Maralinga.

Judy Nunn.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

The Indigenous names and regions used in this book are those used in the Encyclopaedia of Aboriginal Australia (D. Horton, general editor) published in 1984 by Aboriginal Studies Press for the Australian Inst.i.tute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies.

I have made this choice for the purposes of uniformity. During the period in which this book is set, many of the words would have differed as Indigenous names have altered in their spelling and p.r.o.nunciation over the years. The use of this relatively recent reference provides some form of consistency. For dramatic purposes, I have occasionally employed anglicised terminology when referring to smaller Indigenous groups such as 'kin' and 'clan'.

In researching the subject of Maralinga, I have encountered many contradictory reports in both the literature I've studied and the material I've accessed on the internet. While weaving the facts through my fictional story I have aimed for a general consensus of opinion, but there are so many variables I've come to the conclusion that no-one really knows the full truth, and probably never will.

His name is Amitu, and he is a Kokatha man from the southern desert of the Ancient Land. He stands alone, the sole of his right foot resting against his left knee, the spear in his right hand providing perfect balance. He is waiting. He has been waiting like this since dawn, but he feels no fatigue; he is a strong man. The father of two st.u.r.dy young boys, he is an excellent hunter and highly respected amongst his clan. But he is far from his clan now. They are many days' walk to the south.

In a dream, Amitu has been summoned by the Rainbow Serpent to the site of sacred boulders. He has been travelling northward for ten days, following one of the many Tjurkurpa tracks that lead to Kata Tjuta and Uluru, and he is now in Pitjantjatjara country, less than one day's walk from the mother rock of all people. Yet the spirits do not wish him to travel any farther. It is here, beside this waterhole, that he knows he must wait.

The day lacks even a scintilla of breeze. The land is an unruffled carpet of red, and the leaves of the desert willow droop motionless over the near-dry bed of the waterhole. The sun is high in the sky, the heat at its zenith and all is breathlessly still. No bird flies overhead, no insect stirs the dust, no animal rustles the nearby spinifex gra.s.s.

The land is waiting, Amitu thinks. The spirits are close. He can feel their presence, and he has slowed his breathing to a minimum, blanketing his mind of thought in order to receive them. He is in a trance-like state, but even so he cannot quell his sense of fear. What if the spirits are mamu? Deep in his heart, he believes that the Rainbow Serpent would not summon him to his destruction, for he has committed no wrong that would warrant the visitation of devil spirits upon him. But still the fear is there.

He can see them now, coming from the west across the rolling plains of sand, dark shadows dancing in the shimmering heat haze. Nearer they come. Nearer and nearer until his entire vision is filled with their dancing forms. They are chanting as they surround him, and their voices are the sound of the land itself, the echo of all things living. Like flickering tongues of fire they envelop his body, and the song they sing envelops his mind. Amitu is being consumed. But he is no longer afraid. He is joyful. These spirit beings are not mamu. These are good spirit beings who wish him well.

Ho! Amitu, you are patient Waiting silent with your songs We are of the Dreaming being Come to sing you a new song Dance before you, dance around you Hear us sing this dancing song Dance inside us, dance within us Amitu, learn this dancing song Amitu, learn this song of warning Teach your children this new song Ho! Amitu, teach Anangu Teach them all this fateful song.

Amitu gives himself up to the spirit beings. He joins in their corroboree, dancing and singing until evening descends, and then on and on throughout the night. He repeats the song he is taught. It is the Song of the Seven Stars, the spirit beings tell him. He does not understand the song's meaning, but he does not question its importance. Over and over he sings the words, until he knows every single one by heart.

Throughout the whole of the next day Amitu dances and sings. Then, as the sun sets, he falls unconscious, and the spirit beings come to him in a dream. He sees them staring at his inert body where it lies in the dust, and he watches as they gather about him. One by one, they kneel at his side, and he listens as they complete their prophecy in song.

In Amitu's dream, the spirit beings foretell of a series of cataclysmic events that will befall the land and his people far in the future. It will be a time when men with white skin inhabit the world of the Kokatha, and that of the Pitjantjatjara, and of the Yankuntjatjara, and of many others who roam the Ancient Land.

Seven stars will be born, the spirit beings tell Amitu; seven births, and each birth will rival the others in ferocity. There will be a flash of light so powerful that any who look directly at it will lose their sight, and as each star rushes into the sky, a cloud of birth dust will follow, killing all those it touches.

The spirit beings foretell that the earth will become cursed, a barren place where no creatures will survive. For these stars, they say, are mamu. These newly born mamu will wield great power, and will bring about the death of many of Amitu's people. The unborn children of Amitu's people, too, will die, all victims of the birth dust. And the land itself will become mamu country.

Amitu awakes alone, and cries for his people. He reaches out his arms, pleading with the spirit beings to intercede with the Great Serpent and save his people. All is silent. He weeps, and the desert dust drinks his tears.

Then a breeze stirs the leaves of the willow. The spinifex gra.s.s rustles and, carried on the wind, he hears the voices of the spirit beings: The song, Amitu. Teach your children the Song of the Seven Stars. You have learnt the words of this dancing song well. One who cannot be humbled and cannot be cursed will shake the dust from the land. A child of your people must sing this song, Amitu. Only then will the mamu release their hold.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER ONE.

Elizabeth couldn't understand her father's pa.s.sion for oleanders.

Alfred Hoffmann had shifted from London to the leafy county of Surrey, where all forms of glorious flowering shrubs thrived, and yet in the impressive conservatory at the rear of his house he'd chosen to grow nothing but oleanders. A veritable forest of them, in all shapes and sizes. Some remained gangly bushes while others towered to a height of eighteen feet, their leathery leaves sweeping the arched dome of the conservatory. Their pink and white blossoms were not unattractive, but the overall impression was one of unruliness. They were c.u.mbersome plants, there was no denying it, and very much at odds with the surrounding countryside.

The entire situation was bewildering to Elizabeth. For as long as she could remember, her father had been a businessman, and a highly successful businessman at that. If, in his semi-retirement, he'd developed an interest in horticulture, which itself was surprising, why was he limiting himself to just one species? And why a species as mundane as the oleander, considered by some to be little more than a noxious weed perhaps even poisonous, if she were to believe her colleague at The Aldershot Courier-Mail.

'Don't go chewing on the leaves, Elizabeth,' Walter had warned her during an afternoon tea-break, 'you'll end up as sick as a dog.' When she'd laughed, he'd a.s.sured her he wasn't joking.

'Why on earth did Daddy choose oleanders?' she finally asked her mother.

'I've no idea.' Marjorie Hoffmann had accepted her husband's idiosyncratic behaviour without question, as she always did. 'Perhaps it's his love of travel.' Noting her daughter's mystified expression, she drifted a typically vague hand through the air as if she were conducting a heavenly choir. 'I mean they're so ... Mediterranean, aren't they?'

Mother and daughter were very alike in appearance. Above average height and regal of bearing, both had dark eyes and auburn hair offset by the fairest of complexions, creating an overall effect that was striking. They were the sort of women people referred to as handsome. In character, however, they could not have differed more greatly. Elizabeth was already wondering why she'd bothered asking her mother about the oleanders. She should have known better.

'They're all over the place in Europe,' Marjorie blithely continued, 'particularly in Italy and Greece. I'd rather he'd chosen olive trees myself symbolism and beauty combined. I would have enjoyed painting olive trees.' Marjorie's skill with watercolours was considerable; her landscapes adorned the walls of many a boutique gallery in London. 'But there you are, that's Alfred.'

With an impatient shake of her head, Elizabeth gave up on her mother and made the enquiry directly of her father, whose response, although less vague than his wife's, was ultimately just as unfathomable.

'I admire the oleander,' he said after she'd cornered him in the conservatory where he sat with a gla.s.s of claret. 'So hardy. Such a pa.s.sion for life. It's heat and drought resistant, you know, can survive anywhere.' He appeared most gratified by her interest. 'Versatile too. Is it a shrub or is it a tree?' Stroking his trim grey beard thoughtfully, he gazed up at the tallest of the plants. 'As you can see, Elizabeth, it can be either. All dependent upon the way it's pruned. Don't you find such adaptability marvellous?'

Elizabeth didn't, and she didn't see how her father could either. 'Somebody told me it's poisonous,' she said in her customary blunt fashion, 'but that's not true, surely.'

'Oh yes, quite true. The whole plant's highly toxic. Leaves, branches, bark the sap in particular. Ingestion can produce gastrointestinal and cardiac effects, which, I believe, can be fatal to children anyway, and most certainly to animals.'

'Ah, so that's it.'

All had suddenly become clear. Elizabeth's grin was triumphant. Her father's chain of pharmaceutical outlets, over which he still presided as chairman, made him first and foremost a businessman, but didn't alter the fact that he had started out a humble, and highly dedicated, chemist. It was only natural that such a man would be interested in the chemical properties of a potentially lethal plant.

'That's what?'

'The oleanders. You're making a study of their chemistry.'

'No, no.' Her father was dismissive. 'I doubt whether the toxic properties of the oleander could ever serve any medical or pharmaceutical purpose.' As he returned her smile, however, there was a gleam in his eye. 'But you're right, their poison does add to their fascination. It's yet another tool in their survival kit, you see. The oleander poisons those who might harm it extraordinarily tenacious, wouldn't you agree?' His question appeared rhetorical. 'But then tenacity is the key to survival,' he said. 'I think I'll have another gla.s.s of claret.' It was plain he considered he'd answered her question in full. 'Will you join me, Elizabeth?'

She shook her head. 'No, thanks, Daddy.' And, left alone with the oleanders, she heaved a sigh, none the wiser.

Elizabeth Hoffmann was an eminently practical young woman. At times she despaired of her parents' eccentricity, but she loved them for it too, knowing it was their eccentricity that had afforded her the life opportunities she so valued. For Alfred and Marjorie Hoffmann, eschewing the conventional att.i.tudes of the day and firmly believing in equal rights for women, had offered their daughter every educational advantage and encouraged her in the pursuit of the career she so obviously yearned for. Now, at the age of twenty-three, when most of her contemporaries from Ralston Girls School were settling down to have babies, Elizabeth, having graduated with a BA from St Hugh's College, Oxford, majoring in History and Literature, had been working as a journalist with The Aldershot Courier-Mail for a whole eighteen months.

'We're very proud of you, Elizabeth,' her father had said when she'd been offered the position fresh out of Oxford.

'The Courier-Mail's just the start, Daddy,' she'd answered. 'I'll give it two years in Aldershot, then I'll be back here in London working for The Times. I intend to be their first female feature writer.'

'Of course you do, my dear.'

A year later, when her parents had shifted from their grand townhouse in Belgravia to the rambling cottage in Surrey, Elizabeth had been deeply concerned. The property her father had bought was barely five miles from the township of Aldershot in nearby Hampshire, where she lived in a humble boarding house several blocks from the offices of The Courier-Mail. She'd been appalled at the thought that her mother and father might have made such a drastic change to their lifestyle simply in order to be near her.

'Good heavens above, no,' Marjorie had replied when her daughter tentatively raised the question. 'What would be the point? You'll be back in London soon with The Times, won't you? Two years, you said. No, no, I'm in need of rural surrounds I've run out of trees in London.' She'd laughed distractedly. 'I must have painted every single tree and every single bush in every park in Westminster. Besides, your father very much wanted a country place with a conservatory. For some unknown reason he's decided to start a garden.'

Elizabeth had hugged her mother fondly, marvelling, as she did, at her parents' constant ability to surprise.

Over the ensuing months, she'd visited the cottage in Surrey on a regular basis, watching the oleanders grow until she could bear it no longer. But her question had resulted in no answer and the oleanders had remained an unfathomable mystery until the day she brought Daniel home to meet her parents.

Elizabeth herself met Daniel Gardiner in the spring of 1954, two months before her twenty-fourth birthday. The occasion was a military event, which was hardly surprising in Aldershot. The township was not known as the 'home of the British army' for nothing.

What a splendid sight, Elizabeth thought as she stood with the other journalists and photographers in the area specially allocated to the press, right beside the main entrance to Princes Gardens. The military never failed to put on a good show, and she never tired of the spectacle, but today was particularly impressive.

Down the entire length of High Street the parade was in full swing, bra.s.s bands strutting their stuff with all the pomp and ceremony only the army could offer. Military police on motorcycles preceded tanks, armoured vehicles, transport trucks and cars of every description. Troops marched with perfect precision, regimental colours and battle honours held high. Infantry, artillery, tank, parachute on and on they came, a sea of men, the thousands of spectators cramming the pavements cheering each unit as it pa.s.sed. The citizens of Aldershot were out in force this fine spring morning, along with hundreds of others from nearby towns. This was a day of historical significance for the entire area.

Upon command, the colours and escorts peeled away in turn from the grand parade to enter the broad, gra.s.sy square of Princes Gardens, where they took up their allotted positions flanking the brand new fountain that sat in the centre.

The fountain, simple and unadorned, was to be presented as a gift from the military to the township, commemorating the centenary of the British army's a.s.sociation with Aldershot. Indeed, the fountain's location, Princes Gardens, was the exact spot where the Royal Engineers had camped during the time of the Crimean War while planning the permanent military base to be established with Aldershot as its centre. In the decades following the base's establishment, the extraordinary growth of Aldershot from a small village to a thriving Victorian town had been a direct result of its relationship with the army. Now, 100 years on, the fountain was to become the proud symbol of a fine and happy marriage between borough and military.

Elizabeth carefully scrutinised the regimental banners as they pa.s.sed, scribbling the details of each in her notepad. She was unsure how much of the data she would use in her article, but her research, always meticulous, was of particular importance today. Today's story would be the best she had ever written, for she intended to send a copy of it to The Times as an example of her work along with her application for employment.

A twinge of guilt accompanied the prospect of deserting her current employer should her application meet with success. The Courier-Mail had offered her many opportunities she would never have experienced elsewhere. But then she and Henry Wilmot, the editor, had shared an unspoken understanding from the outset.

'You're very talented, Elizabeth,' he'd said bluntly, as if it were an accusation.

'Thank you, sir.'

'And, I suspect, very ambitious.'

She'd remained silent.

'Sign of a good journalist, ambition.' Again, despite the apparent compliment, his tone had been strangely accusatory. 'Ah well, I suppose if you're determined to put your talent to good use, we at The Courier-Mail had best take advantage of the fact.' And instead of a.s.signing her to social events befitting a female, as he would normally have done, Henry Wilmot had offered Elizabeth her very first feature story. 'Just a trial, you understand. I don't promise to print it.'

But he had printed it.

'What's your middle name?' he'd asked when she'd presented him with the piece.

'Jane. Why?'

'E. J. Hoffmann,' he'd said with a brisk nod. 'Has a nice ring. We'll publish you as E. J. Hoffmann until I feel readers are ready to accept the fact you're a woman.' Then he'd added, 'Or until we part company, whichever comes first.' It was plain he antic.i.p.ated the latter.

Henry Wilmot genuinely admired Elizabeth, both for her talent and for her audacity in a.s.suming she could compete in the male-dominated arena of the press. But her femininity would be her downfall, he'd thought, particularly in a town like Aldershot. G.o.d almighty, they'd all be after her. She'd no doubt resist the obvious young studs bent on s.e.xual conquest she was smart. But she was also handsome, and a young woman of breeding perfect officer's wife material. She'd be in love in six months, probably married within twelve, and then children would claim her and goodbye career. Such was the natural scheme of things.

Now, eighteen months later, Henry thought differently. Elizabeth Hoffmann appeared impervious to the attentions of even the most eligible young officers whose family connections saw them hurtling through the ranks destined for distinguished military careers. Apparently she had no wish to be married. How very, very odd, he thought. He was pleased to have retained her services longer than expected, but was prepared for her departure nonetheless. If Elizabeth's ambition outranked the natural desire for a husband and children, then her days with his provincial newspaper were surely numbered. In his heart of hearts, Henry Wilmot wished her luck.

The last of the colour sergeants and escorts had taken up their position around the fountain. The formal ceremony was about to commence.

'I'm off to the other side of the park,' Walter muttered. 'I'll get a better angle on the official party from there.'

Walter was The Courier-Mail's princ.i.p.al photographer and invariably accompanied Elizabeth on her a.s.signments. The two had become close friends.

She nodded. 'Make sure you get plenty of shots of the fountain.'

'What a good idea,' he said mockingly. She'd told him at least a dozen times to photograph the fountain from every possible angle. 'Just as well you reminded me might have slipped my mind otherwise.' Then he winked, gave her the thumbs up and disappeared.

Elizabeth had already completed the historical aspect of her feature article, and made few notes during the official speeches, which offered nothing new. She was keen for the formal ceremony to be over so she could mingle with the crowd. What she needed now was the human element.

She glanced around at the other journalists, most from nearby towns or neighbouring counties they often b.u.mped into each other at local events. Pete Hearson of The Farnham Gazette was scribbling away furiously in shorthand, taking down every single word of the mayor's tedious speech, but it was the pouchy, middle-aged man beside Pete who was the focus of Elizabeth's attention. He'd stopped making notes and appeared as bored by the mayor as she was. This was the journalist who'd come down from London, or so Walter had told her.

'You're sure?' she'd whispered.

'Absolutely. Look at him, for G.o.d's sake. Can't you just smell Fleet Street?'

She could. While the county journalists, respecting the occasion, had worn suits, the pouchy man from London was in a none-too-clean, open-necked shirt with a sports jacket that had seen far better days. Did he consider this provincial event beneath him, she wondered, or was his crumpled exterior a conscious and calculated statement intended to impress? Elizabeth suspected it was a little of both.

'Which paper is he from?'

'The Times, I think.'

'Really?'

'Yep, pretty sure.'

'Ah.' She'd kept a special eye on the pouchy man from that moment on.

Now, as the official proceedings came to a close, she was surprised to see him pocket his notebook. Surely he wasn't going to leave it at that, she thought. What about the all-important human element, essential to any good feature article? But sure enough, as the band struck up and the troops marched back into High Street, leaving the park free for the festivities that would follow, the pouchy man glanced at his watch and started elbowing his way through the crowd.

He's heading for the railway station, she thought. He's on his way back to London. Good, she told herself; better than good, in fact excellent. The editor of The Times would surely be impressed by her article after the dry report submitted by his own journalist. She prayed that Walter had his facts right and that the pouchy man really was from The Times.

Within only minutes, it seemed, Princes Gardens had transformed into a fairground. The tantalising smell of frying onions permeated the air, and one of the army bands, now stationed near the fountain, was playing 'C'est Magnifique', the popular number from Cole Porter's new musical Can-Can. Several portable booths, which had stood deserted on the periphery of the park during the proceedings, had suddenly come alive. One was selling soft drinks and ice-creams; another, pork pies and pasties; and at another an enterprising middle-aged man with a Hawaiian shirt and a wife frantically tending a hotplate of onions was doling out American hot dogs and hamburgers. Elizabeth interviewed him. He was a Hampshireman, he said, born and bred in Portsmouth.

'If it hadn' been for the Yanks, I wouldn' be servin' this sort of grub now, would I?' he said, indicating the queue and the fact that his booth was doing a far brisker trade than the others. 'I owe those Yankee Doodle Dandies, 'n that's the truth.'

Elizabeth scribbled his words down verbatim. Of course, hot dogs and hamburgers had taken over the world, but it was interesting to note that the American forces had been stationed around Portsmouth and Southampton prior to the D-day landings. The whole of the area had been of huge military significance throughout the war, and the army's presence continued to have a profound effect on all local communities. 'Yankee Doodle' and the success of his hamburger booth seemed historical proof of the fact.

There was even a London hawker's cart selling jellied eels and pickled periwinkles, which may have appeared surprising but wasn't really. Colin the c.o.c.kney, in his traditional 'pearly king' outfit, wheeled his cart off the London train at country railway stations all over England, visiting any town and any occasion he considered worthwhile.

'Oh, yeah,' he replied in response to Elizabeth's query about the day's significance. 'This is the most highly significant of days, no doubt about it. I wouldn't miss a day like this for quids. The home of the British army! Makes you downright proud, dun'it?'

Elizabeth strongly suspected that Colin never went anywhere unless there was a personal quid in it for him, but she didn't intend to come from that angle. Colin the c.o.c.kney was a symbol. Together with his signature suit of pearly b.u.t.tons, his hawker's cart, his jellied eels and pickled periwinkles, Colin gave the day a very special stamp of approval.

A young couple had just purchased a small waxed paper cup of Colin's jellied eels, and the girl's nose was screwed up in dubious antic.i.p.ation as she contemplated the shapeless grey object her boyfriend proffered on the end of a toothpick. She'd never eaten a jellied eel before.

'Do you mind if we take a photograph?' Elizabeth asked.

As she'd roamed amongst the crowd conducting her interviews, Elizabeth had made sure Walter stayed religiously by her side, clicking away at every opportunity. It was the standard tack they adopted. Walter was essential for Elizabeth's credibility. Many people refused to take female journalists seriously, and his presence was proof she was a bona fide member of the press.

The young couple with the jellied eels were certainly impressed. The girl stopped pulling a face, fluffed up her hair and posed, mouth open and ready to engulf the eel.