Authors: Nevil Shute
He gave David a cigarette. “Well,” he said, “how are you liking your job down at Boscombe Down?”
The pilot said, “I couldn’t like it better. I’ve been flying the 316 a good deal recently.” It was in his mind that Ferguson wanted to know about the Qantas order.
“I know. It’s a good machine, isn’t it?”
“It’s a bonza job,” David said. “They’ve got a few bugs to get out of it, but nothing serious.”
“I know. You’re quite happy in your work there?”
“Absolutely,” David said in wonder.
“Would you consider a change?”
“I don’t suppose I’d like it,” said the pilot. “It couldn’t be a better job than I’ve got now.” He paused. “What sort of change?”
“You’ve been seeing a good deal of Frank Cox recently, haven’t you?”
“Group Captain Cox? He’s been down there a good deal, flying the 316. I had dinner at his house one night.”
“I know,” said Ferguson. He sat in thought for a moment, and then said, “How would you like to join the Queen’s Flight?”
David stared at him amazed. “Me? The Queen’s Flight?”
Ferguson said, “That’s the proposal, David. They didn’t want to raise the matter with you before consulting me, in case the Federal Government and the R.A.A.F. should object. I’ve been in touch with Canberra about it, and there would be no objection from our side. But it’s entirely up to you. It means a break in your service career, of course, but you wouldn’t be required to leave the Air Force. It means immediate promotion to the rank of Wing Commander with pay and allowances for that rank in Australian currency, as usual. But you would be detached for special duties with the Queen’s Flight.”
David sat in silence for a minute, thinking over this extraordinary proposal. It was undoubtedly an honour and
a compliment to his ability, but it was unwelcome. Like all Australians, he venerated Royalty, but to spend his career in Court circles was another matter.
“What made them pick on me?” he asked. “They’ve got plenty of good pilots in England. And anyway, they haven’t any aeroplanes.”
“That’s true enough …” The Commissioner hesitated. “I don’t know how much you know of what’s been going on,” he said at last. “Did you know that the House of Representatives have voted the funds to present a de Havilland 316 to the Queen’s Flight?”
A vague memory of a small paragraph in
The Aeroplane
stirred in the pilot’s mind. “I think I did read something about it.”
Ferguson nodded. “The Canadians are doing the same thing.”
“Are they?” the pilot said in wonder. “The Queen’s Flight is going to have two 316s?”
“That is so …” Ferguson hesitated. “If you should take this job, David, the first thing you’ll have to learn is to keep out of politics. There are some things you’ll have to know, of course, but your business is to think as little as you can about them, and just stick to your flying.”
The pilot nodded. “I never bother about politics,” he said.
“That’s fine.” The High Commissioner paused, and sat in thought for a moment or two. “In the beginning, when the King’s Flight was first founded in the Thirties, aeroplanes were small and cheap, and the Civil List was larger in terms of real money than it is now. The aeroplanes were then the property of the Monarch, and naturally they were at his sole disposal; he could go anywhere he wanted to, at any time, without consulting anyone.” He paused again. “Since then aircraft have grown vastly more expensive to
buy and to maintain, and the Privy Purse has been drastically reduced in purchasing power. For many years the aeroplanes for the journeys of the Royal Family have been paid for by the State.” He glanced at David. “You understand that this is all completely confidential, Squadron Leader?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Yes. Well … It has now been proposed that the Queen’s Flight should be abolished on the grounds of economy, and that the Royal Family should make arrangements with Transport Command of the R.A.F. whenever they wish to make a journey by air. And this proposal has come forward when the 316 will make it possible for Royalty to get from Windsor to the Royal Residence at Canberra in twenty hours, and to their residence at Ottawa in less than six hours.”
He paused. “The Federal Government,” he said quietly, “and the Canadian Government also—we think it very wrong that the freedom of movement of the Monarch in the Commonwealth should be in any way controlled by the British Government through the Royal Air Force, however generously that control may be exercised. To prevent that situation from arising our Government, and that of Canada, have each offered to present a 316 to the Queen’s Flight, and to pay all running and maintenance costs of the machines. Her Majesty has accepted this offer, and she has asked that the crews for these machines shall be composed entirely of Canadian and Australian personnel. That’s how this job comes to be offered to you, David. You’re the officer they’ve picked to be captain of this aircraft, representing Australia.”
David sat in thought, in gloomy silence for a minute or two. The whole thing was unwelcome to him. It meant leaving the test work that interested him and that he was
good at, to enter on an unknown regime of Court life. It meant interrupting his career in the R.A.A.F. It meant many other changes in his life, most of which, he felt, would not be for the better.
“Whose idea was this?” he said at last.
“Frank Cox suggested your name first,” the High Commissioner replied. “When it was agreed in principle that the crew of this machine should be Australians. Cox put your name forward as a suitable officer for the captain.”
“He doesn’t know anything about me,” David said. “I don’t think I should be suitable at all.”
Ferguson smiled. “They’ve taken a good deal of trouble to investigate you, of course. They asked for details of your Service record, which we gave them. You’ve met the Assistant Private Secretary, haven’t you?”
“What Secretary?”
“The Assistant Private Secretary to the Queen—Major Macmahon. You had dinner with him, didn’t you?”
“There was a chap called Macmahon there when I went to dinner with Frank Cox,” the pilot said. “Is that who he was?”
“That’s right. You made a good impression.”
“Didn’t eat my tucker with my fingers?”
The High Commissioner laughed. “That’s right.”
David sat in silence. At last he said, “Can I have a day or two to think it over?”
“Of course. It might be a good thing if you had a talk with Frank Cox.”
“I think it would be,” the pilot said. “There are a lot of things he ought to know before I take a job like this.”
Ferguson eyed him for a minute. “I see that you don’t care about it much,” he said presently. “What’s the trouble?”
The pilot shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care all that
about this country,” he said. “All these empty houses and shops get me down. They’re still the best engineers in the world, and they build the best aeroplanes. But anyone can have the rest of it, so far as I’m concerned.”
“How long have you been over here?” the High Commissioner asked. “Two months?”
“Nearly three,” the pilot said. “I’ve only got another nine months to do here before I get back to Australia.”
“Never been in England before?”
David shook his head.
“You want to look beyond the low standard of living,” the High Commissioner said. “They’re a great people still, and they can still teach us a thing or two. But anyway, you think it over, and have a talk with Frank Cox. Give me a ring on Monday or Tuesday of next week and let me know what you’ve decided.”
David Anderson went away and lunched at the Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall; like many officers in the Australian services he had found a welcome and hospitality in that club. In the lounge he met an Australian naval officer, a Queenslander like himself, that he knew fairly well. Lieutenant-Commander Fawcett said, “Hullo, Nigger. Come and have a drink.”
“Have a tomato juice,” said David. They went into the bar.
“What are you doing in Town?”
“Mooching around and seeing the sights,” said David.
“Have a pink gin.”
“No, thanks. I never do.”
He lunched with his friend, who was serving a tour of duty at the Admiralty, but he did not tell him anything about the Queen’s Flight. Commander Fawcett had just come back from a holiday in which he had motored to Scotland up one side of England and down the
other. “Didn’t spend a single night in a hotel,” he said.
“Camping?”
“Empty houses,” the Commander said. “They’re the shot in this country. We had our swags, of course, and camp beds. It’s far better than messing about with a tent. The only thing is, in Scotland they take the roofs off.”
“I heard about that,” said David. “That’s to keep up the value of the others, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. I don’t know that it really does it, though. You can get a new house up there for the price of the roof, plus five quid for the rest of it. That’s the exempted houses—not owned by the Government.”
“Down here it only costs the fiver.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t have any difficulty in finding a house when you wanted it?”
“Not really. They lock the doors, of course, but you can usually find one that’s been broken into before. There are masses of them in the north. In the suburbs, mostly, fairly far out from the centre of the towns—that’s where you find them. People move in towards the centre as the houses become empty, because the bus fares are less. Places like Nottingham and Darlington, every other house is empty in the outer suburbs. There’s no difficulty at all in finding one to sleep in.”
“Pity they can’t shift ’em all out to Australia,” said David. “We could do with them.”
“Too right we could. They should have built them portable, when they were building all these houses in the Fifties.”
“It’s the hell of a waste.”
“You can’t take twelve or thirteen million people out of England without waste,” said Fawcett. “This place had a population of fifty millions when these houses were built.
They’re thick enough on the ground now. My word, they must have been rubbing shoulders then.”
Over the coffee David asked, “How are you liking it here?”
“I like it all right,” said Fawcett. “There’s something about it that we haven’t got at home.”
“What?”
The naval officer laughed. “I don’t know. Something.”
“We’ll have more people in ten years.”
“Maybe. You don’t like it much?”
“Australia’s good enough for me,” said David. “It’s interesting over here, and I’m glad I’ve been, but I don’t care how soon I get back.”
He rang up Group Captain Cox after lunch, and found he was in town and not far off, at the office of the Queen’s Flight in St. James’s Palace. David went round to see him. He found the Queen’s Flight in those rambling buildings with some difficulty; it occupied a three room flat on the first floor overlooking Engine Court, a flat consisting of office and sitting room and a bedroom used by Frank Cox when he stayed in Town. A girl typing in the office by the telephone welcomed him, and showed him into the sitting room.
The Group Captain got up to meet him. “Afternoon, David,” he said genially. He held out his cigarette case. “Seen the High Commissioner?”
“My cobbers call me Nigger,” the Australian said directly.
Cox glanced at him. “Oh? Why do they call you that?”
“Because I am one. I’m a quadroon.”
The Captain of the Queen’s Flight smiled. “Do you know—I
did
wonder about that. Which side was the colour on?”
“My mother’s,” said David. “I’m a dinkum Aussie—more
than most. My grandmother was a full blood Aboriginal from somewhere up in the Cape York Peninsula. I don’t know who my grandfather was, but he was white. My mother was an illegitimate half-caste. I’ve got a lot of coffee coloured uncles and aunts scattered round the Gulf Country. My aunt Phoebe had fourteen children; she works as a servant in the hotel at Chillagoe.”
“I see. Were your father and mother married?”
The pilot nodded. “I’ve got a birth certificate. He died last year, my father—he ran the store in a little town called Forsayth. My mother died about five years ago.”
The Group Captain said, “Well, what’s all this got to do with me, David? Have a cigarette.”
Anderson took one and lit it. “Nigger’s the name.”
“All right—Nigger, if you like it.” He held a match for the younger man’s cigarette. “You’d rather be called that?”
The pilot blew a long cloud of smoke. “I’ve always been called that—ever since I joined the R.A.A.F. as a boy. I’ve always been called Nigger Anderson. I’d just as soon that people called me that in England. Then we’ll all know where we are.”
Frank Cox nodded. “As you like. Did the High Commissioner tell you what we want you to do?”
“He told me.”
“And what did you think about it? Sit down.” He dropped down into a Chippendale armchair himself.
The pilot sat down by the table and rested his arms upon it, facing the Group Captain. “It’s a very great compliment,” he said slowly. “The only thing is, I’m not the right man for the job.”
“Why not?”
“Colour, for one thing,” said the pilot bluntly. “I’m not white. That might make a lot of trouble some time or another, and you don’t want that.”
“Do you find that really happens?” the Group Captain asked with interest. “Do you get waiters being rude in restaurants, people refusing to sit at table—anything of that sort?”
David hesitated. “Not recently,” he said. “It happened once in Sydney.”
“How long ago?”
“It was a good long time ago—I was about eighteen. But it could happen any time.”
“I rather doubt that,” said Frank Cox. “You don’t look coloured. You look a bit tanned, that’s all. You never had any trouble in the R.A.A.F., did you?”
The pilot shook his head. “I’ve always been called Nigger,” he said. “I think that helps, if you don’t try going under false pretences.”
They sat in silence for a minute. “I don’t think that’s any real obstacle to you taking this job,” Cox said at last. “As a matter of fact, the point came up a few days ago—after you dined with us. Macmahon said you were coloured, and I said that I didn’t think you were. We talked it over on the assumption that he was correct, and we decided that it really didn’t matter—bearing in mind your other qualifications.”