Maralinga (38 page)

Elizabeth had been deeply indebted to Edna Sparks.

‘I can't thank you enough, Edna. Really, I –'

‘Rubbish. A phone call, that's all it was.'

Edna's response may have been abrupt and dismissive, but a friendship had been forged and both the women knew it. Despite the discrepancy in their ages and their vastly different backgrounds, Elizabeth Hoffmann and Edna Sparks had a great deal in common, not least being their lack of female friends. As career women working in a male-dominated world, friendships with those of their own sex had been rare and they quickly grew to value each other a great deal.

 

The heat she'd encountered during her sea voyage had not altogether prepared Elizabeth for the relentlessness of a South Australian midsummer, particularly when, in mid-February, a four-day heatwave hit Adelaide. She'd found the 100-degree temperatures extremely trying.

Thank goodness I have the flat,
she'd written to her parents.
The days in town are simply stifling, but to come home to the breeze off the water makes everything bearable. I even conquered my fear of the ocean
on Saturday and, instead of paddling ankle-deep in the shallows as I normally do, I threw my whole body into the sea, along with the hundreds who swarm to Glenelg every weekend. All Australians can swim wonderfully and are fearless of the water. I felt so incredibly clumsy spluttering and floundering about that I have now determined I shall learn how to swim. It cannot be that difficult, surely …

Elizabeth had embraced the dramatic change in her life with a practicality that was typical, developing a genuine enthusiasm for her new job and her new country, but she had not for one minute lost sight of her purpose. After allowing herself six weeks to settle in at
The Advertiser
, she'd decided the time was right to request she be assigned to the Maralinga project.

Peter Johnston, the editor, was a pragmatic man and had instantly recognised that reportage by an English journalist, particularly one fresh from the prestigious London
Guardian
, would not only be apt under the circumstances but bound to impress.

‘You'll need to liaise closely with Macca, of course,' P. J. had said. ‘He's been principally responsible for our Maralinga coverage. But I'm sure he'll be delighted to have you on his team.'

Jonathon ‘Macca' Mackay, senior feature writer and regular political columnist, had been more than delighted. He'd basked in the knowledge that he'd be the envy of his colleagues.

‘Working hands-on with her, eh? You lucky bastard.' Laurie Knight had been the only one to make a suggestive comment, which he'd emphasised with his customary nudge and wink.

In deference to Elizabeth, Macca had not responded in kind, but neither had he taken offence. Laurie was only voicing what a lot of the others were thinking. The men respected Elizabeth but it didn't stop them lusting after her.

Macca's own feelings towards Elizabeth were not in the least lascivious. A devoted family man in his late thirties with two young children, he had a very pretty wife whom he absolutely adored. But he admired a handsome woman as much as the next man, and the prospect of being the envy of his mates greatly amused him.

Elizabeth warmed to Jonathon Mackay from the start. A ginger-haired Australian of Scottish descent, Macca was good-natured, easy to work with and a great deal of fun. He was also extremely helpful, supplying her not only with every single report the newspaper had run on Maralinga but also a wealth of material on the earlier British nuclear testings at Monte Bello and Emu Field.

‘A bit of homework for you, Liz,' he'd said as he'd piled her desk high with files from the archives department. ‘Best to be historically up to date, don't you reckon?'

Elizabeth certainly did, and she'd studied every report and every article with the utmost care. Several days later she'd reported to his office, which looked out over the newsroom and her own desk, eager to move on to the next step. But things had taken a surprisingly frustrating turn.

‘So where to from here, Macca?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I've finished my homework. Historically I'm a full
book. So who do I talk to about the current state of play?'

‘You don't. You wait until
they
talk to
you.
'

Macca's response to her bewilderment was sympathetic.

‘I hate to disappoint you, Liz, I know you're raring to go, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait until they call a press conference.'

‘But surely there's someone who fields questions? Nothing confronting that would breach security regulations, just a general interview.'

‘Nope. They don't allow individual interviews with the press. They call conferences and they issue statements and they tell us just as much as they feel we should know. They're very self-protective.'

‘By
they
I presume you mean the military?'

‘The military and everyone else.' Macca reeled off the list: ‘The British government, the Australian government, every branch of the armed forces from both countries, and let's not forget the scientists. Maralinga's a closed shop, Liz. And it's not really surprising when you think about it. Reds under the bed …' He shrugged philosophically. ‘The whole bloody country's terrified.'

Reds under the bed, Elizabeth thought. The fear of communism was obviously as rampant throughout Australia as it was throughout Britain – she wondered why she found the fact vaguely surprising. Probably because Australia seemed such a world away, she told herself. But it wasn't any more, was it? The fears of the Australians were more than justified with Britain's nuclear testing ground flourishing in their midst.

‘Then I suppose my best bet would be to come from the unofficial direction,' she said. ‘Try for an interview with a soldier on leave. Aim for a human interest story – “Life on the Range”, that sort of thing.'

Macca gave a loud hoot of laughter. ‘You have to be joking!'

His response was disbelieving rather than derisive. Elizabeth's suggestion seemed unrealistically feminine and very much out of character for the hard-nosed journalist he knew her to be. He didn't wish to appear mocking though, so he curbed his mirth as best he could.

‘Don't you reckon “Life on the Range” might be just a little fanciful, Liz?' Then he registered the glint of something that could have been mischief in her eyes. ‘Oh,' he said, ‘you
were
joking.'

‘Was I?' Her response was enigmatic. ‘The human interest angle would at least give me somewhere to start, and a soldier on leave would expect that sort of approach from a female reporter, wouldn't you say?'

Macca's grin quickly faded. ‘Right, I get it. You're not joking at all. You're sounding me out.'

Elizabeth nodded. ‘So what do you think my chances are?'

‘Bugger all, I'm afraid.' Macca briskly spelled out the facts. ‘Soldiers on leave are not permitted to give interviews to any members of the press. Even those who appear harmlessly female,' he added with meaning. ‘Soldiers are also banned from talking about Maralinga to any member of the public anywhere at any time. I've actually heard there are military spies posted around the most popular gathering places in the city to ensure men don't speak out of turn.'

‘In other words,' Elizabeth said wryly, ‘you're suggesting the unofficial approach is not the way to go.'

‘It most definitely is not.'

‘Then perhaps I'll ruffle a few official feathers instead, try a more confrontational tack.'

‘Don't give it a thought. The moment they smell you mean trouble, you'll be straight out the door.'

‘If that is the case, Macca, I consider it absolutely appalling, and you should too.' Elizabeth didn't care in the least if she sounded stuffy; she was becoming annoyed. ‘Whatever happened to the freedom of the press?'

‘There's no such thing in the middle of a Cold War.'

Macca's glib reply annoyed her further and she was about to interject, but he didn't give her a chance.

‘Government security, Liz – we have to play it safe or we won't get a look-in. You'll just have to wait for the next press conference – there's nothing else you can do.' Aware of her frustration, he made an effort to mollify her. ‘Why don't you write a general piece in the meantime – something with political comment that won't offend?' He thought for a second or so. ‘How about “Australia's inestimable value to Britain in the face of America's nuclear non-proliferation policy”? That could be interesting, don't you think?'

Much as Elizabeth liked Macca, she found his complacency infuriating, and his attempt at mollification only succeeded in increasing her overwhelming sense of frustration. Why should she write a safe, cosy piece just to please the government? But of far greater importance, how was she to make any
possible inroads into Maralinga? It was maddening to have come so far only to be told by the likes of Macca Mackay that her hands were tied and she could go no further.

 

Only days later, however, Elizabeth had had every reason to thank Macca Mackay. On the Friday following their frustrating exchange, Macca had unwittingly opened up the avenue of opportunity that was to prove invaluable. It started with a seemingly innocent introduction in the lounge of the Criterion Hotel in King William Street not far from
The Advertiser
office. ‘The Cri', as the pub was fondly known, was a favoured watering hole for journalists, both local and those visiting from interstate.

‘Liz, this is Bob Swindon of
The Sydney Morning Herald
,' Macca said. ‘We don't hold that too much against him though, he's originally an Adelaide boy. Bob, this is Liz Hoffmann, ex London
Guardian
. Liz has been with
The Advertiser
six weeks.'

‘Seven actually. Hello, Bob.' Elizabeth offered her hand. ‘Elizabeth Hoffmann,' she said in the vague hope that for once the hint might be picked up.

It wasn't. ‘G'day, Liz.' The handshake was big and hearty like the man himself. ‘I've heard about you.' News having travelled far and fast as it did in the world of journalism, Bob Swindon had most certainly heard about the good-looking young journalist from
The Guardian
. ‘Nice to meet you love,' he said. Christ, she must get sick of being chatted up, he thought as they shook hands.

Bob Swindon made a habit of playing an avuncular role with young women these days. He'd decided,
with some regret but a great deal of common sense, that his womanising days were over. Fat and fifty was no longer a dignified image for the Lothario he'd once been; at least, that was his humorously self-deprecating way of putting it. A decade of high-blood-pressure medication having seriously affected his ability to perform in the sexual arena, the decision had, to a certain degree, been made for him.

‘You and Liz have a lot in common, Bob,' Macca said.

‘Is that so?' If he were twenty years younger, Bob thought, they sure as hell would have. ‘In what way?'

‘Liz is a renegade like you. She's the sort who likes to make waves.' Macca flashed a disarming grin at Elizabeth. ‘And she's highly critical of the fact that I'm the sort who doesn't, isn't that right, Liz?'

‘Well, um …' Elizabeth felt caught out. She'd not said so to his face, but Macca couldn't have voiced her feelings better.

Macca laughed good-naturedly. Elizabeth Hoffmann was the most readable woman he'd ever met, and he liked her for it.

‘So what are you two rebels drinking? My shout. A shandy for you, I take it, Liz?'

‘Thanks, Macca.'

A shandy was the closest Elizabeth had been able to come to the national penchant for beer, but the situation had been exactly the same with her colleagues in London so there'd been no need for adjustment. Personally she would have preferred a glass of claret, but no-one seemed to drink claret in pubs.

Bob opted for a beer and Macca disappeared to the bar.

The pub was always busy on a late Friday afternoon and he was gone for quite a while, during which time Elizabeth and Bob found that they did indeed have a lot in common.

‘So if you're a renegade, Bob, tell me how I crack a decent story about Maralinga.' Having been offered the perfect opening, Elizabeth dived right in. ‘Macca tells me I have to play it safe. What would you do?'

‘I'd play it safe. Macca's right.'

‘Really?' Elizabeth studied the man with suspicion. Was Bob Swindon fobbing her off because she was a woman?

‘Oh, I grant you Macca's a conservative journo, you're on the money there.' In the face of her scepticism Bob felt the need to explain. ‘He's a beaut bloke and a bloody good writer, but his wife and kids are his whole world. Danger doesn't attract Macca like it does you and me.' He didn't question the fact that danger attracted her – it quite plainly did. ‘Macca'll take the safe path every time, he's famous for it. In this instance though, you'd be wise to follow his example.'

‘And if I don't?'

‘You'll find yourself on the outer. Government security demands we “renegades” are barred from the project.'

‘Yes, that's what Macca told me. So are
you
barred?'

‘Well, I'm not one of those journalists invited to observe the firings, which I suppose says something. But I go along to the press conferences and I toe the line like the rest; there doesn't seem much option really. Or perhaps my renegade days are over,' he added with a slightly theatrical sigh of resignation.

Elizabeth rather doubted that to be the case. ‘It's blackmail then. I have to play the game if I want to observe the firings.'

‘Oh, you won't get a look-in at the firings. They won't invite you to Maralinga under any circumstances.'