On the Beach

by Nevil Shute

She gathered up the torn brown paper. “That’s all right,” she said casually. “It was fun finding it. Shall I put it in the corner?”

  He shook his head. “Leave it right here.”

  She nodded, and moved towards the door. “I’ll turn this top light out. Don’t stay up too long. Sure you’ve got everything you want?”

  “Sure, honey,” he said. “I’ve got everything now.”

  “Good night,” she said.

  She closed the door behind her. He lay for some time in the firelight thinking of Sharon and of Helen, of bright summer days and tall ships at Mystic, of Helen leaping on the Pogo stick on the swept sidewalk with the piles of snow on either hand, of this girl and her kindness. Presently he drifted into sleep, one hand upon the Pogo stick beside him.

  Peter Holmes lunched with John Osborne at the United Services Club next day. “I rang the ship this morning,” said the scientist. “I wanted to get hold of Dwight to show him the draft report before I get it typed. They told me that he’s staying out at Harkaway with Moira’s people.”

  Peter nodded. “He’s got ‘flu. Moira rang me up last night to tell me that I wouldn’t see him for a week, or longer if she’d got anything to do with it.”

  The scientist was concerned. “I can’t hold it so long as that. Jorgensen’s got wind of our findings already, and he’s saying that we can’t have done our job properly. I’ll have to get it to the typist by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “I’ll look it over if you like, and we might be able to get hold of the Exec, though he’s away on leave. But Dwight ought to see it before it goes out. Why don’t you give Moira a ring and take it out to him at Harkaway?”

  “Would she be there? I thought she was in Melbourne every day, doing shorthand and typing.”

  “Don’t be so daft. Of course she’s there.”

  The scientist brightened. “I might run it out to him this afternoon in the Ferrari.”

  “Your juice won’t last out if you’re going to use it for trips like that. There’s a perfectly good train.”

  “This is official business, naval business,” said John Osborne. “One’s entitled to draw on naval stores.” He bent towards Peter and lowered his voice. “You know that aircraft carrier, the Sydney? She’s got about three thousand gallons of my ether-alcohol mixture in one of her tanks. They used it for getting reluctant piston-engined aircraft off the deck at full boost.”

  “You can’t touch that!” said Peter, shocked.

  “Can’t I? This is naval business, and there’s going to be a whole lot more.”

  “Well, don’t tell me about it. Would a Morris Minor run on it?”

  “You’d have to experiment a bit with the carburettion, and you’d have to raise the compression. Take the gasket out and fit a bit of thin sheet copper, with cement. It’s worth trying.”

  “Can you run that thing of yours upon the road, safely?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the scientist. “There’s not much else upon the road to hit, except a tram. And people, of course. I always carry a spare set of plugs because she oils up if you run her under about three thousand.”

  “What’s she doing at three thousand revs?”

  “Oh well, you wouldn’t put her in top gear. She’d be doing about a hundred, or a bit more than that. She does about forty-five in first at those revs. She gets away with a bit of a rush, of course; you want a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of you. I generally push her out of the mews into Elizabeth Street and wait till there’s a gap between the trams.”

  He did so that afternoon directly after lunch, with Peter Holmes helping him to push. He wedged the attaché case containing the draft report down beside the seat and climbed in, fastened the safety belt and adjusted his crash helmet before an admiring crowd. Peter said quietly, “For God’s sake don’t go and kill anybody.”

  “They’re all going to be dead in a couple of months’ time anyway,” said the scientist. “So am I, and so are you. I’m going to have a bit of fun with this thing first.”

  A tram passed and he tried the cold engine with the self starter, but it failed to catch. Another tram came by; when that was gone a dozen willing helpers pushed the racing car until the engine caught and she shot out of their hands like a rocket with an ear-splitting crash from the exhaust, a screech of tyres, a smell of burnt rubber, and a cloud of smoke. The Ferrari had no horn and no need for one because she could be heard coming a couple of miles away; more important to John Osborne was the fact that she had no lights at all, and it was dark by five o’clock. If he was to get out to Harkaway, do his business, and be back in daylight he must step on it.

  He weaved around the tram at fifty, skidded round into Lonsdale Street, and settled in his seat as he shot through the city at about seventy miles an hour. Cars on the road at that time were a rarity and he had little trouble in the city streets but for the trams; the crowds parted to let him through. In the suburbs it was different; children had grown accustomed to playing in the empty roads and had no notion of getting out of the way; he had to brake hard on a number of occasions and go by with engine roaring as he slipped the clutch, agonising over the possibility of damage, consoling himself with the thought that the clutch was built to take it in a race.

  He got to Harkaway in twenty-three minutes, having averaged seventy-two miles an hour over the course without once getting into top. He drew up at the homestead in a roaring skid around the flowerbeds and killed the motor; the grazier with his wife and daughter came out suddenly and watched him as he unbuttoned his crash hat and got out stiffly. “I came to see Dwight Towers,” he said. “They told me he was here.”

  “He’s trying to get some sleep,” Moira said severely. “That’s a loathsome car, John. What does she do?”

  “About two hundred, I think. I want to see him—on business. I’ve got a thing here that he’s got to look over before it gets typed. It’s got to be typed tomorrow, at the latest.”

  “Oh well, I don’t suppose he’s sleeping now.”

  She led the way into the spare bedroom. Dwight was awake and sitting up in bed. “I guessed it must be you,” he said. “Killed anybody yet?”

  “Not yet,” said the scientist. “I’m hoping to be the first. I’d hate to spend the last days of my life in prison. I’ve had enough of that in the last two months.” He undid his attaché case and explained his errand.

  Dwight took the report and read it through, asking a question now and then. “I kind of wish we’d left that radio station operational, the way it was,” he said once. “Maybe we’d have heard a little more from Yeoman Swain.”

  “It was a good long way away from him.”

  “He had his outboard motor boat. He might have stopped off one day when he was tired of fishing, and sent a message.”

  “I don’t think he’d have lasted long enough for that, sir. I’d have given him three days, at the very outside.”

  The captain nodded. “I don’t suppose he’d have wanted to be bothered with it, anyway. I wouldn’t, if the fish were taking well, and it was my last day.” He read on, asking a question now and then. At the end he said, “That’s okay. You’d better take out that last paragraph, about me and the ship.”

  “I’d prefer to leave it in, sir.”

  “And I’d prefer you take it out. I don’t like things like that said about what was just a normal operation in the line of duty.”

  The scientist put his pencil through it. “As you like.”

  “You got that Ferrari here?” “I came out in it.”

  “Sure. I heard you. Can I see it from the window?”

  “Yes. It’s just outside.”

  The captain got out of bed and stood in his pyjamas at the window. “That’s the hell of a car,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Race it. There’s not much time left, so they’re starting the racing season earlier than usual. They don’t usually begin before about October, because of the wet roads. They’re having little races
all the winter, though. As a matter of fact I raced it twice before I went away.”

  The captain got back into bed. “So you said. I never raced a car like that. I never even drove one. What’s it like in a race?”

  “You get scared stiff. Then directly it’s over you want to go on and do it again.”

  “Have you ever done this before?”

  The scientist shook his head. “I’ve never had the money, or the time. It’s what I’ve wanted to do all my life.”

  “Is that the way you’re going to make it, in the end?”

  There was a pause. “It’s what I’d like to do,” John Osborne said. “Rather than die in a sick muck, or take those pills. The only thing is, I’d hate to smash up the Ferrari. She’s such a lovely bit of work. I don’t think I could bring myself to do that, willingly.”

  Dwight grinned. “Maybe you won’t have to do it willingly, not if you go racing at two hundred per on wet roads.”

  “Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking, too. I don’t know that I’d mind that happening, any time from now on.”

  The captain nodded. Then he said, “There’s no chance now of it slowing up and giving us a break, is there?”

  John Osborne shook his head. “Absolutely none. There’s not the slightest indication—if anything it seems to be coming a little faster. That’s probably associated with the reduced area of the earth’s surface as it moves down from the equator; it seems to be accelerating a little now in terms of latitude. The end of August seems to be the time.”

  The captain nodded. “Well, it’s nice to know. It can’t be too soon for me.”

  “Will you be taking Scorpion to sea again?”

  “I’ve got no orders. She’ll be operational again at the beginning of July. I’m planning to keep her under the Australian command up till the end. Whether I’ll have a crew to make her operational—well, that’s another thing again. Most of the boys have got girl friends in Melbourne here, about a quarter of them married. Whether they’ll feel allergic to another cruise is anybody’s guess. I’d say they will.”

  There was a pause. “I kind of envy you having that Ferrari,” he said quietly. “I’ll be worrying and working right up till the end.”

  “I don’t see that there’s any need for you to do that,” the scientist said. “You ought to take some leave. See a bit of Australia.”

  The American grinned. “There’s not much left of it to see.”

  “That’s true. There’s the mountain parts, of course. They’re all skiing like mad up at Mount Buller and at Hotham. Do you ski?”

  “I used to, but not for ten years or so. I wouldn’t like to break a leg and get stuck in bed up till the end.” He paused. “Say,” he said. “Don’t people go trout fishing up in those mountains?”

  John Osborne nodded. “The fishing’s quite good.”

  “Do they have a season, or can you fish all year round?”

  “You can fish for perch in Eildon Weir all year round. They take a spinner, trolling from a boat. But there’s good trout fishing in all the little rivers up there.” He smiled faintly. “There’s a close season for trout. It doesn’t open till September the First.”

  There was a momentary pause. “That’s running it kind of fine,” Dwight said at last. “I certainly would like a day or two trout fishing, but from what you say we might be busy just around that time.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would make any odds if you went up a fortnight early, this year.”

  “I wouldn’t like to do a thing like that,” the American said seriously. “In the States—yes. But when you’re in a foreign country, I think a fellow should stick by the rules.”

  Time was going on, John Osborne had no lights on the Ferrari and no capacity to go much slower than fifty miles an hour. He gathered his papers together and put them in the attaché case, said good-bye to Dwight Towers, and left him, to get upon the road back to the city. In the lounge he met Moira. “How did you think he was?” she asked.

  “He’s all right,” the scientist said. “Only a bat or two flying round the belfry.”

  She frowned a little; this wasn’t the Pogo stick? “What about?”

  “He wants a couple of days trout fishing before we all go home,” her cousin said. “But he won’t go before the season opens, and that’s not until September the First.”

  She stood in silence for a moment. “Well, what of it? He’s keeping the law, anyway. More than you are, with that disgusting car. Where do you get the petrol for it?”

  “It doesn’t run on petrol,” he replied. “It runs on something out of a test tube.”

  “Smells like it,” she said. She watched him as he levered himself down into the seat and adjusted his crash helmet, as the engine crackled spitefully into life, as he shot off down the drive leaving great wheel ruts on a flower bed.

  A fortnight later, in the Pastoral Club, Mr. Alan Sykes walked into the little smoking-room for a drink at twenty minutes past twelve. Lunch was not served till one o’clock, so he was the first in the room; he helped himself to a gin and stood alone, considering his problem. Mr. Sykes was the Director of the State Fisheries and Game Department, a man who liked to run his businesses upon sound lines regardless of political expediency. The perplexities of the time had now invaded his routine, and he was a troubled man.

  Sir Douglas Froude came into the room. Mr. Sykes, watching him, thought that he was walking very badly and that his red face was redder than ever. He said, “Good morning, Douglas. I’m in the book.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the old man. “I’ll take a Spanish sherry with you.” He poured it with a trembling hand. “You know,” he said, “I think the Wine Committee must be absolutely crazy. We’ve got over four hundred bottles of magnificent dry sherry, Ruy de Lopez, 1947, and they seemed to be prepared to let it stay there in the cellars. They said the members wouldn’t drink it because of the price. I told them, I said: ‘Give it away, if you can’t sell it. But don’t just leave it there.’ So now it’s the same price as the Australian.” He paused. “Let me pour you a glass, Alan. It’s in the most beautiful condition.”

  “I’ll have one later. Tell me, didn’t I hear you say once that Bill Davidson was a relation of yours?”

  The old man nodded shakily. “Relation, or connection. Connection, I think. His mother married my … married my … No, I forget. I don’t seem to remember things like I used to.”

  “Do you know his daughter Moira?”

  “A nice girl, but she drinks too much. Still, she does it on brandy they tell me, so that makes a difference.”

  “She’s been making some trouble for me.”

  “Eh?”

  “She’s been to the Minister, and he sent her to me with a note. She wants us to open the trout season early this year, or nobody will get any trout fishing. The Minister thinks it would be a good thing to do. I suppose he’s looking to the next election.”

  “Open the trout season early? You mean, before September the First?”

  “That’s the suggestion.”

  “A very bad suggestion, if I may say so. The fish won’t have finished spawning, and if they have they’ll be in very poor condition. You could ruin the fishing for years, doing a thing like that. When does he want to open the season?”

  “He suggests August the 10th.” He paused. “It’s that girl, that relation of yours, who’s at the bottom of this thing. I don’t believe it would ever have entered his head but for her.”

  “I think it’s a terrible proposal. Quite irresponsible. I’m sure I don’t know what the world’s coming to …”

  As member after member came into the room the debate continued and more joined in the discussion. Mr. Sykes found that the general opinion was in favour of the change in date. “After all,” said one, “they’ll go and fish in August if they can get there and the weather’s fine, whether you like it or not. And you can’t fine them or send them to gaol because there won’t be time to bring the case on. May as w
ell give a reasonable date, and make a virtue of necessity. Of course,” he added conscientiously, “it’ld be for this year only.”

  A leading eye surgeon remarked, “I think it’s a very good idea. If the fish are poor we don’t have to take them; we can always put them back. Unless the season should be very early they won’t take a fly; we’ll have to use a spinner. But I’m in favour of it, all the same. When I go, I’d like it to be on a sunny day on the bank of the Delatite with a rod in my hand.”

  Somebody said, “Like the man they lost from the American submarine.”

  “Yes, just like that. I think that fellow had the right idea.”

  Mr. Sykes, having taken a cross section of the most influential opinion of the city, went back to his office with an easier mind, rang up his Minister, and that afternoon drafted an announcement to be broadcast on the radio that would constitute one of those swift changes of policy to meet the needs of the time, easy to make in a small, highly educated country and very characteristic of Australia. Dwight Towers heard it that evening in the echoing, empty wardroom of H.M.A.S. Sydney, and marvelled, not connecting it in the least with his own conversation with the scientist a few days before. Immediately he began making plans to try out Junior’s rod. Transport was going to be the difficulty, but difficulties were there to be overcome by the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces.

  In what was left of Australia that year a relief of tension came soon after mid-winter. By the beginning of July, when Broken Hill and Perth went out, few people in Melbourne were doing any more work than they wanted to. The electricity supply continued uninterrupted, as did the supply of the essential foodstuffs, but fuel for fires and little luxuries now had to be schemed and sought for by a people who had little else to do. As the weeks went by, the population became noticeably more sober; there were still riotous parties, still drunks sleeping in the gutter, but far fewer than there had been earlier. And, like harbingers of the coming spring, one by one motor cars started to appear on the deserted roads.

  It was difficult at first to say where they came from or where they got the petrol, for each case on investigation proved to be exceptional. Peter Holmes’ landlord turned up in a Holden one day to remove firewood from the trees that had been felled, explaining awkwardly that he had retained a little of the precious fluid for cleaning clothes. A cousin in the Royal Australian Air Force came to visit them from Laverton aerodrome driving an M.G., explaining that he had saved the petrol but there didn’t seem to be much sense in saving it any longer; this was clearly nonsense, because Bill never saved anything. An engineer who worked at the Shell refinery at Corio said that he had managed to buy a little petrol on the black market in Fitzroy, but very properly refused to name the scoundrel who had sold it. Like a sponge squeezed by the pressure of circumstances, Australia began to drip a little petrol, and as the weeks went on towards August the drip became a trickle.