by Nevil Shute
“I’d rather have it your way, if you don’t mind,” Peter replied. “Seven orangeades.”
“Seven it is,” said the captain nonchalantly. The steward went away. “Some navies have it one way and some another,” he remarked. “I never noticed that it made much difference in the end result.”
They lunched in Sydney, a dozen officers at one end of one of the long, empty tables. Then they went down into Scorpion, moored alongside. She was the biggest submarine that Peter Holmes had ever seen; she displaced about six thousand tons and her atomic-powered turbines developed well over ten thousand horsepower. Besides her eleven officers she carried a crew of about seventy petty officers and enlisted men. All these men messed and slept amongst a maze of pipes and wiring as is common in all submarines, but she was well equipped for the tropics with good air conditioning and a very large cold store. Peter Holmes was no submariner and could not judge her from a technical point of view, but the captain told him that she was easy on controls and quite manoeuvrable in spite of her great length.
Most of her armament and warlike stores had been taken off her during her refit, and all but two of her torpedo tubes had been removed. This made more room for mess decks and amenities than is usual in a submarine, and the removal of the aft tubes and torpedo stowage made conditions in the engine room a good deal easier for the engineers. Peter spent an hour in this part of the ship with the engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Lundgren. He had never served in an atomic-powered ship, and as much of the equipment was classified for security a great deal of it was novel to him. He spent some time absorbing the general layout of the liquid sodium circuit to take heat from the reactor, the various heat exchangers, and the closed cycle helium circuits for the twin high-speed turbines that drove the ship through the enormous reduction gears, so much larger and more sensitive than the other units of the power plant.
He came back to the captain’s tiny cabin in the end. Commander Towers rang for the coloured steward, ordered coffee for two, and let down the folding seat for Peter. “Have a good look at the engines?” he asked.
The Australian nodded. “I’m not an engineer,” he said. “Much of it is just a bit over my head, but it was very interesting. Do they give you much trouble?”
The captain shook his head. “They never have so far. There’s nothing much that you can do with them at sea if they do. Just keep your fingers crossed and hope they’ll keep on spinning around.”
The coffee came and they sipped it in silence. “My orders are to report to you on Tuesday,” Peter said. “What time would you like me here, sir?”
“We sail on Tuesday on sea trials,” the captain said. “It might be Wednesday, but I don’t think we’ll be so late as that. We’re taking on stores Monday and the crew come aboard.”
“I’d better report to you on Monday, then,” said the Australian. “Some time in the forenoon?”
“That might be a good thing,” said the captain. “I think we’ll get away by Tuesday noon. I told the admiral I’d like to take a little cruise in Bass Strait as a shakedown, and come back maybe on Friday and report operational readiness. I’d say if you’re on board any time Monday forenoon that would be okay.”
“Is there anything that I can do for you in the meantime? I’d come aboard on Saturday if I could help at all.”
“I appreciate that, Commander, but there’s not a thing. Half the crew are off on leave right now, and I’m letting the other half go off on week-end pass tomorrow noon. There’ll be nobody here Saturday and Sunday barring one officer and six men on watch. No, Monday forenoon will be time enough for you.”
He glanced at Peter. “Anybody tell you what they want us to do?”
The Australian was surprised. “Haven’t they told you, sir?”
The American laughed. “Not a thing. I’d say the last person to hear the sailing orders is the captain.”
“The Second Naval Member sent for me about this posting,” Peter said. “He told me that you were making a cruise to Cairns, Port Moresby, and Darwin, and that it was going to take eleven days.”
“Your Captain Nixon in the Operations Division, he asked me how long that would take,” the captain remarked. “I haven’t had it as an order yet.”
“The admiral said, this morning, that after that was over there’d be a much longer cruise, that would take about two months.”
Commander Towers paused, motionless, his cup suspended in mid-air. “That’s news to me,” he remarked. “Did he say where we were going?”
Peter shook his head. “He just said it would take about two months.”
There was a short silence. Then the American roused himself and smiled. “I guess if you look in around midnight you’ll find me drawing radiuses on the chart,” he said quietly. “And tomorrow night, and the night after that.”
It seemed better to the Australian to turn the conversation to a lighter tone. “Aren’t you going away for the week-end?” he asked.
The captain shook his head. “I’ll stick around. Maybe go up to the city one day and take in a movie.”
It seemed a dreary sort of programme for his week-end, a stranger far from home in a strange land. On the impulse Peter said, “Would you care to come down to Falmouth for a couple of nights, sir? We’ve got a spare bedroom. We’ve been spending most of our time at the sailing club this weather, swimming and sailing. My wife would like it if you could come.”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” the captain said thoughtfully. He took another drink of coffee while he considered the proposal. Northern Hemisphere people seldom mixed well, now, with people of the Southern Hemisphere. Too much lay between them, too great a difference of experience. The intolerable sympathy made a barrier. He knew that very well, and more, he knew that this Australian officer must know it in spite of his invitation. In the line of duty, however, he felt that he would like to know more about the liaison officer. If he had to communicate through him with the Australian naval command he would like to know what sort of man he was; that was a point in favour of this visit to his home. The change would certainly be some relief from the vile inactivity that had tormented him in the last months; however great the awkwardness, it might be better than a week-end in the echoing, empty aircraft carrier with only his own thoughts and memories for company.
He smiled faintly as he put his cup down. It might be awkward if he went down there, but it could be even more awkward if he churlishly refused an invitation kindly meant from his new officer. “You sure it wouldn’t be too much for your wife?” he asked. “With a young baby?”
Peter shook his head. “She’d like it,” he said. “Make a bit of a change for her. She doesn’t see many new faces, with things as they are. Of course, the baby makes a tie as well.”
“I certainly would like to come down for one night,” the American said. “I’ll have to stick around here tomorrow, but I could use a swim on Saturday. It’s a long time since I had a swim. How would it be if I came down to Falmouth on the train Saturday morning? I’ll have to be back here on Sunday.”
“I’ll meet you at the station.” They discussed trains for a little. Then Peter asked, “Can you ride a push bike?” The other nodded. “I’ll bring another bike down with me to the station. We live about two miles out.”
Commander Towers said, “That’ll be fine.” The red Oldsmobile was fading to a dream. It was only fifteen months since he had driven it to the airport, but now he could hardly remember what the instrument panel looked like or on which side the seat adjustment lever lay. It must be still in the garage of his Connecticut home, untouched perhaps, with all the other things that he had schooled himself not to think about. One had to live in the new world and do one’s best, forgetting about the old; now it was push bikes at the railway station in Australia.
Peter left to catch the ferry truck back to the Navy Department; he picked up his letter of appointment and his wheels, and took the tram to the station. He got back to Falmouth at about six o’clock, hu
ng the wheels awkwardly on the handle-bars of his bicycle, took off his jacket, and trudged the pedals heavily up the hill to his home. He got there half an hour later sweating profusely in the heat of the evening, to find Mary cool in a summer frock in the refreshing murmur of a sprinkler on the lawn.
She came to meet him. “Oh Peter, you’re so hot!” she said. “I see you got the wheels.”
He nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t get down to the beach.”
“I guessed you’d been held up. We came home about half-past five. What happened about the appointment?”
“It’s a long story,” he said. He parked the bicycle and the wheels on the verandah. “I’d like to have a shower first, and tell you then.”
“Good or bad?” she asked.
“Good,” he replied. “Seagoing until April. Nothing after that.”
“Oh Peter,” she cried, “that’s just perfect! Go on and have your shower and tell me about it when you’re cool. I’ll bring out the deck chairs and there’s a bottle of beer in the frig.”
A quarter of an hour later, cool in an open-necked shirt and light drill trousers, sitting in the shade with the cold beer, he told her all about it. In the end he asked, “Have you ever met Commander Towers?”
She shook her head. “Jane Freeman met them all at the party in Sydney. She said he was rather nice. What’s he going to be like to serve under?”
“All right, I think,” he replied. “He’s very competent. It’s going to be a bit strange at first, in an American ship. But I liked them all, I must say.” He laughed. “I put up a blue right away by ordering a pink gin.” He told her.
She nodded. “That’s what Jane said. They drink on shore but not in a ship. I don’t believe they drink in uniform at all. They had some kind of a fruit cocktail, rather dismal. Everybody else was drinking like a fish.”
“I asked him down for the week-end,” he told her. “He’s coming down on Saturday morning.”
She stared at him in consternation. “Not Commander Towers?”
He nodded. “I felt I had to ask him. He’ll be all right.”
“Oh . . . Peter, he won’t be. They’re never all right. It’s much too painful for them, coming into people’s homes.”
He tried to reassure her. “He’s different. He’s a good bit older, for one thing. Honestly, he’ll be quite all right.”
“That’s what you thought about that R.A.F. squadron leader,” she retorted. “You know — I forget his name. The one who cried.”
He did not care to be reminded of that evening. “I know it’s difficult for them,” he said. “Coming into someone’s home, with the baby and everything. But honestly, this chap won’t be like that.”
She resigned herself to the inevitable. “How long is he staying for?”
“Only the one night,” he told her. “He says he’s got to be back in Scorpion on Sunday.”
“If it’s only for one night it shouldn’t be too bad. . . .” She sat in thought for a minute, frowning a little. “The thing is, we’ll have to find him plenty to do. Keep him occupied all the time. Never a dull moment. That’s the mistake we made with that R.A.F. bloke. What does he like doing?”
“Swimming,” he told her. “He wants to have a swim.”
“Sailing? There’s a race on Saturday.”
“I didn’t ask him. I should think he sails. He’s the sort of man who would.”
She took a drink of beer. “We could take him to the movies,” she said thoughtfully.
“What’s on?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, so long as we keep him occupied.”
“It might not be so good if it was about America,” he pointed out. “We might just hit on one that was shot in his home town.”
She stared at him in consternation. “Wouldn’t that be awful! Where is his home town, Peter? What part of America?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he said. “I didn’t ask him.”
“Oh dear. We’ll have to do something with him in the evening, Peter. I should think a British picture would be safest, but there may not be one on.”
“We could have a party,” he suggested.
“We’ll have to, if there’s not a British picture. It might be better, anyway.” She sat in thought, and then she asked, “Was he married, do you know?”
“I don’t. I should think he must have been.”
“I believe Moira Davidson would come and help us out,” she said thoughtfully. “If she isn’t doing anything else.”
“If she isn’t drunk,” he observed.
“She’s not like that all the time,” his wife replied. “She’d keep the party lively, anyway.”
He considered the proposal. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “I should tell her right out what she’s got to do. Never a dull moment.” He paused, thoughtful. “In bed or out of it.”
“She doesn’t, you know. It’s all on the surface.”
He grinned. “Have it your own way.”
They rang Moira Davidson that evening and put the proposition to her. “Peter felt he had to ask him,” Mary told her. “I mean, he’s his new captain. But you know how they are and how they feel when they come into someone’s home, with children and a smell of nappies and a feeding bottle in a saucepan of warm water and all that sort of thing. So we thought we’d clean the house up a bit and put all that away, and try and give him a gay time — all the time, you know. The trouble is, I can’t do much myself with Jennifer. Could you come and help us out, dear? I’m afraid it means a camp bed in the lounge or out on the verandah, if you’d rather. It’s just for Saturday and Sunday. Keep him occupied, all the time — that’s what we thought. Never a dull moment. I thought we’d have a party on Saturday night, and get some people in.”
“Sounds a bit dreary,” said Miss Davidson. “Tell me, is he a fearful stick? Will he start weeping in my arms and telling me I’m just like his late wife? Some of them do that.”
“I suppose he might,” said Mary uncertainly. “I’ve never met him. Half a minute while I ask Peter.” She came back to the telephone. “Moira? Peter says he’ll probably start knocking you about when he gets a skinful.”
“That’s better,” said Miss Davidson. “All right, I’ll come over on Saturday morning. By the way, I’ve given up gin.”
“Given up gin?”
“Rots your insides. Perforates the intestine and gives you ulcers. I’ve been having them each morning, so I’ve given it away. It’s brandy now. About six bottles, I should think — for the week-end. You can drink a lot of brandy.”
On Saturday morning Peter Holmes rode down to Falmouth station on his push bike. He met Moira Davidson there. She was a slightly built girl with straight blonde hair and a white face, the daughter of a grazier with a small property at a place called Harkaway near Berwick. She arrived at the station in a very smart four-wheeled trap, snatched from some junk yard and reconditioned at considerable expense a year before, with a good-looking, high-spirited grey mare between the shafts. She was wearing slacks of the brightest red and a shirt of the same colour, with lips, fingernails, and toenails to match. She waved to Peter, who went to the horse’s head, got down from her outfit, and tied the reins loosely to a rail where once the passengers had stood in line before boarding the bus. “Morning, Peter,” she said. “Boy friend not turned up?”
“He’ll be on this train coming now,” he said. “What time did you leave home?” She had driven twenty miles to Falmouth.
“Eight o’clock. Ghastly.”
“You’ve had breakfast?”
She nodded. “Brandy. I’m going to have another one before I get up in that jinker again.”
He was concerned for her. “Haven’t you had anything to eat?”
“Eat? Bacon and eggs and all that muck? My dear child, the Symes had a party last night. I’d have sicked it up.”
They turned to walk together to meet the train. “What time did you get to bed?” he asked.
“About half-pa
st two.”
“I don’t know how you can keep it up. I couldn’t.”
“I can. I can keep it up as long as I’ve got to, and that’s not so long now. I mean, why waste time in sleeping?” She laughed, a little shrilly. “Just doesn’t make sense.”
He did not reply because she was quite right, only it wasn’t his own way. They stood and waited till the train came in, and met Commander Towers on the platform. He came in civilian clothes, a light grey jacket and fawn drill trousers, slightly American in cut, so that he stood out as a stranger in the crowd.
Peter Holmes made the introductions. As they walked down the ramp from the platforms the American said, “I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years. I’ll probably fall off.”
“We’re doing better for you than that,” Peter said. “Moira’s got her jinker here.”
The other wrinkled his brows. “I didn’t get that.”
“Sports car,” the girl said. “Jaguar XK.140. Thunderbird to you, I suppose. New model, only one horsepower, but she does a good eight miles an hour on the flat. Christ, I want a drink!”
They came to the jinker with the grey standing in the shafts; she went to untie the reins. The American stood back and looked it over, gleaming in the sun and very smart. “Say,” he exclaimed, “this is quite a buggy you’ve got!”
Moira stood back and laughed. “A buggy! That’s the word for it. It’s a buggy, isn’t it? All right, Peter — that’s not dirty. And anyway, it is. We’ve got a Customline sitting in the garage, Commander Towers, but I didn’t bring that. It’s a buggy. Come on and get up into it, and I’ll step on it and show you how she goes.”
“I’ve got my bike here, sir,” Peter said. “I’ll ride that up and meet you at the house.”
Commander Towers climbed up into the buggy and the girl got up beside him; she took the whip and turned the grey and trotted up the road behind the bicycle. “One thing I’m going to do before we leave town,” she told her companion, “and that’s have a drink. Peter’s a dear, and Mary too, but they don’t drink enough. Mary says it gives the baby colic. I hope you don’t mind. You can have a Coke or something if you’d rather.”
