Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “For God’s sake, Anne!” Joan cried. “Don’t be so bloody stupid! The man’s up to something. Take a good look at yourself.”

  “Love!” Grace attempted to defuse the rising anger. “It’s as blind as a bat.”

  “You should know.” Joan sneered.

  “That’s not called for!” Sophie defended Grace. Grace never talked about the recent divorce that had left her supporting two young children.

  “You’re right,” Joan apologised. “I’m sorry.”

  Sophie sarcastically excused her. “You don’t really mean to be a bitch, do you Joan. You just never think.”

  “It’s this awful weather,” Helen complained. “We’re all feeling it.”

  “You’d think I’d make myself a decent lunch.” Again attempting a diversion, Grace folded her barely touched sandwiches back into the box. “Anne... Why don’t we take a walk?”

  “It’s freezing!”

  “Take a walk, Anne,” Joan advised.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “We don’t have to talk, Anne.” Grace reassured.

  The walk would help. The rain on her face, no questions, no talking, no thinking.

  Grace unfurled her umbrella. “Come on, Anne. “The walk’ll do you good.”

  She was grateful for her friends’ concern. But she couldn’t talk about Julian. They were right to be suspicious of him; the truth was much darker than they knew.

  In the afternoon, as in the morning and all the other days, they worked in almost total silence. The laboratory was ruthlessly controlled. No speck of dust, no variation of temperature, no vagary of temperament, no lapse of concentration, was permitted. Necessary to prevent mental fatigue and intellectual overload, systematic relief was built into the time table. The brief time-out periods were mandatory. Meticulously trained to work at optimum levels, they conscientiously switched off for each required rest period before resetting themselves to the task in hand. Their work must not be jeopardised because of human error. For whatever reason.

  This afternoon, since listening to her friends at lunch time, Anne found concentration almost impossible. She prayed she’d make no errors, no serious life-costing errors. She checked and double-checked and checked again her final reports. But the insidious undercurrent refused to go away. Part of her brain insisted on sorting through the moments she and Julian had been together, the things he’d allowed her to see, the secrets he’d allowed her to share. Was he merely using her as a cover for his clandestine activities? Or was there something more sinister going on? Was he trying to enlist her?

  She should have confided in her friends. What had held her back? Did she really believe he loved her? Could she be trying to protect him? Here she was, getting a headache worrying about the consequences of any small miscalculation in her own work while, at the same time, she was staying quiet about the smuggled box of matches. It wasn’t logical. Sooner or later, she was going to have to decide where she stood. What if she decided to report him, not only to her friends but to the authorities?

  Would they believe her? Would they believe she’d been an innocent bystander? Anyway, Julian and his group weren’t doing any harm. Even the box of matches, which bothered her so much, had been no more than thumbing their noses at authority; like riding first class in the train on second class tickets. It was all just talk and being friends with refugees who’d been terribly hurt.

  It was frustrating. She was doing what she always did. She was convincing herself she was thinking through a problem, when she was actually marking time in the hope that the problem would just go away. Given time it would disappear. Somehow.

  It wasn’t good enough. Sooner or later she’d have to decide. Though not yet. Hasty decisions could lead to unexpected outcomes, especially a decision as momentous as this. Confronting Julian, directly questioning him, would be unwise. He might laugh her off. He might not. He might do a number of things. She didn’t even know enough about him to take a wild guess at what he would do. Like last night.

  “Are you all right, Anne?” The supervisor was at her side. “You seem distracted.”

  Blushing, she answered: “I might have caught a chill this morning. I got caught…”

  “Take a couple of aspirin and a break. I’ll expect you back in…” The supervisor consulted her watch. “…half an hour.”

  She took the aspirin, but not the time. She must never let thoughts of Julian distract her from the job!

  At day’s end Julian was already there, waiting beside the guard house. Thankfully, the icy wind was chilling her blushing cheeks. Julian missed nothing. He certainly wouldn’t miss that something had changed since this morning. Maybe not immediately, but soon, some small action or lack of action would alert him. Then he’d go the step further. One way or another, he’d soon detect her growing doubts.

  He came towards her. “How was your day?”

  “Good.” Bracing herself against both the wind and her own misgivings, she joined him. “How was yours?”

  “Successful.” Obviously in one of his taciturn moods, he chose not to elaborate.

  “Grace asked me about your transfer.”

  “Yes?”

  “I told her you have to go where you’re ordered.”

  “Good.”

  “Mum thought you might like to come again for tea. She’s missing Dad.”

  He beckoned to Mick, who left the group waiting for the bus. “You need me tonight?”

  “Not specially. Why?”

  “I’ll be having tea at Anne’s.”

  “You too, Mick - if you like.” She hoped he wouldn’t; she hoped neither of them would come. She needed time away from them.

  “Thanks, Anne,” Mick smiled. “I hear your Mum puts on a good feed. I’m sorry. I’d love to, but tonight’s impossible.”

  Julian frowned. “I thought…”

  “Tonight’s impossible.” Mick turned back to the group.

  Hurrying after him, Julian called. “Be back in a minute, Anne.”

  From her isolated post she watched. At Julian’s arrival they fell silent. His role as leader was obvious in both this and the angle of their intent heads. Taut with anger and speaking through tight lips, Julian’s quick eyes continually scanned the wider crowd of workers around them.

  Only Mick was answering. Even from this distance, it was apparent that he was standing up to Julian. Though gesticulating wildly and obviously upset, Mick did not raise his voice. Whatever the disagreement was about it was very serious, yet obviously also very secret. The other members of their group, already forming a close circle around their leader and Mick, were moving even closer in order to shield the two from curious ears.

  As the bus loomed into sight, Julian returned to Anne.

  “What was that about?” She didn’t really expect an answer.

  He shrugged.

  She did not ask again.

  “What happened with the matches?” Since leaving the bus, the taciturn mood had vanished; Julian was happy to talk. Maybe he’d just been tired after a difficult day. It happened to all of them.

  “Nothing.” Mick deftly rolled a cigarette, and struck a light. “Want them back?”

  “Keep them. A souvenir.”

  “Why?” Richard’s Austrian accent contrast was melodic contrast to the Aussie twang. “What did you do?”

  “Experimental. Test of security.”

  “You could smuggle in a tank.” Mick watched a puff of smoke curl up into the winter sky.

  “Not quite,” Julian warned. “You shouldn’t under-rate them.”

  “Thank your mother for the invitation, Anne.” Mick pointedly redirected the conversation.

  “Don’t worry about what Anne hears,” Julian laughed. “She hasn’t a political bone in her body.”

  “Everyone’s political,” Richard mourned.

  “What do you say, Anne?” Mick asked.

  She shook her head. There was nothing to say. They were sitting in the tram shelter in the biting cold, ar
guing again. Because Julian was not to be with them at their evening meeting they’d persuaded him to delay his, and Anne’s, journey home. It was raining again, the blackness of this winter evening was already winning its inevitable battle with the hooded street lamps, the metal tram tracks were beckoning them to home and warmth. If only they would go.

  Trams passed at increasingly frequent intervals. Cars, motor bikes, bicycles sprayed their sodden feet. Still Julian did not move. Anxious to be away, she released the catch on her dripping umbrella, and opened it. Surely Julian would respond to the blatant hint? He didn’t. She re-furled the umbrella.

  A stranger, slowly walking past, hesitated, saw there were no empty seats, and took up a position under the nearby shop verandah. He seemed uncannily intent on the group. She shuddered. It was inescapable, this sense that Julian and his friends were being watched. True or false? It didn’t matter. It felt true. It felt uncomfortable and dishonest and confusing and she wished things were different. Maybe it was only fear for him that was feeding her over-active imagination? So why were the members of the group, too, furtively watching the man under the shop verandah? Why were they, too, wondering about him?

  “Everyone’s not political, Richard,” Julian was answering for her. “Especially Anne.”

  “If they knew the truth, they would be,” Richard growled.

  “You’ve got that right,” Julian agreed. “What about Darwin?”

  “We could have been over-run with Japs. And we didn’t even know they were that close.”

  “They’ll have to recognise The Party sooner or later. The Government’s got its head in the sand.”

  “You watch. Russia will save us.”

  “If Hitler hadn’t gone for Russia, we’d have been done for by now.”

  “If Japan hadn’t gone for America…”

  A bunch of gossips. Why didn’t they go home! She pulled her coat collar around her face and her cap further down around her freezing ears.

  “Anne’s catching cold.” Julian cut them off. “Let me know how it comes out tonight.”

  “Right,” Mick stood. “We’ll be off too. You just make sure you’re there at the week-end.”

  The weekend? This weekend - when he’d promised to spend time with her before his transfer?

  She didn’t ask about it until they’d boarded the crowded tram. Finding no empty seats, they stood strap-hanging in the central open area. Around them, within easy ear-shot, shop assistants, clerks, factory workers, a distraught mother rocking a coughing baby, were preoccupied with their own concerns. There was no sign of the man under the verandah, or anyone like him. The over-riding disturbance of the baby’s hacking cough and the closed eyes of the tired workers reassured her that, despite their close proximity, their own conversation would go either unheard or unheeded.

  Nevertheless, she kept her voice low. “What’s at the week-end?”

  “Just a conference.”

  “Not again! Not this week-end!”

  “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve got no choice. You know that.”

  “I don’t understand. We’re all fighting the same war. What’s so…?”

  His warning eyes silenced her. A hot surge of anger suffused her chilled cheeks.

  “Don’t think about it.” He placed his free arm around her shoulder.

  “Don’t!” She pulled free, almost over-balanced, and took a firmer hold on the over-head strap.

  The sudden movement alerted the dozing passengers. Distracted from the distressed baby, the mother smiled and nodded.

  Unfazed, Julian shrugged. “You’re such a sulky child.”

  At the tram stop, after assisting her to alight, he guided her through the flooded gutters to the slippery footpath. “Make sure you change as soon as you get in, Anne. You’ve probably already caught a chill.”

  “Julian…” Maybe she was being a sulky child, but she needed to know what was going on.

  “What?” Though the rain had stopped, and the tiny pools of light failed to adequately illuminate the irregular cracks in the pavement, he was moving at a brisk pace.

  “When are you leaving?” Praying she wouldn’t trip, she struggled to keep up.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Joan says you do.”

  “If you want to believe Joan.”

  “She says you’re using me.”

  Not answering, he hurried on under the dripping overhang of a broad hedge, heedless of the water that soaked his bare head.

  “Julian?”

  “We’ve had a good time, Anne,” he paused to open the front gate. “Don’t spoil it.”

  “When you’ve gone - will you write to me?”

  “Of course.” Easy and sure, he steered her through the gate.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You are in a mood.”

  One minute gentle, the next brutal. One minute an idealist, the next a schemer. Her friends had opened that door. What was the truth? He was, at the very least, utterly confusing. At worst? Were her mother and father and her friends right to warn her? She brushed away the ready tears.

  “Anne…” Tears discomforted him.

  “I’m sorry.” He was right, she was a child.

  “Anne - don’t spoil it.”

  “Who’s spoiling what?” Again, unexpectedly, she felt the flush of anger. “There’s nothing to spoil!”

  “You’re a mess.” He released her. “I won’t come in.”

  “Don’t!” She slammed the gate and started for the front door.

  “Please – Anne. Wait.” Opening the gate, he followed her.

  Was this Julian? Julian never pleaded for anything.

  “Anne - please understand.” In the shelter of the porch, the dim light of the street lamp high-lighted his high cheek bones and thick hair and pale skin and firm mouth; it shadowed the enigmatic eyes she could never fathom.

  It would be so easy to give in again.

  She stepped back, out of reach. “I understand too well. Your communists tell you to jump, you jump. I don’t matter. What about after you leave? Will you write to me? Only if they let you!”

  “It’s my life, Anne.”

  “What about my life! What about me!”

  “For God’s sake, Anne. Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

  “You should know about that.”

  He turned away.

  “If it hadn’t been for you,” she accused. “I’d have been home hours ago. I wouldn’t be catching a chill.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” His anger was short-lived. “You should have a hot bath and get to bed early.”

  “I’ll change for tea.” She reached for the door-bell. “You and Mum can…”

  “Wait!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I won’t come in. You need to change.”

  “You never intended to stay!”

  “You could always come to the meetings with me.”

  She was startled. Although she was not surprised, the proposal left her off balance.

  “Why not? You’d make a great communist, Anne.”

  How to answer? Buying time, she countered: “You’re teasing.”

  “Try me.”

  “Even if you mean it,” she frowned. “You know the weekends are out for me.”

  “So choose, Anne. Think for yourself. Make a choice.”

  “The Vicar has been very patient with me. I owe him.” She also owed the comforting spirits of St Margaret’s.

  “Come on, Anne. Tell the truth. You’re falling for all that shit.”

  “I might be.” She felt an idiotic need to defend the Vicar.

  “Poor child,” he mocked. “You don’t know what you believe in.”

  “You do?”

  “I know what I don’t believe,” Julian countered. “I don’t believe anything I can’t see, hear, touch, taste, or smell.”

  “Have you seen Russia?”

  “Clever!” He chuckled. “Have you seen God?”
r />   Again, she reached for the doorbell. “This is stupid.”

  “We must not argue.”

  “I’m sorry.” In a way, she was sorry. “I don’t mean to make it harder for you.”

  “Get to bed early, Anne.” He kissed her, gently and without passion.

  The smell of worn leather, damp wool, and unknown chemicals; the touch of hard muscles and smooth-shaven skin; the comfort of strong hands firm and sure - how much longer? How much longer before he left?

  “Tell your Mum thanks for the invitation to tea. Maybe another time.”

  “Will there be…?”

  “Tell your Mum thanks, Anne.”

  Answering the door-bell, May opened the front door and peered into the darkened porch. “Isn’t Julian coming in?”

  “We got held up.”

  “You’re wet through! You must hurry! Get changed.”

  “In a minute.” She started for her father’s book shelves.

  “Anne! Get changed!”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Get into your pyjamas. I’ll put your tea out.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Anne. Go get changed.”

  It would be quicker to obey. After changing and eating, she waited until her mother was asleep before slipping back to the front of the house.

  The book-case stood in the passage outside the main bedroom. Built by her father, it had been there all her life. Side by side on its shelves were Zane Grey, Darwin, T.S. Elliott, Shakespeare, the Saint Jeffrey Bible, Ilya Ehrenburg, John Steinbeck, Charles Dickens, H.G. Wells, Hemingway, C.J. Dennis, Banjo Patterson, Wild West paper-backs, dictionaries, encyclopaedias and building manuals.

  She’d grown up knowing that most nights her father read late while she and her mother and June slept. As she’d grown older he’d frequently invited her to join him. Both summer and winter they’d sit reading by the fireplace in the living room.

  Sometimes she’d interrupt to ask a question or make a comment. He’d place a finger on the passage he was reading, answer her, and read on. Sometimes, he’d clear his throat, wait a moment, and then read aloud a passage because he particularly enjoyed it or because he thought it was instructive. Most times there was little talking. Quietly rich times, the war had taken them from her. She missed him. But his books were here and somewhere among them she expected to find the information she needed.