Even the most cursory examination revealed that their leave passes were forgeries.
    “The officer’s signature looks exactly the same as yours, Private Duffy, and I’m damned sure your commanding officer is not called Joe Bloggs.”
    “Mine’s genuine,” I said calmly.
    “And the same Major Bloggs as signed yours, Private Weedman, also with Private Duffy’s signature.”
    “Look at mine,” I said, edgily. “It’s real.”
    “Forging leave passes is a serious offence.”
    “Mine isn’t forged,” I cried desperately. But they were weary of looking at leave passes by then.
    “Lock ‘em up, corporal.”
    “Except me...”
    “All three of them, sir?”
    “All three of them.”

Nevil Shute’s next novel was Lonely Road, written in 1932 and is pretty typical of thrillers of the time, you know, The 39 Steps and all that. It is another of the works that he declared himself ashamed of, but he has no reason to be. In fact, it’s pretty good. The hero is a wealthy successful shipbuilder who stumbles upon a bunch of gun-runners who are part of a big Communist conspiracy. The question is, should he get involved or not. British security agents begin to hassle him, and then he encounters and gets besotted by a lovely girl who might be working for the baddies and trying to seduce him into revealing how much he knows.
    Like most of us, his instinct says its none of his business and to leave it alone but circumstances and plot twists lure him on until in the end he does his duty to the free world. But the book, as the title suggests, is actually about loneliness, alienation and bitterness at having missed out on the supposed joys of life. He’s nudging 40, single, only ships and drinking fill his life, and this might be his chance to turn it all around, if only he has the nerve. It’s a complicated portrait of a man caught in the middle and Shute handles it extremely well.