Complete Works of Nevil Shute, page 524
“Could anybody be alive up there?”
“I wouldn’t think so. It’s not quite impossible. He’d have to be living in an hermetically sealed room with all air filtered as it comes in and all food and water stored in with him some way. I wouldn’t think it practical.”
She nodded. “Is it true that Cairns is out, Dwight?”
“I think it is — Cairns and Darwin. Maybe we’ll have to go and see those, too. Maybe that’s why Peter has been drafted into Scorpion. He knows those waters.”
“Somebody was telling Daddy that they’ve got radiation sickness in Townsville now. Do you think that’s right?”
“I don’t really know — I hadn’t heard it. But I’d say it might be right. It’s south of Cairns.”
“It’s going to go on spreading down here, southwards, till it gets to us?”
“That’s what they say.”
“There never was a bomb dropped in the Southern Hemisphere,” she said angrily. “Why must it come to us? Can’t anything be done to stop it?”
He shook his head. “Not a thing. It’s the winds. It’s mighty difficult to dodge what’s carried on the wind. You just can’t do it. You’ve got to take what’s coming to you, and make the best of it.”
“I don’t understand it,” she said stubbornly. “People were saying once that no wind blows across the equator, so we’d be all right. And now it seems we aren’t all right at all. . . .”
“We’d never have been all right,” he said quietly. “Even if they’d been correct about the heavy particles — the radioactive dust — which they weren’t, we’d still have got the lightest particles carried by diffusion. We’ve got them now. The background level of the radiation here, today, is eight or nine times what it was before the war.”
“That doesn’t seem to hurt us,” she retorted. “But this dust they talk about. That’s blown about on the wind, isn’t it?”
“That’s so,” he replied. “But no wind does blow right into the Southern Hemisphere from the Northern Hemisphere. If it did we’d all be dead right now.”
“I wish we were,” she said bitterly. “It’s like waiting to be hung.”
“Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s a period of grace.”
There was a little silence after he said that. “Why is it taking so long, Dwight?” she asked at last. “Why can’t the wind blow straight and get it over?”
“It’s not so difficult to understand, really,” he said. “In each hemisphere the winds go around in great whorls, thousands of miles across, between the pole and the equator. There’s a circulatory system of winds in the Northern Hemisphere and another in the Southern Hemisphere. But what divides them isn’t the equator that you see on a globe. It’s a thing called the Pressure Equator, and that shifts north and south with the season. In January the whole of Borneo and Indonesia is in the northern system, but in July the division has shifted away up north, so that all of India and Siam, and everything that’s to the south of that, is in the southern system. So in January the northern winds carry the radioactive dust from the fall-out down into Malaya, say. Then in July that’s in the southern system, and our own winds pick it up and carry it down here. That’s the reason why it’s coming to us slowly.”
“And they can’t do anything about it?”
“Not a thing. It’s just too big a matter for mankind to tackle. We’ve just got to take it.”
“I won’t take it,” she said vehemently. “It’s not fair. No one in the Southern Hemisphere ever dropped a bomb, a hydrogen bomb or a cobalt bomb or any other sort of bomb. We had nothing to do with it. Why should we have to die because other countries nine or ten thousand miles away from us wanted to have a war? It’s so bloody unfair.”
“It’s that, all right,” he said. “But that’s the way it is.”
There was a pause, and then she said angrily, “It’s not that I’m afraid of dying, Dwight. We’ve all got to do that sometime. It’s all the things I’m going to have to miss. . . .” She turned to him in the starlight. “I’m never going to get outside Australia. All my life I’ve wanted to see the Rue de Rivoli. I suppose it’s the romantic name. It’s silly, because I suppose it’s just a street like any other street. But that’s what I’ve wanted, and I’m never going to see it. Because there isn’t any Paris now, or London, or New York.”
He smiled at her gently. “The Rue de Rivoli may still be there, with things in the shopwindows and everything. I wouldn’t know if Paris got a bomb or not. Maybe it’s all there still, just as it was, with the sun shining down the street the way you’d want to see it. That’s the way I like to think about that sort of place. It’s just that folks don’t live there any more.”
She got restlessly to her feet. “That’s not the way I wanted to see it. A city of dead people. . . . Get me another drink, Dwight.”
Still seated, he smiled up at her. “Not on your life. It’s time you went to bed.”
“Then I’ll get it for myself.” She marched angrily into the house. He heard the tinkle of glass and she came out almost immediately, a tumbler more than half full in hand with a lump of ice floating in it. “I was going home in March,” she exclaimed. “To London. It’s been arranged for years. I was to have six months in England and on the Continent, and then I was coming back through America. I’d have seen Madison Avenue. It’s so bloody unfair.”
She took a long gulp at her glass, and held it away from her in disgust. “Christ, what’s this muck I’m drinking?”
He got up and took the glass from her and smelled it. “That’s whisky,” he told her.
She took it back from him and smelled it herself. “So it is,” she said vaguely. “It’ll probably kill me, on top of brandy.” She lifted the glass of neat liquor and tossed it down, and threw the ice cube out upon the grass.
She faced him, unsteady in the starlight. “I’ll never have a family like Mary,” she muttered. “It’s so unfair. Even if you took me to bed tonight I’d never have a family, because there wouldn’t be time.” She laughed hysterically. “It’s really damn funny. Mary was afraid that you’d start bursting into tears when you saw the baby and the nappies hanging on the line. Like the squadron leader in the R.A.F. they had before.” Her words began to slur. “Keep him occ . . . occupied.” She swayed, and caught a post of the verandah. “That’s what she said. Never a dull moment. Don’t let him see the baby or perhaps . . . perhaps he’ll start crying.” The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “She never thought it might be me who’d do the crying, and not you.”
She collapsed by the verandah, head down in a torrent of tears. The submarine commander hesitated for a moment, went to touch her on the shoulder and then drew back, uncertain what to do. Finally he turned away and went into the house. He found Mary in the kitchen tidying up the mess left by the party.
“Mrs. Holmes,” he said a little diffidently. “Maybe you could step outside and take a look at Miss Davidson. She just drank a full glass of neat whisky on top of brandy. I think she might want somebody to put her to bed.”
2
INFANTS TAKE NO account of Sundays or of midnight parties; by six o’clock next morning the Holmes were up and doing and Peter was on the road pedalling his bicycle with the trailer attached to fetch the milk and cream. He stayed with the farmer for a while discussing the axle for the new trailer, and the towbar, and making a few sketches for the mechanic to work from. “I’ve got to report for duty tomorrow,” he said. “This is the last time that I’ll be coming over for the milk.”
“That’ll be right,” said Mr. Paul. “Leave it to me. Tuesdays and Saturdays. I’ll see Mrs. Holmes gets the milk and cream.”
He got back to his house at about eight o’clock; he shaved and had a shower, dressed, and began to help Mary with the breakfast. Commander Towers put in an appearance at about a quarter to nine with a fresh, scrubbed look about him. “That was a nice party that you had last night,” he said. “I don’t know when I enjoyed one so much.”
His host said, “There are some very pleasant people living just round here.” He glanced at his captain and grinned. “Sorry about Moira. She doesn’t usually pass out like that.”
“It was the whisky. She isn’t up yet?”
“I wouldn’t expect to see her just yet. I heard someone being sick at about two in the morning. I take it that it wasn’t you?”
The American laughed. “No sir.”
The breakfast came upon the table, and the three of them sat down. “Like another swim this morning?” Peter asked his guest. “It looks like being another hot day.”
The American hesitated. “I rather like to go to church on Sunday morning. It’s what we do at home. Would there be a Church of England church around here anyplace?”
Mary said, “It’s just down the hill. Only about three-quarters of a mile away. The service is at eleven o’clock.”
“I might take a walk down there. Would that fit in with what you’re doing, though?”
Peter said, “Of course, sir. I don’t think I’ll come with you. I’ve got a good bit to sort out here before I join in Scorpion.”
The captain nodded. “Sure. I’ll be back here in time for lunch, and then I’ll have to get back to the ship. I’d like to take a train around three o’clock.”
He walked down to the church in the warm sunlight. He left plenty of time so that he was a quarter of an hour early for the service, but he went in. The sidesman gave him a prayer book and a hymn book, and he chose a seat towards the back, because the order of the service was still strange to him and from there he could see when other people knelt, and when they stood. He said the conventional prayer that he had been taught in childhood and then he sat back, looking around. The little church was very like the church in his own town, in Mystic, Connecticut. It even smelled the same.
That girl Moira Davidson certainly was all mixed up. She drank too much, but some people never could accept things as they were. She was a nice kid, though. He thought Sharon would like her.
In the tranquillity of the church he set himself to think about his family, and to visualize them. He was, essentially, a very simple man. He would be going back to them in September, home from his travels. He would see them all again in less than nine months’ time. They must not feel when he rejoined them, that he was out of touch, or that he had forgotten things that were important in their lives. Junior must have grown quite a bit; kids did at that age. He had probably outgrown the coonskin cap and outfit, mentally and physically. It was time he had a fishing rod, a little Fiberglas spinning rod, and learned to use it. It would be fun teaching Junior to fish. His birthday was July the 10th. Dwight couldn’t send the rod for his birthday, and probably he couldn’t take it with him, though that would be worth trying. Perhaps he could get one over there.
Helen’s birthday was April the 17th; she would be six then. Again, he’d miss her birthday unless something happened to Scorpion. He must remember to tell her he was sorry, and he must think of something to take her between now and September. Sharon would explain to her on the day, would tell her that Daddy was away at sea, but he’d be coming home before the winter and he’d bring his present then. Sharon would make it all right with Helen.
He sat there thinking of his family throughout the service, kneeling when other people knelt and standing when they stood. From time to time he roused himself to take part in the simple and uncomplicated words of a hymn, but for the rest of the time he was lost in a daydream of his family and of his home. He walked out of the church at the end of the service mentally refreshed. Outside the church he knew nobody and nobody knew him; the vicar smiled at him uncertainly in the porch and he smiled back, and then he was strolling back uphill in the warm sunlight, his head now full of Scorpion, the supplies, and the many chores he had to do, the many checks he had to make, before he took her to sea.
At the house he found Mary and Moira Davidson sitting in deck chairs on the verandah, the baby in its pram beside them. Mary got up from her chair as he walked up to them. “You look hot,” she said. “Take off your coat and come and sit down in the shade. You found the church all right?”
“Why, yes,” he said. He took his coat off and sat down on the edge of the verandah. “You’ve got a mighty fine congregation,” he observed. “There wasn’t a seat vacant.”
“It wasn’t always like that,” she said drily. “Let me get you a drink.”
“I’d like something soft,” he said. He eyed their glasses. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
Miss Davidson replied, “Lime juice and water. All right, don’t say it.”
He laughed. “I’d like one of those, too.” Mary went off to get it for him, and he turned to the girl. “Did you get any breakfast this morning?”
“Half a banana and a small brandy,” she said equably. “I wasn’t very well.”
“It was the whisky,” he said. “That was the mistake you made.”
“One of them,” she replied. “I don’t remember anything after talking to you on the lawn, after the party. Did you put me to bed?”
He shook his head. “I thought that was Mrs. Holmes’ job.”
She smiled faintly. “You missed an opportunity. I must remember to thank Mary.”
“I should do that. She’s a mighty nice person, Mrs. Holmes.”
“She says you’re going back to Williamstown this afternoon. Can’t you stay and have another bathe?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got a lot to do on board before tomorrow. We go to sea this week. There’s probably a flock of messages on my desk.”
“I suppose you’re the sort of person who works very hard, all the time, whether you’ve got to or not.”
He laughed. “I suppose I must be.” He glanced at her. “Do you do any work?”
“Of course. I’m a very busy woman.”
“What do you work at?”
She lifted her glass. “This. What I’ve been doing ever since I met you yesterday.”
He grinned. “You find that the routine gets tedious, sometimes?”
“Life gets tedious,” she quoted. “Not sometimes. All the time.”
He nodded. “I’m lucky, having plenty to do.”
She glanced at him. “Can I come and see your submarine next week?”
He laughed, thinking of the mass of work there was to do on board. “No, you can’t. We go to sea next week.” And then, because that seemed ungracious, he said, “You interested in submarines?”
“Not really,” she said a little listlessly. “I kind of thought I’d like to see it, but not if it’s a bother.”
“I’d be glad to show it to you,” he told her. “But not next week. I’d like it if you’d come down and have lunch with me one day when things are quiet and we’re not dashing around like scalded cats. A quiet day, when I could show you everything. And then maybe we could go up to the city and have dinner someplace.”
“That sounds good,” she said. “When will that be, so that I can look forward to it?”
He thought for a moment. “I couldn’t say right now. I’ll be reporting a state of operational readiness around the end of this coming week, and I’d think they’d send us off on the first cruise within a day or so. After that we ought to have a spell in the dockyard before going off again.”
“This first cruise — that’s the one up to Port Moresby?”
“That’s right. I’ll try to fit it in before we go away on that, but I couldn’t guarantee it. If you’ll give me your telephone I’ll call you around Friday and let you know.”
“Berwick 8641,” she said. He wrote it down. “Before ten o’clock is the best time to ring. I’m almost always out in the evening.”
He nodded. “That’ll be fine. It’s possible we’ll still be at sea on Friday. It might be Saturday before I call. But I will call, Miss Davidson.”
She smiled. “Moira’s the name, Dwight.”
He laughed. “Okay.”
She drove him to the station in the buggy after lunch, being herself on her way home to Berwick. As he got down in the station yard she said, “Good-bye, Dwight. Don’t work too hard.” And then she said, “Sorry I made such a fool of myself last night.”
He grinned. “Mixing drinks, that’s what does it. Let that be a lesson to you.”
She laughed harshly. “Nothing’s a lesson to me, ever. I’ll probably do that again tomorrow night, and the night after.”
“It’s your body,” he said equably.
“That’s the trouble,” she replied. “Mine, and nobody else’s. If anybody else became involved it might be different, but there’s no time for that. Too bad.”
He nodded. “I’ll be seeing you.”
“You really will?”
“Why, sure,” he said. “I’ll call you like I said.”
He travelled back to Williamstown in the electric train, while she drove twenty miles to her country home. She got there at about six o’clock, unharnessed the mare and put her in the stable. Her father came to help her, and together they pushed the buggy into the garage shed beside the unused Customline, gave the mare a bucket of water and a feed of oats, and went into the house. Her mother was sitting in the screened verandah, sewing.
“Hullo, dear,” she said. “Did you have a nice time?”
“All right,” the girl replied. “Peter and Mary threw a party last night. Quite good fun. Knocked me back a bit, though.”
Her mother sighed a little, but she had learned that it was no use to protest. “You must go to bed early tonight,” she said. “You’ve had so many late nights recently.”
“I think I will.”
“What was the American like?”
“He’s nice. Very quiet and navy.”
“Was he married?”
“I didn’t ask him. I should think he must have been.”
“What did you do?”
The girl repressed her irritation at the catechism; Ma was like that, and there was now too little time to spend it in quarrelling. “We went sailing in the afternoon.” She settled down to tell her mother most of what had happened during the week-end, repressing the bit about her bra and much of what had happened at the party.
