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  Luke diverted the conversation away from the travelogue. “You said you think they’re happy?” he persisted. “Is it so difficult to tell?” He could see the question was unwelcome, and began to wish he hadn’t come today. In the past Claudia’s parents had been relaxed and open to discussion; now it felt as if his presence almost embarrassed them.

  “Luke, I’m sorry,” Gordon said, “but it’s not something we asked them. I can only say they gave the appearance of being happy. Perhaps it was for our benefit. But they were certainly content, I’d have to say.”

  “Content’s the right word, I think,” Sue agreed. “They went up there because of the warmth, so she could help him to get better, not because she was in love with him. And let’s face it, she gave him back his life. He’d be a write-off in an iron lung, stuck with his family and very unhappy, but for her.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I think we all know she was in love with you, but going off to Japan for two years wasn’t the cleverest thing you’ve ever done, Luke.”

  He refrained from saying it had been a decision endorsed by Claudia, and that neither of them could have predicted Steven’s polio.

  “Still, it hasn’t hurt your career,” Gordon was quick to make amends for his wife’s comment. “Worked for top newspapers in England and America. Some great books you wrote. I liked the one on Mrs Petrov and her side of the story. Everyone else wrote about him; yours was the only one about her.”

  “You read it?”

  “Read all your books. Liked the one on Namatjira, too. I’ll get you to sign them after lunch.”

  “Be glad to, Gordon.”

  “Are you in Australia to stay?” Sue asked.

  “I’m not sure. I bought a house in Chelsea a few years ago, so I spend most of my time there. But these days I go where the stories are, and there’s one back here I’m working on. I’ve written a lot of it, but have to research material for the final chapters.” He turned to Gordon. “In fact, it occurred to me that you might be able to help me. I need a few government names who are prepared to talk about the bomb tests and things that happened at Maralinga. You probably know the right people.”

  “A bit of a dodgy subject, that one, Luke,” Gordon said after a moment.

  Luke smiled. “It’s the dodgy subjects that appeal to me.”

  “I’ll help if I can. So it’s just a working visit at this stage then, is it?

  “At this stage, yes.”

  “Never settled down with anyone?” Sue asked pointedly.

  “Not for long” Luke replied, but he didn’t elaborate on the time spent in Washington with Hannah.

  “I think your mum was worried about you.” She gave a sly smile that could almost have been flirtatious.

  “Makes a change,” Luke smiled back, “from me worrying about her. Not that I need to any longer.”

  He had a feeling Susan was well-briefed about some of his more recent affairs. After his first two books sold well there’d been magazine stories and television appearances, and he’d become a target for the English tabloids. But fortunately, he thought, no-one knew of his promiscuous rampage long before that in Alfie’s penthouse.

  Over lunch they talked of non-contentious subjects, like Louisa and her new life.

  “I was so thrilled to get her invitation, even though we couldn’t get to the wedding,” Sue said. “How did they meet?”

  “On a blind date,” Luke replied. “One of her friends from ballet school said she knew this bloke, a few years older than her. The friend had to plead with Mum, who was sick of all the attempted matchmaking.“ He smiled. “But one look and that was it, on sight.” He thought about it, then added, “She and Charles moved in together right away.”

  “Good on them,” said Sue promptly. “Is he nice?”

  “Very. One of England’s top trainers of steeplechasers. He owns big stables at Epsom, near the racecourse. He’s a widower with two adult children, and they both adore her.”

  “That’s just wonderful to hear.” Sue sounded emotional. “It’s more than time she was adored.”

  “It’s what she deserves,” Gordon said quietly. “Makes up for what she suffered in the past.”

  It was tremendous, Luke thought, feeling rather emotional himself, to hear two people who cared for his mother being so pleased for her happiness. He told them how much she enjoyed the new life, how she was out on the Downs each morning with her husband, as the big jumpers trained on the Epsom slopes. He even told them how he’d often joined them and been glad to witness her joy and enthusiasm. In the end he was glad he’d come here today, for Susan had endeared herself by what she’d said. It was indeed more than time that Louisa was adored.

  Driving his hired car back to the city afterwards, he took a detour down to the Kirribilli waterfront and looked across at the site that had once been occupied by the Fort Macquarie tram depot. He remembered the trams there from his days of travelling by ferry to his job at 2GB. The sheds had been demolished and the foundations were already in place for an opera house. The first stage was nearly complete, financed by a lottery, and there were cranes high overhead in readiness to fit the outer shells that were to comprise a spectacular roof. The design pictures looked breathtaking, if only the state government kept its nerve. Already there were cries of protest about the mounting cost. Nothing was ever done in Australia without doomsday predictions that the expenditure would put the budget in a black hole and ruin the economy.

  Luke had been an excited youngster when the Harbour Bridge was built, starting from both sides of the harbour, and like everyone else at the time he held his breath until the majestic arms, like a compliant meccano set, met safely in the middle. He was back in Japan and then in Korea, when the second great infrastructure, the Snowy Mountain Hydro Electric Scheme was begun. On this visit he hoped to drive to Cooma and the Snowy to see what had happened, talk to survivors from the submerged towns of Adaminaby and Jindabyne, and visit the power stations and work camps. With thousands of immigrants from so many post-war countries engaged there, it felt as if there could be a book in it; the clash of cultures from the old world meeting in the new. But first there was another book to write, if no-one tried to prevent him. It was, he’d already been warned by Gordon and others, a sensitive subject.

  It was late afternoon on the Sunshine Coast, and Steven used his walking frame until he reached the sand, then waited for Claudia who’d heard the phone ring, and had left him to run back in order to answer it. He leaned on the frame and waited for her, gradually becoming impatient, trying to combat the frustration that at times took control, when experiencing how dependent he was on outside help, even from Claudia. After another minute he took his walking stick that she’d left hooked on the frame, deciding he would not wait any longer. After all, it was only thirty metres. He’d adjusted his mind to the forthcoming metric system, and if he couldn’t walk thirty bloody metres, then the exercise and physio and whole fucking painful and boring shebang he had to endure each day, was worse than useless.

  From the window Claudia saw him doing this and, becoming concerned, she tried to tell her mother that she had to hang up. But Sue was in full garrulous description of their visit by Luke: “He called in, stayed to lunch, and signed our copies of his books.” So Claudia decided to let Steven go, let him get upset and impatient and try to walk a few paces more. Because she was excited to realise that he was actually making slight progress without her assistance.

  “Yes, Mum,” she said, hardly listening; it was Steven she was intent on watching. He was taking one stumbling step after another, almost leaning his full weight on the stick. “Yes, Mum,” she automatically repeated, then heard her mother’s loud voice raised in reply.

  “What do you mean, ‘yes, Mum’? Are you listening to a word I say, Claudia? I was asking if you’re pregnant?” That was the moment when she saw Steven topple and fall flat on the sand.

  “Not preggers. Gotta go!” She slammed down the phone before there was an answer, ran out of
the flat and across the beach to where he was trying vainly to get to his feet, and she flopped down on the sand beside him.

  “That was fabulous, darling,” she said.

  “What do you mean, fabulous?” He was furious, whether at her or himself she was unsure. “It was a fucking disaster.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t. You’ve never been able to walk on the sand alone, not since you started to take steps. And you’ve just covered about fifteen yards.”

  “Metres,” he said. “We’ve got to get used to thinking metric now.”

  “Bugger metric. You got halfway. That isn’t a fucking disaster, it’s a fucking triumph. So there!” She hugged him tightly as they sat together on the sand.

  “Perhaps it is,” he said, as she rose and helped him to his feet. He looked back at the flat, then looked at the sea estimating the distance with surprise. “Halfway! You’re right, Claudia, you’re right! A fucking triumph!” he shouted. A woman walking her dog in the distance turned towards them in alarm. “A triumph,” he said more softly to Claudia. “If you just hold my arm I’m going to very slowly walk a bit more of the way. And tomorrow I’ll walk a little bit more on my own, even if I do fall over. And by the end of the month, by God, I’m going to be able to walk across the beach and take a swim whenever I bloody well feel like it.”

  “Yes,” she said, and felt on the point of tears. “If anyone can do it, you can.” Then she couldn’t stop the tears that streamed down her face.

  “Strewth! Now I’ve made you cry.”

  “Of course you have, you mad, brave bugger. You know I always cry in emotional films. Well, this is an emotional moment in our life, and I’m going to cry if I want to.”

  “Fair enough,” he said tenderly, “just help me into the water so I can float and swim, then you can fill the ocean with tears. I’ll wave to you, but I won’t be drowning, my darling.”

  Sometimes, Claudia thought, as she helped him into the water and watched him float to exercise his legs, I believe I could truly be in love with him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Luke found himself restless during that first week back in Sydney. He wanted to catch up with Helen and Rupert, but first needed to ensure he had sufficient contacts for Maralinga. Gordon Marsden rang the hotel and gave him two names whom he thought might be able to help with the research needed, but gave it rather reluctantly Luke thought, and had stressed the word ‘might’, which sounded like yet another warning that this was a topic the government may not be happy about.

  A book to include chapters on the testing of British nuclear bombs, first on Monte Bello Island, then at Emu Field and Maralinga in South Australia, could hardly be a problem. But, after that, the Vixen trials — a new series of tests carried out in the past year but kept secret — that was different. To Luke, it had implications the government could easily find hostile. Perhaps even treasonable, or was that too strong a word, he wondered? Not, he thought, in the wake of McCarthyism, and not with the special powers in Australia allotted to ASIO since the Petrov affair. The world was rapidly becoming a more constrained and less agreeable place.

  Luke had been told that some in government didn’t like the book he’d written on Evie Petrova. They thought it hinted at collusion, the exposure in parliament at a time to influence the government’s election chances. Vladimir Petrov’s defection was announced by the Prime Minister on the last sitting day of the parliament, before it was prorogued for the 1954 election. But to Luke the book was never intended to be political; it was a highly dramatic spy story about the life of an ill-treated wife, and her plight that had occurred in the public spotlight. Fortunate timing for the government, and a happy choice of subject for Luke, because it had become a Book Club selection. The Prime Minister and his colleagues may not have liked the topic, and might have reservations about its author, but that was not going to stop him delving into the truth of what had happened at Maralinga. If he could get the research he needed, then, despite the opposition, Luke intended to write this expose, and, if necessary, see it published abroad, accepting the prospect that it might be banned in his own country.

  It set him musing. Australia had always been adept at repression of art and literature. He could remember the furore and lawsuits over William Dobell’s prize-winning portrait of Joshua Smith, and the sensational arrest of Sir Eugene Goossens for importing what was then considered pornography. Goossens was charged and fined a mere £100, but the newspaper headlines destroyed his career. It was the eclipse of a great musician, and the man who had first proposed building the Sydney Opera House.

  As for literature, Australia had been high among the nations noted for banning books. Not quite in the same league as South Africa or some Arabic countries, but the search of luggage belonging to passengers arriving by air or ship was a hunt for what the Customs Minister called ‘prohibited imports of material either blasphemous, obscene or indecent’. On Luke’s last flight a customs officer at Darwin had closely examined a novel he’d been reading on the journey, and his razor-sharp eyes encountered the word ‘fuck’ in the third paragraph on page one. It was confiscated for further study, and was probably being passed around the customs mob up there ever since.

  Australia, he thought in this subjective and pessimistic mood, had a long history of banned volumes. Some famous names, a veritable roll call of distinction. James Baldwin, Honoré de Balzac, Simone de Beauvoir, Brendan Behan, Daniel Defoe, J.P Donleavy, even Ian Fleming for a Bond novel The Spy Who Loved Me, plus Ernest Hemingway, three books by Norman Lindsay including Age of Consent, not forgetting Norman Mailer, George Orwell, Christina Stead, Mickey Spillane, Phillip Roth, Gore Vidal and the entire literary output of the brilliant and outrageous Henry Miller.

  There was also poor Robert Close, author of Love Me Sailor, who had to sit on a hard bench in the Victorian Supreme Court while the Crown Prosecutor laboriously read aloud every word of his book in a nasal voice. It took two full days while the jury sat with their own copies grinning at the salacious bits. Close was sentenced to three months jail, and after he got out it was the end of Australia for him. He went off in a rage to live with his mistress in Paris, and no-one had seen him since. Not even his wife.

  So … Luke thought, he might well be going to join the legion of the banned. The government had ruled for so long, they’d become indifferent to public opinion. And somewhere in those corridors of power was his old friend Barry Silvester, who’d rescued him from the bullies in kindergarten, and was no doubt awaiting his chance to become the member for somewhere or other. He had not heard of Barry in a long time, and knew he should try to see him because old friends were meant to be treasured. But there’d been no reply to the message he’d left on his last visit, so, unsure whether they were still friends, Luke dismissed the idea of trying to call him. It being too late to organise a meal with anyone else, he ordered from room service. It arrived with a copy of the morning paper that had a pertinent headline: ANOTHER CHATTERLEY BOOK BANNED.

  The new book, ‘The Trial of Lady Chatterley’ will not be allowed in Australia, it has been announced by the Minister for Customs. Meanwhile the ban on D.H. Lawrence’s original novel continues.

  An omen, Luke thought, and hoped not. He tried phoning Gordon’s two contacts. The first was away until next week, the other unavailable until tomorrow. Two more bloody omens, and not good ones, he decided. He needed friendly voices, so he tried ringing Helen and Rupert, who were now living in Edgecliff. Helen was in court, but Rupert was at the ABC main office at Gore Hill, so Luke called him there and made an appointment to meet the next day.

  “What are you working on?” Rupert asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Sounds like something cagey.”

  “It could be, Rupert. Could be …”

  They met for old times sake at the hotel near Phillip Street, the haunt of barristers, gamblers, con men and an infamous doctor who sold drugs and had performed most of the city’s abortions. L
uke was in cotton trousers, sandals and an open-necked shirt, Rupert always smart in a new safari suit.

  “Still Beau Brummell. I’m glad to see dress standards haven’t slipped,” Luke greeted him.

  “You shouldn’t have worn your best gear to meet me,” was Rupert’s riposte. They shook hands, agreed that each was looking well, and ordered beers.

  “How’s Helen?” Luke asked.

  “Beautiful.”

  “I know that. Is she well, happy, busy defending crims?”

  “She’s extremely well, we’re both very happy, but she’s upset with the legal profession and very frustrated.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s having to work from home. None of the chambers seem to be available. The bastards won’t let women in.”

  “When did this happen, Rupe?”

  “It’s a bloody boys club, and it’s been going on for a long time. The women don’t get invited to meetings. Each time there’s a vacancy in a chambers there seems to be a reason why it’s not available to females. A few weeks ago she was actually offered a room by a male barrister friend, but the other male members refused to let her buy it, even though there were no other interested parties. So the bloody room stays empty. It’s just sheer sexual discrimination, Luke, and it’s getting her down. I’d like to expose it in an article for one of the newspapers, but as the husband I’d be accused of having a vested interest. But I’ll tell you something, mate, it makes me very angry to see her upset, when she’s good enough to win big cases.”

  “It’s incredible,” Luke said. “I hate to say it, but this is what Barry predicted when they had the great restaurant row at the Florentino.”

  “No,” Rupert was fiercely defensive and corrected him, “Barry predicted she’d end up being a suburban solicitor. Barry was wrong, as that great sod so often is. For Christ’s sake, she’s a star in court, a hell of a lot better than many of these jealous male buggers who are trying to keep her out. I’m bloody proud of her, and furious at the injustice of the pricks in their cosy perches who are deliberately doing their best to sideline her.”