He went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was feeling terrible, and now she wanted to be sick. It was being up all night, of course, and the worry over Jennifer. Peter was busy in the kitchen; she could go quietly to the bathroom without him knowing. She was often sick, but this time he might think it was something else, and get worried.
In the kitchen there was a stale smell, or seemed to be. Peter Holmes filled the kettle at the tap, and plugged it in; he switched on and saw with some relief the indicator light come on that showed the current was flowing. One of these days the juice would fail, and then they would be in real trouble.
The kitchen was intolerably stuffy; he threw open the window. He was hot, and then suddenly cold again, and then he knew that he was going to be sick. He went quietly to the bathroom, but the door was locked; Mary must be in there. No point in alarming her; he went out of the back door in the rain and vomited in a secluded corner behind the garage.
He stayed there for some time. When he came back he was white and shaken, but feeling more normal. The kettle was boiling and he made the tea, and put two cups on a tray, and took it to their bedroom. Mary was there, bending over the cot. He said, 'I've got the tea.'
She did not turn, afraid her face might betray her. She said, 'Oh, thanks. Pour it out; I'll be there in a minute.' She did not feel that she could touch a cup of tea, but it would do him good.
He poured out the two cups and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his; the hot liquid seemed to calm his stomach. He said presently, 'Come on and have your tea, dear. It's getting cold.'
She came a little reluctantly; perhaps she could manage it. She glanced at him, and his dressing gown was soaking wet with rain. She exclaimed, 'Peter, you're all wet! Have you been outside?'
He glanced at his sleeve; he had forgotten that. 'I had to go outside,' he said.
'Whatever for?'
He could not keep up a dissimulation. 'I've just been sick,' he said. 'I don't suppose it's anything.'
'Oh, Peter! So have I.'
They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then she said dully, 'It must be those meat pies we had for supper. Did you notice anything about them?'
He shook his head. 'Tasted all right to me. Besides, Jennifer didn't have any meat pie.'
She said, 'Peter. Do you think this is it?'
He took her hand. 'It's what everybody else is getting,' he said. 'We wouldn't be immune.'
'No,' she said thoughtfully. 'No. I suppose we wouldn't.' She raised her eyes to his. 'This is the end of it, is it? I mean, we just go on now getting sicker till we die?'
'I think that's the form,' he said. He smiled at her. 'I've never done it before, but they say that's what happens.'
She left him and went through to the lounge; he hesitated for a moment and then followed her. He found her standing by the French window looking out into the garden that she loved so much, now grey and wintry and windswept. 'I'm so sorry that we never got that garden seat,' she said irrelevantly. 'It would have been lovely just there, just beside that bit of wall.'
'I could have a stab at getting one today,' he said.
She turned to him. 'Not if you're ill.'
'I'll see how I'm feeling later on,' he said. 'Better to be doing something than sit still and think how miserable you are.'
She smiled. 'I'm feeling better now, I think. Could you eat any breakfast?'
'Well, I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know that I'm feeling quite so good as all that. What have you got?'
'We've got three pints of milk,' she said. 'Can we get any more?'
'I think so. I could take the car for it.'
'What about some cornflakes, then? It says they're full of glucose on the packet. That's good for when you're being sick, isn't it?'
He nodded. 'I think I'll have a shower,' he said. 'I might feel better after that.'
He did so; when he came out to their bedroom she was in the kitchen busy with the breakfast. To his amazement, he heard her singing, singing a cheerful little song that inquired who'd been polishing the sun. He stepped into the kitchen. 'You sound cheerful,' he remarked.
She came to him. 'It's such a relief,' she said, and now he saw she had been crying a little as she sang. He wiped her tears away, puzzled, as he held her in his arms.
'I've been so terribly worried,' she sobbed. 'But now it's going to be all right.'
Nothing was further from right, he thought, but he did not say so. 'What's been worrying you?' he asked gently.
'People get this thing at different times,' she said. 'That's what they say. Some people can get it as much as a fortnight later than others. I might have got it first and had to leave you, or Jennifer, or you might have got it and left us alone. It's been such a nightmare…'
She raised her eyes to his, smiling through her tears. 'But now we've got it all together, on the same day. Aren't we lucky?'
On the Friday Peter Holmes drove up to Melbourne in his little car, ostensibly to try and find a garden seat. He went quickly because he could not be away from home too long. He wanted to find John Osborne and to find him without delay; he tried the garage in the mews first, but that was locked; then he tried the C.S.I.R.O. offices. Finally he found him in his bedroom at the Pastoral club; he was looking weak and ill.
Peter said, 'John, I'm sorry to worry you. How are you feeling?'
'I've got it,' said the scientist. 'I've had it two days. Haven't you?'
'That's what I wanted to see you about,' Peter said. 'Our doctor's dead, I think-at any rate, he isn't functioning. Look, John, Mary and I both started giving at both ends on Tuesday. She's pretty bad. But on Thursday, yesterday, I began picking up. I didn't tell her, but I'm feeling as fit as a flea now, and bloody hungry. I stopped at a cafe on the way up and had breakfast -bacon and fried eggs and all the trimmings, and I'm still hungry. I believe I'm getting well. Look-can that happen?'
The scientist shook his head. 'Not permanently. You can recover for a bit, but then you get it again.'
'How long is a bit?'
'You might get ten days. Then you'll get it again. I don't think there's a second recovery. Tell me, is Mary very bad?'
'She's not too good. I'll have to get back to her pretty soon.'
'She's in bed, is she?'
Peter shook his head. 'She came down to Falmouth with me this morning to buy moth balls.'
'To buy what?'
'Moth balls. Napthalene-you know.' He hesitated. 'It's what she wanted,' he said. 'I left her putting all our clothes away to keep the moths out of them. She can do that in between the spasms, and she wants to do it.' He reverted to the subject he had come for. 'Look, John. I take it that I get a week or ten days' health, but there's no chance for me at all after that?'
'Not a hope, old boy,' the scientist said. 'Nobody survives this thing. It makes a clean sweep.'
'Well, that's nice to know,' said Peter. 'No good hanging on to any illusions. Tell me, is there anything that I can do for you? I'll have to beat it back to Mary in a minute.'
The scientist shook his head. 'I'm just about through. I've got one or two things that I've got to do today, but then I think I'll finish it.'
Peter knew he had responsibilities at home. 'How's your mother?'
'She's dead,' the scientist said briefly. 'I'm living here now.'
Peter nodded, but the thought of Mary filled his mind. 'I'll have to go,' he said. 'Good luck old man.'
The scientist smiled weakly. 'Be seeing you,' he replied.
When the naval officer had gone he got up from the bed and went along the passage. He returned half an hour later a good deal weaker, his lip curling with disgust at his vile body. Whatever he had to do must be done today; tomorrow he would be incapable.
He dressed carefully, and went downstairs. He looked into the garden room; there was a fire burning in the grate and his uncle sitting there alone, a glass of sherry by his side. He glanced up, and said, 'Good morning, John.
