Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Exactly, my dear, that’s why I need the oleanders to remind me.’ Alfred turned once again to Daniel. He was pleased that the boy had passed the test – he liked him. ‘I am descended from a long line of Anglicised Sephardic Jews, Daniel,’ he explained, ‘but I’m afraid I’m a very poor example of my tribe. I could, perhaps, lay the blame at the feet of my father and grandfather, but I prefer not to. The decision was one of my own making.’

  Good heavens, Marjorie thought. Alfred was serious. Surely he didn’t have regrets.

  ‘My father and grandfather turned their backs on Judaism,’ Alfred continued, ‘both of them marrying Gentiles and bringing their children up outside the faith. One would have assumed that by the third generation, the passion for a Jewish identity might have burnt itself out, but as a young man there was a time when I was interested in rekindling the flame. I decided, however, to take the easier path and follow the example of my father and grandfather.’

  Alfred looked at his wife and smiled reassuringly, knowing just what she was thinking, and remembering how strongly she’d urged him to allow her to convert. Dear, fearless Marjorie who would willingly have severed all ties with her staunchly Protestant parents in order to please him.

  ‘I have had no regrets,’ he said, ‘no regrets at all.’ He continued to address himself to Daniel, but his words were intended for his wife, as she well knew. ‘In fact, I would feel a fraud if I attempted to embrace the Jewish faith now. But at this later stage in my life, I like to remind myself of where I once came from. And who I believe, deep down, I really am.’

  Marjorie Hoffmann leaned across the table and took her husband’s hand, squeezing it briefly. The look of tenderness shared between the two did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth and Daniel.

  It was Marjorie herself who broke the moment. ‘Well, well, I do believe,’ she remarked to her daughter, ‘that the mystery of the oleanders has finally been solved.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth replied with a smile, ‘I do believe it has.’

  ‘May I top you up, my darling?’ Marjorie reached for the wine bottle.

  ‘Please.’ Alfred felt quite euphoric. His aim had been simply to put his daughter’s potential suitor to the test, but he’d unburdened himself in the process. He’d never intended to share the intensely personal secret of his oleanders, but now that he had, he was glad. He’d found the exercise strangely cathartic.

  As she poured the wine, Marjorie noticed Daniel’s barely touched glass. ‘I think Daniel might prefer a cup of tea,’ she said.

  Daniel left barely half an hour later. Thanks and farewells were exchanged at the front door, and Elizabeth walked with him down the front path to where the army Land Rover was parked by the dirt track that led to the main road. Daniel and his several fellow lieutenants who were in charge of the battalion’s motor pool had a simple arrangement – whoever was on duty signed out a vehicle to whoever wasn’t. The regulation warning they issued had become a running joke. ‘Naturally, no non-military person will be transported in this vehicle …’ ‘Naturally,’ came the response, and winks were exchanged.

  ‘I’ve had a grand evening,’ he said as they arrived beside the Land Rover. He’d driven Elizabeth out from Aldershot, but she was staying the night with her parents, as she always did. Her father would drop her at Reigate railway station the following day.

  ‘So have I,’ she replied. ‘Birthdays don’t mean much to me as a rule, but tonight’s been special.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  For Daniel the evening had been far more than special. Elizabeth’s parents had raised his hopes in the most spectacular fashion. They’d not only confirmed his secret belief that she cared for him more than she would admit, but he was convinced that in so doing they had signalled their blessing. Daniel felt part of a glorious conspiracy.

  ‘I wonder why he chose tonight,’ Elizabeth continued thoughtfully.

  ‘Who? What?’

  ‘Daddy. I’ve been nagging him for ages about the oleanders, and he’s never mentioned their symbolism. Why would he decide to talk about the Jewish connection tonight of all nights? And to you, of all people?’

  Daniel smiled to himself. For such a highly intelligent woman, Elizabeth could be quite obtuse at times. ‘Perhaps he needed to tell a stranger.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ Of course, she thought, that would make sense. ‘In fact, I’m sure you’re right.’ She laughed lightly. ‘And my goodness, he certainly enjoyed telling you, didn’t he? It was rather like a confession, I thought.’

  Daniel nodded, but he wasn’t concentrating. His eyes had strayed to her lips and he was wondering whether he dared kiss her.

  ‘I’m glad you were here, Danny,’ she said. ‘I’m really glad. Thank you for coming.’

  As she pecked him affectionately on the cheek, he realised she was about to go.

  ‘I like your parents,’ he said, stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘They liked you too, I could tell.’

  ‘They’re extraordinary people,’ he said, ‘truly extraordinary.’ Now? he asked himself. Was now the right moment?

  Elizabeth gave a sudden hoot of laughter. He was studying her as if she were some sort of alien species – he’d obviously found her parents far more than extraordinary. ‘Well, I did tell you they were odd.’

  ‘Yes, they’re odd,’ he agreed. ‘But they’re admirably odd.’ Her laughter warned him to be careful. She was so unsuspecting that perhaps it would be wiser to signal his feelings rather than shock her. ‘They’re just the sort of admirably odd people who would produce a daughter like you,’ he said. And he kissed her.

  He didn’t take her in his arms the way he would have liked, but at least he kissed her. He didn’t kiss her in the way he would have liked either, but at least it was on the lips. It was the sort of safe kiss that affectionate family members might share. But they were not affectionate family members, were they? The message was loud and clear, he thought. The next move would be up to her.

  ‘Goodnight, Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth watched the Land Rover take off down the track. How strange, she thought, Danny had never kissed her on the lips before. He was young and impetuous and no doubt inspired by the warm reception he’d received from her parents, but it wasn’t the sort of thing to be encouraged. She wondered whether she should say something.

  But as she walked back to the house, she chastised herself. His gesture had been one of brotherly affection, nothing more. It would be very silly of her to overdramatise the episode and threaten the perfect balance of their friendship.

  The following weekend, Daniel was rostered on as duty officer at the barracks, and, unable to bear the thought of waiting nearly a whole fortnight to see Elizabeth, he telephoned her mid-week at The Courier-Mail.

  ‘Want to come to the Hippodrome on Friday?’ he asked. The invitation was offered casually enough, but this time he didn’t lie about having been given tickets by a friend. He didn’t think it necessary. She would surely have recognised the subtle shift in their relationship after Saturday night’s kiss. He listened intently for any giveaway nuance.

  ‘I can’t,’ came the brisk reply down the line. ‘Sorry.’

  His heart sank. This was not at all the outcome he’d anticipated. He’d obviously offended her.

  ‘I won’t be back from London in time,’ she said. ‘I’m going up on Thursday and staying overnight. I have an appointment Friday afternoon.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief. She sounded more businesslike than angry. Thank God for that, he thought. ‘What sort of appointment?’

  ‘Oh, Danny, the most wonderful thing’s happened. Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but it could. I won’t know until Friday.’ No longer businesslike, the words were tumbling out in her excitement. ‘Wish me luck,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m going to need it.’

  ‘For what? What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘I’m not saying. It’s a secret and I’m not saying a
nother word. But think of me at three o’clock on Friday, and keep your fingers firmly crossed.’

  ‘Three o’clock, right you are.’ A thought occurred. ‘Why are you going up Thursday? Why not take the Friday morning train?’

  ‘I have a fitting with a tailor in Mayfair on Thursday, and I need to learn, very quickly, how to smoke a cigar. I’ll telephone you when I get back. Bye.’

  The line went dead and Daniel hung up the receiver. He didn’t ponder the mystery of Elizabeth’s trip to London. All he could think about was Saturday night’s kiss and the fact that it had made no impact whatsoever.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There was a tap on the door of Lionel Brock’s office.

  ‘Enter,’ he called in full baritone. He was a heavily built man with a voice to match.

  The door opened, but only slightly, as pretty little Mabel Tomley popped her head through.

  ‘Your three o’clock appointment is here, Mr Brock …’

  ‘Show him in then, dear.’

  Lionel glanced down at the open file on his desk, pushed back his chair and levered himself to his feet. He would have preferred her to have informed him of his three o’clock appointment via the telephone’s intercommunication system as he’d instructed, but young Mabel was new to the job and still learning the ropes, so he decided to let it go for now.

  Mabel cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder.

  ‘Show him in, show him in,’ Lionel said with a slightly impatient wave of his hand.

  ‘Well, that’s just it, sir … Um …’

  ‘Um, what?’ The girl was becoming annoying.

  ‘Him …’ Mabel’s big baby-blue eyes were saucer-like. ‘I thought I’d better warn you, Mr Brock. You see he’s not actually –’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that, Mabel,’ Lionel said sharply. ‘I’ll be the judge of character around here. Now do as you’re told and show the man in, there’s a good girl.’

  Mabel’s barely perceptible shrug could have been one of subservience, but as the door swung open and she stood to one side, the baby-blue eyes said, Right you are, see if I care. Mabel was much feistier than most people realised.

  A young man stepped into the open doorway. A very self-assured young man, Lionel thought. Legs astride, one hand on hip, the stance could even be construed as arrogant. Lionel looked him up and down. First appearances were of the utmost importance in Lionel Brock’s book. Elegant chap, he thought, very dapper, well-cut pinstriped suit, dove-grey fedora of top quality, but very, very young, little more than a youth. Lionel was rather surprised – this was not the middle-aged rustic journalist he’d been expecting.

  Then, to his amazement, the young man saluted him with a lighted cigar, raised it to his lips and took a leisurely drag. The cheeky devil, Lionel thought. But he couldn’t help admiring the impudence of the performance, recognising, as he did, that he was being played at his own game. His advice to budding journalists about the importance of first impressions had been widely broadcast, and it was a well-known fact that he himself was a cigar smoker. The lad had done his homework and was making a statement in putting on such a show. Well, good for you, boy, Lionel thought.

  ‘Mr Hoffmann,’ he said as he circled his desk, hand outstretched.

  The young man exhaled a perfect plume of cigar smoke and strode boldly forward to receive the handshake.

  ‘Yes, sir. E. J. Hoffmann at your service.’

  The voice and the hand made their impact simultaneously. The voice Lionel heard was not that of a man, and, although the clasp of the hand in his was firm and manly enough, the slenderness of the fingers and the texture of the skin were most certainly not.

  Lionel pulled his hand away as though he feared contagion, and his eyes darted to the doorway where his young secretary stood watching.

  Mabel gave another tiny shrug which could have been apologetic, but which really said, See? I tried to warn you. Then she raised an obediently secretarial eyebrow seeking instructions.

  ‘Thank you, Mabel,’ he said. ‘That will be all.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Brock.’

  Mabel glanced at E. J. Hoffmann as she closed the door. God, she wished she had guts like that.

  Lionel returned to his desk, seeking a safe distance and a barrier between them. He was confronted and angered by the deception, but, above all, he felt foolish, humiliated even. He needed to buy time.

  ‘So you’re a woman, my dear,’ he said with an over-hearty chuckle, wishing he could turn the whole thing into a joke and pretend he’d known all along. ‘Very clever, I must say, very clever indeed. Had me fooled for a minute, I must say.’

  ‘Pity I couldn’t have fooled you a bit longer – we might have been able to have an intelligent conversation.’ Elizabeth followed him to the desk, aware of his embarrassment, knowing she might well be pushing too hard, but having taken the extreme steps she had, what did she have to lose? ‘Because that’s all I ask, Mr Brock – the same conversation you would have had with the writer of that article,’ she waved her cigar at the open file on his desk, ‘had that writer been a man.’

  In the eyes that met his from beneath the brim of the fedora, Lionel could see no mockery, no sense of triumph at his humiliation. All he could see was the intense desire to make contact. He looked down at the open file and the newspaper article that sat there.

  ‘ “One Hundred Years of Marriage: Aldershot and the British Army.” It’s a very good piece.’

  ‘It’s also the reason you were interested in meeting E. J. Hoffmann, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lionel admitted. ‘The originality of the journalist’s style intrigued me.’ His tone was cynical. ‘Perhaps I now know why, Miss Hoffmann. Or is it Mrs?’

  ‘Elizabeth will do.’

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ The offer was made with reluctance; he was aware he had little option.

  ‘Thank you.’

  They both sat, and Lionel selected a half corona from the ornately carved cigar box on his desk. He clipped the end and lit up, then struck another match and offered it to her. ‘You’ve gone out,’ he said. She appeared not to have noticed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth took short, rapid puffs, the way the man in the elite Bond Street cigar store had shown her. She didn’t care if Lionel Brock was testing her, which he no doubt was, she was prepared to smoke the whole putrid thing and another five if necessary.

  ‘Can we talk, Mr Brock?’ she said, leaning back and staring unflinchingly at him through the veil of smoke. ‘Can we forget I’m a woman and talk business, man to man?’

  That would be difficult, he thought. Close to, despite the masculinity of the body language, the androgynous youth had taken on a distinctly female form.

  ‘We can try,’ he said.

  ‘Firstly, I have a reference from an old friend of yours.’

  Elizabeth took a folded sheet of paper from the inner breast pocket of her suit and handed it to him.

  ‘Henry Wilmot.’ As Lionel’s eyes flicked to the name at the bottom of the page, he smiled involuntarily. ‘Of course, I’d forgotten it was Aldershot he’d disappeared to – well, that explains a lot.’

  It certainly did, he thought as he read the reference. It explained why Elizabeth Hoffmann had been given the opportunity to work as a feature journalist in the first place. Henry was a renegade who believed in doing things differently and in giving underdogs a chance.

  ‘He speaks very highly of you,’ he said, looking up from the page.

  ‘As I would expect – we’ve had an excellent working relationship for nearly two years.’

  What was it about her manner, he wondered. She was not arrogant, nor was she boastful. Nor, he was quite sure, did she intend any disparagement of his old colleague and rival. But such assurance in a woman was most unsettling. Lionel found himself instantly on the defensive.

  ‘I trust you are aware, Miss Hoffmann,’ he said stiffly, hoping it was ‘Miss’; she hadn’t clarified her title, and he
couldn’t bring himself to say ‘Elizabeth’, ‘That Henry Wilmot is one of the best newspaper men in the business.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. He says the same thing about you, by the way.’

  Lionel sat back, savouring his corona and studying her closely through the cigar’s lazy smoke, but he could detect no insincerity. It had just been a statement.

  ‘I can see why the two of you would get on,’ he commented dryly. ‘Henry didn’t believe in playing games either.’

  ‘I know. He still doesn’t. That’s why he decided to opt out for the country, he told me. He got sick of having to play the games.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  Well, it was an honest admission, Lionel thought, albeit somewhat of an understatement. Henry Wilmot had detested the internal politics of big city newspapers. He’d flouted the rules and offended right, left and centre. Which was just as well, Lionel thought with a wry smile. Had Henry played the necessary games, as he himself had, it might well have been Henry Wilmot who was now features editor of The Guardian.

  ‘I presume Henry is responsible for all this?’ He gestured at the hat and the suit.

  ‘Indirectly, yes. He told me how important first impressions are to you.’

  ‘The idea was your own then?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And the cigar?’

  ‘That was his. When I told him what I was going to do, he thought you might find it an amusing touch.’

  Lionel laughed, and for the first time since she’d appeared in his office, he started to relax. ‘So much for the two of you not believing in games,’ he said.

  Elizabeth smiled pleasantly. ‘But it’s not really a game, is it, Mr Brock? You and I are talking in a very different way than we would be if I’d arrived as Elizabeth J. Hoffmann.’ Good God, he wouldn’t have agreed to see her at all if he’d known she was a woman, she thought, but she didn’t say so, aware that he found her quite confronting enough as it was.

  Damn her hide, Lionel thought, but he couldn’t argue the fact. She was, after all, right.