go.'
There was nothing more for them to say or do. They shook hands, got into their cars, and drove off on their separate ways.
In the old-fashioned, two-storey brick house in Malvern, John Osborne stood by his mother's bed. He was not unwell, but the old lady had fallen sick upon the Sunday morning, the day after he had won the Grand Prix. He had managed to get a doctor for her on Monday but there was nothing he could do, and he had not come again. The daily maid had not turned up, and the scientist was now doing everything for his sick mother.
She opened her eyes for the first time in a quarter of an hour. 'John,' she said. 'This is what they said would happen, isn't it?'
'I think so, Mum,' he said gently. 'It's going to happen to me, too.'
'Did Dr. Hamilton say that was what it was? I can't remember.'
'That's what he told me, Mum. I don't think he'll be coming here again. He said he was getting it himself.'
There was a long silence. 'How long will it take me to die, John?'
'I don't know,' he said. 'It might be a week.'
'How absurd,' said the old lady. 'Much too long.'
She closed her eyes again. He took a basin to the bathroom, washed it out, and brought it back into the bedroom. She opened her eyes again. 'Where is Ming?' she asked.
'I put him out in the garden,' he said. 'He seemed to want to go.'
'I am so terribly sorry about him,' she muttered. 'He'll be so dreadfully lonely, without any of us here.'
'He'll be all right, Mum,' her son said, though without much confidence. 'There'll be all the other dogs for him to play with.'
She did not pursue the subject, but she said, 'I'll be quite all right now, dear. You go on and do whatever you have to do.'
He hesitated. 'I think I ought to look in at the office,' he said. 'I'll be back before lunch. What would you like for lunch?'
She closed her eyes again. 'Is there any milk?'
'There's a pint in the frig,' he said. '”I’ll see if I can get some more. It's not too easy, though. There wasn't any yesterday.'
'Ming ought to have a little,' she said. 'It's so good for him. There should be three tins of rabbit in the larder. Open one of those for his dinner, and put the rest in the frig. He's so fond of rabbit. Don't bother about lunch for me till you come back. If I'm feeling like it I might have a cup of cornflour.'
'Sure you'll be all right if I go out?' he asked.
'Quite sure,' she said. She held out her arms. 'Give me a kiss before you go.'
He kissed the limp old cheeks, and she lay back in bed, smiling at him.
He left the house and went down to the office. There was nobody there, but on his desk there was the daily report of radioactive infection. Attached to it was a note from his secretary. She said that she was feeling very unwell, and probably would not be coming to the office again. She thanked him for his kindness to her, congratulated him upon the motor race, and said how much she had enjoyed working for him.
He laid the note aside and took up the report. It said that in Melbourne about fifty per cent of the population appeared to be affected. Seven cases were reported from Hobart in Tasmania, and three from Christ-church in New Zealand. The report, probably the last that he would see, was much shorter than usual.
He walked through the empty offices, picking up a paper here and there and glancing at them. This phase of his life was coming to an end, with all the others. He did not stay very long, for the thought of his mother was heavy on him. He went out and made his way towards his home by one of the occasional, crowded trams still running in the streets. It had a driver, but no conductor; the days of paying fares were over. He spoke to the driver. The man said, 'I'll go on driving this here bloody tram till I get sick, cock. Then I'll drive it to the Kew depot and go home. That's where I live, see? I been driving trams for thirty-seven years, rain or shine, and I'm not stopping now.'
In Malvern he got off the tram and commenced his search for milk. He found it to be hopeless; what there was had been reserved for babies by the dairy. He went home empty-handed to his mother.
He entered the house and released the Pekinese from the garden, thinking that his mother would like to see him. He went upstairs to her bedroom, the dog hopping up the stairs before him.
In the bedroom he found his mother lying on her back with her eyes closed, the bed very neat and tidy. He moved a little closer and touched her hand, but she was dead. On the table by her side was a glass of water, a pencilled note, and one of the little red cartons, open, with the empty vial beside it. He had not known that she had that.
He picked up the note. It read,
My dear son,
It's quite absurd that I should spoil the last days of your life by hanging on to mine, since it is such a burden to me now. Don't bother about my funeral. Just close the door and leave me in my own bed, in my own room, with my own things all around me. I shall be quite all right.
Do whatever you think best for little Ming. I am so very, very sorry for him, but I can do nothing.
I am so very glad you won your race.
My very dearest love.
Mother
A few tears trickled down his cheeks, but only a few. Mum had always been right, all his life, and now she was right again. He left the room and went down to the drawing room, thinking deeply. He was not yet ill himself, but now it could only be a matter of hours. The dog followed him; he sat down and took it on his lap, caressing the silky ears.
Presently he got up, put the little dog in the garden, and went out to the chemist at the corner. There was a girl behind the counter still, surprisingly; she gave him one of the red cartons. 'Everybody's after these,' she said smiling. 'We're doing quite a lot of business in them.'
He smiled back at her. 'I like mine chocolate-coated.'
'So do I,' she said. 'But I don't think they make them like that. I'm going to take mine with an icecream soda.'
He smiled again, and left her at the counter. He went back to the house, released the Pekinese from the garden, and began to prepare a dinner for him in the kitchen. He opened one of the tins of rabbit and warmed it a little in the oven, and mixed with it four capsules of Nembutal. Then he put it down before the little dog, who attacked it greedily, and made his basket comfortable for him before the stove.
He went out to the telephone in the hall and rang up the club, and booked a bedroom for a week. Then he went to his own room and began to pack a suitcase.
Half an hour later he came down to the kitchen; the Pekinese was in his basket, very drowsy. The scientist read the directions on the carton carefully and gave him the injection; he hardly felt the prick.
When he was satisfied that the little dog was dead he carried him upstairs in the basket and laid it on the floor beside his mother's bed.
Then he left the house.
Tuesday night was a disturbed night for the Holmes. The baby began crying at about two in the morning, and it cried almost incessantly till dawn. There was little sleep for the young father or mother. At about seven o'clock it vomited.
Outside it was raining and cold. They faced each other in the grey light, weary and unwell themselves. Mary said, 'Peter-you don't think this is it, do you?'
'I don't know,' he replied. 'But I should think it might be. Everybody seems to be getting it.'
She passed a hand across her brow, wearily. 'I thought we'd be all right, out here in the country.'
He did not know what he could say to comfort her, and so he said, 'If I put the kettle on, would you like a cup of tea?'
She crossed to the cot again, and looked down at the baby; she was quiet for the moment. He said again, 'What about a cup of tea?'
It would be good for him, she thought; he had been up for most of the night. She forced a smile. 'That'd be lovely.'
