“Thank you.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“No problem.”
“It’s freezing!” Sophie gasped. “I can’t wait here!”
The sentry returned to his post. Again they listened to him talking on the telephone.
“What appointment?” Margaret whispered.
“Sh…” Helen warned.
“He’s coming back.”
“It won’t work.”
The sentry reported: “You have permission to wait inside.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Grace led them past the guard post, up the steep steps, across a broad verandah and into what had probably once been someone’s mansion.
She hung back.
“Anne!” Margaret waited by the open door.
Nervously, she followed her friends inside.
The spacious foyer was poorly lit, gloomy, high-windowed, silent as death and as chilling as the wind outside. Directly opposite the entrance was a reception desk. Working with her back to them was a woman wearing head-phones. Their feet soundless on the thick carpet, they circled a row of stiff chairs and crossed to the desk. A sharp rap failed to attract the woman’s attention.
“Isn’t she supposed to be expecting us?” Joan’s whisper echoed in the vast room.
She shivered. Her friends gathered more closely together.
“She’s making us wait,” Margaret suggested. “That’s typical office tactics.”
“We’ve got all day,” Lillian endeavoured to reassure them.
It was a full two minutes before the woman turned, removed the head-phones from a tightly curled halo of hair and asked: “May I help you?”
“Sir Frank’s expecting us.”
“Of course.” The curls jounced and, despite the enforced wait, the smile was friendly. “They telephoned through. You do realise you’re early.”
“Sorry…” Grace again tendered the excuse of transport problems.
“If you’ll please wait? I will get you in as soon as I can.” The receptionist turned back to the switchboard.
They spread themselves along the stiff rows of chairs.
“Now what?” Joan whispered.
“I don’t understand,” Lillian queried. “Do we actually have an appointment?”
“There’s always an appointment,” Grace smiled. “It was worth a try.”
“That’s too easy.”
“Why argue? It worked.”
“What if it hadn’t?”
“I don’t like this.” Helen started up.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t believe it was luck,” Margaret was sceptical. “Did you make an appointment, Grace?”
“Or Macklin?” Sophie sniggered.
“Shut up.”
“Does it matter?” Lillian steadied them. “We’re here. We have to go through with it.”
Just before ten, the head-phones were removed, the curls bobbed, and the receptionist led them down a broad passageway. Pausing for effect, she waited a moment before opening a formidable door and ushering them into a large brightly lit room.
“The Board Room.” The receptionist gestured to an enormous oval table surrounded by capacious leather easy chairs. “He won’t be long.”
Though the room was enormous, most of it was taken up by the large table. Its highly polished surface reflected the central silver bowl of heavily scented red roses, glowing chandeliers and cream brocade curtains at the tall windows that framed an immaculate English-style garden. Left alone, they squeezed themselves into the small space between the leather chairs and the ornately papered wall.
“Do we sit down?” Sophie whispered.
“Sh!”
“I don’t think so,” Margaret guardedly advised.
“We should….” Lillian began.
The door re-opened. Insinuating himself into the room was a short rotund man; blue-suit, slicked-down hair, striped tie, bland grey eyes and a parchment pale face patently unfamiliar with the outdoors.
“Good morning, ladies. Please - be seated.” Despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded subtly unmistakable authority.
As he took his place at the far end of the huge table, they arranged themselves in the adjacent chairs.
When the last visitor had settled, without even introducing himself, their host immediately launched into a smoothly practiced monologue. “This complex was established pre-war,” his amiable head swivelled through the semi-circle of his guests. “With the out-break of war, of course, our production has not only changed direction, it has significantly expanded. The Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation has over 2,000 employees. Aircraft construction goes on virtually around the clock. We’re expected to complete six machines a week, a significant quota. All the jigs and tools are manufactured here.”
They smiled, bewildered but attentive. The man was in charge, their turn would come. Initially over-awed, she began to feel more at ease. There wasn’t so much difference between the little man and St Margaret’s pompous vicar. Comparing his lecture to the equally ritualistic and boring once-a-week sermons she realised that, just as the vicar, he was a true believer preaching from habit. He could have done it in his sleep. He probably did.
After precisely ten minutes, also like the vicar, he checked the time on his engraved silver pocket-watch. “So now, my dears, are you prepared for a lengthy inspection? Sir Frank has asked me to…”
“Excuse me,” Lillian interrupted.
He ignored her. “As I was saying, Sir Frank has asked me to stand in for him. So if you will come this…”
“Sir! Excuse me!”
The grey eyes darkened, the muscles of the smooth face tightened. “What is the problem?”
“You’re not Sir Frank?”
“Of course I’m not Sir Frank!”
“Our appointment was with Sir Frank.”
“Precisely.” The little man’s perfect teeth beamed. “However, you need to understand. This is regular procedure. There’s nothing out of order here. It is customary for me to do the honours.”
“I’m not sure you understand,” Grace aligned herself with Lillian. “We came to talk to Sir Frank.”
“I’m afraid you have been misled,” the brilliant smile did not falter. “Sir Frank! My goodness! There’s a war on! Sir Frank has more important matters.”
“This is important,” Lillian’s self-assurance matched his.
“I’m afraid I don’t see…”
“Who are you?” Joan was blunt.
“I beg your pardon!”
“If you’re not Sir Frank, who are you?”
“I didn’t say?”
“You didn’t say.”
“Savage - Herbert Savage. Sir Frank’s private secretary.” Edgy fingers caressed the silver time-piece. “Quite obviously we have a problem here.”
“Quite obviously.”
“It’s simple.” Smoothly reclaiming her practiced role of urbane superiority, Lillian again took control. “I’m not sure who you were expecting, Mr Savage. It clearly wasn’t us.”
“May I ask - exactly - who are you?” Under the circumstances the little man was being astonishingly polite.
“We are the technicians from the metrology laboratory. The one that was blown up.”
Accustomed to predictable situations and pre-screened visitors, momentary bewilderment silenced the little man. In this room, where power and influence ruled, his confusion was ludicrously out of place. They had done it. They were here. They’d shaken this bureaucrat to his shiny little boots. Any lingering doubts about their action vanished as, by unspoken consent, the group permitted him recovery time.
“Months ago,” Lillian ended the truce. “It was blown up months ago. We are still waiting for something to be done.”
“Not quite blown up, young lady.”
“As good as,” Sophie, too, was losing patience. “Only half of it is fit for use - if you call that fit!”
“You need to understand. This is not the place.
”
“When do we see Sir Frank?”
“Ah! I’m afraid that’s not possible. Sir Frank is out of town.” He pressed his manicured hands onto the gleaming table, heaved himself upright, summoned his smile, and prepared to dismiss them. “In any case – an interview with Sir Frank is quite out of the question.”
“There was an appointment.”
“Ah! The appointment. Precisely. That would be for public relations. A group of young ladies contributing to the war effort is expected. It’s usual practice. Hence the misunderstanding. You can appreciate the…?”
“We are not public relations, Mr Savage.”
The little man clucked impatience. “As I have said, you should not have been permitted entry. You must please leave. The expected party is obviously not yet here.”
“Obviously.”
“So if you will kindly…” He gestured to the door.
They did not move.
“Let’s go,” Helen pleaded.
“No way.” Having changed her mind, Joan was now wholly committed. “We’re here to protest our conditions.”
“This is neither the time nor the place.”
“We do know that, Sir,” Lillian was very grave. “We do apologise to you personally.”
“Apology accepted, young lady. So if you will kindly…”
“We have a problem,” Lillian was not to be put off. “We have no idea of where to protest, or who to protest to. Can you help us? Please. You’ve seen the place. Is there anything we can do?”
“You have my sympathy. Indeed, you do have my sympathy. However – as to action? I’m afraid I….”
“I don’t think you understand,” Joan interjected. “If there is no action, there’ll be no work. Not from us.”
“You should read these.” Opening her handbag, Lillian set the medical certificates on the table. “We will not be working in that laboratory as it is at present.”
Herbert Savage made no move to touch the small bundle of letters.
“They are certificates from our doctors.” Joan pushed them across the table. “You should read them.”
Surrendering, Herbert Savage delicately removed gold-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, set them on his face, eased back into his deeply-cushioned chair and slowly studied each certificate. Occasionally pausing to re-read, or to return to an earlier letter, his frown deepened.
“We’re quite determined,” Lillian perceived the advantage was with them.
“A moment, if you please…” One chubby finger marking his place, he commented: “You have copies of these.”
“Certified copies. Plus the doctor’s will have records.”
Savage read the last letter, returned the spectacles to his pocket, and closed his eyes.
Interruption was not an option. They’d done all they could, and more. Patience was all that was left.
Herbert Savage opened his eyes, looked at Lillian, and asked: “How did you get past our guard?”
“Actually, he turned us away. But then we tried saying we had an appointment. It worked. He could have mistaken us for the P.R. people.”
Savage was outraged: “That’s not good enough!”
“It’s not his fault, Mr Savage.” Grace excused the errant guard. “Our passes are in order.”
“Of course. You are correct. Of course, they had to be.”
“You’ve seen the lab. You must know what it’s like for us.”
“Of course. I do sympathise. This is a most disturbing development.”
“Can you help?”
“Help? Personally, my hands are tied. But…I can do this much. When Sir Frank is available, I’ll talk with him. I will most certainly talk with him.”
“Thank you.”
“The certificates?” He refolded the letters. “May I…?”
“We have the certified copies.”
“Meanwhile,” he continued. “You really must return to your duties. You have a responsibility. We should forget this morning’s actions. Go back. Before this interview goes on your record.”
“It’s too late. We want it on the record.”
“I see. Is Jeffrey Macklin aware of your intent?”
“Not at all.”
“As I recall, there was a message from Jeffrey,” he looked to the closed door. “Leah passed it on. Something about no employees reporting in this morning.”
“He probably did. Though he doesn’t know we’re here.”
“Please,” he begged. “As I’ve indicated, we are not unaware. You do have a legitimate complaint. May we at least talk this through?”
“What’s the point?” Joan was bitter.
“My dear young lady…” A lock of oiled hair had fallen across his high forehead. He paused to smooth it back into place. “I can promise nothing. Nevertheless, I am most anxious to hear the details.”
Once again by unspoken consent, they allowed Lillian to be their spokes-person. Wasting no words, she quickly reported the effect their deteriorating health and the cramped conditions were having on their efficiency. And, ultimately, on the production of machine tools.
After listening with mounting alarm, Savage commented: “You have thought this through.”
“Obviously.”
Apparently unaware of Lillian’s sarcasm, he leaned back, eyes again closed and fingers locked in a pensive steeple in front of him. He might have been asleep, but an intermittent pat of finger against finger betrayed his concern.
They exchanged cautious glances; at least they’d impressed him.
The morning sun reached the high windows, the chandeliers glowed palely.
The door opened and the receptionist switched off the lights. “Excuse me, sir. Your next group is becoming impatient.”
Rousing, he answered. “Thank you, Leah. Tell them a moment. Just another moment.”
She left as soundlessly as she’d entered.
Standing, he ended the interview. “I really must be on my way.” He had fully recovered his accustomed aura of power and authority. It was evident even before he straightened his tie, adjusted his lapels, checked the silver pocket watch, and collected the pile of certificates.
“You will report this to Sir Frank?”
“As I have already promised. Unless…?”
“We won’t change our minds.”
“If you insist. Most certainly, I will report our meeting. In detail.”
“Sir Frank must understand. We will not work there.”
“Ladies! It is you who must understand! Quite regardless of what may or may not be done, any suggestion of not working…! My goodness! The country is at war. You cannot, you really cannot, do this!”
“It will be the same if we’re too ill to work.”
“You must give Sir Frank time. Time to rebuild.”
“We have no more time.” Joan was disgusted. “We’ve been through all this.”
“Not quite,” Savage reluctantly revealed. “Not quite. I believe I should inform you we have ascertained the exact nature of the incident at your laboratory. It was caused by an incendiary device. To be precise – sabotage activity has been confirmed.”
But Julian had already left.
“Anne!” Helen steadied her. “What’s wrong?”
Unable to answer, she fought for control. She must do nothing to alert them to the reason for her distress.
“Be assured.” Herbert Savage ushered his visitors from the Board Room. “I will pass your message on to Sir Frank. Meanwhile, young ladies, I most strongly suggest you reconsider your position.”
Leaving the luxurious room and the gloomy foyer, they assisted Anne down the steps, past the guard, into the crisp mid-morning and slowly traversed the long pathways back to the laboratory. She saw nothing. Except Julian’s face.
Grace went into the office to report to Macklin.
They made tea, ate their snacks, waited in a vacuum, not talking. There was nothing to say. She prayed they wouldn’t talk about Savage’s revelation. They didn’t. W
as it possible they didn’t believe it was an act of deliberate sabotage? Or were they too frightened to believe what it might mean?
Meanwhile there was no communication from anyone in authority; not from Grace and Macklin in the office, not from the Administration Building.
It was nearing lunch time before the office door opened, Macklin strode through the lab to the exit door, and Grace reported: “He’ll be gone a while.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I told him,” Grace’s beautiful face was grey, her eyes darkly shadowed. Poor Grace, she’d had to bear the brunt of Macklin’s reaction – which was predictable.
“What happened?” Joan cared not at all about Grace’s ordeal.
“He hit the roof.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Grace shook her head. “I didn’t ask.”
“You took ages,” Sophie complained. “We’ve been waiting hours.”
“He didn’t believe me. He had to get through to Savage. The phones have been humming.”
“What’s the reaction? Do you know anything yet?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“What about us?” Lillian pressed. “What do we do now?”
“I know what I’m going to do,” Joan was firm. “I’m calling a taxi and I’m going home.”
“She’s right,” Helen agreed. “It’s what we should all do. It’s too late to back off now. We stay home until we hear from them.”
No one argued. She should protest. How could she? Julian had left her no choice. She dare not risk even talking to them. Any discussion could lead to questions she would not answer.
Chapter Nine
April 2nd:
Heroic saviours of the nine month siege of Tobruk, the Ninth Division, are welcomed home.
May 19th:
In his historic address to the American Congress, Winston Churchill pledges: “We will wage war against Japan while there is breath in our bodies and while blood flows in our veins.”
It was a minor miracle. Less than a week after the metrology laboratory assistants’ threat to stop work, they were notified of an immediate transfer to new premises. Telegrams were sent to each individual. Each was ordered to report for work on the fourth floor of a recently built office complex in the heart of Melbourne. There was no reference made to their proposed strike action. There were no explanations, no excuses, no apologies and there were to be no reprisals. There was no further discussion. Except for the spectacular outcome, it was as though the ‘stop work’ and the interview with Herbert Savage had never happened.
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