by Nevil Shute
He could not bring himself to tell her again that the infection was there around them, in their pleasant little flat; either she did not or she would not understand. “I’ll have to go,” he said. “I won’t stay longer than I’ve absolutely got to.”
“Don’t stay up to lunch,” she said. “I’m sure it’s healthier down here.”
“I’ll come straight home,” he said.
A thought struck her. “I know,” she said. “Take those formalin lozenges with you that we got for my cough, and suck one now and then. They’re awfully good for all kinds of infection. They’re so antiseptic.”
It would set her mind at ease if he did so. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.
He drove up to the city deep in thought. It was no longer a matter of days now; it was coming down to hours. He did not know what this conference with the First Naval Member was to be about, but it was very evident that it would be one of the last naval duties of his career. When he drove back again that afternoon his service life would probably be over, as his physical life soon would be.
He parked his car and went into the Navy Department. There was practically no one in the building; he walked up to the anteroom and there he found Dwight Towers in uniform, and alone. His captain said cheerfully, “Hi, fella.”
Peter said, “Good morning, sir.” He glanced around; the secretary’s desk was locked, the room empty. “Hasn’t Lieutenant Commander Torrens shown up?”
“Not that I know of. I’d say he’s taking the day off.”
The door into the admiral’s office opened, and Sir David Hartman stood there. The smiling, rubicund face was more serious and drawn than Peter had remembered. He said, “Come in, gentlemen. My secretary isn’t here today.”
They went in, and were given seats before the desk. The American said, “I don’t know if what I have to say concerns Lieutenant Commander Holmes or not. It may involve a few liaison duties with the dockyard. Would you prefer he wait outside, sir?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said the admiral. “If it will shorten our business, let him stay. What is it you want, Commander?”
Dwight hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. “It seems that I’m the senior executive officer of the U.S. Navy now,” he said. “I never thought I’d rise so high as that, but that’s the way it is. You’ll excuse me if I don’t put this in the right form or language, sir. But I have to tell you that I’m taking my ship out of your command.”
The admiral nodded slowly. “Very good, Commander. Do you wish to leave Australian territorial waters, or to stay here as our guest?”
“I’ll be taking my ship outside territorial waters,” the commander said. “I can’t just say when I’ll be leaving, but probably before the week-end.”
The admiral nodded. He turned to Peter. “Give any necessary instructions in regard to victualling and towage to the dockyard,” he said. “Commander Towers is to be given every facility.”
“Very good, sir.”
The American said, “I don’t just know what to suggest about payments, sir. You must forgive me, but I have no training in these matters.”
The admiral smiled thinly. “I don’t know that it would do us much good if you had, Commander. I think we can leave those to the usual routine. All countersigned indents and requisitions are costed here and are presented to the Naval Attaché at your embassy in Canberra, and forwarded by him to Washington for eventual settlement. I don’t think you need worry over that side of it.”
Dwight said, “I can just cast off and go?”
“That’s right. Do you expect to be returning to Australian waters?”
The American shook his head. “No, sir. I’m taking my ship out in Bass Strait to sink her.”
Peter had expected that, but the imminence and the practical negotiation of the matter came with a shock; somehow this was the sort of thing that did not happen. He wanted for a moment to ask if Dwight required a tug to go out with the submarine to bring back the crew, and then abandoned the question. If the Americans wanted a tug to give them a day or two more life they would ask for it, but he did not think they would. Better the sea than death by sickness and diarrhoea homeless in a strange land.
The admiral said, “I should probably do the same, in your shoes. . . . Well, it only remains to thank you for your cooperation, Commander. And to wish you luck. If there’s anything you need before you go don’t hesitate to ask for it — or just take it.” A sudden spasm of pain twisted his face and he gripped a pencil on the desk before him. Then he relaxed a little, and got up from the desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll have to leave you for a minute.”
He left them hurriedly, and the door closed behind him. The captain and the liaison officer had stood up at his sudden departure; they remained standing, and glanced at each other. “This is it,” said the American.
Peter said in a low tone, “Do you suppose that’s what’s happened to the secretary?”
“I’d think so.”
They stood in silence for a minute or two, staring out of the window. “Victualling,” Peter said at last. “There’s nothing much in Scorpion. Is the exec getting out a list of what you’ll need, sir?”
Dwight shook his head. “We shan’t need anything,” he said. “I’m only taking her down the bay and just outside the territorial limit.”
The liaison officer asked the question that he had wanted to ask before. “Shall I lay on a tug to sail with you and bring the crew back?”
Dwight said, “That won’t be necessary.”
They stood in silence for another ten minutes. Finally the admiral reappeared, grey faced. “Very good of you to wait,” he said. “I’ve been a bit unwell. . . .” He did not resume his seat, but remained standing by the desk. “This is the end of a long association, Captain,” he said. “We British have always enjoyed working with Americans, especially upon the sea. We’ve had cause to be grateful to you very many times, and in return I think we’ve taught you something out of our experience. This is the end of it.” He stood in thought for a minute, and then he held out his hand, smiling. “All I can do now is to say good-bye.”
Dwight took his hand. “It certainly has been good, working under you, sir,” he said. “I’m speaking for the whole ship’s company when I say that, as well as for myself.”
They left the office and walked down through the desolate, empty building to the courtyard. Peter said, “Well, what happens now, sir? Would you like me to come down to the dockyard?”
The captain shook his head. “I’d say that you can consider yourself to be relieved of duty,” he said. “I won’t need you any more down there.”
“If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll come very gladly.”
“No. If I should find I need anything from you, I’ll ring your home. But that’s where your place is now, fella.”
This, then, was the end of their fellowship. “When will you be sailing?” Peter asked.
“I wouldn’t know exactly,” the American said. “I’ve got seven cases in the crew, as of this morning. I guess we’ll stick around a day or two, and sail maybe on Saturday.”
“Are many going with you?”
“Ten. Eleven, with myself.”
Peter glanced at him. “Are you all right, so far?”
Dwight smiled. “I thought I was, but now I don’t just know. I won’t be taking any lunch today.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right. So is Mary — I think.”
Dwight turned towards the cars. “You get back to her, right now. There’s nothing now for you to stay here for.”
“Will I see you again, sir?”
“I don’t think you will,” said the captain. “I’m going home now, home to Mystic in Connecticut, and glad to go.”
There was nothing more for them to say or do. They shook hands, got into their cars, and drove off on their separate ways.
In the old-fashioned, two-storey brick house in Malvern, John Osborne stood by his mo
ther’s bed. He was not unwell, but the old lady had fallen sick upon the Sunday morning, the day after he had won the Grand Prix. He had managed to get a doctor for her on Monday but there was nothing he could do, and he had not come again. The daily maid had not turned up, and the scientist was now doing everything for his sick mother.
She opened her eyes for the first time in a quarter of an hour. “John,” she said. “This is what they said would happen, isn’t it?”
“I think so, Mum,” he said gently. “It’s going to happen to me, too.”
“Did Dr. Hamilton say that was what it was? I can’t remember.”
“That’s what he told me, Mum. I don’t think he’ll be coming here again. He said he was getting it himself.”
There was a long silence. “How long will it take me to die, John?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It might be a week.”
“How absurd,” said the old lady. “Much too long.”
She closed her eyes again. He took a basin to the bathroom, washed it out, and brought it back into the bedroom. She opened her eyes again. “Where is Ming?” she asked.
“I put him out in the garden,” he said. “He seemed to want to go.”
“I am so terribly sorry about him,” she muttered. “He’ll be so dreadfully lonely, without any of us here.”
“He’ll be all right, Mum,” her son said, though without much confidence. “There’ll be all the other dogs for him to play with.”
She did not pursue the subject, but she said, “I’ll be quite all right now, dear. You go on and do whatever you have to do.”
He hesitated. “I think I ought to look in at the office,” he said. “I’ll be back before lunch. What would you like for lunch?”
She closed her eyes again. “Is there any milk?”
“There’s a pint in the frig,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get some more. It’s not too easy, though. There wasn’t any yesterday.”
“Ming ought to have a little,” she said. “It’s so good for him. There should be three tins of rabbit in the larder. Open one of those for his dinner, and put the rest in the frig. He’s so fond of rabbit. Don’t bother about lunch for me till you come back. If I’m feeling like it I might have a cup of cornflour.”
“Sure you’ll be all right if I go out?” he asked.
“Quite sure,” she said. She held out her arms. “Give me a kiss before you go.”
He kissed the limp old cheeks, and she lay back in bed, smiling at him.
He left the house and went down to the office. There was nobody there, but on his desk there was the daily report of radioactive infection. Attached to it was a note from his secretary. She said that she was feeling very unwell, and probably would not be coming to the office again. She thanked him for his kindness to her, congratulated him upon the motor race, and said how much she had enjoyed working for him.
He laid the note aside and took up the report. It said that in Melbourne about fifty per cent of the population appeared to be affected. Seven cases were reported from Hobart in Tasmania, and three from Christchurch in New Zealand. The report, probably the last that he would see, was much shorter than usual.
He walked through the empty offices, picking up a paper here and there and glancing at them. This phase of his life was coming to an end, with all the others. He did not stay very long, for the thought of his mother was heavy on him. He went out and made his way towards his home by one of the occasional, crowded trams still running in the streets. It had a driver, but no conductor; the days of paying fares were over. He spoke to the driver. The man said, “I’ll go on driving this here bloody tram till I get sick, cock. Then I’ll drive it to the Kew depot and go home. That’s where I live, see? I been driving trams for thirty-seven years, rain or shine, and I’m not stopping now.”
In Malvern he got off the tram and commenced his search for milk. He found it to be hopeless; what there was had been reserved for babies by the dairy. He went home empty-handed to his mother.
He entered the house and released the Pekinese from the garden, thinking that his mother would like to see him. He went upstairs to her bedroom, the dog hopping up the stairs before him.
In the bedroom he found his mother lying on her back with her eyes closed, the bed very neat and tidy. He moved a little closer and touched her hand, but she was dead. On the table by her side was a glass of water, a pencilled note, and one of the little red cartons, open, with the empty vial beside it. He had not known that she had that.
He picked up the note. It read,
My dear son,
It’s quite absurd that I should spoil the last days of your life by hanging on to mine, since it is such a burden to me now. Don’t bother about my funeral. Just close the door and leave me in my own bed, in my own room, with my own things all round me. I shall be quite all right.
Do whatever you think best for little Ming. I am so very, very sorry for him, but I can do nothing.
I am so very glad you won your race.
My very dearest love.
Mother
A few tears trickled down his cheeks, but only a few. Mum had always been right, all his life, and now she was right again. He left the room and went down to the drawing room, thinking deeply. He was not yet ill himself, but now it could only be a matter of hours. The dog followed him; he sat down and took it on his lap, caressing the silky ears.
Presently he got up, put the little dog in the garden, and went out to the chemist at the corner. There was a girl behind the counter still, surprisingly; she gave him one of the red cartons. “Everybody’s after these,” she said smiling. “We’re doing quite a lot of business in them.”
He smiled back at her. “I like mine chocolate-coated.”
“So do I,” she said. “But I don’t think they make them like that. I’m going to take mine with an ice-cream soda.”
He smiled again, and left her at the counter. He went back to the house, released the Pekinese from the garden, and began to prepare a dinner for him in the kitchen. He opened one of the tins of rabbit and warmed it a little in the oven, and mixed with it four capsules of Nembutal. Then he put it down before the little dog, who attacked it greedily, and made his basket comfortable for him before the stove.
He went out to the telephone in the hall and rang up the club, and booked a bedroom for a week. Then he went to his own room and began to pack a suitcase.
Half an hour later he came down to the kitchen; the Pekinese was in his basket, very drowsy. The scientist read the directions on the carton carefully and gave him the injection; he hardly felt the prick.
When he was satisfied that the little dog was dead he carried him upstairs in the basket and laid it on the floor beside his mother’s bed.
Then he left the house.
Tuesday night was a disturbed night for the Holmes. The baby began crying at about two in the morning, and it cried almost incessantly till dawn. There was little sleep for the young father or mother. At about seven o’clock it vomited.
Outside it was raining and cold. They faced each other in the grey light, weary and unwell themselves. Mary said, “Peter — you don’t think this is it, do you?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I should think it might be. Everybody seems to be getting it.”
She passed a hand across her brow, wearily. “I thought we’d be all right, out here in the country.”
He did not know what he could say to comfort her, and so he said, “If I put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?”
She crossed to the cot again, and looked down at the baby; she was quiet for the moment. He said again, “What about a cup of tea?”
It would be good for him, she thought; he had been up for most of the night. She forced a smile. “That’d be lovely.”
He went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was feeling terrible, and now she wanted to be sick. It was being up all night, of course, and the worry over Jennifer. Peter was busy in the kitchen; she coul
d go quietly to the bathroom without him knowing. She was often sick, but this time he might think it was something else, and get worried.
In the kitchen there was a stale smell, or seemed to be. Peter Holmes filled the kettle at the tap, and plugged it in; he switched on and saw with some relief the indicator light come on that showed the current was flowing. One of these days the juice would fail, and then they would be in real trouble.
The kitchen was intolerably stuffy; he threw open the window. He was hot, and then suddenly cold again, and then he knew that he was going to be sick. He went quietly to the bathroom, but the door was locked; Mary must be in there. No point in alarming her; he went out of the back door in the rain and vomited in a secluded corner behind the garage.
He stayed there for some time. When he came back he was white and shaken, but feeling more normal. The kettle was boiling and he made the tea, and put two cups on a tray, and took it to their bedroom. Mary was there, bending over the cot. He said, “I’ve got the tea.”
She did not turn, afraid her face might betray her. She said, “Oh, thanks. Pour it out; I’ll be there in a minute.” She did not feel that she could touch a cup of tea, but it would do him good.
He poured out the two cups and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his; the hot liquid seemed to calm his stomach. He said presently, “Come on and have your tea, dear. It’s getting cold.”
She came a little reluctantly; perhaps she could manage it. She glanced at him, and his dressing gown was soaking wet with rain. She exclaimed, “Peter, you’re all wet! Have you been outside?”
He glanced at his sleeve; he had forgotten that. “I had to go outside,” he said.
“Whatever for?”
He could not keep up a dissimulation. “I’ve just been sick,” he said. “I don’t suppose it’s anything.”