The Tunnels of Tarcoola by Jennifer Walsh Page B

have been in the papers. Could you please tell me what you’ve got?’
    â€˜Sorry, we don’t have anything like that.’
    â€˜But the librarian at Balmain said you had all the local history.’
    â€˜We don’t have anything going back that far. The local papers weren’t being published then. Your best bet is to go to the State Library and look at the old Sydney Morning Herald s.’
    â€˜Well, do you have any information about people called Gordon? Or Wolf?’ Had she really come all this way for nothing? She felt like grabbing this smug man and giving him a good shake.
    â€˜Try the internet.’
    Andrea turned abruptly and nearly collided with one of the girls she had seen outside.
    â€˜Excuse me.’ She brushed past the girl, who gazed curiously after her.
    Andrea walked through the library and out into the plaza. People were still strolling in the late-afternoon sunshine, sitting at tables drinking coffee, chatting on mobile phones.
    She saw herself going back and telling Kitty that the whole expedition had proved a waste of time, that there was no information to be had. She thought of the scanty notes that she had made on Clarissa Gordon, and the deadline Miss Tenniel had given her, coming up fast, and the phone call Miss Tenniel would make to her father, and the conversation they would have about her. She could imagine all these scenes as though she was watching a movie, and somehow it was a movie about someone else’s life. It was almost as sad as Miss Gordon’s life. But it didn’t have to be.
    She went back into the library and found the computer that was used for booking internet time. To her surprise, she only had to wait a few minutes for a terminal. While she was waiting, she scribbled a list of all the things she wanted to search for: Wolf suicide, Wolf Gordon Balmain, bombs Sydney World War II, dipthiria – could that be how you spelled it?
    After a few dead ends she struck gold in an old newspaper report. ‘Japanese attack Sydney Harbour!’ read the headline.
    The article described, in words and pictures, the night of 31 May 1942: a night of drama and chaos, when three miniature Japanese submarines, each with a two-man crew, slipped into Sydney Harbour with the intention of doing as much damage as possible before being spotted and destroyed.
    It was a pretty sad story. The submarines didn’t have radar or proper periscopes, so they kept having to surface and risk being seen, which of course they were. Each submarine had just two torpedoes, which they were supposed to fire at the best targets they could find. They then had a very rough plan to find their way back to their mother submarines, but nobody really expected this to work, and it didn’t. None of the crew members survived – in fact one lot blew themselves up rather than be captured – and it all seemed pointless.
    ANDREA printed the whole story, then moved on to her other subjects. The two hours passed in a flash, then the computer abruptly logged off. She stood, stretched and gathered her printouts and scribbled notes. The library was deserted, and outside in the plaza it was getting dark.
    But when Andrea got to the bus she found a stout old woman planted in the doorway, one foot on the footpath and one foot on the bottom step, filling the entrance.
    â€˜It’s supposed to be one of them kneeling buses,’ she was saying.
    â€˜Not on this route, lady,’ said the driver, apparently not for the first time.
    â€˜They said there’d be a kneeling bus. I can’t get up them steps. I’ve got a bad leg.’
    â€˜Look, missus, d’you want to just wait for the next bus?’
    â€˜You said not on this route,’ said the old woman sharply. ‘You just want to get rid of me.’
    Andrea peeped past the woman to the driver, who looked reasonably big and strong. ‘Can’t you just help her on?’ she