by Nevil Shute
“You’d better give it to me with the pullover tonight, and I’ll sew it on for you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Of course it matters.” She smiled softly. “I can’t send you back to Sharon looking like that.”
“She wouldn’t mind, honey …”
“No, but I should. Give it me tonight, and I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”
He gave it to her at the door of her bedroom at about eleven o’clock at night. They had spent most of the evening smoking and drinking with the crowd, keenly anticipating the next day’s sport, discussing whether to fish the lake or the streams. They had decided to try it on the Jamieson River, having no boat. The girl took the garment from him and said, “Thanks for bringing me up here, Dwight. It’s been a lovely evening, and it’s going to be a lovely day tomorrow.”
He stood uncertain. “You really mean that, honey? You’re not going to be hurt?”
She laughed. “I’m not going to be hurt, Dwight. I know you’re a married man. Go to bed. I’ll have this for you in the morning.”
“Okay.” He turned and listened to the noise and snatches of songs still coming from the bar. “They’re having themselves a real good time,” he said. “I still can’t realise it’s never going to happen again, not after this week-end.”
“It may do, somehow,” she said. “On another plane, or something. Anyway, let’s have fun and catch fish tomorrow. They say it’s going to be a fine day.”
He grinned. “Think it ever rains, on that other plane?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“Got to get some water in the rivers, somehow,” he said thoughtfully. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be much fishing …” He turned away. “Good night, Moira. Let’s have a swell time tomorrow, anyway.”
She closed her door, and stood for a few moments holding the pullover to her. Dwight was as he was, a married man whose heart was in Connecticut with his wife and children; it would never be with her. If she had had more time things might have been different, but it would have taken many years. Five years, at least, she thought, until the memories of Sharon and of Junior and of Helen had begun to fade; then he would have turned to her, and she could have given him another family, and made him happy again. Five years were not granted to her; it would be five days, more likely. A tear trickled down beside her nose and she wiped it away irritably; self-pity was a stupid thing, or was it the brandy? The light from the one fifteen-watt bulb high in the ceiling of her dark little bedroom was too dim for sewing buttons on. She threw off her clothes, put on her pyjamas, and went to bed, the pullover on the pillow by her head. In the end she slept.
They went out next day after breakfast to fish the Jamieson not far from the hotel. The river was high and the water clouded; she dabbled her flies amateurishly in the quick water and did no good, but Dwight caught a two-pounder with the spinning tackle in the middle of the morning and she helped him to land it with the net. She wanted him to go on and catch another, but having proved the rod and tackle he was now more interested in helping her to catch something. About noon one of the fishermen that they had sat with at the bar came walking down the bank, studying the water and not fishing. He stopped to speak to them.
“Nice fish,” he said, looking at Dwight’s catch. “Get him on the fly?”
The American shook his head. “On the spinner. We’re trying with the fly now. Did you do any good last night?”
“I got five,” the man said. “Biggest about six pounds. I got sleepy about three in the morning and turned it in. Only just got out of bed. You won’t do much good with fly, not in this water.” He produced a plastic box and poked about in it with his forefinger. “Look, try this.”
He gave them a tiny fly spoon, a little bit of plated metal about the size of a sixpence ornamented with one hook. “Try that in the pool where the quick water runs out. They should come for that, on a day like this.”
They thanked him, and Dwight tied it on the cast for her. At first she could not get it out; it felt like a ton of lead on the end of her rod and fell in the water at her feet. Presently she got the knack of it, and managed to put it into the fast water at the head of the pool. On the fifth or sixth successful cast there was sudden pluck at the line, the rod bent, and the reel sang as the line ran out. She gasped, “I believe I’ve got one, Dwight.”
“Sure, you’ve got one,” he said. “Keep the rod upright, honey. Move down a bit this way.” The fish broke surface in a leap. “Nice fish,” he said. “Keep a tight line, but let him run if he really wants to go. Take it easy, and he’s all yours.”
Five minutes later she got the exhausted fish in to the bank at her feet, and he netted it for her. He killed it with a quick blow on a stone, and they admired her catch. “Pound and a half,” he said. “Maybe a little bigger.” He extracted the little spoon carefully from its mouth. “Now catch another one.”
“It’s not so big as yours,” she said, but she was bursting with pride.
“The next one will be. Have another go at it.” But it was close to lunch time, and she decided to wait till the afternoon. They walked back to the hotel proudly carrying their spoils and had a glass of beer before lunch, talking over their catch with the other anglers.
They went out again in the middle of the afternoon to the same stretch of river and again she caught a fish, a two-pounder this time, while Dwight caught two smaller fish, one of which he put back. Towards evening they rested before going back to the hotel, pleasantly tired and content with the day’s work, the fish laid out beside them. They sat against a boulder by the river, enjoying the last of the sunlight before it sank behind the hill, smoking cigarettes. It was growing chilly, but they were reluctant to leave the murmur of the river.
A sudden thought struck her. “Dwight,” she said. “That motor race must be over by this time.”
He stared at her. “Holy smoke! I meant to listen to it on the radio. I forgot all about it.”
“So did I,” she said. There was a pause, and then she said, “I wish we’d listened. I’m feeling a bit selfish.”
“We couldn’t have done anything, honey.”
“I know. But—I don’t know. I do hope John’s all right.”
“The news comes on at seven,” he said. “We could listen then.”
“I’d like to know,” she said. She looked around her at the calm, rippling water, the long shadows, the golden evening light. “This is such a lovely place,” she said. “Can you believe—really believe—that we shan’t see it again?”
“I’m going home,” he said quietly. “This is a grand country, and I’ve liked it here. But it’s not my country, and now I’m going back to my own place, to my own folks. I like it in Australia well enough, but all the same I’m glad to be going home at last, home to Connecticut.” He turned to her. “I shan’t see this again, because I’m going home.”
“Will you tell Sharon about me?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Maybe she knows already.”
She stared down at the pebbles at her feet. “What will you tell her?”
“Lots of things,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell her that you turned what might have been a bad time for me into a good time. I’ll tell her that you did that although you knew, right from the start, that there was nothing in it of you. I’ll tell her it’s because of you I’ve come back to her like I used to be, and not a drunken bum. I’ll tell her that you’ve made it easy for me to stay faithful to her, and what it’s cost you.”
She got up from the stone. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” she said. “You’ll be lucky if she believes a quarter of all that.”
He got up with her. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think she’ll believe it all, because it’s true.”
They walked back to the hotel carrying their fish. When they had cleaned up they met again in the hotel bar for a drink before tea; they ate quickly in order to be back at the radio be
fore the news. It came on presently, mostly concerned with sport; as they sat tense the announcer said:
‘The Australian Grand Prix was run today at Tooradin and was won by Mr. John Osborne, driving a Ferrari. The second place …’
The girl exclaimed, “Oh Dwight, he did it!” They sat forward to listen.
‘The race was marred by the large number of accidents and casualties. Of the eighteen starters only three finished the race of eighty laps, six of the drivers being killed outright in accidents and many more removed to hospital with more or less severe injuries. The winner, Mr. John Osborne, drove cautiously for the first half of the race and at the fortieth lap was three laps behind the leading car, driven by Mr. Sam Bailey. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bailey crashed at the corner known as The Slide, and from that point onwards the Ferrari put on speed. At the sixtieth lap the Ferrari was in the lead, the field by that time being reduced to five cars, and thereafter Mr. Osborne was never seriously challenged. On the sixty-fifth lap he put up a record for the course, lapping at 97.83 miles an hour, a remarkable achievement for this circuit. Thereafter Mr. Osborne reduced speed in response to signals from his pit, and finished the race at an average speed of 89.61 miles an hour. Mr. Osborne is an official of the C.S.I.R.O.; he has no connection with the motor industry and races as an amateur.’
Later they stood on the verandah of the hotel for a few minutes before bed, looking out at the black line of the hills, the starry night. “I’m glad John got what he wanted,” the girl said. “I mean, he wanted it so much. It must kind of round things off for him.”
The American beside her nodded. “I’d say things are rounding off for all of us right now.”
“I know. There’s not much time. Dwight, I think I’d like to go home tomorrow. We’ve had a lovely day up here and caught some fish. But there’s so much to do, and now so little time to do it in.”
“Sure, honey,” he said. “I was thinking that myself. You glad we came, though?”
She nodded. “I’ve been very happy, Dwight, all day. I don’t know why—not just catching fish. I feel like John must feel—as if I’ve won a victory over something. But I don’t know what.”
He smiled. “Don’t try and analyse it,” he said. “Just take it, and be thankful. I’ve been happy, too. But I’d agree with you, we should get home tomorrow. Things will be happening down there.”
“Bad things?” she asked.
He nodded in the darkness by her side. “I didn’t want to spoil the trip for you,” he said. “But John Osborne told me yesterday before we came away they got several cases of this radiation sickness in Melbourne, as of Thursday night. I’d say there’d be a good many more by now.”
CHAPTER NINE
On the Tuesday morning Peter Holmes went to Melbourne in his little car. Dwight Towers had telephoned to him to meet him at ten forty-five in the ante-room to the office of the First Naval Member. The radio that morning announced for the first time the incidence of radiation sickness in the city, and Mary Holmes had been concerned about his going there. “Do be careful, Peter,” she said. “I mean, about all this infection. Do you think you ought to go?”
He could not bring himself to tell her again that the infection was there around them, in their pleasant little flat; either she did not or she would not understand. “I’ll have to go,” he said. “I won’t stay longer than I’ve absolutely got to.”
“Don’t stay up to lunch,” she said. “I’m sure it’s healthier down here.”
“I’ll come straight home,” he said.
A thought struck her. “I know,” she said. “Take those formalin lozenges with you that we got for my cough, and suck one now and then. They’re awfully good for all kinds of infection. They’re so antiseptic.”
It would set her mind at ease if he did so. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.
He drove up to the city deep in thought. It was no longer a matter of days now; it was coming down to hours. He did not know what this conference with the First Naval Member was to be about, but it was very evident that it would be one of the last naval duties of his career. When he drove back again that afternoon his service life would probably be over, as his physical life soon would be.
He parked his car and went into the Navy Department. There was practically no one in the building; he walked up to the ante-room and there he found Dwight Towers in uniform, and alone. His captain said cheerfully, “Hi, fella.”
Peter said, “Good morning, sir.” He glanced around; the secretary’s desk was locked, the room empty. “Hasn’t Lieutenant-Commander Torrens shown up?”
“Not that I know of. I’d say he’s taking the day off.”
The door into the Admiral’s office opened, and Sir David Hartman stood there. The smiling, rubicund face was more serious and drawn than Peter had remembered. He said, “Come in, gentlemen. My secretary isn’t here today.”
They went in, and were given seats before the desk. The American said, “I don’t know if what I have to say concerns Lieutenant-Commander Holmes or not. It may involve a few liaison duties with the dockyard. Would you prefer he wait outside, sir?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said the Admiral. “If it will shorten our business, let him stay. What is it you want, Commander?”
Dwight hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. “It seems that I’m the senior executive officer of the U.S. Navy now,” he said. “I never thought I’d rise so high as that, but that’s the way it is. You’ll excuse me if I don’t put this in the right form or language, sir. But I have to tell you that I’m taking my ship out of your command.”
The Admiral nodded slowly. “Very good, Commander. Do you wish to leave Australian territorial waters, or to stay here as our guest?”
“I’ll be taking my ship outside territorial waters,” the Commander said. “I can’t just say when I’ll be leaving, but probably before the week-end.”
The Admiral nodded. He turned to Peter. “Give any necessary instructions in regard to victualling and towage to the dockyard,” he said. “Commander Towers is to be given every facility.”
“Very good, sir.”
The American said, “I don’t just know what to suggest about payments, sir. You must forgive me, but I have no training in these matters.”
The Admiral smiled thinly. “I don’t know that it would do us much good if you had, Commander. I think we can leave those to the usual routine. All countersigned indents and requisitions are costed here and are presented to the Naval Attaché at your Embassy in Canberra, and forwarded by him to Washington for eventual settlement. I don’t think you need worry over that side of it.”
Dwight said, “I can just cast off and go?”
“That’s right. Do you expect to be returning to Australian waters?”
The American shook his head. “No, sir. I’m taking my ship out in Bass Strait to sink her.”
Peter had expected that, but the imminence and the practical negotiation of the matter came with a shock; somehow this was the sort of thing that did not happen. He wanted for a moment to ask if Dwight required a tug to go out with the submarine to bring back the crew, and then abandoned the question. If the Americans wanted a tug to give them a day or two more life they would ask for it, but he did not think they would. Better the sea than death by sickness and diarrhoea, homeless in a strange land.
The Admiral said, “I should probably do the same, in your shoes … Well, it only remains to thank you for your co-operation, Commander. And to wish you luck. If there’s anything you need before you go don’t hesitate to ask for it—or just take it.” A sudden spasm of pain twisted his face and he gripped a pencil on the desk before him. Then he relaxed a little, and got up from the desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll have to leave you for a minute.”
He left them hurriedly, and the door closed behind him. The captain and the liaison officer had stood up at his sudden departure; they remained standing, and glanced at each other. “This is it,” said the American.
/> Peter said in a low tone, “Do you suppose that’s what’s happened to the secretary?”
“I’d think so.”
They stood in silence for a minute or two, staring out of the window. “Victualling,” Peter said at last. “There’s nothing much in Scorpion. Is the exec getting out a list of what you’ll need, sir?”
Dwight shook his head. “We shan’t need anything,” he said. “I’m only taking her down the bay and just outside the territorial limit.”
The liaison officer asked the question that he had wanted to ask before. “Shall I lay on a tug to sail with you and bring the crew back?”
Dwight said, “That won’t be necessary.”
They stood in silence for another ten minutes. Finally the Admiral reappeared, grey faced. “Very good of you to wait,” he said. “I’ve been a bit unwell …” He did not resume his seat, but remained standing by the desk. “This is the end of a long association, Captain,” he said. “We British have always enjoyed working with Americans, especially upon the sea. We’ve had cause to be grateful to you very many times, and in return I think we’ve taught you something out of our experience. This is the end of it.” He stood in thought for a minute, and then he held out his hand, smiling. “All I can do now is to say goodbye.”
Dwight took his hand. “It certainly has been good, working under you, sir,” he said. “I’m speaking for the whole ship’s company when I say that, as well as for myself.”
They left the office and walked down through the desolate, empty building to the courtyard. Peter said, “Well, what happens now, sir? Would you like me to come down to the dockyard?”
The captain shook his head. “I’d say that you can consider yourself to be relieved of duty,” he said. “I won’t need you any more down there.”
“If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll come very gladly.”
“No. If I should find I need anything from you, I’ll ring your home. But that’s where your place is now, fellow.”
This, then, was the end of their fellowship. “When will you be sailing?” Peter asked.
