Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Good God, you’re a woman.’ The editor, a jovial man called Peter Johnston, known to all as P. J., had been astounded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask, and I didn’t think it necessary given the fact that you’d accepted my credentials,’ she’d replied pleasantly. Then she’d waited for the outburst. To her amazement, there’d been none.

  ‘Fair enough,’ P. J. had said. ‘Welcome to The Advertiser, Miss Hoffmann. Good to have you aboard.’

  Elizabeth had been surprised. Not only had the editor welcomed her, but her male colleagues, apparently respecting her work and her track record, had displayed none of the professional antipathy towards a woman in the ranks that she’d experienced during her early days at The Guardian. There’d been the customary problem of unwanted attentions from some, but she’d managed to discourage without offending, and the men had quickly come to regard her as one of their own.

  She had sensed immediate animosity, however, from the one female amongst the senior hierarchy. Edna Sparks, a New Zealander in her forties, was the leisure and entertainments editor and held sway over a broad spectrum of the paper that dealt with the more lightweight matters, particularly those appealing to the female readership. Edna had regarded Elizabeth with baleful suspicion from the outset, and Elizabeth had had no idea why.

  ‘Jealousy, that’s all it is,’ Laurie Knight, sports columnist, had said dismissively. ‘Edna’s got it in for all the young things, particularly the lookers. You want to watch her though, Liz, she’s tough. You get on the wrong side of Edna and Sparks’ll fly.’ He’d given her a nudge and a wink, as if the remark was his own, but the pun had been bandied about as long as Edna had been in power, which was well over a decade.

  Elizabeth had smiled dutifully. Laurie was well-intentioned enough, but he was one of those who had to be kept at arm’s length. Why were the sports columnists always the most insistent, she’d wondered; and she really wasn’t too sure about being known as ‘Liz’. She had yet to realise that Laurie Knight was not the only Australian with a penchant for diminutives and that it was more than likely she’d be stuck with ‘Liz’. She had taken his advice with regard to Edna though, and had steered clear of the woman whenever possible.

  Laurie’s glib assumption, which was not uncommon amongst his fellow journalists, was actually incorrect. Edna Sparks, having fought for her position in a man’s world, was certainly tough, but she felt no particular animosity towards young women, good-looking or otherwise, unless they were after her job. As a company woman, married to her work and to the newspaper, Edna had no time for petty jealousy; it was not productive. Her initial antipathy towards Elizabeth had sprung from neither the threat of competition nor the envy of youth. She had been concerned that Elizabeth Hoffmann might prove a disruptive element. The other young female employees performed secretarial and typing pool duties and knew their position in the hierarchy. They would not dare encourage the men’s attentions during working hours – any flirtatious behaviour was conducted outside the office. Elizabeth, however, had been brought into the workplace as an equal, and Edna could see that the men found her a distraction. It would be only a matter of time, she’d thought, before Elizabeth Hoffmann would cause trouble.

  But as Edna had watched and waited for the warning signs, she’d quickly recognised that Elizabeth Hoffmann had no intention of causing trouble. Indeed, she’d found herself admiring the skilful manner in which the young woman fielded the men’s attentions, neither offending nor encouraging, but relating to her colleagues in a friendly fashion and on a strictly professional basis at all times. Within barely a fortnight, Edna Sparks had reversed her opinion completely. Elizabeth Hoffmann was a credit to women in the workforce, she’d decided. There should be far more like her.

  ‘Would you care to join me for lunch? I know an excellent little cafe that serves the very best sandwiches.’

  The invitation was offered in the quaint New Zealand accent that no-one dared ridicule because it belonged to Edna, and Elizabeth looked up from her work flabbergasted. Only days previously the woman had been scowling at her across the newsroom floor, hatchet-faced and eagle-eyed, as if waiting for a moment to swoop in for the kill.

  ‘Love to,’ she said.

  They sat opposite each other in one of the booths of the little corner milk bar where the chicken and salad sandwiches were indeed delicious, and while Edna made no apologies, she admitted to her original suspicions.

  ‘I was so sure you’d cause trouble,’ she said, ‘but I must say I admire the way you handle the men.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘No nonsense. You keep them in line. I like that.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘You make me sound like a sergeant major,’ she said, but she knew exactly what Edna meant. ‘Actually the men make it easy for me, Edna. Even those on the make seem to respect my work. It wasn’t at all the case when I started out at The Guardian I can tell you. I’ve no idea why,’ she said thoughtfully as she stirred her tea, ‘but for some strange reason, Australia seems more tolerant towards female journalists than Britain is.’

  ‘Oh, we Antipodeans aren’t quite as backward as you British tend to think.’

  The tone of voice wasn’t as harsh as the comment itself, but in glancing up from her cup Elizabeth nonetheless expected to encounter criticism. She encountered nothing of the kind. As Edna smiled, her hawk-like face softened and her eyes gleamed with an intelligence that was suddenly attractive.

  ‘From a historical viewpoint, it’s not really unexpected, you know. New Zealand led the suffrage movement, granting women the vote in 1893, and Australia followed in 1902. Britain didn’t come to the party for another whole sixteen years.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘And did you know that both countries also boasted pioneer women journalists prior to the turn of the century?’

  ‘No, I certainly didn’t. How very interesting.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is indeed.’ Edna launched into a passionate account of her fellow countrywoman Stella Allan, who’d become the first female parliamentary reporter in New Zealand and Australia. ‘That was in 1898,’ she said. ‘She was Stella Henderson then, it was before she married. She was only in her mid-twenties.’

  After recounting Stella Allan’s story, she moved on. ‘And of course there was Louisa Lawson who pioneered The Dawn: A Journal for Australian Women in 1888. She employed female typesetters too, which was a further cause for controversy …’

  It was a full twenty minutes before Edna came to a halt. ‘I’ve carried on a bit, haven’t I,’ she said with no attempt at apology. ‘It’s a subject very close to my heart.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’d better be getting back to work.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Elizabeth said, ‘I could listen to you for hours.’ She meant it wholeheartedly. ‘And I must say I’m very thankful that the Antipodeans appear to continue one step ahead with regard to women’s rights – in the world of journalism anyway. It’s quite a relief.’

  They split the bill between them and left.

  ‘How are you settling into Adelaide, Elizabeth?’ Edna asked as they walked back to Pirie Street. She had decided she would not adopt the diminutive as her male counterparts had done – ‘Liz’ did not suit the young Englishwoman at all. ‘Have you found somewhere to live yet?’

  ‘No, I’m still at the Ambassadors. I’ve decided to stay in a hotel until I find the right place.’

  ‘And what do you see as the right place?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I haven’t really had time to start looking in earnest, but I’d thought of somewhere by the sea.’ Elizabeth smiled self-effacingly. ‘It’s probably frightfully British and frightfully unrealistic, but in coming all the way to Australia one fantasises about living by the beach.’

  ‘It’s not unrealistic at all. I have a contact who handles several rental properties in Glenelg and Brighton.’ Edna had contacts all over Adelaide, advertisers mostly who were keen t
o keep on side with her. ‘I’m sure he’ll have something that will suit you. Leave it to me.’

  Elizabeth did, and a week later she’d moved into a large, airy flat on the first floor of a once-imposing terrace house in St Johns Row, Glenelg. The house, which had seen better days, had been converted into two holiday apartments and the balcony of Elizabeth’s upstairs flat commanded splendid views of the beach.

  The building is faintly reminiscent of those seedy, once grand seaside hotels that abound in English coastal towns, she’d written to her parents. The beach itself bears no resemblance at all to our beaches, however – in fact, it quite puts them to shame. There are no pebbles here, just miles and miles of glorious white sand, like one sees in the postcards, and the promenade is lined with magnificent Norfolk Island pines. Every morning I walk barefoot along the beach, after which I shower and then catch a tram into work – Glenelg is less than half an hour’s ride from the city. I must say, it is a wonderful way to start the day …’

  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.