The Far Country by Nevil Shute Page A

pounds. She put that in her bag and glanced at the two bills, one for groceries and one for milk, each with a politely-worded note at the bottom that was a threat of action. No good worrying her grandmother with those. She took off her coat and hat, and went upstairs with the letter from Australia in her hand.
    In the bedroom the old lady was still lying in much the same position. She was awake and she knew Jennifer, but she was breathing now in an irregular manner, with three or four deep breaths and then a pause. There was nothing that Jennifer could do about it; the only thing was to carry on and do what the doctor had told her. It was time for another drink of warm milk, this time with brandy in it.
    She gave the air-mail letter to her grandmother. “There’s an air-mail letter for you,” she said brightly. “Like me to get your glasses?”
    “Please, dear. Did you see where it was from?”
    “It’s from Australia.”
    The old lady took the spectacle case with trembling hands, fumbling a little and put the glasses on, and looked at the letter. “Yes, that’s from dear Jane. So sweet of her to keep on writing, and sending me such lovely parcels. We must make a cake, Jenny. Such lovely things….”
    Jennifer went downstairs and warmed the milk up in a saucepan on the stove and made herself a cup of tea at the same time; she mixed the Benger’s Food and added the brandy, and carried both cups up to the bedroom. She found her grandmother staring bewildered at a slip of paper in her hand, the envelope and the letter lying on the counterpane that covered her.
    “Jenny,” she said weakly. “Jenny, come here a minute. What is this?”
    The girl took it from her. It clearly had to do with banking; it was like a cheque and yet it was not quite an ordinary cheque. The words were clear enough, however. “It’s a sort of cheque, Granny,” she said. “It’s made payable to you, for five hundred pounds sterling. I’m not quite sure what sterling means. It seems to be signed by the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. It’s as if the bank was giving you five hundred pounds.”
    The old lady said, “It’s from Jane. She says so in the letter. Oh, my dear—we’ll have to send it back. Such a sweet child, but she can’t possibly afford it. She ought not to have done such a thing.”
    “If she’s sent it to you, perhaps she
can
afford it,” the girl said.
    “Oh, my dear, she’s only a farmer’s wife, living in quite a poor way, I’m afraid, and with all those children. Wherever would she get five hundred pounds?”
    Jennifer said, “May I see her letter, Granny?”
    “Of course, my dear.”
    It was written in the round schoolgirl hand that Jane Dorman had never lost. The first four pages dealt with news of the older children, news of Angela at Melbourne University, news of Jack’s rheumatism, and news of the spring weather. It went on,
    “Jack and I have been a little worried by the part of your letter where you said you hadn’t bought a new vest, and we have been wondering if rising prices are making things difficult for you. Out here everything is going up in price, too, but we station people are all making so much money that we hardly notice it. Jack’s wool cheque this year was for twenty-two thousand pounds, and though most of that will go in tax of course it means that we shall still have about seven thousand for ourselves after paying all the expenses of the property.
    “We don’t know what’s the right thing to do with so much money. We can’t expect it to go on, of course; wool will come down again next year and it’s quite right that it should. It could fall to a quarter of the present price and not hurt us; the bank was all paid off last year and we’ve never spent much on ourselves, and we’re too old now to do much gadding about. We’re going down to Melbourne for a week or ten days after Christmas to do some shopping and Jack still talks of a trip home, but I don’t suppose we’ll