Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  The young man shook his head despairingly. “There must be a doctor or a nurse, or someone here. I can’t get any help.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “It’s Sissie. She’s been ill all night, and she’s looking simply awful now. I must get somebody....”

  He ran off up the village street. Corbett went back on board.

  “I’d like to get away as soon as we can,” he said to Joan. “Let’s make it snappy.”

  They had a quick lunch, started up the engine, slipped the mooring, and stood away down river.

  6

  A BRIEF SHAFT of sunlight pierced the clouds as they got under way. Joan sat at the tiller, taking the vessel down the river that she knew so well; the children played around her in the cockpit. Corbett was forward in the bows, ranging cable ready for anchoring. The vessel chugged forwards towards Southampton Water under the power of her old engine.

  “Mummy,” asked Phyllis. “Are we going to Seaview to have a bathe?”

  “Not today.”

  “Are we going to have a paddle?”

  “No. We’re just going to have a lovely sail.”

  “We can have a bathe one day, can’t we, Mummy?”

  “One day,” said Joan.

  Corbett came aft to the cockpit. “Peter,” she said. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “I thought we decided on Wootton. We shan’t do any better anywhere else. Unless you’d rather go to Cowes. But there’s that fresh water lake at Wootton, which would do for washing, anyway.”

  She nodded. “That’s all right. I only wanted to know.”

  They stood down the Hamble River and out into the middle of Southampton Water. Here Joan headed the vessel up into the wind while Corbett got the mainsail up; they had worked a boat together for so many years that they had little need to talk about the jobs. He swung upon the halliard to tighten the luff; then she laid the boat off on her course towards the Solent, slacked sheet and runner, and settled down at the helm. Corbett set the jib and foresail, came aft and stopped the engine. The vessel slipped forward under sail alone, the dingy towing behind.

  Joan sighed. “It’s good to get away from Hamble,” she said. “It was beginning to get on my nerves.”

  He nodded. “I know. Still, I’ll feel better when we’re settled down in some new place.”

  She glanced up at him in surprise. “But Wootton will be all right. There won’t be any bombing there, or cholera. And there ought to be plenty of milk in the island.”

  He nodded. “It ought to be all right. I only hope there isn’t any catch in it.”

  She laid her hand upon his arm. “Don’t worry — we’ll come out all right. If it comes to the worst we can always go back to Hamble.”

  He nodded.

  Presently she said, “Did you do anything about the car?”

  “No — I just left it parked where it was. Nobody will pinch it, because there isn’t any gas. And anyway, it’s not worth pinching.”

  She sighed. “We’re leaving a good bit of our property around the countryside. First the house and all our things, and then the car.”

  He smiled. “We’ll be back home again before very long, and then we’ll have a fine time picking up the bits.”

  She said quietly, “I wonder.”

  Wootton creek lies towards the east end of the island, not very far from Ryde; a car ferry runs to it from Portsmouth. They had a fair wind but a foul tide; it was about four o’clock in the afternoon before they reached the booms marking the entrance to the channel. Here they started up the engine again and brought the vessel head into the wind, to lower the mainsail before going in.

  A speed boat of the type used from beaches in the summer for joyriding came from the creek to meet them, throwing the waves magnificently aside. There was a policeman in her and two special constables; Corbett noticed with uneasiness that there was a service rifle beside one of them.

  “Here’s trouble,” he said to Joan.

  The boat ranged up to them, lost way, and lay rocking on the water half a dozen yards away. The constable stood up and hailed them. “Where are you from?”

  “Hamble.”

  “Have you got a bill of health?”

  “No,” said Corbett. “We’ve not been abroad. We’ve come from Hamble — Hamble, near Southampton.”

  “You want a bill of health, coming from Hamble. That’s in the infected area.”

  “How long has this been in force?”

  “Thursday last. Nobody can land in the Isle of Wight without the vessel has a bill of health. I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to go back.”

  “Can I lie in Wootton for the night if I don’t go on shore?”

  “No, sir, you cannot. If you want to anchor you must go to Quarantine.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Southampton Water, just down below Hythe. You’ll see it marked with a big yellow flag. When you get there, report to the Port Sanitary Office — the launch will come out to you. Then when you’ve lain there for the statutory time, they’ll give you a clean bill of health, and you can come on here.”

  “How long will I have to stay there?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say — they’ll tell you when you get there. I did hear it was seventeen days.”

  Corbett expostulated, “But that’s absurd! I’ll get bombed to hell each night I anchor there.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but them’s my orders.”

  “Isn’t there anywhere else that I can go to to go into Quarantine?”

  “Not in the Solent, sir. Of course, you could go back to Hamble. You won’t be able to go into Portsmouth. I should go back to Hamble, if I was you.”

  There was a short silence. At last Corbett said, “All right — I’ll go back.”

  “One more thing,” said the constable. “I know you’re a responsible gentleman, sir, and you wouldn’t go doing anything silly. But I have to warn you that no landing whatsoever, under any pretext, is permitted on the Island except at Wootton, Ryde, Cowes, and Yarmouth, and then only on a bill of health. Any attempt to effect an unauthorized landing after receipt of this warning will be treated as an offence under the Defence of the Realm Act.”

  The solicitor pricked up his ears. “When did that Act come to life again?”

  “Tuesday of last week, sir.”

  “And what does all that mean, if I try to land?”

  “You might get shot at, sir. In any case, you would be liable to a maximum penalty of imprisonment for five years.”

  “I see,” said Corbett. “I don’t think I’ll try it.”

  The man smiled. “I’m sorry for your sake, sir, and the lady. But if I was you, I should go back to Hamble for the night.”

  The speedboat sheered away and went to intercept a little rowing boat. Corbett turned the vessel from the creek and stood out to sea; in silence they got up the mainsail and jib again. He laid her to the wind for the beat back to Hamble, and sheeted the mainsail home.

  Phyllis asked, “Aren’t we going to Seaview, Mummy?”

  “Not today,” said Joan quietly. “We’ll go another day.”

  Beating against the March wind, the children very soon became cold. Joan took them both below and wrapped them up in blankets in their berths with toffee to suck. Then, working under difficulties in the reeling forecastle, she heated milk over the Primus stove and gave a bottle to the baby. She came on deck after three-quarters of an hour, feeling dazed and sick, glad to take the helm up in the open air.

  Night was falling; they were about half way back to Southampton Water. From time to time a sloop or a destroyer passed them in the fairway; once three motor torpedo boats coming from Portsmouth passed them at a great speed, travelling in the direction of the Needles. Apart from these occasional ships, the Solent was completely empty; there were no liners or cargo vessels to be seen at all. The wind was cold enough, but not unbearable; they huddled in their oilskins and mufflers in the cockpit.


  Joan said, “Where are we going, Peter?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not particular. Do you want to go back to Hamble?”

  She shook her head. “It gives me the willies, now.”

  “I know. But I don’t want to go to that Quarantine anchorage — not tonight, anyway. We might not be able to get out again, once we got in. We might have to stay there, whether we liked it or not.”

  “Being bombed all the time? They couldn’t do that to us, Peter.”

  “I’m not so sure. Anyway, I don’t want to go there tonight.”

  “We could just anchor somewhere for tonight and think about it, couldn’t we?”

  He nodded. “We’d be all right anywhere on the west side of Southampton Water, in this wind. We’d be in the lee there.”

  “We’d be out of the way of the bombs there?”

  “I think so, if we didn’t go too far up.”

  They beat up to Southampton Water in the failing light. It was pitch dark when he dropped anchor in two fathoms a mile or so above Calshott. Below them the flying boats swung at their moorings; a flare path was laid out on floats upon the surface of the water. There was much going to and fro in motor boats to the aircraft at their moorings; now and again one of the machines slipped away, taxied to the end of the flare path, and roared off into the night.

  Corbett stayed for some time on deck, stowing the sails and making all secure. Then he went down into the lamplit cabin. His wife was in the forecastle, busy over a stew on the Primus stove; his children were sleeping quietly in their bunks. He had a great feeling of security, of domesticity.

  He began to lay the table for supper. “I tell you what,” he said. “If we find we’ve got to go into Quarantine, I’d rather do it in some other port. If we could get down to Weymouth, now — or even Plymouth. We might be able to do it there without being bombed all the time.”

  She did not answer.

  He asked, “What do you think about that?”

  She said, “Supper’s ready. Let’s eat this while it’s hot. We can talk about our plans afterwards.”

  They were both very hungry. Half an hour later, full gorged, Joan leaned back against the cushioned settee and blew a long cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Peter,” she said. “Where are we going to from here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we were going to the Isle of Wight. We can’t get into the Isle of Wight now unless we go into Quarantine at Southampton for a good long time, and I’m not stuck on that. You said we might sail down to Plymouth to do Quarantine. But when we’ve done it, you wouldn’t suggest that we sail back here again with our bill of health and get into the Isle of Wight?”

  He rubbed his chin in perplexity. “Seems sort of silly to do that.”

  “Do you think the Isle of Wight is a very good place to go to? I mean, it’s all right now. But with all this disease just over the water on the mainland, do you think they’ll be able to keep it out of the Island?”

  He said, “They’re making a good stab at it. But — no. I think they’ll fail.”

  “Well, then, it’s not such a good place to go to.”

  That seemed to be unanswerable.

  She said, “I mean, it’s not much good going to another place we think will be all right, and then having to turn out again in a week’s time and move on. We’re on the move now, and so far the children have kept well. I’d rather move to some place where we know we shall be safe, and get it over.”

  He nodded slowly. “I don’t know where that would be.”

  There was a silence. Presently she said, “Have they got these diseases down in Devon, or Cornwall? I mean, we might get a cottage there, somewhere.”

  “I don’t know how far the disease has spread. I think we’ve got to reckon that the whole of the south coast will be unhealthy. You see, it’s the evacuation of the towns does it ...”

  “You mean, it’ll be like Swanwick? People mucking about in cars, all over the place?”

  “It may be.”

  “It doesn’t look so good, Peter.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Let’s have a drink.”

  He poured out whiskey and lime juice for them both; they sat smoking in meditative silence. Presently he said, “There’s always Canada.”

  “I know.”

  They sat there very still, immersed in their own thoughts. Over their heads the wind sighed through the rigging of the little boat, the water lapped on the topsides. He had a married sister in Toronto.

  He said, “Monica would love to have you and the children. And we’ve got a little bit of money in Canada, too — those railway shares.”

  She said very quietly, “I know.”

  “It’s the only really safe thing for the kids.”

  For the third time she said, “I know.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “You’d come over with us, Peter?”

  He hesitated. “I think I’d have to stay and do something in the war.”

  She nodded. “I know ... I’d want to be nearer you than Canada, Peter. Toronto’s such an awfully long way off.”

  He leaned across the table, and took her hand. “You could take the kids over there, and come back again when they were settled in. Monica would have them — I know she would. Especially at a time like this.”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be fair on them,” she said slowly. “They’re too little to be left. They’d be awfully unhappy without either of us.”

  There was a long, thoughtful silence.

  “There’s no need for us to settle anything tonight,” he said at last. “Let’s sleep on it.”

  “All right.” She got up and went through into the forecastle. And then she said, “I do want to get some more water if we can, tomorrow. There’s a whole heap of the baby’s things here to be washed out.”

  He went on deck and looked around. There was still activity around the seaplanes; but for that, the night was quiet. It was heavily overcast, but no rain was actually falling. Over in the direction of Portsmouth there were searchlights playing in the sky.

  He moved back to the hatch. Joan was there, standing and looking out into the night.

  “Peter,” she said in a small voice. “If we were to go to Canada, where would we go from?”

  He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I don’t believe there are any ships at all coming to Southampton now. They must have been diverted — further west.”

  “You mean, to Plymouth or Falmouth, or somewhere like that?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “We’d sail down there, would we?”

  “I think that would be the best way to go. I don’t much fancy trying to go by land.” He turned to her. “What’s in your mind?”

  “I was thinking, it would take some time to get there. We wouldn’t be sailing for Canada at once. And something might turn up ...”

  “Of course it might. We don’t need to make our minds up yet.”

  He went below, and they turned in to bed. “I don’t know what to do about the water,” he said sleepily from his berth. “I don’t want to go back to Hamble for it.”

  “Not much,” said Joan. “They’d give us some at Yarmouth, wouldn’t they? Even if we are unclean.”

  “I don’t know. We might try.”

  They slept.

  Soon after midnight the raid began. They woke to the sharp crack of guns; there was an anti-aircraft battery located on the edge of the New Forest, not very far from them. The guns went on incessantly, monotonously; they had a sharp, piercing crack that hurt their ears. The children woke up, and began to cry.

  “Hell,” said Corbett. “Where’s that cotton wool?”

  They pressed wool into the children’s ears, and into their own. They couldn’t get any wool into the baby’s ears, so they put pads of wool on top and bound the little face round with a bandage while the child yelled and struggled. Then they had done all that they could do; for a time they lay in their
bunks listening to the detonation of the bombs.

  Presently, exhausted by the whimpering of the children and the screaming of the baby, they got up and made tea, and sat in the saloon in the darkness with the children, drinking it.

  Corbett said, “It won’t go on much longer.”

  As he spoke, there was a rushing, whistling sound, and a great splash near at hand as something heavy fell into the water. What happened then was past description. The vessel seemed to rise bodily into the air beneath them, plucking at her anchor chain with a great crack that shook her to the stern. She was lifted, and thrown bodily onto the surface of the sea on her beam ends, with a crash. In the saloon they were all flung together in a heap on the low side, stunned and deafened with the detonation. On her beam ends she was carried swiftly sideways towards the centre of the channel; then she seemed to strike the bottom with her topsides, though she had been anchored in two fathoms. Slowly she rose till she was nearly on an even keel. Then a great avalanche fell upon her, smothering her down, pressing her underneath the tumult of the sea. A ton of mud and water poured down into the saloon through the half-open hatch; she was spun bodily around. Then she rose, streaming like a half-tide rock, and drifted out towards the middle of the channel.

  Deafened and dazed, Corbett groped his way to the hatch and clambered out on deck. By some freak of chance the dinghy was still with them; sunk to the gunwales, she was still attached to the stern by her painter. The boom was trailing in the water, topping lift and mainsheet carried away. There was a tangle of loose gear at the foot of the mast that he could not stop to investigate; the glass of the cabin skylight was shattered. The anchor chain hung straight down from the bow, broken off short; the vessel was slowly rotating out into the middle of the channel. She was much lower in the water than usual; the decks were deep in slime.

  He hurried aft to the sail locker, got a line, and bent it to the kedge anchor. Then he went forward and anchored her roughly with the kedge and warp; she brought up in about six fathoms. Coming back aft, he saw that Joan was in the cockpit, working at the pump.

  “Are the children all right?”

  “I think they are. Look, take over pumping, Peter, and I’ll go and see to them. There’s over a foot of water in the cabin.”