Nevil Shute - On The Beach

"I’d like to carry on with him, sir, subject to living at home. But if the ship is programmed for another cruise, I’d like you to replace me. I don’t think I could undertake another seagoing appointment." He hesitated. "I don’t like saying that."

The admiral smiled. "That’s all right, Lieutenant Commander. I’ll keep that in mind. Come back and see me if you want to be relieved." He rose to his feet, terminating the interview. "Everything all right at home?"

"Quite all right. Housekeeping seems to be more difficult than when I went away, and it’s all becoming a bit of a battle for my wife, with the baby to look after."

"I know it is. And I’m afraid it’s not going to get any easier."

That morning Moira Davidson rang up Dwight Towers in the aircraft carrier at lunchtime. "Morning, Dwight," she said. "They tell me that I’ve got to congratulate you."

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Mary Holmes."

"You can congratulate me if you like," he said a little heavily. "But I’d just as soon you didn’t."

"All right," she said, "I won’t. Dwight, how are you? Yourself?"

"I’m okay," he said. "Got a bit of a letdown today, but I’m okay." In fact, everything that he had done since they had come back to the aircraft carrier had been an effort; he had slept badly and was infinitely tired.

"Are you very busy?"

"I should be," he said. "But I don’t know—nothing seems to get done and the more nothing gets done the more there is to do."

This was a different Dwight to the one that she had grown accustomed to. "You sound as if you’re getting ill," she said severely.

"I’m not getting ill, honey," he said a little irritably. "It’s just that there’s some things to do and everybody off on leave. We’ve been away so long at sea we’ve just forgotten what work is."

"I think you ought to take some leave yourself," she said. "Could you come out to Harkaway for a bit?"

He thought for a moment. "That’s mighty nice of you. I couldn’t do that for a while. We’re putting Scorpion into dry dock tomorrow."

"Let Peter Holmes do that for you."

"I couldn’t do that, honey. Uncle Sam wouldn’t like it."

She forebore to say that Uncle Sam would never know. "After you’ve done that, the ship’ll be in dockyard hands, won’t she?"

"Say, you know a lot about the navy."

"I know I do. I’m a beautiful spy, Mata Hari, femme fatale, worming secrets out of innocent naval officers over a double brandy. She will be in dockyard hands, won’t she?"

"You’re very right."

"Well then, you can chuck everything else on Peter Holmes and get away on leave. What time are you putting her in dock?"

"Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll probably be through by midday."

"Come out and spend a little time at Harkaway with us, tomorrow afternoon. It’s perishing cold up there. The wind just whistles round the house. It rains most of the time, and you can’t go out without gumboots. Walking beside the bullock and the pasture harrows is the coldest job known to man—to woman, anyway. Come out and try it. After a few days with us you’ll be just longing to get back and fug it in your submarine."

He laughed. "Say, you’re making it sound really attractive."

"I know I am. Will you come out tomorrow afternoon?" It would be a relief to relax, to forget his burdens for a day or two. "I think I could," he said. "I’ll have to shuffle things around a little, but I think I could."

She arranged to meet him the next afternoon at four o’clock in the Australia Hotel. When she did so she was concerned at his appearance; he greeted her cheerfully and seemed glad to see her, but he had gone a yellowish colour beneath his tan, and in unguarded moments he was depressed. She frowned at the sight of him. "You’re looking like something that the cat brought in and didn’t want," she told him. "Are you all right?" She took his hand and felt it. "You’re hot. You’ve got a temperature!"

He withdrew his hand. "I’m okay," he said. "What’ll you have to drink?"

"You’ll have a double whisky and about twenty grains of quinine," she said. "A double whisky, anyway. I’ll see about the quinine when we get home. You ought to be in bed!"

It was pleasant to be fussed over, and relax. "Double brandy for you?" he asked.

"Small one for me, double for you," she said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, going about like this. You’re probably spreading germs all over the place. Have you seen a doctor?"

He ordered the drinks. "There’s no doctor in the dockyard now. Scorpion is the only ship that’s operational, and she’s in dockyard hands. They took the last naval surgeon away while we were on the cruise."

"You have got a temperature, haven’t you?"

"I might have just a little one," he said. "Perhaps I might have a cold coming on."

"I’d say perhaps you might. Drink up that whisky while I telephone Daddy."

"What for?"

"To meet us with the buggy at the station. I told them we’d walk up the hill, but I’m not going to have you doing that. You might die on my hands, and then I’d have a job explaining to the coroner. It might even make a diplomatic incident."

"Who with, honey?"

"The United States. It’s not so good to kill the Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces."

He said wearily, "I guess the United States is me, right now. I’m thinking of running for President."

"Well, think about it while I go and telephone Mummy." In the little telephone booth, she said, "I think he’s got flu, Mummy. He’s frightfully tired, for one thing. He’ll have to go to bed directly we get home. Could you light a fire in his room, and put a hot-water bag in the bed? And Mummy, ring up Dr. Fletcher and ask if he could possibly come round this evening. I shouldn’t think it’s anything but flu, but he has been in the radioactive area for over a month, and he hasn’t seen a doctor since he got back. Tell Dr. Fletcher who he is. He’s rather an important person now, you know."

"What train will you be catching, dear?"

She glanced at her wrist. "We’ll catch the four-forty. Look, Mummy, it’s going to be perishing cold in the buggy. Ask Daddy to bring down a couple of rugs."

She went back to the bar. "Drink up and come along," she said. "We’ve got to catch the four-forty."

He went with her obediently. A couple of hours later he was in a bedroom with a blazing log fire, creeping into a warm bed as he shook with a light fever. He lay there infinitely grateful while the shakes subsided, glad to relax and lie staring at the ceiling, listening to the patter of the rain outside. Presently his grazier host brought him a hot whisky and lemon and asked what he wanted to eat, which was nothing.

At about eight o’clock there was the sound of a horse outside, and voices in the rain. Presently the doctor came to him; he had discarded his wet coat, but his jodhpurs and riding boots were dark with rain and steamed a little as he stood by the fire. He was a man of about thirty-five or forty, cheerful and competent.

"Say, Doctor," said the patient, "I’m really sorry they brought you out here on a night like this. There’s not a thing wrong with me that a day or two in bed won’t cure."

The doctor smiled. "I’m glad to come out to meet you," he said. He took the American’s wrist and felt the pulse.

"I understand you’ve been up in the radioactive area."

"Why, yes. But we didn’t get exposed."

"You were inside the hull of the submarine all the all the time?"

"We had a guy from the C.S.I.R.O. poking Geiger counters at us every day. It’s not that, doctor."

"Have you had any vomiting, or diarrhoea?"

"None at all. Nor did any of the ship’s company."