She said, “I’d love to.”
He took her forward to the cockpit and sat her in the second pilot’s seat. Frank Cox retired aft with the expressed intention of going to sleep, and David sat for an hour or so with Rosemary at the control. He showed her everything, but it was academic instruction in a way, because the aircraft pursued a steady and undeviating course in the control of the automatic pilot. “I’d let you fly it for a bit,” he said, “but the Queen’s asleep, according to the stewardess. We’d better not wake her up by rocking the ship.”
The girl said, “Don’t do that. She’s been looking terribly tired the last two days. I don’t believe she’s been sleeping.”
“She’s asleep now, so Gillian says.”
“I know. Don’t do anything to wake her.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“Charles, I think.”
“What’s he been up to?” She was silent, and then with a sudden intuition he asked, “Doesn’t he want the job?”
“Some thing like that—I don’t know,” she said. “It’s something very serious, whatever it is. We’d better not talk about it, David.”
He grinned at her. “What a bloody nuisance children are! I don’t know why anybody ever has any.”
The girl sat in silence for a minute or two. Then she said, “It’s so awful, David, because she’s such a nice person, herself. If she was arrogant or proud, it’ld be easier in a way, because then one wouldn’t feel so terribly sorry for her. But for such a simple, decent little woman to have these huge responsibilities and difficulties, and all the family troubles mixed up and a part of it … it’s too bad.”
“She was brought up to the job,” he said uncertainly. “It’s not so bad for her as it would be for you or me.”
“I don’t believe that makes a bit of difference, really,” she said. “You can’t train people out of being hurt by things.”
Presently Ryder appeared, to take over the control, and Rosemary went aft to her seat. David lay down on the berth and slept for an hour; when he woke up it was four o’clock and time for afternoon tea. He drank a cup of tea and washed his face, and then went to the navigator’s table and set to work to check up the position. He got a stern bearing from San Diego and a cross bearing from Hawaii and drew a little circle round the intersection on the map, and then took a sun sight with the sextant and worked a line of position. He stood looking at the chart for a few minutes, and worked out an E.T.A. Everything was in order, and he turned to the radio operator. “You should get Christmas pretty soon.”
“I’ve got them now, sir, but not strong enough to take a bearing. I’ll get a bearing in a quarter of an hour, I think.”
“Let’s know what it is when you’ve got it.”
At six-fifteen by Ottawa time the flight deck woke to life. David and Ryder settled into their seats, the flight engineer came to his desk of controls immediately behind them, power was reduced and the machine re-trimmed, and they started to let down towards Christmas Island six hundred miles ahead. The sky was cloudless here, and the sun almost overhead, for it was midday in October practically on the Equator. Below them was the hazy cobalt of the sea, merging to grey mist at the horizon all around.
There was a stir on the flight deck, and David looked round, and the Queen was at his elbow, with the Consort behind her. He half rose in his seat, but she said, “Don’t move, either of you. I can see quite well, standing here.” David sank back into his seat obediently; when climbing or letting down, the Ceres was rather less stable than in cruising trim, and he preferred to stay at the controls with Ryder by his side.
She said, “What a wonderful view you have, Captain. It’s quite the best place in an aeroplane.”
He said, “There’s not very much to look at now, madam.”
“I know,” she said. “There never is when you fly. What sort of a place is Christmas Island, Captain? Have you been there before?”
He said, “It’s just a coral island, rather a big one. I’ve been here several times. It’s got coconut plantations round the lagoon. It’s quite big for one of these coral islands, about fifteen miles long and ten miles wide. The airstrip’s on the north coast.”
She asked, “Do many people live there?”
“Not many,” he replied. “When I was here last there were only about fifty natives on the coconut plantations, and an Australian manager. There’s a District Officer, but he lives at Fanning Island about a hundred and eighty miles away; he comes over now and then. There are generally two officers and about fifteen men of the R.A.A.F. on the airstrip.”
“I’m longing to see it.”
She asked a few questions about the instruments, but they did not mean a great deal to her, and presently she thanked the pilots and turned to go back to her cabin. As she turned, David said, “Would you like to fly a circuit round the island before we land, madam? I could send and tell you when it comes in sight, if you’d like to come up and see it from here. Or I can fly so that you can see it from the cabin window.”
She said, “That’s very kind of you, Captain. I should like to come back here.”
Three quarters of an hour later, at four thousand feet, he asked Frank Cox to tell the Queen that Christmas Island was in sight. She came back to the flight deck and stood between the pilots, staring at the island brilliant in the sun, the emerald and azure tints in the lagoon, the white coral sand. David banked the Ceres round in a wide turn and passed over the airstrip at about a thousand feet. The Queen said, “What a lovely little place! Who lives in the white house by the lagoon, the one with the tennis court?”
“That’s the District Officer’s residence,” David said. “I don’t know if he’s here now—I don’t think he is. I think if he was here we should see his launch in the lagoon, but I don’t see anything like it.”
She stood staring at the island, and while she stood looking David went on turning, so that he made two full circuits before she withdrew her gaze. “It would be wonderful to spend a few days here,” she said quietly. “To have a little time.” She turned to David. “Thank you, Captain. You can go in and land.”
She went back to the cabin, and David flew to the east end of the island with Ryder talking to the control on the radio. He turned over the sea throttling back and trimming for the approach speed of about two hundred knots and came in for a straight approach on the airstrip. Ryder gave half flap and then full flaps, and David motored the Ceres in just above the coconuts and put down on the runway, ten hours out from Ottawa. There was a thatched building with a utility outside it; he turned and taxied over to that while Ryder poked the Royal Standard up through the hatch. Eleven airmen and one officer stood stiffly to attention in front of the building, as a guard of honour.
The engines stopped; the door was opened and a couple of Fijian natives rolled a gangway forward directed by the officer and the steward at the doorway, and the Queen stepped out to receive the salute and to inspect the guard. The rest of the party followed down the gangway, stretching and savouring the earth again, and David turned to the refuelling with his crew. He saw the Queen and the Consort talking to Macmahon and Frank Cox and the local officer. Then they all got into the utility, with the Queen and the Consort in the cab with the local officer, and Frank Cox and Macmahon in the truck-like body behind.
Fuelling was troublesome on Christmas Island. The kerosene was all in forty gallon drums, and nearly a hundred of these had to be pumped into the machine with a small portable motor pump. It was clear that the operation would take several hours, and David was about to send a message to Frank Cox to tell him there would be a long delay when the Group Captain returned and came to David, working in an overall with his crew.
He said, “We’re going to stay here a day or two, Nigger.”
“Thank God for that,” said the pilot. “I was just going to tell you that we can’t take off much before dark, with this pipsqueak pump and all these bloody drums.”
“Well, you can take your time.
We shan’t be going on today. The Queen and the Consort and Macmahon are moving into the District Officer’s house. I’ve fixed up accommodation for the four women in an empty hutment in the camp. You and I, and Ryder, and Dr. Mitchison, go to the mess. The rest go to the camp with the R.A.A.F. bods.”
The pilot stood in silence for a moment, conning over his various duties that required adjustment. The aircraft would be all right, the accommodation seemed to be fixed. “We’ll have to make a lot of signals,” he said. “We’ll have to make them quick. We’re due in Canberra eight hours from now. There’ll be a scream if the Queen’s missing, oh my word.”
“I know. I’ll look after those.”
“What about rations?” asked the pilot. “There’s sixteen—no, seventeen of us. That must double the white population. Is there enough food?”
“The officer here, Flight Lieutenant Vary—he says that’s all right. They’ve got a lot of tinned stuff in reserve.”
David nodded; that was likely at a remote staging post like Christmas Island where crews might be stranded many weeks with a defective aircraft, or where strategic movements might bring many aircrews suddenly. “All right,” he said. “We’d better send all the food we’ve got in the machine up to the District Officer’s house. It’ll be better stuff than R.A.A.F. rations.”
He glanced at the Group Captain. “What’s it all about? Why are we stopping here?”
“I don’t know.” Frank Cox hesitated, and then he said, “She’s got an awful lot on her plate just at present. I think she wants a rest and time to think about things, where she hasn’t got to meet people and put on an act all the time. As soon as she saw this place she wanted to stop here.”
Within a quarter of an hour each member of the party was aware of the change of plan. Most of them welcomed the idea of a couple of days idleness, bathing and sunbathing on a Pacific island; the most delighted people of all were the R.A.A.F. detachment, who were normally stationed upon Christmas Island for nine months at a time and had seen their last aeroplane five months before when a bomber on a training flight had spent a night upon the airstrip. They were bored with sunbathing, bored with football, bored with playing housey-housey; they crowded round the Ceres to examine it and touch it and smell it. They could not do enough to entertain the visitors in their pleasure at new faces and new voices.
David knew Flight-Lieutenant Vary slightly, a fresh faced youth spinning out his time upon the island, only anxious to get back to flying duties. He got his crew fixed up in their accommodation; it was arranged that the four women should take their meals with the officers in the little mess, to the evident pleasure of the officer and the disappointment of the airmen. They met together for the first time for lunch about two hours after landing; the visitors were inclined to be sleepy, and with one accord retired to their beds after the meal, to sleep and drowse away the heat of the day.
The pilot came to life about an hour before sunset and got up, put on a clean tropical suit, and went into the tiny mess room. He found Flight Lieutenant Vary in consultation with the Philippino cook boy, trying to concoct a dinner worthy of the Royal entourage. It was a task that might have daunted a better caterer than Vary, but he was tackling it with enthusiasm. “I thought we’d start off with crayfish mayonnaise,” he said. “We’ve got some tins of crayfish, and some tinned tomatoes, and we’ve got some real lettuces. We’ve killed a couple of chickens and we’ll have those for the main course, with tinned peas and sweet potatoes. And after that, Aguinaldo knows a wizard sweet made of young coconut, icecream, and creme de menthe.”
“Don’t bother to push out the boat for us,” the Wing Commander said. “We’ll eat what you eat normally.”
The boy looked disappointed. “It’s not much trouble,” he said. “I’d like to try and do things properly, for once. It isn’t often that one sees a girl like Gillian Foster in a mess like this. Do you know, she comes from Shepparton—her people have a station there, and I’m from Swan Hill, only a hundred and twenty miles from where she lives. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
It was obviously such a pleasure to him to try and put on a good dinner that David said no more to damp the project, but praised his work. “They’ve got a lot of Chinese lanterns in the store that they bring out for Christmas Day,” Vary said. “I wasn’t here last Christmas, but I’ve seen them. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Rosemary came into the mess with Gillian Foster and they discussed the Chinese lanterns and decided to have one to shroud the naked bulb that dangled above the table on its length of flex. The stewardess went off to the District Officer’s house to see about her duties over there, and as the sun sank to the horizon David and Rosemary walked along the shore at the head of the beach. They laughed a little together about Mr. Vary. “He’s taking this dinner very seriously,” the girl said. “We must show that we enjoy it. He’s going to such a lot of trouble.”
“He’s having a marvellous time,” the pilot said. “I know what it is. I spent six months once on Keeling Cocos Islands, but this one’s worse. I’d never want to have a job like that again.”
They strolled slowly through the grove of casuarina trees that fringed the sand of the lagoon. The lagoon was roughly square in shape. Two coral reefs ran out from the mainland to the north and to the south, covered in sand and coconut trees, and these formed the entrance to the lagoon facing to the west; in the entrance gap was a small coral island. “That’s Cook Island,” said the pilot. “Captain Cook discovered this place on Christmas Eve—that’s why it’s called Christmas Island.” He paused. “You see the two points of land on each side of the entrance? The north one—that one—that’s called London. The other one, the south one, that’s called Paris.”
“Who called them that, Nigger?”
“I don’t know. They’re always called London and Paris. Someone who was stationed here, I suppose.”
“He must have been very lonely,” she said.
“Yes. I dare say he was. It’s bad enough now there’s an airstrip here. It must have been lonely here before.”
They strolled on, and now they were in sight of the District Officer’s house. Strolling towards them were another couple, arm in arm, a tall, slight, grey haired man and a short, plumpish woman in late middle age, both dressed in tropical white. The pilot said, “Look. Had we better go back?”
Rosemary said, “No. Just walk past naturally, Nigger.”
The Queen stopped as they came up and said, “Good evening, Captain. Good evening, Miss Long. Isn’t this a beautiful place?”
“I think it’s simply lovely,” said the girl. The pilot smiled. “I’ve been telling Rosemary about London and Paris, madam,” he said.
“London and Paris?”
He explained the names and the Queen laughed. “How absurd!” She asked about the accommodation. “I do hope everybody’s going to be comfortable,” she said. “I’ve been feeling rather bad about it—the accommodation. It’s all right for us, of course. We’ve got the dearest little house.”
Rosemary said, “I think everybody’s very happy, madam. Everyone I’ve spoken to seems to be enjoying it so far.”
David said, “The R.A.A.F. are perfectly delighted.”
“I am so glad. I wish we could see more of these small places. I don’t think any of my family have ever been here, even when it was British.”
Rosemary asked, “When did it become Australian? I’m afraid I thought up till yesterday that it was British.”
“1961,” the Queen said. “Nine years after I came to the throne. We transferred all the Line Islands to Australia in 1961. It makes a much more sensible arrangement.” She paused, and then she said, “Do either of you two play tennis?”
Rosemary hesitated, and then said, “I’m an awful rabbit.”
“I play a bit,” the pilot said. “For fun.”
“I expect you’re much better than we are,” the Queen replied. “We discovered four tennis racquets in the house. Two of them have got b
roken strings, and they’re all a bit soft; I suppose that’s the climate. Would you two like to come and try a set or two with us tomorrow evening?”
“We’d love to,” said Rosemary.
“Oh, that will be nice. Say about half past four. That will give us about an hour and a half before sunset. I always think that one should try and take some exercise each day when one is in the tropics. But it’s so seldom possible to do it.”
They parted, and strolled on in different directions. For a time David and Rosemary walked together in silence. “She’s such a human little woman,” the girl said at last. “It’s bad luck, having a job like hers.”
In the dusk they turned and walked back to the mess. Dinner was arranged for seven o’clock in order that Gillian Foster could get over to the District Officer’s house to help to serve the meal there at eight o’clock. It was a very merry dinner in the mess, with Australian sherry, Australian claret, and Australian port. Under the Chinese lantern the thick plates and the service cutlery looked almost delicate, and the crayfish mayonnaise made by the Philippino boy was delicious, if rather heavily spiced to hide the slight metallic taste. Rosemary said crayfish disagreed with her, and didn’t have any. They drank the health of the Queen with more sincerity, perhaps, than usual in a mess, and then Frank Cox proposed the health of the Mess President for the good dinner. There was nothing much to do after they had finished eating except to sit out on the verandah and talk, looking out over the lagoon in the bright moonlight. Everyone was tired with the long day and the flight from Ottawa; one by one they made excuse and slipped away. By half past nine David was in bed.
In the middle of the night the pilot had a horrible dream.
He dreamed that he was dying. It seemed to him that he was lying on a bed in a dark room, and he was very cold and sweating at the same time. He had an appalling, tearing pain in his abdomen and his legs seemed to be paralysed, and everything about him stank. His body stank of stale sweat, the bed stank of dirty linen, and there was a vile, unnatural flavour in his mouth and nose. He knew in some way that this disgusting fragrance could relieve his pain and he struggled feebly to move his hands to renew it, but no motion came to his muscles. He knew that whiskey hot and burning in his throat would ease the pain and quench the filthy stink that he was lying in, and he struggled to ask for whiskey, but no sound would come, for he was practically dead.