Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘The oleanders. You’re making a study of their chemistry.’

  ‘No, no.’ Her father was dismissive. ‘I doubt whether the toxic properties of the oleander could ever serve any medical or pharmaceutical purpose.’ As he returned her smile, however, there was a gleam in his eye. ‘But you’re right, their poison does add to their fascination. It’s yet another tool in their survival kit, you see. The oleander poisons those who might harm it – extraordinarily tenacious, wouldn’t you agree?’ His question appeared rhetorical. ‘But then tenacity is the key to survival,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have another glass of claret.’ It was plain he considered he’d answered her question in full. ‘Will you join me, Elizabeth?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, thanks, Daddy.’ And, left alone with the oleanders, she heaved a sigh, none the wiser.

  Elizabeth Hoffmann was an eminently practical young woman. At times she despaired of her parents’ eccentricity, but she loved them for it too, knowing it was their eccentricity that had afforded her the life opportunities she so valued. For Alfred and Marjorie Hoffmann, eschewing the conventional attitudes of the day and firmly believing in equal rights for women, had offered their daughter every educational advantage and encouraged her in the pursuit of the career she so obviously yearned for. Now, at the age of twenty-three, when most of her contemporaries from Ralston Girls School were settling down to have babies, Elizabeth, having graduated with a BA from St Hugh’s College, Oxford, majoring in History and Literature, had been working as a journalist with The Aldershot Courier-Mail for a whole eighteen months.

  ‘We’re very proud of you, Elizabeth,’ her father had said when she’d been offered the position fresh out of Oxford.

  ‘The Courier-Mail’s just the start, Daddy,’ she’d answered. ‘I’ll give it two years in Aldershot, then I’ll be back here in London working for The Times. I intend to be their first female feature writer.’

  ‘Of course you do, my dear.’

  A year later, when her parents had shifted from their grand townhouse in Belgravia to the rambling cottage in Surrey, Elizabeth had been deeply concerned. The property her father had bought was barely five miles from the township of Aldershot in nearby Hampshire, where she lived in a humble boarding house several blocks from the offices of The Courier-Mail. She’d been appalled at the thought that her mother and father might have made such a drastic change to their lifestyle simply in order to be near her.

  ‘Good heavens above, no,’ Marjorie had replied when her daughter tentatively raised the question. ‘What would be the point? You’ll be back in London soon with The Times, won’t you? Two years, you said. No, no, I’m in need of rural surrounds – I’ve run out of trees in London.’ She’d laughed distractedly. ‘I must have painted every single tree and every single bush in every park in Westminster. Besides, your father very much wanted a country place with a conservatory. For some unknown reason he’s decided to start a garden.’

  Elizabeth had hugged her mother fondly, marvelling, as she did, at her parents’ constant ability to surprise.

  Over the ensuing months, she’d visited the cottage in Surrey on a regular basis, watching the oleanders grow until she could bear it no longer. But her question had resulted in no answer and the oleanders had remained an unfathomable mystery – until the day she brought Daniel home to meet her parents.

  Elizabeth herself met Daniel Gardiner in the spring of 1954, two months before her twenty-fourth birthday. The occasion was a military event, which was hardly surprising in Aldershot. The township was not known as the ‘home of the British army’ for nothing.

  What a splendid sight, Elizabeth thought as she stood with the other journalists and photographers in the area specially allocated to the press, right beside the main entrance to Princes Gardens. The military never failed to put on a good show, and she never tired of the spectacle, but today was particularly impressive.

  Down the entire length of High Street the parade was in full swing, brass bands strutting their stuff with all the pomp and ceremony only the army could offer. Military police on motorcycles preceded tanks, armoured vehicles, transport trucks and cars of every description. Troops marched with perfect precision, regimental colours and battle honours held high. Infantry, artillery, tank, parachute – on and on they came, a sea of men, the thousands of spectators cramming the pavements cheering each unit as it passed. The citizens of Aldershot were out in force this fine spring morning, along with hundreds of others from nearby towns. This was a day of historical significance for the entire area.

  Upon command, the colours and escorts peeled away in turn from the grand parade to enter the broad, grassy square of Princes Gardens, where they took up their allotted positions flanking the brand new fountain that sat in the centre.

  The fountain, simple and unadorned, was to be presented as a gift from the military to the township, commemorating the centenary of the British army’s association with Aldershot. Indeed, the fountain’s location, Princes Gardens, was the exact spot where the Royal Engineers had camped during the time of the Crimean War while planning the permanent military base to be established with Aldershot as its centre. In the decades following the base’s establishment, the extraordinary growth of Aldershot from a small village to a thriving Victorian town had been a direct result of its relationship with the army. Now, 100 years on, the fountain was to become the proud symbol of a fine and happy marriage between borough and military.

  Elizabeth carefully scrutinised the regimental banners as they passed, scribbling the details of each in her notepad. She was unsure how much of the data she would use in her article, but her research, always meticulous, was of particular importance today. Today’s story would be the best she had ever written, for she intended to send a copy of it to The Times as an example of her work – along with her application for employment.

  A twinge of guilt accompanied the prospect of deserting her current employer should her application meet with success. The Courier-Mail had offered her many opportunities she would never have experienced elsewhere. But then she and Henry Wilmot, the editor, had shared an unspoken understanding from the outset.

  ‘You’re very talented, Elizabeth,’ he’d said bluntly, as if it were an accusation.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And, I suspect, very ambitious.’

  She’d remained silent.

  ‘Sign of a good journalist, ambition.’ Again, despite the apparent compliment, his tone had been strangely accusatory. ‘Ah well, I suppose if you’re determined to put your talent to good use, we at The Courier-Mail had best take advantage of the fact.’ And instead of assigning her to social events befitting a female, as he would normally have done, Henry Wilmot had offered Elizabeth her very first feature story. ‘Just a trial, you understand. I don’t promise to print it.’

  But he had printed it.

  ‘What’s your middle name?’ he’d asked when she’d presented him with the piece.

  ‘Jane. Why?’

  ‘E. J. Hoffmann,’ he’d said with a brisk nod. ‘Has a nice ring. We’ll publish you as E. J. Hoffmann until I feel readers are ready to accept the fact you’re a woman.’ Then he’d added, ‘Or until we part company, whichever comes first.’ It was plain he anticipated the latter.

  Henry Wilmot genuinely admired Elizabeth, both for her talent and for her audacity in assuming she could compete in the male-dominated arena of the press. But her femininity would be her downfall, he’d thought, particularly in a town like Aldershot. God almighty, they’d all be after her. She’d no doubt resist the obvious young studs bent on sexual conquest – she was smart. But she was also handsome, and a young woman of breeding – perfect officer’s wife material. She’d be in love in six months, probably married within twelve, and then children would claim her and goodbye career. Such was the natural scheme of things.

  Now, eighteen months later, Henry thought differently. Elizabeth Hoffmann appeared impervious to the atte
ntions of even the most eligible young officers whose family connections saw them hurtling through the ranks destined for distinguished military careers. Apparently she had no wish to be married. How very, very odd, he thought. He was pleased to have retained her services longer than expected, but was prepared for her departure nonetheless. If Elizabeth’s ambition outranked the natural desire for a husband and children, then her days with his provincial newspaper were surely numbered. In his heart of hearts, Henry Wilmot wished her luck.

  The last of the colour sergeants and escorts had taken up their position around the fountain. The formal ceremony was about to commence.

  ‘I’m off to the other side of the park,’ Walter muttered. ‘I’ll get a better angle on the official party from there.’

  Walter was The Courier-Mail’s principal photographer and invariably accompanied Elizabeth on her assignments. The two had become close friends.

  She nodded. ‘Make sure you get plenty of shots of the fountain.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ he said mockingly. She’d told him at least a dozen times to photograph the fountain from every possible angle. ‘Just as well you reminded me – might have slipped my mind otherwise.’ Then he winked, gave her the thumbs up and disappeared.

  Elizabeth had already completed the historical aspect of her feature article, and made few notes during the official speeches, which offered nothing new. She was keen for the formal ceremony to be over so she could mingle with the crowd. What she needed now was the human element.

  She glanced around at the other journalists, most from nearby towns or neighbouring counties – they often bumped into each other at local events. Pete Hearson of The Farnham Gazette was scribbling away furiously in shorthand, taking down every single word of the mayor’s tedious speech, but it was the pouchy, middle-aged man beside Pete who was the focus of Elizabeth’s attention. He’d stopped making notes and appeared as bored by the mayor as she was. This was the journalist who’d come down from London, or so Walter had told her.

  ‘You’re sure?’ she’d whispered.

  ‘Absolutely. Look at him, for God’s sake. Can’t you just smell Fleet Street?’

  She could. While the county journalists, respecting the occasion, had worn suits, the pouchy man from London was in a none-too-clean, open-necked shirt with a sports jacket that had seen far better days. Did he consider this provincial event beneath him, she wondered, or was his crumpled exterior a conscious and calculated statement intended to impress? Elizabeth suspected it was a little of both.

  ‘Which paper is he from?’

  ‘The Times, I think.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep, pretty sure.’

  ‘Ah.’ She’d kept a special eye on the pouchy man from that moment on.

  Now, as the official proceedings came to a close, she was surprised to see him pocket his notebook. Surely he wasn’t going to leave it at that, she thought. What about the all-important human element, essential to any good feature article? But sure enough, as the band struck up and the troops marched back into High Street, leaving the park free for the festivities that would follow, the pouchy man glanced at his watch and started elbowing his way through the crowd.

  He’s heading for the railway station, she thought. He’s on his way back to London. Good, she told herself; better than good, in fact – excellent. The editor of The Times would surely be impressed by her article after the dry report submitted by his own journalist. She prayed that Walter had his facts right and that the pouchy man really was from The Times.

  Within only minutes, it seemed, Princes Gardens had transformed into a fairground. The tantalising smell of frying onions permeated the air, and one of the army bands, now stationed near the fountain, was playing ‘C’est Magnifique’, the popular number from Cole Porter’s new musical Can-Can. Several portable booths, which had stood deserted on the periphery of the park during the proceedings, had suddenly come alive. One was selling soft drinks and ice-creams; another, pork pies and pasties; and at another an enterprising middle-aged man with a Hawaiian shirt and a wife frantically tending a hotplate of onions was doling out American hot dogs and hamburgers. Elizabeth interviewed him. He was a Hampshireman, he said, born and bred in Portsmouth.

  ‘If it hadn’ been for the Yanks, I wouldn’ be servin’ this sort of grub now, would I?’ he said, indicating the queue and the fact that his booth was doing a far brisker trade than the others. ‘I owe those Yankee Doodle Dandies, ’n that’s the truth.’

  Elizabeth scribbled his words down verbatim. Of course, hot dogs and hamburgers had taken over the world, but it was interesting to note that the American forces had been stationed around Portsmouth and Southampton prior to the D-day landings. The whole of the area had been of huge military significance throughout the war, and the army’s presence continued to have a profound effect on all local communities. ‘Yankee Doodle’ and the success of his hamburger booth seemed historical proof of the fact.

  There was even a London hawker’s cart selling jellied eels and pickled periwinkles, which may have appeared surprising but wasn’t really. Colin the Cockney, in his traditional ‘pearly king’ outfit, wheeled his cart off the London train at country railway stations all over England, visiting any town and any occasion he considered worthwhile.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he replied in response to Elizabeth’s query about the day’s significance. ‘This is the most highly significant of days, no doubt about it. I wouldn’t miss a day like this for quids. The home of the British army! Makes you downright proud, dun’it?’

  Elizabeth strongly suspected that Colin never went anywhere unless there was a personal quid in it for him, but she didn’t intend to come from that angle. Colin the Cockney was a symbol. Together with his signature suit of pearly buttons, his hawker’s cart, his jellied eels and pickled periwinkles, Colin gave the day a very special stamp of approval.

  A young couple had just purchased a small waxed paper cup of Colin’s jellied eels, and the girl’s nose was screwed up in dubious anticipation as she contemplated the shapeless grey object her boyfriend proffered on the end of a toothpick. She’d never eaten a jellied eel before.

  ‘Do you mind if we take a photograph?’ Elizabeth asked.

  As she’d roamed amongst the crowd conducting her interviews, Elizabeth had made sure Walter stayed religiously by her side, clicking away at every opportunity. It was the standard tack they adopted. Walter was essential for Elizabeth’s credibility. Many people refused to take female journalists seriously, and his presence was proof she was a bona fide member of the press.

  The young couple with the jellied eels were certainly impressed. The girl stopped pulling a face, fluffed up her hair and posed, mouth open and ready to engulf the eel.

  ‘Would you mind, Colin?’

  Elizabeth beckoned the Cockney into the shot and he happily joined the young couple. The presence of the press was attracting attention to his cart, and a picture in the local rag was always good for business. Indeed, Colin had appeared in any number of provincial newspapers and was quite a recognisable figure on the county fair circuit.

  ‘Ooh, it’s tough, isn’t it?’ the young girl said several photographs later when Elizabeth encouraged her to actually eat the eel.

  ‘What’s it taste like?’ her boyfriend asked.

  ‘Nothing really.’ She chewed harder. ‘It’s like eating rubber … ergh.’ She looked around for somewhere to spit, but with the photographer nearby decided to swallow instead, nearly gagging as she did so.

  Colin rapidly returned to his cart and his customers, wishing the girl would bugger off. It’s a bleedin’ eel, he thought, what did the daft cow expect?

  Elizabeth ushered the couple to one side. ‘So how did you feel about the ceremony?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it’s who we really are, isn’t it?’ The young man, like his girlfriend, was eager to make an impression and he said all the things he thought the reporter might want to hear. ‘A grand military history … proud to be
British …’

  Elizabeth jotted down several quotes, which she thought would look apt beside a picture of the couple with the Cockney and his jellied eels, but it was time to move on. She’d explored the civilians’ reaction to the day, now she needed the military point of view. Twenty minutes later, she realised just what an uphill battle she was facing. The hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers now mingling with the crowd seemed to belong to two categories only.

  ‘Ah yes, good show, wasn’t it,’ said the major, and the colonel, and the others of senior rank whom she approached. They posed happily enough for Walter, but the moment she attempted to interview them their manner became patronising and dismissive. ‘Yes, yes, very good show indeed. Excellent turnout all round.’ Then, one by one, they proceeded to ignore her. Elizabeth came to the conclusion that they found her confronting. They felt threatened to be seen publicly taking a female member of the press seriously, she decided, and she rather pitied them their insecurity.

  The other category treated her just as frivolously and, in Elizabeth’s opinion, was even more irritating.

  ‘An interview? Of course. Shall we go somewhere a bit more private?’ The leer was unmistakable. One brash young corporal even gave Walter a comradely wink and a jerk of the head that said get lost, intimating they both knew this was too good an opportunity for any red-blooded male to resist. Walter, always protective, and a little in love with Elizabeth although he’d never let her know it, wanted to attack the man. But he didn’t. They’d encountered insulting behaviour before and Elizabeth preferred to handle things her own way. Her methods invariably proved successful, so Walter left it to her.

  This time, however, Elizabeth was at a loss. She’d become confident interviewing men on a one-to-one basis. Her fierce intelligence quickly convinced those who would patronise her that she was not their intellectual inferior, and her wit was an instant dampener to the Casanovas who assumed she was easy game. But she had never been assigned a job interviewing men en masse in an area where they were obviously conscious of how they were being perceived by other men. She scribbled down several observations. It was a very interesting topic for a future article, she thought, albeit highly controversial and therefore probably unpublishable.