He thought. ‘Not with this crowd.’
‘Is the tapestry shoulder bag acceptable?’
‘We have definitely seen that bag before.’
‘I know.’ She examined it. ‘Unfortunately it doesn’t show any signs of wear. I wish some things would wear out faster.’ She looked at him. ‘Where are your medals?’
‘Can’t be bothered.’
‘Oh, go on.’
‘You think so? They seem too martial.’
‘It adds glamour.’
‘In that case, I will. Anything for glamour.’
He went off and came back with his medals.
She pinned them on. ‘In the Secretariat, not only are we not permitted to wear decorations, but now you men can’t use your military rank in the office.’
‘Never did.’
‘You did! You loved being called Major Westwood.’
‘Only when it was useful.’
‘I like you in your medals,’ she said. ‘Now give me a fun face.’
He gave her a funny face, and finished his drink. He came over to her and hugged her, but it was a hug that seemed different—it was a lovingly protective hug, perhaps even a prayerful hug.
‘Mind my make-up.’ She found she held to the comfort of the hug.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘The car will be waiting.’
As they went down the stairs, Ambrose said, ‘I agree with you in a way—we can be too careful about life.’
It was the usual affair held at Bâtiment Electoral. Next year the Palais would be completely finished, and the Assembly business and receptions would be held there.
Soon after arriving, Ambrose and Edith parted to circulate among the guests. How consummate Ambrose and she were at socialising together. How poised they were, how well they mingled. They had their private signals which they used to tell the other that they needed to be rescued or that they needed support or that they were ready to go, and the signal which said to stay away. The wonderful way they kept an eye on each other from a distance. If ever she looked around for Ambrose, it seemed his eyes would turn to her.
Socialising had always been her forte. She enjoyed all its masks and artifices, much of it learned from her mother, who also, when in a sociable phase, had loved public functions.
But at a deeper level, socialising did not really sit that well with her natural inner self. Maybe it didn’t sit with anyone’s true inner self. Maybe socialising with strangers was an unnatural human act, regardless of how far the human race had progressed. The unnaturalness of it could be enjoyed, but that required the practice of artifice and it was that which had to be enjoyed, although there were the occasional connections and exchanges. Still, she did not wish for affairs of state to depend on the accident of personal association. But she supposed they sometimes did. As did personal affairs.
She looked around at the smiling, laughing, chatting, gesturing people—some of the most poised people in the world—and knew yet that within each of them was some social unease, an effort made, and all that effort created the appearance of a glittering crowd.
Socialising at functions such as these was where the international fraternity began its first faltering and awkward steps from suspicion towards amity.
No wonder, she thought, that we take a few drinks to make it happen smoothly.
She spotted Mr Huneeus and Mr Toptchibacheff from the Azerbaidjhan government-in-exile, still hanging on in Geneva despite having been refused admission to the League and having then been swallowed up by the Soviet Union.
At the last Assembly it had suffered the final blow of seeing the Soviet Union admitted to the League.
Against protocol, she’d left them on the invitation list. She felt for them and had a long-standing personal link with Mr Huneeus.
Their dinner suits were looking threadbare but they both still wore them with some dignity. They were standing alone taking a feigned interest in the string quartet.
Edith mused that an unrevised social list could bring about diplomatic disaster. Even an invitation list had its politics.
She made her way to them, greeting them warmly, and patted herself on the back for having got the names out correctly.
‘Greetings, Madame.’
‘Good to see you still socialising with us.’
Toptchibacheff spoke little English or French and Huneeus, as usual, did all the talking. He waved at the crowd. ‘I come to these things to show that we are still not defeated. I still have the national seals.’
‘It’s bad for Azerbaidjhan but perhaps good for the rest of the world—having Russia in, that is.’
‘Your view, Madame, your view is as an internationalist. While I still see the world as a nationalist—worse, a nationalist without a nation. A dismal one.’
‘I feel for you.’
‘Thank you, you have been a long-time sympathiser. And I suspect that it is to you we owe the invitation tonight.’
She saw that they both wore the national emblem on their gold cufflinks. The decorations they wore seemed now to be antique, lost in history. The decorations too had lost their nation and their history.
Social manners required that she should introduce them, join them to someone, rescue them from social isolation. But to whom should she attach them? She guessed it had to be either the Dutch, Swiss or Portuguese, the only nations who’d voted against Russia’s entry last year. She looked around and spotted Giuseppe Motta speaking with Jeanne and a few of the Secretariat. The old Swiss diplomat would be a safe haven.
‘Let’s go over and speak with Monsieur Motta,’ she said.
‘Delighted.’ Mr Huneeus offered his arm and she took it.
Mr Toptchibacheff followed.
Motta seemed surprised to find them there at the reception.
Huneeus said to Motta, ‘I liked you saying that Russia only uses the League as a propaganda station.’
‘I am sorry about the fate of your nation,’ Motta said. ‘But we must leave that all behind us now.’
‘Unfortunately, it is my duty to not leave it behind.’
‘Will you continue with your delegation here?’ she asked.
‘All is uncertain. As always, questions of money. We will go on. I cannot return to my country, of course.’ He made a gesture indicating that it would mean death to him.
‘You are welcome here in Switzerland,’ Motta said.
‘Thank you.’
Only as long as the Swiss and Russians were at each other’s throats, Edith thought.
The conversation then turned to other matters, in which Mr Huneeus tried to take an interest, but as people with a single cause, all other matters seemed to be a waste of time.
Then Mr Huneeus turned to Edith in a side conversation, and said, ‘That club where we first met, the Club Molly? I do not get there in recent times. It is still open?’
She did not particularly wish to talk about the Molly Club but said brightly, ‘Oh yes, it’s still there. I’ve been back once or twice.’
Ambrose had reintroduced her to the Club and she was liking it more than when she had been there with him in the old days.
She felt she was part of it now, if that were a good thing. Bernard was, she felt, a guardian angel to them both, to their partnership. To their whatever. And the Club habitués treated her as one of them. Was she one of them? There were other women such as she, companions of the true habitués. She chatted with these women in the Ladies Room but although they knew what their role was they never mentioned its peculiar nature. But there was a bond among them. In some ways the Club was truly a refuge. Its dim rooms, the regular satirical burlesques, the inversions of the conventional world where men were women and women were men, all comforted her whereas once it had discomforted her.
She returned to her social obligations. It was time to move on. ‘Sadly, I see someone gesturing to me. Will you excuse me? Duty calls. Nice seeing you again.’
He looked at her rather plaintively but smiled and gave her a small bow. M
r Toptchibacheff did the same.
Edith extricated herself, receiving a champagne from a waiter as she passed, at the same time returning her empty glass. ‘Two’, she noted, counting her drinks for the first time in her life. Or three, if she was counting the drink she’d had at home.
She saw Eden gesture to her. He was with some of the Committee.
She approached him and held out her hand. ‘Minister, how good to see you relaxing.’
He briefly took her hand.
She greeted the others.
‘Good to see you relaxing also, Berry. But are these things …’ Eden gestured at the crowded room ‘… are these things really time off? Really relaxing?’
‘They are a form of work. But the form of work I prefer,’ she said, laughing.
‘Is our Secretary-General with us tonight?’
‘I represent the Secretary-General tonight.’
‘Splendid. How is he or she?’
‘The stand-in Secretary-General is fine and the real Secretary-General is fine. I talked with him today. The Ethiopian thing is a pain for him.’
He turned her slightly from the group, so that they could speak à deux. ‘What does he feel about the situation?’
That was direct.
Eden was speaking to her as his equal and his ally. She felt charmed by that.
To dodge?
It came out. ‘He thinks as Lady Cunard thinks.’
‘Does he now,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Does he indeed.’
She felt her stomach tighten.
Eden looked at her. ‘Thank you, Berry. Thank you for that.’ He touched her elbow.
Eden then moved the conversation away to lighter matters and they turned back into the group.
If she were there tonight as the Secretary-General, she had, in fact, betrayed herself.
She pushed it aside. I serve the Covenant. Yes, but … She’d have to think through her action later.
After an interval she again excused herself. ‘I must speak with my compatriots.’
As she moved over to greet the Australians, Stanley Bruce, Frank McDougall and Mrs Rischbieth, she caught the eye of Frank Walters across in another group. She felt she was being spied on. How ridiculous. She wanted to mouth to him, ‘Only my second.’
Third.
She would, though, have to talk with him about it all. Give a rumour twenty-four hours start and you will never catch it.
Then why bother?
She felt the third drink feeding her spirit, giving her poise a surge of exuberance.
She made her way to the Australian group, trailing through the crowd with smiles and touches, feeling like the princess she sometimes was on such occasions, known to many who came to Geneva only once a year, a familiar face. Once or twice she stopped for a word, at times almost flirting as she moved through the crowd.
She reached the Australians. Bruce was rumoured to be in line for Presidency of the Council next year.
‘High Commissioner Bruce, I present the compliments of Under Secretary-General Bartou.’ She held out her hand, and he took it and held it. ‘And also I present the compliments of Secretary-General Avenol. Tonight I am three people.’
‘Edith—please return my compliments to Auguste. And to Avenol. And to your charming self. We’ve all heard of your work on the Committee of Five and the Committee of Eighteen. You’re certainly in the thick of it.’
‘I am.’
And I have just done a bizarre thing with Eden which I cannot yet explain to myself.
She and Frank McDougall greeted each other. They’d met at other League functions over the years.
She was introduced to Mrs Rischbieth whom she hadn’t got around to meeting during the ordinary session of the Assembly.
‘I really came over to break up this little group of Australians, to make you circulate,’ she half-joked. ‘And the Presidency next year?’ she said to Bruce.
‘I don’t seek it. I really didn’t want to land in the Council, as wonderful as it is for Australia to be represented there. I’d rather work behind the scenes.’
‘We’ll be taking a strong stand against Italy?’ she asked. ‘Australia, that is,’ she said, smiling.
The Australians looked less than comfortable with the question.
‘We must, surely? After Hoare’s strong speech against Italy? And Eden’s consistent stand?’ she persisted.
McDougall leapt in. ‘We thought our tactics this year should be to talk up wider world issues—nutrition in particular.’
‘Still trying to sell dried fruit, Frank?’ she said, lightly.
They all laughed.
She pushed on with her urgings. ‘The League stands or falls on what it does about Italy’s aggression. Japan was too far away for us to do much—but Italy is in our own backyard.’
Mrs Rischbieth said, ‘Which backyard? The Far East is our front yard, I suppose. Is Europe our backyard?’
Point taken, Mrs Rischbieth. She smiled and nodded at her.
‘Mustn’t drive Italy into the arms of Germany,’ said Bruce. ‘But yes, we must see the thing through now. Hoare’s right. Eden’s right. For good or for ill, we must follow the Covenant.’
‘Italy will at least put a stop to slavery there,’ McDougall said. ‘Something of a plus.’
She said, ‘Slavery was being put to an end, so I’m told.’
Bruce returned to the earlier subject, seemingly eager to convince her of the Australian approach, ‘There’s a strong case to be made on nutrition and we made it. A world food policy is critical. Unsaleable surpluses, destruction of food—ridiculous.’
‘Better health means better people better able to solve their problems,’ Mrs Rischbieth put in, following the line.
‘We’re seen as the radicals for advocating equal distribution of food as a human birthright,’ Bruce said. ‘And for suggesting food should be seen as a public utility the way clean water is. A birthright.’
‘And yes, Edith—to return to your earlier jab at me—as an agricultural country it is in our self-interest,’ McDougall said, winking at her. ‘We have food to sell and the hungry people have no money to buy it. We need another way.’
She knew all this. They were talking about this to avoid Italy.
She thought she would have one more crack at the Italian question, in an attempt to strengthen Australia on it. ‘Don’t you agree that if we let Italy get away with it, Germany will then know that it can do pretty much what it likes in Europe—can disregard the League? Hitler must be watching with interest.’
Always make your statement a question, her mother had said.
Bruce looked around to see who might be listening, and then ventured to say, ‘I think we should move ships about and make threatening noises and bluff Italy out of it. If not, we should let well enough alone.’
‘But if Italy calls our bluff, sanctions will never have credibility.’
‘It’s the risk,’ said Bruce, impatiently, wanting to move away from the subject.
She conceded to his tone. She’d pushed enough. ‘Have any of you seen John Latham recently?’ she asked the group generally.
‘Now he’s on the High Court, he’s out of reach of mere mortals,’ McDougall said.
‘Out of politics, lucky devil,’ Bruce said. ‘As High Commissioner I seem to be neither in politics nor out of it.’
Edith said, ‘I saw him at the Disarmament Conference briefly. His last job as a politician. I had the feeling that he saw the hopeless way it would go and quietly slipped away.’
‘When America said it would never allow disarmament inspectors on its territory, the thing was finished,’ Bruce said.
‘What country would?’ Mrs Rischbieth said.
‘The best the League can do is make war more difficult,’ Bruce said. ‘But I am with Eden on sanctions—we must push on with them.’
Edith came in then against herself, trying somehow to show that she was analytical, not simply a League crusader, ‘John said another thing to
me in a letter, which I took on board. He said, “Always remember that economic sanctions are themselves an aggressive act and likely to lead to conflict as much as stop it.” He thought that economic sanctions could be casus belli. I don’t—I feel they should make it impossible for an aggressive nation to fight.’
She enjoyed letting the Australians know that she had a personal correspondence with John Latham.
She thought she might as well throw in another good piece, ‘Of course, you could adopt Baldwin’s position—that in diplomacy, any firm stand is a danger.’
They laughed.
‘I can tell you confidentially that the Australian Cabinet is for automatic sanctions against any aggressor,’ Bruce said.
It was a little gift to her.
‘Good,’ she said. That pleased her.
Edith became conscious that someone had joined them at her right elbow. She glanced and saw that it was Huneeus and Toptchibacheff, smiling broadly. She knew that they were going to follow her throughout the night. Ugly ducklings were her specialty.
She introduced them to the other Australians. Again, she pronounced Toptchibacheff’s name correctly.
‘Now I know more Australians than I know of any other nation apart from my own,’ he said, laughing.
‘And you, sir, are the first Azerbaidjhani that I’ve met,’ said McDougall.
The conversation became general, and they chattered about Bartou and his failing health.
Howard Liverright from Translation came over to them with a glass of champagne in each hand. ‘Pour toi, Edith’.
She laughed, but for the first time would have preferred not to have Liverright hanging around. He was known as a notoriously heavy drinker.
‘I have a drink already, but thank you, Howard,’ she said, holding up her glass.
‘Have another.’ He more or less forced her to take it.
She was now holding two glasses, laughing to cover the annoying inconvenience of it—and, truth be said, the look of it.
She hardly needed Ambrose’s voice in her head to know that having two glasses of champagne, one in each hand, was, for a lady, definitely a breach of some rule of etiquette.
She turned and handed it to Huneeus, wanting it out of her hand.
‘No, no, no, I too have a drink.’ He held it up.
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