by Nevil Shute
He found that the Group Captain was interested in the work that he had been doing on the fighter, and wanted to know a good deal about it. Quite early in the conversation David Anderson became mindful of security and parried one particularly direct question skilfully by turning it into a joke, which made the C.O. and the Group Captain laugh, not altogether at the joke. “It’s all right, Anderson,” the C.O. said. “You can talk to him.”
“Everything?”
“Oh yes, everything. We’re not afraid of him.”
They lunched together, and in conversation it became evident to David that the Group Captain’s main interest lay in the flight trials of the new de Havilland 316, later to be known as the de Havilland Ceres. This was of interest to the Australian, too. Before he had left Laverton to come to England for this course, David had had an interview at Canberra with the Australian Minister for Air. The Minister had told him about this new mail carrier which was then beginning its flight trials in England, and he had told him that the Australian air line, Qantas, had placed an initial order for six of the new machines to expedite the air mail service from England. Because of this order, and because the aircraft might be interesting to the Royal Australian Air Force for other purposes, the Minister had written to the Air Ministry in London to request that Squadron Leader Anderson should participate so far as possible in the flight trials of the aircraft while it was at Boscombe Down. So far, David had had nothing to do with it.
He spent that afternoon, however, with Group Captain Cox and with the firm’s test pilot examining the new machine in the hangar. The mail carrier was designed to fly from England to Australia with one stop at Colombo, which is almost exactly half way between London and Canberra. The cruising speed of the machine was about five hundred knots at fifty thousand feet, so that the journey from England to Australia would be completed in about twenty hours, carrying three tons of mail. The manufacturers, with an eye to other markets for this fast, long range aeroplane, had designed the fuselage to be sufficiently large to carry twenty passengers in lieu of freight, so that the 316 was quite an interesting aircraft capable of a variety of uses.
It was not until the evening that David Anderson discovered the identity of the officer with whom he had spent the afternoon. At dinner in the mess he asked the C.O. what appointment this Group Captain held; he was still slightly troubled about security, because he had been talking to him very freely.
The C.O. said, “He’s the Captain of the Queen’s Flight. Didn’t you know?”
David shook his head. He knew vaguely that the post existed and that it had to do with the air travel of the Royal Family, but he knew little of the organization. “What is that, sir?” he asked. “Do they have their own aeroplanes?”
The C.O. shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “They used to in the very early days, but now they charter machines for their journeys from one of the Corporations, or borrow them from the Royal Air Force. It’s nominally an independent organization paid for out of the Privy Purse, but nowadays there’s not much more than a typist charged up to the Royal Family. Cox is an R.A.F. officer, of course.” He paused. “They’ve got a hangar at White Waltham aerodrome still, and a little ground equipment. The Prince of Wales had an Auster there at one time, but I think he’s sold it now.”
David had not been in England long enough to know all the aerodromes, and he had never been to White Waltham. “That’s a civil aerodrome, isn’t it?” he asked.
The other nodded. “Near Maidenhead. It’s quiet for them there, and close to Windsor.”
In the fortnight that followed, David saw a good deal of Group Captain Cox. He found himself allocated to the flight trials of the mail carrier next day, and Cox was evidently deeply interested in the machine. When David began to fly in it on trials as second pilot he found that Cox was frequently a passenger in the bare fuselage behind him with the scientific test observers and their gear. Several times when the test work was over and before landing, at the instigation of the Chief Pilot, David slid out of his seat and the Group Captain took his place to fly the 316 for a time. He was a very good pilot still, though he had grey hair and he was well over fifty years of age.
When this had been going on for about a month, David was mildly surprised to receive an invitation from the Group Captain to dine with him at his home. He lived in a small Georgian house in Windsor, standing in about an acre of grounds that adjoined Windsor Great Park so that the house looked out over a wide expanse of park land, and a herd of deer grazed up to the garden fence. It was a very stately little house, beautifully kept and very well furnished; it was a Grace and Favour house. Here Frank Cox lived with his wife and family of three young children, in a dignified and gracious way of life that David had never seen before.
It was a somewhat formal dinner party, conducted with such ease that it did not seem formal to the Australian. The other guests were a Major and Mrs. Macmahon and a sister of Mrs. Cox. Macmahon was a man of forty-five or fifty, cast in the same mould as the Group Captain, a pleasant man with easy manners but with quite a keen business sense, and widely travelled. He had evidently spent some time in Australia and could talk about it with some inner knowledge; David did not learn who he was or what he did, and wondered about it a little.
Like many test pilots, David was a keen sailing man. Since he was likely to remain in England for a year, he was planning to buy a small five-ton yacht and to keep her in the Hamble River, and he was about to clinch this deal. He found that both Macmahon and Cox were yachtsmen, and this made a bond and enabled him to keep his end up in the conversation on that topic. They talked a good deal about flying, too, and about the recent war when he had been an acting Wing Commander in charge of an Australian bomber squadron operating from Luzon. Altogether, the evening passed very pleasantly and quickly for David Anderson; it was a surprise to him to find at the end of his cigar that it was eleven o’clock, and time for him to take his leave and drive back to Boscombe Down in his small sports car.
A week or ten days later he got a letter from the High Commissioner for Australia instructing him to call on the Commissioner at Australia House, and giving him an appointment in the forenoon. Somewhat surprised, and wondering what this was all about, he took the day off and went up to London, and was shown into the office of the High Commissioner, a Mr. Harry Ferguson. He had met Mr. Ferguson for a few minutes formally when he had arrived in England, but he had not seen him since.
Mr. Ferguson got up from his desk to greet him. Like all Australians, he believed in using Christian names. “Come on in, David,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to see you.” He made him sit down in a comfortable chair by the desk, and sat down again himself, a heavy, genial man in a grey business suit.
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 t
he 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.
