by Robert Gott
‘Let me explain,’ I said firmly.
The next day, on our way to meet with James and Nigella Fowler in James’ tiny office in the Victoria Barracks, I asked Brian who he thought had attacked him on the train on the way back from Maryborough.
‘Sarah Goodenough, of course. She’s crazy. You don’t believe any of that guff she gave the police about me being obsessed with her, do you?’
‘Are you going to have her charged with anything? She shouldn’t just get away with it.’
‘Are you kidding? I want to forget the whole thing. I’ll put it down to experience, and remind myself never to get involved with a lunatic again. It just ends in tears.’
James Fowler wasn’t altogether happy with Brian’s unauthorised role in infiltrating the Order of the Shining Knights, even though Brian and I had agreed to downplay it, but he was so pleased by the outcome that his displeasure was expressed in the mildest of terms.
‘Archbishop Mannix has officially expressed his gratitude to Intelligence and he’s included a note of thanks to be given directly to you, Will.’
He passed a piece of thick, embossed paper to me.
‘Privately, he’s let us know that shooting people dead in his cathedral is not the purpose for which it was built. He also said that he didn’t think his homilies were so boring that they’d benefit from the interest added by gunfire. At least he’s got a sense of humour about it.’
Fowler went on to explain that it was in the nature of Intelligence work that there could be no public recognition for a job well done. We’d have to be content with knowing that the relevant authorities were silently grateful.
‘Which brings me to the point of this meeting. Nigella? If you’d like to take over from here?’
Nigella cleared her throat.
‘Since the beginning of this war the forces have been using civilian entertainers to keep the troops happy. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but whole Tivoli shows have been staged at various bases — costumes, music, the lot. Obviously these groups can’t be sent forward into combat areas, so LHQ — that’s Land Headquarters to the uninitiated — here in Melbourne have decided to set up small concert parties to go into dodgy areas, do their act, and get out again quickly.’
I interrupted.
‘And you’re looking for performers.’
My heart was beating with excitement. I am, after all, an actor above all else. Whatever skills I bring to other areas of my life, they are underpinned by those peculiar gifts which good performers possess. We’re a rare and happy breed, sometimes despised, but always, I suspect, envied. We can throw off the shackles of the drab and everyday, and rule whole kingdoms, fall grandly in love, and die heroically, and we can do all these things in the course of a single evening. Nigella, who’d glimpsed a little of my talent in her brief exposure to it, was about to soothe the awful ache of withdrawal that all actors feel when away from the stage, with the offer of work. If I didn’t love her before, what I now felt was unmistakably that emotion.
Nigella looked at her brother, who continued what she’d begun.
‘It’s a little more complicated than that. What we’re looking for are performers whose real job is something else entirely. We have a problem in Darwin. Your brother Fulton has been doing superb work in a unit that very few people know anything about. It’s called the Northern Australia Observer Unit, and it’s a bit of a guerrilla outfit. These are tough men. Someone doesn’t like what they’re doing, and we suspect it’s either someone inside the unit or certainly someone inside the armed forces. Three of these men have been found dead, and they didn’t die of old age. We want to send you two up there as part of a concert party, and we want you to make contact with your brother and find out as much as you can. We’re hopeful that this can be sorted out in a matter of weeks. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, up there will know that you’re working for us. You’ll be on your own.’
‘What sort of entertainment do these concert parties put on?’ I asked.
‘We’ll put you in touch with the right people down here who’ll give you a crash course, but my understanding is that you pretty much do what you like. If you’re willing to slip on a dress, apparently that goes down a treat.’
‘And when would this happen?’ Brian asked.
‘Immediately,’ Nigella said. ‘Do you need time to discuss it?’
‘No,’ I said, and looked at Brian who nodded his agreement. ‘We’ll do whatever we have to do. I’m sure Brian will shave his legs if it’s for the good of the country.’
‘I can’t overstate how dangerous this is, Will. You’ll have to watch each other’s back like hawks. Trust no one.’
I only half-heard those last words. My head was swimming with the glorious prospect of bringing Timon of Athens to Shakespeare-starved troops. All I could hear at that moment was thunderous applause.