Ordeal

by Nevil Shute

  ‘Better get some of this stuff stowed away,’ he said to Joan.

  She looked up at him appealingly from the cabin, feeding the children with milk and bread and jam, tired and hot. The baby was yelling furiously on the bare foundation of a settee bunk.

  ‘Get the mattresses next, if you can,’ she said. ‘Then we can get the children into bed and turn around a bit ourselves.’

  He nodded, glancing at the sky. It was not going to rain; there was no harm in leaving the stuff out on deck. He rowed back up the river to the hard, went to the store, and carried down the mattresses one by one to the dinghy.

  He took them back to the yacht, passed them below to Joan, and helped her to lay them down. He was tired then; while she began putting the children to bed in their novel surroundings he sat down on the heap of dunnage in the cockpit and lit a cigarette. But she would not let him finish it.

  ‘There’s very little water in the tank,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t like to go on shore and get some more?’

  ‘I’d hate it,’ he said. He got up wearily, fetched the canvas water-bag from the sail-locker, and, in the falling dusk, rowed to the hard again. He landed, pulled the dinghy up a little, and walked with his water-bag towards the houses. Suddenly he brightened. It was after six o’clock, and the pubs were open. Light streamed from the wide-open door of the ‘Hamble Arms’; he heard a buzz of conversation and the clinking of tankards.

  He made his way into the saloon bar. The room was thronged with people from the yachts, all listening to the news broadcast from a wireless set. He stood for a time quietly in a corner and listened with them; in a quarter of an hour he learned a great deal about the progress of the war. Queerly enough, it did not seem to touch him personally; it was as if he had been reading of the war in Spain. It was a restricted and a censored broadcast. A few sporadic air-raids on a few towns in the country were admitted, but no details were given and the topic was passed over quickly. A full account was given of the raids carried out by our own Air Force ‘as measures of reprisal’. There was no mention of any action by the Army or the Navy, though the broadcast ended with a stirring call to enlistment in all services.

  The news ended, the set was switched off to conserve the batteries, and a subdued hum of conversation broke out in the crowded room. The reception of the news was mixed. There was little enthusiasm, no keen discussion of the war. Most of the men in the saloon seemed to be of military age, some of them with their wives, many of them evidently in good circumstances. To Corbett, there seemed to be an atmosphere of uncertainty, of bewilderment, among them. They were all men of the officer type, who might have been expected to be serving in a war that was now nearly a week old. It appeared to Corbett that they were all in the same boat as he was himself. They were delaying and procrastinating, waiting to see their families established in safety before they went to serve. And each of them, secretly and individually, was unhappy and ashamed of the line that he was taking.

  They did not stay and gossip much. The news broadcast ended, they finished their drinks and went quietly back on to their boats.

  Corbett ordered a pint of ale. The barman recognised him and wished him good evening. ‘Come down to stay on your yacht, Mr. Corbett?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mrs. Corbett with you?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s on board with the children.’

  The barman nodded. ‘Most people seem to have come to their boats,’ he said. ‘Boats, cottages, or tents. Cold comfort in a tent this weather, if you ask me. But there’s a regular camp by the old reservoir. People living in their cars, and all sorts.’ He laughed shortly.

  Corbett said: ‘I want some water. Can I fill a water-bag?’

  ‘Surely, Mr. Corbett. You know where the tap is—out in the yard. It’s running all right now.’

  Corbett looked up, startled. ‘Have you had a water shortage here?’

  The man nodded carelessly. ‘Thursday, it was off. Or was it Wednesday? One or other of them. After one of them raids you had in Southampton. One of the mains was bust, but they seem to have got it mended now.’

  ‘Do you get your water from Southampton, then?’

  ‘Oh, aye. All our water comes from Southampton, saving one or two of the cottages that have wells. That’s why the people went up to the old reservoir to camp, because the water was off. Still, can’t say I’d like to drink that water from the reservoir myself, nor out of them old wells either. Rather drink beer.’ He laughed comfortably.

  ‘Have a pint with me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I don’t mind if I do.’

  A man standing near the bar and listening to the conversation, said: ‘Most country districts get their water from the towns, these days.’ He paused. ‘When they’re near enough, I mean to say.’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ said Corbett.

  He stood thoughtfully for a few minutes, drinking his beer. Presently he said to the barman: ‘I shall want some milk in the morning. Where had I better go for that?’

  The other man laughed. The barman said: ‘I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Corbett. Everybody’s after milk.’

  ‘You won’t get any milk in Hamble,’ said the other man. ‘Better stick to beer.’

  ‘I can’t give the baby beer. Isn’t there any milk at all?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘There was a cart come in the day before yesterday. Regular scramble for it, there was. I don’t know where you’d go for milk, Mr. Corbett—really and truly I don’t. You might try one of the farms on the Warsash side, over Titchfield way.’

  The other nodded. ‘That’s your best chance to get milk, if you’ve got young children. It’s no good going to the farms between here and Southampton. There’s a milk queue half a mile long at each of them.’

  Corbett finished his beer, stood up, and stretched. His fatigue had left him. ‘I’ll get the water, anyway,’ he said, ‘while the going’s good.’

  He went out into the yard, filled his water-bag, and carried it with difficulty and with many pauses down to the dinghy. The tide had fallen quickly while he had been on shore. He dragged the boat down till she floated and rowed back to his yacht. The dinghy grounded on the mud fifty yards from the vessel.

  Joan was sitting in the hatchway, smoking a cigarette and watching him. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘I’m stuck. What do we do now?’

  ‘Get out and walk,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t. I’d go in up to the waist.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to sit there, then. Why did you stay so long on shore?’

  ‘I was drinking in the pub.’

  ‘Pig,’ she said, without animosity. ‘Did you get any water?’

  ‘I got that. What about the children?’

  ‘They’re in bed and asleep. You’d better go back on shore and get yourself something to eat there.’

  ‘Are you all right? If you chuck me my gum-boots I’ll have a crack at getting on board.’

  ‘I couldn’t chuck them that far.’ She blew a long cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t worry—there’s nothing for you to do here. I’ll make myself some cocoa and go to bed. You go on shore, and come back when the tide comes in. When will that be?’

  He thought for a minute. ‘I should be able to get on board about eleven.’

  She nodded. ‘I shall be asleep. Don’t make a row when you come back.’

  He pushed the dinghy off the mud and rowed towards the hard. On the way she hailed him.

  ‘Oh, Peter. Get some more cigarettes, if you can!’

  He went back to the inn and had a cold meal in the snack bar. There was evidently a food scarcity, but he got a small plate of cold beef and some bread and cheese after a time. There were several others in the snack bar, like him, dining on shore. There was no conversation; everybody seemed to be uneasy and depressed. As he finished his meal it began to rain.

  He paid his bill and went to the door of the inn. The night was wet and windy, but the rain was light. As he stood there looking out, an a
eroplane roared over in the pitch darkness, then another, and a third. The barman, collecting dirty glasses in the saloon, came to the door and stood beside him, looking up into the dark night.

  ‘Going off again,’ he said. ‘They get the hell of a time, them chaps.’

  ‘Are they from the aerodrome here?’ asked Corbett.

  The man nodded. ‘Every night they goes up, just the same, wet or fine. Mostly wet. And they don’t do no bloody good, either.’

  ‘They don’t seem to be able to get at the bombers.’

  The man shook his head. ‘You should hear them talk…. Proper fed up with themselves, they are.’

  ‘Do they get any accidents?’

  ‘Plenty, nights like this. There was one fine, starry night—Wednesday, was it? They didn’t have none at all that night. But wet, dark nights like this, in them fast single-seaters—they goes piling ’em up right and left.

  ‘Tisn’t reasonable to expect otherwise.’

  ‘When do they come back to land?’

  ‘They’ll be at it all night, in shifts, like. Up and down, all night long. You want to go up there and see. It’s quite a sight.’

  He went back to the bar. Overhead the aircraft roared up into the darkness at half-minute intervals, interminably. Corbett stood for a time in the doorway finishing his cigarette, then buttoned his coat round him and walked up towards the aerodrome.

  The entrances were unguarded. He had no difficulty in walking up between the buildings to the edge of the flying field. The place was thronged with men, lorries, and cars, moving and crowding in an orderly, disciplined confusion, each intent on his own job. The lights shone shimmering on wet raincoats and on dripping lorry tarpaulins; beneath each tail-board the exhaust roared out in a great cloud of steam in the wet night. Corbett made his way forward to the edge of the tarmac, near the control, and stood for a time in a sheltering doorway to see what was happening.

  The flare-path was laid out into the wind. Five open buckets filled with blazing rags and paraffin stretched in a line down the grass, with one placed transversely at the windward end. The machines, greenish-black in the yellow, flaring light, were taxi-ing one by one to the far end for the take-off, as each was ready a light flashed at the control. The pilot opened his throttle with a high-pitched scream from the engine, supercharger, and propeller, accelerated down the line of flames, slowly at first and then more quickly, rolled into the air, retracted his undercarriage at once, and vanished into the dark rainy night, over the trees. Then the next was ready.

  A squadron of eleven machines went off as Corbett watched; there was a pause after that. It seemed that no more was to happen for a little time. The crowd of officers round the control thinned out; one or two of them walked away past Corbett.

  He saw a well-known face half-buried in a turned-up rain-coat collar, beneath a forage cap. He swung round and called impulsively after the retreating figure: ‘Collins!’

  The man came back and peered at him; on his shoulders he wore the stripes of a flight-lieutenant. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s Peter Corbett.’

  ‘Corbett? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking around. I’m living on my boat in the river.’

  ‘Good stuff. I thought about you, in Southampton. I hoped you’d had the sense to get out of it. Is Joan with you?’

  ‘She’s on board, with the kids.’

  ‘Fine. I say, I’d like to come down to-morrow, if I may. Where’s the boat lying?’

  Corbett told him. ‘Come and have lunch,’ he said. ‘God knows what you’ll get to eat, but come along.’

  The other laughed. ‘I’m not going to eat your food. I’ll drop in some time in the morning. Look—I must get along, but that’s a date. I’m terribly sorry that I can’t stop now, but I’m on duty in a few minutes.’

  ‘That’s all right. Are you flying to-night?’

  The other nodded. ‘There’s a squadron coming in pretty soon. I’m taking one of those machines as soon as it’s refuelled.’ He laughed shortly. ‘We’ve got more pilots than machines these days. Playing Box and Cox. I tell you, Corbett, it’s a ruddy picnic, this.’

  He turned away. ‘To-morrow morning, then.’

  He vanished into the darkness. Corbett stayed for an hour longer. The squadron landed in the wind and rain, coming in one by one out of the darkness into the flickering light of the flares, to touch down gently on the grass, run along, then swing round and taxi in towards the hangars. The fifth machine to land overshot, landed nearly at the far end of the flare-path, and ran forwards into the hedge, coming to rest abruptly with a cracking noise. An ambulance and a fire-car ran quickly over the grass towards it, but there did not seem to be a need for either.

  The machines were refuelled and ammunition checked in about half an hour, the pilots standing round them, clumsy in their flying kit and parachutes. Another squadron landed without incident; then the machines of the first squadron were ready to take off. Corbett tried to identify Collins in his flying suit and helmet, but could not pick him out. One by one the machines taxied to the end of the flare-path, took off uneventfully, and were lost to sight in the dark racing clouds.

  There was another pause. Corbett left the aerodrome and walked back towards the river.

  He launched the dinghy. The tide was on the flood and he had no difficulty in getting back on board. There was a light in the saloon; Joan was reading in bed. He made the dinghy fast and went below.

  ‘I must say, you’re a nice one,’ she said. ‘I believe you did it on purpose, so that you could get a decent meal at the pub.’

  He smiled, taking off his sodden coat. ‘I didn’t have a decent meal—or not very. I could eat another now.’

  ‘There’s some cocoa in the saucepan if you like to hot it up.’

  He told her, as he heated the cocoa, the substance of what he had learned while he was on shore. Over some of it she wrinkled her brows.

  ‘It’s not so good about the milk, Peter,’ she said. ‘We’ve not got very many tins, and they get through an awful lot. I did think that we’d be able to get milk here, out in the country.’

  He nodded. ‘So did I. I suppose we can’t sort of wean them—give them soup and stuff instead?’

  ‘We might with John and Phyllis. But the baby must have milk.’

  He bent and kissed her. ‘Don’t worry about it to-night. We’ll get some milk, somehow.’

  He eyed her for a minute. ‘Have you had the hell of a time with them?’

  She shook her head. ‘Baby was troublesome, but the other two were good as gold. They’re simply loving every minute of it.’

  ‘Next thing, they’ll be falling overboard into the mud.’

  ‘I know. I thought John was over once or twice this afternoon. I’d hate to have to go over and fish him out. Peter, couldn’t you rig a sort of life-line round the bulwarks for them?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll fix up something in the morning.’

  He undressed and got into the blankets on the other berth. He stretched his head upon the pillow and relaxed. ‘It’s better to be here than in the house,’ he said. ‘At least we won’t have to get up and go out to the trench.’ He rolled over and looked at her. ‘You’d rather be here, wouldn’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘I believe something terrible might have happened if we’d stayed at home,’ she said soberly. ‘I’m glad we came away.’

  ‘So am I.’ He reached up and put out the lamp. ‘Good night, Joan.’

  ‘Good night, Peter dear.’

  Silence closed down upon the little yacht. The rising tide made lapping noises on the hull; as it came up the vessel stirred in the mud. The two children slept quietly, the baby made snuffling noises in her sleep, like a puppy. The wind sighed through the bare rigging of the mast; away in the distance was the sound of aeroplanes. Corbett lay listening to these little noises for a time, tired and content. It was better to be here. Here he felt master of his fate, able to sway their destiny by hi
s own work and his own efforts. At home he had felt powerless, a pawn.

  He must rig that life-line for the children in the morning. His big job to-morrow would be to get milk.

  He slept.

  In the middle of the night he woke up suddenly. Joan was standing by his side in her pyjamas, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Peter, wake up!’

  He sat up suddenly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s another raid. Listen.’

  They were silent. In the distance he heard the sharp crack of gun-fire. Then there was a heavy concussion, and another, and a third. ‘That’s right,’ he said soberly. ‘They’re at it again.’

  They went together to the hatch, slid it back quietly for fear of waking the children, and stood with their heads out on deck, listening. Intermittently they heard the concussions in the city; occasionally an aeroplane passed over their heads, landing upon the aerodrome. The rain had stopped, but it was still heavily overcast.

  ‘We can’t do anything about it,’ Corbett said at last. ‘Better get back to bed before you catch a cold.’

  Joan did not stir. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I believe one feels worse about it listening to it from the outside than when you’re right in it. Peter, I do hope Mr. Littlejohn’s all right.’

  He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I expect he is. He knows how to look after himself.’ He thought of Gordon operating in the hospital, of his wife nursing cholera, of all the people in the city who were still carrying on with the essential jobs, and he was bitter with himself that he was out of it.

  The girl stirred beside him. ‘Don’t think me awfully soppy, Peter,’ she said tremulously, ‘but I’m going to say my prayers.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I believe I’ll say mine.’

  They turned back into the dark, narrow little cabin and knelt for a time against their settee-beds, repeating to themselves what they could remember of the prayers they had learned as children. Then they got back to bed and lay for a long time listening to the aeroplanes and the concussions, till presently they fell asleep.