Department. We may be very surprised by who remains in their important position after the revolution.’
She realised that she tried, these mornings, to hold Ambrose to the room by conversation, fearing the closing of the door, the pointlessness of the day once he had gone. And she must avoid conscripting Janice into being her company on dreary mornings. She still felt Ambrose and she had to talk about the Adelaide business, while still feeling that perhaps there was nothing to be said.
She saw how pitiful her behaviour was and said, ‘Go, go.’ She waved, as if dismissing a child, and reached over and took up his Guardian and cold toast.
He stood there looking at her, saluted her and then gently closed the door.
Ambrose always left in the same indomitable mood and came home with a breezy mood, regardless of the events in his day. And then, after dinner, he often changed en femme , and his mood became distinctively lighter. He became animated and his body became lissom, his hands moved more, his neck and head more expressive.
The dreaded silence of his going. The silence of Canberra was different, that was one thing she appreciated. The perfectly silent nights. And even silent days. Sometimes she lay awake thinking, Is there anyone out there in the dark? Is anyone else awake? She had never lived with such night silence since the Jasper’s Brush of her childhood.
She reread for the third time the story of the men who went to gaol for dressing as women, and then scissored it from the newspaper and locked it away.
It crossed her mind that at least MI5 would surely know about Ambrose and his penchant. The British intelligence service wouldn’t give a damn. Ambrose had like-minded friends who shared his penchant in the Foreign Office, and probably also in the intelligence service.
There was a knock. She looked down at herself – a bad sign to be in night clothing after 11 am. A very bad sign. Too bad. Brushing away crumbs and quickly checking her face, she went to the door, where a clerk from reception gave her a hand-delivered letter. It was an official letter. As usual, she hoped for some great opportunity to leap from an envelope. Salvation.
From the Office of the Prime Minister. A Letter from On High. She opened it. An invitation to a dinner. Gilt-edged, embossed printing, exactly the way it was done in England. And it said: ‘Invites Edith Campbell Westwood BSc (Syd) and husband Major A. Westwood MBchB (Edin).’
Edith Campbell Westwood and husband.
It was obviously not through the High Commission.
‘Dress: Semi-formal.’
She would have preferred formal.
Edith Campbell Westwood goes to the Lodge. Why was it called the Lodge?
Not salvation, but perhaps something. Perhaps Latham or Bruce had asked Menzies to do this, to cheer her up. These days she hesitated to call Latham, even when she did not intend to request anything. She knew that even when she was as light as a feather in conversation, he would think she was hoping that he would pull a position out of the hat for her, remake her life as he had made it back in the days of the League in Geneva by getting her a posting there. But she was no longer a smart, pretty girl with red hair and ideas. She was a married woman in, well, midlife. Still with ideas. Over-experienced, too travelled , as they said back here. ‘Too travelled’ meant a person had been away too long and was, as a consequence, no longer quite suited to Australia. Someone who had lost their Australianness. Who was a bit foreign.
The invitation lifted her spirits. Who knew what would come of such a dinner? But she remembered her brother. What would she say to the question, ‘Do you have family in Australia?’ Damn him. He was socially unspeakable in the literal sense of the word.
It was not so much cowardly, she told herself, as shrewd .
Did she wish to be a shrewd person?
But on the bright side, would a whispered offer of a position be made in her ear at the dinner?
She went to
She realised that she tried, these mornings, to hold Ambrose to the room by conversation, fearing the closing of the door, the pointlessness of the day once he had gone. And she must avoid conscripting Janice into being her company on dreary mornings. She still felt Ambrose and she had to talk about the Adelaide business, while still feeling that perhaps there was nothing to be said.
She saw how pitiful her behaviour was and said, ‘Go, go.’ She waved, as if dismissing a child, and reached over and took up his Guardian and cold toast.
He stood there looking at her, saluted her and then gently closed the door.
Ambrose always left in the same indomitable mood and came home with a breezy mood, regardless of the events in his day. And then, after dinner, he often changed en femme , and his mood became distinctively lighter. He became animated and his body became lissom, his hands moved more, his neck and head more expressive.
The dreaded silence of his going. The silence of Canberra was different, that was one thing she appreciated. The perfectly silent nights. And even silent days. Sometimes she lay awake thinking, Is there anyone out there in the dark? Is anyone else awake? She had never lived with such night silence since the Jasper’s Brush of her childhood.
She reread for the third time the story of the men who went to gaol for dressing as women, and then scissored it from the newspaper and locked it away.
It crossed her mind that at least MI5 would surely know about Ambrose and his penchant. The British intelligence service wouldn’t give a damn. Ambrose had like-minded friends who shared his penchant in the Foreign Office, and probably also in the intelligence service.
There was a knock. She looked down at herself – a bad sign to be in night clothing after 11 am. A very bad sign. Too bad. Brushing away crumbs and quickly checking her face, she went to the door, where a clerk from reception gave her a hand-delivered letter. It was an official letter. As usual, she hoped for some great opportunity to leap from an envelope. Salvation.
From the Office of the Prime Minister. A Letter from On High. She opened it. An invitation to a dinner. Gilt-edged, embossed printing, exactly the way it was done in England. And it said: ‘Invites Edith Campbell Westwood BSc (Syd) and husband Major A. Westwood MBchB (Edin).’
Edith Campbell Westwood and husband.
It was obviously not through the High Commission.
‘Dress: Semi-formal.’
She would have preferred formal.
Edith Campbell Westwood goes to the Lodge. Why was it called the Lodge?
Not salvation, but perhaps something. Perhaps Latham or Bruce had asked Menzies to do this, to cheer her up. These days she hesitated to call Latham, even when she did not intend to request anything. She knew that even when she was as light as a feather in conversation, he would think she was hoping that he would pull a position out of the hat for her, remake her life as he had made it back in the days of the League in Geneva by getting her a posting there. But she was no longer a smart, pretty girl with red hair and ideas. She was a married woman in, well, midlife. Still with ideas. Over-experienced, too travelled , as they said back here. ‘Too travelled’ meant a person had been away too long and was, as a consequence, no longer quite suited to Australia. Someone who had lost their Australianness. Who was a bit foreign.
The invitation lifted her spirits. Who knew what would come of such a dinner? But she remembered her brother. What would she say to the question, ‘Do you have family in Australia?’ Damn him. He was socially unspeakable in the literal sense of the word.
It was not so much cowardly, she told herself, as shrewd .
Did she wish to be a shrewd person?
But on the bright side, would a whispered offer of a position be made in her ear at the dinner?
She went to
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