On The Beach

9

On the Tuesday morning Peter Holmes went to Melbourne in his little car. Dwight Towers had telephoned to him to meet him at ten forty-five in the anteroom to the office of the First Naval Member. The radio that morning announced for the first time the incidence of radiation sickness in the city, and Mary Holmes had been concerned about him going there. "Do be careful, Peter," she said. "I mean, about all this infection. Do you think you ought to go?"

He could not bring himself to tell her again that the infection was there around them, in their pleasant little flat; either she did not or she would not understand. "I’ll have to go," he said. "I won’t stay longer than I’ve absolutely got to."

"Don’t stay up to lunch," she said. "I’m sure it’s healthier down here."

"I’ll come straight home," he said.

A thought struck her. "I know," she said. "Take those formalin lozenges with you that we got for my cough, and suck one now and then. They’re awfully good for all kinds of infection. They’re so antiseptic."

It would set her mind at ease if he did so. "That’s not a bad idea," he said.

He drove up to the city deep in thought. It was no longer a matter of days now; it was coming down to hours. He did not know what this conference with the First Naval Member was to be about, but it was very evident that it would be one of the last naval duties of his career. When he drove back again that afternoon his service life would probably be over, as his physical life soon would be.

He parked his car and went into the Navy Department. There was practically no one in the building; he walked up to the anteroom and there he found Dwight Towers in uniform, and alone. His captain said cheerfully, "Hi, fella."

Peter said, "Good morning, sir." He glanced around; the secretary’s desk was locked, the room empty. "Hasn’t Lieutenant Commander Torrens shown up?"

"Not that I know of. I’d say he’s taking the day off."

The door into the admiral’s office opened, and Sir David Hartman stood there. The smiling, rubicund face was more serious and drawn than Peter had remembered. He said, "Come in, gentlemen. My secretary isn’t here today."

They went in, and were given seats before the desk. The American said, "I don’t know if what I have to say concerns Lieutenant Commander Holmes or not. It may involve a few liaison duties with the dockyard. Would you prefer he wait outside, sir?"

"I shouldn’t think so," said the admiral. "If it will shorten our business, let him stay. What is it you want, Commander?"

Dwight hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. "It seems that I’m the senior executive officer of the U.S. Navy now," he said. "I never thought I’d rise so high as that, but that’s the way it is. You’ll excuse me if I don’t put this in the right form or language, sir. But I have to tell you that I’m taking my ship out of your command."

The admiral nodded slowly. "Very good, Commander. Do you wish to leave Australian territorial waters, or to stay here as our guest?"

"I’ll be taking my ship outside territorial waters," the commander said. "I can’t just say when I’ll be leaving, but probably before the weekend."

The admiral nodded. He turned to Peter. "Give any necessary instructions in regard to victualling and towage to the dockyard," he said. "Commander Towers is to be given every facility."

"Very good, sir."

The American said, "I don’t just know what to suggest about payments, sir. You must forgive me, but I have no training in these matters."

The admiral smiled thinly. "I don’t know that it would do us much good if you had, Commander. I think we can leave those to the usual routine. All countersigned indents and requisitions are costed here and are presented to the Naval Attaché at your embassy in Canberra, and forwarded by him to Washington for eventual settlement. I don’t think you need worry over that side of it."

Dwight said, "I can just cast off and go?"

"That’s right. Do you expect to be returning to Australian waters?"

The American shook his head. "No, sir. I’m taking my ship out in Bass Strait to sink her."

Peter had expected that, but the imminence and the practical negotiation of the matter came with a shock; somehow this was the sort of thing that did not happen. He wanted for a moment to ask if Dwight required a tug to go out with the submarine to bring back the crew, and then abandoned the question. If the Americans wanted a tug to give them a day or two more life they would ask for it, but he did not think they would. Better the sea than death by sickness and diarrhoea homeless in a strange land.

The admiral said, "I should probably do the same, in your shoes... Well, it only remains to thank you for your cooperation, Commander. And to wish you luck. If there’s anything you need before you go don’t hesitate to ask for it—or just take it." A sudden spasm of pain twisted his face and he gripped a pencil on the desk before him. Then he relaxed a little, and got up from the desk. "Excuse me," he said. "I’ll have to leave you for a minute."

He left them hurriedly, and the door closed behind him. The captain and the liaison officer had stood up at his sudden departure; they remained standing, and glanced at each other. "This is it," said the American.

Peter said in a low tone. "Do you suppose that’s what’s happened to the secretary?"

"I’d think so."

They stood in silence for a minute or two, staring out of the window. "Victualling," Peter said at last. "There’s nothing much in Scorpion. Is the exec getting out a list of what you’ll need, sir?"

Dwight shook his head. "We shan’t need anything," he said. "I’m only taking her down the bay and just outside the territorial limit."

The liaison officer asked the question that he had wanted to ask before. "Shall I lay on a tug to sail with you and bring the crew back?"

Dwight said, "That won’t be necessary."

They stood in silence for another ten minutes. Finally the admiral reappeared, grey faced. "Very good of you to wait," he said. "I’ve been a bit unwell..." He did not resume his seat, but remained standing by the desk. "This is the end of a long association, Captain," he said. "We British have always enjoyed working with Americans, especially upon the sea. We’ve had cause to be grateful to you very many times, and in return I think we’ve taught you something out of our experience. This is the end of it." He stood in thought for a minute, and then he held out his hand, smiling. "All I can do now is to say good-bye."

Dwight took his hand. "It certainly has been good, working under you, sir," he said. "I’m speaking for the whole ship’s company when I say that, as well as for myself."

They left the office and walked down through the desolate, empty building to the courtyard. Peter said, "Well, what happens now, sir? Would you like me to come down to the dockyard?"

The captain shook his head. "I’d say that you can consider yourself to be relieved of duty," he said. "I won’t need you any more down there."

"If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll come very gladly."

"No. If I should find I need anything from you, I’ll ring your home. But that’s where your place is now, fella."

This, then, was the end of their fellowship. "When will you be sailing?" Peter asked.

"I wouldn’t know exactly," the American said. "I’ve got seven cases in the crew, as of this morning. I guess we’ll stick around a day or two, and sail maybe on Saturday."

"Are many going with you?"

"Ten. Eleven, with myself."

Peter glanced at him. "Are you all right, so far?" Dwight smiled. "I thought I was, but now I don’t just know. I won’t be taking any lunch today." He paused. "How are you feeling?"

"I’m all right. So is Mary—I think."

Dwight turned towards the cars. "You get back to her, right now. There’s nothing now for you to stay here for."

"Will I see you again, sir?"

"I don’t think you will," said the captain. "I’m going home now, home to Mystic in Connecticut, and glad to go."

There was nothing more for them to say or do. They shook hands, got into their cars, and drove off on their separate ways.

In the old-fashioned, two-storey brick house in Malvein, John Osborne stood by his mother’s bed. He was not unwell, but the old lady had fallen sick upon the Sunday morning, the day after he had won the Grand Prix. He had managed to get a doctor for her on Monday but there was nothing he could do, and he had not come again. The daily maid had not turned up, and the scientist was now doing everything for his sick mother.

She opened her eyes for the first time in a quarter of an hour. "John," she said. "This is what they said would happen, isn’t it?"

"I think so, Mum," he said gently. "It’s going to happen to me, too."

Did Dr. Hamilton say that was what it was? I can’t remember."

"That’s what he told me, Mum. I don’t think he’ll be coming here again. He said he was getting it himself."

There was a long silence. "How long will it take me to die John?"

"I don’t know," he said. "It might be a week."

"How absurd," said the old lady. "Much too long."

She closed her eyes again. He took a basin to the bathroom, washed it out, and brought it back into the bedroom. She opened her eyes again. "Where is Ming?" she asked.

"I put him out in the garden," he said. "He seemed to want to go."

"I am so terribly sorry about him," she muttered. "He’ll be so dreadfully lonely, without any of us here."

"He’ll be all right, Mum," her son said, though without much confidence. "There’ll be all the other dogs for him to play with."

She did not pursue the subject, but she said, "I’ll be quite all right now, dear. You go on and do whatever you have to do."

He hesitated. "I think I ought to look in at the office," he said. "I’ll be back before lunch. What would you like for lunch?"

She closed her eyes again. "Is there any milk?"

"There’s a pint in the frig," he said. "I’ll see if I can get some more. It’s not too easy, though. There wasn’t any yesterday."

"Ming ought to have a little," she said. "It’s so good for him. There should be three tins of rabbit in the larder. Open one of those for his dinner, and put the rest in the frig. He’s so fond of rabbit. Don’t bother about lunch for me till you come back. If I’m feeling like it I might have a cup of cornflour."

"Sure you’ll be all right if I go out?" he asked.

"Quite sure," she said. She held out her arms. "Give me a kiss before you go."

He kissed the limp old cheeks, and she lay back in bed, smiling at him.

He left the house and went down to the office. There was nobody there, but on his desk there was the daily report of radioactive infection. Attached to it was a note from his secretary. She said that she was feeling very unwell, and probably would not be coming to the office again. She thanked him for his kindness to her, congratulated him upon the motor race, and said how much she had enjoyed working for him.

He laid the note aside and took up the report. It said that in Melbourne about fifty per cent of the population appeared to be affected. Seven cases were reported from Hobart in Tasmania, and three from Christchurch in New Zealand. The report, probably the last that he would see, was much shorter than usual.

He walked through the empty offices, picking up a paper here and there and glancing at them. This phase of his life was coming to an end, with all the others. He did not stay very long, for the thought of his mother was heavy on him. He went out and made his way towards his home by one of the occasional, crowded trains still running in the streets. It had a driver, but no conductor; the days of paying fares were over. He spoke to the driver. The man said, "I’ll go on driving this here bloody tram till I get sick, cock. Then I’ll drive it to the Kew depot and go home. That’s where I live, see? I been driving trains for thirty-seven years, rain or shine, and I’m not stopping now."

In Malvern he got off the tram and commenced his search for milk. He found it to be hopeless; what there was had been reserved for babies by the dairy. He went home empty-handed to his mother.

He entered the house and released the Pekinese from the garden, thinking that his mother would like to see him. He went upstairs to her bedroom, the dog hopping up the stairs before him.

In the bedroom he found his mother lying on her back with her eyes closed, the bed very neat and tidy. He moved a little closer and touched her hand, but she was dead. On the table by her side was a glass of water, a pencilled note, and one of the little red cartons, open, with the empty vial beside it. He had not known that she had that.

He picked up the note. It read,

My dear son,

It’s quite absurd that I should spoil the last days of your life by hanging on to mine, since it is such a burden to me now. Don’t bother about my funeral. Just close the door and leave me in my own bed, in my own room, with my own things all around me. I shall be quite all right.

Do whatever you think best for little Ming. I am so very, very sorry for him, but I can do nothing.

I am so very glad you won your race.

My very dearest love.

Mother

A few tears trickled down his cheeks, but only a few. Mum had always been right, all his life, and now she was right again. He left the room and went down to the drawing room, thinking deeply. He was not yet ill himself, but now it could only be a matter of hours. The dog followed him; he sat down and took it on his lap, caressing the silky ears.

Presently he got up, put the little dog in the garden, and went out to the chemist at the corner. There was a girl behind the counter still, surprisingly; she gave him one of the red cartons. "Everybody’s after these," she said smiling. "We’re doing quite a lot of business in them."

He smiled back at her. "I like mine chocolate-coated."

"So do I," she said. "But I don’t think they make them like that. I’m going to take mine with an ice-cream soda."

He smiled again, and left her at the counter. He went back to the house, released the Pekinese from the garden, and began to prepare a dinner for him in the kitchen. He opened one of the tins of rabbit and warmed it a little in the oven, and mixed with it four capsules of Nembutal. Then he put it down before the little dog, who attacked it greedily, and made his basket comfortable for him before the stove.

He went out to the telephone in the hall and rang up the club, and booked a bedroom for a week. Then he went to his own room and began to pack a suitcase.

Half an hour later he came down to the kitchen; the Pekinese was in his basket, very drowsy. The scientist read the directions on the carton carefully and gave him the injection; he hardly felt the prick.

When he was satisfied that the little dog was dead he carried him upstairs in the basket and laid it on the floor beside his mother’s bed.

Then he left the house.

Tuesday night was a disturbed night for the Holmes. The baby began crying at about two in the morning, and it cried almost incessantly till dawn. There was little sleep for the young father or mother. At about seven o’clock it vomited.

Outside it was raining and cold. They faced each other in the grey light, weary and unwell themselves. Mary said, "Peter—you don’t think this is it, do you?"

"I don’t know," he replied. "But I should think it might be. Everybody seems to be getting it."

She passed a hand across her brow, wearily. "I thought we’d be all right, out here in the country."

He did not know what he could say to comfort her, and so he said, "If I put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?"

She crossed to the cot again, and looked down at the baby; she was quiet for the moment. He said again, "What about a cup of tea?"

It would be good for him, she thought; he had been up for most of the night. She forced a smile. "That’d be lovely."

He went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was feeling terrible, and now she wanted to be sick. It was being up all night, of course, and the worry over Jennifer. Peter was busy in the kitchen; she could go quietly to the bathroom without him knowing. She was often sick, but this time he might think it was something else, and get worried.

In the kitchen there was a stale smell, or seemed to be. Peter Holmes filled the kettle at the tap, and plugged it in; he switched on and saw with some relief the indicator light come on that showed the current was flowing. One of these days the juice would fail, and then they would be in real trouble.

The kitchen was intolerably stuffy; he threw open the Window. He was hot, and then suddenly cold again, and then he knew that he was going to be sick. He went quietly to the bathroom, but the door was locked; Mary must be in there. No point in alarming her; he went out of the back door in the rain and vomited in a secluded corner behind the garage.

He stayed there for some time. When he came back he was white and shaken, but feeling more normal. The kettle was boiling and he made the tea, and put two cups on a tray, and took it to their bedroom. Mary was there, bending over the cot. He said, "I’ve got the tea."

She did not turn, afraid her face might betray her. She said, "Oh, thanks. Pour it out; I’ll be there in a minute." She did not feel that she could touch a cup of tea, but it would do him good.

He poured out the two cups and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his; the hot liquid seemed to calm his stomach. He said presently, "Come on and have your tea, dear. It’s getting cold."

She came a little reluctantly; perhaps she could manage it. She glanced at him, and his dressing gown was soaking wet with rain. She exclaimed, "Peter, you’re all wet! Have you been outside?"

He glanced at his sleeve; he had forgotten that. "I had to go outside," he said.

"Whatever for?"

He could not keep up a dissimulation. "I’ve just been sick," he said. "I don’t suppose it’s anything."

"Oh, Peter! So have I."

They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then she said dully, "It must be those meat pies we had for supper. Did you notice anything about them?"

He shook his head. "Tasted all right to me. Besides, Jennifer didn’t have any meat pie."

She said, "Peter. Do you think this is it?"

He took her hand. "It’s what everybody else is getting," he said. "We wouldn’t be immune."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "No. I suppose we wouldn’t." She raised her eyes to his. "This is the end of it, is it? I mean, we just go on now getting sicker till we die?"

"I think that’s the form," he said. He smiled at her. "I’ve never done it before, but they say that’s what happens."

She left him and went through to the lounge; he hesitated for a moment and then followed her. He found her standing by the French window looking out into the garden that she loved so much, now grey and wintry and windswept. "I’m so sorry that we never got that garden seat," she said irrelevantly. "It would have been lovely just there, just beside that bit of wall."

"I could have a stab at getting one today," he said.

She turned to him. "Not if you’re ill."

"I’ll see how I’m feeling later on," he said. "Better to be doing something than sit still and think how miserable you are."

She smiled "I’m feeling better now, I think. Could you eat any breakfast?"

"Well, I don’t know," he said. "I don’t know that I’m feeling quite so good as all that. What have you got?"

"We’ve got three pints of milk," she said. "Can we get any more?"

"I think so. I could take the car for it."

"What about some cornflakes, then? It says they’re full of glucose on the packet. That’s good for when you’re being sick, isn’t it?"

He nodded. "I think I’ll have a shower," he said. "I might feel better after that."

He did so; when he came out to their bedroom she was in the kitchen busy with the breakfast. To his amazement, he heard her singing, singing a cheerful little song that inquired who’d been polishing the sun. He stepped into the kitchen. "You sound cheerful," he remarked.

She came to him. "It’s such a relief," she said, and now he saw she had been crying a little as she sang. He wiped her tears away, puzzled, as he held her in his arms.

"I’ve been so terribly worried," she sobbed. "But now it’s going to be all right."

Nothing was further from right, he thought, but he did not say so. "What’s been worrying you?" he asked gently.

"People get this thing at different times," she said. "That’s what they say. Some people can get it as much as a fortnight later than others. I might have got it first and had to leave you, or Jennifer, or you might have got it and left us alone. It’s been such a nightmare...

She raised her eyes to his, smiling through her tears. "But now we’ve got it all together, on the same day. Aren’t we lucky?"

On the Friday Peter Holmes drove up to Melbourne in his little car, ostensibly to try and find a garden seat. He went quickly because he could not be away from home too long. He wanted to find John Osborne and to find him without delay; he tried the garage in the mews first, but that was locked; then he tried the C.S.I.R.O. offices. Finally he found him in his bedroom at the Pastoral Club; he was looking weak and ill.

Peter said, "John, I’m sorry to worry you. How are you feeling?"

"I’ve got it," said the scientist. "I’ve had it two days. Haven’t you?"

"That’s what I wanted to see you about," Peter said. Our doctor’s dead, I think—at any rate, he isn’t functioning. Look, John, Mary and I both started giving at both ends on Tuesday. She’s pretty bad. But on Thursday, yesterday, I began picking up. I didn’t tell her, but I’m feeling as fit as a flea now, and bloody hungry. I stopped at a café on the way up and had breakfast—bacon and fried eggs and all the trimmings, and I’m still hungry. I believe I’m getting well. Look—can that happen?"

The scientist shook his head. "Not permanently. You can recover for a bit, but then you get it again."

"How long is a bit?"

"You might get ten days. Then you’ll get it again. I don’t think there’s a second recovery. Tell me, is Mary very bad?"

"She’s not too good. I’ll have to get back to her pretty soon."

"She’s in bed, is she?"

Peter shook his head. "She came down to Falmouth with me this morning to buy moth balls."

"To buy what?"

"Moth balls. Napthalene—you know." He hesitated. "It’s what she wanted," he said. "I left her putting all our clothes away to keep the moths out of them. She can do that in between the spasms, and she wants to do it." He reverted to the subject he had come for. "Look, John. I take it that I get a week or ten days’ health, but there’s no chance for me at all after that?"

"Not a hope, old boy," the scientist said. "Nobody survives this thing. It makes a clean sweep."

"Well, that’s nice to know," said Peter. "No good hanging on to any illusions. Tell me, is there anything that I can do for you? I’ll have to beat it back to Mary in a minute."

The scientist shook his head. "I’m just about through. I’ve got one or two things that I’ve got to do today, but then I think I’ll finish it."

Peter knew he had responsibilities at home. "How’s your mother?"

"She’s dead," the scientist said briefly. "I’m living here now."

Peter nodded, but the thought of Mary filled his mind. "I’ll have to go," he said. "Good luck, old man."

The scientist smiled weakly. "Be seeing you," he replied. When the naval officer had gone he got up from the bed and went along the passage. He returned half an hour later a good deal weaker, his lip curling with disgust at his vile body. Whatever he had to do must be done today; tomorrow he would be incapable.

He dressed carefully, and went downstairs. He looked into the garden room; there was a fire burning in the grate and his uncle sitting there alone, a glass of sherry by his side. He glanced up, and said, "Good morning, John. How did you sleep?"

The scientist said briefly, "Very badly. I’m getting pretty sick."

The old man raised his flushed, rubicund face in concern. "My dear boy, I’m sorry to hear that. Everybody seem to be sick now. Do you know, I had to go down to the kitchen and cook my breakfast for myself? Imagine that, in a club like this!"

He had been living there for three days, since the death of the sister who had kept house for him at Macedon. "However, Collins the hall porter has come in now, and he’s going to cook us some lunch. You’ll be lunching here today?"

John Osborne knew that he would not be lunching anywhere. "I’m sorry I can’t today, Uncle. I’ve got to go out."

"Oh, what a pity. I was hoping that you’d be here to help us out with the port. We’re on the last bin now—I think about fifty bottles. It should just see us through."

"How are you feeling yourself, Uncle?"

"Never better, my boy, never better. I felt a little unsteady after dinner last night, but really, I think that was the Burgundy. I don’t think Burgundy mixes very well with other wines. In France, in the old days, if you drank Burgundy you drank it from a pint pot or the French equivalent, and you drank nothing else all evening. But I came in here and had a quiet brandy and soda with a little ice in it, and by the time I went upstairs I was quite myself again. No, I had a very good night."

The scientist wondered how long the immunity from radioactive disease conferred by alcohol would last. So far as he was aware no research had yet been done upon that subject; here was an opportunity, but there was now nobody to do it. "I’m sorry I can’t stay to lunch," he said. "But I’ll see you tonight, perhaps."

"I shall be here, my boy, I shall be here. Tom Fotherington was in last night for dinner, and he said that he’d be coming in this morning, but he hasn’t shown up. I hope he isn’t ill."

John Osborne left the club and walked down the treelined street in a dream. The Ferrari was urgently in need of his attention and he must go there; after that he could relax. He passed the open door of a chemist’s shop and hesitated for a moment; then he went in. The shop was unattended and deserted. In the middle of the floor was an open packing case full of the little red cartons, and a heap of these had been piled untidily upon the counter between the cough medicines and the lipsticks. He picked up one and put it in his pocket, and went on his way.

When he pushed back the sliding doors of the mews garage the Ferrari stood facing him in the middle of the floor, just as he had left it, ready for instant use. It had come through the Grand Prix unscratched, in bandbox condition. It was a glorious possession to him still, the more so since the race. He was now feeling too ill to drive it and he might never drive it again, but he felt that he would never be too ill to touch it and to handle it and work on it. He hung his jacket on a nail, and started.

First of all, the wheels must be jacked up and bricks arranged under the wishbones to bring the tires clear of the floor. The effort of manoeuvring the heavy jack and working it and carrying the bricks upset him again. There was no toilet in the garage but there was a dirty yard behind, littered with the black, oily junk of ancient and forgotten motorcars. He retired there and presently came back to work, weaker than ever now, more resolute to finish the job that day. He finished jacking up the wheels before the next attack struck him. He opened a cock to drain the water from the cooling system, and then he had to go out to the yard again. Never mind, the work was easy now. He detached the terminals from the battery and greased the connections. Then he took out each of the six sparking plugs and filled the cylinders with oil, and screwed the plugs back finger tight.

He rested then against the car; she would be all right now. The spasm shook him, and again he had to go out to the yard. When he came back evening was drawing near and the light was fading. There was no more to be done to preserve the car he loved so well, but he stayed by it, reluctant to leave it and afraid that another spasm might strike him before he reached the club.

For the last time he would sit in the driving seat and handle the controls. His crash helmet and goggles were in the seat; he put the helmet on and snugged it down upon his head, and hung the goggles round his neck beneath his chin. Then he climbed into the seat and settled down behind the wheel.

It was comfortable there, far more so than the club would be. The wheel beneath his hands was comforting, the three small dials grouped around the huge rev counter were familiar friends. This car had won for him the race that was the climax of his life. Why trouble to go further?

He took the red carton from his pocket, took the tablets from the vial, and threw the carton on the ground. No point in going on; this was the way he’d like to have it.

He took the tablets in his mouth, and swallowed them with an effort.

Peter Holmes left the club and drove down to the hardware store in Elizabeth Street where he had bought the motor mower. It was untenanted and empty of people, but somebody had broken in a door and it had been partially looted in that anyone who wanted anything had just walked in to take it. It was dim inside, for all the electricity had been turned off at the main. The garden department was on the second floor; he climbed the stairs and found the garden seats he had remembered. He selected a fairly light one with a brightly coloured detachable cushion that he thought would please Mary and would also serve to pad the roof of his car. With great effort he dragged the seat down two flights of stairs to the pavement outside the shop, and went back for the cushion and some rope. He found a hank of clothesline on a counter. Outside he heaved the seat up on the roof of the Morris Minor and lashed it in place with many ties of rope attached to all parts of the car. Then he set off for home.

He was still ravenously hungry, and feeling very well. He had not told Mary anything of his recovery, and he did not intend to do so now; it would only upset her, confident as she now was that they were all going together. He stopped on the way home at the same café that he had breakfasted at, kept by a beery couple who appeared to be enjoying remarkably good health. They were serving hot roast beef for lunch; he had two platefuls of that and followed it up with a considerable portion of hot jam roly-poly. Then as an afterthought he got them to make him an enormous parcel of beef sandwiches; he could leave those in the boot of the car where Mary would not know about them, so that he could go out in the evening and have a quiet little meal unknown to her.

He got back to his little flat in the early afternoon; he left the garden seat on top of the car and went into the house. He found Mary lying on the bed, half dressed, with an eiderdown over her; the house seemed cold and damp.

He sat down on the bed beside her. "How are you feeling now?" he asked.

"Awful," she said. "Peter, I’m so worried about Jennifer. I can’t get her to take anything at all, and she’s messing all the time." She added some details.

He crossed the room and looked at the baby in the cot. It looked thin and weak, as Mary did herself. It seemed to him that both were very ill.

She asked, "Peter—how are you feeling yourself?"

"Not too good," he said. "I was sick twice on the way up and once on the way down. As for the other end, just been running all the time."

She laid her hand upon his arm. "You oughtn’t to have gone..."

He smiled down at her. "I got you a garden seat, anyway."

Her face lightened a little. "You did? Where is it?"

"On the car," he said. "You lie down and keep warm. I’m going to light the fire and make the house cosy. After that I’ll get the seat down off the car and you can see it."

"I can’t lie down," she said wearily. "Jennifer needs changing."

"I’ll see to that, first of all," he said. He led her gently to the bed. "Lie down and keep warm."

An hour later he had a blazing fire in their sitting room, and the garden seat was set up by the wall where she wanted it to be. She came to look at it from the French window, with the brightly coloured cushion on the seat, "It’s lovely," she said. "It’s exactly what we needed for that corner. It’s going to be awfully nice to sit there, on a summer evening..." The winter afternoon was drawing in, and a fine rain was falling. "Peter, now that I’ve seen it, would you bring the cushion in and put it in the verandah? Or, better, bring it in here till it’s dry. I do want to keep it nice for the summer."

He did so, and they brought the baby’s cot into the warmer room. She said, "Peter, do you want anything to eat? There’s plenty of milk, if you could take that."

He shook his head. "I couldn’t eat a thing," he said, "How about you?"

She shook her head.

"If I mixed you a hot brandy and lemon?" he suggested. "Could you manage that?"

She thought for a moment. "I could try." She wrapped her dressing gown around her. "I’m so cold..."

The fire was roaring in the grate. "I’ll go out and get some more wood," he said. "Then I’ll get you a hot drink." He went out to the woodpile in the gathering darkness, and took the opportunity to open the boot of the car and eat three beef sandwiches. He came back presently to the living room with a basket of wood, and found her standing by the cot. "You’ve been so long," she said. "Whatever were you doing?"

"I had a bit of trouble," he told her. "Must be the meat pies again."

Her face softened. "Poor old Peter. We’re all of us in trouble..." She stooped over the cot, and stroked the baby’s forehead; she lay inert now, too weak apparently to cry. "Peter, I believe she’s dying..."

He put his arm around her shoulder. "So am I," he said quietly, "and so are you. We’ve none of us got very long to go. I’ve got the kettle here. Let’s have that drink."

He led her from the cot to the warmth of the huge fire that he had made. She sat down on the floor before it and he gave her the hot drink of brandy and water with a little lemon squeezed in it. She sat sipping it and staring into the fire, and it made her feel a little better. He mixed one for himself, and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

Presently she said, "Peter, why did all this happen to us? Was it because Russia and China started fighting each other?"

He nodded. "That’s about the size of it," he said. "But there was more to it than that. America and England and Russia started bombing for destruction first. The whole thing started with Albania."

"But we didn’t have anything to do with it at all, did we—here in Australia?"

"We gave England moral support," he told her. "I don’t think we had time to give her any other kind. The whole thing was over in a month."

"Couldn’t anyone have stopped it?"

"I don’t know... Some kinds of silliness you just can’t stop," he said. "I mean, if a couple of hundred million people all decide that their national honour requires them to drop cobalt bombs upon their neighbour, well, there’s not much that you or I can do about it. The only possible hope would have been to educate them out of their silliness."

"But how could you have done that, Peter? I mean, they’d all left school."

"Newspapers," he said. "You could have done something with newspapers. We didn’t do it. No nation did, because we were all too silly. We liked our newspapers with pictures of beach girls and headlines about cases of indecent assault, and no government was wise enough to stop us having them that way. But something might have been done with newspapers, if we’d been wise enough"

She did not fully comprehend his reasoning. "I’m glad we haven’t got newspapers now," she said. "It’s been much nicer without them."A spasm shook her, and he helped her to the bathroom.

While she was in there he came back to the sitting room and stood looking at his baby. It was in a bad way, and there was nothing he could do to help it; he doubted now if it would live through the night. Mary was in a bad way, too, though not quite so bad as that. The only one of them who was healthy was himself, and that he must not show.

The thought of living on after Mary appalled him. He could not stay in the flat; in the few days that would be left to him he would have nowhere to go, nothing to do. The thought crossed his mind that if Scorpion were still in Williamstown he might go with Dwight Towers and have it at sea, the sea that had been his life’s work. But why do that? He didn’t want the extra time that some strange quirk of his metabolism had given to him. He wanted to stay with his family.

She called him from the bathroom, and he went to help her. He brought her back to the great fire that he had made; she was cold and trembling. He gave her another hot brandy and water, and covered her with the eiderdown around her shoulders. She sat holding the glass in both hands to still the tremors that were shaking her.

Presently she said, "Peter, how is Jennifer?"

He got up and crossed to the cot, and then came back to her. "She’s quiet now," he said. "I think she’s much the same."

"How are you, yourself?" she asked.

"Awful," he said. He stooped by her, and took her hand. "I think you’re worse than I am," he told her for she must know that. "I think I may be a day or so behind you, but not more. Perhaps that’s because I’m physically stronger."

She nodded slowly. Then she said, "There’s no hope at all, is there? For any of us?"

He shook his head. "Nobody gets over this one, dear."

She said, "I don’t believe I’ll be able to get to the bathroom tomorrow. Peter dear, I think I’d like to have it tonight, and take Jennifer with me. Would you think that beastly?"

He kissed her. "I think it’s sensible," he said. "I’ll come too."

She said weakly, "You’re not so ill as we are."

"I shall be tomorrow," he said. "It’s no good going on."

She pressed his hand. "What do we do, Peter?"

He thought for a moment. "I’ll go and fill the hot-water bags and put them in the bed," he said. "Then you put on a clean nightie and go to bed and keep warm. I’ll bring Jennifer in there. Then I’ll shut up the house and bring you a hot drink, and we’ll have it in bed together, with the pill."

"Remember to turn off the electricity at the main," she said. "I mean, mice can chew through a cable and set the house on fire."

"I’ll do that," he said.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Will you do what has to be done for Jennifer?"

He stroked her hair. "Don’t worry," he said gently. "I’ll do that"

He filled the hot-water bags and put them in the bed, tidying it and making it look fresh as he did so. Then he helped her into the bedroom. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for the last time, and while it boiled he read the directions on the three red cartons again very carefully.

He filled a thermos jug with the boiling water, and put it neatly on a tray with the two glasses, the brandy, and half a lemon, and took it into the bedroom. Then he wheeled the cot back and put it by the bedside. Mary was in bed looking clean and fresh; she sat up weakly as he wheeled the cot to her.

He said, "Shall I pick her up?" He thought that she might like to hold the baby for a little.

She shook her head. "She’s too ill." She sat looking down at the child for a minute, and then lay back wearily. "I’d rather think about her like she was, when we were all well. Give her the thing, Peter, and let’s get this over."

She was right, he thought; it was better to do things quickly and not agonize about them. He gave the baby the injection in the arm. Then he undressed himself and put on clean pyjamas, turned out all the lights in the flat except their bedside light, put up the fire screen in the sitting room, and lit a candle that they kept in case of a blackout of the electricity. He put that on the table by their bed and turned off the current at the main.

He got into bed with Mary, mixed the drinks, and took the tablets out of the red cartons. "I’ve had a lovely time since we got married," she said quietly. "Thank you for everything, Peter."

He drew her to him and kissed her. "I’ve had a grand time, too," he said. "Let’s end on that."

They put the tablets in their mouths, and drank.

That evening Dwight Towers rang up Moira Davidson at Harkaway. He doubted when he dialed if he would get through, or if he did, whether there would be an answer from the other end. But the automatic telephone was still functioning, and Moira answered him almost at once.

"Say," he said, "I wasn’t sure I’d get an answer. How are things with you, honey?"

"Bad," she said. "I think Mummy and Daddy are just about through."

"And you?"

"I’m just about through, too, Dwight. How are you?"

"I’d say I’m much the same," he said. "I rang to say good-bye for the time being, honey. We’re taking Scorpion out tomorrow morning to sink her."

"You won’t be coming back?" she asked.

"No, honey. We shan’t be coming back. We’ve just got this last job to do, and then we’ve finished." He paused. "I called to say thank you for the last six months," he said. "It’s meant a lot to me, having you near."

"It’s meant a lot to me, too," she said. "Dwight, if I can make it, may I come and see you off?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Sure," he said. "We can’t wait, though. The men are pretty weak right now, and they’ll be weaker by tomorrow."

"What time are you leaving?"

"We’re casting off at eight o’clock," he said. "As soon as it’s full daylight."

She said, "I’ll be there."

He gave her messages for her father and her mother, and then rang off. She went through to their bedroom, where they were lying in their twin beds, both of them sicker than she was, and gave them the messages. She told them what she wanted to do. "I’ll be back by dinnertime," she said.

Her mother said, "You must go and say good-bye to him, dear. He’s been such a good friend for you. But if we’re not here when you come back, you must understand."

She sat down on her mother’s bed. "As bad as that, Mummy?"

"I’m afraid so, dear. And Daddy’s worse than me today. But we’ve got everything we need, in case it gets too bad."

From his bed her father said weakly, "Is it raining?"

"Not at the moment, Daddy."

"Would you go out and open the stockyard gate into the lane, Moira? All the other gates are open, but they must be able to get at the hay."

"I’ll do that right away, Daddy. Is there anything else I can do?"

He closed his eyes. "Give Dwight my regards. I wish he’d been able to marry you."

"So do I," she said. "But he’s the kind of man who doesn’t switch so easily as that."

She went out into the night and opened the gate and checked that all the other gates in the stockyard were open; the beasts were nowhere to be seen. She went back into the house and told her father what she had done; he seemed relieved. There was nothing that they wanted; she kissed them both good night and went to bed herself, setting her little alarm clock for five o’clock in case she slept.

She slept very little. In the course of the night she visited the bathroom four times, and drank half a bottle of brandy, the only thing she seemed to be able to keep down. She got up when the alarm went off and had a hot shower, which refreshed her, and dressed in the red shirt and slacks that she had worn when she had met Dwight first of all, so many months ago. She made her face up with some care and put on an overcoat. Then she opened the door of her parents’ room quietly and looked in, shading the light of an electric torch between her fingers. Her father seemed to be asleep, but her mother smiled at her from the bed; they, too, had been up and down most of the night. She went in quietly and kissed her mother, and then went, closing the door softly behind her.

She took a fresh bottle of brandy from the larder and went out to the car, and started it, and drove off on the road to Melbourne. Near Oakleigh she stopped on the deserted road in the first grey light of dawn, and took a swig out of the bottle, and went on.

She drove through the deserted city and out along the drab, industrial road to Williamstown. She came to the dockyard at about a quarter past seven; there was no guard at the open gates and she drove straight in to the quay, beside which lay the aircraft carrier. There was no sentry on the gangway, no officer of the day to challenge her. She walked into the ship trying to remember how she had gone when Dwight had showed her the submarine, and presently she ran into an American rating who directed her to the steel port in the ship’s side from which the gangway led down to the submarine.

She stopped a man who was going down to the vessel. "If you see Captain Towers, would you ask him if he could come up and have a word with me?" she said.

"Sure, lady," he replied. "I’ll tell him right away," and presently Dwight came in view, and came up the gangway to her.

He was looking very ill, she thought, as they all were. He took her hands regardless of the onlookers. "It was nice of you to come to say good-bye," he said. "How are things at home, honey?"

"Very bad," she said. "Daddy and Mummy will be finishing quite soon, and I think I shall, too. This is the end of it for all of us, today." She hesitated, and then said, "Dwight, I want to ask something."

"What’s that, honey?"

"May I come with you, in the submarine?" She paused, and then she said, "I don’t believe that I’ll have anything at home to go back to. Daddy said I could just park the Customline in the street and leave it. He won’t be using it again. May I come with you?"

He stood silent for so long that she knew the answer would be no. "I’ve been asked the same thing by four men this morning," he said. "I’ve refused them all, because Uncle Sam wouldn’t like it. I’ve run this vessel in the navy way right through, and I’m running her that way up till the end. I can’t take you, honey. We’ll each have to take this on our own."

"That’s all right," she said dully. She looked up at him. "You’ve got your presents with you?"

"Sure," he said. "I’ve got those, thanks to you."

"Tell Sharon about me," she said. "We’ve nothing to conceal."

He touched her arm. "You’re wearing the same outfit that you wore first time we met."

She smiled faintly. "Keep him occupied—don’t give him time to think about things, or perhaps he’ll start crying. Have I done my job right, Dwight?"

"Very right indeed," he said. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and she clung to him for a minute.

Then she freed herself. "Don’t let’s prolong the agony," she said. "We’ve said everything there is to say. What time are you leaving?"

"Very soon," he said. "We’ll be casting off in about five minutes."

"What time will you be sinking her?" she asked.

He thought for a moment. "Thirty miles down the bay, and then twelve miles out. Forty-two sea miles. I shan’t waste any time. Say two hours and ten minutes after we cast off from here."

She nodded slowly. "I’ll be thinking of you." And then she said, "Go now, Dwight. Maybe I’ll see you in Connecticut one day."

He drew her near to kiss her again, but she refused him. "No—go on now." In her mind she phrased the words, "Or I’ll be the one that starts crying." He nodded slowly, and said, "Thanks for everything," and then he turned and went away down the gangway to the submarine.

There were two or three women now standing at the head of the gangway with her. There were apparently no men aboard the carrier to run the gangway in. She watched as Dwight appeared on the bridge from the interior of the submarine and took the con, watched as the lower end of the gangway was released, as the lines were singled up. She saw the stern line and the spring cast off, watched as Dwight spoke into the voice pipe, watched the water swirl beneath her stern as the propellers ran slow ahead and the stern swung out. It began to rain a little from the grey sky. The bow line and spring were cast off and men coiled them down and slammed the steel hatch of the superstructure shut as the submarine went slow astern in a great arc away from the carrier.

Then they all vanished down below, and only Dwight with one other was left on the bridge. He lifted his hand in salutation to her, and she lifted hers to him, her eyes blurred with tears, and the low hull of the vessel swung away around Point Gellibrand and vanished in the murk.

With the other women, she turned away from the steel port. "There’s nothing now to go on living for," she said.

One of the women replied, "Well, you won’t have to, ducks."

She smiled faintly, and glanced at her watch. It showed three minutes past eight. At about ten minutes past ten Dwight would be going home, home to the Connecticut village that he loved so well. There was nothing now for her in her own home; if she went back to Harkaway she would find nothing there now but the cattle and sad memories. She could not go with Dwight because of naval discipline, and that she understood. Yet she could be very near him when he started home, only about twelve miles away. Then she turned up by his side with a grin on her face, perhaps he would take her with him, and she could see Helen hopping round upon the Pogo stick.

She hurried out through the dim, echoing caverns of the dead aircraft carrier, and found the gangway, and went down on to the quay to her big car. There was plenty of petrol in the tank; she had filled it up from the cans hidden behind the hay the previous day. She got into it and opened her bag; the red carton was still there. She uncorked the bottle of brandy and took a long swallow of the neat liquor; it was good, that stuff, because she hadn’t had to go since she left home. Then she started the car and swung it round upon the quay, and drove out of the dockyard, and on through minor roads and suburbs till she found the highway to Geelong.

Once on the highway she trod on it, and went flying down the unobstructed road at seventy miles an hour in the direction of Geelong, a bareheaded, white-faced girl in a bright crimson costume, slightly intoxicated, driving a big car at speed. She passed Laverton with its big aerodrome, Werribee with its experimental farm, and went flying southwards down the deserted road. Somewhere before Corio a spasm shook her suddenly, so that she had to stop and retire into the bushes; she came out a quarter of an hour later, white as a sheet, and took a long drink of her brandy.

Then she went on, as fast as ever. She passed the grammar school away on the left and came to shabby, industrial Corio, and so to Geelong, dominated by its cathedral. In the great tower the bells were ringing for some service. She slowed a little to pass through the city but there was nothing on the road except deserted cars at the roadside. She only saw three people, all of them men.

Out of Geelong upon the fourteen miles of road to Barwon Heads and to the sea. As she passed the flooded common she felt her strength was leaving her, but there was now not far to go. A quarter of an hour later she swung right into the great avenue of macrocarpa that was the main street of the little town. At the end she turned left away from the golf links and the little house where so many happy hours of childhood had been spent, knowing now that she would never see it again. She turned right at the bridge at about twenty minutes to ten and passed through the empty caravan park up on to the headland. The sea lay before her, grey and rough with great rollers coming in from the south on to the rocky beach below.

The ocean was empty and grey beneath the overcast, but away to the east there was a break in the clouds and a shaft of light striking down on to the waters. She parked across the road in full view of the sea, got out of her car, took another drink from her bottle, and scanned the horizon for the submarine. Then as she turned towards the lighthouse on Point Lonsdale and the entrance to Port Philip Bay she saw the low grey shape appear, barely five miles away and heading southwards from the Heads.

She could not see detail but she knew that Dwight was there upon the bridge, taking his ship out on her last cruise. She knew he could not see her and he could not know that she was watching, but she waved to him. Then she got back into the car because the wind was—raw and chilly from south polar regions, and she was feeling very ill, and she could watch him just as well when sitting down in shelter.

She sat there dumbly watching as the low grey shape went forward to the mist on the horizon, holding the bottle on her knee. This was the end of it, the very, very end.

Presently she could see the submarine no longer; it had vanished in the mist. She looked at her little wrist watch; it showed one minute past ten. Her childhood religion came back to her in those last minutes; one ought to do something about that, she thought. A little alcoholically she murmured the Lord’s Prayer.

Then she took out the red carton from her bag, and opened the vial, and held the tablets in her hand. Another spasm shook her, and she smiled faintly. "Foxed you this time," she said.

She took the cork out of the bottle. It was ten past ten. She said earnestly, "Dwight, if you’re on your way already, wait for me."

Then she put the tablets in her mouth and swallowed them down with a mouthful of brandy, sitting behind the wheel of her big car.