Maralinga Page 15

  Pete had been quick to take up the offer.

  ‘The bastards pay me a bloody fortune,’ he’d said to Daniel. ‘And, let’s face it, somebody has to be the Lolly Man. It might as well be me – at least I speak a bit of the locals’ lingo, which shows just a little respect, I reckon.’

  And that was the biggest contradiction of all, Daniel now thought as he took another swig of his beer. Pete did care. It was obvious that, deep down, Pete cared a great deal. The degree of the man’s frustration hadn’t been apparent until today, but since they’d come back from the afternoon patrol, he’d really opened up.

  ‘The whole attitude to the Aboriginal situation at Maralinga’s been a farce from the start,’ Pete continued as he dragged on his freshly lit Craven A. ‘It’s a farce that they put up warning signs in English – we’re dealing with people living in a primitive state, for Christ’s sake! It’s a farce when an idiot Pommie brigadier says if the natives have a complaint, they can take it up with the government – the Aboriginal population doesn’t even have the vote in this country! It’s a farce that Butement, the key liaison between the British organisers and the Australian backup team, warns us about placing the affairs of a handful of natives above those of the British Commonwealth of Nations!’ His very words! God almighty, the man’s our spokesman, he’s supposed to be protecting this country! And that means the people in it. Except, of course, to him the blacks aren’t people, are they?’

  Pete downed the rest of his beer in one hit, aware that he’d allowed himself to get a bit carried away, which wasn’t like him.

  ‘Ah, what the hell, there’s bugger all a bloke can do,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But Walter’s right – we might as well declare war on the poor bastards.’

  ‘Who’s Walter?’

  ‘My chief patrol officer, Walter McDougall – he lets the situation get to him a bit …’

  He’s not the only one, Daniel thought.

  ‘… I tell him not to. “Just obey the job instructions, mate,” I say. “Send the trucks out, locate the Aboriginal people in the region, communicate with them and tell them to move on. Even offer transport if they want it, you can’t do more than that.” But, of course, as you saw today, locating them isn’t easy. That’s what worries Walter. What happens when the bombs go off? What do we do about the blackfellas then?’

  The question seemed rhetorical, but surely, Daniel thought, surely there must be some form of answer to such a dire predicament.

  ‘What do you do, Pete?’

  ‘You pray, mate. That’s what you do.’

  Pete stubbed out his cigarette and stood, calling a halt to the conversation – he’d had enough for now. He liked young Dan, but he sensed the kid was an idealist, and conversations with idealists could be tiring. ‘My round,’ he said, and he walked off to the bar where a line of privates from the catering corps stood stiffly in attendance with bottles on trays. White-jacketed and bow-tied, they looked like penguins, he thought. God, the army was a joke. As a senior government official, Pete had an open invitation to the officers’ mess, but he preferred the hoi polloi of the beer garden himself.

  Daniel was aware of Pete Mitchell’s signals, which were eminently readable, and he had no intention of plaguing the man with further questions, but there was much he yearned to know. How did Pete come to speak the black man’s language? This was surely not something taught at university. Why did he pretend not to care when it was obvious that he did? To Daniel, Petraeus Mitchell seemed as mysterious and contradictory as the land itself.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  This is the strangest place, a place of such contradictions. These early days of winter are as hot as any summer’s day at home, yet the nights can be bitterly cold. The desert itself is both terrifying and serene, both ugly and beautiful – far more variable than one could ever have imagined – but even the most barren area’s immensely overpowering …

  Daniel wrote regularly to Elizabeth, always keeping his topics general, avoiding any specific description of the township or the site, knowing that the army would censor all mail. Possibly even incoming letters, he’d warned her before he’d left. They’d been told from the outset that security was paramount at Maralinga.

  My darling, you will never guess the first thing I saw when I got off the plane, he’d written the very evening he’d arrived. The pathway leading up to the small airfield terminal where we were checked through immigration is lined with oleanders! Isn’t that extraordinary? The army has landscaped the airport entrance to make us feel at home upon arrival, and apparently the oleander is one of the few flowering Mediterranean plants that will survive in this place. I must say, it worked for me – I felt very welcomed indeed. The trees weren’t in blossom as it’s nearing winter, but they were the same rangy, leathery plants as those in your father’s conservatory, rows and rows of them, and I recalled that first night when he gave me a lecture on the tenacity of the oleander. Do you remember? He was testing me. He knew that I loved you. And I do, Elizabeth. More than you could possibly imagine. Let me know that all is well, for if anything should happen I will be on the first plane home.

  Daniel anxiously awaited word from Elizabeth. Even as he relived their last weekend together, over and over, savouring every moment, he worried that there may have been repercussions.

  ‘You’re cooking dinner?’ He’d been amazed when she’d informed him so over the phone. For as long as he’d known her, Elizabeth had displayed no interest whatsoever in the culinary arts. He’d resigned himself, a little regretfully it was true, to the fact that his married life would not include the high-quality home-cooked meals his mother had provided for as long as he could remember. Elizabeth had insisted. This was to be his last trip to London before leaving for Australia and she wanted to prove her commitment to the wifely duty of becoming a fine cook. She’d bought a cookbook, she said, and she was making a lamb casserole.

  He’d arrived as instructed on the dot of seven, to a faint though distinct smell of burning, but made no comment as she ushered him into the sitting room where the dining table in the corner was set for dinner, complete with candles, as yet unlit. She was looking particularly attractive, her auburn hair and dark eyes offset by the starkness of the simple white halter-neck dress she wore.

  ‘I bought a claret, which the chap in the shop assures me is a rather nice one,’ he said, offering her the bottle in its brown paper bag. Apart from beer, liberally dosed with lemonade, Elizabeth’s only other preference in alcohol was an occasional glass of fine red wine, a taste she’d inherited from her father.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, ‘we’ll have it with the lamb. But let’s start on that first,’ and she gestured to the unopened bottle of champagne sitting in its ice bucket on the coffee table beside the sofa.

  ‘My goodness, we are going posh, aren’t we. I didn’t even know you owned an ice bucket.’

  ‘I didn’t until this morning. I bought it at Selfridges, along with the casserole dish.’

  She disappeared through the door to the kitchen, returning only moments later with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and two champagne flutes.

  ‘All courtesy of Selfridges,’ she said, placing the tray and the glasses on the coffee table and sitting beside him. ‘I’ve been on a shopping spree.’

  He opened the champagne. ‘To your first lamb casserole,’ he toasted.

  ‘To us, and to the future, and to the hope that by the time you return I’ll be able to cook like your mother.’

  They drank their way through most of the champagne and ate the hors d’oeuvres, talking non-stop as they always did, and then Elizabeth left to serve the meal. She refused his offer of help.

  ‘No, you stay here and light the candles,’ she said. ‘Matches on the table. And there’s a corkscrew in the cabinet – you can open the claret while you’re at it.’

  He did as he was told and, when she returned, the candles were flickering, the wine was opened and he was about to pour the se
cond glass. But on looking up, he was surprised to see her in her dressing gown.

  She struck a humorously hapless pose at the kitchen door. ‘Well, that’s one lesson I’ve learnt,’ she said. ‘One must never wear white when one cooks.’

  He’d laughed. He’d actually laughed. Daniel could hear himself now. ‘That’s what Mum says – she always wears an apron.’ Recalling the moment, he couldn’t believe his naivety, but he had suspected absolutely nothing.

  ‘Let’s have the overhead light off for atmosphere,’ she suggested, ‘just the corner lamp and the candles. Then I can make an entrance.’

  He obliged and the lighting dimmed. But he was puzzled when she remained stationary, silhouetted in the spill of light from the kitchen.

  ‘Do you need some help?’ he asked.

  ‘No thanks. This part I can handle on my own.’

  Stepping away from the kitchen door into the candlelight’s glow, she untied the sash at her waist and let the dressing gown drop to the floor. She wore a bright red chemise of the sheerest silk, the gossamer fabric caressing her flesh, outlining her naked body’s every contour.

  ‘Which do you want first, Danny? Dinner or me?’

  He’d been unable to take his eyes off her. In the silence that followed, his shock had been palpable as he’d stared at her body in a mixture of admiration and disbelief that may well have looked comical.

  She stood her ground. ‘I strongly suggest me. The dinner’s a disaster.’

  Still he said nothing. He was dumbfounded, incapable of speech.

  She continued to play her role with bravado, tracing a flirtatious path with her fingers over the chemise. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, ‘Selfridges, this morning, but it’s not, it’s Harrods. And I bought it nearly a fortnight ago, on the Monday after you told me about Maralinga.’

  It was only then Daniel recognised the insecurity beneath the façade. He’d heard the faint giveaway tremor in her voice and, suddenly, he saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that perhaps she had lost his respect. But she had misinterpreted his silence. He’d been overwhelmed by the magnitude of her action, which he’d rightfully judged to be a measure of her love. He was aware of the courage it must have taken for her to offer herself in such a way. There were no words to express what he felt, but Elizabeth, as usual, had made everything easy.

  ‘You’ve always looked beautiful in red.’

  The instant he said it, he saw the fear and insecurity vanish. And as she slowly walked towards him, he was reminded of that day in the park. This was a fantasy men only dreamed of.

  He’d stayed the night, and they’d made love again the following morning, an easier, gentler experience than the first time, when he’d worried that he may have hurt her.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she’d said briskly. ‘It’s called losing one’s virginity, and it’s meant to be painful.’

  There were times when Elizabeth was brutally non-romantic.

  Their lovemaking in the morning had been a different matter altogether. Tenderly, gently, they’d explored one other, giving pleasure and accepting pleasure, pledging themselves with their bodies until they felt they’d truly become one.

  Afterwards, as she lay with her head snuggled into his shoulder, Daniel ran his fingertips over her skin, marvelling at the satiny touch of her. He was overcome with love, but this change in their circumstances had brought with it complications.

  ‘We’ll get married early Monday morning before I leave for Aldershot,’ he said.

  ‘No, we won’t,’ she replied.

  ‘Come to Aldershot with me then. We’ll get married there – I don’t take off until Wednesday.’

  ‘No, we’ll say goodbye this weekend just as we planned.’

  ‘But, Elizabeth …’

  She propped herself on one elbow. ‘It was not my intention to blackmail you into marriage.’

  He sat bolt upright, aghast. ‘Who said anything about blackmail?’

  She laughed at his horror, then continued in her practical manner. ‘You’ve made all the decisions, my darling, and I’ve respected every single one of them. But this was a decision I believe was rightfully mine to make. I love you, Danny, and I wanted to be a wife to you in the true sense before you left. I have no desire to change the rules.’

  And that had been that. She’d steadfastly refused to marry him. He’d brought up the subject of possible ‘repercussions’, but she’d dismissed pregnancy as highly unlikely. She’d done her homework, she said, and, according to the rhythm method, this was the safest time in her cycle. The threat of conception was negligible.

  She’d sounded very practical and very knowledgeable, but he’d worried nonetheless.

  A full six weeks passed before Daniel heard from Elizabeth, or indeed until he received mail of any description. No doubt letters were delayed in transit, he told himself. Mail bound for Maralinga would be held in keeping somewhere until the next flight was due to leave. Or perhaps they were held up right here, he thought, at the post office just down the road from his barracks. Did the army really vet incoming correspondence? Who could be sure?

  He finally received five letters all at once, four from Elizabeth and one from his family, and he looked for any signs of interference, but could see none. Perhaps he was being paranoid. He read Elizabeth’s letters sequentially. The final one was dated three weeks after he’d left, and she’d just received the first of his own letters.

  Danny, my darling,

  How wonderful to hear about the oleanders. I rang Daddy with the news and he said he could just see them thriving in noble splendour out there in the middle of the desert. He thinks the army is most astute in making such a choice.

  Of course I remember that first night when he tested you, my darling. How could I forget? I was the only one who didn’t know I was in love with you.

  She carried on in a light-hearted vein, and it was only at the end of the letter he received the news he’d been awaiting so anxiously: By the way, I’m not pregnant, so there’s no need to come rushing home …

  Had she forgotten his warning about the possibility of mail censorship, or did she simply not care about prying eyes? Daniel strongly suspected the latter. He even held the vaguest suspicion that her boldness might be deliberately aimed at those prying eyes. He couldn’t query her on the subject, however, because outgoing mail was most definitely screened.

  It was July, two months before the first in the series of tests codenamed Operation Buffalo was scheduled to take place, and Maralinga was in a general state of limbo. The township and its amenities were now completed and all stood in readiness for the influx of visitors. Thirty miles away, work on the test site continued. Construction of the ninety-foot steel tower from which the bomb would be suspended was underway, as was the construction of the two camera observation towers at Roadside, the firing area ten miles from the blast, but the erection of these was the work of specialist teams. Back at the township, with the waiting game upon them and little to be done, the men’s lifestyle was relatively easy, although, in true military tradition the army maintained its disciplines. In the small ceremonial parade square situated in the centre of the village, the ritual raising and lowering of the Union Jack and the Australian flag was observed, and soldiers of various regiments were seen on a daily basis marching around the peripheral roads of the township, the barks of their sergeants assaulting the silence of the surrounding desert. In passing the swimming pool, they invariably met with some comment.

  ‘Pick it up, lads,’ the men would shout to the passing brigade as they lounged on the broad, concrete steps that led up to the pool, which was above ground level. ‘You can do better than that.’ And one of them might even down his bathing costume to flash his backside at the men marching past, knowing full well that in a few days’ time it would be him being drilled by his sergeant and suffering a man’s bare behind flashed at him from the concrete steps of the pool.

  The Olympic-size swimming pool, complete with a low springbo
ard and a proper ‘ten-footer’ where the bold could show off their skills, had already become of prime recreational importance. It sat invitingly alongside the volleyball court and the tennis court, and, over the blistering summer months down the track, would prove a positive lifesaver. The supply of water was, surprisingly enough, not a problem. During the building of the township, water had been trucked from Watson, but since the army had sunk bores there was a plentiful supply for all purposes, freshwater for the village itself being stored in a massive steel water tower that dominated the landscape.

  Sporting facilities abounded at Maralinga, and also at the tent city adjoining the nearby airfield, where a golf course had been incongruously laid out on the red dusty plain and where the bitumen airstrip served as the world’s largest cricket pitch. This city of tents, wooden-floored and connected by boardwalks, with mess rooms and canteens of timber-framed corrugated iron, was home to the air force. All other troops and civilian personnel were housed at the Maralinga township, which accommodated 550 permanent residents, with facilities to cater for up to 3000 during peak times, as was anticipated during the forth coming tests.