by Nevil Shute
On his way downtown he stopped at a sports shop and asked for flies and casts. “I’m sorry, sir,” the man said. “Not a cast in the place, and not a fly. I’ve got a few hooks left, if you can tie your own. Sold clean out of everything the last few days, on account of the season opening, and there won’t be any more coming in now, either. Well, as I said to the wife, it’s kind of satisfactory. Get the stock down to a minimum before the end. It’s how the accountants would like to see it, though I don’t suppose they’ll take much interest in it now. It’s a queer turnout.”
He walked on through the city. In the motor district there were still cars in the windows, still motor mowers, but the windows were dirty and the stores closed, the stock inside covered in dust and dirt. The streets were dirty now and littered with paper and spoilt vegetables; it was evidently some days since the street cleaners had operated. The trams still ran, but the whole city was becoming foul and beginning to smell; it reminded the American of an oriental city in the making. It was raining a little and the skies were grey; in one or two places the street drains were choked, and great pools stood across the road.
He came to the mews and to the open garage door. John Osborne was working with two others, and Peter Holmes was there, his uniform coat off, washing strange, nameless parts of the Ferrari in a bath of kerosene, more valuable at that time than mercury. There was an atmosphere of cheerful activity in the garage that warmed his heart.
“I thought we might see you,” said the scientist. “Come for a job?”
“Sure,” said Dwight. “This city gives me a pain. You got anything I can do?”
“Yes. Help Bill Adams fit new tires on every wheel you can find.” He indicated a stack of brand-new racing tires; there seemed to be wire wheels everywhere.
Dwight took his coat off thankfully. “You’ve got a lot of wheels.”
“Eleven, I think. We got the ones off the Maserati — they’re the same as ours. I want a new tire on every wheel we’ve got. Bill works for Goodyear and he knows the way they go, but he needs somebody to help.”
The American, rolling up his sleeves, turned to Peter. “He got you working, too?”
The naval officer nodded. “I’ll have to go before very long. Jennifer’s teething, and been crying for two bloody days. I told Mary I was sorry I’d got to go on board today, but I’d be back by five.”
Dwight smiled. “Left her to hold the baby.”
Peter nodded. “I got her a garden rake and a bottle of dillwater. But I must be back by five.”
He left half an hour later, and got into his little car, and drove off down the road to Falmouth. He got back to his flat on time, and found Mary in the lounge, the house miraculously quiet. “How’s Jennifer?” he asked.
She put her finger to her lips. “She’s sleeping,” she whispered. “She went off after dinner, and she hasn’t woken up since.”
He went towards the bedroom, and she followed him. “Don’t wake her,” she whispered.
“Not on your life,” he whispered back. He stood looking down at the child, sleeping quietly. “I don’t think she’s got cancer,” he remarked.
They went back into the lounge, closing the door quietly behind them, and he gave her his presents. “I’ve got dillwater,” she said, “ — masses of it, and anyway she doesn’t have it now. You’re about three months out of date. The rake’s lovely. It’s just what we want for getting all the leaves and twigs up off the lawn. I was trying to pick them up by hand yesterday, but it breaks your back.”
They got short drinks, and presently she said, “Peter, now that we’ve got petrol, couldn’t we have a motor mower?”
“They cost quite a bit,” he objected, almost automatically.
“That doesn’t matter so much now, does it? And with the summer coming on, it would be a help. I know we’ve not got very much lawn to mow, but it’s an awful chore with the hand mower, and you may be away at sea again. If we had a very little motor mower that I could start myself. Or an electric one. Doris Haynes has an electric one, and it’s no trouble to start at all.”
“She’s cut its cord in two at least three times, and each time she does that she darn nearly electrocutes herself.”
“You don’t have to do that if you’re careful. I think it would be a lovely thing to have.”
She lived in the dream world of unreality, or else she would not admit reality; he did not know. In any case, he loved her as she was. It might never be used, but it would give her pleasure to have it. “I’ll see if I can find one next time I go up to town,” he said. “I know there are plenty of motor mowers, but I’m not just sure about an electric one.” He thought for a moment. “I’m afraid the electric ones may all be gone. People would have bought them when there wasn’t any petrol.”
She said, “A little motor one would do, Peter. I mean, you could show me how to start it.”
He nodded. “They’re not much trouble, really.”
“Another thing we ought to have,” she said, “is a garden seat. You know — one that you can leave outside all winter, and sit on whenever it’s a nice fine day. I was thinking, how nice it would be if we had a garden seat in that sheltered corner just by the arbutus. I think we’d use it an awful lot next summer. Probably use it all the year round, too.”
He nodded. “Not a bad idea.” It would never be used next summer, but let that go. Transport would be a difficulty; the only way he could transport a garden seat with the Morris Minor would be by putting it on the roof, and that might scratch the enamel unless he padded it very well. “We’ll get the motor mower first, and then see what the bank looks like.”
He drove her up to Melbourne the next day to look for a motor mower; they went with Jennifer in her carrying basket on the back seat. It was some weeks since she had been in the city, and its aspect startled and distressed her. “Peter,” she said, “what’s the matter with everything? It’s all so dirty, and it smells horrid.”
“I suppose the street cleaners have stopped working,” he observed.
“But why should they do that? Why aren’t they working? Is there a strike or something?”
“Everything’s just slowing down,” he said. “After all, I’m not working.”
“That’s different,” she said. “You’re in the navy.” He laughed. “No, what I mean is, you go to sea for months and months, and then you go on leave. Street cleaners don’t do that. They go on all the time. At least, they ought to.”
He could not elucidate it any further for her, and they drove on to the big hardware store. It had only a few customers, and very few assistants. They left the baby in the car and went through to the gardening department, and searched some time for an assistant. “Motor mowers?” he said. “You’ll find a few in the next hall, through that archway. Look them over and see if what you want is there.”
They did so, and picked a little twelve-inch mower. Peter looked at the price tag, picked up the mower, and went to find the assistant. “I’ll take this one,” he said.
“Okay,” said the man. “Good little mower, that.” He grinned sardonically. “Last you a lifetime.”
“Forty-seven pounds ten,” said Peter. “Can I pay by cheque?”
“Pay by orange peel for all I care,” the man said. “We’re closing down tonight.”
The naval officer went over to a table and wrote his cheque; Mary was left talking to the salesman. “Why are you closing down?” she asked. “Aren’t people buying things?”
He laughed shortly. “Oh — they come in and they buy. Not much to sell them now. But I’m not going on right up till the end, same with all the staff. We had a meeting yesterday, and then we told the management. After all, there’s only about a fortnight left to go. They’re closing down tonight.”
Peter came back and handed his cheque to the salesman. “Okeydoke,” the man said. “I don’t know if they’ll ever pay it in without a staff up in the office. Maybe I’d better give you a receipt in case they get on to your tail next year. .
. .” He scribbled a receipt and turned to another customer.
Mary shivered. “Peter, let’s get out of this and go home. It’s horrid here, and everything smells.”
“Don’t you want to stay up here for lunch?” He had thought she would enjoy the little outing.
She shook her head. “I’d rather go home now, and have lunch there.”
They drove in silence out of the city and down to the bright little seaside town that was their home. Back in their apartment on the hill she regained a little of her poise; here were the familiar things she was accustomed to, the cleanness that was her pride, the carefully tended little garden, the clean wide view out over the bay. Here was security.
After lunch, smoking before they did the washing up, she said, “I don’t think I want to go to Melbourne again, Peter.”
He smiled. “Getting a bit piggy, isn’t it?”
“It’s horrible,” she said vehemently. “Everything shut up, and dirty, and stinking. It’s as if the end of the world had come already.”
“It’s pretty close, you know,” he said.
She was silent for a moment. “I know; that’s what you’ve been telling me all along.” She raised her eyes to his. “How far off is it, Peter?”
“About a fortnight,” he said. “It doesn’t happen with a click, you know. People start getting ill, but not all on the same day, of course. Some people are more resistant than others.”
“But everybody gets it, don’t they?” she asked in a low tone. “I mean, in the end.”
He nodded. “Everybody gets it, in the end.”
“How much difference is there in people? I mean, when they get it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t really know. I think everybody would have got it in three weeks.”
“Three weeks from now, or three weeks after the first case?”
“Three weeks after the first case, I mean,” he said. “But I don’t really know.” He paused. “It’s possible to get it slightly and get over it,” he said. “But then you get it again ten days or a fortnight later.”
She said, “There’s no guarantee, then, that you and I would get it at the same time? Or Jennifer? We might any of us get it, any time?”
He nodded. “That’s the way it is. We’ve just got to take it as it comes. After all, it’s what we’ve always had to face, only we’ve never faced it, because we’re young. Jennifer might always have died first, of the three of us, or I might have died before you. There’s nothing much that’s new about it.”
“I suppose not,” she said. “I did hope it all might happen on one day.”
He took her hand. “It may quite well do so,” he said. “But — we’d be lucky.” He kissed her. “Let’s do the washing up.” His eye fell on the lawn mower. “We can mow the lawn this afternoon.”
“The grass is all wet,” she said sadly. “It’ll make it rusty.”
“Then we’ll dry it in front of the fire in the lounge,” he promised her. “I won’t let it get rusty.”
Dwight Towers spent the week-end with the Davidsons at Harkaway, working from dawn till dusk each day on the construction of the fences. The hard physical work was a relief from all his tensions, but he found his host to be a worried man. Someone had told him about the resistance of the rabbit to radioactive infection. The rabbit did not worry him a great deal, for Harkaway had always been remarkably free from rabbits, but the relative immunity of the furred animals raised questions in regard to his beef cattle, and to these he had found no answer.
He unburdened himself one evening to the American. “I never thought of it,” he said. “I mean, I assumed the Aberdeen Angus, they’d die at the same time as us. But now it looks as though they’ll last a good while longer. How much longer they’ll last — that I can’t find out. Apparently there’s been no research done on it. But as it is, of course, I’m feeding out both hay and silage, and up here we go on feeding out until the end of September in an average year — about half a bale of hay a beast each day. I find you have to do that if you’re going to keep them prime. Well, I can’t see how to do it if there’s going to be no one here. It really is a problem.”
“What would happen if you opened the hay barn to them, and let them take it as they want it?”
“I thought of that, but they’d never get the bales undone. If they did, they’d trample most of it underfoot and spoil it.” He paused. “I’ve been puzzling to think out if there isn’t some way we could do it with a time clock and an electric fence. . . . But any way you look at it, it means putting out a month’s supply of hay into the open paddock, in the rain. I don’t know what to do. . . .”
He got up. “Let me get you a whisky.”
“Thank you — a small one.” The American reverted to the problem of the hay. “It certainly is difficult. You can’t even write to the papers and find out what anybody else is doing.”
He stayed with the Davidsons until the Tuesday morning, and then went back to Williamstown. At the dockyard his command was beginning to disintegrate, in spite of everything that the executive and the chief of the boat had been able to do. Two men had not returned from leave and one was reported to have been killed in a street brawl at Geelong, but there was no confirmation. There were eleven cases of men drunk on return from leave waiting for his jurisdiction and he found these very difficult to deal with. Restriction of leave when there was no work to do aboard and only about a fortnight left to go did not seem to be the answer. He left the culprits confined in the brig of the aircraft carrier while they sobered up and while he thought about it; then he had them lined up before him on the quarter deck.
“You men can’t have it both ways,” he told them. “We’ve none of us got long to go now, you or me. As of today, you’re members of the ship’s company of U.S.S. Scorpion, and that’s the last ship of the U.S. Navy in commission. You can stay as part of the ship’s company, or you can get a dishonorable discharge.”
He paused. “Any man coming aboard drunk or late from leave, from this time on, will get discharged next day. And when I say discharged, I mean dishonorable discharge, and I mean it quick. I’ll strip the uniform off you right there and then and put you outside the dockyard gates as a civilian in your shorts, and you can freeze and rot in Williamstown for all the U.S. Navy cares. Hear that, and think it over. Dismissed.”
He got one case next day, and turned the man outside the dockyard gates in shirt and underpants to fend for himself. He had no more trouble of that sort.
He left the dockyard early on the Friday morning in the Chevrolet driven by his leading seaman, and went to the garage in the mews off Elizabeth Street in the city. He found John Osborne working on the Ferrari, as he had expected; the car stood roadworthy and gleaming, to all appearances ready to race there and then. Dwight said, “Say, I just called in as I was passing by to say I’m sorry that I won’t be there to see you win tomorrow. I’ve got another date up in the mountains, going fishing.”
The scientist nodded. “Moira told me. Catch a lot of fish. I don’t think there’ll be many people there this time except competitors and doctors.”
“I’d have thought there would be, for the Grand Prix.”
“It may be the last week-end in full health for a lot of people. They’ve got other things they want to do.”
“Peter Holmes — he’ll be there?”
John Osborne shook his head. “He’s going to spend it gardening.” He hesitated. “I oughtn’t to be going really.”
“You don’t have a garden.”
The scientist smiled wryly. “No, but I’ve got an old mother, and she’s got a Pekinese. She’s just woken up to the fact that little Ming’s going to outlive her by several months, and now she’s worried stiff what’s going to happen to him. . . .” He paused. “It’s the hell of a time, this. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
“End of the month, still?”
“Sooner than that for most of us.” He said something in a low tone, and added, “Keep that und
er your hat. It’s going to be tomorrow afternoon for me.”
“I hope that’s not true,” said the American. “I kind of want to see you get that cup.”
The scientist glanced lovingly at the car. “She’s fast enough,” he said. “She’d win it if she had a decent driver. But it’s me that’s the weak link.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Okay. Bring me back a fish.”
The American left the mews and went back to his car, wondering if he would see the scientist again. He said to his leading seaman, “Now drive out to Mr. Davidson’s farm at Harkaway, near Berwick. Where you’ve taken me once before.”
He sat in the back seat of the car fingering the little rod as they drove out into the suburbs, looking at the streets and houses that they passed in the grey light of the winter day. Very soon, perhaps in a month’s time, there would be no one here, no living creatures but the cats and dogs that had been granted a short reprieve. Soon they too would be gone; summers and winters would pass by and these houses and these streets would know them. Presently, as time passed, the radioactivity would pass also; with a cobalt half-life of about five years these streets and houses would be habitable again in twenty years at the latest, and probably sooner than that. The human race was to be wiped out and the world made clean again for wiser occupants without undue delay. Well, probably that made sense.
He got to Harkaway in the middle of the morning; the Ford was in the yard, the boot full of petrol cans. Moira was ready for him, a little suitcase stowed on the back seat with a good deal of fishing gear. “I thought we’d get away before lunch and have sandwiches on the road,” she said. “The days are pretty short.”