On the Beach (34 page)

He left the house and went down to the office. There was nobody there, but on his desk there was the daily report of radioactive infection. Attached to it was a note from his secretary. She said that she was feeling very
unwell, and probably would not be coming to the office again. She thanked him for his kindness to her, congratulated him upon the motor race, and said how much she had enjoyed working for him.

He laid the note aside and took up the report. It said that in Melbourne about fifty per cent of the population appeared to be affected. Seven cases were reported from Hobart in Tasmania, and three from Christchurch in New Zealand. The report, probably the last that he would see, was much shorter than usual.

He walked through the empty offices, picking up a paper here and there and glancing at them. This phase of his life was coming to an end, with all the others. He did not stay very long, for the thought of his mother was heavy on him. He went out and made his way towards his home by one of the occasional, crowded trams still running in the streets. It had a driver, but no conductor; the days of paying fares were over. He spoke to the driver. The man said, “I’ll go on driving this here bloody tram till I get sick, cock. Then I’ll drive it to the Kew depot and go home. That’s where I live, see? I been driving trams for thirty-seven years, rain or shine, and I’m not stopping now.”

In Malvern he got off the tram and commenced his search for milk. He found it to be hopeless; what there was had been reserved for babies by the dairy. He went home empty handed to his mother.

He entered the house and released the Pekinese from the garden, thinking that his mother would like to see him. He went upstairs to her bedroom, the dog hopping up the stairs before him.

In the bedroom he found his mother lying on her back with her eyes closed, the bed very neat and tidy. He moved a little closer and touched her hand, but she was
dead. On the table by her side was a glass of water, a pencilled note, and one of the little red cartons, open, with the empty vial beside it. He had not known that she had that.

He picked up the note. It read,

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 Holmeses. 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’ld 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 his 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 enquired 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 …”

She raised her eyes to his, smiling through her tears. “But now we’ve got it all together, on the same day. Aren’t we lucky?”

On the Friday Peter Holmes drove up to Melbourne in his little car, ostensibly to try and find a garden seat. He went quickly because he could not be away from home too long. He wanted to find John Osborne and to find him without delay; he tried the garage in the mews first, but that was locked; then he tried the C.S.I.R.O. offices. Finally he found him in his bedroom at the Pastoral Club; he was looking weak and ill.

Peter said, “John, I’m sorry to worry you. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve got it,” said the scientist. “I’ve had it two days. Haven’t you?”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about,” Peter said. “Our doctor’s dead, I think—at any rate, he isn’t functioning. Look, John, Mary and I both started giving at both ends on Tuesday. She’s pretty bad. But on Thursday, yesterday, I began picking up. I didn’t tell her, but I’m feeling as fit as a flea now, and bloody hungry. I stopped at a café on the way up and had breakfast—bacon and fried eggs and all the trimmings, and I’m still hungry. I believe I’m getting well. Look—can that happen?”

The scientist shook his head. “Not permanently. You can recover for a bit, but then you get it again.”

“How long is a bit?”

“You might get ten days. Then you’ll get it again. I don’t think there’s a second recovery. Tell me, is Mary very bad?”

“She’s not too good. I’ll have to get back to her pretty soon.”

“She’s in bed, is she?”

Peter shook his head. “She came down to Falmouth with me this morning to buy mothballs.”

“To buy
what?”

“Mothballs. Naphthalene—you know.” He hesitated. “It’s what she wanted,” he said. “I left her putting all our clothes away to keep the moths out of them. She can do that in between the spasms, and she wants to do it.” He reverted to the subject he had come for. “Look, John. I take it that I get a week or ten days’ health, but there’s no chance for me at all after that?”