Maralinga (52 page)

He now realised, however, that, like Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean, both of whom had defected in 1951, he was to be largely ignored and forgotten. Already he'd been assigned to the Government Translation Unit where he worked long hours in the bowels of a nondescript office building. The life he was destined to lead would be a sad one, surrounded by former fellow spies, expatriates who met in bars along the Bersenevskaya Embankment and talked of ‘home', wherever that may have been, whilst assuring each other that their treason was excusable because they were seeking to make a better world.

Harold considered such men pathetic. He should not be subjected to the same treatment. He deserved more; he was better than the others. The KGB had never had a spy of his stature in British society. Well, no, that wasn't altogether true, he had to admit. It was rumoured there were a number in high circles, one with royal connections no less, and there were many who had successfully infiltrated the system at high levels. Kim Philby, for example – he was sure that Philby was working for the cause. He couldn't be absolutely certain, of course – operatives never got to know who was who – but it was comforting to think there were others of his ilk still in place, still carrying on the good fight.

Despite treatment that he considered unfair, Harold's belief in the cause remained unshaken. He could neither dismiss nor regret an indoctrination that spanned over twenty years. To do so would be to deny his reason for living. Besides, he was fully aware of why the KGB had hidden him away. The KGB knew what the world would soon know.

He looked down at the newspaper on the table before him, at the headline that screamed ‘Traitor!' This was only the beginning, he thought. Now that Lavinia had let the cat out of the bag, MI6 would be forced to admit the truth, and every gruesome detail would be spewed forth by media all over the world. He'd be labelled ‘murderer' as well as ‘traitor', a title which, strangely enough, he found far harder to bear.

Harold knew that Gideon's murder was why the Kremlin had not given him a hero's welcome. The KGB understood the necessity for Gideon's termination,
but once the world found out – and the world was bound to find out – the Russian government must not appear to sanction such an act. The moment Harold had pulled that trigger he had destined himself to a life of obscurity.

Personally he felt no guilt at all about Gideon's death. Gideon Melbray had been a casualty of war. It had been his duty to kill Gideon rather than risk exposure. He would have killed himself too had it been necessary. He'd had the Walther at the ready for that very purpose.

In his twenty-year service as a spy, Harold regretted nothing. Not the betrayal of his country, not the desertion of his wife and family, not the necessary killing of Gideon Melbray. But there was one act that rested a little upon his conscience, simply because it had resulted from slack behaviour on his part. He'd tried to blame Gideon, who was so often cavalier in his attitude to their work, but he knew that he was equally to blame.

Harold felt guilty about young Dan Gardiner.

He recalled the trip they'd made to Ceduna, how he'd promised the lad he'd make enquiries into Pete Mitchell's death. ‘Don't you worry,' he'd said, ‘we'll get to the bottom of this. Nothing goes on around Maralinga that I don't know about or can't find out.'

And he had found out. A quick bribe to the fettler had provided the truth. But he'd found out for himself rather than the lad. If by any chance the army had killed Pete Mitchell as young Dan had feared, then Harold had wanted to know why. And that was where the problem had occurred. Once he'd satisfied
his own curiosity, he'd forgotten all about his promise to the boy. ‘You pop into my office in a few days and I'll let you know what I've come up with,' he'd said. But he'd forgotten that he'd said it. And that had cost young Dan his life.

Harold could not forget the look in the lad's eyes as they'd met his. Try as he might, he'd found that look strangely difficult to dismiss from the recesses of his mind.

Gideon had admitted later that he hadn't latched the door. It must have swung open automatically when young Dan knocked, they'd both agreed, because he would most certainly have knocked. They obviously hadn't heard him, either of them. They'd been caught off guard. It had been midway through the second meal shift, Ned had gone to lunch, the whole building had been virtually deserted, and they hadn't given a second thought to unexpected visitors. None of which was a valid excuse for his own appalling complacency, Harold thought. It wasn't the first time he'd been slack either; he'd allowed Gideon to file reports from his office on a number of occasions. Maralinga had lulled them both into a false sense of security. Stuck out there in the middle of that Godforsaken desert they'd thought they were inviolate. Harold had cursed Gideon for not locking the door, but he'd cursed himself too. They'd both killed the boy.

Gideon had been talking on the telephone, he remembered, and he'd been lounging in the corner of the office listening to the conversation, nodding his approval of each point Gideon made. They'd been looking at each other and neither of them had seen the door swing open. By the time they had, it had been
too late. The boy had been standing there in a state of stupefaction.

The scene young Dan had encountered must certainly have amazed him, Harold thought. Gideon had been sitting behind Harold's desk, talking on the scrambler phone that was the exclusive reserve of the deputy director of MI6. And he'd been talking in Russian.

The boy hadn't noticed him lounging in the corner. The boy had had eyes for no-one but Gideon. Harold had to give young Dan top marks for guts: he hadn't turned tail and fled; which had been just as well for them really. Instead, he'd confronted Gideon.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' he'd demanded, by which time Gideon had been on his feet and already circling the desk.

Harold had given the order to kill. He'd had no alternative. ‘
Ubeite yego,
' he'd said.

In that instant the boy's eyes had met his. And that was the look Harold could not forget.

In one swift action Gideon had smashed the heel of his right hand upwards with brutal force, spearing Daniel's nose cartilage into the brain. Death had been instantaneous.

They'd hidden the body in the large office cupboard where it had stayed until the workers had left for the day. Gideon had returned in a supply truck that evening – nobody had noticed anything unusual about Gideon Melbray transporting equipment and supplies – and, when it was dark, Harold and Gideon had driven out to the bomb site in separate vehicles and left the corpse there in the Land Rover. The detonation of Breakaway had done the rest.

For close on a year now, Harold hadn't given much thought to young Dan. It was true that on the odd occasion when he had, the look in the boy's eyes, strangely etched in his memory as it was, brought with it a twinge of guilt at the unnecessary waste of a young life. But it had happened and there was no point in dwelling on the fact. Since his defection, however, young Dan had been constantly on his mind, which was hardly surprising. The boy's death had proved his undoing.

Following the knee-jerk reaction to his discovery, Harold's entire concentration had been upon self-preservation. In fleeing Australia he'd had no time to reflect on the finer points of exactly how it was he and Gideon had been detected. Even when he'd arrived in Istanbul to be met by his case controller, he had not felt safe. The process of secreting him across the border into Russia had still been fraught with danger. Throughout his entire flight for freedom, Harold's one and only thought had been that of survival.

But following his arrival in Moscow, he'd had all the time in the world for reflection, as he would have for the rest of his life. It was plainly clear that Daniel Gardiner had not discovered the truth and written of it to his fiancée, as she had so boldly stated at the Maralinga debriefing. How could he possibly have done so? Daniel Gardiner had not known the truth until only seconds before his death.

The look in the boy's eyes would now haunt Harold with more than guilt over the waste of a young life, for the look in the boy's eyes told him that Elizabeth Hoffmann had been bluffing. She'd had no proof at all, he thought. Not that it would have made any
difference if she had – the woman had been about to expose him as a spy, and he could have taken no course of action other than the one he'd chosen. But how in God's name had she known, he asked himself yet again. How in God's name had Elizabeth Hoffmann known he was a spy? Harold would go to his grave wondering.

 

‘He actually thought I knew,' Elizabeth said. ‘Isn't that amazing? I still can't believe it. He actually thought I knew he was a spy.'

‘The perfect bluff,' Nick replied. ‘Poor old Dartleigh showed his hand unnecessarily. Excellent poker play, Elizabeth, well done.'

‘It would have been the perfect bluff if I'd known what I was doing,' she agreed. ‘More like luck, I'd say.'

‘More like sheer arse, I'd say.'

They were walking along the beach at Glenelg in their bathing costumes. The mid-November sun was unseasonably warm and, as it was a weekend, a number of sun worshippers were sprawled out on the sand working on their pre-summer tans.

Since the announcement of Harold Dartleigh's defection, the world press had gone mad. The full story had been released, and news of Gideon Melbray's murder had quickly been followed by the revelation that he too had been a spy. Nick and Elizabeth had discussed the ramifications of the whole intrigue and had agreed that everything pointed to the fact that Harold Dartleigh had killed Daniel, possibly with the assistance of Gideon Melbray. In any event, the two had been in collusion. Both had given witness to Daniel's state of depression, and it
had been principally their word that had confirmed the verdict of suicide.

‘Supposition again,' Nick had said as they'd sat on her balcony surrounded by newspapers. ‘There's no way we can prove any of this, you know.'

‘Why would they kill Danny, I wonder? Do you think he found out?'

‘Oh, I'd say he did, yes, most certainly. But it's something you'll never know, Elizabeth. Are you content to leave it at that?'

‘Yes, I am. As you say, we've no proof, and it's best for the family that Danny's death remains the accident it was reported to be. All I ever wanted was the truth. I'm happy with that.'

Now, as they walked together beside the water's edge, Elizabeth felt a sense of completion.

‘It wasn't bluff or luck, Nick,' she said. ‘Nor was it, to quote your colourful turn of phrase, “sheer arse”. It was Danny. Danny wrote the letter that set the whole thing in motion. It was Danny who exposed Harold Dartleigh and Gideon Melbray as spies.'

‘You're right,' he agreed. He was glad for her. She needed to know that Daniel hadn't died in vain. ‘Let's sit down, shall we?'

They sat on the sand and looked out at the ocean, both lapsing into silence. Elizabeth's mind was blissfully blank, but Nick was wondering where to from here.

‘So what are your plans?' he asked as casually as he could. ‘Will you be going back to London?'

She sensed the underlying tension in his query and glanced at him, but he was staring resolutely out to sea, giving away nothing. She wondered if
he would ever actually tell her he loved her, but it didn't really matter.

‘Good heavens above, no,' she said. ‘I'm not leaving Australia until I can swim really well. And that means a lot of lessons – it could take some time.'

He turned to her, but she ignored him and stared out to sea. Two could play at that game.

‘Besides,' she added, ‘the Cold War can't last forever. Someone's going to have to write an exposé about Maralinga some day. And I intend that someone to be me.'

She spoke lightly, but he knew she was serious. Life was not going to be easy, he thought, but he didn't expect it to be with Elizabeth around.

1984

Matilda and Violet are Kokatha girls. They are cousins and have grown up together — they are thirteen years old now. Their families live in Ceduna where the girls go to school. Tilly and Vi are very best friends. They share everything they own, although the balance is not really equal for Tilly has things Vi's family can't afford. Tilly's father is employed by the state railways and makes more money than his brother who is a farm labourer.

Today is a very exciting day for the girls. Their mothers and other women of their extended family group have called a meeting of the clan. Word has spread far and wide over the past two weeks — the women will gather at the Yari Miller Hostel in Ceduna to welcome a new family member. The hostel, designed to accommodate itinerant workers, is a common meeting place and those who have travelled into town from Tarcoola and Yalata will stay the night. Twenty or more women and children are now gathered in the hostel's central courtyard. There would be a far greater number if the family's men and youths were in attendance, but such a
gathering is considered women's business. Besides, the men have more important things to discuss. They are forming a council and gathering information to be presented to the Royal Commission next year. The commission is to investigate the damage caused by the Maralinga experiments.

As the women's group waits a number of little boys play raucously around them, but amongst the women themselves, some sitting on benches, others squatting on the ground nursing young ones, there is a feeling of quiet expectation. This is a momentous day for all present, and for a variety of reasons.

For Tilly and Vi, this is the day they will meet Delaney Wynton.

Delaney Wynton is their idol. They play her albums endlessly on Tilly's cassette player and know the lyrics of every single song off by heart. She is an inspiration to them both, but most particularly to Tilly. Tilly writes songs and can play the guitar, and has determined that she too will be a famous singer one day, just like Delaney Wynton. After all, Delaney Wynton is one of their mob, and if one of their mob can make it, then why shouldn't she? Tilly is very ambitious.

The women, too, are impressed by Delaney Wynton's fame, but she symbolises far more than one of their own who has achieved success in a white man's world. Delaney Wynton symbolises triumph over a fearful time in the lives of the Kokatha, and in the lives of the Pitjantjatjara and the Yankuntjatjara and many others who people the lands of the great southern desert. She symbolises triumph over a time when some amongst them were blinded or suffered mysterious illnesses, when men died prematurely, when women were rendered infertile or gave birth to stillborn babies. Many still
suffer the consequences of those fearful times, and their stories will be heard at the Royal Commission. But Delaney Wynton, who was born in the very midst of the mayhem, has lived to become a symbol of survival.

For the women present, this is the day they will welcome Etta's child, the miracle baby of Maralinga who has traced her family and returned to meet her people.

A taxi pulls up outside the hostel where Tilly's and Vi's mothers are waiting to greet Delaney. She has flown from Adelaide and will be staying overnight at the Ceduna Community Hotel, but she has travelled directly from the airport to the gathering.

The two women welcome her, Vi's mother with a formal handshake.

‘Hello, I'm Ada,' she says. ‘Welcome to Ceduna.'

Tilly's mother is less inhibited. Tilly's mother is the undisputed matriarch of the extended family group and considers it her responsibility to set the ground rules.

‘I'm Vonnie,' she says. ‘Welcome to the family, Delaney.' And she gathers the young woman to her ample bosom in an embrace.

It is a wise move, breaking through any awkwardness or self-consciousness Delaney might have felt. She returns the hug warmly.

‘I'm Del,' she says and she smiles her beautiful smile. Like her mother before her, Delaney is a pretty woman.

‘Come on inside and meet the mob, Del.'

Vonnie picks up Delaney's overnight bag and she and Ada usher the young woman into the courtyard where those gathered wait, respectfully silent.

Tilly and Vi stifle a longing to squeal and run to their idol with their cassette covers all ready to be signed;
their mothers have warned them to wait their turn. Protocol must be observed. Delaney is to meet the women first, and most particularly the one who is closest to her, the sole remaining member of her direct family. The girls squirm with impatience. They've watched Delaney on Countdown and she's even prettier in the flesh than she is on television.

Vonnie beckons forward the first person who is to be introduced. Bibi is a shy woman in her early forties, plainly in awe of meeting Delaney and uncomfortable at being the focus of attention.

‘This is Bibi.' As always, Vonnie gets straight to the point. ‘Bibi's your auntie. Etta was her sister.'

Delaney Wynton is moved, everyone can see it. ‘You are my mother's sister?' she asks. She speaks softly, but her voice is clear and all can hear her.

Bibi nods self-consciously, twisting the thin cotton fabric of her frock between her fingers as she looks down at her bare feet. She has travelled all the way from Yalata with her cousin and her cousin's family just for this moment. But now that it's come, she doesn't know what to say.

‘Say hello to Del,' Vonnie urges heartily. Vonnie can be bossy at times, but usually with the right motives. ‘Come on, Bibi, don't be shy, she's your niece.'

‘Hello, Del,' Bibi whispers obediently.

‘Hello, Bibi.'

Delaney takes her aunt's hands in both of hers and Bibi looks up. Their eyes meet and as Del smiles, Bibi cannot help but respond. She sees her sister in that smile. She'd been twelve years old when Etta had disappeared. Bibi had loved her big sister.

As the two women embrace, Vonnie leads a round of applause.

The more formal part of the proceedings is quickly over. The senior women amongst the group are introduced one by one, a hug is shared with each, then the younger women gather for more hugs, and then it is the children's turn.

Tilly and Vi lead the troop of children that surrounds Delaney. She personally signs the girls' cassette covers To Tilly and Vi, as they request.

‘Are you sisters?' she asks.

‘No, we're cousins,' Tilly says, ‘and we're best friends.'

‘Tilly's going to be a famous singer, like you,' Vi adds. ‘She writes her own songs too, just like you do.'

‘Sing us a song, Del,' Tilly says, and the other children take up the chant. ‘Sing us a song, Del. Sing us a song.'

But Del is apologetic. ‘I don't have my guitar,' she says.

‘I got a guitar.' Tilly disappears to return only moments later with the second-hand guitar her father bought her. ‘It's tuned up good.' She hands it to Del.

Del strums a few chords. ‘Yes, it is,' she agrees.

‘Sing “Don't Look Back”,' Tilly begs, referring to Del's latest hit. Del had sung it just the other night on Countdown.

‘No, I'll sing a song you haven't heard before,' Del says. ‘A song I wrote a long time ago, when I was around your age, Tilly.'

She addresses the entire gathering. ‘This is a song about family,' she says. ‘I knew that one day I would find you. I was twelve when I wrote this, and I was thinking of you.'

She rests her foot on a bench and prepares to play. The children gather about her, squatting on the ground, hugging their knees, their eyes bright with anticipation.

‘When I was a little girl growing up in Adelaide,' she says, ‘I learned about the stars of the Southern Cross — the five
that form the cross and the two that point the way. Seven stars in all. This is my song.'

She plays the introduction arpeggio, her fingers expertly picking out each note of a pretty melody. Then she starts to sing:

The gathering is enraptured. The courtyard is hushed. Even the youngest and most raucous of the little boys is silent.

Delaney reaches the end of the verse. The tempo of the song builds, and as she embarks upon the chorus she encourages the children to clap along. She no longer plays arpeggio, the chords are strong now, and her voice rises to match their strength.

The power in her voice is compelling. The song has become defiant. It is a celebration as she sings to the stars.

Everyone present has joined in now. They are stamping their feet and clapping to the rhythm, infected by the strength and joy of the song. When finally it comes to its resounding conclusion, there is huge applause.

Tilly wants to know why Del's never recorded the song. ‘I reckon it's one of your best songs ever,' she says.

‘No,' Delreplies, ‘it's a private song, a family song. It's just for us.'

‘What's it called?'

‘ “The Song of the Seven Stars”.'

‘It'd come in at number one, I'll bet,' Tilly says.