The Death of Grass

by John Christopher

  John got hold of Roger.

  He asked him: ‘What’s the news at your end?’

  ‘Oddly enough, very good.’

  John said: ‘My lawn’s full of it. I started cutting-out operations but then I saw that all the grass in the district’s got it.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ Roger said. ‘A warm putrefying shade of brown. The penalties for failing to cut out infected grasses are being rescinded, by the way.’

  ‘What’s the good news, then? It looks grim enough to me.’

  ‘The papers will be carrying it tomorrow. The Bureau UNESCO set up claim they’ve got the answer. They’ve bred a virus that feeds on Chung-Li – all phases.’

  John said: ‘It comes at what might otherwise have been a decidedly awkward moment. You don’t think…?’

  Roger smiled. ‘It was the first thing I did think. But the bulletin announcing it has been signed by a gang of people, including some who wouldn’t falsify the results of a minor experiment to save their aged parents from the stake. It’s genuine, all right.’

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ John said slowly. ‘I don’t like to think what would have happened this summer otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t mind thinking about it,’ Roger said. ‘It was participation I was anxious to avoid.’

  ‘I was wondering about sending the children back to school. I suppose it’s all right now.’

  ‘Better there, I should think,’ Roger said. ‘There are bound to be shortages, because they will hardly be able to get the new virus going on a large enough scale to do much about saving this year’s harvest. London will feel the pinch more than most places, probably.’

  The UNESCO report was given the fullest publicity, and the Government at the same time issued its own appraisal of the situation. The United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand all held grain stocks and were all prepared to impose rationing on their own populations with a view to making these stocks last over the immediate period of shortage. In Britain, a similar but more severe rationing of grain products and meat was introduced.

  Once again the atmosphere lightened. The combination of news of an answer to the virus and news of the imposition of rationing produced an effect both bracing and hopeful. When a letter came from David, its tone appeared almost ludicrously out of key.

  He wrote:

  ‘There isn’t a blade of grass left in the valley. I killed the last of the cows yesterday – I understand that someone in London had the sense to arrange for an extension of refrigeration space during last winter, but it won’t be enough to cope with the beef that will be coming under the knife in the next few weeks. I’m salting mine. Even if things go right, it will be years before this country knows what meat is again – or milk, or cheese.

  ‘And I wish I could believe that things are going to go right. It’s not that I disbelieve this report – I know the reputation of the people who have signed it – but reports don’t seem to mean very much when I can look out and see black instead of green.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re welcome any time you decide to pack your things up and come. I’m not really bothered about the valley. We can live on root crops and pork – I’m keeping the pigs going because they’re the only animal I know that might thrive on a diet of potatoes. We’ll manage very well here. It’s the land outside I’m worried about.’

  John threw the letter across to Ann and went to look out of the window of the sitting-room. Ann frowned as she read it.

  ‘He’s still taking it all terribly seriously, isn’t he?’ she asked.

  ‘Evidently.’

  John looked out at what had been the lawn and was now a patch of brown earth speckled with occasional weeds. Already it had become familiar.

  ‘You don’t think,’ Ann said, ‘living up there with only the Hillens and the farm men… it’s a pity he never married.’

  ‘He’s going off his rocker, you mean? He’s not the only pessimist about the virus.’

  ‘This bit at the end,’ Ann said. She quoted:

  ‘In a way, I think I feel it would be more right for the virus to win, anyway. For years now, we’ve treated the land as though it were a piggy-bank, to be raided. And the land, after all, is life itself.’

  John said: ‘We’re cushioned – we never did see a great deal of grass, so not seeing any doesn’t make much difference. It’s bound to have a more striking effect in the country.’

  ‘But it’s almost as though he wants the virus to win.’

  ‘The countryman always has disliked and mistrusted the townsman. He sees him as a gaping mouth on top of a lazy body. I suppose most farmers would be happy enough to see the urban dweller take a small tumble. Only this tumble, if it were taken, would be anything but small. I don’t think David wants Chung-Li to beat us, though. He’s just got it on his mind.’

  Ann was silent for a while. John looked round at her. She was staring at the blank screen of the television set, with David’s letter tightly held in one hand.

  ‘It may be he’s getting a bit of a worriter in his old age. Bachelor farmers often do.’

  Ann said: ‘This idea – of Roger warning us if things go wrong so that we can all travel north – is it still on?’

  John said curiously: ‘Yes, of course. Though it hardly seems pressing now.’

  ‘Can we rely on him?’

  ‘Don’t you think so? Even if he were willing to take chances with our lives, do you think he would with his own – and with Olivia’s, and Steve’s?’

  ‘I suppose not. It’s just…’

  ‘If there were going to be trouble, we shouldn’t need Roger’s warning, anyway. We should see it coming, a mile off.’

  Ann said: ‘I was thinking about the children.’

  ‘They’ll be all right. Davey even likes the tinned hamburger the Americans are sending us.’

  Ann smiled. ‘Yes, we’ve always got the tinned hamburger to fall back on, I suppose.’

  They went down to the sea as usual with the Buckleys when the children came back for the summer half-term holiday. It was a strange journey through a land showing only the desolate bareness of virus-choked ground, interspersed with fields where the abandoned grain crops had been replaced by roots. But the roads themselves were as thronged with traffic, and it was as difficult as ever to find a not too crowded patch of coast.

  The weather was warm, but the air was dark with clouds that continually threatened rain. They did not go far from the caravan.

  Their halting-place was on a spur of high ground, looking down to the shingle, and giving a wide view of the Channel. Davey and Steve showed a great interest in the traffic on the sea; there was a fleet of small vessels a couple of miles off shore.

  ‘Fishing smacks,’ Roger explained. ‘To make up for the meat we haven’t got, because there isn’t any grass for the cows.’

  ‘And rationed from Monday,’ Olivia said. ‘Fancy – fish rationed!’

  ‘It was about time,’ Ann commented. ‘The prices were getting ridiculous.’

  ‘The smooth mechanism of the British national economy continues to mesh with silent efficiency,’ Roger said. ‘They told us that we were different from the Asiatics, and by God they were right! The belt tightens notch by notch, and no one complains.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be much point in complaining, would there?’ Ann asked.

  John said: ‘It’s rather different now that the ultimate prospects are fairly good. I don’t know how calm and collected we should be if they weren’t.’

  Mary, who had been drying herself in the caravan after a bathe, looked out of the window at them.

  ‘The fishcakes at school always used to be a tin of anchovies to twenty pounds of potatoes – now it’s more like a tin to two hundred pounds. What are the ultimate prospects of that, Daddy?’

  ‘Potato-cakes,’ John said, ‘and the empty tin circulating along the tables for you all to have a sniff. Very nourishing too.’

  Davey said: ‘Well, I don’t see why they’ve rationed sweets.
You don’t get sweets out of grass, do you?’

  ‘Too many people had started to fill up on them,’ John told him. ‘You included. Now you’re confined to your own ration, and what Mary doesn’t get of your mother’s and mine. Contemplate your good fortune. You might be an orphan.’

  ‘Well, how long’s the rationing going to go on?’

  ‘A few years yet, so you’d better get used to it.’

  ‘It’s a swindle,’ Davey said, ‘– rationing, without even the excitement of there being a war on.’

  The children went back to school, and for the rest, life continued as usual. At one time, soon after they had made their pact, John had made a point of telephoning Roger whenever two or three days went by without their meeting, but now he did not bother.

  Food rationing tightened gradually, but there was enough food to stay the actual pangs of hunger. There was news that in some other countries similarly situated, food riots had taken place, notably in the countries bordering the Mediterranean. London reacted smugly to this, contrasting that indiscipline with its own patient and orderly queues for goods in short supply.

  ‘Yet again,’ a correspondent wrote to the Daily Telegraph, ‘it falls to the British peoples to set an example to the world in the staunch and steadfast bearing of their misfortunes. Things may grow darker yet, but that patience and fortitude is something we know will not fail.’

  5

  John had gone down to the site of their new building, which was rising on the edge of the City. Trouble had developed on the tower-crane, and everything was held up as a result. His presence was not strictly required, but he had been responsible for the selection of a crane, which was of a type they had not used previously, and he wanted to be on the spot.

  He was actually in the cabin of the crane, looking down into the building’s foundations, when he saw Roger waving to him from the ground. He waved back, and Roger’s gestures changed to a beckoning that even from that height could be recognized as imperative.

  He turned to the mechanic who was working beside him. ‘How’s she coming now?’

  ‘Bit better. Clear it this morning, I reckon.’

  ‘I’ll be back later on.’

  Roger was waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder.

  John said: ‘Dropped in to see what kind of a mess we were in?’

  Roger did not smile. He glanced round the busy levels of the site.

  ‘Anywhere we can talk privately?’

  John shrugged. ‘I could clear the manager out of his cubby-hole. But there’s a little pub just across the road, which would be better.’

  ‘Anywhere you like. But right away. O.K.?’

  Roger’s face was as mild and relaxed as ever, but his voice was sharp and urgent. They went across the road together. ‘The Grapes’ had a small private bar which was not much used and now, at eleven-thirty, was empty.

  John got double whiskies for them both and brought them to the table, in the corner farthest from the bar, where Roger was sitting. He asked:

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘We’ve got to move,’ Roger said. He had a drink of whisky. ‘The balloon’s up.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The bastards!’ Roger said. ‘The bloody murdering bastards. We aren’t like the Asiatics. We’re true-blue Englishmen and we play cricket.’

  His anger, bitter and savage, with nothing feigned in it, brought home to John the awareness of crisis. He said sharply:

  ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

  Roger finished his drink. The barmaid passed through their section of the bar and he called for two more doubles. When he had got them, he said:

  ‘First things first – game, set, and match to Chung-Li. We’ve lost.’

  ‘What about the counter-virus?’

  ‘Funny things, viruses,’ Roger said. ‘They stand in time’s eye like principalities and powers, only on a shorter scale. All-conquering for a century, or for three or four months, and then – washed out. You don’t often get a Rome, holding its power for half a millennium.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The Chung-Li virus is a Rome. If the counter-virus had been even a France or a Spain it would have been all right. But it was only a Sweden. It still exists, but in the mild and modified form that viruses usually relapse into. It won’t touch Chung-Li.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘God knows. Some time ago. They managed to keep it quiet while they were trying to re-breed the virulent strain.’

  ‘They’ve not abandoned the attempt, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose not. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Surely it matters.’

  ‘For the last month,’ Roger said, ‘this country has been living on current supplies of food, with less than half a week’s stocks behind us. In fact, we’ve been relying absolutely on the food ships from America and the Commonwealth. I knew this before, but I didn’t think it important. The food has been pledged to us.’

  The barmaid returned and began to polish the bar counter; she was whistling a popular song. Roger dropped his voice.

  ‘My mistake was pardonable, I think. In normal circumstances the pledges would have been honoured. Too much of the world had vanished into barbarism already; people were willing to make some sacrifices to save the rest.

  ‘But charity still begins at home. That’s why I said it doesn’t matter whether they do succeed in getting the counter-virus back in shape. The fact is that the people who’ve got the food don’t believe they will. And as a result, they want to make sure they aren’t giving away stuff they will need themselves next winter. The last food-ship from the other side of the Atlantic docked at Liverpool yesterday. There may be some still on the seas from Australasia, and they may or may not be recalled home before they reach us.’

  John said: ‘I see.’ He looked at Roger. ‘Is that what you meant about murdering bastards? But they do have to look after their own people. It’s hard on us…’

  ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant. I told you I had a pipeline up to the top. It was Haggerty, the P.M.’s secretary. I did him a good turn a few years ago. He’s done me a damn sight better turn in giving me the lowdown on what’s happening.

  ‘Everything’s been at top-Governmental level. Our people knew what was going to happen a week ago. They’ve been trying to get the food-suppliers to change their minds – and hoping for a miracle, I suppose. But all they did get was secrecy – an undertaking that they would not be embarrassed in any steps they thought necessary for internal control by the news being spread round the world. That suited everybody’s book – the people across the ocean will have some measures of their own to take before the news breaks – not comparable with ours, of course, but best-prepared undisturbed.’

  ‘And our measures?’ John asked. ‘What are they?’

  ‘The Government fell yesterday. Welling has taken over, but Lucas is still in the Cabinet. It’s very much a palace revolution. Lucas doesn’t want the blood on his hands – that’s all.’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘These islands hold about fifty-four million people. About forty-five million of them live in England. If a third of that number could be supported on a diet of roots, we should be doing well. The only difficulty is – how do you select the survivors?’

  John said grimly: ‘I should have thought it was obvious – they select themselves.’

  ‘It’s a wasteful method, and destructive of good order and discipline. We’ve taken our discipline fairly lightly in this country, but its roots run deep. It’s always likely to rise in a crisis.’

  ‘Welling –’ John said, ‘I’ve never cared for the sound of him.’

  ‘The time throws up the man. I don’t like the swine myself, but something like him was inevitable. Lucas could never make up his mind about anything.’ Roger looked straight ahead. ‘The Army is moving into position today on the outskirts of London and all other major population centres. The roads will be closed from dawn tomorrow.’
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  John said: ‘If that’s the best he can think of… no army in the world would stop a city from bursting out under pressure of hunger. What does he think he’s going to gain?’

  ‘Time. Enough of that precious commodity to complete the preparations for his second line of action.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Atom bombs for the small cities, hydrogen bombs for places like Liverpool, Birmingham, Glasgow, Leeds – and two or three of them for London. It doesn’t matter about wasting them – they won’t be needed in the forseeable future.’

  For a moment, John was silent. Then he said slowly:

  ‘I can’t believe that. No one could do that.’

  ‘Lucas couldn’t. Lucas always was the common man’s Prime Minister – suburban constraints and suburban prejudices and emotions. But Lucas will stand by as a member of Welling’s Cabinet, ostentatiously washing his hands while the plans go forward. What else do you expect of the common man?’

  ‘They will never get people to man the planes.’

  ‘We’re in a new era,’ Roger said. ‘Or a very old one. Wide loyalties are civilized luxuries. Loyalties are going to be narrow from now on, and the narrower the fiercer. If it were the only way of saving Olivia and Steve, I’d man one of those planes myself.’

  Revolted, John said: ‘No!’

  ‘When I spoke about murdering bastards,’ Roger said, ‘I spoke with admiration as well as disgust. From now on, I propose to be one where necessary, and I very much hope you are prepared to do the same.’

  ‘But to drop hydrogen bombs on cities – on one’s own people…’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Welling wants time for. I should think it will take at least twenty-four hours – perhaps as long as forty-eight. Don’t be a fool, Johnny! It’s not so long ago that one’s own people were the people in the same village. As a matter of fact, he can put a good cloak of generosity over the act.’