Sea Fury (1971) Read Online Free PDF

a shade optimistically H and C, a scarred mirror above the basin, and two plywood wardrobes.
    The rest of the furniture consisted of a single hard wooden chair and a table that was in fact little more than a narrow shelf hinged to the bulkhead and supported by two collapsible legs.
    The paint had originally been white, but it had yellowed with age and there were streaks of reddish rust that seemed to have leaked out from under the heads of the rivets. But to the Mensteins, who had known much worse quarters, this temporary accommodation seemed perfectly acceptable. Even the temperature scarcely affected them; they were both so thin, so desiccated as it were, that no amount of heat could draw another drop of moisture from them.
    Sara was brushing her hair, making short, nervous strokes with the brush. The hair was quite grey now and Saul knew that it was not for reasons of vanity that she brushed it; it was a need she felt to be doing something, to find some occupation for her hands.
    “You think in Australia we shall be accepted, Saul?”
    He stood looking out through the open porthole at the sea and the sky, at the distant, dimly discernible line where the two met. He could detect the faint note of apprehension in her voice, the uncertainty. He hastened to reassure her.
    “It is a country that needs people. It cannot do without them.”
    “Young people. Perhaps not such as we.”
    “Doctors are needed everywhere. And we are not old, Sara, my love.”
    “Not old? Not old?”
    Something in her voice made him turn. He saw that she had stopped the nervous motions of the brush and was quite still, rigid, staring at the reflection in the glass, the scarredglass that did not flatter, but rather, by its own imperfections, added to those of the person gazing into it.
    “Not old?”
    He moved away from the porthole and put his hands upon her shoulders. He could feel her shaking slightly; and then in the reflection he could see the tears welling in her eyes. He stroked her hair; he bent and kissed her neck, her cheek, whispering softly to her.
    “Do not weep, my dear one. Do not weep, Sara, my heart, my love. I am with you—always.”
    He put his arms round her. He held her until the crisis passed.
    “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I am so afraid.”
    “You must not be, Sara. Fear is a thing of the past. You must never be afraid again, for there is nothing more to fear.”
    And yet he knew that in his own heart he was afraid also. And would always be.
     
    Moira Lycett stood under the shower, naked except for a polythene cap to protect her hair, and let the salt water trickle down her body. The water was almost tepid, only slightly cooling to the skin; but she felt refreshed by it. The cubicle in which she was standing had iron sides, painted white, and a canvas curtain with rings sliding along a metal rod. She had not bothered to pull the curtains across and she could see the wash-basin on the opposite side of the bathroom and one end of the bath with its heavy, old-fashioned taps and the yellow streaks of rust under them.
    She turned off the shower and began to rub her arms with soap. Because of the salt it did not lather easily, but she persevered, soaping herself all over from head to foot, taking a sensuous pleasure in the task. She could still regard herfigure with pride. She had always taken a deep interest in her own body, spending much time gazing at the naked reflection of it in mirrors, turning this way and that, bending, stretching, twisting. Like Narcissus, she was to some extent in love with her own image, but unlike Narcissus, she had never shown any inclination to pine away in contemplation of its loveliness. She was fully aware of the attraction it exerted on men; that was the whole point of possessing such a body; if there had been no men to be drawn to it she would no longer have derived the same satisfaction from gazing on its undoubted charms.
    When she had finished soaping she turned the shower on again.