by Nevil Shute
The builder smiled. “First thing I thought about, the water. But then, I been in the trade, you see — all my life. Let me go up and have a look at the cistern, and I’ll soon tell you.”
“Is yours off?”
“Ay.”
They went up to the attic; Corbett watched anxiously as Mr. Littlejohn depressed the ball valve. “Not a drop,” he said cheerfully. “Just the same as mine. Dry as a bone — see?”
He got down from the cistern. “That’s what I came in about, really and truly,” he said. “I wanted to be sure you knew about it, and not go lighting up the hot water boiler, or having a hot bath, or anything of that. I been in the trade, and I know what to look for — see? So I thought I’d just pop in and see if things were all right. Hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Corbett. “As a matter of fact, the boiler’s going now. I keep it on all night. I’d better let it go out, hadn’t I?”
“It’s all right so long as you don’t draw off any more hot water — or not very much. I wouldn’t make it up again — let it go out natural.”
They went downstairs, looking at bedrooms and the drawing room as they went. “These windows are just terrible, of course,” said Corbett. “I’ll have to try and do something about them. I wish this bloody rain would stop.”
The builder nodded. “I’m going down to my place, soon as I’ve had a bite to eat,” he said, “to get a couple of my chaps up with some matchboarding, put over them temporary till I get some glass cut. Do yours the same if you like — while they’re here.”
Corbett thanked him.
“Well, I’ll be going along,” said Mr. Littlejohn. He paused by the door. “One other thing,” he said. “You haven’t had no trouble with the drains?”
“Not that I know of. I haven’t looked.”
They went to look. The downstairs water-closet pan was about half full of a black liquid that undulated and changed level as they watched.
“That’s bad,” said Mr. Littlejohn, regarding it, fascinated. “That’s very bad, that is.”
“Isn’t yours like that?” asked Corbett.
“It may be, now. It wasn’t when I looked a quarter of an hour ago.”
“What ought I to do about it?”
The builder scratched his head. “Don’t see that you can do anything about it, really and truly,” he observed. “It’s flooding does that — pressure and flooding in the sewers, that didn’t ought to be there at all. But there — I suppose it’s all you can expect.”
He turned to Corbett. “I wouldn’t let any of them use this place,” he said. “Not for an hour or two, till I find out how things are. You’ve got another one upstairs, haven’t you?”
They satisfied themselves that that one was all right.
Corbett walked with him to the door; the builder made him step outside into the rain. “Just between you and me, Mr. Corbett,” he said. “There’s no sense in alarming people — ladies, and that. But what I mean is — the electricity and gas, they’re just an inconvenience, if you take my meaning. A bit of coal in the grate, and a good resourceful woman like my missus or Mrs. Corbett, and you’re right as rain. But the water — that’s different. You want to watch the water and not let them go wasting it, or flushing closets with it, or anything of that — not till we know where we are. You’ve got fifty gallons more or less in your cold cistern and another thirty in the hot water tank, and that’s plenty to be going on with. But it’s not enough for all the house to have a bath, or let run to waste. Not till we know how things are. I mean, when it’s going to start running in again.”
Corbett nodded. “That’s true. Thanks very much for the tip.” The builder said, “I just took a walk. You been down Salisbury Road yet?”
“Not this morning.”
“There’s a house down there — it’s terrible, Mr. Corbett. Really and truly. I never seen anything like it — not even in the war — not from one shell, that is. Still, what I meant to say was this. Two of them fell in the road, one at the far end and another one a little bit this way. Well, the one at the far end, the water main’s bust for sure. There’s a regular fountain coming up, properly flooding the place. And it’s not running away, neither — like it should. That looks as if the surface drains is crushed.”
There was a momentary silence.
“You see, Mr. Corbett, a lot of people, they forget about the water. It don’t give no trouble in the ordinary way, and you don’t think. But once the mains is cracked, they take a power of a lot of getting right again. Water ain’t like electricity, where you can string a bit of wire along on poles to the house and everything’s all right. Water’s water, and it takes a long time to get the mains in order once they’re cracked.
“And where one of them bombs has fallen,” he said soberly, “it’ll all be cracked. Water and gas and sewers — all mixed up together.”
Corbett went back into his house and told Joan about the water. She wrinkled her brows. “We’ll have to get it put right before tonight,” she objected. “There’s the children’s baths. Phyllis and John could go without, perhaps, but baby must have hers.”
“I should think you might take a little in a basin for baby. The other two will have to go dirty.” He went on to tell her about the drains. “I’ll see if it’s possible to do anything about the water today,” he said. “But in the meantime, we’ll just have to go slow on what we’ve got.”
“I suppose so,” she said wonderingly. “Seems funny, doesn’t it? Here, come and eat your breakfast.” She leant over the smoking fire, and transferred a couple of rather smutty eggs from the frying pan to a luke-warm plate.
He asked, “Where’s Annie?” They had a daily maid who came in before breakfast.
“She hasn’t turned up yet. I hope her rabbit dies.”
She busied herself about the grate; he sat down with the children to the meal. Phyllis asked him, “Daddy. Are we going to sleep in the garage again tonight?”
He was startled. The possibility had not occurred to him before. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not unless the bangs start coming again.”
His answer was digested in silence for a minute. Then, “Daddy, if the bangs come again, may I take Teddy to bed with me in the garage?”
“May I take Horsey, Daddy?” asked his son.
“Why — yes,” he said patiently. Joan came to his rescue.
“Get on and eat your breakfasts,” she said. “You’ve not eaten anything. If you don’t eat your breakfasts up, Daddy won’t let anybody sleep in the garage tonight.”
That finished them for the rest of the meal. Corbett got up from the table, lit a cigarette. He said, “I must get down to the office right away. I want to see how things are there. If anything’s happened to our files and records — there’ll be awful trouble.”
“You can’t go down without having a shave,” said Joan. “Make yourself tidy, dear. This water will be hot in a minute.”
He stared at her in wonder. “I must be off my head,” he said at last. “Fancy thinking of going down to work without having shaved....” He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin.
She pressed his arm. “Don’t worry. I expect everything will be all right down there.”
Twenty minutes later, spruce and neat in his business suit, bowler hat, and dark overcoat, and carrying a neatly furled umbrella on his arm, he came to her again.
“I’m off now,” he said. “I can’t ring you up because the phone’s out of order — I’ll try and get that put right. I’ll be back to lunch if I possibly can, but don’t worry if I’m not.”
She stood for a moment in thought. “Candles,” she said at last. “We’ll have to have some candles if the electricity isn’t going to be on tonight. The milk hasn’t come yet, either. We take three and a half pints. If it doesn’t come I’ll have to go and get it, but I don’t want to leave the house.”
He nodded. “Candles and milk.”
She turned to him. “I tell y
ou what would be a god-send, if you could get it. A Primus stove — like we have on the boat. And a kettle to go on it — and paraffin and meths, of course.”
“I’ll do what I can. I’d better take the car.”
She reached up and kissed him. “There’s sure to be an awful lot of other things,” she said. “Come back for lunch, if you can.”
He went down the garden to the garage, got the car, and drove towards his office in Cumberland Place. He was appalled at what he saw. In Westwood Road he passed a house that had suffered a direct hit; above the first floor there was very little left of it. He went on, sober and a little sick, and stopped once more to inspect a crater in the road where there had been a motor car. After that he did not stop again.
He had to make two detours to avoid roads that were blocked with bomb holes.
The streets were full of people. Most of them seemed to be looking around, viewing the damage before they went on to their work. There was a sort of stunned bewilderment apparent in the crowd, and mingled with it the exhilaration of the novelty, a certain thrill and pleasure in the break of the routine. There was excitement, interest, in the streets. People were standing at street corners chatting eagerly to strangers; at other points there seemed to be the apathy of tragedy. Corbett wanted to buy a paper but could see no posters; the newsagents shops that he passed were closed. A great many shop windows were smashed; in one or two places gangs of men were working nailing boards across.
He reached his office about ten o’clock, and parked outside it. Duncan, the managing clerk, slid from his desk as Corbett came in.
“Morning, Duncan. Mr. Bellinger in yet?”
“Not yet, Mr. Corbett.” The old man hesitated. “Wasn’t it a terrible night, sir?”
Corbett nodded. “Pretty bad. Everything all right at home, I hope?”
“Yes, sir. We were spared.”
“Spared? So was I. We’ve got that to be thankful for.”
“Oh, yes, sir. We have indeed.”
“Has the Times come?”
“No, sir. None of the papers have come this morning, nor the post either.”
“Have we had any windows broken here?”
“No, sir. Everything seems to be quite all right. I think we’ve been very fortunate.”
“I should say we have.”
He moved over to the telephone switchboard and tried the various lines; it was all dead. He went through into his office.
With no post, no paper, and no telephone, there was only routine work to do; he could not settle down to that. He idled for ten minutes at his desk, waiting for something to happen. Then he noticed Andrews’ car parked outside his office next door. Andrews was a chartered accountant, and a member of the same club.
He went out, and into the next office. Andrews, lean and saturnine, was idling as he had been.
“Morning,” said Corbett. “Have a good night?”
“Not so bad,” said Mr. Andrews. “Bit of coal in the bed, but nothing to signify.”
“Do you know if we’re at war?”
Mr. Andrews said, “We are now.”
“Who are we fighting?”
Mr. Andrews told him in a few short sentences.
“How did you get to know all this?” asked Corbett.
“It’s on the radio. They’re broadcasting news almost continuously.”
“My set’s passed out with the electricity.”
“So is mine. But I’ve got a set in the car, and that’s functioning all right. The King’s broadcasting at three o’clock, and the Prime Minister at 2.30.”
“If we get any current I must listen in to that.”
“If we had some ham,” said Mr. Andrews, “we could have some ham and eggs if we had some eggs.”
“Do you know, has any other town been bombed?”
The accountant leaned forward. “Has any town not been bombed! They’ve all had it, from what I can make out — just like us. Portsmouth, Brighton, Bristol, Guildford, Bournemouth, Oxford, Birmingham, Coventry, Plymouth — oh, and a lot more. Practically every town in the Midlands and the South of England.”
“My God!” said Corbett.
Mr. Andrews leaned back in his chair. “The real cream of the joke,” he said, “the part that’ll tickle you to death, is that there’s no news that any of the bombers were shot down, or interfered with in any way. That’s a bad one.”
“Of course,” said Corbett.
“I suppose it came as a complete surprise.”
“Evidently.”
There was a little silence. Corbett frowned. “I don’t understand how it was done. I didn’t see any airplanes, or hear any engines. Did you?”
“No, I can’t say I did. I saw a few searchlights, but they didn’t seem to be much good. The clouds were too low.”
The solicitor got up restlessly, and walked over to the window. “My God,” he said, “we’re in a bloody mess.”
He stood staring out of the window over the little park on the other side of the road. There were craters in it like great excavations. Through the trees he could see the buildings of the Civic Centre; part of it seemed to have come down.
Without turning from the window he said, “Did you count the bombs?”
Andrews shook his head. “I had other things to think about, old boy.”
“I wonder how many there were? There’s been a frightful lot of damage done.”
The accountant picked up a pencil and held it poised above his blotting pad. “On the average,” he said, “how many explosions did you hear a minute?”
“Lord knows. Sometimes they came quick, and then there’d be a bit of a gap. I heard about fifteen come down one minute.”
“But on the average?”
Corbett thought carefully. “More than four. Perhaps five or six. But you really can’t say.”
The accountant flung his pencil down unused. “There are a hundred and eighty minutes in three hours. That means the best part of a thousand bombs.”
Corbett nodded. “I dare say there were that number. But what sort of a force of bombers would that mean?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Corbett turned back into the room. “There must have been a lot of people killed,” he said heavily. “Have you heard anything about the casualties yet?”
Mr. Andrews shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about that side of it upon the radio. There were three people killed in Wilton Road, just by me. Family called Winchell. Did you know them?”
Corbett shook his head.
“Father, mother, and one child,” said Mr. Andrews succinctly. “The other kid got off scot free.”
There was a little silence.
“I can’t stay here,” said Corbett restlessly. “I’m going out. I’ve got to buy a Primus stove.”
He went out into the streets. In the half hour since he had come into the centre of the town there had been a marked change for the better. The idle, gossiping crowds had vanished from the corners, and now the streets were full of busy, energetic people going about their business. The craters in the streets where bombs had fallen were full of men working upon the various mains and conduits, shattered and uncovered by the explosion. In half a dozen places the overhead wires of the trams were down and trailing in the road; he saw several repair gangs working upon those. A great many of the windows of the larger shops were shattered irretrievably; in most of them the assistants were engaged in putting up some sort of barrier or protection to the shop front. There was a tendency to chalk up such notices as BUSINESS AS USUAL.
Southampton was itself again, busy and enterprising.
He went into an ironmonger’s where he was known, to buy a Primus stove. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett,” said the man, “but I’m right out. Haven’t got a Primus in the place. Regular run on Primuses there’s been this morning, what with the gas being off and all. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know where I could get one?”
The man suggested one or two other places. “Woul
d you like me to save you a gallon of paraffin, Mr. Corbett?”
“Is that short?”
“There’s been a great run on it this morning. We shall be out very soon.”
He bought a can, had it filled with paraffin, and took it with him to the office. Then he went out again.
He got a Primus stove with difficulty at a ship chandler’s down by the docks. After trying half a dozen stores, he got some very large candles irreverently at an ecclesiastical supplier’s. Fresh milk was unobtainable; it seemed that very little milk had come in to Southampton that morning. He got a few tins of condensed milk at a grocer’s shop.
Towards noon he was in the High Street, walking back towards his office. Quite suddenly beneath his feet he felt a subterranean rumble, and a hundred yards away a manhole cover shot up into the air from the middle of the road, followed by a vivid sheet of yellow flame. The heavy cover fell with a resounding clang upon the road, doing no damage. There was a sudden rush of people from the street; one or two women screamed.
There was an expectant pause.
Nothing more happened, and presently the people ventured out into the street again. A little crowd collected. A harassed-looking policeman with a grey drawn face and dirty streaks around his eyes appeared from somewhere and stood by the open manhole.
“Move along there,” he said mechanically. “Don’t get crowding round — there’s nothing to see. Keep moving on. Come on there — keep moving. Bit o’ gas in the sewer. Nothing to worry about now. Move along, please.”
Corbett went over to the hole; the man recognized him as a police court acquaintance, and saluted. “Not so good, this,” said Corbett.
“I didn’t see it happen, sir,” said the constable. “I was around the corner, in Fishbourne Street. But there have been one or two of these this morning.”
“Did you say it was gas in the sewer?”
“Town gas from the mains, they say, sir.” He said wearily, “It’ll take a while to get things properly fixed up, after a night like what we’ve had.”
Near the Civic Centre Corbett bought a newspaper still wet from the press, and read about the war.
The war news was quite short, and made up from the news broadcasts suitably filled out by the local editor. There was an account of similar raids which had taken place in other towns, which did not interest him very much. It left him cold to hear in messages sent out from London that London had been more heavily bombed than any other town. On another page there were full details of the emergency programme of broadcasting, of academic interest only in a town where the electric wires were dead. He reflected for a minute. There was a battery set in his old yacht at Hamble, if he could get to that. But probably the batteries would be run down. He had not used it since the previous summer.
