On The Beach

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 inquired 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 cafe 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 moth balls."

"To buy what?"

"Moth balls. Napthalene-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?"

"Not a hope, old boy," the scientist said. "Nobody survives this thing. It makes a clean sweep."

"Well, that's nice to know," said Peter. "No good hanging on to any illusions. Tell me, is there anything that I can do for you? I'll have to beat it back to Mary in a minute."

The scientist shook his head. "I'm just about through. I've got one or two things that I've got to do today, but then I think I'll finish it."

Peter knew he had responsibilities at home. "How's your mother?"

"She's dead," the scientist said briefly. "I'm living here now."

Peter nodded, but the thought of Mary filled his mind. "I'll have to go," he said. "Good luck old man."

The scientist smiled weakly. "Be seeing you," he replied.

When the naval officer had gone he got up from the bed and went along the passage. He returned half an hour later a good deal weaker, his lip curling with disgust at his vile body. Whatever he had to do must be done today; tomorrow he would be incapable.

He dressed carefully, and went downstairs. He looked into the garden room; there was a fire burning in the grate and his uncle sitting there alone, a glass of sherry by his side. He glanced up, and said, "Good morning, John. How did you sleep?"

The scientist said briefly, "Very badly. I'm getting pretty sick."

The old man raised his flushed, rubicund face in concern. "My dear boy, I'm sorry to hear that. Everybody seems to be sick now. Do you know, I had to go down to the kitchen and cook my breakfast for myself? Imagine that, in a club like this!"

He had been living there for three days, since the death of the sister who had kept house for him at Macedon. "However, Collins the hall porter has come in now, and he's going to cook us some lunch. You'll be lunching here today?"

John Osborne knew that he would not be lunching anywhere. "I'm sorry I can't today, Uncle. I've got to go out."

"Oh, what a pity. I was hoping that you'd be here to help us out with the port. We're on the last bin now-I think about fifty bottles. It should just see us through."

"How are you feeling yourself, Uncle?"