by Judy Nunn
‘Liz, this is Bob Swindon of The Sydney Morning Herald,’ Macca said. ‘We don’t hold that too much against him though, he’s originally an Adelaide boy. Bob, this is Liz Hoffmann, ex London Guardian. Liz has been with The Advertiser six weeks.’
‘Seven actually. Hello, Bob.’ Elizabeth offered her hand. ‘Elizabeth Hoffmann,’ she said in the vague hope that for once the hint might be picked up.
It wasn’t. ‘G’day, Liz.’ The handshake was big and hearty like the man himself. ‘I’ve heard about you.’ News having travelled far and fast as it did in the world of journalism, Bob Swindon had most certainly heard about the good-looking young journalist from The Guardian. ‘Nice to meet you love,’ he said. Christ, she must get sick of being chatted up, he thought as they shook hands.
Bob Swindon made a habit of playing an avuncular role with young women these days. He’d decided, with some regret but a great deal of common sense, that his womanising days were over. Fat and fifty was no longer a dignified image for the Lothario he’d once been; at least, that was his humorously self-deprecating way of putting it. A decade of high-blood-pressure medication having seriously affected his ability to perform in the sexual arena, the decision had, to a certain degree, been made for him.
‘You and Liz have a lot in common, Bob,’ Macca said.
‘Is that so?’ If he were twenty years younger, Bob thought, they sure as hell would have. ‘In what way?’
‘Liz is a renegade like you. She’s the sort who likes to make waves.’ Macca flashed a disarming grin at Elizabeth. ‘And she’s highly critical of the fact that I’m the sort who doesn’t, isn’t that right, Liz?’
‘Well, um …’ Elizabeth felt caught out. She’d not said so to his face, but Macca couldn’t have voiced her feelings better.
Macca laughed good-naturedly. Elizabeth Hoffmann was the most readable woman he’d ever met, and he liked her for it.
‘So what are you two rebels drinking? My shout. A shandy for you, I take it, Liz?’
‘Thanks, Macca.’
A shandy was the closest Elizabeth had been able to come to the national penchant for beer, but the situation had been exactly the same with her colleagues in London so there’d been no need for adjustment. Personally she would have preferred a glass of claret, but no-one seemed to drink claret in pubs.
Bob opted for a beer and Macca disappeared to the bar.
The pub was always busy on a late Friday afternoon and he was gone for quite a while, during which time Elizabeth and Bob found that they did indeed have a lot in common.
‘So if you’re a renegade, Bob, tell me how I crack a decent story about Maralinga.’ Having been offered the perfect opening, Elizabeth dived right in. ‘Macca tells me I have to play it safe. What would you do?’
‘I’d play it safe. Macca’s right.’
‘Really?’ Elizabeth studied the man with suspicion. Was Bob Swindon fobbing her off because she was a woman?
‘Oh, I grant you Macca’s a conservative journo, you’re on the money there.’ In the face of her scepticism Bob felt the need to explain. ‘He’s a beaut bloke and a bloody good writer, but his wife and kids are his whole world. Danger doesn’t attract Macca like it does you and me.’ He didn’t question the fact that danger attracted her – it quite plainly did. ‘Macca’ll take the safe path every time, he’s famous for it. In this instance though, you’d be wise to follow his example.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘You’ll find yourself on the outer. Government security demands we “renegades” are barred from the project.’
‘Yes, that’s what Macca told me. So are you barred?’
‘Well, I’m not one of those journalists invited to observe the firings, which I suppose says something. But I go along to the press conferences and I toe the line like the rest; there doesn’t seem much option really. Or perhaps my renegade days are over,’ he added with a slightly theatrical sigh of resignation.
Elizabeth rather doubted that to be the case. ‘It’s blackmail then. I have to play the game if I want to observe the firings.’
‘Oh, you won’t get a look-in at the firings. They won’t invite you to Maralinga under any circumstances.’
‘But I’m a journalist who’s been assigned to report on the project – why wouldn’t they invite me?’
‘You’re a journalist who’s a woman, that’s why.’
As he said it, Bob Swindon realised that in the brief time they’d been conversing he’d actually lost sight of the fact that Elizabeth Hoffmann was a woman. Good God, he’d been talking to her as he would a man, he thought, how bloody depressing. Had his fading fat-and-fifty libido deserted him to such a degree he was blind?
‘I see,’ Elizabeth said tightly. ‘So no women are permitted to enter Maralinga.’ She felt a flash of annoyance at the thought that yet another avenue was closed, and an avenue that she’d considered of the utmost importance. She should have known better than to expect anything different, she supposed. The Australian press might show leniency towards women, but the army was the army the world over. ‘Even a member of the press from a leading newspaper would be denied entry if she happened to be female, is this correct?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, well, well, they do make things difficult, don’t they?’
She stared across the lounge. The burgeoning crowd was jostling for seats as more people poured in from the bar and the street, but she didn’t see them. She didn’t see anything as her mind ticked over. There must be another way, she thought. If she couldn’t get inside Maralinga itself, then she needed to get inside the mind of someone who could. Returning her attention to Bob Swindon, she abandoned all caution. Caution would not gain her an ally.
‘I want to know what’s going on at Maralinga, Bob,’ she said. ‘One renegade to another – can you help me? Do you have a contact that might be able to offer some information?’
Hit once again by the full force of her energy, Bob realised that his blindness to her gender had not been a result of his fading libido at all. Elizabeth Hoffmann possessed a power that transcended gender. Furthermore, her passion was contagious. He felt a sudden irresistible compulsion to help her.
‘There is perhaps someone,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
Their eyes locked and Elizabeth knew she’d found her ally.
‘A bloke I went to uni with, strangely enough. I haven’t seen him for years but we go back a long way. We’re both from Bordertown, grew up together, families knew each other, all that. I heard he’d been doing independent field work on the tests and I phoned him from Sydney about six months ago. He agreed to an interview, possibly for old times’ sake, but more probably because he knew he could trust me – I have a track record for getting myself into trouble but not those who grant me information. Anyway, he seemed more than keen on the idea. Then out of the blue the interview was cancelled and I never heard back. I believe they’ve been keeping him quiet.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His name’s Marston. Hedley Marston. He’s a biochemist with the CSIRO here in Adelaide. The general public doesn’t know of him, but in scientific circles I believe he’s quite famous. Funny really, because when we were at uni he failed mathematics and didn’t score a degree.’
‘Do you think he’d see me?’
‘You might be the only journalist he would see.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘You’re not known to the authorities like me, and you’re not the image they expect of a journalist – word wouldn’t get back that he’d spoken to the press. Marston wants to go on record, I’m pretty sure of it. I’m also pretty sure he’s been threatened in some way. You’d have to gain his confidence, of course, make him feel secure, but who knows, maybe he’ll feel safer talking to a woman. A few feminine wiles certainly wouldn’t go astray.’
‘I’m not sure I have any.’
‘Oh, you have.’ Bob stifled a smile – she was actually serious. ‘Trust me, yo
u have.’
‘If so, I don’t use them,’ she said a little primly.
‘Yes, I’ve gathered that. Perhaps now’s the time to start.’ He looked across the lounge to where Macca was wending his way through the crowd, beer glasses held high. ‘I’ll give Marston a call to pave the way,’ he said. ‘That’ll probably get you through the door, after which it’ll be up to you.’
‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth offered her hand and once again they shook. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Don’t leave yourself too open to disappointment, love.’ Bob reverted to the avuncular as he added a word of warning. ‘There’s no room for hot-shot reporting here. If Marston does offer up any controversial data, you won’t be able to go public. There are national security regulations in place and the paper won’t publish inflammatory material. No-one will.’
‘I know that.’
‘Good. Marston will know it too, but it’s my guess, rightly or wrongly, that he wants to go on record for the future. Probably his way of saying “I told you so” when his findings are eventually allowed to be published. You’ll be an ally to him then, but right now you won’t get any form of exposé out of this.’
Macca arrived beside them.
‘But hell, who needs an exposé,’ Bob said encouragingly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find some way to use whatever information you discover.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Elizabeth agreed wholeheartedly. ‘I’m quite sure I will.’
‘What exposé? Is there a plot afoot here?’ Macca plonked the drinks on the table.
‘There most definitely is,’ Bob said as he grabbed his beer. ‘Renegade stuff, Macca – doesn’t involve you.’
Macca sat, saluting the others with his glass.
‘So what are you doing in town, Bob?’ he asked when he’d taken a swig. ‘There’s nothing going down at Maralinga. What’s the big story?’
‘No big story, I’m not here on business. Or rather I am, but it’s personal business.’ He paused a second or so for dramatic effect. ‘My three-year-old mare’s racing in the Autumn Stakes at Cheltenham this weekend.’
‘Really?’ Macca was most surprised. Bob Swindon was well-known as a track aficionado and punter, but not as a racehorse owner. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.
Bob’s smile was one of pure pleasure. It had been his intention to impress. He was thrilled with his new acquisition, which was indeed his life’s dream.
‘She’s only half my mare actually,’ he admitted, ‘the other half’s my brother’s. We bought her last year and raced her as a two year old. She’s trained and stabled here, costs a mint, and she’ll be my retirement plan or my ruination, I’m not sure which.’
‘What’s she called?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Speed of Light.’
‘Ambitious,’ Macca said with the wry lift of an eyebrow.
Bob took the comment as a compliment. ‘Yeah, good name, isn’t it? The punters’ll like it. She did very well as a filly, so we’re hoping. This is her first adult meet and she’s up against a strong field. I doubt she’ll place. She may even come in last, but that doesn’t bother me, it’s bloody good training.’ He downed a healthy swig of his beer. ‘Horses are like people in my opinion. Mix a horse with the wrong company and it’ll pick up bad habits. Pit it against the best and it might well come out a winner.
‘Which reminds me, Liz,’ he said, taking a business card from his pocket and jotting a phone number on the back, ‘give me a ring – I’m here for a week. I’ll be most interested to hear how you go.’ He handed her the card. ‘Hope you score a win.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘I’ll score a win, Bob. And I bet I’ll score it without the use of feminine wiles.’
He took her literally – Bob could never resist a bet. ‘Want to make it five quid?’
‘If you like.’
‘You’re on,’ he said.
They raised their glasses and clinked while Macca looked from one to the other in complete mystification.
What an exciting woman she was, Bob thought. God, how he wished he was twenty years younger. But then if he was twenty years younger, he’d be so busy trying to get her into bed he probably wouldn’t appreciate what she had to offer beyond the obvious. Jesus, life was an irony.
Elizabeth did score a win. And she did so without resorting to the use of feminine wiles. Not as a matter of principle – she’d heeded Bob’s advice and had been quite prepared to do so – but there’d been no need. Honesty and intelligence had quickly registered with Hedley Marston.
Bob Swindon’s reasoning had been closer to the truth than he’d realised. Hedley Marston had recently completed a detailed manuscript of his findings for publication in a scientific journal, but he had been continuously thwarted by the cabal of scientists, bureaucrats and politicians bent on keeping the details of the nuclear tests and their aftermath a well-hidden secret. With little or no idea of when his manuscript would finally see the light of day, or indeed how much of the truth would appear in its ultimate publication, Marston was keen to go on record with someone he could trust. And for some strange reason he chose to trust Elizabeth Hoffmann.
‘I have received a telephone call as you’re no doubt aware, Miss Hoffmann. You come highly recommended by Bob Swindon. I take it you know him well?’
Marston was studying her astutely through horn-rimmed spectacles, a pleasant-faced man in his fifties with a bald domed head and rather large ears. Elizabeth realised she was being tested.
‘I don’t know Bob at all well,’ she said. ‘We met only several days ago, last Friday to be precise.’
‘Then why would he sing your praises?’
‘I believe he senses that I can be trusted. I work the same way Bob does, Mr Marston. My word is my bond and I never betray a confidence.’
His lips curved into a smile. It was a delicate mouth, she noticed, well-shaped, almost feminine amongst features that were otherwise ordinary.
‘Bob always was a good judge of character,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Miss Hoffmann.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She’d obviously passed the test.
Hedley Marston talked for an hour, not only about his findings but about the way in which he’d been silenced, and Elizabeth found much of what he had to say shocking.
In his monitoring of the background radiation over Adelaide, the twenty-four-hour sample he’d taken the day after the airdrop test had shown levels hundreds of times above normal, he told her, but the safety committee had maintained his readings were exaggerated and had accused him of being an alarmist.
His examination of the iodine content in the thyroids of dead animals following each of the tests had proved that vast tracts of Australia had been subjected to radioactive fallout. Members of the safety committee had contradicted his results and threatened to discredit him amongst the scientific community.
Elizabeth scribbled down his revelations in shorthand, offering no comment and making no interjection.
The controlled experimentation he’d conducted in farming areas had shown that most of the exposure to livestock came from contaminated food, which posed a far longer-term risk than contaminated air. Not long after he’d presented these particular reports, it had been decided he was overworked and he’d been taken off the program. ‘Health problems’ had been cited.
He told her how his reports had been altered or discredited, and how his attempts to publish his findings had been thwarted at every turn. The power of the nuclear cabal was limitless.
Finally, he brought up the subject of the minor nuclear tests. These were still in their relatively early stages, he said, the Kittens, the Tims, the Rats, and the soon to be included Vixens, but the experiments were numerous and were run virtually unchecked. Furthermore, they were planned to continue for years.
‘I’m no nuclear physicist,’ he said, ‘but the irresponsible use of uranium and beryllium and, above all, plutonium is courting disaster on all levels. The scientists at Maralinga are having a field day. They have a d
esert to play in and limitless materials to play with. It’s like giving children boxes of matches.’
Marston paused before making his final announcement. ‘The minor tests are bound to result in huge amounts of radioactive contamination. In my opinion, they’ll pose an even greater ongoing risk than the atomic bomb detonations.’
He’d come to an abrupt halt, and Elizabeth, who’d remained silent throughout, looked up from her notepad at a loss for words.
‘How can they get away with it?’ she said finally.
‘The world’s a frightened place. The threat of communism and the race for nuclear power gives them the perfect excuse, or so they believe.’
‘But to deny the public access to such information, to discredit your findings, to alter your reports, to prohibit you from publishing …’
‘You don’t understand, Miss Hoffmann.’ The eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses had hardened, signalling a dire warning. ‘We are dealing with ruthless liars in high places.’
She was silent for a moment, wondering if she should leave. The interview seemed over.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
‘I will continue to monitor the situation and take readings, despite no longer being an official part of the program, and one day, when it’s safe to publish my findings, I shall do so. For the moment I must remain silent. If I don’t, they will ruin me.’
Ruthless liars in high places, Elizabeth thought. How ruthless? If they would destroy the career of a prominent scientist in order to silence him, would they murder a soldier who threatened to expose the truth?
‘But surely the collusion between politicians and scientists can’t guarantee total security, Mr Marston,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady – she felt on the brink of discovery. ‘What of the soldiers on the range? They’re working in the thick of things. They must have some idea of what’s going on.’