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has always financed peace movements on the other side – even in the American civil war. Probably in Roman times.’
    ‘The Quakers aren’t financed by the Soviet Union. They’re supporting the congress.’
    ‘The Quakers always hope for the best; and hope, as we know, is not a plan.’
    Edith thought about this and laughed. ‘And prayer is not a plan. And a reliance on prophecy is a surrender.’
    Ambrose smiled. ‘I once heard a rabbi at the League say that some Jewish men use prayer as an excuse for laziness in all matters. If they’d devotedly prayed, they felt they’d done enough. Did not have to study the issues.’
    ‘I like to think that the Quakers have a plan of their own. A secret plan.’
    Ambrose looked at her contemplatively. He then added, apropos of nothing, ‘Did you know that eating or drinking while praying invalidates the prayer?’
    ‘Coming from a non-praying, non-believing family, I did not know that.’
    ‘You can’t go to the lavatory while praying, either.’
    ‘If ever I take up praying, I will remember that.’

The Chat with Janice

    F rom her writing desk, Edith watched Janice cleaning the room and saw that she had paused at the bookcase and taken out a book – she couldn’t see the title. It was a bookcase they’d had to bring to the room because the hotel did not have one in its furniture store. Also a gramophone. She admired Janice’s figure in the chambermaid uniform, her age late twenties, maybe thirty?
    ‘I see,’ Edith said, ‘that you’ve lowered the hemline of the uniform and taken in the bodice.’
    Janice blushed. ‘Oh, well . . .’ She shrugged and smiled.
    Why did she think that communist women would not care for those matters?
    Janice went out to the corridor and hauled in a vacuum cleaner attached to an electricity point in the hallway. She opened the windows. ‘Put on your ear pads, Mrs Westwood. I’m about to vacuum.’ The vacuum cleaner droned loudly into life.
    Edith called out, ‘Not today, thanks, Janice.’ Janice switched it off and it died away in a moan. ‘I thought we might talk.’
    ‘You spend a lot of time in your room, ma’am – Mrs Westwood,’ Janice said, and began hand-dusting in a desultory way.
    Edith sponged the glue of the envelope and pressed it down. She turned her chair half-around and took off her reading glasses. ‘I suppose a communist would think me a woman of the leisured class. And seeing that you are a friend of my brother, you may stop calling me ma’am and call me Edith.’
    ‘Thank you, Edith. In answer to your question, I meant that I was more worried about you .’ She laughed. ‘I’ll worry about the working class this afternoon.’
    ‘I must appear to be something of a sad sack. Have you seen those American comics of Sad Sack?’
    Janice shook her head. ‘I read only English comics as a kid.’
    ‘So did I, but I saw some of the American comics during the war. To be honest, I have never really read a Sad Sack comic; I have purloined the name.’
    ‘The Party is campaigning to have American comics banned.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Being dumped here – putting Australian artists out of work. Children shouldn’t be brought up to be Americans.’
    ‘I don’t remember Australian comics when I was a child. Only Ginger Meggs. ’
    ‘And you must have read Snugglepot and Cuddlepie ?’
    ‘Oh, yes, of course.’
    How could a little girl who read Snugglepot and Cuddlepie become a communist?
    ‘Sit down for a bit. Tell me about yourself, Janice. Without being impolite, I gather you’re attached to him romantically ?’
    Janice nodded. She sat on the sofa, leaned back and looked at the ceiling, the feather duster dangling from her hand.
    There were two things Edith’s mother had warned her about when dealing with servants or employees: that it was unfair to put temptation in their way by leaving money about the house, and that it was also unfair to make employed people act as friends. To impose your woes and