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Title: What Happened to the Corbetts
Alternate title [U.S.]: Ordeal
Author: Shute, Nevil [Norway, Nevil Shute] (1899-1960)
Date of first publication: 1939
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: William Morrow, 1939
   [first U.S. edition]
Date first posted: 11 August 2012
Date last updated: 11 August 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #976

This ebook was produced by
David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                             ORDEAL

                          _A Novel by_

                           NEVIL SHUTE


    NEW YORK  WILLIAM MORROW & COMPANY  1939

    ORDEAL

    COPYRIGHT    1939
    BY WILLIAM MORROW & COMPANY, INC.

    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES



    _Good luck have thou with thine honour: ride on, because of the word
    of truth, of meekness, and of righteousness; and thy right hand
    shall teach thee terrible things._

    Psalm XLV.




ORDEAL




1


Towards dawn Peter Corbett got up from the garage floor and, treading
softly, moved into the driving seat of the car. Presently he fell into a
doze, his head bowed forward on his arms, upon the steering wheel.

He woke an hour later, dazed and stiff. A grey light filled the little
wooden building; it was early March. The rain drummed steadily upon the
roof and dripped and pattered from the eaves with little liquid noises,
as it had done all through the night. He stirred, and looked around him.

Behind him, in the rear seat of the car, lay Joan, his wife, sleeping
uneasily. She was dressed oddly in an overcoat, pyjama trousers, and
many woolly clothes; her short fair hair had fallen across her face in
disarray. On the seat beside her was the basket cot with little Joan; so
far as could be seen, the baby was asleep.

He moved, and looked out of the window of the car. Beside the car
Sophie, their nurse, was lying on a Li-Lo on the oil-stained floor,
covered with an eiderdown, sleeping with her mouth open and snoring a
little. Beyond her there was another little bed, carefully screened
between the garden roller and a box of silver sand for bulbs. From that
the bright eyes of Phyllis, his six-year-old daughter, looked up into
his own; beside her lay John, his three-year son, asleep.

Moving very quietly, he got out of the driving seat and stood erect
beside the car; he had a headache, and was feeling very ill. From her
bed upon the floor Phyllis whispered, "Daddy. May I get up?"

"Not yet," he said mechanically. "It's not time to get up yet. Go to
sleep again."

"Weren't they _loud_ bangs, Daddy?"

"Very loud," he said. He moved over to the garage window and looked out.
Everything seemed much the same, but he could not see beyond the garden.

"Daddy, were the bangs loud enough to be heard in London?"

"Not in London." He was feeling sick; his mouth was coated and dry.

"Would the bangs have been heard in Portsmouth, Daddy?"

"No. I don't know."

"Anyway, they'd have been heard _all over_ Southampton, wouldn't they,
Daddy?"

"That's right," he said patiently. So much, indeed, was evident. "But
now try to go to sleep again and don't talk any more, or you'll wake
Mummy and John. There won't be any more bangs now."

He stepped carefully across the Li-Lo to the corner, and stooped over
the little bed. He pulled the rug across her. "It's not time to get up
yet. Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you, Daddy. Isn't it fun, sleeping in the garage?"

"Great fun," he said soberly. "Now go to sleep again."

He moved quietly down the garage past the car, opened the door, and
went out into the garden. His raincoat had half dried upon him in the
night. He had no hat; the rain beat on his face and ruffled hair, and
this refreshed him.

He lived in a semi-detached house, a large house in a good suburban
road. It had a well-kept garden stretching out behind to the back road;
the wooden garage was at the end remote from the house. He lived
comfortably in a fairly modest style; he was the junior partner of
Johnson, Bellinger, and Corbett, solicitors, in Southampton. He ran a
medium-sized car which he had bought second-hand, and a nine-ton cutter
yacht which he had bought sixteenth-hand; these, with his three
children, absorbed the whole of his income. He was thirty-four years
old, a pleasant, ordinary young man of rather a studious turn.

He stood for a few moments in the garden in the rain, looking around.
His house looked much the same as usual, so did the houses on each side
of it. There was a window broken in a house a few doors down the road;
otherwise he could see nothing wrong. He moved up the garden, opened the
garden door, and went into his dining room.

A sudden draught of cold air blew into his face, fluttering the papers
on a table where the telephone was standing.

He frowned. There was a window open somewhere in the house. Someone had
left it open in the confusion of the night--and on a rainy night like
that! It was too bad.

He passed through the hall into the drawing room in the front of the
house. In fact, the windows were all open, but they had not been left
open by the maids. The glass in every pane was cracked and shattered.
Most of it had fallen inwards from the frames, and was lying on the
floor. The rain streamed in through the great apertures, trickling down
the furniture and making little pools upon the carpet. The settee and
Joan's easy chair were drenched and sodden. Before the window the chintz
curtains blew about, sopping and forlorn.

His lips narrowed to a line. "Christ," he said very quietly.

There was nothing to be done, and if there was, he was feeling too ill
to do it. He turned from the ruined room, and went upstairs. A short
inspection of his house showed him the extent of the damage; it was
practically all confined to glass, and damage from the rain. In the
front of the house every pane of glass was shattered on the first and
second floors; a few windows at the top remained intact. The back of the
house was quite undamaged; the windows were intact and the rooms dry.

A clanging bell brought him to the nursery window in time to see a white
ambulance go past the house at a considerable speed. He heard the brakes
go on with violence as it passed him; it seemed to draw up down the road
out of his sight. There was a commotion down there, noises of people and
sounds that he could not place.

He turned from the window, went downstairs to the bathroom, opened the
medicine cupboard on the wall, and took a couple of aspirins to ease his
headache. Then he went down to the front door, opened it, and looked
out.

The rain blew down the street in desolate great gusts; low over his head
the grey clouds hurried past. Something peculiar about the houses
opposite attracted his attention; he stared for a moment while a dulled,
tired brain picked up the threads. And then it came to him. Practically
every window within sight was shattered like his own, and the rooms
stood open to the rain.

He walked to the front gate, bareheaded in his raincoat, and looked down
the road. A hundred yards away the ambulance was halted with a little
crowd of people round it; they were putting a stretcher into it with
care. It seemed to him that there were ruins there, as if the garden
wall had fallen down onto the pavement. He knew what must have happened
and it interested him; he went out of the gate and started down the
road.

The ambulance moved off as he drew near. He knew the house, of course.
He did not know their name. He knew them as an elderly couple who drove
a very old Sunbeam car, with a married daughter who stayed with them
with her children intermittently. As he came up the little crowd turned
to disperse, and Corbett saw for the first time the results of a bomb.

It had fallen in the front garden. There was a shallow crater there,
three or four feet deep. Bursting before it had had time to penetrate
far into the ground, the force of the explosion had gone sideways. The
garden wall of that house and the next was nowhere to be seen; it was
obliterated, lying in heaps of mould and shards of broken brick and
mortar scattered in the road. The front wall of the house had collapsed
and had fallen in a great heap into the front garden, blocking the door
and exposing dining room and bedrooms to the air with all their
furniture in place, much like an open doll's house. A portion of the
roof had slipped and now hung perilously, swaying and teetering in the
wind; from time to time a slate crashed to the ground.

His next-door neighbour was there, Mr. Littlejohn, a builder of houses
out at Sholing. Corbett knew his neighbour fairly well over the garden
wall, and liked his comfortable manner. But now the broad rubicund face
was drawn and tired and very serious.

Corbett asked, a little foolishly, "Is anybody hurt?"

The builder turned to him. "The maid. It's her they've just taken away.
But I don't know if it was the explosion, or whether she had a fall
getting down from her room. That's her room, the one at the top with the
washstand. Doesn't look as if it had been touched now, does it--barring
the wall, of course."

"Where was she?"

"Lying out in the garden here, all messed up."

Corbett blinked. It seemed incredible. "What happened to the old
people?" he enquired.

"They're all right--but for the shock, of course. The blast must have
been terrific in the house. See what it's done to all our windows. But
they sleep at the back, so I suppose they were all right."

"Are they in there now?"

Mr. Littlejohn shook his head. "Mrs. Wooding's got them in her
house--her that lives at Number 56. They'll be all right."

He turned away. "I tried to telephone the hospital, but my line's out of
order. Is yours working?"

"I haven't tried it," said Corbett. "It was all right last night."

"I bet it's not now."

They turned, and walked together up the road towards their houses.
"Well," said the builder heavily, "I got enough of this in the last war
to last my lifetime. I didn't never want to see it again."

"I was too young," said Corbett. "I've never seen anything like this
before."

"Let's hope you'll never see it again." They walked on for a few paces
in silence.

"I didn't know what to do," said Corbett. "Where did you go?"

The builder laughed shortly. "Soon as I realized what it was I got my
missus out of bed and we went down to the cellar. And then I thought,
maybe there'd be a sort of slanting hit--like that one--and the house
would fall on top of us. So then we went upstairs again, and sat on the
stairs outside our bedroom, because that way we got a room and two walls
between us and the outside--see? But there--whatever you do may be
wrong."

"I know," said Corbett. "We went out to the garage."

"To the garage?"

"I was afraid of the house coming down. But if the garage walls blew
down on us--well, it's all light wooden stuff, and besides, the car
would keep it off you. So we lay on the floor beside the car."

The builder nodded slowly. "That's all right. But when all's said and
done, there's nothing to beat a trench. A seven-foot trench so that
your head gets right beneath the ground, but not so deep you may get
buried in it. That's what you want to get--a trench dug in the garden."

They paused for a moment by the builder's gate. "What's it all about,
anyway?" asked Corbett dully. "Are we at war?"

The other shook his head. "I dunno."

"Who do you think it is we're fighting?"

"Blowed if I know. One or other of 'em, I suppose."

Corbett went back into his house; before going out to rouse his family
he poured himself out a whiskey and soda. He stood for a few minutes in
his dining room drinking this, a weary and dishevelled figure in his
sodden raincoat. Before him on the table was a copy of the _Evening
News_ of the night before, wide open at the centre page. His eye fell on
the cartoon. It represented the Prime Minister, very jocular, dangling a
carrot before two donkeys separated from him by a wire fence. One of the
donkeys had the head of Hitler, and the other, Mussolini.

Corbett remembered how they had laughed over it at dinner time. It did
not seem so very funny now.

He stared at the paper. He had bought it from the boy on the corner, on
his way back from the office, as he always did. He had had an
interesting day, and not too tiring. He had got home about half past six
and had been to see the children in their beds before they went to
sleep, and played with them a little. Then he had gone down with Joan,
and before dinner they had planned a new position for the sweet pea
hedge, taking it off the wall and putting it between the garage and the
lilac tree. She had showed him that the magnolia was coming out; they
had talked about the errors of omission of the gardener, who came once a
week. Then he had read the paper for a little; he remembered having
heard during the day that all leave had been cancelled for the Fleet
over at Portsmouth, because of the tension on the Continent. But there
was always tension on the Continent, and leave had been cancelled many
times before. There didn't seem to be anything particularly alarming in
the paper.

So they had gone in to dinner and talked about their holiday, wondering
if it would be nice to take the car to Scotland this year, for a change.
And after dinner there had been a concert of chamber music on the radio;
they had listened to that until the news came on at nine o'clock when
they switched off, having read the evening paper. Then they had played a
game of cards together and had gone to bed a little after ten, to lie
reading in their twin beds till half past eleven. It was about that time
that _Murder in Miniature_ had slipped from his hand, and he had rolled
over and put out his light.

The first bomb fell soon after that, before midnight.

The concussions were considerable--they must have been, because he could
remember nothing from the time that he put out his light and settled
down to sleep till he was standing at the window with Joan, his arm
around her shoulders, peering out into the rainy night. The bursts,
distant as they were, were rocking the house and setting things tinkling
in the room.

"Peter, what can it be?" she had asked. "They wouldn't be firing guns
for practice at this time of night, would they?"

He had shaken his head. "Not on a night like this. There's nothing for
them to see."

And suddenly she had cried, "Oh, Peter! Look!"

He had looked, and he had seen a sheet of yellow flame perhaps a quarter
of a mile away, outlining the roof tops in silhouette. With that there
came a shattering concussion, and another, and another, nearer every
time.

"Oh, Peter," she had cried. "It hurts my ears!"

He had hurried her from the window; they crouched down on the floor
beside the wardrobe at the far side of the room. "Keep your hands
pressed tight over your ears," he had said. "I think this must be an air
raid."

That salvo passed; as soon as it was over she had insisted upon going
upstairs to quiet the children and the nurse.

There was a lull, but the concussions continued intermittently in other
parts of the city. He had to do some quick thinking then. Like most
Englishmen of that time, he had read something about Air Raid
Precautions in the newspapers. He knew, vaguely, that he had been
advised to make a gas-proof room, and he knew with certainty that he had
done nothing about it. There had been something about buckets of sand
for incendiary bombs, and something about oilskin suits for mustard gas.
And there had been a great deal about gas masks--in the newspapers, at
any rate.

Quickly his mind passed in review the relative safety of the top room
of the house, the cellar, and the garage. He did not think of staying on
the stairs, as Littlejohn had done. It was more by instinct than by
reasoning that he decided on the garage, and hurried to the nursery to
tell his wife.

The children had been terrified at the concussions, screaming at the top
of their voices. In the turmoil he had given his orders to the women in
a firm, decisive manner, and had gone to carry rugs and bedding down the
garden to the garage. A fresh salvo fell near at hand and set him
cowering by the kitchen stove; in the middle of this all the lights in
the street and the house went out. He heard, somewhere near at hand, the
crash and rumble of falling masonry and the wailing of a siren on some
ambulance or police car.

That salvo passed. In the lull that followed he went groping around in
the pitch darkness, and got Joan and the nurse with the three children
and all their bedding out of the nursery and down the garden in the
rainy night to the garage. There he had made a bed for the two older
children on the floor, protected by the garden roller and the box of
silver sand. Then he lay down upon the floor himself with the two women
and the baby in the basket cot. He had brought a bottle of whiskey from
the house; he opened it and gave Joan and the nurse a drink. It made
them feel a little better.

They had lain there all night on the damp, oily floor. The raid had gone
on continuously till after three o'clock, the explosions sometimes
distant, sometimes very near at hand. The children had been crying for
much of the time; the nurse had cried softly to herself most of the
night.

It was over now. Corbett put his empty glass down on the table and
stretched himself erect in the morning light; he was feeling more
himself. It had been bad while it lasted. Now he must get the family
indoors again and start cleaning up the mess, try to do something about
the windows. After that, he must go down as soon as possible to see if
everything was all right at the office. If he had time, it would be nice
to find out if the country was at war and, if so, who the war was with.

He went first to the kitchen, to put on the kettle for a pot of tea
before he brought them from the garage. The hot water boiler was alight,
and the water was hot. That was a good first step; things weren't so
bad, after all. He raked the boiler out and filled it up with coke. Then
he filled the electric kettle at the hot water tap and switched it on to
boil while he went out to fetch them from the garage.

The indicator showed that no current was flowing to the kettle.

He jerked the main switch once or twice without result; his lips set to
a thin line. This was very bad. He did the whole of his cooking on an
electric range; there was no gas in the house. He tried a light switch
and a base plug; then he went to the front door and tried the bell. He
looked at the main fuse in the box, which was intact. Very soon he had
proved that there was no electricity supply at all.

He went into the dining room and tried the telephone, to ring up the
supply company. Like Littlejohn, he found the line was dead.

He searched around the kitchen but could not find an ordinary kettle in
the house, though there were three electric ones. He filled a saucepan
with hot water, took off the cooking disc from the hot water boiler, and
put the saucepan on; it would boil slowly there. He stood then for a
minute thinking hard; there was the breakfast to be cooked. Finally he
shrugged his shoulders; there were only two alternatives for cooking,
the dining room or drawing room fire. The drawing room was uninhabitable
with no windows; he went into the dining room, laid the fire with paper,
wood and coal, and lit it.

Then he went out to fetch his family indoors.

A quarter of an hour later they were all in the dining room, the
children dressing by the fire, Joan beginning to consider breakfast. She
had made a quick trip through the shattered rooms with him, and had
retired to wash her face in warm water. She came down to find him
wrestling with the fire, which had gone out and filled the room with
smoke.

Sophie, their nurse, went straight up to her room and came down half an
hour later, glum and silent.

He was half way through lighting the fire for the second time when the
front door was pushed open, and Mr. Littlejohn came in. "Thought I'd
just come in to see if you were quite all right," he said. "I did ring,
but the bell's out of order."

Corbett stood up, wiping his coal-stained hands. "That's very nice of
you," he said. "The bell works off the main. I've got no current in the
house at all."

"Neither have I," said the builder, "nor gas either. Is your telephone
working?"

Corbett shook his head. "That's off, too. I tried to ring them up about
the electricity. We do all our cooking on electricity. That's why I'm
mucking about with this fire."

The other nodded. "It's the same with us. Got any water?"

The solicitor looked startled. "Oh, yes. It's running at the tap all
right."

"Ah, but is it coming into the tank from the main, up at the top? That's
what you want to watch."

"I don't know. I never thought about that."

The builder smiled. "First thing I thought about, the water. But then, I
been in the trade, you see--all my life. Let me go up and have a look at
the cistern, and I'll soon tell you."

"Is yours off?"

"Ay."

They went up to the attic; Corbett watched anxiously as Mr. Littlejohn
depressed the ball valve. "Not a drop," he said cheerfully. "Just the
same as mine. Dry as a bone--see?"

He got down from the cistern. "That's what I came in about, really and
truly," he said. "I wanted to be sure you knew about it, and not go
lighting up the hot water boiler, or having a hot bath, or anything of
that. I been in the trade, and I know what to look for--see? So I
thought I'd just pop in and see if things were all right. Hope you don't
mind."

"It's awfully good of you," said Corbett. "As a matter of fact, the
boiler's going now. I keep it on all night. I'd better let it go out,
hadn't I?"

"It's all right so long as you don't draw off any more hot water--or not
very much. I wouldn't make it up again--let it go out natural."

They went downstairs, looking at bedrooms and the drawing room as they
went. "These windows are just terrible, of course," said Corbett. "I'll
have to try and do something about them. I wish this bloody rain would
stop."

The builder nodded. "I'm going down to my place, soon as I've had a bite
to eat," he said, "to get a couple of my chaps up with some
matchboarding, put over them temporary till I get some glass cut. Do
yours the same if you like--while they're here."

Corbett thanked him.

"Well, I'll be going along," said Mr. Littlejohn. He paused by the door.
"One other thing," he said. "You haven't had no trouble with the
drains?"

"Not that I know of. I haven't looked."

They went to look. The downstairs water-closet pan was about half full
of a black liquid that undulated and changed level as they watched.

"That's bad," said Mr. Littlejohn, regarding it, fascinated. "That's
very bad, that is."

"Isn't yours like that?" asked Corbett.

"It may be, now. It wasn't when I looked a quarter of an hour ago."

"What ought I to do about it?"

The builder scratched his head. "Don't see that you can do anything
about it, really and truly," he observed. "It's flooding does
that--pressure and flooding in the sewers, that didn't ought to be there
at all. But there--I suppose it's all you can expect."

He turned to Corbett. "I wouldn't let any of them use this place," he
said. "Not for an hour or two, till I find out how things are. You've
got another one upstairs, haven't you?"

They satisfied themselves that that one was all right.

Corbett walked with him to the door; the builder made him step outside
into the rain. "Just between you and me, Mr. Corbett," he said. "There's
no sense in alarming people--ladies, and that. But what I mean is--the
electricity and gas, they're just an inconvenience, if you take my
meaning. A bit of coal in the grate, and a good resourceful woman like
my missus or Mrs. Corbett, and you're right as rain. But the
water--that's different. You want to watch the water and not let them go
wasting it, or flushing closets with it, or anything of that--not till
we know where we are. You've got fifty gallons more or less in your cold
cistern and another thirty in the hot water tank, and that's plenty to
be going on with. But it's not enough for all the house to have a bath,
or let run to waste. Not till we know how things are. I mean, when it's
going to start running in again."

Corbett nodded. "That's true. Thanks very much for the tip." The builder
said, "I just took a walk. You been down Salisbury Road yet?"

"Not this morning."

"There's a house down there--it's terrible, Mr. Corbett. Really and
truly. I never seen anything like it--not even in the war--not from one
shell, that is. Still, what I meant to say was this. Two of them fell in
the road, one at the far end and another one a little bit this way.
Well, the one at the far end, the water main's bust for sure. There's a
regular fountain coming up, properly flooding the place. And it's not
running away, neither--like it should. That looks as if the surface
drains is crushed."

There was a momentary silence.

"You see, Mr. Corbett, a lot of people, they forget about the water. It
don't give no trouble in the ordinary way, and you don't think. But once
the mains is cracked, they take a power of a lot of getting right again.
Water ain't like electricity, where you can string a bit of wire along
on poles to the house and everything's all right. Water's water, and it
takes a long time to get the mains in order once they're cracked.

"And where one of them bombs has fallen," he said soberly, "it'll all be
cracked. Water and gas and sewers--all mixed up together."

Corbett went back into his house and told Joan about the water. She
wrinkled her brows. "We'll have to get it put right before tonight," she
objected. "There's the children's baths. Phyllis and John could go
without, perhaps, but baby must have hers."

"I should think you might take a little in a basin for baby. The other
two will have to go dirty." He went on to tell her about the drains.
"I'll see if it's possible to do anything about the water today," he
said. "But in the meantime, we'll just have to go slow on what we've
got."

"I suppose so," she said wonderingly. "Seems funny, doesn't it? Here,
come and eat your breakfast." She leant over the smoking fire, and
transferred a couple of rather smutty eggs from the frying pan to a
luke-warm plate.

He asked, "Where's Annie?" They had a daily maid who came in before
breakfast.

"She hasn't turned up yet. I hope her rabbit dies."

She busied herself about the grate; he sat down with the children to the
meal. Phyllis asked him, "Daddy. Are we going to sleep in the garage
again tonight?"

He was startled. The possibility had not occurred to him before. "I
don't think so," he said. "Not unless the bangs start coming again."

His answer was digested in silence for a minute. Then, "Daddy, if the
bangs come again, may I take Teddy to bed with me in the garage?"

"May I take Horsey, Daddy?" asked his son.

"Why--yes," he said patiently. Joan came to his rescue.

"Get on and eat your breakfasts," she said. "You've not eaten anything.
If you don't eat your breakfasts up, Daddy won't let anybody sleep in
the garage tonight."

That finished them for the rest of the meal. Corbett got up from the
table, lit a cigarette. He said, "I must get down to the office right
away. I want to see how things are there. If anything's happened to our
files and records--there'll be awful trouble."

"You can't go down without having a shave," said Joan. "Make yourself
tidy, dear. This water will be hot in a minute."

He stared at her in wonder. "I must be off my head," he said at last.
"Fancy thinking of going down to work without having shaved...." He
rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin.

She pressed his arm. "Don't worry. I expect everything will be all right
down there."

Twenty minutes later, spruce and neat in his business suit, bowler hat,
and dark overcoat, and carrying a neatly furled umbrella on his arm, he
came to her again.

"I'm off now," he said. "I can't ring you up because the phone's out of
order--I'll try and get that put right. I'll be back to lunch if I
possibly can, but don't worry if I'm not."

She stood for a moment in thought. "Candles," she said at last. "We'll
have to have some candles if the electricity isn't going to be on
tonight. The milk hasn't come yet, either. We take three and a half
pints. If it doesn't come I'll have to go and get it, but I don't want
to leave the house."

He nodded. "Candles and milk."

She turned to him. "I tell you what would be a god-send, if you could
get it. A Primus stove--like we have on the boat. And a kettle to go on
it--and paraffin and meths, of course."

"I'll do what I can. I'd better take the car."

She reached up and kissed him. "There's sure to be an awful lot of other
things," she said. "Come back for lunch, if you can."

He went down the garden to the garage, got the car, and drove towards
his office in Cumberland Place. He was appalled at what he saw. In
Westwood Road he passed a house that had suffered a direct hit; above
the first floor there was very little left of it. He went on, sober and
a little sick, and stopped once more to inspect a crater in the road
where there had been a motor car. After that he did not stop again.

He had to make two detours to avoid roads that were blocked with bomb
holes.

The streets were full of people. Most of them seemed to be looking
around, viewing the damage before they went on to their work. There was
a sort of stunned bewilderment apparent in the crowd, and mingled with
it the exhilaration of the novelty, a certain thrill and pleasure in the
break of the routine. There was excitement, interest, in the streets.
People were standing at street corners chatting eagerly to strangers; at
other points there seemed to be the apathy of tragedy. Corbett wanted to
buy a paper but could see no posters; the newsagents shops that he
passed were closed. A great many shop windows were smashed; in one or
two places gangs of men were working nailing boards across.

He reached his office about ten o'clock, and parked outside it. Duncan,
the managing clerk, slid from his desk as Corbett came in.

"Morning, Duncan. Mr. Bellinger in yet?"

"Not yet, Mr. Corbett." The old man hesitated. "Wasn't it a terrible
night, sir?"

Corbett nodded. "Pretty bad. Everything all right at home, I hope?"

"Yes, sir. We were spared."

"Spared? So was I. We've got that to be thankful for."

"Oh, yes, sir. We have indeed."

"Has the _Times_ come?"

"No, sir. None of the papers have come this morning, nor the post
either."

"Have we had any windows broken here?"

"No, sir. Everything seems to be quite all right. I think we've been
very fortunate."

"I should say we have."

He moved over to the telephone switchboard and tried the various lines;
it was all dead. He went through into his office.

With no post, no paper, and no telephone, there was only routine work to
do; he could not settle down to that. He idled for ten minutes at his
desk, waiting for something to happen. Then he noticed Andrews' car
parked outside his office next door. Andrews was a chartered accountant,
and a member of the same club.

He went out, and into the next office. Andrews, lean and saturnine, was
idling as he had been.

"Morning," said Corbett. "Have a good night?"

"Not so bad," said Mr. Andrews. "Bit of coal in the bed, but nothing to
signify."

"Do you know if we're at war?"

Mr. Andrews said, "We are now."

"Who are we fighting?"

Mr. Andrews told him in a few short sentences.

"How did you get to know all this?" asked Corbett.

"It's on the radio. They're broadcasting news almost continuously."

"My set's passed out with the electricity."

"So is mine. But I've got a set in the car, and that's functioning all
right. The King's broadcasting at three o'clock, and the Prime Minister
at 2.30."

"If we get any current I must listen in to that."

"If we had some ham," said Mr. Andrews, "we could have some ham and eggs
if we had some eggs."

"Do you know, has any other town been bombed?"

The accountant leaned forward. "Has any town _not_ been bombed! They've
all had it, from what I can make out--just like us. Portsmouth,
Brighton, Bristol, Guildford, Bournemouth, Oxford, Birmingham, Coventry,
Plymouth--oh, and a lot more. Practically every town in the Midlands and
the South of England."

"My God!" said Corbett.

Mr. Andrews leaned back in his chair. "The real cream of the joke," he
said, "the part that'll tickle you to death, is that there's no news
that any of the bombers were shot down, or interfered with in any way.
That's a bad one."

"Of course," said Corbett.

"I suppose it came as a complete surprise."

"Evidently."

There was a little silence. Corbett frowned. "I don't understand how it
was done. I didn't see any airplanes, or hear any engines. Did you?"

"No, I can't say I did. I saw a few searchlights, but they didn't seem
to be much good. The clouds were too low."

The solicitor got up restlessly, and walked over to the window. "My
God," he said, "we're in a bloody mess."

He stood staring out of the window over the little park on the other
side of the road. There were craters in it like great excavations.
Through the trees he could see the buildings of the Civic Centre; part
of it seemed to have come down.

Without turning from the window he said, "Did you count the bombs?"

Andrews shook his head. "I had other things to think about, old boy."

"I wonder how many there were? There's been a frightful lot of damage
done."

The accountant picked up a pencil and held it poised above his blotting
pad. "On the average," he said, "how many explosions did you hear a
minute?"

"Lord knows. Sometimes they came quick, and then there'd be a bit of a
gap. I heard about fifteen come down one minute."

"But on the average?"

Corbett thought carefully. "More than four. Perhaps five or six. But you
really can't say."

The accountant flung his pencil down unused. "There are a hundred and
eighty minutes in three hours. That means the best part of a thousand
bombs."

Corbett nodded. "I dare say there were that number. But what sort of a
force of bombers would that mean?"

"I've no idea."

Corbett turned back into the room. "There must have been a lot of people
killed," he said heavily. "Have you heard anything about the casualties
yet?"

Mr. Andrews shook his head. "They didn't say anything about that side of
it upon the radio. There were three people killed in Wilton Road, just
by me. Family called Winchell. Did you know them?"

Corbett shook his head.

"Father, mother, and one child," said Mr. Andrews succinctly. "The other
kid got off scot free."

There was a little silence.

"I can't stay here," said Corbett restlessly. "I'm going out. I've got
to buy a Primus stove."

He went out into the streets. In the half hour since he had come into
the centre of the town there had been a marked change for the better.
The idle, gossiping crowds had vanished from the corners, and now the
streets were full of busy, energetic people going about their business.
The craters in the streets where bombs had fallen were full of men
working upon the various mains and conduits, shattered and uncovered by
the explosion. In half a dozen places the overhead wires of the trams
were down and trailing in the road; he saw several repair gangs working
upon those. A great many of the windows of the larger shops were
shattered irretrievably; in most of them the assistants were engaged in
putting up some sort of barrier or protection to the shop front. There
was a tendency to chalk up such notices as BUSINESS AS USUAL.

Southampton was itself again, busy and enterprising.

He went into an ironmonger's where he was known, to buy a Primus stove.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Corbett," said the man, "but I'm right out. Haven't got
a Primus in the place. Regular run on Primuses there's been this
morning, what with the gas being off and all. I'm sorry."

"Do you know where I could get one?"

The man suggested one or two other places. "Would you like me to save
you a gallon of paraffin, Mr. Corbett?"

"Is that short?"

"There's been a great run on it this morning. We shall be out very
soon."

He bought a can, had it filled with paraffin, and took it with him to
the office. Then he went out again.

He got a Primus stove with difficulty at a ship chandler's down by the
docks. After trying half a dozen stores, he got some very large candles
irreverently at an ecclesiastical supplier's. Fresh milk was
unobtainable; it seemed that very little milk had come in to Southampton
that morning. He got a few tins of condensed milk at a grocer's shop.

Towards noon he was in the High Street, walking back towards his office.
Quite suddenly beneath his feet he felt a subterranean rumble, and a
hundred yards away a manhole cover shot up into the air from the middle
of the road, followed by a vivid sheet of yellow flame. The heavy cover
fell with a resounding clang upon the road, doing no damage. There was a
sudden rush of people from the street; one or two women screamed.

There was an expectant pause.

Nothing more happened, and presently the people ventured out into the
street again. A little crowd collected. A harassed-looking policeman
with a grey drawn face and dirty streaks around his eyes appeared from
somewhere and stood by the open manhole.

"Move along there," he said mechanically. "Don't get crowding
round--there's nothing to see. Keep moving on. Come on there--keep
moving. Bit o' gas in the sewer. Nothing to worry about now. Move along,
please."

Corbett went over to the hole; the man recognized him as a police court
acquaintance, and saluted. "Not so good, this," said Corbett.

"I didn't see it happen, sir," said the constable. "I was around the
corner, in Fishbourne Street. But there have been one or two of these
this morning."

"Did you say it was gas in the sewer?"

"Town gas from the mains, they say, sir." He said wearily, "It'll take a
while to get things properly fixed up, after a night like what we've
had."

Near the Civic Centre Corbett bought a newspaper still wet from the
press, and read about the war.

The war news was quite short, and made up from the news broadcasts
suitably filled out by the local editor. There was an account of similar
raids which had taken place in other towns, which did not interest him
very much. It left him cold to hear in messages sent out from London
that London had been more heavily bombed than any other town. On another
page there were full details of the emergency programme of broadcasting,
of academic interest only in a town where the electric wires were dead.
He reflected for a minute. There was a battery set in his old yacht at
Hamble, if he could get to that. But probably the batteries would be run
down. He had not used it since the previous summer.

The back page of the paper was given over to a stirring patriotic
appeal. It seemed that there were a number of ways in which he could
enlist to serve his country. All of them involved leaving Joan and his
three children to get along as best they could. His brows wrinkled in a
frown; he wanted to think over that. It wasn't a thing to be rushed
into. If there was going to be another air raid, somebody would have to
be at hand to help Joan with the children. Especially if this talk of
gas meant anything....

Back at the office his secretary, Miss Mortimer, was waiting for him
with her hat and coat on. She got up as he came in.

"Please, Mr. Corbett," she said, "could I have the day off?"

He nodded. "That's all right," he said. "We shan't be doing any work
today. I'm going home myself."

She sighed with relief. "Thank you so much, Mr. Corbett. It's my daddy
and mummy, you see. They live all alone, and they're so old now. I can't
get to know what's happened to them, or if they want any help, unless I
go there myself. I'll be back as soon as ever I can."

"That's all right," he said again. "Where do they live?"

"Just outside Poole, Mr. Corbett--between Poole and Bournemouth. I'm not
sure how the trains are going, but if it comes to the worst I could get
over on my bicycle. It's only about thirty miles."

She paused. "Of course, I went through the Air Raid Precautions course,
and I'm supposed to be working at a First Aid post. But I can't think of
anything else but how Daddy and Mummy are getting on. I do think the old
people ought to come first, don't you, Mr. Corbett?"

"That's your own problem," he said. "I can't help you there."

She considered for a minute, and said doubtfully, "I might be able to
get somebody to take my place before I go."

She left him, and he turned to the old clerk. "We'll pack up for the
day," he said. "Lock up the office, and get along home and look after
your family."

"Thank you, sir. But there's only my wife and myself. The children are
all out in the world."

Corbett nodded. "So much the better for you."

"I'm sure, sir." The old man hesitated. "Did you hear where we could get
our gas masks, sir, by any chance?"

The solicitor shook his head. "I haven't heard a word about that yet."

He went out to the car, laden with his purchases. The rain had stopped
and the clouds had lifted a little; over his head a couple of airplanes
made reassuring noises, crossing, turning, and recrossing the city. He
watched them for a minute.

"Making a photographic survey of the damage," he said, half to himself.
"That's not a bad idea, for a start." He had guessed right.

Outside his office he ran into Andrews, crossing to his car. Andrews
said, "Been down to the Docks this morning?"

Corbett shook his head.

"I've got a job going on down there. You never saw such a picnic."

"There's been a lot of damage?"

"Not a great deal, really. One of the small Cunard boats--I don't know
which--she's foundered in the Ocean dock. They were saying that there
was another one at Millbrook--a Greek tramp. One or two of the sheds
have got it pretty bad. But the trouble is, they're all trying to get
away to sea together, on this tide. Evans told me there are thirty-eight
ships docking out this morning--most of them just moving down to anchor
in the Solent and Southampton Water. The masters won't listen to reason,
and they're not giving a damn for anyone or anything. They're getting
their ships out of it before tonight."

Corbett nodded slowly. "They think there's another raid coming tonight?"

"Everybody seems to think that." He paused. "I tell you, I've never seen
anything like it. This wind isn't helping, either. They've had two
collisions in the fairway--one quite bad. There aren't enough tugs to go
round. There's a Dutch ship beached at Cracknore Hard with her stern
right out in the channel--I never saw such a pickle."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Heard anything about gas masks?" asked Corbett.

"Yes. I asked about that at the Civic Centre. They reckon they'll be
here tonight."

They separated, and Corbett got into his car to drive home. As he went,
he noted with surprise the progress that was being made in the
rehabilitation of the city. Trams were running again northwards from the
Civic Centre. In London Road there had been three great craters, half
filled with water. Two of these had already been roughly filled with
gravel brought by heavy lorries; in the third a strong gang of men were
working on the repair of a sewer. Practically every manhole in the
pavements and the roads was up, and occupied by a man working. Clearly
it would not be many days before the services would be working again, in
that district at any rate.

He drove on into the suburban roads, and there the situation was not
quite so good. Most of the houses gaped with broken windows; in the
streets the bomb holes were still streaming water to the gutters.

"There won't be any water in the town, at this rate," he muttered.

He stopped the car before his garden gate and went into the house,
carrying his purchases. Joan met him in the doorway.

"Peter," she said. "Sophie's gone."

"Gone?"

"She lives at Romsey. She was awfully glum after breakfast, and then she
said she wanted to go home. I tried to get her to stay out her week, but
she wouldn't. She just went and got her things on, and walked out."

"Did she take her clothes and stuff with her?"

"No. She said she'd send for them, or she'd come and get them. She was
in such a state of nerves she didn't know what she was doing."

"Has Annie come?"

She shook her head. "She hasn't turned up today. We've got nobody at
all."

He laid his hand upon her arm. "Never mind. Annie may be in tomorrow.
But if she isn't, we'll get along all right till things get settled
down. There's nothing doing in the office, so I'll be able to give you
a hand in the house for a bit."

He mused for a moment. "That's the evacuation of the city, of course,"
he said thoughtfully. "Sophie's one of them. I saw a lot of people going
out along the London Road. But I don't know that we've really come to
that."

He thought uneasily of the shipping, of the tramps and liners barging
against each other and colliding in their endeavours to get clear of the
city before night.

"Oh, and Peter," said his wife. "The water closet in the downstairs
lavatory has been misbehaving. It sort of overflowed, I think. It's
beastly."

He went with her to look; they stopped outside the door. The floor of
the little room was covered in black, liquid slime, with an offensive
smell. The pan was full of undulating sludge.

Joan said, "Someone ought to come and put that right for us, shouldn't
they? I mean, it ought not to do that."

He agreed that it ought not. "But whether they'll be able to spare
anyone to come and look at it, for the next day or two--that's another
matter."

In this trouble, he went round to see Mr. Littlejohn. He found him with
two joiners putting the finishing touches to the matchboarding of his
drawing room and first-floor windows, turning the rooms into dark
caverns. "Made a nice job of this," said Mr. Littlejohn. "They'll be
starting on yours after dinner."

"It's awfully good of you," said Corbett, and consulted him about the
closet.

"Mine did the same," said the builder wearily. "Terrible mess it
made--all over the place. Unhealthy, too--not what one ought to have
about in the house at all. I put down a lot of Sanitas. But see, I'll
show you what to do." He took Corbett and showed him how he had taken up
an iron manhole cover in the front garden. "Now if it happens again, it
just comes up and flows over in the garden here and soaks into the
ground, and don't hurt nobody."

He thought for a moment. "Leastways," he said, "it's better than having
it in the house with you."

Again Corbett told his story of the episode in the High Street, to an
enthralled audience. "Of course," said Mr. Littlejohn when he had
finished, "that explains everything, when you get them sort of goings
on. Blew the cover right up in the air, did it? Well, I never!"

They talked happily about the drains for a time. And then, "You thought
what you're going to do if they come back again tonight?" asked the
builder.

Corbett rubbed his chin in perplexity. "I did think about a trench," he
said. "I don't know how long it would take me to dig."

"Cor," said the builder, "that wouldn't take no time, not just a little
bit of a thing, like what you'd need. There's only you and the missus,
and the children. You'd want to get about five feet down and big enough
to take a couple of chairs, just so that your heads was below the
surface, sitting down. It wouldn't take more than three hours, or four
hours at the most, digging a little bit of a hole like that."

"Of course," said Corbett, "the other thing would be to get out into the
country for the night."

"I been thinking of that," said Mr. Littlejohn slowly. "But--I don't
know. After all, they wouldn't come two nights running, hardly--not to
the same place."

Corbett said, "I shouldn't think so. At the same time, I'd sleep happier
tonight if I'd got a trench to go to."

"That's right," said Mr. Littlejohn. "Tell you what. I'll slip along to
my place after dinner, and fetch back a couple o' picks."




2


After lunch Corbett started to dig his trench.

The rain held off; before he began he made Joan come with him to the
garden to settle where it was to be dug. They debated this for some
time. "You don't want to put it in the lawn," she said. "It'll look
awful when it comes to be filled in. You'd never get the mark out of the
grass. Let's have it in the back bed, along the wall. I don't mind about
the dahlias, and you can dodge the plum tree."

Corbett scrutinized the nine-inch wall, already cracked in one or two
places. "I don't want that wall to come down on top of us," he said
doubtfully. "I think the safest place is in the middle of the lawn."

She could not deny that; they stood and looked at the smooth turf. "It
does seem an awful shame," she said. She turned to him. "Peter, you
don't think we're making too much of this, do you? I mean, I know we had
a terrible time last night. But it's not likely to happen again, is it?
I remember reading about it in the last war. They never came to the same
place twice over, did they?"

He rubbed his chin. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't see why
they shouldn't." He laid his hand upon her arm. "I think we'll have it
in the lawn," he said. "It'll be an awful sweat, but I believe I'd like
to have it for tonight--just in case. Look, you go down into the town
and see if you can find any milk. I'll look after the children."

She nodded. "It's not only milk. There's bread and meat--oh, and all
sorts of things. Hardly any of the tradesmen have been this morning.
I'll have to take the car, I think."

She turned to him. "Baby's asleep in the pram. You will look after her
if she cries, won't you? And don't let Phyllis wake her up."

He smiled. "Go on down into the town," he said. "They'll be all right
with me." He very much disliked looking after the children, and she knew
it; she smiled at him, and went.

He decided to make his trench six feet long, three feet wide, and six
feet deep. He marked it out on the grass in the middle of the lawn, and
commenced to dig. He was in average condition for a young man working
all day in an office, but he was tired and stale from lack of sleep. In
spite of his fatigue he went at it doggedly; by the end of an hour he
had dug about a foot deep over the area that he had marked.

He rested for a little then, and went on. When Joan returned an hour
later he was very tired.

She stood and looked at it. "It isn't very deep," she said. "Is it
terribly hard work?"

"Terribly," he said shortly.

She laid her hand upon his arm. "Poor old Peter. Come in and sit down
for a bit, and I'll make a cup of tea."

He stared at the trench, dissatisfied. "It's got to be deeper if it's
going to be any good."

"After tea," she said. They had tea with condensed milk, reserving what
fresh milk they had for the children. She had only been able to get a
pint of milk, in an open jug, together with some more tinned milk and a
variety of provisions. Most of the latter she had bought from a lorry in
the street. "The shops didn't seem to have anything you wanted," she
said.

He nodded. "Milk and stuff isn't coming into the city. Everything's very
much disorganized today."

She said, "The fresh bread only came into the shops this afternoon." And
then she said, "Down in the town, everything's beginning to smell. I
don't know if it's my imagination, but it all seems sort of fusty--like
an Italian town. Horrid."

He laughed shortly. "Well, look at the drains. Our house isn't just a
bed of roses."

She nodded. "Peter, what had we better do? I mean, now you've taken up
that manhole thing in the front garden?"

He rubbed his chin. "I'll have to do something about that."

He did. He took a cane-bottomed chair, a sharp knife, a bucket, and one
of the dining room curtains, and built an edifice behind the garage that
would have done credit to Lem Putt. He took Joan out and showed it to
her proudly. "I don't say that the City Engineer would view it with
enthusiasm," he said. "But till he comes and puts the drains right,
it'll have to do."

Joan was not impressed. "It doesn't look very comfortable," she said.
"And it's going to be horrid when it rains. Can't you put a roof over
it?"

They went indoors, and made a large tea for the children in the kitchen,
their last meal of the day. In the middle of that there came a
thundering at the front door; Corbett went and opened it. There was a
man there, wearing an armlet.

"Gas masks," he said. "How many in your household?" There was a lorry
slowly driving down the street, with men going from house to house.

"Good work," he said, impressed. "There's my wife and myself, and three
children."

"How old are the children?"

"Six and three. And a baby."

The man went back to the lorry, and returned with the masks. "Here you
are--be careful of them. Don't use them unless the gas is really there.
When you've used them for ten hours, come to the Civic Centre and
exchange them for fresh ones. There. One large for you, one medium for
your wife, and two small ones for the children. We can't do nothing for
the baby."

Corbett met his eyes. "What am I supposed to do with the baby?"

The man looked awkward. "Everyone asks that. You want to have it with
you in a gas-proof room, if you can make one."

"That's not so easy, with the windows in this state."

"I know. You might be able to screen off a bit of the cellar with wet
blankets, or something of that."

He moved on to the next house. Corbett went back to the kitchen,
detached Joan from the children, and told her about the baby.

"But, Peter," she said, "what are we to do? We can't all sit out in your
trench in gas masks, and the baby not have one."

He sighed. "I don't know. There may not be any gas. I'll see if I can
think of something."

He went out to the garden and continued digging in the falling dusk. He
dug till he could not see what he was doing any more. Then he stopped,
sweating and very tired, and went to have a word with Mr. Littlejohn. He
found him knocking off work.

"Eh," said the builder, "I'm not the man I was. I haven't dug like this
for twenty years. Time was, I'd have sunk a little hole like that in a
couple of hours."

He had done about as much as Corbett, about four feet deep, but very
much neater. "I was looking for something to put over it," he said.
"Make a roof for keeping out the rain. Splinters, too. But I don't seem
to have anything up here--unless I unscrewed a door...."

"Drive the car over it," said Corbett.

"Eh," said the builder slowly, "that's a good idea, that is."

He rubbed his hands together. "What say if we have a Guinness?"

Corbett smiled. "That's the most sensible remark I've heard today."

It was practically dark in the garden. There had been isolated aircraft
in the air most of the day; now with the coming of the night there
seemed to be a great deal more activity. A squadron of nine machines
passed above their heads, flying at a low altitude.

The builder glanced up at them. "Ay," he said without rancour. "There's
plenty of them now. But I'd like to know where them chaps were last
night."

With the evening the clouds were rolling away. In the deep blue of the
sky a few stars were showing; it was clearing every minute. They stood
together in the garden, looking up.

"Going to be a clear night," said Corbett.

Mr. Littlejohn nodded soberly. "That's bad," he said. "Clear nights is
what they like. Remember how they used to come over, moonlight nights,
in the last war?"

Corbett nodded. "But it wasn't clear last night," he said.

They moved towards the house. "That's right," said the builder. "Raining
cats and dogs, it was--all night." He paused. "Did you get to hear
anything about the raid--I mean to say, how they done it? I didn't hear
any airplanes at all, last night. And how did they know what they was
bombing at?"

Corbett shook his head. "I don't know. I've not met anyone who does."

"Well," said Mr. Littlejohn, "if they did that to us last night when
they couldn't see nothing, we'll cop it properly tonight when they can
see what they're doing." He sighed. "I ought to try and get a bit deeper
with my hole, I suppose."

They went into the house, and sat down in the florid sitting room; he
produced cigarettes and Guinness. A copy of the paper lay spread out
upon the table. The builder laid his hand on it.

"All this it says about enlisting," he said slowly. "Are you going to do
anything?"

Corbett was silent for a minute. "I don't see how I can, just yet," he
said. "I don't know what would happen to my family. Joan couldn't get on
by herself, with three kids to look after, and all this going on. I
don't know what she'd do, if I wasn't here." He raised his head. "It
isn't that I've got the wind up. But one's got to see one's wife and
kids right, first of all."

The builder nodded. "You don't want to think of it," he said. "It
wouldn't be proper for you to go away and leave Mrs. Corbett to struggle
along on her own. You don't want to think about enlisting till you've
seen them right." He took a drink of stout. "I been feeling the same,"
he said. "There's only the two of us, Mr. Corbett--just me and the
missus. And last time I enlisted right at the beginning, August the
seventh it was, and went right through. Wounded twice, I was. In the fat
part of the leg--that wasn't nothing--and one right through here." He
tapped his left shoulder. "And I'm not that old I couldn't go again. I'm
forty-eight."

He paused. "I been thinking about it all the afternoon," he said. "And I
made up my mind, Mr. Corbett. I'm not going--not till I can see my way a
bit better. It wouldn't be fair on the missus leaving her alone, with
raids like that we had likely to happen any night. We've been together
all these years, and I'm not going to leave her at a time like this. It
wouldn't be right. Of course," he said, "if I could get to see her
settled and comfy in a little house somewhere where it's safe, then
it'ld be another matter."

Corbett laughed shortly. "Somewhere safe and comfy," he repeated. "It
seems to me that's going to take a bit of finding."

The builder stuck his chin out. "That may be. But till I've got the
missus properly fixed up they're not going to get me to go soldiering
again."

Corbett finished his glass, and got up. "I've got to go on," he said.
"Let me know if I can do anything to help in the night. And thanks for
the drink."

Mr. Littlejohn came with him to the door. "You been out this afternoon?
I took a walk round. They've been getting on fine with all these holes
in the roads. I reckon they have done champion. Another two or three
days will see it all cleaned up, the rate they're getting on." He
laughed. "That's if they don't have it all to do again, after tonight."

He looked up at the sky, brilliantly clear and starry. "Good luck, Mr.
Corbett," he said soberly. "Remember that I'm just over the way, if you
want any help."

Corbett went back into his house. Joan came to meet him, looking tired
and worn. "I've got the children into bed," she said. "They were awfully
disappointed that they weren't going to sleep in the garage. We had
tears about it. Peter, do you think they'll come again tonight?"

"It's a bright, starry night," he said. "It must be perfect for a
bombing raid. I'm afraid they may."

She nodded. "I thought that, too. I've been looking out what we've got
for first aid, if we wanted it."

"That's a good idea. How are we fixed?"

"Not so bad. We've got a lot of bandages and cotton wool, and some
iodine and plaster. I keep it for the children, knees and elbows. And
one could always make a splint out of something or other. The only thing
we haven't got is any sort of sedative--morphia, or anything like that."

He eyed her. "Do you think we need it?"

"Well--do you?"

She hesitated for a minute. "They say the maid at that house down the
road lay out in the front garden for three hours before the ambulance
came. It's like the war, Peter. I do think we should have something of
the sort."

He nodded. "I'll have to get it from a doctor. I could go round and see
if Gordon's in."

The surgeon had been godfather to his son. They were great friends, a
friendship born of weekends spent together on the little yacht, fishing
and bathing in the Solent. Corbett walked round to his house, a quarter
of a mile away, and told his need to Mrs. Gordon. "I'll see if he's
awake, Peter," she said. "I think he is. But he was up at the hospital
all night, and he didn't get back till nearly midday."

"Don't wake him, Margaret, whatever you do."

She shook her head. "I won't do that."

She went upstairs; in a few minutes the surgeon came down in his shirt
sleeves. "I was just getting up," he said. "My God, Corbett--what a
night. Are your people all right?"

The surgeon rubbed his hand across his eyes. "You never saw anything
like it at the hospital," he said. "Two hundred and thirty major
operations in seven hours. Each of us had two tables going--operating on
the one while they were getting the other ready. God help us if there's
another raid tonight. We haven't been able to evacuate them yet, and
we're in an awful jam. They're lying all along the corridors on
mattresses."

"I'd no idea that it was anything like that. How many casualties do you
suppose there were?"

"The inside of a thousand--say one for every bomb. Of those, about three
hundred must have been killed outright. We had five or six hundred at
the hospital."

Corbett said, "You must be frightfully tired. I won't keep you." He
explained his need for morphia.

The surgeon scribbled a prescription. "Get this at the chemist's," he
said. "One tablet only, in water. Not more, in any circumstances. And
look, this is important. Get hold of a blue pencil, and chalk a big
cross on the patient's cheek if you've given it."

"What about the children?"

"Half a tablet--not that unless you absolutely must. Don't give it to
the baby at all."

Corbett thanked him, and walked down into the town to find a chemist.
Over his head in the clear night the aircraft roared on their patrol; in
the distance an occasional searchlight shot a white beam to the deep
blue sky. As he went, he saw the progress that had been made with the
craters in the streets since morning. There were none now that had not
been attended to; those that had not been filled in were boarded over,
and the flow of water to the gutters had been stopped.

In one part of the town the electricity was on. The street lamps were
turned out and all lights were subdued by curtains, but the mere fact of
the light being there at all gave promise for the future.

He visited the chemist, and got his morphia. As he was leaving the shop
he ran into a young man whom he knew slightly, who worked in the office
of the Town Clerk at the Civic Centre. He talked to him for a few
minutes about the state of the city.

"The electricity is pretty straightforward," said the young man. "It's
on now over a good part of the town. The telephone should be all right
tomorrow--we got a line to London restored this afternoon. Gas--Lord
knows when we'll get the gas again. Sewers--well, they work in some
parts. But it's the water that's the real difficulty now. There's no
water to speak of in any part of the city, and what there is just
bubbles up out of the pavements and runs away to waste."

He paused. "Good class houses have storage tanks, of course--the sort of
house that you live in. But some of the poorer parts are in a terrible
way for water, really they are. In Chapel and in Northam, down behind
the docks, they've been scooping up the water from the gutters where it
came up out of the road, and drinking that. If this goes on we'll have
to start carting water in from the country.

"It's not only Southampton," he said. "It's the same all over. Every
city in the country seems to be the same for water. We're all in the
same jam."

He swayed a little as he stood, and caught at the chemist's door. He
laughed shortly. "I'm about done in, I don't mind telling you. I'm one
of the Air Raid Wardens--I was up all last night. And after that, a day
like this in the office ... I hope to God that they don't come again
tonight."

Corbett went back through the dark, unlighted streets to his house. Joan
had a hot meal ready for him; they sat down together. "I'd never have
believed the town would rally round so well, and get the mess cleared up
so quick," he said. "But everyone's tired out. If they should come again
tonight--it'll be just too bad."

Over their heads the sky seemed full of airplanes, passing and
re-passing in the night.

After his supper, Corbett went out to the garden, and dug for another
hour at his trench. He was so tired at the end that he could hardly lift
the pick; he got down to a depth of about five feet below the surface.
Finally he could do no more. He went and got the car and drove it over
the flower beds into the garden, crossing the lawn till it straddled
above the trench. Then he went back to the house, utterly exhausted.

Joan met him in the hall. She had collected in baskets all that they
were likely to need during the night, the gas masks, first-aid kit,
food, and whiskey. These she had put ready in the hall. Corbett went
over to them. "God," he said. "Fancy having to do this sort of thing!"

They stared at each other in wonder. "It's all happened in so short a
time," said the girl. "Like being in a different world."

He nodded. "Well, there's nothing more that we can do. Now we've just
got to wait for it."

She laid her hand upon his arm. "You must go to bed and get some
sleep," she said. "I'm going to sleep upstairs with the children. Get
some sleep anyway, before anything happens. I've put a bottle in your
bed."

He kissed her. "You'll come and wake me if you should hear anything?"

"Of course I will."

"I wouldn't take off too many clothes, if I were you," he said. "Be so
that you can get out in a hurry, if we have to."

He went upstairs and lay down in his underclothes. Over the house the
aircraft droned in the dark night; there seemed to be great numbers of
them in the air. "They're on the spot all right tonight," he muttered to
himself. Then he rolled over on his side, and sank into a heavy,
dreamless sleep.

When next he stirred and opened his eyes, the day was bright.

He blinked, leaned up on one elbow, and looked at his watch. It was
seven o'clock. A shaft of sunlight, nearly horizontal, was streaming
into the room; he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then it came to him that
there had been no raid, and that he was sleeping in his clothes.

He got up and went to the window, feeling rather foolish. He saw his
garden and the ruins of his lawn, the piles of raw clay on the grass,
the car perched drunkenly above the trench, the pick and shovel lying
discarded in a rose bed. He passed a hand over his face, and went to the
washstand for a drink of water.

He went to have a bath, still half asleep. He remembered the water
shortage before turning on the taps, however, and did his best with a
cold sponge. Then he went back to his room, and dressed in a dark
business suit.

Joan came to him as he was dressing. "There wasn't any raid," she said.
"I slept right through. Did you?"

"Never had such a night." He turned to her. "I believe we've been making
altogether too much of this thing," he said. "It's my fault--I should
have had more confidence in the defences. I ought to have known they'd
never get away with it a second time."

"You mean, they got through with the first raid just because they took
us by surprise?" she said.

He nodded. "They had perfect weather for a raid last night. But with the
airplanes there were about, they couldn't possibly get through again. I
think we shall be all right now." He smiled, a little ruefully. "But
just look at the mess I've made of our lawn!"

She came and looked out of the window with him. "It _is_ a mess," she
said, and laughed. "Never mind, dear--I'll get the gardener to put it
right. It was the right thing for you to do."

"You think so? I've been thinking we got rather carried away."

"I don't think we did. After all, they might have come again. We
couldn't know."

He nodded. "I suppose we couldn't. Anyway, you'd better get the gardener
for another half day this week."

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I rather like to feel it's
there. Don't let's be in too much of a hurry to get it filled in."

"All right. Go on and get the children up, and I'll start cooking
breakfast. What have we got--bacon and eggs? I wish we'd got some maids
back."

"They'll probably be back today."

Breakfast was a tricky, tiresome meal, complicated by lack of milk and
by the requirements of the children. Before it was over tradesmen
started to arrive at the back door, amongst them the milkman. Corbett
finished his meal as soon as possible and then, on plea of urgent work,
made his escape to the office.

"I'd like to have the car this morning," said Joan. "I've got a lot of
shopping I must do, and I'll have to take the family with me, baby and
all. I can manage if I have the car. Shall I come and pick you up for
lunch?"

He nodded. "Look in about one o'clock. I'll come home if I can."

He walked down to the office. In the streets the trams and omnibuses
were running normally; in spite of the boarded windows and the
gravel-filled craters in the roads the city seemed to have regained its
usual atmosphere. He bought a paper at the first shop that he passed and
stopped for some minutes on the pavement reading about the war. It
seemed there had been a great reprisal raid, but the communiqu was
short; there had been no time for any great detail.

"Hope our chaps got away with it as well as they did," he muttered.

He went on to the office. There was a very big mail waiting for him on
his desk, two days' post in one. His partner, Bellinger, who lived at
Bishop's Waltham, came into the office; they exchanged experiences and
discussed the war news for a few minutes, then separated to deal with
the arrears of work. They were seriously inconvenienced by the absence
of Miss Mortimer, their secretary; Bellinger sent Duncan, the managing
clerk, into the town to find and engage another girl. Corbett spent the
morning laboriously typing answers to a dozen letters, and in drafting
out a partnership agreement.

Towards lunch time he was startled and pleasantly surprised to hear the
telephone. He went to the switchboard himself and answered it. It was
Gordon, speaking from the hospital.

He said, "Is that you, Corbett? It's Gordon this end. Thank God this
thing's working again. You got that prescription all right? Fine. Look
here. I want you to see that every drop of anything your family have to
drink has been boiled. Yes--boiled. We're getting posters out about it
in the town this afternoon, but I wanted to ring you and tell you
personally. It's really important. Tell Joan as soon as you can. She'll
have to boil all milk, and especially all water, before she uses it. And
try to keep her off raw vegetables and fruit."

"I'll tell her. But what's it all about?"

"I can't tell you over the telephone. And anyway, we're not quite
certain yet ourselves. But there's a lot of sickness in the Northam
district that's come up quite suddenly, and we're a bit worried about
it. You'd better tell your staff about boiling the water. Don't make it
alarmist."

"I won't do that."

"Good man. It's probably nothing at all--just a scare, you know. Doctors
who've been out East get funny notions, sometimes. But tell Joan to
boil everything she can."

He rang off, and Corbett tried to settle to his work again. He found he
could not concentrate. Presently he went back to the switchboard and
tried to ring his house. He heard the ringing tone, showing that the
line was sound, but there was no reply; there was no one in the house.
He went back to his desk and the consideration of his partnership
agreement.

Joan called for him before lunch. He told her about Gordon and his
message. She wrinkled up her brows.

"It's diphtheria, I suppose," she said. "That's what you get when drains
go wrong, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. If it was diphtheria, I don't
see why he should have been so mysterious about it."

She smiled. "Everybody's been a bit rattled, Peter. You can't blame
them. Do you know, quite a number of people left the city yesterday and
went out into the country for the night. The Cummings did that, and the
Howards. I met Mrs. Howard this morning. She said they just drove out
into the country and parked by the side of the road, and sat in the car
all night. They didn't sleep a bit well, and when they woke up and found
there hadn't been a raid at all they felt awfully sold."

She paused. "They asked us to go in for a sherry tomorrow night."

"Good. I'd like to go."

They went out of the office to the car, full of parcels and children. As
they drove through the town he noticed a great outbreak of recruiting
posters on the hoardings, roughly printed and looking very new. And as
they drove by one hoarding they saw a man finishing the posting of a
placard, in large red block capitals.

     BOIL YOUR WATER

Underneath there was some sort of explanatory text.

"They've not been long with that," he said.

He went back to the office after lunch, and worked all afternoon. In the
middle of the afternoon the weather clouded over, and it began to rain a
little. His office faced north and grew dark early; mechanically he
reached up and switched on the reading lamp above his desk. To his
surprise and gratification, it lit at once. The electricity was
functioning.

He was so pleased about it that he went and rang up Joan. "These lights
are working here," he said. "Are they with you?"

"I don't know. Wait a minute while I try."

He waited. Presently she came back to the telephone, and said, "It's all
on now. I tried the lights and the cooker too. It's all working. We'll
be able to have a proper dinner tonight."

He said, "I give the town full marks for that. They must have worked
like the devil."

She sighed. "It is good. We'll be able to listen to the radio now, and
find out what's been going on."

She hesitated for a moment. "Peter, I was just thinking. Didn't you tell
me that the Littlejohns cook on gas?"

"I think they do."

"The gas isn't on, is it?"

"I don't suppose so, for a minute."

"Would you like it if I asked them in for supper? I mean, if our
cooker's working and theirs isn't? He's done such a lot for us, the last
few days."

"I think that's a very good idea. Have you ever met her?"

"No. I've seen her about once or twice. Sort of mousy."

"Ask them round by all means. I'd like to have them."

In the house the girl laid down the telephone and stood for a moment in
thought. Then she went out of the front door and round to the next
house. She rang the bell, waited for a time, and rang again.

Presently there were steps inside; the door was opened by a pale, faded
little woman that Joan had seen in the next garden once or twice, from
her bedroom window. She wore a coarse apron over her black dress; she
had her sleeves rolled up, and her hands were red and swollen.

"It's Mrs. Corbett, isn't it?" she said. "This is nice, I'm sure."

Joan said, "Good afternoon. I just came round to ask if Mr. Littlejohn
and you would like to come to supper with us tonight. Our cooker's just
started working again--we cook on electricity. You use gas, don't you?"

The little woman was flustered. "Ted wanted me to have one of them
electric things when we come here first," she said. "But we didn't seem
able to make it work right. We had the man in to see to it, but he
couldn't make it any different. Sometimes I'd put the kettle on for a
cup o' tea and come back in ten minutes, and it wasn't on at all. Other
times, it'ld be burning away and wasting all the afternoon, and nobody
would ever know. I told Ted it was a fair worry to me, and he had it
taken out and put in gas."

"The gas isn't on yet, is it?"

"No, my dear. Isn't it a trial? I was just washing out the net curtains
from the sitting room, because they had to come down, you see, because
of the windows. And every drop of water to be boiled on the dining room
fire."

Joan commiserated. "It does make things difficult, Mrs. Littlejohn. But
our cooker's working again now, and I thought it would be so nice if you
could come round with your husband, and we'd have a proper hot supper
tonight." She paused, and added with inspiration, "We could cook it
together."

The mousy little face displayed some animation. "Oh, my dear, that was a
nice thought, I'm sure. I hadn't nothing but a little tin of salmon to
give Ted tonight, and I was that worried. Because he likes to have his
supper hot, with his bottle of Guinness and his bit of cheese, dear."
She became suddenly flustered again. "Won't you come inside, Mrs.
Corbett? You mustn't mind--the house is all upside down, with the
windows and that. But come in and sit down, Mrs. Corbett, and let me
make a cup of tea."

Joan declined. "I want to go down to the shops, and see if I can get a
joint. I believe I know where I could get a leg of lamb," she said
thoughtfully. "There'd be time to cook that, wouldn't there? I wonder,
would you mind keeping an eye on the baby for me, Mrs. Littlejohn, and
I'll go down and see what I can get. I won't be very long."

The little woman said, "It would be real nice to have the baby, Mrs.
Corbett. I seen your family over the wall so many times. It must be
lovely to have children like you've got." She sighed faintly. "Three of
them, and all."

She raised her eyes to Joan. "I had a little baby once, but she died."

"I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Littlejohn said, "In the war it was, my dear. I was in service in a
place at Hove, and Ted was in camp at Shoreham. In 1916 that was, my
dear, after he'd been out and come back wounded." She hesitated for a
minute, and then she said, "He was that masterful, you wouldn't think.
And he had to go back to France before I really knew about the baby, but
he got three days' leave again, and we were married in Brighton. But the
baby wasn't like yours, my dear. She never put on any weight, and then
she died. And they told me that I couldn't have another, ever."

"I'm terribly sorry," said Joan. It would not hurt to let a dammed
stream run for a few minutes.

The work-worn hands pleated a fold in the apron. "It don't do to
complain," she said, "only I do think you're ever so lucky to have such
a lovely family, Mrs. Corbett. But I've been lucky, too. You wouldn't
know what a good husband I've got, and Ted's got on so well in the
building trade, you wouldn't think. And now we've got this lovely house
to live in, and the garden with the flowers, and all. And he wanted me
to have servants, too, and we did have them once, but I like doing
things my own way. So now the girl comes in mornings just to give me a
help-out, doing the scrubbing up, and that."

Joan put a sluice gate gently back into the stream. "Come along in and
see the baby," she said. "Then I'll leave her with you while I go down
and get the meat."

They went and fetched the baby in its basket cot, and put it on the
kitchen table by Mrs. Littlejohn's wash tub. "My," said the little
woman, "hasn't she got a pretty colour? She's ever so like you."

Joan left them together, and drove down into the town. From every
hoarding now the red placards exhorted her to boil her water. "That's
all very well," she muttered to herself rebelliously. "The electricity's
on now, so one can do it. But when you've got no electricity or gas, and
precious little paraffin, it's not so easy to go boiling everything over
the dining room fire."

In the dusk she called in at her husband's office. "I came to see if
you'd come home with me," she said. "I've just been down to get a joint
to cook for dinner. Mrs. Littlejohn's going to help me."

He eyed her quizzically. "What's she like?"

"Like Amy, that old maid we had just after we got married. I like
her--she's a dear."

He looked out of the window. "What's the weather like?"

"It's starting to rain a bit. We'd better put the car away."

"Are we going to put it over the trench again tonight?"

"I hadn't thought of that. What do you think?"

He got up from his desk, and tidied up his papers for the night. "If you
ask me what I think," he said, a little wearily, "I think that bloody
trench ought to be deeper."

"But do you think we'll have another raid tonight?"

"I don't know. They came before when it was raining."

They went out of the office to the car. Over their heads the clouds hung
low, in grey, wet wreaths. A solitary airplane flew over them at about
two hundred feet, immediately beneath the clouds; there was no other
aviation.

"The gas is a bit low," he said as they got into the car. "We'd better
stop and get some more." But at three filling stations that they tried
in turn there was no gas to be had.

"We were cleaned right out yesterday dinner time," one garage hand told
them. "The tank waggon's coming, but it hasn't come. There's been a
proper run on it."

Corbett asked, "Why is that?"

"People going out into the country for the night, I suppose. Everybody
seemed to want a fill up yesterday."

Corbett drove back thoughtfully to his house. It was raining in earnest
by the time they got there; in spite of that he changed into old clothes
and went and dug in his trench. At the end of an hour he had got down to
six feet, which he judged deep enough; the bottom of it was a sticky
mess of mud and water. Finally he drove the car over it again and went
back to the house, hoping very much that he would not have to use it in
the night.

Mr. Littlejohn arrived as he was finishing. "Coming on real dirty
again," he remarked, looking at the weather. "You'd say they wouldn't
come tonight. But then, it seems all topsy turvy. Last night I thought
that they'd have come, and they never."

He mused a little. "Not so many airplanes about tonight."

"It's early yet," said Corbett. "And it's a filthy night for flying."

The builder grunted. "That may put our chaps off," he said, a little
sourly. "It didn't seem to stop them bombers."

They went into the house. "I was talking to the Deputy City Engineer
today," said Mr. Littlejohn. "They reckon over two hundred bombs fell in
the roads. They haven't half had a job."

"They've done very well," said Corbett.

"Ay," said the builder. "Wonderfully well, they've done. Over two
hundred holes to be filled, and mains repaired, and that." He was silent
for a minute. "Still, come to think of it, it's what you might expect.
In poor parts where the houses stand up close without much garden, if
you take me, nearly thirty per cent of the surface must be roads. So
with a thousand bombs dropped all over, it's only what they had a right
to expect."

Corbett laughed shortly. "I bet they didn't expect a thousand bombs," he
said.

They sat down to a supper of roast lamb, tinned vegetables, and
Guinness which Mr. Littlejohn brought from his house. "Mrs. Corbett
doesn't never have no trouble with her electric cooker, Ted," the little
woman said wistfully. "It cooked the joint a fair treat."

"Like to change back again?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "It's ever so clean and
nice, but I like something you can see."

They talked about the holidays that they were going to take that summer.
"We always go on the boat," said Joan. "This year, we thought of having
a change. We've been thinking of taking a tent with us in the car, and
going to Scotland."

"Brighton," said Mr. Littlejohn comfortably. "That's where we go. First
fortnight in August, every year the same."

Joan turned to his wife. "It must be fun, that," she said
sympathetically.

"It's ever so lovely, Mrs. Corbett," she replied. "It's where I met Ted,
in the war--I was telling you. We've been every year since then, nearly.
You can sit on the pier and there's such a lot to see--the people all
enjoying themselves, and the band, and the pierrots, and that. The time
passes so quick, you'd never think. You've hardly got there before it's
time to come away again. It's ever such a lovely place."

Corbett nodded. "It's good fun, a holiday like that if you just want a
lazy time," he said. Nothing would have induced him to do it himself.

"That's right," said Mr. Littlejohn. "You and Mrs. Corbett--you like
doing things when you're on holiday. We like to sit quiet in a motor
coach, and watch other people doing things."

Mrs. Littlejohn said, "You can go lovely drives from Brighton...."

After the meal the Littlejohns got up to go. "Early to bed," said the
builder. "Maybe we shan't get so much sleep later on." He looked out
into the wet night. "Still, it doesn't look much like a raid tonight."

The little woman said to Joan, "It's been ever so kind of you, I'm
sure." She hesitated. "If you want the baby looked after any time, Mrs.
Corbett, it would be a real pleasure. Quite took to me she did, didn't
she?"

They went away; Corbett stood looking after them thoughtfully. "Brighton
in August," he said. "I just can't understand it."

Joan shook her head. "They're such--such genuine people," she said. "I
don't say that I want to see an awful lot of them, but they're terribly
nice in their own way."

She yawned. "It will be good when things get settled down and we can get
some maids again," she said. "I'm sick of washing nappies for the baby."

Again they got out baskets with the gas masks, food, and drink, and left
them in the hall. Then they went up to bed.

In the dark, rainy night they woke to a shattering concussion, near at
hand.

Corbett did not hear it consciously. He found himself suddenly awake and
standing near the door of his bedroom, his hands pressed to his ears
which were aching with pain. In the nursery upstairs he heard the
children begin crying; he ran up to them, to help Joan.

As he opened the door there was a blinding flash outside that lit up the
room through the green curtains, and another concussion. The glass from
the nursery windows fell tinkling to the floor; the children redoubled
their screams. Joan was busy with the baby; he moved forward and touched
her on the shoulder. "Get baby out into the trench," he shouted through
the din. "Stay there yourself. I'll get the others dressed and bring
them out."

There was another concussion, this time further off. Joan slipped on
shoes and a raincoat over her pyjamas, picked up the child and wrapped
it in a shawl, and ran downstairs. Corbett turned to the other children.

"Come on, Juggins," he said gently to his screaming, three-year-old son.
"Be a brave soldier and get dressed. Big men like you aren't frightened
of a few little bangs. Where did they put your combinations?"

Another bomb fell near at hand; he touched both children, thinking to
quiet them. Then he picked up a woollen garment from a chair. "Come on,
old man," he said. "Get into this, and we'll go and find Mummy."

Phyllis, his six-year-old daughter, stopped crying instantly. "That's my
combies that you're giving John," she said, snivelling indignantly.

Corbett forced a laugh. "I'll give him all your clothes unless you put
them on yourself," he said. "Then you'll have to wear his."

He got the children dressed without much trouble after that. Bombs
continued to fall in the more distant parts of the city; he hurried the
children down through the house and into the garden, only stopping to
get a pair of shoes and a coat for himself. Joan was in the trench; he
passed the children down to her.

"This is a bloody picnic," he said sourly.

She laughed shortly. "You're right. It's terribly muddy here, Peter. If
you could get a couple of chairs it might be better."

He went back to the house and got the chairs, slid them down into the
trench beneath the car, and followed them. Then he took the baby from
Joan and sent her back into the house to dress; the child was crying
steadily, confusing his thoughts. While Joan was away one or two more
salvoes fell, not very near at hand, towards the centre of the city.
Presently she returned, bringing with her the children's mackintoshes
and boots.

Corbett gave the baby back to his wife, went back into the house, and
dressed himself. Then he went round the house opening what windows still
had glass left in them; the wind and rain blew freely through the rooms,
soaking beds, furniture, and carpets. He tried the radio, but found it
dead; evidently the current had failed again, or was cut off from the
city.

He went back to the garden. Before getting down into his trench he went
and looked over the garden wall; in the dim light he could see the bulk
of the Littlejohns' car standing above their trench. "Littlejohn!" he
called. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, ay," said Mr. Littlejohn. He climbed up out of his trench and came
over to the wall. "Is everything all right with you?"

"So far," said Corbett. The bombs were still falling in the city; away
to the south they heard the sharp crack of guns.

"It's a terrible thing, this," said the builder. "There don't seem to be
any of our own airplanes up, do there? Or searchlights, neither. I
suppose them guns are anti-aircraft guns."

"I suppose so." They surveyed the sky. "I can't hear any airplanes at
all," said Corbett.

"Wait a bit," said the builder. "I can hear some now. Listen--very
faint. Hear them?"

The wind sighed and the rain drove across the gardens; they stood in
silence for a minute, listening. "I hear them now," said Corbett. "They
must be at a tremendous height."

"Maybe that's why there aren't any searchlights," said the builder.

"Searchlights wouldn't be much good on a night like this. They'd only
show them where the town was."

"I reckon they know that all right," said Mr. Littlejohn grimly.

Another salvo started to fall near at hand, and sent them hurrying to
their trenches.

Corbett struck a match and looked at his watch; it was about one
o'clock. He settled down on the chair opposite his wife in the narrow,
muddy trench and took a child upon each knee. The baby, tired out with
crying, had fallen asleep; the other two children slept intermittently.

Joan asked, "Peter, whatever shall we do if they start to drop gas
bombs? With baby, I mean?"

"I've been thinking of that," he said. "I think the best thing will be
for you to stay here with the other two, and I'll take her up to the
nursery and stay there with her. With the windows open, right up at the
top of the house like that, I don't believe you'd get much gas. It's
fifty feet up from the ground."

They thought it over for a minute. "I don't like you being in the house,
Peter," she said. "I think it's much more dangerous there than it is
here."

"You wouldn't want me to leave baby up there all alone?"

"I'd rather she was all alone than have you with her in the house."

He touched her hand. "I'll take her up there if we think there's any gas
about. At present it's all high explosive. There's been no gas dropped
yet, or incendiary either."

Slowly the hours passed. The rain pattered against the car, and trickled
from the wet ground down into the trench. Corbett sat, cramped and
stiff, one child upon each knee; they dozed uneasily, waking and crying
when the detonations were near to them. The baby slept quietly on Joan's
lap undisturbed by the heaviest concussions; they were anxious about
her. She seemed utterly exhausted. They got some relief by stuffing
cotton wool into their ears.

From time to time they heard the wailing of a siren on some ambulance or
police car. The sound of distant gunfire was continuous, and very
occasionally they heard the droning of airplanes. The wind sighed past
them and the rain made little liquid noises; no other sounds shared the
night with the shattering concussions of the bombs.

At last there came a long interval. Corbett looked at his watch; it was
a little after three. He was dazed and stiff. "It lasted three hours
last time," he said. "This may be the end."

Joan stirred beside him. "How long ought we to wait?"

"We'll give it half an hour."

Towards the end of that time he got out of the trench and went to the
garden wall. Mr. Littlejohn was standing on his lawn, looking about him
at the sky.

"Seems as if it's over," he said. "You'd think they'd give an 'all
clear' signal of some sort, wouldn't you?"

"They didn't give any sort of 'take cover' signal," said Corbett.

"That's so. Seems like they don't know when it's coming or when it's
over, don't it?"

"Do you think it's over now?"

"I don't know. I believe I'll get the missus indoors, and chance it."

Corbett went back to Joan. "We'll give it a few minutes longer," he
said. He got out the basket of provisions and gave her a drink of
whiskey; the children drank a little milk and nibbled a sponge cake.

Presently they got out of the trench, and went back into the house.

Apart from the windows, no more damage seemed to have been done to the
house. Corbett helped Joan to put the children back into their beds in
the darkness; they fell asleep almost instantaneously. They did not go
to bed at once themselves, being hungry; instead, they went down to the
kitchen, lit the Primus stove, and fried a little meal of bacon and
eggs. They consumed this in the dim light of an ecclesiastical candle;
the electricity was dead again. The food made them feel better.

Corbett lit a cigarette from the candle, and stared reflectively at his
wife. "I don't know what you think," he said. "But I'm getting a bit
tired of this."

"You couldn't be more tired than I am. How many more raids like this do
you think we're going to get?"

"Lord knows. I think we ought to think about clearing out into the
country."

She nodded. "I've been feeling like that, too. But where would we go? To
the boat?"

"It's the only place we've got."

He gave her a cigarette, and held the candle for her while she lit it;
they sat and smoked in silence over the remains of their meal. "It'ld be
awfully difficult," she said at last, sighing a little. "I mean, three
children on a little boat like that!"

"It would be possible," he said. "Put Phyllis and John in the companion
bunks, and rig up a sort of cradle in the forecastle for the baby."

"Over the lavatory, I suppose."

"That's right. Then you and I could sleep in the saloon."

She shook her head. "It would be awfully difficult. There's such a lot
of washing to be done for the baby, and you know what it is, carrying
water on board. Besides, what would we do for milk?"

"Use tinned milk. But anyway, we'd be at Hamble. That's in the country.
You might be able to get milk more easily there than here."

"You should be able to."

"As regards the water," he said, "it seems to me that wherever we are
we'll have to start carting it before long. I haven't noticed any water
coming in here yet, except the rain. I don't know how much there is left
in our tank upstairs, but I bet it's not much. We might get better water
there than here."

He paused. "You couldn't wash the nappies out in salt water, using salt
water soap?"

Joan wrinkled up her nose. "Not much. What about this, though? Suppose
we sailed the boat up a river--right away from the sea? Where she'd be
floating in fresh water?" She paused. "We'd have all the water that we
wanted, then."

He sat for a minute, deep in thought. "It's an idea," he said. "I don't
know where you'd find a river like that on the south coast, though. A
river deep enough to float our boat, where the water wasn't salt."

He got up from the table. "Let's sleep on it," he said. "We'll make a
decision in the morning."

She lingered for a moment in the dark, shadowy entrance hall as they
made their way upstairs. "It's horrible even to think of leaving," she
said slowly. "I mean--this is our home."

He took her hand. "Never mind. It won't be for long."

She went up to the nursery to sleep with the children. He turned into
his own room and took off his shoes and coat, then he threw himself on
the bed in his clothes and pulled the blankets over him. Very soon he
was asleep.

He slept late. Joan, taking the children downstairs to cook their
breakfast, looked in on him; she did not wake him. It was not till ten
o'clock that he awoke, thrust his feet into his shoes, and went
downstairs.

"You should have waked me," he said to Joan. "I'd have given you a
hand."

She smiled at him. "Come and eat your breakfast."

He rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. "Have you heard anything of
Littlejohn?"

"Not this morning."

"I'll just go in and see if they're all right. Then I'll come along. You
can leave the washing up--I'll do that." He had no thought of going to
his office.

He went out of his front door. In the street he met Mr. Littlejohn
returning to his house, grey and troubled. He said, "You've heard the
news?"

"No," said Corbett.

"Cholera," said Mr. Littlejohn.

Corbett stared at him, wide-eyed.

"There's been an outbreak of cholera down Northam way. Over seventy
cases, so they say. They've got patrols on all the roads. Nobody's to
leave the city till he's been inoculated."




3


When living dangerously, there comes a time when extra risks are taken
as a matter of everyday occurrence; the mind has become inured to them,
and they are hardly thought about. Corbett was not particularly upset by
the news that he had heard. He questioned Littlejohn about it, but the
builder knew no more than the bare facts, which he had got from a
policeman that he knew.

Corbett went back into his house and sat down to his breakfast. After a
little reflection, he came to the conclusion that there was no point in
trying to conceal the cholera from Joan. He finished his meal, lit a
cigarette, and asked her, "Do you know anything about cholera?"

She stared at him, puzzled. "Cholera? It's a thing they get in India.
Black men die of it in heaps. And pukka sahibs go and stop it. Why?"

"We've got it in Southampton."

She stared at him. "Cholera?"

He told her what he had heard from Littlejohn.

"What _is_ cholera?" she asked. "Is it catching?"

He said drily, "I imagine so." And then he said, "This must be what
Gordon meant."

She was puzzled. "But you don't have cholera in countries like this,
Peter. It only happens in the East, doesn't it?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Look and see if there's anything about it in the encyclopedia."

He went and fetched the volume from the drawing room; together they bent
over it.

Five minutes later, he stood erect. "Well, that's it," he said, a little
heavily. "There seem to have been plenty of epidemics of it in this
country before. Bunches of them. It comes from water contaminated with
sewage."

"You've got to have a case to start it off, though."

He shook his head. "Not necessarily." He laid his finger on a line; she
bent over it to read the small print. "Plenty of carriers in a seaport
town like this."

"Is that a carrier, like a typhoid carrier, Peter?"

"That's right. It might be a Lascar sailor."

She looked at him seriously. "You think it's happened just because the
drains are broken up?"

"I suppose so."

She turned again to the book. "It says here, case mortality fifty per
cent. In plain English, does that mean what it seems to mean?"

He smiled, a little grimly. "I should think it probably does."

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. "But, Peter, what ought we to do?"

He laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll have to get
inoculated as soon as we can. I'll go out and find out what's happening
as soon as I've done the washing up."

He hesitated. "I wouldn't let the children go out today, if I were you.
Keep them in the garden."

"You bet," she said. "Peter, I've been thinking about the boat. It'ld be
frightfully inconvenient, but I believe I'd really rather we were
there."

He nodded. "I know. This puts the lid on it."

More in hope than in confidence he went and tried the telephone. He
found it out of order.

He did the washing up with Joan, and shaved, and dressed. He went out to
the garden and had a look at the trench; there was standing water in the
bottom of it. He decided to leave the car over it as some protection
from the rain, and walked down to the town. On his way, he was shocked
at the condition of the town. The damage was of the same character as
after the last raid, but he noticed that there were far fewer people in
the streets. The cumulative effect of the damage, coupled with the rain
and the deserted aspect of the streets, gave to the town a ruined and a
desolate appearance.

He went first to his office. From the street he saw that there were
broken windows; he let himself in with his key and made a quick
inspection of the rooms. Practically all the windows had been shattered.
The rain streamed in onto his desk; the sodden papers and the broken
glass gave to the room an atmosphere of squalor and depression. He set
his lips and moved all his documents to an untidy heap at the far side
of the room, remote from the window. Then he did the same in Bellinger's
office.

There was nothing else to be done. There was no post to go through, no
newspapers to be read. He did not think that there was any likelihood of
clients coming in. He went out into the street again, locking the door
behind him.

Andrews' car was standing outside his office. Corbett went in and found
the accountant alone, moving furniture away from the windows in much the
same way as he had been doing. Corbett sat down on the edge of a desk.

"Well," he said, "we're in a pretty pickle now."

"Right in," said Mr. Andrews grimly. He offered him a cigarette.

They sat smoking in silence for a minute or two. "Bloody things seem to
come over and do just what they like," said the accountant at last.

"How the hell do they do it?"

"I met an Air Force chap since I saw you last," said Mr. Andrews. "He
said that in the first raid they came at some colossal height, fifteen
or twenty thousand feet, and just bombed through the clouds. No pretence
of aiming at anything--they just dumped the stuff. What he couldn't tell
me was how they knew where to dump it."

They sat in silence again. "I suppose that's against all the rules of
war?" said Corbett.

"I suppose so. Anyway, nobody bothers about that sort of thing these
days."

There was a pause. Corbett said, "Are your people all right at home?"

"So far. You didn't know the Rossiters?"

Corbett shook his head.

"You've missed your opportunity," said Mr. Andrews.

He stubbed out his cigarette half smoked in an ashtray, hesitated for a
minute, and lit another. He flicked the match away, and stepped
nervously over to the shattered window. "I'm not going to go through
another night of it. I'm getting my family out of it this afternoon."

"Where are you going?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I don't suppose one
will be able to get in anywhere. I've got a tent. I'm taking that with
me."

Corbett told him about the cholera, and the cordon that had been put
upon the roads. "It's reasonable," he said. "If this really is cholera,
they want to localize it."

The accountant's lips set in a thin line. "Nobody's going to localize
me," he said. There was an ugliness in his manner. "Inoculated or not,
I'm getting out."

Corbett nodded slowly. "I'm going over to the Civic Centre to see if I
can find out how one gets the inoculation done."

He walked across the park to the new buildings. He found the Centre in a
ferment, the car parks jammed with little air-raid fire engines,
lorries, and ambulances. The group of buildings had been hit in one or
two places; one wall had slipped, revealing the teeming office life
inside like a section of a hive of bees.

He had two or three friends in the Town Clerk's department, and he was
well known to the minor officials. He made his way into the corridors
and waited till he found an opportunity. Presently he met a young man
that he knew, who drew him into an office away from the crowd. Corbett
offered him a cigarette.

"I came to see if I could find out anything about this cholera
inoculation," he enquired. "Where one gets it done?"

The young man laughed, without humour. "They're hoping to set up a
clinic to do the whole city."

Corbett eyed him keenly. "A big job. When will that be?"

"When the serum comes."

"I see," said Corbett quietly.

The young man explained, "They've got any amount of stuff for
typhoid--or so they say. And anyway, that seems to take a longer time to
incubate. But they've used up what little they had for cholera already,
on the patients' families. Now they've got to wait till they can get
some more."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"In fact, we've been caught napping?"

"Seems like it. But who'd ever think of cholera? I thought that was a
thing you only got in India. Typhoid and diphtheria--yes. But not
cholera."

Corbett shook his head. "There used to be a lot of epidemics of it in
this country."

The young man sighed. "Well, it looks as if we've got another one." He
paused. "Somebody was saying this morning that they've got it in
Bristol, too."

"Seaport town," said Corbett. "That might be."

He turned to the young man. "This cordon on the roads," he said. "Is it
still working?"

"I think so."

"I don't see how they can keep people in the town tonight, to face
another raid. They'll have to let them out, inoculated or not."

The other agreed. "Well, that's what I think. But they're very keen to
keep the cholera from spreading. And if we aren't careful it'll be all
over the country."

Corbett nodded. "It's difficult," he said, a little heavily. "Do you
know what they're doing about it?"

"They're having a conference upon it now, in the Town Clerk's office.
There's someone down from the Ministry of Health, and the Town Clerk,
and the M.O.H., and General Fitzroy."

"General Fitzroy?"

"The military have taken over the cordon for the police. Didn't you
know?"

Corbett went out into the town. The damage to the houses and the shops
was much more extensive than it had been after the first raid. There
seemed to have been a certain amount of looting; in one or two places
there were constables on guard over badly damaged shops. He tried to
sort out the new damage from the old, but found it practically
impossible to differentiate. All he could say for certain was that the
town now was very gravely injured. It seemed to him that in the centre
of the city nearly one building in five had suffered serious damage,
apart from broken windows which were everywhere. He did not think it was
so bad in residential districts such as he lived in.

Once more the roads were full of bomb holes; this time, however, little
water came from them. Again in the centre of the town squads of men were
working at the repair of mains, cables, and sewers; again, parties of
workmen were boarding up windows that had been smashed. He got the
impression that the work was not so active as it had been after the
first raid. The squads seemed weaker in numbers, more dispersed. There
did not seem to be the same enthusiasm to get the city right again that
he had noticed formerly.

He noticed many soldiers working with the corporation squads. He noticed
also, and very definitely, that the town smelt. It was difficult to
define the smell. It was not wholly drains. It seemed rather to be an
atmosphere of mustiness and squalor, such as you might find in a poor,
dirty house with tight-shut windows. Not very nice.

He made his way back home on foot. On his way he passed a garage and saw
cars being filled up. He went inside and found the proprietor, whom he
knew.

"I'll put six gallons by for you, in cans," the man told him. "But you
must come and get it before dinner time, Mr. Corbett. I'll be sold right
out by that time at this rate, and I may not be able to keep it. Some of
the chaps get real nasty if they think you're holding any back."

He saw the gas put in cans and placed beneath the desk of the small
office; then he went on. He reached his house to find his wife with Mrs.
Littlejohn, doing the baby's washing.

"It don't take but a minute," said the older woman, "rinsing out a few
little things like this. Many hands make light work, that's what I say."

He took Joan into the next room on some pretext. "She's been such a
help, Peter," said the girl. "I'd have been off my head with the
children and the washing if it hadn't been for her."

He told her what he had learned in the town. "We'll never get to the
boat while they keep this cordon up," he said. "And Lord knows when
we'll get inoculated." He paused. "I might creep through alone, or you
might, if we thought it was worth while to try. But we'd never make it
with three children and the car."

"I don't want to separate, Peter. There's no point in that. Let's stick
together."

"All right."

"That means we stay here for tonight, does it?"

"I'm afraid it does."

She smiled. "The electricity's off, so the cooker's out of action.
Still, we've got the cold lamb to eat."

He said, "I've got to take the car down for gas. I'll look around and
see what food I can get hold of."

"Do see if you can get some milk. Fresh if possible--otherwise get some
tins."

"All right." He paused. "I tell you what I'll do. I'll go along and see
if I can find Gordon. He might be able to help with this inoculation
business."

He drove the car off the trench and out of the back gate. He fetched his
gas from the garage, and then drove down into the town to look for food.
There was very little fresh meat to be got, and what there was bad in
quality and smelling a little. He did not buy any.

"It isn't very nice," they admitted in one butcher's shop. "Still, it'ld
be all right for stewing, or making a curry, or anything like that. It's
a job to keep meat good, these times."

He asked, "Why is that?"

"The refrigerator downstairs. It's electric."

He bought a small sack of flour, and a fair quantity of miscellaneous
tinned foods. He could not discover any fresh milk in the town at all;
at three dairies they told him that none had come in that day. He got
six tins of condensed milk, however, and was glad to do so.

Finally he drove to Gordon's house. He hesitated to ring the bell,
thinking that the surgeon might be sleeping after his night's work.
Instead, he pushed at the front door; it was open, and he walked in.

He stood in the hall and called softly, "Is anybody here?"

The door of the consulting room opened, and Gordon appeared. "Hullo,
Corbett," he said quietly. "Come along in. I'm just going back to the
hospital."

Corbett said, "I won't keep you, then. But first, I want to thank you
for troubling to ring us up that afternoon about boiling water and
stuff. It was good of you to think of us."

The surgeon said, "That's nothing. As a matter of fact, I very nearly
didn't. At the time I didn't really believe that it was cholera. It
seemed--incredible."

"How did it start?"

The other shook his head. "I don't think anyone knows. The only
explanation is, there must have been a cholera carrier in the city. Of
course, immediately you get a real case of it it's bound to spread, with
conditions as they are."

"I came to see if you could help us over the inoculations."

Gordon said wearily, "I can't, old man. I only wish I could. There's not
a drop of serum in the town--for anyone. The pathologists are working on
it at the hospital, but it will be forty-eight hours before they get
their first batch through. And we want such a devil of a lot of it."

"I won't keep you then," said Corbett. "But how's Margaret?"

"She's gone back into uniform--you know she was a nurse before we
married. She's down in Northam, with the cholera cases." He smiled. "So
we're both busy."

"You got a lot of casualties last night?"

"Just about the same as last time--five or six hundred at the hospital.
The difficulty is in evacuating them. They've got to be got out of the
city. A woman who's been blown up by a bomb doesn't get on well if you
keep her in a town that's bombed each night. But with this quarantine
cordon things are awfully difficult. And anyway, there's nowhere we can
send them to. We filled the country hospitals bung full after the first
night."

Corbett nodded. "You've been operating all night?"

"Two tables--just the same. It's a bad business, Corbett."

The solicitor said very quietly, "You make me feel ashamed of myself.
You're working like this for the city, Margaret's nursing cholera, and
I'm doing nothing at all. All I do is come and worry you for morphia and
serums for myself and my own family." He got to his feet. "I'm sorry,
Gordon."

The surgeon said, "Don't hurry away. And don't be a bloody fool--or not
more than you can help being." He pushed across a box of cigarettes,
and lit one himself.

"This thing has been a great disaster to us all," he said after a time.
"I never thought, if war should come again, that it would be like this.
Still, that's the way it is." He paused. "I've got my job to do, and
you've got yours. Mine's very easy--just hard work at doing what I'm
used to."

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
where 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 today--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 that I can do damn
well. I never worked better in my life. I don't get any money for it. I
don't think 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."

"Ay," 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, ay," 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's 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 near by; three of them were on guard
at the barricade, with bayonets fixed upon their rifles. There were two
policemen dealing patiently with inquiries 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 learned; 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 that 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 town 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 whiskey 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 candlelight 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 gas masks, 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."

"What's the matter?" she enquired. "Don't they answer?"

"No," he said. "They may still be asleep. Do you think I ought to go and
see?"

"They'll be all right," she said. "Stay here. Don't go wandering about."

Almost immediately the point was settled for him. A vivid sheet of flame
sprang up across the garden walls, less than a hundred yards away. He
dived for the trench with the explosion and landed in a heap on top of
the screaming children. A few fragments hit the car above their heads
with sharp, metallic sounds. He crouched down in the trench, trying to
calm the children; the bombs continued falling very near at hand. He
heard a crash of falling masonry.

He let the children scream to relieve their feelings, and pressed Joan's
hand. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll be all right here."

Presently there came a lull. It seemed to Corbett, dazed and confused,
that a dozen bombs must have fallen in their immediate neighbourhood in
less than three minutes. In the ensuing calm he stood up and looked out
of the trench. He saw a gleam of candlelight in the next house.

He laughed, and called Joan's attention to it. "That woke old Littlejohn
up," he said. "He wouldn't sleep through that."

She laughed with him, a little hysterically. He felt for the whiskey
flask, and poured her out a little in the metal cup.

"Come on--let's have a drink," he said. "We need it after that."

She took the cup from him in the darkness, and drank. As she did so,
they heard the sound of voices from the next house; the Littlejohns were
coming out to their trench.

Immediately there came a violent concussion, nearer than any they had
known. The earth of their trench rose bodily beneath them, and fell
again with a strange, tinkling noise mixed with the blast. They clasped
their ears in pain; the children redoubled their screams. Within a few
yards of the trench they heard the rumble of a falling wall. Something
hit the car above their heads a tearing blow, and fell heavily upon the
grass.

Before they had recovered from that explosion there came another, and
another, gradually receding into the distance. They lay propped against
the sides of the trench, half blinded with the pain of their ears,
stunned, and dazed.

Presently, and very cautiously, they took their hands from their ears.
In the lull that followed, through the noises in their heads, they
heard a voice calling to them, "Mr. Corbett! Are you there, Mr.
Corbett?"

Joan raised her head. "It's Mrs. Littlejohn," she said. "Peter, they may
be hurt."

"I'll go and see." He groped in the bottom of the trench. "Where's that
basket with the first aid stuff?" He called, "All right, Mrs.
Littlejohn. I'm coming over to you."

Joan laid her hand upon his arm. "Peter--be careful."

He nodded. "I must go and see if they're all right. They'd do the same
for us."

He got out of the trench, basket in hand; his head was reeling, and he
staggered as he walked. There was no wall separating the two gardens,
only a heap of rubble on what had been flower beds. He clambered over
this and went up to the Littlejohns' car, straddling across the trench.
There was no movement there.

"Littlejohn?" he called. "Where are you?"

From the darkness beside the house the woman said, "Over here, Mr.
Corbett. Do come and see to Ted."

Guided by the voice, he found her sitting on the ground, propped up
against the side of the house. He stooped down to her. "Are you hurt?"
he asked.

She said, "I got something the matter with my leg, but that ain't
nothing. It's Ted, Mr. Corbett. I'm afraid he's hurt real bad--I can't
make him hear me."

"Where is he?"

"Over there, Mr. Corbett."

He bent over the body of the man, lying face downwards in a flower bed.
He was still breathing, but heavily and unevenly, with a snoring sound.
Corbett rolled him over in the darkness, and began feeling him for
broken bones. Presently he discovered a three-inch gash in his scalp. It
did not seem to be bleeding to any extent; he felt the skull very
delicately, but could not detect any movement.

He said, "I think he's all right, Mrs. Littlejohn. I believe he's just
knocked out."

She said very quietly, "He's been ever such a good husband to me, Mr.
Corbett. You wouldn't think."

Bombs were still falling in distant parts of the city. Corbett got up,
recrossed the rubble of the wall, and went back to Joan. "Let's have
that whiskey," he said. "Littlejohn's had a knock on the head, but I
think he'll be all right."

He took the flask, and felt his way back through the darkness to the
other garden. He knelt down beside the builder and lifted him to a
sitting position, propped against his knee. He loosened the starched
collar that the man was wearing, even in the middle of the night. Then
he wet a handkerchief in whiskey and water, and began to bathe his face.

In a few minutes he felt a stir of returning consciousness in the heavy
body.

"All right, Mrs. Littlejohn," he said. "I think he's coming round."

She did not answer; the builder raised his head and seemed to moisten
his lips. Corbett put the neck of the flask into his mouth and gave him
a drink. "Take it easy," he said. "You've had a knock on the head."

In a slow minute the builder raised his hand and felt his head. "Love
us," he said thickly. "I should think I bloody well had." He stirred in
Corbett's arms. "That's all right--I can manage."

Corbett released his hold; the man leaned forward and sat alone. "Can
you feel if you're hurt anywhere else?"

"I'm all right," said the builder heavily. "I can manage. Is the missus
all right?"

"She's hurt her leg," said Corbett. "If you think you can manage by
yourself now, I'll go and have a look at her."

He got up, and crossed over to where the woman was still sitting propped
against the wall. He bent and spoke to her; she did not answer. He
touched her, and cried in alarm, "Littlejohn! Come over here--quick,
man!"

But she was already dead. The bomb had fallen on or near their
greenhouse. A flying fragment of the glass had sheared through all her
clothes and wounded her behind the knee. She had bled to death, quietly
and unostentatiously, as in everything that she had done.

It was incredible to them; they worked for a long time before they would
admit defeat, while the bombs continued falling, sometimes near,
sometimes far away.

Presently the builder picked her up in his arms and, staggering a
little, carried her into the house and upstairs to the bedroom, where
the candle was still burning. He laid her on the ornate, gilded iron bed
beneath a picture of the _Stag at Bay_ and a text in a carved wooden
frame that told them _God is Love_, and covered her with a counterpane.

Then they had done all that they could do.

Corbett touched the builder on the shoulder. "Come down into our trench
for the night," he said gently. "It's safer down there."

The builder said, "I'll stay here for a while, thanking you all the
same."

Corbett hesitated. "You're quite sure? It would be better in the trench,
you know."

The man shook his head. "You go back to your family, Mr. Corbett. I'll
be all right," he said. "I want to sit with her a bit."

Corbett went down into the garden, and back to his own trench across the
rubble. He told Joan what had happened. "Leave him alone," she said.
"It's best that way."

They sat in the trench for about two hours after that, aching and wet,
cold and sad. In the window of the house next door the candle burned on,
flickering in the draughts. From time to time the bombs fell in their
neighbourhood, none very near; the distant gunfire was continuous, and
apparently quite ineffective. At last came the long lull that they knew
from experience meant the end.

"It's over now," he said at the end of twenty minutes. "We can go back
to bed."

They got the children up out of the trench, muddy and exhausted, took
them back into the house, washed them in warm water, and put them to
bed. Then they went down into the kitchen.

"Let's have something to eat," said Corbett.

"All right." She looked at him irresolutely. "I just hate to think of
him in there, alone," she said. "He wouldn't come and have a meal with
us, would he?"

Corbett shook his head. "He wouldn't want to do that."

"Do you think I could take him in a tray?"

"You might do that, and have a look at his head. He's got a nasty flesh
wound in his scalp. Had I better come too?"

She shook her head. "I think I'll go alone. Start cooking something I
can eat when I get back."

She cut a few sandwiches, and warmed up some coffee and some milk. Then
she fetched bandages and lint, and went with the tray out of the front
door and round to the next house. She entered the hall, and stood for a
moment in the dim, shadowy darkness, not knowing where to put the tray
down. Then there was a movement on the floor above, a door opened
upstairs with a gleam of light, and the builder came slowly down the
stairs, carrying the candle.

Joan said, "It's only me, Mr. Littlejohn--Mrs. Corbett. I brought you
round some hot coffee. I want you to drink it."

He came down and stood beside her. "Eh, that's real kind, Mrs. Corbett,"
he said heavily.

She led him into the sitting room. "Sit down and drink it up," she
ordered. "Then I want to have a look at your head."

He obeyed her, silently. There was a spirit stove and a kettle in the
grate; she lit it to warm the water. When he had finished eating she cut
the straggling grey hair away and washed the wound with a little
antiseptic; then she bandaged it.

"I'll do it again tomorrow," she said.

"You don't want to be here tomorrow," he said heavily. "You want to get
away to Hamble, to that boat."

She caught her breath. "If only we could ..."

He stood ponderously erect, the bandaging finished. "I been thinking it
out, sitting up there with her. I got to help you get away now, you and
the kiddies and Mr. Corbett. That's what I got to do."

He laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder. "Go in and have a sleep now.
I'll be along and have a talk with Mr. Corbett in the morning." He
turned away. "I want to thank you for what you done for me, and for
her," he said, with his back towards her.

Joan said, "Please don't, Mr. Littlejohn," and went away.

In her own house Corbett had prepared a little meal for her in the
kitchen. "We've got to get away from here today, Peter," she said. "It's
no good staying on and waiting for it."

He nodded. "You're quite right. We'll go today."

She stared around. "We shan't be able to take much with us."

"It'll only be for a short time, and Hamble's only seven miles away. We
can come back here every day if we want to--to see that everything is
still all right."

She laughed bitterly. "Leave the house empty with no glass in any of the
windows. Anyone will be able to walk in and pinch anything. But I
suppose we can't help that."

He shook his head. "I'll take the silver to the Bank. Perhaps Littlejohn
will be able to help us get the windows boarded up a bit more."

They went to bed.

Corbett slept only for a short time; he got up with the first light, at
about six o'clock. Joan was sleeping, and he did not wake her. He
dressed, and went out into the streets. There was a great deal more
damage in his neighbourhood than there had been before. Ambulances were
still about the streets collecting the wounded from the houses and the
gardens; the cars were much hampered in their work by the unrepaired
bomb holes in the streets. In places it was impossible for the ambulance
to approach the house. Over by the University there seemed to be a
considerable fire; dense volumes of smoke were wreathing up into a grey
sky.

He met and talked to one or two people that he knew. All were now
resolute to get out of the city. It seemed to Corbett that the ambulance
crews alone of all the services were now working for the city as a
whole. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on his individual needs, to
the exclusion of his public duty. "I've been with the fire service these
last two nights," one man told him, tired and worn. "We haven't half had
some work to do. But they'll have to get along without me, from now on.
I'm taking the wife to Romsey."

When he got back to his house, Littlejohn was there, his car drawn up
outside the door. He was bareheaded but for the white bandage that Joan
had put on; his clothes were dirty and there were streaks of blood on
his grey face.

He said, "There's no cordon on the roads now, Mr. Corbett. You can get
through to Hamble." He hesitated, and then said, "You want to get there
quick, while the going's good."

Corbett asked, "When did they take the cordon off?"

"Last night. When I said I heard that shooting."

"Was that there?"

The builder nodded. "I said they'd have trouble at them barriers, didn't
I? Never heard of such a daft thing to do."

Corbett was appalled. "You mean, the troops fired on the crowd?"

The builder shook his head. "From what I could make out, the crowd fired
on the troops. Then they gave way, and let them through."

They stood in silence for a minute. "It's just another thing," said the
builder. "You don't want to think too much of it."

He glanced up at the house. "I took a run out there this morning, just
to see," he said. "I got something I been meaning to give you, but I
didn't want to in front of Mrs. Corbett." He fumbled in the pocket of
his raincoat and pulled out a very large, black automatic pistol, with
four clips of cartridges. "There."

Corbett took it from him and examined it diffidently. "It's awfully kind
of you. Don't you want it for yourself?"

The builder shook his head. "I shan't want nothing of that. But when I
saw it I thought--well, you never know. Times is different now to what
they was a week ago, and you've got your family to think of. I brought
it home for you."

"Where did you get it?"

The builder said evasively, "I found it. I've been looking around for a
bit of stuff to give it a pull through--you can see, the barrel's
dirty." He took it from Corbett, pulled the block, and squinted down it.
"See? It was fired last night. But you don't want to worry about that.
Just get a bit of stuff and give it a pull through." He gave it back to
the solicitor.

Corbett persuaded him to come in and have breakfast before Joan came
down with the children. They cooked a meal of bacon and fried bread and
coffee over the Primus stove. The builder said very little till the meal
was over.

Then he said, "You want to hurry up and get away, Mr. Corbett."

The solicitor nodded. "I'm going this morning." He paused, and then
asked gently, "What will you do?"

"I got to ... make arrangements for her." There was a short pause. "And
after that I'm going back into the Army. I'm not that old, and I was a
Company Sergeant Major in the Machine Gun Corps last time. They got new
guns now, I hear, but I could soon learn them." He paused. "I figured it
out when I was sitting up there with her last night, and the bombs going
and all. And I thought she'd want me to go back into the Army, like I
was before we met." He was silent for a moment.

"So I'll be all fixed up, Mr. Corbett. But you want to think of your
family, and get them away out of this."

Joan appeared then, with the children. Littlejohn went away and
Corbett, cooking a second breakfast for his family, discussed the
position with Joan. "I'll take the silver and your jewel box down to the
Bank first of all," he said, "and get them to store them for us. Then
I'll come back with the car, and we'll get off to Hamble as soon as we
can. You'd better get your packing done while I'm away."

She nodded. "But we must have some more milk to take with us. I've only
got two tins left. See if you can get any in the town. And we'll want
some meat."

He laughed. "What about a bottle of fizzy lemonade?"

She laid the dish down, and laughed with him. "I can't believe it. Like
a sort of picnic!" She went on laughing, and he laid his hand upon her
arm.

"Stop that," he said.

She pulled herself together. "I'm sorry, Peter."

He smiled. "Would you like to see what Littlejohn gave me this morning?"

"What was that?"

He pulled the automatic from his pocket and showed it to her; the light
shone on the blued steel. She turned it over curiously. "Is it loaded?"

"No. I do know that much about it."

She glanced at him, smiling. "Peter, do you know how it works?"

"I'm not quite sure," he admitted. "I've seen Humphrey Bogart with one
often enough ..." They examined it together. "I believe the empty shells
come popping out of here."

He paused. "He was so--so genuine. I couldn't possibly refuse to have
it. What shall we do with it?"

"Keep it," she said. "I like to know it's there."

He washed and shaved, packed the silver and Joan's jewelry in a wooden
box, locked it, carried it out to the car, and drove down to the Bank.
In the city he noticed listlessness for the first time. The new damage
was extensive, but the repair squads were few in number, and weakly
manned. They were mostly soldiers of the Royal engineers; civilian
labourers were in the minority. He saw a good many shops damaged and
open to the street, with nobody to guard the goods.

He found the Bank Manager exactly in his normal guise, spotlessly
dressed, pink-cheeked, and with a flower in his buttonhole. "Just room
for one more in the strong room," he said pleasantly. "Of course, you
understand that we take no responsibility for risks directly or
indirectly attributable to the war. You see, that is quite clear on this
form of receipt. Would you mind signing here?"

Corbett signed. "What's my balance today?" he asked.

A clerk looked up the figure. "A hundred and nine pounds, fifteen
shillings, and fourpence, Mr. Corbett."

He nodded. "I'll take the hundred and nine pounds in notes. As many ones
as you can give me."

He pocketed the money, and then turned to consider his stocks. He had a
few small English securities, and about fifteen hundred pounds in the
Canadian Pacific Railway. He sorted out the share certificates of that,
put them in a separate envelope, and took them away with him.

In the street near the bank there was a lorry selling milk, without
bottles or cartons. He went into an ironmonger's shop and bought an
enamel hot water jug holding about a gallon, had it filled, and took it
to the car. His search for food was not very productive, but he got a
piece of bacon about seven pounds in weight, a few more tins, some
baking powder, and some more flour. Bread seemed to be unobtainable.

"The men won't work," they told him at one baker's shop, a little
ruefully. "All they think about is getting out into the country with
their families."

Corbett laughed. "You surprise me."

The girl was nettled. "Well, I mean to say, somebody's got to make the
bread, haven't they?"

He did not attempt to answer that.

He went to his office, and let himself in with his key. The building was
still intact though every window had been smashed; papers and carpets in
the rooms were wet and sodden. A few, a very few, letters had been
thrust in at the letter box; he could not wait to attend to them, and
laid them unopened on a table. There was no sign that anybody else had
been there since he had left. He tried the telephone; it was dead. He
locked the office door, and went away.

He drove back to the house. Joan had packed two suitcases and put them
in the hall; Corbett went up to his room and packed a few clothes for
himself. Then they took the luggage out to the car with all the food
that they had in the house, and a large quantity of blankets and
pillows.

Mr. Littlejohn arrived in his car, and drew Corbett on one side. "I got
seven cans of gas," he said quietly. "Fourteen gallons. You want to take
them with you--I got them for you. But put them somewhere where they
won't be seen. Gas is not to be had for love or money in the town today,
and if some of the rough chaps saw you with all that ... well, they
might make trouble, and you don't want that. But you'll need gas."

"That's terribly good of you. How did you get hold of them?"

"Never you mind where they come from, Mr. Corbett. Same place as the
pistol. You got that all right?"

Corbett nodded.

"Better keep that with you, Mr. Corbett. Not that you'll ever need it,
or anything of that. But there's a lot of the rough lads out and about
what don't care nothing for nobody, if you take my meaning. But they'd
keep right away from anyone they knew carried a gun. See?"

Corbett said, "What about you, Littlejohn? Can we help at all?" He
glanced towards the house.

The builder shook his head. "I got the undertaker coming this morning,"
he said. "Don't seem like it was her at all, somehow.... And her sister
Aggie, from Millbrook, she said she'd look round." He shook his head.
"You can't do nothing, Mr. Corbett, thanking you all the same. You want
to get away. Soon as I've seen her put away I'll be going down to join
up."

Corbett went back into the house. Joan had packed the children's
clothes; he carried them out to the car, now stuffed as full as a
removal van. Then he went back into the house.

"How much can the children take in the way of toys, Peter?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Nothing very big."

They went up with the children to the nursery. He asked Phyllis, "Which
of the dollies are you taking on the boat with you?"

"Mary and Teddy. And we'll take the dolls' house, Daddy?"

"Not the dolls' house. Big girls don't take dolls' houses on boats with
them. Take Mary and Teddy."

"May I take my engine, Daddy?"

"Yes, you can take that."

"And my tricycle?"

Joan said, "We'll come back and get the tricycle another day. That's
enough toys for you. Now a few books."

They took _Peter Rabbit_, and _Jemima Puddle-Duck_, and _When Jesus Was
a Little Boy_, and _Nicodemus and His Gran'pappy_, and, by special
request, _Ameliaranne at the Circus_. And they took a disreputable
wooden horse for John, and the wooden bricks with letters on them, and a
vehicle consisting of a pair of wheels and a bell that tinkled when you
pulled it along. They took a couple of woolly animals for the baby. And
they took the hot water bottles, the one that looked like a rabbit for
Phyllis and the one that looked like Donald Duck for John.

Then they went downstairs.

They took the children and the baby out to the car, left them there, and
went back into the house for a last look round. "It's hateful to be
leaving it," said Joan, a little sadly. "We've had a good time here."

She went into the drawing room, cavernous and dark behind the boarded
windows, and picked up a little ebony elephant from the dusty, littered
mantelpiece.

"I want to take this with me, for remembering," she said.

Corbett laid his hand upon her arm. "Don't worry," he said gently. "It's
rotten having to leave home like this. But we'll be back before long."

She gazed around the room, and shook her head. "I'm not so sure of
that," she said quietly. "I think we're going for good. I don't think we
shall ever come back here again."




4


The village of Hamble lies upon the Hamble River, a tidal tributary of
Southampton Water about six miles as the crow flies from Southampton. In
the last century Hamble was a fishing village; by 1914 it had become a
prosperous centre for the building, fitting out, and laying up of
yachts. In later years an airport, a seaplane station, and three small
aircraft factories came into being near the village, while the yachting
industry increased enormously. In consequence the village spread out in
a rash of villas, clubs, and weekend cottages.

Peter Corbett kept his yacht, the _Sonia_, at Hamble. She was not the
sort of yacht worn with white duck trousers. She was nearly forty years
old, a gaff-rigged cutter with a straight stem and a long old-fashioned
bowsprit, based upon the style of the fishing smacks belonging to the
east coast village where she had been built. Her hull was low in the
water and painted a dull black, her sails were tanned, her decks painted
with buff paint which made them tolerably watertight when the paint was
new and unbroken in the spring.

He used her in the summer for weekends in the Solent, and for an annual
short summer cruise westwards down the coast. Joan and Peter sailed her
normally alone, sometimes with a friend or two. On very fine, hot, calm
weekends they would take the children on board and drive her to Seaview
for a bathe, under the power of her ancient engine, noisy and difficult
to start, converted from a Model-T Ford of a bygone age. She was an
aged, dirty little boat, not very sound, but Joan and Peter thought the
world of her. She was their hobby and their holiday, deep laden with
sweet memories of escape from their routine.

As a permanent residence for two adults, two children, and an infant,
her accommodation was not impressive. From the bows, she had a
forecastle where a water closet stood starkly between the chain locker
and the cooking galley. The galley was served by two Primus stoves, one
of which carried a rusty tin cooking oven. A water tank of about fifteen
gallons' capacity was clamped to a bulkhead; a little crockery was
stored with the frying pans and saucepans in a cupboard. Aft of the
forecastle the saloon was furnished with a settee berth on either side
and a swinging table in the middle, with one or two small lockers beside
the settees. A paraffin lamp in gimbals swung from the bulkhead. Aft
again, one passed up on deck into the cockpit by means of a couple of
steps forming the fore-end of the engine cover, removable to permit the
flywheel to be cranked, knuckles to be damaged, or, occasionally, arms
to be broken. On either side of this contraption were the head ends of
two very narrow berths, the feet of which extended aft under the cockpit
seats. In summer time these berths were filled with odd lengths of old
rope, sails, damp towels and bathing suits, solitary canvas shoes bereft
of their laces, mildewing straw sun hats.

Corbett had paid two hundred pounds for her six years before. It was a
lasting wonder to him that two hundred pounds could have bought so much
happiness.

For the winter he had laid her up in a mud berth in the salt marshes of
the estuary, where he could come and potter about on her in the short
daylight hours of Sunday afternoon, and where an aged fisherman kept an
eye on her in stormy weather. He had stored her sails and gear with a
local yard; her mast and standing rigging he had left in place. Her
dinghy was stored in the yard. At high tide he could get at her with a
boat, but at low water the depth of mud made access to her difficult, if
not impossible.

As he drove his overloaded car through the streets of the malodorous,
stricken city that morning in March, Corbett was not depressed. It takes
a very little thing to lift the spirits of a man. He was leaving his
home for an indefinite time, leaving his house, his business and his
office, ruined and abandoned, flying with his family from death by high
explosive or disease, journeying towards a future all unknown. And yet
his heart was light. Routine was broken; there would be no more drafting
of conveyances for a time, anyway. The sun was shining after the rain of
the night. He had a hundred pounds in his pocket. And, above all, he was
going to his boat.

He began to hum a little tune as he drove the heavy car. Joan looked up
at him in surprise, troubled and still clinging to her elephant. Then
she smiled a little, and relaxed. If he was happy, things would be all
right.

She touched him on the arm. "We'd better have some sweets for the
children. If you see a shop open, let's stop and get something."

He nodded, shifting in his seat; the automatic in his coat pocket was
hard to sit upon. "All right. We'll make a picnic of it."

She laughed. "I must say, it's a relief to get away. I was getting to
hate it--and that awful trench, every night. It'll be fun, being on the
boat."

He nodded. "We ought to have come before."

He turned off the main road down a lane towards Hamble village. The lane
was choked with Royal Air Force lorries; driving behind one and meeting
many others they made slow progress. As they approached the airport they
saw that there was much activity. The road ran along one boundary for a
short distance; Corbett ran the car off the road onto the grass verge
and stopped to watch.

He knew that the airport was the home of a training school of some sort.
He did not take much interest in airplanes, but the scores of small
machines with yellow wings which infested the air round Hamble made the
function of this place unmistakable. But now the airport seemed to have
been turned into a base for a fighter squadron, or several squadrons.
Near by a breach had been made in the hedge that separated the field
from the road, and through this breach the lorries ground and swung, to
lurch across the grass to where a city of tents was growing up in an
adjacent field. Along the hedge the low wing monoplanes were parked,
grey green in colour, single seaters with retractable undercarriages
and cellon hoods over the cockpits. There were a great many of them.
From where he sat Corbett counted over fifty picketed down along the
edges of the field; there were several in the air. In the adjacent
field, and round the airplanes, men were swarming in an orderly bustle
of improvization. Engines were running up; a singing grind came from a
workshop lorry. An empty gas tank lorry came lurching out and joined the
traffic of the lane.

Joan touched him on the arm. "Let's get along," she said. "You can come
back and look at this afterwards."

Corbett nodded, and moved the car back into the traffic stream. He drove
round the airport and down the hill through the village to the water's
edge, parking the car above high water mark. The tide was nearly full.

He got out of the car and looked about. "I'll go and see if I can find a
dinghy," he said. "If not, I'll have to get our own out of the yard."

Joan nodded. "I'll stay here and give baby her bottle."

"All right."

Phyllis said, "May I go with Daddy?"

John said, "May I go with Daddy, Mummy?"

Corbett said, "You can come, Phyllis. You'd better stay with Mummy,
John. You can come when you're a big man."

"May I take Teddy with me, Daddy?" asked Phyllis.

"Yes, you can bring Teddy."

John said, "May I give baby her bottle?"

Corbett left Joan to deal with that, and taking his daughter by the hand
went off to the yard.

He found a good deal of activity. Practically all the boats laid up in
the yard seemed to be being lived in; evidently the owners of boats had
come to the conclusion that their boats were safer residences than their
houses in the towns. There was much coming and going by well-dressed,
well-educated people in the yard. But there were no dinghies to spare.
After a good deal of delay Corbett located his at the back of a far
shed; he got a young man in a pullover and plus fours to help him get it
down to the water.

"Lammermoor's the name," said the young man. "My dad, he's the
Lammermoor of Pearson and Lammermoor, in Commercial Road, Portsmouth.
Drapery, toys, and all sorts. Maybe you know it?"

Corbett nodded. "I've passed it. How are things in Portsmouth?"

"It's been terrible. They say that London's had it bad, and Bristol, but
they couldn't possibly have had it worse than we did. Bombs every night,
hours on end." The young man's lips twitched like a rabbit's. "Dad, he
stayed on to see the business right, and he made me bring Mummer and
Sissie and Ted here. We've got a motor cruiser just up there, the _Happy
Days_. Come up and have a cup o' tea if you've a minute."

Phyllis, clutching her teddy bear, stared at him wide-eyed. Corbett
excused himself, took the dinghy, and rowed round to the beach where
Joan was waiting in the car.

She got out and came to meet him, the baby in her arms. "You'd better
put me on board with the children first," she said. "We'll take this
basket, and the paraffin, and then I can get the children something to
eat. Is there any water on board, do you think?"

He nodded. "About half a tank. But it's been there since last summer."

She forced a laugh. "I'll have to boil that before we give it to the
children."

He smiled. "You'd better boil it before you give it to me--let alone the
children. But don't waste any of it, not until I can find out how water
is round here."

He helped Joan and the two children into the dinghy, and pushed off. The
mud berth where his vessel lay was half a mile down river. He rowed down
to her and drew the dinghy up by her counter, and held the boat while
Joan got on board with the baby; then he passed the other children up to
her. She unlocked the cabin hatch and went below. Corbett rowed back
upstream to his car.

He made the seven cans of gas the foundation of his next load; he was
sensitive about them, and glad to get them on board out of sight. Two
more trips emptied the car; after the last load he climbed on board
himself and surveyed the mass of gear accumulated in the cockpit.

"Better get some of this stuff stowed away," he said to Joan.

She looked up at him appealingly from the cabin, feeding the children
with milk and bread and jam, tired and hot. The baby was yelling
furiously on the bare foundation of a settee bunk.

"Get the mattresses next, if you can," she said. "Then we can get the
children into bed, and turn around a bit ourselves."

He nodded, glancing at the sky. It was not going to rain; there was no
harm in leaving the stuff out on deck. He rowed back up the river to the
hard, went to the store, and carried down the mattresses one by one to
the dinghy.

He took them back to the yacht, passed them below to Joan, and helped
her to lay them down. He was tired then; while she began putting the
children to bed in their novel surroundings he sat down on the heap of
dunnage in the cockpit and lit a cigarette. But she would not let him
finish it.

"There's very little water in the tank," she said. "You wouldn't like to
go on shore and get some more?"

"I'd hate it," he said. He got up wearily, fetched the canvas water bag
from the sail locker, and in the falling dusk rowed to the hard again.
He landed, pulled the dinghy up a little, and walked with his water bag
towards the houses. Suddenly he brightened. It was after six o'clock,
and the pubs were open. Light streamed from the wide-open door of the
Hamble Arms; he heard a buzz of conversation and the clinking of
tankards.

He made his way into the saloon bar. The room was thronged with people
from the yachts, all listening to the news broadcast. He stood for a
time quietly in a corner and listened with them; in a quarter of an hour
he learned a great deal about the progress of the war. Queerly enough,
it did not seem to touch him personally; it was as if he had been
reading of the war in Spain. It was a restricted and a censored
broadcast. A few sporadic air raids on a few towns in the country were
admitted, but no details were given and the topic was passed over
quickly. A full account was given of the raids carried out by the Air
Force "as measures of reprisal." There was no mention of any action by
the Army or the Navy, though the broadcast ended with a stirring call to
enlistment in all services.

The news ended, the set was switched off to conserve the batteries, and
a subdued hum of conversation broke out in the crowded room. The
reception of the news was mixed. There was little enthusiasm, no keen
discussion of the war. Most of the men in the saloon seemed to be of
military age, some of them with their wives, many of them evidently in
good circumstances. To Corbett, there seemed to be an atmosphere of
uncertainty, of bewilderment, among them. They were all men of the
officer type, who might have been expected to be serving in a war that
was now nearly a week old. It appeared to Corbett that they were all in
the same boat as he was himself. They were delaying and procrastinating,
waiting to see their families established in safety before they went to
serve. And each of them, secretly and individually, was unhappy and
ashamed of the line that he was taking.

They did not stay and gossip much. The news broadcast ended, they
finished their drinks and went quietly back to their boats.

Corbett ordered a pint of ale. The barman recognized him and wished him
good evening. "Come down to stay on your yacht, Mr. Corbett?"

"That's right."

"Mrs. Corbett with you?"

He nodded. "She's on board with the children."

The barman nodded. "Most people seem to have come to their boats," he
said. "Boats, cottages, or tents. Cold comfort in a tent this weather,
if you ask me. But there's a regular camp up by the old reservoir.
People living in their cars, and all sorts." He laughed shortly.

Corbett said, "I want some water. Can I fill a water bag?"

"Surely, Mr. Corbett. You know where the tap is--out in the yard. It's
running all right now."

Corbett looked up, startled. "Have you had a water shortage here?"

The man nodded carelessly. "Thursday, it was off. Or was it Wednesday?
One or other of them. After one of them raids you had in Southampton.
One of the mains was bust, but they seem to have got it mended now."

"Do you get your water from Southampton, then?"

"Oh, ay. All our water comes from Southampton, saving one or two of the
cottages that have wells. That's why the people went up to the old
reservoir to camp, because the water was off. Still, can't say I'd like
to drink that water from the reservoir myself, nor out of them old wells
either. Rather drink beer." He laughed comfortably.

"Have a pint with me."

"Thank you, sir. I don't mind if I do."

A man standing near the bar and listening to the conversation said,
"Most country districts get their water from the towns, these days." He
paused. "When they're near enough, I mean to say."

"I suppose they do," said Corbett.

He stood thoughtfully for a few minutes, drinking his beer. Presently he
said to the barman, "I shall want some milk in the morning. Where had I
better go for that?"

The other man laughed. The barman said, "I really couldn't tell you, Mr.
Corbett. Everybody's after milk."

"You won't get any milk in Hamble," said the other man. "Better stick to
beer."

"I can't give the baby beer. Isn't there any milk at all?"

The barman shook his head. "There was a cart come in the day before
yesterday. Regular scramble for it, there was. I don't know where you'd
go for milk, Mr. Corbett--really and truly I don't. You might try one of
the farms on the Warsash side, over Titchfield way."

The other nodded. "That's your best chance to get milk, if you've got
young children. It's no good going to the farms between here and
Southampton. There's a milk queue half a mile long at each of them."

Corbett finished his beer, stood up, and stretched. His fatigue had left
him. "I'll get the water, anyway," he said, "while the going's good."

He went out into the yard, filled his water bag, and carried it with
difficulty and with many pauses down to the dinghy. The tide had fallen
quickly while he had been on shore. He dragged the boat down till she
floated and rowed back to his yacht. The dinghy grounded on the mud
fifty yards from the vessel.

Joan was sitting in the hatchway, smoking a cigarette and watching him.
"I say," he said, "I'm stuck. What do we do now?"

"Get out and walk," she said.

"I can't. I'd go in up to the waist."

"Well, you'll just have to sit there, then. Why did you stay so long on
shore?"

"I was drinking in the pub."

"Pig," she said without animosity. "Did you get any water?"

"I got that. What about the children?"

"They're in bed and asleep. You'd better go back on shore and get
yourself something to eat there."

"Are you all right? If you chuck me my gum boots I'll have a crack at
getting on board."

"I couldn't chuck them that far." She blew a long cloud of smoke. "Don't
worry--there's nothing for you to do here. I'll make myself some cocoa
and go to bed. You go on shore, and come back when the tide comes in.
When will that be?"

He thought for a minute. "I should be able to get on board about
eleven."

She nodded. "I shall be asleep. Don't make a row when you come back."

He pushed the dinghy off the mud and rowed towards the hard. On the way
she hailed him.

"Oh, Peter. Get some more cigarettes, if you can!"

He went back to the inn and had a cold meal in the snack bar. There was
evidently a food scarcity, but he got a small plate of cold beef and
some bread and cheese after a time. There were several others in the
snack bar, like him, dining on shore. There was no conversation;
everybody seemed to be uneasy and depressed. As he finished his meal it
began to rain.

He paid his bill, and went to the door of the inn. The night was wet and
windy, but the rain was light. As he stood there looking out, a plane
roared overhead in the pitch darkness, then another, and a third. The
barman, collecting dirty glasses in the saloon, came to the door and
stood beside him looking up into the dark night.

"Going off again," he said. "They get the hell of a time, them chaps."

"Are they from the field here?" asked Corbett.

The man nodded. "Every night they goes up, just the same, wet or fine.
Mostly wet. And they don't do no bloody good, either."

"They don't seem to be able to get at the bombers."

The man shook his head. "You should hear them talk.... Proper fed up
with themselves, they are."

"Do they get any accidents?"

"Plenty, nights like this. There was one fine, starry night--Wednesday,
was it? They didn't have none at all, that night. But wet, dark nights
like this, in them fast single seaters--they goes piling 'em up right
and left. 'Tisn't reasonable to expect otherwise."

"When do they come back to land?"

"They'll be at it all night, in shifts, like. Up and down, all night
long. You want to go up there and see. It's quite a sight."

He went back to the bar. Overhead the aircraft roared up into the
darkness at half minute intervals, interminably. Corbett stood for a
time in the doorway finishing his cigarette, then buttoned his coat
round him and walked up towards the airport.

The entrances were unguarded. He had no difficulty in walking up between
the buildings to the edge of the flying field. The place was thronged
with men, lorries, and cars, moving and crowding in an orderly,
disciplined confusion, each intent on his own job. The lights shone
shimmering on wet raincoats and on dripping lorry tarpaulins; beneath
each tailboard the exhaust roared out in a great cloud of steam in the
wet night. Corbett made his way forward to the edge of the tarmac, near
the control, and stood for a time in a sheltering doorway to see what
was happening.

The flare path was laid out into the wind. Five open buckets filled with
blazing rags and paraffin stretched in a line down the grass, with one
more placed transversely at the windward end. The machines, greenish
black in the yellow, flaring light, were taxiing one by one to the far
end for the take-off; as each was ready a light flashed at the control.
The pilot opened his throttle with a high-pitched scream from engine,
super-charger, and propeller, accelerated down the line of flares slowly
at first and then more quickly, rolled into the air, retracted his
undercarriage at once, and vanished into the dark rainy night over the
trees. Then the next was ready.

A squadron of eleven machines went off as Corbett watched; there was a
pause after that. It seemed that no more was to happen for a little
time. The crowd of officers round the Control thinned out; one or two
of them walked away past Corbett.

He saw a well-known face half buried in a turned-up raincoat collar,
beneath a forage cap. He swung round, and called impulsively after the
retreating figure, "Collins!"

The man came back and peered at him; on his shoulders he wore the
stripes of a Flight Lieutenant. "Who's that?"

"It's Peter Corbett."

"Corbett? What on earth are you doing here?"

"Looking around. I'm living on my boat in the river."

"Good stuff. I thought about you, in Southampton. I hoped you'd had the
sense to get out of it. Is Joan with you?"

"She's on board, with the kids."

"Fine. I say, I'd like to come down tomorrow, if I may. Where's the boat
lying?"

Corbett told him. "Come and have lunch," he said. "God knows what you'll
get to eat, but come along."

The other laughed. "I'm not going to eat your food. I'll drop in
sometime in the morning. Look--I must get along, but that's a date. I'm
terribly sorry that I can't stop now, but I'm on duty in a few minutes."

"That's all right. Are you flying tonight?"

The other nodded. "There's a squadron coming in pretty soon. I'm taking
one of those machines as soon as it's refuelled." He laughed shortly.
"We've got more pilots than machines, these days. Playing Box and Cox. I
tell you, Corbett, it's a ruddy picnic, this."

He turned away. "Tomorrow morning, then."

He vanished into the darkness. Corbett stayed for an hour longer. The
squadron landed in the wind and rain, coming in one by one out of the
darkness into the flickering light of the flares to touch down gently on
the grass, run along, then swing round and taxi in towards the hangars.
The fifth machine to land over-shot, landed nearly at the far end of the
flare path, and ran forwards into the hedge, coming to rest abruptly
with a cracking noise. An ambulance and a fire car ran quickly over the
grass towards it, but there did not seem to be a need for either.

The machines were refuelled and ammunition checked in about half an
hour, the pilots standing round them, clumsy in their flying kit and
parachutes. Another squadron landed without incident; then the machines
of the first squadron were ready to take off. Corbett tried to identify
Collins in his flying suit and helmet, but could not pick him out. One
by one the machines taxied to the end of the flare path, took off
uneventfully, and were lost to sight in the dark racing clouds.

There was another pause. Corbett left the airport, and walked back
towards the river.

He launched the dinghy. The tide was on the flood and he had no
difficulty in getting back on board. There was a light in the saloon;
Joan was reading in bed. He made the dinghy fast and went below.

"I must say, you're a nice one," she said. "I believe you did it on
purpose, so that you could get a decent meal at the pub."

He smiled, taking off his sodden coat. "I didn't have a decent meal--or
not very. I could eat another now."

"There's some cocoa in the saucepan if you like to hot it up."

He told her, as he heated the cocoa, the substance of what he had
learned while he was on shore. Over some of it she wrinkled her brows.

"It's not so good about the milk, Peter," she said. "We've not got very
many tins, and they get through an awful lot. I did think that we'd be
able to get milk here, out in the country."

He nodded. "So did I. I suppose we can't sort of wean them--give them
soup and stuff instead?"

"We might with John and Phyllis. But the baby must have milk."

He bent and kissed her. "Don't worry about it tonight. We'll get some
milk, somehow."

He eyed her for a minute. "Have you had the hell of a time with them?"

She shook her head. "Baby was troublesome, but the other two were good
as gold. They're simply loving every minute of it."

"Next thing, they'll be falling overboard into the mud."

"I know. I thought John was over once or twice this afternoon. I'd hate
to have to go over and fish him out. Peter, couldn't you rig a sort of
life line round the bulwarks for them?"

He nodded. "I'll fix up something in the morning."

He undressed and got into his blankets on the other berth. He stretched
his head upon the pillow, and relaxed. "It's better to be here than in
the house," he said. "At least we won't have to get up and go out to
the trench." He rolled over and looked at her. "You'd rather be here,
wouldn't you?"

She nodded. "I believe something terrible might have happened if we'd
stayed at home," she said soberly. "I'm glad we came away."

"So am I." He reached up and put out the lamp. "Good night, Joan."

"Good night, Peter dear."

Silence closed down upon the little yacht. The rising tide made lapping
noises on the hull; as it came up the vessel stirred in the mud. The two
children slept quietly, the baby made snuffling noises in her sleep,
like a puppy. The wind sighed through the bare rigging of the mast; away
in the distance was the sound of airplanes. Corbett lay listening to
these little noises for a time, tired and content. It was better to be
here. Here he felt master of his fate, able to sway their destiny by his
own work and his own efforts. At home he had felt powerless, a pawn.

He must rig that life line for the children in the morning. His big job
tomorrow would be to get milk.

He slept.

In the middle of the night he woke up suddenly. Joan was standing by his
side in her pyjamas, shaking him by the shoulder. "Peter," she said.
"Peter, wake up!"

He sat up suddenly. "What is it?"

"It's another raid. Listen."

They were silent. In the distance he heard the sharp crack of gunfire.
Then there was a heavy concussion, and another, and a third. "That's
right," he said soberly. "They're at it again."

They went together to the hatch, slid it back quietly for fear of waking
the children, and stood with their heads out on deck, listening.
Intermittently they heard the concussions in the city; occasionally an
airplane passed above their heads, landing upon the field. The rain had
stopped, but it was still heavily overcast.

"We can't do anything about it," Corbett said at last. "Better get back
to bed before you catch a cold."

Joan did not stir. "It's terrible," she said. "I believe one feels worse
about it listening to it from the outside than when you're right in it.
Peter, I do hope Mr. Littlejohn's all right."

He put his arm around her shoulders. "I expect he is. He knows how to
look after himself." He thought of Gordon operating in the hospital, of
his wife nursing cholera, of all the people in the city who were still
carrying on with the essential jobs, and he was bitter with himself that
he was out of it.

The girl stirred beside him. "Don't think me awfully soppy, Peter," she
said tremulously, "but I'm going to say my prayers."

He nodded. "That's not a bad idea. I believe I'll say mine."

They turned back into the dark, narrow little cabin and knelt for a time
against their settee beds, repeating to themselves what they could
remember of the prayers they had learned as children. Then they got back
to bed and lay for a long time listening to the planes and the
concussions, till presently they fell asleep.

Dawn came next morning sunny and bright after the rain. Corbett got up
at about seven o'clock and put the kettle on. Then for a couple of hours
there was the turmoil of getting the children up, washing, shaving,
changing the baby, getting the breakfast, getting the baby's breakfast,
eating breakfast, washing up breakfast, till at the end Joan and Peter,
exhausted, had time to sit down for a cigarette.

Corbett blew a long cloud of smoke. "This is a bit too much like work,"
he said.

Joan laughed shortly. "You're telling _me_!"

He eyed her sympathetically. "If you'd like to go off and look for milk,
I'll stay on board this morning and look after the kids. I had a walk
yesterday."

She brightened. "I'd love a run on shore. It's too bad we can't go
together."

"Never mind. Besides, I'd just as soon stay here this morning. I've got
a lot to do on board, and Collins may be coming off."

He helped her with the dinghy, and watched her as she rowed ashore. She
landed, pulled up the dinghy on the beach a little way, and tied it to a
post. Then she took her shopping basket and went up into the village.

It did not take her very long to confirm that there was no milk to be
had. At the general shop where she had bought milk before she asked what
had happened to all the milk.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said the woman. "The car hasn't brought it
from the depot, not for three days. But Mr. Child, what drives the cart,
he lives in Woolston, in Southampton. Maybe he's gone away with his
family, evacuating like. Anyway, there's no milk."

Joan bought one or two other things and came away. It was no good trying
the farms on the Southampton side of the river for milk; she took the
dinghy and rowed across the Hamble, and landed on the Warsash side.

She spent all morning wandering from farm to farm. She was not alone in
her quest. Other people from the swollen population of the village had
been before her. Most of the farms were genuinely sold out of milk. She
felt convinced that others had milk, but they would not sell it to her.
At last, tired and depressed, she got a pint in an old lime juice
bottle.

"It won't go far," she thought ruefully. "Still, it's better than
nothing." She began to revolve schemes in her mind for getting the two
older children off milk altogether, in order that the baby might have
what there was.

On her way back towards the dinghy she passed a village general shop at
a cross roads, and went in and enquired for milk.

The slatternly woman who came to the counter said, "We haven't got no
milk. Got plenty of tinned salmon?"

Joan shook her head. "I don't want that." She looked around the shelves
a little absently. Her eye was caught by an open packing case standing
behind the counter in a corner, half full of familiar grey paper-covered
tins. "Look," she said. "That's milk down there, isn't it?"

The woman moved in front of the case. "We haven't got no milk to sell,"
she said obstinately.

"But that's milk down there."

The woman repeated, "We haven't got no milk to sell. The shop ain't
open, really, only to oblige."

Joan said, "Look here, I've got a little baby. My other two children can
get on without milk, but I must have milk for the baby. Let me have a
few tins."

The woman tightened her lips. Then she called, "Joe!" and a man came
from the inner room.

"Tell the lady we ain't got no milk to sell, Joe," she commanded.

The man said, "Sorry, lady, but the shop ain't open. The girl must have
left the door on the latch. We ain't open today." He pushed her towards
the door.

In the doorway Joan turned on them. "All right," she said, "I'll go
away. But I know this--you've got all the milk in the world there, in
that case. And I hope it bally well chokes you." She walked away, half
in tears.

On the yacht, Corbett put in a domestic morning. He rigged a warp twice
round the vessel to keep the children from falling overboard, stopping
it to the rigging, forestay, and backstays. He cleaned and filled the
lamps and Primus stoves. He made the beds, and kept the children playing
with their toys between his feet upon the narrow, cluttered floor of the
saloon.

In the middle of the morning a small motor launch came alongside, flying
the flag of the Royal Air Force. It was Collins. He came on board; the
launch backed away and went off upstream.

"It's good seeing you again," said Corbett. "Come on down and have a
whiskey. I haven't got any soda, I'm afraid."

They went below, stepping over the children. "These your kids?" asked
Collins.

"That's right," said Corbett. "There's another in the forecastle,
asleep."

"Over the lavvy," explained Phyllis.

For a few moments Corbett showed his guest the layout of the ship.
Phyllis stood erect and looked at the newcomer. "This is Teddy," she
said helpfully.

John said, "This is Horsey, but his tail came off."

"All right," said Corbett. "Go on playing with them on the floor."
Pouring out the whiskey, he turned to his friend. "Joan's on shore,
looking for milk--she'll be back before long. Is Felicity down here with
you?"

The Flight Lieutenant shook his head. "I left her up at Abingdon--we've
got a house there. We came down here in such a hurry, too."

"You've been here long?"

"We came down here after the first raid, the day war was declared.
Tuesday, was it? I forget."

He raised his glass. "Here's luck."

Corbett nodded, and drank. "We could do with a bit of that."

Collins said, "By God, you're right."

He glanced at Corbett. "You didn't come to any harm in Southampton? I
see you didn't. I went in there yesterday. It's in a terrible mess."

Corbett nodded. "We stuck it out till yesterday. I had a trench, in the
back garden. But then--well, we came here."

He turned to the officer. "How long is this going on for?"

"God knows. Forever, far as I can see. Or until we can somehow get and
bomb their air bases. The barrage is no bloody good when we don't know
the height. You know how they're doing it?"

Corbett shook his head. "I'd like to know."

"They're getting a star fix, and bombing through the clouds."

There was a momentary silence in the yacht.

Corbett said, "You mean, they're taking sextant observations of the
stars and fixing their position above the clouds?"

"That's right. They've got a sextant--boy, what a sextant! But they're
wizard instrument makers, of course. This one that I saw came out of one
of their bombers that crashed at Sevenoaks." He laughed a little
cynically. "Oh, we didn't shoot it down, or anything like that. It
collided with one of our own fighters in the middle of a cloud, and they
both crashed."

He said soberly, "That sextant's going to win the war for them, if we
don't look out."

"How do you mean?"

The Flight Lieutenant blew a long cloud of smoke. "This way. I don't
know if you know--with a marine sextant, bringing the sun down to a good
horizon, you can fix your position within half a mile or so--less,
perhaps. In the air you haven't got a horizon level with you, so you use
a bubble sextant. You bring the sun or star down onto a sort of spirit
level bubble."

Corbett nodded. "I know that."

"Well, that's not so accurate. We use them in the Service, of course,
but if you get within four or five miles of the true position it's all
you can do. You've got to hold the bubble in your hands, you see, and
you can't hold it still enough. You can't get greater accuracy than
that. But that's good enough for ordinary navigating by."

"I understand that. What's their sextant like?"

"It's like a dumb-bell. You hold it vertically in both hands. The top
knob is the sextant--fairly normal, just a very good averaging bubble
sextant. The middle, the part that you hold, is a sort of composite
rubber vibration damper. And the bottom knob has two little electrically
driven gyroscopes tucked away in it, simply to help you hold the sextant
still. Our people tried it out in the air. You can get your position
within half a mile, every time."

Corbett said, "I see what you mean. Southampton's about four miles long
and three miles wide--roughly. With the old type sextant they couldn't
fix their position accurately enough to bomb down through the clouds and
be sure of hitting the town. Now they can."

"That's right."

There was a silence, broken only by the subdued chatter of the children
playing on the floor.

"I should have thought you could have got at them while they were
bombing, with your single seaters," Corbett said at last. "I suppose
they're up above the clouds taking their star sights, circling round in
the clear air?"

The other shook his head. "They're never there. They're actually _in_
the cloud while they're bombing."

He turned to Corbett. "I tell you," he said, "we're worried sick about
this thing. We're up against an air force that's magnificently
trained--well, that's no news, of course. What we think they do is this.
First, they don't come in squadrons. They come one by one, at intervals
of a minute or so. I'll tell you why presently. They always choose a
rotten, cloudy, rainy night for it--they don't come on a fine night.
They carry a crew of either three or four, two of them navigators, with
two of these sextants I was telling you about. They come along just over
the top layer of cloud, half in it and half out of it, fixing their
position by star sights as they come. They get it so that they know
where they are to within half a mile, at any point of the journey."

He paused. "All the time, they're only just out of the cloud. When they
get within fifteen or twenty miles of the town they take their last
sight and go down into the cloud a couple of hundred feet or so, flying
blind. In the cloud they go by dead reckoning from their last known
position. When they get over the target they just dump their bombs.

"They've got an integrator on the airspeed indicator," he said. "An air
log, that gives them the distance run. That's what they must use for
their dead reckoning."

"How do they get away?"

"They just turn around and go home in the cloud, flying blind, far as
they like. That's why they come singly and not in squadrons. There's
less risk of collision in the cloud."

There was a long pause.

Collins said quietly, "It's the very devil, Corbett. Searchlights are
no good, of course, nor anti-aircraft guns. The barrage is about as much
use as a sick headache. The only thing that has a chance of getting them
at all is the single seaters--us." He blew a long, nervous cloud of
smoke. "We've had three raids since the Squadron moved down here, and
I've been up four times--twice the night before last. I've seen them
twice, once the first night and once last night. The first time I got in
a very long range burst at him with my forward guns, but he was down
into the cloud before I could do any good. Last night I only just got a
quick glimpse as he was going in. I didn't get a shot at all."

"What's going to be done about it?"

"God knows. As things are, we're losing more machines than they are
every night, just by the normal risks of flying in this filthy weather.
We wrote off two machines last night, and three the night before, on
this base alone. Still," he said, "they were less accurate last night. A
good many bombs fell right outside the city. That's because we're
pushing them back."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they know we're up there waiting for them, now. Soon as they see
us they have to duck down into the cloud. We're intercepting them
further out each night. That means they have further to go in the cloud,
you see, and then the errors of their dead reckoning come in and spoil
the show for them. The one I saw going into the cloud last night must
have been nearly over to the far side of the Channel, fifty miles away."

He was silent for a minute. "But this bloody weather! It's simply
suicidal. When I think of the night exercises we used to do! Beautiful,
fine, clear, starry nights. I never thought we'd have to do our stuff in
muck like this."

Corbett thought about it for a minute. "This method of attack is only
good for towns, I suppose? I mean, you couldn't hit an isolated building
in this way?"

The Flight Lieutenant shook his head. "Lord, no. Nor ships either. You
heard what happened at Chatham?"

"No. What was that?"

"Last Wednesday. They had a good crack at the ships in the dockyard
there, and lost sixteen of their machines. And they didn't do any good
with their bombs either. They won't try that again in a hurry."

"I don't understand. They didn't come at night, then?"

"Just after dawn. It was full daylight. The Archies made a proper mess
of them."

He ground his cigarette out on the ashtray. "Accurate bombing on a
properly defended target is a back number," he said. "I believe we've
got that pretty well taped. But this blind bombing upon towns--it's
merry hell."

Corbett laughed shortly. "You're telling _me_."

He thought about it for a minute. "How many of them come each night?"

"To Southampton? About forty or fifty machines."

"Is that all?"

"I think so. They drop about a thousand bombs each night, and they're
using hundred-pound bombs. That means forty or fifty machines. But I'm
afraid I can't say that I've counted them, old boy."

"How many towns do they bomb each night?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Twenty?"

"Then they must be using about a thousand machines, all told?"

"I suppose that's about it. They must have a lot in reserve. That's
nothing like the full strength of their air force."

"It's enough to be going on with," said Corbett drily.

The Flight Lieutenant nodded. "Plenty." He was silent for a minute.
"We've known for years that if ever a war came, they might try this sort
of thing," he said quietly. "It's trying to break the morale of the
people. They won't do it, of course. The raids don't do any military
good. We go on functioning just as if they weren't happening--so do the
Army and the Navy. In a month or two I believe the country will adjust
itself to them."

"That may be," said Corbett. "It's going to take a bit of doing,
though."

"It always happens."

The officer considered for a minute. "This new way of bombing--it's like
every new thing that's been tried out in war--aircraft, gas,
tanks--everything. They're none of them decisive factors, and this won't
be, either. Their only real asset is surprise. All they do is to make
war more unpleasant for everybody."

"They do that all right."

"Yes. But wars are won by men walking on their own flat feet, with a
rifle and a bayonet. Not this way."

"Maybe."

There was a little silence. "Felicity's staying up at Abingdon, then?"

"For the present. Our house there is out in the country, and I don't
feel much like bringing her down here. All this disease about, you
know--it makes one think."

Corbett nodded. "Have you heard how things are in Southampton today?"

"You mean the cholera? It's pretty bad. I was in there yesterday, but
last night it was put out of bounds for the troops. Still, that's a fat
lot of good. Half Southampton's camping out alongside the airport."

"You haven't heard of any cases here?"

"Not yet. It's the bloody water that does it, and that's been all right
here so far, touching wood."

"It was off one day. What would you do for the troops if it went off
altogether?"

"Start carting water for them in lorries, I suppose."

"And what about the people camping out beside the airport? Would you
start carting water for them, too?"

There was a silence.

The Flight Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. We'll cross
that ditch when we come to it."




5


That evening Joan and Peter discussed the tides. They had spent the
afternoon alternately on shore; Joan had taken the children on shore for
a walk. By the time the children were in bed, however, the tide had
fallen and a wide expanse of mud separated them from the shore, to their
annoyance.

"What we want," said Joan, "is a nice quay that we could tie up against,
so that we could walk on shore."

Corbett rubbed his chin. "You won't find that here," he said. "We might
move the boat out onto a mooring in the middle of the river tomorrow, if
you like."

She considered this seriously. "I believe that would be better. We'd be
able to get on shore at any time, then."

They eyed the entrance to the inn across the wide expanse of mud a
little wistfully. "It would be nice to be able to get on shore at any
time," said Joan.

"Gin and Italian," said Peter. "I know."

The evening was clear and fine. All night the aircraft roared over their
heads beneath the stars, protecting them; there was no raid. Joan and
Peter slept soundly, and awoke refreshed.

It took Corbett, singlehanded, the greater part of the next day to move
his vessel out onto a mooring in the middle of the river. First the
engine, unused since the previous summer, had to be induced to
function. Then anchors had to be laid out to warp her out of the mud
berth, with a great deal of going backwards and forwards in the dinghy,
and laying out and taking in of lines. It was not till four o'clock in
the afternoon that she was lying on the mooring, clean and washed down,
and with everything stowed away.

Corbett rested on the cabin top and smoked a cigarette. The glass was
falling again, and the weather was clouding up for rain.

Joan had been on shore early in the morning, and had got a couple of
pints of milk from a farm. In spite of these occasional replenishments,
and in spite of having cut the older children off milk altogether, they
had made heavy inroads into their stock; only two tins now remained of
what they had brought with them from Southampton.

"We'll have to do something about this milk business," said Joan. "It's
getting worse and worse."

Corbett nodded. "There are a lot more people here than when we came.
Those two boats over there--they've got people in them now. They hadn't
when we came."

Joan said, "I know. The farms just round about here can't possibly
supply all these people. Do you think it would be worth trying for milk
in Southampton?"

"We might get some tins. I've been thinking about going into Southampton
one day. I ought to see what's going on at the office. And there's the
house, too...."

Joan nodded. "I want some things from the house. I left my powder
compact on the dressing table, like a fool. And there's a little thing
of lipstick there, that you might bring along if you're going."

That night there was another raid. Again they woke up in the middle of
the night to the concussion of the bombs, draped themselves in blankets,
and huddled together in the hatchway looking out into the windy
darkness. They stayed there for a long time, listening to the explosions
and to the fighters taking off and landing.

It seemed to them that the bombs were falling very much more dispersed.
Two salvoes were definitely closer to them than to the city. One set of
concussions seemed to come more from the direction of Bursledon than
from Southampton, and there seemed to be bombs bursting on the far side
of Southampton Water, in the New Forest. "They're getting wilder, I
believe," said Corbett. "That's a good sign. It fits in with what
Collins said."

Joan shivered. "It won't be worth their while bombing Southampton much
longer," she said. "There won't be anything left there to bomb."

Corbett rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There's this about it. We don't
want to see them getting too dispersed. I'd rather see them getting a
bit nearer the bull than they are tonight. We don't want to cop an
outer, here."

They stood there staring out over the dark water to the shore, the
aircraft passing and re-passing over their heads. Once there was a
thudding noise from the direction of the airport and a red glow appeared
above the trees, and quickly grew.

"Peter!" cried Joan. "What's that?"

They watched it, tense and motionless. It grew to a great ruddy blaze in
a few seconds, with showers of red sparks whirling up above the trees.
Then it began to die away as quickly as it had appeared; within a very
short time it was black night again.

They relaxed. "It was a fire of some sort," Corbett said. He hesitated.

"Peter. Do you think it was an airplane?"

"It looked very like it." He passed his arm around her shoulders. "Come
back to bed. We can't do anything to help."

Her lips were trembling. "This beastly war ..."

He helped her back to bed and tucked her up. They lay awake for a long
time, listening to the bursting of the bombs in the dark night.
Presently the raid came to an end, and they slept.

Next morning it was raining heavily. Corbett had breakfast; then Joan
rowed him on shore to the car to go into Southampton.

He had left the car parked in the open. Trying to start it, he
discovered that the tank was empty; the drain plug and the washer were
placed neatly on the running board. Gas in Hamble was at a premium. He
replaced the drain plug angrily and went back on board to fetch a can
out of his store, returned to the car, filled it into his tank, and got
going on the road to Southampton.

The road past the airport was choked with Air Force lorries and tank
waggons. The continual forced stops in the traffic gave him a measure of
time to look about him; the whole countryside seemed to be littered
with people camping out. Wherever a hedge corner made a shelter from the
wind among the fields, a car had been parked as the basis of a
settlement; in some instances a tent had been put up as well. Most of
these temporary camps were littered and amateurish, with a touch of
squalor. The people looked pinched and unhealthy in the streaming rain.
Over the fields towards the disused reservoir the cars were thick; there
seemed to be a great number of people camping out among the trees around
the water.

He drove on into the town. At Northam bridge, before entering the city
proper, there was a barricade guarded by police. He was stopped and
asked where he was going to.

He told the constable his house and his office. "You'll have to go round
by the other bridge, sir," said the man. "You know it, of course?"

Corbett nodded. "Why is that?"

The man hesitated. "It's Mr. Corbett, isn't it? The solicitor?"

"That's right."

The constable said, "We've got our orders not to allow any traffic in
the Northam district. On account of the sickness, and that."

"Is it the cholera?"

The man hesitated for a little. "Well--we've got orders not to talk
about it, sir. Spreading alarm, if you take my meaning."

"I understand. It's pretty bad, is it?"

"I did hear it was better this morning, getting under control, like.
It's the typhoid now that they're more upset about."

Corbett nodded. "That's bad."

"It is, sir. Seems to me there's not much to choose between them. Round
by the Cobden bridge, if you don't mind. I wouldn't loiter in the city,
sir, if I was you."

Corbett swung his car round, and drove on. As he went he noticed that
the streets were smelling very bad; stagnant water stood about in pools,
spotted with rain drops, in the road and gutters. In one place he had to
make a detour through side streets to avoid the debris that had been a
house, now hurled into the road; in many places he had to edge his way
around great cavities, roughly filled in or laid across with boards.
There were no cars running. In places the overhead wires were down,
roughly tied back to keep the roadway clear.

He reached his house with difficulty. It was untouched, as were the
houses on each side of it. The house beyond Littlejohn's, however, had
suffered a direct hit; it stood a ruined, roofless shell. The explosion
had brought down a small part of the side wall of Littlejohn's house,
but had not seriously damaged it.

There was a notice stuck on Littlejohn's front door. He went to read it.
It said:

     GONE AWAY

     _Address, care of Southern Counties Bank, Southampton._

     E. D. LITTLEJOHN

The notice, and the desolate, neglected appearance of the house, wrung
his heart. It seemed to point an ending to the happiness that had
existed in that house, a quiet, humdrum, and plebeian happiness that had
better have been allowed to fade into oblivion, that did not require to
have been underlined. At the same time, the notice seemed to him to be a
sensible and practical idea; he would put one like it on his own front
door. But where should he give as his new address? Where should he say
that he had gone to?

Better to give his Bank address, as Littlejohn had done.

He turned away, and went to his own house. The windows and the back door
had been carefully boarded up; Littlejohn must have done that for them
before he had gone away. He unlocked the front door and went in. Inside,
the house smelt stale and damp. Wet drove in at the board cracks over
the windows, but little light or air came in; the house was cavernous
and depressing. Materially, everything was quite all right; there had
been no burglary nor, so far as he could see, had anybody been into the
house.

He went upstairs. Joan's powder compact was still lying on the dressing
table, and her lipstick; he picked them up and dropped them in his
pocket. The room was full of her things, redolent of her personality. He
knew that if she had been with him she would have wanted other things;
he was at a loss what to take with him. Finally he took her bedroom
slippers and a little bottle of scent, and went about his business.

For some time he went from room to room, a pencilled list in hand,
collecting the various articles and clothing which they had decided he
should bring away. He took them all out to the car. Finally he went into
the house again, and up to the nursery. He selected a few more books for
the children, _Little Black Sambo_, the _Story of a Fierce, Bad Rabbit_,
and one or two others, and he took a battered kaleidoscope for Phyllis,
and a little truck for John, and a much-sucked woolly animal for the
baby. Then he was ready to go.

He went gladly. It did not seem as if it was his own home at all, that
house. It was strange and rather unpleasant, a desolate shell where
people once had lived a quiet, peaceful life, and had been happy. His
home, his real home, was on his battered, leaky little yacht.

"Home's where your people are," he muttered to himself. "That's about
it."

He wrote out a notice similar to Littlejohn's, found a packet of drawing
pins, and pinned it securely to the front door. It would not last for
long in that wet weather; perhaps when he came again he could do
something more permanent for both houses.

In the road outside he paused and looked about him. Only about one house
in three was still inhabited; the rest were empty, damaged and deserted.
There was no drainage for the surface water in the road; it stood about
in pools at the lower levels. One or two houses in the road had
basements; it seemed to Corbett that they must be flooded.

He turned back to his car and drove away. As he drove through the
shopping district towards his office he noticed that the smaller shops
were shut up, practically without exception. The larger shops were open
in a desultory sort of way; all windows had been smashed and boarded up,
and there seemed to be very little business being done. He drove on to
his office, parked the car outside it, and let himself in with his key.

There was nobody there. Someone had been there since his last visit; the
windows were blocked with shelves roughly nailed across, taken from
cupboards and presses whose contents had been neatly laid out on the
floor of the various rooms. On his desk Corbett found a note addressed
to himself, and dated two days earlier.

It was from his partner. It told him briefly that Bellinger was taking
his family to stay with his sister in Ireland. He was motoring them up
to Holyhead; he hoped to be back in Southampton in about a week.

"Ireland," Corbett muttered to himself. "That should be safe enough.
There's nothing there to bomb."

He pottered round in the office for a little while. There was a full
bottle of milk by Miss Mortimer's desk; he picked it up gladly, but it
was a week old and very sour. He wrote a note and left it on Bellinger's
desk, telling him that he was living on his yacht. Then he left the
office, shutting the front door carefully behind him, and went out into
the town.

He was unable to get any milk at all. At one or two shops he was told
that they might have some in the morning, but they did not seem sure
about it. He visited an empty and deserted dairy. Nor was he any more
successful with tinned milk. Finally he was advised to go to the
hospital.

"There's ever so much milk at the hospital," the girl said. "They're
selling it up there, I heard. You see, they got their own supply, or
something."

He managed to buy a good quantity of provisions, sufficient to last them
for a fortnight or so. Fresh meat was scarce, owing to the breakdown of
refrigeration caused by the failure of the electric current. Rather
unwisely he bought a large lump of dubious beef, about ten pounds in
weight, which the butcher assured him would be quite all right if it
were cooked that day, and he had the foresight to get a pan big enough
to cook it in. That would make soup for the children, anyway. Fresh
vegetables were scarce, but he was able to get some more potatoes and a
good supply of tins.

There seemed to be no gasolene in the town at all.

He drove up to the hospital to try for milk. The short approach was
thronged with ambulances evacuating the cases to some unknown
destination, the entrance thronged with people. The building itself was
damaged at one side. Baulks of timber had been placed to shore up a
doubtful wall, and there were tarpaulins stretched across one portion of
the roof.

He made some inquiries, and was directed to a basement room entered from
the back of the building. A ward maid here sold him a pint of milk.

"Matron says we haven't got to let nobody have more than a pint, and
then only for a baby," she said. "I'm sorry."

He watched her while she poured it into his jug. "You're having a bad
time here, I'm afraid," he said.

"They're getting all the patients that can be moved away today," she
said dully. "After last night."

"What happened last night?"

"Didn't you hear?"

He shook his head. "I've been out in the country. They didn't hit the
hospital, did they?"

She nodded dumbly. "It's the second time."

"I'm terribly sorry. Was it bad?"

She nodded again, without saying anything.

"Any of the staff hurt?"

She nodded for a third time. "It was right on the theatre. Sister Morgan
and Sister Burke--they were killed." Her lips trembled. "And Nurse
Harrison--she died this morning. And Mr. Endersleigh, and Mr. Gordon,
and Dr. Sitwell, they were killed. It's been a terrible blow to the
hospital, really and truly."

There was a momentary pause. Corbett rallied himself. "You say that Mr.
Gordon was killed?"

She nodded. "Did you know him?"

"Yes," said Corbett. "I knew him very well."

There was a pause.

"Do you know how it happened?" he asked. "Did he--was he killed at
once?"

"I think he was. He and Mr. Endersleigh were operating at the time. They
had two tables going, each of them. And they say the bomb fell right
into the theatre. Nurse Harrison, she was in the next room...."

There was no more to be said. Mechanically Corbett picked up his jug and
moved away.

"That'll be fourpence for the milk," the ward maid said.

He turned back and paid her, and went on out to his car. He got into the
car and sat motionless at the wheel for a long time, lost in thought.
Gordon was dead. He sat there while the traffic to the hospital passed
beside him, trying to realize it, to accept it as a new fact of his
life. Gordon was dead. There would be no more Sunday trips in summer to
Seaview to bathe with Gordon; there would be no repetition of the
Whitsun holiday with Gordon to St. Malo. Gordon was dead.

He wondered what would happen now to Margaret. Gordon had told him she
was nursing cholera. He could at least go to the house, to see if she
was there, to see if he could help at all.

He drove towards the surgeon's house. As he got near the road was
blocked with unrepaired bomb holes. Rather than waste time in searching
for a way round to the other end, he left the car and walked down to the
house on foot. The front door stood open. He went up diffidently, and
rang the bell. There was no sound; he remembered the electrical supply
and tapped with the knocker.

In the hall a door opened. Margaret was there, bareheaded, in a stained
nurse's uniform. She said very quietly, "Peter. Come in. Come in and
have a cup of tea."

He said a little awkwardly, "I've just been to the hospital, Margaret.
They told me what had happened there. I came to see if there was
anything that I could do to help."

She shook her head. "Come in and have a cup of tea," she repeated. "I
was just making one for myself."

He said, "We were great friends, you know. I want to do anything I
can."

"It's good of you, Peter," she said quietly, "but there's nothing you
can do."

He followed her into a littered, windy drawing room. Nothing had been
done about the windows; the glass lay shattered on the carpet in the wet
patches. In the grate a Primus was roaring under a tin kettle. "It won't
be long," she said. "What have you done with Joan?"

He told her how they were living, as she prepared the teapot. As he
spoke he studied her furtively. She was dry-eyed and very calm; he was a
little afraid of her, and did not dare to offer any further sympathy.

She poured a little hot water into the teapot and set it down to warm.
"You did right to go away," she said evenly. "Everybody ought to get out
of this town. It's got a curse on it." She was silent for a moment, and
then she said, "It makes it terribly difficult when they won't go."

He recognized in that the detached attitude of a nurse; in one way he
was glad of it. "I know you've got your work to do," he said gently.
"But you must need a rest. Would you come back with me to Hamble for a
night or two?"

She raised her head, and smiled faintly. "You haven't got room in your
little boat. I don't know how you've all got into it as it is."

"We could manage somehow. We'd like to have you, and you'd help Joan a
lot."

She shook her head. "I've got my work to do here. It's sweet of you to
offer, Mr. Corbett. But the best thing I can do is to go straight on
working. I don't want to stop and think about things--yet."

He nodded. "I'll be coming in again in a few days. Perhaps you might
like to come then."

She shook her head. "There's too much for me to do here."

"Is it the cholera?"

She nodded. "Now that we've got the serum, that's not quite so bad.
Typhoid is worse. And this difficulty now is that it's got out into the
country. People evacuating, you know--and you can't stop them, well or
ill. We've got cases of both cholera and typhoid at Botley, and round
about there. And every day we hear of new ones that we can't isolate, or
even treat...."

She turned to him. "And it's so difficult to make a hospital. Even the
barns and cowsheds are crammed full of people camping out. We're getting
near the stage when we may have to bring the patients back into the city
for sheer lack of room, and chance the bombing."

She laid her hand upon his arm. "Get away from it, Mr. Corbett," she
said earnestly. "You've got a boat. Take Joan and the children over to
the Isle of Wight, or somewhere. This bit of Hampshire's got a curse on
it. Allan ..." Her voice faded, and she stopped. Then she spoke again.
"He was John's godfather, and I know he'd have said the same. Get them
away to the Isle of Wight, or further still."

He eyed her for a moment. "You think it's going to be really bad?"

She nodded. "I know it is. While this bombing keeps on every
night--we're not even holding our own. Disease is bound to spread, and
it is spreading. We're getting used to it a bit now, and we can see what
we're up against. But things will be much worse before they're better."

He said, "Thanks for telling me, Margaret. It's decent of you. We could
go over to the Isle of Wight at any time."

"Go now, before it gets too late."

He rose, and helped her clear away the tea things. "Is there nothing I
can do for you?" he asked. "You know how much I want to help."

She shook her head. "I'll go on working. That's all I need." She stared
around the littered room, the window gaping open to the wind. "I don't
know what to do with this house and everything. What have you done with
yours?"

"Shut it up and left it. You'll have to do the same. Just lock the door.
It will be quite all right."

She laughed, a little bitterly. "What's the good of locking the door,
with all the windows in this state?"

She did not need him; there was nothing he could do for her. He left her
there, dry-eyed, gathering up a few clothes before she went back to her
work, and walked back to his car.

He drove back to Hamble in the middle of the afternoon, parked the car,
and hailed Joan on the yacht. She came off in the dinghy to fetch him
with his purchases. The first thing she asked was, "Did you find my
powder compact, Peter?"

He gave it to her, with the lipstick; she took them gratefully. He
smiled. "Go on--laugh," she said. "But it does help to know you're
looking decent." She opened the compact and peered at the little
mirror.

The next thing she asked about was the milk. He told her he had only got
a pint.

"But, Peter," she said, "that's only two feeds! What are we going to
do?"

There was an urgency about her manner that was new to him. He said, "Can
she go on soup for a bit?"

She shook her head, "I've been trying that, and it's awful. I gave her
some of the tinned soup this morning. She was sick at once. Then I
opened a tin of milk and gave her that, and she had that up, too. The
little brat's been crying steadily since ten o'clock." He noticed that
Joan was looking tired and worn.

He took her arm, resolving not to tell her about Gordon for the time.
"Never mind," he said gently. "We'll give her this lot when we get on
board. And then, you come on shore and take the car, and see if you can
get any at a farm."

She nodded. "I'll do that. It'll be a relief to get away from the baby
for a bit."

They went on board. In the steady roar that came from the baby he helped
her to prepare a bottle of the fresh milk, watched her offer it. The
noise stopped, and the silence could be felt. Phyllis looked up from
playing with the little musical truck upon the cabin floor, and said,
"I've got a piece of soap, Daddy."

He expressed interest, and went and fetched the kaleidoscope. "I got
this for you from home," he said. "I thought you'd like to have it."

She took it without much enthusiasm. "You didn't bring my dolls' house,
did you, Daddy?"

"No. Big girls don't take dolls' houses on boats with them. Only little
girls do that."

She was satisfied. John said, "Did you bring anything for me, Daddy?"

He gave him the little truck that he had brought, and set him playing
with it on the cabin floor. Then he turned to Joan. She motioned him to
be quiet.

"She's taken nearly the whole of this," she said very softly. "She must
have been terribly hungry. Look, she's practically asleep."

He smiled. "Don't shake her, or she'll have it all up again."

He watched his wife as she laid the baby gently in the cot, sound
asleep. Then she came through into the saloon. "I'll get on shore now,"
she said. "I'll take the children with me."

"Aren't you fed up with them?"

She smiled. "I'll take them. They aren't any bother, and they ought to
have a run on shore."

He helped her with the dinghy. "Where would you go for milk?" she asked.

He rubbed his chin. "I should try Swanwick, or go on towards Wickham.
Don't go by Botley--there's sickness there. I'll tell you all about it
when you come back. And I say, go easy with the gas. Get some more if
you can find any."

He watched her row on shore, then went below. He looked to see that the
baby was sleeping quietly, and then put on the meat to boil. Then he
turned to the consideration of his yacht.

He had not talked to Joan about it, but the idea of leaving Hamble was
in his mind. Everything seemed to point that way, now. But if he were to
do that, he would have to finish fitting out the boat. Most of the spars
and sails and gear were stored on shore; he went aft to the sail locker
and dragged out various coils of rope, with their blocks and sheaves,
looked them over dubiously, and put them back again. Then he sat down on
a settee with an old envelope and made a list of what would have to be
done before the vessel would be fit to go to sea. Presently he relaxed,
lay back in meditation on the couch, and slept.

He was still sleeping when the dinghy bumped against the side and woke
him up. He went on deck, helped the children on board, and took the milk
from Joan. They made the painter fast.

"I only got a quart," she said. "I had to go nearly to Wickham to get
that. Swanwick was hopeless. It's chock-full of people camping out upon
the green, and in the fields, and everywhere. And not a drop of milk in
the place. I tried three farms after that, and then at the fourth they
were actually milking in the cowshed. So they couldn't say they hadn't
got any. But I had to pay half a crown for that quart."

"How long will that keep us going for?"

"About a day."

"Did you get any gas?"

"There wasn't a drop to be had, anywhere."

He smiled ruefully. "You must have used about a gallon. A gallon of gas
for a quart of milk. We can't go on for long like that."

"I know. But what are we going to do?"

He shook his head.

She took the children down below and gave them for their supper a plate
of soup and a little loaf of bread that she had made in the Primus oven.
John said, "Can I have some milk, Mummy?"

"You don't want milk," said Corbett, a little hurriedly. "Only babies
have milk. When you're big enough to go on a boat you eat soup and bread
and jam, like real sailors. Makes the hair grow on your chest."

"Will it make hair grow on my chest, Daddy?" asked Phyllis.

"Girls are different. It'll make hair grow all over you, till you're
like a little dog."

They thought this was a great joke, and forgot about the milk.

He helped Joan to put them to bed. When that was done they went up
together into the cockpit; it was windy and fresh up there; they sat for
a little looking out over the river. Joan said, "You haven't told me
about Southampton yet. What did you do?"

He was silent. She looked at him curiously. "What did you do?" she asked
again.

"I heard about Gordon," he said unevenly. "Joan, he--he's dead."

"Oh, Peter ..."

He told her of his visit to the hospital, of his talk with Margaret. She
heard him to the end. Then she asked him for a cigarette; he lit it for
her.

She blew a long cloud of smoke. "She was quite right, Peter," she said
at last. "We shan't be able to stay here much longer. I thought we'd be
all right here, but after seeing Swanwick--well, I'm not so sure. It
was awful. Cars just parked about, higgledy-piggledy, everywhere. And
people sort of living in them like gipsies, only not so well able to do
it. Cooking on frying pans in the rain over a methylated spirit stove
like you use for curling irons--that sort of thing. And no proper
lavatories, of course. Pits dug about here and there--not nearly big
enough. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there were epidemics. It looked
sort of--squalid."

He nodded. "Well, that's what she said. They've got both cholera and
typhoid at Botley now."

They sat in silence for a time, watching the grey clouds rolling past.

"Where could we go to, Peter?"

"Bellinger's taken his family to Ireland." He told her of the note that
he had found in his office.

"That's an awfully long way away," she said. "I think that's overdoing
it a bit."

He said, "I should have thought Scotland would be all right."

"We ought to know where it's all right and where it's not. But I haven't
heard any news for days."

"Nor have I. I've been too busy to bother much about it."

"You might have got a paper in Southampton."

"I don't think there were any. I didn't see any about."

They came back to the matter in hand.

"I should think it would be all right in the Isle of Wight," he said.
"We might try Wootton Creek." He paused. "But if we're going to do that,
I'd better get the sails and boom on board and fit her out properly."

"How long would that take us to do?"

"A couple of days, perhaps."

They went below and cooked their supper. They ate it and washed up; it
was then about nine o'clock. Across the black water the light streamed
from the windows of the inn, invitingly.

Peter turned to Joan. "Go on shore and see if you can pick up any news."

She smiled. "You go. I'd just as soon go to bed. Besides, you'll pick up
more than I should."

He took the dinghy and rowed off to the hard. The inn was full of men,
but they were sitting dour and glum; there was little talk. Corbett made
his way up to the bar and ordered a pint.

He asked the barman if he had a paper. The man produced one that was two
days old, a single printed sheet. Corbett retired with it to a corner of
the room. In a quarter of an hour he came to the conclusion that the
score in the game of bombing cities was more or less even between both
sides. Royal Air Force raids, however, were referred to as reprisals,
which seemed to put them on a higher plane. There was very little other
news, but there were columns of enlisting propaganda. He sheered hastily
from that, with averted eyes.

He rose, and gave the paper back to the barman. "There's not much in
that," he said.

"That's right," said the man. "Difficult to know what really is going
on, these days." He laughed shortly. "Not that we want to hear any more
bad news than what we've got round about here. Still, it would be nice
to hear something good for a change."

There was a short pause.

Corbett asked, "What do you mean by that? Is anything wrong--specially,
I mean?"

The man dropped his voice. "You know up by the old reservoir, where all
them campers are? Up past the airport, Netley way. There was a woman
took sick up there, Sunday night--and there's several more of them sick
now, so they say."

There was a momentary silence.

"I don't like it," said the man in a low tone. "Straight, I don't. If it
gets any worse, I'm hopping it. I don't want any of that cholera."

Corbett asked, equally furtively, "Where would you go?"

"Gawd knows. That's the only reason that I haven't gone."

He turned away to serve a customer.

Corbett left the inn, and went back on board his yacht. As he was tying
up the dinghy Joan put her head out of the hatch, and asked if he had
any news. He told her shortly what he had seen in the paper. And then, a
little diffidently, he repeated to her what the barman had said. She
listened to the end.

"I don't much like the sound of that, Peter," she said at last. "Getting
a bit near home, isn't it?"

He sighed. "There's nothing to be done about it. But I do think
this--we'll start to fit out properly in the morning. Then if we don't
like the look of things we can slip across to the Isle of Wight."

"Do you think we'd be able to get any milk over there?"

"I don't know. I should think we ought to be able to."

That night there was another raid. Corbett was awake and reading in his
bunk, waiting for it; he knew from experience by now the sort of night
that brought a raid, and the time when it might be expected to begin.
Presently it came; he lay quietly in his bunk listening to the distant
concussions and the gunfire. In the end Joan woke up.

"It's all right," he said. "They're at it again. I don't think there's
any point in getting up."

They lay and listened for an hour or more, reading a little, talking now
and again. Then that happened which brought them leaping from their
bunks up to the cabin hatch, in time to see the last spurts of flame
from a salvo that fell in a field half a mile away upon the Warsash
side.

They stared at each other speechless, in consternation. "Peter," said
Joan at last in a very small voice. "That was on the wrong side of the
river. Right away from Southampton. Do you think they're bombing us?"

He dropped an arm around her shoulders. "I don't think so. It's just a
very bad shot. It's what Collins said--our fighters are up there,
harrying them. They're getting very wild."

She shivered. "It was awfully close."

"I know," he said. "This puts the lid on it. We'll get away from here
now, soon as we can."

Neither of them felt inclined to go back to bed again while the danger
lasted. They put on coats and huddled up together in the hatchway,
listening to the falling of the bombs. None fell again so close, but
they heard bursts in the direction of Bursledon and a series of deep,
watery explosions near the junction of the Hamble River with Southampton
Water. Presently there came the long lull that they knew must be the
end; they went back to their beds.

The morning came up sunny and bright. In spite of the disturbed night
they were up at dawn; there was a great deal to be done if they were
going to leave next day. They got the children up and cooked the
breakfast; as they were washing up Joan sounded the water tank.

"We'll want some more today," she said. "Could you get that when you go
on shore?"

He nodded. "I'll take the water bag with me."

He went off shortly afterwards, pulled the dinghy up upon the hard, and
walked into the inn. The barman was there, polishing the glasses. "I
want a bag of water," Corbett said. "Can I go through and get it?"

"Tap ain't running."

Corbett stood and stared at him. "There isn't any at all?"

The other shook his head. "Go and try if you like. It wasn't on five
minutes ago."

"Has it been like that for long?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "All right last night, it was. Then this
morning there wasn't none of them running. It's the same all through the
village."

"Do you think the mains are bust?"

"Ay, that'll be it. They was all around last night, between here and
Southampton, dropping their bombs. Did you hear them?"

"Did I not!" He paused. "There was one lot over at Warsash."

"Ay, there was seven of them dropped there, but they didn't do no harm.
They copped a packet at Bursledon, someone was telling me."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"Ay. Fell right in among the boats, hauled out of the water in
Henderson's yard. Knocked five or six of them right over flat, so they
say--with the people in them, and all."

"That's bad."

"It is that," said the man dourly.

Corbett went out to the yard and tried the tap; it was quite dry. He
went back to the barman. "Are there any wells here that I could get
water from?"

The man said, "I couldn't say. Far as I know, everybody takes the water
from the main. You might find an old well in one of the cottages, but I
don't know as I'd care to have a drink from it."

"No," said Corbett thoughtfully.

He left the inn, and went on to the sail store. The water would have to
wait for a bit; he felt that he would like to think it over and have a
talk to Joan before he started to get water from a disused cottage well.
He started to carry sails and gear down to the dinghy; when he had a
load he took it off to the yacht.

He told Joan about the water.

"That's another bad one," she said quietly. "Do you think we could get
any over on the Warsash side?"

He was doubtful. "That probably comes from Southampton, too. No, I think
I'll take a run up to the airport this afternoon and see if Collins
could wangle some for us from their supply. He might be able to--if
everybody else hasn't thought of the same thing. I'll take the car, to
bring the water bag back in."

"We'll have to get some more milk today, Peter. We're down to that one
tin again."

He sighed. "I know. Look, I'll go off now and get the rest of the stuff
back on board. Then you can go and look around for milk while I start
rigging the ship."

He went back on shore and got a man to help him carry the boom of his
mainsail down to the water's edge. He carried down the gaff himself, and
loaded up the dinghy with the rest of the sails and gear. Then he
launched the spars into the water till they floated, and towed them
behind the dinghy to the yacht. Joan helped him to unload the dinghy and
get the spars on board; then she went on shore with the two children.
Corbett got to work on deck with spunyarn, marlinspike, and knife.

It was a couple of hours before Joan returned. She brought with her a
quart of milk, which she had purchased at a farm, having left the
children playing in the mud beside the dinghy.

"It was awfully difficult," she said. "I had to go about a couple of
miles before I found a farm where they had milk to sell. I tried to get
them to keep me some tomorrow, but they wouldn't do that. Everybody's
after milk."

They started to get lunch. "You know that shop I went to the other day?"
she said. "Where they had all that tinned milk? I believe they've got it
still. I went in, but the man was there, and he just shut the door in
my face. He said they hadn't got any to sell."

"You told him we've got a baby?"

"He knows that all right. I told him last time."

After lunch Corbett left Joan to do the washing up and put the children
down for their midday rest, and went on shore to look for water. As he
passed the inn the barman saw him carrying the water bag, and called to
him, "The water cart's just up the street, if you want any, Mr. Corbett.
Better hurry up, or it'll all be gone."

He went to look for it. It was a horse-drawn tank cart used for carting
water to the animals upon some farm; it was halted in the middle of the
road with a crowd round it. The man in charge was selling water at
sixpence a bucket.

Corbett pushed his way into the crowd. He asked the man, "Where did you
get the water from?"

"Old Reservoir," the man said. "All clean and fresh. Best water round
about these parts. Take your turn, Mister."

Corbett withdrew as if to take his turn. He withdrew altogether. He was
not squeamish, and the water looked beautiful, but he wanted to think
about it for a bit before he drank the water from a cholera camp.

He walked down to the water's edge again, started up his car, and drove
out to the airport. At the entrance he was stopped by a guard; he asked
for Flight Lieutenant Collins.

"Which squadron, sir?"

"I don't know, I'm afraid."

"Park your car here, and go and ask in Wing Head-quarters office, third
door on the right. They'll tell you there."

He found the office and went in. A corporal was sitting at a desk
talking into a telephone; there was much coming and going. Presently
Corbett got a chance to ask for Collins.

The man looked up at him. "Is it on business?"

"No. It's a personal matter."

The man got up and went into an inner office. A few minutes passed
before he returned; a Flying Officer followed him.

"What is it about Collins?" asked the officer.

"I'm a personal friend of his," said Corbett. "I came up to see him." He
paused. "If it's not convenient, I'll just leave a note."

There was a pause.

"It's not that," the young man said awkwardly. "But Flight Lieutenant
Collins--there was an accident, the night before last. I'm afraid you
hadn't heard about it. He was rather badly hurt."

"I see," said Corbett. He raised his eyes to the officer's face. "Are
you trying to tell me that he was killed?"

The other said hurriedly, "Oh, no. He was a good deal knocked about,
though. He had both legs broken, and there were one or two burns....
He's in hospital in Winchester."

"Do you know how he's getting on?"

The young man shook his head. "I haven't heard. We never do get any news
of them, once they've left here."

"How did it happen?"

The young man said, "It was a collision in the air, just over the edge
of the field here. Chap circling round to land took his tail off for
him. They both piled up, of course. The other chap was killed."

"Was it the weather?"

The other nodded. "You can't help it, flying on these bloody, rainy
nights. The clouds were down to about three hundred feet, that night."
He was silent for a moment. "Still, that's what happened, I'm afraid."

"I'm terribly sorry."

The officer turned back towards his room. "I've got a lot to do--I'm so
sorry.... It wasn't anything of importance, that you wanted to see him
about?"

Corbett shook his head. "Nothing important."

He turned away, and went back to the car; he drove down to the river and
went on board again. Joan was there; he told her all about it.

Her lips tightened. "I'm awfully sorry for Felicity," she said quietly.

"I know."

They sat in silence, smoking for a time, the discarded water bag at
their feet. In the end Joan kicked it with her toe. "You didn't get any
water, I suppose?"

"No. How much have we got left?"

"Very little indeed. We'll be out by breakfast time tomorrow, if we wash
up anything."

He sighed. "We'll have to get some more. I don't think I can go back to
the airport--they probably wouldn't give it to me, anyway. They'll be
short themselves. If Collins had been there I might have got some as a
favour."

Joan nodded. "I doubt if it's much good going back there."

"Would you care for any of that water from the reservoir? There's
typhoid, cholera, and God knows what, camped right beside it."

She smiled. "It sounds a bit insipid. Can't you find me a nice, fruity
well?"

He rubbed his chin. "Wells aren't so easy to find these days. We might
try on the Warsash side. But if we get well water you'll have to boil it
before you give it to the baby."

"I suppose I ought to."

She turned to him. "I'm sick of scouting about alone, Peter. Let's go on
shore together for a change."

"How are you going to manage that?"

They did manage it. They took the baby in its cradle, fast asleep, and
left it in the kitchen of the inn on the Warsash side, with half a crown
parking fee. Then they set off up the road to look for water, the
children following behind.

They did not have to go very far. They found a cottage where a woman
made them free of her well. "Nine 'ealthy children I've brought up on
the water from that well," she said comfortably. "Seven still with us,
and all of them 'ealthy as you or me, barring the goitre." She would not
take payment for the water. "It's little enough that one can do to 'elp,
these dreadful times," she said. "But pure well water--that one _can_
share with other folks."

They thanked her, and set off down the road carrying the water bag slung
upon an oar. "We'll have to boil every drop of the bloody stuff," said
Corbett when they were out of earshot. "I don't want to get goitre."

Joan laughed. "I don't know that I know what goitre is," she said. "Sort
of swelling, isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Corbett firmly, "and I don't want to know."

He spent the evening boiling water in the pan that he had bought to boil
the beef, and transferring it sterile to the water tank. That night they
had more trouble with the baby. The milk they had in hand was sufficient
for only half a feed; they watered it to something like the proper
volume, but the child cried continuously for two hours before it sank
into a restless sleep.

When finally the noise ceased they got their supper, very quietly. Joan
said, "Peter, we've got to face up to this milk business. It's serious.
I mean, I don't think we ought to leave here without a few tins more. We
don't know what things may be like in the Isle of Wight."

"I know. We do seem to be able to scratch along here somehow or other, a
pint or so at a time."

"That's what I feel. We might find ourselves landed without any milk at
all."

"If that happened, could we get along?"

She shook her head. "I don't believe we could. Phyllis and John can eat
anything, things out of tins, I mean. But Joan--I don't know. She's all
right on tinned milk--we know that. But I tried her on that tinned soup
yesterday, and she was awfully upset."

He asked, "Would she be any better on another sort of soup?"

Joan shook her head. "It wasn't mulligatawny, or anything like that. It
was consomm julienne."

"Babies do eat soup, though."

"Of course they do. But you start them off on good stuff made out of
very fresh meat, and you give them a lot of milk along with it, at other
feeds."

He thought about it for a minute. "You mean this, really. If we can't
keep up the milk supply, we're going to have real trouble."

She nodded. "They go down so quickly. I'm afraid we might lose her,
Peter."

He smiled at her reassuringly across the table. "We're not going to do
that."

They dropped the subject till the meal was over. But when the washing up
was done, he said, "We'll have to get some of that tinned milk from your
grocer's shop."

She stared at him. "You mean the one over on the Warsash side? You won't
get any there. They won't sell it."

"We'll have to make them sell it. They can't hog it, in times like
these."

She looked very doubtful. "You'll have to go. They wouldn't pay any
attention to me."

"We'll go together. That woman at the inn would take the children for an
hour or so."

"All right."

They went on deck and smoked for a little in the cockpit. Lights
streamed from the inn at Hamble, cheerful and inviting. Joan asked, "Are
you going on shore?"

He shook his head. "I think the less we go on shore the better, the way
things are now. If we want exercise, let's get it on the Warsash side."

They went to bed early, in preparation for a heavy day. They slept for
an hour or so; then, punctually as an alarm clock, they were awakened by
the raid. For a time they lay in their bunks listening to the
concussions in the distance.

A salvo fell very close to them, on the marshlands behind Hamble. The
children woke and cried a little; they got up to comfort them and turn
them over to sleep again. They stood together in the hatchway for a
while with blankets draped around them. Bombs seemed to be falling all
over the countryside.

"I don't believe they're hitting Southampton at all tonight," said Joan.
"They're rotten shots."

Corbett nodded. "They're getting wilder and wilder. I don't believe
they'll do much damage with this raid, except by a sheer fluke."

Joan said, "They couldn't miss London like this, though."

"No, London's different. I bet they're getting hell up there."

After a time, before the raid was ended, they grew bored and cold, and
went back to bed. "You'd better wake me if the ship begins to sink,"
said Corbett. "I'm going to go to sleep." Inured to the concussions by
familiarity they fell asleep, stirring and turning over now and then at
the nearer explosions. Presently all was still again, and they slept
quietly.

They did not sleep for long. The baby woke them shortly before five
o'clock, crying and whimpering in her basket in the forecastle. Joan
got up to settle her, but only succeeded in rousing her to bellow
lustily, continuously. Corbett got up, and found Joan rocking the infant
in her arms. The baby was red in the face, and screaming at the top of
her voice.

He said, "I suppose she's hungry."

"I think that must be it," said Joan. "We've got one tin of milk left.
Shall we open it?"

He hesitated. "I should think we'd better. That's the first thing we've
got to tackle today."

He reached for the tin and the tin opener, and pierced it through.

"Now we've got nothing left at all," she said quietly.

He was touched by the seriousness of her tone. "Don't worry," he said
gently. "We'll get some from that shop, somehow or other."

They gave the baby a good bottle; it stopped screaming instantaneously
and fell asleep immediately it had finished sucking. Tired and on edge
they went back to their bunks in the grey dawn, and dozed uneasily until
the day was bright.

They breakfasted and washed up; then they were ready to go on shore.
Corbett put on a raincoat, and slipped the automatic into his coat
pocket. Joan saw him do it. "Peter!" she said. "You're not going to take
that?"

He met her eyes. "We've got to get some milk," he said evenly. "There
may be difficulties. I think I'll take it along."

She said no more.

They went on shore together, taking the children with them and the baby
in its cradle. They had no difficulty in arranging to leave the family
in the kitchen of the inn for an hour; then they set out together up the
hill towards the shop. They hardly spoke at all. There was a light
drizzle of rain falling; Corbett walked with his head down, the cold
metal of the loaded automatic hard against his hand deep in the pocket
of his coat. It was incredible that he should be doing this.

Once he said, "I'll offer up to five shillings a tin. But then, if I
have to threaten them, you must be ready to go in and take it."

"All right," she said.

Twenty minutes later they came to the shop. It was a small general shop
at a cross roads; behind it was the dwelling house. There was nobody
about. Corbett went up to the door and rattled it; it was locked.

Joan said, "We'll have to go round to the back."

He turned, and walked round the building to a littered and untidy yard;
Joan followed him. They came to a back door.

"This'll be it," he said.

He knocked on the door. Inside there was a sound of movements, but
nobody came. He waited in the rain for a minute, and then knocked again.
There was no answer.

"There's somebody inside all right," said Joan.

He put his hand to the door and tried it. It opened a few inches, and
then stopped on a chain. He called out, "Is anyone at home?"

What happened then was unexpected. A little girl of ten or twelve years
old, a child in a dirty print frock and long black stockings, came to
the crack of the door. "What do you want?" she asked.

Corbett said, "Good morning. I came to see if we could buy some milk."

She said, "The shop isn't open. We haven't got any milk to sell."

"Look," said Corbett, "I see the shop's not open. But I've come a long
way, and I need milk for my baby. If you'll sell me some, I'll pay you
much more than you usually get for each tin."

There was a pause. The child said in a frightened tone, "We haven't got
any to sell."

She tried to shut the door. Peter was before her, and put his foot into
the crack. "Look," he said, "we need milk really badly. Ask your mother
if she'll speak to me."

The child said through the crack, "She's not here."

"Let me speak to your father."

"He's not here either."

"Where have they gone to?"

"Swanwick."

"When will they be back?"

"I don't know."

There was a short pause. The rain dripped from the roof with little
liquid noises. Joan said, "Is there anyone else in the house besides
you?"

The child did not answer, but tried again to shut the door. Joan turned
helplessly to Corbett. "What are we going to do?"

"Get some milk," he said grimly.

He turned back to the door. "Open the door and let us in," he said.
"Then we can talk this over."

For answer, the child tried to kick his foot out of the door. Corbett
turned to Joan. "We'll have to break our way in, or give it up. But
there's nothing on the boat for baby if we give it up."

She hesitated. "This is hateful."

"I know. Still, we'll have to do it."

He turned back to the crack. "If you won't open I shall have to break
the door down," he said. "Be a good girl, and open up."

He heard her sobbing, struggling to close the door. "You're _not_ to
come in."

Corbett said, "I'm coming in. Keep away from the door--I'm going to
break it open. Keep right back, or you may get hurt."

Joan got a piece of wood and wedged the crack open while he withdrew his
foot. He took a short run and stamped violently against the door. At the
third shot the staple of the chain tore from the woodwork; the door flew
open and the child was thrown heavily against a sink at the far side of
the scullery. With incredible agility she picked herself up and flew at
them.

"You're _not_ to come in," she cried. "You're _not_ to! You're _not_
to!"

She landed a well-directed kick on Corbett's shin, and a deep scratch on
his cheek. He struggled with her for a minute, then overpowered her and
held her with her arms pinned behind her back, kicking the air, tears
streaming down her cheeks in impotent rage.

"You hold her if you can," he said to Joan. "Let's get this over."

Joan took her from him, and he went forward through the sitting room
into the shop, mopping his bleeding cheek. She followed him in a minute;
the child had ceased to struggle and was sobbing bitterly, refusing all
comfort. She found him stooping down behind the counter.

"Here it is," he said. "There's a crate nearly full. Over fifty tins."

Joan released the child, but kept between her and the door; the little
girl collapsed onto a sack of potatoes and crouched there, crying her
heart out. Joan leaned across the counter to look at the milk. "One of
those will last the baby for a day," she said. "Take about fifteen--then
we'll feel safe."

Corbett nodded. "May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

He put the fifteen tins out onto the counter. "How much do these things
cost?"

She said, "Sevenpence."

He calculated quickly. "I make that eight and nine-pence. I'll leave a
pound--that's more than double price."

Joan said, "Make it thirty bob. I mean, we don't do this every day."

"All right."

Behind them the little girl was sobbing hopelessly and bitterly upon the
sack, in utter misery. "I can't stand this," said Joan.

She crouched down beside the child, and put an arm around her
shoulders. "Don't cry like that," she said gently. "You put up a grand
show. Nobody could have done more than you did. It's not your fault we
were too strong for you. And we had to have the milk for our baby."

The sobbing continued unabated. Joan fumbled for a handkerchief and
wiped the child's eyes. "It wouldn't have made any difference, even if
you'd been a man. We had to get milk."

The child lifted a tear-streaked face. "You wouldn't have got it if my
Daddy had been here."

"Yes, we would. This was a hold-up, dear--a real one, like you see in
the pictures." She turned to her husband. "Peter, show her your gun."

He pulled it from his pocket, a little awkwardly. The little girl
stopped crying and looked at it, awe-struck. "Are you two gangsters?"
she said at last.

Joan nodded. "Yes, we're gangsters," she said quietly. "Tell your Daddy
from us that you put up a splendid fight. And look, here's the money.
We've taken fifteen tins of milk, and here's one pound ten shillings to
pay for it. Now, don't cry any more." She held her handkerchief to the
child's nose. "Come on and blow."

The little girl obeyed. Her eyes were still fixed upon the automatic
pistol. She asked, "Could I hold it for a minute?"

Joan nodded to Peter. He slipped out the magazine and gave the pistol to
the little girl; she held it in her hands and turned it over. "My!" she
said. "Isn't it heavy!"

They took it back from her and went towards the door, carrying their
tins of milk. "Lock the door behind us when we've gone," said Joan.
"Then nobody else will be able to get in."

She hesitated. "Don't think too badly of us," she said. "One day you'll
have a baby of your own, and then you'll know...."

The child stood at the door and watched them as they went. "Good-bye,"
she said shyly.

They waved to her and went down the road towards Warsash, their arms
full of tins. They went silently, immersed in their own thoughts. At
last Corbett said, "Well, anyway, we've got the milk."

Joan said, "I do hope she'll be able to make her people understand."

They went on down the hill with heavy hearts. They found the children at
the inn and went on board the yacht again. They stowed their precious
tins of milk away carefully, and made a survey of their other stores.

"I think I'll make a loaf of bread before we start," said Joan. "We've
got time, haven't we?"

Corbett nodded. "I'm going to go on shore and see if I can get some
brandy at the pub," he said. "We've only got a little whiskey here."

He took the dinghy and rowed over to the Hamble side. The barman sold
him two bottles of old brandy at a fantastic price. Coming out of the
inn he met Lammermoor, who had helped him on the first afternoon at
Hamble. The young man's features were a sort of ashen grey.

"I say, old man," he said urgently. "Where does the district nurse
live--do you know?"

Corbett shook his head. "I haven't an idea. I'm sorry."

The young man shook his head despairingly. "There must be a doctor or a
nurse, or _someone_ here. I can't get any help."

"What's the trouble?"

"It's Sissie. She's been ill all night, and she's looking simply awful
now. I must get somebody...."

He ran off up the village street. Corbett went back on board.

"I'd like to get away as soon as we can," he said to Joan. "Let's make
it snappy."

They had a quick lunch, started up the engine, slipped the mooring, and
stood away down river.




6


A brief shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds as they got under way. Joan
sat at the tiller, taking the vessel down the river that she knew so
well; the children played around her in the cockpit. Corbett was forward
in the bows, ranging cable ready for anchoring. The vessel chugged
forwards towards Southampton Water under the power of her old engine.

"Mummy," asked Phyllis. "Are we going to Seaview to have a bathe?"

"Not today."

"Are we going to have a paddle?"

"No. We're just going to have a lovely sail."

"We can have a bathe one day, can't we, Mummy?"

"One day," said Joan.

Corbett came aft to the cockpit. "Peter," she said. "Where are we going,
anyway?"

He looked at her in surprise. "I thought we decided on Wootton. We
shan't do any better anywhere else. Unless you'd rather go to Cowes. But
there's that fresh water lake at Wootton, which would do for washing,
anyway."

She nodded. "That's all right. I only wanted to know."

They stood down the Hamble River and out into the middle of Southampton
Water. Here Joan headed the vessel up into the wind while Corbett got
the mainsail up; they had worked a boat together for so many years that
they had little need to talk about the jobs. He swung upon the halliard
to tighten the luff; then she laid the boat off on her course towards
the Solent, slacked sheet and runner, and settled down at the helm.
Corbett set the jib and foresail, came aft and stopped the engine. The
vessel slipped forward under sail alone, the dingy towing behind.

Joan sighed. "It's good to get away from Hamble," she said. "It was
beginning to get on my nerves."

He nodded. "I know. Still, I'll feel better when we're settled down in
some new place."

She glanced up at him in surprise. "But Wootton will be all right. There
won't be any bombing there, or cholera. And there ought to be plenty of
milk in the island."

He nodded. "It ought to be all right. I only hope there isn't any catch
in it."

She laid her hand upon his arm. "Don't worry--we'll come out all right.
If it comes to the worst we can always go back to Hamble."

He nodded.

Presently she said, "Did you do anything about the car?"

"No--I just left it parked where it was. Nobody will pinch it, because
there isn't any gas. And anyway, it's not worth pinching."

She sighed. "We're leaving a good bit of our property around the
countryside. First the house and all our things, and then the car."

He smiled. "We'll be back home again before very long, and then we'll
have a fine time picking up the bits."

She said quietly, "I wonder."

Wootton creek lies towards the east end of the island, not very far from
Ryde; a car ferry runs to it from Portsmouth. They had a fair wind but a
foul tide; it was about four o'clock in the afternoon before they
reached the booms marking the entrance to the channel. Here they started
up the engine again and brought the vessel head into the wind, to lower
the mainsail before going in.

A speed boat of the type used from beaches in the summer for joyriding
came from the creek to meet them, throwing the waves magnificently
aside. There was a policeman in her and two special constables; Corbett
noticed with uneasiness that there was a service rifle beside one of
them.

"Here's trouble," he said to Joan.

The boat ranged up to them, lost way, and lay rocking on the water half
a dozen yards away. The constable stood up and hailed them. "Where are
you from?"

"Hamble."

"Have you got a bill of health?"

"No," said Corbett. "We've not been abroad. We've come from
Hamble--Hamble, near Southampton."

"You want a bill of health, coming from Hamble. That's in the infected
area."

"How long has this been in force?"

"Thursday last. Nobody can land in the Isle of Wight without the vessel
has a bill of health. I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to go back."

"Can I lie in Wootton for the night if I don't go on shore?"

"No, sir, you cannot. If you want to anchor you must go to Quarantine."

"Where's that?"

"Southampton Water, just down below Hythe. You'll see it marked with a
big yellow flag. When you get there, report to the Port Sanitary
Office--the launch will come out to you. Then when you've lain there for
the statutory time, they'll give you a clean bill of health, and you can
come on here."

"How long will I have to stay there?"

"I couldn't rightly say--they'll tell you when you get there. I did hear
it was seventeen days."

Corbett expostulated, "But that's absurd! I'll get bombed to hell each
night I anchor there."

"I'm sorry, sir, but them's my orders."

"Isn't there anywhere else that I can go to to go into Quarantine?"

"Not in the Solent, sir. Of course, you could go back to Hamble. You
won't be able to go into Portsmouth. I should go back to Hamble, if I
was you."

There was a short silence. At last Corbett said, "All right--I'll go
back."

"One more thing," said the constable. "I know you're a responsible
gentleman, sir, and you wouldn't go doing anything silly. But I have to
warn you that no landing whatsoever, under any pretext, is permitted on
the Island except at Wootton, Ryde, Cowes, and Yarmouth, and then only
on a bill of health. Any attempt to effect an unauthorized landing after
receipt of this warning will be treated as an offence under the Defence
of the Realm Act."

The solicitor pricked up his ears. "When did that Act come to life
again?"

"Tuesday of last week, sir."

"And what does all that mean, if I try to land?"

"You might get shot at, sir. In any case, you would be liable to a
maximum penalty of imprisonment for five years."

"I see," said Corbett. "I don't think I'll try it."

The man smiled. "I'm sorry for your sake, sir, and the lady. But if I
was you, I should go back to Hamble for the night."

The speedboat sheered away and went to intercept a little rowing boat.
Corbett turned the vessel from the creek and stood out to sea; in
silence they got up the mainsail and jib again. He laid her to the wind
for the beat back to Hamble, and sheeted the mainsail home.

Phyllis asked, "Aren't we going to Seaview, Mummy?"

"Not today," said Joan quietly. "We'll go another day."

Beating against the March wind, the children very soon became cold. Joan
took them both below and wrapped them up in blankets in their berths
with toffee to suck. Then, working under difficulties in the reeling
forecastle, she heated milk over the Primus stove and gave a bottle to
the baby. She came on deck after three-quarters of an hour, feeling
dazed and sick, glad to take the helm up in the open air.

Night was falling; they were about half way back to Southampton Water.
From time to time a sloop or a destroyer passed them in the fairway;
once three motor torpedo boats coming from Portsmouth passed them at a
great speed, travelling in the direction of the Needles. Apart from
these occasional ships, the Solent was completely empty; there were no
liners or cargo vessels to be seen at all. The wind was cold enough, but
not unbearable; they huddled in their oilskins and mufflers in the
cockpit.

Joan said, "Where are we going, Peter?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not particular. Do you want to go back
to Hamble?"

She shook her head. "It gives me the willies, now."

"I know. But I don't want to go to that Quarantine anchorage--not
tonight, anyway. We might not be able to get out again, once we got in.
We might have to stay there, whether we liked it or not."

"Being bombed all the time? They couldn't do that to us, Peter."

"I'm not so sure. Anyway, I don't want to go there tonight."

"We could just anchor somewhere for tonight and think about it, couldn't
we?"

He nodded. "We'd be all right anywhere on the west side of Southampton
Water, in this wind. We'd be in the lee there."

"We'd be out of the way of the bombs there?"

"I think so, if we didn't go too far up."

They beat up to Southampton Water in the failing light. It was pitch
dark when he dropped anchor in two fathoms a mile or so above Calshott.
Below them the flying boats swung at their moorings; a flare path was
laid out on floats upon the surface of the water. There was much going
to and fro in motor boats to the aircraft at their moorings; now and
again one of the machines slipped away, taxied to the end of the flare
path, and roared off into the night.

Corbett stayed for some time on deck, stowing the sails and making all
secure. Then he went down into the lamplit cabin. His wife was in the
forecastle, busy over a stew on the Primus stove; his children were
sleeping quietly in their bunks. He had a great feeling of security, of
domesticity.

He began to lay the table for supper. "I tell you what," he said. "If we
find we've got to go into Quarantine, I'd rather do it in some other
port. If we could get down to Weymouth, now--or even Plymouth. We might
be able to do it there without being bombed all the time."

She did not answer.

He asked, "What do you think about that?"

She said, "Supper's ready. Let's eat this while it's hot. We can talk
about our plans afterwards."

They were both very hungry. Half an hour later, full gorged, Joan leaned
back against the cushioned settee and blew a long cloud of cigarette
smoke.

"Peter," she said. "Where _are_ we going to from here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we were going to the Isle of Wight. We can't get into the Isle of
Wight now unless we go into Quarantine at Southampton for a good long
time, and I'm not stuck on that. You said we might sail down to Plymouth
to do Quarantine. But when we've done it, you wouldn't suggest that we
sail back here again with our bill of health and get into the Isle of
Wight?"

He rubbed his chin in perplexity. "Seems sort of silly to do that."

"Do you think the Isle of Wight is a very good place to go to? I mean,
it's all right now. But with all this disease just over the water on the
mainland, do you think they'll be able to keep it out of the Island?"

He said, "They're making a good stab at it. But--no. I think they'll
fail."

"Well, then, it's not such a good place to go to."

That seemed to be unanswerable.

She said, "I mean, it's not much good going to another place we think
will be all right, and then having to turn out again in a week's time
and move on. We're on the move now, and so far the children have kept
well. I'd rather move to some place where we know we shall be safe, and
get it over."

He nodded slowly. "I don't know where that would be."

There was a silence. Presently she said, "Have they got these diseases
down in Devon, or Cornwall? I mean, we might get a cottage there,
somewhere."

"I don't know how far the disease has spread. I think we've got to
reckon that the whole of the south coast will be unhealthy. You see,
it's the evacuation of the towns does it ..."

"You mean, it'll be like Swanwick? People mucking about in cars, all
over the place?"

"It may be."

"It doesn't look so good, Peter."

"It doesn't."

"Let's have a drink."

He poured out whiskey and lime juice for them both; they sat smoking in
meditative silence. Presently he said, "There's always Canada."

"I know."

They sat there very still, immersed in their own thoughts. Over their
heads the wind sighed through the rigging of the little boat, the water
lapped on the topsides. He had a married sister in Toronto.

He said, "Monica would love to have you and the children. And we've got
a little bit of money in Canada, too--those railway shares."

She said very quietly, "I know."

"It's the only really safe thing for the kids."

For the third time she said, "I know."

She raised her eyes to his. "You'd come over with us, Peter?"

He hesitated. "I think I'd have to stay and do something in the war."

She nodded. "I know ... I'd want to be nearer you than Canada, Peter.
Toronto's such an awfully long way off."

He leaned across the table, and took her hand. "You could take the kids
over there, and come back again when they were settled in. Monica would
have them--I know she would. Especially at a time like this."

She shook her head. "It wouldn't be fair on them," she said slowly.
"They're too little to be left. They'd be awfully unhappy without either
of us."

There was a long, thoughtful silence.

"There's no need for us to settle anything tonight," he said at last.
"Let's sleep on it."

"All right." She got up and went through into the forecastle. And then
she said, "I do want to get some more water if we can, tomorrow. There's
a whole heap of the baby's things here to be washed out."

He went on deck and looked around. There was still activity around the
seaplanes; but for that, the night was quiet. It was heavily overcast,
but no rain was actually falling. Over in the direction of Portsmouth
there were searchlights playing in the sky.

He moved back to the hatch. Joan was there, standing and looking out
into the night.

"Peter," she said in a small voice. "If we were to go to Canada, where
would we go from?"

He rubbed his chin. "I don't know. I don't believe there are any ships
at all coming to Southampton now. They must have been diverted--further
west."

"You mean, to Plymouth or Falmouth, or somewhere like that?"

"I imagine so."

"We'd sail down there, would we?"

"I think that would be the best way to go. I don't much fancy trying to
go by land." He turned to her. "What's in your mind?"

"I was thinking, it would take some time to get there. We wouldn't be
sailing for Canada at once. And something might turn up ..."

"Of course it might. We don't need to make our minds up yet."

He went below, and they turned in to bed. "I don't know what to do about
the water," he said sleepily from his berth. "I don't want to go back to
Hamble for it."

"Not much," said Joan. "They'd give us some at Yarmouth, wouldn't they?
Even if we _are_ unclean."

"I don't know. We might try."

They slept.

Soon after midnight the raid began. They woke to the sharp crack of
guns; there was an anti-aircraft battery located on the edge of the New
Forest, not very far from them. The guns went on incessantly,
monotonously; they had a sharp, piercing crack that hurt their ears. The
children woke up, and began to cry.

"Hell," said Corbett. "Where's that cotton wool?"

They pressed wool into the children's ears, and into their own. They
couldn't get any wool into the baby's ears, so they put pads of wool on
top and bound the little face round with a bandage while the child
yelled and struggled. Then they had done all that they could do; for a
time they lay in their bunks listening to the detonation of the bombs.

Presently, exhausted by the whimpering of the children and the screaming
of the baby, they got up and made tea, and sat in the saloon in the
darkness with the children, drinking it.

Corbett said, "It won't go on much longer."

As he spoke, there was a rushing, whistling sound, and a great splash
near at hand as something heavy fell into the water. What happened then
was past description. The vessel seemed to rise bodily into the air
beneath them, plucking at her anchor chain with a great crack that shook
her to the stern. She was lifted, and thrown bodily onto the surface of
the sea on her beam ends, with a crash. In the saloon they were all
flung together in a heap on the low side, stunned and deafened with the
detonation. On her beam ends she was carried swiftly sideways towards
the centre of the channel; then she seemed to strike the bottom with her
topsides, though she had been anchored in two fathoms. Slowly she rose
till she was nearly on an even keel. Then a great avalanche fell upon
her, smothering her down, pressing her underneath the tumult of the sea.
A ton of mud and water poured down into the saloon through the half-open
hatch; she was spun bodily around. Then she rose, streaming like a
half-tide rock, and drifted out towards the middle of the channel.

Deafened and dazed, Corbett groped his way to the hatch and clambered
out on deck. By some freak of chance the dinghy was still with them;
sunk to the gunwales, she was still attached to the stern by her
painter. The boom was trailing in the water, topping lift and mainsheet
carried away. There was a tangle of loose gear at the foot of the mast
that he could not stop to investigate; the glass of the cabin skylight
was shattered. The anchor chain hung straight down from the bow, broken
off short; the vessel was slowly rotating out into the middle of the
channel. She was much lower in the water than usual; the decks were deep
in slime.

He hurried aft to the sail locker, got a line, and bent it to the kedge
anchor. Then he went forward and anchored her roughly with the kedge and
warp; she brought up in about six fathoms. Coming back aft, he saw that
Joan was in the cockpit, working at the pump.

"Are the children all right?"

"I think they are. Look, take over pumping, Peter, and I'll go and see
to them. There's over a foot of water in the cabin."

He went to the pump. "Mark the level in the cabin, and tell me if I'm
getting it down at all."

He settled to the pump. In the cabin he could hear her sloshing about in
the water, could hear her comforting the children. Presently he heard
the roaring of the Primus stove. He pumped on steadily. On shore the
battery was still throwing its barrage to the sky; bombs were still
falling round about. At the end of twenty minutes Joan said, "You're
getting it down, Peter. It's an inch lower than it was--an inch to an
inch and a half."

He rested for a minute, and began again. Presently, having soothed the
children, she came to him with a cup of Bovril; he drank it gratefully
while she relieved him at the pump.

He asked, "Do you think she's making water?"

"I don't believe she is. The level's going down all the time. I think
it's only what came into her by the skylight and the hatch."

"Lord," he said, "we don't want another one like that."

"What about that Quarantine anchorage, now?"

"They can keep it."

He busied himself with the boom. When that was inboard he went round the
deck assessing the damage. It was not so bad as he had feared. The
little yacht was injured, but she was not incapacitated; there was
nothing there that he could not patch up and repair himself, given the
time. He went aft and pulled the sunken dinghy up to the counter. Joan
left the pump and went to help him; together they hauled it out of the
water, emptied it, and put it back afloat. Then Corbett went back to the
pump, and Joan went down below.

"The water's practically off the floor," she said. "I don't believe
she's leaking more than usual. I'm going to change the kids into dry
things."

"Are there any dry things?"

"Oh, yes. The things in the top drawers are quite all right."

An hour later, the pump sucked. Corbett went below, exhausted and with a
violent headache; he was amazed at what Joan had done. Regardless of the
air raid, which now seemed to be over, Joan had lit the lamp. She had
changed the children into dry clothes and put them to rest upon the
driest of the two settees; she had wiped over the floor and the
paintwork. The saloon was looking almost normal, though it was smelling
very bad.

He poured himself out a stiff whiskey, and gave one to Joan. "We'll get
away from this bloody place as soon as we can," he said wearily.

"Is the boat all right to get away?"

"I think so. I'll have to go and find the anchor. But it's got a buoy on
it."

He made her lie down on the other settee. Then he changed into dry
clothes and put on his oilskins, spread a sail doubled over John's
sopping bunk, pulled the wet blankets over him, and fell into a heavy
sleep.

When he awoke, three hours later, it was daylight. He got up stiffly and
took off his oilskins; Joan and the children were still sleeping. He
went on deck, got a bucket, and started to swill away the slime that
covered the vessel.

The morning came up sunny and bright. Joan heard him moving about on
deck, got up, and came to the hatchway. She wrinkled up her nose at the
mess on the deck; then she went back and started to get the children up.
Corbett went off in the dinghy, found the anchor buoy, and raised the
anchor with ten feet of broken chain attached to it. He took it back on
board and shackled it onto the remainder of the chain.

A couple of hours later they had more or less recovered from the
incident of the night. They had had a good meal and had washed up; their
clothes, their blankets and their bedding were laid out on deck and
drying in the sun. Corbett was drying the magneto of the engine in the
oven, and Joan, with sail needle and palm, was repairing a long slit in
the mainsail.

They worked all morning in the sun; by noon they were ready to get under
way.

They were dead tired, and both confessed to headaches. The children were
fretful and exhausted. Still, it was necessary to move on; they got the
bedding down below again and put the children down to rest with a full
meal inside them. For themselves, they took aspirin and a little food,
and faced the future.

"There's one thing certain," Corbett said. "We've got to get away from
here before tonight."

Joan said hesitantly, "Don't you think we might go to Yarmouth?"

"That's in the Isle of Wight. They wouldn't let us in."

She sighed. "They're always so nice there."

"We'll try it, if you like, but I don't think there's a hope. Still,
they might let us have some water."

She nodded. "If they wouldn't let us stay we could go over and anchor
for the night off Keyhaven, on the mainland side. We'd be out of the way
of the bombs there, anyway."

They got the dinghy up on deck and capsized her over the broken skylight
in her seagoing position; then they set up the mainsail and got the
kedge anchor. There was a light breeze from the southwest as they sailed
out of Southampton Water; the day was only partially overcast, so that
there were patches of bright sun to warm them. They laid the vessel to
the wind for the beat down towards the Needles; Joan went below to
sleep.

An hour later she came up on deck and relieved Peter at the helm; in
turn he went below, and fell asleep at once.

He woke later in the afternoon, refreshed and well. He came up to the
cockpit and took the helm from Joan, who went below and made tea. They
got the children up on deck and all had tea together in the cockpit; by
the time they could lie Yarmouth in the late afternoon they were
cheerful and in good shape.

As they approached the little town at the entrance to its narrow creek
they got the sails down and went forward under engine. A motor boat came
out to meet them, as at Wootton; before it had time to intercept them
Corbett had anchored with his kedge anchor and warp.

The boat came alongside. This time the sergeant of police in the boat
was more truculent.

"Let's see your bill of health."

Corbett said, "I haven't got one, I'm afraid."

"You can't anchor here without a bill of health."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Where are you from?"

"Hamble."

The sergeant began upon a long, stereotyped harangue about Quarantine,
and the powers granted to the Local Authority under the Defence of the
Realm Act to combat the spread of infection. Joan stood by the mast,
aside. Out from the harbour entrance came an aged rowing boat, rowed by
a stocky figure in an old blue reefer and a seaman's hat. There was a
black retriever dog perched in the bows.

Joan watched the boat as it drew closer. Then she interrupted the
discussion.

"Oh, Peter!" she cried. "Here's Mr. Low coming!" He was the
harbourmaster.

The police sergeant turned and looked with disapproval at the
approaching boat. "He's got nothing to do with this," he said. "Outside
of his province, this is."

Joan called out, "Mr. Low, do come and help us. We don't want to land.
We only want some water."

The harbourmaster bumped his rowboat unceremoniously alongside the
police launch. He beamed at Joan. He spoke slowly and without concern.
"Why, Mrs. Corbett," he said, "quite a pleasure seeing you, this early
in the season. And Mr. Corbett, too."

Joan said, "Mr. Low, they won't let us stay here. We know we can't land,
but we want some fresh water. We've got the baby on board with us, and I
must wash out her nappies."

The sergeant said, "They can't stop here. They got to go to Quarantine."

In the harbourmaster the slow anger rose. "Who says they can't stop
here? They can't land--that I do know. But who's to say they can't
anchor here, or anywhere they likes? Free for all, the sea is, below
low-water mark."

The sergeant, unaccustomed to marine law, hesitated. "I got my orders,"
he said a little weakly, "and I got to see them carried out."

The harbourmaster followed up his attack. "It don't say nothing in your
orders about Mrs. Corbett not anchoring here to get a drop of water, nor
in the Defence of the Realm Act, either." He snorted. "Fine goings on, I
do say!" He turned to the sergeant. "All you want to know is that
they're not going to land. Well, I've known this boat, and Mr. and Mrs.
Corbett, these five years past. They come here regular, all through the
summer. They won't land if you tell them not."

"I don't want to land," said Corbett. "But I want some water now, and
perhaps some more in the morning. I'd like to stay at anchor here for
the night."

"Where are you bound for?" asked the harbourmaster.

"Plymouth, if I can get there."

The sergeant said, "All right," and pushed off from the bow. He turned
to the harbourmaster. "And don't you go on board of them, either. We
don't want none of that cholera in Yarmouth."

The harbourmaster said disgustedly, "Ah, get on out of it. Don't talk so
soft." The driver of the launch let in his clutch, and the boat slid
away. The harbourmaster beamed up at Joan. "Got the baby with you, have
you, Mrs. Corbett? And the other two as well? My, don't they look well!
A proper handful for you, they must be."

Joan said, "It's awfully good of you to let us stay the night. They
wouldn't let us even anchor at Wootton."

"Ah, stay as long as you like. You don't want to pay any attention to
him. And there won't be any harbour dues, anchoring out here. But don't
go on shore--not without he says you may."

"We don't want to. All we want is some water, and then we'll be able to
do the washing."

"I'll get you the water--give us your bag." They passed him down the
water bag. "How are you going on for milk?"

Joan said quickly, "Could you get us some? Fresh milk?"

"Surely, Mrs. Corbett."

"Two quarts?"

"Surely. Do you want anything else--meat, or vegetables, or bread?"

Corbett said, "We're quite all right for bread. We've got plenty of
tinned things, but we've got no fresh meat or vegetables at all."

"I could bring off two or three cabbages out of my own garden. What
about a nice leg of lamb?"

Joan said unevenly, "A nice leg of lamb. You don't know what you're
saying, Mr. Low."

He smiled, and said, "Suppose I bring you off a little bit of meat that
you could cook yourselves, and have it hot for tonight. Then I could buy
a nice big leg of lamb tonight and get the wife to cook it for you, and
bring it off cold in the morning."

Joan said, "That would be splendid. You're ever so good, Mr. Low."

He said awkwardly, "Ah, it's nothing, Mrs. Corbett." He pushed off and
rowed back towards the quay. Joan turned to Peter, and her cheeks were
wet with tears. "I know I'm a damn fool," she muttered. "But it upsets
one--when people are so kind."

Half an hour later the harbourmaster appeared again, still rowing with
the dog perched in the bows. He brought them a bag of water, four
cartons of milk, a little round of beef, and a cauliflower. They emptied
the bag into the water tank and gave it back to him to bring off full
again in the morning. Corbett gave him money, but he would take nothing
beyond the bare peacetime value of the food.

They spent the evening washing nappies, putting the children to bed, and
preparing a great meal. It was after ten o'clock when it was finished
and washed up; they sat on deck for a short time, smoking and looking at
the lights across the water. From time to time a shadowy form, a warship
or auxiliary vessel of some sort, went secretly past them without
lights.

Corbett stirred. "I knew that there was something wrong," he said. "I
couldn't place it. The lighthouse at Hurst Castle isn't functioning."

She looked towards the Castle in the black night. "Is that because of
the war?"

"I suppose it is. They turned out most of them in that last war, because
they might have helped the submarines."

"Do you think there are submarines in the Channel now, Peter?"

He rubbed his chin. "I don't know. I don't think they'd bother much
about us. We're too small."

"I don't want to get submarined."

He laughed shortly. "If we stick around here, we'll get sent back to the
Hamble sooner or later. I'd rather go to sea and try and get down west.
I don't think there's much risk."

She nodded. "You're right. I'd rather take that sort of risk than get
sent back to Hamble."

Presently they went to bed. In the night the distant thundering of bombs
and the sharp crack of guns went on continuously from Southampton; it
did not wake them. They slept peacefully and heavily all night; it was
not till daylight that they woke again.

All that morning the ship was festooned with the baby's washing and
their own, hanging out to dry. The harbourmaster came off with the leg
of lamb, fresh vegetables, more water, and more milk. He brought also a
couple of loaves of bread to supplement the bread that Joan had baked,
and a little bottle of boiled sweets for the children.

He asked, "When are you getting under way, Mr. Corbett?"

"This afternoon, I think. The weather looks all right."

"I'll ring them up at Hurst Castle, and tell them at the boom."

"What boom?"

"They got the Needles channel closed with a boom, same as they did in
the war--the last war. Because of the submarines, and that. All ships
come in by Spithead now--we don't get none through here. But they'll let
you through if they know. You go through on this side, right up against
the shore. You'll see the mark boat there."

He considered for a minute. "I don't think they'll make any trouble.
Another gentleman went through, day before yesterday, and they didn't
make no trouble with him. They'll want to know where you're bound for."

"Say Plymouth."

"I'll arrange it for you, Mr. Corbett. They won't make no fuss. I hope
you'll have a very pleasant trip."

Joan said, "Good-bye, Mr. Low. I'll never forget what you've done for
us."

He looked uncomfortable. "That's all right, Mrs. Corbett. We shall look
forward to seeing you back in Yarmouth again."

He rowed back to the town, the dog still perched impassively in the bows
of his boat. They watched him till he reached the quay.

"I knew we'd be all right if we came here," said Joan.

They turned away, and started to get the boat ready for sea. They had
baked a quantity of bread; with the two loaves the harbourmaster had
brought they had sufficient for a passage of two or three days. They had
made a large meat stew and left it in the saucepan on the gimbals; they
would get two meals out of that. They had a full water tank, and some
water still left in the bag.

They cleared the decks, gathering in the washing and stowing it away.
Then they had lunch, washed up, and gave a feed to the baby. Finally at
about three o'clock they were ready to go.

The day was overcast and cold, with a moderate easterly wind, fair for
their passage. They got their anchor and set sail towards the narrows;
very soon they saw the mark boat with a small launch standing by. The
launch ranged up alongside them; it was a naval boat, manned by two
seamen and an R.N.R. sub-lieutenant.

It passed under their stern to read the name. The officer hailed them.

"_Sonia._ Where are you from?"

"Hamble."

"Where are you bound for?"

"Plymouth."

"How many people on board?"

"Five. Myself, my wife, and three children."

"Are you armed?"

"I've got an automatic pistol."

"You'd better not try and use it. You can go through--between those two
buoys. If you see any foreign submarine activity, or anything else that
you think significant, put in to Portland or Dartmouth and report."

"I'll do that."

"Good luck."

The launch slid away, and they sailed forward through the boom.

Corbett touched Joan upon the shoulder. "Go down and get some sleep. Put
the children down, too. We shall be tired enough before we're through
with this."

She went below, and slept. When she came up again it was five o'clock;
the light was fading, the sea was a dirty grey. Corbett smiled at her
from the helm.

"The wind's getting up a bit," he said. "We're getting along fine. Come
and take her for a bit; I'll get a reef down before dark."

She came to the helm. He went forward and took a couple of rolls down in
the mainsail and stowed the foresail; the little vessel went more slowly
but more easily. He came aft again.

She asked him, "Where does this course take us to?"

"Seven miles outside Portland Bill--that leads us well clear of the
Race." He looked at the patent log. "We've made good five miles from the
Needles. Getting along fine."

She looked around, a little apprehensively. The sea was grey and
angry-looking, the dusk was falling. Behind them in the murk she could
still just distinguish the high land of the Island; apart from that,
there was no land in sight. It was unutterably lonely. She shivered a
little.

He divined her thoughts. "It's better than getting cholera."

"I know."

He smiled. "Go down and make some tea--or I will, if you like."

She went below and prepared the tea; then she relieved him at the helm
while he went down and made a heavy meal. He came up and took the helm
again while she gave the children tea; the bright lamplight made the
little cabin seem homely even though everything was rocking on a slant,
and she forgot her fears. She put the children to bed again when they
had had their meal; finally she gave a bottle to the baby. Then she came
up on deck.

"I'll take her now," she said. "You go on down and get some sleep."

He stood up, and looked around distastefully. The wind was stronger, and
the little ship evidently had all the sail that she could carry. The log
showed thirteen miles from the Needles. "I'll reef her down some more,
and put on the little jib."

It took him half an hour of heavy work, but the vessel went more easily
under the reduced sail. He came aft, and looked again at the weather.
The wind had backed into the north and was freshening; in the saloon the
barometer was falling slowly. A cross sea was getting up, giving an
awkward motion to the little vessel.

"I hope this doesn't make the children sick," he said.

"There's no sign of it yet," said Joan. "I kept them sucking sweets."

"Glucose," he said. "I know."

She turned to him. "You go on down below and get some sleep. I'll be all
right."

"Sure?"

"Of course. Go on down."

"All right. Call me at midnight, and I'll take over then. I shan't
undress. Call me if anything happens, or if the wind gets up any more."

He went below, and lay down fully clothed upon the lee settee. In a few
minutes he was asleep, warm and at rest. The vessel tore on through the
darkness in the rising sea; at the helm Joan sat struggling with the
tiller and fighting her fears. She told herself that there was nothing
in the darkness to be afraid of. She was not a child. Peter was within
call. When the sea made that noise it wasn't really dangerous. It was
only strange. There was nothing to be frightened of. They were making a
splendid passage down the coast. It would be a shame to call Peter
before he had had a decent sleep. It was quite all right.

Presently a wave top slopped up on the deck and brought her heart into
her mouth.

A quarter of an hour later she heard a new noise in the darkness; the
dinghy was moving about on the cabin top. One of the lashings had
slacked off with the motion of the vessel; with every lurch the ship
gave the boat rolled upon the deck, looser at every minute. It might go
overboard and be lost. She lashed the helm in the way that Peter did
it, and in the darkness forced herself to leave the shelter of the
cockpit and venture forward up the cabin top till she could reach the
loosened rope and get a heave on it. She made it fast, and looked around
before she crept back to the cockpit. The vessel was rushing forward in
the pitch darkness, lying well over; the sea was getting terribly rough.
How awful it would be if she were to fall overboard! She would be swept
astern and nobody would hear her cries, for they were all asleep. The
vessel would sail on and leave her, and she would be left swimming in
the darkness in the terrible waste of sea, to perish, drown, and die.

She gripped the handrail on the cabin top very hard, and crept back to
the shelter of the cockpit.

An hour later the foresail flapped suddenly; the wind was heading her.
She pulled the sheets in as hard as she could manage, and the vessel lay
over on her beam and began tearing through the water in a smother of
spray. The sea seemed to have become much rougher. She glanced at the
binnacle; she could not lie her course. She was heading much too far
south, and the yacht was overpowered, her lee rail under.

She leaned in at the hatch, and cried out, "Peter!"

He was on deck at once. She said, "Peter, she won't lie her course. I
think she's got too much sail up."

He took a quick glance at the binnacle. "All right, we'll lie her to."

He put the helm down and hauled the jib sheet to windward; after a
little experimenting she lay quietly on a more even keel. He slipped
below and took a quick glance at the barometer. Then he was on deck
again.

"Is it going down, Peter?"

He nodded. "It's not quite so good. We'll stay like this till dawn." He
touched her on the shoulder. "Go down below and get some sleep."

"What time is it?"

"Half-past eleven."

She sighed. "I thought it must be nearly dawn."

"No such luck."

She went below, and lay down on the settee. In the darkness on deck,
Corbett settled down in the cockpit on watch. It was bitterly cold.
There was nothing to be done, except to watch the vessel and to be ready
for eventualities. Throughout the night the wind continued rising.

At three o'clock the vessel would not lie to any more; continually she
fell away from the wind, heeled over on her beam ends, and came up to it
again with the sails flapping madly. He called for Joan; in the turmoil
she had been lying awake upon the lee settee, and came on deck at once.

He said, "This isn't working any more. We'll have to get the sails off
her, and run her off before it."

"All right."

He started up the engine to help the manoeuvring; then he got out of the
cockpit in the darkness and went forward to take in the jib. Immediately
he was soaked to the skin in the blown spray. He got the jib down
without tearing it, brought it aft, and threw it down the hatch into the
saloon. Then between them they got the mainsail down, got lashings round
the wildly swinging gaff and boom, and lowered the lot down onto the
deck. Corbett made it all fast in that position. Then they let the
little vessel swing around and run in a southeasterly direction dead
before the wind, under bare poles. He stopped the engine, and they went
forward at about two knots.

The gale sung and whistled through the rigging in the darkness. The boat
lay easily and safely, but with an appallingly violent motion in the
rough sea. Below they could hear the children crying; Corbett stuck his
head in at the hatch and spoke a word of comfort to them.

Joan said suddenly, "Peter, I'm going to be sick."

He said, "So am I."

They huddled together in the cockpit for an hour, drenched and cold, and
vomiting from time to time. By experiment they found that they could
retain brandy and barley sugar; no other food would stay with them. The
children, lying in their berths and sucking barley sugar, were not
unwell; Joan resolutely kept them lying down. The baby, mercifully,
slept through it all.

Presently Corbett made his wife go and lie down in the saloon.

The dawn came at last, grey and cheerless. The gale had not abated; the
sea, now that it could be seen, was running very high. Corbett was not
particularly alarmed. The little yacht was behaving well; she did not
seem to be taking in very much water. He had only a rough idea where he
was; he thought that they were heading more or less for Cherbourg, with
eighty or ninety miles to go. The wind would drop, he thought, before
they ran that distance. He was most concerned lest their strength
should give out with the repeated vomiting.

He called Joan at about eight o'clock, went below himself, and fell into
a doze. Joan settled down at the helm with the sweets and brandy flask,
chilled and fatigued, but not uncomfortable. There was nothing to be
done but to steer the yacht before the seas; since that was her natural
direction it required little effort or attention.

Presently a new sound attracted her attention. On looking up, she saw a
flight of planes circling overhead.

She watched them idly; they were in a different world. There were men up
there looking at her vessel, but they could not help her, nor could she
communicate with them. They turned and flew ahead of her; following
their flight she saw a vast, ungainly block emerging from the mist. For
one hideous moment she thought that it was a headland of the coast of
France, that they were being driven dead on shore. Then she saw it more
clearly, grey and menacing. It was an aircraft carrier.

It was perhaps three or four miles away, down wind and to the west of
them, heading on a course roughly parallel with their own. It seemed to
be going at a great speed. She bent down and called to Peter; he came up
on deck.

He studied the ship earnestly through field glasses. "It's either the
_Courageous_, or the _Victorious_, or the _Glorious_," he said. "I can't
tell them apart." He paused. "Look, they're taking the machines on
board."

They watched her for a time. The machines were circling round her, small
as flies in the misty distance. They showed up clearly as they banked
to turn; in straight flight they were little more than smudges in the
sky. One after the other dropped down on a long slant towards the ship,
flattened tangential to the deck, and disappeared. With the fourth there
was a difference. The form of the airplane showed suddenly and clearly
at the end of the deck, poised for a moment, and then vanished.

Corbett smiled. "They piled that fellow up, I think."

Joan shook her head. "It couldn't have been a crash. Look, they're going
on just the same." Another machine slid down to the deck and
disappeared; the carrier steamed on.

"It was a damn funny landing, anyway," he said.

Abruptly, from the bridge of the carrier a bright light flashed. It
flickered intermittently in flashes of Morse code. They watched it for a
minute.

"I believe that's for us," said Corbett. "They're signalling with a
searchlight." He glanced behind him; there was no other ship in sight.

"What do you think they're trying to say?"

He shook his head. "Blowed if I know. I can't read Morse." The
searchlight went on flickering.

The last machine slid down onto the deck. The carrier altered course and
swung towards them, still steaming at a great speed. "She _is_ a
thing ..." said Corbett wonderingly.

Joan said, "Like Broadcasting House going for a walk down Regent
Street."

As she drew near, two strings of brightly coloured flags broke from the
yard on her short mast.

Corbett smiled faintly. "Too bad. I can't read those either."

Quite suddenly she altered course away from them. For three or four
minutes she zigzagged upon different courses, crazily, then with a swift
dash she bore down on them. She passed behind them less than a hundred
yards away, towering above them, confusing them with her immensity,
blanketing them from the wind. In the lull they heard the sighing of the
wind over her bulk, the shrill whine of her fans, the clamour of her
passage.

A voice spoke suddenly from her loudspeakers, the bellowing of a husky
giant. Joan started violently.

"Yacht ahoy!" The enormous voice spoke in measured tones, each word
separate and distinct. "There is a wrecked plane lying on the water,
bearing fifteen degrees on your starboard bow, distant two miles. Go and
pick up the crew. Raise your right arm if you understand, and if you are
able to rescue the crew."

Mechanically Corbett threw his arm above his head.

"Thank you." The voice repeated, measured and distinct, "The airplane is
fifteen degrees on your starboard bow, magnetic bearing south five
degrees west from you, distant two miles. Land the crew in England if
possible. You will be paid compensation for the deviation from your
course. Good-bye."

She swept past them and away; they were enveloped in a choking cloud of
fumes. Through the smoke the gilt letters of her name, VICTORIOUS, shone
out above them on a background of her dark grey hull. Then she was gone;
her wake made a slick in which the sea was momentarily smooth.

Corbett was peering into the binnacle. "Fifteen degrees--that comes to
just about south five degrees west," he said. "Steer south fifteen
degrees west, to allow for us being blown down. There. Take her, and
I'll start up the engine."

Joan took the helm and he went down below; presently the engine began
coughing into the sea. He came on deck again.

Joan looked wistfully at the departing bulk of the great ship. "She
isn't rocking a bit."

Corbett propped himself against the cabin top and the boom, and stared
ahead through the glasses. "I can't see any sign of this plane," he
said. "We'll have to go on for a bit yet."

The motor chugged steadily beneath their feet; they went forward
slightly across the sea. The motion was worse than ever; the fumes of
the exhaust blew nauseously from the stern over them in the cockpit.
Corbett leaned suddenly aside and retched impotently; presently he sat
up, white and shaken.

Joan said, "Come and take her," and slid from the helm. It was better to
steer when one was sick. She took the glasses and peered forward;
presently she said, "Peter, what's that over there?" She pointed ahead.

He looked where she was pointing. "That's her, all right. That's the
tail sticking up." He altered course a little more to windward and went
on; from time to time they saw the tail of the machine again.

Joan asked, "What'll we do, Peter?"

He rubbed his chin. "It's not going to be easy. If we get down to
leeward of her, we'll never get back against this wind. I don't want to
get too near to her, either. We might get stove in."

He gave the tiller back to Joan, and got a mooring line out of the sail
locker. By this time they could see the wrecked machine practically all
the time; she lay right side up, the top plane just clear of the water,
the tail lifted high. There were two men standing in the aft cockpit up
to their waists in water. Down to leeward portions of the machine were
drifting away; she was breaking up.

Corbett said, "Keep straight for her. I'm going to try and get a line on
board her, and moor to her by the stern."

He tied a light heaving line to the mooring line. As they drew near he
held it up, showing the line and warp; in the cockpit one of the men
raised his hand. Corbett took the helm from Joan. "There's no second
shot," he said quietly. "I'll take her up as close as I dare. Then I'll
hand over to you and chuck the line. When you take her, turn away down
wind and put the engine in reverse."

He headed for the smashed and broken wing tip. He held on till the very
last moment, till his bowsprit was stabbing the air behind the wing,
then he jumped aside. "Hard over now," he said to Joan. "Put her in
reverse." He jumped up onto the cockpit seat, collected himself, and
flung the line. It fell across the fuselage; one of the men got hold of
it.

Corbett shouted, "Heave in!" As he did so there was a heavy blow
forward; he turned to see the tail plane rising from the deck, poise for
a moment in the air, and crash down on them again. He shouted to Joan,
"Put her ahead and pay out the line. We've got to get out of this!"

He ran forward, caught the plane in both hands, and broke the force of
the next blow. As the yacht moved forwards the plane caught the
starboard rigging and went sawing up and down. He managed to push it
clear, pinching his right hand cruelly; then they were free. He turned
aft to the cockpit.

He shouted to Joan, "Astern--put her astern again," and looked to see
what was happening on the machine. They had not made the line fast.
Instead, he saw for the first time an inflated rubber raft, or dinghy,
lying in the water by the fuselage. They had made the line fast to that.
As he watched one of the men lifted the other bodily, heaved him over
the side of the cockpit, and dropped him down into this raft. In the
raft the man moved feebly, ineffectively. The other jumped into the sea
beside the raft and floated high in the water, supported by an inflated
jacket. He waved to them from the water, holding onto the raft with one
hand.

Corbett said, "Head her over that way--pull them clear of the tail. Put
her ahead a little bit. That's enough."

He pulled in the line; the raft came slowly to them. As it came
alongside, Joan and Peter leaned down and helped the fit man from the
water. Then with great difficulty the three of them got the injured man
from the raft into the cockpit.

The stranger said, "Good thing you came. She was breaking up pretty
fast."

Joan said, "Your ship came and told us. Why didn't she stop and pick you
up?"

The man said, "This is a submarine area. She daren't stop. She's got to
keep on going." He wriggled himself out of his sodden flying suit, and
showed himself dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant commander.

Corbett said, "You'll find some dry clothes down in the saloon. Help
yourself."

The stranger said, "Later. Can we get this chap down below and get his
wet things off? He's pretty bad."

The other man lay collapsed upon the cockpit seat, stirring a little
with instinctive reaction as the vessel rolled. Water was dripping from
his sodden clothes and flying suit. He had no hat or helmet on his head;
a deep gash showed white and unpleasant in the side of his face. "He's
the pilot," said the other. "His name's Matheson. He hit his head as we
went over."

They looked at him in consternation. The injured pilot was a very young
man, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. The other was
an older man, perhaps forty or forty-five. Joan said, "Let's get him
down below. We've not got a great many dry clothes, but we can wrap him
up in blankets."

The lieutenant commander slid back the cabin hatch and glanced below; he
saw the two children in the waterway bunks. He turned to Corbett in
surprise. "I say," he said, "how many of you are there on board?"

"Myself, my wife, and three children. My name is Corbett. We're from
Southampton."

The other said, "Mine's Godfrey--Lieutenant Commander." He paused
awkwardly for a moment, and then he said, "I'm afraid we're going to be
a frightful nuisance to you. Where are you bound for?"

"Plymouth."

The other glanced at the binnacle. "You're heading for Cape Barfleur
now."

"We've been running before it since midnight."

Joan said, "You can talk about that later. Let's get him down below."

Corbett stayed at the helm. Joan and Godfrey stripped the flying suit
from the all but helpless body of the pilot, removed his outer clothes,
and got him down into the saloon. They started to undress him. The
children watched with interest from their bunks. John asked, "Mummy, why
are you putting that man to bed?"

Godfrey turned to him, and said, "He tumbled down and hurt himself."

Joan said, "There's a pair of pyjamas in the top drawer--there. Give
them here. Lie down again, John--you're not to get up. Oh, God, I'm
going to be sick again."

She vanished up the hatchway into the cockpit. Godfrey was left alone.
He got the injured man out of his underclothes, rubbed him with a towel,
put him into pyjamas. He laid him on the settee, propped up his head,
and covered him with blankets. Then he, too, made a dash on deck and to
the rail.

Presently he raised himself. "I say, I'm sorry," he said apologetically.
"I haven't been in anything this size for years."

Joan said weakly, "That's all right. You're all square with us, now.
Have some barley sugar and brandy."

She passed him the flask and the screwtop bottle. Corbett explained, "We
can keep those down if we don't have to move about too much. Anything
else comes up at once."

Joan leaned in through the hatch and looked below. Phyllis was lying
dozing in her bunk, clutching a teddy bear. John was lying on his back,
playing with a bunch of coloured wools. In the saloon the sick man lay
inert.

"I suppose it must be concussion," she said doubtfully. "We must do
something for him. Does anyone know what the treatment is?"

The men shook their heads. "All I know," said Godfrey, "is that you
mustn't give them alcohol."

Joan nodded. "I've heard that. I believe he ought to have a hot water
bottle at his feet."

Corbett said, "That's a good idea. Take her, and I'll go and put a
Primus on."

Joan shook her head. "I've got to go below and put one on for the baby's
feed. I'll do it. I've just been sick, so I'm good for the next quarter
of an hour."

She went below again. Godfrey was shivering; on Corbett's advice he went
below and changed into a miscellaneous set of clothes, not dry but drier
than his own, which were in the saloon. He came on deck again.

"Let me take her," he said. "I can stand trick and trick with you now."

Corbett gave him the helm. His hand was paining him a good deal; it was
stiff and swollen where it had been pinched by the tail plane. He asked
the officer, "Do you know where we are?"

The other considered for a moment. "Must be about forty miles northwest
of Barfleur. Is that about what you make it?"

"I hoped it was sixty or seventy."

"I don't think it's as much as that. No, I'm sure it's not."

"What's the weather going to do?"

The other thought hard for a moment, memorizing the barometric chart
that he had seen at dawn that morning. "The depression was over northern
France, moving northeast. It should get better presently."

He turned to Corbett. "Tell me, how did you come to get out here?"

Corbett shrugged his shoulders. "It just happened." He paused, and then
said, "We couldn't stay in Southampton, where we live."

"Why not?"

"We had to get out damn quick."

"Because of the bombing?" The officer seemed genuinely surprised. "Was
it as bad as that?"

Corbett eyed him for a minute. "Do you know what things are like on
shore?"

The other shook his head. "We've none of us been near the beach since
war began. I know there have been raids."

"Well, I'll tell you." In short, unembellished terms, he told the naval
officer what had happened to them since the war began. The other heard
him to the end.

"It's amazing ..." he said. "We knew there had been raids on various
towns, but we never dreamed that it was anything like that."

He hesitated for a moment. "You didn't happen to hear how things were
going on at Alverstoke?" he said.

Corbett shook his head. He knew Alverstoke, a little place near
Portsmouth, on the Solent. "I don't know anything about conditions
there," he said. "Why?"

"I've got a flat there," the officer said simply. "My wife's there now,
with our boy."

There was a silence. Corbett said at last, "I should think they'd be all
right."

The other nodded, but did not pursue the subject. Presently he said, "We
knew there weren't any newspapers. We couldn't understand why."

"There's been nobody to print them, or distribute them."

The officer asked, "Why is that? They aren't all in the army yet?"

Corbett said, "It's not that. But it's been the same with everything.
Nobody's had time to do his job--whether it's been printing a newspaper,
or driving a milk lorry, or shunting coal trucks. You see, for the first
few days we were all digging trenches in our back gardens. That had to
come before one's job--otherwise one would just have been killed. And
after that, in the evacuation period, no one worried much about his
daily job. Everybody had his wife and kids to look after."

The naval officer said quietly, "Excepting us."




7


Joan came on deck, white and ill. She had been below for the greater
part of an hour. She had given a bottle to the baby and she had put a
hot water bottle at the feet of the sick man. She had washed his face
and dressed the wound upon his cheek; she had not been able to do more
for him. He lay there breathing heavily, virtually unconscious and
unable to take food.

She took the helm, and immediately felt better. "Peter," she said. "We
must get somewhere soon. That man below will die unless we get him into
hospital."

He nodded. "I know. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do." He looked
round the horizon. "Blowing as hard as ever," he said. "She won't stand
any sail yet." He turned to Godfrey. "What do you think?"

The other shook his head. "I'm afraid I just don't know. I've never been
in anything smaller than a destroyer, and I don't know much about sail.
I should wait a bit."

Peter showed his hand to Joan. It was much swollen, with a bluish look.
She bent over it and examined it critically. "I don't know what to do
for that, Peter. Does it hurt much?"

"It throbs a bit."

"I could put a bandage on it with some Pond's extract. I'll go below and
get it."

Godfrey moved to the hatch. "Tell me where it is--I'll go."

He went below and handed up the bottle and the bandages. Then he went
over and examined the sick pilot. He was warm and apparently
comfortable; there was nothing to be done. He went to the hatch, and
stood for a minute between the waterway bunks, watching Joan in the
cockpit as she bandaged Peter's hand.

From the bunk beside him John plucked at his sleeve. "Will you read this
book to me?"

He turned. "What's that, old man?"

Phyllis said from the other bunk, "He wants you to read his book. I can
read by myself."

"Can you?"

She nodded vigorously.

He turned to John, took the little book from his hand, and settled down
upon the engine casing. He glanced at the cover, and then opened it.

He read, "'This is a fierce bad Rabbit; look at his savage whiskers, and
his claws, and his turned-up tail.'"

John leaned over. The lieutenant commander showed him the picture.
"There's his turned-up tail--see?"

"Which are his savage whiskers?"

"There."

"Oh."

"'This is a nice gentle Rabbit. His mother has given him a carrot.'"

The little vessel reeled and lurched over a grey sea; the low grey
clouds flew past hardly above the mast. The wind droned and whistled in
the rigging; from time to time a wave top was blown off and flew over
the boat, stinging the faces of the people in the cockpit. At the helm
Corbett sat steering with one hand; Joan was bandaging the other one for
him. Before she had finished, the bandage was wet with spray. In the
alley-way between the bunks the naval officer sat reading steadily,
pausing now and then to show a picture to the children.

He finished that book. He was pressed to read another, but refused, and
came up on deck. He said to Corbett, "Let me take her. You go below and
get some rest."

Corbett gave him the helm, stood up, and looked out over the grey
rollers. "If we go on like this we'll hit the coast of France some time
tonight," he said. "In the dark. Are the lighthouses working?"

The officer shook his head. "No. This is a submarine area. I've been
thinking about that, too. You've not got a sextant on board?"

"No. I never learned to use one. You see, we don't go outside the Solent
very much, except in August. We go down the coast to Cornwall then, most
years. But that's only day sailing."

Godfrey nodded. "Anyway, there's no sun." He paused. "I think it should
let up a bit this evening."

Corbett went below, and Godfrey settled down with Joan at the helm. She
asked him, "How did your accident happen?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "He just landed short. I thought we were for
it properly--going to hit the end of the deck. He pulled up before
hitting it, and stalled her down on the aft end. Then she dropped a
wing, and we did a cartwheel into the ditch. We never got to the wires
at all."

She pondered this for a moment, understanding only half of it. "Is he a
good pilot?"

Godfrey smiled. "Not out of the top drawer. He's very young, of course."

"Are you a pilot?"

He shook his head. "I'm the observer."

"Have you been in the Navy all your life?"

He nodded. "I was a snotty in the last war."

He asked her what they were going to do, why they were making for
Plymouth.

She said, "Peter thought that there'd be ships going to America from
there. There aren't any ships coming to Southampton now--at all." She
paused, and then she said, "He wants me to take the children to his
sister, in Toronto."

He glanced at her curiously. "Do you want to go?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to go a bit. But he's quite right.
It's the only safe thing for the kids."

"Is it as bad as that on shore?"

"It was where we were. It might be better in other parts, but how can
you say?"

He did not answer; for a moment he was preoccupied with his own
concerns, with thoughts of his own family. If this was what civilians
thought about things, somehow or other he must get to know how things
were going on at home, must help his wife in this emergency. But
presently he said, "Is Mr. Corbett going over with you?"

She shook her head sadly. "We haven't talked about it, but I know he
won't come. He wants to do something in the war, enlist or something--as
soon as he can get rid of us."

He glanced at her; his eyes were very soft. "It's a hard business,
this."

"It's hateful."

He thought about it for a minute. "He's doing the right thing," he said
at last. "I suppose it would have been easy enough for him to go and
enlist right away. But after what you've told me, I don't see how he
could have left you to fend for yourselves until he'd got you somewhere
safe." He paused. "It's different for us, of course, in the Navy. It's
one of the risks we take when we choose the Navy as a career--that in
time of war our families must scratch for themselves. I must say, I
never realized what kind of risk it was."

He said, "You didn't hear of any cholera or typhoid round about
Alverstoke, did you?"

She shook her head. "Not a word. Botley was the nearest. That's about
fifteen miles away, isn't it?"

"I shouldn't think it's quite so far."

There was a silence. Presently he said, "I don't believe you'll get a
ship at Plymouth. That's been bombed just like Southampton, I believe.
You might get one at Falmouth. But most of the ships have been diverted
to the west, you know. Places like Cardiff, Milford, and Liverpool."

"Is that because of the submarines?"

"Partly. Partly because of the towns and docks being bombed. And also to
get them out of the way of things like last week's show."

"What was that?"

"Off the Thames, and round about the Goodwins. You heard about it,
surely?"

She shook her head. "What was it--a battle?"

"I suppose you'd call it that. I didn't see anything of it--we were up
in the Irish Sea and the west coast of Scotland, waiting for them there.
But this thing--they were trying to force the Straits, you know. We put
it across them properly. Do you mean to say you didn't hear of it on
shore?"

She shook her head. "We were out at Hamble. There weren't any papers
there--or nothing that had anything like that."

"Wasn't it on the radio?"

"It may have been. But there's been no electricity, you see--and so no
radio. Not many people have a battery set, these days. And anyway, you
can't get the batteries charged when there's no current."

He stared at her in wonder. "I never thought of that.... It was a big
engagement, though--a very big one. As big as Jutland. We lost two
capital ships, the _Warspite_ and the _Hood_. They lost about ten."

"You mean that we won?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know that you can say that anyone
wins anything, these days--not quite like that. It finished up with our
fleet much superior to theirs in capital ships, anyway. It's given them
something to think about."

Joan said, "You must tell Peter when he comes on deck. He'll be awfully
interested." She reached for the screwtop bottle. "Have a barley sugar.
They're full of glucose."

The afternoon wore on. Corbett came on deck presently and Joan went
down; she busied herself in the reeling forecastle with cups of Bovril
for the children and a bottle for the baby. It took her an hour. Then,
sick, dizzy, and exhausted, she lay down on the settee and fell asleep
at once.

Shortly before dusk the wind moderated and backed more into the west.
The sea was running very high, but in long, even rollers that the vessel
had time to rise to and slide over. Corbett looked around. "She'd stand
a bit of sail on her now, I think."

Godfrey said, "It would be just as well. I don't know where we are--not
within twenty miles. We'd better head up north; we can't be so far from
the French coast."

Corbett nodded. "We don't want to bump on that in the dark."

They shipped the pump, and began to pump the vessel out before setting
sail. The working and the straining that she had been through in the
last twenty-four hours had not improved her; there was a good deal of
water in the bilge. They cleared her in twenty minutes' pumping, then
turned to the sails.

"You'll have to do most of it for me, I'm afraid," said Corbett. "This
hand of mine isn't much good to me."

The naval officer said, "That's all right. You tell me what you want
done."

In half an hour of shouted instructions and heavy work they got the
mainsail set, a little close-reefed rag; they followed it with a small
jib set up from the stem. With that sail the little yacht had all she
wanted; she surged away to the north with the wind free, clambering up
over the one side of the rollers and charging down the other side like a
speed boat. Immediately they felt relief from the incessant motion as
she steadied to the pressure of her sails.

All square forward, Godfrey came aft to the cockpit. "That's better,"
Corbett said, bracing himself against the tiller. "We're getting
somewhere now."

In the gathering dusk the little ship went bustling on, making perhaps
three knots in the rough sea. Their spirits rose; they had a drink of
brandy. Then Corbett, greatly daring, went below and fetched a few dry
biscuits. They ate them, and retained them.

Presently it was dark. They sailed on through the night, the wind
moderating all the time. After a while Corbett said, "Should we be
showing lights?"

Godfrey considered for a minute. "Well, nobody else will be that we may
meet. Still, I think I'd put them up. They might stop someone from
popping off at us for luck."

Corbett went below to get the port and starboard lanterns, and lit the
cabin lamp to see to them. The light woke Joan; she stirred and rubbed
her eyes, and followed him on deck when he took up the lights. He set
them in the rigging, glowing brilliant in the night.

Joan said, "This is lovely, sailing along like this." She reached out
for the brandy flask and took a little drink. "Where are we going to?"

Godfrey said, "Back the way we came, on the reverse bearing. I'm afraid
I can't say more than that."

"That probably means Portland," said Corbett.

The officer looked at him seriously. "If that's all right by you, it
would be a good place to put us off. _Victorious_ is going there to
fuel--or was when last I heard. We could get Matheson into the hospital
on shore there, too."

Corbett said, "That suits us. The sooner he gets into hospital the
better, I should say."

Godfrey agreed. "We ought to sight the coast tomorrow morning, probably.
We'll have to see where we come out, and what the wind is doing. It
might be better to go into Poole. We'll have to see."

Joan stood erect, and looked out over the dim sea. "I liked that bit of
brandy," she said unexpectedly. "Peter, does anyone want anything to
eat?"

They became aware that they were very hungry. "It's not half so bad
now," said Joan. "I believe we could cook something hot."

She went below, and emptied tins of beef and vegetables into a large
saucepan. She put in a little water, heated it on the Primus stove till
it was boiling, added Bovril and condiments, and carried it up to the
cockpit with three spoons. They ate it gratefully, and retained it.
Satisfied and encouraged, they sent Godfrey down below and settled down
together upon watch.

Godfrey knelt by the pilot and examined him. He was still unconscious,
breathing rather heavily and growing cold about the hands and feet. The
officer went through into the forecastle and boiled a kettle, refilled
the hot water bottle, and laid it in the blankets at the sick man's
feet. He raised the head a little with another cushion; when he had shot
his bolt, there was no more that he could do.

He remained kneeling by the sick man, lost in thought. He thought of his
flat in Alverstoke, of Enid, his wife, of Joe, their little son. They
only had the one child; it was a pity, but naval people mostly had to be
content with one. If anything should happen to them ... The thought tore
his heart. He remembered the prayers he had not thought of since he was
a boy; he could not quite remember all the words, but he said what he
could remember.

Presently he went over to the other settee, and slept.

On deck, Joan and Peter huddled together in the cockpit as the vessel
sailed on through the night. It was colder, but the wind was dropping.
Joan went below at midnight and cooked another stew; Godfrey woke and
went on deck. Together they shook out a reef and set the foresail; then
Joan went below to sleep. When dawn came, Joan and Godfrey were on deck
and Corbett was asleep.

It was full daylight when he came up to the cockpit. Ahead of them, in
the far distance, land was showing as an isolated lump; over on the
starboard bow it showed again. Godfrey nodded to it. "St. Albans right
ahead. That's the Island over there."

Corbett stood for a minute, taking it in. "Can you lie Portland?"

"Not quite yet. We may be able to before so long. The wind's backing all
the time."

Corbett thought for a minute. "We've got about six gallons of gas left.
We'll keep a gallon to get into harbour with. I'll put the engine on;
it'll help her along a bit."

They sailed on all the morning, gradually raising the wedge bluff of
Portland above the horizon. About noon a grey trawler, armed with a gun
upon her forecastle and manned by a naval crew, closed up to them and
hailed them, asking where they were bound. Godfrey slipped on his monkey
jacket and hailed back.

In the early afternoon, five miles from the harbour near the Shambles
lightship, a motor torpedo boat ranged alongside, questioned them
closely, and gave them the rather complicated sailing directions for
entering the harbour through the minefield.

At four o'clock they sailed in through the breakwater gap. The harbour
was thronged with warships of every sort, with oil tankers, colliers,
and a great multitude of smaller craft. In the middle loomed the flat,
ungainly bulk of the _Victorious_.

Godfrey said, "She's here before us. I thought perhaps she might be."

They dropped sail, and went forward through the fleet under engine
alone. The officer went forward to the anchor gear; they brought up in
three fathoms at the south end of the harbour, near the stone jetty.

Corbett went below to stop the engine. When he came up again he glanced
forward; Godfrey was standing on the cabin top, a handkerchief in each
hand, sending a long message by semaphore. Corbett stared at the
aircraft carrier; on her bridge the mechanical semaphore wagged at the
conclusion of each word.

The officer finished his message, and came down from the cabin top.
"What's happening?" asked Corbett.

"I told them we were here, and wanted the doctor. They'll probably send
off a boat."

He busied himself with Corbett in stowing the mainsail. In a very few
minutes a launch came swiftly to them from the carrier, throttled her
engines, sank into the water, and made fast alongside. A surgeon
commander, immaculate in uniform, stepped from the boat down onto the
deck of the little yacht. Godfrey was there to meet him; they exchanged
a few words, and he went below.

The pilot was put onto a stretcher and taken on board the launch; the
surgeon turned to Joan. "Has he had anything to eat or drink?"

"Nothing," she said. "I couldn't get him to take anything. I kept a hot
bottle at his feet."

"He's had nothing at all? That's quite all right--I wanted to know." He
glanced around. "How long have you been at sea?"

Joan glanced at Peter. He said, "Four days, I think. It might be five."

"These children. Have they kept well?"

Joan laughed. "They never turned a hair. I kept them lying down. The
baby slept practically all the time."

"Baby? Have you got a baby on board?"

"Come and see."

She took him through into the forecastle and showed him little Joan in
her cradle, lashed to the bulkhead above the water closet. The
forecastle was a wild litter of spilt food and paraffin, lamps, unwashed
dishes, tins of food, gasolene cans, ropes, sails, and gear. The infant
beamed up happily at them as they bent over it.

The surgeon commander straightened up, bumping his head painfully
against the deck beams. "Not much wrong with her." He stared around him
at the litter in the forecastle, at the wet squalor of the saloon, at
the two children in the waterway bunks. "You had it pretty rough, the
last two days?"

Joan nodded.

The surgeon glanced at her drawn, haggard face, the wet hair plastered
over her forehead, the white salt crusted on her cheeks around her tired
eyes. "You've done a good job, Mrs. Corbett," he said suddenly. "Your
children are well and healthy, and that man will live."

He went on deck, and turned to the launch. He said to Godfrey, "I'm
taking him straight on shore, to the hospital. I'll send the boat back
for you as soon as I've done with it."

The lieutenant commander asked, "Do you know when we're sailing?"

"I haven't heard."

The boat slid away and accelerated, rising onto the surface of the water
at the head of a broad wake of foam. They watched her for a minute, then
turned back to their own affairs. Godfrey went down below to change into
his own clothes. Corbett leaned in at the hatch and said to John and
Phyllis, "You can get up now. Come out on deck."

They scrambled out into the cockpit. With the coming of the evening the
clouds had lifted; over the Chesil Bank there was a sunset in the west,
all blue and rose colour. The grey forms of the warships became shot
with gold; they took on a purple tinge against the background of the
misty downs.

Phyllis asked, "Where are we, Daddy? Daddy, where are we?"

John echoed, "Where are we, Daddy?"

He was suddenly very tired. "Portland," he said. "Did you think we were
never going to get here?"

She nodded. John said, "_I_ thought we were going to get here, Daddy."

"No, you didn't, John. Daddy, he didn't, did he? Daddy, where is
Portland? Is it near London?"

He shook his head. "Not very. Look at all those battleships. Do you
remember seeing them before, at the review?"

Phyllis nodded. "Daddy, will there be fireworks on the ships tonight?"

"Not tonight."

"There was at the review, Daddy."

He sat down on the cockpit seat. He was beginning to grow cold; he
became aware that all the clothes that he had on were clammy and damp.
He thought with dismay that there was nothing dry on board. Clothes,
blankets, mattresses, and sails--everything was wet, and night was
coming on.

Joan came to the hatch. "Come out on deck and look at the sunset," he
said wearily. "I'll go below and light the Primus stove. We'll have a
cup of tea."

Godfrey heard him. "Look here, don't do that. We can do better than
that. We'll go to the _Victorious_ and have a proper meal."

Corbett laughed. "With all the family?"

"Of course. Why not?"

Joan said, "It's terribly nice of you, but we really aren't decent. I
couldn't leave the baby, and I couldn't take her with me on your ship.
No, we'll be quite all right here." She hesitated. "If you could send us
off some fresh milk from the ship ..."

The boat returned, and slid alongside. The surgeon commander stepped on
board again. "Mrs. Corbett," he said. "I've seen the surgeon captain in
charge. He asked me to tell you that if you would care to take the
children to the hospital for tonight, with your husband, he can
accommodate you all." He smiled. "I think if I were you I should accept
that offer. There's a hot bath attached to it."

Joan said simply, "I can't say no to a hot bath."

Godfrey said to Corbett, "You'd better do that. Then I'll get all your
mattresses, blankets, clothes, and stuff taken on board _Victorious_ and
dried by the morning."

He spoke to the coxswain of the boat and gave him his orders. "I'll see
the officer of the watch when I get on board."

Half an hour later Joan and Peter were lying in hot baths in the bath
house, separated from each other by a green canvas curtain. The children
had been taken from Joan by the sick bay stewards to be bathed. Even
the baby had been taken from her; in the quiet efficiency of the place
she was content to let it go. They lay luxuriating in the hot water,
soaking the salt out of their bodies.

"Peter," said Joan from behind the curtain. "When did you have a bath
last?"

"Good Lord--I don't know." He thought for a minute. "Not since the war
began."

"Nor have I. How long is that?"

They tried to count the days, came to a different answer every time, and
gave it up. "I do hope they'll let us have another bath in the morning,"
said Joan.

"They might. It's a bit of luck getting in with the Navy like this. We
might not have got a bath for months."

Presently they got out, still rocking with the motion of the boat,
dressed in borrowed pyjamas and dressing gowns, and went through to a
small dining room with a fire. A steward was waiting to serve them with
short drinks, and a dinner of soup, stewed steak and vegetables, and a
steamed pudding.

By the time they reached the coffee stage they were all but asleep. "Now
I lay me down to rest," said Joan. "I do like the Navy, Peter."

They went through to the room arranged for them, stumbling a little as
they walked. There were three beds; in one of them the two children were
already asleep. The baby was reposing in a drawer laid carefully upon
two chairs. Joan and Peter climbed into their beds, turned over, and
within five minutes were asleep themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

Corbett woke at dawn, slept again, and woke finally at about nine
o'clock. Joan and the children were still sleeping; he got up very
quietly, went to the bath house and had a shower, and came back to
dress. His clothes were laid out at the foot of his bed; they had been
dried and brushed, but were sufficiently disreputable. He left the room
before the others were awake, and went along to breakfast in the dining
room.

A signalman came to him as he was finishing. "The surgeon captain has
had a signal from _Victorious_, sir. The captain would like you to go on
board this fore-noon. He'll send a boat in for you as convenient."

Joan was still sleeping; the children were all right. Corbett said, "I
can go at once."

"Very good, sir. I'll tell the surgeon captain and he'll send a signal
for the boat. Down at the jetty, sir."

It was a sunny morning late in March; there was a fresh wind from the
Channel. Corbett left the hospital and walked down the road to the
jetty; in the harbour the fleet lay spread out before him, bright and
cheerful in the morning sun. He sat for a time upon a block of stone
upon the jetty watching the traffic of the harbour; presently the boat
slid up to the steps.

He got down into the stern sheets and was carried swiftly to the
carrier. As he went, he was distressed about his clothes. In spite of
the attention that had been given to them at the hospital they were not
very good. He was wearing a very old tweed coat with a torn pocket;
though the salt had been brushed from his trousers traces of motor
grease remained. On his head he wore a very battered soft felt hat; his
collar had been clean before the war.

The boat drew up to the gangway; he went on board, turning to raise his
hat to the quarter-deck. So much, at least, he knew about the Navy.
Godfrey was there in a new uniform; he came to meet him.

Corbett said awkwardly, "I say, I've not got clothes to come on board.
I'm terribly sorry."

"You're perfectly all right. The captain said he wanted to see you. You
don't mind?"

"Not if he doesn't mind seeing me like this."

They went forward through the lower hangar, out into an alley at the
side, up three flights of very steep steel steps, out onto the flight
deck wide and unencumbered, and into the island bridge. At the door of
the captain's sea cabin Godfrey knocked and went in. He came out in a
minute.

"Would you come in?"

In the narrow little room, cumbered with berth and desk, there was
barely room for the three of them. The captain rose and held out his
hand, a broad, youngish man with curly red hair and a merry face.

He said, "Mr. Corbett? Good morning. I wanted to meet you to thank you
for picking up Godfrey and Matheson. I hope it hasn't been too
inconvenient to you."

"Not a bit, sir."

"Where were you bound for when we spoke to you?"

"Plymouth."

"Plymouth? But you were running south."

Godfrey said, "It was a very strong wind for a small boat, if you
remember, sir. I found that when I got on board. They couldn't carry any
sail at all. They'd been running before it since midnight, waiting for
it to moderate."

"I see. So actually, you haven't been taken much out of your way by
coming back to land them here?"

Corbett smiled, and shook his head. "I shan't put in any claim for
compensation. Not after all the hospitality we've had."

"They made you comfortable in the hospital? I'm glad of that." He turned
to Godfrey. "What's happening about their stuff?"

"The boat's away now, taking it on board. The commander sent off earlier
in the morning to clean the vessel out for them, sir." He turned to
Corbett. "I expect they'll have put everything in the wrong place. I'll
come with you when you go."

"It's awfully kind of you to take all this trouble," he said.

The captain held out a cigarette box. "Not a bit. Where are you bound
for now, Mr. Corbett? Still for Plymouth?" He struck a match and lit the
cigarette for him.

"I'd rather like to get your advice on that, sir."

"Go ahead."

"I'm trying to get my wife and children on a steamer for the States, or
Canada. I can pay the passage, and I've got money over there for them to
live on, for a time at any rate. Nothing's coming into Southampton now.
I thought if I got down to Plymouth I might get a boat for them there."

"But why didn't you go by train, or by road?"

Corbett smiled a little bitterly. "I don't think you quite realize what
things are like on shore, sir."

Godfrey nodded. "Things seem to be much worse than I knew, sir."

The captain eyed them keenly. "In what way?"

Corbett said, "Things are very difficult in the Southampton district
now." In short, unembellished terms he told the captain what had
happened to them since the war began. At the conclusion he said, "You
see, I thought it would be easier to take my family down by sea than
going any other way. I still think it's the safest thing to do."

There was silence for a moment. The captain said, "I see ..." He turned
to Corbett. "Do you know what things were like at Fareham?"

Corbett shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir."

"No matter." The captain turned to some papers on his desk. "I'm very
doubtful if you'll get a ship at Plymouth. The town's had a bad time
with these repeated raids. Besides that, as a naval base we're trying to
keep merchant shipping out of it and send them somewhere else. You might
strike lucky and get a ship there, or you might have to wait a month.
You'd probably do better at Falmouth."

He explained, "You see, so far as possible, and in principle, we're
keeping all merchant shipping out of the Channel. The War Scheme's
working out quite well. Everything's going to the west coast ports. So
far as possible, as I say."

Corbett said, "You mean I'd have to get round to Bristol or some place
like that before I could be certain of a ship?"

"That's right. Or else to Brest. If you can cross the mouth of the
Channel in your boat, you'd get a ship at Brest any day." He paused.
"You must understand, there are four main ports to which we send the
whole of the North Atlantic merchant traffic, Mr. Corbett. Brest is one
of them, and it's probably the nearest one for you."

"I see."

Godfrey said, "If he decided to do that, we could let him have a chart
or two, sir?"

"Of course. Get him anything he wants."

Corbett said, "I'd like to think about that, sir. It's a longer passage
than I'd reckoned I should have to make. We're not a very strong
crew--only my wife and myself, and of course the children don't make it
any easier. If I could go with Commander Godfrey and have a look at the
chart, perhaps? It really is most kind of you to help us in this way."

"It's the least that we can do. Yes, go along and have a look at it. If
you can face the passage, it's what I should advise."

He turned to Godfrey. "You'll have to get through with it this
afternoon. We may be sailing tonight."

"I'll be able to give him the five o'clock forecast, sir?"

The captain nodded. "We shan't be sailing before that." To Corbett he
said, "For your purpose, we should be able to give you a good idea of
the weather for the next thirty-six hours. Have a talk with the met.
officer."

He smiled. "We can't come with you, but we can do our best to give you a
good push-off. What do you want in the way of stores?"

"I should like some gas and fresh water, sir."

Godfrey said, "You've got the water. They were going to fill up your
tank this morning."

The captain said, "We've got about seventy-three thousand gallons of gas
on board at the moment. How much do you want?"

Corbett smiled faintly. "Could I have ten of them?"

"Put it on the chit, Godfrey. It's leaded fuel, you know. You don't want
to get it in a cut."

"I'd like some fresh milk, and some bread, sir."

"Right. Anything else?"

"I don't think so. If there is, could I tell Commander Godfrey this
afternoon?"

"By all means. I want you to feel that you can draw on us for what you
want, Mr. Corbett." He turned aside. "I think the admiral would like to
have a word with you, while you're here."

He lifted a telephone and spoke into it. "That you, Flags? Tell the
admiral that Mr. Corbett is in my sea cabin. Ask if he would like to see
him."

In a minute the buzzer sounded; the captain lifted the receiver. "All
right. Godfrey will bring him along now."

He turned to Corbett. "Godfrey will take you along to the admiral," he
said. "I shall say good-bye. I want you to draw on us for anything you
need in the way of stores or provisions, Mr. Corbett. We're very
grateful to you."

He held out his hand. "Good-bye."

They went back through the ship between the aircraft parked in rows with
folded wings in the flight hangar, down a hatch to the wardroom flat,
and so to the admiral's cabin at the stern. In the fore-cabin the flag
lieutenant got up from a table.

"I'll see if he's ready." He went into the inner cabin and came out a
moment later. "Will you go in?"

They went in. Godfrey said, "This is Mr. Corbett, sir."

Corbett saw a stocky little red-faced man, with grey hair, rather stout.
"All right, Godfrey. You needn't wait. I'll send Mr. Corbett along to
the wardroom when I've done with him."

Godfrey withdrew; Corbett was left alone with the admiral. The stocky
little man looked him up and down. "So you're the young man who was in
the yacht! What were you running like that for? Couldn't you carry
sail?"

"No, sir." He hesitated. "If I'd had a full crew of men on board, we
might have sailed her. But I'd only got my wife. I thought I'd let it
blow itself out a bit."

"You'd got three children on board, they tell me. One of them a baby."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm very grateful to you for picking up my men. How do you earn
your living?"

"I'm a solicitor. In Southampton."

"Public school boy, by the sound of you."

"I went to Repton."

"How long have you been yachting?"

Corbett hesitated. "Well, I've lived all my life in Southampton. I've
sailed boats ever since I can remember. I've owned this one for five
years."

The admiral stumped over to a large, square port. "That's her, lying
over there?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many tons is she?"

"Five and a half tons register. About nine tons, Thames."

"East coast boat, by the look of her."

"Yes, sir."

The other turned back from the port. "How do you navigate her? Can you
take a sight?"

"No, sir."

"Compass and log?"

"Yes."

"Know anything about signals?"

"Nothing to speak of." Dimly Corbett began to perceive what this was
leading up to.

"What compass variation do you put on?"

"Eleven degrees west, sir."

"Do you know your buoyage? What sort of buoys mark a channel, starboard
hand going in?"

"Conical ones."

"What does a green buoy mean?"

"A wreck."

The admiral crossed to his desk, and sat down. "We need fellows like you
for our auxiliary craft." He stared Corbett in the eyes. "I should like
to recommend you for a commission as a sub-lieutenant in the Volunteer
Reserve. Would you take it?"

There was a pause.

"I should like a minute to think that over, sir."

"By all means. Sit down in that chair. I have some things to do here."

Corbett did not sit down, but turned back to the port and stood looking
out over the harbour, bright and sunny in the morning light. There was a
boat alongside _Sonia_, and people moving about on board. If Joan saw
that she would be wondering who they were. The morning was getting on;
she must be up by now. Joan ... She would never be able to get to Canada
alone, from Portland. This commission--it would be too tough on her for
him to think of. And the kids ... He'd brought children into the world,
and it was up to him to give them a square deal.

He turned back to the desk. He said, "I'm afraid I can't do that. I'm
sorry. But I've got my wife and children to consider."

The admiral looked at him for a long moment, inscrutable. Then he
motioned to the chair. "Sit down, Mr. Corbett. Take a cigarette." He
watched Corbett while he lit it. "Now, let me understand you properly.
You say you have your wife and children to consider?"

"Yes, sir. I couldn't go away and leave them."

The older man gave him a hard look. "Why not?" he asked directly.

Corbett did not answer at once. He blew a long cloud of smoke. "Well,
what would happen to them?"

"Send them home."

Slowly the anger rose in Corbett. "I see that you don't understand," he
said evenly. "My home is a ruin and a wreck. There's no glass in any of
the windows. The ground floor and the garden are flooded with sewage.
There's no water to drink but polluted water running in the gutters of
the road. There's no milk for my baby. There's no fresh meat for the
children. It's in a cholera district. It's bombed to hell every
night--for all I know it may have been hit by now. That's my home, sir.
If you think I'm going to send my wife and children back to that while I
join the Navy, you can bloody well think again."

He got up to go. "I'm sorry if I've been rude," he said, a little
hesitantly. "But it's really quite impossible."

The admiral said, "Sit down again." Corbett sank back into his chair.

He looked at Corbett for a moment.

"Well, young man," he said. "It's not every day that I'm called a fool
in my own cabin, but I'm glad to have heard what you said. Out here, you
know, we only see the bare bones of the situation at home. We don't get
the whole story. All we know is that since the war began, recruiting has
been slow--very slow indeed. A certain flow of young men to the colours,
of course, but really nothing to signify."

Corbett nodded. "I'm not in the least surprised."

"Your home is in Southampton?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you feel that your first duty is to make proper arrangements for
your wife and children?"

"Yes."

"H'm."

The stocky little man got up again from his desk, stumped over to the
port, and stood looking out for a moment. Then he swung round on
Corbett. "Well, I'm going to tell one or two of the officers in my
command what you've said. That I could bloody well think again!" He
snorted, smiled, relaxed, and became quite suddenly a fatherly old man.
"It really is an assistance to us if we understand what the people on
shore are thinking, and doing. It prevents bitterness...." He left that
subject, and reverted. "Now about yourself, Mr. Corbett. All these
schemes for helping people in your position that I hear about from
London. They provide for your family, don't they?"

"What schemes are those, sir?"

"This Rehabilitation Order."

Corbett stared at him blankly. "What is that?" He hesitated. "I left
Hamble five days ago, and I've heard nothing since then. And then there
were no papers to speak of, and no radio."

The admiral nodded. "A great deal has been happening in the last few
days. The Government are very much alive to this problem." He paused.
"Well, broadly speaking, the scheme seems to be that people in your
position are accommodated in quarantine camps till they are proved safe
from infection. In the meantime their homes have been rendered habitable
for them on their return. It all seems to be going ahead."

Corbett hesitated. "I hadn't heard of this. Do you know where these
camps are, or what they're like?"

The admiral shook his head. "I suppose there's a good deal to be done
yet."

Corbett nodded. "At first hearing, sir, I don't much like the sound of
it. I know what things are like on shore." His lips tightened. "It
sounds to me like this. You find a couple of thousand diseased people
living in their motor cars in a wood without any sanitation or supplies,
put a fence and a guard of soldiers round them to prevent them getting
out, and call it a quarantine camp. I'm not so stuck on sending my
family back into that sort of thing. I think I can do better for them
myself."

There was a silence.

He said, "I do appreciate your offer of the commission, sir. I'd like to
have it. But this is my first job. I've got them safe so far, and I'm
going to see them through. And if I send them back on shore, I think
they'll die."

The older man looked at him keenly. "Very well, Mr. Corbett," he said at
last. "I'm sorry personally, because I think you would make the sort of
officer we want. That's my first interest, of course. But I appreciate
what you've said, and I understand your position. In your place I should
probably do the same."

"If my position changes--if I get them safe--may I get in touch with you
again?"

The other smiled. "By all means. I should be glad for you to do so."

He stood for a moment, eyeing Corbett seriously. "You must be quick," he
said quietly. "You, and everybody like you. We reckoned on your help in
time of war--you temporary sailors, soldiers, and airmen. We counted on
you. We always have counted on you, and up till now you've never let us
down."

Corbett nodded. "I know, sir. I understand all that."

The admiral smiled, and held out his hand. "Good-bye, then, Mr. Corbett.
Come back if you are able to. Where are you off to now?"

"The captain's been advising me to go to Brest. I want to get my people
on a ship for Canada."

The older man nodded. "A very good place to go to. You can make it, in
your little boat?"

"I can have a stab at it. It seems about the only thing to do."

"Good luck."

Corbett went out, and the flag lieutenant took him to the wardroom.
Godfrey was there. "I've seen the navigating officer and had a chat with
him about your passage," he said. "He's looking out some stuff for you.
We'll go along there presently."

"It's very good of you."

They drank a gin together. As they drank, Godfrey questioned Corbett
closely about his stores.

"I told them that you'd want some meat," he said. "They've cooked you a
round of beef. It should be cold by now--cold enough to take on board.
Then there are these other things." He had made a list; they went
through it together.

At the end Corbett said, "Well, I can't think of anything else. But look
here--I'll have to pay for all this stuff."

The lieutenant commander smiled. "The captain told me to put it down to
the mess."

"It's terribly good of him."

They finished the gin. "Let's go and have a look at those charts."

In the navigating cabin in the island bridge they met the navigating
officer, a lean, saturnine commander. He had his charts out ready for
them; together they bent over the table. "Well," he said at the end of
five minutes, "there you are. From the Bill to Le Four is two degrees
thirty-seven minutes south, forty-eight west. A hundred and fifty-seven
miles. And then on to Brest through the Chenal du Four, about
twenty-eight. And five from here to the Bill." He totted up quickly on a
writing pad. "Say a hundred and ninety miles in all."

Corbett stared at it. "It's the hell of a long way."

"How long would it take you?"

"With a fair wind--fifty to sixty hours, sailing easily. And one
couldn't push her for that length of time. With a headwind--anything you
like."

He stood in silence for a minute. "It's exhaustion that I'm worrying
about," he said. "The boat would do it on her head. But I'm not used to
passages like this. If I get too sick to work her when we get to all
this rocky stuff round about Le Four, it'll be just too bad."

Godfrey nodded comprehendingly. "You'll have to sleep all you can--let
Mrs. Corbett do the work for the first part of the trip. But you'll make
it all right." He paused, and then he said, "I wish to God my wife and
kid were with you."

The navigating officer laughed shortly, without merriment.

Corbett said, "Well, I'd better have a crack at it."

The commander said, "Good enough." He turned to the charts. "You'll want
this one of the Channel--I've got a spare. Here's one of the Chenal du
Four and Ushant. You'd better take this one of the approaches to Brest
and the Rade. It's out of date down here--" he scribbled rapidly upon
it--"but that won't matter to you. You can take these parallel rulers,
and these pencils and rubber."

He bent over the channel chart and drew quickly on it in pencil. "Look,
that line's your course from the Bill to Le Four. I've marked it off in
ten-mile intervals. You've got a patent log on board, haven't you? Well,
set it going at the Bill, and then you'll be able to see at a glance how
far you've got."

"It's awfully good of you."

"Not a bit." He went to a cupboard, and produced a very battered,
dog-eared old book. "You'd better take this volume of the Channel Pilot.
I've got a later issue." He operated quickly on the book with a
penknife. "These pages that I've cut the corner off deal with the Chenal
du Four and the approaches to Brest. Look out for the Vierge
lighthouse--there. You'll probably see that first."

Corbett surveyed the little heap of information on the desk. "You've
made it very easy for me," he remarked. "I'm very grateful."

"I don't think you'll have any difficulty. It's a rough sort of coast
down there, but it's all beautifully buoyed."

They went through to the meteorological cabin, where a bored young
officer was translating long strings of coded figures into isobars. "A
sort of string of secondaries coming over France, so far as I can see,"
he said. "Look, like this." He sketched rapidly in pencil on his chart.
"Easterly or southeasterly winds for a bit, not very strong. Say fifteen
to twenty-five miles an hour."

Corbett said, "Fifteen's all right. Twenty-five will be all I want."

Godfrey asked, "How long will that go on for?"

The other shook his head. "It's difficult to say. Might be twenty-four
hours from now, might be for two or three days. But I really can't tell
you."

Corbett said, "It's really pretty good."

The met. officer nodded. "You ought to be all right."

"I think I should," said Corbett. "I think I'll get away this afternoon,
while the going's good."

Half an hour later they were on board the little yacht. In the interval
since Corbett had left her she had been transformed. The sails had been
properly stowed and the ropes coiled down in beautiful Navy circles on
the deck; below, she had been scrubbed out from stem to stern. She was
very clean, and smelt aromatically of soap. The mattresses were dry, and
the blankets, dry and fluffy, were folded neatly on the berths. Even the
pillow cases had been washed and were white and inviting on the pillows.

Corbett said, "She hasn't been like this since she was built."

Godfrey was pleased. "Now all you want is your stores, and you'll be
well away."

Presently they went on shore. Corbett got out onto the landing stage;
Godfrey stayed in the boat to go back to the _Victorious_. "I'll be here
at two o'clock to take you off," he said. "I'll have your stuff with
me." The boat slid away, put up her bow, and made for the aircraft
carrier. Corbett walked up towards the hospital.

He met Joan with the children in the road outside and told her briefly
what had happened. "They are kind to us," she said. "Peter, do you know
what they did at the hospital? They washed all the children's clothes
last night, while they were asleep. And they've done all the baby's
things for me, too."

"I know," he said. "We'll be starting off this afternoon with stores for
a little liner."

She asked, "Peter, how far is it to Brest? How long will it take us?"

He told her.

"I think we can do that all right," she said. "I'm sure we can. I mean,
it's very different starting off like this, with everything done for
you."

"You're not afraid of it?"

She shook her head. "I'd be much more afraid of going back to Hamble. I
mean--this is a clean and decent sort of risk. Not like the other."

"I know," he said. "I feel like that about it, too. In that case, we'll
get away this afternoon. The tide will take us round the Bill."

They took the children back into the hospital and lunched in the same
room; one of the sick bay stewards took the baby away and gave it its
bottle. By two o'clock they were thanking the surgeon captain for all
that had been done for them; then they went down to the jetty.

Godfrey was waiting for them in the boat, with a considerable heap of
stores and gasolene. They were carried swiftly to the yacht; the boat
stood by while the lieutenant commander helped them to stow the gas and
the stores. Finally Corbett started up his old engine and together they
got the anchor up.

Godfrey turned to Corbett. "This is good-bye," he said a little
awkwardly. "Let's have a postcard when you get to Brest. Send it to the
ship, care of the G.P.O."

Corbett nodded. "I'll do that. I can't tell you what you've done for
us."

The officer moved down to the cockpit. "Good-bye, Mrs. Corbett. Don't
let him stand every watch. I think you're going to have a good passage."

Joan said, "Look, Commander Godfrey. This will be our address in
Toronto, when we get there. If your wife goes to Canada--if you think
that's the best thing for her to do--do let me help her." She said, "I
mean, it's all we can do to repay you for what you've done for us. Let
us do that."

He took the slip of paper. "I'll remember that, Mrs. Corbett." He got
into the waiting motor boat. "Good luck."

Corbett put his engine ahead, and the vessels separated. The launch
turned back to the _Victorious_, and Corbett headed for the harbour
entrance. Near the breakwater he put the yacht up into the wind, Joan
took the helm, and he went forward and got up the mainsail. Then they
headed for the open sea, and left Portland behind.

Phyllis asked, "Daddy, are we going to have another sail?"

"That's right," he said.

"Is it going to be rough, Daddy?"

"I hope not."

"It was rough before, Daddy."

John said, "I like it when it's rough."

Joan said, "Come on down, both of you. You know you can't stay on deck
when it's rough. Come on and get to bed, and I'll read to you while you
have your tea in bed."

The wind was in the east. Corbett, alone in the cockpit, laid the vessel
on a course along the Bill towards the south and put on another sweater.
He settled down at the helm to steer; with the tide under him he made
good progress down the land, half a mile on his beam. Very soon the
bluff hid the harbour, the breakwaters, and the battleships from his
sight.

As they approached the end of the Bill he got the patent log from its
case and made it ready; then he called Joan on deck to help him in the
actual passage round the land, inside the Race. For a quarter of an hour
they were in rough water. Then they were through; away on their beam
they saw the sharply breaking water of the Race. He streamed the log,
set it to zero, and settled down again at the helm; Joan went below to
finish off the children. It was then about four o'clock in the
afternoon.

He put the vessel on her course for Brittany. The wind was on her
quarter, moderate in strength; as they drew away from the land and the
rough water round the Bill the yacht settled to a restrained, easy
motion that was not unpleasant. The sun set in a glory of rose-coloured
cloud flecked with patches of pale sky; the dusk drew on. In the
hatchway he could see Joan's head and hear her reading _Jemima
Puddle-Duck_ to the children; from time to time a wave top tumbled near
them, drowning her voice. He sailed on; he was happy.

Presently she stopped reading and came on deck. "How is she doing,
Peter?"

"Going fine." He stooped to look at the log. "Three and a half miles
from the Bill."

She looked around. "Is that the Bill back there?" She pointed at the
land, seen dimly behind them in the dusk.

"That's it." He hesitated for a moment. "Take a good look at it," he
said gently. "You may not see England again for some time."

"Oh, Peter...." She was startled and appalled. While they were on the
yacht the thought of leaving England had not been real to her; the yacht
was a part of England, part of Hamble, part of their life together. Now,
that dim wedge-shaped bit of land was England, perhaps the last of
England that she would see for years. Gone was the pleasant,
semi-detached house that she had married into, had her children in. Gone
was their well-loved, battered Austin car. Gone were the happy summer
week ends, bathing at Seaview or Newtown. Gone was the cinema, two
streets away from them, where they knew the manager and the cashier by
their names. Gone were the occasional, economical trips to London. Gone
were their friends, the Gordons and the Hutchinsons and the
Littlejohns--all gone. Gone were the shops she loved, the one that had
the puppies in the window, the one that sold the radios that they could
not afford, the piano that they would have had when they were very
rich. All these were gone. That rocky point with the white lighthouse,
unlit and hardly visible behind them in the mist, was the last of all
these things. When that went, England would be gone.

He took her hand. "Never mind," he said quietly.

She said, "I hadn't realized what we were doing. We'll come back again,
Peter, won't we? We shan't have to live in Canada for ever?"

He drew her down beside him in the cockpit, and put his arm around her.
"Of course not. We'll be back in Southampton as soon as ever the war's
over. But Canada's a great country, I believe. People like living
there."

She nodded. "I don't want to be silly about it. I believe it's going to
be all right. But--it's not like England, Peter. England's our own
place."

He said, "I know. I promise you that we'll come back again."

They sailed on for a long time in silence after that, his arm around her
shoulders. Presently she took the helm, and he went down below to get
supper.

The motion of the boat was easy; they were able to have a good meal of
cold beef, potatoes, tinned fruit, and coffee. After that Joan went down
below and gave a bottle to the baby, came on deck again, and took the
helm. It was about half-past eight, and a fine, starry night.

She said, "Go down and get some sleep, Peter. I'll be all right."

He looked around. The breeze was moderate from the southeast; in the
cabin the glass was steady. The vessel was running easily; the sailing
lights shone forward into the darkness, red and green. The little lamp
in the binnacle was glowing steadily. "All right," he said. "You take
her till midnight, and give me a call then. Give me a shout if the wind
freshens, or if you can't hold the course."

She said, "I'll be all right." He fetched her up a coat and a blanket to
wrap round her, saw her settled comfortably at the helm, and went below
to sleep.

She sat there in the darkness steering through the night. England was
lost behind her, strange unknown things lay ahead. In the darkness and
the waste of sea she seemed to be in limbo, forgotten in the wilderness.
She was filled with a great regret for the lost past. She felt that on
passing Portland Bill a part of her life, the first part, possibly the
best part, had been closed. That part contained her childhood, her days
at her boarding school, her short time as a secretary, her marriage to
Peter, their happiness together, their children. The history of that
part was written now, the last sentence was complete, the book was
closed, the covers latched together. It was final--nothing could be
added to that history, or taken away. Before her lay a new period of her
life, divorced entirely from the other. She felt that the new period
could not be happier. It might be much less happy; it could never be the
same.

The vessel sailed on through the night under the brilliant stars; she
was the only one awake. It was not necessary for her to watch the
binnacle intently; Peter had trimmed the sails for her and the ship was
light to steer, holding her course very nearly by herself. She thought
again of the life that she had left behind. She had not great regret for
lost opportunities, for mistakes. The best that one could do was to live
happily and cheerfully, help Peter all she could, and bring children
into the world. She had done her best in all of that; she had no
regrets. She felt a deep sadness that that happy time was over. There
should have been more of it.

She sat there steering all night long, immersed in her thoughts.

Peter woke suddenly in the grey light of dawn. He rolled over on his
settee and looked at his watch; it was half-past five. He got quickly to
his feet and went to the hatch; in the cockpit Joan was sitting at the
helm wrapped in a blanket, her face white and drawn.

"You are a mutt," he said kindly. "Why didn't you call me?"

She said, "She was so light to steer, I thought I'd let you sleep. We'll
have another night out, won't we?"

He slipped on a coat and took the helm from her. "I suppose so. How has
she been getting on?"

She got up, and stretched stiffly. "She's been going just the same all
night."

He looked at the log; it showed forty-six miles. "About four knots," he
said. "That's all right if we can keep it up." He lashed the helm and
made the vessel sail herself; then he took Joan below and put on a
Primus stove.

Half an hour later she was asleep on a settee, a hot meal of baked beans
and bread and cheese and cocoa inside her, a hot water bottle at her
feet. He covered her with a blanket and removed a smouldering cigarette
from her unconscious fingers; then he made breakfast for himself and for
the children. He kept the children in their bunks; the baby was asleep,
and he left well enough alone. After an hour he was able to go on deck,
light a pipe, and settle at the helm, getting the little ship upon her
course again.

They sailed on all day uneventfully. The wind drew in to the north and
grew colder, but it did not strengthen. In the middle of the morning a
flotilla of destroyers passed near them at a high speed taking no notice
of them; all through the day there were planes in sight, patrolling the
mouth of the Channel. One came down low to have a look at them; apart
from that they were ignored. They saw two steamers on their way up
Channel from the direction of Ushant; neither passed very close to them.

Joan came on deck at about ten o'clock, had a look round, and went below
to give a bottle to the baby. They had a meal then with the children and
let them up into the cockpit for an hour, while Corbett pumped the
vessel out and filled the lamps again. Then he went down to sleep for a
time and came on deck again in the late afternoon. The log read
ninety-seven miles.

At eight o'clock he gave the helm again to Joan, with definite orders
that he was to be called at midnight. "We shall be getting on towards
the coast of France by then," he said. "If we're going to bump on
anything, I'd like to do it myself." He went below and slept; at
midnight she called him and he came up and relieved her. The vessel was
still running in a northerly wind.

Joan woke at six o'clock. She came on deck in the grey light and looked
around. She saw a rocky coast four or five miles away on the port bow,
and nearer at hand a lighthouse standing on an isolated rock.

Peter said, "That's Le Four."




8


The dawn came up grey and squally; the wind had backed into the
northwest, and was a good deal stronger. Corbett said, "We've had the
best of the weather. Still, we've had great luck in carrying it so far."

It took them all that day to sail the last twenty-five miles into Brest.
The tide was foul against them in the Chenal du Four until the middle of
the morning and they made no progress; then they began to move
southwards in a fresh wind and an uneasy sea. Slowly the intricate
pattern of towers and buoys unrolled before them, but it was not till
early afternoon that they rounded Pointe St. Mathieu and bore up for
Brest, twelve miles further on.

Till then they had seen very few ships. In the Chenal du Four and off
Conquet they had met fishing smacks and small boats hauling lobster
pots; now as they approached the Goulet they came into a considerable
mass of traffic. Three French destroyers first came out of Brest,
followed by a British light cruiser. An oil tanker and a big tramp
steamer passed them going in, and a small liner came out. As they neared
the Goulet a smart white steam yacht flying the white ensign and manned
by naval personnel came past within a hundred yards of them; they rolled
for a few minutes in her wash.

In the Goulet itself, the narrow entrance to the wide natural harbour,
they came upon intensive submarine precautions. Half of the entrance was
shut off with nets; a launch ranged up to them, asked a few questions in
mixed French and English, and directed them between two buoys. They
passed through the barrier, past half a dozen motor boats attending to
the nets, and so came to the shelter of the Rade.

The Rade de Brest is a wide inland sea, approximately five miles square.
That day it was a mass of anchored ships. Near to the town there were
British and French warships lying at anchor; further away there were
liners, transports, hospital ships, oil tankers, and tramp steamers of
every shape and size. Corbett was amazed; he had never seen such a
collection of ships assembled together.

"Peter," said Joan. "What are we going to do now?"

He had the chart with him in the cockpit. "We want to get inside the
breakwater"--he pointed to the chart--"this thing they call the
Rade-Abri, and drop our anchor. That is, if they don't stop us first.
I'm not quite sure what you do then. I believe the thing to do is to
hang up an ensign and a yellow flag."

"Have you got a yellow flag, Peter?"

He stared at her blankly. "No, I've not. You've not got anything
yellow?"

She shook her head. "You know I don't wear yellow."

"We'll just have to hang up an ensign at the masthead, then." He thought
about it for a minute. "As a matter of fact, that may be better. They
may not want to put us into Quarantine if we don't ram it down their
throats."

He went below and started up the engine. It was about five o'clock when
they passed through the harbour entrance into the Port du Commerce and
dropped anchor near some other yachts beside the breakwater. Corbett
went below, found a red ensign, and hoisted it to the masthead in place
of the burgee.

He came aft to the cockpit. "We might as well let the children up on
deck," he said wearily.

He dropped down onto one of the seats and lit a cigarette. Around them
swarmed the traffic of the harbour; the water was alive with boats and
pinnaces of every sort going back and forwards to the ships in the Rade.
The children climbed on deck and stared around them.

Phyllis asked, "Daddy, will you buy me a green hair ribbon when we go on
shore?"

He said, "If Mummy says you can have it."

"Oh, yes, because you see she was going to get it for me at home, ever
such a long time ago, before the bangs. Cecily's got a green hair
ribbon, Daddy."

"Has she?"

John asked, "Are we going home now, Daddy?"

His sister rebuked him. "You are a silly, John. We're ever such a long
way from home. This is Portland."

Corbett said, "No, it's not. It's a place called Brest, in France. Where
they talk French."

"Like Mademoiselle?"

"That's right."

"What do they do that for, Daddy?"

Joan came on deck with the baby in her arms; she was looking very tired.
"She slept almost the whole way," she said. "We've really had a
wonderful passage, Peter."

He nodded. "Not so bad. It's been much easier than I thought it would
be."

"We've had great luck with the weather. I think we've got a lot to be
thankful for."

"I think we have."

A little motor boat came across the harbour towards them; on its bow it
bore the legend, SERVICE DU PORT. It ran round under their stern and
read the name; then it drew up alongside. Two men in shabby uniform
stepped on board. The senior of them was a man of about fifty,
black-haired, stout, and badly shaved.

"La Douane," he said impassively. He produced a black notebook. "You are
English--yes?"

Corbett nodded. "That's right."

"Bien. Where have you now come from?"

"From Portland."

The stout man glanced at him keenly, from little beady eyes.
"Portland--_c'est un port militaire_--only the Royal Navy. You 'ave come
from Portland?"

"I put in there for a night on the way. That was my last port."

"_Bien compris._ Before Portland, where have you then come from?"

"From Hamble, near Southampton."

"Ah, Southampton." The man looked at him woodenly. "_La patente de
sant_, if you please--the bill of 'ealth."

Corbett shook his head. "I haven't got one."

"_Non? On ne peut pas passer la Manche sans une patente de sant._"

"I've done it," said Corbett wearily. "_Je l'ai fait._ And I'm not going
back for you or anybody else."

"_C'est bien serieux, M'sieur._"

Corbett pulled himself together. "I know," he said. "_Je prie votre
pardon, M'sieur. Nous sommes chapps des choses terribles en
Angleterre, et je suis trs fatigu._"

"_Ne drangez-vous pas, M'sieur._ You must not go on the shore. Tomorrow
I will bring to you the Doctor of the Port. Tonight you rest here, but
not to go on shore. And not to allow the visitors to land on your boat,
here. You understand?"

Corbett nodded. "Perfectly."

"_Bien._ Now, M'sieur, the certificate of registry of the ship."

Corbett shook his head. "I haven't got it with me."

"No?" The stout man raised his eyebrows. "_Alors_, your passport."

Again Corbett shook his head. "_M'sieur, je suis dsol. Je n'ai pas des
papiers--rien de tout._"

"No papers--nothing at all?" The stout man clicked his tongue. "That is
ver' bad, M'sieur. Where is the crew?"

Corbett stared at him. "I haven't got a crew."

The stout man stared back. "_Vous avez travers la Manche tout seul?_"

"_Mais non. Madame et les enfants taient avec moi._"

The stare broadened to a smile. "_Et aussi le bb?_"

"_Oui, M'sieur._"

"_Incroyable_ ..."

He turned back to business. "It will be necessary that you visit your
consul."

"May I go on shore to see him?"

"Not at all. You rest here. I telephone to him. What name have you?"

Corbett told him. There was a long hiatus then, while he wrote Corbett's
name carefully in his book, and Joan's name, and the names of all the
children, having a good deal of trouble with the spelling. But finally
he said, "From here, where do you go to?"

"I want to send Madame and the children to Canada by ship. To Canada, or
to America."

The man nodded. "_Vous avez de l'argent?_"

"_Oui._ I have enough for their passage, and more in Canada."

"_Et vous, M'sieur?_"

"I shall go back to England. I may want to leave the yacht here--to lay
her up."

"_Bien compris._ Now, M'sieur, what 'ave you to declare?"

He examined their small stock of spirits and tobacco, passing them with
a smile. "You 'ave left Southampton, when?"

"We left Hamble seven days ago."

"Seven days." He made a note in his little book. "I think it will be
necessary that you rest some days in Quarantine."

Corbett said, "_Bien. J'ai grand besoin de sommeil._"

The man smiled, and looked up and down the boat. "She is ver' small to
cross _la Manche_."

Joan said, "Peter, ask him if we can get some milk."

He turned to the douanier. "M'sieur, I need fresh milk for the baby and
the children. Also, in the morning I shall need water."

The man smiled at Joan. "_Soyez tranquille, Madame._ I myself will bring
milk, in one hour."

He got back into his motor boat and went away towards the quay. Joan
turned to the children. "You can have your tea on deck here, in the
cockpit," she said. "After that you must go to bed."

She went below and lit the Primus stove. Corbett busied himself on deck,
stowing the sails and gear.

An hour later the children were in bed; Joan and Peter were smoking
together in the cockpit. It was not warm; the evening was overcast and
grey, with a rising wind from the southwest. Corbett looked at the
weather.

"Made it just in time," he said. "We'd never have got here against this
wind."

"We've had terribly good luck."

He nodded. "It was the weather report they gave us on the _Victorious_
that did it. We'd never have got here without their help."

"Well, after all, we did fish them out of the sea."

Two Breton fishing boats slipped past them in the dusk, sailing up to
the fish quay; in the small boat traffic of the harbour they saw the
douanier in his launch heading towards them. He brought his boat
alongside and came on board; he had with him a very large bottle of
milk. Corbett gave him two English shillings for it.

"The Doctor of the Port, he comes in the morning," he said. "Also your
consul, he comes in the morning. Now you will lift up the anchor, and I
will take you where you must go."

He explained. "The place for Quarantine is outside, in the Rade.
Tonight, it will be bad weather. In the Rade the waves will be gross.
For such a small boat that is not good. I will put you in another place.
I will show you."

Corbett started up the engine and went forward to get up his anchor. The
douanier made fast his motor boat astern and they moved to the northeast
corner of the Port Militaire, opposite the back door of the Bureau du
Port. They dropped anchor again.

"Here," said the man, "it will be good."

Corbett nodded. "Can we stay here all the time of Quarantine?"

"The Doctor of the Port will say. For me, I do not think that you are
ill, or Madame, or the children, or _le bb_."

He paused for a minute. "It has been bad in Southampton?"

Corbett nodded. "Very bad. It is no longer possible to live there." He
indicated the boat. "This is now my home."

"It is terrible, that." He got into his boat. "In the morning, I return
with the doctor."

They cooked themselves a large meal, went to bed, and slept heavily,
dreamlessly, all night. Corbett was up and shaving early in the morning;
they had breakfast early, washed and dressed the children, and were all
ready for the doctor by nine o'clock.

They waited all morning. "The fact of the matter is," said Corbett after
two hours had elapsed, "there's a war on, and we're a ruddy nuisance."

In that he was not far from the truth. The motor boat arrived at a
quarter-past twelve bringing the doctor, who was obviously in a hurry to
get back to _djeuner_. He took a cursory look at them and at the boat.

"You are in good health--yes?" he inquired. "But you are come from where
there is both cholera and typhoid. It is since seven days that you
departed. Twenty-three days is necessary. You rest here for sixteen
days."

Corbett asked, "Is that for cholera?"

"I do not think you have the cholera. By now you would be dead. Also, I
do not think you have the typhoid, but for that is necessary
twenty-three days."

Joan asked him, "Must the children stay on board for the whole time?"

He did not answer that at once, but questioned them very closely about
the water that they had drunk since war began. "So," he said. "You have
drunk nothing but the water from the town supply, except it has been
boiled. You have been wise. No, I do not think it good for the little
ones to stay on this small ship for sixteen days. Each day I will come
to see if there are spots, or sickness. After I have seen, it will be
possible for them to play on the breakwater between the Bureau du Port
and the end." He pointed to the shore. "They must not pass the Bureau du
Port." He smiled. "There is a window to my office. I shall see."

Joan said, "It's awfully nice of you to let them get on shore like
that."

He bowed to her. "At your service, Madame."

Corbett asked, "How shall we get food and water?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "I do not think it necessary that I
should be severe. Each day, after I have seen, you may go to buy food on
the Quai de la Douane--there. You must not rest there. You must come
back quick. In no case must you go into the town."

He went away; a quarter of an hour later a young man from the consul's
office came to them. He heard their story shortly. "Well," he said,
"you're fixed up here for the next sixteen days. After that, you can
come up to the Consulate and I'll issue you with temporary passports.
You'd better not try to leave without them."

Corbett shook his head. "We don't want to."

He went away, and was followed by a gloriously attired Officer of the
Port, who came to have a drink of whiskey, to gossip about the war, and
to get Corbett to supply the answers to the questions on a long buff
form. They assured him that they had neither rats, corpses, nor coffins
on board; he drank up his whiskey and went away.

The next fortnight passed by in a dream of holiday idleness. Each day
the doctor came on board in the middle of the morning, stayed for two
minutes, and went away. After that they went on shore and bought what
food and wine they needed, fetched water from the breakwater, and came
on board for lunch. In the afternoons they went on to the breakwater
with the whole family and fished with handlines in the clear water of
the harbour mouth for bass and pollock, with a good deal of success. The
weather was warm and sunny; they sat smoking on the wall with the baby
beside them in her basket cot, dangling their lines and watching for a
bite, while the children played among the litter of old anchors, chains,
and buoys. Presently it would be time to go back on board for tea, and
to read a little to the children from the well-thumbed books,
_Ameliaranne_ and _Peter Rabbit_, before putting them to bed. Then they
would do the daily washing, cook the supper, and sit smoking in the
cockpit till it was time for bed.

So the days slipped by.

In the harbour and the Rade, the pageant of nations at war was staged
before their eyes. It was unreal to them; they seemed to have no part in
it at all. Each day they got a French paper and read about the progress
of the war with a small dictionary; vast things were happening in Europe
which they could not fully understand. They had no atlas, and the names
of places in the news meant little to them, nor had they any chance to
talk to other people. They were perpetually bewildered by the progress
of events. In some part, however, the news which they read in the French
papers was translated to them by the movements of the ships. In the Port
Militaire and in the Rade, warships of France, England, and the
Dominions slipped in, stayed for a day, and vanished in the night. In
the Port du Commerce and the east part of the Rade congregated the
merchant vessels of all countries taking their turn to unload at the
quays; by night the rattle of cranes and the clanking of goods trains
went on unceasingly under the glare of the arc lights. All these things
flowed past them in their corner of the Port Militaire; they did not
affect their quiet life by an iota.

Towards the end of their Quarantine, Corbett went on shore one evening
to buy bread. Returning to the yacht, he stopped outside the caf _Abri
de la Tempte_; he saw the douanier who had met them on their arrival
sitting alone with a newspaper. He went in.

"M'sieur," he said, "is it permitted that you should drink with me?
There are two days only of the Quarantine to go. I do not think I have
the typhoid fever."

The man smiled. "I do not think that you are ill. I should be happy,
M'sieur."

Corbett sat down, and ordered Pernod for them both. They talked for a
time in bad English and worse French, speaking very slowly to make each
other understand.

The douanier raised his glass. "To Madame, and _le bb_," he said.
"They are well?"

Corbett nodded. "Very well indeed."

"Each day I see you make a walk with the children and _le bb_, and to
catch fish."

Corbett smiled. "It is good to be quiet for a time before entering the
war."

"Assuredly. Madame and the children, they go to Canada?"

"I hope to be able to get a passage for them on the _Lachine_, for
Montreal. When does the _Lachine_ sail?"

The douanier said, "She comes to Basin Two tomorrow night, on the east
side, but first the _Guinea Prince_ is to unload. When the _Lachine_ is
unloaded, then she must coal, you understand. She goes to Quay One
before departing. She may sail, perhaps, on Wednesday."

Corbett nodded. "That's all right. Our Quarantine runs out on Monday
night."

"That will be convenient for you. You have friends in Canada?"

"Madame is going with the children to my sister, in Toronto."

"And you, M'sieur?"

"I shall go back to England to take service in the Army or the Navy--I
do not yet know which."

The douanier said nothing.

Corbett asked, "Is there any news in the paper tonight?" He indicated
the _Paris Soir_ upon the table.

"There has been bombing." There was a momentary pause; then the douanier
slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the glasses. "It is
madness--madness!" he said vehemently. "In the papers, bombing,
bombing--nothing but bombing! I am sick of it."

Corbett nodded without speaking.

The man leaned towards him. "But, M'sieur, I tell you this. England will
win this war, as together we have won the last war. She will win it
because of the bombing."

Corbett eyed him attentively. "You think so?"

"Nothing is more sure. See for yourself. Here, in Brest, every ship,
from every country in the world, brings doctors and nurses and supplies
of every sort, to go to help England. I could not count, M'sieur, the
number of doctors and nurses that have passed through Brest to England.
Two days ago, the _Washington_ from New York, the whole ship, only with
medical help, M'sieur. Today, the _Orontes_ from Sydney, with doctors
and nurses and supplies, and very many young men to enlist to fight. It
is so, every day. All the world comes to the aid of England, because of
this bombing."

"England needs all the help she can get."

"Truly. But all the bombing--and what is it? Terrible, and devastating,
to lose your homes. But no soldier yet has put a foot in England except
as prisoner, because your Navy has been strong. You hold the seas. The
airplanes, they can do nothing but destroy your homes, blindly. They
have not been able to destroy your ships. They have not hit your
arsenals or factories, except by chance. In the air you are strong. They
dare not come to bomb when they can themselves be seen, for then you can
destroy them. They cannot bomb except from cloud. They can destroy your
homes, and nothing else. _Je m'en fiche de tous les avions._"

Corbett ordered another Pernod.

The douanier said, "I tell you, M'sieur, it is a madness unbelievable
that they should use their bombers so. Only a nation of no
understanding, who did not know the world psychology, would make such
mistakes. Very nearly have they brought in America to fight beside
England. Not yet, because America is very careful, but--see for
yourself! Every day the ships come from America, loaded with men, and
money, and food, and military supplies--all for England. In your Empire,
every Dominion has declared war, all are hastening to fight. Without the
bombing, M'sieur, it would not have been so."

Corbett nodded. "That may be."

The douanier drank his Pernod. "England will now win this war."

Corbett sighed. "If we'd been a bit cleverer, we might not have had it
at all."

The other said, "It had to come. Once in the history of the world this
had to be tried, this blind bombing of the towns. But, M'sieur, I tell
you this certainly--it has lost the war for them. This time, they will
suffer a defeat and be smashed utterly. After that, I do not think that
any Power will dare to do such things again."

He got up to go. Corbett said, "You think that?"

The douanier said with dignity, "M'sieur, I still have hope for the
world."

Two days later their Quarantine was up; Corbett went to the _Lachine_,
saw the purser, and booked a passage for Joan and the children. The ship
was due to sail next day.

That afternoon for the last time they went to the breakwater with the
children, the baby in its cot, and their fishing lines. For a couple of
hours they sat together in the sun, the children playing round about
their feet. They caught nothing, perhaps because they were not trying
very hard; it was their last afternoon. They sat dangling their idle
lines into the water, saying little to each other but a good deal to the
children, showing them the different sorts of ships and boats, telling
them what it was all about.

Presently they went on board for tea. They had a fine tea, as if it was
a birthday, with strange French jam and bread in long sticks only half
an inch wide, and little cakes, and _pain d'pices_. It was great fun.
After tea Corbett read to them, while Joan washed them and put them to
bed. He read for nearly an hour, right through _Nicodemus_, and _When
Jesus Was a Little Boy_, and _Ameliaranne_, and the _Story of a Fierce
Bad Rabbit_. It took an hour, because they had to stop at each picture
while both children had a look at it, pored over it, and had it
explained to them.

By seven o'clock they were asleep in their berths, tired out and happy.
Joan finished off the baby and came up into the cockpit; Peter lit her
cigarette. "It's a pity we can't go on shore," he said. It was
impossible to leave the children alone on board. "We should have gone
somewhere, this last night."

She shook her head. "I don't feel much like it. I'd rather stay here."

He nodded without speaking. Presently he said, "It won't be for long.
The war can't go on for long at this pace."

She shook her head. "That's what one tries to think," she said quietly,
"but it's not true. Wars seem to go on for ever nowadays. All these new
things--tanks and gas and planes--don't seem to shorten wars a bit. They
seem to make them longer."

He took her hand. "It won't be so long."

She said, "It may be for years, Peter."

"We mustn't let it be."

They sat in silence for a time, smoking in the darkness. Over the water
the shore lights made dappled tracks, shattered by passing boats,
rejoining as the water stilled. A gentle little breeze blew from the
west. She said, "I knew that this would be the worst of all. So long as
we could stick together everything was fairly all right. Even the bombs
and cholera weren't so bad. This separating is the worst we've had to
face."

"I know."

"We'll go back to Southampton when the war's over, won't we, Peter?"

"You want to go back there?"

She nodded. "It's our own place. We'll be able to, won't we?"

"I'll try and make it so. I'll have to arrange with Bellinger to be on
leave while the war lasts. I think he can carry on alone, for a time at
any rate."

She said, "I want to go back just like we were before."

He hesitated. "We may not be able to do that. The house may be too bad."

"Then I'd like to have another house in the same part. Do you think we'd
have to have new furniture?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It depends what happens to the house. We
might have to have a whole new outfit."

"I believe that would be fun. The settee was awful, and the chairs
weren't up to much. We'd have had to get some new furniture soon,
anyway. And, Peter, I do want a decent radio. The children are getting
old enough to listen to good music now--just a little bit, now and
again. I'd like to have a piano."

"We might have to wait a bit for that."

"We could have the radio, couldn't we? Even if we had to put it on the
Never-Never."

He pressed her hand. "We'll have that," he said, a little huskily.

"That'll be something to look forward to."

They went below, and began to pack her luggage and the children's
things. There was not very much; a suitcase and a kitbag held all that
they had to take. When they had done all that was possible before
morning they got themselves a meal; he had a bottle of Nuits St. Georges
on board, and they drank that. Then for a long time they sat facing each
other across the little table, littered with their plates and dishes.
They sat smoking and drinking coffee, talking in little disconnected
sentences.

"We're still young," he said presently. "We may lose a year together
now--we may lose more. But we've got the rest of our lives before us."

She nodded. "But that will be different. You'll be a different man when
you've been through this war, and I'll be different, too. We shan't be
able to take up just where we left off. We'll have to start off new."

He smiled. "We shan't find that so difficult."

"I don't think so. But this is the end of our young married life, Peter.
We'll be middle-aged when we meet again."

He was silent.

She said, "I don't know if in passing through the world you leave a mark
behind you. A sort of impression. I'd like to think so, because I think
we must have left a good one. We're not famous people, and we've not
done much. Nobody knows anything about us. But we've been so happy.
We've lived quietly and decently, and done our job. We've had kids,
too--and they're good ones. But I wish we could have had another boy."

"I know," he said. "Too bad we didn't get time to have Little Egbert."

She roused herself. "Let's do the washing up."

They washed up and sat for a little in the cockpit, well wrapped up
against the cold night air. And presently they went to bed. They did not
sleep well; each in the night awoke from time to time and heard the
other turning on the opposite settee.

In the morning all was bustle and confusion. They did the last of their
packing, breakfasted, and washed up. Then they left the luggage ready in
the saloon and went on shore in the dinghy with the children, carrying
the baby. They went to the Port Doctor's office and got clearance; then
they took a taxi to the British Consulate and got their passports. They
turned back towards the Port du Commerce in the taxi; presently they
came to a place where they had a wide view over the Rade.

Joan plucked suddenly at his arm. "Tell him to stop, Peter--quick!"

He leaned forward and spoke to the driver, who pulled up. "What is it?"
he asked her.

She pointed to the mass of shipping in the Rade. "Look, Peter--the
aircraft carrier! I'm sure it's the _Victorious_."

He stared out over the sea, to where the white ensign blew lazily about
the stern. "It's one or other of them," he said at last. "It might be
the _Courageous_."

"Ask the driver if the _Victorious_ is here," she said. "He'll probably
know."

With some difficulty Corbett did so.

"_Oui, M'sieur_," said the man at last. "_Le bateau anglais l-bas? On a
dit le nom 'Victorious.'_"

Joan said, "Peter, we must hurry. She may be going off at any time--they
never stay long. Get us on board the _Lachine_, quick, and then you go
and see the admiral."

They went down to the quay. He left Joan and the children there while he
went off to get the luggage from the yacht. Then, carrying the suitcase
and the kitbag, they set off down the crowded quays and wharves for the
_Lachine_. They found her without difficulty, her loading practically
complete.

He took Joan and the family on board, found the cabin that he had
engaged for them, and settled them in. She turned to him.

"We'll be all right now, Peter," she said. "You must go off, and get on
board the _Victorious_ before she sails."

He said, "There's no great hurry. You'll be going in an hour and a
half."

She shook her head. "Please, Peter, go now. We're perfectly all right,
and it's a chance you mustn't miss." She hesitated, and then said, "I
want to think of you being in the Navy."

"I'd rather wait and see you off."

"No, Peter. Please go now."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. She said very quietly, "I've
been wonderfully happy all these years, Peter. As happy as a girl could
be."

He patted her on the shoulder, but said nothing. He kissed each of the
children, tickled the baby's cheek. Then he was gone. Standing by the
open port she watched him through a mist of tears, walking down the
gangway and along the quay, out of her life.

He walked up through the town. In the British Consulate he made
inquiries and was directed to the Naval Staff Office; he went there and
got a signal sent to the _Victorious_ without great difficulty. He
waited half an hour in a bare waiting room.

"The admiral sends his compliments, sir. Will you go aboard? The boat
leaves the pontoon beneath the bridge in half an hour, at thirteen
hundred."

He walked down to the boat, and was carried to the aircraft carrier in a
sad dream. He went on board and went straight to the fore-cabin, where
he had to wait for a considerable time.

He stood beside an open port, watching the traffic of the Rade. He saw
the _Lachine_ move from the quayside in the Port du Commerce, watched
her as she swung towards the passage through the breakwater, as she came
out into the Rade. He watched her as she passed along the shore, as she
grew smaller in the distance, heading through the Goulet towards Canada.

The flag lieutenant said, "Mr. Corbett!"

He went through the steel door into the inner cabin. The admiral, seated
writing at his desk, did not look up. He said, "Well, young man, what
can I do for you?"

Corbett said, "I've got rid of my wife and family. I came to see if I
could still have that commission, sir."




AUTHOR'S NOTE


This book is a work of fiction. The characters are all imaginary, and no
reference is made or intended to actual personalities.

The places described are real. Southampton and Hamble are real places in
the south of England; I think it would be impossible to write such a
book as this upon a basis of fictitious towns and places. This brings me
to a difficulty. Southampton is a virile, healthy city working very hard
at the vast problems of Air Raid Precautions, problems which every city
in the Old World has to face.

It is my earnest hope that nothing in this book will give offence or
bring discouragement to those who bear responsibility for the safety of
their city. It was not written in that spirit. If a writer has any
quality of value to the community it is that of using his imagination to
foresee what lies ahead of us. If this book shows the New World
something of our difficulties, and makes academic problems real to those
people in my country who are working for our safety, then I shall feel
that I have done a job worth doing.

NEVIL SHUTE

       *       *       *       *       *

_Also by Nevil Shute_


LONELY ROAD

KINDLING




[End of What Happened to the Corbetts, by Nevil Shute]
