Nevil Shute - On The Beach

The girl lit a cigarette. "Where would you go to?"

"Somewhere where it’s warm. Queensland or somewhere. It’s such an awful bore not having the car. We’d have to take Jennifer by train, I suppose."

Moira blew a long cloud of smoke. "I shouldn’t think Queensland would be very easy."

"Because of the sickness? It’s so far away."

"They’ve got it at Maryborough," the girl said. "That’s only just north of Brisbane."

"But there are plenty of warm places to go to without going right up there, aren’t there?"

"I should think there would be. But it’s coming down south pretty steadily."

Mary twisted round and glanced at her. "Tell me, do you really think it’s going to come here?"

"I think I do."

"You mean, we’re all going to die of it? Like the men say?"

"I suppose."

Mary twisted round and pulled a catalogue of garden flowers down from a muddle of papers on the settee. "I went to Wilson’s today and bought a hundred daffodils," she said. "Bulbs. King Alfreds—these ones." She showed the picture. "I’m going to put them in that corner by the wall, where Peter took out the tree. It’s sheltered there. But I suppose if we’re all going to die that’s silly."

"No sillier than me starting in to learn shorthand and typing," the girl said drily. "I think we’re all going a bit mad, if you ask me. When do daffodils come up?"

"They should be flowering by the end of August," Mary said. "Of course, they won’t be much this year, but they should be lovely next year and the year after. They sort of multiply, you know."

"Well, of course it’s sensible to put them in. You’ll see them anyway, and you’ll sort of feel you’ve done something."

Mary looked at her gratefully. "Well, that’s what I think. I mean, I couldn’t bear to—to just stop doing things and do nothing. You might as well die now and get it over."

Moira nodded. "If what they say is right, we’re none of us going to have time to do all that we planned to do. But we can keep on doing it as long as we can."

They sat on the hearthrug, Mary playing with the poker and the wood fire. Presently she said, "I forgot to ask you if you’d like a brandy or something. There’s a bottle in the cupboard, and I think there’s some soda."

The girl shook her head. "Not for me. I’m quite happy."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Have you reformed, or something?"

"Or something," said the girl. "I never tip it up at home. Only when I’m out at parties, or with men. With men particularly. Matter of fact, I’m even getting tired of that, now."

"It’s not men, is it, dear? Not now. It’s Dwight Towers."

"Yes," the girl said. "It’s Dwight Towers."

"Don’t you ever want to get married? I mean, even if we are all dying next September."

The girl stared into the fire. "I wanted to get married," she said quietly. "I wanted to have everything you’ve got. But I shan’t have it now."

"Couldn’t you marry Dwight?"

The girl shook her head. "I don’t think so."

"I’m sure he likes you."

"Yes," she said. "He likes me all right."

"Has he ever kissed you?"

"Yes," she said again. "He kissed me once."

"I’m sure he’d marry you."

The girl shook her head again. "He wouldn’t ever do that. You see, he’s married already. He’s got a wife and two children in America."

Mary stared at her. "Darling, he can’t have. They must be dead."

"He doesn’t think so," she said wearily. "He thinks he’s going home to meet them, next September. In his own home town, at Mystic." She paused. "We’re all going a bit mad in our own way," she said. "That’s his way."

"You mean, he really thinks his wife is still alive?"

"I don’t know if he thinks that or not. No, I don’t think he does. He thinks he’s going to be dead next September, but he thinks he’s going home to them, to Sharon and Dwight Junior and Helen. He’s been buying presents for them."

Mary sat trying to understand. "But if he thinks like that, why did he kiss you?"

"Because I said I’d help him with the presents."

Mary got to her feet. "I’m going to have a drink," she said firmly. "I think you’d better have one, too." And when that was adjusted and they were sitting with glasses in their hands, she asked curiously, "It must be funny, being jealous of someone that’s dead?"

The girl took a drink from her glass and sat staring at the fire. "I’m not jealous of her," she said at last. "I don’t think so. Her name is Sharon, like in the Bible. I want to meet her. She must be a very wonderful person, I think. You see, he’s such a practical man."

"Don’t you want to marry him?"

The girl sat for a long time in silence. "I don’t know," she said at last. "I don’t know if I do or not. If it wasn’t for all this... I’d play every dirty trick in the book to get him away from her. I don’t think I’ll ever be happy with anyone else. But then, there’s not much time left now to be happy with anyone.

"There’s three or four months, anyway," said Mary. "I saw a motto once, one of those things you hang on the wall to inspire you. It said, ‘Don’t worry—it may never happen.’"

"I think this is going to happen all right," Moira remarked. She picked up the poker and began playing with it. "If it was for a lifetime it’d be different," she said. "It’d be worth doing her dirt if it meant having Dwight for good, and children, and a home, and a full life. I’d go through anything if I could see a chance of that. But to do her dirt just for three months’ pleasure and nothing at the end of it—well, that’s another thing. I may be a loose woman, but I don’t know that I’m all that loose." She looked up, smiling. "Anyway, I don’t believe that I could do it in the time. I think he’d take a lot of prising away from her."

"Oh dear," said Mary. "Things are difficult, aren’t they?"

"Couldn’t be worse," Moira agreed. "I think I’ll probably die an old maid."

"It doesn’t make sense. But nothing does seem to make sense, these days. Peter..." She stopped.

"What about Peter?" the girl asked curiously.

"I don’t know. It was just horrible, and crazy." She shifted restlessly.

"What was? Tell me."

"Did you ever murder anybody?"

"Me? Not yet. I’ve often wanted to. Country telephone girls, mostly."

"This was serious. It’s a frightful sin to murder anybody, isn’t it? I mean, you’d go to Hell."

"I don’t know. I suppose you would. Who do you want to murder?"

The mother said dully, "Peter told me I might have to murder Jennifer." A tear formed and trickled down her cheek.

The girl leaned forward impulsively and touched her hand. "Darling, that can’t be right! You must have got it wrong."

She shook her head. "It’s not wrong," she sobbed. "It’s right enough. He told me I might have to do it, and he showed me how." She burst into a torrent of tears.

Moira took her in her arms and soothed her, and gradually the story came out. At first the girl could not believe the words she heard, but later she was not so sure. Finally they went together to the bathroom and looked at the red boxes in the cabinet. "I’ve heard something about all this," she said seriously. "I never knew that it had got so far..." One craziness was piled on to another."

"I couldn’t do it alone," the mother whispered. "However bad she was, I couldn’t do it. If Peter isn’t here ... if anything happens to Scorpion ... will you come and help me, Moira? Please?"

"Of course I will," the girl said gently. "Of course I’ll come and help. But Peter will be here. They’re coming back all right. Dwight’s that kind of a man." She produced a little screwed up ball of handkerchief, and gave it to Mary. "Dry up, and let’s make a cup of tea. I’ll go and put the kettle on."