“I want to keep seeing you, Anne. But not like this.”
“Like what?”
“You’re a virgin, Anne. I don’t want to do this to you.”
What was he talking about? “I love you.”
“I give up!” He turned away.
“Don’t go! Please don’t go.”
Again he retreated to the doorway. The shadow of his body flickered grotesquely in the candle-light.
She didn’t dare move. Any wrong word, and he’d just walk away.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “How the hell did I get into this?”
She shuddered. “I’m sorry, Julian. I don’t….”
“I’ll walk you home.”
Sobbing, she reached for the candle.
“For God’s sake stop snivelling.”
“I’m sorry. Honestly.”
“Don’t blow the candle out...” He left the safety of the doorway.
“I don’t know what you want,” she whimpered.
“I know you don’t.” He gestured to the table and chairs. “So sit down…. And listen…”
Chapter Three
June 15th:
Japanese bomb Darwin for the fifth day in a row.
She slept heavily. At six a.m. the alarm alerted her to the thunder of rain on the iron roof. Snug in the cocoon of blankets, she knew she should move. She couldn’t. Her body refused to obey her brain.
“Anne!” Her mother was knocking on the closed door. “Anne! Are you all right?”
“Coming!” She threw back the blankets, switched on the light, pulled on dressing-gown and slippers, and hurried from the freezing bedroom to the warm kitchen.
“You’ll have to rush.” May Preston placed tea, scrambled eggs, and toast on the table. “Your lunch is packed. Don’t forget it today.”
At seven a.m. she was waiting at the tram stop. Wrapped in woolen skirt, jumper, cap and scarf and protected by a rain-proof Macintosh and her father’s large black umbrella, she watched the dribble of people scurrying from the side streets.
They waited in the pool of light from the shaded overhead lamp, not speaking; the regular five, plus one stranger. She wondered about him. Had he missed an earlier tram or was he to become one of the regulars? Not too old to have been in the forces, he was grey and thin and wore a new suit. Had he been wounded?
Hearing the tram clattering down the hill, she spotted its dimmed lights, prepared the umbrella for speedy re-furling and politely waited her turn to board before hauling herself up the steps. The tram smelled of musty wet wool and the tantalising tang of fresh print on the newspapers which formed a wall of headlines along the two rows of opposing seats. She ran the gauntlet, right down the middle, before taking the vacant seat next to the tram driver’s closed cabin door. From here she could peer through the narrow window at the way ahead.
As she squeezed into the tiny space the man at her side turned a page, grunted “Good morning,” and looked pointedly at the umbrella dripping floods onto his galoshes.
Blushing, she stood the umbrella against the door and assumed her regular vigil. This morning, though the rain and the heavy clouds were winning the battle with the hooded street lamps, the metal tracks gleamed reassuringly into the black tunnel ahead.
She was distracted only by the conductor who acknowledged her weekly pass. Fifteen minutes later, anticipating Stop 41, she teetered back along the moving tram, unfurled the umbrella, and stepped down into the almost deserted roadway. A blast of freezing wind, catching at the umbrella, threw her off balance. Slipping on the icy surface, she slid into the deep moat of water gushing around the corner shop. Nervous of ridicule, she checked for witnesses. No one had seen. Almost to her knees in water, she closed the umbrella, regained her balance, and struggled to the cover of the shop’s verandah.
The build-up of traffic quickly intensified. Trams passed at increasingly frequent intervals. Bikes, motor-bikes, a few cars, an occasional muffled pedestrian, held her shivering interest.
Julian arrived from his near-by boarding house. “Early again, Anne. You’re wet through! You’ll catch your death!”
She couldn’t answer. How could she have been so stupid? Did Julian’s friends know she hadn’t known about sex? Of course they did; she’d said some stupid things. Julian had promised nothing would change between them. Except there’d be no more heavy petting. He couldn’t guarantee to control himself forever. So of course things had already changed. It was too confusing.
It was confusing in every imaginable way. It explained many things about her mother, about June, and about the way they treated her. It explained – and yet it didn’t explain. Why had they not found a way to tell her? Why had they let her go out into the world in such dangerous ignorance? Why had they not prepared her? Why had her father…? Wait! How could June have known these things while she hadn’t? Could it be partly her own fault? Sometimes she didn’t listen, didn’t…
“Anne!” Julian was demanding attention. “Wake up! Why don’t you catch a later tram? You don’t have to be so early.”
“It might not connect.”
“You should wear sensible shoes. And galoshes.”
“I like high heels.”
“One day you’ll break your neck.”
Ten minutes later they were all there, twenty of them, alighting from trams, running from the railway station, walking from nearby homes, exchanging Monday morning greetings while they waited.
“The bus is late this morning.”
“When isn’t it?”
“Was Anne early again?”
“Anne’s always early.”
“Leave her alone.”
“It’s probably broken down again.”
“They’ll send another one.”
“Can’t hold up the war effort!”
The rain eased, the dense clouds dawdled southwards, the wind whooped around the bleak corner, and the cold knifed through their woolens. Anne shivered.
Julian frowned. “You’re wet through. Make sure you change as soon as you get in.”
The clumsily lumbering box that served as a war-time bus stuttered and squealed into the gutter; muddy water sprayed across their feet.
Distancing herself from the brutal jostling of the impatient travelers fighting to climb the narrow steps, Anne stood back.
“Come on,” Julian urged her into the scrum.
Still she hung back.
“I’ll save a place.” He dived into the fray.
She felt the unwelcome rush of hot tears. It was always like this. Even this small incident was isolating her yet again.
Finally, as the last man started up the steps, she hurried into the bus.
“Here!” Julian called. “Anne!”
She hesitated.
“Don’t be so stubborn.” He pulled her down into the space he’d saved on the hard wooden bench.
“It’s not fair,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t save a place for me.”
He lowered his voice. “You’re so damned scrupulous.”
How could he be so insensitive? How was it that he fooled everyone? He put it on with his smart blue suit; a man to be trusted. If only they knew the truth. He was a member of an illegal party. He was confusing. Sometimes, most times, he was a stranger. He could be gentle. He could be cruel.
Above her ashamed head the strap-hangers glared. She agreed with them, it wasn’t fair. She’d been prepared to pay the price of refusing to join the race to board the truck, to stand with the unlucky ones. How could they know that? Unless she defied Julian. That wasn’t an option, not while everyone was watching. He’d make sure she came off second best.
As the bus lurched and chugged and twisted its noisy way to right or left or limped over unseen rail crossings, it was possible only to sense a general direction. One of a fleet converted to take passengers, it had once been a cattle truck. Its interior was dark and mouldy and depressing, its windows above eye level and its route a mystery. Conversation was almost impossible. Most p
assengers, even those hanging on the overhead straps, caught up on lost sleep.
They’d been traveling for twenty minutes, their companions lulled into semi-consciousness, when Julian flipped the box of matches across the central aisle. “Mick! Catch!”
A fellow communist, Mick pocketed them. Of the few who did see, none protested. Was it only the cell members who recognised the significance of Julian’s action?
Matches were not permitted in the unit where munitions were manufactured. Entering with the box of matches was an illegal act. As technicians in the munitions department, they knew that to carry in anything which could ignite the potentially lethal chemicals was dangerous in the extreme. Even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t the point. The point was - it was illegal, and they were doing it anyway.
Was this just another instance of Julian thumbing his nose at authority, as he’d done on the train? Or was Julian’s move a test? Would Mick take a risk and smuggle them in? Or could it be that it was actually something more sinister? Of course not. She was being paranoid.
Whatever it was, Julian would know exactly what he was doing. Did he think she was too stupid to notice? Or did he trust her this much? In their brief time together, he’d trusted her with many secrets. Why? Was he was deliberately trying to make her an ally? Was he hoping she’d become a communist?
She tried to sleep. It was impossible. The truck jounced on its awkward way until, three quarters of an hour later, it kangaroo-hopped to a chuddering standstill. She stood aside to watch the undisciplined workers stumble down the steep steps, show their passes at the sentry gate, and veer off on their separate pathways to the different buildings.
The guards, ostentatiously alert for saboteurs, inspected their passes and waved them through the high barbed wire fence.
Julian started, with his friends, down the separate path to the munitions building. “See you tonight, Anne.”
“Not lunch time?”
“Sorry.” Intent on Mick’s retreating figure, he quickly answered: “We have a meeting.”
As he walked away, striding tall and confident and not looking back, she again wondered about the matches. And again quickly dismissed the worry as the unwarranted niggle of an overly scrupulous conscience. Whatever was happening, it was still none of her business. Of all those on the bus, even the non communists working in the munitions section who’d seen it, none had protested. Or sounded an alarm. Or alerted the sentries.
She turned down the path to the metrology laboratory. It was a great job. Since ending her training, she’d gradually been given increasing responsibility. She loved both the work and the challenge of the responsibility. The central hub of a vast war machine, the laboratory assessed gauges that assessed gauges that assessed tools that manufactured Churchill’s tools of war.
Measuring the variety of gauges to within the finest possible tolerances, the expertise of the laboratory technicians was critical to the war effort. The supply of an entire branch of war machinery depended on them. Precision tools are only as efficient as the accuracy of the precision equipment which assesses them – and the integrity of the people doing the assessing.
Concentration was essential. There could be no time for day-dreaming. For habitual day-dreamer Anne Preston, the intense concentration needed to stretch her mathematical skills to the necessary standard was rewarding. It had a purpose. It was entirely true that the work done in this central laboratory was uniquely critical to the production of the tools of war. She knew she was lucky; she could so easily have been drafted into some war-time job she hated. Instead, after intensive tests and training, she was now one of the elite original six assistants selected for this uniquely critical work.
After registering at the time clock, she hurried to the cloak room, changed into dry clothing, starched white coat and low-heeled shoes, and arrived a few minutes late at the work bench she shared with Grace, also one of the original six assistants.
The large laboratory was white-walled, brilliantly lit, sterile, and air conditioned. Essential to their work with the delicate gauges, the rare hot-house atmosphere of the air conditioning was blamed for a comparatively high incidence of colds and flu. True or false, it was relatively unimportant; the welfare of the tools was paramount. Their men were giving their lives.
“The Boss was looking for you. I told him you were on your way.” Grace smiled a warm welcome before resuming work with her calibrator.
“Thanks. I got wet through at the bus pick up. I had to change everything.”
“You didn’t sit all that way in wet clothes!” Grace was alarmed.
“You’re as bad as Julian.”
“You must be careful,” Grace warned. “If you don’t care about yourself, we do, Anne.”
At their benches the white-coated laboratory assistants were, like Grace, already working on assessments. Supervisor Rebecca Longmire and Administrator Jeffrey Macklin, transferred from another facility, were stationed in the adjacent office. The supervisor regularly checked their work and assisted with difficult assignments. Neither she nor the administrator ever mixed socially with the personnel in the main room. Both had morning and afternoon tea in the office and drove out of the compound into a nearby suburban cafe for lunch.
As always, the work was exacting. For two hours the silence was broken only by regulation moments of respite from the extreme pressure, the occasional rustle of papers, an ominous cough, or the disconcerting scrape of the legs of one of the high stools as a worker moved to a different work post. A break for morning tea, and heads down again until, at 12.30 precisely, the siren blew. Each worker completed their immediate task, exchanged their white coats for protective clothing, and exited the building. The guard locked the door behind them as, sharing umbrellas, the group scampered through the steady drizzle of misty rain to the busy cafeteria.
Anne collected a cup of tea and joined her friends at one of the long wooden tables. They’d been together since the training course. Though teasing and banter were part of their combined relationship, their loyalty to each other was unquestioned; even the occasional angry outburst was accepted and forgiven. Each of them had different interests, different backgrounds, different life experiences, different educations and each was currently living in vastly different circumstances.
Grace had been born and reared in wealthy Toorak. Joan in working-class Richmond. Within a few geographic miles of each other, they were worlds apart. In times of peace neither would have met the other. Or even traveled into the other’s world. Equally, in every imaginable way, from manner of speech to thoughts to ideals to interests to ambitions to day to day survival, life in the one area was totally alien to life in the other. As for Grace and Joan, so it was for each of them. No two came from the same suburb.
Even so, vast differences also existed within the boundaries of each suburb. Catholics and Protestants were strangers, Protestant sects were strangers to each other. Except for the essentials of working life, employers and employees, professionals and tradesmen were strangers. In peace time the distances between groups had been as impenetrable as the deserts which divorced Australia’s west from its east, its north from its south.
But this was not a time of peace. The world was at war, and Australia threatened with invasion by terrifying barbarians. Because of the intense effort being put into waging war each of these very different people who were now her friends had met, were working together, and even respected each other. All had worked in other jobs. Sophie had been a secretary, Joan a factory worker, Helen a switchboard operator. Lillian and Grace, both married with children, had worked before marriage. Lillian as a teacher, Grace as a librarian.
As the youngest, Anne was the only one fresh from school into the laboratory. Brought together by the war-time laboratory’s requirement for superior mathematical intelligence, the six had found ways to tolerate, and even to enjoy, their profound differences.
“How’s Julian, Anne?” Lillian picked daintily at the shell of a boiled egg.
&nb
sp; “He’s okay.” Although she’d first met him in the canteen, these days Julian rarely shared lunch with them.
“When does he transfer?” Grace opened her sandwiches, grimaced at the limp bread and soapy cheese, and chewed unhappily.
“Another month or so.” She brushed away the quick tears. “He doesn’t want to go.”
“That’s what he says,” Lillian teased.
“Right now, I don’t care what he says.” The people in this group were her only friends. She couldn’t tell them about the weekend, but she could share her doubts with them.
“Are you sure he’s not married, Anne?” Trust Sophie to be cynical.
“I’m not sure about anything any more.”
Alerted, Grace was immediately sympathetic. “What’s he done, Anne?”
She blushed, not answering.
Quick as always, Sophie immediately hazarded a guess. “He didn’t!”
“Didn’t what?” Helen was mystified.
“You know,” Sophie winked.
“That’s her business!” Helen was appalled. “You don’t ask about that!”
“She doesn’t have to answer.”
“Anne?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“See! She’s upset. Leave her alone.”
“I’m not sure we can leave her alone,” Grace was gentle. “You will be careful, Anne. We are your friends. When you want to talk, we’ll listen.”
“I’d still like to know,” Sophie was enjoying herself. “Is he married?”
“Sophie!”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a fair question. She should think about that, at least. These days you never know.”
She interrupted. “Can we drop this?”
“Of course we can.” Helen glared at Sophie.
“It’s still a fair question.”
“If you must know,” she resorted to anger. “He told me. He’s not married.”
“More fool you.” Acid Joan, haven’t finished her lunch, joined the argument. “You believe anything you want to.”
“Julian doesn’t lie!”
Tools of War Page 5