Bittersweet (41 page)

“Oh, dear me, no,” Miss Chandler said. “Schiller is a highly intelligent man, and sees all the pitfalls. Unusual in a lawyer, actually. The man you should be watching is a young chap — also from Melbourne — named Robert Gordon Menzies. A lawyer of precisely the right sort to lead a political party. His leanings are conservative, but not outrageously so, and he’s interested in social legislation. At twenty-five years of age he won in the High Court of Australia for the Amalgamated Society of Engineers — a landmark case! He’s really never looked back since, and that was 1920. An extremely handsome man too, except that he sits too long at the dinner table — it shows around his middle.”

“Menzies,” said Charles, musing. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of him, but everybody says Schiller.”

“Schiller has an Achilles heel. I don’t know what it is, but he has one,” said Miss Chandler shrewdly.

A scheme was forming in Charles’s head, but first he needed to find out more about Miss Dorcas Chandler. By this, the lunchtime rush was over and Con Decopoulos had sufficient leisure to wonder at this peculiar pair — Charlie Burdum with
a woman in her thirties who might be a poster girl for some starving children’s charity? What on earth could they find to talk about so intently for so long? She had a notepad, but she hadn’t written anything in it, and her faded blue eyes were fixed on Charlie as if he were Prince Charming. Well, that was to be expected! A goodly number of Corunda’s less tempting ladies looked at Charlie the same way. The difference was that usually Charlie ran a mile, didn’t linger talking for hours.

It didn’t take that long to learn what Charles needed either, for Dorcas Chandler was only too eager to tell him her own little tale. From what Charles liked to call a “working class with upward pretensions” background, she was exactly thirty-five years old and had done very well at matriculation; she even topped the whole state in English! she said. Thanks to the Great War’s appetite for men, she had been apprenticed in journalism to Ezra Norton’s burgeoning news empire, but in the later 1920s her fortunes declined. Men, now fully demobilised, had shunted her off the more interesting desks to the inevitable female journalist’s lot — society, stage and film stars, fashion, an occasional sob story. Then, shortly after she started working for the Sydney
Daily Telegraph
, the Great Depression had stripped the Chandler family of everything; Dorcas was the only one who kept her job. The
Telegraph
sent her to flower shows, balls, fashion parades, dog shows, cat shows and charity functions. Since she was very good at reporting these affairs, she had become a bit of a joke: her colleagues called her “the fright who got it right”. So sympathetic was Charles’s mein that she even told him about that awful nickname!

Because women were paid far less than men, when Tom Jenner died the
Corunda Post
advertised for a woman to replace him; it didn’t care what Miss Dorcas Chandler looked like, as her reportage was excellent, her experience broad. Noting her passion for politics, economics and business news, the
Post
editor-in-chief decided she was ideal for Corunda, and hired her for a little more than half what he’d paid Tom Jenner. In fact, Dorcas was a genuine all-rounder who could staff any desk — she even knew who played cricket for New South Wales and understood the difference between Rugby Union and Rugby League football.

Thus Charles had listened to Dorcas for hours without grudging her a single minute of them, hardly crediting his luck.

“Are you irrevocably committed to a career in journalism?” he asked when finally she fell silent, her political theories and brief biographical sketch of herself finished.

“Lord, no!” she cried, snorting on the end of her laugh, a habit. “My real obsession is politics, but as a woman, I’m barred.”

“Would you work for me as my full-time political adviser?”

Clearly that came as a shock; she sat back as warily as a cat confronted with a puppy. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Corunda and I both need a lobbyist too.”

A feral gleam stole into her eyes. “Would there be some sort of contract? A time limit? Are there other incentives than a salary, as obviously you don’t want a minion on a wage? As a self-supporting spinster, I would have to consider what such a radical change in employment means, Dr. Burdum. As you are not the proprietor of a big commercial or industrial enterprise,
how would you compensate me apart from the allurement of a salary? I need to know all the details before I can consider yours a desirable offer,” she said, voice steely.

What a deliberate and logical creature! he thought — not given to impulses either. Thinking on his feet, Charles was ready to answer her. “Your salary would be five hundred and twenty pounds a year — a fabulous sum, I know. Your private office would be inside my home, Burdum House, and you would live in a guest cottage within the grounds, but in an absolutely private way. You would have the permanent use of a good car, and I would pay all your travelling expenses — provided you were on business for me. Use of the car is more flexible, I am prepared to be lenient. If at the end of five years you are still in my employ, I will see to the funding of a good annuity payable upon retirement and depending in amount on the length of your service,” Charles said in brisk tones, face courteously interested.

Eyes opaque, she sat with her left ear cocked toward him — was she a little deaf? — and both hands curled around her teacup. What was she thinking? His generosity was stunning and he knew it, but, looking at her, for the life of him he couldn’t be sure whether she was overwhelmed by his open-handedness, or secretly convinced she was worth every penny. Gratitude, or rightful due? She was not about to grant him a victory over her by letting him see how she felt.

So he struck back at her, thanks to Kitty. “You’ll have to dress much better.”

“If I take your job, I’ll be able to afford to.”

“And are you taking it?”

“If your solicitor draws up a contract of employment.”

“Splendid!” he exclaimed, the film star on display. “Now I must go, Miss Chandler. I’ll see you in my office at the hospital on the second day of January at ten o’clock. We can sign the papers there, then I’ll bring you out to Burdum House and I’ll show you the empty shell of your office as well as your home. The cottage comes fully furnished, but the interior is very bland, so I’m sure you’ll be able to put your stamp on it. You are the only one who can furnish your office, down to its books.”

She opened her battered handbag, put the notepad and pencil inside, and slipped her hands into frayed fabric gloves. “I’ll use my spare time to make a list of books, but I won’t order any until I know which works you already have.”

“No, no, order your own copies,” said he, extending his hand to shake hers warmly. “Thank you, Dorcas. Until the second.”

His spirits soared for the rest of the day, didn’t even sink at the prospect of an evening at home alone with a wife whom he had failed to keep enchanted. Where
had
he gone wrong? Why did she seem to blame him for the loss of their children? Still, it was old hat, and Dorcas Chandler was someone new and different. Someone with whom he could
talk
, especially politics.

Humming some tune the wireless was playing frequently, he entered the sitting room to find Tufts with Kitty. Typical!

“My dear, how nice,” he murmured, kissing Tufts’s cheek.

“Nice to see you too, Charlie,” said Tufts, matter-of-fact.

“Liam couldn’t come tonight to balance us?”

“If you spent more time behind your superintendent’s desk, Charlie, you’d know Liam is in Brisbane.”

Kitty brought him a Scotch. “It’s a three-legged dinner, Tufts on your right and me on your left,” she said, smiling. “You look like the cat that got the canary — very pleased.”

“I am very pleased. Today I found a person vital to my ongoing welfare — a political adviser.” The drink tasted smooth. “You alone can make me a drink, Kitty. This is perfect.”

“I know about your drinks, but nothing about any adviser,” Kitty said, glad of her sister’s company. It was so difficult these days, but it seemed he would never retract his statements about Edda, and that meant the war continued.

“It’s no secret that I have political aspirations,” he said, sipping luxuriously, “and at one time I’d hoped today’s elections would see my standing. I abandoned that idea because of my lack of experienced advice — or enthusiasm in those closest to me.”

Kitty stiffened. “Actually that’s not true,” she said in a controlled voice. “I was enthusiastic and I did try.”

“No doubt,” he said, wanting to get on. “Whatever the cause, I lacked enthusiastic support. Nor had I understood how different Australian politics are from British politics. I needed a shrewd and capable political adviser, and despaired of finding one — it is a rare creature, you see. Those with sufficient knowledge of the field usually have political ambitions of their own.” He tried to sound detached, but his happiness was too great to let him. A dazzling smile dawned. “Today I actually encountered the ideal person — a woman, into the bargain, which does
rather kill personal ambitions. Her name is Dorcas Chandler, she’s thirty-five, single, and a journalist by profession. You don’t know her — she’s just arrived in Corunda. But if you encounter a six-foot-tall skeleton with a horsey face, pounds to peanuts it’s Dorcas. A sad, homely thing, I admit, but a rare political brain, and one I’ve hired to keep for my own exclusive use.”

“You’re collecting a harem, Charlie,” Tufts said.

He stared. “A harem?
I?
”

“Women to fill your needs. There’s Tufts — me — who does your dirty work as Deputy Superintendent at the hospital. Kitty, the ravishingly beautiful wife all men envy you. Until she did the unspeakable and married high above her, Edda to substitute for Kitty on long-distance trips. Cynthia Norman, your slavishly devoted private secretary who can’t even begin to separate her hospital from her non-hospital duties. And now Dorcas Chandler, to advise you on federal politics in Australia.” Tufts sniffed derisively. “Honestly, Charlie, you’re the outside of enough. I’m tempted to call you Pasha Burdum.”

Both pairs of eyes were gazing at him unsympathetically, yet he had to have their consent if this was to work — he needed their co-operation! He was proposing to import this new employee into his private home, even house her in its grounds, and while the Lilac Suite was a long way from the master bedroom, it was still a domestic situation. Talk, Charles Burdum, talk!

“Oh, come on, Tufts, where do I differ from any other man with too much to do and insufficient time to do it in? Perhaps to a cynical observer it does look a little like a harem, but that is a body of bodies whose purposes are sexual satiation and plenty of
undeniable sons. Certainly I have chosen to elevate women rather than men, simply because I think women are more loyal, work harder, and I treasure their importance greatly. Don’t forget that most of the jobs I’ve given to women are more traditionally held by men, even secretarying.” He paused to draw a deep breath and make sure they were still listening —
damn
Tufts! “Passing to Miss Dorcas Chandler, I confess her sex is an accident. Most political advisers are men. That her value in this field hasn’t been appreciated is just one more indication that I, Charles Burdum, am a progressive thinker whose attitude to women is ahead of the times. A harem? Rubbish! It is simply that the nucleus of my staff is female. You should be thanking me, not deriding me.”

Tufts inclined her head. “I do thank you, Charlie, and you have the right of it.” An impish grin spoiled the words, but at least she did say them. “A nucleus of female staff, not a harem. Actually you’re born for politics. You can make a heap of shit look like a bouquet of roses. I can’t wait to meet Miss Dorcas Chandler.”

“A six-foot-tall skeleton with a horsey face,” said Kitty. “
That
won’t last.”

“What do you mean, won’t last?” He took the offered Scotch.

“I know you, is what I mean,” Kitty said, smiling. “A good wage will fatten her up and enable her to dress better, to start with. You wouldn’t condone a laughing-stock in any public position, and her job says she’ll be fairly public in places like Canberra, Sydney and Melbourne.” Her slender throat curved back, her eyes contemplated the ceiling. “Look at how your taste changed me from an over-frilly fluff to an extremely well-dressed
woman. And you’ll do it the same way — produce a hat or a dress or a belt that you thought would suit — and no, Miss Dorcas Chandler won’t get the wrong idea because gangling horsey skeletons know their limitations. You have an eye for women’s clothes, Charlie, and she’ll soon see that. If she doesn’t, she’s a dead Dorcas, no matter how much she knows about politics.”

“All right, all right!” Charles held up his hands in surrender. “In the case of Miss Chandler, I fear it will take some time to wave my magic women’s wear wand. I’ve never seen a worse-dressed female — as if she shops at the Salvation Army.”

“Perhaps she does,” Kitty said thoughtfully. “How many of her family is she supporting?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have some idea,” Tufts said.

“According to her, they lost everything in 1929, but there don’t seem to be any other children in her personal sphere. She supports her parents, both of whom are alive. They live in — Lawson, I think she said.”

“A poor part of the Blue Mountains,” said Tufts, nodding. “I suspect they’re cuckoos, or someone undisclosed is a cuckoo. She has never been out of work, you say, and while women are paid less, hers is a profession, therefore something rather bigger than old parents must be draining her purse. Lawson is low rents, gardens big enough for chooks and vegetables — it’s an artists’ colony.”

“Blast and damnation!” Charles exploded. “I knew it was too good to be true!”

“Speculation only,” Tufts said practically. “If you need her, Charlie, you need her, and must make full use of her. What this means is that forewarned is forearmed. If she’s supporting shiftless relatives or a boyfriend — just because you don’t find her attractive, brother-in-law, doesn’t mean all men will — then it won’t come as a bolt out of the blue.”