On The Beach

8

In Mary Holmes’ garden the first narcissus bloomed on the first day of August, the day the radio announced, with studied objectivity, cases of radiation sickness in Adelaide and Sydney. The news did not trouble her particularly; all news was bad, like wage demands, strikes, or war, and the wise person paid no attention to it. What was important was that it was a bright, sunny day; her first narcissus were in bloom, and the daffodils behind them were already showing flower buds. "They’re going to be a picture," she said happily to Peter. "There are so many of them. Do you think some of the bulbs can have sent up two shoots?"

"I shouldn’t think so," he replied. "I don’t think they do that. They split in two and make another bulb or something."

She nodded. "We’ll have to dig them up in the autumn, after they die down, and separate them. Then we’ll get a lot more and put them along here. They’re going to look marvellous in a year or two." She paused in thought. "We’ll be able to pick some then, and have them in the house."

One thing troubled her upon that perfect day, that Jennifer was cutting her first tooth, and was hot and fractious. Mary had a book called Baby’s First Year which told her that this was normal, and nothing to worry about, but she was troubled all the same. "I mean," she said, "they don’t know everything, the people who write these books. And all babies aren’t the same, anyway. She oughtn’t to keep crying like this, ought she? Do you think we ought to get in Dr. Halloran?"

"I shouldn’t think so," Peter said. "She’s chewing her rusk all right."

"She’s so hot, the poor little lamb." She picked up the baby from her cot and started patting it on the back across her shoulder; the baby had intended that, and stopped yelling. Peter felt that he could almost hear the silence.

"I think she’s probably all right," he said. "Just wants a bit of company." He felt he couldn’t stand much more of it, after a restless night with the child crying all the time and Mary getting in and out of bed to soothe it. "Look, dear," he said, "I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to go up to the Navy Department. I’ve got a date in the Third Naval Member’s office at eleven forty-five."

"What about the doctor, though? Don’t you think he ought to see her?"

"I wouldn’t worry him. The book says she may be upset for a couple of days. Well, she’s been going on for thirty-six hours now." By God, she has, he thought.

"It might be something different—not teeth at all. Cancer, or something. After all, she can’t tell us where the pain is...

"Leave it till I get back," he said. "I should be back here around four o’clock, or five at the latest. Let’s see how she is then."

"All right," she said reluctantly.

He took the petrol cans and put them in the car, and drove out on the road, glad to be out of it. He had no appointment in the Navy Department that morning but there would be no harm in looking in on them if, indeed, there was anybody in the office. Scorpion was out of dry dock and back alongside the aircraft carrier waiting for orders that might never come; he could go and have a look at her and, as a minor side issue, fill up his petrol tank and cans.

On that fine morning there was no one in the Third Naval Member’s office save for one Wran writer, prim and spectacled and conscientious. She said that she was expecting Commander Mason on board any minute now. Peter said he might look in again, and went down to his car, and drove to Williamstown. He parked beside the aircraft carrier and walked up the gangway with his cans in hand, accepting the salute of the officer of the day. "Morning," he said. "Is Commander Towers about?"

"I think he’s down in Scorpion, sir."

"And I want some juice."

"Very good, sir. If you leave the cans here... Fill the tank as well?"

"If you would." He went on through the cold, echoing, empty ship and down the gangplank to the submarine. Dwight Towers came up to the bridge deck as he stepped on board. Peter saluted him formally. "Morning, sir," he said. "I came over to see what’s doing, and to get some juice."

"Plenty of juice," said the American. "Not much doing. I wouldn’t say there would be now, not ever again. You haven’t any news for me?"

Peter shook his head. "I looked in at the Navy Department just now. There didn’t seem to be anyone there, except one Wran."

"I had better luck than you. I found a lieutenant there yesterday... Kind of running down."

"There’s not so long to run now, anyway." They leaned on the bridge rail; he glanced at the captain. "You heard about Adelaide and Sydney?"

Dwight nodded. "Sure. First it was months, and then it got to be weeks, and now I’d say it’s getting down to days. How long are they figuring on now?"

"I haven’t heard. I wanted to get into touch with John Osborne today and get the latest gen."

"You won’t find him in the office. He’ll be working on that car. Say, that was quite a race."

Peter nodded. "Are you going down to see the next one—the Grand Prix itself? That’s the last race ever, as I understand it. It’s really going to be something."

"Well, I don’t know. Moira didn’t like the last one so much. I think women look at things differently. Like boxing or wrestling." He paused. "You driving back to Melbourne now?"

"I was—unless you want me for anything, sir?"

"I don’t want you. There’s nothing to do here. I’ll thumb a ride to town with you, if I may. My Leading Seaman Edgar hasn’t shown up with the car today; I suppose he’s running down, too. If you can wait ten minutes while I change this uniform I’ll be with you."

Forty minutes later they were talking to John Osborne in the garage in the mews. The Ferrari hung with its nose lifted high on chain blocks to the roof, its front end and steering dismantled. John was in an overall working on it with one mechanic; he had got it all so spotlessly clean that his hands were hardly dirty. "It’s very lucky we got those parts off the Maserati," he said seriously. "One of these wishbones was bent all to hell. But the forgings are the same; we’ve had to bore out a bit and fit new bushes. I wouldn’t have liked to race her if we’d had to heat the old one and bend it straight. I mean, you never know what’s going to happen after a repair like that."

"I’d say you don’t know what’s going to happen anyway in this kind of racing," said Dwight. "When is the Grand Prix to be?"

"I’m having a bit of a row with them over that," said the scientist. "They’ve got it down for Saturday fortnight, the 17th, but I think that’s too late. I think we ought to run it on Saturday week, the 10th."

"Getting kind of close, is it?"

"Well, I think so. After all, they’ve got definite cases in Canberra now."

"I hadn’t heard of that. The radio said Adelaide and Sydney."

"The radio’s always about three days late. They don’t want to create alarm and despondency until they’ve got to. But there’s a suspect case in Albury today."

"In Albury? That’s only about two hundred miles north."

"I know. I think Saturday fortnight is going to be too late."

Peter asked, "How long do you think we’ve got then, John?"

The scientist glanced at him. "I’ve got it now. You’ve got it, we’ve all got it. This door, this spanner—everything’s getting touched with radioactive dust. The air we breathe, the water that we drink, the lettuce in the salad, even the bacon and eggs. It’s getting down now to the tolerance of the individual. Some people with less tolerance than others could quite easily be showing symptoms in a fortnight’s time. Maybe sooner." He paused. "I think it’s crazy to put off an important race like the Grand Prix till Saturday fortnight. We’re having a meeting of the Committee this afternoon and I’m going to tell them so. We can’t have a decent race if half the drivers have got diarrhoea and vomiting. It just means that the Grand Prix might be won by the chap with the best tolerance to radioactivity. Well, that’s not what we’re racing for!"

"I suppose that’s so," said Dwight. He left them in the garage, for he had a date to lunch with Moira Davidson. John Osborne suggested lunch at the Pastoral Club, and presently he wiped his hands on a clean piece of rag, took off his overall, locked the garage, and they drove up through the city to the club.

As they went, Peter asked, "How’s your uncle getting on?"

"He’s made a big hole in the port, him and his cobbers," the scientist said.

"He’s not quite so good, of course. We’ll probably see him at lunch; he comes in most days now. Of course, it’s made a difference to him now that he can come in in his car."

"Where does he get his petrol from?"

"God knows. The army, probably. Where does anybody get his petrol from these days?" He paused. "I think he’ll stay the course, but I wouldn’t bank on it. The port’ll probably give him longer than most of us."

"The port?"

The other nodded. "Alcohol, taken internally, seems to increase the tolerance to radioactivity. Didn’t you know that?"

"You mean, if you get pickled you last longer?"

"A few days. With Uncle Douglas it’s a toss-up which’ll kill him first. Last week I thought the port was winning, but when I saw him yesterday he looked pretty good."

They parked the car and went into the club. They found Sir Douglas Froude sitting in the garden room, for the wind was cold. A glass of sherry was on the table by him and he was talking to two old friends. He made an effort to get to his feet when he saw them, but abandoned it at John’s request. "Don’t get about so well as I used to, once," he said. "Come, pull a chair up, and have some of this sherry. We’re down to about fifty bottles now of the Amontillado. Push that bell."

John Osborne did so, and they drew up chairs. "How are you feeling now, sir?"

"So-so, so-so. That doctor was probably right. He said that if I went back to my old habits I shouldn’t last longer than a few months, and I shan’t. But nor will he, and nor will you." He chuckled. "I hear you won that motor race that you were going in for."

"I didn’t win it—I was second. It means I’ve got a place in the Grand Prix."

"Well, don’t go and kill yourself. Although, I’m sure, it doesn’t seem to matter very much if you do. Tell me, somebody was saying that they’ve got it in Cape Town. Do you think that’s true?"

His nephew nodded. "That’s true enough. They’ve had it for some days. We’re still in radio communication, though."

"So they’ve got it before us?"

"That’s true."

"That means that all of Africa is out, or will be out, before we get it here?"

John Osborne grinned. "It’s going to be a pretty near thing. It looks as though all Africa might be gone in a week or so." He paused. "It seems to go quite quickly at the end, so far as we can ascertain. It’s a bit difficult, because when more than half the people in a place are dead the communications usually go out, and then you don’t quite know what’s happening. All services are usually stopped by then, and food supplies. The last half seem to go quite quickly... But as I say, we don’t really know what does happen, in the end."

"Well, I think that’s a good thing," the general said robustly. "We’ll find out soon enough." He paused. "So all of Africa is out. I’ve had some good times there, back in the days before the First War, when I was a subaltern. But I never did like that apartheid... Does that mean that we’re going to be the last?"

"Not quite," his nephew said. "We’re going to be the last major city. They’ve got cases now in Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and they’ve got a case or two in Auckland. After we’re gone Tasmania may last another fortnight, and the South Island of New Zealand. The last of all to die will be the Indians in Tierra del Fuego."

"The Antarctic?"

The scientist shook his head. "There’s nobody there now, so far as we know." He smiled. "Of course, that’s not the end of life upon the earth. You mustn’t think that. There’ll be life here in Melbourne long after we’ve gone."

They stared at him. "What life?" Peter asked.

He grinned broadly. "The rabbit. That’s the most resistant animal we know about."

The general pushed himself upright in his chair, his face suffused with anger. "You mean to say the rabbit’s going to live longer than we do?"

"That’s right. About a year longer. It’s got about twice the resistance that we’ve got. There’ll be rabbits running about Australia and eating all the feed next year."

"You’re telling me the bloody rabbit’s going to put it across us, after all? They’ll be alive and kicking when we’re all dead?"

John Osborne nodded. "Dogs will outlive us. Mice will last a lot longer, but not so long as rabbits. So far as we can see, the rabbit has them all licked—hell be the last."

He paused. "They’ll all go in the end, of course. There’ll be nothing left alive here by the end of the next year."

The general sank back in his chair. "The rabbit! After all we’ve done, and all we’ve spent in fighting him—to know he’s going to win out in the end!" He turned to Peter. "Just press that bell beside you. I’m going to have a brandy and soda before going in to lunch. We’d all better have a brandy and soda after that."

In the restaurant Moira Davidson and Dwight settled at a table in a corner, and ordered lunch. Then she said, "What’s troubling you, Dwight?"

He took up a fork and played with it. "Not very much."

"Tell me."

He raised his head. "I’ve got another ship in my command—USS. Swordfish at Montevideo. It’s getting hot around those parts right now. I radioed the captain three days ago asking him if he thought it practical to leave and sail his vessel over here."

"What did he say?"

"He said it wasn’t. Shore associations, he called them. What he meant was girls, same as Scorpion. Said he’d try and come if there was a compelling reason but he’d be leaving half his crew behind." He raised his head. "There’d be no point in coming that way," he told her. "He wouldn’t be operational."

"Did you tell him to stay there?"

He hesitated. "Yes," he said at last. "I ordered him to take Swordfish out beyond the twelve-mile limit and sink her on the high seas, in deep water." He stared at the prongs of the fork. "I dunno if I did the right thing or not," he said. "I thought that was what the Navy Department would want me to do—not to leave a ship like that, full of classified gear, kicking around in another country. Even if there wasn’t anybody there." He glanced at her. "So now the U.S. Navy’s been reduced again," he said. "From two ships down to one."

They sat in silence for a minute. "Is that what you’re going to do with Scorpion?" she asked at last.

"I think so. I’d have liked to take her back to the United States, but it wouldn’t be practical. Too many shore associations, like he said."

Their lunch came. "Dwight," she said when the waiter had departed. "I had an idea."

"What’s that, honey?"

"They’re opening the trout fishing early this year, on Saturday week. I was wondering if you’d like to take me up into the mountains for the weekend." She smiled faintly. "For the fishing, Dwight—fishing to fish. Not for anything else. It’s lovely up by Jamieson."

He hesitated for a moment. "That’s the day that John Osborne thinks they’ll be running the Grand Prix."

She nodded. "So I thought. Would you rather see that?"

He shook his head. "Would you?"

"No. I don’t want to see any more people get killed. We’re going to see enough of that in a week or two."

"I feel that way about it, too. I don’t want to see that race, and maybe see John get killed. I’d rather go fishing." He glanced at her and met her eyes. "There’s just one thing, honey. I wouldn’t want to go if it was going to mean that you’d get hurt."

"I shan’t get hurt," she said. "Not in the way you mean."

He stared across the crowded restaurant. "I’m going home quite soon," he said. "I’ve been away a long time, but it’s nearly over now. You know the way it is. I’ve got a wife at home I love, and I’ve played straight with her the two years that I’ve been away. I wouldn’t want to spoil that now, these few last days."

"I know," she said. "I’ve known that all the time." She was silent for a minute, and then she said, "You’ve been very good for me, Dwight. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. I suppose half a loaf is better than no bread, when you’re starving."

He wrinkled his brows. "I didn’t get that, honey."

"It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t want to start a smutty love affair when I’m dying in a week or ten days’ time. I’ve got some standards, too—now, anyway."

He smiled at her. "We could try out Junior’s rod..."

"That’s what I thought you’d want to do. I’ve got a little fly rod I could bring, but I’m no good."

"Got any flies and leaders?"

"We call them casts. I’m not quite sure. I’ll have to look around and see what I can find at home."

"We’d go by car, would we? How far is it?"

"I think we’d want petrol for about five hundred miles. But you don’t have to worry about that. I asked Daddy if I might borrow the Customline. He’s got it out and running, and he’s got nearly a hundred gallons of petrol tucked away in the hay shed behind the hay."

He smiled again. "You think of everything. Say, where would we stay?"

"I think at the hotel," she said. "It’s only a small country place, but I think it’s the best bet. I could borrow a cottage, but it wouldn’t have been slept re for two years, and we’d spend all our time in housekeeping. I’ll ring up and make a booking at the hotel. For two rooms," she said.

"Okay. I’ll have to chase that Leading Seaman Edgar and see if I can use my car without taking him along. I’m not just sure if I’m allowed to drive myself."

"That’s not terribly important now, is it? I mean, you could just take it and drive it."

He shook his head. "I wouldn’t want to do that."

"But, Dwight, why not? I mean, it doesn’t matter—we can go in the Customline. But if that car’s been put at your disposal, you can use it, surely. We’re all going to be dead in a fortnight’s time. Then nobody will be using it."

"I know..." he said. "It’s just that I’d like to do things right, up till the end. If there’s an order I’ll obey it. That’s the way I was trained, honey, and I’m not changing now. If it’s against the rules for an officer to take a service car and drive it up into the mountains for a weekend with a girl, then I’ll not do it. There’ll be no alcoholic liquor on board Scorpion, not even in the last five minutes." He smiled. "That’s the way it is, so let me buy you another drink."

"I can see that it will have to be the Customline. You’re a very difficult man—I’m glad I’m not a sailor serving under you. No, I won’t have a drink, thanks, Dwight. I’ve got my first test this afternoon."

"Your first test?"

She nodded. "I’ve got to try and take dictation at fifty words a minute. You’ve got to be able to do that and type it out without more than three mistakes in shorthand and three in typing. It’s very difficult."

"I’d say it might be. You’re getting to be quite a short-hand typist."

She smiled faintly. "Not at fifty words a minute. You have to be able to do a hundred and twenty if you’re ever going to be any good." She raised her head. "I’d like to come and see you in America one day," she said. "I want to meet Sharon—if she’d want to meet me."

"She’ll want to meet you," he said. "I’d say she’s kind of grateful to you now, already."

She smiled faintly. "I don’t know. Women are funny about men... If I came to Mystic, would there be a shorthand typing school where I could finish off my course."

He thought for a minute. "Not in Mystic itself," he said. "There’s plenty of good business colleges in New London. That’s only about fifteen miles away."

"I’ll just come for an afternoon," she said thoughtfully. "I want to see Helen jumping round upon that Pogo stick. But after that, I think I’d better come back here."

"Sharon would be very disappointed if you did that, honey. She’d want you to stay."

"That’s what you think. I shall want a bit of convincing on that point."

He said, "I think things may be kind of different by that time.’’

She nodded slowly. "Possibly. I’d like to think they would be. Anyway, we’ll find out pretty soon." She glanced at her wrist watch. "I must go, Dwight, or I’ll be late for my test." She gathered up her gloves and her bag. "Look, I’ll tell Daddy that we’d like to take the Customline and about thirty gallons of petrol."

He hesitated. "I’ll find out about my car. I don’t like taking your father’s car away for all that time, with all that gas."

"He won’t be using it," she said. "He’s had it on the road for a fortnight, but I think he’s only used it twice. There’s so much that he wants to see done on the farm while there’s still time."

"What’s he working on now?"

"The fence along the wood—the one in the forty acre. He’s digging postholes to put up a new one. It’s about twenty chains long. That’s going to mean digging nearly a hundred holes."

"There’s not so much to do at Williamstown. I could come out and lend a hand, if he’d like that."

She nodded. "I’ll tell him. Give you a ring tonight, about eight o’clock?"

"Fine," he said. He escorted her to the door. "Good luck with the test."

He had no engagement for that afternoon. He stood in the street outside the restaurant after she had left him, completely at a loose end. Inactivity was unusual for him, and irksome.

At Williamstown there was absolutely nothing for him to do; the aircraft carrier was dead and his ship all but dead. Although he had received no orders, he knew that now she would never cruise again; for one thing, with South America and South Africa out, there was now nowhere much for them to cruise to, unless it were New Zealand. He had given half of his ship’s company leave, each half alternating a week at a time; of the other half he kept only about ten men on duty for maintenance and cleaning in the submarine, permitting the rest daily leave on shore. No signals now arrived for him to deal with; once a week he signed a few stores requisitions as a matter of form, though the stores they needed were supplied from dockyard sources with a disregard of paper work. He would not admit it, but he knew that his ship’s working life was over, as his own was. He had nothing to replace it.

He thought of going to the Pastoral Club, and abandoned the idea; there would be no occupation for him there. He turned and walked towards the motor district of the town where he would find John Osborne working on his car; there might be work there of the sort that interested him. He must be back at Williamstown in time to receive Moira’s call at about eight o’clock; that was his next appointment. He would go out next day and help her father with that fence, and he looked forward to the labour and the occupation.

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 trains 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 all of 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 an-other 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 weekend 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 USS. 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 weekend 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 under 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."

"Suits me," he said. "You got sandwiches?" She nodded. "And beer."

"Say, you think of everything." He turned to the grazier. "I feel kind of mean taking your car like this," he said. "I could take the Chev, if you’d rather."

Mr. Davidson shook his head. "We went into Melbourne yesterday. I don’t think we’ll be going again. It’s too depressing."

The American nodded. "Getting kind of dirty."

"Yes. No, you take the Ford. There’s a lot of petrol might as well be used up, and I don’t suppose that I’ll be needing it again. There’s too much to do here."

Dwight transferred his gear into the Ford and sent his leading seaman back to the dockyard with the Chev. "I don’t suppose he’ll go there," he said reflectively as the car moved off. "Still, we go through the motions."

They got into the Ford. Moira said, "You drive."

"No," he replied. "You’d better drive. I don’t know the way, and maybe I’d go hitting something on the wrong side of the road."

"It’s two years since I drove," she said. "But it’s your neck."

They got in and she found first gear after a little exploration, and they moved off down the drive.

It pleased her to be driving again, pleased her very much indeed. The acceleration of the car gave her a sense of freedom, of escape from the restraints of her daily life. They went by side roads through the Dandenong mountains spattered with guest houses and residences and stopped for lunch not far from Lilydale beside a rippling stream. The day had cleared up and it was now sunny, with white clouds against a bright blue sky.

They eyed the stream professionally as they ate their sandwiches. "It’s muddy kind of water," said Dwight. "I suppose that’s because it’s early in the year."

"I think so," the girl said. "Daddy said it would be too muddy for fly fishing. He said you might do all right with a spinner, but he advised me to kick about upon the bank until I found a worm and dab about with that."

The American laughed. "I’d say there’s some sense in that, if the aim is to catch fish. I’ll stick to a spinner for a time, at any rate, because I want to see that this rod handles right."

"I’d like to catch one fish," the girl said a little wistfully. "Even if it’s such a dud one that we put it back. I think I’ll try with worm unless the water’s a lot clearer up at Jamieson."

"It might be clearer high up in the mountains, with the melting snow."

She turned to him. "Do fish live longer than we’re going to? Like dogs?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn’t know, honey."

They drove on to Warburton and took the long, winding road up through the -forests to the heights. They emerged a couple of hours later on the high ground at Matlock; here there was snow upon the road and on the wooded mountains all around; the world looked cold and bleak. They dropped down into a valley to the little town of Woods Point and then up over another watershed. From there a twenty mile run through the undulating, pleasant valley of the Goulburn brought them to the Jamieson hotel just before dusk.

The American found the hotel to be a straggling collection of somewhat tumble-down single-storey wooden buildings, some of which dated from the earliest settlement of the state. It was well that they had booked rooms, for the place was crowded with fishermen. More cars were parked outside it than ever in the palmiest days of peacetime; inside, the bar was doing a roaring trade. They found the landlady with some difficulty, her face aglow with excitement. As she showed them their rooms, small and inconvenient and badly furnished, she said, "Isn’t this lovely, having all you fishermen here again? You can’t think what it’s been like the last two years, with practically no one coming here except on pack horse trips. But this is just like old times. Have you got a towel of your own? Oh well, I’ll see if I can find one for you. But we’re so full." She dashed off in a flurry of pleasure.

The American looked after her. "Well," he said, "she’s having a good time, anyway. Come on, honey, and I’ll buy you a drink."

They went to the crowded barroom, with a boarded, sagging ceiling, a huge fire of logs in the grate, a number of chromium-plated chairs and tables, and a seething mass of people.

"What’ll I get you, honey?"

"Brandy," she shouted above the din. "There’s only one thing to do here tonight, Dwight."

He grinned, and forced his way through the crowd towards the bar. He came back in a few minutes, struggling, with a brandy and a whisky. They looked around for chairs, and found two at a table where two earnest men in shirt sleeves were sorting tackle. They looked up and nodded as Dwight and Moira joined them.

"Fish for breakfast," said one.

"Getting up early?" asked Dwight.

The other glanced at him. "Going to bed late. The season opens at midnight."

He was interested. "You’re going out then?"

"If it’s not actually snowing. Best time to fish." He held up a huge white fly tied on a small hook. "That’s what I use. That’s what gets them. Put a shot or two on it, and sink it down, and then cast well across. Never fails."

"It does with me," his companion said. "I like a little frog You get alongside a pool you know about two in the morning with a little frog and put the hook just through the skin on his back and cast him across and let him swim about... That’s what I do. You going out tonight?"

Dwight glanced at the girl, and smiled. "I guess not," he said. "We just fish around in daylight—we’re not in your class. We don’t catch much."

The other nodded. "I used to be like that. Look at the birds and the river and the sun upon the ripples, and not care much what you caught. I do that sometimes. But then I got to this night fishing, and that’s really something." He glanced at the American. "There’s a ruddy great monster of a fish in a pool down just below the bend that I’ve been trying to get for the last two years. I had him on a frog the year before last, and he took out most of my line and then broke me. And then I had him on again last year, on a sort of doodlebug in the late evening, and he broke me again—brand-new, o.x. nylon. He’s twelve pounds if he’s an ounce. I’m going to get him this time if I’ve got to stay up all of every night until the end."

The American leaned back to talk to Moira. "You want to go out at two in the morning?"

She laughed. "I’ll want to go to bed. You go if you’d like to."

He shook his head. "I’m not that kind of fisherman."

"Just the drinking kind," she said. "I’ll toss you who goes and battles for the next drink."

"I’ll get you another," he said.

She shook her head. "Just stay where you are and learn something about fishing. I’ll get you one."

She struggled through the crowd to the bar carrying the glasses, and came back presently to the table by the fireside. Dwight got up to meet her, and as he did so his sports jacket fell open. She handed him the glass and said accusingly, "You’ve got a button off your pull-over!"

He glanced down. "I know. It came off on the way up here."

"Have you got the button?"

He nodded. "I found it on the floor of the car."

"You’d better give it to me with the pull-over tonight, and I’ll sew it on for you."

"It doesn’t matter," he said.

"Of course it matters." She smiled softly. "I can’t send you back to Sharon looking like that."

"She wouldn’t mind, honey..."

"No, but I should. Give it me tonight, and I’ll give it back to you in the morning."

He gave it to her at the door of her bedroom at about eleven o’clock that night. They had spent most of the evening smoking and drinking with the crowd, keenly anticipating the next day’s sport, discussing whether to fish the lake or the streams. They had decided to try it on the Jamieson River, having no boat. The girl took the garment from him and said, "Thanks for bringing me up here, Dwight. It’s been a lovely evening, and it’s going to be a lovely day tomorrow."

He stood uncertain. "You really mean that, honey? You’re not going to be hurt?"

She laughed. "I’m not going to be hurt, Dwight. I know you’re a married man. Go to bed. I’ll have this for you in the morning."

"Okay." He turned and listened to the noises and snatches of songs still coming from the bar. "They’re having themselves a real good time," he said. "I still can’t realize it’s never going to happen again, not after this week-end."

"It may do, somehow," she said. "On another plane, or something. Anyway, let’s have fun and catch fish tomorrow. They say it’s going to be a fine day."

He grinned. "Think it ever rains, on that other plane?"

"I don’t know," she said. "We’ll find out soon enough."

"Got to get some water in the rivers, somehow," he said thoughtfully. "Otherwise there wouldn’t be much fishing..." He turned away. "Good night, Moira. Let’s have a swell time tomorrow, anyway."

She closed her door, and stood for a few moments holding the pull-over to her. Dwight was as he was, a married man whose heart was in Connecticut with his wife and children; it would never be with her. If she had had more time things might have been different, but it would have taken many years. Five years, at least, she thought, until the memories of Sharon and of Junior and of Helen had begun to fade; then he would have turned to her, and she could have given him another family, and made him happy again. Five years were not granted to her; it would be five days, more likely. A tear trickled down beside her nose and she wiped it away irritably; self-pity was a stupid thing, or was it the brandy? The light from the one fifteen-watt bulb high in the ceiling of her dark little bedroom was too dim for sewing buttons on. She threw off her clothes, put on her pyjamas, and went to bed, the pull-over on the pillow by her head. In the end she slept.

They went out next day after breakfast to fish the Jamieson not far from the hotel. The river was high and the water clouded; she dabbled her flies amateurishly in the quick water and did no good, but Dwight caught a two-pounder with the spinning tackle in the middle of the morning and she helped him to land it with the net. She wanted him to go on and catch another, but having proved the rod and tackle he was now more interested in helping her to catch something. About noon one of the fishermen that they had sat with at the bar came walking down the bank, studying the water and not fishing. He stopped to speak to them.

"Nice fish," he said, looking at Dwight’s catch. "Get him on the fly?"

The American shook his head. "On the spinner. We’re trying with the fly now. Did you do any good last night?"

"I got five," the man said. "Biggest about six pounds. I got sleepy about three in the morning and turned it in.

Only just got out of bed. You won’t do much good with 4-fly, not in this water." He produced a plastic box and poked about in it with his forefinger. "Look, try this."

He gave them a tiny fly spoon, a little bit of plated metal about the size of a sixpence ornamented with one hook. "Try that in the pool where the quick water runs out. They should come for that, on a day like this."

They thanked him, and Dwight tied it on the cast for her. At first she could not get it out; if felt like a ton of lead on the end of her rod and fell in the water at her feet. Presently she got the knack of it, and managed to put it into the fast water at the head of the pool. On the fifth or sixth successful cast there was a sudden pluck at the line, the rod bent, and the reel sang as the line ran out. She gasped, "I believe I’ve got one, Dwight."

"Sure, you’ve got one," he said. "Keep the rod upright, honey. Move down a bit this way."

The fish broke surface in a leap. "Nice fish," he said. "Keep a tight line, but let him run if he really wants to go. Take it easy, and he’s all yours."

Five minutes later she got the exhausted fish in to the bank at her feet, and he netted it for her. He killed it with a quick blow on a stone, and they admired her catch.

"Pound and a half," he said. "Maybe a little bigger." He extracted the little spoon carefully from its mouth. "Now catch another one."

"It’s not so big as yours," she said, but she was bursting with pride.

"The next one will be. Have another go at it." But it was close to lunchtime, and she decided to wait till the afternoon. They walked back to the hotel proudly carrying their spoils and had a glass of beer before lunch, talking over their catch with the other anglers.

They went out again in the middle of the afternoon to the same stretch of river and again she caught a fish, a two-pounder this time, while Dwight caught two smaller fish, one of which he put back. Towards evening they rested before going back to the hotel, pleasantly tired and content with the day’s work, the fish laid out beside them. They sat against a boulder by the river, enjoying the last of the sunlight before it sank behind the hill, smoking cigarettes. It was growing chilly, but they were reluctant to leave the murmur of the river.

A sudden thought struck her. "Dwight," she said. "That motor race must be over by this time."

He stared at her. "Holy smoke! I meant to listen to it on the radio. I forgot all about it."

"So did I," she said. There was a pause, and then she said, "I wish we’d listened. I’m feeling a bit selfish."

"We couldn’t have done anything, honey."

"I know. But—I don’t know. I do hope John’s all right."

"The news comes on at seven," he said. "We could listen then."

"I’d like to know," she said. She looked around her at the calm, rippling water, the long shadows, the golden evening light. "This is such a lovely place," she said. "Can you believe—really believe—that we shan’t see it again?"

"I’m going home," he said quietly. "This is a grand country, and I’ve liked it here. But it’s not my country, and now I’m going back to my own place, to my own folks. I like it in Australia well enough, but all the same I’m glad to be going home at last, home to Connecticut." He turned to her. "I shan’t see this again, because I’m going home."

"Will you tell Sharon about me?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. "Maybe she knows already."

She stared down at the pebbles at her feet. "What will you tell her?"

"Lots of things," he said quietly. "I’ll tell her that you turned what might have been a bad time for me into a good time. I’ll tell her that you did that although you knew, right from the start, that there was nothing in it for you. I’ll tell her it’s because of you I’ve come back to her like I used to be, and not a drunken bum. I’ll tell her that you’ve made it easy for me to stay faithful to her, and what it’s cost you."

She got up from the stone. "Let’s go back to the hotel," she said. "You’ll be lucky if she believes a quarter of all that."

He got up with her. "I don’t think so," he said. "I think she’ll believe it all, because it’s true."

They walked back to the hotel carrying their fish. When they had cleaned up they met again in the hotel bar for a drink before tea; they ate quickly in order to be back at the radio before the news. It came on presently, mostly concerned with sport; as they sat tense the announcer said,

The Australian Grand Prix was run today at Tooradin and was won by Mr. John Osborne, driving a Ferrari. The second place...

The girl exclaimed, "Oh Dwight, he did it!" They sat forward to listen.

The race was marred by the large number of accidents and casualties. Of the eighteen starters only three finished the race of eighty laps, six of the drivers being killed outright in accidents and many more removed to hospital with more or less severe injuries. The winner, Mr. John Osborne, drove cautiously for the first half of the race and at the fortieth lap was three laps behind the leading car, driven by Mr. Sam Bailey. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bailey crashed at the corner known as The Slide, and from that point onwards the Ferrari put on speed. At the sixtieth lap the Ferrari was in the lead, the field by that time being reduced to five cars, and thereafter Mr. Osborne was never seriously challenged. On the sixty-fifth lap he put up a record for course, lapping at 97.83 miles an hour, a remarkable achievement for this circuit. Thereafter Mr. Osborne reduced speed in response to signals from his pit, and finished the race at an average speed of 89.61 miles an hour. Mr. Osborne is an official of the C.S.I.R.O.; he has no connection with the motor industry and races as an amateur.

Later they stood on the verandah of the hotel for a few minutes before bed, looking out at the black line of the hills, the starry night. "I’m glad John got what he wanted," the girl said. "I mean, he wanted it so much. It must kind of round things off for him."

The American beside her nodded. "I’d say things are rounding off for all of us right now."

"I know. There’s not much time. Dwight, I think I’d like to go home tomorrow. We’ve had a lovely day up here and caught some fish. But there’s so much to do, and now so little time to do it in."

"Sure, honey," he said. "I was thinking that myself. You glad we came, though?"

She nodded. "I’ve been very happy, Dwight, all day. I don’t know why—not just catching fish. I feel like John must feel—as if I’ve won a victory over something. But I don’t know what."

He smiled. "Don’t try and analyze it," he said. "Just take it, and be thankful. I’ve been happy, too. But I’d agree with you, we should get home tomorrow. Things will be happening down there."

"Bad things?" she asked.

He nodded in the darkness by her side. "I didn’t want to spoil the trip for you," he said. "But John Osborne told me yesterday before we came away they got several cases of this radiation sickness in Melbourne, as of Thursday night. I’d say there’d be a good many more by now."