“I’d rather go back to bed.”
“Doctor says you must make an effort, Anne.”
She was too weak to argue.
May folded the blankets around her, set a hot water bottle at her feet. “I’ll bring you a hot chocolate.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You have to try, love.”
Ashamed that her stupidity was causing her mother so much trouble, she settled into the chair. From outside she heard the chirruping of a bird, the crying of a child, Toby yapping at a passer-by, the distant rattle of a tram descending the hill, an impatient car horn. Outside…
The rose bush had been pruned!
She pulled herself upright. The hot water bottle slid to the floor. Through the closed window she saw the lopped limbs of the rose bush. The thick naked brown branches had disappeared. Her father had pruned them.
She opened the window. Within easy reach, she saw new leaves and tiny green buds about to burst. What colour was the rose? She couldn’t remember. In eighteen years all she’d noticed was the ugly thorns that scratched her window-pane. What colour?
She felt faint; she’d been very ill. Sinking to the chair, she pulled the blankets into place and re-inspected the window; she could see the buds from here. What colour was the rose? When she really concentrated, she could almost see the buds unfolding.
What colour would it be?
Chapter Five
August 23rd: The Germans cross the River Don, the last obstacle to an all-out assault on Stalingrad.
August 29th: In New Guinea, the Kokoda Trail linking Buna to Port Moresby is barely penetrable. Native stretcher bearers, who have become known as the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Angels, brave atrocious conditions and enemy fire to rescue the wounded.
At first glance, everything appeared the same. It wasn’t. Although there was the bus, the queue, and the workers bump bumping over the unseen route, there was no conversation. There were no noisy arguments and no whispered plots; Julian, Mick, Richard, and their friends had been replaced by a crop of strangers. There was no one to save her a seat and no comforting shoulder to sleep on. Because she was still weak from the long illness, she’d even fought for a tiny space between two unfriendly women.
Superficially unchanged, the difference was fundamental. It wasn’t just the disinterest of lethargic strangers, it was more profound. This morning there was no passion, no fervour, no commitment, no knowledge that she was in the company of people with strong beliefs. This morning she was sitting with robots on their way to robotic jobs.
True or false? It was unimportant. Like the strangers who looked little different from the people they’d replaced, she too appeared little different from the young woman who’d traveled on this bus less than two months ago. Appearance deceived. Although close inspection might detect the aftermath of serious illness, the auburn hair, hazel eyes, pale oval face and conservative clothes were the same. But not the spirit. Just as the spirit of the bus had changed, so had hers. She was not the same innocent who’d fare-welled Julian Reeves. Hours of grief and weeks near death had left their mark. Long lazy days of reading and introspection had left her asking questions she’d never asked, had set her on a path she didn’t know how to follow. What did she believe? Why did she believe it? Did she really believe anything? Did she really trust anything? Anyone?
If only she need not have come back to work. Her mother had tried. Doctor Matthews had tried. Even Jeffrey Macklin had sent a memo questioning her physical fitness for the job. Nothing had moved the men at the top. So here she was again. Closing her eyes, she tried to recapture the feel of Julian; his dominance, his strength, his tenderness, his arrogance. She missed him.
Whatever the truth, she missed him. He’d been vibrant and challenging. He’d encouraged her to think, to be logical, to question. He’d been teacher and friend. He’d opened enlightening doors. He’d confronted her with her immaturity. Though he’d left her alone, his influence remained.
No matter what the truth, his legacy was the search for integrity. Even if there was a price to pay. Julian and his friends were paying dearly for their loyalty to ideals. The many nights and weekends they spent in meetings robbed them of family time. The move from Melbourne was taking them away from their families. Unlike the soldiers and sailors and airmen, whose sacrifice was undertaken to fight a tangible enemy with tangible weapons, Julian and his friends were fighting shadows with dreams. They were fighting one set of beliefs with another. Their weapons were words - so far. Would they ever step over the line? Had they already stepped over the line – from words to action? She’d never know.
He could be in prison already. Yet, still, he eluded her. His face, eyes, nose, mouth - what shape was his mouth? Nearly seven weeks since she’d seen him, it felt like a life-time. Could she have so quickly forgotten? Had she ever really looked at him? Far more memorable than eyes and mouth and shape had been his presence, the sound of his voice, the memory of his touch. His mouth? What shape was…?
She opened her eyes. The robots on the opposite seats were staring at the wooden floor. She closed her eyes. They’d soon be there. Would she be strong enough? Would she be able to concentrate? Would her friends ask too many questions?
The squealing of the bus brakes alerted her. At the gate they disembarked, filed past the guards, and fanned out along their different paths. Spring flowers in geometrically precise beds turned smiling faces to the early morning sun. A pair of magpies strutted busily across the thick lawns, a willy wagtail bobbed cheekily on a low branch. Had she seen any of this last year? She didn’t remember flowers and birds, just the paths and the hurrying workers. Had there been flowers and birds last spring?
Arriving on the bus from the other side of the city, Grace caught up with her. “Welcome back! How are you?”
“A bit shaky after the ride. Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix, I guess.”
“It’s been a long time. You’ve lost weight. Lucky you.”
“Too much, Mum says. It’ll be great to see everyone again.”
“Don’t you just love spring?” Grace admired the flowers.
“Do you know? I never thought about it before. Now I even watch the leaves open.”
“You were very ill, Anne.”
“There’s this rose. I never even knew its color. It’s yellow. I just sat there and watched. It’s so…..” Grace wouldn’t want to hear about the rose.
“You are cleared for work?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem…”
“I’m all right.” She stepped out, Grace tripping on high heels to catch up with her.
Reaching the path to the laboratory, she stopped. Half of the long narrow laboratory building was flattened! In its place were strips of twisted metal and bundles of blackened timbers and gaping holes filled with water-logged debris.
“I forgot,” Grace caught up. “You didn’t know.”
“What happened?”
“It was an explosion. One night after work. No one was injured. Thank God! I dread to think what would have happened if it had been in day time!”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
“You were so sick, Anne.”
“They should have told me. They should have.” She shuddered. “How could it happen?”
“They don’t know. They still don’t know. Some sort of bomb, I think. There’s all sorts of investigations going on.”
“What about the security? It’s not possible.”
“It is possible, Anne. It’s obvious someone beat the security.”
Someone beat the security. Julian had beaten security. She couldn’t move.
“You should be home!” Grace was alarmed.
“They should have told me.” Where was Julian?
“Anne!”
“I’m all right.” She willed her feet to move towards the remnants of the building.
“We should have warned you,” Grace was at her side. “I would have thought Macklin would have told your mot
her, at least.”
“I never knew…I should have known…When did it happen? How long ago?”
“You mustn’t upset yourself, Anne. You’re still not well.”
“I’m all right!”
“It happened just after you fell ill.”
“No one told me.” She clung to anger. “They should have told me.”
“You were too ill. From what your mother said, you were out of it for days.”
“They should have warned me, before I came back.”
“They probably didn’t want to worry you.”
“Why? Why should I worry?”
“Let it go, Anne,” Grace advised. “It’s done. Let’s just get on to work. You really mustn’t worry about it.”
She was immediately on guard. “I’m not worried. Why would I be? What aren’t you telling me?”
Making for the newly constructed entrance to the undamaged section of the laboratory, Grace repeated: “Just let’s get to work, Anne.”
She balked. “I’m not going in there ’til you answer me.”
“All right!” Grace stopped. “You asked for this. They believe the explosion, or whatever it was, started at your bench.”
“They what!!!”
“It’s just a theory, Anne. Not even that. It’s a rumour.”
Theory. Rumour. Suspicion. When had Julian actually left? She’d been unconscious for days. When had Julian actually left? Had he or one of his team continued to work in the complex? But why the laboratory? Why would the communists want to damage the laboratory?
“Why, Grace? Why our lab? What’s so important about us?”
“That’s just another mystery. If they have any ideas, they’re not telling us. In fact they haven’t told us much at all.”
“They’re actually sure it was a bomb?”
“Nothing’s sure, Anne. Whatever they know, no one is saying. There’s only rumours.” Grace led her to the queue at the time clock.
Only vaguely aware of what she was doing, she clocked in. If only she could go home, back to bed, back to the safety of her room.
Grace took her aside. “I’m really worried about you. Are you sure you’re fit to come back?”
“I’m all right.” She shook off Grace’s arm. No one must guess her suspicions. Because Julian was not a criminal, not a violent criminal. Why did she always have to imagine the worst?
“They’ve barricaded it off.” Grace led the way. “We work at the south end now. It’s a bit cramped. The rest is a mess.”
Entering the laboratory, she saw that the benches and equipment were tightly crammed into the drastically truncated room. Her friends rushed to welcome her.
Macklin limped from the office. “Welcome back, Miss Preston.”
Wounded in the First World War, Jeffrey Macklin, despite his artificial leg, was tanned and muscled and physically very fit. A handsome middle-aged man, he was tall and broad and unrelentingly formal and seemed not to belong in the starkly antiseptic laboratory. A seasoned Army man who resented his inability to serve in the front line, his job was management, his knowledge of physics limited.
“You are reported to be one hundred per cent fit, Miss Preston.” Perfect dentures bared in a polite smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” He indicated the closely packed benches. “As you will observe. Crowded. But functional.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mrs Dawson has your assignments.” He looked not at Grace, but at somewhere above her head. “Right, Mrs Dawson?”
“Yes, sir.”
For a fleeting moment his eyes rested on Anne before, uncomfortably reverting to the safety of distance, he nodded, grunted, limped back to his office, and closed the door.
“He hasn’t changed,” Sophie sniggered. “You should have seen him when…”
“You can talk later,” Grace interrupted.
Anne objected. “We haven’t seen each other in ages! Mr Macklin won’t mind.”
“I mind,” Grace was unusually brusque. “It’s time to work.”
“She’s been promoted.” Sophie watched Grace stride towards the office.
“She didn’t tell me!”
“It was ages ago,” Sophie explained as everyone started for their desks. “She probably forgot you didn’t know. Miss Longmire left just after the explosion. Grace got the job.”
“Just like that?”
“Of course not. She had all sorts of interviews. She’s very good at it. Why?”
“I should have been told.”
Grace was her friend; it should make no difference. She knew better. Julian had taught her nothing was reliable. So few weeks since she’d been here, and everything had changed.
“It’s so small.” She scanned the cramped room. “There’s no staff room either.”
“There is,” Sophie pointed to the far wall. “They stuck one on. There’s no room to turn around.”
“What about my things?”
“We all got new lockers. Yours has your name on it. The key’s in the lock. We cleaned it up for you.”
The new staff room was a small annex hastily built on after the blast. It contained a bench and sink, a row of lockers and a table and chairs adjacent to a barred window. In her locker were the starched white coat, the flat-soled shoes, a two month old copy of the Women’s Weekly and an unopened packet of throat lozenges. Quickly she changed into the white coat and sensible shoes, returned to the laboratory, and took her place on the tall stool at her bench.
“I’ve set your work ready.” Having left the office, Grace was already working at the next desk.
“You didn’t tell me about your promotion.”
“I’m sorry. When you saw the building….”
“Are you happy about it?”
“I wasn’t given a choice. But yes, I’m happy about it. We should be working, Anne.”
“Miss Longmire worked from the office.”
“Like everything else,” Grace pointed to the office window overlooking the laboratory. “The office is a lot smaller these days. Some things I can do out here.”
Working again was difficult; her fingers were clumsy, the fine tools unfamiliar, the pressure of intense concentration intolerable. Less than half an hour later, head throbbing, she straightened.
Immediately, Grace reacted. “Take a break, Anne.”
“I’m all right.”
“I don’t think so.” Grace’s critical forefinger rested on Anne’s notes. “Look again. You’ll find it should read .003. Not .03.”
“Oh no!”
“You know we can’t have mistakes. That one’s critical. Take a break.”
“I’ll concentrate. I promise.”
“Take a break, Anne.”
“I’m so sorry, Grace. Really…”
“I’m sorry too,” Grace was firm. “I’m sorry I have to do this. But I have to. That’s what I’m here for. I think you’ve come back prematurely. It’s obvious you’re still not well.”
“It’s just a headache. The doctor passed me fit.”
“Did you tell him what your job is?”
“I told him. It didn’t mean anything to him.”
“Tell him again.”
She didn’t argue. The mistake was inexcusable.
“I’ll see you in the staff room,” Grace ordered. “Make us a coffee.”
Returning to the annex she lit the gas jet, set the kettle on it, washed cups, located sugar, milk, a bottle of coffee essence, and leaned across the table to look out through the barred window. Why was the ugly wreckage still there? Why hadn’t it been cleaned up? The twisted metal and stacks of black timber and dirty puddles contrasted illogically with the precision of the immaculate paths and the clipped lawns surrounding it. Were the authorities still investigating? If they were, they’d be people like Macklin; disciplined people who did nothing without reason.
Even though the sight was disturbing, it was reassuring. If the explosion had succeeded in completely destroying th
e laboratory and its equipment, significant damage would have been done to the manufacture of the tools of war. The tools Churchill and the Allies had to have. Because the tools were critical to winning the war, the gauges that assessed their accuracy had to be even more critical. Saboteurs didn’t have to attack all the different types of tools of war, only the laboratories that assessed them!
Her head pounded. Had the bomb, if that’s what it was, really been planted in her work bench? Who could have done it? At least she was in the clear; she’d been home. Where had Julian been?
Her head pounded. She was looking out the window at the rubble left from what had to have been an act of sabotage. If she opened the window she could touch it. How could it be so close? The war was far away. Yet here it was, outside this window. Did the police know about Julian?
Grace returned. “I brought you aspirin.”
She turned from the window. “I boiled the kettle.”
“Take the aspirin, Anne.” Grace advised. “I’ll make the coffee.”
“Why haven’t they cleaned up after the fire?”
“I told you. They’re still investigating.”
“It’s awful. We shouldn’t have to look at it.”
“Then don’t. Move away from the window.”
How could she? It was mesmerising. Should she tell Grace about Julian? To what end? It was far too late. Besides what, exactly, had she to tell? Instead, she again asked: “How long since it happened?”
“Five, nearly six, weeks. We got a full week off. On full pay.”
“You said it was an explosion. They must know what caused it.”
“They don’t. At least…” Grace hugged the warm cup in her slim hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“They said they don’t know. They’ve been rummaging around in that pile out there ever since. Asking all sorts of questions.”
“What kind of questions?” The pain in her head was worse; the aspirin wasn’t working and the coffee was atrocious.
“They want to know who was where? When did we leave that night? Did we see any strangers? Did we see anything different from usual?”
“Everyone? Did they ask everyone?”
Tools of War Page 8
