Free The Far Country by Nevil Shute

half; then she went out with a shopping basket. She got a good breakfast at Lyons’ of porridge and fish, and as she breakfasted she made her plans. She had only twelve and threepence in her purse, and her breakfast cost her three shillings of that. Before she could lay her hands on any more money she must go to Blackheath to get her cheque-book and cash a cheque, and the fare there would be about four and three. That left her about five shillings; she had to telephone her mother, but perhaps she could reverse the charges for the call to Leicester. She must keep a margin of about two shillings for contingencies; if she could reverse the charges for the call she would have about three shillings to spend on food for her grandmother.
    The sense of crisis, and the breakfast, stimulated her; she could beat this thing. She went out and stood in a call-box and rang up her parents; she was early, and the hundred-mile call came through at once. She told her father what had happened.
    “She’s got no money at all, Daddy,” she said. “She’s just hasn’t been eating—I think that’s really all that’s the matter with her. She’s very weak, and she’s in bed, of course.” She told him what the district nurse had said about her grandmother’s chances. She told him about the pension.
    They extended the call. “Can you let me have some money,Daddy? I’ve only got a few shillings. I’m going back to Blackheath about midday and I’ll get my cheque-book then, but I’m not sure if I’ll be in time to cash a cheque. I may be too late. I’ll be back here in Ealing this afternoon, anyway, before dark.”
    He said, “I’ll send you a telegraph money order at once for ten pounds. You should get that this afternoon. Either your mother or I will come down tomorrow and be with you some time tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what’s to be done then. It’s a bit of a shock, this.”
    “Don’t let Mummy worry over it too much,” the girl said. “I think she’s probably going to be all right. I’m going now to see if I can talk them into turning on the electricity again. It’ll make a lot of difference if we can get a radiator going in her room.”
    In a quarter of an hour she was talking to the manager in the office of the Electricity Commission, having got past his girl with some difficulty. He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Morton, but we have to work to rules laid down by our head office. Two years ago I might have been able to use my own discretion in a case like this, but—well, things aren’t the same as they were then. Nationalisation was bound to make some differences, you know. I’m afraid the account will have to be paid before the supply can be re-connected.”
    She said, “I’m going over to Blackheath to get my cheque-book today. I can let you have the cheque first thing tomorrow morning.”
    “Fine,” he said, with forced geniality. “Then we shall be able to re-connect the supply.”
    “Can’t you do it today?”
    “I’m afraid the account will have to be settled first.”
    Jennifer said desperately. “She’s really terribly ill, and we can’t even warm up hot milk in the house, or get hot water for her water-bottles. We
must
have electricity tonight.”
    He got to his feet; this was too unpleasant, and he had no power to act. “I’m sorry, Miss Morton,” he said. “It sounds as though she would be better in the hospital—have you considered that? Perhaps the relieving officer would be the man for you to see. He’s at the Town Hall.”
    The red-haired girl flared into sudden anger. “God blast you and the relieving officer,” she said. “I only hope this happens to you one day, that you’re old and dying of starvation, and you can’t get anyone to help you. And it will, too.”
    She turned and left the office, white with anger. She shopped carefully with her three shillings, and bought two pints of milk, a few water biscuits, and a little sugar; that finished her money. She thought