by Nevil Shute
He came back to her and took the helm. In bad moments in the last forty-eight hours he had imagined this situation, and had thought it out. Better to take the coral straight, head-on, than to be thrown on to it on their beam ends, to have the hull crushed like an eggshell by the fury of the waves. Better to take it head-on, taking the shock on the lead keel and trying to keep stern-on to the seas. Reefs were seldom uniform in height; if they had the luck to strike a fissure, a patch where in calm water the coral was a couple of feet or more below the surface, they might possibly be driven over it into the lagoon, and still float, and live. He bent to explain this to his wife.
‘I want you to go below,’ he shouted. ‘When we strike, stay in the hull. She’ll probably get full of water, but stay in the hull. Just keep your head above the water, but stay inside.’
She shouted, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to stay up here and steer her on. I’ll join you down below as soon as she strikes. It’s our best chance. I don’t think she’ll break up.’
‘If she breaks up, she’ll stay on the reef, won’t she?’
He knew what was in her mind. ‘The keel will, and probably the frames.’ He paused, and then leaned across and kissed her. ‘Now go below. I’m sorry to have got you into this.’
She kissed him in return. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She stood up, waited her chance, opened the hatch and slipped down below, leaving it open for him to follow her.
She sat down on one of the settees, the first-aid box in her hands. There were now only a few minutes to go. She thought she ought to say a prayer, but it seemed mean to have neglected God and her religion for so long and then to pray when death was imminent; the words would not come. She could only think of Janice, Janice whose future happiness lay buried in the concrete beneath her feet. The concrete would survive upon the coral reef, but nobody would ever know of it but Keith, Keith who had never made much of his life, Keith who had never been anywhere or done anything, Keith to whose keeping she had trusted Janice.
From the cockpit John Dermott shouted above the screaming of the wind, ‘Next one, Jo!’
In those last moments the power of prayer came to her, and she muttered in the accents of her childhood. ‘Lord, gie Keith a bit o’ guid sense.’
Then they struck.
Chapter Three
At about eleven in the morning the telephone bell rang upstairs. Keith Stewart stopped his lathe, wiped his hands, and went up the narrow wooden stairs to answer it. The girl said, ‘Mr Stewart? This is Gordon and Carpenter. Just one moment - Mr Carpenter is calling.’
In a moment the solicitor came on the line. Keith had met him once before, a heavy, methodical man whose office was in Bedford Square. He said, ‘Mr Stewart, have you had any news of your brother-in-law and your sister? Do you know if they have reached Tahiti yet?’
‘I haven’t heard anything. Not since they left Panama.’
‘Nor have I. I would have thought that they’d have cabled their arrival by this time.’
It seemed an unnecessary extravagance to Keith. ‘An air letter would do. That’s what they’ve been sending all along.’
‘Yes, I know. The airmail to Tahiti is very infrequent, though. All mail seems to be infrequent to Tahiti. They’re building an aerodrome there now, but it’s not working yet. I would have expected a cable to say they had arrived. But you haven’t heard anything?’
‘No, I haven’t. They should be there by this time, though, shouldn’t they?’
‘The last letter I had was from Panama posted on September 29th. Commander Dermott says in that they expect to arrive in Papeete on November the 20th. Well, here we are, and it’s December the 1st. We should have heard something by now.’
They discussed the possibilities of delay in arrival and delay in mails for a minute or two. Finally Mr Carpenter said, ‘There’s no British Consul in Papeete. I think I’ll send the Governor a short cable asking if there’s any news of their arrival.’
Keith went back to his lathe, vaguely disquieted. He had a great respect for John’s solicitor. In his lifetime he had never had much to do with the Law. He had met solicitors from time to time; some that he had met in pubs were clearly not so good. Others had been better; one had come to see him once because he was making the little Burrell traction engine and was in trouble with the governor, and because of that he had handled the purchase of the Ealing house for Keith. Mr Carpenter, John’s solicitor, was different again, part of the wider world, John’s world, infinitely competent and infinitely courteous. Keith would have hesitated to suggest that Mr Carpenter should take his work.
When Katie came in she gave Janice and Keith their tea, and then he read an Enid Blyton book to Janice for half an hour till it was time for her to have her bath and go to bed. Katie looked after that, and he went down to his desk in the basement to write an article about fusible plugs. He sat for a long time fingering the four little screwed pieces that had been loaded with the different solders, the paper ready to his hand, but the words would not come. It was incredible that anything could have happened.
When Janice was safely in bed in the room beside his workshop, he went upstairs and told Katie all about it in the parlour. ‘I don’t think anything could have happened,’ he said uneasily. ‘It’s just that they haven’t got there yet.’
Katie said, ‘They wouldn’t have got jammed among all that ice, would they?’
He knew that she had it in her mind that John and Jo had taken a course somewhere over the North Pole, but how she had got hold of that idea he did not know. He pulled out the school atlas that they had. ‘They didn’t go that way,’ he explained. ‘It’s hot the way they went.’ He turned to the map of the Pacific. ‘Down here.’ He traced the route from Panama to Tahiti with his finger.
‘Oh, I remember. It looks an awful long way, Keith. All that blue would mean it’s sea, wouldn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It is a long way.’ He studied the longitudes with an eye well accustomed to calculations. ‘It’s - it’s seventy-five degrees. That’s more than a fifth of the way round the world.’ He checked the figures in wonder.
She stared at him. ‘All in one trip? I mean, not landing anywhere in all that way?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, they might take any time. I mean, the wind might be against them.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I think it’s quite all right. Still, we’d better not say anything in front of Janice.’
‘There couldn’t be anything wrong, though, could there?’
‘I dunno. I don’t like that Mr Carpenter sending cables all about the world. Don’t look as though he’s any too happy.’
For the next two days he was restless and ill at ease, mainly because he felt himself to be quite incapable of assessing the situation. He knew nothing about yachts or the sea; the oceans to him were something painted blue upon the pages of the atlas and no more. He had never been out of England. He had sailed once on an afternoon’s excursion in an old paddle steamer from Weymouth to Lulworth Cove, a distance of six miles; he had liked the look of the cliffs from the water but had been appalled at the machinery and interested in its antiquity till the smells of the engine room coupled with the slight motion of the vessel made him sick. He knew that this experience was no guidance for assessing any hazards that might lie around his sister on her voyage, and his ignorance distressed and worried him.
Mr Carpenter rang him up again on the morning of the 3rd. ‘Mr Stewart,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could come up and see me? I’ve got an answer to that cable, and there’s a good deal that I think we should discuss.’
‘Have they got to Tahiti?’
‘Not yet,’ said the solicitor. ‘I’m having further enquiries made out there. But in the meantime, I would like to see you if you could look in.’
‘I can come up now, if you like,’ said Keith. ‘I don’t punch a clock.’
They fixed a time; K
eith took off his apron and washed his hands, put on his dark suit, and started off towards the bus. It was raining with a cold December drizzle; he wore a greasy old raincoat and an equally greasy old soft hat; he had a shabby muffler round his throat. He was pale with lack of sun and exercise, and running a bit to fat. He looked, as he sat in the trolley bus taking him to Ealing Broadway, like any one of thousands of men to be seen in buses in any industrial district, and he was.
He got to the solicitor’s office at about half past eleven, and he was shown straight in. Mr Carpenter got up from his desk to meet him. ‘I told you that I had an answer to that cable, Mr Stewart,’ he said directly. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t very satisfactory.’
He passed the flimsy to Keith, who could not read it without the steel-rimmed spectacles he always had to use for close work. He undid his shabby coat, fumbled for his spectacle case, and put them on. The cable was in English, and it read:
NATIVES FROM KAUTAIVA ISLAND REPORT SMALL VESSEL WRECKED IN HURRICANE NOVEMBER 19TH ON REEF OFF MAROKOTA ISLAND BODIES ONE MAN ONE WOMAN BURIED MAROKOTA STOP SHEARWATER NOW MUCH OVERDUE MAKING FURTHER ENQUIRIES.
ADMINISTRATION PAPEETE.
The solicitor, watching closely, saw the fat, pallid lips quiver a little. The shabby little man stood motionless, staring at the cable. ‘Sit down, Mr Stewart,’ he said gently. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t very good news.’ He went on talking, as was his habit upon these occasions. ‘There’s nothing very definite in that,’ he said. ‘As you see, it seems to be just a rumour brought to Tahiti by natives from another island. We can’t come to any conclusion till we get more news.
Keith sat down heavily, loosening his muffler. ‘It’s terrible,’ he muttered. ‘I never thought anything like this could happen.’
‘We must hope that it isn’t true,’ the solicitor said. ‘I thought it was sufficiently serious to ask you to come up, though. I didn’t want to read this out to you upon the telephone.’
Keith said, ‘Thank you, sir.’
He raised his eyes. ‘I’ve got their daughter staying with us in the flat,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to tell her, won’t I?’
‘How old is she? Twelve, is it?’
‘Ten. Only ten.’
The solicitor tightened his lips. ‘If it’s true, she’ll have to be told some time, Mr Stewart,’ he said. ‘I should talk it over with your wife. When you’ve had time to think this over for a little you may decide it’s better to wait until the news is definite.’
Keith asked, ‘You think it’s definite now, don’t you? I mean, you think they’ve been drowned?’
‘I think the Governor thinks it’s definite,’ Mr Carpenter said carefully. ‘I don’t think that he would have cabled quite in those terms unless he was fairly sure.’
Keith laid the cable down upon the desk. ‘It’s got to happen to us all, some day,’ he said. ‘It’s when it happens suddenly, to your own people, it comes as a bit of a blow.’
‘I know.’
The solicitor picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. ‘I don’t know if you want to talk about the future just now, Mr Stewart, or if you would rather come up again when we know more. If, unhappily, your sister and her husband should be dead, a new set of circumstances comes into being, as you probably know.’
‘I know they wanted us to take care of Janice if anything happened,’ Keith said. ‘It might be better if we talk about that now.’
‘You know the contents of their wills?’
‘I think so. They wanted me to be trustee or something. I said I would.’
‘Yes. That was at our previous meeting, in this office. It was after that meeting that I drew up these wills.’ He handled them upon the desk before him. ‘They are very simple wills, Mr Stewart. I don’t think I should show them to you till the deaths are established, but as you are already acquainted with the most important features I think we can discuss what may arise from them.’ He paused. ‘Both wills are in identical terms, as perhaps you know. That seems to make it immaterial which spouse died first. Each will leaves the entire estate to the surviving spouse. If the spouse should be already dead, then the entire estate passes to the daughter Janice, to be held in trust for her until she attains the age of twenty-five. You are appointed the sole trustee, and you and I are appointed joint executors to the wills. In consideration of your trusteeship, you are to receive the sum of one thousand pounds from the estate.’ He paused. ‘If the daughter should decease before the expiration of the trust, or if she should be already dead, you receive the same legacy of one thousand pounds, but the balance of the estate passes back to the Dungannon family.’
‘That means, I’d have to sort of look after the money for her and give it her when she gets to be twenty-five, does it?’
‘That is correct, Mr Stewart. Both wills name you as the guardian of the child Janice and both wills appoint you as the sole trustee. You would have to invest the money for her in certain selected securities that we call Trustee Stocks, and you would devote the interest to her education and general benefit during the period of the trust. In case of necessity you have power to realise some of the capital for her benefit.’
‘I’ve never had to do anything like that before,’ Keith said doubtfully.
The solicitor nodded. ‘You may need a little help. I realise that. If you have confidence in your own solicitor he would be the best person to assist you. Otherwise, I should be glad to.’
Mr Cannon had made a nice little model of the Burrell traction engine, but privately Keith did not think that he had handled the purchase of the house at Ealing any too well. It had taken a long time and there had been trouble with the Council over the alterations, which might not have been his fault. ‘I’d be grateful, if it’s not putting you out.’ He meant, if the scale of the business was worth the time of a man like Mr Carpenter. ‘Do you know how much money there might be?’
The solicitor turned over the papers on his desk. ‘I hold a power of attorney both for your sister and for her husband,’ he said. ‘I know of three bank accounts. Your sister has an account at Southsea, your brother-in-law has one at Alverstoke, and he has another at the head office of the bank here in London, in Throgmorton St. When I began to get troubled about their non-arrival at Tahiti I wrote to all three banks for a statement of account and a list of securities that they might be holding on behalf of my clients, using the power of attorney.’
He paused. ‘The Throgmorton St office report a credit balance of fifty-six pounds eighteen shillings and four-pence,’ he said. ‘Your brother-in-law’s account at Alverstoke is three pounds four shillings and tenpence in credit. Your sister’s account in Southsea shows a debit balance - that is to say, an overdraft - of four pounds sixteen shillings and fivepence. Adding those up, there seems to be a total credit balance of fifty-five pounds six shillings and ninepence. All three banks state that they are holding no securities.’
Keith stared at him. ‘But that’s daft! I mean, they’ve got more than fifty-five pounds!’
‘I have always imagined so, myself,’ said Mr Carpenter. ‘I must say, at the moment I am perplexed. Do you know of any other bank accounts that they might have had, or where they might have deposited their securities?’
Keith shook his head. ‘They never talked of things like that. Not to me, anyway.’
‘Oh. I had hoped that you might have the answer.’ The solicitor paused in thought. ‘I have a number of Commander Dermott’s papers in my keeping,’ he remarked. ‘When he gave up his flat he left a suitcase full of receipts and correspondence with me, with instructions to send it to him later on in Canada, or wherever he decided to settle. Probably I shall find the answer in that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He certainly told me that the contents were receipts and correspondence. But probably the share certificates themselves are there. I shall have to look and see.’
‘That’s where they’ll be,’ said Keith. ‘Do you know how much money they might have left? I mean, if they are dead?’
&nbs
p; ‘Commander Dermott gave me to understand that the estate would be between twenty and twenty-five thousand pounds.’
‘That’s about what I thought,’ said Keith.
They left it that they would meet again when Mr Carpenter had received further news from the Administration in Papeete, by which time he hoped to have found the missing securities. Keith lunched absent-mindedly in a Lyons cafeteria, and went back all the way to Ealing down Oxford Street, through Notting Hill Gate and Shepherd’s Bush, on top of a bus, deeply troubled in his mind. He had loved his sister though in recent years he had seen little of her, and he had felt honoured when John Dermott had suggested that he should be their trustee and guardian of their daughter, rather than one of their naval friends or one of their relations in Northern Ireland. They had chosen him, he knew, because of his stable life, because he was always there, in the same place, with the same wife, doing the same things; the Dungannons fell in and out of marriage with the greatest alacrity and savoir faire; their naval friends were apt to uproot and go to Kenya or Hong Kong. They knew that through wars and rumours of war, whatever happened in the greater world, Keith Stewart would go on living at No. 56 Somerset Road, Ealing, because his workshop was there, built up and established over the years. To uproot all his machine tools and remove the whole of his equipment to another house would mean a dislocation to his work that was unthinkable. He was anchored firmly in the same place by his workshop, and by his own inclinations.
He got back to his house an hour before Janice was due back from school, his mind full of his little niece. If her parents were indeed dead, they would have to tell her, but he could not imagine how they were going to do it. Katie might have some ideas; Katie was good with children. His mind ranged on beyond the bad half-hour to the part that he could play. Janice would have to have something to play with, to take her mind off death. A doll’s house? She already had one, and was getting a bit old for it. A bicycle? Not old enough, and children didn’t seem to have them nowadays, perhaps because of the traffic. A scooter? Somerset Road was a quiet bye-street that carried no through traffic; she could use a scooter there and be in no danger, and it would take her out of doors, and keep her warm. His mind ranged over the job. He had a couple of eight-inch, rubber-tyred wheels left over from a little traction engine passenger truck, and he could bore them out to take a ball race each side. Inch-and-a-quarter steel tube for the steering head, parallel five-eighths tubes for the frame; he could braze that up in no time. Make the handlebars first, because they would have to be chrome-plated. He had some red paint for the rest of it, which would make it look gay. He went down to the workshop directly he got home and took the little bronze sphere of the automatic pilot from the bench and packed it carefully away in rags in an old cigar box with its tiny transistor rectifier and the delicate relays, clearing the decks for a more mundane job, and started work upon the handlebars. Better to work at something than to sit thinking of Joanna and their childhood together in the Renfrew streets.
