by Nevil Shute
“What a shame!” She sat thinking about it for a time, absently watching the coloured mime upon the screen. Presently she turned to him again. “You must have had a job lifting that stone, Carl,” she said. “Did you have anyone to help you?”
He shook his head. “I was quite alone.” He hesitated. “I might have had Billy Slim to help,” he said. “It was lucky. It was the first time that I had been there since we said good-bye, and I was sad, and I went there to work very hard and to be quite alone, because it is good to work very hard when everything seems bad.” She pressed his hand. “I had the timber for the house, and I borrowed Billy’s crowbar, and I levered up each corner of the stone and put underneath a wedge of wood. It took nearly all the day to move it four feet back and make the new place for it, and then when it was moved away from the old hole I saw the box.”
She asked him, “What did you do when you saw it, Carl? Were you terribly excited?”
He said quietly, “I was very sad that we had not found it together. I stood looking at the rusty pieces and the things in the hole, and I thought, ‘That must be the box that Mary Nolan talked about,’ and I was not at all excited. I was very sad that you had had to go away, and that you were not there to share the discovery with me.”
She put her face up impulsively, and he leaned forward in the half light and kissed her. Presently she said, “What do you do with gold dust when you’ve got it, Carl? If you can’t tell anybody about it?”
He smiled down at her. “There are several things that you can do with gold dust,” he told her, “but they are all very wicked and if you are discovered you will go to prison. One way is that you can take out a licence to be a prospector for gold. Then you go camping up the river in deserted places, washing the gravel in a little pan to try to find gold. Presently you find it, and come back with it, and sell it to the bank.”
She laughed. “Did you do that?”
“No,” he said. “I thought that it would become complicated if they ask where I had found it.”
“It might,” she agreed. “Well, what did you do?”
“Another way,” he said imperturbably, “is to build a little hut in the middle of the woods where nobody would ever think to go.”
“Like the Howqua,” she laughed softly.
“It could be like the Howqua,” he agreed. “And you must have a friend, a good friend who thinks he has a debt to you, who understands metallurgy and how metals can be melted.”
“Like Harry Peters,” she observed. “I wondered why on earth you took him to the Howqua.”
“It could be like Harry Peters,” he agreed. “And there in the hut you make a little furnace with a cylinder of gas to heat a little crucible, and these things have to be hidden very carefully from Billy Slim.”
“Oh, Carl!”
“And then,” he said, “you bring many candles and you melt the wax, and you carve a bracelet out of candle-wax, or it could be a ring like this ring. And you put the wax bracelet in a pan of soft plaster of Paris and you let the plaster set till it is hard. And then you heat the plaster and the wax melts and runs out of a small hole you make, and so you have a mould in the middle of the plaster where the wax bracelet was. Then you pour in the melted gold and let it cool, and break the plaster away, and there is your bracelet or your ring, made of solid gold.”
She looked up, laughing. “Is that how my ring was made, Carl?”
He pressed her hand. “I made that ring and a hundred and five bracelets, all in four week-ends.”
“A hundred and five bracelets! What on earth did you do with them?”
“It is very tedious,” he said. “You must take one bracelet and go to a jeweller in Melbourne, and to him you say that your Aunt Catherine has died who lived in the gold-fields fifty years ago, and you have found this bracelet in her jewel box. And then you ask if he will buy it for the weight of the gold. The proper price is fifteen pounds for each ounce of the weight, but he will only give nine or ten pounds.” He paused. “It is very slow and difficult, because it is not safe to go to more than two or three jewellers in each town. There is a better way, that I discovered very soon.”
“What’s that, Carl?”
He said, “This third way is very simple and very easy. You must wait till a ship from India, with an Indian captain, comes to Melbourne, and you wait until the captain comes on shore. You go then to the captain in the hotel and you say, Can I sell you my gold? In Bombay he can get thirty pounds for each ounce, but he must smuggle it out of Australia and into India.”
“How much did he give you, Carl?”
“Eighteen pounds an ounce.”
“And that’s where the eleven hundred pounds came from?”
He nodded. “I think that it was worth the risk,” he said, “because I wanted to come to England to see you, Jenny, and to be a doctor again.”
“It was worth it, Carl,” she said softly. “We’d better forget all about it now, and never talk of it again. We don’t want anybody else to get to know about that gold.”
They sat talking together in low tones till half-past nine, not paying the slightest attention to the picture. Then Jennifer stirred and looked at the clock by the screen, and she said, “Let’s go home, Carl. That meeting must be over now, and Daddy will be waiting for us. We’ll go round by the station and pick up your bag. Is it heavy to carry?”
He shook his head. “It is only for the night. I have not many clothes in any case. I must now buy some, but they must be cheap.”
They went out of the theatre; in the vestibule they stopped to do up their coats. She took his arm and they went out into the street; in the darkness the freezing wind hit them with a blast. She felt his sleeve, and said, “Is this the thickest coat you’ve got, Carl?”
“I must get a thicker one,” he said. “I had not thought that England would be cold like this. It is as cold as Germany.”
They bent against the wind and walked quickly, arm in arm, to the London Road station. “Will you tell me one thing truthfully, Carl?”
“If I know the answer, Jenny,” he said.
“Did you really have to come to England, Carl, to do your medical training? Couldn’t you have done it in Australia, possibly?”
He looked down at her, smiling. “What questions you do ask!”
“You said you’d tell me.”
“I could have done it in Australia,” he said. “They grew so tired of seeing me in the office that at last they would have given me whatever I should want. I came to England because I wanted to find you again.”
They turned into the bleak, shabby, covered cabway of the railway station, dimly lit for gas economy. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “It was very sweet of you to do that, Carl. To give up everything Australia has to offer and come back to Europe — after getting away once.” She paused, and looked around her at the stained and dirty brickwork, at the antiquated building, at the wet streets in the blustering, windy night.
He laughed at her gently. “Australia is cold and wet in the winter,” he said, “and there are dirty railway stations in Australia, too, and dirty streets.”
They walked to the cloak-room and he handed in the ticket; they stood waiting while the porter went to fetch his bag. “Carl,” she said. “Your hut up in the Howqua — that’ll be all right, will it?” She looked up at him half fearful. “You don’t think it’s like the other Charlie Zlinter’s hut, with a door swinging open and a green loaf in the cupboard, and a possum or a rat nesting in the bed?”
He pressed her arm. “I also thought of that,” he said. “I left everything there very clean, with no bedclothes or cloths at all, and with insect powder sprinkled all over. Billy Slim is to go there once each week and light a fire and open all the windows, and he has money for repairs, also. It will be there clean and waiting for us when we can get back to it, when we can get away from Europe for a second time.”
“We’ll get back to it, all right,” she said. “Some day, somehow, we’ll get bac
k there again.”
THE END
In the Wet (1953)
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The first edition
The first edition’s title page
Lord God of Hosts, through whom alone
A Prince can rule his nation,
Who settest Kings upon their throne
And orderest each man’s station;
Now, and through ages following,
This grace to us be given:
To serve and love an earthly King
Who serves our King in Heaven.
C. A. Alington.
(from a hymn sung
at Shrewsbury School)
1
I HAVE NEVER before sat down to write anything so long as this may be, though I have written plenty of sermons and articles for parish magazines. I don’t really know how to set about it, or how much I shall have to write, but as nobody is very likely to read it but myself perhaps that is of no great consequence. The fact is, however, that I have been so troubled in my mind since I came back from Blazing Downs that I have not been able to sleep very well or to work wholeheartedly upon my parish business, and my services in the church have been mechanical and absent-minded. I think it will help me if I try to write down what it is that has been bothering me, and then I think that I may send it to the Bishop for him to look over. Perhaps the trouble is that I am getting a little old for duty in this somewhat unusual parish, and if that should prove to be the case I must accept whatever he decides.
Writing materials are not very easy to come by here, because Landsborough is only a small town. I went down to Art Duncan’s store just now to buy some paper, but all he had was pads of thin airmail paper and these exercise books that Miss Foster uses for the older children in the school when they have got past using slates. I got six of these books and I expect I shall want more before I have written all that I have to say, but that only leaves nine books in the store and I would not like to think that I was running the school short. I have asked Art to get in some more, and he will send an order out to Townsville by next week’s aeroplane.
In fairness to anybody who should read what I am writing I think I should begin by putting down something about myself, so that he can form his own judgment on the credibility of my account. My name is Roger Hargreaves and I have been ordained as a priest in the Church of England for forty-one years; I was sixty-three years old last month. I was born in the year 1890 at Portsmouth in the south of England and I was educated at Portsmouth Grammar School. I was ordained in 1912 and became curate of St. Mark’s, at Guildford. In 1914 when the war broke out I went into the army as a chaplain, and I saw service in Gallipoli and in France. I was very fortunate in the war, because although I was blown up by a shell at Delville Wood during the Somme battle I was only in hospital for a few weeks, and I was able to return to the front line in less than four months.
After the war I was rather unsettled, and disinclined to return to parochial work in an English town. I was twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and with nothing very much to keep me in England. It seemed to me that while I was still young and vigorous I should give a few years of my life to service in more difficult places, and after talking it over with the Bishop I left for Australia to join the Bush Brotherhood in Queensland.
I served in the Bush Brotherhood for fourteen years, travelling very widely from Cloncurry to Toowoomba, from Birdsville to Burdekin. During that fourteen years I had no settled home, and I did not very often sleep more than two nights in one place. I drew fifty pounds a year from the Brotherhood which was quite sufficient for my clothes and personal expenses, and I had a small expense account for travelling though I seldom had to draw upon it. The people of the outback were most generous in helping me to travel from station to station for my christenings and weddings and funerals and services. They would always take me on to the next place in a truck or a utility, and in the wet when the roads are impassable to motors because of the mud I have been given the loan of a horse for as long as three months, so that I have been able to continue with my duties all through the rainy season.
In 1934 I got appendicitis at a place called Goodwood near Boulia, three hundred miles west of Longreach where there was a hospital. There was no Flying Doctor in those days, of course, and I had to travel for two days in a truck in very hot weather over rough country roads to get to the hospital. I had peritonitis by the time I got there and I very nearly died, and might have done if Billy Shaw of Goodwood station hadn’t driven me all through the night. I was poorly after the operation and I didn’t pick up very well, so very reluctantly I had to resign from the Brotherhood, and I went back to England. The Bishop was most kind and gave me a very good living, St. Peter’s at Godalming, and there I settled down and met my dear wife, Ethel. Our few years of married life together were so happy I can hardly bear to write about them, so I shall not try to do so.
Ethel died in 1943, and we had no children. In wartime England there was much work for a vicar, and I did not feel the call to greater service till the war was over. But then it seemed to me that Godalming required a married priest more than a widower, and that there were still parts of Queensland where a man of my experience could be of use, even though he were fifty-six years old. I gave up my parish and went back to Australia as the clergyman of an emigrant ship, and to my great delight I found that the Brotherhood were willing to take me back into their service again in spite of my age.
I soon found that work in the outback was much easier than it had been ten years before. The war had brought improvements to the roads, for one thing, and small wireless receivers and transmitters were in general use on the more isolated stations, so that all communications were vastly easier. Most important of all was the greater use of aeroplanes; there seemed to be airfields all over the place, and even regular passenger services from them. All these developments made it possible for a priest to do a great deal more for the people than had been the case before, and I found that over much of my district it was possible to visit a given town or station as frequently as once in six months instead of once in two years as was the case when I first came to the country.
In 1950 an acute shortage of clergy developed in New Guinea; at one time owing to leave and sickness there was only one priest of the Church of England there to serve an area of a hundred and eighty-one thousand square miles in Papua and the Mandated Territory. It seemed to me that their needs were even greater than those of the Queenslanders, and with the consent of the Brotherhood I volunteered to go there for a few months to help them out of their difficulty. I was fifty-nine when I flew up to Port Moresby, much too old for such a job, I suppose, but there was nobody else to go. I travelled widely in the country for a year, from the Fly River to Rabaul and from the goldfields at Wau to the plantations of Samarai. I am afraid that I was careless in taking my Paludrine because in September 1951 I went down with a severe attack of malaria at Salamaua, and I was in hospital at Port Moresby for some weeks. That was the end of my service in New Guinea.
I mention that attack of malaria because I still get recurrences of it from time to time, though in a milder form. It has a place in the events that I am trying to write down. I am told that these malarial fevers are likely to go on for some years after the first attack before they gradually die away, and the recurrences that I get now are already much less severe than the first bout I had at Salamaua. I find now that I can go on with my work quite well when the fever is on me, certainly as regards travelling, although occasionally I still have to postpone a service for a day while I go to bed and sweat it out. However, that first bout was a severe one and left me rather weak, so that I was glad to give up New Guinea and to go and stay with friends up on the Atherton Tableland behind Cairns in North Queensland while I recovered and
regained my health.
The Bishop was travelling in the district at that time, and he wrote to me proposing that he should come to see me, and saying things that I did not deserve. I travelled down to meet him at Innisfail because I was quite well enough to go to him, and we had a very friendly talk in which he spoke about my age and the desirability that I should take on less exacting work. He told me then that he was anxious to re-open the parish church at Landsborough and to provide a resident priest for the parish. He spoke about my experience of the country, and asked me if I would like to go there for a few years to start up the Church again in that district. He said that he would not expect me to travel very widely in the parish, which is about twenty-eight thousand square miles in area though sparsely populated, because he hoped to be able to provide me with a young man as a curate within a year. Money is always a difficulty in the Church, of course, but he said that he would send me a truck in a few months’ time, although it might have to be rather an old one. It hasn’t come yet, but I really get on very well without it.
Landsborough is a town at the head of the Gulf of Carpentaria in what is known as the Gulf Country. The town was much larger fifty years ago than it is now; at the time of the gold mining boom it had about twenty-five hotels — probably mere drinking shops, most of them — but now it has only two. There are about eighty permanent white residents there counting men, women, and children, and a floating population of two or three hundred blacks who live in deplorable conditions in iron shanties outside the town. The place is about two hundred miles from Cloncurry and five hundred by air from Cairns and Townsville on the coast. It has a hospital staffed by a couple of nursing sisters, and it has a house for a doctor though no doctor has ever been induced to practise there. In an emergency they speak upon the radio to Cloncurry and the Flying Doctor comes in the air ambulance; there is a very good aerodrome built during the war, and an aeroplane calls with mail and supplies once a week.