Shute, Nevil (9 page)

Corbett said: ‘That’s not true. I’m not doing anything. I suppose I ought to go off and enlist.’

Gordon swung round on him. ‘Don’t think of it. Go on doing what you’re doing now.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

The surgeon said: ‘I mean just this. You’ve got three strong and healthy children. The country’s going to need them presently. Your job is to keep them safe through this, and that’s the only job you want to think about. If you get Joan and your three kids through this in safety you’ll have done your stuff-and God, man, it’s a whole time job if ever there was one! Don’t think of anything else until you’ve done that job properly and well.’

He paused. ‘Get them away. Get them to Ireland or America, or anywhere they’ll be safe from bombs and from disease. But get them out of this.’

Corbett said: ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I know I’m right. I’ve thought of this all night. I’ve had young people on the table-kiddies, some of them. Children that I knew, that Margaret knew. And I’ve been patching-patching-patching all the time, trying to make the damage that they’d got less onerous for them. And I’ve been thinking if only I could work at getting them away, out of the danger of it all, I’d be doing a better job.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Nobody else could do what you’re doing, in your place.’

‘I know. But that’s the man’s job to-day-the only job. To see your people safe.’

Corbett rubbed his chin. ‘That’s very different to the ideas one’s always had. I’ve always thought that in a war the right thing was to join the Army, or the Navy, or the Air Force, and fight for the country.’

The surgeon said: ‘With a bloody great sword, I suppose.’

He shook his head. ‘I know those were the old ideas,’ he said. ‘But a new war-and this war’s very new-brings new conditions, and the old ideas won’t fit. Then you’ve got to hack out a new set of ideas for yourself, and do the best you can. Put away the red coat, and invent a khaki one.’

He got up from his desk. ‘Good luck, and remember me to Joan. Remember what I said about getting them away.’

Corbett turned to go. ‘Good luck to both of you.’

‘We’ve got it,’ said the surgeon quietly. Corbett glanced at him.

Gordon said: ‘I’ve got no children to look after. And Margaret-she’s working like I am. I’ve got my luck, and she’s got hers. I’m working sixteen hours a day where I’m most needed, at work I can do damn well. I never worked better in my life. I don’t get any money for it. I don’t expect anyone will even remember that I’ve done it, when this thing is all over. But this is my peak, and I know it. This is what I came into the world for. Whatever I do after this will be-just spinning out my time.’

He picked up a raincoat from a chair. ‘And now if you don’t mind, old man - I must get back to the hospital.’

Corbett left him and drove back to his house. He found Littlejohn there. ‘No inoculations for two days at least,’ he said. He told him what the surgeon had said. ‘But keep it under your hat, and don’t go spreading it around. We don’t want to start a panic, or anything like that.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Littlejohn. ‘Least said about things like that the better. I been round and about this morning. Most people don’t know anything at all about the sickness. I didn’t let on.’

Corbett nodded. ‘Better not.’

The builder said: ‘What do you say if we take a car, and find out if there really is this cordon that they talk about?’

‘It’s there all right,’ said Corbett. ‘Anyway, it was this morning. I heard about it at the Civic Centre.’ He paused. ‘Still, I’d like to take a run out on the Hamble road.’

‘Aye,’ said the builder. ‘Mrs. Corbett was telling me that you was thinking of moving to your boat. You’re doing the right thing, if you ask me.’

They got into the car, and drove down to the Cobden bridge across the River Itchen. On the bridge all cars were being stopped by the police.

The constable said: ‘Have you got a pass, sir?’

‘No,’ said Corbett. ‘Do I need one?’

‘Can’t leave the borough boundary without a pass. Where are you going to?’

The builder said quickly: ‘Sholing. That’s inside the borough. I got property there. You know me-Littlejohn’s the name.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said the constable. ‘Sholing’s inside the boundary-you don’t want no pass for that. That’s all right, Mr. Littlejohn.’ He moved back from the car.

Corbett said: ‘I may want to go out to Hamble this afternoon. Will that be all right?”

The policeman shook his head. ‘No, sir, it won’t be all right. You’ll not be able to go beyond the borough boundary, just this side of Netley Common. Not without you have a pass from the Chief Constable’s office.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ said the man impassively. ‘Them’s the orders that we’ve got. You can pass along for Sholing now.’

They drove through. Corbett said: ‘Let’s go on and have a look at Netley Common.’

They went on down the road to Bursledon. Three hundred yards from the boundary they came upon a mass of cars parked by the roadside, all filled with bedding, trunks, and children. Corbett parked his car a little way behind the crowd; they got out and went forward on foot.

A rough barrier of planks and barrels had been set across the road. Soldiers were billeted in a house nearby; three of them were on guard at the barricade, with bayonets fixed upon their rifles. There were two policemen dealing patiently with enquiries from the crowd. A tired, worried-looking subaltern of infantry appeared to be in charge.

‘It’s no good hanging about here, sir,’ the constable was saying patiently. ‘You want to go back to the Civic Centre and get a pass. We can’t let nobody through without a pass. Now, keep the roadway clear, please.’

They stood and watched a couple of ambulances go through. There was nothing more to be seen or to be learnt; they turned back to the car and drove home.

The builder was very thoughtful. ‘That crowd’s all right now,’ he said at last. ‘But when they find that they can’t get a pass, and that they’ve got to stay another night … I don’t know.’

Corbett had nothing to say to that. They parted at the gate, and Corbett went into his house. Joan met him. ‘You’ve not had any lunch,’ she said; it was early afternoon. ‘Come on and have something to eat. Then I thought we might all lie down and have a rest.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve heard of worse ideas than that.’ He looked at the barograph, still falling slowly. ‘That doesn’t look so good.’

It was not raining, but the day was grey and cold. As soon as he had had a meal he went and lay down on his bed; Joan and the children went up to the nursery. He fell asleep almost at once.

When next he opened his eyes, it was dark outside. Joan was with him, with a candle and a cup of tea.

“It’s six o’clock,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a lovely sleep.’

He sat up on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s the weather like?’

‘Cloudy,’ she said. ‘But it’s not raining.’

He took the cup of tea from her, and sipped it. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

She nodded. ‘I slept for about an hour. The children are still sleeping-I didn’t wake them. The more they sleep the better. Baby’s awake. I’ve just given her her feed.’

‘I must go and put the car over the trench.’

‘I’ve done that,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ He got up and went over to the empty, broken window, and stood looking out into the night. ‘We’ll have to see it out here for a day or two,’ he said. ‘While that cordon’s there we shan’t get to the boat.’

She sighed. ‘I wish we were there now.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘Peter, I’ve got the wind up for tonight. I don’t know why. I’m scared of what may happen if they come again.’

He put his arm around her shoulders ‘We’ll be all right. Tomorrow we may be able to get away.’

He took the candle and went with her up into the, attic to see how much water they had left. The main tank was about one-third full, the hot-water system seemed to be nearly full. ‘It looks as if we’d used about half of what we had to start with,’ he said. ‘That means about three more days, using it as we are now.’

‘What do we do after that, Peter?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Go and get it from the Corporation water-carts, I suppose.’

He went out into the garden, and stood looking at the water in the bottom of the trench, wondering what to do about it. He looked over the garden wall; Mr. Littlejohn was standing in the middle of his lawn, listening intently. ‘Did you hear any shots fired just now?’ he enquired. ‘No. Were there any?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I was out here, and I thought I heard shooting. Listen again.’

They listened, but heard nothing but the sighing of the wind and the passing of an occasional car.

The builder stirred. ‘It’s just nerves, I suppose,’ he said apologetically. ‘I keep on thinking about them barricades. Properly asking for trouble, I call it.’

Corbett said: ‘There’s trouble either way, whether you keep them in or let them out. If they get out, the cholera may go right through the country with things as they are.’

‘I suppose that’s so.’

They stood one on each side of the wall, staring up into the sky. ‘Do you think they’ll come tonight?’ asked Corbett.

‘It’s all cloudy,’ said the builder. ‘They’ve come the two cloudy nights we’ve had, and kept away the clear one. I reckon they may do.’

‘Sing out if you should want any help.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Corbett. I’ll do the same by you. It’s better to stick together, times like this.’

Corbett moved away and spent a little time improvising a grating for the bottom of the trench, to raise the floor above the water-level.

Presently he went into the house. He found Joan in the drawing-room, cavernous with the windows boarded up, sewing something for the baby in the flickering light of a candle.

He touched her on the shoulder. ‘Give it up,’ he said. ‘You’ll hurt your eyes. Come on-let’s have a game of cards.’

She laid her work down gratefully. ‘I’ve been thinking about things, Peter,’ she said, shuffling the cards. ‘We’ll have to get away from here. I want to go to the boat now, however difficult it may be living on it with the children.’ She stared around the room. ‘I mean, just look at how we’re living here! It’s… squalor.’ She caught his hand. ‘I was cooking up that gruel stuff for the baby, Peter, and I was making it a big batch because I wanted it to last. And you have to do it in a double saucepan, and that iron one is so heavy. I had to do it over the dining-room fire-there wasn’t anywhere else to do it. And I spilt it, lifting it off the fire, all over the carpet. It made a terrible stain. I don’t think it will ever come out.’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I want to get away from here, and go and live on the boat. It’ld be easier than this, and we wouldn’t be spoiling things.’

He pressed her hand. ‘I know. I think we would be better there. I think we should be able to get there tomorrow. Would you like a whisky and soda?’

‘I’d love one, Peter.’

He fetched the drinks, and they sat down together to a simple card game in the light of the guttering church candle. They played for an hour, and then stopped. When they stopped moving the silence was intense.

Corbett stood up. ‘Let’s go and see what sort of night it is.’

Joan went with him to the front door. The wind had dropped. There were no lights anywhere to be seen, except a chink of candle-light from a house up the road. In the darkness the clouds seemed to hang low, ominously. There were no sounds at all.

The girl shivered. ‘I’ve got the needle tonight,’ she said, laughing tremulously. ‘It feels as if something is waiting to happen.’

He linked his arm through hers. ‘You’re tired,’ he said gently. ‘We’d better go to bed and get some sleep.’

‘The children ought to have something to eat They’ve not had anything since lunch.’

He helped her to mix some tinned milk with warm water, and prepare a little meal for the children. They took this up with them to the nursery on a tray, and gave it to the children in bed.

Phyllis asked: ‘Are we going to have bangs tonight, Daddy?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘If there are, we’ll go out to the trench.’

She thought about it for a minute. ‘I don’t like bangs, Daddy,’ she said at last.

Joan said: ‘If you’re terribly good, Daddy’s going to take you on the boat.’

‘Like last summer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Will I be able to take my rubber ring, and bathe, Mummy?’

John said: ‘Am I going on the boat, too, Mummy?’

‘He can’t, can he, Mummy? John’s too little to go on the boat, isn’t he, Mummy?’

‘Of course he’s not,’ said Corbett. ‘John’s coming on the boat, and Baby, too. But you’ve all got to be very good, or I won’t take you. Now lie down and go to sleep again.’

It took a quarter of an hour to get them settled off to sleep; there was much chat about the boat. Then Joan and Corbett went down to the kitchen for their supper; they smoked a quick cigarette and went upstairs to bed, she in the nursery and he in his own room.

He woke about midnight with the first concussion, far off in some distant part of the town. He slipped from his bed practically fully dressed, put on his shoes and went up to the nursery. He found Joan dressing the children.

There were further explosions in the distance. ‘Take Baby down into the trench,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring the other two.’

Joan said crossly: ‘I must say, I’m getting a bit tired of this.’

She took the child and went downstairs. Corbett got the other children dressed as quickly as he could and followed her; the explosions did not come very near. He saw them safely settled down with gasmasks, food, and drink; then he stood for a moment on the lawn above them, looking around.

‘Littlejohn,’ he called quietly. ‘Littlejohn! Are you all right?’

There was no reply. He called again: ‘Littlejohn!’ In the distance bombs were falling irregularly, not very loud. Gunfire began to sound away to the southeast and south of them; there seemed to be more guns than he had heard the night before. He waited for a few moments, irresolute, and called again. Then he went back to his own trench.

In the dim light he peered down at Joan. ‘I don’t know what to do about them.’