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.”
“I’m not the man in other ways,” David said. “I’ve not got the right background. I’m not like you, or Mr. Macmahon. I couldn’t get alongside the sort of people that you deal with here, in this place.” He glanced around him at the panelled walls, at the leaded casement window. “I started as a grocer’s boy in Townsville.” He struggled to express himself. “I mean, this is a social job, where you’ve got to know what to say to a Duchess, or perhaps even the Queen herself. You want somebody who knows the ropes, and not say the wrong thing and make everybody look stupid.”
“We know what we want,” said Cox. “Leave that to us. The chief thing that we want is an Australian who is verythorough and reliable, and who can take a 316 safely to Australia or any other part of the world practically in his sleep. We’ve been into this with a great deal of care, and our first choice was you.”
“I could find you others who were just as good, born white.”
“We aren’t asking you to find us others,” said Frank Cox. “We’re asking you to take charge of a 316 and train the crew and fly it as required. As for the colour, you can put that out of your mind. We aren’t asking you to marry into the Royal Family.”
David sat in silence. At last he said, “How long would the job be for?”
“Indefinite,” said Cox. “If you take it on, I think you should stay for at least three years. We must have continuity, so that everybody works together as a team.”
“And the main base is here, in England, of course?”
“That’s right,” the Group Captain said. “At White Waltham. We’ve got a hangar at Canberra, at Fairbairn airport, as you probably know. The present plan is that the Monarch intends to spend two months of each year in Australia, and two months in Canada. But the main base is at White Waltham. If you want to set up a home, it would probably have to be in England, near White Waltham. Are you intending to get married in the near future?”
The pilot shook his head. “No. The colour makes that a bit difficult.”
“I see. Well, anyway, the main base is here.”
David sat in silence. He could think of no good reason for refusing this job, nothing more that he could say to excuse himself. He knew that the vast majority of officers serving in the R.A.A.F. would have jumped at the opportunity and he knew that it was a tremendous compliment that the job had been offered to him
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.”
“I’m not the man in other ways,” David said. “I’ve not got the right background. I’m not like you, or Mr. Macmahon. I couldn’t get alongside the sort of people that you deal with here, in this place.” He glanced around him at the panelled walls, at the leaded casement window. “I started as a grocer’s boy in Townsville.” He struggled to express himself. “I mean, this is a social job, where you’ve got to know what to say to a Duchess, or perhaps even the Queen herself. You want somebody who knows the ropes, and not say the wrong thing and make everybody look stupid.”
“We know what we want,” said Cox. “Leave that to us. The chief thing that we want is an Australian who is verythorough and reliable, and who can take a 316 safely to Australia or any other part of the world practically in his sleep. We’ve been into this with a great deal of care, and our first choice was you.”
“I could find you others who were just as good, born white.”
“We aren’t asking you to find us others,” said Frank Cox. “We’re asking you to take charge of a 316 and train the crew and fly it as required. As for the colour, you can put that out of your mind. We aren’t asking you to marry into the Royal Family.”
David sat in silence. At last he said, “How long would the job be for?”
“Indefinite,” said Cox. “If you take it on, I think you should stay for at least three years. We must have continuity, so that everybody works together as a team.”
“And the main base is here, in England, of course?”
“That’s right,” the Group Captain said. “At White Waltham. We’ve got a hangar at Canberra, at Fairbairn airport, as you probably know. The present plan is that the Monarch intends to spend two months of each year in Australia, and two months in Canada. But the main base is at White Waltham. If you want to set up a home, it would probably have to be in England, near White Waltham. Are you intending to get married in the near future?”
The pilot shook his head. “No. The colour makes that a bit difficult.”
“I see. Well, anyway, the main base is here.”
David sat in silence. He could think of no good reason for refusing this job, nothing more that he could say to excuse himself. He knew that the vast majority of officers serving in the R.A.A.F. would have jumped at the opportunity and he knew that it was a tremendous compliment that the job had been offered to him
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