The Good Pilot, Peter Woodhouse

  She would have to tell Annie – if she did not already know. No, she must know; she must. She had been able to work out what was going on and had said that it was all right with her. She had said that, hadn’t she? She had said it’s different in wartime, and she had been right. She probably knew that there was always a chance of this sort of thing happening. She must know that, being a postmistress and seeing all the things that postmistresses saw.

  In the event, Annie did know. She had not said anything about Val’s going to the doctor, because there would be only one reason why she needed to do that. A fit young woman like her – strong as an ox, with all that farm work – eating a good, healthy diet with those extra eggs and the milk that Willy brought back, cream sometimes; you would be healthy with all that and being nineteen too, twenty next month.

  She called Annie out of the post office. There was nobody in at the time, and Annie came back to the kitchen to talk to her. “Well,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  She did not answer immediately, and Annie came towards her. She took her in her arms. “Dearie, you know that I love you very much. If this is what has happened, it’s because of the war – everything’s because of the war.” Annie paused. “What did he say? Did he say that you are?”

  She nodded her head. “But he can’t say definitely yet. He says I should go back in a few weeks.”

  Annie patted her gently, as one would a child. “Dearie, that’s all right. I’ll look after you – and the baby. You mustn’t worry.”

  She told Annie about the almoner at the hospital, who was apparently the person to go to for advice. Annie shook her head. “That Mrs Knight is a gossip. I wouldn’t tell her what time it was unless I didn’t mind the whole world knowing. We’ll find somebody else.”

  Val thought of something. “We’ll have to tell Willy,” she said. “Eventually. He’ll . . . well, he’ll see, won’t he?”

  “All in good time,” said Annie. “No sense in getting Willy upset over anything just yet.”

  She considered this. ‘No,” she said. “I want to tell him earlier rather than later. It’ll give him time to get used to it. You know how he is. He doesn’t always understand things at first.”

  She started to cry, and Annie held her to her. Neither said anything for a few minutes. Then Annie said, “You’re a good girl, Val. You’ve done everything right. You’ve worked hard. You made a good man happy. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of – nothing at all.”

  ❖ 14 ❖

  He was a Feldwebel, a corporal, and was the second most senior soldier in the small unit posted in the town. The most senior was an Oberfeldwebel, a thin-faced man from Hamburg whom none of the men liked, and who was both lazy and unpredictable. The Feldwebel was called Karl Dietrich, but was known, for some reason, as Ubi. He was from Berlin and had recently turned twenty-two.

  Ubi hated the war. He had joined up at seventeen under pressure from a threatening youth leader, who said he would denounce him for disloyalty if he failed to enlist. His father had tried to dissuade him, but he had been away when Ubi made the decision and on his return it was too late. He himself, a union leader, was already under suspicion and any suggestion that he had stopped his son from serving would have resulted in his arrest. Ubi had hated every moment of his training and had seriously considered desertion, but had been warned of the consequences by a close friend, a fellow infantryman, who had had the misfortune to have been detailed to serve in a firing squad.

  The friend had said, “I’ll never forget it. Never. I was sick over my rifle, over my boots, over everything.”

  His posting to Holland had saved him from being sent to the east, and once he was there the army seemed largely to have forgotten about him, to his great relief. He served in a number of small occupying garrisons, this last one being an ideal post for him because nothing much happened. There were regular searches, of course, and the occasional arrest. But for the most part they left the Dutch to get on with their lives provided they did nothing overt. They knew they were hiding people – all sorts of people, apparently – but in his view that was their business. The people they were hiding were small fry: undocumented foreigners, criminals on the run from somewhere, Jews. Ubi had nothing against Jews and could not understand the obsession of people like the Oberfeldwebel, who ranted about the bankers he said had brought Germany to her knees before their machinations had been exposed.

  The only drawback to this posting, he felt, was the Oberfeldwebel himself. The locals were far too passive a bunch to do anything hostile, such as mount an ambush or blow something up; he rather liked them, with their slow, rather rustic ways and their guttural speech. He had even learned their language, since he had a good ear for these things, and it relieved the monotony to be able to talk to people in the street. If you spoke to them in Dutch, some of them could be quite friendly, although you always had those looks from others. The looks were hard to define: if they had been accompanied by a hostile gesture, then you could arrest the offender, but if they just looked it was harder to do anything about it.

  “If anybody spits at you,” advised the Oberfeldwebel, “bring him in. Spit is a weapon, especially in the mouth of a Dutchman. He’ll regret it.”

  The Oberfeldwebel’s laziness at least meant that Ubi and his men were able to get on with their duties as they saw fit, which was with a lack of enthusiasm and a discretion that ensured they encountered little trouble. They made sure that their patrols were on the periphery of their allotted territory, so that neighbouring commanders should see them and assume a high level of activity on their part. This worked, and no attempts were made to relocate them to more hazardous posts. With any luck, Ubi thought, they might spend the rest of the war exactly where they were. How the war would end was something he did not care to dwell upon: when first he joined up he had assumed the invincibility of Germany; then had come North Africa and Italy and now the landings in Normandy. Germany would make peace, he hoped, and everyone could go home honourably; or, and this he feared was more likely, they would be hounded and pursued to the end. That man was mad, with all his ranting and raving, and his disastrous foray into the mud and snow of the Ukraine; he would carry on with his delusions until the Russians and Americans overran him and Germany ceased to exist. He dreamed of Russian soldiers – vague, shadowy figures who looked at him from encircling darkness and then slipped away, vanished, when he tried to confront them. In his dreams, death came as a wakening up, and he found himself coming to, sweating and uncomfortable, in his shared room with the shape of the two other men under their blankets a few feet away, enduring, for all he knew, their own nocturnal demons.

  Ubi had got to know Henrik, who was in their building several times a day, attending to blocked drains and matters of that sort. He was paid for two hours of work a day, but he seemed to spend more time than that there, which suited the men as he would also make coffee, bake bread, and keep the kitchen neat and tidy for the Oberfeldwebel who, in spite of his laziness, was particular about cleanliness.

  When Ubi called at Henrik’s house eight days after the arrival of Mike and the navigator, Henrik assumed that the visit had something to do with his duties at the garrison building. He had started to paint one of the barrack rooms, as the Germans had somehow got hold of several tins of paint – stolen them, he imagined – and he had started but not finished the job the previous day.

  Henrik knew that the two airmen were in the attic and that they were careful about making no noise, and so he was not too concerned. But then he remembered something: Peter Woodhouse was sleeping on the mat in front of the kitchen range and it was into the kitchen that he had invited Ubi.

  It was too late to do anything – Ubi had seen the dog.

  “So, Henrik, you have a dog. You never told me that.”

  Henrik tried to smile. “Oh, that dog. He belongs to a friend . . . a friend who’s ill and can’t look after him.”

  Ubi nodded. “That’s why it’s useful to have friends,” he
said. “They can help you out when you’re in a spot.”

  “Very true,” said Henrik. “Keep your friends happy – you never know when you’ll need them.”

  Ubi crossed the room to stand over Peter Woodhouse. Then he bent down to stroke the dog’s coat. “He looks a bit thin,” he said. “But then I suppose these are hard times for dogs as well as people.”

  “He likes fish,” said Henrik hurriedly. “I catch fish for him from time to time. It’s fine, as long as I take all the bones out.”

  “Bones,” said Ubi. “Have you ever tried eating pike? Those bones they have! Like arrowheads.”

  “Good flesh, though,” said Henrik. He was watching Ubi as he stroked Peter Woodhouse. He saw the collar, and he turned cold inside. The collar: the most basic mistake imaginable, and they had made it. With all their care, with all their insistence on anonymity and silence and doing things by night – in spite of all that, they had forgotten his collar.

  Ubi was looking at the collar now, squinting to read the words burned into the leather. This, thought Henrik, is how death comes: through a little thing, in slow motion, while people are having dinner and walking in the street and the wildfowl on the river are drifting with the stream; this is how death comes.

  Ubi read the name. “Peter Woodhouse,” he said. “How do you people spell Peter, Henrik? Isn’t it with an i – Pieter?”

  He twisted the collar round so that he could see the rest of the inscription. At first he said nothing, then he said, “An American dog! Well, that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  Henrik had been thinking. “Oh, somebody gave that collar to my friend. He got hold of it in Amsterdam. It must be a leftover from something – heaven knows what. But it fits him, and so we’ve left it on.”

  Ubi was looking at him with a strange expression. Henrik swallowed. If he were handed over to the Gestapo, would he be able to bear the torture? He doubted it: younger, stronger men than he gave in, within minutes sometimes. Anything to end the pain, they said.

  Ubi came back across the room so that he was now standing close to Henrik.

  “I believe I should search your house, Henrik,” he said. “We haven’t searched you yet, have we?”

  Henrik shook his head mutely.

  “And why should we?” continued Ubi. “What need is there to search our friends?”

  Henrik said nothing. He saw that Ubi had his pistol on his belt. He could hit him over the head or push him down the stairs or something, he thought; but no, he could not. Ubi was well built and would overpower him effortlessly, even without having to shoot him.

  “Shall we go upstairs?” asked Ubi. “There’s obviously nothing down here – apart from our friend over there.”

  He had no alternative but to accompany Ubi up the stairs. He waited while Ubi looked in the three rooms on the floor above, opening cupboards and glancing under beds.

  “I’m sure I’ll find nothing,” Ubi said. “This is just a formality, Henrik.”

  He looked up at the ceiling. He noticed the small stepladder left against the wall.

  “An attic?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Henrik, raising his voice. “An attic.”

  Ubi frowned. “Why so loud, Henrik?” He looked up at the ceiling. Then he fixed Henrik with a stare. He knows. He knows.

  Ubi pointed to the trapdoor. Then he leaned close to Henrik and whispered, “Guests, Henrik?”

  Henrik froze. He opened his mouth to say something, but he could not find the breath, or the words.

  Ubi continued to whisper. “Listen very carefully, Henrik, my friend. I can do one of two things: I can fire my pistol through the window, which will alert the garrison and they’ll be here in less than a minute, or – and this is what I’d much prefer – you invite your guests to come down and say hello in the proper manner.” He paused. “That keeps all this just between ourselves.”

  Henrik made his decision. Reaching for the stepladder, he placed it underneath the trapdoor and climbed its few steps to the top. Then he pushed the trapdoor open and called out in his limited English, “Come, now.”

  They complied.

  Ubi looked at the two men standing before him. He had drawn his pistol, and they were looking at it nervously. He turned to Henrik and asked him who the men were.

  “American airmen,” said Henrik. The blame must be his alone: he must try to convince them of that, then only one person would die. “My family doesn’t know about them – just me.”

  Ubi smiled. “Oh yes? Well, of course not. I don’t suppose they speak Dutch or German, do they?”

  “No,” said Henrik.

  “Pity,” said Ubi, replacing his pistol in its holster. “Because I would like to ask them if I could bring them some food. They must be hungry.”

  Henrik stared at the soldier. “You’d do that?” he stuttered, his voice breaking with emotion.

  “Yes, I would.” He shrugged. “How much longer is this war going to go on? One month? Six months? Who can tell, but why should more men die?” He looked down at Henrik with what appeared to be fondness. “We’re not going to win, yet if I took these men in we would shoot you and your son, and your daughter-in-law, and who wants that?”

  Henrik said nothing. Then he turned to Mike and pointed at Ubi. Then he pointed at his own heart, twice, and placed his finger against his lips. It was the only way he could think of saying what he could not say.

  He waited to see if they understood. They did. Mike reached forward, offering a hand to Ubi, who shook it, smiling as he did so.

  Ubi said to Henrik, “Nobody knows about this, Henrik. Understand?”

  Henrik nodded. “Except God,” he said.

  ❖ 15 ❖

  Val spoke to Willy the day after her visit to the doctor’s surgery. It was in the evening, and the two of them were alone in the house, Annie having gone out for a meeting of her wool group. They unravelled old woollen garments, rolling up the wool for re-use, and exchanged news as they did so. It was, Val had suggested, the clearing house for local gossip – and now, she realised, she would be of prime interest in that respect: talked about, disapproved of, the moment her aunt left the circle.

  Willy was doing the washing up when she spoke to him. He liked to scrub the pots energetically, priding himself on making them gleam.

  “I’ve something to tell you, Willy,” she began.

  He continued with his task. “This one’s getting old. Metal’s thin.”

  “That’s because you scrub it too hard.” She paused. “Are you listening to me, Willy? It’s something important.”

  “I can listen and do this at the same time.”

  She waited a moment. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  He laid the pot down on the sink and turned to face her. “You? You’re going to have a baby?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Not for some time yet, and the doctor hasn’t said definitely. But I think so.”

  She heard his breath coming in short spurts. “Why?” His voice was strained.

  “Well, I just am. I’m going to have a baby.”

  His eyes were wide. “But you’re not married.”

  “No, but you can still have babies if you’re not married.”

  This took a little while to sink in. “I know about all that,” he said. “You been doing all that with him? Even you?”

  She lowered her eyes. “Even me, Willy. Yes. Since you ask.”

  “And now he’s dead,” muttered Willy. “So what are people going to say?”

  She was prepared for this. Willy, for all his innocence, was acutely aware of what people might say. That came, she imagined, from having been laughed at by others; you became sensitive to their sneers. “I don’t care what people say.” She did, of course.

  Willy sat down. “But you can’t have people talking about you. You can’t have that. Talking. Laughing. Pointing their finger and saying she’s got no husband, but there’s a baby, you know. You can’t have that.”

  “People always talk, Wi
lly. You have to live with it. Let them talk.” She paused, the old rhyme from childhood returning – the playground mantra of the bullied: Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. She recited it now to Willy.

  “Words can hurt,” he said. “They can.”

  “Well, there’s far worse things going on,” she said.

  He became silent. She watched him, the mental effort of whatever he was thinking about writ large on his face.

  “I could marry you,” he said at last. “I’ll marry you and then it’ll be all right.”

  She held him in her gaze. She realised that he meant it; that this was no idle offer, this was a proposal.

  “But Willy . . .”

  “Cousins can marry. Lots of cousins marry.”

  She shook her head. “Not lots, Willy. Sometimes maybe . . . And anyway, we aren’t proper cousins. We’re what they call connected . . .”

  “And there ain’t nothing wrong with it. You can have a proper church wedding and all.”

  “Oh, Willy . . .”

  “And it would mean that I’d be your baby’s dad. A baby needs a dad. He needs somebody to help him.”

  She knew she had to stop him before he went any further.

  She looked for a reason that he would understand. “I can’t marry you, Willy. I can’t do that because you marry people you love – and we aren’t in love, are we? I like you, I like you very much, but you aren’t in love with me and I’m not in love with you. That means we can’t get married.”

  He said nothing.

  She spoke hurriedly, putting the matter beyond further discussion. “So while I’m really grateful to you for the offer – and it’s a kind idea, really it is – we just can’t get married.” She paused. “So, soon enough I’ll make up my mind about what I’m going to do – I’ll probably go away somewhere – and then I’ll tell you. You can come and visit me.”