Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Aaron? Investigations? Any true saboteur would be well prepared. Maybe, even though he had not been in the original laboratory, he had been somehow involved in the explosion. Maybe he had pointed out the attacker because the investigators had been getting too close? Aaron, trusted by Julian. Julian, trusted by Aaron?

  Round and around and around, her over-stimulated mind was on its own exhaustive treadmill. Trust. Suspicion. Questions. Answers. Innuendoes, slanders, gossip, factions. Australians. True Australians. No way. Julian’s a true….

  Sleep....

  He’d been cleared, accepted. Julian had been cleared, accepted. While he was an illegal he’d been - Julian? So much for the Federal Police. Had they known he was an illegal Communist Party member? Did they know now? Of course they did. It was why he’d suddenly reappeared. To investigate. A member of The Party now legal, versed in subterfuge and destabilisation. Julian, who the staff knew and accepted because he was her friend. The same Julian, but different; erratic, aloof, unpredictable, arrogant, caring, concerned, worried. True blue Australian.

  Sleep.... Dawn’s breeze stirring, thorns tap-tapping, Edmonson’s fingers tap-tapping. Sleep.... question tap-tap, answer tap-tap, tap-tap-why? Tap-tap-who? Tap tap - ‘Here Mick - catch. Here Mick - catch - here - ’ Matchbox floating - matchbox falling - Mick’s outstretched hands - here Mick - falling box - lunch box - catch - ‘Mick!’

  Lunch box…

  Wide awake, she sprang up.

  A lunch box! Not a smuggled match box. A smuggled lunch box. Innocuous, not even hidden. Whose? Julian and his friends had taught her that much. It could be anybody’s.

  The guard at the gate recognising familiar faces, inspecting identification only. No inspection of everyday dress or everyday articles. There never had been. They’d all been presumed in the clear. Honest Australians born and bred. Like Mick. Like Julian. No problem. No problem, either, to smuggle in a potential weapon; a matchbox into the explosives unit. Or a lunch box. A lunch box could hide anything.

  But whose? And why had she dreamt it? It could as easily be a handbag, or a coat pocket or a shoe or…. Why had she dreamt of a lunch box? What was her subconscious repressing? What key had unlocked it, opened the door? What word, what action, what sound or sight, had been the key?

  Sleep was no longer an option. The day ahead had to be lived through, no matter where it led. The sooner she started it, the sooner it would be over.

  She washed, dressed, ate her breakfast, welcomed her father’s company to the tram stop, and meditated her way through the outer suburbs. Fearful and nervous, yet never for a moment considering inaction, she alighted at her usual stop.

  Aaron was waiting. “As you see - I am early. I did not want to miss you.”

  “I have to see Julian.”

  “He is at the interviews.”

  “Already? He can’t be! I have to see him!”

  “The people were told to arrive early.”

  She stopped, mid-stride. “Who, Aaron? Who’s arrived early?”

  “It is important? What is happening? Tell me. What is happening?”

  “Who got there early?” She repeated. But impatiently, her feet already off again, picking up urgent pace.

  “Wait Anne! Please wait!” Aaron scurried awkwardly to her side.

  “I have to see Julian.” She hurried ahead. She didn’t need a baby sitter. There was no danger out here in broad daylight in the middle of the city.

  “Wait, Anne! Please!”

  Turning back to explain, she saw Aaron favouring his right leg. Idiot! She hadn’t noticed it before. How had she missed something so important? How could she be so blind? How could she be so self absorbed? What else had she missed? How much else had she not noticed? She didn’t need a baby sitter, but how could she be so callous? Poor Aaron. He was only trying to help.

  “I’m sorry, Aaron.” She slowed her quick pace. “Who’s in there now?”

  Gasping for breath, he managed. “Alice - I believe it is Alice.”

  Leaving the lift and the foyer and entering the main laboratory, they found the office door firmly closed, the small laboratory door firmly closed, and the white-coated bodies again feigning pre-occupation with the task in hand. But no one was fooling anyone else. The unnatural hush of heightened suspense was as thick as mountain fog.

  Lunch time was an eternity away. She worked at her bench, looking at no-one; each had to be suspect. An Australian back-ground, alone, did not guarantee loyalty. This she did know. Just as Julian and his friends had practiced for sabotage in their illegal communist years, so too could secret fascists now do the same. Or some other faction who stood to gain from the Allies’ defeat. Who knew what secret ideals the people in this laboratory harboured? Who knew what malicious activity someone planned? No guarantees.

  So what about her own suspicions, based on something as fragile as a dream? How could she even think of telling the investigators? They’d laugh. Not if she told them about the box of matches. She couldn’t. Tell about the matches and she’d be betraying Julian. She couldn’t.

  She looked at her watch. 9.40 a.m. Forty minutes. She’d been here only forty minutes and she was already wavering. She looked at the closed door of the small lab, tried to guess, imagine, what was happening.

  At 10 a.m. Alice, red-faced and red-eyed, came out. Somebody had upset her. No surprise. It had probably been Julian; he’d have enjoyed it.

  Myrtle took her place. There was no sign of Julian, not even when she tried to peek in through the open door as Myrtle and Alice passed through.

  Morning tea time in the subdued staff room. No talking. Lowered eyes, and studied concentration on the magazines nobody ever read.

  Until Grace poured two cups of coffee and broke the silence. “You lot are quiet. Don’t let them get you down.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Lillian scoffed.

  “You been in yet?”

  “I have!” Embracing the invitation to talk, Alice was still apoplectic. “I object most strongly to being interrogated like a criminal.”

  “It’s their job. You can’t blame them.”

  “Easy for you, Grace.”

  “It’s the same for all of us. You might as well make the best of it.” Grace left, carrying her own and Macklin’s coffee back to the office.

  “She’s chipper,” Joan sneered.

  “I can’t think why.” Margaret mused. “She’s got to be next for the grilling.”

  “What about the Boss?”

  “I heard they kept him till all hours last night.”

  “You don’t miss much.”

  At least they were talking again; a good sign. Was it too late? She poured her untouched drink down the sink, hurried through the empty laboratory, and knocked on the office door.

  “Enter!” Macklin was grey faced and haggard. He’d not been getting much sleep either. “What is it, Anne?”

  “I was wondering…” Confronted by the curious faces of Grace and Macklin, she faltered.

  “Come! Out with it!”

  “What is the problem, Anne?” Grace was gentle.

  “It’s… It’s all this tension. It’s impossible.”

  “We understand. Go on.”

  “I can’t work. I thought….” Before she could change her mind, she quickly blurted: “Can I go out for a while?”

  “Good idea.” Macklin waved a careless hand; permission granted.

  Grace was surprised. “But if they...?”

  “Anne’s already been questioned,” he argued. “It seems like a good idea. Off you go, Anne.”

  Before he had time to think better of it, she hurriedly changed into street wear and escaped. Down the lift, out into the street, a prisoner on parole, she burst into the pre-noon sunshine. Though she was grateful for Macklin’s rare common sense, the feeling of knife-edge tension was not so easily quashed.

  It had been months since she’d ambled alone through the city in search of peace of mind and anonymity. This morning, in the clamour
and busy rush of purposeful people, she started towards the colour and glamour of the Spring Sales. But her feet, assuming a life of their own, took her past the Spring Sales to the low white building circled by grey bitumen. If only it was St Margaret’s. It wasn’t. Yet it was an island of peace, a sanctuary.

  She crossed the unfriendly grounds and stepped into St Francis’s. Passing through the dark-timbered swinging doors, she walked down the crimson carpet, and turned towards the blue side chapel and the statue of the enigmatic Mary. Idolatry. The Vicar’s remembered disapproval blocked her progress. She stopped mid-track.

  The Vicar. Antiquated and inflexible, embalmed in tradition and impervious to progress, the Vicar should not influence her. She had never agreed with him. She must not permit his dour spirit to stop her here. Stepping into the tiny chapel, she took her place in the back row. A few lone women were praying, one at the front rail before the statue. An old man, blear-eyed and stinking of alcohol, was stumbling into a pew.

  Stinking alcohol, aromatic incense, burning candles and diffused sunlight through stained glass. Warmth and ease and acceptance. It was about acceptance. The repulsive old man was as welcome as the pious women. The mantle of gentle tolerance sheltered each one. In this place there was no suspicion, no war, no conflict. There were no questions. Heedless of the passing time, not thinking, she found the same peace St Margaret’s had always brought.

  At noon, she was roused by the commencement of the Mass. Anathema to a respectable Protestant, its advent was an excellent reason to stay. Curious to observe the kneeling figures in the main body of the church, she turned from contemplation of the Statue. The congregation was made up of ordinary people; the women who’d been praying, a few young people her own age, a scattering of uniformed men and women. There were also two nuns, black-robed and coifed, their faces as serene as angel’s, their hands as worn as labourer’s.

  With the intention of joining the congregation, she exited the side chapel. Instead, responding to the involuntary mood which was controlling her day, she tiptoed back along the red carpet, out through the dark doors, across the marble foyer, and into the abrupt glare of the mid-day sun.

  Blinking, she paused, as much to examine the motive for her unpremeditated flight as to adjust her eyes. She decided that she’d been an intruder, a disbeliever mimicking belief to satisfy curiosity and the perverse pleasure of thumbing her nose at the Vicar. She did not belong. Uncomfortably, she concluded that instinct had led her to an uncharacteristically sensitive action. Maybe she, too, was changing.

  Stepping out briskly, and without panic, she returned to the laboratory. Still, without conscious planning, her course of action was evolving. Most of the assistants were at lunch in the staff room. It was like the old days; again a common enemy was uniting them. For how long this time?

  She enjoyed the uncomplicated chatter, the superficial gossip, and the cheerful determination to ignore the closed doors of the office and the small laboratory.

  “This is all very well,” Lillian finally called a halt. “We should be getting back to work.”

  Obeying, they washed cups, stacked away empty lunch boxes, put on their white coats, queued for the toilets, and filed back into the laboratory.

  In the absence of direction from either Grace or Macklin, Lillian had again assumed the role of leader. It was, as before, a natural development; even among the newcomers Lillian was liked, respected, valued for her level head, and admired for the courage she’d shown in fighting ill health.

  Indicating the small laboratory, she asked: “Are the men still in there?”

  “We took their lunch in,” Lillian nodded. “Why?”

  “I have to talk to Mr Edmonson.”

  “It’s not possible, Anne. You’ve had your turn.”

  “I have to! It’s important.”

  “Of course,” Lillian teased. “Isn’t it always?”

  “It is. Really, it is. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

  “Why not Julian? He’s more likely…”

  “Mr Edmonson. Alone. Can you do it, Lillian? Please!”

  “Wait here.” Lillian crossed to the closed door, knocked, waited a moment, and went in.

  Torn between loyalties, knowing it would almost certainly entail betraying Julian, she knew there was no choice. No more wavering. Julian wouldn’t waver. He’d act. As she must.

  Lillian returned. “He’s not too happy. But yes, Mr Edmonson will see you in the office. Mr Macklin and Grace are still out at lunch.”

  “Alone? Will he see me alone?”

  “He said so. Don’t waste his time, Anne.”

  Edmonson, patently unhappy, led the way through the main laboratory to the office.

  Mindful of the curious eyes of her colleagues, of Julian and Clark left in the small laboratory, and wishing she could switch off her insistent conscience and back out, she quaked after him.

  Waving her to the opposite seat, he sat in Macklin’s chair behind the wide desk. “Exactly what is so important, Miss Preston?”

  “It’s the boxes.”

  “Boxes? What boxes?”

  “Boxes that could have been used to smuggle things in.”

  “I’m listening. Go on…”

  Where to start had been a problem. Now she was here, it poured out. She told him about the match-box, admitting her own guilt in keeping silent about it. Finally, encouraged by the fact that Edmonson was not interrupting or questioning, she told him about the at-the-time illegal Communist meetings.

  “You said I might have seen or heard something,” she ended. “Something I’d not realised was important. So I came to you.”

  “I see.” Tap-tapping a dull thud on the timbered desk, Edmonson was poker-faced. “May I ask - what has all this got to do with our current situation?”

  It was confusing. The man had made no comment about Julian’s part in the match-box affair. Neither had he attempted to excuse it or express interest in it. Was this a fact of political life? Illegal Communist activity before alliance with Russia was not open for discussion. Or was Julian’s involvement with the Federal Service and the Communists linked in some obscure way? Whatever his reasons, Edmonson was waiting for her answer.

  Impatient, Edmonson prompted: “Boxes and illegal meetings, Miss Preston. All in the past. What does this have to do with our current enquiry?”

  Feeling acutely ridiculous, she related the dream about the lunch box.

  “And so...?” Edmonson dryly asked.

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “My time is valuable, Miss Preston. Do not waste it.”

  “It just seemed...” Blushing, she attempted to establish a connection between the dream and the facts she’d already reported. Why had she dreamt that the smuggled match box had been a lunch box? Why had she dreamt it last night, after she’d been pressured to think about the past? Could it be significant? She’d read that dreams sometimes brought to light important clues.

  Surprisingly, rather than deride her absurd ramblings, he was again listening without interruption. No longer without expression, the fanatical lines of his face were intense, the chilly eyes calculating, the thin lips tightly pursed. The tap-tapping fingers quickened.

  Frightened by his reaction, she stumbled. “I’m not sure what it means?”

  For answer he sprang to his feet, paced the room, one thin forefinger against the pursed lips; not speaking, not inviting speech.

  She sat forward, watching. What should she do? Was he angry? Excited? What? Why this dreadful wait?

  She started up, prepared to leave.

  He waved her back, absently, his awareness of her peripheral.

  Eventually he stopped. Dead centre in the middle of the room he stood, square shouldered and soldierly and apparently without emotion. Except for the ridiculously childish gesture of the bony finger on the pursed lips, an unconscious betrayal of profound concern.

  Her heart pounded. Something very important had just happened. But what?

/>   Suddenly, he hissed: “Not a word, Miss Preston! Talk to no one! Repeat – no one! Understood?”

  Shocked, she nodded.

  “Understood, Miss Preston?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Do you understand, Miss Preston?”

  “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

  “Talk to no one,” he repeated.

  “I understand, Sir.”

  Pausing to search her face, and apparently satisfied, he finally nodded. “Very well.”

  She stood up.

  He moved quickly until, hand on the door knob, he momentarily paused to bleakly add: “I have to thank you, Miss Preston.”

  She was out, into the laboratory and on her way back to her work bench before her pounding heart began to settle. The disconcerting feeling of anticlimax was over-ridden by the renewed premonition of further turmoil. What was Edmonson going to do? He’d not ridiculed her, he’d even delayed his hurried exit long enough to thank her. More alarmingly, he’d warned her to silence. Why? Was no one to be trusted?

  As Edmonson strode back through to the small laboratory the workers, as always, ostentatiously feigned intense concentration on their work. Moments later Julian appeared, summoned Sophie into the interrogation room, and closed the door. It was ten minutes only before she re-emerged and returned to work. Another minute and Clark came out, passing through towards the lift. None of them in any way acknowledged the down-turned heads of the workers; they might as well have been robotic extensions of the machines they were working on.

  Five minutes later, Julian re-emerged with Edmonson. For the first time since his arrival Edmonson, guided by Julian, began a tour to inspect the work of the assistants. Because the disinterested dark eyes were betraying pre-occupation, she suspected the stiff smile was glued on for effect. Premonition intensified. Why had Clark left so abruptly? Why was there this feeling of marking time? It was as disconcerting as awaiting inevitable bad news. You knew it was in its way, but when would it finally arrive? Did her friends feel the same? Impossible to tell. All were faking indifference. She wanted to scream. To scream a warning. About what? She didn’t know.