Nevil Shute - On The Beach

The doctor put a thermometer into his mouth, and stood feeling his pulse. Presently he withdrew the thermometer. "A hundred and two," he said. "You’d better stay in bed for a bit. How long were you at sea?"

"Fifty-three days."

"And how long submerged?"

"More than half of it."

"Are you very tired?"

The captain thought for a moment. "I might be," he admitted.

"I should say you might. You’d better stay in bed till that temperature goes down, and one full day after that. I’ll look in and see you again in a couple of days’ time. I think you’ve only got a dose of flu—there’s quite a lot of it about. You’d better not go back to work for at least a week after you get up, and then you ought to take some leave. Can you do that?"

"I’ll have to think about it."

They talked a little of the cruise and of conditions at Seattle and in Queensland. Finally the doctor said, "I’ll probably look in tomorrow afternoon with one or two things you’d better take. I’ve got to go to Dandenong; my partner’s operating at the hospital and I’m giving the anaesthetic for him. I’ll pick up the stuff there and look in on my way home."

"Is it a serious operation?"

"Not too bad. Woman with a growth upon the stomach. She’ll be better with it out. Give her a few more years of useful life, anyway."

He went away, and outside the window Dwight heard the backing and curvetting of the horse as the rider got into the saddle, and heard the doctor swear. Then he listened to the diminuendo of the hoofs as they trotted away down the drive in the heavy rain. Presently his door opened, and the girl came in.

"Well," she said, "you’ve got to stay in bed tomorrow, anyway." She moved to the fire and threw a couple of logs on. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

"He’s nuts," said the commander.

"Why? Because he’s making you stay in bed?"

"Not that. He’s operating on a woman at the hospital tomorrow so that she’ll have some years of useful life ahead of her."

She laughed. "He would. I’ve never met anyone so conscientious." She paused. "Daddy’s going to make another dam next summer. He’s been talking about it for some time, but now he says he’s really going to do it. He rang up a chap who has a bulldozer today and booked him to come in as soon as the ground gets hard."

"When will that be?"

"About Christmas time. It really hurts him to see all this rain running away to waste. This place gets pretty dry in the summer."

She took his empty glass from the table by his bed. "Like another hot drink?"

He shook his head. "Not now, honey. I’m fine."

"Like anything to eat?"

He shook his head.

"Like another hot-water bag?"

He shook his head. "I’m fine."

She went away, but in a few minutes she was back again, and this time she carried a long paper parcel in her hand, a parcel with a bulge at the bottom. "I’ll leave this with you, and you can look at it all night."

She put it in a corner of the room, but he raised himself on one elbow. "What’s that?" he asked.

She laughed. "I’ll give you three guesses and you can see which one’s right in the morning."

"I want to see now."

"Tomorrow."

"No—now."

She took the parcel and brought it to him in the bed, and stood watching as he tore off the paper. The Supreme Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces was really little boy, she thought.

The Pogo stick lay on the bedclothes in his hands, shining and new. The wooden handle was brightly varnished, the metal step gleaming in red enamel. On the wooden handle was painted in neat red lettering the words HELEN TOWERS.

"Say," he said huskily, "that’s a dandy. I never saw one with the name on it and all. She’s going to love that." He raised his eyes. "Where did you get it, honey?"

"I found the place that makes them, out at Elsteinwick," she said. "They aren’t making any more, but they made one for me."

"I don’t know what to say," he muttered. "Now I’ve got something for everyone."

She gathered up the torn brown paper. "That’s all right," she said casually. "It was fun finding it. Shall I put it in the corner?"

He shook his head. "Leave it right here."

She nodded, and moved towards the door. "I’ll turn this top light out. Don’t stay up too long. Sure you’ve got everything you want?"

"Sure, honey," he said. "I’ve got everything now."

"Good night," she said.

She closed the door behind her. He lay for some time in the firelight thinking of Sharon and of Helen, of bright summer days and tall ships at Mystic, of Helen leaping on the Pogo stick on the swept sidewalk with the piles of snow on either hand, of this girl and her kindness. Presently he drifted into sleep, one hand upon the Pogo stick beside him.

Peter Holmes lunched with John Osborne at the United Services Club next day. "I rang the ship this morning," said the scientist. "I wanted to get hold of Dwight to show him the draft report before I get it typed. They told me that he’s staying out at Harkaway with Moira’s people."

Peter nodded. "He’s got flu. Moira rang me up last night to tell me that I wouldn’t see him for a week, or longer if she’s got anything to do with it."

The scientist was concerned. "I can’t hold it so long as that. Jorgensen’s got wind of our findings already, and he’s saying that we can’t have done our job properly. I’ll have to get it to the typist by tomorrow at the latest."

"I’ll look it over if you like, and we might be able to get hold of the exec, though he’s away on leave. But Dwight ought to see it before it goes out. Why don’t you give Moira a ring and take it out to him at Harkaway?"

"Would she be there? I thought she was in Melbourne every day, doing shorthand and typing."

"Don’t be so daft. Of course she’s there."

The scientist brightened. "I might run it out to him this afternoon in the Ferrari."

"Your juice won’t last out if you’re going to use it for trips like that. There’s a perfectly good train."

"This is official business, naval business," said John Osborne. "One’s entitled to draw on naval stores." He bent towards Peter and lowered his voice. "You know that aircraft carrier, the Sydney? She’s got about three thousand gallons of my ether-alcohol mixture in one of her tanks. They used it for getting reluctant piston-engined aircraft off the deck at full boost."

"You can’t touch that!" said Peter, shocked.

"Can’t I? This is naval business, and there’s going to be a whole lot more."

"Well, don’t tell me about it. Would a Morris Minor run on it?"

"You’d have to experiment a bit with the carburetion, and you’d have to raise the compression. Take the gasket out and fit a bit of thin sheet copper, with cement. It’s worth trying."

"Can you run that thing of yours upon the road, safely?"

"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "There’s not much else upon the road to hit, except a tram. And people, of course. I always carry a spare set of plugs because she oils up if you run her under about three thousand."

"What’s she doing at three thousand revs?"

"Oh well, you wouldn’t put her in top gear. She’d be doing about a hundred, or a bit more than that. She does about forty-five in first at those revs. She gets away with a bit of a rush, of course; you want a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of you. I generally push her out of the mews into Elizabeth Street and wait till there’s a gap between the trains."

He did so that afternoon directly after lunch, with Peter Holmes helping him to push. He wedged the attaché case containing the draft report down beside the seat and climbed in, fastened the safety belt and adjusted his crash helmet before an admiring crowd. Peter said quietly, "For God’s sake don’t go and kill anybody."