by Judy Nunn
‘I slept with you because I love you.’
Did he believe her? From the look in his eyes it was impossible to tell, and it didn’t matter anyway. But she was glad she’d said the words out loud. She didn’t like living with a lie.
‘I know what it was the men saw, Elizabeth.’ His voice was cold. ‘I know what they saw and I know why they were threatened with court martial. I should, after all: I was the officer who issued the threat. Does that make me a suspect, do you think? Could the nameless, faceless person possibly be me?’
He left, closing the door quietly behind him.
All was in readiness and, with only several days until countdown commenced, Maralinga was abuzz with anticipation. The final batches of VIPs had settled in and, with over 3000 residents, the township was now functioning at full capacity. But there was one more late arrival.
Harold Dartleigh stepped out of the de Havilland into a perfect spring morning. The sky was a cloudless blue, and the vibrant colours of the Nullarbor appeared newly washed as fresh green growth sprang from the ochre-red earth. But Harold didn’t notice. All he could see was the wretched wasteland of desert stretching for miles and, as he walked towards the airport terminal, those preposterous oleanders lining the pathway in welcome. Monstrous plants, he thought, ugly as sin, even in blossom. Little wonder they thrived in this wilderness. No respectable English plant could survive out here.
Ned Hanson, his cipher clerk, was on hand to greet him.
‘There was little for me to do back at the office, sir,’ he explained, ‘so I thought I’d come out and offer you a personal welcome.’
Oh, Christ, Harold thought. ‘How very kind,’ he said.
During the drive into Maralinga, Ned chatted away, first about the reports he’d been sending, then, when that didn’t produce much reaction, the weather – Ned was not a man comfortable with silence. Beside him, Harold stared listlessly out of the Land Rover’s passenger window. He would miss young Daniel during this trip, he thought.
Things picked up several hours later though. When Ned had left the office for the second lunchtime shift as arranged, a familiar face appeared in the doorway.
‘Welcome back to Maralinga.’ Carefully latching the door behind him, Gideon slid with his customary grace into the wicker chair opposite Harold’s desk. ‘You’ve been pining for us all, I can tell.’
Thank God for Gideon Melbray, Harold thought.
They quickly got down to business, the main topic of the day being the minor test series. Gideon brought Harold up to date on the progress of the Kittens, Tims and Rats.
‘Your account is certainly far removed from the reports that are forwarded to me from this office,’ Harold remarked dryly.
‘Ah, yes, poor old Ned’s been left very much in the dark, I’m afraid, but then so has everyone else. The boffins are having a field day out there.’ Gideon waved a hand about vaguely as if indicating the entire desert area of South Australia. ‘With no eyes upon them they can do what they want and they’re getting away with bloody murder.’
‘Good for them. I have no problem with that, but how dare Penney not keep MI6 informed.’ Harold scowled. ‘The man’s power truly has gone to his head.’
‘We knew they’d close ranks on us though, didn’t we? That’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Yet again, Harold congratulated himself on the foresight he’d shown in placing Gideon undercover. ‘I presume you’re gaining your information from the phone taps?’
‘Oh, yes. The little red phones have proved a positive goldmine. They chat away on their personally interconnected lines like garrulous teenagers. And then they hand their boring, predictable reports in to poor old Ned – it’s really quite laughable.’
‘Laughable to you perhaps, Gideon,’ Harold said stuffily. ‘I, frankly, find nothing at all amusing about information being withheld from the deputy director of MI6 and a peer of the realm no less. Who the hell does that upstart Penney think he is?’
Gideon didn’t respond to his superior’s fit of pique. Harold could become quite pedantic when his blue blood was on the boil. ‘And, of course, there’s always Melvyn,’ he said instead, changing the subject. ‘Melvyn’s a fund of information.’
‘Melvyn Crowley, yes.’ Harold was distracted from the diatribe he’d been about to deliver on William Penney rising so disgracefully above his station in life. ‘I’ve had some interesting calls from Melvyn. Indeed, we’ve become quite pally. I must certainly pay him a visit.’
Crowley was a madman of the first order and an odious sycophant, Harold thought, but his views on human experimentation were intriguing to say the least. He rather looked forward to another chat with the little Nazi. Well, well, this was becoming like old home week, wasn’t it? He was settling in, after all.
The fourteenth of September dawned clear with favourable weather conditions, and as the morning progressed meteorological reports remained positive.
The final go-ahead was given. The first of the Antler test series was now underway.
The device this time was of low-energy yield – 1 kiloton – and, as in previous tests, it was to be exploded from a tower, the detonation scheduled to take place at two thirty in the afternoon.
By one o’clock there were hundreds gathered at Roadside. The final countdown to Tadje had commenced.
Etta walks beside the railway line. She is following the tracks that disappear far away to the west where the desert meets the sky. She has been following the tracks for ten days now, ever since the mail truck from Coober Pedy dropped her off at Tarcoola. Very soon she will reach Ooldea.
The railway tracks and the fettlers’ camps have been Etta’s lifeline, the railway leading her ever closer to her family, and the camps providing her with sustenance. She has travelled at a regular pace, stopping at each siding and each camp along the way — Malbooma, Wynbring, Barton, Immarna — and the fettlers have readily exchanged food and water for sexual favours. Some of the men were content to ignore her pregnant belly, lifting her cotton dress and taking her from behind, while others she served with her mouth. Etta is accustomed to serving white men.
Now, as she strides along, her arms swinging freely, her belly no discomfort, Coober Pedy seems a lifetime ago. She has no regrets. The white men with whom she lived there did not harm her, but she wishes she was not with child. She does not know which of the two white men fathered the baby inside her and she does not care, but if she was not with child she could have stayed with them in Coober Pedy. She liked Coober Pedy.
Etta is a Kokatha girl. She is seventeen years old and has always been rebellious, even as a child. Her extended family group of a dozen or so are converts to Christianity and accustomed to mission life. They do not stay long in one place, however, regularly disappearing from the missions to continue a nomadic existence.
Etta met the white men one year ago. Her family group had set up camp near the mission at Yalata. Her mother and aunties liked the services conducted by the Lutheran minister there, and her father and uncles liked the food the mission provided for its flock.
The two white men had driven across the desert from Kalgoorlie and had stopped to fill their water bags at Yalata. Etta had flirted with them. She liked to flirt. The men were on their way to Coober Pedy to mine for opals, they said. A pretty black girl like her could come with them if she wanted to. They would look after her.
Etta had said nothing to her family. She’d just climbed into the cabin of the Holden utility and driven off with the white men.
She had loved Coober Pedy. It was a place of great magic where strange people came from faraway lands and some even lived in houses under the ground. The white men had set up camp on the outskirts of town and she had been happy enough with them. She did their chores and slept with them when they wanted a woman, performing whatever sexual duties were required. She had food enough and they never beat her and she was content.
It was only when her belly started to swell that she realised
she was pregnant. But she didn’t tell the white men. She kept her secret for as long as possible. It was not difficult. She was young with a neat, tight body and her belly didn’t show beneath the loose cotton dresses she wore. She successfully hid her condition even during copulation, exciting the men with her mouth and then presenting them with her bare backside. They hardly looked at her when they took her anyway.
Etta had been well into her time before the men had found out, and when they had, they’d been angry. They’d paid the mail truck driver two pounds to take her on his run as far as Tarcoola, and they’d threatened to bash her if she came back to Coober Pedy. A baby had not been part of the bargain.
Now, as Etta approaches Ooldea, she prepares the lie she must tell. Her family must not know that the child she carries is a white man’s child. If her family were to know this, they might well disown her. When the baby is born, they will cast her aside she is sure, but she dares not think about that now. She feels that her time is not very far off, certainly less than one full moon. She must find her family before then.
The sun is leaning towards the west when she comes upon the fence. It is early afternoon and Ooldea lies just ahead, but she can go no further. Who has built this great fence of wire, she wonders. And where are those of her people who would normally be gathered here? Who is keeping them from Ooldea? Ooldea is a meeting place for many, many people. It is where she had hoped to find her family. And if not her family, then at least others who will take her in and help her when her time comes. What will she do now? Where will she go?
As if in answer, a sign appears in the sky to the north. A mighty cloud has formed, growing in magnificence, surely signalling the gathering of many. Perhaps her own family is amongst this gathering.
Etta leaves the safety of the railway line, but she feels no fear. She has her own tracks to follow now. This is familiar territory. She has travelled this area often with her family. She knows the waterholes and the signs of her people.
She sets off towards the great smoke signal. It is several days’ walk away at least, possibly further. But this does not matter. The smoke beckons her. It is a personal sign, and she has time enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Antler test series was off to a flying start. Every facet of the Tadje firing had run with clockwork precision. The lessons learned during the Buffalo series had proved invaluable.
In Adelaide the following day, the AGIO conference room was packed. The interest of the press had been sharply rekindled. Tadje was the first major test to be conducted for nearly a year, and the first of a brand new series. All eyes were once again upon Maralinga.
Given the importance of the occasion and the keen response from the press, several prominent figures were in attendance, including a senior official of the Australian government, the chairman of the safety committee, and Sir William Penney himself. As a result, Nick Stratton’s job was to MC proceedings rather than to act as spokesman.
After introducing the officials who were seated behind him up on the dais, Nick called upon Sir William Penney to address the gathering.
Sir William rose and walked forward to the podium, and Nick returned to his seat. As Penney talked through the technical aspects of the Tadje firing, Nick didn’t listen to one word the man said. Elizabeth was not visible from where he was sitting and he was marking time until the next introduction. He could see her quite clearly from the podium.
Sir William’s speech was concise. He thanked the press for their attention, returned to his seat, and Nick was quickly back at the podium. While introducing the foreign affairs diplomat from Canberra, his glance kept flickering to Elizabeth where she sat in the very last row, and he willed her to look at him. But although she appeared to be giving him her full attention, not once did her eyes meet his.
He returned to his seat while the foreign affairs diplomat droned on about Australia’s commitment to Britain and the strength of the bond forged with the mother country. Then it was time for the introduction of Professor Ernest Titterton, chairman of the Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee. Again Nick willed Elizabeth to look at him, and again she didn’t. During each of the introductions she assiduously avoided eye contact.
When the speeches were over, Nick returned to the podium and opened the floor to questions. Most were directed to specific speakers, but he remained standing by to answer any general queries and to field those that might prove troublesome. He kept glancing towards Elizabeth, waiting for her to make her presence known, as he was sure she would. But, to his surprise, she said nothing, and after half an hour or so the questions petered out.
‘Is that it then?’ His eyes raked the room before coming to rest upon Elizabeth. ‘No more questions?’ he asked. ‘Last chance.’ It was an open invitation. In fact, it appeared rather like a dare.
Finally her eyes met his. She held his gaze for a second or so, gave a barely perceptible shake of the head and looked away.
Nick brought the conference to a conclusion.
‘You should have come up with a question, Liz. Stratton was obviously after another confrontation.’
Over beers at the Criterion, Bob Swindon had a good-natured go at Elizabeth. He and Macca Mackay had been seated beside her at the conference and both had been surprised by her silence, particularly as Nick Stratton had seemed to be personally seeking her contribution.
‘I think he enjoyed the verbal stoush last time,’ Bob said, ‘and I must say it livened things up.’
‘Things didn’t need livening up this time, Bob. There was a genuine report to be delivered; no sense in turning it into a farce.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said with mock horror, ‘that you were inhibited by the presence of the big guns.’
‘I most certainly was not,’ Elizabeth replied tartly. ‘Why on earth should I be?’
‘Of course, silly me.’ Bob quickly backed off; he couldn’t imagine Elizabeth being inhibited by anyone.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that I don’t see any point in putting on a show for the sake of it.’
‘Fair enough.’ He changed the subject. ‘Have you had any further contact with our friend Hedley Marston?’
‘No, why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I just wondered if you’d heard he’s been awarded an honorary Doctor of Science degree by the Australian National University.’
‘Really?’
‘So I suppose that means they haven’t been able to blacklist him altogether.’
‘I should hope not.’
The two were interrupted by the arrival of Macca, who had Georgie Swann and Ron Woods in tow, and the conversation immediately turned to the Tadje detonation of the previous day. Macca, Georgie and Ron were The Advertiser’s three-man team who attended the firings, and Bob Swindon demanded to hear every single detail of the proceedings, as he always did. Bob swore he got far more information over beers at the pub than he ever did from a press conference.
Elizabeth had heard it all before. She’d asked the very same questions of Macca just that morning, so she made her excuses and left. She wasn’t in the mood to socialise anyway. Seeing Nick again had left her unsettled.
During the tram ride home she pondered Bob Swindon’s light-hearted accusation. Bob was right, she thought, she had been inhibited, but not by the big guns. She’d been inhibited by Nick. She’d toed the line and maintained her silence all because of him. He’d been in charge of the proceedings and she hadn’t wished to disrupt the conference for his sake. How spineless, she thought crossly. How girlish and spineless and completely out of character. It wasn’t as if Nick had expected her to behave herself. In fact, he’d openly encouraged her to speak up.
Why had he done that, she wondered as she stared out of the tram window into the gathering dusk. Why on earth had he done that? It was as if he’d wanted her to disrupt the conference. Why? She was mystified.
She walked the several blocks from the tram stop and by the time she reached the house, dusk w
as turning to night.
He was waiting for her on the front porch. At first she was startled by the figure looming in the shadows.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Nick. What a relief.’ She made light of the moment. ‘I thought I was about to be attacked.’
‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’ She led the way upstairs and into the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’m making a pot for myself. I’ve been at the Criterion and I’m a little shandied out.’
‘I’d rather have a Scotch. That is, if you haven’t thrown away the bottle.’
‘No. I haven’t thrown away the bottle.’
She only kept Scotch in the house for him. She never drank spirits herself. She gave him the bottle and he poured himself a drink while she put the kettle on.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’
‘No, no, thank you. I’m fine.’
A slight awkwardness existed between them. The change in circumstances required some adjustment. Food and drink had always been secondary to lovemaking, and by now they would have been in the bedroom.
‘The conference went well,’ she said.
‘Yes. A good turnout.’
Their chat followed general lines as she made the tea, both of them carefully avoiding any personal issues. Then they adjourned to the lounge room, Elizabeth taking the teapot with her. As they sat at the little table by the French windows, she posed the question she’d been longing to ask.
‘Why did you urge me to take a stand, Nick?’
His shrug seemed to say isn’t that obvious, but Elizabeth remained mystified. It wasn’t at all obvious to her.
‘You seemed to be daring me,’ she said, puzzled. ‘It was as if you wanted me to cause trouble, as if you wanted me to –’
‘I just wanted you to be you, Elizabeth.’
He said no more than that, which didn’t really seem to answer the question, but she nodded obligingly as if it had. ‘Oh, I see,’ she replied.