Maralinga Part 6

As the truck slowly pa.s.ses, Yarina hears the voices of the two white men through its open cabin windows, but she does not understand what they are saying. She does not speak the white man's language.

She watches as the truck pulls up barely a hundred yards from her, and watches as the men alight and take equipment from its tray.

Her eyes flicker beyond the truck to where she sees her husband, Ngama. He has been hunting, and the fat ramia he has caught for their dinner is slung over one shoulder. He stands frozen amongst a clump of mulga trees, the only movement being a droplet of the goanna's blood that slowly winds its way down his bare chest. Ngama has not bothered to hide from the strangers, but like Yarina he too has become a part of the landscape. It is easy to remain invisible to the white man, they have found.

Yarina squeezes her little boy's hand. He is a healthy, boisterous child, unaccustomed to staying still for any length of time. But her warning is not necessary. The boy has seen white men only once before in his short life, and even then from a distance. Instinctively, he fears them.

From their separate vantage points, Yarina and Ngama continue to watch as the men attach something to the fence of wire. They have heard of this fence of wire, which encompa.s.ses a part of the desert plains to the south, and they are confused. They are Arrernte people from the centre. They are unaccustomed to fences on their own lands. Why have the white men done this, Yarina wonders.

It is the question on the lips of many. Why do the white men intrude upon our land, ask those of the Pitjantjatjara and Yankuntjatjara and Kokatha. The Luritja, Arrernte and Antakarinja people, who traverse the area, ask the same question. Why do the white men wish to keep us from our tracks? Why do they deny us access to our sacred sites and our waterholes? This is a puzzle to many people. What could the white men want in the desert country that is so foreign to them? There is nothing for the white man here, they say.

Yarina and her tiny son remain motionless for the fifteen minutes it takes the men to attach the sign and move on. Then, as the truck disappears and the desert dust settles, Yarina joins her husband. Together they examine the strange symbols on the notice that now hangs from the fence. But they do not understand its meaning.

CHAPTER FOUR.

'Maralinga,' Harold announced. 'They're calling it Maralinga means "fields of thunder" in some sort of native lingo, I believe.' He gave a hoot of delighted laughter. 'Rather apt for a nuclear bomb test site, what?'

'It's certainly colourful,' his wife agreed. 'Who came up with the idea?'

'The Australian chief defence scientist, so I'm told, a chappie by the name of Butement. Never met the fellow myself, but then I haven't b.u.mped into any of the Australian contingent as yet.'

Harold took a sip of the second cup of tea his wife had just poured him and, discovering it not warm enough for his liking, decided to ring for a fresh pot. He rose from his cosy armchair beside the open fireplace and crossed to the French windows. 'Bound to meet up with them shortly, of course, now that I'm officially on board,' he said, giving the bell sash two brisk tugs. 'I shall be going down there any tick of the clock, I imagine.'

He looked out at the serenity of the landscape, where the elm tree cradled its burden of snow in the comfortable crooks of its giant limbs, and the white-laced hedgerow wound its elegant way down the slope that led to the brook. He did so love winter. The romantic in him particularly loved a white Christmas, and, the cold snap having well and truly set in, this Christmas of 1954 held every promise of being white.

'Probably just in time for a stinking hot desert Christmas,' he added, 'blast my luck.'

'How does the Australian public feel about this Maralinga business?' Lavinia asked.

'I don't think they know.'

'Really? How extraordinary. One would a.s.sume such drastic action would lead to immensely strong public opinion. What a strange breed they must be.'

'No, no, my love, you misunderstand. The majority of them don't know what's going on. Well, not yet anyway. Their government's keeping the news pretty much to itself at least until the site's established, and even then they'll let the populace know only the barest minimum. In fact, if we have our way, the Australians will know only what we tell them they can know.'

'Dear me,' Lavinia tut-tutted. 'And they'll accept that, will they? The British public wouldn't take kindly to being so ill-informed.'

She stopped abruptly. A light tap on the door was a precursor to the maid's appearance, and she knew better than to discuss her husband's business in front of the servants. Indeed, Lavinia felt privileged that Harold, in his position as deputy director of MI6, should see fit to share so much of his work with her. She was aware there was material that he did not offer up for discussion, and she never posed a query without his encouragement, but she enjoyed the degree of trust he placed in her. It meant that she could share at least a proportion of the huge burden of responsibility his job entailed. And that, in Lavinia's opinion, was a wife's bounden duty.

'We need a fresh pot,' Harold called to the maid from his position by the windows.

'Yes, m'lord.' The girl bobbed a curtsy and, leaving the double doors open, crossed to the large circular coffee table and picked up the tray.

'And perhaps one or two of Freda's scones?' Lavinia directed the question at her husband rather than the maid.

'Oh, by jove, yes,' Harold readily agreed.

'Jam and clotted cream, please, Bessie.'

'Very good, m'lady.' Another bob, and Bessie left, placing the heavy silver tray briefly on the hall table outside as she pulled the drawing room doors closed behind her.

Lavinia waited several seconds before continuing. 'So it's to our advantage that the Australians are so gullible.'

'Dear me, yes.' Harold returned to his armchair beside the fire. 'And we have their prime minister well and truly in our pocket,' he said as he sat opposite her. 'Several years back, when Menzies agreed to our nuclear weapon testing off the coast of Western Australia, he didn't even inform his own cabinet.'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Harold, that can't be true.'

'But it is, my love heard it directly from the Old Man himself.' Harold had just returned to his country estate in Suss.e.x following his London meeting with Prime Minister Churchill. 'Winston told me that in 1950 Attlee sent a top-secret personal request to Menzies regarding the use of the Monte Bello Islands,' he explained, in response to his wife's obvious disbelief. 'Menzies agreed immediately in principle to the nuclear testing, and, according to Winston, there's never been any record whatsoever of the man having consulted a single one of his cabinet colleagues on the matter.'

'Goodness gracious.' The impeccable arch of Lavinia Dartleigh's brow furrowed ever so slightly. 'Isn't that somewhat irregular?'

Harold laughed. He adored his wife's talent for understatement. Lavinia was the quintessential upper-cla.s.s Englishwoman. Still beautiful in her early forties, she was the epitome of elegance, highly intelligent and at all times unruffled. Harold valued her greatly. She was the perfect wife for a man in his position.

'Yes, my love, it is somewhat irregular.'

Harold Rodin Dartleigh, KCMG, KCVO, 6th Baron Somerston, was typical of many born to a life of privilege. He was arrogant and insensitive and took the services of others for granted. But, unlike a number of his contemporaries from equally advantaged backgrounds, he was not lazy and he was not a wastrel. Nor was he stupid. As a young man, Harold had distinguished himself in History and Philosophy at Cambridge University's Trinity College, after which he had embraced a highly successful diplomatic career, serving in under-secretary positions in the British emba.s.sies of Beirut, Istanbul, Tokyo and Prague.

Upon the outbreak of war in 1939, Harold's father, William, 5th Baron Somerston, had been so horrified at the thought of losing his only son and heir that, through his many connections, he'd had the twenty-nine year old appointed special government envoy to Washington. The move had not dismayed Harold, who had had no deep desire to join the fray not through any form of fear or cowardice on his part, but solely due to ambition. Death on a distant battlefield was not the destiny young Harold had in mind.

Having seen out the war in relative comfort, Harold had returned to England to care for his ailing father and, upon William's death in 1946, had taken his seat in the House of Lords. Given his wealth of diplomatic experience, the Secret Intelligence Service had soon beckoned and he'd jumped at the chance, quickly advancing through the ranks to become deputy director of MI6.

To Harold's extreme satisfaction, his achievements had been recognised in the highest of circles. In 1949 he had been awarded Knight Commander of the Order of St Michael and St George (KCMG) by King George VI for his work in the diplomatic service, and he had recently, early in this very year of 1954, been made Knight Commander Royal Victoria Order (KCVO) by Elizabeth II for service to the Queen and other members of the Royal family.

Forty-five years of age, just over six feet tall, and with a fit body but for a slight thickening of the girth, Harold was a distinguished-looking man. A good head of hair turning steel grey matched eyes of a similar colour, and his features were chiselled, patrician. But there was no denying a coldness about Harold. A coldness that some, in their self-admitted envy, dismissed as the arrogance of the privileged, and that others, perhaps of more generous nature and mostly numbering amongst his colleagues, maintained went with the job. The deputy director of MI6 had to be aloof, they said. And Harold was fun when you got to know him. He was frightfully clever, frightfully witty and an excellent dining companion. All of which was correct, so long as Harold was in the right mood.

Lord Dartleigh did have some genuinely staunch defenders, particularly amongst the high-ranking clergy, and the women with whom he mingled mainly his colleagues' wives, whose standing in society gave them a power of their own. They found it most admirable that never a breath of scandal could be laid at his doorstep. A family man with two grown children, Harold was faithful to a woman whom he clearly adored. The clergy applauded the exemplary marriage of so public a figure, and the women found his openly demonstrative devotion to his wife romantic, even enviable. Indeed, so enviable that several of the wives who indulged in the odd dalliance to match those of their husbands regretted the fact that Harold Dartleigh was unavailable.

And then there were the others those who lived in fear of Harold. Some feared him instinctively upon first meeting, and for some the fear grew over time, but the results were the same. He unnerved them.

There was one element, however, upon which all were bound to agree. Harold Dartleigh was not a man to be crossed by friend or by foe.

'You mentioned the desert,' Lavinia prompted. 'I presume one's not to know precisely which desert, or where?' She only ever raised queries when the way had been paved for her, and in this case it had. She found the subject of Maralinga most interesting.

'Quite right, my love, all very hush-hush, mum's the word.'

'Naturally. My guess is, nevertheless, South Australia. Wasn't that the location of Emu Field?' she asked innocently.

Harold chortled. He did so delight in his wife's intelligence. 'How the deuce did you know about Emu Field?'

'I saw a brief report in the cinema last year.' Lavinia's reply was a mixture of apology and criticism. 'In a Pathe Pictorial, I'm afraid. Hardly hush-hush.'

'Ah. Well ...' Harold's smile faded. 'Maralinga will most certainly be hush-hush, at least for as long as we can keep such a place a secret. Once we start detonating, of course, the whole world will know, but by then we'll have the site thoroughly secure and be able to monitor how much information we feed to the press. It's one thing for the Monte Bello and Emu sites to be made public, but we're talking about the establishment of a permanent nuclear testing ground, my love. All the more reason for MI6 to be running the show, and that's exactly what I told Churchill. Our department should have been brought in right from the start.'

Harold enjoyed having a wife in whom he could confide, and was aware of how highly Lavinia valued his trust, but there was an added advantage to their shared confidences about which he was thoroughly objective. Their mutual trust was an invaluable element to the success of their marriage and, therefore, to their public image. Being confidants consolidated them as a team, not only to each other but to the world at large. And appearances were, after all, essential for a man in his position.

'Winston and I are in agreement that it's a bit of a worry giving the boffins free rein,' he continued. 'They can be a sloppy bunch at the best of times. Scientists care about nothing but the results of their experiments, which leaves the gates wide open for breaches of security.'

'But the military will be running Maralinga, surely.'

'The day-to-day operations, yes, but William Penney's been put in charge of the tests and all things relative to them which is a bit of a worry, in my opinion. The fellow's a physicist, for G.o.d's sake.'

'He's also one of the world's leading authorities on nuclear weapons and he's been in charge of the British nuclear program for years.'

'Well done, my love.' Slinging one leg languidly over the other, Harold lolled back in his armchair and gave her a round of applause. 'Pathe Pictorial?' he queried.

'No. The Times.' Lavina smiled, unfazed by her husband's blatant mockery. 'And it's Sir William now, by the way he was knighted three years ago.'

'Ah yes, so he was, it had slipped my mind.' It hadn't at all a further mockery. 'Poor old Penney,' Harold sighed, 'he's going to hate my guts more than ever when he hears I'm running the show.'

'Why more than ever?'

'He didn't much like me at Cambridge, I'm afraid, and he won't take kindly to this turn of events. In fact my personal involvement in the Maralinga project will be thoroughly irksome to him.'

Lavinia was faintly surprised. She'd known the two had attended Trinity College at the same time, but Harold had never mentioned any antipathy.

'But the fellow will just have to put up with me, I'm afraid. MI6's presence in Australia is essential. The last thing we need is another Fuchs episode.'

Harold was referring to the highly publicised conviction of the British physicist Klaus Fuchs four years previously. A German-born British citizen, Fuchs had been a key figure in the atomic bomb developmental program devised by the Americans during the war and early post-war years. The Manhattan Project, as the program was codenamed, had been largely dependent upon American resources and personnel, but a number of British scientists had been involved, and the shocking discovery that one of the most high-ranking amongst them had been a Soviet spy for years had reverberated around the world.

'One can hardly blame the Americans for closing shop on us,' Harold said. Then, dropping the flippant facade, he leaned forward, steel-grey eyes gleaming with the familiar intensity that his colleagues at times found disturbing. 'We cannot afford to be slack in the nuclear stakes, Lavinia. There's a Cold War in progress and the Russians have proved their ability to infiltrate the most seemingly inaccessible '

Another tap at the door announced the maid's imminent arrival.

'I do hope you won't be called away for Christmas, dear ...'

The drawing room doors opened and Bessie appeared.

'... Catherine and Nigel will both be home this year,' Lavina smoothly continued as the girl bobbed back into the hall for the tray she'd placed on the table. 'It would be such a pity to miss out on the full family affair.'

'Nigel? Really?' As always, Lavinia's transition to the ba.n.a.l had been seamless, but Harold was taken aback by the news of his son. 'Nigel's coming home for Christmas?'

'Yes, he telephoned this morning, while you were in London.'

'Good heavens above, why didn't you tell me?'

'There seemed so many other things to talk about, didn't there?' Lavinia's attention remained focused upon the maid as Bessie carefully placed the tray on the coffee table between them. 'He's very much looking forward to being home.'

'Well, I shall certainly tell the department that I'm unavailable until after the festive season,' Harold said, rubbing his hands together in pleasurable antic.i.p.ation, perhaps of his son's arrival or perhaps of his afternoon tea it was difficult to tell which as he eyed the dish of scones. 'I very much look forward to his being home too. They are warmed, aren't they?' he asked.

'Yes, m'lord.' Bessie nodded as she set out the Spode fine bone china side plates, together with the linen napkins and silver cake knives. 'Freda's had them in a hot oven for a good five '

'Excellent, excellent. So when does he get here?'

'In a fortnight just three days before Christmas.'

'What fun. How jolly.'

Harold enjoyed his son's company; they had a great deal in common. Twenty-four-year-old Nigel, having emulated his father, had joined the diplomatic corps and was currently an attache at the British emba.s.sy in Rome.

'And I told you, didn't I,' Lavinia continued, 'that Catherine will be arriving Sat.u.r.day week?'

'Yes, you did mention it, I recall.'

The news wasn't of equal interest. Harold didn't really understand his daughter, and wasn't sure if he cared to. Catherine was nineteen, studying art in Paris and had turned into quite the bohemian. He'd threatened to cut off her allowance the previous year if she didn't enrol in university, or at least attend the Swiss finishing school he'd offered, but her mother had taken the girl's side in the argument. 'She's very headstrong, my dear, and she'll go to Paris in any event, so it might as well be with our support G.o.d knows what she'll get up to otherwise. Just for the two years of her art course, Harold. And she is very talented, you must admit.' Harold had reluctantly acquiesced, but he'd been annoyed that Catherine had not followed her brother's example and conformed to the image expected of one of her station in life. Her behaviour did not at all befit the daughter of a man in his position.

'I'll pour, thank you, Bessie,' Lavinia said.

'Very good, m'lady.' Bessie bobbed and left, closing the doors behind her.

Silence reigned briefly while Lavina poured the tea and Harold attacked the scones. After slicing one down the middle, he smothered both halves with jam and then piled on the clotted cream.

'My G.o.d, that woman's worth her weight in gold,' he said as he devoured the first half. Freda was undoubtedly the best cook they'd ever had.

'You said Maralinga is to be a permanent testing ground,' Lavinia remarked, pa.s.sing him his tea. 'How long do you antic.i.p.ate being there yourself?'

'Oh, I'll come and go somewhat, I would think.' Harold put down the cup and saucer, tea untouched, his scone taking priority as he embarked on the second half. 'I plan to have an office permanently based there and a cipher clerk on site to send me regular reports, but I'll front up for the detonations. The first series of tests won't take place until around September next year; they have to finish building the place first.' He shovelled the remains of the scone into his mouth and reached for another. 'Aren't you having any of these?'

'I ate a late lunch.'

'Ah, right.' He piled more jam onto his side plate. 'I'll be off on a recce trip shortly, of course have a look at the site and check out the Australian scientific representatives. Although I have dossiers on all three and they're not only harmless, they're ideal.' He gave a snort of laughter as he scooped up a spoonful of cream. 'Two of them are actually British accepted positions in Australia after the war perfect choices to liaise with the Australian government. Penney's done a d.a.m.n good job there, have to give him that much.'

Harold paused long enough to demolish another half a scone, then, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, continued. 'I'll be gone a good several weeks, I'd think, given the travel there and back, and I need to get the full layout of the place. I must say, the prospect intrigues me. Do you know they're building a ruddy great township in the middle of the desert? It's quite extraordinary. The airstrip's a mile and a half long! Imagine that. Right out there in the middle of nowhere. Quite, quite extraordinary.'

He contemplated the remaining half-scone that sat on his plate and decided against it, picking up his cup and saucer instead. 'They'll want me to leave pretty soon, I should imagine, but I'll stave off any plans until the new year so I can catch up with Nigel.' Then he hastily added, 'Catherine too, of course don't want to miss out on the family Christmas, what?'

He could tell from the look in his wife's eyes that she was on the verge of beseeching him, yet again, to disguise his blatant favouritism in the presence of the children, but Harold couldn't be bothered talking about Catherine. He had far more important and exciting things on his mind.

'I have a plan up my sleeve which I don't intend to share with the boffins,' he said, 'nor with the armed forces. In fact, just to be on the safe side, I shan't even inform my own officer who's to be stationed there.' He leaned back in his armchair, cup and saucer cradled against his chest. 'There will be a covert MI6 operative salted amongst them,' he announced with a smug smile. Then, little finger delicately extended, he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. Harold always drank tea in the daintiest manner.

'I'm having one of my top undercover men seconded to Maralinga,' he said, and toyed briefly with the notion of telling her who she knew Gideon Melbray from their emba.s.sy days in Washington. But he decided against it. No names, no pack drill must remain the order of the day. Pity, he thought, he'd have enjoyed her reaction. Lavinia had liked Gideon a great deal, he remembered, she'd found him a most attractive fellow. But then, everyone did. People were drawn to Gideon's beauty and tended to trust him which, of course, made him such a valuable covert operative.

'By jove,' he said with a gleeful grin, 'wouldn't old Penney be just livid if he knew he had an MI6 spy in his midst.'

'I have to say I'm not happy about this, Harold. I'm not happy about this at all.'

Three days later, having been informed by the Prime Minister's Office of MI6's involvement, Sir William Penney appeared bordering on livid, which was unusual for a man of his normally affable disposition.

'Just a precautionary measure, old chap. You mustn't take it personally.'

Aware of the perverse pleasure Harold Dartleigh was finding in his one-upmanship, Penney wondered exactly how else he was supposed to take it. 'I have headed Britain's nuclear weapons program since 1947,' he began testily. 'My leadership skills have never been questioned '

'And they're not being questioned now.' Harold was quick to appease, although he felt superior Penney was such a typical boffin in his opinion. Good G.o.d, even the look of the man small in stature, lanky straight hair, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses ... It was a source of wonder how he'd ever achieved leadership in the first place, Harold thought. 'No-one's undermining your authority, William. We're just keeping an overall eye on things for security purposes. Can't be too careful after the Fuchs affair, can we?'