Nevil Shute - On The Beach

Commander Towers felt a little dazed, but refreshed. It was a long time since he had had to deal with this sort of a young woman. "I’ll go along with you," he said. "I’ve swallowed enough Cokes in the last year to float my ship, periscope depth. I could use a drink."

"Then there’s two of us," she remarked. She steered her outfit into the main street, not unskilfully. A few cars stood abandoned parked diagonally by the curb; they had been there for over a year. So little traffic used the streets that they were not in the way, and there had been no petrol to tow them away. She drew up outside the Pier Hotel and got down; she tied the reins to the bumper of one of these cars and went with her companion into the Ladies’ Lounge.

He asked, "What can I order for you?"

"Double brandy."

"Water?"

"Just a little, and a lot of ice."

He gave the order to the barman and stood considering for a moment while the girl watched him. There never bad been any lye, and there had been no Scotch for many months. He was unreasonably suspicious of Australian whisky. "I never drank brandy, like that," he remarked. "What’s it like?"

"No kick," the girl said, "but it creeps up on you. Good for the guts. That’s the reason why I drink it."

"I guess I’ll stick to whisky." He ordered, and then turned to her, amused. " You drink quite a lot, don’t you?"

"That’s what they tell me." She took the drink he handed to her and produced a pack of cigarettes from her bag, blended South African and Australian tobacco. "Have one of these things? They’re horrible, but they’re all that I could get."

He offered one of his own, equally horrible, and lit it for her. She blew a long cloud of smoke from her nostrils. "It’s a change, anyway. What’s your name?"

"Dwight," he told her. "Dwight Lionel."

"Dwight Lionel Towers," she repeated. "I’m Moira Davidson. We’ve got a grazing property about twenty miles from here. You’re the captain of the submarine, aren’t you?"

"That’s right."

"Happy in your job?" she asked cynically. "It was quite an honor to be given the command," he said quietly. "I reckon it’s quite an honor still."

She dropped her eyes. "Sony I said that. I’m a bit of a pig when I’m sober." She tossed off her drink. "Buy me another, Dwight."

He bought her another, but stood himself upon his whisky.

"Tell me," the girl asked, "what do you do when you’re on leave? Play golf? Sail a boat? Go fishing?"

"Fishing, mostly," he said. A far-off holiday with Sharon in the Gasps Peninsula floated through his mind, but he put the thought away. One must concentrate upon the present and forget the past. "It’s kind of hot for golf," he said. "Commander Holmes said something about a swim."

"That’s easy," she said. "There’s a sailing race this afternoon, down at the club. Is that in your line?"

"It certainly is," he said, with pleasure in his voice. "What kind of a boat does he have?"

"A thing called a Gwen Twelve," she said. "It’s a sort of watertight box with sails on it. I don’t know if he wants to sail it himself. I’ll crew for you if he doesn’t"

"If we’re going sailing," he said firmly, "we’d better stop drinking."

"I’m not going to crew for you if you’re going to be all U.S. Navy," she retorted. "Our ships aren’t dry, like yours."

"Okay," he said equably. "Then I’ll crew for you." She stared at him. "Has anyone ever bashed you over the head with a bottle?"

He smiled. "Lots of times."

She drained her glass. "Well, have another drink."

"No, thank you. The Holmes will be wondering what’s become of us."

"They’ll know," the girl said.

"Come on. I want to see the world from up in that jinker." He steered her towards the door.

She went with him unresisting. "It’s a buggy," she said.

"No, it’s not. We’re in Australia now. It’s a jinker."

"That’s where you’re wrong," she said. "It’s a buggy—an Abbott buggy. It’s over seventy years old. Daddy says it was built in America."

He looked at it with new interest. "Say," he exclaimed, "I was wondering where I’d seen it before. My grandpa had one just like it in the woodshed, up in Maine, when I was a boy."

She mustn’t let him think about the past. "Just stand by her head as I back out of this," she said. "She’s not so good in reverse." She swung herself up into the driving seat and tweaked the mare’s mouth cruelly, so that he had plenty to do. The mare stood up and pawed at him with her forefeet; he managed to get her headed round towards the street and swung up beside the girl as they dashed off in a canter. Moira said, "She’s a bit fresh. The hill’ll stop her in a minute. These bloody bitumen roads..." The American sat clinging to his seat as they careered out of town, the mare slithering and sliding on the smooth surfaces, wondering that any girl could drive a horse so badly.

They came to the Holmes’ house a few minutes later with the grey in a lather of sweat. The lieutenant commander and his wife came out to meet them. "Sorry we’re late, Mary," the girl said coolly. "I couldn’t get Commander Towers past the pub."

Peter remarked, "Looks like you’ve been making up lost time."

"We had quite a ride," the submarine commander observed. He got down and was introduced to Mary. Then he turned to the girl. "How would it be if I walk her up and down a little, till she cools off?"

"Fine," said the girl. "I should unharness her and put her in the paddock—Peter’ll show you. I’ll give Mary a hand with the lunch. Peter, Dwight wants to sail your boat this afternoon."

"I never said that," the American protested. "But you do." She eyed the horse, glad that her father wasn’t there to see. "Give her a rub down with something—there’s a cloth in the back underneath the oats. I’ll give her a drink later on, after we’ve had one ourselves."

That afternoon Maw stayed at home with the baby, quietly preparing for the evening party; Dwight Towers rode unsteadily with Peter and Moira to the sailing club on bicycles. They went with towels round their necks and swimming trunks tucked into pockets; they changed at the club in anticipation of a wet sail. The boat was a sealed plywood box with a small cockpit and an efficient spread of sail. They rigged and launched her and got to the starting line with five minutes to spare, the American sailing the boat, Moira crewing far him, and Peter watching the race from the share.

They sailed in bathing costumes, Dwight Towers in an old pair of fawn trunks and the girl in a two-piece costume mainly white; they had shirts with them in the boat in case of sunburn. For a few minutes they maneuvered about in the warm sun behind the starting line, milling around amongst a dozen others of mixed classes in the race. The commander had not sailed a boat for some years and he had never handled a boat of that particular type before; she handled well, however, and he quickly learned that she was very fast. He had confidence in her by the time the gun went, and they were fifth over the; line at the start of a race three times round a triangular course.

As is the case on port Phillip Bay, the wind blew up very quickly. By the time they had been round once, it was blowing quite hard and they were sailing gunwale under; Commander Towers was too busy with the sheet and tiller keeping the boat upright and on her course to have much attention for anything else. They started an the second round and beat **up to the further turning point brilliant sunshine and clouds of spray like diamonds; so occupied was he that he failed to notice the girl’s toe as she kicked a coil of mainsheet round the cleat and laid tangle of jib sheet down on top of it. They came to the buoy and he bore away smartly, putting up the tiller letting out the sheet, which ran two feet and fouled. A gust came down on them and laid the vessel over, the girl played dumb and pulled the jib sheet in, and the boat gave up and laid her sails down flat upon the water. In a moment they were swimming by her side.