the first light of dawn, and berthed alongside the aircraft carrier at Williamstown in time for breakfast on Friday, with nothing but minor defects to be rectified.
That morning the First Naval Member, Vice-Admiral Sir David Hartman, came down to inspect the only ship in his command that was worth bothering about. That took about an hour, and he spent a quarter of an hour with Dwight and Peter Holmes in the office cabin, discussing with them the modifications that they had proposed to the draft operation order. He left then for a conference with the Prime Minister, at that time in Melbourne; with no aircraft flying on the airlines, Federal Government from Canberra was growing difficult, and parliamentary sessions there were growing shorter and less frequent.
That evening Dwight rang Moira Davidson, as he had promised. “Well,” he said, “we got back in one piece. There’s just a little being done on board the ship, but nothing very much.”
She asked, “Does that mean I can see her?”
“I’d be glad to show her to you. We shan’t be going off again before Monday.”
“I’d like to see her, Dwight. Would tomorrow or Sunday be the best?”
He thought for a moment. If they were to sail on Monday, Sunday might be busy. “I’d say tomorrow would be best.”
In turn, she thought rapidly. She would have to run out on Anne Sutherland’s party, but it looked like a drearysort of party anyway. “I’d love to come tomorrow,” she said. “Do I come to Williamstown station?”
“That’s the best way. I’ll meet you there. What train will you be coming on?”
“I don’t know the times. Let’s say the first one after eleven thirty.”
“Okay. If I should be all tied up, I’ll get Peter Holmes or else John Osborne to go down and meet you.”
“Did you say John Osborne?”
“That’s right. Do you know him?”
“An Australian—with C.S.I.R.O.?”
“That’s the one. A tall guy with spectacles.”
“He’s a sort of relation—his aunt married one of my uncles. Is he in your party?”
“Definitely. He joined us as scientific officer.”
“He’s dippy,” she informed him. “Absolutely mad. He’ll wreck your ship for you.”
He laughed. “Okay. Come down and see it before he pulls the bung out.”
“I’d love to do that, Dwight. See you on Saturday morning.”
He met her at the station the next morning, having nothing particular to do in the ship. She came in a white outfit, white pleated skirt, white blouse with coloured thread embroidery vaguely Norwegian in style, white shoes. She was pleasant to look at, but there was concern in him as he greeted her; how in hell he was going to get her through the cramped maze of greasy machinery that was
Scorpion
with her clothes unsullied was a problem, and he was to take her out in the evening.
“Morning, Dwight,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Just a few minutes,” he replied. “Did you have to start very early?”
“Not as early as last time,” she informed him. “Daddy drove me to the station, and I got a train soon after nine. Early enough, though. You’ll give me a drink before lunch, won’t you?”
He hesitated. “Uncle Sam doesn’t like it aboard ship,” he said. “It’ll have to be Coke or orangeade.”
“Even in
Sydney?”
“Even in
Sydney”
he said firmly. “You wouldn’t want to drink hard liquor with my officers when they were drinking Cokes.”
She said restlessly, “I want to drink hard liquor, as you call it, before lunch. I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of the parrot’s cage. You wouldn’t want me to throw a screaming fit in front of all your officers.” She glanced around. “There must be a hotel here somewhere. Buy me a drink before we go on board, and then I’d just breathe brandy at them while I’m drinking Coke.”
“Okay,” he said equably. “There’s a hotel on the corner. We’ll go in there.”
They walked together to the hotel; he entered and looked around,
That morning the First Naval Member, Vice-Admiral Sir David Hartman, came down to inspect the only ship in his command that was worth bothering about. That took about an hour, and he spent a quarter of an hour with Dwight and Peter Holmes in the office cabin, discussing with them the modifications that they had proposed to the draft operation order. He left then for a conference with the Prime Minister, at that time in Melbourne; with no aircraft flying on the airlines, Federal Government from Canberra was growing difficult, and parliamentary sessions there were growing shorter and less frequent.
That evening Dwight rang Moira Davidson, as he had promised. “Well,” he said, “we got back in one piece. There’s just a little being done on board the ship, but nothing very much.”
She asked, “Does that mean I can see her?”
“I’d be glad to show her to you. We shan’t be going off again before Monday.”
“I’d like to see her, Dwight. Would tomorrow or Sunday be the best?”
He thought for a moment. If they were to sail on Monday, Sunday might be busy. “I’d say tomorrow would be best.”
In turn, she thought rapidly. She would have to run out on Anne Sutherland’s party, but it looked like a drearysort of party anyway. “I’d love to come tomorrow,” she said. “Do I come to Williamstown station?”
“That’s the best way. I’ll meet you there. What train will you be coming on?”
“I don’t know the times. Let’s say the first one after eleven thirty.”
“Okay. If I should be all tied up, I’ll get Peter Holmes or else John Osborne to go down and meet you.”
“Did you say John Osborne?”
“That’s right. Do you know him?”
“An Australian—with C.S.I.R.O.?”
“That’s the one. A tall guy with spectacles.”
“He’s a sort of relation—his aunt married one of my uncles. Is he in your party?”
“Definitely. He joined us as scientific officer.”
“He’s dippy,” she informed him. “Absolutely mad. He’ll wreck your ship for you.”
He laughed. “Okay. Come down and see it before he pulls the bung out.”
“I’d love to do that, Dwight. See you on Saturday morning.”
He met her at the station the next morning, having nothing particular to do in the ship. She came in a white outfit, white pleated skirt, white blouse with coloured thread embroidery vaguely Norwegian in style, white shoes. She was pleasant to look at, but there was concern in him as he greeted her; how in hell he was going to get her through the cramped maze of greasy machinery that was
Scorpion
with her clothes unsullied was a problem, and he was to take her out in the evening.
“Morning, Dwight,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Just a few minutes,” he replied. “Did you have to start very early?”
“Not as early as last time,” she informed him. “Daddy drove me to the station, and I got a train soon after nine. Early enough, though. You’ll give me a drink before lunch, won’t you?”
He hesitated. “Uncle Sam doesn’t like it aboard ship,” he said. “It’ll have to be Coke or orangeade.”
“Even in
Sydney?”
“Even in
Sydney”
he said firmly. “You wouldn’t want to drink hard liquor with my officers when they were drinking Cokes.”
She said restlessly, “I want to drink hard liquor, as you call it, before lunch. I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of the parrot’s cage. You wouldn’t want me to throw a screaming fit in front of all your officers.” She glanced around. “There must be a hotel here somewhere. Buy me a drink before we go on board, and then I’d just breathe brandy at them while I’m drinking Coke.”
“Okay,” he said equably. “There’s a hotel on the corner. We’ll go in there.”
They walked together to the hotel; he entered and looked around,
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