In the Wet by Nevil Shute Page A

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—morethan 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