'Lovely,' she said, 'we'll have it with the lamb. But let's start on that first,' and she gestured to the unopened bottle of champagne sitting in its ice bucket on the coffee table beside the sofa.

'My goodness, we are going posh, aren't we. I didn't even know you owned an ice bucket.'

'I didn't until this morning. I bought it at Selfridges, along with the ca.s.serole dish.'

She disappeared through the door to the kitchen, returning only moments later with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and two champagne flutes.

'All courtesy of Selfridges,' she said, placing the tray and the gla.s.ses on the coffee table and sitting beside him. 'I've been on a shopping spree.'

He opened the champagne. 'To your first lamb ca.s.serole,' he toasted.

'To us, and to the future, and to the hope that by the time you return I'll be able to cook like your mother.'

They drank their way through most of the champagne and ate the hors d'oeuvres, talking non-stop as they always did, and then Elizabeth left to serve the meal. She refused his offer of help.

'No, you stay here and light the candles,' she said. 'Matches on the table. And there's a corkscrew in the cabinet you can open the claret while you're at it.'

He did as he was told and, when she returned, the candles were flickering, the wine was opened and he was about to pour the second gla.s.s. But on looking up, he was surprised to see her in her dressing gown.

She struck a humorously hapless pose at the kitchen door. 'Well, that's one lesson I've learnt,' she said. 'One must never wear white when one cooks.'

He'd laughed. He'd actually laughed. Daniel could hear himself now. 'That's what Mum says she always wears an ap.r.o.n.' Recalling the moment, he couldn't believe his naivety, but he had suspected absolutely nothing.

'Let's have the overhead light off for atmosphere,' she suggested, 'just the corner lamp and the candles. Then I can make an entrance.'

He obliged and the lighting dimmed. But he was puzzled when she remained stationary, silhouetted in the spill of light from the kitchen.

'Do you need some help?' he asked.

'No thanks. This part I can handle on my own.'

Stepping away from the kitchen door into the candlelight's glow, she untied the sash at her waist and let the dressing gown drop to the floor. She wore a bright red chemise of the sheerest silk, the gossamer fabric caressing her flesh, outlining her naked body's every contour.

'Which do you want first, Danny? Dinner or me?'

He'd been unable to take his eyes off her. In the silence that followed, his shock had been palpable as he'd stared at her body in a mixture of admiration and disbelief that may well have looked comical.

She stood her ground. 'I strongly suggest me. The dinner's a disaster.'

Still he said nothing. He was dumbfounded, incapable of speech.

She continued to play her role with bravado, tracing a flirtatious path with her fingers over the chemise. 'I know what you're thinking,' she said, 'Selfridges, this morning, but it's not, it's Harrods. And I bought it nearly a fortnight ago, on the Monday after you told me about Maralinga.'

It was only then Daniel recognised the insecurity beneath the facade. He'd heard the faint giveaway tremor in her voice and, suddenly, he saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that perhaps she had lost his respect. But she had misinterpreted his silence. He'd been overwhelmed by the magnitude of her action, which he'd rightfully judged to be a measure of her love. He was aware of the courage it must have taken for her to offer herself in such a way. There were no words to express what he felt, but Elizabeth, as usual, had made everything easy.

'You've always looked beautiful in red.'

The instant he said it, he saw the fear and insecurity vanish. And as she slowly walked towards him, he was reminded of that day in the park. This was a fantasy men only dreamed of.

He'd stayed the night, and they'd made love again the following morning, an easier, gentler experience than the first time, when he'd worried that he may have hurt her.

'Nonsense,' she'd said briskly. 'It's called losing one's virginity, and it's meant to be painful.'

There were times when Elizabeth was brutally non-romantic.

Their lovemaking in the morning had been a different matter altogether. Tenderly, gently, they'd explored one other, giving pleasure and accepting pleasure, pledging themselves with their bodies until they felt they'd truly become one.

Afterwards, as she lay with her head snuggled into his shoulder, Daniel ran his fingertips over her skin, marvelling at the satiny touch of her. He was overcome with love, but this change in their circ.u.mstances had brought with it complications.

'We'll get married early Monday morning before I leave for Aldershot,' he said.

'No, we won't,' she replied.

'Come to Aldershot with me then. We'll get married there I don't take off until Wednesday.'

'No, we'll say goodbye this weekend just as we planned.'

'But, Elizabeth ...'

She propped herself on one elbow. 'It was not my intention to blackmail you into marriage.'

He sat bolt upright, aghast. 'Who said anything about blackmail?'

She laughed at his horror, then continued in her practical manner. 'You've made all the decisions, my darling, and I've respected every single one of them. But this was a decision I believe was rightfully mine to make. I love you, Danny, and I wanted to be a wife to you in the true sense before you left. I have no desire to change the rules.'

And that had been that. She'd steadfastly refused to marry him. He'd brought up the subject of possible 'repercussions', but she'd dismissed pregnancy as highly unlikely. She'd done her homework, she said, and, according to the rhythm method, this was the safest time in her cycle. The threat of conception was negligible.

She'd sounded very practical and very knowledgeable, but he'd worried nonetheless.

A full six weeks pa.s.sed before Daniel heard from Elizabeth, or indeed until he received mail of any description. No doubt letters were delayed in transit, he told himself. Mail bound for Maralinga would be held in keeping somewhere until the next flight was due to leave. Or perhaps they were held up right here, he thought, at the post office just down the road from his barracks. Did the army really vet incoming correspondence? Who could be sure?

He finally received five letters all at once, four from Elizabeth and one from his family, and he looked for any signs of interference, but could see none. Perhaps he was being paranoid. He read Elizabeth's letters sequentially. The final one was dated three weeks after he'd left, and she'd just received the first of his own letters.

Danny, my darling, How wonderful to hear about the oleanders. I rang Daddy with the news and he said he could just see them thriving in n.o.ble splendour out there in the middle of the desert. He thinks the army is most astute in making such a choice.

Of course I remember that first night when he tested you, my darling. How could I forget? I was the only one who didn't know I was in love with you.

She carried on in a light-hearted vein, and it was only at the end of the letter he received the news he'd been awaiting so anxiously: By the way, I'm not pregnant, so there's no need to come rushing home ...

Had she forgotten his warning about the possibility of mail censorship, or did she simply not care about prying eyes? Daniel strongly suspected the latter. He even held the vaguest suspicion that her boldness might be deliberately aimed at those prying eyes. He couldn't query her on the subject, however, because outgoing mail was most definitely screened.

It was July, two months before the first in the series of tests codenamed Operation Buffalo was scheduled to take place, and Maralinga was in a general state of limbo. The township and its amenities were now completed and all stood in readiness for the influx of visitors. Thirty miles away, work on the test site continued. Construction of the ninety-foot steel tower from which the bomb would be suspended was underway, as was the construction of the two camera observation towers at Roadside, the firing area ten miles from the blast, but the erection of these was the work of specialist teams. Back at the township, with the waiting game upon them and little to be done, the men's lifestyle was relatively easy, although, in true military tradition the army maintained its disciplines. In the small ceremonial parade square situated in the centre of the village, the ritual raising and lowering of the Union Jack and the Australian flag was observed, and soldiers of various regiments were seen on a daily basis marching around the peripheral roads of the township, the barks of their sergeants a.s.saulting the silence of the surrounding desert. In pa.s.sing the swimming pool, they invariably met with some comment.

'Pick it up, lads,' the men would shout to the pa.s.sing brigade as they lounged on the broad, concrete steps that led up to the pool, which was above ground level. 'You can do better than that.' And one of them might even down his bathing costume to flash his backside at the men marching past, knowing full well that in a few days' time it would be him being drilled by his sergeant and suffering a man's bare behind flashed at him from the concrete steps of the pool.

The Olympic-size swimming pool, complete with a low springboard and a proper 'ten-footer' where the bold could show off their skills, had already become of prime recreational importance. It sat invitingly alongside the volleyball court and the tennis court, and, over the blistering summer months down the track, would prove a positive lifesaver. The supply of water was, surprisingly enough, not a problem. During the building of the township, water had been trucked from Watson, but since the army had sunk bores there was a plentiful supply for all purposes, freshwater for the village itself being stored in a ma.s.sive steel water tower that dominated the landscape.

Sporting facilities abounded at Maralinga, and also at the tent city adjoining the nearby airfield, where a golf course had been incongruously laid out on the red dusty plain and where the bitumen airstrip served as the world's largest cricket pitch. This city of tents, wooden-floored and connected by boardwalks, with mess rooms and canteens of timber-framed corrugated iron, was home to the air force. All other troops and civilian personnel were housed at the Maralinga township, which accommodated 550 permanent residents, with facilities to cater for up to 3000 during peak times, as was antic.i.p.ated during the forth coming tests.

In a bid to alleviate the boredom and frustration of men denied ready access to leave, the military keenly encouraged compet.i.tive sport, and the venue of greatest significance was undoubtedly the oval. Complete with grandstand, and with the proud t.i.tle 'Durance Oval' erected in huge letters over the metal-framed archway of its entrance, the oval stood as a magnificent example of man's impertinence against so primitive a backdrop. There were times when it hosted events of gladiatorial proportion, for here the British played soccer, the Australians Aussie rules football, and rugby union matches were fiercely contested by all.

Ample provision had also been made for leisure activities, with separate dining and recreation messes for officers and NCOs, a canteen and beer garden for other ranks, and a cinema that screened the ever-popular Ealing comedies from back home or the latest of Hollywood's offerings.

Maralinga was by now a fully functioning town, with administrative offices, a hospital, a post office, a fire station and a chapel. There were repair garages, workshops, laboratories, and even an army barber's shop and bakery. Together with the rows of barracks, all of these tidily arranged and, for the most part, prefabricated buildings were neatly dissected by she-oak-lined streets bearing comfortingly familiar names. For the British there was London Road, Oxford Street, Cardiff Road and Belfast Street, and for the Australians there was Perth Road, Canberra Road, Sydney Road, Melbourne Street and Adelaide Crescent. There was even an Ottawa Street for the Canadian engineers of the radiation detection teams.

For all its community appearance, however, and for all the army's provision of recreational facilities, there was a social aspect missing in Maralinga. The open camaraderie normally shared by men marooned in a remote army base was somehow lacking. Even before the tests had started, it was evident that Maralinga was a secret military state within a state. One and a half miles east of the village was the highly restricted and heavily guarded area where visitors, having gained prior permission, entered under military police escort. Here were the laboratories where the plutonium was stored and the bombs constructed. Although the average serviceman had no involvement in this exclusive domain of the scientists, he was affected by the surrounding secrecy and, above all, by the need-to-know policy adopted and strictly observed at Maralinga. Each man worked in his designated field, and mateship was not encouraged between those qualified in different areas of expertise or working in different locations. Even during normal social discourse, conversation about one's duties was officially frowned upon.

Which was probably why the swimming pool and the football oval were so popular, Daniel had decided. They were places where men could simply be men. It was also why he enjoyed the company of Pete Mitch.e.l.l. Pete might not give much away about himself, but, when in the mood, he talked quite freely about his job, albeit at times with an intense irritation that Daniel found understandable.

This evening, however, Pete's irritation was at a minimum. He was affable and in the mood for a chat.

'What the stupid b.u.g.g.e.rs around here fail to understand,' Pete said, halting for a second to take a swig of his beer, 'is that this land we're sitting on is a veritable highway to the desert Aborigine.' He plonked his gla.s.s back on the table and wiped the foam from the stubble of his upper lip in a gesture Daniel had come to recognise as characteristic.

They were once again in the officers' recreation mess. The place was more crowded than usual, further teams of experts having arrived for the first in the series of tests, which was scheduled to take place in only a few weeks. Things were becoming busy all round in the central block of the township, where the buildings housed the social amenities. Men wandered out into the dusty square, cigars and gla.s.ses in hand, from the special VIP dining room reserved for the upper echelons of the visiting hierarchy while, on the other side of the common kitchen that served all, soldiers flocked from the canteen into the beer garden, ignoring the chill air, to smoke and drink and socialise. The general ennui that had pervaded Maralinga was being replaced by a sense of antic.i.p.ation.

'You see, when this site was surveyed,' Pete continued, oblivious to the burgeoning crowd around him, 'the large permanent water base at Ooldea was a major consideration. But the boffins and the military don't seem able to credit a 40,000-year-old race with similar intelligence. When you apply a bit of common sense, it's pretty understandable that a permanent water source to the south would be the ultimate destination for a desert people leading a nomadic lifestyle, wouldn't you say?'

Daniel nodded. They were only halfway through their first beer and yet Pete was waxing loquacious the way he did when he had quite a few under his belt. He'd probably downed a hefty amount of the whisky he kept back at the donga before meeting up at the mess, Daniel thought. Pete regularly drove into Ceduna to top up his supply. He was a heavy drinker, Daniel had discovered.

'The Ooldea soak's an important gathering place. They come from all over from the east and the west as well as the north.' Pete gave an airy wave of his hand. 'Even the Arrernte from the central ranges up my way they all head for Ooldea. The Ooldea soak's more than a watering hole; it's a focal point for trade, and for ceremonial events and general socialising. They've been heading for Ooldea from the beginning of time. Christ, that's why Daisy Bates set up her camp there.'

'Daisy Bates?'

'Yeah.' Pete paused, his expression enigmatic as he waited for a reaction. But there was none. 'A remarkable woman, pretty famous I'm surprised you haven't heard of her.'

Daniel looked duly chastened, but Pete shrugged forgivingly. h.e.l.l, the kid was a Pom, he could hardly be expected to know about Daisy Bates. Christ, the majority of Australians didn't b.l.o.o.d.y well know about Daisy Bates, why should the kid? Pete knew that he was getting a bit p.i.s.sed, but he didn't care. He enjoyed imparting his knowledge to young Dan. Young Dan was one of the very few who appeared remotely interested in the Aboriginal situation.

'She was Irish by birth, Daisy Bates. I met her once, in Adelaide just before the war, at a lecture she was giving to promote her book. She was well into her seventies by then, but still a pretty formidable figure. Handsome woman. Tall and regal and very Victorian, with a little hat and metal-framed gla.s.ses. Difficult to imagine her out there in the desert living with the blackfellas, but that's what she did. Back in 1919 she pitched her tent near Wynbring Siding, east of Ooldea, set herself up as a sort of one-woman welfare centre and stayed there for a whole sixteen years.'

'So she was a missionary?' Daniel asked. He was fascinated.

'Christ, no just the opposite. She didn't want to convert the Aborigine, she wanted to protect him from the white man's influence that she believed was destroying him. She devoted her life to the Aboriginal people, recording their language and culture, tending to the sick and looking after their babies. Her work's been recognised by the government and she's respected in anthropological circles, but it was always the people themselves she cared about.'

Pete paused long enough to take a healthy swig from his gla.s.s before continuing. 'The stories about her are b.l.o.o.d.y amazing. When livestock was taken from the rail cars and butchered by the siding to supply the fettlers' camps along the line, Daisy Bates would be standing by with her wheelbarrow primly attired, as she always was. She'd collect the sheep heads and offal and cart the whole lot away to her tent, where she'd feed the Aboriginal families who'd flocked to be near her.' He skolled the remains of his beer. 'Like I said, a remarkable woman!'

Daniel waited expectantly for the next instalment, but it appeared there wasn't to be one.

'My round,' Pete said.

'What happened to her?' Daniel jumped in quickly before Pete could rise from the table.

'She died in her nineties, just a few years ago.'

Any number of questions were gathering in Daniel's brain, but, knowing the call for beer took precedence, he was prepared to bide his time.

'h.e.l.lo, Pete, Dan. There's a shortage of tables. Do you mind if we join you?'

Looking up at the handsome face of Gideon Melbray, Daniel realised that the moment had pa.s.sed. The subject of Daisy Bates would not be revisited over the next round. She'd been one of those brief glimpses into the Aboriginal world that Pete shared with him and no-one else, because, as he said, 'No-one else is interested.'

'G'day, Gideon,' Pete said as he stood. 'G'day, Nick, haven't seen you around for a while,' and he offered his hand to the man with Gideon, a tall Australian of around forty whose uniform displayed the rank of colonel. 'The bigwigs running you ragged, are they?'

'Yeah, sort of.' Nick's smile was wry as they shook. 'Canberra for a fortnight,' he said. 'It's good to be back amongst real people.'

Pete returned the smile. He and Nick were aware of each other's background and shared the knowledge that they'd both served in delicately diplomatic areas. Pete knew only too well the political tightrope Nick Stratton would be expected to negotiate over the coming months. Pleasing two masters was never easy, but fielding the press into the bargain? He wouldn't have Nick's job for quids.

'I'm grabbing a beer for me and Dan I take it you blokes are all right?' Gideon and Nick held up their gla.s.ses, which were virtually full. 'Pull up a pew then, I'll be back in a tick.'

As Pete walked off to the bar, he couldn't help thinking that if anyone was capable of handling such a job it would certainly have to be Nick. Strange that he liked the bloke as much as he did Nick was such a product of the military, but there was something admirable about him. Perhaps it was the fact that in doing his job, he wouldn't sell others down the river, Pete thought with a familiar sense of bitterness. Something he hadn't been able to achieve himself.

'Have you two met?' Gideon asked, and Daniel rose from the table.

'Not in the official sense,' Nick said pleasantly as he offered his hand, 'although I think we've swum a simultaneous lap or two of the pool.'

'Colonel Nick Stratton, Lieutenant Dan Gardiner.' Gideon made the introduction.

'How do you do, sir,' Daniel said as they shook.

Nick briefly considered suggesting that over a beer in the mess, the young man might call him Nick, but he decided against it. The lieutenant was, after all, British and the British were sticklers for protocol. Dan Gardiner might well find such a suggestion confronting.

'Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.'

Gideon and Nick pulled up a couple of chairs.

'Dan's with the transport corps, we work together a lot,' Gideon said chattily to Nick as they sat. Then to Daniel, 'Nick's our official go-between.' In response to Daniel's understandably blank look, he added, 'Liaison officer between the British and Australian defence organisations. And he's soon to become Maralinga's conduit to the world!' Gideon ensured the delivery had a suitably dramatic ring.

'Give it a break, Gideon.'

Nick's warning look was wasted on Gideon, who made a regular point of flaunting the need-to-know rule, which he openly stated did not apply to him.

'I'm hardly revealing top-secret information,' he said reasonably. 'You're the press liaison officer as well good G.o.d, you'll soon be the voice of Maralinga. The eyes and ears of the world will be '

'Fair enough, you've made your point. I'd just prefer it if you got your facts right, that's all.'

Nick's tone, although not disagreeable, sent a clear signal. Gideon was amusing and, like most, Nick enjoyed the man's company indeed, he considered the likes of Gideon valuable to the social fabric of Maralinga. The cloak-and-dagger policy the British had adopted was not only un-Australian, it was unproductive in Nick's opinion. So long as there was no threat to security, surely mateship should be encouraged amongst men stranded in so remote an outpost. But there were times when Gideon's garrulousness jarred and Nick found him just a little bit grating.

'Well, if you'd tell me the facts, then I'd be able to get them right, wouldn't I,' Gideon replied with a grin. 'But of course that would be breaching the need-to-know rule.' He backed off, albeit cheekily. He always knew exactly how far he could push, and Nick was the last person he would wish to offend.

Gideon had a crush on Nick, he had to admit, but then he'd always been drawn to the rugged type. And Nick Stratton was certainly rugged. Dark-haired and strong-boned, there was a bit of the Gregory Peck about him, Gideon thought. Perhaps in another time and another place ...? But no, he'd only end up with a broken jaw. Ah well, there were plenty more fish in the sea.

'So who's going to win the match tomorrow?' he asked, and, with a wink to Daniel, he added, 'I'd put us at two to one.'

When Pete returned with the beers only minutes later, Gideon was running a book on the following day's rugby match.

'Are you in, Pete?' he asked, marking down the bets in the notebook he always carried, as Dan and Nick placed their money on the table.

'What are the odds?'

'Two to one the British, and three to one the Australians.'