Authors: Nevil Shute
David was left in charge upon the aerodrome. He escorted the Prince and the Princess back to their cars and answered a few questions from their children. Then they drove off, and he was left to cope with the reporters, some of whom had been perplexed by the direction the machine had taken. He got rid of them after an hour or so, and settled down into the uneventful routine of the Queen’s Flight, waiting for a job to do.
The Trade Union Congress met at Blackpool for their annual conference next week end, and gave him something to think about. For some years past it had been usual for the more violent elements of the T.U.C. to rail against the size of the Civil List and the general expense of the Royal Family to the country, a method of blowing off steam which wounded nobody’s feelings except those of the Family, who had no votes to be endangered and so didn’t matter. It was undoubtedly the case that in the past the accumulation of Royal Palaces in England had represented a very minor extravagance for an impoverished country, but one by one the less essential ones had been eliminated from the List by making them self supporting in a fitting and a gracious manner as in the case of Sandringham, the permanent
headquarters of the Commonwealth Coordination Council. Those which remained were fully used by various offices connected with diplomacy which could not be reduced or with the Royal Family, and the fact that they were paid for out of the Civil List was a matter of historical interest rather than evidence of Royal extravagance.
However, any stick does to beat a dog with, and for years a section of the T.U.C. had harped upon this theme. This year a fresh note was added to the melody. David Anderson, opening his newspaper one morning to read the comic strip, found that a Mr. Andrew Duncan of the National Association of Plate Benders had made a stinging speech about White Waltham aerodrome. This aerodrome, declared Mr. Duncan, comprised about twelve hundred acres of the soil of England, the property of the British people. At present it was reserved for the use of the Royal Family, who did not use it more than once or twice a year, and whose huge aeroplanes were wastefully maintained there at a vast expense; he did not say at whose expense that was. The Royal Family were keeping this land for their selfish pleasures, but if the land were freed from their tyrannical grasp and handed back to the People, it could be farmed and made to produce food to support four hundred working families. Four hundred families, said Mr. Duncan, were going hungry, eight hundred undernourished, pale-faced children were pitifully crying for the crust of bread that was not there, in order that these pampered aristocrats, these relics of an effete, outdated feudalism, might stamp upon their faces. It made his blood boil, said Mr. Duncan.
It made David’s blood boil, too, when he thought of the two thousand sheep that fouled the runways and the tarmac and had to be laboriously herded to one side before the Royal aircraft could take off or land. White Waltham in the
second war had been a training aerodrome; in the third war it had been expanded for operational use and it was held by the Air Ministry as a reserve field for Bomber Command. He knew that Frank Cox had had particular instructions from the Consort about the grazing; the sheep had first rights on that aerodrome, and the aeroplanes came a long way behind.
Blood, in fact, boiled freely over White Waltham, and before the day was out the aerodrome had become a serious political issue. No less than four speakers took the matter up, some vehement and some, the more effective, grieved that the Monarchy should have sunk so low. The Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Air were both present, but said nothing to reveal the true position of the airfield to the Congress; perhaps they did not know it. Finally Lord Coles got up and assured the Congress that the matter would be looked into, and that suitable action would be taken. Mr. Iorwerth Jones said nothing.
David went out to go to White Waltham, and on the way bought all the other newspapers that he could find.
The Daily Monitor
in a first editorial said roundly that the whole thing was a Socialist plot to discredit the Royal Family, and disclosed the fact that 744 fat lambs had been sold off White Waltham aerodrome in the last calendar year, one for each of Mr. Duncan’s starving children.
The Times
deplored the use of the Royal Family for political purposes, and did little else.
The Daily Watchman
said that whatever the merits or demerits of White Waltham aerodrome, it was beyond all question that the working man could no longer afford the annual expenses of Buckingham Palace or Windsor. St. James’s Palace, said the leader writer, was the historic one and was quite sufficient for the Royal Residence. All other Royal palaces, castles, or houses in the country should be put to some remunerative use, or be turned over to the
Ministry of Works to house some overcrowded government department.
In the office David pored over these leading articles, with Dick Ryder, his second pilot, looking over his shoulder. “They don’t like us much,” he said at last.
The younger man shook his head. “Looks like they’re going to winkle us out of here,” he said. “Where do you think we’ll go?”
“God knows. One of the R.A.F. aerodromes, probably.”
“We’d have to get permission from the R.A.F. for every flight then, wouldn’t we?”
David stared at him. “Theoretically, I suppose we should. They couldn’t interfere with us, though.”
“They hate us like hell,” said Ryder. “I believe they could.”
“The R.A.F. don’t hate us.”
“Lord Coles and the Prime Minister do. The R.A.F. would have to do as they were told, if we were on their aerodrome.”
David sat in silence for a minute. “I hadn’t thought about that one,” he said. “Do you think that’s behind it?”
“Could be. Whatever is behind it, anyway, it’s not because they like having us here, or want to make our job any the easier.”
David turned to the papers again. “My God,” he said, “there’ll be a stink at home if they touch Buckingham Palace or Windsor.”
“Of course there will,” the second pilot said. “But they don’t think of that. They see it as an English problem that’s no business of Australia. I don’t believe they think of us at all when they decide these things.”
David nodded. “No reason why they should. Half of them don’t know where Australia is.”
He spent the morning upon nominal duties, and left for
London at about noon, having Frank Cox’s office in St. James’s Palace to look after as well as his own. He lunched at the R.A.C. and walked down Pall Mall after lunch to the Palace, and in the two small rooms that opened on to Engine Court he set to work with the girl secretary to deal with the correspondence. At about half past three the telephone rang; the girl answered it and handed it to him. It was Miss Porson, speaking from the Palace.
She said, “Oh, Wing Commander, I’m so glad you’re in London. The Prince of Wales would like to see you this afternoon.”
“What time shall I come over?”
“If you would come to my office at about five minutes past four. I will take you along then.”
He put down the instrument, wondering what this was all about, and went on with the correspondence. At five minutes past four he was in the Palace, clean and neat, following Miss Porson down the corridor. She took him to an ante-room and handed him over to the girl sitting in it. “I don’t think he’ll keep you very long.”
He sat on a gilt chair in the tall room in silence for ten minutes. Tall white double doors opened into the Prince’s study, from which he could hear a low murmur of voices now and then. At last the handle of these doors turned; the door opened a fraction, and then closed again. Evidently the conversation was continuing as the visitor was about to be shown out.
Finally the door opened definitely, and David heard the Prince speaking. He said, “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say to you, Mr. Jones. If you go on with this I shall advise my mother to build an airstrip on our own land, in Windsor Great Park. And, what’s more, I’ll get a Canadian contractor to come here and build it.”
David sat motionless, staring at the carpet beside his feet,
as the Prime Minister passed by within a yard of him. The door closed again; after a minute the girl got up and went through the double doors into the room. She came out presently. “He won’t be very long,” she said softly. “He’s just got a couple of calls to make.”
The door opened presently, and the Prince of Wales appeared. He said, “Come in, Anderson. Sorry to have kept you.” David went into the room, and the Prince closed the door. He was wearing a grey civilian suit, and David thought that he looked tired.
He turned to the pilot. “I’ve got to go to Ottawa, Wing Commander,” he said. “Is that machine of yours serviceable?”
David was a little hurt. “Of course, sir. When do you want to go?”
“Can we go tonight?”
“You can go in an hour’s time, sir. There’s no food or drink on board, but otherwise we’re ready.”
“All fuelled up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Done the daily?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Suppose we start off after dinner. I’ll be at White Waltham about half past eight.”
“Very good, sir.” He hesitated, and then said, “Can you give me any idea how long the crew will be away? It’s just a matter of their kit.”
“They may be away some time.”
“Any chance that they may need tropical kit, sir?”
The Prince thought for a moment. “I don’t know. They’d better take everything.”
David went out and rang up Ryder from Miss Porson’s office and put everything in train; Miss Porson undertook to
have the food and drink sent down from the Palace kitchens. David went back to the office in St. James’s Palace and stayed there for an hour; then he drove down to Maidenhead, packed furiously for ten minutes, and was at White Waltham aerodrome by seven o’clock.
He had much to do, but he was a very happy man as he did it. All the way down from London he had driven in a dream, amazed at his incredible luck. Not only had he got a job of work to do for the first time since he joined the Queen’s Flight, but it was taking him to Rosemary. He was lucky, he felt, all round. He knew that he was taking a small, insignificant part in world moving events. One day, this journey that the Prince of Wales was making in a hurry to consult with his parents would occupy a sentence in the history books; behind that sentence, unremembered and unknown, would be Nigger Anderson. It was sufficient for him; it made the job worth doing and justified the weeks and months of waiting on the aerodrome, the interruption to his career. Not only was he playing a small part in world affairs, but he was going to Rosemary. Rosemary, who had been away barely a week, Rosemary that he had not hoped to see again for over a month.
He was delighted with his luck.
At the aerodrome he met Ryder. The Ceres was already out upon the tarmac doing engine runs; he went to the machine at once with the second pilot and stood in the cockpit for a few minutes watching the engineers as they made the checks, glancing over the figures pencilled on their test sheets. They checked the fuel in each tank, the hydraulic system; they checked with the radio and radar operators that their apparatus was still serviceable. Then the two pilots left the aircraft, and went back to the office for the navigational study and the preparation of the flight plan.
Dick Ryder asked, “What does tropical kit mean? Where are we going after Ottawa?”
“I don’t know,” said David. “I don’t think they know themselves.”
“What maps ought we to take, then?”
“Better take the lot.”
“We shan’t want South America, surely?” The second pilot paused. “There must be a couple of hundredweight, or more, if we take everything.”
David hesitated. “Take the lot,” he said. “Take all we’ve got, and all the radio and radar stuff as well. It’s no good to us here, and Dewar may want it, if we don’t.”
“Is Sugar at Ottawa now?”
“Should be,” said David. “Unless they’ve sent him off upon some other job.”
They set to work to make the flight plan; then David got on the telephone to Area Control and gave them details of the flight. He added a few words of his own. “This is Wing Commander Anderson, speaking for the Captain of the Queen’s Flight,” he said. “I don’t know how you go there for publicity, but we should prefer to avoid any mention of this flight till after we have gone. We don’t want a flock of reporters at the aerodrome tonight.”
The control officer said, “There’ll be nothing issued tonight, sir—the P.R.O. goes home at five o’clock. If anyone comes on the phone I’ll stall them off until you’re airborne.”
“Good-oh,” said David. “I’ll speak again when we are on the runway, ready to take off.”
The provisions came at about eight o’clock with the steward and the stewardess, who set to work to load the boxes and the thermos jars, and then to make up beds. Finally, punctually at half past eight, the car arrived with the Prince; a valet travelling with him rode beside the driver.
David went forward to meet him, and saluted as he stepped out of the car.
“Quite ready, sir,” he said.
The Prince said, “What’s the weather?”
“Clear and frosty for the other side, sir. We shall be out of this stuff at about twenty-five thousand feet. A probable headwind, fifty to sixty knots at cruising altitude.”
The telephone girl approached, and stood on the tarmac a few yards away. “What’s the E.T.A. Ottawa?” asked the Prince.
“Zero three fifteen,” said the pilot. “About ten fifteen, local time. It’s going to take us about six and a half hours.”
The Prince nodded. “Let me know when you get in radio contact with Ottawa direct,” he said. “I shall have some signals to make then.” He turned to the girl. “What does she want?”
The telephone girl came up to David, and said, “
The Recorder
are on the line, sir, asking to speak to you.”
“What have you told them?” asked the Prince.
“Nothing, sir. I said that Wing Commander Anderson was busy for the moment, but I’d ask him to speak.”
The Prince made a grimace. “How long before we get airborne?”