On The Beach

7

Peter Holmes reported to the Second Naval Member the day after they returned to Williamstown. The admiral motioned to him to sit down. "I met Commander Towers for a few minutes last night, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "You seem to have got on well with him."

"I’m glad to hear that, sir."

"Yes. Now I suppose you want to know about a continuation of your appointment."

Peter said diffidently, "In a way. I take it that the general situation is the same? I mean, there’s only two or three months left to go?"

The admiral nodded. "That seems to be correct. You told me when I saw you last that you would prefer to be on shore in these last months."

"I should." He hesitated. "I’ve got to think a bit about my wife."

"Of course." He offered the young man a cigarette, and lit one himself. "Scorpion is going into dry dock for hull reconditioning," he said. "I suppose you know that."

"Yes sir. The captain was anxious to have that done. I saw the Third Naval Member’s office about it this morning."

"Normally that might take about three weeks. It may take longer under present conditions. Would you like to stay on with her as liaison officer while that work is going on?" He paused. "Commander Towers has asked for you to continue in the appointment for the time being."

"Could I live at home, down at Falmouth? It takes me about an hour and three quarters to get to the dockyard."

"You’d better take that up with Commander Towers. I don’t suppose you’ll find that he has any objection. It’s not as if the ship was in commission. I understand he’s giving leave to most of the ship’s company. I don’t suppose your duties would be very arduous, but you would be a help to him in dealing with the dockyard."

"I’d like to carry on with him, sir, subject to living at home. But if the ship is programmed for another cruise, I’d like you to replace me. I don’t think I could undertake another seagoing appointment." He hesitated. "I don’t like saying that."

The admiral smiled. "That’s all right, Lieutenant Commander. I’ll keep that in mind. Come back and see me if you want to be relieved." He rose to his feet, terminating the interview. "Everything all right at home?"

"Quite all right. Housekeeping seems to be more difficult than when I went away, and it’s all becoming a bit of a battle for my wife, with the baby to look after."

"I know it is. And I’m afraid it’s not going to get any easier."

That morning Moira Davidson rang up Dwight Towers in the aircraft carrier at lunchtime. "Morning, Dwight," she said. "They tell me that I’ve got to congratulate you."

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Mary Holmes."

"You can congratulate me if you like," he said a little heavily. "But I’d just as soon you didn’t."

"All right," she said, "I won’t. Dwight, how are you? Yourself?"

"I’m okay," he said. "Got a bit of a letdown today, but I’m okay." In fact, everything that he had done since they had come back to the aircraft carrier had been an effort; he had slept badly and was infinitely tired.

"Are you very busy?"

"I should be," he said. "But I don’t know—nothing seems to get done and the more nothing gets done the more there is to do."

This was a different Dwight to the one that she had grown accustomed to. "You sound as if you’re getting ill," she said severely.

"I’m not getting ill, honey," he said a little irritably. "It’s just that there’s some things to do and everybody off on leave. We’ve been away so long at sea we’ve just forgotten what work is."

"I think you ought to take some leave yourself," she said. "Could you come out to Harkaway for a bit?"

He thought for a moment. "That’s mighty nice of you. I couldn’t do that for a while. We’re putting Scorpion into dry dock tomorrow."

"Let Peter Holmes do that for you."

"I couldn’t do that, honey. Uncle Sam wouldn’t like it."

She forebore to say that Uncle Sam would never know. "After you’ve done that, the ship’ll be in dockyard hands, won’t she?"

"Say, you know a lot about the navy."

"I know I do. I’m a beautiful spy, Mata Hari, femme fatale, worming secrets out of innocent naval officers over a double brandy. She will be in dockyard hands, won’t she?"

"You’re very right."

"Well then, you can chuck everything else on Peter Holmes and get away on leave. What time are you putting her in dock?"

"Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll probably be through by midday."

"Come out and spend a little time at Harkaway with us, tomorrow afternoon. It’s perishing cold up there. The wind just whistles round the house. It rains most of the time, and you can’t go out without gumboots. Walking beside the bullock and the pasture harrows is the coldest job known to man—to woman, anyway. Come out and try it. After a few days with us you’ll be just longing to get back and fug it in your submarine."

He laughed. "Say, you’re making it sound really attractive."

"I know I am. Will you come out tomorrow afternoon?" It would be a relief to relax, to forget his burdens for a day or two. "I think I could," he said. "I’ll have to shuffle things around a little, but I think I could."

She arranged to meet him the next afternoon at four o’clock in the Australia Hotel. When she did so she was concerned at his appearance; he greeted her cheerfully and seemed glad to see her, but he had gone a yellowish colour beneath his tan, and in unguarded moments he was depressed. She frowned at the sight of him. "You’re looking like something that the cat brought in and didn’t want," she told him. "Are you all right?" She took his hand and felt it. "You’re hot. You’ve got a temperature!"

He withdrew his hand. "I’m okay," he said. "What’ll you have to drink?"

"You’ll have a double whisky and about twenty grains of quinine," she said. "A double whisky, anyway. I’ll see about the quinine when we get home. You ought to be in bed!"

It was pleasant to be fussed over, and relax. "Double brandy for you?" he asked.

"Small one for me, double for you," she said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, going about like this. You’re probably spreading germs all over the place. Have you seen a doctor?"

He ordered the drinks. "There’s no doctor in the dockyard now. Scorpion is the only ship that’s operational, and she’s in dockyard hands. They took the last naval surgeon away while we were on the cruise."

"You have got a temperature, haven’t you?"

"I might have just a little one," he said. "Perhaps I might have a cold coming on."

"I’d say perhaps you might. Drink up that whisky while I telephone Daddy."

"What for?"

"To meet us with the buggy at the station. I told them we’d walk up the hill, but I’m not going to have you doing that. You might die on my hands, and then I’d have a job explaining to the coroner. It might even make a diplomatic incident."

"Who with, honey?"

"The United States. It’s not so good to kill the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces."

He said wearily, "I guess the United States is me, right now. I’m thinking of running for President."

"Well, think about it while I go and telephone Mummy." In the little telephone booth, she said, "I think he’s got flu, Mummy. He’s frightfully tired, for one thing. He’ll have to go to bed directly we get home. Could you light a fire in his room, and put a hot-water bag in the bed? And Mummy, ring up Dr. Fletcher and ask if he could possibly come round this evening. I shouldn’t think it’s anything but flu, but he has been in the radioactive area for over a month, and he hasn’t seen a doctor since he got back. Tell Dr. Fletcher who he is. He’s rather an important person now, you know."

"What train will you be catching, dear?"

She glanced at her wrist. "We’ll catch the four-forty. Look, Mummy, it’s going to be perishing cold in the buggy. Ask Daddy to bring down a couple of rugs."

She went back to the bar. "Drink up and come along," she said. "We’ve got to catch the four-forty."

He went with her obediently. A couple of hours later he was in a bedroom with a blazing log fire, creeping into a warm bed as he shook with a light fever. He lay there infinitely grateful while the shakes subsided, glad to relax and lie staring at the ceiling, listening to the patter of the rain outside. Presently his grazier host brought him a hot whisky and lemon and asked what he wanted to eat, which was nothing.

At about eight o’clock there was the sound of a horse outside, and voices in the rain. Presently the doctor came to him; he had discarded his wet coat, but his jodhpurs and riding boots were dark with rain and steamed a little as he stood by the fire. He was a man of about thirty-five or forty, cheerful and competent.

"Say, Doctor," said the patient, "I’m really sorry they brought you out here on a night like this. There’s not a thing wrong with me that a day or two in bed won’t cure."

The doctor smiled. "I’m glad to come out to meet you," he said. He took the American’s wrist and felt the pulse.

"I understand you’ve been up in the radioactive area."

"Why, yes. But we didn’t get exposed."

"You were inside the hull of the submarine all the all the time?"

"We had a guy from the C.S.I.R.O. poking Geiger counters at us every day. It’s not that, doctor."

"Have you had any vomiting, or diarrhoea?"

"None at all. Nor did any of the ship’s company."

The doctor put a thermometer into his mouth, and stood feeling his pulse. Presently he withdrew the thermometer. "A hundred and two," he said. "You’d better stay in bed for a bit. How long were you at sea?"

"Fifty-three days."

"And how long submerged?"

"More than half of it."

"Are you very tired?"

The captain thought for a moment. "I might be," he admitted.

"I should say you might. You’d better stay in bed till that temperature goes down, and one full day after that. I’ll look in and see you again in a couple of days’ time. I think you’ve only got a dose of flu—there’s quite a lot of it about. You’d better not go back to work for at least a week after you get up, and then you ought to take some leave. Can you do that?"

"I’ll have to think about it."

They talked a little of the cruise and of conditions at Seattle and in Queensland. Finally the doctor said, "I’ll probably look in tomorrow afternoon with one or two things you’d better take. I’ve got to go to Dandenong; my partner’s operating at the hospital and I’m giving the anaesthetic for him. I’ll pick up the stuff there and look in on my way home."

"Is it a serious operation?"

"Not too bad. Woman with a growth upon the stomach. She’ll be better with it out. Give her a few more years of useful life, anyway."

He went away, and outside the window Dwight heard the backing and curvetting of the horse as the rider got into the saddle, and heard the doctor swear. Then he listened to the diminuendo of the hoofs as they trotted away down the drive in the heavy rain. Presently his door opened, and the girl came in.

"Well," she said, "you’ve got to stay in bed tomorrow, anyway." She moved to the fire and threw a couple of logs on. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

"He’s nuts," said the commander.

"Why? Because he’s making you stay in bed?"

"Not that. He’s operating on a woman at the hospital tomorrow so that she’ll have some years of useful life ahead of her."

She laughed. "He would. I’ve never met anyone so conscientious." She paused. "Daddy’s going to make another dam next summer. He’s been talking about it for some time, but now he says he’s really going to do it. He rang up a chap who has a bulldozer today and booked him to come in as soon as the ground gets hard."

"When will that be?"

"About Christmas time. It really hurts him to see all this rain running away to waste. This place gets pretty dry in the summer."

She took his empty glass from the table by his bed. "Like another hot drink?"

He shook his head. "Not now, honey. I’m fine."

"Like anything to eat?"

He shook his head.

"Like another hot-water bag?"

He shook his head. "I’m fine."

She went away, but in a few minutes she was back again, and this time she carried a long paper parcel in her hand, a parcel with a bulge at the bottom. "I’ll leave this with you, and you can look at it all night."

She put it in a corner of the room, but he raised himself on one elbow. "What’s that?" he asked.

She laughed. "I’ll give you three guesses and you can see which one’s right in the morning."

"I want to see now."

"Tomorrow."

"No—now."

She took the parcel and brought it to him in the bed, and stood watching as he tore off the paper. The Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces was really little boy, she thought.

The Pogo stick lay on the bedclothes in his hands, shining and new. The wooden handle was brightly varnished, the metal step gleaming in red enamel. On the wooden handle was painted in neat red lettering the words HELEN TOWERS.

"Say," he said huskily, "that’s a dandy. I never saw one with the name on it and all. She’s going to love that." He raised his eyes. "Where did you get it, honey?"

"I found the place that makes them, out at Elsteinwick," she said. "They aren’t making any more, but they made one for me."

"I don’t know what to say," he muttered. "Now I’ve got something for everyone."

She gathered up the torn brown paper. "That’s all right," she said casually. "It was fun finding it. Shall I put it in the corner?"

He shook his head. "Leave it right here."

She nodded, and moved towards the door. "I’ll turn this top light out. Don’t stay up too long. Sure you’ve got everything you want?"

"Sure, honey," he said. "I’ve got everything now."

"Good night," she said.

She closed the door behind her. He lay for some time in the firelight thinking of Sharon and of Helen, of bright summer days and tall ships at Mystic, of Helen leaping on the Pogo stick on the swept sidewalk with the piles of snow on either hand, of this girl and her kindness. Presently he drifted into sleep, one hand upon the Pogo stick beside him.

Peter Holmes lunched with John Osborne at the United Services Club next day. "I rang the ship this morning," said the scientist. "I wanted to get hold of Dwight to show him the draft report before I get it typed. They told me that he’s staying out at Harkaway with Moira’s people."

Peter nodded. "He’s got flu. Moira rang me up last night to tell me that I wouldn’t see him for a week, or longer if she’s got anything to do with it."

The scientist was concerned. "I can’t hold it so long as that. Jorgensen’s got wind of our findings already, and he’s saying that we can’t have done our job properly. I’ll have to get it to the typist by tomorrow at the latest."

"I’ll look it over if you like, and we might be able to get hold of the exec, though he’s away on leave. But Dwight ought to see it before it goes out. Why don’t you give Moira a ring and take it out to him at Harkaway?"

"Would she be there? I thought she was in Melbourne every day, doing shorthand and typing."

"Don’t be so daft. Of course she’s there."

The scientist brightened. "I might run it out to him this afternoon in the Ferrari."

"Your juice won’t last out if you’re going to use it for trips like that. There’s a perfectly good train."

"This is official business, naval business," said John Osborne. "One’s entitled to draw on naval stores." He bent towards Peter and lowered his voice. "You know that aircraft carrier, the Sydney? She’s got about three thousand gallons of my ether-alcohol mixture in one of her tanks. They used it for getting reluctant piston-engined aircraft off the deck at full boost."

"You can’t touch that!" said Peter, shocked.

"Can’t I? This is naval business, and there’s going to be a whole lot more."

"Well, don’t tell me about it. Would a Morris Minor run on it?"

"You’d have to experiment a bit with the carburetion, and you’d have to raise the compression. Take the gasket out and fit a bit of thin sheet copper, with cement. It’s worth trying."

"Can you run that thing of yours upon the road, safely?"

"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "There’s not much else upon the road to hit, except a tram. And people, of course. I always carry a spare set of plugs because she oils up if you run her under about three thousand."

"What’s she doing at three thousand revs?"

"Oh well, you wouldn’t put her in top gear. She’d be doing about a hundred, or a bit more than that. She does about forty-five in first at those revs. She gets away with a bit of a rush, of course; you want a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of you. I generally push her out of the mews into Elizabeth Street and wait till there’s a gap between the trains."

He did so that afternoon directly after lunch, with Peter Holmes helping him to push. He wedged the attaché case containing the draft report down beside the seat and climbed in, fastened the safety belt and adjusted his crash helmet before an admiring crowd. Peter said quietly, "For God’s sake don’t go and kill anybody."

"They’re all going to be dead in a couple of months’ time anyway," said the scientist. "So am I, and so are you. I’m going to have a bit of fun with this thing first." A tram passed and he tried the cold engine with the self-starter, but it failed to catch. Another tram came by; when that was gone a dozen willing helpers pushed the racing car until the engine caught and she shot out of their hands like a rocket with an ear-splitting crash from the exhaust, a screech of tires, a smell of burnt rubber, and a cloud of smoke. The Ferrari had no horn and no need for one because she could be heard coming a couple of miles away; more important to John Osborne was the fact that she had no lights at all, and it was dark by five o’clock. If he was to get out to Harkaway, do his business, and be back in daylight he must step on it. He weaved around the tram at fifty, skidded round into Lonsdale Street, and settled in his seat as he shot through the city at about seventy miles an hour. Cars on the road at that time were a rarity and he had little trouble in the city streets but for the trams; the crowds parted to let him through. In the suburbs it was different; children had grown accustomed to playing in the empty roads and had no notion of getting out of the way; he had to brake hard on a number of occasions and go by with engine roaring as he slipped the clutch, agonizing over the possibility of damage, consoling himself with the thought that the clutch was built to take it in a race.

He got to Harkaway in twenty-three minutes having averaged seventy-two miles an hour over the course without once getting into top. He drew up at the homestead in a roaring skid around the flowerbeds and killed the motor; the grazier with his wife and daughter came out suddenly and watched him as he unbuttoned his crash hat and got out stiffly. "I came to see Dwight Towers," he said. "They told me he was here."

"He’s trying to get some sleep," Moira said severely. "That’s a loathsome car, John. What does she do?"

"About two hundred, I think. I want to see him—on business. I’ve got a thing here that he’s got to look over before it gets typed. It’s got to be typed tomorrow, at the latest."

"Oh well, I don’t suppose he’s sleeping now."

She led the way into the spare bedroom. Dwight was awake and sitting up in bed. "I guessed it must be you," he said. "Killed anybody yet?"

"Not yet," said the scientist. "I’m hoping to be the first. I’d hate to spend the last days of my life in prison. I’ve had enough of that in the last two months." He undid his attaché case and explained his errand.

Dwight took the report and read it through, asking a question now and then. "I kind of wish we’d left that radio station operational, the way it was," he said once. "Maybe we’d have heard a little more from Yeoman Swain."

"It was a good long way from him."

"He had his outboard motorboat. He might have stopped off one day when he was tired of fishing, and sent a message."

"I don’t think he’d have lasted long enough for that, sir. I’d have given him three days, at the very outside."

The captain nodded. "I don’t suppose he’d have wanted to be bothered with it, anyway. I wouldn’t, if the fish were taking well, and it was my last day." He read on, asking a question now and then. At the end he said, "That’s okay. You’d better take out that last paragraph, about me and the ship."

"I’d prefer to leave it in, sir."

"And I’d prefer you take it out. I don’t like things like that said about what was just a normal operation in the line of duty."

The scientist put his pencil through it. "As you like."

"You got that Ferrari here?"

"I came out in it."

"Sure. I heard you. Can I see it from the window?"

"Yes. It’s just outside."

The captain got out of bed and stood in his pyjamas at the window. "That’s the hell of a car," he said. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Race it. There’s not much time left so they’re starting the racing season earlier than usual. They don’t usually begin before about October, because of the wet roads. They’re having little races all the winter, though. As a matter of fact I raced it twice before I went away."

The captain got back into bed. "So you said. I never raced a car like that. I never even drove one. What’s it like in a race?"

"You get scared stiff. Then directly it’s over you want to go on and do it again."

"Have you ever done this before?"

The scientist shook his head. "I’ve never had the money, or the time. It’s what I’ve wanted to do all my life."

"Is that the way you’re going to make it, in the end?"

There was a pause. "It’s what I’d like to do," John Osborne said. "Rather than die in a sick muck, or take those pills. The only thing is, I’d hate to smash up the Ferrari. She’s such a lovely bit of work. I don’t think I could bring myself to do that, willingly."

Dwight grinned. "Maybe you won’t have to do it willingly, not if you go racing at two hundred per on wet roads."

"Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking, too. I don’t know that I’d mind that happening, any time from now on."

The captain nodded. Then he said, "There’s no chance now of it slowing up and giving us a break, is there?"

John Osborne shook his head. "Absolutely none. There’s not the slightest indication—if anything it seems to be coming a little faster. That’s probably associated with the reduced area of the earth’s surface as it moves down from the equator; it seems to be accelerating a little now in terms of latitude. The end of August seems to be the time."

The captain nodded. "Well, it’s nice to know. It can’t be too soon for me."

"Will you be taking Scorpion to sea again?"

"I’ve got no orders. She’ll be operational again at the beginning of July. I’m planning to keep her under the Australian command up till the end. Whether I’ll have a crew to make her operational—well, that’s another thing again. Most of the boys have got girl friends in Melbourne here, about a quarter of them married. Whether they’ll feel allergic to another cruise is anybody’s guess. I’d say they will."

There was a pause. "I kind of envy you having that Ferrari," he said quietly. "I’ll be worrying and working right up till the end."

"I don’t see that there’s any need for you to do that," the scientist said. "You ought to take some leave. See a bit of Australia."

The American grinned. "There’s not much left of it to see."

"That’s true. There’s the mountain parts, of course. They’re all skiing like mad up at Mount Buller and at Hotham. Do you ski?"

"I used to, but not for ten years or so. I wouldn’t like to break a leg and get stuck in bed up till the end." He paused. "Say," he said. "Don’t people go trout fishing up in those mountains?"

John Osborne nodded. "The fishing’s quite good."

"Do they have a season, or can you fish all year round?"

"You can fish for perch in Eildon Weir all year round. They take a spinner, trolling from a boat. But there’s good trout fishing in all the little rivers up there." He smiled faintly. "There’s a close season for trout. It doesn’t open till September the flint."

There was a momentary pause. "That’s running it kind of fine," Dwight said at last. "I certainly would like a day or two trout fishing, but from what you say we might be busy just around that time."

"I shouldn’t think it would make any odds if you went up a fortnight early, this year."

"I wouldn’t like to do a thing like that," the American said seriously. "In the States—yes. But when you’re in a foreign country, I think a fellow should stick by the rules." Time was going on, John Osborne had no lights on the Ferrari and no capacity to go much slower than fifty miles an hour. He gathered his papers together and put them in the attaché case, said good-bye to Dwight Towers, and left him to get upon the road back to the city. In the lounge he met Moira. "How did you think he was?" she asked.

"He’s all right," the scientist said. "Only a bat or two flying round the belfry."

She frowned a little; this wasn’t the Pogo stick. "What about?"

"He wants a couple of days’ trout fishing before we all go home," her cousin said. "But he won’t go before the season opens, and that’s not until September the first."

She stood in silence for a moment. "Well, what of it? He’s keeping the law, anyway. More than you are, with that disgusting car. Where do you get the petrol for it?"

"It doesn’t run on petrol," he replied. "It runs on something out of a test tube."

"Smells like it," she said. She watched him as he levered himself down into the seat and adjusted his crash helmet, as the engine crackled spitefully into life, as he shot off down the drive leaving great wheel ruts on a flower bed.

A fortnight later, in the Pastoral Club, Mr. Alan Sykes walked into the little smoking room for a drink at twenty minutes past twelve. Lunch was not served till one o’clock so he was the first in the room; he helped himself to a gin and stood alone, considering his problem. Mr. Sykes was the director of the State Fisheries and Game Department, a man who liked to run his business upon sound lines regardless of political expediency. The perplexities of the time had now invaded his routine, and he was a troubled man.

Sir Douglas Froude came into the room. Mr. Sykes, watching him, thought that he was walking very badly and that his red face was redder than ever. He said, "Good morning, Douglas. I’m in the book."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the old man. "I’ll take a Spanish sherry with you." He poured it with a trembling hand. "You know," he said, "I think the Wine Committee must be absolutely crazy. We’ve got over four hundred bottles of magnificent dry sherry, Ruy de Lopez, 1947, and they seem to be prepared to let it stay there in the cellars. They said the members wouldn’t drink it because of the price. I told them, I said—give it away, if you can’t sell it. But don’t just leave it there. So now it’s the same price as the Australian." He paused. "Let me pour you a glass, Alan. It’s in the most beautiful condition."

"I’ll have one later. Tell me, didn’t I hear you say once that Bill Davidson was a relation of yours?"

The old man nodded shakily. "Relation, or connection. Connection, I think. His mother married my... married my—No, I forget. I don’t seem to remember things like I used to."

"Do you know his daughter Moira?"

"A nice girl, but she drinks too much. Still, she does it on brandy they tell me, so that makes a difference."

"She’s been making some trouble for me."

"She’s been to the Minister, and he sent her to me with a note. She wants us to open the trout season early this year, or nobody will get any trout fishing. The Minister thinks it would be a good thing to do. I suppose he’s looking to the next election."

"Open the trout season early? You mean, before September the first?"

"That’s the suggestion."

"A very bad suggestion, if I may say so. The fish won’t have finished spawning, and if they have they’ll be in very poor condition. You could ruin the fishing for years, doing a thing like that. When does he want to open the season?"

"He suggests August the tenth." He paused. "It’s that girl, that relation of yours, who’s at the bottom of this thing. I don’t believe it would ever have entered his head but for her."

"I think it’s a terrible proposal. Quite irresponsible. I’m sure I don’t know what the world’s coming to..."

As member after member came into the room the debate continued and more joined in the discussion. Mr. Sykes found that the general opinion was in favour of the change in date. "After all," said one, "they’ll go and fish in August if they can get there and the weather’s fine, whether you like it or not. And you can’t fine them or send them to jail because there won’t be time to bring the case on. May as well give a reasonable date, and make a virtue of necessity. Of course," he added conscientiously, "It’d be for this year only."

A leading eye surgeon remarked, "I think it’s a very good idea. If the fish are poor we don’t have to take them; we can always put them back. Unless the season should be very early they won’t take a fly; we’ll have to use a spinner. But I’m in favour of it, all the same. When I go, I’d like it to be on a sunny day on the bank of the Delatite with a rod in my hand."

Somebody said, "Like the man they lost from the American submarine."

"Yes, just like that. I think that fellow had the right idea."

Mr. Sykes, having taken a cross section of the most influential opinion of the city, went back to his office with an easier mind, rang up his Minister, and that afternoon drafted an announcement to be broadcast on the radio that would constitute one of those swift changes of policy to meet the needs of the time, easy to make in a small, highly educated country and very characteristic of Australia. Dwight Towers heard it that evening in the echoing, empty wardroom of H.M.A.S. Sydney, and marvelled, not connecting it in the least with his own conversation with the scientist a few days before. Immediately he began making plans to try out Junior’s rod. Transport was going to be the difficulty, but difficulties were there to overcome be by the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces.

In what was left of Australia that year a relief of tension came soon after midwinter. By the beginning of July, when Broken Hill and Perth went out, few people in Melbourne were doing any more work than they wanted to. The electricity supply continued uninterrupted, as did the supply of the essential foodstuffs, but fuel for fires and little luxuries now had to be schemed and sought for by a people who had little else to do. As the weeks went by the population became noticeably more sober; there were still riotous parties, still drunks sleeping in the gutter, but far fewer than there had been earlier. And, like harbingers of the coming spring, one by one motorcars started to appear on the deserted roads.

It was difficult at first to say where they came from or where they got the petrol, for each case on investigation proved to be exceptional. Peter Holmes’ landlord turned up in a Holden one day to remove firewood from the trees that had been felled, explaining awkwardly that he had retained a little of the precious fluid for cleaning clothes. A cousin in the Royal Australian Air Force came to visit them from Laverton Aerodrome driving an M.G., explaining that he had saved the petrol but there didn’t seem to be much sense in saving it any longer; this was clearly nonsense, because Bill never saved anything. An engineer who worked at the Shell refinery at Corio said that he had managed to buy a little petrol on the black market in Fitzroy but very properly refused to name the scoundrel who had sold it. Like a sponge squeezed by the pressure of circumstances, Australia began to drip a little petrol, and as the weeks went on towards August the drip became a trickle.

Peter Holmes took a can with him to Melbourne one day and visited John Osborne. That evening he heard the engine of his Morris Minor for the first time in two years, clouds of black smoke emerging from the exhaust till he stopped the engine and took out the jets and hammered them a little smaller. Then he drove her out upon the road, with Mary, delighted, at his side and Jennifer upon her knee. "It’s just like having one’s first car all over again!" she exclaimed. "Peter, it’s wonderful! Can you get any more, do you think?"

"We saved this petrol," he told her. "We saved it up. We’ve got a few more tins buried in the garden, but we’re not telling anybody how much."

"Not even Moira?"

"Lord, no. Her last of all." He paused. "Tires are the snag now. I don’t know what we’re going to do about those."

Next day he drove to Williamstown, in at the dockyard gates, and parked the Morris on the quayside by the practically deserted aircraft carrier. In the evening he drove home again.

His duties at the dockyard were now merely nominal. Work upon the submarine was going very slowly, and his presence was required upon the job no more than two days in each week, which fitted in well with the requirements of his little car. Dwight Towers was there most days in the morning, but he, too, had become mobile. The First Naval Member had sent for him one morning and, with poker face, had declared that it was only fitting that the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces should have transport at his disposal, and Dwight had found himself presented with a grey painted Chevrolet with Leading Seaman Edgar as the driver. He used it principally for going to the club for lunch or driving out to Harkaway to walk beside the bullock as they spread the dung, while the leading seaman shovelled silage.

The last part of July was a very pleasant time for most people. The weather was seasonably bad with high winds and plenty of rain and a temperature down in the low forties, but men and women cast off the restraints that long had galled them. The weekly wage packet became of little value or importance; if you went into the works on Friday you would probably get it whether you had worked or not, and when you had it there was little you could do with it. In the butcher’s shop the cash desk would accept money thrust at them but didn’t grieve much if it wasn’t, and if the meat was there you took it. If it wasn’t, you just went and looked for somewhere where there was some. There was all day to do it in.

On the high mountains the skiers skied weekdays and weekends alike. In their little garden, Mary and Peter Holmes laid out the new beds and built a fence around the vegetable garden, planting a passion fruit vine to climb all over it. They had never had so much time for gardening before, or made such progress. "It’s going to be beautiful," she said contentedly. "It’s going to be the prettiest garden of its size in Falmouth."

In the city mews John Osborne worked on the Ferrari with a small team of enthusiasts to help him. The Australian Grand Prix at that time was the premier motor race of the Southern Hemisphere, and it had been decided to advance the date of the race that year from November to August the 17th. On previous occasions the race had been held at Melbourne in the Albert Park, roughly corresponding to Central Park in New York or Hyde Park in London. The organizing club would have liked to race for the last time in Albert Park but the difficulties proved to be insuperable. It was clear from the outset that there would be a shortage of marshals and a shortage of labour to provide the most elementary safety precautions for the crowd of a hundred and fifty thousand people who might well be expected to attend. Nobody worried very much about the prospect of a car spinning off the course and killing a few spectators, or the prospect of permission to use the park for racing in future years being withheld. It seemed unlikely, however, that there would be sufficient marshals ever to get the crowds off the road and away from the path of the oncoming cars, and, unusual though the times might be, few of the drivers were prepared to drive straight into a crowd of onlookers at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Racing motorcars are frail at those speeds, and a collision even with one person would put the car out of the race. It was decided regretfully that it was impracticable to run the Australian Grand Prix in Albert Park, and that the race would have to take place at the track at Tooradin.

The race in this way became a race for racing drivers only; in the prevailing difficulties of transport not very many spectators could be expected to drive forty miles out of the city to see it. Rather unexpectedly, it attracted an enormous entry of drivers. Everybody in Victoria and southern New South Wales who owned a fast car, new or old, seemed to have entered for the last Australian Grand Prix, and the total of entries came to about two hundred and eighty cars. So many cars could not be raced together with any justice to the faster cars, and for two week-ends previous to the great day eliminating heats were held in the various classes. These heats were drawn by ballot, so that John Osborne found himself competing with a three-litre Maserati piloted by Jerry Collins, a couple of Jaguars, a Thunderbird, two Bugattis, three vintage Bentleys, and a terrifying concoction of a Lotus chassis powered by a blown Gipsy Queen aeroengine of about three hundred horsepower and little forward view, built and raced by a young air mechanic called Sam Bailey and reputed to be very fast.

In view of the distance from the city there was only a small crowd of people disposed around the three-mile course. Dwight Towers drove down in the official Chevrolet, picking up Moira Davidson and Peter and Mary Holmes upon the way. On that day there were five classes of heats, commencing with the smallest cars, each race being of fifty miles. Before the first race was over the organizers had put in a hurried call to Melbourne for two more ambulances, the two already allocated to the meeting being busy.

For one thing, the track was wet with rain, although it was not actually raining at the time of the first race. Six Lotus competed with eight Coopers and five M.G.’s, one of which was piloted by a girl, Miss Fay Gordon. The track was about three miles in length. A long straight with the pits in the middle led with a slight sinuosity to a left-hand turn of wide radius but 1800 in extent enclosing a sheet of water; this was called Lake Bend. Next came Haystack Corner, a right-hand turn of about 1200, fairly sharp, and this led to The Safety Pin, a sharp left-hand hairpin with rather a blind turn on top of a little mound, so that you went up and came down again. The back straight was sinuous and fast with a left-hand bend at the end of it leading down a steep hill to a very sharp right-hand corner, called The Slide. From there a long, fast left-hand bend led back to the finishing straight.

From the start of the first heat it was evident that the racing was to be unusual. The race started with a scream that indicated that the drivers intended to show no mercy to their engines, their competitors, or themselves. Miraculously the cars all came round on the first lap, but after that the troubles started. An M.G. spun on Haystack Corner, left the road and found itself careering through the low scrub on the rough ground away from the circuit. The driver trod on it and swung his car round without stopping and regained the road. A Cooper coming up behind swerved to avoid collision with the M.G., spun on the wet road, and was hit fair and square amidships by another Cooper coming up behind. The first driver was killed instantaneously and both cars piled up into a heap by the roadside, the second driver being flung clear with a broken collarbone and internal injuries. The M.G. driver, passing on the next time round, wondered quickly as he took the corner what had happened to cause that crash.

On the fifth lap a Lotus overtook Fay Gordon at the end of the finishing straight and spun on the wet road of Lake Bend, thirty yards in front of her. Another Lotus was passing on her right; the only escape for her was to go left. She left the track at ninety-five miles an hour, crossed the short strip of land before the lake in a desperate effort to turn right and so back to the track, broadsided in The scrub, and rolled over into the water. When the great cloud of spray subsided, her M.G. was upside down ten yards from shore, the bottom of the rear wheels just above the surface. It was half an hour before the wading helpers managed to right the little car and get the body out.

On the thirteenth lap three cars tangled at The Slide and burned. Two of the drivers were only slightly injured and managed to extract the third with both legs broken before the fire took hold. Of nineteen starters seven finished the race, the first two qualifying to run in the Grand Prix.

As the chequered flag fell for the winner, John Osborne lit a cigarette. "Fun and games," he said. His race was the last of the day.

Peter said thoughtfully, "They’re certainly racing to win..."

"Well, of course," said the scientist. "It’s racing as it ought to be. If you buy it, you’ve got nothing to lose."

"Except to smash up the Ferrari."

John Osborne nodded. "I’d be very sorry to do that." A little rain began to fall on them, wetting the track again. Dwight Towers stood a little way apart with Moira. "Get into the car, honey," he said. "You’ll get wet."

She did not move. "They can’t go on in this rain, can they?" she asked. "Not after all these accidents?"

"I wouldn’t know," he said. "I’d say they might. After all, it’s the same for everybody. They don’t have to go so fast they spin. And if they wait for a dry day this time of year they might wait, well, longer than they’ve got."

"But it’s awful," she objected. "Two people killed in the first race and about seven injured. They can’t go on. It’s like the Roman gladiators, or something."

He stood in silence for a moment m the rain. "Not quite like that," he said at last. "There isn’t any audience. They don’t have to do it." He looked around. "Apart from the drivers and their crews, I don’t suppose there’s five hundred people here. They haven’t taken any money at a gate. They’re doing it because they like to do it, honey."

"I don’t believe they do."

He smiled. "You go up to John Osborne and suggest he scratch his Ferrari and go home." She was silent. "Come on in the car and I’ll pour you a brandy and soda."

"A very little one, Dwight," she said. "If I’m going to watch this, I’ll watch it sober."

The next two heats produced nine crashes, four ambulance cases, but only one death, the driver of the bottom Austin-Healy in a pile up of four cars at The Safety Pin. The rain had eased to a fine, misty drizzle that did nothing to damp the spirits of the competitors. John Osborne had left his friends before the last race, and he was now in the paddock sitting in the Ferrari and warming it up, his pit crew around him. Presently he was satisfied and got out of the car, and stood talking and smoking with some of the other drivers. Don Harrison, the driver of a Jaguar, had a glass of whisky in his hand and a couple of bottles with more glasses on an upturned box beside him; he offered John a drink, but he refused it.

"I’ve got nothing to give away on you muggers," he said, grinning. Although he had what was probably the fastest car on the circuit, he had almost the least experience of any of the drivers. He still raced the Ferrari with the three broad bands of tape across the back that indicated a novice driver; he was still very conscious that he did not know by instinct when he was about to spin. A spin always caught him unawares and came as a surprise. If he had known it, all the drivers were alike on these wet roads; none of them had much experience of driving under such conditions and his consciousness of inexperience was perhaps a better protection than their confidence.

When his crew pushed the Ferrari out on to the grid, he found himself placed on the second line, in front of him the Maserati, the two Jaguars, and the Gipsy-Lotus, beside him the Thunderbird. He settled himself into his seat revving his engines to warm up, fastening his safety belt, making his crash helmet and his goggles comfortable upon his head. In his mind was the thought—This is where I get killed. Better than vomiting to death in a sick misery in less than a month’s time. Better to drive like hell and go out doing what he wanted to. The big steering wheel was a delight to handle, the crack of the Ferrari’s exhaust music to his ears. He turned and grinned at his pit crew in unalloyed pleasure, and then fixed his eyes upon the starter.

When the flag dropped he made a good start and got away well, weaving ahead of the Gipsy-Lotus as he changed up into third and outdistancing the Thunderbird. He went into Lake Bend hard on the heels of the two Jaguars, but driving cautiously on the wet road with seventeen laps to go. Time enough to take chances in the last five laps. He stayed with the Jaguars past Haystack Corner, past The Safety Pin and cautiously put his foot down on the sinuous back straight. Not hard enough, apparently, for with a roar and a crackle the Gipsy-Lotus passed him on the right, showering him with water, Sam Bailey driving like a madman.

He slowed a little, while he wiped his goggles, and followed on behind. The Gipsy-Lotus was wandering all over the road, harnessed only by the immensely quick reaction time of its young driver. John Osborne, watching, sensed disaster round it like an aura; better follow on at a safe distance for a while and see what happened. He shot a quick glance at the mirror; the Thunderbird was fifty yards behind, with the Maserati overtaking it. There was time to take it easy down The Slide, but after that he must step on it.

On entering the straight at the end of the first lap he saw that the Gipsy-Lotus had taken one of the Jaguars. He passed the pits at about a hundred and sixty miles an hour making up upon the second Jaguar; with a car between him and the Gipsy-Lotus he felt safer. A glance in the mirror as he braked before Lake Bend showed that he had drawn well away from the two cars behind; if he could do that, he could hold the fourth position for a lap or two and still go carefully upon the corners.

He did so till the sixth lap. By that time the Gipsy-Lotus was in the lead and the first four cars had lapped one of the Bentleys. As he accelerated away from The Slide he glanced in his mirror and in a momentary glimpse saw what appeared to be a most colossal mix-up at the corner. The Maserati and the Bentley seemed to be tangled broadside on across the road, and the Thunderbird was flying through the air. He could not look again. Ahead of him, in the lead, the Gipsy-Lotus was trying to lap one of the Bugattis by synchronizing its desperate swerves at a hundred and forty miles an hour to the manoeuvre necessary for passing, and failing to do so. The two Jaguars were holding back at a discreet distance.

When he came round again to The Slide he saw that the shambles at the corner had involved two cars only; the Thunderbird lay inverted fifty yards from the track and the Bentley stood with its rear end crushed and a great pool of petrol on the road. The Maserati was apparently still racing. He passed on, and as he entered his eighth lap it began to rain quite heavily. It was time to step on it.

So thought the leaders, for on that lap the Gipsy-Lotus was passed by one of the Jaguars taking advantage of Sam Bailey’s evident nervousness of his unstable car upon a corner. Both leaders now lapped a Bugatti, and a Bentley immediately after. The second Jaguar went to pass them on Haystack Corner with John Osborne close behind. What happened then was very, very swift. The Bugatti spun upon the corner and was hit by the Bentley, which was deflected into the path of the oncoming Jaguar, which rolled over twice and finished right side up by the roadside without a driver. John Osborne had no time to stop and little to avoid; the Ferrari hit the Bugatti a glancing blow at about seventy miles an hour and came to a standstill by the roadside with a buckled near side front wheel.

John Osborne was shaken, but unhurt. Don Harrison the driver of the Jaguar who had offered him a drink before the race, was dying of multiple injuries in the scrub; he had been thrown from his car as it rolled and had then been run over by the Bentley. The scientist hesitated for a moment but there were people about; he tried the Ferrari. The engine started and the car moved forward, but the buckled wheel scraped against the frame. He was out of the race, and out of the Grand Prix, and with a sick heart he waited till the Gipsy-Lotus weaved by and then crossed the track to see if he could help the dying driver.

While he was standing there, helpless, the Gipsy-Lotus passed again.

He stood there in the steady rain for several seconds before it struck him that there had been no other cars between the two transits of the Gipsy-Lotus. When it did so, he made a dash for the Ferrari. If in fact there was only one car left in the race he still had a chance for the Grand Prix; if he could struggle round the track to the pits he might yet change the wheel and get the second place. He toured on slowly, wrestling with the steering, while the rain ran down his neck and the Gipsy-Lotus passed a third time. The tire burst at The Slide, where about six cars seemed to be tangled in a heap, and he went on on the rim, and reached the pits as the Lotus passed again.

The wheel change took his pit crew about thirty seconds, and a quick inspection showed little damage apart from panelling. He was off again several laps behind, and now one of the Bugattis detached itself from the chaos around The Slide and joined in. It was never a threat, however, and John Osborne toured around the course discreetly to win second place in the heat and a start in the Grand Prix. Of the eleven starters in the heat eight had failed to complete the course and three drivers had been killed.

He swung his Ferrari into the paddock and stopped the engine, while his pit crew and his friends crowded round to congratulate him. He hardly heard them; his fingers were trembling with shock and the release of strain. He had only one thought in his mind, to get the Ferrari back to Melbourne and take down the front end; all was not well with the steering though he had managed to complete the course. Something was strained or broken; she had pulled heavily towards the left in the concluding stages of the race.

Between the friends crowding round he saw the upturned box where Don Harrison had parked his Jaguar, the glasses, the two whisky bottles. "God," he said to no one in particular, "I’ll have that drink with Don now." He got out of the car and walked unsteadily to the box; one of the bottles was still nearly full. He poured a generous measure with a very little water, and then he saw Sam Bailey standing by the Gipsy-Lotus. He poured another drink and took it over to the winner, pushing through the crowd. "I’m having this on Don," he said. "You’d better have one, too."

The young man took it, nodded, and drank. "How did you come off?" he asked. "I saw you’d tangled."

"Got round for a wheel change," said the scientist thickly. "She’s steering like a drunken pig. Like a bloody Gipsy-Lotus."

"My car steers all right," the other said nonchalantly. "Trouble is, she won’t stay steered. You driving back to town?"

"If she’ll make it."

"I’d pinch Don’s transporter. He’s not going to need it." The scientist stared at him. "That’s an idea..." The dead driver had brought his Jaguar to the race on an old truck to avoid destroying tune by running on the road. The truck was standing not far from them in the paddock, unattended.

"I should nip in quick, before someone else gets it." John Osborne downed his whisky, shot back to his car, and galvanized his pit crew of enthusiasts with the new idea. Together they mustered willing hands to help and pushed the Ferrari up the steel ramps on to the tray body, lashing her down with ropes. Then he looked round uncertainly. A marshal passed and he stopped him. "Are there any of Don Harrison’s crew about?"

"I think they’re all over with the crash. I know his wife’s down there."

He had been minded to drive off in the transporter with the Ferrari because Don would never need it again, nor would his Jaguar. To leave his pit crew and his wife without transport back to town, however, was another thing.

He left the paddock and started to walk down the track towards the Haystack, with Eddie Brooks, one of his pit crew, beside him. He saw a little group standing by the wreckage of the cars in the rain, one of them a woman. He had intended to talk to Don’s pit crew, but when he saw the wife was dry-eyed he changed his mind, and went to speak to her.

"I was the driver of the Ferrari," he said. "I’m very sorry that this happened, Mrs. Harrison."

She inclined her head. "You come up and bumped into them right at the end," she said. "It wasn’t anything to do with you."

"I know. But I’m very sorry."

"Nothing for you to be sorry about," she said heavily.

"He got it the way he wanted it to be. None of this being sick and all the rest of it. Maybe if he hadn’t had that whisky... I dunno. He got it the way he wanted it to be. You one of his cobbers?"

"Not really. He offered me a drink before the race, but I didn’t take it. I’ve just had it now."

"You have? Well, good on you. That’s the way Don would have wanted it. Is there any left?"

He hesitated. "There was when I left the paddock. Sam Bailey had a go at it, and I did. Maybe the boys have finished up the bottles."

She looked up at him. "Say, what do you want? His car? They say it isn’t any good."

He glanced at the wrecked Jaguar. "I shouldn’t think it is. No, what I wanted to do was to put my car on his transporter and get it back to town. The steering’s had it, but I’ll get her right for the Grand Prix."

"You got a place, didn’t you? Well, it’s Don’s transporter but he’d rather have it work with cars that go than work with wrecks. All right, chum, you take it."

He was a little taken aback. "Where shall I return it to?"

"I won’t be using it. You take it."

He thought of offering money but rejected the idea; the time was past for that. "That’s very kind of you," he said. "It’s going to make a big difference to me, having the use of that transporter."

"Fine," she said. "You go right ahead and win that Grand Prix. Any parts you need from that—" She indicated the wrecked Jaguar—"you take them, too."

"How are you getting back to town?" he asked.

"Me? I’ll wait and go with Don in the ambulance. But they say there’s another load of hospital cases for each car to go first, so it’ll probably be around midnight before we get away."

There seemed to be nothing more that he could do for her. "Can I take some of the pit crew back?"

She nodded, and spoke to a fat, balding man of fifty. He detached two youngsters to go back with John. "Aifle here, he’ll stay with me and see this all squared up," she said dully. "You go right ahead, mister, and win that Grand Prix."

He went a little way aside and talked to Eddie Brooks, standing in the rain. "Tires are the same size as ours. Wheels are different, but if we took the hubs as well... That Maserati’s crashed up by The Slide. We might have a look at that one, too. I believe that’s got a lot of the same front-end parts as we have..."

They walked back to their newly acquired transporter and drove it back in the half light to Haystack Corner, and commenced the somewhat ghoulish task of stripping the dead bodies of the wrecked cars of anything that might be serviceable to the Ferrari. It was dark before they finished and they drove back to Melbourne in the rain.