On the Beach (33 page)

  ‘The Australian Grand Prix was run today at Tooradin and was won by Mr. John Osborne, driving a Ferrari. The second place …’

  The girl exclaimed, “Oh Dwight, he did it!” They sat forward to listen.

  ‘The race was marred by the large number of accidents and casualties. Of the eighteen starters only three finished the race of eighty laps, six of the drivers being killed outright in accidents and many more removed to hospital with more or less severe injuries. The winner, Mr. John Osborne, drove cautiously for the first half of the race and at the fortieth lap was three laps behind the leading car, driven by Mr. Sam Bailey. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bailey crashed at the corner known as The Slide, and from that point onwards the Ferrari put on speed. At the sixtieth lap the Ferrari was in the lead, the field by that time being reduced to five cars, and thereafter Mr. Osborne was never seriously challenged. On the sixty-fifth lap he put up a record for the course, lapping at 97.83 miles an hour, a remarkable achievement for this circuit. Thereafter Mr. Osborne reduced speed in response to signals from his pit, and finished the race at an
average speed of 89.61 miles an hour. Mr. Osborne is an official of the C.S.I.R.O.; he has no connection with the motor industry and races as an amateur.’

  Later they stood on the verandah of the hotel for a few minutes before bed, looking out at the black line of the hills, the starry night. “I’m glad John got what he wanted,” the girl said. “I mean, he wanted it so much. It must kind of round things off for him.”

The American beside her nodded. “I’d say things are rounding off for all of us right now.”

“I know. There’s not much time. Dwight, I think I’d like to go home tomorrow. We’ve had a lovely day up here and caught some fish. But there’s so much to do, and now so little time to do it in.”

“Sure, honey,” he said. “I was thinking that myself. You glad we came, though?”

She nodded. “I’ve been very happy, Dwight, all day. I don’t know why—not just catching fish. I feel like John must feel—as if I’ve won a victory over something. But I don’t know what.”

He smiled. “Don’t try and analyse it,” he said. “Just take it, and be thankful. I’ve been happy, too. But I’d agree with you, we should get home tomorrow. Things will be happening down there.”

“Bad things?” she asked.

He nodded in the darkness by her side. “I didn’t want to spoil the trip for you,” he said. “But John Osborne told me yesterday before we came away they got several cases of this radiation sickness in Melbourne, as of Thursday night. I’d say there’d be a good many more by now.”

On the Tuesday morning Peter Holmes went to Melbourne in his little car. Dwight Towers had telephoned to him to meet him at ten forty-five in the ante-room to the office of the First Naval Member. The radio that morning announced for the first time the incidence of radiation sickness in the city, and Mary Holmes had been concerned about his going there. “Do be careful, Peter,” she said. “I mean, about all this infection. Do you think you ought to go?”

He could not bring himself to tell her again that the infection was there around them, in their pleasant little flat; either she did not or she would not understand. “I’ll have to go,” he said. “I won’t stay longer than I’ve absolutely got to.”

“Don’t stay up to lunch,” she said. “I’m sure it’s healthier down here.”

“I’ll come straight home,” he said.

A thought struck her. “I know,” she said. “Take those formalin lozenges with you that we got for my cough, and suck one now and then. They’re awfully good for all kinds of infection. They’re so antiseptic.”

It would set her mind at ease if he did so. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.

He drove up to the city deep in thought. It was no longer a matter of days now; it was coming down to hours. He did not know what this conference with the First Naval Member was to be about, but it was very evident that it would be one of the last naval duties of his career. When
he drove back again that afternoon his service life would probably be over, as his physical life soon would be.

He parked his car and went into the Navy Department. There was practically no one in the building; he walked up to the ante-room and there he found Dwight Towers in uniform, and alone. His captain said cheerfully, “Hi, fella.”

Peter said, “Good morning, sir.” He glanced around; the secretary’s desk was locked, the room empty. “Hasn’t Lieutenant-Commander Torrens shown up?”

“Not that I know of. I’d say he’s taking the day off.”

The door into the Admiral’s office opened, and Sir David Hartman stood there. The smiling, rubicund face was more serious and drawn than Peter had remembered. He said, “Come in, gentlemen. My secretary isn’t here today.”

They went in, and were given seats before the desk. The American said, “I don’t know if what I have to say concerns Lieutenant-Commander Holmes or not. It may involve a few liaison duties with the dockyard. Would you prefer he wait outside, sir?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said the Admiral. “If it will shorten our business, let him stay. What is it you want, Commander?”

Dwight hesitated for a moment, choosing his words. “It seems that I’m the senior executive officer of the U.S. Navy now,” he said. “I never thought I’d rise so high as that, but that’s the way it is. You’ll excuse me if I don’t put this in the right form or language, sir. But I have to tell you that I’m taking my ship out of your command.”

The Admiral nodded slowly. “Very good, Commander. Do you wish to leave Australian territorial waters, or to stay here as our guest?”

“I’ll be taking my ship outside territorial waters,” the
Commander said. “I can’t just say when I’ll be leaving, but probably before the week-end.”

The Admiral nodded. He turned to Peter. “Give any necessary instructions in regard to victualling and towage to the dockyard,” he said. “Commander Towers is to be given every facility.”

“Very good, sir.”

The American said, “I don’t just know what to suggest about payments, sir. You must forgive me, but I have no training in these matters.”

The Admiral smiled thinly. “I don’t know that it would do us much good if you had, Commander. I think we can leave those to the usual routine. All countersigned indents and requisitions are costed here and are presented to the Naval Attaché at your Embassy in Canberra, and forwarded by him to Washington for eventual settlement. I don’t think you need worry over that side of it.”

Dwight said, “I can just cast off and go?”

“That’s right. Do you expect to be returning to Australian waters?”

The American shook his head. “No, sir. I’m taking my ship out in Bass Strait to sink her.”

Peter had expected that, but the imminence and the practical negotiation of the matter came with a shock; somehow this was the sort of thing that did not happen. He wanted for a moment to ask if Dwight required a tug to go out with the submarine to bring back the crew, and then abandoned the question. If the Americans wanted a tug to give them a day or two more life they would ask for it, but he did not think they would. Better the sea than death by sickness and diarrhoea, homeless in a strange land.

The Admiral said, “I should probably do the same, in
your shoes … Well, it only remains to thank you for your co-operation, Commander. And to wish you luck. If there’s anything you need before you go don’t hesitate to ask for it—or just take it.” A sudden spasm of pain twisted his face and he gripped a pencil on the desk before him. Then he relaxed a little, and got up from the desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll have to leave you for a minute.”

He left them hurriedly, and the door closed behind him. The captain and the liaison officer had stood up at his sudden departure; they remained standing, and glanced at each other. “This is it,” said the American.

Peter said in a low tone, “Do you suppose that’s what’s happened to the secretary?”

“I’d think so.”

They stood in silence for a minute or two, staring out of the window. “Victualling,” Peter said at last. “There’s nothing much in
Scorpion
. Is the exec getting out a list of what you’ll need, sir?”

Dwight shook his head. “We shan’t need anything,” he said. “I’m only taking her down the bay and just outside the territorial limit.”

The liaison officer asked the question that he had wanted to ask before. “Shall I lay on a tug to sail with you and bring the crew back?”

Dwight said, “That won’t be necessary.”

They stood in silence for another ten minutes. Finally the Admiral reappeared, grey faced. “Very good of you to wait,” he said. “I’ve been a bit unwell …” He did not resume his seat, but remained standing by the desk. “This is the end of a long association, Captain,” he said. “We British have always enjoyed working with Americans, especially upon the sea. We’ve had cause to be grateful to you very many times, and in return I think we’ve taught
you something out of our experience. This is the end of it.” He stood in thought for a minute, and then he held out his hand, smiling. “All I can do now is to say goodbye.”

Dwight took his hand. “It certainly has been good, working under you, sir,” he said. “I’m speaking for the whole ship’s company when I say that, as well as for myself.”

They left the office and walked down through the desolate, empty building to the courtyard. Peter said, “Well, what happens now, sir? Would you like me to come down to the dockyard?”

The captain shook his head. “I’d say that you can consider yourself to be relieved of duty,” he said. “I won’t need you any more down there.”

“If there’s anything that I can do, I’ll come very gladly.”

“No. If I should find I need anything from you, I’ll ring your home. But that’s where your place is now, fellow.”

This, then, was the end of their fellowship. “When will you be sailing?” Peter asked.

“I wouldn’t know exactly,” the American said. “I’ve got seven cases in the crew, as of this morning. I guess we’ll stick around a day or two, and sail maybe on Saturday.”

“Are many going with you?”

“Ten. Eleven, with myself.”

Peter glanced at him. “Are you all right, so far?”

Dwight smiled. “I thought I was, but now I don’t just know. I won’t be taking any lunch today.” He paused. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right. So is Mary—I think.”

Dwight turned towards the cars. “You get back to her,
right now. There’s nothing now for you to stay here for.”

“Will I see you again, sir?”

“I don’t think you will,” said the captain. “I’m going home now, home to Mystic in Connecticut, and glad to go.”

There was nothing more for them to say or do. They shook hands, got into their cars, and drove off on their separate ways.

In the old fashioned, two-storey brick house in Malvern, John Osborne stood by his mother’s bed. He was not unwell, but the old lady had fallen sick upon the Sunday morning, the day after he had won the Grand Prix. He had managed to get a doctor for her on Monday, but there was nothing he could do and he had not come again. The daily maid had not turned up, and the scientist was now doing everything for his sick mother.

She opened her eyes for the first time in a quarter of an hour. “John,” she said. “This is what they said would happen, isn’t it?”

“I think so, Mum,” he said gently. “It’s going to happen to me, too.”

“Did Dr. Hamilton say that was what it was? I can’t remember.”

“That’s what he told me, Mum. I don’t think he’ll be coming here again. He said he was getting it himself.”

There was a long silence. “How long will it take me to die, John?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It might be a week.”

“How absurd,” said the old lady. “Much too long.” She closed her eyes again. He took a basin to the bathroom, washed it out, and brought it back into the
bedroom. She opened her eyes again. “Where is Ming?” she asked.

“I put him out in the garden,” he said. “He seemed to want to go.”

“I am so terribly sorry about him,” she muttered. “He’ll be so dreadfully lonely, without any of us here.”

“He’ll be all right, Mum,” her son said, though without much confidence. “There’ll be all the other dogs for him to play with.”

She did not pursue the subject, but she said, “I’ll be quite all right now, dear. You go on and do whatever you have to do.”

He hesitated. “I think I ought to look in at the office,” he said. “I’ll be back before lunch. What would you like for lunch?”

She closed her eyes again. “Is there any milk?”

“There’s a pint in the frig,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get some more. It’s not too easy, though. There wasn’t any yesterday.”

“Ming ought to have a little,” she said. “It’s so good for him. There should be three tins of rabbit in the larder. Open one of those for his dinner, and put the rest in the frig. He’s so fond of rabbit. Don’t bother about lunch for me till you come back. If I’m feeling like it I might have a cup of cornflour.”

“Sure you’ll be all right if I go out?” he asked.

“Quite sure,” she said. She held out her arms. “Give me a kiss before you go.”

He kissed the limp old cheeks, and she lay back in bed, smiling at him.