Maralinga by Judy Nunn Page A

the fence of wire. They have heard of this fence of wire, which encompasses a part of the desert plains to the south, and they are confused. They are Arrernte people from the centre. They are unaccustomed to fences on their own lands. Why have the white men done this, Yarina wonders.
    It is the question on the lips of many. Why do the white men intrude upon our land, ask those of the Pitjantjatjara and Yankuntjatjara and Kokatha. The Luritja, Arrernte and Antakarinja people, who traverse the area, ask the same question. Why do the white men wish to keep us from our tracks? Why do they deny us access to our sacred sites and our waterholes? This is a puzzle to many people. What could the white men want in the desert country that is so foreign to them? There is nothing for the white man here, they say.
    Yarina and her tiny son remain motionless for the fifteen minutes it takes the men to attach the sign and move on. Then, as the truck disappears and the desert dust settles, Yarina joins her husband. Together they examine the strange symbols on the notice that now hangs from the fence. But they do not understand its meaning.

C HAPTER F OUR
    â€˜Maralinga,’ Harold announced. ‘They’re calling it Maralinga – means “fields of thunder” in some sort of native lingo, I believe.’ He gave a hoot of delighted laughter. ‘Rather apt for a nuclear bomb test site, what?’
    â€˜It’s certainly colourful,’ his wife agreed. ‘Who came up with the idea?’
    â€˜The Australian chief defence scientist, so I’m told, a chappie by the name of Butement. Never met the fellow myself, but then I haven’t bumped into any of the Australian contingent as yet.’
    Harold took a sip of the second cup of tea his wife had just poured him and, discovering it not warm enough for his liking, decided to ring for a fresh pot. He rose from his cosy armchair beside the open fireplace and crossed to the French windows. ‘Bound to meet up with them shortly, of course, now that I’m officially on board,’ he said, giving the bell sash two brisk tugs. ‘I shall be going down there any tick of the clock, I imagine.’
    He looked out at the serenity of the landscape, where the elm tree cradled its burden of snow in the comfortable crooks of its giant limbs, and the white-laced hedgerow wound its elegant way down the slope that led to the brook. He did so love winter. The romantic in him particularly loved a white Christmas, and, the cold snap having well and truly set in, this Christmas of 1954 held every promise of being white.
    â€˜Probably just in time for a stinking hot desert Christmas,’ he added, ‘blast my luck.’
    â€˜How does the Australian public feel about this Maralinga business?’ Lavinia asked.
    â€˜I don’t think they know.’
    â€˜Really? How extraordinary. One would assume such drastic action would lead to immensely strong public opinion. What a strange breed they must be.’
    â€˜No, no, my love, you misunderstand. The majority of them don’t know what’s going on . Well, not yet anyway. Their government’s keeping the news pretty much to itself – at least until the site’s established, and even then they’ll let the populace know only the barest minimum. In fact, if we have our way, the Australians will know only what we tell them they can know.’
    â€˜Dear me,’ Lavinia tut-tutted. ‘And they’ll accept that, will they? The British public wouldn’t take kindly to being so ill-informed.’
    She stopped abruptly. A light tap on the door was a precursor to the maid’s appearance, and she knew better than to discuss her husband’s business in front of the servants. Indeed, Lavinia felt privileged that Harold, in his position as deputy director of MI6, should see fit to share so much of his work with her. She was aware there was material that he did not offerup for