The Restless Sea, page 39
‘But I came back and he was gone … and Stoog said … and then Mum …’ Her whole body is trembling.
‘I’ll tell you everything. Just come with me,’ he says.
‘I can’t … I …’
‘You can. It’s going to be fine …’ Carl is still holding out his hand.
‘But Stoog’s looked after me …’
Carl snorts as Stoog puts a protective arm on Betsy’s shoulder. ‘No, Betsy. Stoog’s not looked after you. He’s taken advantage …’
Olivia can see that Betsy is torn, between the man who has offered her shelter for the last few years, and the man who offers her protection now.
Stoog steps closer to her, sensing he’s at a disadvantage. ‘What about the baby, Betsy?’ he says. ‘Aren’t we going to sort that?’
Betsy’s hands go to her stomach.
‘Think about Jack,’ says Carl. He does not take his eyes from Betsy’s face.
‘He mustn’t find out …’
‘We’ll talk to him together.’
‘I can’t keep it.’
‘I understand.’
Olivia wants to tell her she must keep it. She is thinking of the unconscious girl at Dr Hartmann’s surgery. She is about to say something, to intervene, but Carl holds up a hand to silence her. He is still focusing on Betsy. ‘It’s going to be all right, Bets,’ he says.
‘Don’t you expect to come back if you go,’ says Stoog.
Carl talks over him. ‘I’m not leaving without you.’
‘There’ll be no place for you here if you leave.’ Stoog is beginning to sound desperate.
‘There’s a place for you with us,’ says Carl.
Betsy looks across at Stoog one last time, but his gimlet eyes give nothing away. She looks back at Carl and his outstretched hand, which is only inches from her, and Olivia can see that she trusts her brother’s oldest friend, and she puts out her hand and Carl grabs hold of it and leads her out into the light.
By the time they reach the flat, it is late morning. Olivia is suffering from lack of sleep. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts. She cannot believe they have found Betsy, is overjoyed at the thought of reuniting her and Jack. But now she must grapple with the fact that the girl might be carrying Charlie’s baby. She wonders how Jack will react. She wonders how Charlie will react. She wonders what Jack will think of Charlie. She wonders if Charlie will ever know that he has a child. She wonders how it might have been if she still carried Jack’s child. She does not know whether to believe what Betsy has told them. She does not know what to say or how to behave.
She settles for making everyone a cup of tea while Carl talks to Betsy. The girl will not even look at her. She is jumpy and agitated, pacing around the flat, picking things up and putting them down. ‘I can’t have it, Carl,’ she is saying. ‘I’ve got to get rid of it. You’ve got to help me. Before it’s too late …’
Olivia stirs the tea. She has been doing the calculations. Betsy must be at least thirty weeks gone; even though there is barely anything to show it. ‘It’s already too late,’ she says, placing the hot mugs on the table.
‘No,’ says Betsy. ‘Stoog had someone coming …’
Olivia cuts her off. ‘Charlie left on September the first. It’s now the end of March …’
‘You have to take me back …’
‘But the baby will be fully formed. It would be like murder … Carl, please tell her. It’s too late.’
Carl nods slowly. He has also been working it out. ‘She’s right, Betsy …’
‘But Stoog said …’
‘Forget what Stoog said …’
‘But how will I look after it …’
‘There are things we could do … Adoption …’
‘Let’s not make any hasty decisions,’ says Olivia. ‘Let’s wait for Charlie …’
‘You said he’s gone.’ Betsy glares at her.
‘That doesn’t mean he’s not coming back …’
Betsy thinks about this for a moment. ‘But where will I have it? Who will help me? What about Jack? What will he say?’
‘Don’t worry about Jack,’ says Carl. ‘We’ll talk to him. He’ll understand.’
‘Where will I stay? Can I stay with you?’
Carl shakes his head. ‘There’s no room. We’ve already got three families at our house …’
‘Then there’s nowhere else. I’ve got to go back …’
‘No!’ Carl and Olivia speak at the same time.
And now Carl is looking at Olivia. She starts to shake her head. ‘But I’m leaving for Scotland in six hours …’ She can see the reluctance parading across Betsy’s face and she knows that it is matched to the same degree in her own.
‘I don’t see how either of you has a choice.’
Carl insists that the girls both rest before discussing the matter further. Betsy curls up on Olivia’s bed, her dark head lying on the same pillow that Jack’s dark head was resting on only a few days ago, the years falling away as she drifts off. Olivia retreats to the sitting room. She dozes in an armchair for a while, but sleep is evasive. There is too much running through her head. Carl watches over them both. He does not trust Betsy not to run. Olivia shifts in the chair, and Carl perches on the arm next to her.
‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’ says Olivia.
‘She’s definitely expecting …’
‘But do you think it’s Charlie’s?’
‘We’ve got to give her the benefit of the doubt.’
‘I can’t see how Charlie …’ But she can. She knows what it is like to lose oneself to longing.
‘Bloody Stoog,’ says Carl. He lifts his false leg, rearranging it to sit more comfortably. ‘Makes you wonder what’s the real damage done by war …’
‘What do you think Jack will do?’
‘I think he’ll kill Stoog.’
‘And Charlie?’
Carl shrugs, defeated.
Olivia tucks her hair behind her ear and fiddles nervously with her earlobe. ‘I wish there was some news. I wish we knew if he was alive …’
‘Will he do the honourable thing if he is?’
‘You mean marry her?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘He’d certainly do something. He’s a decent man …’
‘Pay for it?’
‘Either that … Or take it off her hands … or … I don’t know …’
‘What if he never returns?’
Olivia shifts uncomfortably. ‘Actually, he made me his next of kin …’
Carl raises his eyebrows. ‘So what do you think?’ he says.
‘I think if it’s Charlie’s, of course he – or we – should help. But if it’s someone else’s … Stoog’s … or …’
A noise makes her glance towards the corridor, where she sees Betsy framed in the doorway, her black eyes narrowed, unreadable, her thin body tense. ‘It isn’t Stoog’s,’ she says. ‘It’s Charlie’s. And if you say he’ll pay, I’ll come with you to Scotland and have it.’
CHAPTER 27
Charlie
Charlie and Ned are manhandled into a truck. Four guards glare at them, their eyes glittering in the dark. Charlie’s head aches. He is disoriented. He has no compass. No revolver. No map. He has nothing. Just the clothes on his back. He can tell from the sun’s feeble trajectory that they are heading south, away from Norway, through Denmark and into Germany. With every hour his heart sinks further. He slips in and out of sleep; it feels as though his brain has been rattled and knocked around his skull. He has a scrape down his cheek, and his old shoulder injury throbs. Ned rubs his fingers together nervously. Neither of them speaks.
Eventually they arrive at a camp: a clearing of long wooden huts surrounded by barbed wire fences. Men stand around in the dirt outside, waving at the incoming truck. The stiff figures of sentries keep watch in dotted lines. The truck comes to a halt, and the guards bark at Charlie and Ned. ‘Out!’ They motion with their rifles.
Charlie lands on the ground, and for a moment he thinks his legs will give way. His body is weak and his mind woozy. He is pushed towards the only brick building, and into a small room. It is empty apart from a bare bed and a small grimy window, which is hanging open. Outside, beyond the drab camp, he can see a hillside laced with glittering streams. His resolve falters.
The guard blocks the doorway. ‘Remove your clothes,’ he says. Charlie looks at him, unsure. ‘Now!’ says the guard, waving his rifle. Charlie bends to unlace his boots. The action makes his shoulder burn. His hands tremble. The guard grunts. Charlie unbuckles his belt, steps out of his trousers, fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, peels away the layers, grimaces as the pain shoots through his arm. As he drops his vest on the ground, the guard nods in satisfaction.
He stands there for what feels like an eternity, the cold air sweeping across his skin. But it is not the chill that makes him feel vulnerable; it is the staring eyes of the man standing over him. He tries to remember his training. But he is no longer Lieutenant FitzHerbert. He is Charlie. Naked and exposed.
Suddenly the German spots something and grows agitated. He is pointing at Charlie’s wrist. Oh God. The watch. The bloody watch. He was an idiot to keep it on. It had become a sort of talisman. A prize to show off, as well as somehow keeping Olivia close, as if by wearing it, he might retain some hold over her.
‘Luftwaffe!’ says the man. Charlie tries to regulate his breathing. He takes the air deep into his lungs, lets it out slowly. He does not want this man to sense the fear that is beginning to course through him. The guard barks at him again. ‘Luftwaffe!’ he says, and pushes Charlie with the butt of his rifle, cold and hard like iron against his naked skin. Charlie’s insides are liquid. He has never felt so helpless and exposed.
There is a commotion from outside. The guard moves to the window, peering through it briefly, before trying to close it with his free hand, but he struggles as the catch gets in the way. Through it, in the yard, Charlie can see the other prisoners are still standing in the mud outside their huts. They are all facing the building that Charlie and Ned are in. A sound reaches his ears. It is music – the men are humming a familiar tune, the notes deep and rich, filling the air. Charlie lets the noise sink into him. It is a silly song they used to sing during training. A poor aviator lay dying … The tune is the same as something his mother sang … Memories of the past flash through his mind: a cricket catch on a sunny day, a picnic with his mother, that first flight with his father, training, friends, flying, parade, the day he got his wings, Mole singing as they fly over the sea. They can take away his clothes, but they cannot take away who he is.
Guards are pouring into the yard and ushering the men, still humming, into their huts. Charlie’s guard finally manages to slam the window shut. All is quiet. Charlie locks his eyes on to the cold stare of the German. He unbuckles the watch slowly and holds it out, dangling it in the space between them. The guard indicates that he wants it brought to him, but Charlie smiles and refuses to move. The guard steps forward, snatching the watch, shouting something before retreating with a slam of the door.
Charlie wraps himself in a blanket from the bed. In the ensuing silence, he can hear Ned next door. He taps on the wall. ‘Chin up, Ned,’ he says. Ned taps back. ‘We’ll be all right,’ says Charlie. ‘Just remember your training.’
Charlie waits, sitting on the bed, facing the door. Eventually it opens again and the guard dumps his clothes on the ground, indicating he must dress again. There is no sign of the watch. Charlie takes his time and the guard grows impatient, but Charlie’s heartbeat is slow, his hands steady. Eventually he is led to a bare room with a table in the centre of it. A German officer with receding blond hair is sitting at the table. The watch is lying in the middle. ‘Where did you get this?’ says the officer, narrowing his eyes.
Charlie says nothing. He’s damned if he’s going to tell this man anything.
‘This is a Luftwaffe watch,’ says the officer.
Charlie says nothing.
The man slams his fist on the table, the sound making Charlie’s heart race again, but still he says nothing.
‘You killed a German?’ The man slams the table again. ‘You will tell me!’
Another man comes in. He is dark, with a squidgy face and kind eyes set behind glasses. The two Germans argue, their voices raised. Charlie’s head begins to hurt. The new man has a piece of paper. ‘I am from the Red Cross,’ he says. He hands Charlie the piece of paper. ‘Red Cross,’ he says again, pointing at the stamp. ‘So we can let your family know where you are.’
Charlie scans the paper. He is not convinced this is an official Red Cross document. ‘I have no family,’ he says.
‘You must fill it in or your mother will not know you are living,’ says the man again.
‘I have no mother,’ says Charlie.
‘A wife?’
Charlie shakes his head.
‘A sweetheart?’
Charlie shakes his head.
The blond officer interjects. He is calmer now. ‘I know how you feel,’ he says. ‘We are all pilots here.’
‘Then you should also know we don’t need to tell you anything.’ Charlie knows his rights: all pilots are briefed before flying over enemy territory.
‘You must fill in,’ says the darker man.
‘You can have my name, rank, and service number.’
‘We need more than this.’
‘That is all I am obliged to tell you.’
‘We cannot process you unless you tell us more.’
‘I’ll have to remain unprocessed, then.’
‘Where were you flying? What is your ship?’
Charlie shakes his head.
‘You will stay here until you tell us more.’
Charlie leans back, crosses his arms. ‘Looks like we’ll get to know each other well, then.’
The charade goes on for two days before Charlie is freed from solitary confinement. He joins the rest of the prisoners-of-war, all of them airmen, for this is a Dulag Luft – a transit camp for air force prisoners – although most of the others are RAF, for the Germans make no distinction between airmen from different armed forces.
Charlie finds a free bunk in the officers’ dormitory, beneath a middle-aged man with wildly bushy eyebrows and thinning grey hair who swings himself down to the ground. ‘Geordie,’ he says, pumping Charlie’s hand. ‘Welcome to Frankfurt. Where were you shot down?’ He puts his fingers to his lips and rolls his eyes from side to side. ‘Quietly, though. Microphones in every corner.’
‘Norway,’ Charlie mouths. The other officers who have come to shake his hand nod their heads, drifting back to their games of cards and their open books.
‘Nice to have another Fleet Air Arm chap to liven things up a bit,’ says Geordie.
‘Do you know what happened to my observer?’ Charlie asks.
‘Must have been released to another barracks. Divide and rule. You should be able to catch up with him tomorrow.’
Charlie sits on the edge of his bed, head awkwardly forward to stop hitting it on the bunk above.
‘It’s always a bit disorienting at first,’ says Geordie, sitting down next to him.
‘Sounds like you’ve done this before,’ says Charlie.
‘Almost more times than I can count on these.’ Geordie holds out his hands and counts along the fingers. ‘I’ve escaped nine times. Next one’ll be number ten, an anniversary of sorts. Got to make that one count.’
‘Nine times?’ says Charlie.
‘Yes. Only problem is, I always get caught and brought back. But one of these days I’ll make it. Throw enough shit and someday it will stick, eh?’
Charlie retreats into his bunk, stretching out his legs and putting his arms behind his head. For a brief moment, he feels safe, surrounded by other officers and British men. But then he recalls the barbed wire keeping him from the hills beyond, and he is overwhelmed by exhaustion. He has held out against his captors, but he is trapped. Trapped like the men at Dunkirk. He tries to fight off sleep, but his eyelids are heavy. He dreams of flying among wispy clouds as the thermals push and bounce at the plane. He hears Mole singing, his deep voice resonating down the Gosport tube. But then he sees the coast of France, marked by a fog of black smoke, the water surrounding it churning with ships – not only the British fleet, but anything that is seaworthy: hospital ships and ferries, sailing dinghies and yachts, tugboats and speedboats, car ferries and trawlers, paddleboats and lifeboats. They are low in the water, so stuffed with extra men that they are struggling to get back across the Channel. Clustered around them like flies are hundreds more men, turning the water white as they struggle to climb to safety. And then there is the beach, black with still more men desperate to escape, and beyond them the chaos on the roads, abandoned trucks and motorcycles, piles of ammunition, guns, provisions, British tanks left empty. Then the marshy ground, the flooded canals and the acres of gleaming tanks and German soldiers waiting to pounce.
Three days later, Charlie is packed into a waiting truck with a group of other men, including Geordie. There is still no sign of Ned. ‘I wouldn’t worry, old chum,’ says Geordie. ‘They do at least respect rank here – officers always go to officer-only camps. They probably just think they’ll get more from you if you’re kept apart.’
They are driven to a train station, where they are packed into a wagon. ‘Moving us on quickly this week,’ says Geordie.
A young man with a pencil-thin moustache and startlingly blue eyes says, ‘The whole place is filling up double quick. We’ve been stepping up raids, so more of our boys are finding their way here.’
‘A last push against the Jerries? Is the end in sight?’
The possibility of an end to war is heartening, but their mood is buoyant for only a short while in the cramped wagons. The Germans watch them constantly. Even the door to the lavatory is wired open; anyone who can face visiting it is scrutinised throughout. One prisoner manages to tear the train map from the carriage wall when no guards are looking. It will be pored over later, giving clues to the men of when to try to escape, where to run. They already know where they’re going; Geordie isn’t the only one who has been recaptured: ‘Sagan, for sure, old boy. Stalag Luft.’
