Kindling by Nevil Shute Page B

must be practical.”
    “It seems to me that it’s the first few orders are the difficulty,” he said. “The goodwill must be absolutely dead.”
    “But that means that the Yard never can get started up again,” she said.
    He had nothing to say to that.
    She rose and faced him, and he rose in turn. “I know that what you’ve said is true,” she said. “And yet I don’t believe it. This is a decent world, and things like that don’t happen. Sharples is going through a bad patch now, but somehow we’re going to get over it. Something we don’t see will turn up, or somebody will come and help us get things like they used to be.”
    He faced her, and his eyes were very soft. “That is what you believe?”
    “I believe that some day we shall get things right again,” she said.
    He smiled. “If there are many people like you in Sharples, you probably will.”
    He turned to his accounts.
    He worked on steadily all evening at his books, making up in length of hours what he was well aware was lacking in dexterity. In the middle of the nextmorning the Almoner passed through the office; he stopped her as she went.
    “I’m going for a walk this afternoon,” he said. “Is it possible to get into the shipyard? I’d like to see it.”
    “The gates are usually open,” she replied. “Old Robbins is the watchman—he comes up here to out-patients. If you mention me he’ll let you in.”
    “Thank you so much.”
    She considered for a minute. “I’ve got visits in Baker Lane and round that way this afternoon. If you like, I’ll meet you at the Yard. Say four o’clock.”
    “Don’t trouble if it’s out of your way.”
    She turned aside. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself—it’s over two years since I went there. I’d like to see how tall the grass has grown.”
    The Yard stood at a bend in the river, a mile or so up from the sea. It covered, Warren judged, about fifty acres of land; there were three large berths for building and two smaller ones, with quays, wharves, and a small graving dock. The Yard had been placed cleverly upon the bend of the river so that the three large slipways pointed down the stream, enabling quite large vessels to be launched in a small river. All this and other features of the Yard were pointed out by the old watchman, as he hobbled round with Warren and the Almoner.
    “Admiralty vessels we built here, too—oh, a many of them,” he quavered. “Seven Barlow destroyers there was at the Battle of Jutland.”
    Warren walked slowly after him, leaning upon his stick and asking keen, incisive questions. He judged the place to be in pretty good shape. The derricks andgantries exposed to the weather had not suffered greatly from corrosion; so far as possible all gear had been removed and put in store, carefully greased and covered with tarpaulins. The woodworking machinery had all been sold; there had been no market for the heavier presses and the plate-manipulating rolls, and these remained in place. The buildings of the Yard were fair; the offices and stores were still quite good.
    He lingered there till dusk. At the Yard gate he turned towards the girl.
    “Thirty thousand pounds for capital re-equipment,” he said. “And then the money to finance the order.”
    She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
    He smiled. “I’m sorry—I was thinking aloud. But that’s what it would cost to get it going again.”
    “How on earth do you know that?”
    He turned towards the hospital. “I used to do a good bit of that sort of estimating,” he said. “Over in America, of course.”
    She eyed him doubtfully, but said nothing.
    During the next week Warren wandered widely through the town on his afternoon walks. He went twice more to the shipyard and talked for a long time with the ancient at the gate. He paid a visit to the rolling-mills. He went down to the fish quay at the harbour mouth and listened to the gossip of the boats—to find if there was any silting of the