by Nevil Shute
“I will,” he promised her. “I’m glad you were. Haven’t had such a laugh for years. I don’t like flies, either.”
On that first Sunday she worked steadily in the ice-cream parlour with Rose Sawyer from nine in the morning till ten o’clock at night. They sold a hundred and eighty-two ice-creams at a shilling each and three hundred and forty-one soft drinks at sixpence. Dead tired, Jean counted the money in the till at the end of the day. “Seventeen pounds thirteen shillings,” she said. She stared at Rose in wonder. “That doesn’t seem so bad for a town with a hundred and forty-six people, all told. How much is that a head?”
“About two and six, isn’t it?”
“Do you think it’s going to go on like this?”
“I don’t see why not. Lots of people didn’t come in today. Most of them came in two or three times. Judy must have had about ten bob’s worth.”
“She can’t keep that up,” Jean said. “She’ll be sick, and we’ll get a recession. Come on and let’s go to bed.”
She opened the ice-cream parlour after lunch on Christmas Day and took twenty pounds in the afternoon and evening. She had the gramophone from the workshop in the parlour that evening playing dance music so that the little wooden shack that was her ice-cream parlour streamed out music and light into the dark wastes of the main street, and seemed to the inhabitants just like a bit of Manly Beach dropped down in Willstown. Old, withered women that Jean had never seen before came in that night with equally old men to have an ice-cream soda, drawn by the lights and by the music. Although the parlour was still full of people she closed punctually at ten o’clock, thinking it better as a start to stick to the bar closing time and not introduce the complication of late hours and night life into a rural community.
The workshop went fairly steadily under Aggie Topp and they despatched two packing-cases of shoes to Forsayth just after Christmas to be sent by rail to Brisbane and by ship to England. She had already sent a few early samples of their work to Pack and Levy by air mail.
On Boxing Day the rain came. They had had one or two short showers before, but that day the clouds massed high in great peaks of cumulo-nimbus that spread and covered the whole sky so that it grew dark. Then down it came, a steady, vertical torrent of rain that went on and on, unending. At first the conditions became worse, with no less heat and very high humidity; in the workshops the girls sweated freely even at seventy degrees, and Aggie Topp had to postpone the finishing operations and concentrate on the earlier, less delicate stages of the manufacture of shoes.
Jean went with Joe to Midhurst for a day soon after the New Year; as usual he called for her just after dawn. This time it was a grey dawn of hot, streaming rain; she scuttled quickly from the door of her room into the cab of the utility. By that time she was getting used to being wet through to the skin, and drying, and getting wet again; the water as it fell was nearly blood temperature and the chance of a chill was slight. She said as she got into the car, “What are the creeks like, Joe?”
“Coming up,” he said. “Nothing to worry over yet.” A time would come when for a few weeks he would be unable to reach Willstown from Midhurst in the utility, and would have to ride in if they were to meet at all. He had been stocking up with foodstuffs for the homestead in the last week or two.
There were two creeks between Willstown and Midhurst, wide bottoms of sand and boulders that she knew as hot, arid places in the dry. Now they were wide streams of yellow, muddy water, rather terrifying to her. At the first one she said, “Can we get through that, Joe?”
“That’s all right,” he said. “It’s only a foot deep. You see that tree there with the overhanging branch? When that branch gets covered, at the fork, it’s a bit deep then.”
They drove the utility ploughing through the water and emerged the other side; they forded the second creek in the same way, leaping from boulder to boulder, and went on to Midhurst. They got there as usual in time for breakfast. It was still streaming rain down in a steady torrent, too wet for any outdoor activity. They set to work after breakfast to plan out the new kitchen and the toilet he had set his heart on.
In Cairns that morning, four hundred miles to the west of them, Miss Jacqueline Bacon tripped delicately down the pavement in the rain from her home to the Cairns Ambulance and Fire Station. She wore a blue raincoat and she carried an umbrella. She hurried in between the fire engines, and shook the rain from her umbrella. She said to one of the firemen on duty, “My, isn’t it wet?”
He sucked his empty pipe and stared out at the rain. “Fine weather for ducks.”
She went into her little office off the main hall where the gleaming fire engines stood and glanced at the clock; she had still three minutes to go. The room was furnished with a table and with a microphone and a writing-pad, and two tall metal cabinets of wireless gear; a set stood on the table before her pad. She turned three switches for the apparatus to warm up and took off her wet coat and her hat. Then she found her pencil and drew the pad to her, and a card with a long list of call signs and stations on it. She sat down and began her daily work.
She turned a switch on the face of the cabinet before her and said, “Eight Baker Tare, Eight Baker Tare, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Baker Tare. Eight Baker Tare, Eight Baker Tare, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Baker Tare. Eight Baker Tare, if you are receiving Eight Queen Charlie will you please come in. Over to you. Over.” She turned the switch.
From the speaker in the set before her came a woman’s voice. “Eight Queen Charlie, Eight Queen Charlie, this is Eight Baker Tare. Can you hear me, Jackie?”
Miss Bacon turned the switch and said, “Eight Baker Tare, this is Eight Queen Charlie. I’m receiving you quite well, about strength four. What’s the weather like with you, Mrs. Corbett? Over to you. Over.”
“Oh my dear,” the loudspeaker said, “it’s coming down in torrents here. We’re having a lovely rain; Jim says we’ve really got it at last. I do believe it’s getting cooler already. Over to you.”
“Eight Baker Tare,” said Miss Bacon, “this is Eight Queen Charlie. We’re having a lovely rain here, too. I have nothing for you, Mrs. Corbett, but if you should have anybody going into Georgetown will you pass word to Mrs. Cutter that her son Ronnie came up on the train from Mackay last night and he’s coming on by train to Forsayth. He’ll be there on Thursday morning, so he should be home on Thursday night. Is this Roger, Mrs. Corbett? Over to you. Over.”
The loudspeaker said, “That’s Roger, Jackie. One of the boys or Jim will be in Georgetown later on today, and I’ll see Mrs. Cutter gets that message. Over.”
“Eight Baker Tare,” said Miss Bacon, “this is Eight Queen Charlie. Roger, Mrs. Corbett. I must sign off now. Listening out. Eight Easy Victor, Eight Easy Victor, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Easy Victor. Eight Easy Victor, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Easy Victor. If you are receiving me, Mrs. Marshall, will you please come in. Over to you. Over.”
There was silence. Miss Bacon went on calling Eight Easy Victor for a minute, but Mrs. Marshall, she knew, was in the habit of feeding the hens at the time of the morning schedule and more usually came in in the evening. She made her statutory number of calls and went on to the next. “Eight Nan How, this is Eight Queen Charlie,” and repeated herself. “If you are receiving me, Eight Nan How, will you please come in. Over to you. Over.”
A man’s voice said, “Eight Queen Charlie, this is Eight Nan How. Over.”
Miss Bacon said, “Eight Nan How, this is Eight Queen Charlie. I have a telegram for you, Mr. Gosling. Have you got a pencil and paper? I can wait just one minute. Only one minute, mind. Call me when you’re ready. Over.”
She waited till he called her back, and then said, “Eight Nan How, this is Eight Queen Charlie. Your telegram is from Townsville and it reads Molly had son seven last night eight pounds four ounces both doing fine. And the signature is, Bert. Have you got that, Mr. Gosling? Over to you. Over.”
The sp
eaker said, “I got that. It’s another boy. Over.”
Miss Bacon said, “I am so glad it’s all gone off all right. Give Molly my love when you write, won’t you, Mr. Gosling? Have you got anything else for me? Over.”
The speaker said, “I’ll think out a reply to this, Jackie, and give it to you on the evening schedule. Over to you. Over.”
She said, “Okay, Mr. Gosling, I’ll take it then. Now I must sign off from you. Eight Item Yoke, Eight Item Yoke, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Item Yoke.” She went on with her work.
Twenty minutes later she was still at it. “Eight Able George, Eight Able George, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Able George. Eight Able George, if you are receiving Eight Queen Charlie will you come in now. Over.”
The answer came in a sobbing torrent of words, rather impeded by the static of three hundred miles. “Oh Jackie, I’m so glad you’ve come. We’re in such trouble here. Don’s horse came back last night. I heard the horse come in about two o’clock in the morning and I thought, that’s funny, because Don never travels at night because of the trees, you know. And then I thought, that’s funny, because there was only one horse and he had Samson with him so I got up to look and I couldn’t see the horse, my dear, so I got a torch and put my coat on and went out in the rain and, my dear, there it was, Don’s horse, Jubilee, saddled and everything, and Don wasn’t there, and I’m so frightened.” The voice dissolved into a torrent of sobs.
Miss Bacon sat motionless before the microphone, one hand on the transmitter switch, listening to the carrier wave and the low sobbing at the other end, clearly distinguishable through the static. There was nothing to be done until Helen Curtis recovered herself and remembered to switch over to Receive. She glanced quickly at the list before her; she hesitated, and then left her chair and opened the door, and called to the fireman on duty, “Fred, ring up Mr. Barnes and ask him to come down if he can. Something’s happened at Windermere.”
She went back to her chair, and now a heterodyne squeal shrilled out, drowning the sobbing as some sympathetic, foolish woman came in on the same wave saying something unintelligible. She sat patiently waiting for the air to clear; until they remembered their routines she could do nothing for them. The heterodyne stopped and Helen Curtis was still sobbing at the microphone three hundred miles away, beneath the coloured picture of the King and Queen in coronation robes and the picture of their daughter’s wedding group that stood upon the set. Then she said, “Jackie, Jackie, are you there? Oh, I forgot. Over.”
Miss Bacon turned her switch and said, “All right, Helen, this is Jackie here. Look, everybody, this is Eight Queen Charlie talking to Eight Able George. Will everybody please keep off the air and not transmit. You can stay listening in, but not transmit. I’ll call you if you can do anything. Mrs. Curtis, I’ve sent Fred to telephone to Mr. Barnes to get him to come down. Now sit down quietly and tell me what happened and I’ll take it down. Remember your routine and switch over when you want me to answer. It’s going to be all right, Helen. Just tell me quietly what happened. Over to you. Over.”
The speaker said, “Oh Jackie, it is good to hear you. I’ve got nobody here except the boongs. Dave’s on holiday and Pete’s in Normanton. What happened was this. Don went up to the Disappointment Creek part of the station three days ago and he took Samson with him and he said he’d be away two days. I wasn’t worried when they didn’t get back because the rain, you know, and I thought they’d have to go around because the creeks would be up. And then last night Don’s horse came back alone, and no sign of Samson. Samson’s our new Abo stockrider. I’ve got a very good tracker here called Johnnie Walker, and Johnnie went out at dawn to track the horse back. But he came back an hour ago and it wasn’t any good because the rain had washed the tracks out; he could only follow it about three miles and then he lost it, and now I don’t know what to do.” There was a pause, and then she said, “Oh, over.”
Miss Bacon’s pad was covered with rough notes. She turned her switch and said, “This is Jackie, Helen. Tell me, what stations are north and south of you? Over.”
“It’s Carlisle north of us, Jackie — that’s Eddie Page. It’s Midhurst to the south, and Pelican to the east. Midhurst is Joe Harman and Pelican Len Driver. I don’t think Midhurst’s got a radio, though. Over.”
Miss Bacon said, “All right Helen, I’ll call some of them. Stay listening in, because Mr. Barnes will want to speak to you when he comes. Now I’m going over to Carlisle. I have telegrams for Eight Dog Sugar and for Eight Jig William, and I will give them as soon as I’m free. Eight Charlie Peter, Eight Charlie Peter, this is Eight Queen Charlie. If you are receiving me, Eight Charlie Peter, will you come in. Over.”
She turned her switch and heard the measured tones of Eddie Page, and sighed with relief. “Eight Queen Charlie, this is Eight Charlie Peter. I heard all that Jackie. I’ve got Fred Dawson here, and we’ll get down to Windermere soon as we can. Tell Helen we’ll be with her in about four hours and see what we can do. Will you be keeping a listening watch? Over.”
She said, “That’s fine Mr. Page. We shall be on watch here till this is squared up listening every hour, from the hour till ten minutes past the hour. Is this Roger? Over.”
He said, “Okay Jackie, that’s Roger. I’ll sign off now and go and saddle up. You won’t be able to raise me any more; Olive can’t work it. Out.”
She called Pelican next, but got no answer, so she called Eight Love Mike, the Willstown Mounted Police Station, and got Sergeant Haines at once. He said, “Okay Jackie, I’ve heard all of that. I’m sending Phil Duncan and one of my trackers, and we’ll see if any of the boys can come along. I’ll see that someone goes round by Midhurst and tells Joe Harman. Tell Mr. Barnes that Constable Duncan will be at Windermere about three or four this afternoon. Your listening watch is Roger. Good girl, Jackie. Out.”
Drama or no drama, the day’s work still remained to be done. Miss Bacon said, “Eight Dog Sugar, this is Eight Queen Charlie calling Eight Dog Sugar. I have a telegram for Eight Dog Sugar. If you are receiving Eight Queen Charlie will you please come in. Over.” She went on with her work.
At Midhurst Jean was measuring up the kitchen with Joe Harman and making a plan on a writing-pad, when they heard a horse approaching about noon. It was still raining, though less fiercely than before. They went to the other side of the house and saw Pete Fletcher handing his horse over to Moonshine; he came up to the veranda. He was wearing his broad ringer’s hat and he was soaked to the skin; his boots squelched as he climbed the steps.
He said, “Did you hear the radio?”
“No. What’s that?”
“Some kind of trouble up on Windermere,” the boy said. “Don Curtis went up with an Abo ringer to the top end of his station three days ago. Now the horse is back without him.”
“Tracked the horse back?” Joe asked at once.
“Tried that, but it didn’t work. Tracks all washed out.” The boy sat down on the edge of the veranda and began taking off his boots to tip the water out of them; a little pool formed round him. “Jackie Bacon, the girl on the Cairns radio, she got the news on the morning schedule. She called Sergeant Haines, and he sent Phil Duncan to Windermere. Phil’s on his way there now, with Al Burns. I said I’d come round this way and tell you. Eddie Page is on his way to Windermere from Carlisle, with Fred Dawson.”
Joe asked, “Who was the Abo ringer he had with him?”
“Chap called Samson from the Mitchell River. He’s been with Don about a month.”
“Do they know where on the station he was going to?”
“Up by Disappointment Creek.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Joe said. “Then I know what he’s been up to.” Jean, looking at him, saw his mouth set in a hard line.
“What’s that?” asked Pete.
“He’s been at my poddys again,” said Joe. “The mugger’s got a poddy corral up there.”
“How do you know that?” asked Pete.
“Thanks, Joe,” Pete said. “I’ll tell them at Windermere.”
“Aye, you’d better. I don’t suppose Mrs. Curtis knows anything about it.”
Jean had been hesitant to break in on a discussion about things that she knew nothing of, but now she said, “How did you get to know about it, Joe?”
He turned to her. “I was up at the top end just after Christmas with Bourneville, and I thought poddys were a bit scarcer than they ought to be. So then Bourneville got to tracking and the rain hadn’t hardly begun then, so it was easy. The Cartwright River makes the station boundary just there, and we followed the tracks across and on to Windermere. Two horses there were, with a lot of poddys. We found the corral like I said, and there they were; been there two or three days. I let ’em out, of course, and drove them back. Had a cow of a job to get them past the first water, oh my word.”
Pete asked, “How many were there, Joe?”
“Forty-seven.”
“All cleanskins?”
“Oh yes,” Joe was rather shocked at the implied suggestion. “Don wouldn’t go and do a thing like that,” he said.
The boy put on his boots and got up. “What’ll you do, Joe? Come along with me?”
“I don’t think so,” Joe replied slowly. “I think I’ll get up to the top end of my station, where he got those poddys from. Maybe he’s been after some more, and had his accident up there. That’s south of the Cartwright River, and east of the new bore we made. If I can’t see any trace of him on my land, then I’ll follow the way he drove those poddys to his corral. Maybe I’ll meet you around there somewhere, tomorrow or the next day.”
