by Nevil Shute
They stared at him. “What life?” Peter asked.
He grinned broadly. “The rabbit. That’s the most resistant animal we know about.”
The General pushed himself upright in his chair, his face suffused with anger. “You mean to say the rabbit’s going to live longer than we do?”
“That’s right. About a year longer. It’s got about twice the resistance that we’ve got. There’ll be rabbits running about Australia and eating all the feed next year.”
“You’re telling me the bloody rabbit’s going to put it across us, after all? They’ll be alive and kicking when we’re all dead?”
John Osborne nodded. “Dogs will outlive us. Mice will last a lot longer, but not so long as rabbits. So far as we can see, the rabbit has them all licked—he’ll be the last.” He paused. “They’ll all go in the end, of course. There’ll be nothing left alive here by the end of the next year.”
The General sank back in his chair. “The rabbit! After all we’ve done, and all we’ve spent in fighting him—to know he’s going to win out in the end!” He turned to Peter. “Just press that bell beside you. I’m going to have a brandy and soda before going in to lunch. We’d all better have a brandy and soda after that.”
In the restaurant Moira Davidson and Dwight settled at a table in a corner, and ordered lunch. Then she said, “What’s troubling you, Dwight?”
He took up a fork and played with it. “Not very much.”
“Tell me.”
He raised his head. “I’ve got another ship in my command—U.S.S. Swordfish at Montevideo. It’s getting hot around those parts right now. I radioed the captain three days ago, asking him if he thought it practical to leave and sail his vessel over here.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it wasn’t. Shore associations, he called them. What he meant was girls, same as Scorpion. Said he’d try and come if there was a compelling reason, but he’d be leaving half his crew behind.” He raised his head. “There’d be no point in coming that way,” he told her. “He wouldn’t be operational.”
“Did you tell him to stay there?”
He hesitated. “Yes,” he said at last. “I ordered him to take Swordfish out beyond the twelve mile limit and sink her on the high seas, in deep water.” He stared at the prongs of the fork. “I dunno if I did the right thing or not,” he said. “I thought that was what the Navy Department would want me to do—not to leave a ship like that, full of classified gear, kicking around in another country. Even if there wasn’t anybody there.” He glanced at her. “So now the U.S. Navy’s been reduced again,” he said. “From two ships down to one.”
They sat in silence for a minute. “Is that what you’re going to do with Scorpion?” she asked at last.
“I think so. I’d have liked to take her back to the United States, but it wouldn’t be practical. Too many shore associations, like he said.”
Their lunch came. “Dwight,” she said when the waiter had departed. “I had an idea.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“They’re opening the trout fishing early this year, on Saturday week. I was wondering if you’d like to take me up into the mountains for the week-end.” She smiled faintly. “For the fishing, Dwight—fishing to fish. Not for anything else. It’s lovely up by Jamieson.”
He hesitated for a moment. “That’s the day that John Osborne thinks they’ll be running the Grand Prix.”
She nodded. “So I thought. Would you rather see that?”
He shook his head. “Would you?”
“No. I don’t want to see any more people get killed. We’re going to see enough of that in a week or two.”
“I feel that way about it, too. I don’t want to see that race, and maybe see John get killed. I’d rather go fishing.” He glanced at her and met her eyes. “There’s just one thing, honey. I wouldn’t want to go if it was going to mean that you’d get hurt.”
“I shan’t get hurt,” she said. “Not in the way you mean.”
He stared across the crowded restaurant. “I’m going home quite soon,” he said. “I’ve been away a long time, but it’s nearly over now. You know the way it is. I’ve got a wife at home I love, and I’ve played straight with her the two years that I’ve been away. I wouldn’t want to spoil that now, these few last days.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve known that all the time.” She was silent for a minute, and then she said, “You’ve been very good for me, Dwight. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. I suppose half a loaf is better than no bread, when you’re starving.”
He wrinkled his brows. “I didn’t get that, honey.”
“It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t want to start a smutty love affair when I’m dying in a week or ten days’ time. I’ve got some standards too—now, anyway.”
He smiled at her. “We could try out Junior’s rod …”
“That’s what I thought you’d want to do. I’ve got a little fly rod I could bring, but I’m no good.”
“Got any flies and leaders?”
“We call them casts. I’m not quite sure. I’ll have to look around and see what I can find at home.”
“We’d go by car, would we? How far is it?”
“I think we’d want petrol for about five hundred miles. But you don’t have to worry about that. I asked Daddy if I might borrow the Customline. He’s got it out and running, and he’s got nearly a hundred gallons of petrol tucked away in the hayshed behind the hay.”
He smiled again. “You think of everything. Say, where would we stay?”
“I think at the hotel,” she said. “It’s only a small, country place, but I think it’s the best bet. I could borrow a cottage, but it wouldn’t have been slept in for two years, and we’d spend all our time in housekeeping. I’ll ring up and make a booking at the hotel. For two rooms,” she said.
“Okay. I’ll have to chase that Leading Seaman Edgar and see if I can use my car without taking him along. I’m not just sure if I’m allowed to drive myself.”
“That’s not terribly important now, is it? I mean, you could just take it and drive it.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to do that.”
“But, Dwight, why not? I mean, it doesn’t matter—we can go in the Customline. But if that car’s been put at your disposal, you can use it, surely. We’re all going to be dead in a fortnight’s time. Then nobody will be using it.”
“I know …” he said. “It’s just that I’d like to do things right, up till the end. If there’s an order I’ll obey it. That’s the way I was trained, honey, and I’m not changing now. If it’s against the rules for an officer to take a service car and drive it up into the mountains for a week-end with a girl, then I’ll not do it. There’ll be no alcoholic liquor on board Scorpion, not even in the last five minutes.” He smiled. “That’s the way it is, so let me buy you another drink.”
“I can see that it will have to be the Customline. You’re a very difficult man—I’m glad I’m not a sailor serving under you. No, I won’t have a drink, thanks, Dwight. I’ve got my first test this afternoon.”
“Your first test?”
She nodded. “I’ve got to try and take dictation at fifty words a minute. You’ve got to be able to do that and type it out without more than three mistakes in shorthand and three in typing. It’s very difficult.”
“I’d say it might be. You’re getting to be quite a shorthand typist.”
She smiled faintly. “Not at fifty words a minute. You have to be able to do a hundred and twenty if you’re ever going to be any good.” She raised her head. “I’d like to come and see you in America one day,” she said. “I want to meet Sharon—if she’d want to meet me.”
“She’ll want to meet you,” he said. “I’d say she’s kind of grateful to you now, already.”
She smiled faintly. “I don’t know. Women are funny about men … If I came to Mystic, would there be a shorthand typing school where I could fini
sh off my course?”
He thought for a minute. “Not in Mystic itself,” he said. “There’s plenty of good business colleges in New London. That’s only about fifteen miles away.”
“I’ll just come for an afternoon,” she said thoughtfully. “I want to see Helen jumping round upon that Pogo stick. But after that, I think I’d better come back here.”
“Sharon would be very disappointed if you did that, honey. She’d want you to stay.”
“That’s what you think. I shall want a bit of convincing on that point.”
He said, “I think things may be kind of different by that time.”
She nodded slowly. “Possibly. I’d like to think they would be. Anyway, we’ll find out pretty soon.” She glanced at her wrist watch. “I must go, Dwight, or I’ll be late for my test.” She gathered up her gloves and her bag. “Look, I’ll tell Daddy that we’d like to take the Custom-line and about thirty gallons of petrol.”
He hesitated. “I’ll find out about my car. I don’t like taking your father’s car away for all that time, with all that gas.”
“He won’t be using it,” she said. “He’s had it on the road for a fortnight, but I think he’s only used it twice. There’s so much that he wants to see done on the farm while there’s still time.”
“What’s he working on now?”
“The fence along the wood—the one in the forty acre. He’s digging post-holes to put up a new one. It’s about twenty chains long. That’s going to mean nearly a hundred holes.”
“There’s not so much to do at Williamstown. I could come out and lend a hand, if he’d like that.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell him. Give you a ring tonight, at about eight o’clock?”
“Fine,” he said. He escorted her to the door. “Good luck with the test.”
He had no engagement for that afternoon. He stood in the street outside the restaurant after she had left him, completely at a loose end. Inactivity was unusual for him, and irksome. At Williamstown there was absolutely nothing for him to do; the aircraft carrier was dead and his ship all but dead. Although he had received no orders, he knew that now she would never cruise again; for one thing, with South America and South Africa out there was now nowhere much for them to cruise to, unless it were New Zealand. He had given half of his ship’s company leave, each half alternating a week at a time; of the other half he kept only about ten men on duty for maintenance and cleaning in the submarine, permitting the rest daily leave on shore. No signals now arrived for him to deal with; once a week he signed a few stores requisitions as a matter of form, though the stores they needed were supplied from dockyard sources with a disregard of paper work. He would not admit it, but he knew that his ship’s working life was over, as his own was. He had nothing to replace it.
He thought of going to the Pastoral Club, and abandoned the idea; there would be no occupation for him there. He turned and walked towards the motor district of the town, where he would find John Osborne working on his car; there might be work there of the sort that interested him. He must be back at Williamstown in time to receive Moira’s call at about eight o’clock; that was his next appointment. He would go out next day and help her father with that fence, and he looked forward to the labour and the occupation.
On his way down town he stopped at a sports shop and asked for flies and casts. “I’m sorry, sir,” the man said.
“Not a cast in the place, and not a fly. I’ve got a few hooks left, if you can tie your own. Sold clean out of everything the last few days, on account of the season opening, and there won’t be any more coming in now, either. Well, as I said to the wife, it’s kind of satisfactory. Get the stock down to a minimum before the end. It’s how the accountants would like to see it, though I don’t suppose they’ll take much interest in it now. It’s a queer turn-out.”
He walked on through the city. In the motor district there were still cars in the windows, still motor mowers, but the windows were dirty and the stores closed, the stock inside covered in dust and dirt. The streets were dirty now and littered with paper and spoilt vegetables; it was evidently some days since the street cleaners had operated. The trams still ran, but the whole city was becoming foul and beginning to smell; it reminded the American of an oriental city in the making. It was raining a little and the skies were grey; in one or two places the street drains were choked, and great pools stood across the road.
He came to the mews and to the open garage door. John Osborne was working with two others, and Peter Holmes was there, his uniform coat off, washing strange, nameless parts of the Ferrari in a bath of kerosene, more valuable at that time than mercury. There was an atmosphere of cheerful activity in the garage that warmed his heart.
“I thought we might see you,” said the scientist. “Come for a job?”
“Sure,” said Dwight. “This city gives me a pain. You got anything I can do?”
“Yes. Help Bill Adams fit new tyres on every wheel you can find.” He indicated a stack of brand new racing tyres; there seemed to be wire wheels everywhere.
Dwight took his coat off thankfully. “You’ve got a lot of wheels.”
“Eleven, I think. We got the ones off the Maserati—they’re the same as ours. I want a new tyre on every wheel we’ve got. Bill works for Goodyear and he knows the way they go, but he needs somebody to help.”
The American, rolling up his sleeves, turned to Peter. “He got you working, too.”
The naval officer nodded. “I’ll have to go before very long. Jennifer’s teething, and been crying for two bloody days. I told Mary I was sorry I’d got to go on board today, but I’d be back by five.”
Dwight smiled. “Left her to hold the baby.” Peter nodded. “I got her a garden rake and a bottle of dillwater. But I must be back by five.”
He left half an hour later, and got into his little car, and drove off down the road to Falmouth. He got back to his flat on time, and found Mary in the lounge, the house miraculously quiet. “How’s Jennifer?” he asked.
She put her finger to her lips. “She’s sleeping,” she whispered. “She went off after dinner, and she hasn’t woken up since.”
He went towards the bedroom, and she followed him. “Don’t wake her,” she whispered.
“Not on your life,” he whispered back. He stood looking down at the child, sleeping quietly. “I don’t think she’s got cancer,” he remarked.
They went back into the lounge, closing the door quietly behind them, and he gave her his presents. “I’ve got dillwater,” she said “—masses of it, and anyway she doesn’t have it now. You’re about three months out of date. The rake’s lovely. It’s just what we want for getting all the leaves and twigs up off the lawn. I was trying to pick them up by hand yesterday, but it breaks your back.”
They got short drinks, and presently she said, “Peter, now that we’ve got petrol, couldn’t we have a motor mower?”
“They cost quite a bit,” he objected, almost automatically.
“That doesn’t matter so much now, does it? And with the summer coming on, it would be a help. I know we’ve not got very much lawn to mow, but it’s an awful chore with the hand mower, and you may be away at sea again. If we had a very little motor mower that I could start myself. Or an electric one. Doris Haynes has an electric one, and it’s no trouble to start at all.”
“She’s cut its cord in two at least three times, and each time she does that she darn nearly electrocutes herself.”
“You don’t have to do that if you’re careful. I think it would be a lovely thing to have.”
She lived in the dream world of unreality, or else she would not admit reality; he did not know. In any case, he loved her as she was. It might never be used, but it would give her pleasure to have it. “I’ll see if I can find one next time I go up to town,” he said. “I know there are plenty of motor mowers, but I’m not just sure about an electric one.” He thought for a moment. “I’m afraid the electric ones may all be gone. People would have b
ought them when there wasn’t any petrol.”
She said, “A little motor one would do, Peter. I mean, you could show me how to start it.”
He nodded. “They’re not much trouble, really.”
“Another thing we ought to have,” she said, “is a garden seat. You know—one that you can leave outside all winter, and sit on whenever it’s a nice fine day. I was thinking, how nice it would be if we had a garden seat in that sheltered corner just by the arbutus. I think we’d use it an awful lot next summer. Probably use it all the year round, too.”
He nodded. “Not a bad idea.” It would never be used next summer, but let that go. Transport would be a difficulty; the only way he could transport a garden seat with the Morris Minor would be by putting it on the roof, and that might scratch the enamel unless he padded it very well. “We’ll get the motor mower first, and then see what the bank looks like.”
He drove her up to Melbourne the next day to look for a motor mower; they went with Jennifer in her carrying basket on the back seat. It was some weeks since she had been in the city, and its aspect startled and distressed her. “Peter,” she said, “what’s the matter with everything? It’s all so dirty, and it smells horrid.”
“I suppose the street cleaners have stopped working,” he observed.
“But why should they do that? Why aren’t they working? Is there a strike, or something?”
“Everything’s just slowing down,” he said. “After all, I’m not working.”
“That’s different,” she said. “You’re in the Navy.” He laughed. “No, what I mean is, you go to sea for months and months, and then you go on leave. Street cleaners don’t do that. They go on all the time. At least, they ought to.”
He could not elucidate it any further for her, and they drove on to the big hardware store. It had only a few customers, and very few assistants. They left the baby in the car and went through to the gardening department, and searched some time for an assistant. “Motor mowers?” he said. “You’ll find a few in the next hall, through that archway. Look them over and see if what you want is there.”
