Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  FOREIGN AFFAIRS

  JACQUELINE GEORGE

  DEDICATION

  To all the people, real and imaginary, who contributed

  to the success of Foreign Affairs

  FOREIGN AFFAIRS

  3rd edition

  Copyright © 2013 by J.E. George

  ISBN: 9780992298456

  Cover design by Jacqueline George

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by J.E. George

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Q~Press Publishing

  Contents

  Foreign Affairs

  The New Surveyor

  The Laundry Boy's Secret

  Hunting the Red Fox

  An Evening at El Botanico

  Back in East Africa

  Dreaming

  A Meeting of Cultures

  Removing Veils

  La Vie Parisienne

  The Powder-Puff Club

  Towards a More Western Education

  Sundowner

  Foreign Affairs

  Today would be a good day. One of the best. Priscilla felt it in her bones as she ran up the steps into the RCCS. This would be her biggest day since joining the Race, Colour, Creed and Sex Discrimination Authority as a bright young law graduate twelve years ago.

  She felt a little sorry for the man she would target before the Board. Only a little sorry, because she loved her work, and such a golden opportunity rarely came up. Most of her days at the RCCS were spent arguing with scared people who would do anything to avoid trouble. Advertisers about to publish pictures of women routinely called the RCCS to view their work at the draft stage and, as Gender Specialist, Priscilla went to give her opinion. The publishers always went along with what she required. She felt she had made a real impact on the business. Images seeking to degrade or exploit women had become very rare nowadays.

  If anything, she had done too well. There were hardly any good fights anymore. When she started with the RCCS, the public could still buy men's magazines in London newsagents that were openly pornographic. True, she had missed the horrible flood of pornography in the early years of the millennium. That had died off under attack from women's pressure groups. In fact, it made no difference to the world if now magazines only showed women in lingerie or swimming costumes. The idea remained the same. Men bought the magazines to enjoy the sight of women being degraded, and that had to stop. And, with a lot of hard work and the weight of the RCCS behind her, she had managed to stop it. The Authority’s name was now feared, and magazine publishers went out of business cursing her name.

  Now there were no more serious battles to fight. Until last month, when John Trehearne had surfaced. He had been cunning; no doubt about it. He very nearly got his book distributed. Fortunately, she had been tipped off and caught two containers loaded with books as they came off the Harwich ferry. That was one of the stranger chances of the case. The telephone rang one evening as she sat at home. A deep and distinctive female voice asked for her. Her name, she said, was Tatty, and if Priscilla could keep a secret, she would tell her where she could find two containers stuffed full of a very dirty book. She had called again only last night to congratulate Priscilla and wish her luck.

  It was the fact Trehearne had got so far that became his undoing. She supposed he had bills to pay and contracts to meet which forced him to distribute those books, and her court injunction had kept them locked up in a bonded warehouse. The man was caught. He had no financial reserves her credit checks had found, and when she showed the Board just what he had been trying to sell, he would lose everything. He would have to pay for the cost of the investigation, the hearing and finally for the pulping of the books. Even though he knew he would probably lose, he would have to fight and Priscilla would enjoy every moment of it.

  The Board would not convene for another ten minutes but Priscilla went straight to the Hearing Room. It was her policy to be early; it showed both keenness and respect. Deceptively homely, the Hearing Room had three easy chairs at a coffee table for the Board members. The chairs for the Investigator (herself) and the Applicant (Trehearne) were similar but without arms. She took advantage of the empty room to pull her chair to one side, into a neutral position almost beside the Board. Trehearne's chair she pulled more into the centre so it stood directly in the glare of the Board's vision.

  She straightened her dark blue suit. She wore a skirt today because it was still summer and skirts felt cooler. Soon autumn would bring out her trousers again. Smoothing her skirt down over her knees, she sat and waited for the Board to arrive.

  They came on the point of ten o'clock, filing in from the side door. The Chairperson this week was Valerie Gibson. Up until a few years ago, Valerie had sat as Professor of Women's Studies at the University of East Anglia. No one in Britain was better equipped to defend the cause. On either side of her sat Susan Chippings from the Department of Social Protection and Major Angela Brigham-Smythe (retired). All women she respected deeply. Priscilla got on very well with the first two, but she sometimes had her doubts about the Major. Some of her opinions were, well, rather right-wing.

  “Oh Priscilla! How nice you're looking today. Everything fine, I hope?”

  “Yes, Chairperson. Everything's ready.”

  “Morning, Priscilla,” said the Major. “What have you got for us this morning? Something interesting, yes?”

  “I'm sure you'll find it interesting, Major,” said Priscilla with a tight smile. “I'm sorry you don't seem to have a copy.”

  “Oh, I got it all right. Just can't find the damn thing. I rather think my husband must have squirreled it away, which is a good indication of what it was about. Where is the chap, anyway?”

  “I expect he's in the waiting room. There's something I would like to place before the Board before we start if I may?”

  Valerie nodded her on.

  “This case is unusually serious. The book in question is vile and dangerous, and it was very nearly distributed in huge numbers. The author even went to the trouble of preparing versions in Braille for the blind, and there are many copies on audio cassettes. It was a cynical attempt to spread his poison over the whole country. We have not seen anything like this for years; certainly not this millennium. As the case is so important I have taken the liberty of asking the Press to be present. With your permission, of course.”

  The Board members immediately sat up and began to straighten their clothes.

  “Bit high-handed of you, wasn't it Priscilla?” The Major looked far from upset.

  Valerie seemed to grasp the point immediately. “I don't know about that. We could always say no. But I feel it's important that the public knows what we’re doing. Yes, ask them in by all means. But they’ll have to find their own chairs and put them along the wall. Call them in.”

  Priscilla opened the door and nodded to the reporters and camera persons waiting outside. Within moments, reporters packed the back wall of the room. The camera crews were erecting lights and selecting angles. They set microphones on the coffee table, and a serious-looking girl tried to get the Major to sit still while she took a light reading. The press were very efficient. They had everything set and ready to roll in minutes. All they lacked now was Trehearne.

  Valerie tutted in annoyance. “Priscilla, step out and bring him in, would you be so kind?” Priscilla had just stood up when the door opened and there stood Trehearne himself. She studied him closely. He w
as a lightly built man of perhaps forty years with dark hair, greying at the temples. He looked relaxed in his dark blazer, and his face seemed ready to smile.

  “Excuse me, Madam, ladies,” he said, nodding to the Board, “I got lost. I had no idea how big the place is. Dear me, this looks just like a courtroom.”

  “Good morning, Trehearne. I assume you're Trehearne.” Valerie had her official voice on. Good, thought Priscilla, let him see who is in charge.

  “Yes, I'm John Trehearne. Where would you like me to sit? Or stand?”

  Valerie waved him to his seat. “Before the Board adjudicates your application, Trehearne, there are a couple of things I would like to make clear. First, this is not a court of law. We are much more flexible and direct than lawyers. We make decisions based on facts, not legal opinions or precedents. We look at the facts and tell you what you can or cannot publish. It's as simple as that. Second, we are here to protect the public, not the publishers. We understand what is acceptable and what should be banned. I have had a quick look at your book, and I don't suppose the decisions will take very long.

  “Now, you don't seem to have brought a lawyer with you.”

  “Do I need one? The book should speak for itself, I think.”

  “Very well. I'll declare this hearing open and ask the Investigator to start her presentation.”

  Priscilla heard shuffling as the cameras swung round to focus on her. She took a deep breath and stood to deliver her opening address.

  “Chairperson and members of the Board. We have met today to make a decision on the application by John Trehearne to publish his book Foreign Affairs 1. This book is a vile piece of work and, frankly, pornographic. It is extremely insulting and degrading to women, and that is quite enough to cause the Board to have it destroyed at the author's expense and even to report the case to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

  “However, there is more to this particular case. This book is not the result of a disordered individual writing in a sordid back room. Trehearne is a businessman and has set out to distribute this work in a highly organised way. Along with many normal copies, such as the one I have here, we also found audio cassettes for the blind, and even some copies in Braille. It was his aim to spread his poison as quickly and widely as possible, before the authorities could move against it. Of course, his motive was financial gain, but we are concerned that behind his greed for money, there is a willingness to do anything to get it. Even to return women to their ancient status of slaves to the male population. It is this attack on the roots of our society today that we are here to counter, and that is why we asked the persons of the press and media to attend. The danger must be brought to everyone's attention, and then all women throughout the country can work together to defend themselves.

  “That is the background to this case. Now let us start on the serious business of countering the problem. First, Trehearne, do you acknowledge that you are the author and beneficial copyright holder of this work, Foreign Affairs 1?”

  The cameras realigned themselves to focus on Trehearne, seated comfortably in the centre of the open space before the coffee table. Long lenses stared at him, and people at the back of the room craned over each other to watch as he replied.

  He showed no sign of tension as he answered in a clear voice. “Certainly. I wrote it and I am trying to sell it in England.”

  Priscilla waited while a buzz of comment died away. “Chairperson, I think that for the record, we ought to hear a little of the book. Fortunately, the applicant has provided his own taped copies of his creation—if I can call it that—and I would like to play his first story. I must warn you that it is inherently disgusting. It starts with literal images of women, photographs on the wall, which contort them into models, into sexual dolls with no brains or personalities. It goes on to the seduction and debauching of an innocent woman.

  “I might suggest that the television cameras, which I am told are transmitting these proceedings live, should turn off their microphones and play suitable music to accompany their pictures of the Board. The tape will play for about half an hour.” She used her mobile to call her secretary. “Yes, we're ready now. Put the first story on. Make sure you're ready to cut it off when we get to the end.”

  A loud thud filled the room as the internal speaker system burst into life. From the distance came an insistent, rhythmic buzz that slowly increased in volume and resolved itself into hypnotic Aboriginal music. Around the room people settled back in their chairs. The room was full; some people sat on the floor with their backs to the wall. The only movement came from the television cameras panning from face to face. The music faded, and a gentle male voice filled the room. “For the thirtieth time that day, Pat looked up and stared at the girls on the calendar.”

  The New Surveyor

  For the thirtieth time that day, Pat looked up and stared at the girls on the calendar. She knew she should not have shared an office, but this old core-shed with its long central table was ideal for her maps and sections. The furniture was good. Lighting, air-conditioning, everything seemed fine except for her roommate, the senior hydrogeologist. John was a cheerful-looking soul, mid-thirties, apparently happy in his kingdom of wells and drains. Pat’s problem was the calendar behind his desk, currently showing three well-built German girls with their arms around each other, wearing only the tiniest of bikini bottoms and sticking their generous breasts out at the camera.

  She did not feel jealous. Her figure was at least as good, but she was really upset at the degrading way the girls were displayed, as nothing more than sex symbols for drooling men. She would have to do something about them. John had been perfectly welcoming all day, he showed her around, cleared out old filing space for her and even brought her coffee, but eventually she would have to tell him.

  Her chance came when he caught her looking and laughed. “Do you like my calendar? A supplier from Bremen sent it. It keeps me sane.”

  “Well, I don't, really. I think women deserve more respect.”

  John looked surprised. “But I do respect them. Or at least, I would if I met them. They look like they're having a lot of fun. They work hard at being that beautiful. I'm sure I'd respect them just as much as I respect you.”

  “Maybe that's not much at all,” she said, deliberately provoking him.

  He looked at her more closely. “Anyone heading up the survey section at your age has to be doing something right.” A compliment. Oblique perhaps, but a compliment.

  “But why show them with their clothes off?”

  “Why show them with their clothes on?” he returned. “Look, I'm famous for compromising. I'll move them over to the side wall where they're not staring at you, and I'll hang my hard hat over them when you're around.” He did just that, giving the helmet a ceremonial tap to put a seal on it. Pat had to laugh. After such a diplomatic display, she also had to accept an invitation to go home for a drink and to meet his wife.

  John's house sat right on the edge of the mining camp, on the far side of the hill. It looked out over the brown Australian desert, in peace, oblivious to the mining behind. John's wife, Sonya, was Peruvian, brown-skinned, long black hair and sparkling with life. She immediately took Pat over while John cracked the beers. Sonya swept her into the kitchen, and she sat watching Sonya throwing vegetables, meat and spices into a pot with apparent abandon, chattering all the time.

  “Good,” she exclaimed as a final dollop of cream topped things off, “Let's go and sit in the pool. John's there already. Come on, I'll lend you a bikini.”

  Their bedroom was spacious and shaded, cooled only by wind through the louvered windows on either side. Sonya had already pulled out a selection of bikini bottoms. “What's your colour? I guess it should be green if you're tanned all over. How about this one?” She held up a flimsy creation. Then, seeing the dismay on Pat's face, she said carelessly, “Oh, you don't want to worry about a top. Nobody does around here and anyway, no one can see our pool. I don't keep the tops, just throw th
em away because I never use them.”

  Pat thought a minute about asking for a tee-shirt, but she was not brave enough. She accepted the bikini bottom and suffered in silence.

  Sonya tore her clothes off, showing a tight curvy figure with firm round breasts. She seemed to have no sense of shame and did not try to hide the tiny tuft of hair between her legs. Pat envied her colour, dark milky coffee, and her nearly black, pointed nipples. How lucky she is, she thought. I really have to work on a tan, and my nipples are so pale you can hardly see them. Oh well, here goes.

  She laid her clothes on the bed as Sonya watched.

  “Hey, you're beautiful!” she said. “John's going to love you.”

  Pat blushed. Pleasing John might make life difficult. She wriggled into her costume, wishing that she had got around to trimming her hair, as it would surely curl out around the edges the way it was now. Hand in hand they stepped out to the veranda.

  The pool was small and shaded, too small for swimming but just fine for soaking after a hot day. They had arranged a bench seat in it so they could sit chest deep, drinks by their sides, looking out over the finest view in the Territory. John whistled as they stepped in. Pat looked good to him, neat and athletic, and where she had hidden those breasts all day, he could not imagine. Some bra manufacturers had no feel for their subject at all. Breasts like that should be caressed and displayed, not strapped up in bandages and concealed. He moved over and let the girls sit together.

  Sonya's hand crept into his lap as Pat sat down, the water just lapping the tips of her breasts. She slid her hand over his shorts. “He likes you. He likes you very much. I bet he's been all over you at the office.”

  Pat did not know where to look. Certainly she could not bring herself to see Sonya's hand moving under the water, and looking them in the face was also difficult. She decided on the setting sun and mumbled, “No – not really.”