Chapter Three

June 15^th:

Japanese bomb Darwin for the fifth day in a row.

She slept heavily. At six a.m. the alarm alerted her to the thunder of rain on the iron roof. Snug in the cocoon of blankets, she knew she should move. She couldn’t. Her body refused to obey her brain.

“Anne!” Her mother was knocking on the closed door. “Anne! Are you all right?”

“Coming!” She threw back the blankets, switched on the light, pulled on dressing-gown and slippers, and hurried from the freezing bedroom to the warm kitchen.

“You’ll have to rush.” May Preston placed tea, scrambled eggs, and toast on the table. “Your lunch is packed. Don’t forget it today.”

At seven a.m. she was waiting at the tram stop. Wrapped in woolen skirt, jumper, cap and scarf and protected by a rain-proof Macintosh and her father’s large black umbrella, she watched the dribble of people scurrying from the side streets.

They waited in the pool of light from the shaded overhead lamp, not speaking; the regular five, plus one stranger. She wondered about him. Had he missed an earlier tram or was he to become one of the regulars? Not too old to have been in the forces, he was grey and thin and wore a new suit. Had he been wounded?

Hearing the tram clattering down the hill, she spotted its dimmed lights, prepared the umbrella for speedy re-furling and politely waited her turn to board before hauling herself up the steps. The tram smelled of musty wet wool and the tantalising tang of fresh print on the newspapers which formed a wall of headlines along the two rows of opposing seats. She ran the gauntlet, right down the middle, before taking the vacant seat next to the tram driver’s closed cabin door. From here she could peer through the narrow window at the way ahead.

As she squeezed into the tiny space the man at her side turned a page, grunted “Good morning,” and looked pointedly at the umbrella dripping floods onto his galoshes.

Blushing, she stood the umbrella against the door and assumed her regular vigil. This morning, though the rain and the heavy clouds were winning the battle with the hooded street lamps, the metal tracks gleamed reassuringly into the black tunnel ahead.

She was distracted only by the conductor who acknowledged her weekly pass. Fifteen minutes later, anticipating Stop 41, she teetered back along the moving tram, unfurled the umbrella, and stepped down into the almost deserted roadway. A blast of freezing wind, catching at the umbrella, threw her off balance. Slipping on the icy surface, she slid into the deep moat of water gushing around the corner shop. Nervous of ridicule, she checked for witnesses. No one had seen. Almost to her knees in water, she closed the umbrella, regained her balance, and struggled to the cover of the shop’s verandah.

The build-up of traffic quickly intensified. Trams passed at increasingly frequent intervals. Bikes, motor-bikes, a few cars, an occasional muffled pedestrian, held her shivering interest.

Julian arrived from his near-by boarding house. “Early again, Anne. You’re wet through! You’ll catch your death!”

She couldn’t answer. How could she have been so stupid? Did Julian’s friends know she hadn’t known about sex? Of course they did; she’d said some stupid things. Julian had promised nothing would change between them. Except there’d be no more heavy petting. He couldn’t guarantee to control himself forever. So of course things had already changed. It was too confusing.

It was confusing in every imaginable way. It explained many things about her mother, about June, and about the way they treated her. It explained – and yet it didn’t explain. Why had they not found a way to tell her? Why had they let her go out into the world in such dangerous ignorance? Why had they not prepared her? Why had her father…? Wait! How could June have known these things while she hadn’t? Could it be partly her own fault? Sometimes she didn’t listen, didn’t…

“Anne!” Julian was demanding attention. “Wake up! Why don’t you catch a later tram? You don’t have to be so early.”

“It might not connect.”

“You should wear sensible shoes. And galoshes.”

“I like high heels.”

“One day you’ll break your neck.”

Ten minutes later they were all there, twenty of them, alighting from trams, running from the railway station, walking from nearby homes, exchanging Monday morning greetings while they waited.

“The bus is late this morning.”

“When isn’t it?”

“Was Anne early again?”

“Anne’s always early.”

“Leave her alone.”

“It’s probably broken down again.”

“They’ll send another one.”

“Can’t hold up the war effort!”

The rain eased, the dense clouds dawdled southwards, the wind whooped around the bleak corner, and the cold knifed through their woolens. Anne shivered.

Julian frowned. “You’re wet through. Make sure you change as soon as you get in.”

The clumsily lumbering box that served as a war-time bus stuttered and squealed into the gutter; muddy water sprayed across their feet.

Distancing herself from the brutal jostling of the impatient travelers fighting to climb the narrow steps, Anne stood back.

“Come on,” Julian urged her into the scrum.

Still she hung back.

“I’ll save a place.” He dived into the fray.

She felt the unwelcome rush of hot tears. It was always like this. Even this small incident was isolating her yet again.

Finally, as the last man started up the steps, she hurried into the bus.

“Here!” Julian called. “Anne!”

She hesitated.

“Don’t be so stubborn.” He pulled her down into the space he’d saved on the hard wooden bench.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t save a place for me.”

He lowered his voice. “You’re so damned scrupulous.”

How could he be so insensitive? How was it that he fooled everyone? He put it on with his smart blue suit; a man to be trusted. If only they knew the truth. He was a member of an illegal party. He was confusing. Sometimes, most times, he was a stranger. He could be gentle. He could be cruel.

Above her ashamed head the strap-hangers glared. She agreed with them, it wasn’t fair. She’d been prepared to pay the price of refusing to join the race to board the truck, to stand with the unlucky ones. How could they know that? Unless she defied Julian. That wasn’t an option, not while everyone was watching. He’d make sure she came off second best.

As the bus lurched and chugged and twisted its noisy way to right or left or limped over unseen rail crossings, it was possible only to sense a general direction. One of a fleet converted to take passengers, it had once been a cattle truck. Its interior was dark and mouldy and depressing, its windows above eye level and its route a mystery. Conversation was almost impossible. Most passengers, even those hanging on the overhead straps, caught up on lost sleep.

They’d been traveling for twenty minutes, their companions lulled into semi-consciousness, when Julian flipped the box of matches across the central aisle. “Mick! Catch!”

A fellow communist, Mick pocketed them. Of the few who did see, none protested. Was it only the cell members who recognised the significance of Julian’s action?

Matches were not permitted in the unit where munitions were manufactured. Entering with the box of matches was an illegal act. As technicians in the munitions department, they knew that to carry in anything which could ignite the potentially lethal chemicals was dangerous in the extreme. Even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t the point. The point was - it was illegal, and they were doing it anyway.

Was this just another instance of Julian thumbing his nose at authority, as he’d done on the train? Or was Julian’s move a test? Would Mick take a risk and smuggle them in? Or could it be that it was actually something more sinister? Of course not. She was being paranoid.

Whatever it was, Julian would know exactly what he was doing. Did he think she was too stupid to notice? Or did he trust her this much? In their brief time together, he’d trusted her with many secrets. Why? Was he was deliberately trying to make her an ally? Was he hoping she’d become a communist?

She tried to sleep. It was impossible. The truck jounced on its awkward way until, three quarters of an hour later, it kangaroo-hopped to a chuddering standstill. She stood aside to watch the undisciplined workers stumble down the steep steps, show their passes at the sentry gate, and veer off on their separate pathways to the different buildings.

The guards, ostentatiously alert for saboteurs, inspected their passes and waved them through the high barbed wire fence.

Julian started, with his friends, down the separate path to the munitions building. “See you tonight, Anne.”

“Not lunch time?”

“Sorry.” Intent on Mick’s retreating figure, he quickly answered: “We have a meeting.”

As he walked away, striding tall and confident and not looking back, she again wondered about the matches. And again quickly dismissed the worry as the unwarranted niggle of an overly scrupulous conscience. Whatever was happening, it was still none of her business. Of all those on the bus, even the non communists working in the munitions section who’d seen it, none had protested. Or sounded an alarm. Or alerted the sentries.

She turned down the path to the metrology laboratory. It was a great job. Since ending her training, she’d gradually been given increasing responsibility. She loved both the work and the challenge of the responsibility. The central hub of a vast war machine, the laboratory assessed gauges that assessed gauges that assessed tools that manufactured Churchill’s tools of war.

Measuring the variety of gauges to within the finest possible tolerances, the expertise of the laboratory technicians was critical to the war effort. The supply of an entire branch of war machinery depended on them. Precision tools are only as efficient as the accuracy of the precision equipment which assesses them – and the integrity of the people doing the assessing.

Concentration was essential. There could be no time for day-dreaming. For habitual day-dreamer Anne Preston, the intense concentration needed to stretch her mathematical skills to the necessary standard was rewarding. It had a purpose. It was entirely true that the work done in this central laboratory was uniquely critical to the production of the tools of war. She knew she was lucky; she could so easily have been drafted into some war-time job she hated. Instead, after intensive tests and training, she was now one of the elite original six assistants selected for this uniquely critical work.

After registering at the time clock, she hurried to the cloak room, changed into dry clothing, starched white coat and low-heeled shoes, and arrived a few minutes late at the work bench she shared with Grace, also one of the original six assistants.

The large laboratory was white-walled, brilliantly lit, sterile, and air conditioned. Essential to their work with the delicate gauges, the rare hot-house atmosphere of the air conditioning was blamed for a comparatively high incidence of colds and flu. True or false, it was relatively unimportant; the welfare of the tools was paramount. Their men were giving their lives.

“The Boss was looking for you. I told him you were on your way.” Grace smiled a warm welcome before resuming work with her calibrator.

“Thanks. I got wet through at the bus pick up. I had to change everything.”

“You didn’t sit all that way in wet clothes!” Grace was alarmed.

“You’re as bad as Julian.”

“You must be careful,” Grace warned. “If you don’t care about yourself, we do, Anne.”

At their benches the white-coated laboratory assistants were, like Grace, already working on assessments. Supervisor Rebecca Longmire and Administrator Jeffrey Macklin, transferred from another facility, were stationed in the adjacent office. The supervisor regularly checked their work and assisted with difficult assignments. Neither she nor the administrator ever mixed socially with the personnel in the main room. Both had morning and afternoon tea in the office and drove out of the compound into a nearby suburban cafe for lunch.

As always, the work was exacting. For two hours the silence was broken only by regulation moments of respite from the extreme pressure, the occasional rustle of papers, an ominous cough, or the disconcerting scrape of the legs of one of the high stools as a worker moved to a different work post. A break for morning tea, and heads down again until, at 12.30 precisely, the siren blew. Each worker completed their immediate task, exchanged their white coats for protective clothing, and exited the building. The guard locked the door behind them as, sharing umbrellas, the group scampered through the steady drizzle of misty rain to the busy cafeteria.

Anne collected a cup of tea and joined her friends at one of the long wooden tables. They’d been together since the training course. Though teasing and banter were part of their combined relationship, their loyalty to each other was unquestioned; even the occasional angry outburst was accepted and forgiven. Each of them had different interests, different backgrounds, different life experiences, different educations and each was currently living in vastly different circumstances.

Grace had been born and reared in wealthy Toorak. Joan in working-class Richmond. Within a few geographic miles of each other, they were worlds apart. In times of peace neither would have met the other. Or even traveled into the other’s world. Equally, in every imaginable way, from manner of speech to thoughts to ideals to interests to ambitions to day to day survival, life in the one area was totally alien to life in the other. As for Grace and Joan, so it was for each of them. No two came from the same suburb.

Even so, vast differences also existed within the boundaries of each suburb. Catholics and Protestants were strangers, Protestant sects were strangers to each other. Except for the essentials of working life, employers and employees, professionals and tradesmen were strangers. In peace time the distances between groups had been as impenetrable as the deserts which divorced Australia’s west from its east, its north from its south.

But this was not a time of peace. The world was at war, and Australia threatened with invasion by terrifying barbarians. Because of the intense effort being put into waging war each of these very different people who were now her friends had met, were working together, and even respected each other. All had worked in other jobs. Sophie had been a secretary, Joan a factory worker, Helen a switchboard operator. Lillian and Grace, both married with children, had worked before marriage. Lillian as a teacher, Grace as a librarian.

As the youngest, Anne was the only one fresh from school into the laboratory. Brought together by the war-time laboratory’s requirement for superior mathematical intelligence, the six had found ways to tolerate, and even to enjoy, their profound differences.

“How’s Julian, Anne?” Lillian picked daintily at the shell of a boiled egg.

“He’s okay.” Although she’d first met him in the canteen, these days Julian rarely shared lunch with them.

“When does he transfer?” Grace opened her sandwiches, grimaced at the limp bread and soapy cheese, and chewed unhappily.

“Another month or so.” She brushed away the quick tears. “He doesn’t want to go.”

“That’s what he says,” Lillian teased.

“Right now, I don’t care what he says.” The people in this group were her only friends. She couldn’t tell them about the weekend, but she could share her doubts with them.

“Are you sure he’s not married, Anne?” Trust Sophie to be cynical.

“I’m not sure about anything any more.”

Alerted, Grace was immediately sympathetic. “What’s he done, Anne?”

She blushed, not answering.

Quick as always, Sophie immediately hazarded a guess. “He didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Helen was mystified.

“You know,” Sophie winked.

“That’s her business!” Helen was appalled. “You don’t ask about that!”

“She doesn’t have to answer.”

“Anne?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“See! She’s upset. Leave her alone.”

“I’m not sure we can leave her alone,” Grace was gentle. “You will be careful, Anne. We are your friends. When you want to talk, we’ll listen.”

“I’d still like to know,” Sophie was enjoying herself. “Is he married?”

“Sophie!”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s a fair question. She should think about that, at least. These days you never know.”

She interrupted. “Can we drop this?”

“Of course we can.” Helen glared at Sophie.

“It’s still a fair question.”

“If you must know,” she resorted to anger. “He told me. He’s not married.”

“More fool you.” Acid Joan, haven’t finished her lunch, joined the argument. “You believe anything you want to.”

“Julian doesn’t lie!”

“For God’s sake, Anne!” Joan cried. “Don’t be so bloody stupid! The man’s up to something. Take a good look at yourself.”

“Love!” Grace attempted to defuse the rising anger. “It’s as blind as a bat.”

“You should know.” Joan sneered.

“That’s not called for!” Sophie defended Grace. Grace never talked about the recent divorce that had left her supporting two young children.

“You’re right,” Joan apologised. “I’m sorry.”

Sophie sarcastically excused her. “You don’t really mean to be a bitch, do you Joan. You just never think.”

“It’s this awful weather,” Helen complained. “We’re all feeling it.”

“You’d think I’d make myself a decent lunch.” Again attempting a diversion, Grace folded her barely touched sandwiches back into the box. “Anne... Why don’t we take a walk?”

“It’s freezing!”

“Take a walk, Anne,” Joan advised.

“I don’t want to.”

“We don’t have to talk, Anne.” Grace reassured.

The walk would help. The rain on her face, no questions, no talking, no thinking.

Grace unfurled her umbrella. “Come on, Anne. “The walk’ll do you good.”

She was grateful for her friends’ concern. But she couldn’t talk about Julian. They were right to be suspicious of him; the truth was much darker than they knew.

In the afternoon, as in the morning and all the other days, they worked in almost total silence. The laboratory was ruthlessly controlled. No speck of dust, no variation of temperature, no vagary of temperament, no lapse of concentration, was permitted. Necessary to prevent mental fatigue and intellectual overload, systematic relief was built into the time table. The brief time-out periods were mandatory. Meticulously trained to work at optimum levels, they conscientiously switched off for each required rest period before resetting themselves to the task in hand. Their work must not be jeopardised because of human error. For whatever reason.

This afternoon, since listening to her friends at lunch time, Anne found concentration almost impossible. She prayed she’d make no errors, no serious life-costing errors. She checked and double-checked and checked again her final reports. But the insidious undercurrent refused to go away. Part of her brain insisted on sorting through the moments she and Julian had been together, the things he’d allowed her to see, the secrets he’d allowed her to share. Was he merely using her as a cover for his clandestine activities? Or was there something more sinister going on? Was he trying to enlist her?

She should have confided in her friends. What had held her back? Did she really believe he loved her? Could she be trying to protect him? Here she was, getting a headache worrying about the consequences of any small miscalculation in her own work while, at the same time, she was staying quiet about the smuggled box of matches. It wasn’t logical. Sooner or later, she was going to have to decide where she stood. What if she decided to report him, not only to her friends but to the authorities?

Would they believe her? Would they believe she’d been an innocent bystander? Anyway, Julian and his group weren’t doing any harm. Even the box of matches, which bothered her so much, had been no more than thumbing their noses at authority; like riding first class in the train on second class tickets. It was all just talk and being friends with refugees who’d been terribly hurt.

It was frustrating. She was doing what she always did. She was convincing herself she was thinking through a problem, when she was actually marking time in the hope that the problem would just go away. Given time it would disappear. Somehow.

It wasn’t good enough. Sooner or later she’d have to decide. Though not yet. Hasty decisions could lead to unexpected outcomes, especially a decision as momentous as this. Confronting Julian, directly questioning him, would be unwise. He might laugh her off. He might not. He might do a number of things. She didn’t even know enough about him to take a wild guess at what he would do. Like last night.

“Are you all right, Anne?” The supervisor was at her side. “You seem distracted.”

Blushing, she answered: “I might have caught a chill this morning. I got caught…”

“Take a couple of aspirin and a break. I’ll expect you back in…” The supervisor consulted her watch. “…half an hour.”

She took the aspirin, but not the time. She must never let thoughts of Julian distract her from the job!

At day’s end Julian was already there, waiting beside the guard house. Thankfully, the icy wind was chilling her blushing cheeks. Julian missed nothing. He certainly wouldn’t miss that something had changed since this morning. Maybe not immediately, but soon, some small action or lack of action would alert him. Then he’d go the step further. One way or another, he’d soon detect her growing doubts.

He came towards her. “How was your day?”

“Good.” Bracing herself against both the wind and her own misgivings, she joined him. “How was yours?”

“Successful.” Obviously in one of his taciturn moods, he chose not to elaborate.

“Grace asked me about your transfer.”

“Yes?”

“I told her you have to go where you’re ordered.”

“Good.”

“Mum thought you might like to come again for tea. She’s missing Dad.”

He beckoned to Mick, who left the group waiting for the bus. “You need me tonight?”

“Not specially. Why?”

“I’ll be having tea at Anne’s.”

“You too, Mick - if you like.” She hoped he wouldn’t; she hoped neither of them would come. She needed time away from them.

“Thanks, Anne,” Mick smiled. “I hear your Mum puts on a good feed. I’m sorry. I’d love to, but tonight’s impossible.”

Julian frowned. “I thought…”

“Tonight’s impossible.” Mick turned back to the group.

Hurrying after him, Julian called. “Be back in a minute, Anne.”

From her isolated post she watched. At Julian’s arrival they fell silent. His role as leader was obvious in both this and the angle of their intent heads. Taut with anger and speaking through tight lips, Julian’s quick eyes continually scanned the wider crowd of workers around them.

Only Mick was answering. Even from this distance, it was apparent that he was standing up to Julian. Though gesticulating wildly and obviously upset, Mick did not raise his voice. Whatever the disagreement was about it was very serious, yet obviously also very secret. The other members of their group, already forming a close circle around their leader and Mick, were moving even closer in order to shield the two from curious ears.

As the bus loomed into sight, Julian returned to Anne.

“What was that about?” She didn’t really expect an answer.

He shrugged.

She did not ask again.

“What happened with the matches?” Since leaving the bus, the taciturn mood had vanished; Julian was happy to talk. Maybe he’d just been tired after a difficult day. It happened to all of them.

“Nothing.” Mick deftly rolled a cigarette, and struck a light. “Want them back?”

“Keep them. A souvenir.”

“Why?” Richard’s Austrian accent contrast was melodic contrast to the Aussie twang. “What did you do?”

“Experimental. Test of security.”

“You could smuggle in a tank.” Mick watched a puff of smoke curl up into the winter sky.

“Not quite,” Julian warned. “You shouldn’t under-rate them.”

“Thank your mother for the invitation, Anne.” Mick pointedly redirected the conversation.

“Don’t worry about what Anne hears,” Julian laughed. “She hasn’t a political bone in her body.”

“Everyone’s political,” Richard mourned.

“What do you say, Anne?” Mick asked.

She shook her head. There was nothing to say. They were sitting in the tram shelter in the biting cold, arguing again. Because Julian was not to be with them at their evening meeting they’d persuaded him to delay his, and Anne’s, journey home. It was raining again, the blackness of this winter evening was already winning its inevitable battle with the hooded street lamps, the metal tram tracks were beckoning them to home and warmth. If only they would go.

Trams passed at increasingly frequent intervals. Cars, motor bikes, bicycles sprayed their sodden feet. Still Julian did not move. Anxious to be away, she released the catch on her dripping umbrella, and opened it. Surely Julian would respond to the blatant hint? He didn’t. She re-furled the umbrella.

A stranger, slowly walking past, hesitated, saw there were no empty seats, and took up a position under the nearby shop verandah. He seemed uncannily intent on the group. She shuddered. It was inescapable, this sense that Julian and his friends were being watched. True or false? It didn’t matter. It felt true. It felt uncomfortable and dishonest and confusing and she wished things were different. Maybe it was only fear for him that was feeding her over-active imagination? So why were the members of the group, too, furtively watching the man under the shop verandah? Why were they, too, wondering about him?

“Everyone’s not political, Richard,” Julian was answering for her. “Especially Anne.”

“If they knew the truth, they would be,” Richard growled.

“You’ve got that right,” Julian agreed. “What about Darwin?”

“We could have been over-run with Japs. And we didn’t even know they were that close.”

“They’ll have to recognise The Party sooner or later. The Government’s got its head in the sand.”

“You watch. Russia will save us.”

“If Hitler hadn’t gone for Russia, we’d have been done for by now.”

“If Japan hadn’t gone for America…”

A bunch of gossips. Why didn’t they go home! She pulled her coat collar around her face and her cap further down around her freezing ears.

“Anne’s catching cold.” Julian cut them off. “Let me know how it comes out tonight.”

“Right,” Mick stood. “We’ll be off too. You just make sure you’re there at the week-end.”

The weekend? This weekend - when he’d promised to spend time with her before his transfer?

She didn’t ask about it until they’d boarded the crowded tram. Finding no empty seats, they stood strap-hanging in the central open area. Around them, within easy ear-shot, shop assistants, clerks, factory workers, a distraught mother rocking a coughing baby, were preoccupied with their own concerns. There was no sign of the man under the verandah, or anyone like him. The over-riding disturbance of the baby’s hacking cough and the closed eyes of the tired workers reassured her that, despite their close proximity, their own conversation would go either unheard or unheeded.

Nevertheless, she kept her voice low. “What’s at the week-end?”

“Just a conference.”

“Not again! Not this week-end!”

“I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve got no choice. You know that.”

“I don’t understand. We’re all fighting the same war. What’s so…?”

His warning eyes silenced her. A hot surge of anger suffused her chilled cheeks.

“Don’t think about it.” He placed his free arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t!” She pulled free, almost over-balanced, and took a firmer hold on the over-head strap.

The sudden movement alerted the dozing passengers. Distracted from the distressed baby, the mother smiled and nodded.

Unfazed, Julian shrugged. “You’re such a sulky child.”

At the tram stop, after assisting her to alight, he guided her through the flooded gutters to the slippery footpath. “Make sure you change as soon as you get in, Anne. You’ve probably already caught a chill.”

“Julian…” Maybe she was being a sulky child, but she needed to know what was going on.

“What?” Though the rain had stopped, and the tiny pools of light failed to adequately illuminate the irregular cracks in the pavement, he was moving at a brisk pace.

“When are you leaving?” Praying she wouldn’t trip, she struggled to keep up.

“I don’t know.”

“Joan says you do.”

“If you want to believe Joan.”

“She says you’re using me.”

Not answering, he hurried on under the dripping overhang of a broad hedge, heedless of the water that soaked his bare head.

“Julian?”

“We’ve had a good time, Anne,” he paused to open the front gate. “Don’t spoil it.”

“When you’ve gone - will you write to me?”

“Of course.” Easy and sure, he steered her through the gate.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You are in a mood.”

One minute gentle, the next brutal. One minute an idealist, the next a schemer. Her friends had opened that door. What was the truth? He was, at the very least, utterly confusing. At worst? Were her mother and father and her friends right to warn her? She brushed away the ready tears.

“Anne…” Tears discomforted him.

“I’m sorry.” He was right, she was a child.

“Anne - don’t spoil it.”

“Who’s spoiling what?” Again, unexpectedly, she felt the flush of anger. “There’s nothing to spoil!”

“You’re a mess.” He released her. “I won’t come in.”

“Don’t!” She slammed the gate and started for the front door.

“Please – Anne. Wait.” Opening the gate, he followed her.

Was this Julian? Julian never pleaded for anything.

“Anne - please understand.” In the shelter of the porch, the dim light of the street lamp high-lighted his high cheek bones and thick hair and pale skin and firm mouth; it shadowed the enigmatic eyes she could never fathom.

It would be so easy to give in again.

She stepped back, out of reach. “I understand too well. Your communists tell you to jump, you jump. I don’t matter. What about after you leave? Will you write to me? Only if they let you!”

“It’s my life, Anne.”

“What about my life! What about me!”

“For God’s sake, Anne. Don’t you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

“You should know about that.”

He turned away.

“If it hadn’t been for you,” she accused. “I’d have been home hours ago. I wouldn’t be catching a chill.”

“I’m sorry about that.” His anger was short-lived. “You should have a hot bath and get to bed early.”

“I’ll change for tea.” She reached for the door-bell. “You and Mum can…”

“Wait!”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I won’t come in. You need to change.”

“You never intended to stay!”

“You could always come to the meetings with me.”

She was startled. Although she was not surprised, the proposal left her off balance.

“Why not? You’d make a great communist, Anne.”

How to answer? Buying time, she countered: “You’re teasing.”

“Try me.”

“Even if you mean it,” she frowned. “You know the weekends are out for me.”

“So choose, Anne. Think for yourself. Make a choice.”

“The Vicar has been very patient with me. I owe him.” She also owed the comforting spirits of St Margaret’s.

“Come on, Anne. Tell the truth. You’re falling for all that shit.”

“I might be.” She felt an idiotic need to defend the Vicar.

“Poor child,” he mocked. “You don’t know what you believe in.”

“You do?”

“I know what I don’t believe,” Julian countered. “I don’t believe anything I can’t see, hear, touch, taste, or smell.”

“Have you seen Russia?”

“Clever!” He chuckled. “Have you seen God?”

Again, she reached for the doorbell. “This is stupid.”

“We must not argue.”

“I’m sorry.” In a way, she was sorry. “I don’t mean to make it harder for you.”

“Get to bed early, Anne.” He kissed her, gently and without passion.

The smell of worn leather, damp wool, and unknown chemicals; the touch of hard muscles and smooth-shaven skin; the comfort of strong hands firm and sure - how much longer? How much longer before he left?

“Tell your Mum thanks for the invitation to tea. Maybe another time.”

“Will there be…?”

“Tell your Mum thanks, Anne.”

Answering the door-bell, May opened the front door and peered into the darkened porch. “Isn’t Julian coming in?”

“We got held up.”

“You’re wet through! You must hurry! Get changed.”

“In a minute.” She started for her father’s book shelves.

“Anne! Get changed!”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Get into your pyjamas. I’ll put your tea out.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, Anne. Go get changed.”

It would be quicker to obey. After changing and eating, she waited until her mother was asleep before slipping back to the front of the house.

The book-case stood in the passage outside the main bedroom. Built by her father, it had been there all her life. Side by side on its shelves were Zane Grey, Darwin, T.S. Elliott, Shakespeare, the Saint Jeffrey Bible, Ilya Ehrenburg, John Steinbeck, Charles Dickens, H.G. Wells, Hemingway, C.J. Dennis, Banjo Patterson, Wild West paper-backs, dictionaries, encyclopaedias and building manuals.

She’d grown up knowing that most nights her father read late while she and her mother and June slept. As she’d grown older he’d frequently invited her to join him. Both summer and winter they’d sit reading by the fireplace in the living room.

Sometimes she’d interrupt to ask a question or make a comment. He’d place a finger on the passage he was reading, answer her, and read on. Sometimes, he’d clear his throat, wait a moment, and then read aloud a passage because he particularly enjoyed it or because he thought it was instructive. Most times there was little talking. Quietly rich times, the war had taken them from her. She missed him. But his books were here and somewhere among them she expected to find the information she needed.

Her slow fingers slipped over the books. Every single one in some way wore evidence of constant use. From the curling corners of the manuals to the sweat-polished spines of the hard covers. Even the flimsy pages of the bible contained an embroidered book-mark crumpled with use. Though she knew the book-case well, she’d never even opened the more profound books. Once school was behind her, she’d gratefully turned to the light romance magazines her mother read.

After her father had left, the book-case had remained unopened. Until tonight. And here, at midnight and uninterrupted, she began to understand that she hardly knew her father at all. She began to comprehend that the books were a clue to the man he might have been. Maybe once, before being weighed down with the responsibilities of a family, he’d even been a bit like Julian? An idealist?

It wasn’t such a stretch. Here, in her father’s book-case, she could learn about Julian’s world. She needed to understand the reasons for the passionate idealism which drove him to do the things he did. He was honest and caring. Unlike anyone else she’d ever known, even the ethereal vicar, Julian Reeves had made a cause his life. He’d told her - communism was his life. At heart he was no more a criminal than her father. Yet, legally, he was. Why? What were his reasons?

Praying her mother wouldn’t hear, she selected two encyclopaedias, a dictionary, and the folder of newspaper cuttings her father had collected since English Prime Minister Neville Chamberlaine’s 1938 ‘Peace in our time’ retreat at Munich. Finally, she added Steinbeck’s ‘The Grapes of Wrath’. Though she’d read it before she’d retreated to light fiction, its impact had been indelible.

Softly closing the stained-glass doors of the cabinet, she switched off the light and silently retraced her steps through the darkened rooms to her bedroom. The disadvantages of sleeping in a bedroom which opened directly into the living room were outweighed by the advantages of sleeping at a distance from the rest of the family. Tonight she could be sure of privacy without enduring the anxiety of unexpected disturbance.

She turned on the bed lamp, climbed between the still-warm sheets, and buried herself in the books. Though there was still no rain, the howling wind ripped at the branches of the un-pruned rose bush outside her window. Its eerie tattoo was unnerving in the mid-night silence.

Soon, as she flipped through the pages, the chilling protest of the rose talons went unheard. She traced the growth of the socialist revolution from as far back as Greek Plato and Socrates who wrote of the ideal of communal property. She perused reports of English Thomas More’s Utopia, touched on Russian Tolstoy’s idealistic social reform, scanned Marx and Lenin, soaked up what her tiring brain could absorb of the ideal of communism, and arrived at humanism.

Humanism! For the humanist, man should show respect to man irrespective of class, race or creed. The central arresting theme was clearly written. Tiredness vanished. Excited, wanting to share the discovery, wishing her father was in the next room, she again heard the wind and the scratching thorns of the tormented rose bush. Looking at the bedside clock, she ignored its hands pointing to seven minutes after two a.m. The books would not wait.

Retracing her steps, she returned to communism, and delved more deeply. It was from the work of Marx and Engels, who lived when the under classes were unscrupulously exploited by the capitalists, that communism had taken root. It was their humanitarianism, their concern for social justice, which had inspired their work.

Social justice. Respect for Man. Love of one’s fellow. Equality for all. The French Revolution. Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! The words had stirred her, but only as any other piece of romantic fiction. ‘The Tale of Two Cities’, as told by Charles Dickens, was a story. Beautiful and sad, even historically interesting, it had nothing to do with life in twentieth century Australia.

So what about Steinbeck? What about the powerful ‘Grapes of Wrath’? Twentieth century America. Was it so different from twentieth century Australia? The harrowing years of the Great Depression were too recent. Memory of cardboard inner soles inserted into broken shoes, of hand-me-down clothes, of her mother selling cookies to pay for the next meal, of her father hopelessly looking for work, of the dole queues.

Same Depression, same time, merely in a different place. Maybe different in degree of degradation? She’d been too young to really know. Yet Australia’s Depression had much in common with America’s Depression; and others? Hardship, brutality, grinding poverty….Steinbeck. Dickens. Shakespeare… The books she’d stopped reading.

Too young to appreciate it, she’d grown up in a world where injustice ruled. No longer too young to know, she was living in a world where injustice was ruling ever more destructively. Racialism, violence, intolerance, destruction under the iron boot of Fascism, was gaining control. She was living in a sick world. Hitler and Mussolini and Franco and Hirihito…

An errant thought arrested her - ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ Why that thought? Exasperated, she threw the books aside. She knew, too well, why that thought. She’d heard it every Sunday. For years. There wasn’t all that much difference. Why the fuss? Why were equality and fraternity as preached by Christianity legal, yet the equality and fraternity as preached by Communism illegal?

Leave aside questions of faith and miracles and both preached an identical ideal. Both were impossible. Both preached love thy neighbour. Whether poor, rich, stupid, clever, believer, atheist, black, white, brindle or whatever - love each and every one of them. Who could be constantly forgiving, accepting, loving, equal, to every single other person? Who wanted to be? Who wanted communal anything?

It didn’t matter. In principle, inequality was unfair. She willed her aching mind to concentrate. She thought about her own life. Even though the Japanese were knocking at the door, even though the Americans had become necessary to Australia’s survival, even though rationing was a hardship, right this minute she was safe and secure and free. Right this minute she had no more to fear than an imaginary ghost plucking at a wind-blown rose bush. She could only guess what it must have been like for Inga…

Exhausted, she fell asleep, the light from the lamp on her face, the tumbled books heavy on her spread-eagled arms. The wintry dawn stole across the reluctant horizon, the insistent thorns scratched hysterically on the window pane.

She heard nothing.