On the Beach Read Online Free PDF Page B

traffic used the streets that they were not in the way, and there had been no petrol to tow them away. She drew up outside the Pier Hotel and got down; she tied the reins to the bumper of one of these cars and went with her companion into the Ladies’ Lounge.
    He asked, “What can I order for you?”
    “Double brandy.”
    “Water?”
    “Just a little, and a lot of ice.”
    He gave the order to the barman and stood considering for a moment while the girl watched him. There never had been any rye, and there had been no Scotch for many months. He was unreasonably suspicious of Australian whisky. “I never drank brandy like that,” he remarked. “What’s it like?”
    “No kick,” the girl said, “but it creeps up on you. Good for the guts. That’s the reason why I drink it.”
    “I guess I’ll stick to whisky.” He ordered, and then turned to her, amused. “You drink quite a lot, don’t you?”
    “That’s what they tell me.” She took the drink he handed to her and produced a pack of cigarettes from her bag, blended South African and Australian tobacco. “Have one of these things? They’re horrible, but they’re all that I could get.”
    He offered one of his own, equally horrible, and lit it for her. She blew a long cloud of smoke from her nostrils. “It’s a change, anyway. What’s your name?”
    “Dwight,” he told her. “Dwight Lionel.”
    “Dwight Lionel Towers,” she repeated. “I’m Moira Davidson. We’ve got a grazing property about twenty miles from here. You’re the captain of the submarine, aren’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Happy in your job?” she asked cynically.
    “It was quite an honor to be given the command,” he said quietly. “I reckon it’s quite an honor still.”
    She dropped her eyes. “Sorry I said that. I’m a bit of a pig when I’m sober.” She tossed off her drink. “Buy me another, Dwight.”
    He bought her another, but stood himself upon his whisky. “Tell me,” the girl asked, “what do you do when you’re on leave? Play golf? Sail a boat? Go fishing?”
    “Fishing, mostly,” he said. A far-off holiday with Sharon in the Gaspé Peninsula floated through his mind, but he put the thought away. One must concentrate upon the present and forget the past. “It’s kind of hot for golf,” he said. “Commander Holmes said something about a swim.”
    “That’s easy,” she said. “There’s a sailing race this afternoon, down at the club. Is that in your line?”
    “It certainly is,” he said, with pleasure in his voice. “What kind of a boat does he have?”
    “A thing called a Gwen Twelve,” she said. “It’s a sortof watertight box with sails on it. I don’t know if he wants to sail it himself. I’ll crew for you if he doesn’t.”
    “If we’re going sailing,” he said firmly, “we’d better stop drinking.”
    “I’m not going to crew for you if you’re going to be all U.S. Navy,” she retorted. “Our ships aren’t dry, like yours.”
    “Okay,” he said equably. “Then I’ll crew for you.” She stared at him. “Has anyone ever bashed you over the head with a bottle?” He smiled. “Lots of times.”
    She drained her glass. “Well, have another drink.”
    “No, thank you. The Holmeses will be wondering what’s become of us.”
    “They’ll know,” the girl said.
    “Come on. I want to see the world from up in that jinker.” He steered her towards the door.
    She went with him unresisting. “It’s a buggy,” she said.
    “No it’s not. We’re in Australia now. It’s a jinker.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “It’s a buggy—an Abbott buggy. It’s over seventy years old. Daddy says it was built in America.”
    He looked at it with new interest. “Say,” he exclaimed, “I was wondering where I’d seen it before. My grandpa had one just like it in the woodshed, up in Maine, when I was a boy.”
    She mustn’t let him think about the past. “Just stand by her head as I back out of