be lavishly praised, treated extravagantly well and kindly. And may I add, Berry, you do that for me, you do that. I am not a Christine Jorgensen. I am another kind of exotic creature, and not at all woebegone.’

He was, though, at times, woebegone.

Janice and Frederick decided to leave, but the Richters stayed.

When Janice and Frederick had gone, Edith said that perhaps the conversation had become too risqué for the communists.

And too close to home for her comfort.

The conversation turned, as Amelia admired the furnishings.

Edith said, ‘It’s the Scandinavian look. I like the clean lines. More Fred Ward; he did my office.’

The four of them quickly became tipsy – perhaps because they were released from combative wariness.

Ambrose said he had wanted to do a song and dance act for the Legacy concert. ‘Edith vetoed it.’

Amelia said, ‘No!’ And, turning to Edith, said, ‘But why, Edith?’

Edith felt bad. She saw her veto of the burlesque as some sort of cowardice, but still thought it was right strategically. In a rather small voice, she said, ‘Ambrose wanted to do it with his friend from the Commonwealth Office, Allan.
En femme.
’

There was a silence.

She added, ‘The idea was just too outrageous for Canberra and for Legacy, and don’t you encourage him, Amelia.’

Amelia ignored her. ‘It would certainly liven things up. Help push Canberra into maturity as a city. We’ve never seen anything like that here. Do you agree, Theodor?’

‘Certainly, yes. Ambrose should do his act.’

Amelia then said, ‘Well, if you can’t do it for Legacy, do it for us here.’

Edith said, ‘Please, Amelia. Stop.’

‘Would you really like to see it?’ Ambrose said, brightening up.

Edith said, ‘Ambrose, no – really – it’s far too late.’

‘Not that late,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s Friday night, after all.’

Edith said no.

Amelia said, ‘Ambrose, please give us a show.’

‘It’ll all take too long – getting dressed and all,’ Edith said. And then, in case they had hadn’t understood, again said, ‘It is
en femme
.’

‘Just the song and dance would be fun,’ Amelia said. ‘It doesn’t have to be a full-dressed rehearsal.’

‘It is not a
rehearsal
. There’s not going to be a performance,’ Edith said.

Ambrose said, ‘It was to be a burlesque – a decadent Berlin burlesque.’

Amelia asked where he was going to get their outfits. She looked Ambrose up and down. ‘Edith’s clothes?’

‘He isn’t,’ Edith rushed to say. ‘It isn’t going ahead.’

Ambrose dissembled. ‘The Canberra Rep wardrobe department, perhaps.’

Amelia was now insistent. ‘Everyone tends to be so straitlaced at these concerts. Ambrose, do put on your act for us.’

Edith did not want to be seen as straitlaced by the Richters, and she was suddenly too tired to try to stop it. She gave way. ‘What the hell, do it.’ She waved her hand in permission. ‘I must stop myself becoming so starchy. But just the song and dance.’

‘Do the whole thing. Dress up,’ Amelia urged.

Ambrose looked across at Edith. She nodded with resignation.

How would she feel about it tomorrow, sober? She looked at Ambrose, at the vibrancy in his manner, which she had not seen for some time. ‘Go on, dear, you know where to find everything. Do a performance for us.’

She turned to the Richters, worried that they would catch on that Ambrose already possessed a costume or costumes to wear. ‘You can wear something from my wardrobe,’ she said, hating the dissembling.

Ambrose was already rising to his feet. ‘Is everyone sure?’ He looked around, getting nods of approval, his gaze coming back to her for final approval. Then she looked at the anticipation in Ambrose’s face. ‘Yes, do it,’ she said again. ‘Don’t take too long or we will lose interest.’

Amelia said to him, ‘Do you need a hand? A lady-in-waiting?’

‘Oh, I think I can manage,’ he said. ‘May need someone to button me up at the back.’

‘Just call,’ Edith said, ‘and I’ll come up.’ Edith thought that anyone with an ounce of perception would realise that Ambrose was at home with the idea of dressing
en femme
, but now, tonight, with the Richters, she couldn’t be bothered caring. They were all tipsy. The Richters were sophisticates.

Ambrose went off up the stairs to the bedroom. She refilled the drinks and found some salted biscuits and cheese. ‘You shouldn’t have encouraged him.’

‘No, no,’ the Richters said, almost in unison, ‘it’s going to be fun. Such a change.’

Edith said, ‘I’ll see what he’s up to. Find yourself a record and put it on. There are two long-play records in the collection.’ She left them and went upstairs.

Ambrose was at the dressing table, in female underwear and applying lipstick.

He said, ‘Just lipstick. No time for much else.’

Why not.

She inspected his light make-up; there was no time to do the eyes.

She went to her jewellery case and found a different set of earrings – more exotic – and said, ‘Take off the pearls and put on these.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, taking off the pearls. ‘Much more the vamp.’

He stood up, she helped him into his gown, and he slipped into a pair of high heels. He twirled. ‘Well?’

‘Perfect. I wish I could dress as quickly as you.’

He looked at his hands. ‘No time to do my nails.’

She took out some of his rings, slipped them on his fingers, and helped him fit his wig. She stopped. ‘Oh.’

‘What?’

‘They’ll wonder why we have a wig in the house.’

He shrugged. ‘Can’t it be yours?’

‘What would I want with a wig?’

‘I can’t go on without a wig – they won’t give it a second thought.’

She went on with fitting the wig. The whole thing was out of hand.

He said, ‘Go back down and put out the lights, except for one of the flexible table lamps – turn it upwards to be a spotlight and put on the Cole Porter record: the “Anything Goes” recording by Frances Day.’

‘Ambrose, you shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Oh, hell, we’re living in a shell here. We’re becoming too proper.’

She went downstairs and did as asked – turned off most of the lights. ‘Stage directions from upstairs.’

She poured them stiff drinks, thinking that they may need them. ‘He’s doing a burlesque piece in costume. Fully cross-dressed, I’m afraid. Thought I should prepare you.’ She tried to laugh; her mouth was dry.

She heard his high heels on the stairs, and when he reached the bottom she put on the Frances Day song.

As ‘Anything Goes’ started up, Ambrose began mouthing the song and going into the routine, lifting hands about his head, clicking fingers, arms outstretched, knees bending, turning now left, now right, swaying to the music, holding up his skirt above the knees, and then raising it even higher, giving a glimpse of his stocking tops and garters.

She looked at the Richters in the half-light, and thought they were spellbound – or astounded.

Even after all these years, she was always impressed by Ambrose’s transformation; how his head and neck and lips and eyes and smile became so fluid. He had about a dozen movements of his head, each a wonderfully emphatic expression. As the diplomat, he had about four movements of his head.

The Richters both clapped him vigorously, and Edith joined in. He did look professional and rather fetching. She had forgotten how fetching he could look.

Ambrose kept dancing, but stopped singing and looked at them, allowing Frances Day’s voice to finish the last lines.

‘Bravo,’ Theodor said. ‘Bravo.’

‘Splendid,’ said Amelia. ‘We didn’t expect a nightclub. So much better than
High Noon
.’

Ambrose blew a kiss and curtsied. He then curtsied again, and left the room.

The needle at the end of the record rustled away like a busy mouse. Edith went across and lifted it back to its rest.

‘As you can see, Ambrose is very much a Weimar girl,’ she said, laughing nervously, trying to smooth what they had just witnessed into simply another social night in the garden suburb of Forrest. She was glad Frederick and Janice were not there. Had they been there, it would not have happened.

Theodor said, ‘I would say very Bloomsbury.’

Edith was affirmed by this, relieved somewhat. She wondered how Ambrose would return to the room – as Carla the Vamp or as Ambrose the Diplomat? She hoped for the Diplomat.

He came back in as Carla, still wearing the wig, and they all clapped him again. He poured himself a drink.

Would they clap if they knew Ambrose was now
himself
, transformed into Carla; that the dress was his, not hers; that the lingerie he wore under it was his; that the corsette was his; the breast forms, the stockings and shoes, all his?

‘How was it?’ Ambrose almost trilled, eyes bright, flushed from his small triumph of theatricality. His elaborate effeminate hand movements seemed natural within the confines of the act.

Theodor said, ‘You simply must to do this at the Legacy concert.’

Amelia emphatically agreed.

Edith rushed in to answer, ‘No, no! That idea has been abandoned. It was to be a trio – not just Ambrose. But the idea has been scrapped. We will dream up something else.’

Amelia said, ‘But Ambrose was marvellous. It would go over well. I can’t wait to see the face of the G-G and Menzies.’

‘It’s too flamboyant,’ Edith said. ‘Far too flamboyant.’

Theodor said, ‘Oh, come on, every decent city has a show such as this. These sorts of acts were done in every prisoner-of-war camp during the war. Do it.’