Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  Except that it wasn’t an effigy. Oh my God, Brian thought, and he raised the alarm.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kenneth and Prudence Gardiner were delivered the news in person on 23 October by a Major Neville Chadwick, who introduced himself as aide-de-camp to Lieutenant General Barraclough, British army.

  ‘You are the father of Lieutenant Daniel Gardiner, sir?’ the major asked when Prudence, upon request, summoned her husband to the front door. Kenneth nodded, and the major, grateful that he didn’t have to confront the mother alone, continued. ‘I’m afraid I have bad news for you both.’ His pause was infinitesimal – one could not break such news any way but brutally, and the sooner it was over the better for all concerned. ‘It is my duty to inform you that Daniel was killed on 21 of October at approximately 2.30 pm Greenwich Mean Time in Maralinga, South Australia.’

  There were no histrionics from either parent. The numbness of their disbelief robbed them of emotion. As the major continued, they even found themselves making intelligent queries, although they barely heard their own questions, let alone the responses. During later discussions, however, they would find that every word that had been uttered was clearly etched in their minds.

  Ten minutes later, the major departed, leaving his details. The army would be in touch shortly regarding the memorial service, he said, and they were to telephone him any time of the night or day should they have any further queries.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, as the afternoon stretched into a sleepless night, Kenneth and Prudence discussed everything the major had told them. They sifted through the information, trying to make sense of what had happened in a logical fashion, anything that would aid them in avoiding the awful reality. It would be some time before they would be capable of accepting the inevitable truth that their son was dead.

  As a result, Elizabeth did not learn of Daniel’s death until two days later. Fiancées did not rank as next of kin, so she was not informed by the army. The odious task fell upon Prudence.

  ‘I apologise for ringing so early, Elizabeth.’ Prudence, guilty at the thought of letting it go one day longer, had telephoned the flat at eight in the morning. ‘But I wasn’t sure what time you left for work. I’m afraid we have received some dreadful news.’ Like the major, Prudence got straight to the point. ‘Dan has been killed.’ When there was no response from the other end of the line, she continued briskly, ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such terrible tidings. I’m aware it must come as a shock. It did to us too, of course.’

  Prudence Gardiner was not unsympathetic in her feelings for Elizabeth, but she could not allow any show of sentiment for fear she herself might start to crumble. She and Kenneth were keeping their grief private – even from each other, it seemed, which Prudence found a little hard. She would like to have shared the burden of her anguish, at least with her husband.

  ‘We were informed two days ago,’ she continued. ‘I must apologise for not calling you sooner, but we’re only just now coming to terms with the news ourselves.’

  ‘When …? How …?’ Elizabeth’s voice was barely audible as her shock manifested itself in utter confusion. She could not comprehend what she was hearing. England was not at war. How could Danny be dead? There had been no battle.

  ‘Four days ago. It was an accident, so Major Chadwick told us …’ Prudence took a deep breath and repeated the major’s words verbatim. ‘An accident that occurred as a result of the detonation of a nuclear device. The army has offered to arrange a memorial service with full military honours. I’ll let you know the details as soon as we’ve decided on the day.’ Prudence’s tone was brusque now, she needed to get off the phone. ‘It will probably be the Saturday after next, here in Crewe, of course. Naturally, you’re quite welcome to stay with us.’

  ‘A memorial service?’ Elizabeth was more confused than ever.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Major Chadwick says the circumstances of Dan’s death make it impossible for the army to ship his body home to England. He’ll be buried at Maralinga. It’s another terrible blow to us, of course.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘And now I really must go, Elizabeth.’

  Prudence could talk no longer. She and her husband had discussed the subject, and there were no words left to say. Ken seemed to understand the necessity of their son being buried in a foreign land. Personally, she didn’t, and she was sick to death of hearing the army knows best.

  ‘I’ll be in touch in the next day or so when the arrangements are made,’ she said, and she softened a little. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’m so very, very sorry for us all. Goodbye.’

  Elizabeth’s reaction as she hung up the receiver was much the same as Kenneth’s and Prudence’s had been. She was numb with disbelief. One quick phone call and she was expected to accept the irrefutable fact that Danny was dead? She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly.

  For some time she sat quite still, staring at the phone, unable to cry or to feel anything, unable to move or even to think. Then, as her mind started to clear, she told herself that she must take action. She must find out what had happened, the cold, hard facts. She would not believe Daniel was dead until she knew the truth.

  It was an accident, so Major Chadwick told us. Major Chadwick, she thought. She needed to talk to a Major Chadwick. She was on the verge of ringing Prudence back to get the man’s details, but had a better idea and telephoned The Guardian instead – the direct line of Reginald Dempster, foreign correspondence editor.

  ‘Reg, it’s Elizabeth. I’d like you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Of course. Are you all right? You sound a bit odd.’

  ‘I need to get in touch with a British army officer, a Major Chadwick …’

  ‘Ah, yes, I know the chap.’ The fact was not remarkable – there were very few in the upper echelons of power that Reginald Dempster did not know. ‘He’s aide-de-camp to Lieutenant General Barraclough –’

  ‘Can you ring me back with his phone number? I’m at the flat.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Are you sure you’re all –’

  ‘Thank you. And would you mind telling Lionel that I won’t be in today.’

  ‘Right you are. Don’t move. I’ll get back to you in a minute.’ Reginald didn’t bother asking again if she was all right. She clearly wasn’t.

  Reginald Dempster was as good as his word, and within sixty seconds Elizabeth had Chadwick’s number. She rang the offices of Lieutenant General Barraclough and was informed by the female receptionist that the major was not available.

  ‘Do you wish to leave a message?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’d like him to ring me as soon as possible. My name is Elizabeth Hoffmann and I’m Lieutenant Daniel Gardiner’s fiancée.’ She gave the receptionist her phone number, then added, ‘Tell him I’ve just received a call from Lieutenant Gardiner’s mother.’

  Major Chadwick proved as prompt as Reginald Dempster. Within sixty seconds, the phone rang. It was exactly 9.30 am.

  By now, Elizabeth’s numb state of shock had worn off and her nerves were threatening to get the better of her as the truth slowly seeped home. A mother did not announce her son’s death without certain knowledge. Why, she wondered, was she putting herself through this fresh agony? But she had to hear it for herself, even though she knew what the major would say.

  ‘Lieutenant General Barraclough extends his deepest sympathy, Miss Hoffmann, as indeed do I. Had we known of your official capacity as Lieutenant Gardiner’s fiancée, we would have personally informed –’

  ‘Just tell me what happened, please, Major.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ A tough young woman, Neville Chadwick thought, judging by the tone anyway. ‘Daniel was killed on 21 October at approximately 2.30 pm Greenwich Mean Time.’ He listed the official facts, as she obviously wished him to. ‘He was stationed at Maralinga, South Australia at the time, and his death was an unfortunate accident that occurred as a result of the detonation of a nuclear device.’

  The major
waited for some reaction, but there was none, so he continued. ‘Regrettably, the circumstances of Daniel’s death make it impossible for his body to be shipped home to England. He will be buried at Maralinga. But, as I’m sure Mrs Gardiner informed you, the army is arranging a memorial service with full military honours.’

  Again, the major waited for a response. Again, there was none.

  ‘Your fiancé died in the service of his country, Miss Hoffmann.’ Neville Chadwick’s voice took on a gentler tone. Perhaps the young woman wasn’t as tough as she’d sounded – he wished she’d say something. ‘The army deeply respects his supreme sacrifice, and in recognition –’

  But Elizabeth had stopped listening. ‘Thank you, Major,’ she said, and she hung up.

  From the moment she’d heard the major’s voice on the phone, she had known the very words he would say – she’d heard them quoted verbatim by Prudence. Daniel was killed on 21 October … His death was an unfortunate accident … He will be buried at Maralinga … But this time the awful finality of the words had hit with a brutal force, tearing into her like bullets, driving home the inescapable truth.

  She sank into a chair, clutching the armrests as if she were drowning, her chest heaving. She seemed unable to breathe properly. Danny’s dead, her mind was saying over and over, Danny’s dead, Danny’s dead. And then it was no longer her mind that was saying it. She could hear herself keening the words as she rocked back and forth, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. ‘Danny’s dead, Danny’s dead, Danny’s dead.’

  Had Prudence Gardiner been witness to Elizabeth’s robust display of grief, she might have felt envious. There were times when she longed to give voice to her pain, but pride and stoicism prevailed in the Gardiner household. Prudence was even careful to disguise the evidence of those privately shed tears she gave way to during the night. She did so for Kenneth’s sake, convinced that beneath her husband’s show of strength lay a fragile man.

  This morning was no exception.

  ‘It’s from the prime minister,’ Kenneth said as she joined him at the table. Having collected the mail, he’d called out to her as soon as he’d seen the envelope. ‘Listen to this.’

  She sat.

  ‘Dear Sir,’ Kenneth read, ‘Please allow me to extend my personal condolences. Your son, Captain Daniel Gardiner …’

  He looked up from the letter. ‘Captain Daniel Gardiner,’ he said. They had been informed that in recognition of his ultimate sacrifice, Daniel was to be posthumously promoted. ‘Did you get that, Prudence? Captain Daniel Gardiner.’

  She nodded; yes, she’d got that. He continued.

  ‘Your son, Captain Daniel Gardiner, an officer and a gentleman who has made the ultimate sacrifice for his Queen and country, is owed the respect and gratitude of the nation. My thoughts are with you and your family in your hour of loss. Sir Anthony Eden. Prime Minister.

  ‘And look at that, just look at that.’ Kenneth pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘Signed by the man himself. That’s not a stamp, that’s a personal signature that is.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Prudence agreed.

  ‘It certainly is, very impressive indeed.’

  She left him sitting at the table with the prime minister’s letter, knowing that he’d study it until he could quote every word.

  At the door to the kitchen, she paused to look back. He hadn’t noticed she’d gone. She’d wondered whether she should tell him she’d rung Elizabeth that morning, but she hadn’t bothered. It would mean nothing to him. Ken lived in a world of his own. A world where his son’s death had a meaning, she thought with a touch of bitterness. His son was a hero who had died for his country, and now Ken had a letter from the prime minister to prove it.

  Prudence disappeared into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. She vehemently disagreed with both Ken and the prime minister. She considered her son’s death a meaningless waste of a fine young life, but she kept such thoughts to herself. She dared not shatter her husband’s illusions.

  The following morning, Elizabeth, too, received a letter, but it was not from the prime minister. Exhausted after a sleepless night of weeping, she’d thought she was drained of tears, but as she sat at the kitchen table staring down at the envelope with its all too familiar handwriting, she felt the threat of a fresh onslaught. Fingers trembling, she opened the letter.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Please forgive me for any worry I might cause you in writing as I do, but I have some grave concerns and no-one with whom to share them …

  The postal services had proved most efficient. Daniel’s letter had arrived exactly eight days after he’d popped it in the bright red mailbox at the Ceduna post office.

  Reginald Dempster was just settling down to tackle the salad lunch his secretary had delivered to his office. A rather stout man in his early forties, with a genial face and reading glasses perched in perpetual readiness on the top of his head, Reginald very much enjoyed fine food and wine. As a rule, he lunched at his club in Fleet Street, several blocks from The Guardian, but for the past month, having decided to lose weight, he’d instructed his secretary to bring him a salad two days a week. He gazed down at the plate with distaste, thinking of the roast pork and crackling the club served from its carvery. He detested salad, and the diet wasn’t working anyway, he hadn’t lost a pound.

  There was a tap on the glass door of his office and he looked up, astounded to see Elizabeth Hoffmann. He jumped to his feet.

  ‘Good God, girl, what are you doing in here?’ he said as he opened the door and ushered her to one of the two guest chairs opposite his desk.

  She’d rung him earlier that morning with the news. ‘Danny’s been killed,’ she’d said bluntly. ‘Will you tell Lionel I won’t be in today? In fact, you’d better tell them all. I won’t be in for some time.’

  Reginald was most concerned to see her now. ‘Go home, Elizabeth, you need to rest.’ She looked terrible, he thought, she obviously hadn’t slept. ‘You shouldn’t have come into work.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to work. I want you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Of course.’ Behind the fatigue in her eyes, Reginald recognised the light of battle. The look was familiar to him – they’d worked together a great deal – but this time there was something manic in her intensity. ‘Anything you say. What are you after?’ He circled his desk and sat, swooping his reading glasses onto his nose and grabbing a pencil.

  ‘A man called Harry Lampton, a fettler by trade, is the chief suspect in a murder case in South Australia. He shot his wife’s lover.’

  Reginald started scribbling the details in his notebook.

  ‘The victim was a man by the name of Petraeus Mitchell, known as Pete, and he was serving in a government-appointed position as Aboriginal liaison officer at Maralinga.’

  Reginald’s eyes darted up from his notepad. Elizabeth’s fiancé, Daniel, had been stationed at Maralinga. He peered at her over the rims of his reading glasses.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, recognising the query, and Reg did indeed have a right to make one, she thought. ‘Danny and Pete Mitchell shared barracks accommodation. They were friends. I want to find out what happened.’

  ‘To Danny or to Pete Mitchell?’ Reginald was just a little confused.

  ‘Both. But let’s start with Harry Lampton. Can you make enquiries?’

  ‘Of course I can, and of course I shall. But you’re being very enigmatic, Elizabeth. Do you want to tell me what this is about?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure myself,’ she said, which was the truth, but Reg was owed an explanation and she was quite prepared to give one. ‘I received a letter from Danny this morning …’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Reginald pushed the reading glasses back to their customary position, his face a picture of concern. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said, ‘how very upsetting for you.’

  ‘Danny wasn’t convinced that Harry Lampton was the guilty party,’ Elizabeth continued briskly; sympathy was the last thing she
needed. ‘He thought there might have been some form of conspiracy. Pete Mitchell had told him of highly confidential happenings at Maralinga, and Danny was suspicious when Pete was killed shortly afterwards. He wrote in his letter to me that he was going to make enquiries. Then, three days after he posted that letter, Danny himself was killed. Accidentally, and in a nuclear detonation I might add, which means his body can’t be returned to England.’

  A lengthy pause followed, during which Reginald looked at her as if she were mad. Finally, he found his voice.

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying, Elizabeth?’ Perhaps she was demented in her grief, he was thinking. ‘Do you know the magnitude of your implications? Do you have any idea?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, Reg, don’t treat me like an idiot. I’m saying the army may have murdered Danny.’

  ‘Oh my God, girl.’ He glanced about his office, startled, as if the very walls themselves might betray what they’d heard. ‘That’s sheer madness.’

  ‘Yes, it may well be,’ she agreed, ‘but I won’t give up until I find out.’ She stood. ‘Of course, if you don’t wish to help me I’ll quite understand.’

  ‘Of course I want to help you.’ Reginald rose to his feet. ‘But what do you expect of me?’ He lowered his voice and once again glanced guiltily at the walls. ‘I can hardly ring my military contacts at Maralinga and ask them if they’re killing off their own chaps, can I?’ Then, realising what he’d said and to whom, he hastily apologised. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t mean to offend …’

  Elizabeth actually managed the faintest of smiles. Reg told the worst jokes in the world, but he was unwittingly funny at times, and always when he least intended to be. ‘Let’s just start with Harry Lampton,’ she said.