by Nevil Shute
D.R.D. was somewhat at a loss. “I think so.”
The designer grunted offensively. “Well, you must make up your minds if you want this work done or not.”
Ferguson leaned over and whispered to D.R.D., who said, “Yes. We can give verbal instructions to proceed, Mr. Prendergast.”
Sir David Moon said, “Mr. Chairman, in view of the extreme urgency of this matter to us, may I ask if Sunday work can be authorised?”
E.P. Prendergast stuck out his great jowl and said, “On no account would I agree with that. If you want work done on Sundays, you must go elsewhere. It is uneconomic upon any account, and it strikes at the root of family life, which is the basis of the greatness of this country.” We stared at him, blinking. “God comes before the Reindeer, gentlemen,” he said.
D.R.D. said smoothly, “Of course. On the assumptions you have made, Mr. Prendergast, how long do you suppose this job will take?”
The designer consulted his paper. “We can accept the first machine for modification on Monday the 18th, and the work will be completed by the evening of the 21st. Thereafter we can modify one machine in each four complete working days.”
We stared down the table at him. Sir David Moon said, “Am I to understand that each aircraft will only be out of service for four days?”
“That does not include the time of the delivery flights to and from our Stamford works,” said Prendergast.
Carnegie said impulsively, “But that’s fantastic!”
Prendergast glared at him. “I am not accustomed to that language in relation to my statements,” he said harshly. “If you are unable to accept our estimates, you must take your work elsewhere.”
All good designers are difficult men or they could not be good designers; I think everybody at the table was more or less aware of that. We set ourselves to mollify the great man, and I say that with sincerity. A great man he was, a great designer and a superlative engineer. But not an easy man to deal with. No.
In the end Sir David Moon said, “This represents a different picture altogether, Mr. Chairman. If the company can do the necessary modifications in so short a time, there will be no need to interrupt our present schedule of services at all.” Prendergast nodded. “We can allocate the machines off service one by one for this work to be done. The general public need not know anything at all about it.”
D.R.D. said, “I think that’s very desirable. It never does any good to have a garbled version of these troubles in the newspapers.”
The Director leaned across to me. “They’d only print half the story, anyway,” he remarked. “They wouldn’t believe the other half.”
The meeting broke up. I said to him, “I had a chat with that Assegai pilot, sir. It was at the speed of sound, of course; it stuck for several seconds in the region of high drag. He said he’d been through to the supersonic zone several times. He was quite positive about that incandescent line along the leading edge. He’s coming down tomorrow to sketch it on the wing.”
He nodded. “Morrison back yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I think he’s coming in tomorrow. I hope he sees more daylight in this matter than I do.”
He smiled gently. “It’ll come,” he said.
Honey got married to Marjorie Corder about a month later, and on the third day of his honeymoon the test tail broke, at 1,296 hours only, which gave him something to think about. Flight-Lieutenant Wintringham said it was a wedding present for him. He came hurrying back from Bournemouth, where they were staying, to view the body, and I sent him back to his honeymoon with a flea in his ear. But I don’t know what kind of a honeymoon they had after that, because he came back to the office with a considerable extension to his nuclear theory of fatigue, expressed on twenty-six pages of pure mathematics.
That autumn I was restless after office hours. I had nothing much to work at in the evenings, and I was very worried about the Assegai. I tried reading Shirley’s novels, but I can’t take any interest in those things; real life always seems to me to be so much more stimulating. I tried listening to the wireless and got fed up with that. And it was much too soon to write another paper for the Society.
One evening Shirley laid her sewing down. “Dennis, I wish you or somebody would write up some of these things that happen, like the Reindeer tail. I mean, write literally all about it, not just the scientific part. All about Monica Teasdale, and Elspeth, and planchette, and the Director going to Kew Gardens — all the bits that made it fun. We shall forget what really happened in a few years’ time, and we’ll have lost something worth having. I’d like to try and save some of the fun we’re having now, to look at when we’re old.”
I stared at her thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “It’d be better than sitting worrying about the Assegai.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THIS BOOK IS a work of fiction. None of the characters are drawn from real persons. The Reindeer aircraft in my story is not based on any particular commercial aircraft, nor do the troubles from which it suffered refer to any actual events.
In this story I have postulated an inefficient Inspector of Accidents, with a fictitious name and a fictitious character. Only one man can hold this post at a time, and I tender such apologies as may be necessary to the distinguished and efficient officer who holds it now. I would add this. The scrupulous and painstaking investigation of accidents is the key to all safety in the air, and demands the services of men of the very highest quality. If my story underlines this point, it will have served a useful purpose.
Nevil Shute
A Town like Alice (1950)
OR, THE LEGACY
First appearing in 1950, A Town like Alice was later published under the title of The Legacy in the USA. It is one of the author’s best known and most widely-read novels, released the same year that Shute permanently relocated to Australia, where he would live for the last decade of his life. The male protagonist was based on a real life World War Two Australian soldier, Herbert James Edwards (‘Ringer’), who Shute met in Queensland in 1948. Edwards had been sent to Singapore (then still a colony of the British) after he enlisted in 1941 and was taken prisoner by the Japanese forces. After he stole cattle for food, he was sentenced to death by the Japanese; he was crucified for 63 hours, but somehow managed to survive.
A Town like Alice mostly focuses on the life of Englishwoman Jean Paget, who at the beginning of the book learns from her solicitor, Noel Strachan, that she is to inherit a large sum of money. She decides to use the money to build a well in a Malayan (now Malaysian) village. The novel then relates Jean’s experiences as a prisoner in Malaya during the war, where she met an Australian POW, Joe Harman, who was sentenced to death for trying to help Jean and her fellow prisoners. Jean was ultimately helped by the local Malayan community, which is why she wishes to return the kindness by using her inheritance to provide a well for the village. She travels back to the country and makes a discovery that prompts her to make a life changing decision. The novel was adapted for the 1956 film, A Town like Alice, which was directed by Jack Lee and starred Virginia McKenna and Peter Finch.
The first edition of the novel
CONTENTS
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2
3
4
5
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7
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9
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11
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Poster from the 1956 film adaptation of the novel
Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia—the principal setting of the novel
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
W. B. YEATS.
1
JAMES MACFADDEN DIED in March 1905 when he was forty-seven years old; he was riding in the Driffield Point-to-Point.
He left the bulk of
his money to his son Douglas. The Macfaddens and the Dalhousies at that time lived in Perth, and Douglas was a school friend of Jock Dalhousie, who was a young man then, and had gone to London to become junior partner in a firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane, Owen, Dalhousie, and Peters. I am now the senior partner, and Owen and Dalhousie and Peters have been dead for many years, but I never changed the name of the firm.
It was natural that Douglas Macfadden should put his affairs into the hands of Jock Dalhousie, and Mr. Dalhousie handled them personally till he died in 1928. In splitting up the work I took Mr. Macfadden on to my list of clients, and forgot about him in the pressure of other matters.
It was not until 1935 that any business for him came up. I had a letter from him then, from an address in Ayr. He said that his brother-in-law, Arthur Paget, had been killed in a motor-car accident in Malaya and so he wanted to redraft his will to make a trust in favour of his sister Jean and her two children. I am sorry to say that I was so ignorant of this client that I did not even know he was unmarried and had no issue of his own. He finished up by saying that he was too unwell to travel down to London, and he suggested that perhaps a junior member of the firm might be sent up to see him and arrange the matter.
This fitted in with my arrangements fairly well, because when I got this letter I was just leaving for a fortnight’s fishing holiday on Loch Shiel. I wrote and told him that I would visit him on my way south, and I put the file concerning his affairs in the bottom of my suitcase to study one evening during my vacation.
When I got to Ayr I took a room at the Station Hotel, because in our correspondence there had been no suggestion that he could put me up. I changed out of my plus-fours into a dark business suit, and went to call upon my client.
He did not live at all in the manner I had expected. I did not know much about his estate except that it was probably well over twenty thousand pounds, and I had expected to find my client living in a house with a servant or two. Instead, I discovered that he had a bedroom and a sitting-room on the same floor of a small private hotel just off the sea front. He was evidently leading the life of an invalid though he was hardly more than fifty years old at that time, ten years younger than I was myself. He was as frail as an old lady of eighty, and he had a peculiar grey look about him which didn’t look at all good to me. All the windows of his sitting-room were shut and after the clean air of the lochs and moors I found his room stuffy and close; he had a number of budgerigars in cages in the window, and the smell of these birds made the room very unpleasant. It was clear from the furnishings that he had lived in that hotel and in that room for a good many years.
He told me something about his life as we discussed the will; he was quite affable, and pleased that I had been able to come to visit him myself. He seemed to be an educated man, though he spoke with a marked Scots accent. “I live very quietly, Mr. Strachan,” he said. “My health will not permit me to go far abroad. Whiles I get out upon the front on a fine day and sit for a time, and then again Maggie — that’s the daughter of Mrs. Doyle who keeps the house — Maggie wheels me out in the chair. They are very good to me here.”
Turning to the matter of the will, he told me that he had no close relatives at all except his sister, Jean Paget. “Forbye my father might have left what you might call an indiscretion or two in Australia,” he said. “I would not say that there might not be some of those about, though I have never met one, or corresponded. Jean told me once that my mother had been sore distressed. Women talk about these things, of course, and my father was a lusty type of man.”
His sister Jean had been an officer in the W.A.A.C.s in the 1914-18 war, and she had married a Captain Paget in the spring of 1917. “It was not a very usual sort of marriage,” he said thoughtfully. “You must remember that my sister Jean had never been out of Scotland till she joined the army, and the greater part of her life had been spent in Perth. Arthur Paget was an Englishman from Southampton, in Hampshire. I have nothing against Arthur, but we had all naturally thought that Jean would have married a Scot. Still, I would not say but it has been a happy marriage, or as happy as most.”
After the war was over Arthur Paget had got a job upon a rubber estate in Malaya somewhere near Taiping, and Jean, of course, went out there with him. From that time Douglas Macfadden had seen little of his sister; she had been home on leave in 1926 and again in 1932. She had two children, Donald born in 1918 and Jean born in 1921; these children had been left in England in 1932 to live with the Paget parents and to go to school in Southampton, while their mother returned to Malaya. My client had seen them only once, in 1932 when their mother brought them up to Scotland.
The present position was that Arthur Paget had been killed in a motor accident somewhere near Ipoh; he had been driving home at night from Kuala Lumpur and had driven off the road at a high speed and hit a tree. Probably he fell asleep. His widow, Jean Paget, was in England; she had come home a year or so before his death and she had taken a small house in Bassett just outside Southampton to make a home for the children and to be near their schools. It was a sensible arrangement, of course, but it seemed to me to be a pity that the brother and the sister could not have arranged to live nearer to each other. I fancy that my client regretted the distance that separated them, because he referred to it more than once.
He wanted to revise his will. His existing will was a very simple one, in which he left his entire estate to his sister Jean. “I would not alter that,” he said. “But you must understand that Arthur Paget was alive when I made that will, and that in the nature of things I expected him to be alive when Jean inherited from me, and I expected that he would be there to guide her in matters of business. I shall not make old bones.”
He seemed to have a fixed idea that all women were unworldly creatures and incapable of looking after money; they were irresponsible, and at the mercy of any adventurer. Accordingly, although he wanted his sister to have the full use of his money after his death, he wanted to create a trust to ensure that her son Donald, at that time a schoolboy, should inherit the whole estate intact after his mother’s death. There was, of course, no special difficulty in that. I presented to him the various pros and cons of a trust such as he envisaged, and I reminded him that a small legacy to Mrs. Doyle, in whose house he had lived for so many years, might not be out of place provided that he was still living with them at the time of his death. He agreed to that. He told me then that he had no close relations living, and he asked me if I would undertake to be the sole trustee of his estate and the executor of his will. That is the sort of business a family solicitor frequently takes on his shoulders, of course. I told him that in view of my age he should appoint a co-trustee, and he agreed to the insertion of our junior partner, Mr. Lester Robinson, to be co-trustee with me. He also agreed to a charging clause for our professional services in connection with the trust.
There only remained to tidy up the loose ends of what was, after all, a fairly simple will. I asked him what should happen if both he and his sister were to die before the boy Donald was twenty-one, and I suggested that the trust should terminate and the boy should inherit the estate absolutely when he reached his majority. He agreed to this, and I made another note upon my pad.
“Supposing then,” I said, “that Donald should die before his mother, or if Donald and his mother should die in some way before you. The estate would then pass to the girl, Jean. Again, I take it that the trust would terminate when she reached her majority?”
“Ye mean,” he asked, “when she became twenty-one?”
I nodded. “Yes. That is what we decided in the case of her brother.”
He shook his head. “I think that would be most imprudent, Mr. Strachan, if I may say so. No lassie would be fit to administer her own estate when she was twenty-one. A lassie of that age is at the mercy of her sex, Mr. Strachan, at the mercy of her sex. I would want the trust to continue for much longer than that. Till she was forty, at the very least.”
From various p
ast experiences I could not help agreeing with him that twenty-one was a bit young for a girl to have absolute control over a large sum of money, but forty seemed to me to be excessively old. I stated my own view that twenty-five would be a reasonable age, and very reluctantly he receded to thirty-five. I could not move him from that position, and as he was obviously tiring and growing irritable I accepted that as the maximum duration of our trust. It meant that in those very unlikely circumstances the trust would continue for twenty-one years from that date, since the girl Jean had been born in 1921 and it was then 1935. That finished our business and I left him and went back to London to draft out the will, which I sent to him for signature. I never saw my client again.
It was my fault that I lost touch with him. It had been my habit for a great many years to take my holiday in the spring, when I would go with my wife to Scotland for a fortnight’s fishing, usually to Loch Shiel. I thought that this was going on for ever, as one does, and that next year I would call again upon this client on my way down from the north to see if there was any other business I could do for him. But things turn out differently, sometimes. In the winter of 1935 Lucy died. I don’t want to dwell on that, but we had been married for twenty-seven years and — well, it was very painful. Both our sons were abroad, Harry in his submarine on the China station and Martin in his oil company at Basra. I hadn’t the heart to go back to Loch Shiel, and I have never been to Scotland since. I had a sale and got rid of most of our furniture, and I sold our house on Wimbledon Common; one has to make an effort at a time like that, and a clean break. It’s no good going on living in the ashes of a dead happiness.
I took a flat in Buckingham Gate opposite the Palace stables and just across the park from my club in Pall Mall. I furnished it with a few things out of the Wimbledon house and got a woman to come in and cook my breakfast and clean for me in the mornings, and here I set out to re-create my life. I knew the pattern well enough from the experience of others in the club. Breakfast in my flat. Walk through the Park and up the Strand to my office in Chancery Lane. Work all day, with a light lunch at my desk. To the club at six o’clock to read the periodicals, and gossip, and dine, and after dinner a rubber of bridge. That is the routine that I fell into in the spring of 1936, and I am in it still.