“Many years,” she replied.
“And your husband knew her too?”
She nodded. “It was through him that we met, you see – a long time ago. My husband knew her husband, and that was how I knew about her. It was one of those strange things that happened in those days. People were brought together in odd ways.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t wish to pry,” he said. “But here you are, proposing to give your two employees a half share in the business, while you and this English lady go off on this trip you’ve been talking about . . .”
She kept her temper. There was no point in antagonising the man. “She has a name, Herr Huber. Mrs Rogers. I call her Val. The English are less formal than we are, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Yes, of course. Mrs Rogers. Forgive me. Well, I really want to make sure that this Mrs Rogers isn’t persuading you to take this step. The late Herr Dietrich – your husband, of course – would not have wished you to divest yourself at this stage of the business he had built up. She is a newcomer, so to speak . . .”
She shook her head. “She is not a newcomer, Herr Huber. She has been coming to see me for years now. And we’re only going away for a couple of months.” And there was more. “These two employees have been with me for six years now. They have been very loyal.”
The pace of the pencil-tapping increased – until he noticed that her eyes were fixed on it, and he rapidly put it away.
“You’re going off on your motorcycles,” he muttered.
“On one motorcycle,” she corrected him. “I have a great deal of experience with motorcycles, as you can imagine. Herr Dietrich and I used to go on our holidays that way. We rode all the way down to Italy. A large motorcycle is very comfortable for the pillion passenger – just as it is for the driver.”
She saw a thin smile play about his lips. She did not have to justify herself to him, she thought. “The important thing is to be happy.” Who had said that? Oh, hundreds of people, she thought; hundreds and hundreds of people through the ages, and all of them right. Because it was the important thing – the most important thing of all, when you came to think about it.
She glanced out of the window. There was a large tree directly outside, and its branches were moving in the breeze. In the distance, a hillside rose up to meet the pale summer sky. Perhaps it would be best to explain to him what had happened; this dry, essentially humourless lawyer might just understand – if she explained the history.
“My husband served in the war,” she said.
She held his gaze. There was a flicker; just a flicker.
“And in the course of his service, he met an American airman.”
His face was immobile. He doesn’t wish to be reminded.
He spoke. “I see. An American airman.”
“Yes. And then they met later on – during the Berlin Airlift.”
Herr Huber relaxed. That was a different narrative, with a different set of victims.
“The American was married to an Englishwoman. He met her when he was stationed in England during the war. She came with him when he was based here in Germany – they were down in Wiesbaden, although he had to fly all over. He was one of the pilots who went into Berlin.”
He was comfortable now. “That was so very important,” he said. “If they hadn’t done that . . .” He shrugged. “The Soviets would have taken everything eventually. I doubt if we would be here today, having this conversation. We have a lot to thank the Americans for.”
Ilse said, “You are right. It was very important. And they were brave men.”
“Of course they were.”
“He was one of the ones who was killed,” she continued. “It was towards the end of the blockade – just days before, I think. They had to fly in all sorts of conditions. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. Something went wrong, and his plane went down. We were in touch with his widow afterwards.”
“Wartime friendships,” said Herr Huber. “They can be very strong, I think.”
“His widow went back to England – to her people.”
Herr Huber nodded. “It’s always best,” he said. “If you can go home, that’s the best thing to do. Always.” He paused. “And then?”
“I wrote to her – my husband, you see, was not a very good correspondent. Men aren’t, you see, and wives have to . . .” She trailed away. He was looking reproachful.
“Some men, Frau Dietrich. “Some men – not all of them.”
She inclined her head. “Yes, you’re right – not all men. But, as I was saying, we wrote to one another over the years. Every year there was a Christmas card – that sort of thing – and a letter as well. She married again. She lived on a farm, over there; I went to see her, and then she came over to Germany every other year to stay with us.”
The lawyer inclined his head. ‘I understand, Frau Dietrich – and it is not for me to interfere in your plans.”
“No,” she said. “It is not.”
Dust, white dust of the sort that for its fineness took time to settle, was thrown up in a small cloud behind them as Ilse applied the brakes of the motorbike. It was hot, and when she switched off the engine the air was filled with the screech of cicadas. Someone in the distance was cutting wood with a buzz-saw, the old branches of a vine perhaps, because there were vineyards stretched out across the slopes of the hillsides here.
She silently coasted the heavy bike into the shade thrown by a sculpted birch tree. These trees formed a regimented line along the edge of the village; below them the land fell away sharply to the plains below. On the other side of the road was the village, a cluster of buildings ascending to a tangle of woods above which the sky, pale in this heat, was dizzying in its emptiness.
The village had no proper piazza, the public space being the area in front of the shops and houses that made up the main street. At the end of this one-sided street was a church, its open door looking to all intents and purposes like the mouth of a cave. At least it would be cool in there, with the rock as its floor and the shelter it provided from the relentless sun.
They stretched when they dismounted, taking off their helmets and putting them on the seats of the motorcycle before they stretched their legs. They had been riding non-stop since Florence that morning; the day before they had ridden all the way from Milan and both had felt the aches that came with such a long spell on the road.
Now, though, there was lunch to look forward to, and the village at least boasted a proper restaurant with umbrellas outside and a table of old men sitting smoking and nursing glasses of the local red wine.
They sat at one of the other tables outside. There was a greeting from the table of locals, who had smiled at the sight of two women on a motorbike, and smiled even more when they saw their age. This would be talked about for days, analysed and speculated upon in a village where nothing ever happened other than the arrival of passers-by.
The proprietor brought them a large bottle of carbonated water. They sipped on this while they scrutinised the menu, which offered what it described as the “particular delights of the region”.
Ilse said, “Well, I feel we’re really on our way now. Home seems a long way away.”
“It does,” said Val. “And it is.”
“With all its cares.”
“Yes, with all its cares. Your wall of death . . . It’s in good hands, isn’t it?”
“Those two young men are completely reliable,” said Ilse. “They’re never happier than when they’re going round and round, making the girls scream with delight. All our young men have been the same.”
Val laughed. “What girl wouldn’t like to see a young man going round and round a wall of death?” She paused. “Did you ever go on it yourself?”
Ilse nodded. “I used to – now and then. I rode one of the smaller bikes. I sometimes went on when Ubi was riding. He enjoyed it. He was never really happy running the inn, but when we gave that up to concentrate on the Motodrom he was very happy.”
Val lifted her glass of water to her mouth. The bubbles were sharp on the tongue; tiny needles of sensation. “You must miss him,” she said.
Ilse looked back at her. “Yes, just as you must miss Mike.”
“When you marry again,” said Val, “you don’t talk about that too much. You’re meant to be over it, but you aren’t, you know. Not really.”
“We have our boys, of course.”
“Yes,” said Val. “And Tommy’s a good son. Now that he’s working in London I don’t see so much of him – and he’s got his own young family now. Your Klaus – do you see a lot of him?”
“It’s not too far to Stuttgart,” said Ilse. “Three hours or so. He’s doing well. He’s never liked motorbikes since he fell off one when he was just a boy. He loves cars – which is why he’s working for those people in Stuttgart – but motorbikes, no. He disapproves of my riding, you realise?”
Val smiled. “I think it shows we brought them up right if they disapprove of our behaviour.”
“Perhaps. No, you’re right. You’re right.”
The proprietor came to take their order. “You’ve ridden down here all the way from Germany?” he asked.
“We have,” answered Ilse. “And we’re going on to Naples. Then Sicily. Palermo.”
The proprietor suppressed a smile.
“You could join us if you like,” said Val. “Do you have a motorbike?’
The proprietor laughed. “I have a wife,” he said.
Ilse made a gesture of disappointment. “Oh well.”
They were brought their food.
Afterwards, with coffee on the table, they sat under the shade of the umbrella and looked down onto the plains.
“You know,” said Val, “there was something I was told that I don’t think I ever passed on to you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Mike told me. He said that when they were in Holland – when they were hiding from . . .” She stopped herself.
“From the Germans,” Ilse supplied.
“Yes. But it was a long time ago. Let’s say, different Germans.”
“Something happened?”
“Yes. They had a dog with them.”
“I heard about that,” said Ilse.
“And your husband, your Ubi, was ordered to shoot the dog.”
Ilse winced.
“But he did not,” continued Val. “He saved the dog’s life by firing a shot in the air.”
Ilse was silent. “He did that?” she asked at last.
“Yes,” said Val.
Ilse looked down at the tablecloth. “I’m glad you told me that,” she said. “I’m very glad.”
“You never knew it?”
“No. But I’m grateful you told me, because it makes me proud of him.”
They were both silent. Then Ilse said, “Do you think it’s possible to love somebody who isn’t there any longer? To carry on loving him?”
Val looked up at the sky. A hint of a cooling breeze had sprung up and it touched her now. Swallows dipped and swooped in pursuit of prey in the higher layers of air; tiny dots of pirouetting black. The question was not a casual one, she thought; this was as important as anything they had said to one another. “Of course it is,” she said. “Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” And then she added, “Look up there; look at the birds.”
“What about them?”
“Nothing.”
She thought: You can go on loving people a long time after they have left you; you can love them every bit as much as you loved them when they were still here. Love lasts. Love grows stronger. Love lasts a lifetime, and beyond.
Read more from Alexander McCall Smith
Trains and Lovers
In this surprising and poignant story, four strangers meet on a journey from Edinburgh to London. Each has a tale to tell: for Hugh, a brief encounter on a railway platform leads to an impulsive and possibly dangerous decision; Kay recounts the long journey back to her childhood home in Australia and the love that was there; David remembers a teenage friendship that shaded into love; and Andrew makes a discovery that art and people may not be what they seem to be at first glance.
Love may come to us, then, in very different guises, and be unexpected too, but loving others, as one of the characters in this tale observes, is the good thing we do in our lives.
Fatty O’Leary’s Dinner Party
Fatty O’Leary has always wanted to visit the home of his ancestors. So his loving wife Betty plans a trip to Ireland for his 40th birthday — and almost immediately, things go wrong. The seats in economy class on the plane are too small; Irish bathroom furniture is not as commodious as he might have liked; and all the time Fatty must put up with the unthinking cruelty of strangers.
In a hilarious and touching portrayal of a kindly and misunderstood soul, Alexander McCall Smith has created yet another memorable character destined to become an instant favourite.
Chance Developments
In this beguiling book, Alexander McCall Smith casts his eye over five chanced-upon vintage photographs from the era of black-and-white photography and imagines the stories behind them. The images are ‘orphaned’ – who were those people? What were their stories? Why are they smiling? What made them sad? What emerges are surprising and poignant tales of love and friendship in a variety of settings — an estate in the Highlands of Scotland, a travelling circus in Canada, an Australian gold-mining town, a village in Ireland, and the Scottish capital, Edinburgh. Some will find joy and fulfilment—others would prefer happier endings. Each of them, though, will find love, and that is ultimately what matters.
Find out more about the author here
Alexander McCall Smith, The Good Pilot, Peter Woodhouse
(Series: # )
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