Empire Day

by Diane Armstrong

  She would never understand life in Sydney. In Riga there was no distinction between the residential and commercial parts of town, and people lived in apartment blocks all over the city, so flats, stores, cafés, workshops and offices were close together. There was always plenty of activity, with people strolling around, shopping or meeting their friends in cafés, but here no one lived in the business part of town, and no one went out at night in the residential area. People kept to themselves and didn’t seem to have much social life. They said that an Englishman’s home was his castle, but it must be a lonely castle.

  Marija wiped the sweat from her forehead and neck. Christmas in sweltering heat, without snow or ice, skating or tobogganing, wasn’t Christmas. Even the sky here was different. Whenever she looked up at night, she couldn’t find any familiar stars. But she consoled herself with the thought that Australia was only a temporary haven. As soon as the Communists were overthrown, they’d be able to go back home.

  From inside the house, Paulis was calling her in the peremptory tone to which she’d become accustomed. Marija sighed again. Her mother had begged her not to marry him. Even on the day of her wedding, as she was adjusting the Chantilly lace veil on her head, she had shocked Marija by saying it wasn’t too late to change her mind. ‘It’s better to admit a mistake than to live with it all your life,’ she’d said. Marija had turned away without replying. Her mother had been a domineering woman, and being silent and stubborn had been Marija’s only weapons.

  As the years went on, and Paulis became more dogmatic and overbearing, there were many times when she’d thought of leaving him, but she hadn’t wanted to give her mother the satisfaction of knowing she’d been right.

  Marija had started watering the geraniums on the windowsill when she heard the postman’s shrill whistle and looked down the street. He was chatting to the plump woman with short white hair, whose son liked Lilija. She couldn’t understand what Paulis had against this fellow or why he told Lilija that if she kept seeing him, he’d throw her out of the house. Poor Lilija was very keen on the boy, and Marija couldn’t see anything wrong with him, but you couldn’t reason with Paulis once he’d made up his mind about something. She finished watering the geraniums, and went inside the house.

  Chapter 26

  At the Department of Immigration, Sir Lachlan McKenzie surveyed Ted with an expression of such distaste that Ted wondered whether he’d stepped in dog shit on his way to the office.

  After weeks of phone calls and letters, the department head had finally agreed to an interview. Although Gus still had reservations about the Nazis-in-Australia story, he had agreed to let Ted travel to Canberra. Ted was in his good books because his article about the little girl in the Children’s Hospital had aroused an unprecedented reaction, with offers of money and accommodation for the mother pouring in from readers all over the State.

  Ted knew that Gus welcomed the opportunity to needle Sir Lachlan. When Arthur Calwell had announced his new policy of allowing non-British migrants into Australia, Gus had written a blistering editorial accusing the Minister for Immigration of starting the rot which would undermine the British character of the country. In a scathing reply, Sir Lachlan had written that the only rot he could detect so far was the editorial written in the Daily Standard, whose editor he accused of unbridled jingoism.

  Gus never forgot and never forgave. In Ted’s story about war criminals, he saw a vindication of his stand against non-British migrants. And he relished the prospect of scoring points off his adversary in Canberra.

  ‘Hammer him about those Yugoslavs and don’t let him off the hook,’ Gus had barked, spraying mixed metaphors around his office. ‘If we really are harbouring criminals and ignoring the Tito government’s request for extradition, I want to know why. But McKenzie’s a slippery customer, so don’t let him sidetrack you.’

  It was Ted’s first visit to the nation’s capital. Unlike Sydney’s undisciplined sprawl, Canberra seemed the essence of controlled planning with its straight tree-lined avenues, leafy parks and architect-designed buildings. But for all its chaos and disorder, Ted found Sydney’s vitality exhilarating, while Canberra reminded him of a neat stage set, with every tree and flowerbed placed according to a predetermined design. Sterile and artificial, it was an ideal setting for politicians, diplomats and bureaucrats, he thought as he entered the imposing building that housed the Department of Immigration.

  He’d just been ushered into Sir Lachlan’s office when there was a deferential tap on the door and a young woman in a demure white blouse and pleated grey skirt came in with a manila folder. While Sir Lachlan excused himself and looked over the documents, Ted studied the man who had started his working life as a messenger boy in the defence department and worked his way up to become one of the most powerful bureaucrats in the country. With his sparse sandy hair, lashless eyes and round face, Sir Lachlan looked more like an inoffensive country parson than a top-level public servant.

  Sir Lachlan took out his fountain pen, signed the document, blotted it and handed it back to his secretary. Then he passed a hand across his eyes and leaned against his high-backed chair.

  ‘You’re the author of that’ — he paused as though searching for the right word — ‘colourful article about Bonegilla. I’m not surprised. The Daily Standard has always favoured fiction over fact. As you probably know, I don’t have a high regard for your newspaper, but the minister felt we should take this opportunity to set the record straight for your readers.’

  Ted whipped out a notebook from his pocket and assumed what he hoped was a humble tone. ‘That’s why I’m here, sir.’

  Knowing that Sir Lachlan had the unenviable task of trying to sell the government’s radical shift in immigration policy to an antagonistic public, Ted didn’t interrupt his statements about the far-sightedness of the minister, or the care with which the right migrants were selected, but when he started extolling the high standard of their migrant hostel in Albury, Ted couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  ‘Are you aware that some migrants have been bashed by other inmates at Bonegilla, and that some of them have brought Nazi memorabilia to Australia?’

  Sir Lachlan made a dismissive motion with his freckled hand. ‘None of the bashing allegations have been proven. And as for memorabilia, surely souvenirs are harmless.’

  Sir Lachlan looked pointedly at his watch and Ted realised he’d better move on with the interview.

  ‘I’ve heard that the Yugoslav government has requested the extradition of some of their nationals whom they accuse of war crimes,’ he said. ‘Could you tell me why their request has been ignored?’

  A sharp look crossed the bureaucrat’s face, and he glanced at the door as though hoping his secretary would come back and give him an excuse to end the meeting.

  ‘We never ignore the requests of democratically elected leaders,’ he said smoothly. ‘However, it takes time to investigate these matters, and what may be taken for negligence is actually diligence.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was up to Australia to investigate allegations made by other governments about their nationals,’ Ted said innocently. ‘I would have thought that would be a matter for the government concerned.’

  Sir Lachlan passed a hand over his eyes again.

  ‘These are complex issues. With so many agitators among us stirring up trouble and dissension, we can’t be too careful.’

  He gestured towards a bulging dossier on his desk, as though to illustrate what he was saying. Ted craned forward and saw that the folder was labelled The Anti-Fascist Society.

  ‘Agitators, sir?’ he asked. ‘Could you tell me who you have in mind?’

  ‘I’m sure you know I’m talking about Communists who are trying to destabilise our system of government and overthrow it.’

  As Ted jotted down Sir Lachlan’s answer in his notebook, something occurred to him and he looked up. ‘If a country that didn’t have a Communist government had made such a request, would we consider it more
favourably?’

  Sir Lachlan studied Ted for a moment, then said, ‘You’re wasting your time with this line of inquiry.’ Pressing a button on the black telephone on his desk, he said, ‘Miss Shaw, could you please see Mr Browning out?’

  Turning back to Ted, he added, ‘If I were you, I’d stop pursuing this topic. It won’t do you any good.’

  The early-afternoon sun shone through the plane trees, whose branches formed a canopy over the avenue and made lacy patterns on the footpath. With an hour to spare before catching the Sydney train, Ted sat on a park bench and thought about Sir Lachlan’s parting remark. Was it well-meant advice or a veiled threat? He checked his shorthand notes and decided to look up the Anti-Fascist Society.

  As he gazed through the dirt-streaked window of the train, the small country towns flashed past in a blur. What he kept seeing was Lilija’s face, tense and white, perhaps even frightened, the time he’d gone to her place. His efforts to see her since that day had proved fruitless, and the letter he’d slipped into her letterbox had gone unanswered — he suspected her father had intercepted it and torn it up. If only he knew why her father was so adamant that she have nothing to do with him.

  Although he’d tried to take his mother’s advice and find someone else, the girls his friends introduced him to were plain or vain, and either tongue-tied or gushing. None of them had the astonishing face that made his body tingle. The more he tried to put Lilija out of his mind, the more he thought about her.

  With a hiss of pistons, the train pulled into Sydney’s Central Station. Coated with soot, which he could even taste in his mouth, Ted made his way along the dusty platform towards the exit. Under the Art Deco glass dome of the vast station building, a fat girl with a lace-edged petticoat showing under her full skirt paced back and forth in front of the railway clock. As Ted walked past, he wondered whether her date would turn up, and whether they’d make the train in time.

  It was a sultry night and not a breath of air blew in through the open window above Ted’s pillow. Ted tossed from side to side, unable to sleep. Every night his mind roiled with fantasies of what he’d like to do to Lilija, and what he’d like her to do to him. The strange mixture of violence and tenderness of his erotic imagination both disturbed and excited him, and he always made his bed quickly in the mornings so his mother wouldn’t see the damp patch on the sheet.

  Finally he dropped off to sleep. In his dream Lilija told him she would meet him under the big clock at Central Railway Station and go away with him. In a frenzy of anticipation he rushed to the station, delirious with joy. So she did love him after all. He waited, craning his head this way and that, but the clock ticked on, and the hours went by, and still there was no sign of her. He wondered whether the tram cables had loosened and come off again, or if her father had locked her in. When he finally realised that she wouldn’t be coming, his disappointment was so bitter that he could taste it, and he woke up drenched with sweat.

  Exhausted, he dragged himself to the office the next morning, hoping to find some angle for his interview with Sir Lachlan. He’d just hung his hat up on the hook in his cubicle when he saw some of the reporters in the newsroom crowding around Joe Black’s desk. As usual, they were arguing about Chifley.

  Joe, whose belligerent manner indicated an unlucky streak at the gambling tables the night before, was shouting above the others. ‘What was it Chifley said the other day? “We MPs are only servants and no more”?’ he bellowed. ‘Well I don’t know about you lot, but I haven’t heard of any lift drivers or street sweepers voting themselves a raise of eight pounds a week after a few years’ work!’

  A couple of voices murmured assent, but Hal Monk, one of the old hacks, whose gravelly voice matched his deadpan expression, retorted, ‘Arrgh, you rookies don’t know what you’re talking about. Chifley’s a man of the people.’

  Ted moved closer to listen to them arguing. He wasn’t interested in politics, but he was fascinated by the Cinderella story of the engine driver who’d become prime minister. These days, however, Mr Chifley’s love affair with the people had run its course, and there were rumours that the prime minister, who represented decency and working-class values, had a secret mistress.

  Even though for diehard Laborites like Hal Monk, Chifley was the hero of the workers, some criticised him for being soft on Communists, some of whom held important posts in the defence department. Gus had recently written a scathing editorial accusing Chifley of helping to harbour enemy agents.

  By now Joe and Hal were so het up that Ted thought they’d come to blows. They were arguing about a secret document that had recently been leaked from the House of Representatives. According to this document, the Americans had refused to share atomic research information with Australia because they didn’t trust the government’s security measures where Communists were concerned.

  Joe was jabbing his finger in Hal’s face. ‘When your hero was confronted with the news about that embarrassing leak, did he deal with the actual issue, which was America’s lack of confidence in this country because of his attitude to Communists? Not on your life. The devious mongrel turned the tables on the opposition, calling them dishonest for leaking the document, and now he’s got the Commonwealth Investigation Service to spy on them! If that’s not police state tactics, I don’t know what is!’

  From hero to Gestapo in the space of one year, Ted thought, reflecting on the vagaries of politics. What was it his father used to say about the fickleness of fame? One minute you’re a rooster, the next you’re a feather duster.

  Back in his cubicle, he flicked through his files and dialled the police station to follow up the story of an eighteen-year-old youth who’d killed his father with a knife. As it happened, Detective Sergeant Jim Mitchell was in charge of the case. Ted still couldn’t get Scarlett O’Halloran out of his mind, and sometimes late at night the image of her bloodstained blouse and unlit cigarette floated into his mind. But when he asked Mitchell if the police had made any progress in the case, the detective snapped that they didn’t have any leads and hung up on him.

  Chapter 27

  Verna Browning surveyed herself in the bedroom mirror and pulled a face. With her white hair, billowing breasts and pear-shaped body she might have been looking at her own mother. The extra butter that had recently been made available on their ration cards hadn’t done her figure much good, and she told herself she’d better cut down. Christmas was coming, and she’d been looking longingly at the pretty muslin and dimity dresses in the windows of Mark Foys and Farmers, but with their fashionable nipped-in waists and mid-calf flared skirts, they were designed for slim young women like Kath, not matrons of ample proportions like her.

  These days the newspapers were full of ads for things she’d never dreamed of, and would probably never own on her widow’s pension. She’d often eyed the portable mantel radio at Anthony Hordern’s, and she would have willingly exchanged her small ice chest for one of those new Silent Knight refrigerators. Then there was that clothes wringer she’d seen, with wide rubber rollers and a reversible water drainer, but it cost five pounds and sixpence, and even if she put it on lay-by, she couldn’t justify the expense. She felt guilty about wanting such luxuries, but they kept bringing out all these new-fangled goods to tempt people to buy things they didn’t really need. Still, Verna rarely dwelled on things she couldn’t afford, so she told herself to snap out of it and put on her navy blue felt hat with the wide grosgrain ribbon and headed to Attwaters to find a McCall’s pattern for a dress. Something loose-fitting that might conceal the bulges.

  On her way to the counter with the pattern books, she paused beside the haberdashery shelves and looked at the rolls of elastic. During the war you couldn’t get elastic for love or money, not even for your panties. She used to hold them up with buttons, but once the buttons had snapped off when she was in Mark Foys and she’d had to rush red-faced to the ladies’ room, trying to hold them up.

  She was browsing among the pattern books when she
saw Muriel Noble at the big brass cash register, buying some pale pink organdie which the saleswoman was measuring out by stretching out her arm twice, to gauge two yards.

  ‘I’m making a dress for Hanny,’ Muriel explained. ‘You wouldn’t believe the fuss her mum made before she finally agreed I could make it. Can’t understand that woman.’

  ‘Some people find it hard to accept presents,’ Verna said. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to be beholden.’

  Muriel shrugged. ‘She’s always making Hanny’s life difficult. If it’s not one thing it’s another. I feel sorry for the poor girl.’ Leaning on the wooden counter while the saleswoman wrapped the organdie, she warmed to her theme. ‘If you ask me, people that come here from other places should fit in with us and not stick to their old ways.’

  Picking up her parcel, she wandered over to the section with trimmings and fastenings, to look for a zipper and buttons to match the organdie.

  Verna took a long time deciding on the material for her dress. The shot silk was too expensive, the jacquard was too fancy, and the linen would crush like a concertina. Finally she settled on a fresh-looking lemon seersucker and put it on lay-by.

  Pleased with her purchase, she was walking towards the exit when she noticed Mr Emil, the foreign gentleman from across the road, examining bolts of satin with a look of total concentration. You couldn’t miss him with that funny little hat he always wore, and those tan-and-white shoes. He was the only man in the haberdashery department, and several women turned to look at him, but he seemed oblivious of their attention.

  It was odd for a man to be looking at fabrics, but he was certainly odd. Maude McNulty was always on about him, saying that he was up to something, with all that banging and hammering. A few weeks ago she’d told Verna that Kath had put a note in her letterbox, something about coffins. Verna thought the old biddy was losing her marbles.