On The Beach

"It's that all right," he said. "But that's the way it is."

There was a pause, and then she said angrily, "It's not that I'm afraid of dying, Dwight. We've all got to do that sometime. It's all the things I'm going to have to miss…" She turned to him in the starlight. "I'm never going to get outside Australia. All my life I've wanted to see the Rue de Rivoli. I suppose it's the romantic name. It's silly, because I suppose it's just a street like any other street. But that's what I've wanted, and I'm never going to see it. Because there isn't any Paris now, or London, or New York."

He smiled at her gently. "The Rue de Rivoli may still be there, with things in the shopwindows and everything. I wouldn't know if Paris got a bomb or not. Maybe it's all there still, just as it was, with the sun shining down the street the way you'd want to see it. That's the way I like to think about that sort of place. It's just that folks don't live there any more."

She got restlessly to her feet. "That's not the way I wanted to see it. A city of dead people… Get me another drink, Dwight."

Still seated, he smiled up at her. "Not on your life. It's time you went to bed."

"Then I'll get it for myself." She marched angrily into the house. He heard the tinkle of glass and she came out almost immediately, a tumbler more than half full in hand with a lump of ice floating in it. "I was going home in March," she exclaimed. "To London. It's been arranged for years. I was to have six months in England and on the Continent, and then I was coming back through America. I'd have seen Madison Avenue. It's so bloody unfair."

She took a long gulp at her glass, and held it away from her in disgust. "Christ, what's this muck I'm drinking?"

He got up and took the glass from her and smelled it. "That's whisky," he told her.

She took it back from him and smelled it herself. "So it is," she said vaguely. "It'll probably kill me, on top of brandy." She lifted the glass of neat liquor and tossed it down, and threw the ice cube out upon the grass.

She faced him, unsteady in the starlight. "I'll never have a family like Mary," she muttered. "It's so unfair. Even if you took me to bed tonight I'd never have a family, because there wouldn't be time." She laughed hysterically. "It's really damn funny. Mary was afraid that you'd start bursting into tears when you saw the baby and the nappies hanging on the line. Like the squadron leader in the R.A.F. they had before." Her words began to slur. "Keep him occ… occupied."

She swayed, and caught a post of the verandah. "That's what she said. Never a dull moment. Don't let him see the baby or perhaps… perhaps he'll start crying." The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "She never thought it might be me who'd do the crying, and not you."

She collapsed by the verandah, head down in a torrent of tears. The submarine commander hesitated for a moment, went to touch her on the shoulder and then drew back, uncertain what to do. Finally he turned away and went into the house. He found Mary in the kitchen tidying up the mess left by the party.

"Mrs. Holmes," he said a little diffidently. "Maybe you could step outside and take a look at Miss Davidson. She just drank a full glass of neat whisky on top of brandy. I think she might want somebody to put her to bed."

2

Infants take no account of sundays or midnight parties; by six o'clock next morning the Holmes were up and doing and Peter was on the road pedalling his bicycle with the trailer attached to fetch the milk and cream. He stayed with the farmer for a while discussing the axle for the new trailer, and the towbar, and making a few sketches for the mechanic to work from. "I've got to report for duty tomorrow," he said. "This is the last time that I'll be coming over for the milk."

"That'll be right," said Mr. Paul. "Leave it to me. Tuesdays, and Saturdays. I'll see Mrs. Holmes gets the milk and cream."

He got back to his house at about eight o'clock; he shaved and had a shower, dressed, and began to help Mary with the breakfast. Commander Towers put in an appearance at about a quarter to nine with a fresh, scrubbed look about him. "That was a nice party that you had last night," he said. "I don't know when I enjoyed one so much."

His host said, "There are some very pleasant people living just round here." He glanced at his captain and grinned. "Sorry about Moira. She doesn't usually pass out like that."

"It was the whisky. She isn't up yet?"

"I wouldn't expect to see her just yet. I heard someone being sick at two in the morning. I take it that it wasn't you?"

The American laughed. "No sir."

The breakfast came upon the table, and the three of them sat down. "Like another swim this morning?" Peter asked his guest. "It looks like being another hot day."

The American hesitated. "I rather like to go to church on Sunday morning. It's what we do at home. Would there be a Church of England church around her any place?"