Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Gradually, slow recovery brought fresh insight. There were new questions to be asked. Questions no one had asked. So all right, there was the fine new laboratory and the incredibly wonderful conditions and the speed with which they’d arrived. There was the amazing fact that no-one, in all this time, had been penalised in any way. There was the astonishing fact that, instead, the opposite had happened. They’d actually been rewarded. Though each one of the original staff must always have their revolt at the back of their mind, it was never talked about. Fair enough. Safer. But the ‘rewards’ had gone so much further than they needed to. What about the prime location of the building, a new building? What about the magnificent laboratories, this lush staff room? What about the beautiful furniture and the expensive fittings?

  Someone had influence. Someone had been gravely threatened by their ‘strike’. Someone had recognised their power. Someone who also had power. Someone who had the power to act quickly and decisively. Slick new laboratories with slick new equipment - and a back-up second-string staff to be trained.

  Now, the back-up staff was trained!

  Now, things were again changing. Julian’s proposed arrival and Macklin’s anxious reaction signaled it. Was someone sending a message? To Macklin? To his staff? If so, what message?

  Meanwhile she and her friends had not once seriously questioned the incredibly prompt response to their protest. They’d happily accepted the comfort, the luxury, the extra hands and the convenience of the location. Like children, they’d been successfully manipulated by higher authority. To nullify the threat of cessation of their vital work, they’d been given superior working conditions. They’d swallowed the bait, and now they were vulnerable. Should they again try to rebel, they’d be out of work. At the very least.

  Not that they had anything to rebel about. This place should have satisfied everyone. It hadn’t. Breakdowns like Lillian’s were more frequent. The rate of sick leave was increasing. To counter-act increasing confrontation between quarreling staff members they’d initiated tiered time breaks; they’d made no difference. Arising from nothing tangible, the atmosphere had deteriorated until it was filled with mistrust and disunity. Worse. There was now the illogical sense of an insidious undercurrent.

  Or maybe there was logic. She and her former friends no longer mattered, not as they once had. Higher Authority had got themselves insurance. Their insurance against any further rebellion was Alice, Myrtle, Aaron and very soon – Julian. There was more food for thought. When she’d been unfairly promoted, had her friends contemplated making a stand against its injustice? Had any of them proposed it? How could she know? They no longer talked to her. They seemed to have become so content that they’d turned a blind eye to comparatively small and unrelated details which had combined to cause a seriously deteriorating situation.

  So that now significant incompatibility, insidious rumours, festering discontent with management decisions, division of loyalties and deteriorating health had become very serious. Yet still, seduced by this new-found luxury, no-one was bothering to protest. Or, as far as she knew, was even talking about the gravity of the over-all break-down!

  Whoever this unseen power was, their mission had been most successfully accomplished. The foundation staff members, the rebels, were at last dispensable. The laboratory would flourish, with or without them. The gauges would be responsibly tested and the tools would be faultlessly manufactured. The aeroplanes would fly and the weapons of war would be delivered where they were needed.

  The hands of her watch moved their relentless hands. Eleven! Had she slept? Was it sleep? Had the exhausting insights actually been some kind of dream? Or had she been thinking clearly? Were her thoughts legitimate conclusions of concerns about invasions and disunity and sabotage and shock at the latest development? Today was not like other days.

  Grace came back. “You’re up. Feeling better?”

  “Thank you.” She set the empty tea cup firmly on the saucer; the sharp clink of china attacking china momentarily distracted her.

  “Anne!”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m better.”

  “What’s really wrong? Is it Julian coming? What is it?”

  “The truth?”

  “Of course. You have to be worried how you’ll handle Julian coming here.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I guess,” Grace smiled reassurance. “Things move on. You’ll handle it okay. You’re older.”

  “And wiser? I don’t think so.”

  “You’ve grown up a lot since he left.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “What happened just now, Anne? You scared all of us.”

  “I had a bad night.” She reached for her laboratory coat. “It was too hot to sleep.”

  “Before you go,” Grace closed the door. “I wanted a word.”

  So it was not over. They had every right to be dissatisfied with her performance. Though Grace wouldn’t like having to censure her, she’d do it; just as they’d both have to learn to work with Julian. The job was more important than personalities. “I haven’t been up to scratch lately,” she apologised. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk about Sophie.”

  Surprised, she watched Grace pour herself a glass of ice water. “What about Sophie?”

  “You need to be careful, Anne. Don’t trust her.”

  “That’s stupid. She’s a good friend.”

  “Not too long ago, you were at each other’s throats.”

  “That’s history. We made it up. You know that.”

  “She still turned on you,” Grace warned. “You’d be foolish to be so quick to forgive and forget.”

  What was this about?

  “Fair weather friends can’t be trusted, Anne.”

  “I don’t understand.” It made no sense.

  “Look…” Grace hesitated. “I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Whatever it is, just say it!”

  “You’d better sit down.”

  “I’ve got to get to work. Just tell me - what’s going on?”

  “Sit down, Anne.”

  Obeying, she watched Grace refill her glass. Months ago, on that awful night when her father had come home wounded, Sophie had hinted at some secret. Could this be what Grace was worrying about?

  Grace set down the glass. “Remember the missing money?”

  “No. What money?”

  “Think, Anne. Think…”

  Before the move, before the strike. “That was ages ago!”

  “It’s never stopped.”

  “It’s what!”

  “Someone’s still thieving.”

  “They can’t be! No-one’s said anything. I haven’t heard!”

  “You don’t get told everything, Anne. Tucked away in the side lab. You don’t hear half of what’s going on.”

  “They can’t be!” It wasn’t true. “I thought it was over. It was only a couple of times. Wasn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry. I know you like Sophie. I know you think she’s your friend. I wasn’t even sure I should do this.”

  “So why are you?”

  “Because I have to warn you. I’m your friend too, Anne.”

  “I know. You’ve been great. But Sophie!”

  “We’re just about sure it was her. We can’t prove it. That’s the problem.”

  This was senseless. Sophie had been around for ages. It wasn’t possible. If money was being stolen, it had to be one of the new people. Of course it was true that Sophie had turned against her when she’d been promoted, but so had everyone else. What Grace was saying was impossible. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself. You know, Anne, you do ask for trouble. When we do confide in you, you won’t listen to us. You’ll find out.”

  It was too confusing. The only certainty was the work. “I have to get to work.” Not directly answering Grace, she donned the laboratory coat, smoothed her hair, and prepared to retreat to the safety of impers
onal figures and charts.

  “It’s tea break, Anne. You should make the most of the extra time. Take my advice. Rest a little longer.”

  “I have to make up time.”

  “That’s really not necessary, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace.” She should confront the issue. “How can you even think Sophie would steal? She’d never do that. Not in a million years.”

  “Think what you like, Anne. We are obliged to let you know. You really must be careful.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “But you will be careful?”

  “I have to get to work.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll be on your own. It’s tea break.” Grace left.

  She was alone. None of her questions about Julian’s arrival had been answered. She hadn’t even asked them. Nor had she been censured for refusing to help them out by vetoing Julian’s employment in the laboratory - if that was what they’d wanted. It certainly seemed to be. Did they know he was potential trouble? Did they know the truth about him? Or did they know something else she didn’t know about him?

  Meanwhile, at least superficially, everything was as it had been when she’d walked in the door this morning. What would happen now? Would Julian arrive? When would he arrive? For how long had they known that he was coming here?

  Grace was right; it would be wise to take as much recovery time as she could. She re-filled the kettle, lit the gas, set out the cups, and prepared a pot of tea. The group from the small laboratory filed in as she was fetching milk from the small ice chest.

  “They tell me you’re ill.” Alice led the way. “You should stay home when you’re ill.”

  “I’m not sick.” She still found it impossible to even pretend to like the woman.

  “How are you, really, Anne?” Aaron’s owl-eyes were huge with sympathy.

  “I’m all right,” she smiled. At least his concern was genuine.

  “You don’t look all right,” Alice snapped. “You look ill.”

  “She’s a little pale,” Myrtle sympathised. “But I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Not necessarily,” Alice retorted. “She should be home.”

  “That’s not nice.” Aaron chastised. “Anne’s very sensible.”

  “He’s right,” Myrtle agreed. “She’d go home if she needed to. Wouldn’t you, Anne.”

  “Nonsense!” Alice bit into a biscuit.

  Myrtle flushed, but said no more.

  Aaron was tightlipped.

  Tea break was over and she was passing through the main laboratory, when Lillian commented: “You do look ill, Anne. Is it something Grace said?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Because….” Lillian paused. “Nothing. You just don’t look well.”

  From behind her adjacent work station, Joan was watching. Scanning the huge room, she saw that they were all watching. All pretence at work had stopped.

  “I really am all right,” she placed a hand on Lillian’s bent shoulder.

  “Leave her alone!” Joan cried.

  “I’m only trying to…”

  “Get back where you belong! You’ve done enough damage already.”

  “You heard her.” Helen called.

  What were they doing? How could there be any recovery from here? Direct confrontation with their antagonism left no doubt. Even if the authorities did have a fall-back plan to use the newcomers as the nucleus of a new team, it was obvious even that would be in jeopardy. If the authorities were satisfied that the laboratory would maintain stability, and that the weapons would continue to be reliably manufactured, they had to be perilously mistaken.

  For how long could Alice and Myrtle and Aaron continue to withstand this unhealthy atmosphere? Already their work could be suffering. Everyone’s work had to be suspect, as it had been in the old laboratory. She only had to look at this morning. How much work had been done? How accurate was the work that had been done?

  How had it happened? How had it been allowed to happen? And why? Was there a why? Was there some subversive force behind what she was looking at right now? Both her father’s injuries and her experiences with Julian suggested there may well be.

  Should she leave? Of course not. It was not possible. For as long as she was able contribute to the war effort, she had no other option. Should she decide to leave the laboratory and its physical comfort, she’d be leaving herself open to all kinds of enforced duties she wasn’t up to. Not like June. Here, she at least knew and loved the job itself. If not the people.

  Chapter Thirteen

  March 19th:

  A large Allied force has been landed by glider 200 miles behind Japanese lines in Burma. The Allies’ ability to maintain supplies is turning the tide.

  He’d written again, a brief message of his appointment to the laboratory. There’d been no comment about working in the same place, no word of what he’d been doing interstate, no apology for the long delay, no excuses, no explanations. There hadn’t even been a courteous ‘how are you?’ She managed to read it without prejudice. Or tears. This was Julian. She’d best get used to it.

  She’d told her mother he’d be back, and what he’d be doing. May had dryly observed. “Maybe you’ll be a bit more sensible about him after all this time.”

  At work someone, probably Grace, had told the staff. Neither group, those who’d known him in the old days or the newcomers, overtly commented. Gradually, however, ‘when Julian comes’ became part of every-day conversation.

  This morning, the day of his arrival, she’d dressed with particular care. Tailored blue linen suit, crisp white blouse, navy blue hat, with matching shoes and handbag. Careful make up to accentuate her eyes, and a false tan on her stockingless legs. Since she’d last seen him she’d lost weight. She felt more mature, less insecure, and thoroughly at ease in the smart city cafes and restaurants. As Grace had said, she’d grown up. This morning she was not so sure. Would Julian approve of what he saw? Even though he would be unlikely to comment, she would know.

  Why did it matter? It did matter. Her sleep had been restless and her heart was beating faster. Of course he’d notice the dark circles under her eyes that even the new make-up couldn’t disguise. Would he be cruel enough to mention them? No doubt he would if he felt like it. If only she could have resigned from the laboratory before this morning. If only she could have forgotten him. If only she could have been satisfied with Gary.

  So many things to wish were different. Especially the absence of control over her feelings this morning. Her mother was right to worry that she’d still not be sensible. How could she control her feelings when she didn’t know what they really were? Everyone would be sure she still cared about him when they saw the new makeup and the smart blue suit. If only she’d had the sense not to wear them. She should have gone back home to change. Too late to turn back. Too late by far for lots of things.

  The tram crawled into the city, stopped at the regular stop. Alighting, she started for the laboratory.

  “Hey! Wait! Wait, Anne!”

  From behind, she heard his familiar voice. Crisp and deep and sure and carrying easily across the space between them, it was not one degree different. It was as though she’d heard it every day since he’d left.

  Heart pounding a humiliating tattoo, cheeks betraying the tell-tale blush, she turned to face him.

  “What’s the hurry?” Catching up, he kissed her. His dark eyes dancing, he was laughing and eager and far less serious than she remembered.

  His kiss was without passion, no more than the embrace of a long-time friend. Had he seen the blush? Of course he had. Which probably explained the apparently carefree kiss of friendship. Julian did nothing without forethought and calculation. So this was how it was to be.

  As ever, he was also quick to react to her unspoken mood. His delight gentle rather than cruel, he teased: “Not still worrying about what people think, Anne?”

  He’d changed in other ways. In the dark hair was a b
road streak of premature grey; in the once-smooth face there were tiny lines which, surprisingly, made him seem younger and more vulnerable than she remembered. There was, also, something else. Beneath the warmth and the good humour, she sensed an inexplicable undercurrent of discomfort which was totally unlike the man she’d known.

  Holding her at arms length, he exclaimed: “You’ve grown up!”

  “I hope so.” Resentful of his condescension and unsure of what this new relationship was to be, she recognised the sharpness in her voice and was not sorry for it. The months apart had changed them both.

  “You’ve lost weight.” Taking her arm, he started for the laboratory.

  “I was sick.” He’d hear about it anyway. “For months.”

  “Oh Anne!” About to enter the building, he stopped. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I should have written.”

  “You should have written,” she echoed, uncertain if he would take offence, uncertain what he expected of her.

  “It was best to cut clean, Anne.” It was not like him to explain. “The past should stay past. If you know what I mean.”

  She did not answer. Why should she? Let him be uncomfortable, let him feel something of what she was feeling.

  “If I’d known you were ill.” He was very concerned. “I should have known you were ill.”

  “It’s over, Julian. It’s over.” She heard the finality in her response. Was it a slip of the tongue? An expressed fear? A recognition of a fact? A resignation attuned to his unspoken message? What, exactly, was over? The illness? Or the close relationship with him?

  He appeared not to notice; she knew him better. He might have changed, but not that much. Julian missed nothing, especially something so blatant. The fact that he chose not to attempt to define what she’d declared to be over was significant; it effectively conveyed the message that their former relationship was indeed over, that their new association was to be as friends. Or, maybe, not even that. Maybe they were just to be work colleagues. Time would tell.