The Dearest and the Best

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Oh, will it?’ she said dubiously. The rain was beginning again. He was already hurrying to the plane. He walked surely along the wing and she saw him lean towards the open cockpit. She felt her heart sounding against her chest. He straightened and returned through the gloom carrying two bulky packs.

  ‘One for us,’ he smiled, ‘and poor Alfred will give his to the horse.’ He stood in the thickening rain holding the packs, one in each hand. Seriously he continued: ‘But if you want we can have different tents. One for the prisoner and one for the brave lady.’

  ‘That’s just silly,’ Bess said with more conviction than she felt. ‘Sitting in two tents. Ridiculous. These things don’t matter in wartime. Give one to Merlin.’

  ‘Ha, Merlin,’ nodded the German. ‘He will be happy.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘He might take a bite out of you. And then you’d report me to the Red Cross.’

  ‘Bad treatment for a prisoner,’ he agreed with a smile. He began to pull the silver parachute from its bag, dragging it clear and spreading the silk on the ground. The rain was steady now. It was running down his forehead.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘You get the other one out. Otherwise we’ll be soaked through.’ She further unfolded the silk and dragged it like a train towards the worried-looking horse. She took off the saddle and put it on the ground. ‘There,’ she said, spreading it over the animal’s back and head. She tied it by the cords, like a bonnet, below the horse’s neck. He remained passive. ‘Right-o,’ she murmured when she had covered him. ‘You look like a real wizard now, Merlin. Say thank you to the nice Kraut.’

  She turned and saw that the German was attempting to arrange the other parachute over the low branches of the scruffy trees. Her fear had almost evaporated now and she went forward to help him. ‘Merlin says thank you,’ she said. ‘He appreciates the thought.’

  As she saw him making the tent her apprehension returned. It would be very enclosed in there. ‘It’s very small,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘We have some for us,’ he said patting his backside. ‘For us to lie on.’

  ‘Sit on,’ she corrected firmly, hearing her voice rise embarrassingly. ‘We will be sitting up.’

  He grinned. ‘It is right. But, lady, if you are not wanting this way then we must take the parachute from the horse. Then we can sit in our different houses and talk like people do over the walls.’

  Bess grinned at his frankness. ‘Oh, all right. I’m sorry. But you must admit this situation is very peculiar.’

  He shone the torch pointing it up from below his chin. It gave his face deep shadows. ‘I have told you that I am a Luftwaffe officer,’ he repeated with almost comic solemnity. ‘And that is I am also a gentleman. Do not be afraid.’

  He lifted the hem of the parachute and with not entirely mock courtesy waved his arm for her to enter. The rain was thickening. ‘You first,’ she said. He bowed and crawled beneath the silk. She bit her lip, then, knowing she was getting soaked, her hair was wringing, she crawled in after him. They sat upright, awkwardly, in the torchlight. The rain clattered on the trees and onto the flapping parachute. ‘I think I should sit near the door,’ she said as if she owed him an explanation. She moved the material that formed the entrance through which she had just crawled.

  ‘I am the prisoner,’ the young man agreed amiably. He lifted up the hem at his end of the tent. ‘But there is a door this way also.’

  She laughed. ‘This whole thing is mad,’ she said.

  ‘There is much madness in the world,’ he agreed. He fumbled beneath his flying jacket and she watched nervously but he only produced a bottle. ‘Schnapps,’ he said. ‘The best. We have it in the plane for times like now.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said tentatively. ‘I’ve never tasted that.’

  ‘It is good,’ he assured her. ‘Schnapps is good for warmth.’

  ‘You’re going to drink it now?’ she asked nervously. ‘Why don’t you keep it for later.’ She knew she was sounding desperate. ‘For the prison camp.’

  He laughed and patted her arm, a touch without threat. ‘I think we drink some now, for the coldness.’ He poured a measure into the cap of the bottle and offered it to her. She made to sip it but he said: ‘It is better to take at once. It is bad for the lips.’ He made a swigging motion with his hand.

  She took the cap and bravely did as he said. The liquid blazed down her throat, searing the inside of her chest and landing in her stomach. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she spluttered. She coughed and after a hesitation he patted her back in a cordial manner.

  ‘It is good,’ he repeated practically, ‘for keeping warm.’ He poured and took a gulp himself, smiling afterwards. ‘Another?’ he suggested. They both drank again. Then he put the cap on the bottle.

  ‘You’re going to stop now?’ she inquired.

  His fair eyebrows went up. ‘You would like?’

  ‘Well, just a sip, well, a swallow, if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course.’ He poured the liquid into the cap. ‘Perhaps only half?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, you’d better make it half. I wouldn’t want to rob you.’

  They each had another drink. He recapped the bottle and they sat there in the torchlight, the rain vibrating on the silk. An odd delayed embarrassment came over them, a retarded shyness. Eventually Bess said: ‘In circumstances like this the English always sing.’

  ‘Germans also are singers,’ he claimed. ‘We have songs for every happy thing and every unhappy thing. Would you want to sing now?’

  Before she could comment he began to hum and then, drifting into the words, to sing strongly but not loudly: ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles . . .’

  ‘That’s a hymn tune,’ she said. ‘Praise the Lord for He is Glorious.’

  ‘It is our national anthem.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re not singing that, mate! All right . . .’ She broke lustily into song herself:

  ‘There’ll always be an England,

  Where there’s a country lane’ . . .

  He laughed and chimed in, singing against her.

  ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles . . .’

  At the outrageous climax of their chorus a distant thunder roll sounded and a wan light touched the tent for an instant, the rain increasing on the silk around them, like fingers drumming.

  ‘Donner and Blitzen,’ said Bess. ‘And that’s all the German I know apart from Hansel and Gretel.’

  ‘It is good,’ he enthused solemnly.

  ‘Donner and Blitzen are two of Santa Claus’s reindeer,’ she answered. ‘Donner and Blitzen, Bellman and True. Could I have some more Schnapps, please?’

  ‘There is some,’ he said without emphasis, picking up the bottle. ‘For you and for me.’ They each drank another capful. She attempted to swallow and choked again. Once more he patted her on the back.

  When she had recovered Bess told him: ‘You’re not bad for a German.’

  ‘Danke,’ he answered with polite gravity. ‘I am only a man dressed up. Like the Santa Claus.’

  ‘Your English is very good. Have you been in England before?’

  ‘Doncaster, Swindon, Crewe Junction,’ he recited. ‘My English is from school in Germany but my father, you understand, was a railway engineer. I was in all those places for some time with him, with the locomotives. Swindon is very nice.’

  ‘Never been there,’ she said. ‘I must try it.’

  ‘And the English will be good for me to speak during the coming time.’

  ‘In the prison camp?’

  Silently he handed the bottle to her and without waiting she took another drink. So did he. ‘No, when the occupation is here,’ he said.

  Bess felt her face flush. ‘I wouldn’t count on that!’ she replied hotly. Her eyes lolled heavily. He was leaning back on the ground. His face was exhausted. Lightning, swift as a wing beat, illuminated the tent. Thunder exploded above them. The end of the parachute flew up in the gusty rain. ‘Poor
Merlin,’ she said. She crawled towards the opening and looked out into the streaming wet. Another burst of lightning lit the surroundings. The crashed plane showed up vividly. She looked around wildly. There was no horse.

  ‘Oh God,’ she muttered, slowly moving back into the cover. ‘He’s buggered off.’ She saw that the young German was deep asleep. ‘Gone,’ she added, her voice dropping.

  The initial rain had begun by the time Robert led the LDV men as far as High Copse. He had tramped just ahead of the contingent, even now straggling because of the difficult narrowness of the terrain and the unfitness of most of the members. Gates, the gamekeeper, puffed alongside him and Harry was just a few paces behind. He watched Gates’s back heaving as he stumbled along the track and wondered how he managed to do his job. Twice the party had to be halted so the gamekeeper could recover his breath. ‘’Tis walking at night does it,’ Gates said, glaring a challenge at the village men held up behind him. ‘In the daylight I’m all right, see, but ’tis different sort of walking at night.’

  As the clouds thickened, darkness multiplied and the first rain touched their foreheads, they reached the gypsy encampment, a clearing in a wooded place. ‘Watch out for they dogs, sir,’ warned Gates. ‘Nasty as hell they are.’

  The camp was dark except for the eye of a smouldering fire now being finally deadened by the wet. Dogs began to bark as they reached the clearing but they seemed to be enclosed somewhere at the rear of the ragged, low tents and the strange habitations, the benders, made like igloos from the bowed branches of low trees, patched and thatched with twigs, cardboard, canvas and pieces of corrugated iron. Robert shone his torch around but there was no movement.

  ‘Not very wide awake,’ grumbled Robert. ‘Fine lot of gypsies they are, I must say.’ He peered at the entrance of one of the houses. ‘Gates,’ he said, ‘give them a shout, old chap. You know their lingo, I suppose. You can’t very well knock on the door, can you.’

  Gates strutted to the fore. ‘Hey, come on out!’ he shouted unequivocally. ‘Come on, out you come!’

  The response came from behind. A polite clearing of a number of throats and some children’s giggles. The LDV men turned and saw in their torchlight that the trees were full of gypsies, their brown faces, bright eyes, at all levels, staring out. There were men and women, old crones and ancient fathers, children close to the ground, looking around the tree trunks and lodged in the branches.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Robert.

  An old man stepped from the trunk shadows. He wore a long, aromatic overcoat. ‘At last we’re getting some rain,’ he mentioned politely.

  Robert wiped the wet from his domed forehead and agreed. ‘Is Mr Cooper here?’ he asked.

  Every man stepped from the trees. They stood in a half-circle with the LDV men in the middle. ‘Every man is Mr Cooper,’ said the elder. ‘That’s my name. And his . . . and his . . . and his . . .’ He pointed at random men. ‘Even his,’ he added indicating a skinny youth who half hid behind another, ‘though we don’t know right if he is one. We never know where he came from.’

  ‘Liberty Cooper,’ said Gates with impatient gruffness. He looked apologetically at Robert. ‘Sorry, Mr Lovatt, but you can’t get anywhere with this lot unless you pin them down. I know too well. We’ll be here all night.’

  ‘We got several Liberty Coopers,’ pointed out the chief happily. ‘It’s a popular name with us.’

  Gates snorted and strode forward. He pointed to Liberty Cooper, known in the village and the farms. ‘This Liberty Cooper,’ he said testily.

  ‘What you want?’ asked the young man.

  Robert stepped forward. ‘I’ll take over,’ he said to Gates. The gamekeeper grimaced and stepped back with the other men. ‘We wondered,’ Robert said with deference, ‘if you would spare some time to guide us up through the forest?’

  ‘You looking for the girl?’ asked Liberty at once. ‘She went up to the top of Pine Place. She was on that nifty horse.’

  ‘What time?’ put in Harry. His father frowned at him and he retreated. ‘Any idea?’ the son added lamely.

  ‘Getting dark time.’

  ‘Didn’t see a plane, did you?’ asked Robert. ‘A Hun.’

  ‘It went over. No engines,’ said Liberty. ‘Plenty of scrap metal lying around somewhere.’

  ‘Didn’t you see the markings?’ insisted Harry.

  His father scowled again but said: ‘Didn’t you see the marking?’

  ‘It was good as dark,’ shrugged Liberty. ‘We can’t see a thing at night.’

  Apologetically Robert brushed the drizzle from his eyes. ‘No, of course, sorry, old chap. But you know your way through the forest, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ shrugged Liberty. ‘You want to go an’ look?’

  ‘That was the plan. If you can spare a few minutes.’

  Liberty nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how. Sometimes I fall in the ponds too.’ He pulled an old coat about his shoulders. The gypsies, seeing the confrontation was over, began to crawl under the bent branches and into the tents. A child began to cry.

  ‘They thought it was Germans coming,’ said Liberty nodding towards the encampment. He looked at the curious patrol. ‘Stay in one line,’ he suggested.

  ‘Good chap,’ said Robert. ‘Let’s get a move on, shall we?’

  Liberty nodded, but then abruptly turned back towards the encampment. He went into one of the benders and returned to hand Robert his service revolver. Robert’s hand went to the empty holster. ‘You have to watch out,’ Liberty explained casually. ‘Somebody thought it was nobody’s.’

  Liberty Cooper led the way, then came Robert, puffing gamely and glad it was so dark; he tried to hush his breath but Harry close behind could hear it. Petrie was next, at a strong and steady gait, then Stevens, and behind him the long, motley tail of the company, spread over two hundred yards of rough track. The rain had eased for a while but now, towards the sea, thunder sounded and lightning flickered. ‘We could do with this,’ murmured Harold Clark, the farm hand, trudging at the end of the column. ‘So my guv’nor says.’

  Sid Turner, the forester, grunted a few feet in front. ‘Stops fires,’ he said. The insurance man, Rob Noyes, took off his bowler hat and fingered it, feeling for damage by the rain. Silently he replaced it on his ashen head. Because of his profession and his bowler Rob considered himself a little aloof.

  ‘I ought to be up in front,’ grumbled Sid as he trudged. ‘I work in the forest, don’t I? I knows my way around as well as that gypsy bloke. And a sight better than old Gates. Gamekeeper! Sits on ’is arse all day having a smoke behind some ’edge.’

  Rob stopped and turned carefully. The rain had begun streaming again. ‘Why don’t you go up the front and take charge then?’ he inquired. The water was dropping in a cascade from the rim of the bowler. One outfall struck the top of Rob’s nose, long and white like a parsnip. ‘Go ahead. You show them.’

  Sid glowered at him in the dark. ‘I don’t push myself forward like some,’ he argued grimly. ‘I don’t know what it’s got to do with you anyway, Rob Noyes. What do you know about the forest? You sells insurance round the doors.’

  ‘When it comes to street fighting,’ sniffed Rob, ‘I’ll know my way around.’ He turned and trooped on. The figures ahead, dipping and stumbling through the rain, were scarcely discernible. Surface water was making the narrow path slippery. Harold fell over and cursed as he picked himself up. Gorse and brambles pulled at their trousers and patches of low dank trees smote them as they struggled on.

  At the head of the odd column Robert called a halt, raising his arm like an old-time cavalry officer. Those immediately behind stopped but there were those further back who did not see the signal and, bent against the rain, collided with the men in front. Oaths sounded. Eventually the entire group of eighteen men caught up. They were on a stony forest track running at right angles to the single path they had travelled.

  ‘Right,’ whispered Robert, �
��gather round, chaps.’

  ‘What’s he whispering for?’ Harold asked Sid.

  ‘Case the Germans ’ear, you daft,’ replied the forester.

  ‘’Ow we goin’ to find that young tart if we goes about shushing?’ pursued Harold.

  ‘Chaps . . . men,’ intoned Robert, ‘Mr Cooper has suggested we can spread out a bit here, along the track. Split up, half go each way. I’ll take the right-hand side and Stevens and Petrie the left. Sub-Lieutenant Lovatt had better come with his father.’

  He got his intended grins, the oddments of rural teeth showing like small windows. ‘Sir?’ asked Harold Clark. ‘Can we call out for this young lady? Or do we still think they Jerries are about?’

  ‘Good question,’ acknowledged Robert. Harold beamed in the rain. Robert continued: ‘I think it would be as wise if we kept quiet. That plane may have come down anywhere. So we’ll have to look for Miss Spofforth silently. Just . . . look.’ He glanced around. Thunder began to lumber nearer. Lightning fluttered across the low hills, a momentary vision of bright green and yellow gorse.

  ‘We might see ’er by the lightning,’ suggested Harold in a low voice.

  ‘Spofforth,’ ruminated Rob Noyes as they turned away and began to walk left on the stony path. The rain was running down it like a stream over a pebble bed. He shook the rain from his hat with a twist of his head. ‘Not a family I know well. They’re not Co-op insurance people.’

  ‘Spofforth was a bowler,’ said Sid dragging his legs over the stones. ‘Cricketer. Years ago.’

  As if reminded, Rob took his hat off and shook it fiercely. He eyed the bowl as if seeking leaks. ‘My father’s, that was,’ he said. ‘That bowler’s been miles and miles. You couldn’t get one like that now.’

  Harold was straying behind them, with the rest of the contingent spread out for two hundred yards ahead along the gritty track. Harold had been studying the rain rivering darkly between his boots as he tramped and wondering if he would ever get a rifle, when a sound in a clearing to his left made him turn. A big flash of lightning illuminated the area and in it Harold saw a silvery-caped steed madly paw the air before plunging into the trees.