by Nevil Shute
Judy in the showroom at Great Portland Street, dressed to kill, looking younger and more attractive than ever. Judy wanting to lunch at the Savoy so that she could be seen, and offering to pay: Judy and Herbert Schiner, actor manager. The desolating sense of being out of things.
Judy with a leading part in Lucky Lady, musical, seventy pounds a week. Judy taking on a nurse and moving with her mother to a flat in Hampstead. Judy with her name in lights in Leicester Square.
Judy.
The air-minded Jew clothier at Streatham, prepared to buy an Avro to do seaside joy-riding if I would fly it for him. Three pounds a week and twenty per cent of the takings after expenses were paid. The joy of the chance to get flying again. The trouble with Judy.
Judy offering me seven pounds a week as her publicity manager.
The quarrel with Judy.
The success of Lucky Lady.
Judy.
The Avro with its blipping, Monosoupape engine, purchased for scrap price, seventy pounds. The one ground engineer and the one boy. The tent beside it, on the beaches, in the fields. The aged Commer truck, the Primus stove, the frying-pan meals. The placards with my picture on them, the dare-devil ace, the eleven victories, the Military Cross. The warm-hearted little Jew from Streatham, delighted with the success of his first venture into show business. The one visit from Judy, half an hour, her lip curled a little.
Judy Lester, in Lucky Lady.
Judy.
The crowds, the blipping engine, the smell of castor oil, the ceaseless take-offs and landings over hedges in small fields, the seven-minute flights, the gaping crowds, the endless photographs in front of the machine.
Judy with a Hollywood contract, reading about it in the Daily Mirror in the tent in a wet field on a wet day. Telephoning Judy.
Judy.
Judy leaving for America, with her mother and the baby and the nurse. The stilted good-bye at Waterloo station, the sense of being out of place in the theatrical crowd to see her off. The knowledge then that we might never meet again.
The warm-hearted little clothier at Streatham. ‘You forget her, see? She got no use for you. She come to a bad end, boy. You just wait.’
Judy.
The second Avro, and the second pilot, the third engineer.
The film of Lucky Lady.
The letter from the lawyer at Reno, Nevada, telling me that Judy Pascoe (Lichter) was suing for divorce citing desertion, asking if I intended to contest the suit.
Judy.
I woke in the darkness in the little windswept house beside the aerodrome in Tasmania. My face and Johnnie Pascoe’s pillow were all wet with tears.
4
In the ordinary way I never have bad dreams or any dreams at all; I had not cried since I was a boy. I was ashamed of myself, and I was struck by the grim idea that this was a new manifestation of fatigue. All pilots must grow old like other men; when the fatigues of flying start to bear too heavily upon them it shows at the next medical examination. I was not an old man and I had kept myself pretty fit, but bad dreams and crying were probably a warning.
I got out of bed and went into the other room. It was about nine o’clock; I had slept for about four hours. I must sleep again, but now I was restless and awake. The fire was still glowing in the hearth; I poked the logs together and threw on more wood. The wind was still high, but the rain seemed to have stopped. I thought about Sheila, and crossed to the telephone and put in a call to my home at Essendon.
They told me that the call would be through in a few minutes, so I put: down the receiver, went back to the bedroom, and put on Johnnie Pascoe’s dressing gown. He seemed to use it a good deal, for there was a packet of cigarettes in the pocket, open, with a few still left in it, and a box of matches in the pocket on the other side. I lit one of his cigarettes and went and stood before the fire, waiting for the call. I glanced at the photographs of Judy. Since I had slept she had become very real to me, far more than a monochrome image on a fading bit of sensitised paper. I knew the way she turned her head, the feel of her against me. I could have picked out her voice amongst a hundred others on a gramophone record. My imagination had been running wild in my dreams, and that was not a very good thing. When a pilot gets to a certain age, I thought, he should begin to live a very regular sort of a life – get up at the same time, go to bed at the same time, work at the same time each day. If you did that, you could go on flying for a long, long time, as Johnnie Pascoe had. If you didn’t, you would fail a medical at forty-five, and that would be the end. I had departed from my regularity in the last day or two, and I had received the warning. Still, nobody knew of it but me.
The telephone rang, and there was Sheila. ‘Evening, dear,’ I said. ‘I just rang to say it’s okay over here. How are things with you?’
‘We’re fine here,’ she said. ‘How are things with you, Ronnie?’
‘I made two trips down there this morning with the doctor, in an Auster,’ I said. ‘It’s a shocking little strip, and I couldn’t land him either time. The second time it clamped right down.’
‘It said on the wireless that the R.A.A.F. had sent a Lincoln down to Hobart with a parachute doctor and a parachute nurse,’ she remarked.
‘I believe they have,’ I replied. ‘They may be able to get in for a drop tomorrow, but I wouldn’t bank on it. They’ll have to have clear weather for the drop. There are some pretty high mountains round about, up to about four thousand feet.’
‘They could jump above the clouds, couldn’t they?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if it was clear for a few hundred feet underneath?’
‘I don’t believe they’d do that,’ I said. ‘It’s too close to the sea. And the country’s quite uninhabited you know, and very wild. I don’t think that would be a reasonable risk. No, if it was like that I think we could do better in the Auster. Come in low over the sea and nip in underneath the clouds.’
‘How is he now?’ she asked. ‘Johnnie Pascoe?’
‘I haven’t heard for the last few hours,’ I told her. ‘I’ve been asleep since five. I’m going to ring the police station in a minute and find out what the form is. He’s got a fractured skull, and that’s not quite so good.’
She said, ‘Oh, the poor man …’ And then she asked, ‘How is the child? The one that’s got appendicitis?’
‘She seems to be recovering. The urgent case is Johnnie Pascoe now.’
‘I know.’ There was a pause, and then she said, ‘Don’t go and take too many risks, Ronnie.’
I laughed. ‘I won’t do that.’ We had been married for twelve years, and I knew what she was thinking. One day Ronnie Clarke might be in the same boat, and want help from another pilot. ‘I’m going to have another stab at it at dawn if the conditions are at all possible. One or other of us should be able to get in to him tomorrow, one way or another.’
‘When do you think you’ll be able to ring me again?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I’m hoping to be home tomorrow night. If I can’t make it, I’ll ring you tomorrow evening.’
‘All right, dear,’ she said. ‘Good luck.’
‘My love to the kids,’ I said. ‘And you. Good-bye for now.’
I rang off, and lit another of Johnnie Pascoe’s cigarettes while the line was clearing. Then I picked up the receiver again and rang the police station. The sergeant answered. ‘Captain Clarke here,’ I said. ‘Speaking from Captain Pascoe’s house. I’ve been asleep. Tell me, what’s the latest on the weather?’
The sergeant said, ‘Well, the wind’s dropping, so they say. I’ve not noticed it here – blowing as hard as ever. They don’t think there’ll be any more rain for the time being.’
‘What about the cloud?’
‘Continuing low cloud all day tomorrow. They think there might be a break tomorrow evening, and a fine night.’
‘What about Captain Pascoe?’
‘He’s still alive, but he’s worse. Deteriorating, you might say.’
‘Where’s Dr Parkinson?’<
br />
‘He’s at the hotel, with his pilot. If I may say so, Dr Turnbull is the one you want.’
‘Why? Dr Parkinson flew up here specially to do this job.’
‘I know. But now he’s here, he don’t seem so keen on it, somehow. Dr Turnbull, he’s roaring to go.’
I laughed shortly. ‘I thought I’d have given him a sickener of flying.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ the sergeant said. ‘He was telling them what you’d been doing in the hotel. It’s Dr Turnbull wants to go with you again. He’s got a nurse, too.’
‘A nurse?’ I thought very quickly. A nurse was what the doctor had wanted with him for a head operation. If he had found one now … well, the Auster would seat three people, though she would be more heavily loaded, less easy to handle in extreme conditions. Still, if there was a nurse it was clearly up to me to take her in with the doctor. ‘Where did he get a nurse from?’
‘She arrived about seven o’clock. Friend of Captain Pascoe, or something. She’s a qualified hospital nurse all right. Works at the Alexandra Hospital, in Melbourne.’
‘Just a moment,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a woman called Mrs Forbes, is it? A middle-aged woman, from Adelaide?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Mrs Forbes, she came this morning. She’s staying at the hotel. This is a younger woman, a Sister Dawson. Under thirty, I’d say.’
I thought for a minute. ‘Look, Sergeant,’ I said at last. ‘I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, but I want to go down to the Lewis River again at dawn if the weather’s anything like fit, taking the doctor with me, and this nurse. If I can’t land them, I’ll come back and wait an hour or two, and try again. It’s the only way – we’ve got to keep on trying. The doctor’s on the telephone, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘He lives at the vicarage. The number is two six, Mr Haynes. You’d get him there now, unless he’s out upon a case.’
‘How can I get hold of the nurse?’
‘I think she’s with the doctor. Mrs Haynes was going to give her supper.’
‘I’ll ring them in a minute. How can I get hold of Mr Monkhouse, the ground engineer?’
‘He isn’t on the telephone. I could send a message over, ask him to come down to see you.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m just going back to bed …’ I thought for a moment. ‘Look, it starts to get light about seven. Tell him I want the Auster refuelled and ready to take off at six o’clock in the morning. I’ll be down at the hangar then. If it’s a reasonable night I’ll take off in the dark and get down to the Lewis River about dawn, with the doctor and the nurse with me. Tell him I shall want a few kerosene flares out on the aerodrome for the take-off – he’ll know what’s wanted.’
The sergeant said, ‘You want everything ready to fly at six o’clock, kerosene flares, and everything. I’ll take that message over myself.’
‘Thanks a lot, Sergeant. If you’re speaking to Hobart again, see if they can get me any sort of Met report by half past five. And tell them to warn Mrs Hoskins at the Lewis River I’ll be down again soon after dawn.’
‘Will you be speaking to Dr Parkinson, sir?’
I hesitated. ‘I suppose I ought to. But you say he doesn’t want to do this job?’
The sergeant hesitated in turn. ‘Well, I don’t know anything officially.’
‘Tell me what you know unofficially,’ I said. ‘Is it that he doesn’t want to fly with me?’
The sergeant laughed awkwardly. ‘Well, that’s about the strength of it, I’m afraid. I was off duty after dinner, after you come back, and I went into the hotel to meet these gentlemen and have a beer. While I was with them, Dr Turnbull, he came in and told them about the first flight you made when he couldn’t get out of the door, and about the second time when you was messing about in the rain in among the cliffs and running out of petrol. Dr Parkinson and his pilot, they got quite upset at what he told them. Of course,’ he added hurriedly, ‘Dr Turnbull, he wouldn’t know what was safe and what wasn’t.’
‘What did Dr Turnbull think about it all?’ I asked.
‘He come out on your side,’ the sergeant said. ‘Dr Parkinson, he said as he’d prefer to fly with Mr Barnes, that flew him up from Hobart. Dr Turnbull, he turned round and told them what he thought. Said he’d fly with you again. Said it was reasonable to take a chance when somebody was dying, and anyway you’d brought him back safe and sound, not once, but twice. The two doctors had a proper dust-up there in the hotel. All very quiet and polite, you know. But very awkward.’
I thought about it for a minute. ‘We’ll have to take turns with this Auster,’ I said at last. ‘I shan’t speak to Dr Parkinson tonight. If that’s the way he feels about it, he certainly won’t want to take off in bad weather in a single-engined aircraft in the dark to fly down the coast without any navigation aids, and no alternative strips to land on. If you should see him again tonight tell him what we’re doing, and that we’ll be back by breakfast time if we can’t make it. Phil Barnes can have the Auster then and have another stab at it with Dr Parkinson in daylight, while we’re resting. That way we’ll have another doctor and another pilot trying to get through. We’ll take it in turns all day tomorrow.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ the sergeant said. ‘Real tactful, I would say. If I don’t see you before you go, sir, the very best of luck.’
I rang off, and stood thoughtful for a minute while the line cleared. His first experience of flying seemed to have done Dr Turnbull a bit of good.
I rang two six, and Mrs Haynes answered the phone. I waited while she fetched the doctor from upstairs, and then I told him what I wanted to do. ‘It’s going to be a bit early in the morning, and it’s going to be a bit dicey in a single-engined aircraft in the dark over that sort of country,’ I told him. ‘But as I understand it, it’s getting really urgent now.’
‘I think it is,’ he said. ‘It sounds like sepsis to me.’
‘Could you do anything for that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, if I could get down there I could lift some of the damaged bone and do something about it,’ he said. ‘That’s quite a normal procedure. Whether he’d recover ultimately – well, that’s another matter.’
‘Would you mind flying down so early as that?’ I asked. ‘We’d have to fly without the cabin door again.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ he replied. ‘I think we ought to. There’s just one thing, though. I’ve got a nurse here now, a proper nurse experienced in surgery. Could we take her with us?’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘The sergeant told me about her. There’s room for her in the aircraft, in the seat behind. The only thing is, she’ll have to get out in the same way that you do. If there’s a strong wind I’ll try and hold the aircraft stationary on the ground for a short time like we did this morning, so that you can get out. Then I’d probably have to take off again and cruise around while she changes into your seat, and then come in and put her out in the same way. Do you think she could do that?’
‘I think she could.’
‘What sort of a woman is she?’ I asked. ‘Is she active and athletic?’
‘She’s here with me now,’ he replied. ‘We’ve been talking about this already. She’s quite ready to try it. I think she’ll be all right.’
‘She’d better not wear skirts,’ I said. ‘Can you fit her out with a pair of trousers? Trousers without turn-ups at the bottom?’
‘I can borrow a pair of ski-ing trousers for her.’
‘That’s just the thing. Get her some ski boots, too – something to support the ankle. No high-heeled shoes.’
‘I’ll look after that.’
‘Fine. Tell me, how did you get hold of her?’
‘She just turned up to see if she could help. She knows Captain Pascoe. She worked for a year as an air hostess for AusCan, flying between Sydney and Vancouver. She met him then. Then she went back to the hospital.’
‘Well, she couldn’t have turned up at a better t
ime.’
‘One thing,’ he said. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble finding somewhere for her to sleep tonight. The hotel’s full, and we’re full up here. Have you got a spare bed in Captain Pascoe’s house if I bring her down?’
‘There is a bed,’ I said, ‘and it’s got a mattress on it, but no bedclothes and no pillows, and it’s all a bit dirty. She’s welcome to that, but you’ll have to rustle up some bedclothes for her.’
He thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got a sleeping bag,’ he said. ‘I think she’d better use that. You don’t mind if she sleeps in the house with you?’
‘Not if she doesn’t.’
‘It’ll make it a bit more convenient for getting out early in the morning if she’s there with you,’ he said. ‘She’s just going to have supper. Be all right if I bring her down in about an hour?’
I hesitated. ‘That’ll be all right,’ I said at last. ‘I’m sleeping in Johnnie Pascoe’s room, and I’m going back to bed now. That’s the room on the left as you go into the passage from the living room. She’ll be sleeping in the room on the right – I’ll leave the door open. The thing is – it’s rather important that I should be on the top line tomorrow morning and I want to get a really good night’s sleep. I’m going to take a Nembutal. When you come in, try not to make a noise.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a Nembutal, have you? I can let you have one if you haven’t.’
‘No, I’ve got all I want,’ I said. ‘Just try not to wake me up when you come in. I’m setting an alarm clock for five o’clock, and I’d like to sleep through till then.’
I rang off, and stood for a moment looking round the room. I was wakeful and thirsty, and the thought of another whisky crossed my mind. Alcohol, however, is a stimulant and might not be a very good thing to take if one wanted the hypnotic drug to work. A glass of milk would be better, and I went through to the kitchen and found milk in the refrigerator, and came back to the living room with a glass of ice-cold milk and a couple of biscuits.