The Good Pilot, Peter Woodhouse

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Willy ignored this. “He hit them with a shovel,” he said. “All of them – the whole family.”

  Annie exchanged a concerned glance with Val. “You didn’t . . .”

  He cut her short. “I didn’t hit him, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I told him what I thought of him.”

  Annie breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, he probably knew that already.”

  Willy smiled. There was a sly satisfaction in his look. “He didn’t like it, he didn’t. I told him that he didn’t deserve to have any animals. I told him that his dog hadn’t run away: I’d taken him. He didn’t like that neither.”

  Val frowned. “You told him you’d taken Peter Woodhouse? Did you tell him where he is, Willy?”

  Willy did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. “I told him he had a much better home over at Archie Wilkinson’s place.”

  Val suppressed a cry of dismay. “Oh, Willy . . .”

  “He didn’t like that,” crowed Willy. “You should have seen his face. He went all purple. Ted Butters gets purple when he gets cross.” He sniffed. “He said I should go and not bother to come back. I told him I didn’t want to come back, but what about the money he owed me? A full week’s wages. He said I could do what I like but he’d never pay me. He said if I didn’t clear off he’d fetch his shotgun.”

  Annie glanced again at Val, and shook her head slightly. “You can’t be blamed, Willy. You should never have been sent to that man in the first place. You’re well away from him.”

  He seemed reassured. “They’ll find me some other place?”

  “Of course they will,” said Annie. “There are plenty of farms needing somebody.”

  “And the army won’t take me?”

  “No, the army won’t take you. They told you that, remember? They said that you were better working on a farm.” She paused, once more glancing conspiratorially at Val. “You know what I reckon, Willy? I think that if they told Mr Churchill himself about the work you do on the land, he’d say Well done, William Birks. That’s what he’d say, Willy. Mr Churchill himself.”

  He rubbed his hands together with pleasure. “It’s what I do best. It’s what I do best to help win the war.”

  Annie was soothing. “Of course it is, Willy. And now, why don’t you go and have a bath before I serve your tea. There’s a clean shirt in your cupboard – I ironed it this morning. You put that on.”

  Once Willy had left the kitchen, Val shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe he doesn’t understand. It’s so basic. He told that Ted Butters to his face where Peter Woodhouse is. Now what?”

  Annie sighed. “You tell Archie tomorrow that he has to find somewhere safe for the dog. There’ll be plenty of time. Ted Butters won’t do anything this evening. So put the dog some place where he’ll not be found. Let the whole thing blow over.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “It will – it’ll blow over. Ted Butters is too busy with his black market activities to spend time making a fuss over a dog.”

  “Black market?”

  “He sells chickens. Sometimes a pig. He sells to that Martin Crowhurst and his friends. They’ll be caught one day.”

  Val told her aunt that one of the men at the base had been caught stealing the Americans’ supplies and selling them on the black market. He was going to prison.

  “Best place for Ted Butters,” said Annie.

  The following morning Val arrived at the farm half an hour earlier than usual. Archie was still at the kitchen table, nursing a large mug of tea and reading a farming leaflet. She knocked at the kitchen window and was invited in.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Well, something has, I suppose. Ted Butters knows that Peter Woodhouse is here.”

  Archie raised an eyebrow. He did not seem overly concerned. “How did he work that out?”

  She told him, stressing that Willy was not entirely responsible for his actions. “He understands some things,” she said. “But he doesn’t always work things out the same as you and I do.”

  “So I see,” said Archie. “But no use crying over spilt milk.”

  “No.” She paused. “What do you think Ted Butters will do?”

  Archie shrugged. “He might come round here. If he does, I’ll tell him the dog has voted with his feet. I’ll tell him there’ll be no taking him back.”

  She was concerned that the other farmer might create trouble. Archie nodded. “Yes, there’s always that, I suppose. But I’ll deal with any trouble he makes. He has a foul temper on him, that man, but I’ve dealt with the likes of him before.”

  She was reassured. “So we do nothing?”

  “We carry on,” said Archie. “Isn’t that what they’re always telling us – the government, that is? Carry on, they say. Well, that’s what we’ll do.” He swigged the rest of his tea and then rose from the table. “We’ve got half a field of cabbages to get in while this weather holds, my girl. Let’s not waste any time.”

  They went to work. At eleven in the morning, they stopped for a short break, and that was when they saw Bill Edwards coming up the farm track on his ancient black bicycle. The policeman waved to them and then parked his bike against a hedge at the bottom of the cabbage field. Picking his way around the side of the field he came to join them.

  “Well, Bill?” said Archie. “You looking for a German spy or something? Nobody round here, I’m afraid.”

  The policeman smiled. “You checked your hayloft recently, Archie? It’s a great place for a German spy to hide up.’

  “I’ll do as you say, Bill,” said Archie.

  The policeman cleared his throat. He was still sweating from the ride up from the village, and now he wiped his brow with a large red handkerchief. “Actually, Archie,” he began, “it’s a tricky one. I’ve had a visit from Ted Butters. You know him?”

  “Of course I do,” said Archie. “Not that I’d describe him as a friend.”

  “There’s a lot would say that,” said the policeman. “I keep out of these scraps, obviously, but I hear what people are saying – and thinking too, sometimes – and I know who’s popular and who isn’t. Not that I’m saying anything about it, mind.”

  Archie nodded. “Of course not.”

  “Anyway,” continued the policeman, “Ted Butters comes round to see me first thing this morning and lays a complaint that you’ve stolen his dog. He says it’s worth six pounds, being a highly trained sheepdog.”

  “A good dog’s not cheap,” said Archie.

  Bill Edwards looked embarrassed. “You can’t turn a blind eye to the taking of a dog worth six pounds,” he said. “That’s the same thing as stealing a horse. Just as valuable.”

  “I suppose so,” said Archie. “But nobody’s stolen that Butters’ dog. He mistreated it, by the way; he beat it something terrible. A dog won’t stand for that, you know; a dog will try to get away.”

  Bill Edwards pursed his lips. “A dog doesn’t run away by itself. Dogs stay. I’ve had dogs myself.”

  “Some dogs do,” insisted Archie. “It all depends on the dog.”

  Bill fiddled with the policeman’s helmet he was holding. “You wouldn’t happen to have this dog on your farm, would you, Archie? I’m asking you directly, see, as a friend, so to speak.”

  Archie hesitated, but then he gave his response. “It’s here, Bill, because the poor creature was being beaten to death up at Butters’ place. We couldn’t stand by.”

  The policeman’s embarrassment deepened. “A farmer’s dog’s different, Archie. You know that. It’s part of the farm equipment, so to speak. You can’t take it off him.”

  “I’m not disputing that, Bill,” said Archie. “But there’s the dog to think of here. A dog’s not like other . . . bits of property. A dog’s different.”

  The policeman shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I don’t want to make a fuss about this, Archie, but if a complaint’s been made . . .” He gave the farmer an
imploring look. “Of course, if the dog were to go somewhere else for a while, then I could truthfully inform Butters that there’s no dog here. I’ll come back officially tomorrow – this is an unofficial visit, you’ll understand – and there’ll be no dog and that’ll be the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”

  Archie smiled. “You’re a good man, Bill,” he said. “We’ll make sure there’s no dog for . . . for your official visit.”

  They watched him ride down the road back towards the village.

  “That’s the way a policeman should behave,” said Archie. “There’s always a solution if you’re prepared to be flexible.”

  ❖ 8 ❖

  If they could manage it, the time Mike and Val had together, precious hours snatched between the claims of flying and working on the farm, was spent away from others. Wartime was a period of constant sharing with people you did not know – in bomb shelters, in overcrowded public transport, in the endless queueing for almost everything. To be alone with another, to talk without fear of being overheard, seemed at times to be an impossible, only dimly remembered luxury, almost an act of selfishness.

  After completing a spell of intensive duties, he was given two days’ leave. He wanted to go away – to drive off with her in a car lent by one of the other pilots – but it was a busy time on the farm and she felt unable to ask for two full days off. One day at the most, she said, would be all that she could manage.

  He said that in wartime you had to take what you could get. The weather was fine and they could take a picnic; he would still get the use of the car and they could go wherever she suggested.

  “I know a place,” she said. “There’s a river, and a bank that will be ideal for a picnic. Sometimes people swim there, but most of the time there’s nobody.”

  He said, “I have some . . .”

  “Tinned peaches?”

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  Tinned peaches had become a private joke, because she had told him about Annie’s craving for them and he had already supplied a few tins for her. “What’s it with you people and tinned peaches?” he asked. “Tinned peaches are just . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “Just tinned peaches.”

  “I know that. But there’s something about . . .”

  “Something about tinned peaches?”

  She smiled. She loved him so much; she was sure of it now. Love came to you on the coat-tails of such small things – conversations about tinned peaches, looks exchanged at odd moments, the way that the other person glanced up at the sky, or scratched his head, or said something about the weather. “Yes,” she said. “Maybe it’s because we could never get them. You really want the things you can’t get, don’t you?”

  He kissed her. They were standing outside the post office and there were people about, but she did not mind. Some people did not like the way the Americans flirted with the local girls, but most did not feel that way. And if those who did not like it should choose to talk, what difference did it make? People disapproved of the things they had themselves missed; Annie had pointed that out to her once and she realized that it was quite true. “If somebody shakes their head and tut-tuts,” she said, “you can be sure it’s because they wanted to do whatever they’re shaking their head and tut-tutting over.”

  “So,” he said. “Tinned peaches. And what else?”

  She thought for a moment. “Sandwiches. A picnic isn’t a picnic without sandwiches.”

  “What sort?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Oh, ham, I’d say. And egg. And maybe cucumber.” She paused. “Yes, cucumber. That’s what Annie gives the vicar when he calls round: cucumber sandwiches. The vicar tucks into a whole plate of them – and eats the lot. Every one of them.”

  “I suppose it’s part of his job,” said Mike. “I think that you have to eat things in some jobs. We have a congressman back in Indiana who’s really fat. He said something in the newspaper about how it all came from his job – visiting folks’ houses and having to eat their cookies and cakes or they won’t vote for you. It’s tough.”

  Val smiled vaguely; she was thinking of their picnic. “I don’t think we’ve got any ham . . .”

  “Leave it to me,” said Mike.

  “We’ve got plenty of eggs,” said Val, brightening. “And cress. We grow that.”

  “Then that’s our picnic fixed,” said Mike.

  He leaned forward and kissed her again. As he did so, she thought: Don’t fly ever again. Stay with me. We’ll run away together. Anywhere. Anywhere. The war can get on with itself – it doesn’t need us. But she knew that was wrong, even as the thought came to her. This was their war and they had to see it through. He flew a plane and she dug potatoes and carrots: two different ways of fighting the same war.

  They found the place by the river, but only after taking a few wrong turnings and having to reverse down impossibly narrow lanes, bounded by out-of-control hedgerows. With people being too busy growing food, there was little time for the luxury of hedge-trimming, and here and there unbridled growth from either side met above a road, making a tunnel, a green womb of dappled light and startled birds. At length Val saw a road she recognized and they found the lay-by where the car could be left. From there, a path followed the edge of a field of ripening wheat down towards a copse of willow trees and the river bank.

  She remembered the spot from when she had last been there, just after the war had started. She had come with three other young women, cycling over from the village, a journey of almost ten miles. It had been a hot day, and they had swum in the river, just beneath the lip of a weir, allowing the cooling water to cascade over them like a shower. Then they had lain in the sun, waiting for their bedraggled hair to dry, with one of them keeping watch in case any of the boys from the village should arrive. There was a story – and nobody knew if it was true – about how boys would steal the clothes off swimmers and then hide in the bushes to witness the commotion.

  She pointed to a spot shaded by one of the willows, and he laid down the rug he had brought from the car. They embraced.

  She said, “I don’t want you to go.”

  He touched her forehead lightly. “I don’t want to go either. But I can’t . . .” He shrugged. What was the word? Desert? There had been a deserter at the base, a young man from Kentucky who had travelled to London and been picked up by the military police in a bar, drunk and in the company of a woman he had met on the streets of Soho. He had been sent back to the States and to prison.

  She sighed, and took his hand in hers. “No, I know you have to do what you’re doing. And I wouldn’t want to marry a coward.”

  He looked at her, and wondered whether people who did not go up in planes, who did not face enemy fighters and flak, knew what that particular terror was like. Of course, you could not allow yourself to think about it, and certainly not to talk about it. You had to behave as if you felt none of it, as if you didn’t care what happened, while all the time it was always there within you – a cold, hard knot of fear that settled in your stomach and could make you want to retch; only retching solved nothing because the fear would soon return.

  She sensed his doubt over what she had said. “Of course, I wouldn’t call people cowards if they simply couldn’t take it. I know how difficult it must be.”

  He lay back on the rug, looking up at the sky. “I’ve not met any cowards,” he said. “Not one. I’ve met people who have cried their eyes out because of everything – sitting there crying their eyes out because . . . well, I guess because they don’t want to die, or because they’re thinking about the guy they shot down, or something like that. I’ve met them, but I’ve never met a coward.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sure you haven’t. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “No, you can say it, because there is such a thing, and because I can think of times when I’ve been a coward.”

  She stared at him. She wished she had never mentioned the word.

  “Can I tell you about it?” he asked.


  She nodded her head.

  “Because,” he went on, “I’ve been thinking about this . . . this thing a lot recently. I don’t know why.” He paused. “Maybe it’s just that when you know that at any moment . . .” He stopped himself. You did not discuss that possibility – especially with your girl.

  Of course, she knew what the unspoken words would have been. She looked into his eyes. “Yes,” she began, and then trailed off.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking of something I did when I was a boy – something I’m ashamed of.”

  She tried to make light of it. “Who hasn’t done things they’re ashamed of – lots and lots of things – when they were young? Who?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe no one.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  “Except I can’t get this out of my mind. I say to myself, you were just a kid, it was a long time ago, and I wait for that to work. But it doesn’t.”

  At first, she said nothing; she was thinking now of how committing to a joint future brought two pasts together. She realised that she had not given much thought to what marriage meant – how could you think about such things when the world was topsy-turvy with conflict? You could not. But now she thought: I’m taking on another person’s memories, another person’s family, another person’s life. Love obscured all of that because if it did not, then nobody would marry at all, and there had to be marriage, didn’t there, if people wanted to continue, have children, keep everything going . . .

  “I shouldn’t bother you with all this,” he said. “There are other things to talk about.”

  She reassured him. “No, you should, because I want you to talk to me. We shouldn’t have any —”

  “Secrets?” he interjected, smiling. “Isn’t that what they say? You don’t have any secrets from the person you’re going to marry?”

  She chided him. “I’m being serious.”

  He thought for a moment. “Okay.”

  Val waited. Somewhere in the distance there was a shout, answered by another – boys playing along the river. A cuckoo calling. A breeze in the leaves of the trees. The vague sound that heat made.