Posted by: Lisa Hill | May 6, 2012

Cold Light, (2011, Edith Trilogy #3) by Frank Moorhouse

Cold LightCold Light by Frank Moorhouse is third in his ‘Edith’ trilogy comprising Grand Days and Dark Palace.   I read these years ago when they were first published, (but you can read Marina’s excellent recent review of Grand Days here). I enjoyed both the strong characterisation and the piquancy of reading about a woman’s career in the failed League of Nations of the interwar years.  Cold Light can be read entirely independently of the companion novels: it follows Edith’s chastened return to Australia as the Cold War tightened its grip.  The novel begins with Edith and her cross-dressing husband Ambrose living in the limbo of a Canberra hotel while they sort out their respective careers.

While in Europe Edith had some trouble being taken seriously as a diplomat because of her gender, it was no preparation for the indignity of being under-employed in unrepentantly sexist Australia.  Edith’s journey in this trilogy moves from youthful optimism and a sense that all things are possible in Grand Days to disillusionment in Dark Palace: Cold Light follows her middle-age into a sense of loss and frustration with cramped opportunities.  Add to that the awkwardness of having a brother who’s an active member of the Communist Party and her own desires for sexually adventurous behaviour, and she has a problem indeed.

In some ways Cold Light reminded me of The Memory Room, by Christopher Koch.  That was a fascinating psychological study of an Australian spy, offering glimpses into the minds of people who are not what they seem.  It showed how the habit of necessary constraint in all relationships, especially personal ones, is a barrier to full humanity, and Moorhouse shows too how a double life of any kind impinges on natural human behaviour.

In a previous post I mentioned that I particularly enjoyed the three-sided conversations between Edith and her long-lost brother: what he says, what she says, and what she’s thinking but not saying.  For Edith, relationships flicker through different prisms.  Marooned in the wasteland that was the nation’s fledgling capital in the postwar period, she needs to establish both a personal and a professional network – but a sibling relationship is fraught with problems.  Busy on the world stage, she hadn’t bothered with Frederick (or her now-dead parents) for a very long time.  How has he tracked her down, and why?  Does he hope to exploit their relationship for covert Communist purposes?  And what will it do to her already weak prospects for a career in the diplomatic service?

She was still trying to understand the brother-sister bond, its frontiers.  The brother and sister thing was not only about the heart, it had to do with alliances.  Brothers and sisters were, of course, the first people we meet in our life where an alliance was possible and useful and even necessary – usually an alliance against parents or against strangers in the street or bullies in the playground.  But she could see that there was nothing obligatory about it.  It wasn’t genetic.  One had only to look at the bad blood between siblings at times – historically or biblically – to know that it was not genetic.  An emergency could bring siblings back into alliance.  If an emergency overtook one or both, siblings could without hesitation turn to each other.  Perhaps Frederick was right that it was a politico-economic unit.  (p64)

In the triumphant post-Communist world of the 21st century, Frederick’s earnest Marxist analyses of capitalism and its pernicious effects seem quaint.  From this distance, Ambrose’s anxiety that Fred’s activities may compromise his work for the British High Commission (and his habit of sharing its secrets with Edith) seems like a melodramatic response.  Who on earth would be taking any notice of Frederick and his girlfriend Janice parroting the Communist Manifesto,  in a remote bush capital?  It is so easy to forget how fear of Communism leaked into every aspect of Australian political life for a very long time.  It took us into a tragic, unwinnable war; it kept a lazy government in power long past its use-by date; and as in America under McCarthyism,  it blighted the careers of all kinds of innocent people judged suspect by an over-zealous ASIO.   It’s easy to forget too, about postwar fear of nuclear annihilation and World War III during the Cold War.  In those days nuclear shelters were built, in the naïve belief that they afforded protection. Today we no longer have those illusions.  We’ve learned to live with nuclear weapons because we’ve had to.

In Cold Light the British were about to test nuclear weapons at Maralinga and Menzies was about to ban the Communist Party and gaol its sympathisers.  Edith joins the battle to protect free speech at some risk: the proponents of Menzies’ bill tagged its opponents Communists and careers were ruined over it.  Moorhouse tracks Edith’s tussle between pragmatism and integrity while also tracing her shifting view of her brother, alerting us to the manipulative attitudes that she shares with Ambrose.  Edith is a fascinating example of human nature.

Edith is also pragmatic about her marriages.  Over the long years of any marriage there are always compromises of one sort or another, and she and Ambrose have not only accommodated his cross-dressing adventures but also encouraged her own experiments.  (The only other book I can remember that has tackled this cross-dressing penchant is Rosalie Ham’s quirky portrayal of small town life, The Dressmaker.   I must read her latest one There Should be More Dancing soon!)  (Update: I have.  See my review here). Well, Canberra was a small town in those days, with a small town mentality tangled into its premature pretensions to be the nation’s capital.  Edith’s not-very-well suppressed desire to be part of a sexually-relaxed ‘Bloomsbury’ set in Canberra seems like a forlorn hope indeed.  As she ages over the long years of this novel she has to learn to accept these and other frustrations. Moorhouse writes about women very well.

And he does so without diminishing his heroine.  She is first and foremost a career woman when it was not easy to be one.  This is when Australian women could not buy a house without a husband’s permission, and when all the meetings she attended were all besuited males.  Edith is constantly trapped by limitations ascribed to her by her gender.  But seduced by sheer desperation into a trifling job for the Canberra  planning committee, Edith rediscovers her lifelong visionary instincts.  She sees beyond the pre-fab buildings, the petty bureaucracy, the pretentious aping of customs from elsewhere and small-minded penny-pinching.  She finds a tiny chink in Canberra’s formidable defences and reinvents herself.  She makes some awkward compromises and a few bungles but is a remarkable survivor.

Moorhouse is a master of dialogue.  It is crisp, witty and authentic, capturing the nuances of class, education, and the still-pervasive influence of Britain.   The author is also spot-on, as we say, at ‘nailing’ Australian insecurities: Edith has to hide her cosmopolitanism.  It’s not okay to quote her Geneva Latin or her fluent French.  She must tell the Other Wives that her Dior is just a copy.  Even the way that Edith and Ambrose furnish their house must be done with care, to avoid offence. ‘Australians fear being seen as ostentatious, must have no airs. Nothing lavish, extravagant, or excessive.  You should, as an Australian, be very much down-to-earth and your house should say that’ (p234).

That constraint extends to Edith’s caution in conversation.  Local insularity and defensiveness is a minefield:

 She knew that if you were someone who had Lived Abroad, there were socially acceptable ways of talking about Australia – but as for Canberra, she was still uncertain of what was permitted in the way of jokes by those who lived there.  There was one way of talking when speaking to another person who had travelled or lived abroad, and another if you were speaking to an Australian who hadn’t travelled.  There was yet another way of speaking if you were driven to flaunting your worldliness by exasperation and irritation because of arrant provincialism. From something he had said, she knew that this civil servant Richard had been to London before the war, but had not travelled elsewhere and that he wasn’t a returned soldier.  Expatriates were always required to say some things to prove that themselves ‘true blue’.  And there was another group who seemed to love to hear Australia denigrated, and Europe – especially England – praised to the skies; they were people who dreamed of leaving and living there, and you confirmed their fantasies and endorsed their dissatisfactions, permitting them to attribute their personal failings to the dreadful accident of place of birth.  (p92)

Provocative as they are, observations such as these shed light on many postwar migrants’ experience when they first arrived in Australia.  In Oh Lucky Country! Rosa Cappiello raged against insular assumptions that all migrants were illiterate peasants.  Justifiably, she was furious about attitudes that were dismissive of European culture, from people who’d never seen it.  Moorhouse recreates this claustrophobic world just as Australia was on the cusp of starting its journey towards becoming the vibrant tolerant society we enjoy today, and he does it through a captivating story with an engaging central character.  It’s a wonderful book, which deserves its place on the 2012 Miles Franklin shortlist.  It’s on my own personal shortlist to win the award …

For other reviews, see those listed in my previous post about Cold Light.

©Lisa Hill

Update: See also these thoughts at Meanjin.

Author: Frank Moorhouse
Title: Cold Light
Publisher: Vintage (Penguin Random House) 2011
ISBN: 9781741661262
Source: Personal library, purchased from Readings.

Fishpond: Cold Light


  1. Great review Lisa – I loved this one too. It’s just superb; and you’re right, he writes women – and dialogue – *so* well. And those shadow conversations – i.e., what people are thinking but not saying, in tandem with what they’re saying (as with her brother). I think Edith just might be my favourite literary character ever. Definitely up there, anyway.

    Enjoyed reading this.


    • Hello Jo, how lovely to meet you – I read your reviews all the time!
      There is so much more I could have written about this super book, I had to make myself stop. So much work and scholarship underlying it, and obviously years of paying attention to current affairs in Australia and overseas, and yet it wears all that lightly in a story that simply sucks you in like waves on the shore: on the one hand you can’t wait to read the next bit, and on the other hand you take little breaks because you don’t want to read it too quickly so that it’s all over too soon.
      And yes, I loved Edith too – and am very fond of Ambrose!


  2. Good Morning Lisa
    Well going by your excellent review this sounds like it is a serious contender for the Miles Franklin Award but I am sure I will be reading it regardless of our schedule. It sounds like a must read.


    • Hi Jenny, it is indeed a must-read. It’s long (600+ pages) but Moorhouse is such a good writer, it’s worth every moment.


  3. […] For a thorough and totally positive review, check out Lisa’s at ANZLitLovers. […]


  4. Great review Lisa … and everything you say is right in terms of what the books says and covers, but I did find it just a little too laboured. Edith went on and on and on just a little too much for me – even though I liked her!


  5. […] the Russian Revolution.   Paranoia about communism also gets a run in Frank Moorhouse’s Cold Light and The Memory Room by Christopher Koch.  Proper historians will quibble with some justification […]


  6. […] Writing an Icon: Biographer Catharine Lumby with her subject Frank Moorhouse, one of Australia’s most celebrated literary figures (and author of the splendid Edith trilogy, reviewed in part here on this blog). […]


  7. Marvelous review but… I’m still unsure. Maybe a stand-alone of his?


    • Hello Davida, good to hear from you.
      Your comment reminds me that I have this author’s The Drover’s Wife, A Collection, on my TBR.

      This is the blurb:
      Since Henry Lawson wrote his story ‘The Drover’s Wife’ in 1892, Australian writers, painters, performers and photographers have created a wonderful tradition of drover’s wife works, stories and images.
      The Russell Drysdale painting from 1945 extended the mythology and it, too, has become an Australian icon.
      Other versions of the Lawson story have been written by Murray Bail, Barbara Jefferis, Mandy Sayer, David Ireland, Madeleine Watts and others, up to the present, including Leah Purcell’s play and Ryan O’Neill’s graphic novel.
      In essays and commentary, Frank Moorhouse examines our ongoing fascination with this story and has collected some of the best pieces of writing on the subject. This remarkable, gorgeous book is, he writes, ‘a monument to the drovers’ wives’.

      But apart from that I know only of a couple of novels, and they’re very early ones. I should try to get hold of them…

      Liked by 1 person

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