The German Numbers Woman

by Alan Sillitoe

  He shook the vision away, to mull on their present expedition. At this stage it seemed that getting back to England with such a huge pick-up would need a miracle to bring it off, though the collective intention was there and the fires of greed burned in them like the best of true Britons.

  Steadying the wheel, he couldn’t stop dwelling on Laura’s resplendent body, while the enveloping green drek tumbled around the boat slapping its way on a steady two-o-five for land at the end of the world. He would like to spend some of his money on living with her, rent a house in the farthest north of Scotland (as far as they could get away from Howard) where they would fuck themselves out for as long as it took. A mad plan to dote on, yet the prospect wouldn’t go away. Better to steer through dangerous shoals with lots to think about, or be anxious at the boat getting lost in empty watery space, the mind only fixed on survival.

  More was unknown about the journey than any set out on before. Yet he was relaxed, intrigued on getting at part of himself which damped both hope or anxiety, and brought a peace of mind he entirely trusted, heading into such thoughts as easily as the boat was chopping a way through the drizzle and darkness.

  Sometime after breakfast Ted Killisick shook Richard out of his dreams. He had gone to sleep wanting to piss and, unwilling to get up and go to the heads, had experienced a different intensity of dream than when he’d had a little to drink before going to bed and didn’t need to do so. Dreams induced by a full and irritated bladder were deeper and more turgid on the pictorial front, yet harder to grasp and impossible to recollect on waking. When not aware of needing to piss he hardly dreamed, or the dreams were so shallow there was more chance of recalling the tail end of one, though being so close to the surface there was little enough worth noting. He saw Ted’s grinning face. ‘What the hell is it?’

  ‘Waistcoat wants to see you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He’s raving about old Blind Pugh. I think he’s going mad.’

  Back from the heads, he knocked at the door and went into Waistcoat’s cabin. The chintzy bed had been made, a button-eyed teddy bear wearing a sailor’s hat lying across the fluffed-up pillows. Waistcoat held onto the side rail of his desk. He seemed about to jump up and down, not only hit the ceiling but crash through the superstructure and up into the inclement sky. The hard features of a drug boat master had taken away that superficial resemblance to an eminent Harley Street surgeon. A line of blood showed from the shaving cut on his cheek. He was halfway into his blue and white padded anorak. ‘That fucking radio wizard you brought on board is stone blind.’

  ‘He looks it, I know, but he had a few over the odds yesterday. Once he hits the bottle it’s hard to get him off.’

  ‘He must have drunk the fucking Thames, then.’

  ‘Should be all right soon.’

  ‘Listen, don’t fuck with me. You’re lying. He’s been blind since birth, you stupid bog-nosed swivel-eyed get. Blinder than the blindest fucking bat, the way he wiggled his eyelids at me. How did you put him onto us? I mean, it’s a nightmare. He’ll do for us. We’ll get three hundred fucking years apiece.’

  Richard, split between amusement and wrath, let the force-nine gale wash over him, pulled back his years as a ship’s officer so as to stay cool, no twitch or smile or alteration to his face, a stance that never failed. This, however, was a hard one. He had never seen Waistcoat’s hand tremble, which did as he lit his usual slim cigar. Maybe something other than Howard’s blindness had boiled him up, though impossible to guess what it might be. ‘I told you in London why he had to come with us, and you agreed.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me he was fucking blind.’

  ‘I didn’t think it mattered.’

  ‘Mattered? On a boat like this? I can’t believe it. Do you think it’s a floating St Dunstan’s?’

  ‘We brought him because of what he knows. We did the only sensible thing. Apart from that he’s an ace radio man, the best I’ve known, and we’re lucky to get him. His ears are sharper than those of anybody who can see. He’ll be a godsend when we get close. Blind operators aren’t rare in full employment. Half those on the coast stations were blind at one time. Another thing is that from our point of view he’ll see nothing of what goes on. In that respect we couldn’t have a better man. He can take my place at the radio, so that I’ll be more use on board. Another thing is you won’t have to pay him like the rest of us, maybe just a bit of bonus for a handout when we get back. You’ll have a lot to thank me for when it’s over. And when it comes to getting back, with the danger of us being intercepted, he’ll be very useful indeed.’

  Waistcoat must have been a neat man in a cell. He tapped his ash carefully into the silver tray, its handle the debonair figure of Sir Walter Raleigh wearing cap and sword. ‘You’re either the cleverest man on my books, or you’ve got more than one fucking screw loose. I can only hope for your sake that you’re clever.’

  Richard sensed a little cooling down. ‘You had a crew of six, and now we have seven. Could prove lucky.’

  ‘Well, I’m not superstitious. I got rid of that crap long ago’ – though Richard noticed his glance at the teddy bear. ‘Just make sure he don’t fall overboard, that’s all I say.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘A fucking blind man!’

  ‘Is that all you wanted to see me for?’

  ‘Yes, piss off.’

  Glad to go, but Waistcoat called him back. ‘Did you hear that Nimrod this morning?’

  ‘I was getting some shut-eye.’

  ‘He buzzed us.’

  ‘They always do. They like to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s all it is.’

  ‘They buzz everybody. He took some pretty pictures, I expect. We didn’t sign out with the coastguards?’

  ‘None of your fucking business.’

  He was sure they hadn’t. ‘Everything’s as normal, then. It’s the last they’ll see of us, dead on course for Spain they’ll think, to stock up on fags and brandy.’

  Waistcoat looked troubled. ‘The French’ll be looking at our number plate next.’

  ‘They’ll be none the wiser.’

  Waistcoat came as near to a compliment as he could get. ‘Not a bad manoeuvre of yours though, to alter course before Finisterre. As long as we don’t run out of fuel fifty miles off land. We’d look a right lot of charlies paddling into harbour with our passports. It might have been possible at one time, when they were stiffbacked, but now they’re like fucking laundry books.’

  Richard arranged a chuckle. ‘Yeh, a real come down. But don’t worry about that, Chief. It’s part of my business, to think,’ he said before going out.

  Eleven at night, when all lights were off and they were halfway across Biscay, they’d change direction and go due west until eight in the morning, well out of Spanish surveillance. From then on it would be a straight course for the Azores. It had been Cleaver’s plan as much as his, but compliments from Waistcoat never came amiss.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The sea was losing its bumps, and his lack of sleep led him to think the air was warmer. He scrounged a coffee from the galley, and found Howard looking – if that could be the word – astern, as if to see the last of England, and wonder what Laura was up to. I should know. She’d be mooning about us both, Richard supposed. Take her off to Scotland I will, and when we’ve done all there is to be done and I can’t stand the sight of her stern and lovely face I’ll kick her out. Meanwhile I’ll cherish the memory and, damn, love her as well.

  ‘I hear you had a hard time with the chief?’

  ‘He gave me hell, but I think it’s going to be all right.’ Howard’s head went back as he laughed. ‘I heard a croak or two, and lots of swearing. His face was right up to mine. I thought he was going to punch me, so I got ready to give him a bigger one back. But he pulled off, and I heard a door slam. I can’t think why he should be so upset, except maybe he should have been told already.’

  ‘D
id you eat a good breakfast?’

  ‘Eggs, sausages, tomatoes and fried bread. Luckily, just before the chief came in.’

  ‘Killisick’s good at that sort of thing. But if I’d told Waistcoat before, you might not have been here.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t have done at all.’

  Not difficult to know what he meant. ‘Did you hear the plane go over?’

  ‘Couldn’t miss. Four Rolls-Royce engines. A very healthy sound. Nostalgic, as well. It brought back the old flying days with a vengeance. RAF on reconnaissance. I can never forget the sound of the Lancaster’s engines, either. They were a bit cruder then, had quite a roar when taking us off down the runway with a full bomb load. Merlins they were.’ He turned his face towards Richard. ‘Do you think the Nimrod was following us?’

  ‘No, just routine. They usually like to keep an eye on people like us. Think we’re a bloody U-Boat, I suppose.’

  Howard wondered whether they were being tracked because of his morse letter. ‘I gave them a wave.’

  ‘You must have made their day.’

  ‘Maybe they sent our position back to base, wherever that can be. They have air signallers on board, as I recall. Unless they just store it in their computers.’

  Such talk brought back what Richard regarded as a normal edginess, after his calm spell on the bridge. Real life, and none the worse for it. ‘If you’re feeling fit I’ll show you the chart room where we keep the communications gear. It’s never too early for a spot of listening. See what you can get. There’s a portable typewriter to take down the weather from Portishead. You’ll be just in time.’

  Space was cramped, and he sat side on to the table to find room for his knees. Richard explained the mechanics of the equipment, and Howard’s fingers went over the various facias to get an identikit picture of each, almost as if they were human features, hoping his particular languishing at the transmitters wasn’t too obvious. Richard tuned in to Portishead. ‘I’ll go over it with you this afternoon, to make sure you’ve got it. And once more tomorrow, if you like.’

  Howard unlocked the manual typewriter, easy enough to use because of the standard keyboard. The pitch of the boat made it more difficult than on shore, though he hadn’t expected to work on a millpond. He turned out a creditable text nevertheless. ‘I’ll be word perfect in a day or two.’

  ‘You can get this afternoon’s weather as well, and between times see what else you can pick up. Best to show your face as little as possible. Keep out of the chief’s way, unless you hear something good on the air, though if you do, call me first. I shan’t be far away.’

  Nothing except mush on most bands, the loudest reception from coastguards on the Biscay shore, or odd-bods on medium wave wanting berths at various ports. He took a break, to breathe the ozone, sensing more than four thousand metres of water under the keel, the sea slightly rougher but no longer bothering him. Back inside, the cramped space reminded him of the wireless position in the Lancaster, when times had been good. The German Numbers Woman, an old friend from far away, came through with the same schoolteacher tone, though he wasn’t able to make out every individual cypher. She was concerned for him, warning him that he must look out for his wellbeing. Though her support was only spiritual, he liked it nasalling into his earphones.

  He cut her off, clicked back to long wave, and got a bearing from LEC at Stavanger. ‘Not much use, though it shows we’re more or less on course,’ Richard said. Consol was a German wartime direction-finding system, called Sonne, to give U-Boats their position in mid-Atlantic, and the Allies kept it on after the war, though it could be far from accurate near coasts and at night. On the other hand it was simple to use, and useful at times. Picking up Lugo or Seville as well would give cross-bearings for a reasonable fix. George Cleaver did more than all right with his sextant, unless cloud cover foxed him, then Howard would get the azimuth of a beacon, fingers already making out numbers on the direction finder. Navigation, with variable conditions, could be a bit of a mix: dead reckoning, radio, astro, which between them tied things up more or less satisfactorily.

  He was starting to feel at home, doing what his temperament might have kept him at had it not been for the cannon shell over Essen. This time a similar missile was already lodged on board, embedded in himself, waiting for a different sort of explosion, a tension not too difficult to live with.

  Cleaver put down his cucumber sandwich, and took the Consol bearing for plotting. ‘Whatever you get, I’ll have. Never turned up my nose at anything, except a Chinese breakfast.’

  Howard edged away so that he could write up the log. ‘Have you ever had one?’

  ‘Not so far, but you never know.’ He tapped the chart with his finger. ‘The bearing tallies. You’re earning your keep. It’s all the same to me whether you’re blind or not. I don’t suppose the rest of us can see very far, anyway. It might turn out just as well if we can’t. Richard told me you were a wizard at the radio.’

  ‘I do my best.’

  ‘The more boffins on board the better.’ He climbed back on deck. ‘Never say die, that’s what I say.’

  Afloat as a member of the crew was like being one of eight, as in the good old days in an aeroplane, all gung-ho for the target a few nights ahead. He wanted the pleasure of a stroll on deck, enjoying his new found medium, but knew he must show willing and keep the earphones clamped. He searched eleven megacycles for news from aeroplanes in either morse or voice but found nothing, the same on other wavelengths that had been so promising at home. Like a superfluous cabin boy, he had been given something to do, to keep him out of the way, whatever was said or thought, while Waistcoat regarded him as a hostage because he knew too much. The shade of fear was wiped away by Lisbon coming in loud and clear on charlie whisky – which a cabin boy certainly wouldn’t be able to copy. ‘I’m disappointed at not getting a squeak out of the Azores.’

  ‘You will.’ Richard led him to the stern for a rush of clean air from the west. ‘You’ll pick up stuff soon enough. Best to savour the cruise while you can.’ Birds pursued the boat, hoping for snacks. One was wounded, or weak, and slid into a stall over the mast, followed with head swinging side to side as if trying to talk. ‘We’ll have one on board soon. We usually do about this time.’

  ‘That’ll make nine of us,’ Howard said, ‘instead of eight.’ He leaned as if to put a hand in the water but the green line slid down again.

  ‘Don’t get too close.’ Richard drew him back. The temptation to do evil needed wrestling with. Or was the frisson merely out of concern for his safety? Hard to know, too lazy to work it out. A man must be given a chance. ‘Even an old deckhand goes overboard now and again.’

  ‘I’m firmer on my feet than you might think. I’ve got my sea legs already.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. But don’t frighten me or you’ll have to wear a life vest whenever you come on deck. We all should, by rights, but it’s a big boat, as boats go, and it’s not really rough yet, believe it or not. They’ll be handing out lunch any minute, so follow in my wake. Ted promised hamburger steaks with all the trimmings, which means spuds and carrots, and apple charlotte to follow. Better than hard tack and a bit of old raincoat. He’s a dab hand as a cook.’

  The domestic provision satisfied him, everything found and a bunk to get his head down, he and the blankets slowly drying. He stood in line as if others were also blind, recalling a framed print in his father’s study of men made sightless by poison gas in the Great War. Richard shuffled from behind, Scud and Cinnakle in front, no queue at all, though Richard’s hand on his shoulder steadied him as the deck came up and space opened under his feet. The side wind sent them swinging, gave a spiteful push, force four weather though sea and sky were blue.

  He had thought that once on board, and with sea-sickness gone, the joy of being alive would come back, and so it had but eating with such appetite made him afraid to ask for more in case he mistakenly overstuffed. He found a seat on deck, head clear, praying his stomach would take ca
re of him, gazing at space between boat and horizon, little enough to lock onto even if he’d been able to see. The wind, and an occasional warm sun on his cheeks, and maybe a gull now and again resting on the undulations, told him all that was visible.

  Richard came from the bridge and put a flask of brandy into his hand. ‘I feel the same. It takes three days for the system to settle down, unless there’s some action, when it has to right away. Take a suck at this. It’ll work wonders. Three-star Napoleon. Only the best is good enough.’

  ‘I couldn’t disagree with that.’ He controlled his shaking hand, clamped the glass spout to his mouth, and took a flame-like swig. ‘You’re well equipped.’

  ‘A tot or two of this brew’s saved my bacon more than once.’

  ‘Is there plenty on board?’

  ‘Never fear,’ he laughed. ‘Enough to take us to Doomsday City and three times back. Just ask Ted Killisick, if you feel the need. He keeps it under lock and key, but hands it out to whoever puts a good case, which is to say you don’t need a lawyer to blab it out. All duty-free. He’s got everything from mineral water to Warrington moonshine. When we get back to Blighty we’ll be guzzling champagne by the bucket. Looks like you’ve got a visitor.’

  A weight tapped his forearm, bare below the line of his short-sleeved sweatshirt. ‘It must be a bird.’

  ‘A racing pigeon,’ Richard said. ‘It’s dull and dirty grey, but it’s looking at you as if you’re his saviour. Half starved, it seems. It was just about to hit the water and go under when it spotted this plump white arm at the rail and thought it would take a chance on sanctuary. They do that now and again. There must be something halfway human in them to come to the likes of us for help. Unless they want a bit of company before going into the pigeon version of the great unknown.’