by Nevil Shute
“I see,” said Corbett. He raised his eyes to the officer’s face. “Are you trying to tell me that he was killed?”
The other said hurriedly, “Oh, no. He was a good deal knocked about, though. He had both legs broken, and there were one or two burns.... He’s in hospital in Winchester.”
“Do you know how he’s getting on?”
The young man shook his head. “I haven’t heard. We never do get any news of them, once they’ve left here.”
“How did it happen?”
The young man said, “It was a collision in the air, just over the edge of the field here. Chap circling round to land took his tail off for him. They both piled up, of course. The other chap was killed.”
“Was it the weather?”
The other nodded. “You can’t help it, flying on these bloody, rainy nights. The clouds were down to about three hundred feet, that night.” He was silent for a moment. “Still, that’s what happened, I’m afraid.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
The officer turned back towards his room. “I’ve got a lot to do — I’m so sorry.... It wasn’t anything of importance, that you wanted to see him about?”
Corbett shook his head. “Nothing important.”
He turned away, and went back to the car; he drove down to the river and went on board again. Joan was there; he told her all about it.
Her lips tightened. “I’m awfully sorry for Felicity,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
They sat in silence, smoking for a time, the discarded water bag at their feet. In the end Joan kicked it with her toe. “You didn’t get any water, I suppose?”
“No. How much have we got left?”
“Very little indeed. We’ll be out by breakfast time tomorrow, if we wash up anything.”
He sighed. “We’ll have to get some more. I don’t think I can go back to the airport — they probably wouldn’t give it to me, anyway. They’ll be short themselves. If Collins had been there I might have got some as a favour.”
Joan nodded. “I doubt if it’s much good going back there.”
“Would you care for any of that water from the reservoir? There’s typhoid, cholera, and God knows what, camped right beside it.”
She smiled. “It sounds a bit insipid. Can’t you find me a nice, fruity well?”
He rubbed his chin. “Wells aren’t so easy to find these days. We might try on the Warsash side. But if we get well water you’ll have to boil it before you give it to the baby.”
“I suppose I ought to.”
She turned to him. “I’m sick of scouting about alone, Peter. Let’s go on shore together for a change.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
They did manage it. They took the baby in its cradle, fast asleep, and left it in the kitchen of the inn on the Warsash side, with half a crown parking fee. Then they set off up the road to look for water, the children following behind.
They did not have to go very far. They found a cottage where a woman made them free of her well. “Nine ‘ealthy children I’ve brought up on the water from that well,” she said comfortably. “Seven still with us, and all of them ‘ealthy as you or me, barring the goitre.” She would not take payment for the water. “It’s little enough that one can do to ‘elp, these dreadful times,” she said. “But pure well water — that one can share with other folks.”
They thanked her, and set off down the road carrying the water bag slung upon an oar. “We’ll have to boil every drop of the bloody stuff,” said Corbett when they were out of earshot. “I don’t want to get goitre.”
Joan laughed. “I don’t know that I know what goitre is,” she said. “Sort of swelling, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Corbett firmly, “and I don’t want to know.”
He spent the evening boiling water in the pan that he had bought to boil the beef, and transferring it sterile to the water tank. That night they had more trouble with the baby. The milk they had in hand was sufficient for only half a feed; they watered it to something like the proper volume, but the child cried continuously for two hours before it sank into a restless sleep.
When finally the noise ceased they got their supper, very quietly. Joan said, “Peter, we’ve got to face up to this milk business. It’s serious. I mean, I don’t think we ought to leave here without a few tins more. We don’t know what things may be like in the Isle of Wight.”
“I know. We do seem to be able to scratch along here somehow or other, a pint or so at a time.”
“That’s what I feel. We might find ourselves landed without any milk at all.”
“If that happened, could we get along?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe we could. Phyllis and John can eat anything, things out of tins, I mean. But Joan — I don’t know. She’s all right on tinned milk — we know that. But I tried her on that tinned soup yesterday, and she was awfully upset.”
He asked, “Would she be any better on another sort of soup?”
Joan shook her head. “It wasn’t mulligatawny, or anything like that. It was consommé julienne.”
“Babies do eat soup, though.”
“Of course they do. But you start them off on good stuff made out of very fresh meat, and you give them a lot of milk along with it, at other feeds.”
He thought about it for a minute. “You mean this, really. If we can’t keep up the milk supply, we’re going to have real trouble.”
She nodded. “They go down so quickly. I’m afraid we might lose her, Peter.”
He smiled at her reassuringly across the table. “We’re not going to do that.”
They dropped the subject till the meal was over. But when the washing up was done, he said, “We’ll have to get some of that tinned milk from your grocer’s shop.”
She stared at him. “You mean the one over on the Warsash side? You won’t get any there. They won’t sell it.”
“We’ll have to make them sell it. They can’t hog it, in times like these.”
She looked very doubtful. “You’ll have to go. They wouldn’t pay any attention to me.”
“We’ll go together. That woman at the inn would take the children for an hour or so.”
“All right.”
They went on deck and smoked for a little in the cockpit. Lights streamed from the inn at Hamble, cheerful and inviting. Joan asked, “Are you going on shore?”
He shook his head. “I think the less we go on shore the better, the way things are now. If we want exercise, let’s get it on the Warsash side.”
They went to bed early, in preparation for a heavy day. They slept for an hour or so; then, punctually as an alarm clock, they were awakened by the raid. For a time they lay in their bunks listening to the concussions in the distance.
A salvo fell very close to them, on the marshlands behind Hamble. The children woke and cried a little; they got up to comfort them and turn them over to sleep again. They stood together in the hatchway for a while with blankets draped around them. Bombs seemed to be falling all over the countryside.
“I don’t believe they’re hitting Southampton at all tonight,” said Joan. “They’re rotten shots.”
Corbett nodded. “They’re getting wilder and wilder. I don’t believe they’ll do much damage with this raid, except by a sheer fluke.”
Joan said, “They couldn’t miss London like this, though.”
“No, London’s different. I bet they’re getting hell up there.”
After a time, before the raid was ended, they grew bored and cold, and went back to bed. “You’d better wake me if the ship begins to sink,” said Corbett. “I’m going to go to sleep.” Inured to the concussions by familiarity they fell asleep, stirring and turning over now and then at the nearer explosions. Presently all was still again, and they slept quietly.
They did not sleep for long. The baby woke them shortly before five o’clock, crying and whimpering in her basket in the forecastle. Joan got up to settl
e her, but only succeeded in rousing her to bellow lustily, continuously. Corbett got up, and found Joan rocking the infant in her arms. The baby was red in the face, and screaming at the top of her voice.
He said, “I suppose she’s hungry.”
“I think that must be it,” said Joan. “We’ve got one tin of milk left. Shall we open it?”
He hesitated. “I should think we’d better. That’s the first thing we’ve got to tackle today.”
He reached for the tin and the tin opener, and pierced it through.
“Now we’ve got nothing left at all,” she said quietly.
He was touched by the seriousness of her tone. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “We’ll get some from that shop, somehow or other.”
They gave the baby a good bottle; it stopped screaming instantaneously and fell asleep immediately it had finished sucking. Tired and on edge they went back to their bunks in the grey dawn, and dozed uneasily until the day was bright.
They breakfasted and washed up; then they were ready to go on shore. Corbett put on a raincoat, and slipped the automatic into his coat pocket. Joan saw him do it. “Peter!” she said. “You’re not going to take that?”
He met her eyes. “We’ve got to get some milk,” he said evenly. “There may be difficulties. I think I’ll take it along.”
She said no more.
They went on shore together, taking the children with them and the baby in its cradle. They had no difficulty in arranging to leave the family in the kitchen of the inn for an hour; then they set out together up the hill towards the shop. They hardly spoke at all. There was a light drizzle of rain falling; Corbett walked with his head down, the cold metal of the loaded automatic hard against his hand deep in the pocket of his coat. It was incredible that he should be doing this.
Once he said, “I’ll offer up to five shillings a tin. But then, if I have to threaten them, you must be ready to go in and take it.”
“All right,” she said.
Twenty minutes later they came to the shop. It was a small general shop at a cross roads; behind it was the dwelling house. There was nobody about. Corbett went up to the door and rattled it; it was locked.
Joan said, “We’ll have to go round to the back.”
He turned, and walked round the building to a littered and untidy yard; Joan followed him. They came to a back door.
“This’ll be it,” he said.
He knocked on the door. Inside there was a sound of movements, but nobody came. He waited in the rain for a minute, and then knocked again. There was no answer.
“There’s somebody inside all right,” said Joan.
He put his hand to the door and tried it. It opened a few inches, and then stopped on a chain. He called out, “Is anyone at home?”
What happened then was unexpected. A little girl of ten or twelve years old, a child in a dirty print frock and long black stockings, came to the crack of the door. “What do you want?” she asked.
Corbett said, “Good morning. I came to see if we could buy some milk.”
She said, “The shop isn’t open. We haven’t got any milk to sell.”
“Look,” said Corbett, “I see the shop’s not open. But I’ve come a long way, and I need milk for my baby. If you’ll sell me some, I’ll pay you much more than you usually get for each tin.”
There was a pause. The child said in a frightened tone, “We haven’t got any to sell.”
She tried to shut the door. Peter was before her, and put his foot into the crack. “Look,” he said, “we need milk really badly. Ask your mother if she’ll speak to me.”
The child said through the crack, “She’s not here.”
“Let me speak to your father.”
“He’s not here either.”
“Where have they gone to?”
“Swanwick.”
“When will they be back?”
“I don’t know.”
There was a short pause. The rain dripped from the roof with little liquid noises. Joan said, “Is there anyone else in the house besides you?”
The child did not answer, but tried again to shut the door. Joan turned helplessly to Corbett. “What are we going to do?”
“Get some milk,” he said grimly.
He turned back to the door. “Open the door and let us in,” he said. “Then we can talk this over.”
For answer, the child tried to kick his foot out of the door. Corbett turned to Joan. “We’ll have to break our way in, or give it up. But there’s nothing on the boat for baby if we give it up.”
She hesitated. “This is hateful.”
“I know. Still, we’ll have to do it.”
He turned back to the crack. “If you won’t open I shall have to break the door down,” he said. “Be a good girl, and open up.”
He heard her sobbing, struggling to close the door. “You’re not to come in.”
Corbett said, “I’m coming in. Keep away from the door — I’m going to break it open. Keep right back, or you may get hurt.”
Joan got a piece of wood and wedged the crack open while he withdrew his foot. He took a short run and stamped violently against the door. At the third shot the staple of the chain tore from the woodwork; the door flew open and the child was thrown heavily against a sink at the far side of the scullery. With incredible agility she picked herself up and flew at them.
“You’re not to come in,” she cried. “You’re not to! You’re not to!”
She landed a well-directed kick on Corbett’s shin, and a deep scratch on his cheek. He struggled with her for a minute, then overpowered her and held her with her arms pinned behind her back, kicking the air, tears streaming down her cheeks in impotent rage.
“You hold her if you can,” he said to Joan. “Let’s get this over.”
Joan took her from him, and he went forward through the sitting room into the shop, mopping his bleeding cheek. She followed him in a minute; the child had ceased to struggle and was sobbing bitterly, refusing all comfort. She found him stooping down behind the counter.
“Here it is,” he said. “There’s a crate nearly full. Over fifty tins.”
Joan released the child, but kept between her and the door; the little girl collapsed onto a sack of potatoes and crouched there, crying her heart out. Joan leaned across the counter to look at the milk. “One of those will last the baby for a day,” she said. “Take about fifteen — then we’ll feel safe.”
Corbett nodded. “May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
He put the fifteen tins out onto the counter. “How much do these things cost?”
She said, “Sevenpence.”
He calculated quickly. “I make that eight and nine-pence. I’ll leave a pound — that’s more than double price.”
Joan said, “Make it thirty bob. I mean, we don’t do this every day.”
“All right.”
Behind them the little girl was sobbing hopelessly and bitterly upon the sack, in utter misery. “I can’t stand this,” said Joan.
She crouched down beside the child, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t cry like that,” she said gently. “You put up a grand show. Nobody could have done more than you did. It’s not your fault we were too strong for you. And we had to have the milk for our baby.”
The sobbing continued unabated. Joan fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped the child’s eyes. “It wouldn’t have made any difference, even if you’d been a man. We had to get milk.”
The child lifted a tear-streaked face. “You wouldn’t have got it if my Daddy had been here.”
“Yes, we would. This was a hold-up, dear — a real one, like you see in the pictures.” She turned to her husband. “Peter, show her your gun.”
He pulled it from his pocket, a little awkwardly. The little girl stopped crying and looked at it, awe-struck. “Are you two gangsters?” she said at last.
Joan nodded. “Yes, we’re gangsters,” she said quietly. “Tell your Daddy from us that you put up
a splendid fight. And look, here’s the money. We’ve taken fifteen tins of milk, and here’s one pound ten shillings to pay for it. Now, don’t cry any more.” She held her handkerchief to the child’s nose. “Come on and blow.”
The little girl obeyed. Her eyes were still fixed upon the automatic pistol. She asked, “Could I hold it for a minute?”
Joan nodded to Peter. He slipped out the magazine and gave the pistol to the little girl; she held it in her hands and turned it over. “My!” she said. “Isn’t it heavy!”
They took it back from her and went towards the door, carrying their tins of milk. “Lock the door behind us when we’ve gone,” said Joan. “Then nobody else will be able to get in.”
She hesitated. “Don’t think too badly of us,” she said. “One day you’ll have a baby of your own, and then you’ll know....”
The child stood at the door and watched them as they went. “Good-bye,” she said shyly.
They waved to her and went down the road towards Warsash, their arms full of tins. They went silently, immersed in their own thoughts. At last Corbett said, “Well, anyway, we’ve got the milk.”
Joan said, “I do hope she’ll be able to make her people understand.”
They went on down the hill with heavy hearts. They found the children at the inn and went on board the yacht again. They stowed their precious tins of milk away carefully, and made a survey of their other stores.
“I think I’ll make a loaf of bread before we start,” said Joan. “We’ve got time, haven’t we?”
Corbett nodded. “I’m going to go on shore and see if I can get some brandy at the pub,” he said. “We’ve only got a little whiskey here.”
He took the dinghy and rowed over to the Hamble side. The barman sold him two bottles of old brandy at a fantastic price. Coming out of the inn he met Lammermoor, who had helped him on the first afternoon at Hamble. The young man’s features were a sort of ashen grey.
“I say, old man,” he said urgently. “Where does the district nurse live — do you know?”
Corbett shook his head. “I haven’t an idea. I’m sorry.”