Dark Palace (20 page)

Not at all.

His remarks implied all sorts of things which she couldn't quite bring herself to face. There were the implications for her professionalism. And implications about the way people must see her. She felt sick. Was she commonly seen as a tippler? And there was his presuming to comment about Robert's absence from her life. And furthermore, on top of everything, she wasn't ecstatic with Ambrose's observation on the so-called ‘delusion of drinkers'—that people could always tell.

She suspected that he was wrong about that, but it added to her agitation. It dawned on her that he, too, was warning her. Why was he warning her? About what was he warning her?

The hide of Sweetser and Walters and Bartou to speak about her behind her back.

She would have it out with them.

Lying there seething, she heard Ambrose wash the glasses in the kitchen, and then go to his room.

She lay there stark awake. Realising that she wasn't going to be able to sleep, she pulled herself out of bed and went back out to the sitting room.

Looking into the darkened room, she saw that Ambrose had picked up her papers and attaché case and put them on the table. Her shoes were together. She smiled tiredly. She'd been going to do it herself.

She knocked on Ambrose's door.

‘Come.'

She went in and threw herself on the bed beside him and began to cry.

‘Darling, what is it?' he said, taking her in his arms and stroking her hair. She put her face to his. The make-up had gone from his face, replaced by the clean smell of night cream.

‘The wretched Sweetser.'

‘Come on, Edith, you've never let Sweetser get to you. And he's only trying to be, well,
superior
. He probably didn't give the matter a second thought. Just something to say in passing to make himself appear in-the-know with the
haute direction
.'

Ambrose continued to stroke her hair.

‘I didn't tell you all,' she said, at last, through the crying.

‘Tell me all.'

‘I'd finished the meeting. People were hanging around as they do after a meeting, but I was exhausted and eager to get home. I said my goodnights and went to my office. I put on my coat and did my face, and realised that I felt edgy, the usual feeling of being edgy after a difficult meeting. Laval is dragging his feet again on full sanctions. I took out my flask and, well, had a nip. And who should come in through the door but Sweetser—he'd been at some other meeting, I suppose, he barged in without knocking—he looked in and said something about an action file he was searching for.'

‘He caught you with the flask at your lips?'

‘Precisely.'

‘And?'

‘It was, of course, an irregular request and he's done it before—taken a file before it's gone back to Registry.'

‘And?'

‘And, he said, “Finding comfort in cocktails?”, in his joking voice, and then said rather seriously, “Not good to drink alone.” '

‘And you said?'

‘I said—she put on an American accent—“Would you like a nip, Arthur?” He didn't. He then continued in a brotherly voice, saying, “I heard Walters and Bartou talking about your drinking. I told them you were going through a difficult time and all. I thought I should mention the conversation to you. A word to the wise.” And, furthermore, he actually put his index finger to the side of his nose—he actually did.'

‘Your American accent needs coaching, darling. And that's when you said …?'

‘That's when I said, “If I drink a lot,
Arthur
, it's because I have a lot to drink about.” '

She got no additional applause for her quip.

‘That's all that was said?' The tone of Ambrose's voice had changed.

‘He said more. He suggested that the Committee was too much for me. “Taxing” was his word.'

‘He said that?'

‘Implied that.'

‘That's all—entirely all?'

‘Isn't that enough?'

‘It's enough. It is indeed enough.' His voice was serious.

‘Why the interrogation?'

He was silent.

She filled the silence. ‘And anyhow, the more I think about it, why on earth was Sweetser looking for a file at that time of night?!'

Ambrose ignored this gambit. ‘On further consideration, Edith, your saying, “If I drink a lot, it's because I have a lot to drink about” was a shrewd reply.'

‘I thought it rather good. At the time. On the spur. But I don't see what
shrewdness
has to do with it.'

‘Sit up, Edith.'

There in the darkness, they both pulled themselves up, side by side against the bedhead, her head on his shoulder, their hands clasped.

‘It was a tactical reply because it implies that you're under strain.'

‘I am not “under strain” and I am not “taxed” by my work with the Committee. It's a simple matter—I was edgy after a meeting. I had a nip to calm me. I'll have it out with them all tomorrow—face to face.'

‘How do you intend to do that, exactly—this “having it out”?'

‘I'll storm in and ask them what they think they're doing talking behind my back.'

He didn't reply.

‘You obviously don't agree?'

‘You might shut Sweetser up. But I don't know if that is the approach with Walters. Bartou will never harm you. Bartou was probably defending you. He's your best ally as you know, a friend-in-club. But with Walters we will have to think up better moves. He is after all Deputy Secretary-General.'

‘They're a bunch of gossips.'

‘It has to be thought about some more.'

‘You don't think Walters would have the hide to reprimand me!?'

‘Walters
is
Deputy Secretary-General. He may call you into the Head's Office for six of the best. Is it Regulation 286? No alcohol in the office? Or is that the rule on dogs?'

‘It's the regulation on dogs and their drinking. I'll have it out with Walters. I'll tell them all to mind their own b—business.'

‘Edith, we'll have to talk about it. In the cold light of day. Not now.'

She felt suddenly afraid of his voice. She did not want to
ask why they'd need to talk about it more. ‘May I stay the night with you?'

‘Of course.'

She pushed in beside him and they snuggled back down in the bed.

‘Go to sleep,' he whispered, and then quoted in his becalming, loving voice, as if to a child: ‘It may well be that the bear you have seen is only a bush. Remember, “in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear”.'

‘Say it again.' Edith closed her eyes, putting Ambrose's hand up inside her nightdress, between her legs. His wonderful, firm and knowing fingers began to move inside her. He whispered it to her again more fully,

In the silence which followed, his gentle fingers brought her to a small, comforting release which shooed away some of her tension. She drifted to sleep in his arms, fleeing to the comfort of oblivion, but as she drifted, she was vaguely aware that Ambrose was lying there, awake.

In the morning, as she went about dressing, she thought out a pointed remark for Walters and ripping riposte for Sweetser. And she would say to Bartou something about those in glass houses …

She felt in better spirits.

She was finishing her make-up when Ambrose came back up to the apartment after having been shaved at the
barbier
. He stood and watched her make-up.

‘How was Barber Didier today?' she asked. ‘Did he have any more views on the Italian crisis for you to communicate to the League?'

‘He still sides with Mussolini.'

‘Why do you persist with him?'

‘If I changed barbers he would know I was going somewhere else and stare at me every day as I passed his shop. Would ruin my day. And Arthur Norris once said to me, “Even in the wilds of Asia, I have never shaved myself when it could possibly be avoided. It's one of those sordid annoying operations which put one in bad humour for the rest of the day.” '

‘You shave yourself in the evening.'

‘The second shave is different. The morning shave is to allow me to face the world. The evening shave is to allow me to face myself.'

She examined her make-up, moving her head from side to side. ‘Do you know the first woman I saw make-up in public?'

‘No.' He didn't seem that interested.

‘The wife of the New South Wales Premier—Ada Holman. She was the most sophisticated woman—apart from my mother—I have ever met. She had her initials on her specially made cigarettes. And she made-up in public. New South Wales, by the way, is a state of Australia.'

They went to the café downstairs for breakfast.

As soon as they were seated and had ordered, Ambrose said, ‘I want to say that I was rather preachy with you last night. Sorry. Didn't quite see the full picture. Sorry about all that stuff about diplomatic drinking. Must've sounded rather prefectorial.'

‘Forgiven. Hang the precepts of drinking. The rules of gossip should be enforced. Whatever they are. Sweetser
barging into my office. Sweetser! You know he once blew his nose while seated at dinner? And he dares to tell
me
how to behave.'

She sipped her tea. ‘And he uses too much slang.'

‘Has anyone ever mentioned it before?'

‘Sorry???'

‘The drink question.'

‘No. Never. Would never have dared. And, there is no “drink question”.'

‘Go over it again for me.'

‘For mercy sake, Ambrose!'

‘Indulge me.'

She recounted the events of the previous evening. ‘It's not as if I was staggering around the office. I don't drink any more than any of them.'

‘That's the Second Delusion of the Drinker—drinkers always imagine that other people all drink as much as they do.'

‘You drink as much as I do.'

He was quiet.

‘Admit it!'

‘In truth, dear Edith, you regularly have two or three more drinks than I.'

‘Rubbish.'

He went on with his breakfast.

‘Do you count?'

He didn't reply.

‘Oh, stop being so damned impeccable. It's never affected my work. Never.'

Ambrose didn't say anything.

‘You think it has?' she said, defiantly.

He was silent again.

She burst out, ‘If you are thinking
something
, say it. Don't sit in sanctimonious silence!'

He took her hand. ‘I'm on your side, Edith. And remember that I'm a doctor, as well as your dear friend.'

‘Sorry. But I hardly need a doctor. I need a lawyer. I should sue for slander.'

‘It was a nasty thing to have thrown in your face. And in the cold light of day, yes, I do think that it has serious implications.'

‘What implications?'

‘The perception that you drink too much.'

She coloured. ‘I'm going to throw it back at them. I'm going to see Walters. Have it out. Clear the air.'

She looked at her watch and rose to leave, dabbing her mouth with the serviette, careful of her lipstick.

‘Don't go—not yet. Sit down.'

‘I have to go. The car will be here.' She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Want a lift?'

‘Yes.' He finished up and followed her on to the pavement.

‘I am going to put a lid on the rumours—now. This day.'

They got into the car.

‘I agree—but we have to find a way to do that.'

She dropped him off first and found that by the time she reached her office she had lost her momentum.

Ambrose's remark about serious implications was eating away at her.

She saw now that simple outrage would not necessarily do the trick.

She turned away from the League door and walked back to Ambrose's office. He had his suit coat off and was at work at his desk. He was startled to see her. ‘What's happened?'

‘Don't look so worried.' She sat down.

‘Did you do anything about it?'

‘No. I agree with you. We should talk more. Do you have a moment?'

‘Of course.'

‘Tell me more about the shrewdness of my saying “I have a lot to drink about”? How might it be useful?'

‘It allows you to plead strain and special conditions. Robert and so on …'