by Nevil Shute
A spasm shook her, and he helped her to the bathroom. While she was in there he came back to the sitting room and stood looking at his baby. It was in a bad way, and there was nothing he could do to help it; he doubted now if it would live through the night. Mary was in a bad way, too, though not quite so bad as that. The only one of them who was healthy was himself, and that he must not show.
The thought of living on after Mary appalled him. He could not stay in the flat; in the few days that would be left to him he would have nowhere to go, nothing to do. The thought crossed his mind that if Scorpion were still in Williamstown he might go with Dwight Towers and have it at sea, the sea that had been his life’s work. But why do that? He didn’t want the extra time that some strange quirk of his metabolism had given to him. He wanted to stay with his family.
She called him from the bathroom, and he went to help her. He brought her back to the great fire that he had made; she was cold and trembling. He gave her another hot brandy and water, and covered her with the eiderdown around her shoulders. She sat holding the glass in both hands to still the tremors that were shaking her.
Presently she said, “Peter, how is Jennifer?”
He got up and crossed to the cot, and then came back to her. “She’s quiet now,” he said. “I think she’s much the same.”
“How are you, yourself?” she asked.
“Awful,” he said. He stooped by her, and took her hand. “I think you’re worse than I am,” he told her, for she must know that. “I think I may be a day or so behind you, but not more. Perhaps that’s because I’m physically stronger.”
She nodded slowly. Then she said, “There’s no hope at all, is there? For any of us?”
He shook his head. “Nobody gets over this one, dear.”
She said, “I don’t believe I’ll be able to get to the bathroom tomorrow. Peter dear, I think I’d like to have it tonight, and take Jennifer with me. Would you think that beastly?”
He kissed her. “I think it’s sensible,” he said. “I’ll come too.”
She said weakly, “You’re not so ill as we are.”
“I shall be tomorrow,” he said. “It’s no good going on.”
She pressed his hand. “What do we do, Peter?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll go and fill the hot-water bags and put them in the bed,” he said. “Then you put on a clean nightie and go to bed and keep warm. I’ll bring Jennifer in there. Then I’ll shut up the house and bring you a hot drink, and we’ll have it in bed together, with the pill.”
“Remember to turn off the electricity at the main,” she said. “I mean, mice can chew through a cable and set the house on fire.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “Will you do what has to be done for Jennifer?”
He stroked her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’ll do that.”
He filled the hot-water bags and put them in the bed, tidying it and making it look fresh as he did so. Then he helped her into the bedroom. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for the last time, and while it boiled he read the directions on the three red cartons again very carefully.
He filled a thermos jug with the boiling water, and put it neatly on a tray with the two glasses, the brandy, and half a lemon, and took it into the bedroom. Then he wheeled the cot back and put it by the bedside. Mary was in bed looking clean and fresh; she sat up weakly as he wheeled the cot to her.
He said, “Shall I pick her up?” He thought that she might like to hold the baby for a little.
She shook her head. “She’s too ill.” She sat looking down at the child for a minute, and then lay back wearily. “I’d rather think about her like she was, when we were all well. Give her the thing, Peter, and let’s get this over.”
She was right, he thought; it was better to do things quickly and not agonize about them. He gave the baby the injection in the arm. Then he undressed himself and put on clean pyjamas, turned out all the lights in the flat except their bedside light, put up the fire screen in the sitting room, and lit a candle that they kept in case of a blackout of the electricity. He put that on the table by their bed and turned off the current at the main.
He got into bed with Mary, mixed the drinks, and took the tablets out of the red cartons. “I’ve had a lovely time since we got married,” she said quietly. “Thank you for everything, Peter.”
He drew her to him and kissed her. “I’ve had a grand time, too,” he said. “Let’s end on that.”
They put the tablets in their mouths, and drank.
That evening Dwight Towers rang up Moira Davidson at Harkaway. He doubted when he dialled if he would get through, or if he did, whether there would be an answer from the other end. But the automatic telephone was still functioning, and Moira answered him almost at once.
“Say,” he said, “I wasn’t sure I’d get an answer. How are things with you, honey?”
“Bad,” she said. “I think Mummy and Daddy are just about through.”
“And you?”
“I’m just about through, too, Dwight. How are you?”
“I’d say I’m much the same,” he said. “I rang to say good-bye for the time being, honey. We’re taking Scorpion out tomorrow morning to sink her.”
“You won’t be coming back?” she asked.
“No, honey. We shan’t be coming back. We’ve just got this last job to do, and then we’ve finished.” He paused. “I called to say thank you for the last six months,” he said. “It’s meant a lot to me, having you near.”
“It’s meant a lot to me, too,” she said. “Dwight, if I can make it, may I come and see you off?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Sure,” he said. “We can’t wait, though. The men are pretty weak right now, and they’ll be weaker by tomorrow.”
“What time are you leaving?”
“We’re casting off at eight o’clock,” he said. “As soon as it’s full daylight.”
She said, “I’ll be there.”
He gave her messages for her father and her mother, and then rang off. She went through to their bedroom, where they were lying in their twin beds, both of them sicker than she was, and gave them the messages. She told them what she wanted to do. “I’ll be back by dinnertime,” she said.
Her mother said, “You must go and say good-bye to him, dearie. He’s been such a good friend for you. But if we’re not here when you come back, you must understand.”
She sat down on her mother’s bed. “As bad as that, Mummy?”
“I’m afraid so, dear. And Daddy’s worse than me today. But we’ve got everything we need, in case it gets too bad.”
From his bed her father said weakly, “Is it raining?”
“Not at the moment, Daddy.”
“Would you go out and open the stockyard gate into the lane, Moira? All the other gates are open, but they must be able to get at the hay.”
“I’ll do that right away, Daddy. Is there anything else I can do?”
He closed his eyes. “Give Dwight my regards. I wish he’d been able to marry you.”
“So do I,” she said. “But he’s the kind of man who doesn’t switch so easily as that.”
She went out into the night and opened the gate and checked that all the other gates in the stockyard were open; the beasts were nowhere to be seen. She went back into the house and told her father what she had done; he seemed relieved. There was nothing that they wanted; she kissed them both good night and went to bed herself, setting her little alarm clock for five o’clock in case she slept.
She slept very little. In the course of the night she visited the bathroom four times, and drank half a bottle of brandy, the only thing she seemed to be able to keep down. She got up when the alarm went off and had a hot shower, which refreshed her, and dressed in the red shirt and slacks that she had worn when she had met Dwight first of all, so many months ago. She made her face up with some care and put on an overcoat. Th
en she opened the door of her parents’ room quietly and looked in, shading the light of an electric torch between her fingers. Her father seemed to be asleep, but her mother smiled at her from the bed; they, too, had been up and down most of the night. She went in quietly and kissed her mother, and then went, closing the door softly behind her.
She took a fresh bottle of brandy from the larder and went out to the car, and started it, and drove off on the road to Melbourne. Near Oakleigh she stopped on the deserted road in the first grey light of dawn, and took a swig out of the bottle, and went on.
She drove through the deserted city and out along the drab, industrial road to Williamstown. She came to the dockyard at about a quarter past seven; there was no guard at the open gates and she drove straight in to the quay, beside which lay the aircraft carrier. There was no sentry on the gangway, no officer of the day to challenge her. She walked into the ship trying to remember how she had gone when Dwight had showed her the submarine, and presently she ran into an American rating who directed her to the steel port in the ship’s side from which the gangway led down to the submarine.
She stopped a man who was going down to the vessel. “If you see Captain Towers, would you ask him if he could come up and have a word with me?” she said.
“Sure, lady,” he replied. “I’ll tell him right away,” and presently Dwight came in view, and came up the gangway to her.
He was looking very ill, she thought, as they all were. He took her hands regardless of the onlookers. “It was nice of you to come to say good-bye,” he said. “How are things at home, honey?”
“Very bad,” she said. “Daddy and Mummy will be finishing quite soon, and I think I shall, too. This is the end of it for all of us, today.” She hesitated, and then said, “Dwight, I want to ask something.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“May I come with you, in the submarine?” She paused, and then she said, “I don’t believe that I’ll have anything at home to go back to. Daddy said I could just park the Customline in the street and leave it. He won’t be using it again. May I come with you?”
He stood silent for so long that she knew the answer would be no. “I’ve been asked the same thing by four men this morning,” he said. “I’ve refused them all, because Uncle Sam wouldn’t like it. I’ve run this vessel in the navy way right through, and I’m running her that way up till the end. I can’t take you, honey. We’ll each have to take this on our own.”
“That’s all right,” she said dully. She looked up at him. “You’ve got your presents with you?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got those, thanks to you.”
“Tell Sharon about me,” she said. “We’ve nothing to conceal.”
He touched her arm. “You’re wearing the same outfit that you wore first time we met.”
She smiled faintly. “Keep him occupied — don’t give him time to think about things, or perhaps he’ll start crying. Have I done my job right, Dwight?”
“Very right indeed,” he said. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and she clung to him for a minute.
Then she freed herself. “Don’t let’s prolong the agony,” she said. “We’ve said everything there is to say. What time are you leaving?”
“Very soon,” he said. “We’ll be casting off in about five minutes.”
“What time will you be sinking her?” she asked.
He thought for a moment. “Thirty miles down the bay, and then twelve miles out. Forty-two sea miles. I shan’t waste any time. Say two hours and ten minutes after we cast off from here.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ll be thinking of you.” And then she said, “Go now, Dwight. Maybe I’ll see you in Connecticut one day.”
He drew her near to kiss her again, but she refused him. “No — go on now.” In her mind she phrased the words, “Or I’ll be the one that starts crying.” He nodded slowly, and said, “Thanks for everything,” and then he turned and went away down the gangway to the submarine.
There were two or three women now standing at the head of the gangway with her. There were apparently no men aboard the carrier to run the gangway in. She watched as Dwight appeared on the bridge from the interior of the submarine and took the con, watched as the lower end of the gangway was released, as the lines were singled up. She saw the stern line and the spring cast off, watched as Dwight spoke into the voice pipe, watched the water swirl beneath her stern as the propellers ran slow ahead and the stern swung out. It began to rain a little from the grey sky. The bow line and spring were cast off and men coiled them down and slammed the steel hatch of the superstructure shut as the submarine went slow astern in a great arc away from the carrier. Then they all vanished down below, and only Dwight with one other was left on the bridge. He lifted his hand in salutation to her, and she lifted hers to him, her eyes blurred with tears, and the low hull of the vessel swung away around Point Gellibrand and vanished in the murk.
With the other women, she turned away from the steel port. “There’s nothing now to go on living for,” she said.
One of the women replied, “Well, you won’t have to, ducks.”
She smiled faintly, and glanced at her watch. It showed three minutes past eight. At about ten minutes past ten Dwight would be going home, home to the Connecticut village that he loved so well. There was nothing now for her in her own home; if she went back to Harkaway she would find nothing there now but the cattle and sad memories. She could not go with Dwight because of naval discipline, and that she understood. Yet she could be very near him when he started home, only about twelve miles away. If then she turned up by his side with a grin on her face, perhaps he would take her with him, and she could see Helen hopping round upon the Pogo stick.
She hurried out through the dim, echoing caverns of the dead aircraft carrier, and found the gangway, and went down on to the quay to her big car. There was plenty of petrol in the tank; she had filled it up from the cans hidden behind the hay the previous day. She got into it and opened her bag; the red carton was still there. She uncorked the bottle of brandy and took a long swallow of the neat liquor; it was good, that stuff, because she hadn’t had to go since she left home. Then she started the car and swung it round upon the quay, and drove out of the dockyard, and on through minor roads and suburbs till she found the highway to Geelong.
Once on the highway she trod on it, and went flying down the unobstructed road at seventy miles an hour in the direction of Geelong, a bareheaded, white-faced girl in a bright crimson costume, slightly intoxicated, driving a big car at speed. She passed Laverton with its big aerodrome, Werribee with its experimental farm, and went flying southwards down the deserted road. Somewhere before Corio a spasm shook her suddenly, so that she had to stop and retire into the bushes; she came out a quarter of an hour later, white as a sheet, and took a long drink of her brandy.
Then she went on, as fast as ever. She passed the grammar school away on the left and came to shabby, industrial Corio, and so to Geelong, dominated by its cathedral. In the great tower the bells were ringing for some service. She slowed a little to pass through the city but there was nothing on the road except deserted cars at the roadside. She only saw three people, all of them men.
Out of Geelong upon the fourteen miles of road to Barwon Heads and to the sea. As she passed the flooded common she felt her strength was leaving her, but there was now not far to go. A quarter of an hour later she swung right into the great avenue of macrocarpa that was the main street of the little town. At the end she turned left away from the golf links and the little house where so many happy hours of childhood had been spent, knowing now that she would never see it again. She turned right at the bridge at about twenty minutes to ten and passed through the empty caravan park up on to the headland. The sea lay before her, grey and rough with great rollers coming in from the south on to the rocky beach below.
The ocean was empty and grey beneath the overcast, but away to the east there was a break in the clouds and a shaft of light
striking down on to the waters. She parked across the road in full view of the sea, got out of her car, took another drink from her bottle, and scanned the horizon for the submarine. Then as she turned towards the lighthouse on Point Lonsdale and the entrance to Port Phillip Bay she saw the low grey shape appear, barely five miles away and heading southwards from the Heads.
She could not see detail but she knew that Dwight was there upon the bridge, taking his ship out on her last cruise. She knew he could not see her and he could not know that she was watching, but she waved to him. Then she got back into the car because the wind was raw and chilly from south polar regions, and she was feeling very ill, and she could watch him just as well when sitting down in shelter.
She sat there dumbly watching as the low grey shape went forward to the mist on the horizon, holding the bottle on her knee. This was the end of it, the very, very end.
Presently she could see the submarine no longer; it had vanished in the mist. She looked at her little wrist watch; it showed one minute past ten. Her childhood religion came back to her in those last minutes; one ought to do something about that, she thought. A little alcoholically she murmured the Lord’s Prayer.
Then she took out the red carton from her bag, and opened the vial, and held the tablets in her hand. Another spasm shook her, and she smiled faintly. “Foxed you this time,” she said.
She took the cork out of the bottle. It was ten past ten. She said earnestly, “Dwight, if you’re on your way already, wait for me.”
Then she put the tablets in her mouth and swallowed them down with a mouthful of brandy, sitting behind the wheel of her big car.
The Rainbow and the Rose (1958)
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
The first edition
When colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again