by Nevil Shute
This was all normal to the officers, and they turned to the aircraft in the hangar. Before going up the gangway into it, the two politicians withdrew a little from the officers and stood looking at it together, talking in low tones. Then Mr. Jones summoned the Group Captain, and said, “What did this bloody nonsense cost?”
The Group Captain said, “The aircraft, sir? I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you that exactly. The High Commissioners handle the accounts. I think the machines cost about four hundred thousand pounds each, but I’m afraid that’s only rumour.”
The Prime Minister turned quickly to David. “Do you know what this cost?”
“No, sir,” said the Australian. “I don’t know anything about that side of it. It’s not my business.”
Mr. Iorwerth Jones stared at David. “What’s your position in this thing? Who pays you?”
“I’m an officer of the Royal Australian Air Force, sir,” the pilot said equably. “I’m paid by the Federal Government.”
“How many of you are there here, paid by Australia?”
“Eight, sir — counting myself. That’s the air crew.”
“How many people are there here paid by the British Government?”
Group Captain Cox said, “Myself and the telephone girl, sir. The High Commissioners for Canada and for Australia are meeting the whole of the expenses of the Flight, except those which pertain expressly to the Royal Household.”
“It seems to me a bloody waste of money,” said the Prime Minister. “If the Queen wants to go to Australia she can book a seat on the air line like everybody else, or go by sea.”
There was an awkward silence. Lord Coles broke it by saying, “Well, let’s ‘ave a look at it, now we’re here. It won’t take long.”
“The gangway is just here, sir,” said David, frigidly polite. Inwardly he was furious, but he did not quite know why. He had the good sense not to show his anger, but commenced upon his description of the aircraft, now so often repeated to officials that it had degenerated into a sort of patter. He showed them everything inside the fuselage from the luggage compartment in the tail to the radar compartment in the nose. The Prime Minister found nothing to his taste.
“Waste of the working man’s money,” he said once.
He paused once at the entrance to the Royal cabin, quietly furnished in dove grey fabrics and silky oak veneers. “I know who put them up to this,” he said. “That bloody old fool Bob Menzies. He’s the nigger in the wood pile. He’ll have to learn to keep his nose out of what doesn’t concern him.”
David said quietly, “I don’t know anything about it, but I’m sure you’re wrong. Sir Robert Menzies retired from politics when I was a boy. He’s a very old man, about eighty-five. He couldn’t have had anything to do with the decision to provide this aircraft.”
“Don’t you give me that,” said the Prime Minister. “I know his stink.”
The wonders of design meant nothing to these men. In the pilot’s cockpit the Secretary of State for Air said, “Where d’you keep the Very pistol?”
Vague memories of the equipment of early Army cooperation aircraft came to the pilot’s mind. “Very pistol? We don’t carry one of those.”
“How do you signal to the folks on the ground if you want to come down, like?”
“I don’t think you’d do that, sir. We’ve got plenty of radio.” It was difficult to commence from the beginning, to explain that travelling at fifty thousand feet no pyrotechnic would be seen, that an aircraft of that nature could not land in any field.
“You should ‘ave a Very pistol,” said the Secretary of State. “See he gets a Very pistol, Cox.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lord Coles turned to Mr. Jones. “You got to look after things yourself,” he said. “If I’d not come this afternoon they might ‘ave gone without a Very pistol.”
At last the visitors departed to drive back to London in their official car, and David was left in the office with his group captain. For a minute each found it difficult to make the first remark. At last Frank Cox said dully, “I’ll see if I can get a Very pistol for you, Nigger. They might have one in the Army.”
David smiled. “Cheer up,” he said. “We’ve people like that in Australia.”
“Maybe,” said the Group Captain. “But not as Secretary of State for Air.”
There did not seem to be anything useful to be said between the Australian and the Englishman, and David found it equally difficult to discuss the events of the afternoon with Dewar when he came in from the radar check on Sugar. He went back to his office and sat in troubled thought for half an hour. Then he lifted the telephone and asked the girl to get Miss Long in the Assistant Secretary’s office at the Palace.
She came on the line presently. “Miss Long,” he said. “This is Nigger Anderson.”
“Hullo, Nigger,” she said. “Where are you speaking from?”
“White Waltham,” he said. “We’ve just had Lord Coles down with the Prime Minister to have a look at the machines.”
“Oh . . .” she said. “I don’t think Major Macmahon knew that.”
He said, “Will you have dinner with me, Rosemary? I want to talk to you.”
“About your little friends, Nigger?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know that you’d better.”
“I don’t want to talk very much. Just one or two questions, that I think I ought to know the answers to. We might have dinner at the R.A.C. and go out to a picture afterwards.”
She said, “I’d love to do that, but I don’t know that I’m going to answer any questions. We don’t gossip in this servants’ hall, you know. When do you want to meet me?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’m free tomorrow night.” They fixed the time, and rang off.
They met next night in the ladies’ annexe of the club. He went forward to meet her. “It was good of you to come,” he said. “I don’t know that I’ve really got much to worry you about.” He helped her out of her coat, and ordered a dry sherry and a tomato juice cocktail. “I’ve been looking at the movies,” he said. “Have you seen Red Coral — Judy March?”
She shook her head. “They say it’s awfully good.”
He went to organize the seats, and when he came back to her they talked of unimportant things till it was time for them to go to dinner. The dining room was fairly full, the tables close together; the girl glanced round her thoughtfully as she sat down. Over the oysters she said, “What’s the first question, Commander?”
He smiled. “Can I start off by telling you what happened?”
“If you like,” she said. “I probably know most of it. Frank Cox was talking to Major Macmahon this morning, and after that there were some memorandums. Anyway, go ahead and tell me.”
He gave her a short account of the events of the afternoon, making his story as dispassionate as he was able. As he talked the girl glanced round the room once or twice. In the end he said, “Well, that’s what happened. I didn’t like it much.”
“No,” she replied. “I don’t suppose you did.”
David sat in thought for a minute. “I can see that there might be difficulties when Canada and Australia come forward to do things for the Crown which England can’t afford to do, or doesn’t want to do,” he said at last. “Small difficulties. But he seemed so vindictive . . .” He glanced at her. “I know I’m only here to fly the aeroplane. But if this sort of thing is going to happen, I’ll have to know the general situation some time or other. I’d rather that you told me.” He met her eyes. “Are things getting bad between the Government and the Crown?”
She glanced around the crowded room again. “I can’t possibly discuss that, Nigger,” she said. “At any rate, not here.”
“I don’t want to press you to answer that,” he said. “But I can tell you this, I’m going to find out how matters stand.” He paused. “She’s my Queen as well as yours,” he said. “She’s Queen of Australia as well as Queen of England
. My Government have sent me here to work for her, to work for our Queen. I’ll have to know a little bit about her difficulties.”
She said, “Did nobody brief you when you took this job?”
He shook his head.
She said, “They should have told you. Something of this sort was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“I can find out,” he said. “I can go nosing round and listening to tittle-tattle, and putting two and two together. I’ll get to know what’s going on in no time. But I’d rather that you told me candidly, because you know.”
“I’m not going to talk about it any more,” she said. “There’s John Llewellyn Davies sitting at the next table but one, and Henry Forbes over there. Let’s talk about something different.”
The names meant nothing to him, but he smiled, and said, “All right.”
Over the coffee in the lounge she said, “Are you very keen to see this movie?”
“Not particularly,” he replied. “Do you want to do something else?”
“I’ve got a flat up on the top floor of a house in Dover Street,” she said. “We could talk up there.”
They left the club and walked along Pall Mall and up St. James’s Street. As they went, she asked, “Did you ever read much history?”
He shook his head. “No. All my schooling was done with a view to getting into the Air Force. It didn’t leave much time for history.”
She walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then she said, “It’s a pity that something always has to be left out.”
“Too right,” he replied. “It’s always that one that turns out to be important in the end.”
They came to Dover Street, and she let herself into a doorway with a key, between a hairdresser’s shop and a chemist. The entrance was well carpeted and decorated because it led to the studio of a photographer on the first and second floor; above that the decoration deteriorated. On the top floor she opened another door and they entered her sitting room; another door led out of that to bedroom, kitchenette, and bathroom.
She crossed to the fireplace and lit two reading lamps beside the two chintz-covered armchairs. “Sit down and make yourself at home,” she said. “I won’t be a minute.” She went into the bedroom and reappeared without her coat. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Not if it’s got to be made,” he said.
She smiled. “I’ve got a lot of my breakfast coffee in the percolator. It’ll heat up all right.”
He went through to the kitchenette with her, and watched her as she made her small preparations. “You’ve got a nice little place here,” he said.
“It’s not bad,” she agreed. “It’s very central, and it’s handy for the Palace. I just walk across the Park. I’ve been here for three years.”
He stood watching her slim grace as she made coffee for him, wondering how old she was. Twenty-six, or twenty-seven probably, he thought; she wore no rings. She looked up presently, and handed him a steaming cup, and took her own, and went with him into the sitting room. She turned on one element of an electric stove, and they sat down in the armchairs.
Presently she said, “You’ll have to understand the general situation, David. If you understand that thoroughly, I don’t think there’ll be any need for us to talk about the details, because you’ll understand those too — as much as you’ll need to. What’s the population of Australia?”
“About twenty-seven million, I think,” he replied. “It goes up every year.”
She nodded. “I think that’s about right. Canada has about thirty-two million people, and she’s still increasing fast. Britain has thirty-eight million people, and she’s still going down, decreasing at the rate of nearly a million a year.”
“That’s right,” he said. “As I understand it, about three hundred thousand immigrants a year come from England to Australia, about four hundred thousand go to Canada, and the rest go to Africa and the colonies.”
“That’s right,” she said. She paused. “I think the first thing is the sort of people that these immigrants are. A very large proportion of them are politically Right Wing in their views. A man who leaves his country to go to Australia is a man who’s taking a gamble on his own ability. He gives up everything he knows, gives up what security he’s got at home in England, and he goes to Canada or to Australia to start again. He knows there’s nothing like so much welfare in your countries. He knows that if he fails in life he may be much worse off in Canada or in Australia than he would be if he stayed here at home. He goes because he likes that sort of country, where he’s got a chance to make a fortune for himself.”
“I think that’s right,” said David. “There aren’t a great many enthusiastic Socialists among the immigrants from England.”
She nodded. “That’s why you’ve had such a run of Liberal governments in Australia. Let’s see — you had a Labour government from 1970 to 1973, and before that there was the Calwell government, and the Evatt one. I don’t believe you’ve had more than ten years of Labour governments in the last thirty.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said David thoughtfully. The curl behind her ear was fascinating. “You think that’s because the immigrants are Liberal?”
“I’m sure of it,” she said. “That, and the fact that your country has remained so prosperous. That’s partly due to your expanding economy. But here in England the effect has been the opposite. We’ve only had about ten years of Conservative governments in the last thirty, because all these emigrants who’ve left for Canada and Australia have been Conservatives at heart. That’s the first big difference between this country and Australia and that colours everything. You’re a Right Wing country, and we’re Left Wing.”
He nodded slowly, looking at her profile as she stared at the electric fire. She had very clean features, with a warm brown tint to her skin that probably came from the Solent.
“I think the historians will say that Socialism has been a good thing for England,” she said thoughtfully. “All countries go through good patches and bad patches, and England has been going through a bad patch for the last forty years. It’s probably not far from the end now. When we can feed our population things will suddenly improve, and the economists say that’s only about five years ahead. Then, maybe, we can try free enterprise again. But in the meantime we’ve got to work together to get through the mess, and Socialism’s probably the best for that.”
“That may be so,” he said. “But we Australians aren’t quite in the same boat.”
“You’ve got to try and understand,” she said. “You’ve got to understand why England has developed differently to your country.”
She turned her head to face him. He met her clear grey eyes, and he was suddenly delighted to be sitting here with her, engaged in this serious conversation. He was far happier than if they had been at the movies.
“And now you’ve got to try and understand what an illogical people the English are,” she said. “A country so strongly Socialist as England is ought to be a republic. The Crown rules by divine right, and that’s still the essence of the Crown’s position in this country. That right conflicts entirely with all the principles of a democracy, especially a Socialist democracy. Any other people but the British would have done away with the Crown long ago, but the British aren’t like that. They love their Kings and Queens. The British people won’t have the Crown touched. They won’t even have the Royal Palaces touched. When the Bevan government tried to put the Inland Revenue into Hampton Court in 1960 it brought down the government and the Conservatives got in. It was the Queen who gave up Balmoral and Sandringham for economy, and the British people didn’t like that much. The British people are completely Royalist at heart, and yet they’re Socialist. It’s quite illogical, but that’s the way they are.”
He smiled. “It’s a good thing for us all that they’re like that,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the Queen, we wouldn’t have much in common with England.”
She nodded. “The old King and the pre
sent Queen have been terribly wise,” she said. “They’ve held the Commonwealth together, when everything was set for a break up. They’ve done a magnificent job, and in England, anyway, they’ve had a rotten time.” She hesitated. “Kings and Queens have an easier time in Right Wing countries,” she said. “That’s why she gets on so well with your Mr. Hogan, and with Mr. Delamain in Canada.”
He laughed, “And why things aren’t so hot with Mr. Iorwerth Jones.”
“I didn’t say that,” she retorted.
“No,” he replied. “But I can see it, all the same.” He paused. “English scientists, and English engineers, and the Queen,” he said. “Those are the things that we like and admire in England. We don’t think a fat lot of your Governments.”
“No . . .” She turned, and stared at the fire again. “And now this matter of the voting has come up. You’ve experimented in your States, and found what seems to be a better system of democracy.”
He opened his eyes. “Is that making trouble over here?”
“I think it is,” she said. “Yes, I think it is.” She paused, and then she said, “New Zealanders, and you Australians — you did this once before, when it was Votes for Women. You tried it out in one state and saw it was a success, and then adopted it for the whole country. You put us in a very difficult position over that. And now it’s happening again . . .”
He asked, “Is England sorry that she got forced into giving women the vote?”
She smiled. “Of course not. The British people would be very happy with your multiple vote, once they got used to it. But it would mean great changes.”
“I bet it would,” he said cynically. “You wouldn’t get a nit-wit like Lord Coles in charge of the Royal Air Force. You might not even have Iorwerth Jones.”
