Cold Light (34 page)

She was able to arrive at these conclusions despite the talkative taxicab driver, to whom, there in the back, she only half-listened. But she also had to concede, at this point in the journey home, that while any of what had happened
might not
matter, nor was it as yet, by a long shot,
a laughing matter
.

W
hen Edith opened the door of her office, she saw the small broken trunk of the cumquat tree bending towards the floor as if in shame. All the fruit had been stripped from the tree and stamped into the rug. Brutishness. Targeted brutishness. The inflicting of an injustice on the small, vibrant tree was itself a sort of violation separate from the violation of her. It was a brutish message to her – or an incoherent rage.

There was a postcard-sized white card with a hand-printed message, saying ‘rat’. The card came from the department stationery cabinet.

She looked around for more, but that was it. Rat.

She put the card on her desk, and then took off her gloves and placed them on top of her handbag on the desk.

She took off her beret and hung it on the hatstand, her hands shaking.

She picked up the squashed cumquat fruit and wondered what to do with them. She didn’t want them staring up at her from the wastepaper bin like bloody, broken eyes. She found a large manila envelope and put them in it, and put the envelope in the wastepaper bin. She considered what to do about the stains on the rug. If they could not be removed she would remove the rug.

The trunk of the cumquat had a greenstick fracture and she closed it carefully back to shape, binding it with her handkerchief in the hope that there was a slight possibility it could heal itself. She could, she supposed, use Scotch tape, but would have to go down the hallway to get it from the senior clerk’s secretary.

She sat down and felt a sense of offence, which folded into fear. She was frightened of what implications lay behind the vandalism. Was there rampant gossip about her and her communist brother, or about the allocation of the house? Ah, the house.

What was the meaning of the word ‘rat’ in this message?

She called Ambrose, who was a great admirer of the cumquat tree. He was furious, but she agreed that it was difficult for her to react in an office where her authority was so minimal; her connection temporary and slight; her allies few, if any; and her enemies unknown.

The other person she could think of asking for advice was Mr Thomas. And her brother.

She made a reluctant decision: she decided to call her brother and ask him for information about Mr Thomas. Even though she instinctively liked Mr Thomas, Frederick might know more about him. Might also know who in the Department was likely to be her enemy. She now assumed that her brother had an unmapped, unofficial network in the workforce of Canberra.

She rested her hand on the telephone. She had heard about the secret service being able to listen in to telephone calls, and Frederick had warned her about it, but she couldn’t imagine that someone in a lowly job such as hers would be singled out for listening. In a wider sense, though, she was a Somebody by being a wife of a diplomat with friends in high places. She could be a Person of Interest.

She put aside any caution and rang the number Frederick had given her. To her surprise, she was linked directly to him; she had expected a more clandestine arrangement.

She explained the situation.

He apologised. ‘I would suspect that you were targeted because of me.’

‘How would they know I was your sister?’

‘Word gets around. Sorry, Edith. But welcome to the struggle. We have members in the department and I’ll check with them. We’ll straighten this out, though there’re six hundred people working in Interior so it may take time.’

She asked about Mr Thomas.

‘Thomas? I’ve chatted with him. He’s sympathetic to progressive causes, but, well, he’s . . . how shall I put it? He’s a little limp-wristed.’

She had not seen Mr T this way. But she could see why her brother said it. She nearly said to Frederick that his brother-in-law was a nancy-boy. Would she one day have to tell him? She doubted it.

He went on to say, ‘Thomas has an astute knowledge of the department. Keeps his ear to the ground. I find it useful to talk with him when I call in.’

Her brother prowled around the department. ‘Would he know you are my brother?’

‘I wouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘Someone thinks I’m a communist. Is this what happens to communists?’

‘I’ve had much worse down at the Snowy. The reffos from Eastern Europe give me and my car a hard time.’

‘I would appreciate it if you could ask your conspiratorial friends about who it was who tried to murder my cumquat tree. And you can then put the culprits up against a wall and shoot them.’

She called Mr Thomas’s extension and asked him to come to her office.

He was distressed when he saw the tree.

‘How do we find out who did it, Mr T? And if we do find out, what would we do to them?’ She did not at this point show him the card. The abuse of it – even if its meaning was not known for certain – was too painful.

‘I will find out over morning tea, make a few discreet calls. As to what we do about it . . .’

She smiled with what was left of any smile in her. ‘You mean we let his bicycle tyres down?’

‘Something like that – or worse. Put salt in his tea.’

He noticed the stains of the squashed cumquats on the rug.

‘We must put cold water on those stains
immediately
, followed by hot water. And then we must find some hydrogen peroxide.’

He left the office and came back with a bucket of water and a brush. ‘Here, splash that on the stain, and I will go find some very hot water.’ Off he went again, returning with half a bucket of hot water and waving a bottle of hydrogen peroxide ‘from the medical kit’.

‘Mr T, you are a marvel,’ she said, down on her knees, scrubbing.

‘I am something of a Mister Spotless.’

‘The stains seem to be coming out.’

He went away again and this time came back with a pot of tea, cups and biscuits for them both on a tray.

‘The tea lady will punish you for interfering with her tea things.’

‘The tea is my own – Darjeeling.’

She got to her feet and flopped into a chair.

He poured the tea. ‘Sugar and milk?’

He then asked her what she did with the squashed cumquats.

She gestured at the wastepaper bin. ‘In the envelope.’

He leaned over and picked up the envelope, the stain from the fruit already showing through the paper. ‘I’ll see that they get a decent burial.’

‘Thank you, Mr T.’

She at last felt restored enough to show him the note. ‘There was a message left with the damaged tree.’ She handed it to him. ‘The word rat is so odious.’ She felt defeated.

He nodded. ‘Rat has at least three meanings I can think of – to betray a political party; to be a cad; to be Communist, as in “a commie rat”. Oh, and I suppose there’s a fourth – to be a furry rodent.’

He seemed to hesitate and then said, ‘We know you’re not a furry rodent, but some people think you’re a communist. It’s none of my business. You are not, after all, working in military matters. It’s none of my business.’

She realised her responses in the conversation could reveal things about her to Mr Thomas. She hated talking judiciously.

‘Do you think communists shouldn’t work in military matters?’

He again hesitated in answering. ‘I suppose I do. Communists seem to have other allegiances – outside the tribe. I suppose I’m something of an old-fashioned patriot. If there is such a thing. And I think it’s quite possible that we will be at world war with the USSR.’

‘You think so?’

‘I think it could happen.’

She was interested that he used the name USSR – most people said Russia. She thought it showed that he must be something of a student of politics.

‘You speak like a student of politics.’

‘I suppose I am. In a haphazard way. Not a joiner. I read the
Manchester Guardian
. I’m a polling booth inquiry officer at election time.’

‘Some old-fashioned Australians would see themselves as British – another allegiance – and some are now slavish about America. Some feel attached to Ireland. Some take their instructions from the Vatican.’

‘True. Our Prime Minister believes that being British is more important than being Australian, or that it’s the same thing. I guess I’m of another fashion, then. Not old and not new.’ He made a facetious face. ‘Whatever that fashion may be.’

‘It will be a short war if the Bomb is used.’

‘I am worried about the Bomb.’

‘Do you think that I should put the blackout blind back up?’

He laughed. ‘From what they tell us, it will be all over in a blinding flash. The blind might protect you from the flash.’

‘Brighter than a thousand suns.’

‘I haven’t heard that expression.’

‘An Austrian writer used it in a lecture I heard in Vienna.’

She changed the subject. ‘Do you think my bandage will work?’

‘I’m not a horticulturist. I could get a proper bandage from the first-aid box. The government nursery would send a man over to look at it.’

‘Why don’t you try to get some Scotch tape from the head clerk’s secretary? I don’t think I am entitled to it.’

He went away and came back with some Scotch tape wound around a pencil, and she watched him gently bandage the tree up.

She thanked him. ‘What did you say to Miss Heatherstone you needed it for?’

‘She didn’t ask. Maybe she knew.’

‘You should wear a Red Cross armband.’

‘Do you think it would suit me?’

Their rescue activity and the tea had numbed her distress.

They nibbled their biscuits. ‘I hear you have a house,’ Mr Thomas said.

‘Does everyone in the world know I’ve been allocated a house?’

‘In the world of Canberra, it’s an event for someone to get a house.’

She caught some biscuit crumbs in her hand as she took on board this awareness. Nothing to be done about it, really. ‘You must come over for a drink one evening after work, Mr T.’

‘You could call me David.’

‘I rather like “Mr T”. It’s chummy.’

‘Then I will allow you to call me Mr T. I would love to come. I would be honoured.’