Cold Light (15 page)

‘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:

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.

D
elivered 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?’