Grand Days

by Frank Moorhouse

  Edith smiled to herself as she recognised her own urges to a life of action but she didn’t share Caroline’s sneer at Sir Eric’s decision. Caroline’s was the typical view of someone who had no feel for political reality.

  Caroline then turned pages. ‘We move on now. Humphrey’s in love with a woman named June who dies tragically in a mysterious operation.’ Caroline paused, waiting for signs of recognition at the mention of this office scandal. There was a rustle of recognition — one of the girls from typing had died just before Edith’d come to the League. At the time, everyone said she had been trying to terminate her pregnancy. She’d been considered morally loose.

  Caroline continued. ‘This part is before she dies. It is set at a dance at Maxim’s. I think we’ve all been there.’ Chuckles of acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps too often,’ she added, again winning appreciative laughs.

  ‘“‘You’ve come?’ cried June, as Humphrey arrived at the dance. Among the heightened complexions and brutally emphasised prettiness of the other women, June looked, at first sight, almost plain. Her hair was not even tidy, and her dress was not suitable and was badly put on; she was careless. Then she tilted her head casually, and it was immediately obvious that beauty was the simplest thing in the world for her, and that her beauty was unlike anyone else’s in the room. She laid her hand on the lapel of Humphrey’s coat.

  ‘“‘Dance the next with me,’ she said.

  ‘“The orchestra began to play a waltz, the ‘Clair de lune’, and the manager, according to his custom, obliterated the lights, all except the green ones.

  ‘“‘Dance this with me,’ repeated June in her alluring voice.

  ‘“Humphrey, with a dazed smile, put his arm around her. She laid her head on his breast, and they moved away to the heaving tune.

  ‘“Heaving, throbbing, almost breaking with emotion, the tune reverberated with a brazen laughter, and heaved and throbbed and almost broke again; under the green light, eyes gleamed out of the pools of darkness, lips were black and heavy, joined to the shadow they cast on the chin, and the arms of the women looked unearthly against the black sleeves of the men. The couples moved with close-pressed thighs and swooning looks and clung together as if they were united in the last intimacy of love.”’

  There were chuckles of embarrassed recognition at the dance hall behaviour. Caroline threw the room a quick smile.

  ‘“The room grew very hot, but the music was merciless: forty francs per couple, and they got their money’s worth. The manager appeared during one of the brief intervals followed by waiters carrying paper caps and toys and balloons on trays. Everyone shrieked with joy and the men fought to get toys for the women, and the women made the men put on paper caps.”’

  Caroline looked up and said that the romance between Humphrey Hume and June took off from here and ended tragically in the mysterious operation. She was enjoying saying the words ‘mysterious operation’. She went on to read other sections about the allure of June, the office vamp, and its havoc on other men in the Office but most of all on Humphrey.

  ‘After her death in the mysterious operation, Humphrey is devastated. The other men who had been involved with her all distance themselves and try to avoid being implicated. Humphrey, already a man broken by the War, cannot avoid showing his feelings when faced with this second catastrophe in his life. He alone publicly acknowledges his involvement with the girl by going to visit her in hospital at her final hour. Captain Downes, an old colleague from the War, also working at the Office, tries to look after Humphrey in the only way he knows, and takes him out on the lake in his boat.’

  Again, titters of recognition.

  ‘Finally, we meet Barlow again: “‘Downes thinks fresh air will cure anything,’ said Barlow. ‘Even a broken heart. And so it would; fresh air would cure Downes of anything. May I shut the window?’”’

  There were peals of laughter at the mention of windows and fresh air as the audience willingly turned away from the unhappy part of the story. A struggle went on in the League offices between the those who wanted the windows open, usually the British and colonials, and the Continentals who wanted the windows closed. These tussles were called ‘international incidents’. Last year one of the drama club sketches had shown a French man committing suicide by standing in a draught.

  ‘“‘You may shut the window,’ said Whibley. ‘If you will take that red handkerchief off your throat.’

  ‘“‘It isn’t a handkerchief; it’s a fine-quality scarf, worn for two reasons.’

  ‘“‘What are they?’ Mr Whibley had the curiosity to ask.

  ‘“‘Loyalty to my political party, and loyalty to my body which I protect from draughts, and which I place above elegance.’ Barlow looked down at his bulging waistcoat.

  ‘“‘Ugh,’ said Captain Downes. ‘You don’t really believe in that socialist stuff?’

  ‘“‘Believe in it!’ said Barlow. ‘My dear man, you don’t know our family. My elder brother is working with Lenin now. We are very proud of him. Mother says —’

  ‘“‘Do you mean to tell me —?’ began Captain Downes.

  ‘“‘Yes, we all played our little part in the business of 1917, but only Morris stayed on. Russian Jews, you know.’

  ‘“‘I don’t believe you,’ said Captain Downes, red and flurried. ‘You speak English as well as I do and Barlow isn’t a Russian name.’

  ‘“‘Nor a Jewish one and you’ll hardly deny I’m a Jew, I suppose?’ Barlow laid his forefinger pointedly against his nose. ‘It’s all right, Downes. I went to Oxford like the rest of us.’”’

  Apart from allusions to the office scandal of the mysterious operation, the audience was enjoying the reading because it was, for some of them, a look into the world of the men of the League and some of the identifiable people from the haute direction.

  ‘“‘Well, well, poor Hume!’ Barlow said. ‘He’s going mad, cracking up. Of course, the fact is, we are all going mad here — some quickly, some slowly, but all going the same way; it’s the departmental work, which is known to lead to insanity, and this appalling town where even the ordinary citizens are constantly going out of their minds.’”’

  Again the audience broke into knowing laughter. Cursing Geneva was a favourite pastime.

  ‘“‘Some of us take a drink, and some to women …’”’

  ‘And some to men,’ a woman’s voice called out from the darkness, getting a few laughs. Everyone looked around to see who had called out, and Victoria whispered to Edith, ‘Who said that?!’

  Caroline ignored the interjecter. ‘“‘ … and others turn to — but we won’t go into that — and even Hume, even he has stopped serving the cause and now runs after strange gods.’

  ‘“Barlow turned his opaque eyes on them questioningly. ‘You don’t know if we are all mad? Neither do I. Give my love to Hume and tell him when he is over the worst, if he does get over it, I know just the little girl for him, not mixed up with the Office, completement dévouée a son métier, you know. There is quite as much purchasable vice here as in Paris, whatever people say. Only it’s more expensive.’

  ‘“Captain Downes sighed. This was what he hated most, picking over and slandering a man who wasn’t there, like a pack of gossiping women.”’

  There was scornful laughter from the women in the audience.

  ‘“After Barlow had left the room, Mr Whibley said, ‘I never knew that Barlow minded about being Jew.’

  ‘“‘Minded? Why the fellow was bragging about it,’ Captain Downes said, ‘positively shoving it down our throats. And, pray tell, who or what are these strange gods, to which he so knowingly refers?’”’

  Caroline finished her reading, looked up and said, ‘I thank you for your kind attention. Good evening.’ She closed the manuscript, and theatrically turned off the light, leaving all in darkness.

  The audience applauded enthusiastically. Edith had never realised that Liverright was Jewish. Apart from Liverright, she had never met a Jew.
>
  Later, over coffee in the Café du Siècle, Victoria, Florence and Edith discussed the reading. Florence and Victoria smoked cigarettes.

  They were all stunned at the unsympathetic portrayal of Liverright.

  ‘He’ll be devastated,’ Victoria said. ‘Someone should warn him.’ Victoria, who was stuck down in Registry and didn’t see as much of office life as Edith and Florence did, felt it wasn’t true to the life of the Secretariat. ‘I mean, how could a woman know what men say when there’re no women present? Unless she eavesdropped.’ Victoria, who in her job spent all day reading other people’s mail, would not condone eavesdropping, even for the sake of art.

  Florence thought it was true to life, and liked the sniping at the Secretariat men. Florence was also sure that Humphrey was Ambrose — ‘except his heart isn’t broken,’ she laughed, turning to Edith, ‘and you didn’t die “in a mysterious operation” .’ She looked hard at Edith. ‘Was Ambrose tangled up with her — June, the one who died? Before you, I mean.’

  In reply, Edith simply shrugged. Ambrose had never mentioned any involvement with the typist. She was a little embarrassed at Florence’s careless assumptions about her real life and the fiction of the book. She supposed that she hadn’t really told all to Florence either, but she had tried hard to describe her feelings about Ambrose to her, of how it resembled love, but probably wasn’t love. Florence had said that it was important to describe a thing correctly to oneself. If you described it as true love and it fell apart then you had a tragedy and had to act out a tragedy. If you described it as an affair and it fell apart, you could then simply describe it as an ‘interesting chapter’ in your life.

  Victoria thought it was a picture of Ambrose to a point and she repeated her criticism that she couldn’t see how a woman like Caroline could know what men said when women weren’t around.

  Edith said that at the League the filing clerks and typists were invisible and the men didn’t see them and talked as if they weren’t there. ‘As we become more important we become more visible.’ She was also, in another part of her mind, wondering if Caroline knew more about Ambrose than she did, whether Ambrose had yet another secret life, and had been connected to the typist who died in the ‘mysterious operation’, although she knew that Ambrose was infertile and couldn’t have caused the pregnancy which brought about her death. That would make his public identification with the dying girl more chivalrous.

  Florence said, ‘They’re not invisible when they’re pretty filing clerks and typists. Then they suffer from always being looked at.’ They all laughed. Especially coming down the stairs.’

  Victoria said she wished she wasn’t so invisible and could ‘suffer’ being looked at. They laughed.

  Florence broke in with more gossip. ‘But it’s Caroline who has the broken heart — surely you’ve heard that?’ she said. ‘That part of her is in Humphrey Hume. She came here to get away from her lover in England who jilted her. Jilted her very publicly.’

  Victoria answered herself. ‘I suppose she could ask men what they say to each other when we aren’t there. But would she get an honest answer?’ Victoria then turned to the gossip. ‘You say her heart is broken? In Registry we miss all this. Even the messengers know more. Tell.’

  ‘She was left standing at the altar. A church full of guests. Her work still suffers after all this time. She’s been close to the sack too, for sloppy work. She writes away in this book in office time and mopes about her lost love. And makes mistakes in the office, as well as in life, it seems. She is the one suffering brisée. She can’t get over it. Probably never will.’

  They sat for a moment trying to contemplate the idea of a broken heart that never healed.

  Edith said, ‘I don’t think calling it the Office instead of the League and referring to the Chief Secretary instead of Secretary-General, is going to fool anyone or get her off the hook if there are legal problems with the book.’

  ‘She might have legal problems with Liverright,’ Victoria said.

  Edith also thought that Caroline showed no understanding of the subtleties of diplomacy. It was clear that Caroline was on the side of ‘why can’t we just get on and do it’, the ‘to hell with the stupid politicans’ school of thinking. Edith had left that behind, although she still puzzled over how and where room could be made for initiative and drive and individualistic schemes and solutions within the League.

  Victoria kept on, ‘Humphrey wouldn’t know what colours little girls like — that’s a woman talking. And what does she mean when the character talks about unnatural acts and vices and so on? Harlots, I suppose,’ she said, again answering herself.

  Edith and Florence snorted. They were always laughing at Victoria, who expected it and played up to it.

  ‘A little more than that, Victoria,’ Florence said, in a worldly voice, husky from too much smoking.

  ‘I suppose so.’ But Victoria was obviously unable to imagine what additional unnatural acts there might be.

  ‘I do wonder what strange gods Humphrey Hume could find in Geneva,’ said Florence.

  Edith was interested in Florence’s remark. For all her so-called worldliness, Florence wasn’t that far ahead of Victoria when it came to knowing about strange gods. The Molly Club, for instance. If that were a church of strange gods. Did Caroline Bailey know about the Molly Club?

  ‘I will say that I think her book is better than Ulysses,’ said Victoria, backhandedly.

  They had all been reading James Joyce’s Ulysses which someone had brought back from Paris, but Victoria had given up.

  Edith was finding it hard going too but she was certainly going to push on and finish it, and defend it. Florence, of course, claimed to have read it all and to have loved it, which Edith found doubtful.

  ‘Come off it, Victoria, Ulysses is a masterpiece,’ Florence said.

  ‘You’ve only read the scandalous bits,’ Victoria said to Florence.

  ‘Victoria, you reveal yourself. I thought you hadn’t read it — how do you know about the scandalous bits?’

  Victoria coloured. ‘I can see why it’s banned in England.’

  ‘But not in France?’

  ‘The French are too far gone,’ Victoria said.

  They all laughed.

  Victoria said that she still felt that Caroline’s book wasn’t true to life. ‘Life is much duller,’ she said, really meaning it, but winning unintended laughter from Edith and Florence, which Victoria happily accepted. ‘Well, life really is — much duller. My life is, at least. You two aren’t in Registry.’

  ‘You get to read everyone else’s mail,’ said Florence.

  ‘Not the personal mail,’ she said regretfully. ‘Unless “opened in error”.’

  They laughed.

  After a while, Victoria went home. She was always frightened, above all else, of ‘not getting enough sleep’. Her daily anxiety centred on this — her conversations were often elaborate calculations of her nightly and weekly hours of sleep and of sleep ‘lost’.

  Although she liked Victoria, Edith was relieved to be alone with Florence, to be able to slacken from work talk to personal talk. Every person in a conversation changed the nature of that conversation.

  ‘What did you really think of it?’ Florence asked Edith after Victoria left.

  ‘Oh, quite good. Weak on the science of politics. I wonder if she’ll ever get it published?’

  ‘She says that the Hogarth Press will publish it. That’s the story she’s put around.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘That’s what she’s been saying. I think the book’s trying to embellish life at the League with all those references to unnatural acts and strange gods. And the mysterious operation.’ Edith felt troubled about keeping back from Florence her private knowledge of the Molly Club and also her secret life with Ambrose. She wanted also to talk about Jerome and what had happened in Paris. Keeping secrets made her feel dishonest with her friend. Secrets separated you from people. She no longer
wanted secrets from Florence. It occurred to her also, that maybe Caroline hadn’t been explicit about these things because she didn’t really know of these things. Not in any detail. But Edith wanted to find out if others were finding the carnal life as strange as she was finding it and perhaps she wanted to boast a little.

  ‘Geneva has its secrets, Florence.’ It came out a little smugly.

  ‘Oh really, Edith. You have a secret life?’ Florence was teasing.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Florence, I do know about one secret world. Here in Geneva.’

  Florence blew a smoke ring towards her in playful disbelief.

  ‘All right, I won’t tell you.’

  Florence stared at her and then said, ‘Out with it, then. Tell me about Geneva’s secret life.’ Florence looked at her as if expecting an anticlimax.

  ‘It’s difficult because it involves others.’ And that was a real problem — how much of Ambrose’s secrets should she reveal? How to tell it without hurting him.

  ‘Pooh to confidences. Tell me.’

  ‘All right, but let’s order some more coffee.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me everything I’ll certainly not tell you any of my secrets. Best friends aren’t supposed to have secrets.’

  Edith’s heart warmed at Florence’s indirect declaration of deeper friendship. She sometimes felt inferior to Florence because of her self-assured ways and she’d noticed herself becoming somewhat jealous when Florence had outings and meals with others without her. She felt very happy that Florence now declared her as ‘best friend’. Or ‘a best friend’ though maybe she was doing it only to get her to open up. ‘I suppose we are best friends now,’ Edith said, angling for further confirmation.

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘I’m truly glad, Florence.’

  ‘Now get on with it — tell me that dark, secret story.’

  Edith wanted to linger and savour their declaration of friendship. Wanted to give it time to set, to celebrate it, but Florence wanted to gallop on to the confidences. Edith now found herself frightened to tell because it might alter everything. It might blow up in her face. If she had Florence as a best friend, she did not need to win her by further confidences of an outlandish kind.