Nevil Shute - On The Beach

Peter bit his lip. "It’s a bit worrying. One doesn’t want to start a flap at home. But all the same, I’d be happier if they knew what to do if I’m not there."

"You may not be there anyway," John Osborne said. "There seem to be quite a few natural hazards on this course—apart from radiation. Minefields, ice—all sorts of things. I don’t know what happens to us if we hit an iceberg at full cruising speed, submerged."

"I do," said Peter.

The scientist laughed. "Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed and hope we don’t. I want to get back here and race that thing." He nodded at the car behind the door.

"It’s all a bit worrying," Peter repeated. They turned towards the street. "I think I’ll have to do something about it before we go."

They walked in silence into the main thoroughfare.

John Osborne turned towards his office. "You going my way?"

Peter shook his head. "I’ve got to see if I can buy a playpen for the baby. Mary says we’ve got to have it or she’ll kill herself."

They turned in different directions and the scientist walked on, thankful that he wasn’t married.

Peter went shopping for a playpen, and succeeded in buying one at the second shop he tried. A folded playpen is an awkward thing to carry through a crowd; he battled with it to the tram and got it to Flinders Street station. He got to Falmouth with it at about four o’clock in the afternoon. He put it in the cloakroom till he could come and fetch it with his bicycle trailer, took his bicycle, and rode slowly into the shopping street. He went to the chemist that they dealt with, whose proprietor he knew, and who knew him. At the counter he asked the girl if he could see Mr. Goldie.

The chemist came to him in a white coat. He asked, "Could I have a word with you in private?"

"Why, yes, Commander." He led the way into the dispensary.

Peter said, "I wanted to have a talk with you about this radiation disease." The chemist’s face was quite expressionless. "I’ve got to go away. I’m sailing in the Scorpion, the American submarine. We’re going a long way. We shan’t be back till the beginning of June, at the earliest." The chemist nodded slowly. "It’s not a very easy trip," the naval officer said. "There’s just the possibility that we might not come back at all."

They stood in silence for a moment. "Are you thinking about Mrs. Holmes and Jennifer?" the chemist asked.

Peter nodded. "I’ll have to make sure Mrs. Holmes understands about things before I go." He paused. "Tell me, just what does happen to you?"

"Nausea," the chemist said. "That’s the first symptom. Then vomiting, and diarrhoea. Bloody stools. All the symptoms increase in intensity. There may be slight recovery, but if so it would be very temporary. Finally death occurs from sheer exhaustion." He paused. "In the very end, infection or leukaemia may be the actual cause of death. The blood-forming tissues are destroyed, you see, by the loss of body salts in the fluids. It might go one way or the other."

"Somebody was saying it’s like cholera."

"That’s right," the chemist said. "It is rather like cholera."

"You’ve got some stuff for it, haven’t you?"

"Not to cure it, I’m afraid."

"I don’t mean that. To end it."

"We can’t release that yet, Commander. About a week before it reaches any district details will be given on the wireless. After that we may distribute it to those who ask for it." He paused. "There must be terrible complications over the religious side," he said. "I suppose then it’s a matter for the individual."

"I’ve got to see that my wife understands about it," Peter said. "She’ll have to see to the baby... And I may not be here. I’ve got to see this all squared up before I go."

"I could explain it all to Mrs. Holmes, when the time comes.

"I’d rather do it myself. She’ll be a bit upset."

"Of course..." He stood for a moment, and then said, "Come into the stock room."

He went through into a back room through a locked door. There was a packing case in one corner, the lid part lifted. He wrenched it back. The case was full of little red boxes, of two sizes.

The chemist took out one of each and went back into the dispensary. He undid the smaller of the two; it contained a little plastic vial with two white tablets in it. He opened it, took out the tablets, put them carefully away, and substituted two tablets of aspirin. He put the vial back in the red box and closed it. He handed it to Peter.

"That is for anybody who will take a pill," he said. "You can take that and show it to Mrs. Holmes. One causes death, almost immediately. The other is a spare. When the time comes, we shall be distributing these at the counter."

"Thanks a lot," he said. "What does one do about the baby?"

The chemist took the other box. "The baby, or a pet animal—dog or cat," he said. "It’s just a little more complicated." He opened the second box and took out a small syringe. "I’ve got a used one I can put in for you, here. You follow these instructions on the box. Just give the hypodermic injection under the skin. She’ll fall asleep quite soon."

He packed the dummy back into the box, and gave it to Peter with the other.

The naval officer took them gratefully. "That’s very kind of you," he said. "She’ll be able to get these at the counter when the time comes?"

"That’s right."

"Will there be anything to pay?"

"No charge," the chemist said. "They’re on the free list."

Of the three presents which Peter Holmes took back to his wife that night, the playpen was the most appreciated.

It was a brand-new playpen, painted in a pastel green, with brightly coloured beads upon the abacus. He set it up upon the lawn before he went into the house, and then called Mary out to see it. She came and examined it critically, testing it for stability to make sure the baby couldn’t pull it over on top of her. "I do hope the paint won’t come off," she said. "She sucks everything, you know. Green paint’s awfully dangerous. It’s got verdigris in it."

"I asked about that in the shop," he said. "It’s not oil paint—it’s Duco. She’d have to have acetone in her saliva to get that off."

"She can get the paint off most..." She stood back and looked at it. "It’s an awfully pretty colour," she said. "It’ll go beautifully with the curtains in the nursery."

"I thought it might," he said. "They had a blue one, but I thought you’d like this better."

"Oh, I do!" She put her arms round him and kissed him. "It’s a lovely present. You must have had a fearful job with it on the tram. Thank you so much."

"That’s all right," he said. He kissed her back. "I’m so glad you like it."

She went and fetched the baby from the house and put her in the pen. Then they got short drinks for themselves and sat on the lawn, the bars between them and the baby, smoking cigarettes and watching her reaction to the new environment. They watched her as she grasped one of the bars in a tiny fist.

"You don’t think she’ll get up on her feet too soon, with that to hold on to?" her mother asked, worried. "I mean, she wouldn’t learn to walk without it for a long time. If they walk too soon they grow up bandy legged."

"I shouldn’t think so," Peter said. "I mean, everyone has playpens. I had one when I was a kid, and I didn’t grow up bandy legged."

"I suppose if she didn’t pull herself up on this she’d be pulling herself up on something else. A chair, or something."

When Mary took the baby away to give her her bath and make her ready for bed, Peter took the playpen indoors and set it up in the nursery. Then he laid the table for the evening meal. Then he went and stood on the verandah fingering the red boxes in his pocket, wondering how on earth he was to give his other presents to his wife.