like or on which side the seat adjustment lever lay. It must be still in the garage of his Connecticut home, untouched perhaps, with all the other things that he had schooled himself not to think about. One had to live in the new world and do one's best, forgetting about the old; now it was push bikes at the railway station in Australia.
Peter left to catch the ferry truck back to the Navy Department; he picked up his letter of appointment and his wheels, and took the tram to the station. He got back to Falmouth at about six o'clock, hung the wheels awkwardly on the handlebars of his bicycle, took off his jacket, and trudged the pedals heavily up the hill to his home. He got there half an hour later sweating profusely in the heat of the evening, to find Mary cool in a summer frock in the refreshing murmur of a sprinkler on the lawn.
She came to meet him. 'Oh Peter, you're so hot!' she said. 'I see you got the wheels.'
He nodded. 'Sorry I couldn't get down to the beach.'
'I guessed you'd been held up. We came home about half-past five. What happened about the appointment?'
'It's a long story,' he said. He parked the bicycle and the wheels on the verandah. 'I'd like to have a shower first, and tell you then.'
'Good or bad?' she asked.
'Good,' he replied. 'Seagoing until April. Nothing after that.'
'Oh Peter,' she cried, 'that's just perfect! Go on and have your shower and tell me about it when you're cool. I'll bring out the deck chairs and there's a bottle of beer in the frig.'
A quarter of an hour later, cool in an open-necked shirt and light drill trousers, sitting in the shade with the cold beer, he told her all about it. In the end he asked, 'Have you ever met Commander Towers?'
She shook her head. 'Jane Freeman met them all at the party in Sydney. She said he was rather nice. What's he going to be like to serve under?'
'All right, I think,' he replied. 'He's very competent. It's going to be a bit strange at first, in an American ship. But I liked them all, I must say.' He laughed. 'I put up a blue right away by ordering a pink gin.' He told her.
She nodded. 'That's what Jane said. They drink on shore but not in a ship. I don't believe they drink in uniform at all. They had some kind of a fruit cocktail, rather dismal. Everybody else was drinking like a fish.'
'I asked him down for the week-end,' he told her. 'He's coming down on Saturday morning.'
She stared at him in consternation. 'Not Commander Towers?'
He nodded. 'I felt I had to ask him. He'll be all right.'
'Oh… Peter, he won't be. They're never all right. It's much too painful for them, coming into people's homes.'
He tried to reassure her. 'He's different. He's a good bit older, for one thing. Honestly, he'll be quite all right.'
'That's what you thought about that R.A.F. squadron leader,' she retorted. 'You know-I forget his name. The one who cried.'
He did not care to be reminded of that evening. 'I know it's difficult for them,' he said. 'Coming into someone's home, with the baby and everything. But honestly, this chap won't be like that.'
She resigned herself to the inevitable. 'How long is he staying for?'
'Only the one night,' he told her. 'He says he's got to be back in Scorpion on Sunday.'
'If it's only for one night it shouldn't be too bad…' She sat in thought for a minute, frowning a little. 'The thing is, we'll have to find him plenty to do. Keep him occupied all the time. Never a dull moment. That's the mistake we made with that R.A.F. bloke. What does he like doing?'
'Swimming,' he told her. 'He wants to have a swim.'
'Sailing? There's a race on Saturday.'
'I didn't ask him. I should think he sails. He's the sort of man who would.'
She took a drink of beer. 'We could take him to the movies,' she said thoughtfully.
'What's on?'
'I don't know. It doesn't really matter, so long as we keep him occupied.'
'It might not be so good if it was about America,' he pointed out. 'We might just hit on one that was shot in his home town.'
She stared at him in consternation. 'Wouldn't that be awful! Where is his home town, Peter? What part of America?'
'I haven't a clue,' he said. 'I didn't ask him.'
'Oh dear. We'll have to do something with him in the evening, Peter. I should think a British picture would be safest, but there may not be one on.'
'We could have a party,' he suggested.
'We'll have to, if there's not a British picture. It might be better, anyway.' She sat in thought, and then she asked, 'Was he married, do you know?'
'I don't. I should think he must have been.'
'I believe Moira Davidson would come and help us out,' she said thoughtfully. 'If she isn't doing anything else.'
'If she isn't drunk,' he observed.
'She's not like that all the time,' his wife replied. 'She'd keep the party lively, anyway.'
He considered the proposal. 'That's not a bad idea,' he said. 'I should tell her right out what she's got to do. Never a dull moment.' He paused, thoughtful. 'In bed or out of it.'
'She doesn't, you know. It's all on the surface.'
He grinned. 'Have it your own way.'
They rang Moira Davidson that evening and put the proposition to her. 'Peter felt he had to ask him,' Mary told her. 'I mean, he's his new captain. But you know how they are and how they feel when they come into someone's home, with children and a smell of nappies and a feeding bottle in a saucepan of warm water and all that sort of thing. So we thought we'd clean the house up a bit and put all that away, and try and give him a gay time-all the time, you know. The trouble is, I can't do much myself with Jennifer. Could you come and help us out, dear? I'm afraid it means a camp bed in the lounge or out on the verandah, if you'd rather. It's just for Saturday and Sunday. Keep him occupied, all the time-that's what we thought. Never a dull moment. I thought we'd have a party on Saturday night, and get some people in.'
'Sounds a bit dreary,' said Miss Davidson. 'Tell me, is he a fearful stick? Will he start weeping in my arms and telling me I'm just like his late wife? Some of them do that.'
'I suppose he might,' said Mary uncertainly. 'I've never met him. Half a minute while I ask Peter.' She came back to the telephone. 'Moira? Peter says he'll probably start knocking you about when he gets a skinful.'
'That's better,' said Miss Davidson. 'All right, I'll come over on Saturday morning. By the way, I've given up gin.'
'Given up gin?'
'Rots your insides. Perforates the intestine and gives you ulcers. I've been having them each morning, so I've given it away. It's brandy now. About six bottles, I should think-for the week-end. You can drink a lot of brandy.'
On Saturday morning Peter Holmes rode down to Falmouth station on his push bike. He met Moira Davidson there. She was a slightly built girl with straight blonde hair and a white face, the daughter of a grazier with a small property at a place called Harkaway near Berwick. She arrived at the station in a very smart four-wheeled trap, snatched from some junk yard and reconditioned at considerable expense a year before, with a good-looking, high- spirited grey mare between the shafts. She was wearing slacks of the brightest red and a shirt of the same colour, with lips, fingernails, and toenails to match. She waved to Peter, who went to the horse's head, got down from her outfit, and tied the reins loosely to a rail where once the passengers had stood in line before boarding the bus. 'Morning, Peter,' she said. 'Boy friend not turned up?'
'He'll be on this train coming now,' he said. 'What time did you leave home?' She had driven twenty miles to Falmouth.
'Eight o'clock. Ghastly.'
'You've had breakfast?'
