Nevil Shute - On The Beach

"She rang up three times while you were away to ask if we had any news," his wife said. "I don’t believe that was because of you."

"She was probably just bored," he remarked.

He had to go up to town next day for a meeting at the Navy Department with John Osborne and the Principal Scientific Officer. The meeting ended at about noon; as they were going out of the office the scientist said, "By the way, I’ve got a parcel for you." He produced a brown paper packet tied with string. "Mosquito net. Moira asked me to give it to you."

"Oh—thanks. Mary wanted that badly."

"What are you doing for lunch?"

"I hadn’t thought."

"Come along to the Pastoral Club."

The young naval officer opened his eyes; this was somewhat upstage and rather expensive. "Are you a member there?"

John Osborne nodded. "I always intended to be one before I died. It was now or never."

They took a tram up to the club at the other end of the town. Peter Holmes had been inside it once or twice before, and had been suitably impressed. It was an ancient building for Australia, over a hundred years old, built in the spacious days in the manner of one of the best London clubs of the time. It had retained its old manners and traditions in a changing era; more English than the English, it had carried the standards of food and service practically unaltered from the middle of the nineteenth century to the middle of the twentieth. Before the war it had probably been the best club in the Commonwealth. Now it certainly was.

They parked their hats in the hail, washed their hands in the old-fashioned washroom, and moved out into the garden cloister for a drink. Here they found a number of members, mostly past middle age, discussing the affairs of the day. Amongst them Peter Holmes noticed several state and federal ministers. An elderly gentleman waved to them from a group upon the lawn and started towards them.

John Osborne said quietly, "It’s my great-uncle—Douglas Froude. Lieutenant General—you know."

Peter nodded. Sir Douglas Froude had commanded the army before he was born and had retired soon after that event, fading from great affairs into the obscurity of a small property near Macedon, where he had raised sheep and tried to write his memoirs. Twenty years later he was still trying though he was gradually abandoning the struggle. For some time his chief interest had lain in his garden and in the study of Australian wild birds; his weekly visit into town to lunch at the Pastoral Club was his one remaining social activity. He was still erect in figure though white haired and red of face. He greeted his great-nephew cheerfully.

"Ha, John," he said. "I heard last night that you were back again. Had a good trip?"

John Osborne introduced the naval officer. "Quite good," he said. "I don’t know that we found out very much, and one of the ship’s company developed measles. Still, that’s all in the day’s work."

"Measles, eh? Well, that’s better than this cholera thing. I hope you none of you got that. Come and have a drink—I’m in the book."

They crossed to the table with him. John said, "Thank you, Uncle. I didn’t expect to see you here today. I thought your day was Friday."

They helped themselves to pink gins. "Oh no, no. It used to be Friday. Three years ago my doctor told me that if I didn’t stop drinking the club port he couldn’t guarantee my life for longer than a year. But everything’s changed now, of course." He raised his glass of sherry. "Well, here’s thanks for your safe home-coming. I suppose one ought to pour it on the ground as a libation or something, but the situation is too serious for that. Do you know we’ve got over three thousand bottles of vintage port still left in the cellars of this club, and only about six months left to go, if what you scientists say is right?"

John Osborne was suitably impressed. "Fit to drink?"

"In first-class condition, absolutely first class. Some of the Fonseca may be just a trifle young, a year or two maybe, but the Gould Campbell is in its prime. I blame the Wine Committee very much, very much indeed. They should have seen this coming."

Peter Holmes repressed a smile. "It’s a bit difficult to blame anyone," he said mildly. "I don’t know that anybody really saw this coming."

"Stuff and nonsense. I saw this coming twenty years ago. Still, it’s no good blaming anybody now. The only thing to do is to make the best of it."

John Osborne asked, "What are you doing about the port?"

"There’s only one thing to do," the old man said.

"What’s that?"

"Drink it, my boy, drink it—every drop. No good leaving it for the next comer, with the cobalt half-life over five years. I come in now three days a week and take a bottle home with me." He took another drink of his sherry. "If I’m to die, as I most certainly am, I’d rather die of drinking port than of this cholera thing. You say you none of you got that upon your cruise?"

Peter Holmes shook his head. "We took precautions. We were submerged and underwater most of the time."

"Ah, that makes a good protection." He glanced at them. "There’s nobody alive up in North Queensland, is there?"

"Not at Cairns, sir. I don’t know about Townsville." The old man shook his head. "There’s been no communication with Townsville since last Thursday, and now Bowen has it. Somebody was saying that they’ve had some cases in Mackay."

John Osborne grinned. "Have to hurry up with that port, Uncle."

"I know that. It’s a very terrible situation." The sun shone down on them out of a cloudless sky, warm and comforting; the big chestnut in the garden cast dappled shadows on the lawn. "Still, we’re doing our best. The secretary tells me that we put away over three hundred bottles last month."

He turned to Peter. "How do you like serving in an American ship?"

"I like it very much, sir. It’s a bit different to our navy, of course, and I’ve never served in a submarine before. But they’re quite a nice party to be with."

"Not too gloomy? Not too many widowers?"

He shook his head. "They’re all pretty young, except the captain. I don’t think many of them were married. The captain was, of course, and some of the petty officers. But most of the officers and the enlisted men are in their early twenties. A lot of them seem to have got themselves girls here in Australia." He paused. "It’s not a gloomy ship."

The old man nodded. "Of course, it’s been some time, now." He drank again, and then he said, "The captain—is he a Commander Towers?"

"That’s right, sir. Do you know him?"

"He’s been in here once or twice, and I’ve been introduced to him. I have an idea that he’s an honorary member. Bill Davidson was telling me that Moira knows him."

"She does, sir. They met at my house."

"Well, I hope she doesn’t get him into mischief."

At that moment she was ringing up the commander in the aircraft carrier, doing her best to do so. "This is Moira, Dwight," she said. "What’s this I hear about your ship all getting measles?"

His heart lightened at the sound of her voice. "You’re very right," he said. "But that’s classified information."

"What does that mean?"

"Secret. If a ship in the U. S. Navy gets put out of action for a while, we just don’t tell the world about it."

"All that machinery put out of action by a little thing like measles. It sounds like bad management to me. Do you think Scorpion 's got the right captain?"

"I’m darned sure she hasn’t," he said comfortably.

"Let’s you and me get together someplace and talk about a replacement. I’m just not satisfied myself."

"Are you going down to Peter Holmes’ this weekend?"

"He hasn’t asked me."

"Would you go if you were asked? Or have you had him keel-hauled for insubordination since we met?"