Maybe, before the Government had legalised them, Julian and his friends had intended to do something violent? What if they’d still been illegal? They’d have been fifth columnists, the same kind of people who’d defeated France, who were being caught parachuting into England. They looked no different. At least the Japanese looked different. You could see them. But their allies were Italians and Germans, who looked like...! Could Julian really have been a fifth columnist? Could it be that only the entry of Russia into the war had made the difference to what he’d do?
More nightmares. More unanswered questions. More doubts. So when he came back, what would she do? Would she ask him about the sabotage? Would she still be happy to tag along like a little girl? Would she still stay quiet when she heard things she thought were suspicious, and saw things she suspected were illegal? She wouldn’t have to. That was in the past.
The fact was that, so far as she knew, acts of violent sabotage in which Australian people were killed in their own country were unheard of. It could well be that her father’s experience had been the result of an industrial accident. And nobody had been killed at the old laboratory. So how bad was it really? Were the people who were scared of invasion by the Japs jumping at shadows? Or were they all hiding their heads in the sand - like the people in Singapore? How did anyone know how scared to be?
As for how all this affected her family, in comparison to all the terrible things they read and heard about, the war had barely touched them. Unlike other families, they had no sons to send to war. Sometimes it was lucky to have no boys in the family. Even the suspect incident which had killed one of her father’s work-mates was proving to be a personal bonus. They’d had word that her father was to be re-assigned closer to home.
Things were going well for June too. She loved nursing, which had given her the chance to leave home for adventure and new experiences; she was tanned and beautiful and capable. It would have been easier had she been able to dislike her sister, but she couldn’t. She just wished she could be more like her. June would probably even know what to do about Julian.
News of the war dominated the wireless news; graphic war pictures filled the movie news reels. On the European War front the tide was turning in favour of The Allies. American and British Armies had landed at Anzio in Italy, the Russians had broken through the German siege at Leningrad. Of infinitely more immediate concern, Australian men were fighting the Japanese in New Guinea.
New Guinea. Until now this island on Australia’s Northern doorstep, had seemed impossibly remote and totally unimportant. Incredibly, most pre-war Australians had been only peripherally aware that it even existed. No longer! Devastating news from New Guinea was filtering through. News of inhuman Japanese atrocities and desperate battles intensified the heart-stopping fear of everyone. The Japs really were on their way.
In late January 1944 bush fires were wreaking destruction where the enemy, so far, had not been able to. People were being killed and cattle destroyed; huge tracts of Victorian land had been burned out. Though the bush fires never reached the city, the fire-ball sun burned through a pall of rusty air that was heavy with apprehension.
Anne had barely slept. It wasn’t just the hot night and the fear of the bushfires and the threat of the Japanese, it was worrying about Julian. There’d been the one letter, months ago. Since then not a word. Gary’s warning that he would hurt her again was true. Even not hearing from him was hurting her.
Despite the stifling heat she was asleep when the tram conductor nudged her awake. Almost sleep-walking, she made her way to the building, went into the lift and exited at the fourth floor. Although the blessed chill of the air conditioning revived her, she still wanted to lie down and sleep.
In the staff-room Alice thrust a cup of hot tea into her hands. “Wake up, Anne.”
Closing her eyes, she gratefully sipped the tea. Although she still worked in the segregated smaller laboratory, she was no longer supervising. Someone somewhere had issued orders. Just as suddenly as she’d been promoted, she’d been downgraded; as had her salary. Although they were now officially working as a team, supervised by Macklin and Grace, when the door closed on the four of them it was Alice who was boss. A natural progression it was, on a working level, a successful one. Alice assigned tasks, took responsibility for quality assessments and calibrations, helped with difficult problems and consulted with Aaron who remained the sole expert manipulator of the big new machines.
Alice had assumed the mantle of authority because, while giving orders was her nature, taking them suited the natures of Anne, Myrtle and Aaron. The problem was that, even though the arrangement was a bonus for everyone, it meant nothing to the bureaucrat keepers of the purse. Alice, as was also her nature, of course complained. Her complaints fell on deaf ears. She’d chosen the mantle of authority, it had not chosen her. So yet another strand was added to the escalating subterranean conflict.
Just before nine, Grace came in. “I’ll see you in the office, Anne.”
What now?
“What have you been doing?” Sophie teased.
“Finish your tea first, Anne.” Grace left.
“Looks like it serious,” Sophie frowned.
“Leave her alone.” Alice turned on Sophie.
“For God’s sake, Alice. Get off your high horse!” Sophie snapped. “Best of luck, Anne. Whatever it is.”
“I do so pray it’s not more trouble,” Lillian moaned.
Aaron eased to her side. “Don’t let them upset you, Anne.”
Poor Aaron. During the last months his devotion had deepened to the point of acute embarrassment. Yet, even though everyone was uncomfortable, she couldn’t bear to hurt him any more than he so obviously had already been hurt. Every time she looked at him she remembered Inga, and the bewildered faces of the refugees and the way they’d come to life when they sang the Internationale. Was Aaron a communist too? Not that it mattered any more. What mattered was the pain in those soft brown eyes behind the thick lenses.
Leaving the two groups to go their separate ways, she crossed to the office. Macklin was sitting at his desk, Grace to one side. The blinding fire-red sunlight piercing the enormous window behind him made it impossible to clearly see his face.
Grace smiled a welcome, but did not speak.
“Sit down.” Macklin’s manner was even more serious than usual.
Nervously obeying, she walked across the room. Seated opposite, though still facing the window, she could see the stern lines in his shadowed face.
“Thank you, Anne. Mrs Dawson will explain what it is we wish to ask you.”
Uncharacteristically, Grace hesitated.
“It would be best if you ask her, Mrs Dawson.”
She was to be asked a question. So it was not necessarily bad news.
Again Grace hesitated. Macklin was steadfastly silent.
“This isn’t easy, Anne,” Grace broke the lengthening silence. “The thing is - we need to know how you feel about Julian Reeves.”
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
“We really do need to know.” Grace looked to Macklin for help, but again found none. “I really am sorry about this, Anne. It’s your private life. You know we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked from one to the other, waiting for an explanation, wishing she could stop blushing, expecting to hear bad news - whatever it was.
“We are sorry, Miss Preston.” Macklin clucked impatiently. His apology was nothing more than empty formality. “As Mrs Dawson says, we do not wish to intrude into your private life.”
Maybe they didn’t wish to, but it wasn’t stopping them. Maybe they knew about Julian, but were wanting to know if she knew? Maybe…
Macklin’s thin lips tightened. Grace shifted uneasily. The artificial cooling system and the artificial silence gave the lie to the burning windows and the unheard roar of city traffic and the knowledge of the uncontrollable bushfires only a few miles away. This place
was insulated from the real world she’d left when she’d stepped into the ground-floor elevator. It seemed untouched by the havoc out there, by the concerns of Julian and his group, by Inga and Aaron and those like them. Did they know about what had happened to her father? Did they know about the young men in the formal suits and their questions about sabotage?
Whatever their reasons for this question, there was too much about Julian she could not share with them, or anyone. Was that what this was about? Had they found out some awful secret about him? Was this why he hadn’t followed up the letter? What was going on?
After waiting for her to give a response she obviously had no intention of giving, Macklin insisted: “Nonetheless, Miss Preston, the question has to be answered. It is of paramount importance. However intrusive of your privacy, we do need to know about your feelings for Mr Reeves.”
It was impossible.
Again they waited. Macklin, firmly unbending. Grace, uncomfortable but also unhelpful. Again the nerve-wracking waiting game of cat and mouse she could never win. It had to be extremely important.
“I don’t see…..” She tried to buy time; maybe she could think of a way to evade the trap. “I really don’t see why I have to answer.”
“If I may?” Grace looked to Macklin, who stiffly inclined his head, before explaining: “We shouldn’t be telling you this, Anne. Not yet. Does it make a difference when I tell you it’s possible he’ll be working here?”
The blood drained from her face; she felt dizzy.
Grace’s voice came from far away. “Anne! What’s wrong?”
She must not let them guess the true reason for her distress. How could she possibly work alongside Julian, knowing what she did about his secret life? Even if Communism was now legal, it didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t flinched when it came to breaking laws he disagreed with.
“It’s a bit of a shock,” she managed. “We haven’t kept in touch. Except for… Except…”
“A glass of water, if you please, Mrs Dawson.”
It bought recovery time.
Returning, Grace waited until she’d set the set the water aside before pressing: “When you’re ready, Anne. Would you like to tell us about this contact with Julian?”
“There was one letter. Ages ago. Last year.”
“Nothing since?” Macklin asked.
She shook her head. He’d written he was coming back. He’d not written since. Was this why? Had he known he could be selected for this new job?
“How do you feel about that?”
They had no right. It was her business.
Grace was sympathetic. “We do understand, Anne. This is not meant to be an invasion of privacy. It’s necessary to our work here.”
“It’s not my business who works here.”
“Theoretically, no,” Grace conceded. “Of course not. But in the interest of ...”
Macklin, losing patience, interrupted: “Mr Reeves is the Board’s selection. The position is a new one. He’ll be working with the new equipment.”
“He’ll be of great help to Aaron.” Grace tried to counteract Macklin’s asperity. “I know you worry about him. He’s been working alone for so long. Julian will also have other duties. There’s to be streamlining of the co-ordination between laboratories. This, of course, is the primary reason we need to know – are you on good terms with him? Will there be a possibility of friction between you two?”
“Good staff interaction,” Macklin grunted. “Necessary to the work.”
“We do know you felt abandoned when he left so suddenly. What we didn’t know was – had you kept in touch?”
“I told you…”
“Thank you. So we really do need to know - do you feel any acrimony? Would you mind? Would you be embarrassed? What about it, Anne?”
She shook her head. Why admit to the anxiety of waiting for a second letter that had never been sent?
“I know it’s a shock. You’ve had no warning of this proposal. How do you feel, Anne? Can you work with him?”
“You do see the point, Miss Preston.”
From the outside laboratory, even though the door remained open, she heard not a whisper. What could she say? What should she say? In desperation, she clung to the distractions of the rhythmic thud thud of Macklin’s fingers impatiently drumming his desk and the tantalising scent of Grace’s expensive perfume.
Macklin consulted his watch.
What difference would it make how she felt? The members of The Board, whoever those mysterious people were, had made their decision. Surely Macklin and Grace knew that was the end of it? Besides, how could she tell them her feelings when she didn’t know them herself?
Still trying to buy further time, she asked: “What if I tell you I can’t work with him? What would the Board say? Would I have to leave? Unless - you can’t mean you’d actually argue with the Board!”
“He did leave you very suddenly, Anne. He’s barely kept in touch.” Grace was personally concerned; they’d been best friends. “If you feel strongly, if you have any worry at all that this could cause friction…. Please! Tell us. We are so fundamentally dependent on staff harmony.”
Staff harmony! Where had these two been these last months?
“You should know,” Grace added, “there may be other possible choices for the position.”
“Exactly,” Macklin actually smiled. Was he looking to her to veto Julian?
Her reaction was immediate. “It’s not important how I feel,” she retorted. “The job is all that matters. I have nothing to say that would make any difference to the Board’s decision.”
Macklin’s smile disappeared. “As Mrs Dawson has already told you, Miss Preston - it is most essential we preserve harmonious staff relations.”
How could he be serious? Were these two truly so unaware of the critical deterioration in staff morale? It was too late; months and months too late. This whole interview was a waste of time. “There’s no need to worry on my account,” she answered. “If I may go?”
Macklin nodded.
Not waiting for further response, she walked quickly through the large laboratory. Her former friends, heads down and concentrating and giving no outward sign of the curiosity they had to be feeling, made no contact with her. Even Sophie was careful to not even attempt eye contact.
Why had they put her through the last half hour? Why had they put her in the position she was now in? Whatever Macklin’s motives, the last half hour had not only added to the general unrest it had wasted precious time. Because only when faced with Julian himself would she know how she felt; and most probably not even then.
“It’s all right,” Grace caught up with her as she was about to enter the small laboratory. “I do understand. We just don’t want any more upsets. We’re trying to be fair to you. We had to know if you felt you couldn’t work with him.”
It was far too complex. She loved him. She hated him. She respected him, she detested him. She couldn’t wait to see him again, she never wanted to see him again. Knowing what she knew, how could she possibly work with him? No matter how high-minded and idealistic he might be, he had shown that he was capable of committing terrible crimes. Anyone who’d practiced for acts of sabotage was surely capable of carrying them out. It could very well have been someone just like Julian who’d caused her father’s injury.
Suddenly faint, she grabbed at the door-jam.
“What’s wrong?” Grace caught her before she fell.
She did not hear her. She heard only the cries of her father’s pain and the singing at the secret meeting. She saw her father’s bandaged hands, and she saw the illegal box of matches flipping through the air. She remembered the stern investigators asking questions about the dead man who could have been her father.
She saw the old laboratory and remembered the claim that the incendiary device had been planted at her own work station. The same questions, always waiting, resurfaced more strongly than ever. Triggered by loss of sleep, heat exhaustion and the p
ressure from Macklin, panic blotted out all sight and sound of the people around her. Slowly re-focusing, she saw the frightened faces of her work mates, and heard their cries of alarm.
Grace was in charge. “Anne’s not well. I’ll look after her. Get back to work.”
Together, Sophie and Grace eased her into the staff room. Teetering uneasily on the edge of the lounge, she protested. “I’ll be all right.”
“You’re ill,” Grace was making tea. “Rest a while.”
Argument was unnecessary; gratefully, she swallowed aspirin with sweet black tea.
Sophie hovered. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Get back to your work.” Grace ordered. “She needs to be quiet.”
“Anne…” Sophie ignored her superior. “Anne - answer me.”
“Get back to work,” Grace repeated. “I’ll look after her.”
“Anne - it’s Sophie. Talk to me.”
How could she explain?
“Stop pestering her!” Grace was exasperated. “She’s too sick to talk!”
“What have you done to her?”
“For the last time, Sophie!”
Still Sophie refused to leave. “I have to talk to her! I have to…”
“It’s all right,” she shakily interrupted. “It’s all right, Sophie. Do as she says.”
“If you’re sure?”
Nodding assent, she felt a flash of blinding pain. She felt pain. Feeling... She could actually feel. “It’s just a headache,” she lied. “The aspirin will fix it.”
“You must rest a while.” Watching Sophie leave, Grace placed a soft blanket over her. “Sleep it off, Anne. I’ll be back later.”
Initially reassuring, the pounding pain in her head became alarming. Listening for every sound, she doggedly fought sleep. Something unusual was happening to her. She must not again slip away; she must not faint again. Watching Lillian’s deterioration was too frightening. She must not go down that road. Throwing off the blanket, she dragged herself from the lounge and poured a second cup of strong tea.
Determined to regain her senses, she deliberately set about reinforcing each one - taste touch sight smell sound. Sipping the burning tea, she concentrated on its taste, on the feel of the delicate china in her hands, on the luminous sheen of the furniture and the lingering scent of Grace’s perfume. She ran her fingers across the fine embroidery of the cloth on the table and listened for the almost inaudible hum of the air conditioning.
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