by Judy Nunn
‘I’ll give you a ring next week, Elizabeth. We must repeat the experience.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He stood on the kerb and waved as the taxi took off.
Further evenings out followed, and the odd lunch too – over the next several weeks, Nick found any number of excuses for regular trips to Adelaide.
The game between them became progressively more daring. She would bring up the topic of Maralinga and he would tantalise her with bits and pieces of information he considered harmless. Then she would push him just that little bit further, offering opinions, trying to draw him into conversation, sometimes even succeeding, and when he started to become testy she would back off and apologise for having gone too far. Nick knew he should ban such discussions, but he wasn’t sure if he could maintain her interest without teasing her along, and so the game continued.
Nick Stratton found Elizabeth Hoffmann mercurial, maddening and very, very clever, all of which only added to her attraction. But he was making no inroads in the sexual stakes. By mid-April he’d progressed no further than a kiss on the cheek. On the several occasions when he’d started to home in, she’d artfully avoided mouth-to-mouth contact, and the kiss on the cheek had now become standard practice, replacing the handshake upon greeting and departing. It was infuriating. He was being treated like a workmate. Furthermore, she always insisted on catching her own taxi home, thereby excluding him from any contact with her personal life. He dared not risk scaring her off by attempting to ravish her the way he wished – she was far too intriguing – but he’d reached a definite stalemate. It was time to take action, and the first step was to meet her on her home ground.
He arranged a weekend’s leave and booked a hire car in advance. Then he telephoned her mid-week.
‘Do you want to visit the wineries on Saturday?’ he asked. ‘I’ll be in town and I’ll have a car.’
‘Love to,’ she said.
‘Right. I’ll pick you up around ten. What’s your address?’
Elizabeth hesitated. She liked Nick Stratton: she found him stimulating company, and he was certainly useful. She was aware that the material he shared with her was heavily censored, but it was nonetheless insightful and she was slowly but surely learning much about the basic structure of Maralinga. She’d avoided inviting him into her personal life, however, knowing full well he was bent on seduction.
Oh, well, she thought, too late now – she could hardly insist upon meeting him in town. She gave him her address, hoping that she wouldn’t have to fight him off when he dropped her home.
He arrived on the dot of ten to discover her waiting outside the house in St Johns Row.
‘Good day for it,’ he said as he jumped out and opened the passenger door for her. The day was indeed glorious: crisp, cloudless and sunny. ‘The Barossa’s spectacular in autumn.’
The Barossa Valley, roughly an hour’s drive northeast of Adelaide, was prime wine-producing country and exceptionally beautiful. They spent two hours driving through the lush, rolling foothills, visiting the wineries and walking beside the river. Then Nick called a halt for lunch.
The restaurant looked out over endless vineyards stretching down the slopes to the shallow valley below, and the leaves of the vines were a riot of colour, from rusty reds to yellows and even the deepest of purples.
‘You’re right,’ Elizabeth said, ‘it is spectacular.’
They were loath to leave when they’d finished their meal and they lingered over their wine, savouring the beauty of the place.
‘How incredible,’ Nick said, leaning back, arms folded, observing her with an air of amusement.
‘What’s incredible?’
‘It’s been a whole five hours and you haven’t once mentioned Maralinga.’
‘Good heavens above, I haven’t, have I?’ She was surprised as she realised that he was right. ‘Would you like me to?’ The challenge was there once more, in her voice and in her eyes.
‘Suit yourself.’
The game was on again, he thought, but he was tiring of it now. The bar would have to be raised if she wanted more information.
‘The minor tests,’ she said, ‘the Tims and Rats and Kittens …’ She paused, considering how to word a statement that was really a question.
‘The tests with the colourful codenames supplied by your mysterious source,’ he prompted archly.
‘That’s right.’ She smiled at the reference to their first meeting, then continued in all seriousness. ‘Surely these experiments could create an ongoing risk.’
‘In what way?’
What was she up to, he wondered. In which particular direction was she heading this time?
‘They employ the use of materials that are highly radioactive,’ she said, ‘uranium, beryllium, plutonium …’ Elizabeth was once again looking for a giveaway sign. She was more convinced than ever that Nick Stratton was ignorant of the true cover-up at Maralinga, and the true cover-up had become a source of great interest to her. ‘I can’t help wondering,’ she said, ‘whether these tests might pose a contamination problem in the future.’
‘You’re certainly a full book on the subject. I take it this is further information gained from the mysterious source who cannot be named?’
She registered the superciliousness in his tone, but not the degree to which she’d angered him.
‘I’ve been to the library,’ she said. ‘I’ve been reading up on the subject.’ It was true, she had.
‘How very clever of you.’
Nick deeply resented her line of questioning. He’d realised that she was testing the extent of his knowledge and he was insulted. This was the first stupid move she’d made, he thought. Did she honestly believe he was so naive he didn’t know he was being fed half-truths and possibly even lies from above? As liaison officer, he was the spokesperson for the British and Australian governments and was given material approved by both for public consumption – virtual propaganda, little more. This was the frustration of his job admittedly, and it irked him, but security demanded such safeguards be set in place. Armies and governments throughout the civilised world conducted top-secret projects in exactly this manner, he thought, and if the notion was beyond Elizabeth’s comprehension then it was she who was naive.
He drained the last of his red wine. ‘Let’s go,’ he said abruptly, rising and picking up his jacket from the back of his chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she stood. ‘I didn’t mean to offend –’
‘You’re free to think whatever you wish, Elizabeth, but I’d advise you to keep your thoughts to yourself.’
‘Please don’t be angry, Nick.’ She was bewildered by the force of his reaction, but contrite nonetheless. It had been unfair of her to push him so hard when he was not at liberty to respond. ‘I’m really, really sorry. It’s been a lovely day. I didn’t mean to spoil things.’
‘You haven’t.’ Her apology was genuine and he was forced to accept it, but God she was a maddening woman. ‘We’ll make a detour and visit Hahndorf on the way back,’ he said.
They spent well over an hour exploring the German-settled village of Hahndorf. Elizabeth was enchanted by the picturesque pocket of Europe nestled so incongruously amongst the Australian eucalypts, but Nick’s mind was elsewhere.
During the drive, he’d analysed his knee-jerk response, wondering why he’d so overreacted. Was he really insulted because she may have discovered he was little more than a mouthpiece? He hadn’t enjoyed being reminded of the fact it was true, but in hindsight why should he care? He did his job and he did it well. Was he perhaps worried about her source of information? He didn’t for one minute believe she’d gained her facts from the library – but was her informant a threat to security? No, he didn’t believe that either. Her informant was a Maralinga scientist who’d been big-noting himself during his trips to Adelaide in an attempt to win sexual favour. And that was where the true problem lay, he realised. He couldn’t help wondering whether the man had met
with success. Elizabeth appeared to know a lot about the Maralinga tests – at times he suspected more than he did himself – and she could not have gained her knowledge during a brief conversation over a beer at the Criterion. Had she teased this man for information the way she was teasing him? Had she and the scientist had an affair?
He pictured the two in bed making love, Elizabeth and some faceless man, and realised with a sense of shock that his overreaction at the restaurant had been one of pure jealousy. Good God, he thought, he was envying a mythical lover of his own invention. Now, as they wandered the quaint streets of Hahndorf, Nick couldn’t get the image of Elizabeth and her lover out of his mind, and yet the man quite probably did not exist. Elizabeth was a very proper middle-class Englishwoman; she would hardly offer her body as payment for information. His frustration was making him thoroughly irrational.
It was dusk when they pulled up outside the house in St Johns Row. He walked her to the front door.
‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’
Common courtesy demanded she make the offer, although in doing so Elizabeth hoped she wasn’t asking for trouble.
‘No,’ he said, aware of her trepidation. ‘I’ll get back to the hotel, it’s been a long day.’
‘I’ve had a wonderful time, Nick. Thank you so much.’
‘I enjoyed myself too. Thank you for your company.’
She averted her head for the kiss on the cheek, but he took her face in his hands and turned her to him. The rules were about to change.
She did not pull away. She’d known she couldn’t keep him at arm’s length forever, and she’d been waiting for him to force the next step. She’d been unsure of what her reaction might be when he did, but now, as their lips met, she decided to acquiesce. A goodnight kiss could do no harm.
Sensing her wariness, he was careful to keep his passion in check and he kissed her with the utmost tenderness. Then, as her resistance wavered, he gathered her to him, feeling her surrender, her mouth opening slightly to the gentle insistence of his. He became lost in the feel of her. For this moment she belonged to him, he thought. For this one moment Elizabeth was actually his.
The longing of the past six weeks poured itself into Nick’s one moment of possession and, when the kiss was over, Elizabeth was bewildered. She didn’t know how to react. He’d done nothing improper. He’d made no attempt to caress her intimately. It had been a simple kiss. Why did she feel as though they’d just made love? Why did she feel so terribly guilty?
‘Goodnight, Nick.’ Unsure of what to say, she left it at that.
‘Goodnight, Elizabeth.’
As he drove back to town, Nick couldn’t have felt happier. The bar had been well and truly raised; he could now move on.
‘Good morning.’ He was back the next day at ten o’clock, standing on her front doorstep in shorts and T-shirt, a towel draped around his neck.
‘Nick, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I had the car for another day,’ he said, ‘there was no point in wasting it. How about a swimming lesson?’
‘What?’
‘You told me you were teaching yourself to swim – you said you give yourself a lesson every Saturday.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘Don’t you remember?’
She nodded. Yes, she remembered mentioning the fact briefly, but that had been over six weeks ago.
‘Well, you missed out yesterday, so I thought we’d make up for it with a Sunday session. What do you say?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t –’
‘It’ll be winter before you know it,’ he said. ‘You should seize the opportunity while the weather’s still good.’ She remained hesitant. ‘Particularly with an expert teacher to hand.’
‘Isn’t it a bit cold?’ She was wavering.
‘Don’t be such a sissy.’
No one called Elizabeth a sissy. ‘All right, you win.’
‘Excellent. I’ll wait in the car while you get ready.’
As she donned her swimming costume, Elizabeth supposed she should be annoyed by this intrusion upon her personal life, but she couldn’t really blame him. He’d obviously presumed yesterday’s kiss gave him licence to call on her. Elizabeth herself had decided to ignore the kiss. She had dwelt upon neither the kiss itself nor her reaction to it, which she’d dismissed as a romantic flutter of girlishness on her part. It had been foolish of her to feel guilty; she’d done nothing wrong. But she must be careful not to encourage him any further, she told herself as she pulled on her tracksuit. Things must not be allowed to get out of hand.
She grabbed a towel and headed downstairs.
He left the car parked where it was and they walked down Jetty Road to the beach. It was not particularly hot and the beach was no longer crowded with summer hordes, but the day was bright and sunny and the crispness of autumn did not deter the true devotees. A number of fitness fanatics ploughed backwards and forwards through the water, and scattered about on the sand were those hardened sun bakers determined to prolong their tans for as long as humanly possible.
Nick and Elizabeth stripped down to their bathing costumes and waded into the ocean. Nick tried hard not to ogle her body, but with some difficulty. She was a tall girl who carried herself well, but she never dressed provocatively. Who could possibly have guessed, he thought, that beneath the sensible blazers and skirts lay such magnificently moulded breasts and buttocks and thighs? He could barely take his eyes off her as she strode into the sea. More than ever she reminded him of a thoroughbred racehorse in peak condition.
They waded out waist-deep.
‘Right, now show me what you can do,’ he said. Seconds later, he couldn’t contain his laughter as she floundered about, arms thrashing wildly, head tossing up and down, gasping for air. So much for the thoroughbred racehorse, he thought.
‘What’s wrong?’ she spluttered as her feet found the sandy bottom and she stood. ‘Why are you laughing? I was swimming all right.’
‘No you weren’t. You were drowning.’
‘I most certainly was not,’ she protested. ‘I’ve watched other people and that’s the way they do it.’
‘Other people breathe.’
‘I was breathing.’
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘Yes, I was. I’ve studied them swimming overarm and that’s exactly what they do. They lift their head to the side and breathe in as their arm goes back …’ She waved an arm in the air and turned her head to one side by way of demonstration. ‘Just the way I did,’ she added defiantly.
‘And what do they do when their arm goes forward?’
‘They put their head back in the water.’
‘And they breathe out.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yep, every time.’
‘Oh.’ A brief pause. ‘I didn’t know that.’
He demonstrated the breathing technique and made her practise leaning forward in the water with her feet still on the ocean floor. ‘Deep, even breaths,’ he said, and he patted his midriff. ‘Use your diaphragm, push the air out from here.’
Then he incorporated the arm action. ‘Lead back with your elbow,’ he showed her how, ‘and stretch well forward with your hand, really grab the water.’
He taught her the correct head movement: ‘No need to heave your whole head up – just turn your face to the side enough to get air.’ And, holding her hands while she floated, he taught her how to kick properly. ‘Your feet are your outboard engine,’ he told her, ‘don’t let them sink.’
‘Right,’ he finally said, ‘now let’s put it all together. Float on your stomach again, arms out front, I’ll support you.’
She did, and he cradled one arm under her waist, holding her steady in the water. ‘Off you go,’ he said, ‘nice and easy, and don’t forget to kick.’
He walked beside her, supporting her with one hand and correcting her style with the other. ‘Stretch right out,’ he said, running his hand along the length of her ar
m to her wrist, extending her reach. ‘Don’t cut your stroke short.’
She did as she was told.
‘Good, that’s good. Watch your head – you’re lifting too far out of the water, it’s a waste of energy.’ He placed the palm of his hand between her shoulder blades. ‘No lifting from here, just a turn to the side,’ he said, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. ‘From here,’ he said, ‘turn from here.’
Again, she did as she was told.
‘Good, very good, but don’t forget to really push out that air.’ He nudged her with his supporting arm. ‘I can’t feel your diaphragm working.’
Nick was an experienced instructor. He’d taught many to swim over the years, and he was now so focused upon tuition that he wasn’t really aware of their bodily contact. Elizabeth was. Much as she was concentrating on her performance and on obeying his commands, she was aware of his every touch. She could feel the muscles of his forearm as he supported her. She could feel the brush of his fingers along the length of her arm. She could feel his hand on the bare flesh of her back and her neck. She wasn’t accustomed to such intimacy – it made her self-conscious and ill at ease. At the same time, she was annoyed with herself. How stupid she was being, how stupid and prudish – the man was only giving her a swimming lesson. She tried with all her might to focus solely upon his instructions, but she could not ignore the distraction of his touch on her naked skin.
The water was chilly and finally he called a halt. ‘We’d better leave it at that,’ he said, ‘you’re getting goose bumps.’
He was cold himself, he needed some action. ‘I’ll see you on the beach – I’m just going to warm up a bit.’
She waded ashore and, as she towelled herself dry and donned her track suit, she watched him cutting his way through the water. It was an impressive sight. He was a powerful swimmer with an elegant style.
‘You make it look so easy,’ she said ten minutes later when he’d jogged up the beach to her.
‘It is easy. You’ll be swimming like that yourself in no time.’