Maralinga (28 page)

‘I'll radio the MPs while you and the men clear the dogs away,' he said to the soldier.

The sky is clear and the moon is bright. It is the hour before dawn, and Djunga is giving birth. She has left the mission at Yalata and has crept out into the desert with two women in attendance. Her husband's younger wife, Mundapa, is not present, for Mundapa is too inexperienced — she has yet to give birth to a child of her own. The women tending Djunga are not of her clan, but this does not matter — at such times all women are sisters.

The two stand either side of Djunga, their hands clasping each of hers tightly, supporting her as she squats and pushes with all her might. She has been pushing for a long time now and, although the night is chill, she is sweating from her efforts. Never in her three previous births has she had to push so hard or so long. In the past, birthing has been an easy process so easy that within hours Djunga has been going about her everyday duties. But in the past, her babies have helped her. They have been eager to come into the world, and she has barely needed to push. This baby does not wish to come out. This baby is not helping at all.

Djunga remembers when she last felt her child kick hard
in her belly. It had been several days ago, and the baby had kicked so forcefully she thought her time had come. She had been prepared to go with the women out into the desert that very afternoon, but the moment had passed. Since then, the movement in her belly has become weaker, and now, as she pushes, she tells herself that this baby is lazy. She is cross with this baby for not wanting to come into the world. But even as she tells herself this, she is fearful, for she knows that something is not right, and she dares not think of that which she most dreads.

She pushes harder and harder. Her teeth are clenched, her head is thrown back, and the tendons of her neck are taut ridges under the skin. She is close to exhaustion and, although she has not once screamed with the pain, rasping sounds now come from the back of her throat.

Then the baby's head appears, and the knowledge that the final moment is upon her lends Djunga renewed strength. Minutes later, with her last vestige of energy, she pushes the child from her body.

The baby slithers into the waiting hands of one of the attending women, and Djunga slumps to the ground. She rests on her buttocks and watches as the second attendant kneels between her splayed legs and sets about cutting the cord. But there is no sound from the baby. The woman smacks its tiny body. But the baby does not cry out. The baby is dead.

Many women in Djunga's clan have lost children, particularly during the lean drought seasons. Malnourished themselves, they cannot feed the babies in their bellies and the children die prematurely or are stillborn. But this is not Djunga's way. Djunga has always given birth to healthy babies.

Now, in the first light of dawn, as she looks at the tiny body, Djunga hears the click-click-click of the mamu sticks. It has been nearly three weeks since her terrifying ordeal and, although she has been unable to erase the memory from her mind, she has been reassured by the healthy life she has felt in her body. But during these past several days, as the baby's kicks became weaker, she has lived in dread. Now all her fears have proved true. The mamu did indeed cast a spell upon her. This child was destined to die from the moment they ran their evil sticks over her belly.

The women help Djunga dig a hole and she buries her baby. Then the three of them return to the mission.

The discovery of Pete Mitchell's body became the talk of Maralinga. Word spread about town that he'd been shot through the head, and further word quickly spread of his affair with the fettler's wife. The men found it a novel experience having something to gossip about. Infidelity, jealousy and murder were permissible topics of conversation, eminently more open for discussion than the arcane affairs of Maralinga.

The topic was under even greater discussion at Watson.

‘Yeah, it'd be Harry Lampton all right. He's got a record you know – been inside. He's a bad bastard, isn't he, Mave?'

With the police enquiry now firmly focused on the small railway settlement, Tommo's attitude had changed. He was going out of his way to be helpful, and so was his wife.

‘Rotten to the core,' Mavis agreed. ‘And Ada's no better. She's a right little slut that one. She was the
one caused the trouble, I'll bet.'

‘Not that we seen anything, mind.' Tommo flashed a look at his wife. ‘Just a feeling you get, you know?'

Interviews with the fettlers' wives proved much the same. They all agreed that it had to have been Harry, and that Ada slept around. But there wasn't a witness to be found amongst them.

The military police now had their prime suspect, however, and a description of Harry Lampton, together with the details of his criminal record, was widely broadcast. The hunt was on.

Once again, the news spread like wildfire, and two days after the discovery of the body Gideon Melbray was running a book on where and when Harry Lampton would be apprehended. The bets rolled in. It seemed that in death, Pete Mitchell was proving the perfect all-round distraction for a township of bored and restless men. Neither gossip nor gambling was conducted in the presence of Daniel Gardiner, however, for the men could see that he was taking Pete's death very much to heart. Dan's grief was understandable, they agreed – the two had shared a donga, after all; they'd been friends. Well, as much as anyone could be friends with a loner like Pete Mitchell.

It was true Daniel was tormented by Pete's murder. But his torment did not lie so much in the death of a friend – the news of which had not surprised him – as in the cause of death and the perpetrator. For the past week, he had steadily convinced himself that everything Pete had told him the night before his disappearance had been the ramblings of a drunken man. Now, he was plagued with doubt. According to
the reports, Pete had been shot through the head. To Daniel, the coincidence was chilling.

Jesus Christ, I could cop a bullet through the brain for telling you this …
He could hear Pete's voice.
They're a ruthless bunch your employers, Dan.
He could see Pete's face as he raised the whisky bottle in a toast.
Here's to the army, mate, yours and mine. A pack of bastards every one of them.

Over and over the words echoed in his mind, arousing in him a terrible suspicion.
I could cop a bullet through the brain …
Was Harry Lampton a scapegoat? There were those who knew Pete had been having an affair. Murder by a jealous husband would be the perfect set-up if his death had been planned. But precisely
who
would have planned it?
They're a ruthless bunch your employers …
No, Daniel told himself, such a conspiracy was not possible.
Here's to the army, mate … A pack of bastards …

For two long, sleepless nights Daniel agonised over his suspicions and all they implied. If Pete had been deemed a threat to military security and disposed of, then everything he had said that drunken night must have been true. An Aboriginal family had been irradiated, their deaths had been labelled top secret, men had been threatened with charges of treason if they talked … The whole story, every facet of it, seemed to Daniel implausible. Pete Mitchell had been a disturbed man, he'd been heavily drunk that night – his death was surely coincidental. But coincidence or not, Daniel knew he wouldn't rest until he'd discovered the truth. There was just one problem though. Where was he to turn? Who was he to ask? If there
was
a conspiracy, then he was in
the thick of it, and he dared not risk the same fate as Pete.

He would make no enquiries amongst the military, he decided. Not yet. Not until he felt it was safe to do so. He would start with the fettlers. They might well know something they weren't telling the police. Fettlers were renowned for avoiding any involvement with the authorities.

Early the following morning, before breakfast, Daniel popped into the transport office. He went directly to the front desk where he greeted the day duty sergeant, a beefy Cockney in his mid-thirties.

‘Good morning, Norman.'

‘Morning, Mr Gardiner, sir.'

‘Put me on detail for the lunchtime run to Watson, will you.'

‘No can do, I'm afraid, sir, you've already been assigned.'

‘Really? Well, un-assign me, there's a good chap.'

‘Would if I could, sir, but it's beyond my control.' Norman gave a regretful shrug as though he cared, although he didn't really. ‘Lord Dartleigh has requested you drive him to Ceduna.'

‘Ceduna?' The assignment was something of a surprise. It was half a day's drive – six hours at least – and much of it over rough roads that were little more than dirt tracks.

‘That's right, sir.' Norman consulted his roster chart. ‘The request came in yesterday evening. You're to collect him from his quarters at 0800 hours, you're to be in mufti, and the trip will require an overnight stay. You've been booked into the Ceduna Community Hotel.'

‘Oh, I see.'

Norman could tell that the young lieutenant wasn't at all happy with his assignment, and he felt a genuine twinge of sympathy. He wouldn't fancy being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a toff like Dartleigh either – he had no time for the gentry himself, stuck-up bastards the whole blooming lot of them. ‘It seems his lordship is bored, sir – too long between bombs – needs a bit of R and R.' Norman gave a derisive snort. ‘Well, don't we all. Half his luck, I say.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant.' There were times when Norman stepped right out of line.

‘Sorry I can't be of more help, Lieutenant.' Although he sensed a slight reprimand, Norman didn't care in the least. He didn't care about anything except serving the remaining three months of his posting, collecting his substantial pay and getting away from this Godforsaken place. ‘I just sign out the vehicles, sir, you know how it is.'

 

Norman was right about Harold Dartleigh: he was bored; it was too long between bombs and he needed some R and R. He too couldn't wait to get away from Maralinga, but, unlike Norman, he wouldn't have to wait three months.

Just one more test to go, Harold thought as he stared out of the Land Rover's passenger seat window at the endless desert rolling by. Just four more days until the final firing in the Buffalo series and then he'd be on a plane home. He'd been counting the days for some time now. He would need to return to Maralinga every several months or so – one must maintain
a presence – but Gideon would keep him regularly posted, and his trips would be brief, no more than a week or so. Of course, there would be Operation Antler, the second of the major test series next year, but that was thankfully a whole ten months away.

The plains of spinifex were giving way to salt pan territory now, none of which in the least impressed Harold. God, it was a hellhole, he thought. He'd been stuck in this primitive wasteland for over four wretched weeks and it had been altogether too long. He frankly didn't know how the men bore it.

‘How much longer do you have to go, Dan?' he asked.

‘Quite a distance, sir.' The question took Daniel by surprise, he'd been deep in thought. ‘We're only halfway to Yalata – at least another three hours. We'll pick up speed when we get to the Eyre Highway.'

‘No, no, lad,' Harold said with a touch of impatience, ‘I mean how much longer do you have to serve at Maralinga?' The boy seemed rather distracted, he thought.

‘Oh, I see. Sorry, sir, I misunderstood. Another six months – my posting's up the end of April.'

‘Six months!' Harold gazed out the window. The stark, parched red earth with its salt-encrusted surface looked to him like some hideous lunar landscape. ‘Goodness gracious,' he murmured, more to himself than to Daniel, ‘how on earth will you bear it?'

‘I rather like the geography of the desert, sir.'

‘You do?' Harold turned to stare at his driver. The boy was insane. ‘Why?'

‘It's so extraordinarily primitive.'

‘Yes, it's certainly that.'

‘And it's so varied.'

‘Really?' Harold once again looked out the window. He couldn't quite see the variation himself. But then Dan was a sensitive lad. Such an attractive quality in a young man, he thought. ‘Perhaps I suffer a touch of agoraphobia,' he said, ‘but there's just a little too much
space
for my liking.'

He settled happily back in his seat, prepared for a chat. The boy's company would alleviate the boredom of the scenery – it was why he'd chosen Dan, after all. Imagine being locked in a car for six hours with Ned Hanson! And then another six hours all the way back!

‘A whole six months, eh? You'll be chafing at the bit by the time you get off the plane, I warrant.'

‘I daresay you're right, sir,' Daniel replied. ‘It'll be good to be home.'

‘No, no, no, my boy, I mean you'll be chafing at the bit to get married, what? Elizabeth, that's her name, am I not correct? She doesn't care at all for tradition, she doesn't want a white wedding with all the trimmings, and you're going to marry her the moment you step off the plane.' Harold beamed triumphantly.

‘That's right, sir. Fancy you remembering that.' Daniel flashed a smile at Harold Dartleigh; he couldn't help but feel flattered.

‘I always remember things about people who interest me, Dan.' It was true, Harold did. Just as he remembered absolutely nothing about those he found dull. He had no idea whether or not Ned Hanson was married, and Ned had been working with the department for years. ‘So tell me about Elizabeth. She sounds absolutely enchanting.'

‘She's a journalist, sir.'

‘Ah. A liberated woman.'

‘Indeed, sir, a most liberated woman. In fact, Elizabeth's the most liberated woman I've ever met.'

‘How admirable. And for whom does she write?' The subject of Elizabeth was of no interest at all to Harold, but he was seeking entertainment and young Dan, in speaking of his fiancée, was bound to delight.

Daniel could see that Lord Dartleigh was in the mood for a chat. He had preferred the silence of the drive when they'd both been lost in their own thoughts, but it was flattering that the man should show such an interest, and with great pride he told Harold of Elizabeth's job at
The Guardian.

‘The Guardian
? Really?' Harold was somewhat surprised, but the announcement did not elevate Elizabeth to any particular level of fascination. He was, however, pleased to observe that he'd been correct about Daniel. The boy was positively glowing. ‘And a feature writer no less,' he continued, ‘most impressive. Your Elizabeth is obviously a very clever girl.'

Daniel could well imagine Elizabeth's response to being referred to as ‘a very clever girl'.
How extraordinarily patronising,
he could hear her say.

‘She is, sir, she's very clever indeed.'

The conversation had aroused a longing in Daniel. Elizabeth was always in his thoughts, but it had been some time since he'd spoken her name out loud, or heard it spoken by another. Now, talking of her brought her painfully close and he yearned for her company. Their correspondence had become unsatisfying in its enforced superficiality. He had communicated to her
in full the powerful effect the desert had had upon him, and these days he wrote of only trivial matters. There was no point in composing poetic love letters, even if he'd had the talent – Elizabeth was not one for sentiment. And apart from his love, what else of any importance could he communicate? Certainly nothing about Maralinga. Daniel had never felt so isolated. There was no-one in whom he could confide, and now, more than ever, he needed a confidant.

‘So where did you two meet, Dan?' The boy had gone quiet, which rather irritated Harold. ‘Do tell me, I'm absolutely fascinated.'

But Daniel didn't hear the question. A sudden thought had occurred to him. He
could
confide in Elizabeth. Of course he could. This trip was a God-given opportunity. He could post a letter from Ceduna. With the realisation came a great sense of relief, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

‘Come along now, Dan, don't be coy.' The smile had frozen on Harold Dartleigh's lips. The boy should be flattered by his attention, but he seemed to have drifted off. How dare he. ‘Where did you meet your Elizabeth?'

‘Aldershot, sir.' Daniel, upon registering the steely edge to the voice, was quick to make up for his inattentiveness. ‘It was the spring of 1954, the day of the centennial celebrations. Elizabeth was working for
The Aldershot Courier-Mail
and I was marching in the grand parade.'

‘Ah, how romantic.' Harold calmed down. He'd been about to get quite tetchy. ‘Do go on.'

Daniel painted a picture of Aldershot as it had been that day, seeing it all so vividly himself: the hundreds
of soldiers marching down High Street; the thousands of spectators cheering them on; and the one lone woman amongst the gathering of press at the entrance to the park.

‘I'm sure every single soldier in that parade was looking at her,' he said, and laughed. ‘I certainly know I was.'

‘Charming,' Harold said as he settled back in the passenger seat. ‘Utterly charming,' and he closed his eyes. ‘Wake me when we get to the highway.' The boy was an absolute delight, but it was going to be a very long drive. He'd doze for an hour or so, he decided.