He swung his Ferrari into the paddock and stopped the engine, while his pit crew and his friends crowded round to congratulate him. He hardly heard them; his fingers were trembling with shock and the release of strain. He had only one thought in his mind, to get the Ferrari back to Melbourne and take down the front end; all was not well with the steering, though he had managed to complete the course. Something was strained or broken; she had pulled heavily towards the left in the concluding stages of the race.
Between the friends crowding round he saw the upturned box where Don Harrison had parked his Jaguar, the glasses, the two whisky bottles. “God,” he said to no one in particular, “I’ll have that drink with Don now.” He got out of the car and walked unsteadily to the box; one of the bottles was still nearly full. He poured a generous measure with a very little water, and then he saw Sam Bailey standing by the Gipsy-Lotus. He poured another drink and took it over to the winner, pushing through the crowd. “I’m having this on Don,” he said. “You’d better have one, too.”
The young man took it, nodded, and drank. “How did you come off?” he asked. “I saw you’d tangled.”
“Got round for a wheel change,” said the scientist thickly. “She’s steering like a drunken pig. Like a bloody Gipsy-Lotus.”
“My car steers all right,” the other said nonchalantly. “Trouble is, she won’t stay steered. You driving back to town?”
“If she’ll make it.”
“I’d pinch Don’s transporter. He’s not going to need it.”
The scientist stared at him. “That’s an idea …” The dead driver had brought his Jaguar to the race on an old truck to avoid destroying tune by running on the road. The truck was standing not far from them in the paddock, unattended.
“I should nip in quick, before someone else gets it.”
John Osborne downed his whisky, shot back to his car, and galvanised his pit crew of enthusiasts with the new idea. Together they mustered willing hands to help and pushed the Ferrari up the steel ramps on to the tray body, lashing her down with ropes. Then he looked round uncertainly. A marshal passed and he stopped him. “Are there any of Don Harrison’s crew about?”
“I think they’re all over with the crash. I know his wife’s down there.”
He had been minded to drive off in the transporter with the Ferrari because Don would never need it again, nor would his Jaguar. To leave his pit crew and his wife without transport back to town, however, was another thing.
He left the paddock and started to walk down the track towards the Haystack, with Eddie Brooks, one of his pit crew, beside him. He saw a little group standing by the wreckage of the cars in the rain, one of them a woman. He had intended to talk to Don’s pit crew, but when he saw the wife was dry-eyed he changed his mind, and went to speak to her.
“I was the driver of the Ferrari,” he said. “I’m very sorry that this happened, Mrs. Harrison.”
She inclined her head. “You come up and bumped into them right at the end,” she said. “It wasn’t anything to do with you.”
“I know. But I’m very sorry.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” she said heavily. “He got it the way he wanted it to be. None of this being sick and all the rest of it. Maybe if he hadn’t had that whisky … I dunno. He got it the way he wanted it to be. You one of his cobbers?”
“Not really. He offered me a drink before the race, but I didn’t take it. I’ve just had it now.”
“You have? Well, good on you. That’s the way Don would have wanted it. Is there any left?”
He hesitated. “There was when I left the paddock. Sam Bailey had a go at it, and I did. Maybe the boys have finished up the bottles.”
She looked up at him. “Say, what do you want? His car? They say it isn’t any good.”
He glanced at the wrecked Jaguar. “I shouldn’t think it is. No, what I wanted to do was to put my car on his transporter and get it back to town. The steering’s had it, but I’ll get her right for the Grand Prix.”
“You got a place, didn’t you? Well, it’s Don’s transporter, but he’d rather have it work with cars that go than work with wrecks. All right, chum, you take it.”
He was a little taken aback. “Where shall I return it to?”
“I won’t be using it. You take it.”
He thought of offering money but rejected the idea; the time was past for that. “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “It’s going to make a big difference to me, having the use of that transporter.”
“Fine,” she said. “You go right ahead and win that Grand Prix. Any parts you need from that she indicated the wrecked Jaguar—” “you take them, too.”
“How are you getting back to town?” he asked.
“Me? I’ll wait and go with Don in the ambulance. But they say there’s another load of hospital cases for each car to go first, so it’ll probably be around midnight before we get away.”
There seemed to be nothing more that he could do for her. “Can I take some of the pit crew back?”
She nodded, and spoke to a fat, balding man of fifty. He detached two youngsters to go back with John.
“Alfie here, he’ll stay with me and see this all squared up,” she said dully. “You go right ahead, mister, and win that Grand Prix.”
He went a little way aside and talked to Eddie Brooks, standing in the rain. “Tyres are the same size as ours. Wheels are different, but if we took the hubs as well … That Maserati’s crashed up by The Slide. We might have a look at that one, too. I believe that’s got a lot of the same front-end parts as we have …”
They walked back to their newly acquired transporter and drove it back in the half light to Haystack Corner, and commenced the somewhat ghoulish task of stripping the dead bodies of the wrecked cars of anything that might be serviceable to the Ferrari. It was dark before they finished and they drove back to Melbourne in the rain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In Mary Holmes’ garden the first narcissi bloomed on the first day of August, the day the radio announced, with studied objectivity, cases of radiation sickness in Adelaide and Sydney. The news did not trouble her particularly; all news was bad, like wage demands, strikes, or war, and the wise person paid no attention to it. What was important was that it was a bright, sunny day; her first narcissi were in bloom, and the daffodils behind them were already showing flower buds. “They’re going to be a picture,” she said happily to Peter. “There are so many of them. Do you think some of the bulbs can have sent up two shoots?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he replied. “I don’t think they do that. They split in two and make another bulb, or something.”
She nodded. “We’ll have to dig them up in the autumn, after they die down, and separate them. Then we’ll get a lot more and put them along here. They’re going to look marvellous in a year or two.” She paused in thought. “We’ll be able to pick some then, and have them in the house.”
One thing troubled her upon that perfect day, that Jennifer was cutting her first tooth, and was hot and fractious. Mary had a book called Baby’s First Tear which told her that this was normal, and nothing to worry about, but she was troubled all the same. “I mean,” she said, “they don’t know everything, the people who write these books. And all babies aren’t the same, anyway. She oughtn’t to keep crying like this, ought she? Do you think we ought to get in Dr. Halloran?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Peter said. “She’s chewing her rusk all right.”
“She’s so hot, the poor little lamb.” She picked up the baby from her cot and started patting it on the back across her shoulder; the baby had intended that, and stopped yelling. Peter felt that he could almost hear the silence. “I think she’s probably all right,” he said. “Just wants a bit of company.” He felt he couldn’t stand much more of it, after a restless night with the child crying all the time and Mary getting in and out of bed to soothe it. “Look, dear,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to go up to
the Navy Department. I’ve got a date in the Third Naval Member’s office at eleven forty-five.”
“What about the doctor, though? Don’t you think he ought to see her?”
“I wouldn’t worry him. The book says she may be upset for a couple of days. Well, she’s been going on for thirty-six hours now.” By God, she has, he thought.
“It might be something different—not teeth at all. Cancer, or something. After all, she can’t tell us where the pain is …”
“Leave it till I get back,” he said. “I should be back here around four o’clock, or five at the latest. Let’s see how she is then.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly.
He took the petrol cans and put them in the car, and drove out on the road, glad to be out of it. He had no appointment in the Navy Department that morning but there would be no harm in looking in on them if, indeed, there was anybody in the office. Scorpion was out of dry dock and back alongside the aircraft carrier, waiting for orders that might never come; he could go and have a look at her and, as a minor side issue, fill up his petrol tank and cans.
On that fine morning there was no one in the Third Naval Member’s office save for one Wran writer, prim, spectacled and conscientious. She said that she was expecting Commander Mason on board any minute now. Peter said he might look in again, and went down to his car, and drove to Williamstown. He parked beside the aircraft carrier and walked up the gangway with his cans in hand, accepting the salute of the officer of the day. “Morning,” he said. “Is Commander Towers about?”
“I think he’s down in Scorpion, sir.”
“And I want some juice.”
“Very good, sir. If you leave the cans here … Fill the tank as well?”
“If you would.” He went on through the cold, echoing, empty ship and down the gangplank to the submarine. Dwight Towers came up to the bridge deck as he stepped on board. Peter saluted him formally. “Morning, sir,” he said. “I came over to see what’s doing, and to get some juice.”
“Plenty of juice,” said the American. “Not much doing. I wouldn’t say there would be now, not ever again. You haven’t any news for me?”
Peter shook his head. “I looked in at the Navy Department just now. There didn’t seem to be anyone there, except one Wran.”
“I had better luck than you. I found a lieutenant there yesterday … Kind of running down.”
“There’s not so long to run now, anyway.” They leaned on the bridge rail; he glanced at the captain. “You heard about Adelaide and Sydney?”
Dwight nodded. “Sure. First it was months, and then it got to be weeks, and now I’d say it’s getting down to days. How long are they figuring on now?”
“I haven’t heard. I wanted to get into touch with John Osborne today and get the latest gen.”
“You won’t find him in the office. He’ll be working on that car. Say, that was quite a race.”
Peter nodded. “Are you going down to see the next one—the Grand Prix itself? That’s the last race ever, as I understand it. It’s really going to be something.”
“Well, I don’t know. Moira didn’t like the last one so much. I think women look at things differently. Like boxing or wrestling.” He paused. “You driving back to Melbourne now?”
“I was—unless you want me for anything, sir?”
“I don’t want you. There’s nothing to do here. I’ll thumb a ride to town with you, if I may. My Leading Seaman Edgar hasn’t shown up with the car today; I suppose he’s running down, too. If you can wait ten minutes while I change this uniform I’ll be with you.”
Forty minutes later they were talking to John Osborne in the garage in the mews. The Ferrari hung with its nose lifted high on chain blocks to the roof, its front end and steering dismantled. John was in an overall working on it with one mechanic; he had got it all so spotlessly clean that his hands were hardly dirty. “It’s very lucky we got those parts off the Maserati,” he said seriously. “One of these wishbones was bent all to hell. But the forgings are the same; we’ve had to bore out a bit and fit new bushes. I wouldn’t have liked to race her if we’d had to heat the old one and bend it straight. I mean, you never know what’s going to happen after a repair like that.”
“I’d say you don’t know what’s going to happen anyway in this kind of racing,” said Dwight. “When is the Grand Prix to be?”
“I’m having a bit of a row with them over that,” said the scientist. “They’ve got it down for Saturday fortnight, the 17th, but I think that’s too late. I think we ought to run it on Saturday week, the 10th.”
“Getting kind of close, is it?”
“Well, I think so. After all, they’ve got definite cases in Canberra now.”
“I hadn’t heard of that. The radio said Adelaide and Sydney.”
“The radio’s always about three days late. They don’t want to create alarm and despondency until they’ve got to. But there’s a suspect case in Albury today.”
“In Albury? That’s only about two hundred miles north.”
“I know. I think Saturday fortnight is going to be too late.”
Peter asked, “How long do you think we’ve got then, John?”
The scientist glanced at him. “I’ve got it now. You’ve got it, we’ve all got it. This door, this spanner—everything’s getting touched with radioactive dust. The air we breathe, the water that we drink, the lettuce in the salad, even the bacon and eggs. It’s getting down now to the tolerance of the individual. Some people with less tolerance than others could quite easily be showing symptoms in a fortnight’s time. Maybe sooner.” He paused. “I think it’s crazy to put off an important race like the Grand Prix till Saturday fortnight. We’re having a meeting of the Committee this afternoon and I’m going to tell them so. We can’t have a decent race if half the drivers have got diarrhoea and vomiting. It just means that the Grand Prix might be won by the chap with the best tolerance to radioactivity. Well, that’s not what we’re racing for!”
“I suppose that’s so,” said Dwight. He left them in the garage, for he had a date to lunch with Moira Davidson. John Osborne suggested lunch at the Pastoral Club, and presently he wiped his hands on a clean piece of rag, took off his overall, locked the garage, and they walked up through the city to the club.
As they went, Peter asked, “How’s your uncle getting on?”
“He’s made a big hole in the port, him and his cobbers,” the scientist said. “He’s not quite so good, of course. We’ll probably see him at lunch; he comes in most days now. Of course, it’s made a difference to him now that he can come in in his car.”
“Where does he get his petrol from?”
“God knows. The Army, probably. Where does anybody get his petrol from, these days?” He paused. “I think he’ll stay the course, but I wouldn’t bank on it. The port’ll probably give him longer than most of us.”
“The port?”
The other nodded. “Alcohol, taken internally, seems to increase the tolerance to radioactivity. Didn’t you know that?”
“You mean, if you get pickled you last longer?”
“A few days. With Uncle Douglas it’s a toss-up which will kill him first. Last week I thought the port was winning, but when I saw him yesterday he looked pretty good.”
They parked the car and went into the club. They found Sir Douglas Froude sitting in the garden-room, for the wind was cold. A glass of sherry was on the table by him and he was talking to two old friends. He made an effort to get to his feet when he saw them, but abandoned it at John’s request. “Don’t get about so well as I used to, once,” he said. “Come, pull a chair up, and have some of this sherry. We’re down to about fifty bottles now of the Amontillado. Push that bell.”
John Osborne did so, and they drew up chairs. “How are you feeling now, sir?”
“So-so. So-so. That doctor was probably right. He said that if I went back to my old habits I shouldn’t last longer than a few months, and I shan’t. But nor will he
, and nor will you.” He chuckled. “I hear you won that motor race that you were going in for.”
“I didn’t win it—I was second. It means I’ve got a place in the Grand Prix.”
“Well, don’t go and kill yourself. Although, I’m sure, it doesn’t seem to matter very much if you do. Tell me, somebody was saying that they’ve got it in Cape Town. Do you think that’s true?”
His nephew nodded. “That’s true enough. They’ve had it for some days. We’re still in radio communication, though.”
“So they’ve got it before us?”
“That’s true.”
“That means that all of Africa is out, or will be out, before we get it here?”
John Osborne grinned. “It’s going to be a pretty near thing. It looks as though all Africa might be gone in a week or so.” He paused. “It seems to go quite quickly at the end, so far as we can ascertain. It’s a bit difficult, because when more than half the people in a place are dead the communications usually go out, and then you don’t quite know what’s happening. All services are usually stopped by then, and food supplies. The last half seem to go quite quickly … But, as I say, we don’t really know what does happen, in the end.”
“Well, I think that’s a good thing,” the General said robustly. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He paused. “So all of Africa is out. I’ve had some good times there, back in the days before the First War, when I was a subaltern. But I never did like that apartheid … Does that mean that we’re going to be the last?”
“Not quite,” his nephew said. “We’re going to be the last major city. They’ve got cases now in Buenos Aires and Montevideo, and they’ve got a case or two in Auckland. After we’re gone Tasmania may last another fortnight, and the South Island of New Zealand. The last of all to die will be the Indians in Tierra del Fuego.”
“The Antarctic?”
The scientist shook his head. “There’s nobody there now, so far as we know.” He smiled. “Of course, that’s not the end of life upon the earth. You mustn’t think that. There’ll be life here in Melbourne long after we’ve gone.”