Nevil Shute - On The Beach

Do whatever you think best for little Ming. I am so very, very sorry for him, but I can do nothing.

I am so very glad you won your race.

My very dearest love.

Mother

A few tears trickled down his cheeks, but only a few. Mum had always been right, all his life, and now she was right again. He left the room and went down to the drawing room, thinking deeply. He was not yet ill himself, but now it could only be a matter of hours. The dog followed him; he sat down and took it on his lap, caressing the silky ears.

Presently he got up, put the little dog in the garden, and went out to the chemist at the corner. There was a girl behind the counter still, surprisingly; she gave him one of the red cartons. "Everybody’s after these," she said smiling. "We’re doing quite a lot of business in them."

He smiled back at her. "I like mine chocolate-coated."

"So do I," she said. "But I don’t think they make them like that. I’m going to take mine with an ice-cream soda."

He smiled again, and left her at the counter. He went back to the house, released the Pekinese from the garden, and began to prepare a dinner for him in the kitchen. He opened one of the tins of rabbit and warmed it a little in the oven, and mixed with it four capsules of Nembutal. Then he put it down before the little dog, who attacked it greedily, and made his basket comfortable for him before the stove.

He went out to the telephone in the hall and rang up the club, and booked a bedroom for a week. Then he went to his own room and began to pack a suitcase.

Half an hour later he came down to the kitchen; the Pekinese was in his basket, very drowsy. The scientist read the directions on the carton carefully and gave him the injection; he hardly felt the prick.

When he was satisfied that the little dog was dead he carried him upstairs in the basket and laid it on the floor beside his mother’s bed.

Then he left the house.

Tuesday night was a disturbed night for the Holmes. The baby began crying at about two in the morning, and it cried almost incessantly till dawn. There was little sleep for the young father or mother. At about seven o’clock it vomited.

Outside it was raining and cold. They faced each other in the grey light, weary and unwell themselves. Mary said, "Peter—you don’t think this is it, do you?"

"I don’t know," he replied. "But I should think it might be. Everybody seems to be getting it."

She passed a hand across her brow, wearily. "I thought we’d be all right, out here in the country."

He did not know what he could say to comfort her, and so he said, "If I put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?"

She crossed to the cot again, and looked down at the baby; she was quiet for the moment. He said again, "What about a cup of tea?"

It would be good for him, she thought; he had been up for most of the night. She forced a smile. "That’d be lovely."

He went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was feeling terrible, and now she wanted to be sick. It was being up all night, of course, and the worry over Jennifer. Peter was busy in the kitchen; she could go quietly to the bathroom without him knowing. She was often sick, but this time he might think it was something else, and get worried.

In the kitchen there was a stale smell, or seemed to be. Peter Holmes filled the kettle at the tap, and plugged it in; he switched on and saw with some relief the indicator light come on that showed the current was flowing. One of these days the juice would fail, and then they would be in real trouble.

The kitchen was intolerably stuffy; he threw open the Window. He was hot, and then suddenly cold again, and then he knew that he was going to be sick. He went quietly to the bathroom, but the door was locked; Mary must be in there. No point in alarming her; he went out of the back door in the rain and vomited in a secluded corner behind the garage.

He stayed there for some time. When he came back he was white and shaken, but feeling more normal. The kettle was boiling and he made the tea, and put two cups on a tray, and took it to their bedroom. Mary was there, bending over the cot. He said, "I’ve got the tea."

She did not turn, afraid her face might betray her. She said, "Oh, thanks. Pour it out; I’ll be there in a minute." She did not feel that she could touch a cup of tea, but it would do him good.

He poured out the two cups and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his; the hot liquid seemed to calm his stomach. He said presently, "Come on and have your tea, dear. It’s getting cold."

She came a little reluctantly; perhaps she could manage it. She glanced at him, and his dressing gown was soaking wet with rain. She exclaimed, "Peter, you’re all wet! Have you been outside?"

He glanced at his sleeve; he had forgotten that. "I had to go outside," he said.

"Whatever for?"

He could not keep up a dissimulation. "I’ve just been sick," he said. "I don’t suppose it’s anything."

"Oh, Peter! So have I."

They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then she said dully, "It must be those meat pies we had for supper. Did you notice anything about them?"

He shook his head. "Tasted all right to me. Besides, Jennifer didn’t have any meat pie."

She said, "Peter. Do you think this is it?"

He took her hand. "It’s what everybody else is getting," he said. "We wouldn’t be immune."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "No. I suppose we wouldn’t." She raised her eyes to his. "This is the end of it, is it? I mean, we just go on now getting sicker till we die?"

"I think that’s the form," he said. He smiled at her. "I’ve never done it before, but they say that’s what happens."

She left him and went through to the lounge; he hesitated for a moment and then followed her. He found her standing by the French window looking out into the garden that she loved so much, now grey and wintry and windswept. "I’m so sorry that we never got that garden seat," she said irrelevantly. "It would have been lovely just there, just beside that bit of wall."

"I could have a stab at getting one today," he said.

She turned to him. "Not if you’re ill."

"I’ll see how I’m feeling later on," he said. "Better to be doing something than sit still and think how miserable you are."

She smiled "I’m feeling better now, I think. Could you eat any breakfast?"

"Well, I don’t know," he said. "I don’t know that I’m feeling quite so good as all that. What have you got?"

"We’ve got three pints of milk," she said. "Can we get any more?"

"I think so. I could take the car for it."

"What about some cornflakes, then? It says they’re full of glucose on the packet. That’s good for when you’re being sick, isn’t it?"

He nodded. "I think I’ll have a shower," he said. "I might feel better after that."

He did so; when he came out to their bedroom she was in the kitchen busy with the breakfast. To his amazement, he heard her singing, singing a cheerful little song that inquired who’d been polishing the sun. He stepped into the kitchen. "You sound cheerful," he remarked.

She came to him. "It’s such a relief," she said, and now he saw she had been crying a little as she sang. He wiped her tears away, puzzled, as he held her in his arms.

"I’ve been so terribly worried," she sobbed. "But now it’s going to be all right."

Nothing was further from right, he thought, but he did not say so. "What’s been worrying you?" he asked gently.

"People get this thing at different times," she said. "That’s what they say. Some people can get it as much as a fortnight later than others. I might have got it first and had to leave you, or Jennifer, or you might have got it and left us alone. It’s been such a nightmare...