Settling in behind her desk in the corner of the oak-lined conference room, Grace retrieves her foolscap and sharpened pencil, ready to listen and transcribe.
As always, the board members didn’t seem to notice her arrival, though perhaps they felt a slight breeze as she passed by. Having been their official stenographer for months, she is invisible—which isn’t entirely unpleasant.
When Grace was a child, someone once asked her, Which would you prefer—to fly, to breathe under water or to be invisible? She had no hesitation in saying that invisibility would be her choice. (She wonders what Gwendolyn would choose—flying perhaps, to travel more quickly from one party to another.)
Meeting: (Date, Time)
Present: Crombie, Beaven, Munn
Subject: Progress report
As she dashes off preliminaries in shorthand, she notes that the atmosphere in the room has become more relaxed without Mr Taggart. More collegial. No more talk of “appointments based on merit” or “nephews on the payroll.”
Mr Beaven and Mr Munn are now seated on either side of the chairman at one end of the table. It seems as though the LCB is no longer a board, but a club.
Grace, remaining invisible, prepares to take down every word.
Having called the meeting to order, the minutes of the last meeting are approved without anyone actually having read them. She could have given them a page from Mrs Dalloway and nobody would notice the difference.
Chairman Crombie clips his gold fountain pen onto an inside pocket and straightens the papers before him, checks his gold pocket watch and returns it to his vest pocket, glancing down to be sure that the gold chain drapes correctly from the buttonhole. His thinning hair is precisely combed, and he is clean shaven, exposing a set of lips she finds unsavoury.
“Gentlemen, to begin, Attorney General Stalker salutes you. The LCB has accomplished much, and in a short time.
“As we move forward, Mr Stalker has defined our mandate as, and I quote: To play a special role in enforcing the liquor laws, advising and assisting the Vancouver Police and the Provincial Police as a de facto arm of law enforcement commensurate with the war against bootlegging.”
Grace writes it all down in shorthand, with comments in the margins. She finds the term special role unsettling in its vagueness; thanks to school Latin, de facto worries her as well, implying powers unmentioned in print; and she wonders about the deliberate introduction of the term war.
The chairman continues: “Which brings us to the main issue before us. I regret to say that, despite all our efforts, the current set of regulations are not up to the challenge. The time has come for a more authoritative, vigorous approach to policing.”
The other board members nod solemnly as though great truth has been told, but Grace suspects that they don’t entirely understand what is being proposed—which is, essentially, a return to what she remembers as the Defence of the Realm Act, which covered everything from food rationing to dog shows, and allowed for the arrest of persons of “hostile origin or association.”
She prepares for the chairman to continue with the usual litany of alcohol abuses and tragedies (she knows them by heart), but Crombie’s speech is interrupted by a discreet knock on the door, which is already sufficiently ajar to admit Miss Witherspoon’s angular head and shoulders.
“Mr Bliss is just outside, sir. You asked to be notified of his arrival.”
“Quite right, Miss Witherspoon. Well, don’t keep him waiting, my girl, show him in!”
Everyone stands as though for a magistrate. Mr Beaven extracts his silver cigarette case and lighter and lays them down at the ready; Mr Munn stares at his white hands, splayed out on the table as though to measure the length of his fingers. (The last time they had a visit from Mr Bliss, he entertained the board by firing its chairman. It would not be oversensitive to wonder who will be next to feel the axe on the nape of his neck.)
It’s not just the ever-present ennui that has produced a sense of déjà vu: looking over her notes, it’s clear that Mr Crombie was marking time before the performance to come. In the margin she draws a stick man with a high hat, a cane and a monocle, like Mr Peanut.
“Chairman Crombie. Mr Munn. Mr Beaven. Gentlemen, I fear that once more I have barged in on your important work. The Attorney General sends his apologies as well. Please seat yourselves, no need no stand on ceremony.”
Beaven and Munn mutter diplomatic niceties. In the margin Grace draws a smiling skull.
“As you know, Premier Gulliver—we’re all jolly glad of this—has reassumed his duties, and his first measure was to reorder the chain of command, starting with his appointment of Mr Stalker as Attorney General.
“Our office staff, with Mr Cunning having left no instructions, and with no family to consult, undertook to prepare for the new occupant. In removing Mr Cunning’s files, documents were found containing sensitive material.”
Munn puts up his hand like a precocious schoolboy, while the other hand scratches a spot on his chin: “Mr Bliss, might this involve Communists?”
“An excellent question, Mr Munn. Without revealing specifics, it would be legitimate to say that some documents may or may not point to seditious tendencies.”
Beaven butts out his fourth Gold Flake. “I’m not surprised. If you ask me, it’s high time to clear the province of radicals.”
Chairman Crombie lights his pipe and appears thoughtful. “A worthy objective, Mr Beaven, but I expect that we can all agree, in these unsettled times, that discretion is paramount. Mr Bliss, please continue.”
“Thank you, Mr Chairman. A committee has been struck to determine the placement of Mr Cunning’s papers. In the meantime, they must be kept secure. The Attorney General has entrusted the LCB with this task, under the leadership of the gentleman to my left.” He nods at Mr Crombie, who nods back.
In the margin Grace draws two snakes, entwined, for it is clear that another agenda is at work as well.
Crombie responds: “It is an honour for the board to be put in a position of trust. Please have the files delivered to this department, and our people will see that they are secure.”
“Jolly good, gentlemen. Tickety-boo. Then I shall leave you to your work.”
Millie dearest,
I must confess that sometimes I quite hate it here, and to think you are less than sixty miles away pains me no end—the ocean is such a bother!
When I feel low in my mind and Gwendolyn is out with one of her fellows, I play with Miss Carr’s dogs. They are my rescuers when it comes to loneliness. One can have a cry in their fur, and an all-but-invisible pair of black eyes peer at you through the fringe, to reach deep inside.
Did I mention that our landlady is an artist? I have heard that people in Victoria simply loathe her paintings. They see them as dreadful things that an Indian savage could paint.
But just imagine, a woman putting herself in league with Turner and Constable! It has caused me to view Miss Carr other than as an irascible old maid.
Still, she can be devilishly secretive. A fortnight ago, I entered her studio to report a plumbing problem, and Miss Carr hastily draped a sheet over whatever she was working on. Other paintings were stacked against a wall, but with only the backs showing.
Despite her eccentricity, she is the sort of person one takes a problem to, knowing that the answer will be pertinent—such as the day I was about to drown myself out of sheer boredom. Miss Carr’s advice was: “Try and learn something. Anything, really. It will occupy your mind, and you will never know what good it will do until later on.”
And Millie dear, where you are concerned, I have taken her advice. As you suggest, I shall keep my eyes open and shall keep you abreast. You are right, it is so much more exciting to be a spy—one looks and listens in a whole new way! Between Gwendolyn and me, I suspect we see more than anyone, being invisible.
For example, today I learned of plans to put the LCB virtually in charge of the police, and that our late Attorney General Cunning kept files of a “sensitive nature.” It was my place to put them under lock and key, and in so doing I “accidentally” took a glance at the first few pages, but other than Mr Taggart’s name it was mostly columns of numbers. I shall find a way to have a better look.
And I love you, dear, as you are aware, no end!
Yours always, Gracie