by Nevil Shute
“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 aeroplane 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?”
The accountant was accustomed to his employer’s methods of assessment in matters of finance. “That would be about thirty-five drums of petrol,” he said.
Pat Regan paused with the drink in his hand, the other hand upon the gin bottle of cold water from the refrigerator. “Thirty-five drums? Sure, that’s no great matter at all. I mind the times we’ve used twenty drums in two weeks, trucking to the coast.”
“It’s a power of a lot of money,” repeated Tom.
“Sure, it’s nothing at all to spend upon the girl, and her going to be wed. How much would a Land Rover cost now, Judge?”
“I am not very sure,” said the accountant. “I think it would be about three times that amount, though.”
Pat Regan turned to his brother. “What was I after telling you? A third of a Land Rover, ’tis nothing at all.” He shot down his rum and followed it with a chaser of cold water. “Thirty-three per cent,” he said academically. “Thirty-three per cent of a Land Rover. Sure, and it wouldn’t be so much as that of a Rolls Royce. ’Tis nothing at all, I tell ye.”
“It’s a power of a lot of money,” Tom repeated gloomily. “But there, it’s all a part of it.”
Pat turned to the accountant. “Tell me now, would that be for her to go there, or to go and come back if she wants to?”
At that time of night the Judge required notice of that question. He stumbled slowly to his feet. “I will see if I can find the letter, Mr. Regan.”
He lifted the petrol lantern from the box and crossed to the high, Uriah Heep desk where the correspondence of the station was kept till time had marched on and it could be burned, a ceremony which took place once a year. He fumbled to put on his spectacles, fumbled till he found the letter, and read it slowly through. “That is the single fare, Mr. Regan,” he said at last. “That is the price of the tickets to go from here to this place Hazel in America. Not to return.”
“And how much would it cost to come back if she took a thought to? Would that be the same, now?”
“I think it would,” said the accountant. “There might be a small reduction if she took a return ticket before she went.”
“To go and come would be two-thirds of a Land Rover? ’Tis nothing at all.”
“There’s a true word,” said Tom, a little surprisingly. “What would you be after doing with two-thirds of a Land Rover if ye had it? Sure, it would be no value without the other third.” He gave the matter some deep thought. “Six hundred and seventy-two pounds,” he said at last. “’Tis the power of a lot of money to be giving to a child. Ye’ll have us in black ruin, begging in the streets of Perth for bread to fill our empty stomachs, if ye scatter money like that.”
Pat Regan was a little alarmed. “God save us, Tom,” he said. He turned to the Judge. “Tell me now, how much money would we be having in the bank?”
The Judge, who had just sat down, got painfully to his feet again, took the lantern, and went back to the desk. He found the black folder of bank statements, put on his spectacles again, and turned the pages slowly till he found the last one. He read the figure at the bottom of the page. “One hundred and ninety-eight thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two pounds, nineteen shillings and fivepence,” he said slowly. “That was at the first of last month.”
“And how much of that would we be owing, for petrol and the like of that?”
The Judge flapped his hands a little helplessly. “I find it difficult to guess, Mr. Regan. Perhaps the outstanding invoices might total about five hundred pounds.”
Tom said, “We’ll have the income tax to pay, the seven curses on it.”
“We paid this year’s income tax last month,” the Judge said. He peered at the page. “It’s down here as having been paid. Thirty-eight thousand and twenty-two pounds, four shillings and ninepence.”
The men sat trying to unravel these figures. Pat Regan reached out for the bottle. “Tell us in plain language, now. How much money would we be after having to spend?”
“About one hundred and ninety-eight thousand pounds, Mr. Regan.”
“What would that be the price of, now?”
The Judge cast about in his bemused mind for a comparison, rejecting with regret the Restoration Fund of Dunchester Cathedral, the only sum of a like magnitude that had ever come his way. “You paid just under seven thousand pounds for the big diesel truck,” he said. He searched for a pencil and began a difficult sum in long division.
“Sure, that’s a lovely truck,” said Tom Regan thoughtfully. “A lovely, lovely truck.”
The Judge finished his arithmetic. “I think that makes twenty-eight,” he said a little uncertainly.
“We could buy twenty-eight trucks the like of that?” asked Tom. “Sure, ye could do the power of a lot of trucking with twenty-eight big lovely trucks the like of that.”
“Come on out of it, and sit ye down after your labours,” said Pat to the Judge. “Give yeself a drink out of the bottle. Wait now—fetch another bottle while you’re on your feet.” And when that was adjusted he said, “Tell me now, Judge. If Mollie went with Stan Laird to America and then got setting down to think she’d have no part of it, ’twould only be a little piece of the money would be needed for her to come home? A little piece, the way a man would never notice it was gone?”
“That is quite correct, Mr. Regan. You can pay her fares each way without worrying about it at all.”
Pat turned to his brother. “What was I after telling you? ’Tis no matter at all.”
“I’m thinking that it’s not the end of it,” Tom said. “Sure, you’d not send the girl out into the great world to live with strangers, and her with not a penny piece to rub between her fingers in the pocket of her dress? It’s new clothes she’ll be needing, and new shoes, and a pound or two for spending money. It’s all part of it,” he added gloomily.
This was a new angle on this difficult matter. Pat turned, as always, to the Judge for help. “Tell me now, what would things the like of that be after costing?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Regan. I think Mrs. Regan might be able to tell you more what she would want.”
Pat Regan poured another rum in his perplexity. “There’s many would be looking at her in America itself, and her coming as a stranger from Australia. I’m thinking she should not go in a torn dress, or else maybe with a hole showing at the heel of her stocking.” He paused in thought. “She should have money for her spending, too, the way she’ll not be asking any
one for anything till she gets wed. Would ye think now, Judge, we could spare the value of a truck for spending money? Sure, and we’d have twenty-seven of them left to work with.”
“That would mean giving her seven thousand pounds for spending money, Mr. Regan. That would be about the value of seven Land Rovers. I really think perhaps that might be a little excessive for a young girl.”
Tom Regan said, “Ye might as well trust a murdering Black and Tan as trust a woman with money. She’ll have you destroyed entirely, and you not knowing what hit you.” He paused, gloomily. “It’s all a part of it.”
The Judge said, “If I might make a suggestion, Mr. Regan, I should give her a return ticket so that if she decided that she wanted to come home she could get on to the aeroplane without having to ask for help from anybody in America. And then for spending money and for clothes, I would think about five hundred pounds. That would be about fifty drums of petrol.”
Pat Regan nodded slowly. “I mind a dress I bought for Mrs. Regan two years back cost thirty-five shillings in Carnarvon, good enough for a Cardinal to buy in the Holy City itself. Sure, a girl could buy the power of a lot of clothes for fifty barrels of petrol.”
The Judge said, “There will be other things besides clothes, Mr. Regan. She will have to pay hotel bills on her journey, and other little expenses such as that. But I think that if you give her five hundred pounds she should be able to put up a good appearance in America and not be short of money.”
Pat Regan struggled slowly to his feet. “I’m thinking that you’re in the right, judge,” he said. “And now I’m off to my bed. Will ye write to Michael in the morning, and say that’s what she’s to have for clothes and money in her pocket.”
A week later Mollie and Mrs. Regan travelled down to Perth together. They went in the little-used Humber, the hens and droppings having been removed from it by the Countess and the car dusted out. James Connolly drove them out to Onslow to fly down to Perth. Mike Regan met them at the Guildford airport with his wife Sylvia, and they drove to the very pleasant house off Bellevue Terrace where the Regans lived, looking out over the Swan River. It was a better house than so young a couple would normally be able to afford, for a small fraction of the profits of Laragh Station was devoted to helping the many children at the outset of their lives. In the case of Mike, however, his early success had removed him from the list the year before.
Mollie and her mother stayed in Perth for a week, getting a birth certificate, getting a passport, getting an American visa, and buying clothes and luggage. They left Perth in a rainstorm to return to Laragh about the middle of June. It had been raining at Onslow and throughout the country in their absence; when James Connolly came to meet them at the aerodrome he came in their old Army truck with four-wheel drive and he brought with him a suitcase full of khaki slacks and shirts for them to change into, thoughtfully packed for them by the Countess. For two days they wallowed and splashed their way into the Lunatic from the coast, staying for a night at Malvern Station on the way.
It rained steadily from Malvern to Laragh. As they approached Mannahill they passed the place where Mollie and Stanton Laird had found the jackeroo, but already after a few days’ rain the country was very different. The dry creek where they had dug for water only six weeks before was running now from bank to bank, over a foot deep as they splashed through it in the truck. Mollie pointed it out to her mother and to James Connolly, but it was difficult even for her to realise it was the same place. Already in the hot and humid conditions spears of bright green grass were showing, covering the damp red earth with a thin film of green. She knew it all, but each year it came as a fresh surprise.
“The feed’s coming again,” she said. “I wonder if David’s got it like this on Lucinda yet?”
“It’s a dry country, that,” her mother said. “There should be feed there before long. He’ll be taking his sheep back on to his own place then.”
“I’m glad Daddy did that for him,” the girl said. “I’d have felt awful, going away, if we hadn’t.”
“It’s a poor, starved place, Lucinda,” said her mother. “A good laddie on a poor station. I doubt he’ll stay long, after this experience.”
Stanton Laird came over to Laragh the first afternoon after they got back. Spencer Rasmussen and many of the men had already departed to other ventures, and Stanton was in charge at the oil rig, or what remained of it. “I guess there’s not much left there to see now,” he said. “The derrick’s down ’n dismantled for transport and most of the other gear, I’d say it would be quite a while before it can be got away, though, on account of the roads. They tell me that we won’t be able to bring heavy trucks in before September.”
Mollie asked, “Will you have to wait so long as that, Stan?”
He shook his head. “I can go now most any time I like. How’re you fixed, honey?”
“I can go any time, Stan. I’d rather go soon, now that I’ve got everything.”
“What say I write Mike, and see if he can get us reservations leaving Perth July 4th? That’s a Monday. Be in Sydney Tuesday, leave on Wednesday and get to Honolulu Wednesday. That’s a day later, but you cross the date line ’n it all goes haywire. Stay two days in Honolulu, ’n go on to Portland by Northwest on Saturday. Maybe my folks might drive over to meet us there, but anyway we’d be in Hazel Sunday.”
“That sounds beaut,” she said. “Why do we stay in Honolulu for two days, though?”
“Kind of a nice place,” he said, “and quite a ways from home, so you don’t get to see it very often. Time we get there you’ll have been travelling the best part of a week after leaving here. I thought maybe you’d like to stop off there, so’s you’d be fresh and rested before meeting my folks.”
She smiled at him. “You think of everything.”
“That’s what I’m here for, honey.”
After that the days passed very quickly for Mollie. Sorting clothes, mending, packing, weighing luggage, unpacking, packing again, telegraphing to Michael Regan, consulting Stan Laird: these things filled every minute of her day. Laragh Station was thrown into a turmoil and the men made themselves scarce. In the middle of all this David Cope took his sheep back on to his own property, where new feed was now beginning to appear. It took him a week of hard work in the intermittent rain, but they got back on to Lucinda in considerably better shape than when they had left. He came over next day to thank Pat Regan for the help, which he did rather awkwardly, in the wool shed.
“Be easy,” said the grazier, “and don’t think on it. I mind the days when we first come here or soon after that, in 1929 maybe, we started off with eleven thousand sheep before the dry, and finished with three thousand and they not worth a shilling each. It’s all a part of it, as Tom says, but sure, it comes good if ye keep on at it.”
The boy said, “Did that really happen, Mr. Regan—here on Laragh Station?”
“God save us! It’s many the time we’d have no stomach for our dinner for the stench of the dead sheep, and many the month when we’d eat sheep meat only with a little bread, the way we’d have no money to buy stores. Sure, and we all go through it, but the blessed saints walk with us and it comes good in the end.”
David Cope went thoughtfully to the homestead. Mollie was busy ironing dresses, for she was to leave in three days’ time, but she came out to him in the verandah. “I just looked in to thank your father for the agistment, and to say good-bye,” he said a little awkwardly.
“That’s very sweet of you, David,” she said. “Got all your mob back on Lucinda now?”
He nodded. “That’s right. I’d have been sunk but for your father’s help. As it is, we’ve only lost about a thousand.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. “You’ll make that up and more next year.”
“Unless we get another drought,” he said a little wryly. And then he said, “Your father told me he only did it because you and your mother kept on plaguing him.”
She flushed a little. “Nonsen
se,” she said. “He’d have done it anyway. He just uses that as an excuse.”
He smiled. “Anyway, I’m very grateful to whoever thought of it,” he said.
There was a little pause.
“You’re going away this week?” he asked.
She nodded. “On Friday. It’s quite a long way. It’s going to take us a week to get to Stan’s home, even flying all the way.”
There was nothing more to say, really. “Well, the very best of luck,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again.”
“Oh yes, we shall,” she said. “You know, I’m beginning to hate the thought of leaving the Lunatic for ever. It’s going to be marvellous in America, but I shall want to come back here for a visit every five years. When I come back you’ll be on your feet, I expect. No more agistments.”
He smiled. “Maybe.” And then he said, “I brought you over a book as a wedding present. I’ve got it in the jeep.”
“Oh, David, how kind of you! What is it?”
“I’ll go and get it.” He went out to the jeep and fetched the parcel, and returned and put it in her hands. “That’s for you both,” he said, “with the best of luck.”
She tore the paper off. “A Shropshire Lad,” she read. She opened it. “It’s all poems, is it?”
He nodded. “I like it quite a lot.” She turned to the flyleaf, and saw that he had written, “For Mollie and Stanton, with every good wish from David Cope.”
She fingered it appreciatively. “Stan will love this. You know, this is our first wedding present, our very first.”
He smiled. “Fine. Well, I’ll have to be getting along, Mollie. There’s quite a bit to do over at Lucinda now we’ve got the mob back.”
“Won’t you stay and see Stan, David, and show him this? He’ll be over this afternoon.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could, but I think I’ll get on.” He hesitated, and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Mollie.”
