The Good Pilot, Peter Woodhouse

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Val sat in the front pew, flanked by Annie and Willy, with Archie, stiff in his ancient suit, on the other side of Willy. The vicar closed his eyes as he spoke, only opening them occasionally to look out on the heads of those in the pews: the familiar words required no reading; he had uttered them countless times before. At first Val only half listened, being preoccupied with Tommy, who was awake but silent in her arms, all but completely covered in the christening robe Annie had made for him from scraps of white cotton and lace. But then she found herself following the vicar’s words, drawn in by the poetry of the liturgy.

  “Beloved,” he said, and Val thought, That’s us; and he continued, “you hear in this Gospel the words of our Saviour Christ, that he commanded the children to be brought unto him . . . You perceive how by his outward gesture and deed he declared his goodwill toward them; for he embraced them in his arms, he laid his hands upon them, and blessed them. Doubt not therefore, but earnestly believe, that he will likewise favourably receive this present infant; that he will embrace him with the arms of his mercy . . .”

  Val did not think that God existed, but she liked the idea that he was there, even if it was no more than a fond hope – that thing that people called faith. Even the vicar, she thought, must have his doubts, because if God did exist, then why had he let all those people die in the war; all those innocent people herded into those camps and murdered; all those besieged Russians starving to death, eating rats to keep alive; all those children who died under the rain of bombs? Why did he allow all that when by one movement of his finger he could have obliterated the Nazis and their works, stopped the slaughter and the suffering?

  But now the vicar held the little bundle in his arms and reached for a tarnished silver spoon on the edge of the font. He had said that the water would be warm – as warm as the River Jordan, he smilingly assured her; and he sprinkled a few drops on Tommy’s forehead. The child’s eyes opened, surprised, unfocused, but he did not cry, and he was handed back to her as she struggled to keep from crying herself. She was thinking of Mike, who would have been so proud at this moment, and would have put his arm around her, she thought. She missed him so painfully. It was an insistent, raw ache of longing, assuaged from time to time by the joy of having Tommy. But as the weeks of separation drew into months, she found it increasingly hard to remember what the man she had married had been like. Even his face was becoming blurred in her memory now; their times together remembered, but in such a way as to make her ask herself whether she was recalling them correctly. What did his voice sound like? What did he say to her when he spoke about Indiana and the life he had led there? What did he whisper to her in their moments of intimacy?

  Her dreams began to disturb her. He appeared in some of them, but it was only to tell her that he had found somebody else, or to reveal that he was actually dead and they had not got round to telling her yet, and he was sorry that she was the last to hear. In her dreams she always said that it did not matter, that she still loved him, but for some reason when she tried to address him he was not there, but was in a unfamiliar place somewhere else, a place that was something like the air force base but with no planes, just tractors. As places do in dreams, it had a fluid identity; it was a farm, and then it was not a farm but the village, and then part of a landscape that she did not recognise but that must have been Muncie, Indiana.

  He came back on leave when Tommy was four months old, and again five months later. They went to Cornwall, where they had spent their honeymoon, and stayed for a week in a boarding house where the food was cold and generally unpalatable. The woman who ran it offered to babysit, and they went to the local cinema, the Electric Palace. After the film, they called in at a pub where a pianist played “The White Cliffs of Dover” and everybody started to sing. Looks were exchanged – looks of relief, coupled with nostalgia. A man, a perfect stranger, bought Mike a drink, saying, “In case people haven’t said thank you.” Mike said, “We did it together,” and the man nodded, but said nothing further.

  Eventually, on another long leave, he told her that he was likely to be in Germany for some time yet. “You’ll have to come,” he said. “There’s somebody on the base who can arrange a place for us now. Nothing special, but it’ll be a roof over our heads.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Next week,” he said. Then he added, “You’ll have to tell Willy as tactfully as you can – you can see how attached he’s become to Tommy.”

  She sighed. “He lives for him.” It was true, she thought. And then there was the unspoken fear that, for Tommy, Willy was his father. Mike was a stranger to the boy, who was now almost two.

  Mike shrugged. “I guess he’ll get used to it.”

  “He will. He’ll be sad, though.”

  He said that he thought that sadness, mostly, never lasted very long. “It’s not the way people are made,” he said. “We’re made to get moving, to get on with the next thing. To look to the future.”

  He was right, she thought, but it would still be hard for Willy, who had no next thing, at least as far as she could see.

  She broke the news of her departure to Willy as gently as she could. For a few moments he was silent; then he looked away, avoiding her eyes.

  “I’m sure I’ll be back,” she said. “From time to time. Quite often, in fact.”

  He glanced at her quickly, and then his gaze slid away once more.

  “You won’t,” he muttered.

  “Willy!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be like that. I wouldn’t tell you I’d be coming back if I wasn’t going to. Of course I’ll come back and see you and Annie – and Peter Woodhouse. To see everybody, in fact.”

  His face was full of reproach. “No, you won’t. You may think you will, but you’ll be far away, won’t you? Over in Germany, and then what? That place in America? That Indiana? You won’t come back from there – it’s too far.”

  He was right, of course, and she realised it. Yet she had no stomach for a real leave-taking – there had been so many of those in the war years, when goodbye had meant goodbye as never before.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. “And I’ll write to you.”

  She suddenly became aware that Willy was crying. She put her arms about him, but he tried to push her away, as a child avoiding an embrace might do. She wanted to cry too; for everything, for the war, for Willy’s loneliness, for the ache that separation or the prospect of separation brought with it. She wanted to cry for the world that seemed to have come to such an abrupt end: the world of England before the war, when everything had seemed so secure. Now England itself seemed to be built on shaky foundations. England was changing into something else – a country where everything had been shaken up and spilled out in a quite other pattern from that which she had been used to. They had known what they were fighting for, but now that they had it, it seemed to be something quite different.

  “I wish you wouldn’t cry, Willy,” she said. “You’re going to be fine.”

  He wiped at his eyes clumsily. “What about Tommy?” he asked.

  “Tommy will write too. And I’ll send you photographs.”

  It occurred to her that Willy was hoping for a different response – that Tommy could somehow be left behind.

  “He has to be with his father,” she added quickly. “You do see that, don’t you?”

  With a supreme effort, Willy nodded. “I hope he’ll be all right,” he said. ‘Over there in Germany . . .”

  He left the sentence unfinished.

  “He’ll be well looked after. The US Air Force has schools. Swimming pools, playgrounds – everything.”

  He wiped his eyes again. “When he’s bigger he could come and visit the farm,” he said. “He could help me and Archie.”

  She seized at this. “Of course he could. That’s a lovely idea, Willy.”

  “He could pick plums,” Willy went on. “Small fellow like that can climb up on the branches without breaking them. He could reach the plums.”

  �
�Yes,” said Val. “He could do that all right, Willy – when he’s bigger.”

  One of the other wives in Wiesbaden, the wife of a major, took her out for coffee shortly after she arrived and asked her about her life before she was married. “I’m just curious, you see. A lot of the men married, didn’t they? I often wonder what it’s been like for their wives – coming from somewhere different and then being taken back to the States where they have no family, you know. It can’t be easy.”

  Val told her about being a land girl. She told her about meeting Mike and the dances at the base.

  The major’s wife smiled. “I always knew I was going to marry Bill. From about sixteen, I think.” She paused. “I don’t think he knew, though.”

  They both laughed.

  “And now?” said the major’s wife. “What about now?”

  “I’m happy. We’re together. And that’s the important thing.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “So I feel that my life – our life, I suppose – is just starting.”

  This brought a nod of the head. “And there’s your little boy

  – a cute little guy. You’re lucky.”

  “Yes. I know that.”

  “But,” said the major’s wife. “But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “The Russians. Berlin. These extra duties. Bill says . . .”

  Val waited.

  “Bill says we’re in for a long haul. They’re going to have to fly everything in – food, coal, the whole lot. The British, ourselves – everyone’s going to have to keep them alive. He says he can’t see how we can do it.” She sighed. “Was life meant to be like this, do you think? I mean, when you think about what we really want – to find somebody, fall in love, get married and so on. Have kids. Enjoy ourselves. And what do we get instead? World War Two. The Russians. Berlin.”

  “Oh well . . .”

  The major’s wife smiled. “You English people,” she said. “I don’t get you. You say things like oh well and then you carry on as if nothing ever happened.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “So we may as well say oh well.”

  “Maybe.”

  Later, when Mike came off duty, he told her that he was going to have to go to a different base for emergency duties. She and Tommy were to stay where they were.

  “Berlin?” she asked. The papers had been full of the news of the blockade.

  He nodded. “I’m going to be flying non-stop, more or less. Every pilot we have.”

  He moved forward to embrace her, and she felt that familiar feeling of longing that had never once gone away when she was in his presence. She wanted the moment to be frozen; she wanted to be with him, exclusively and alone, with nothing else around them. She wanted to hold him to her and not to let him go from her. Ever. Ever.

  He drew back, and looked at her fondly. “Sometimes,” he said, “the world has other plans for people, doesn’t it? But the people themselves . . . the people . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The people themselves have to hold onto their own plans . . . and hope that they get the chance to carry them out.”

  They were standing in the kitchen. She took his hand. She held it gently: a hand that guided planes; a human hand. “Please be careful.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll take care. I always do.”

  “But especially careful. More careful than ever before.”

  He put a finger against her lips, as much to silence as to reassure her. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  ❖ 23 ❖

  Returned to Archie’s farm, Peter Woodhouse became once more a farm dog, housed in the old removers’ crate marked with the stencilled legend Peter Woodhouse on the side. Archie had been pleased by his return, as was Willy, who now worked six days a week on the tasks that the older farmer was beginning to find more difficult, with his troublesome hip and his increasing breathlessness. The doctor had said that Archie should retire altogether; his remaining years, he urged, would be better spent – and more numerous – were he to hang up his boots and sit in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen.

  “You’ve got that young fellow helping you,” the doctor said. “There’s plenty of hard work in him and you’ve done your bit.” He spoke with conviction, but without much hope that his advice would be heeded; in his experience, farmers rarely retired, tending to die on the job. It was what they wanted, he supposed, although he could still spell it out to them.

  “You won’t last all that long,” he said, “if you don’t take things easily. That chest of yours . . .”

  “Lasted me until now,” said Archie. “Still got the puff to keep me going.”

  “Yes, but . . .” The doctor sighed.

  “When I go, I go,” said Archie. “Same as with animals. They know when it’s time. They just keep going until the time comes, and then they go.”

  Peter Woodhouse, of course, was no longer a young dog. Like his owner, he appeared to have something wrong with a hip, and walked with a marked limp. This did not stop him trying to keep up with Willy when he drove the tractor, but he could not carry on for long, and soon fell panting by the wayside, watching Willy disappear down the farm lane. For the most part, he lay in his kennel, or immediately in front of it, where there was a large paving stone that warmed with the sun. On the rare occasions when visitors arrived in the farmyard, he would give a few desultory barks, and then sidle up to them in a show of unqualified affection. “He’s no guard dog, that one,” said Archie.

  Willy defended Peter. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t brave,” he said. “He went up with them in those planes of theirs. He’s seen action – which is more than most dogs can claim.”

  Archie smiled. “Yes. Good pilot, they say.”

  He had a new collar, given him by the airmen at the base when he left. Inscribed on it, burned into the leather with the tip of a soldering iron, was The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse. A visitor noticed this – a reporter from the local weekly who was doing an article on rights-of-way through farms. He asked about its meaning, and Archie explained about the dog’s time as a US Air Force mascot.

  “You serious?” asked the reporter.

  “Yes, of course. They took him up with them.”

  The reporter’s incredulity grew. “In their planes? Over to Germany?”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Archie. “Apparently, he liked flying.”

  The reporter whistled. “What a story,” he muttered.

  A photographer came to take a picture of Peter Woodhouse in front of his kennel. Then he took a shot of the collar and its inscription. In due course an article appeared on the front page of the weekly newspaper published in the nearby market town. The Good Pilot Peter Woodhouse, it was headed, with the subheading Brave dog helps fliers on wartime missions. There was a picture of Sergeant Lisowski, whom the paper had approached for comment. “He was given an honourable discharge,” the sergeant said. “He did his bit.”

  Willy beamed with pleasure when he saw the paper. He bought every copy for sale in the post office, cut out the article, and sent one off to Val in Germany. She sent a postcard back on which she had written: Our Peter Woodhouse! The hero!

  Annie was more reserved. “I’m not sure that Peter Woodhouse needs to be in the papers,” she said. “What if that Ted Butters sees it? He can read, you know, same as anyone else.”

  Willy shook his head. “Ted Butters wouldn’t dare do anything.”

  Annie looked dubious. “I’d put nothing past him,” she said.

  They were looking at the tractor, which was misfiring and emitting white smoke.

  “The injectors,” said Archie. “Do you know about those, Willy?”

  Willy nodded, but looked blank at the same time.

  Archie showed him. There were so many things that Willy knew nothing about, but the farmer had found him to be a quick learner, in spite of everything. If you engaged his attention, he could pick things up, an
d you would not know, then, that he was slow. Now Archie showed him how to remove the exhaust manifold so that they could work out which cylinder was pumping out white smoke from unburnt fuel.

  “There,” said Archie. “You see over there? That’s the culprit.”

  “Can we fix it?” asked Willy.

  Archie did not reply. A small brown van was making its way up the lane towards the farmyard, and Archie was gazing at it. “That’s Ted Butters,” he muttered.

  They watched as Ted Butters drew to a halt at the farmyard gate. He got out of the van, opened the gate, and then drove through, omitting to close it again behind him.

  “Hey!” shouted Archie. “The gate. You didn’t close the gate. We’ve got livestock . . .”

  Ted Butters ignored him.

  “You!” he said, pointing at Willy. “Where’s my dog?”

  Archie felt Willy stiffen and bristle. He put a restraining hand on the young man’s arm. “Listen to me, Butters,” he began. “You come on my land, you talk to me – understand?”

  Ted Butters turned to face Archie. “Very well,” he said. “I’ve got the same question for you – where’s my dog?”

  “He ain’t your dog any more, Butters,” said Archie firmly. “You mistreated him. You know you did. He left you.”

  Ted Butters snorted with anger. “You stole him, more likely. That dog cost six quid, and you stole him.”

  Willy now joined in. “He left you,” he said. “He ran away.”

  Ted Butters looked at him contemptuously. “Liar,” he said. “Not that you’ll know the meaning of the word.”

  Willy flushed. “I know what it means.”

  Ted Butters rolled his eyes. “That’s a good one,” he said. He took a few steps forward to get a better view of the farmyard. He noticed Peter Woodhouse’s kennel, and the dog lying down, half inside, half outside.

  “So what’s that over there?” he sneered.

  He walked purposively over towards the kennel. Archie hobbled after him.

  “You leave that dog alone, Butters,” Archie shouted.