Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  “That’s all right for you,” muttered David, swallowing his. “You aren’t going broke.”

  “But I am broke,” said the Judge placidly. “I went broke a great many years ago because whenever I found myself in a hotel I spent my money, all the money that I had. So now I don’t have any. It makes life very much simpler.”

  David said thickly, “Is it going broke that hurts? When you’re down and out it doesn’t hurt any more?”

  The Judge said, “The pain comes from losing what once you had. When there is no more to lose, I find that one can live quite happily.”

  David sat in silence for a minute. Then he jerked himself awake; he was getting sleepy and there was a truck tire to be changed at Lucinda. “Roll on the next three months,” he said genially. “No more pain after that.” He got unsteadily to his feet, with the best part of half a bottle of whiskey inside him. “I must be going on.” He tripped down the steps of the verandah, miraculously stable, and found his way around the diesel semi-trailer to his jeep. The engine roared into life, tearing its heart out as he revved it up, and he drove off erratically on the track that led up to the oil rig and Lucinda. From the verandah they watched him go in silence.

  “Yon laddie’s got his skinful,” Mrs. Regan observed quietly.

  Mollie flushed. “I’ve never seen him like that before,” she said.

  “Ye’ve never seen him facing ruin before,” her mother retorted. “From what they tell me there’ll not be a sheep alive upon Lucinda come the rains.”

  Pat Regan said, “Sure, and the drink will do him good. He’s destroyed altogether with the troubles that he’s after having, and he’ll be the better now with a drop taken.”

  His wife said, “Ye should help him, Pat.”

  “Why should I be after helping him?” the old man demanded, “the way he’d go on like a man with gold coins in the bank itself until next time the rains come light as morning dew and I’d be after helping him again? No man can run four thousand sheep upon Lucinda Station, not the Holy Father himself.”

  Tom Regan made one of his rare utterances. “That’s a true word,” he said, and added lugubriously, “it’s all part of it.”

  “I think ye should help him, all the same,” their wife repeated quietly.

  “In the name of the Almighty God,” declared the old man crossly, “what for would I be after helping him, and he the son of a dastardly murdering Englishman that fought against Ireland in the Black and Tans? That sort would creep into your house in the dark night to slit your throat with the cold steel, and you sleeping like a babe in innocence, dreaming of the blessed saints in Heaven. Didn’t they murder Jack Mullavy so, and he sleeping upon sentry in the glen with the rifle and the bottle at his side? What for would I be after helping a heretic the like of him, with the Holy Mother looking down to see what I was doing, and Satan himself looking up and laughing?”

  “Please yeself,” his wife repeated, “but I think ye ought to help him.” The old man stumped off angrily down the verandah, well aware of the action of water dripping on a stone.

  That afternoon Pat Regan was down at his stockyard breaking a new horse, or rather, sitting on a rail and supervising while James Connolly did so. The half-caste had it on a long rope to the halter and tapped it with a long bamboo from time to time to make it trot steadily around the arena, while his father kept up a running commentary. He was so engaged when Mollie came to him.

  “Dad,” she said, “may I speak to you?”

  “And why not?” he replied. He made room for her, and she climbed up onto the stockyard rail beside him.

  “It’s about David Cope,” she said. “Could we do anything to help him, do you think?”

  “Well, Glory be to God!” her father said. “Why would we be after helping him against a normal sort of summer drought, girl? If it was 1939 itself, the like of which you’d go for fifty years and never seen another the way no drop of rain came down for nineteen months, then I’d say help a neighbor if ye’ve help to give. But the like of this, sure, if we help him this time he’ll be coming to us and expecting help every third year when the rain comes short.”

  “I know, Dad,” the girl said. “I would like to help him this time, though.” She hesitated. “You see, I had to be rather unkind to him. It’s not the time to be unkind to anyone when all his sheep are dying off like flies.”

  “Was he wanting to wed you?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “I had to tell him I was marrying Stan Laird.”

  “The blessed saints preserve us! Is that a reason why we’d take four thousand sheep upon the property, and they so starved they’d eat as much as bullocks?”

  “It is, if we can do it,” she said stubbornly. “I’ve been unkind to him when he’s having a bad time already. If somebody from here was kind to him for a change, it’d even things up. How many sheep would we be running now?”

  The old man sucked his lip. “Thirty-three — thirty-four thousand. It’s hard to say.”

  “Could we take his sheep and not get into trouble ourselves?” She paused. “It’s not four thousand, Dad — he’s lost about a thousand. It’s more like three thousand now.”

  He glanced at her from under his bushy red eyebrows. “Are ye still thinking of him, girl?”

  She flushed a little. “Of course not. I’m going to marry Stan. But I feel a bit as if I’ve kicked him when he’s down. Could we help him, Dad?”

  He sat in silence for a time. It was hard to refuse her, for she was the first white child that he had ever had to the best of his knowledge, and so he had taken more interest in her than in any of the others. His wife’s insistence that the children should be well educated and go to good schools had seemed irrational to him at one time, a Scotswoman’s whim that had to be indulged for peace and quiet in the house. Yet as this child grew up he had taken pride in her as quite a little lady. It was a disappointment to him that she meant to make her life nine thousand miles away, that he would seldom see her again.

  He called to his half-caste son, “James Connolly! Let the mare rest, and come on out of it.”

  The stockman tied the rope to the rail and walked over and stood below them as they sat on the high rail in the hot sun. “Listen to me, James Connolly,” the old man said. “How much feed would we be after having up at the top end, around old Number Nine bore, and way over by Fourteen and beyond?”

  “Pretty good, boss. Missa Tom was saying maybe move the mob around Six bore to old Number Nine next week.”

  “How would it be around Number Ten?”

  “Bit of feed there, Missa Pat. Not much.”

  The old man sat in thought for a minute. “Listen now,” he said at last. “We’ll drive up there tomorrow, the way I’ll see what’s going on. Get the horse truck filled up tonight, with a drum of petrol and a drum of water. Start and load my roan horse at four o’clock, with a horse for you. I’ll be after bringing tucker from the house.”

  The half-caste nodded, and went back to the young mare. The girl turned to her father. “Thank you, Dad.”

  Her father grumbled, “Ye’ll be bringing bankrupt ruin on the lot of us.”

  Three days later he drove out in the jeep alone. He passed the cemetery that housed the dead Chinaman, passed the graded road that led off to the oil rig, and went through the Bloody Gate on to Lucinda. He saw no people and no sheep as he drove on to the homestead, because there was no water on that portion of the property. It was evening when he got to the homestead and David had already left wearily for the unending job of moving sheep and troughs onto fresh ground, in the stench of rotting corpses. Pat Regan got directions from one of the gins, and drove on.

  He came to men working just before sunset. David left the trough that he was loading in the truck and came across to him. He was already exhausted, with the night’s work before him.

  The old man sat at the steering wheel of his jeep, and David stood before him. “God save ye,” said Mr. Regan. “I drove across to see if ye’d
spare me a few minutes?”

  “Spare you any time you like, Mr. Regan. I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you here, though.”

  “Ah, be easy.” The old man glanced around, at the truck, the troughs, the weary men, the emaciated sheep, the swollen, stinking corpses. One glance was sufficient, for he knew it all from his younger days before hard work and careful management had brought Laragh Station to its present state. “Ye’ll be after having strife, I’m thinking.”

  The young man flushed. He hated to have a neighbour on his land to see his sheep, his business, in this state. “We’ll be all right,” he said defensively.

  “We’d all be right and have great times if we’d no sheep,” Mr. Regan said. “Would it help ye now, to put them over on to Laragh on agistment for a while? There’s feed around our Number Fourteen bore at the top end would hold them till the rains.”

  David stared at him, incredulous, his tired brain unable to take in the offer. “How many could you take, Mr. Regan?”

  “How many would ye be after having?”

  “I think we’ve got about three thousand altogether.”

  “We could take that many.”

  David blinked uncertainly. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Regan. It’s a very kind offer, and I’d like to take you up on it at once.”

  “Ah, be easy. Ye’ve the womenfolk to thank, and they tormenting me each day till I’m destroyed entirely. Ye’d better pick a mob out of the strongest and start moving them over to my Number Two tonight. You can hold them there a day or two, and then on to my Number Seventeen, and then to Fourteen.” He ran his eye over the sheep. “Ye’ll be after needing trucks?”

  Dazed, David said, “It would be a help.”

  “I’ll be sending Joseph Plunkett over with our big truck in the morning, and James Connolly with the five-tonner. Ye’ll have to use your own men to tend them. Ye can make an outstation at Fourteen bore.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” David repeated. “I don’t know why you should do this for me.”

  “Sure, I don’t either,” said the grazier affably. “It’s crazy that I must be getting in my later years, and you the son of a black-hearted, murdering Englishman that fought old Ireland in the Troubles. I told herself, it’s crazy I must be.”

  David laughed. “Crazy or not, it’s very kind of you. Tell me, what shall I owe you for the agistment, Mr. Regan?”

  “It’s hard to set a figure on it,” said the grazier, “and the women will be tormenting me again over the money. Let you give me a case of overproof rum, and leave the rest be.”

  Eight

  BY THE END of May the oil drillers had reached a depth of about nine thousand feet, the last two thousand of which had been through shale impregnated with oil traces. They had brought no oil to the surface, however, and now it did not look as though they would do so. At the top of the shale they had found quantities of gas trapped underneath the second layer of anhydrite, but in the Lunatic this gas was singularly useless. All that they had discovered in five months of work was that there had once, in the far geologic past, been oil in that shale bed, and they had discovered with equal certainty that it was not there now.

  Stanton Laird went down to Perth for a conference at his head office. It was not a particularly depressed conference, for this was normal in the affairs of the Topeka Exploration Company. This highly profitable concern drilled, on the average, four useless wells for every one that turned out to be a good producer, but that one showed profits that would pay for a dozen of the others. Topex, in fact, were more accustomed to failure than to success; their day to day business was in drilling and abandoning dry holes, and no particular disappointment or discredit accrued to anyone for the dry hole on Laragh Station.

  They decided to abandon the venture and to investigate a new and more promising prospect in the Kimberleys. At this point, Stanton Laird put in his resignation from the company. He had already warned the Topex representative in Perth, Mr. Colin Spriggs, of his intention, and he had now but to confirm it in writing. “I guess this is it, Mr. Spriggs,” he said, in handing him the formal letter. “I kind of hate to let go of the oil business, but this opening my dad’s got for me in my home town is one a fellow just can’t pass up.”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Spriggs. “Mr. Johnson’s going to be real sorry when he sees this letter, but I’d say you’re right. Ford and Mercury are doing mighty well back home.” He glanced at the geologist, smiling. “I reckon you won’t be sorry to see the last of the Lunatic range.”

  For some queer reason that he could not understand himself the remark irritated Stanton a little; there were things he now knew about Australia that Mr. Spriggs would never understand. “It’s quite a place,” he said quietly. “But I could use a river, and the sight of snow on a mountain.”

  He went on to have lunch with Mike Regan, the accountant, on Mollie’s suggestion. He found her half-brother to be both affable and competent, and they got on well together. They discussed the matter of Mollie’s passport. “She’ll have to have a passport and a visa from the American consul,” the accountant said. “I’d better get going on that right away.” He sat in thought for a moment. “It’s just a little bit complicated, and it may take some time,” he said. “I suppose you know she’s illegitimate?”

  “She told me,” said Stanton shortly.

  “I’ll have to see how that affects her passport. She must be able to get one. She’ll have to have a birth certificate, but I don’t suppose she’s got one of those. I’m not sure that any of those children had their births registered. In the eyes of the law she’s probably not there at all.”

  “She’s there so far as I’m concerned,” said Stanton warmly.

  The accountant laughed. “Too right. Well, the first thing that I’ll have to do is to register the birth. Then we’ll see how we get on after that.”

  Stanton got back to the oil rig three or four days later. Already drilling had stopped and dismantling of the rig had commenced; the Americans did not believe in wasting time. Stanton talked for a while with Spencer Rasmussen, and then got into the jeep and went over to Laragh.

  He found Mrs. Regan and Mollie together on the verandah shelling peas; the mother made some excuse and went off to the kitchen, leaving them together. He kissed her, and then said, “Well, honey, it’s all over at the rig.”

  “All over, Stan?”

  He nodded. “Stopped drilling last night, dismantling today. We decided there’s no sense going on at this site.”

  She had known that this was coming, but that hardly softened the blow. “There isn’t going to be an oil well here at all, ever?”

  He shook his head. “Not here, honey. There’s no oil.”

  “Oh, Stan!” There would never be a town here in the Lunatic. The shops, the churches and the movie theatres, the hairdressers and the cafés and the bitumen-paved roads were all to remain mere dreams, mere disappointed hopes that might have been. The Americans were all to go away with their ice cream, their magazines, and their movies; everything would go back to what had been before. All the hopes that had been built up over the last eight months were brought to nothing. Laragh and Lucinda would go on just as they had before.

  He knew her well enough by that time to feel her disappointment. He drew her to him. “It’s too bad, hon,” he said quietly. “I know just how you feel. But you’re the only one who’s going to miss it, really. And you won’t be here. You’ll be back in the States, with me. And believe me, that’s a country doesn’t need oil to make it good.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know. But it’s awful to think there’s never going to be a town here, after all.”

  “I guess your dad and everyone at Laragh will be pretty glad about it,” he observed. “It’s going to save them scads and scads of headaches.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s right. They’re probably too old to change their ways. But it’s an awful pity, all the same.”

  He released her and they s
at down together. “I saw your brother Mike,” he said. “He’s a real nice guy; I liked him quite a lot. He’s getting to work now on your passport and your visa for the States.” He pulled a mass of coloured literature from his hip pocket. “I got these plane schedules from the airline offices.” He showed them to her, and she bent over the maps, enthralled at the strange-sounding names, Nandi, Canton Island, and Honolulu.

  “I can’t seem to take it all in, Stan,” she said at last. “I’ve never been outside Australia, you know. I thought only rich people ever went to places like Honolulu — not people like us.”

  The financing of her journey to America was, in fact, a matter of some perplexity to the Regans. It was almost thirty-five years since Tom or Pat had seen the world outside Australia or thought much about it, and over thirty-five since Mrs. Regan had left Scotland. The Judge’s knowledge was wider, for in his youth he had travelled a good deal on the Continent, and he had left England as recently as 1930, a mere twenty-five years ago. His experience, however, had been narrow, being limited in the main to literary, mountaineering, and scholastic matters. None of this experience was very pertinent to the requirements of Mollie Regan on her journey across the Pacific Ocean to the United States.

  The men discussed the matter at their storeroom forum after tea one Saturday night, as they sat around on boxes or upon the floor, leaning against racks of store goods in the light of an incandescent petrol lantern on a box. “This letter Mike was after writing to the Judge,” Pat Regan said. “It’s wanting money he is, the way he’ll take a ticket for her on the airplane with Stanton Laird. How much was it he’ll be wanting?”

  “Three hundred and thirty-six pounds, Mr. Regan.”

  “Sure, that’s the power of a lot of money,” said Tom Regan. “A power of a lot of money.”

  Pat Regan poured himself his standard measure of rum, a quarter of a bottle. “What would that be the price of, now, Judge?”