On the Beach

by Nevil Shute

  “I certainly would like to come down for one night,” the American said. “I’ll have to stick around here tomorrow, but I could use a swim on Saturday. It’s a long time since I had a swim. How would it be if I came down to Falmouth on the train Saturday morning? I’ll have to be back here on Sunday.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station.” They discussed trains for a little. Then Peter asked, “Can you ride a push bike?” The other nodded. “I’ll bring another bike down with me to the station. We live about two miles out.”

  Commander Towers said, “That’ll be fine.” The red Oldsmobile was fading to a dream. It was only fifteen months since he had driven it to the airport, but now he could hardly remember what the fascia panel looked like or on which side the seat adjustment lever lay. It must be still in the garage of his Connecticut home, untouched perhaps, with all the other things that he had schooled himself not to think about. One had to live in the new world and do one’s best, forgetting about the old; now it was push bikes at the railway station in Australia.

  Peter left to catch the ferry truck back to the Navy Department; he picked up his letter of appointment and his wheels, and took the tram to the station. He got back to Falmouth at about six o’clock, hung the wheels awkwardly on the handlebars of his bicycle, took off his jacket, and trudged the pedals heavily up the hill to his home. He got there half an hour later, sweating profusely in the heat of the evening, to find Mary cool in a summer frock in the refreshing murmur of a sprinkler on the lawn.

  She came to meet him. “Oh Peter, you’re so hot!” she said. “I see you got the wheels.”

  He nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t get down to the beach.”

  “I guessed you’d been held up. We came home about half past five. What happened about the appointment?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said. He parked the bicycle and the wheels on the verandah. “I’d like to have a shower first, and tell you then.”

  “Good or bad?” she asked.

  “Good,” he replied. “Seagoing until April. Nothing after that.”

  “Oh Peter,” she cried, “that’s just perfect! Go on and have your shower and tell me about it when you’re cool. I’ll bring out the deck chairs and there’s a bottle of beer in the frig.”

  A quarter of an hour later, cool in an open necked shirt and light drill trousers, sitting in the shade with the cold beer, he told her all about it. In the end he asked, “Have you ever met Commander Towers?”

  She shook her head. “Jane Freeman met them all at the party in Sydney. She said he was rather nice. What’s he going to be like to serve under?”

  “All right, I think,” he replied. “He’s very competent. It’s going to be a bit strange at first, in an American ship. But I liked them all, I must say.” He laughed. “I put up a blue right away by ordering a pink gin.” He told her.

  She nodded. “That’s what Jane said. They drink on shore but not in a ship. I don’t believe they drink in uniform at all. They had some kind of a fruit cocktail, rather dismal. Everybody else was drinking like a fish.”

  “I asked him down for the week-end,” he told her. “He’s coming down on Saturday morning.”

  She stared at him in consternation. “Not Commander Towers?”

  He nodded. “I felt I had to ask him. He’ll be all right.”

  “Oh … Peter, he won’t be. They’re never all right. It’s much too painful for them, coming into people’s homes.”

  He tried to reassure her. “He’s different. He’s a good bit older, for one thing. Honestly, he’ll be quite all right.”

  “That’s what you thought about that R.A.F. squadron leader,” she retorted. “You know—I forget his name. The one who cried.”

  He did not care to be reminded of that evening. “I know it’s difficult for them,” he said. “Coming into someone’s home, with the baby and everything. But honestly, this chap won’t be like that.”

  She resigned herself to the inevitable. “How long is he staying for?”

  “Only the one night,” he told her. “He says he’s got to be back in Scorpion on Sunday.”

  “If it’s only for one night it shouldn’t be too bad …” She sat in thought for a minute, frowning a little. “The thing is, we’ll have to find him plenty to do. Keep him occupied all the time. Never a dull moment. That’s the mistake we made with that R.A.F. bloke. What does he like doing?”

  “Swimming,” he told her. “He wants to have a swim.”

  “Sailing? There’s a race on Saturday.”

  “I didn’t ask him. I should think he sails. He’s the sort of man who would.”

  She took a drink of beer. “We could take him to the movies,” she said thoughtfully.

  “What’s on?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, so long as we keep him occupied.”

  “It might not be so good if it was about America,” he pointed out. “We might just hit on one that was shot in his home town.”

  She stared at him in consternation. “Wouldn’t that be awful! Where is his home town, Peter? What part of America?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” he said. “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Oh dear. We’ll have to do something with him in the evening, Peter. I should think a British picture would be safest, but there may not be one on.”

  “We could have a party,” he suggested.

  “We’ll have to, if there’s not a British picture. It might be better, anyway.” She sat in thought, and then she asked, “Was he married, do you know?”

  “I don’t. I should think he must have been.”

  “I believe Moira Davidson would come and help us out,” she said thoughtfully. “If she isn’t doing anything else.”

  “If she isn’t drunk,” he observed.

  “She’s not like that all the time,” his wife replied. “She’d keep the party lively, anyway.”

  He considered the proposal. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “I should tell her right out what she’s got to do. Never a dull moment.” He paused, thoughtful. “In bed or out of it.”

  “She doesn’t, you know. It’s all on the surface.”

  He grinned. “Have it your own way.”

  They rang Moira Davidson that evening and put the proposition to her. “Peter felt he had to ask him,” Mary told her. “I mean, he’s his new captain. But you know how they are and how they feel when they come into someone’s home, with children and a smell of nappies and a feeding bottle in a saucepan of warm water and all that sort of thing. So we thought we’d clean the house up a bit and put all that away, and try and give him a gay time—all the time, you know. The trouble is, I can’t do much myself with Jennifer. Could you come and help us out, dear? I’m afraid it means a camp bed in the lounge or out on the verandah, if you’d rather. It’s just for Saturday and Sunday. Keep him occupied, all the time—that’s what we thought. Never a dull moment. I thought we’d have a party on Saturday night, and get some people in.”

  “Sounds a bit dreary,” said Miss Davidson. “Tell me, is he a fearful stick. Will he start weeping in my arms and telling me I’m just like his late wife? Some of them do that.”

  “I suppose he might,” said Mary uncertainly. “I’ve never met him. Half a minute while I ask Peter.” She came back to the telephone. “Moira? Peter says he’ll probably start knocking you about when he gets a skinful.”

  “That’s better,” said Miss Davidson. “All right, I’ll come over on Saturday morning. By the way, I’ve given up gin.”

  “Given up gin?”

  “Rots your insides. Perforates the intestine and gives you ulcers. I’ve been having them each morning, so I’ve given it away. It’s brandy now. About six bottles, I should think—for the week-end. You can drink a lot of brandy.”

  On Saturday morning Peter Holmes rode down to Falmouth station on his push bike. He met Moira Davidson there. She was a slightly built girl with straight blonde hair and a white face, the daughter of a grazier with a sm
all property at a place called Harkaway near Berwick. She arrived at the station in a very smart four-wheeled trap, snatched from some junk yard and reconditioned at considerable expense a year before, with a good-looking, high spirited grey mare between the shafts. She was wearing slacks of the brightest red and a shirt of the same colour, with lips, fingernails, and toenails to match. She waved to Peter, who went to the horse’s head, got down from her outfit, and tied the reins loosely to a rail where once the passengers had stood in line before boarding the bus. “Morning, Peter,” she said. “Boy friend not turned up?”

  “He’ll be on this train coming now,” he said. “What time did you leave home?” She had driven twenty miles to Falmouth.

  “Eight o’clock. Ghastly.”

  “You’ve had breakfast?”

  She nodded. “Brandy. I’m going to have another one before I get up in that jinker again.”

  He was concerned for her. “Haven’t you had anything to eat?”

  “Eat? Bacon and eggs and all that muck? My dear child, the Symes had a party last night. I’d have sicked it up.”

  They turned to walk together to meet the train. “What time did you get to bed?” he asked. “About half past two.”

  “I don’t know how you can keep it up. I couldn’t.”

  “I can. I can keep it up as long as I’ve got to, and that’s not so long now. I mean, why waste time in sleeping?” She laughed, a little shrilly. “Just doesn’t make sense.”

  He did not reply because she was quite right, only it wasn’t his own way. They stood and waited till the train came in, and met Commander Towers on the platform. He came in civilian clothes, a light grey jacket and fawn drill trousers, slightly American in cut, so that he stood out as a stranger in the crowd.

  Peter Holmes made the introductions. As they walked down the ramp from the platforms the American said, “I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years. I’ll probably fall off.”

  “We’re doing better for you than that,” Peter said. “Moira’s got her jinker here.”

  The other wrinkled his brows. “I didn’t get that?”

  “Sports car,” the girl said. “Jaguar XK 140. Thunderbird to you, I suppose. New model, only one horsepower, but she does a good eight miles an hour on the flat. Christ, I want a drink!”

  They came to the jinker with the grey standing in the shafts; she went to untie the reins. The American stood back and looked it over, gleaming in the sun and very smart. “Say,” he exclaimed, “this is quite a buggy you’ve got!”

  Moira stood back and laughed. “A buggy! That’s the word for it. It’s a buggy, isn’t it? All right, Peter—that’s not dirty. And anyway, it is. We’ve got a Customline sitting in the garage, Commander Towers, but I didn’t bring that. It’s a buggy. Come on and get up into it, and I’ll step on it and show you how she goes.”

  “I’ve got my bike here, sir,” Peter said. “I’ll ride that up and meet you at the house.”

  Commander Towers climbed up into the buggy and the girl got up beside him; she took the whip and turned the grey and trotted up the road behind the bicycle. “One thing I’m going to do before we leave town,” she told her companion, “and that’s have a drink. Peter’s a dear, and Mary too, but they don’t drink enough. Mary says it gives the baby colic I hope you don’t mind. You can have a Coke or something if you’d rather.”

  Commander Towers felt a little dazed, but refreshed. It was a long time since he had had to deal with this sort of a young woman. “I’ll go along with you,” he said. “I’ve swallowed enough Cokes in the last year to float my ship, periscope depth. I could use a drink.”

  “Then there’s two of us,” she remarked. She steered her outfit into the main street, not unskilfully. A few cars stood abandoned, parked diagonally by the kerb; they had been there for over a year. So little traffic used the streets that they were not in the way, and there had been no petrol to tow them away. She drew up outside the Pier Hotel and got down; she tied the reins to the bumper of one of these cars and went with her companion into the Ladies’ Lounge.

  He asked, “What can I order for you?”

  “Double brandy.”

  “Water?”

  “Just a little, and a lot of ice.”

  He gave the order to the barman and stood considering for a moment while the girl watched him. There never had been any rye, and there had been no Scotch for many months. He was unreasonably suspicious of Australian whisky. “I never drank brandy like that,” he remarked. “What’s it like?”

  “No kick,” the girl said, “but it creeps up on you. Good for the guts. That’s the reason why I drink it.”

  “I guess I’ll stick to whisky.” He ordered, and then turned to her, amused. “You drink quite a lot, don’t you?”

  “That’s what they tell me.” She took the drink he handed to her and produced a pack of cigarettes from her bag, blended South African and Australian tobacco. “Have one of these things? They’re horrible, but they’re all that I could get.”

  He offered one of his own, equally horrible, and lit it for her. She blew a long cloud of smoke from her nostrils. “It’s a change, anyway. What’s your name?”

  “Dwight,” he told her. “Dwight Lionel.”

  “Dwight Lionel Towers,” she repeated. “I’m Moira Davidson. We’ve got a grazing property about twenty miles from here. You’re the captain of the submarine, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Happy in your job?” she asked cynically.

  “It was quite an honor to be given the command,” he said quietly. “I reckon it’s quite an honor still.”

  She dropped her eyes. “Sorry I said that. I’m a bit of a pig when I’m sober.” She tossed off her drink. “Buy me another, Dwight.”

  He bought her another, but stood himself upon his whisky. “Tell me,” the girl asked, “what do you do when you’re on leave? Play golf? Sail a boat? Go fishing?”

  “Fishing, mostly,” he said. A far-off holiday with Sharon in the Gaspé Peninsula floated through his mind, but he put the thought away. One must concentrate upon the present and forget the past. “It’s kind of hot for golf,” he said. “Commander Holmes said something about a swim.”

  “That’s easy,” she said. “There’s a sailing race this afternoon, down at the club. Is that in your line?”

  “It certainly is,” he said, with pleasure in his voice. “What kind of a boat does he have?”

  “A thing called a Gwen Twelve,” she said. “It’s a sort of watertight box with sails on it. I don’t know if he wants to sail it himself. I’ll crew for you if he doesn’t.”

  “If we’re going sailing,” he said firmly, “we’d better stop drinking.”

  “I’m not going to crew for you if you’re going to be all U.S. Navy,” she retorted. “Our ships aren’t dry, like yours.”

  “Okay,” he said equably. “Then I’ll crew for you.” She stared at him. “Has anyone ever bashed you over the head with a bottle?” He smiled. “Lots of times.”

  She drained her glass. “Well, have another drink.”

  “No, thank you. The Holmeses will be wondering what’s become of us.”

  “They’ll know,” the girl said.

  “Come on. I want to see the world from up in that jinker.” He steered her towards the door.

  She went with him unresisting. “It’s a buggy,” she said.

  “No it’s not. We’re in Australia now. It’s a jinker.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “It’s a buggy—an Abbott buggy. It’s over seventy years old. Daddy says it was built in America.”

  He looked at it with new interest. “Say,” he exclaimed, “I was wondering where I’d seen it before. My grandpa had one just like it in the woodshed, up in Maine, when I was a boy.”

  She mustn’t let him think about the past. “Just stand by her head as I back out of this,” she said. “She’s not so good in reverse.” She swung herself up into the driving seat and tweaked
the mare’s mouth cruelly, so that he had plenty to do. The mare stood up and pawed at him with her fore feet; he managed to get her headed round towards the street and swung up beside the girl as they dashed off in a canter. Moira said, “She’s a bit fresh. The hill’ll stop her in a minute. These bloody bitumen roads …” The American sat clinging to his seat as they careered out of town, the mare slithering and sliding on the smooth surfaces, wondering that any girl could drive a horse so badly.

  They came to the Holmeses’ house a few minutes later with the grey in a lather of sweat. The Lieutenant-Commander and his wife came out to meet them. “Sorry we’re late, Mary,” the girl said coolly. “I couldn’t get Commander Towers past the pub.”

  Peter remarked, “Looks like you’ve been making up lost time.”

  “We had quite a ride,” the submarine commander observed. He got down and was introduced to Mary. Then he turned to the girl. “How would it be if I walk her up and down a little, till she cools off’?”

  “Fine,” said the girl. “I should unharness her and put her in the paddock—Peter ’ll show you. I’ll give Mary a hand with the lunch. Peter, Dwight wants to sail your boat this afternoon.”

  “I never said that,” the American protested.

  “But you do.” She eyed the horse, glad that her father wasn’t there to see. “Give her a rub down with something—there’s a cloth in the back underneath the oats. I’ll give her a drink later on, after we’ve had one ourselves.”

  That afternoon Mary stayed at home with the baby, quietly preparing for the evening party; Dwight Towers rode unsteadily with Peter and Moira to the sailing club on bicycles. They went with towels round their necks and swimming trunks tucked into pockets; they changed at the club in anticipation of a wet sail. The boat was a sealed plywood box with a small cockpit and an efficient spread of sail. They rigged and launched her and got to the starting line with five minutes to spare, the American sailing the boat, Moira crewing for him, and Peter watching the race from the shore.

  They sailed in bathing costumes, Dwight Towers in an old pair of fawn trunks and the girl in a two-piece costume mainly white; they had shirts with them in the boat in case of sunburn. For a few minutes they manoeuvred about in the warm sun behind the starting line, milling around amongst a dozen others of mixed classes in the race. The Commander had not sailed a boat for some years and he had never handled a boat of that particular type before; she handled well, however, and he quickly learned that she was very fast. He had confidence in her by the time the gun went, and they were fifth over the line at the start of a race three times round a triangular course.