11: The Old Sow

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COLEMORE completed his representation of the Swastika and draped the sheets over the bannisters.

"We'll give that a few minutes to dry," he said, "we haven't quite finished even yet. There is a telephone in that corner, I notice. Wonder if they've got a Classified Directory?"

They had, but it was several years old. Colemore did not know that the issue of these had been discontinued when the paper shortage became acute.

"Why do people keep out-of-date directories?" he grumbled. "It's positively dangerous in cases of emergency. If you want a doctor or a dentist, for example."

"Typical British inefficiency," sneered von Rohde. "It is as well we do not want a doctor. Or a dentist."

"But we do."

"Why?"

"For your sore throat, swollen jaw and distended glands. They are what prevent you from talking of course. I must go upstairs again and find you a muffler. Piketon, that's where we're making for."

"But," objected von Rohde, "if we go to a doctor, he will discover----"

"My good ass," said Colemore patiently, "of course we aren't going to a doctor. I only want the name of one to make my line of talk sound genuine."

"My admiration for your obviously inexhaustible resource----"

"Wilson, he'll do. Dr. Wilson, 49 Hill Brow, Piketon. And the dentist---here we are---Barrowby and Thistlethwaite----"

"Herrgott!" said von Rohde weakly, "what names----"

"I'll just check up in the other directory to see if they're still there. Barrowby & Thistlethwaite, yes. Dr. Wilson, also, yes. Good. We are going to Piketon to interview Dr. Wilson about your poor jaw. Well, that's that. Now----"

"What is Piketon?"

"A small seaport town on the estuary of the Faraday River. It has boat-building yards on a small scale--or had, when I knew it. Also amateur yachtsmen and a yacht club. I went there once years ago. I hope to find you a boat there. Now then, von Rohde, listen carefully."

"I should always give my whole attention, my dear Beisegel, to anything you are pleased to tell me."

"Good, thank you. Now, as soon as ever you reach Holland or Belgium or wherever you fetch up, go straight to Berlin as quickly as possible. Fly, if you can. Get in touch with Intelligence and give them this message. 'Major Aylwin Brampton has reached England, and desires contact. He will be at Platform Six, Waterloo Station, at six p.m.'--that's eighteen hours--'on'--er--"Wednesday, February the 9th and will wait one hour.' Please repeat that."

"It would be safer if I wrote it down----"

"Himmelherrgottsakramentdalekt smi! No. Quite the contrary. Most unsafe. Listen."

Colemore patiently repeated the message, making von Rohde say it after him time and again until the German had it perfect.

"That's better. You won't forget it, will you? February the 9th is ten days ahead, I should think that's enough time. You can tell 'em all about our escape, too, you'll find they will be interested."

"I am sure they will be. But---I am sorry to be so ignorant---whom do I ask for in German Intelligence?"

"I cannot give you any names, it is not permitted. You're a relation of von Schirach's, aren't you? Well, go to him and say you have a very important message to deliver to Intelligence---and to nobody else, von Rohde, nobody else, not even to von Schirach himself. He'll put you in touch with the right people. Now repeat the message again."

Von Rohde got it right first time. "I never do forget things when once I have thoroughly learned them," he said earnestly.

"Splendid. Well, that's all now. You pack the sheet into the suitcase while I find you a muffler, and we'll go."

"One moment--the men who are to meet Major Aylwin Brampton--do they know him? Or do I add that he will be wearing a certain flower in his button-hole or something----"

"Flower my foot. No, they don't know him but they have his photograph and a description. Also there is a certain password to be used."

"I beg your pardon, I might have known the matter would have been arranged." Von Rohde paused, and a look of childlike cunning spread visibly across his face. "I am not, I know, at all in your class for intelligence and ready wit, but even I can guess, can I not that, Major Aylwin Brampton is my good friend Beisegel?"

"He might be, and equally well he might not, von Rohde," said Colemore abruptly. "There's an English proverb which says that those who don't ask questions are not told lies. I am not the only German agent in England, you know."

Embarrassment turned von Rohde scarlet and apparently rendered him speechless as well. He struggled for words with which to apologize, and Colemore relented.

"It's all right, old chap. I'm sorry I snapped at you, one couldn't expect you to know. It's not in your line at all. Come on, let's get going."

When they came out of the house the rain was pouring steadily from a sullen sky and the daylight was beginning to fail. "We'll go the way our host and hostess went," said Colemore, carrying the suitcase. "They said it wasn't far to the bus."

"How far is it to Piketon?"

"About twenty miles. We'll take a bus to Beverley and the train from there. I don't like it because we haven't got any identity cards if we should be asked for them, but we must chance that. Now mind, you're not to talk where anyone can hear you. In fact, you'd better not talk any more for the present, here's the main road."

Von Rohde wound the red-and-black knitted muffler twice round his neck, tucked the ends into his coat and sighed resignedly. There was a bus stop a few yards from the corner, another man was waiting beside it, and they joined him. Presently a bus came down the road, disregarded their signal and splashed past, full up.

"Oh lor'," said the other man in a resigned voice.

"How often do these buses run?" asked Colemore.

"Every twenty minutes."

"Oh, lor'."

"That's what I said," agreed the man, and they went on waiting while the rain came down harder.

"I'm fed up with this," said the man suddenly, and left them. He walked on down the road until a car came along, overtaking him, when he stepped out into the road with a gesture, his thumb jerking upwards.

"This is new to me," murmured the interested Colemore. "What's that for?"

The car driver made some gesture they could not distinguish, and passed on without stopping, so did the next. The third, however, stopped; the man got in and was driven away.

"I've got it," said Colemore. "This is how one gets a lift these days. I'd heard of people giving lifts but I'd never seen it done before. Come on, George. Your name's going to be George," he added, and walked on. Von Rohde followed without answering.

Several cars passed before at last one responded to their signal. The driver opened the door and shouted above the drumming of the rain on the roof, "Where d'you want to go?"

"Well," said Colemore, "Piketon actually, but anywhere on the road would be a help----"

"You're in luck," said the driver, "that's where I live. And I am going straight home, or am I? Gosh, what a night! There's rather a lot of stuff in the back, if your friend could squeeze in----"

"My brother," said Colemore. "Thanks most awfully, it is good of you. I'm afraid we're rather wet, anything here to hurt? Oh, good. Get in, George," with a gesture which von Rohde obeyed. Colemore sat beside the driver, still babbling gratitude, and the car moved off. The driver proved to be a commercial traveller with the easy friendliness of his class, he introduced himself as Robert Anstruther, "Bob to my pals, everyone calls me Bob." He travelled in cakes and biscuits, and told them he had not lived in Piketon long, only about three months. "I was at Lancaster before, only the poor chap here died and the firm sent me to replace him." He talked on and on, telling them funny stories and histories about his customers, while the night fell and the rain beat upon the windscreen and the dimmed lights struggled against the dark. Presently he began to display a quite kindly interest in his passengers.

"Live in Piketon, do you?"

"Not now. We used to live nearby before the war, but just before that we moved and we're both working in an aircraft factory."

"Ah," said Anstruther. "I should ha' been in the Army but my heart's a bit groggy. Besides, I'm over forty."

"Oh, bad show," said Colemore sympathetically. "My brother's a bit under the weather, too," he added, with a jerk of his head towards von Rohde mute in the back seat. "That's why we're going to Piketon this evening, to see Dr. Wilson. Know Dr. Wilson?"

"No, but I've heard of him. Nice old chap, by all accounts."

"One of the best. He used to attend us when we lived here, looked after my mother, and that. George here was always a bit delicate as a kid so I thought I'd take him back to the man who'd known him before. It's a great thing when doctors know their patients well."

"Ah, you're telling me," said Anstruther, and there followed a long story about his wife's mother. "Hope there's not much wrong with your brother."

"Oh, I don't think so. We're on a week's holiday, really, and George started off by sitting in a draught and getting toothache. So he went to a dentist who took out two back teeth for him, they'd given him trouble before. That was two days ago, and his jaw started swelling up and getting stiff. Well, we had rooms booked in that village back there and I didn't like not to go, we wanted a change pretty badly----"

"I'll say you chaps work in those aircraft factories."

"Work!" said Colemore, and laughed aloud. "I did not know one could work like that and not fall down dead. However, one doesn't die, somehow, but it's told on George. To-day I got really worried, he can't open his mouth at all--it seems as though the jaw is set--this evening he can't even speak. I don't think he's really ill, mind, he feels all right, he says, and I don't think he's got a temperature. But----"

"Inflammation from the teeth settled in the glands," said Anstruther authoritatively. "I've heard of cases. Pulling out the teeth has set it off, like. You're quite right to take him to the doctor. We shan't be long now, only a couple of miles to go. I can drop you within a few yards of the doctor's, I know where he lives. Thank goodness the rain's easing off a bit."

"Do you know anywhere where we could put up for the night?" asked Colemore. "If Dr. Wilson wants to see George again as I expect he will----"

"Lord, now you've asked me something, the place is packed out. Your doctor's more likely to know than me."

"You're right, of course----"

"But look here. The Spread Eagle do take people in though they may be full. If you're stuck, go there and mention my name--Bob Anstruther--they'll do what they can for any friend of mine. In fact, if you go there later on you'll probably find me, I generally drop in for a pint and a game of darts on a Saturday night. Spread Eagle, in Market Street, anybody'll show you."

"Thanks most awfully----"

"Or, look here," Anstruther flowed on in the full tide of kindness, "why not come to my place for the night? The wife's away and I'm pigging it, but we'll manage to be comfortable. It's a house called Gleneagles--heaven knows why--in Cliff Road; you go up Market Street--look here, it's not too easy to find. If you want me, I'll be at the Spread Eagle about nine, come there and find me."

"You're a good chap and no mistake," said Colemore warmly. "Two total strangers, you don't even know our name, which by the way is Thistlethwaite----"

"Good old Yorkshire name, anyway," laughed Anstruther, "hard to say and worse to spell. Well, here we are. The doctor's house is the second round this corner, I won't drive up if you don't mind as it means turning the car and I hate backing in the dark. Let me know how your brother gets on, won't you? Gleneagles, Cliff Road, or else the Spread Eagle. Cheerio, best of luck."

He drove away and left them standing on the pavement with the suitcase between them, and the night seemed suddenly silent and very cold.

"What a gasbag," said von Rohde indistinctly, through the muffler. "Herrgott, how these English bourgeois talk!"

Colemore could have kicked him. The ungrateful chinless arrogant little squirt of a Prussian, sneering at the stranger who was willing to shelter him----

"Come on," said Anthony curtly. "And don't talk yourself."

He paused for a moment to get his bearings, and led the way in the direction of the river. The weather was clearing considerably, there was a young moon not far off setting and it was still fairly light. At first they passed through streets as thronged with people as was to be expected between six and seven on a Saturday evening, but when Colemore turned into narrow muddy lanes between warehouses and sheds, the crowds were left behind and they met only a stray passer-by occasionally and once a scatter of cats in pursuit of their desires.

"Here we are," said Anthony, passing round the end of a fence, and the river lay before them. Tall open-ended sheds lined the banks, inside the sheds were dimly visible the sheeted forms of motor boats, cabin cruisers and small yachts laid up on chocks until such time as the seas should be safe again for decent unarmed people. Out in the river, already broadening to its estuary, two or three small sailing boats lay at moorings and the bows of all of them pointed upstream.

"Tide high but going out," said Colemore. "One of those will do you nicely. Now to find a dinghy somewhere, wait till the moon goes down, and there you are. Think you can manage one of those?"

"I suppose so," said von Rohde in a rather sullen voice. Colemore glanced at him, wondering whether he had misgivings about his voyage now that it came to the point---and indeed one could not blame him---or whether he was sulking from being snubbed.

"Quite plain sailing down here," said Anthony, in case it was nervousness which was afflicting the German. "Keep well out in mid-stream and you'll be all right. There are mud banks but they won't worry you at this state of the tide. If you set the jib only---I'll help you----"

"Don't bother," said von Rohde. "Better to drift down with the current till I'm clear of the town if possible. Sails can't be got up in dead silence and they are more visible than one would think in the dark. If they pass in front of a light, for instance. Masts don't show nearly so much."

Colemore was agreeably surprised, the man had spoken with unexpected decision, and what was more, he was right. Perhaps he was one of those people who is only really at home on the water---a throw-back to some seafaring ancestor. Ashore, he didn't seem to have enough sense to come in out of the rain.

"I absolutely agree with you," said Anthony. "If you can manage to do that it will be much better."

They stumbled along the waterfront, slipping on the mud, climbing over obstructions and trying not to make a noise. "If we can't find a dinghy soon---" began Colemore, but von Rohde interrupted him. "If not, I must swim for it, that's all."

"You know," said Anthony, "I wonder you didn't go in the Navy instead of the Army. Your tastes seem to lie more that way."

"Family tradition," said von Rohde, in a voice gone suddenly dull. "We von Rohde's always serve in the Army. I would have preferred the Navy but my father, the General, would not hear of it."

"Poor down-trodden little worm," said Colemore to himself, and added aloud, "Here, what's that ahead?" It was quite a smart dinghy, smart by war-time standards, and it was lying on the mud just above high-water mark.

"It has no oars," said von Rohde in a dispirited voice.

"Of course not, they'll keep them locked up. We'll paddle with the floor-boards."

"Oh. Look here, there is no necessity for me to trespass further upon your good nature, if you will help me to get her afloat I can manage alone."

"Nonsense," said Colemore heartily, "shouldn't think of it. Besides, it isn't as though you've got oars, it's damned awkward paddling with a piece of plank, and the current here runs faster than you'd think. No, I'll come with you and bring the dinghy back, in half an hour it will be dark enough for us not to be seen."

Colemore was right about the current, it took both men all they could spare of energy to paddle against it with the unhandy floor-boards; they made for the nearest boat and hung on to the rail, gasping.

"You were right," said von Rohde, "I'd never have done it without you. You'll find it easier going back. This boat must frequently be used, everything is here and ready," he added, climbing on board for a quick look round. "I shall start at once, the sooner the better."

"I hope you'll manage," said Colemore, a little remorseful at sending him off alone. "The weather's in your favour, I hope it holds. Listen, I forgot to get you any water, but there's a big tin of grapefruit, that'll help you. Sure you'll be all right?"

"Perfectly, thanks, unless the British coastal patrols catch me. I've done a lot of single-handed sailing in the Baltic," said von Rohde. "Good-bye, and thank you a thousand times for all you've done for me--I cannot adequately express what is your due. We shall meet again in our dear Germany, and my father, the General, shall tell you what is in our hearts. My mother also----"

"Good-bye," said Colemore, hastily returning to the dinghy. "Take care of yourself---best of luck---don't forget the message, for heaven's sake. Heil Hitler!"

"Your message is written on my heart," said von Rohde, casting off the painter. "Heil Hitler!"

The current snatched at Colemore's dinghy and swept him away, he had his hands full to come ashore anywhere near the spot whence they had started. He paused in the act of hauling the dinghy up the mud, and stared at the river; in a street opposite a car faced him as he gazed it seemed that something upright passed across the dimmed lights. Von Rohde had not wasted any time.

"Queer bloke," said Colemore, trying to clean the mud off his shoes. "Odd mixture, very."

He made his way to the Spread Eagle, wiped his feet carefully on the mat, and walked into the Saloon bar. Anstruther was there with a glass in his hand in the middle of a ring of cheerful friends; when he saw Colemore enter and pause near the door, he put his glass down and came forward.

"Well," said the commercial traveller in a low tone, "what about your brother?"

"In hospital. Dr. Wilson wants to keep him under observation for a few days, so there he is. I waited with him at the doctor's while arrangements were made and then Wilson drove us up himself. We had to wait there a bit too, after which they removed George with brisk efficiency and I came on down here." Colemore sighed, and Anstruther patted him on the shoulder.

"Pretty foul for you. Still, he's in the best hands. Cheer up and come and have a drink."

"I could do with one," said Anthony. "By the way, Mr. Anstruther----"

"Bob to you, please, Mr. Thistleth---hang it, I can't say it----"

"Don't try, my name's Bill."

"Come on, Bill. Boys! Meet a friend of mine, Bill---Twistlethwaite? I never get it right. This one is on me. Bill's just had to dump his brother into hospital so he's feeling a bit cast down. What's yours, Bill?"

The bar was warm and bright and welcoming; after a little while Colemore thought it quite reasonable to cheer up a little. Songs with choruses were sung and, since there were no ladies present, somebody obliged with "The Derby Ram."

"That's a good old song."

"It is, it is. If a bit---you know----"

"Well, it's very old. Other times, other manners, as the saying is."

"D'you know 'The Old Sow'?" asked Colemore.

One or two said "No," but more said "Yes," and there were cries of "Sing it, Bill! Sing it."

"If you'll all help with the piggy noises," said Colemore. He began in a pleasant tenor voice:---

"There was an old Farmer who had an old Sow---"

Snort---snort---squeal from all over the room.

"There was an old Farmer who had an old Sow---"

The door opened and an Inspector of Police entered followed by a constable, and waited, grinning broadly for the song to finish.

"Haven't heard that song since I was a boy," said the Inspector, coming forward. "My father used to sing it."

"What are you doing on licensed premises in uniform, Inspector?" asked Anstruther. "Police rules slacked off in war-time? Going to have one?"

"No such luck," said the Inspector genially. "No, this is on business, though I don't think I need trouble you gentlemen. They've mislaid two German prisoners from that camp beyond Beverley and we've got to go round looking for them. Identity cards, please---sorry to be such a nuisance, gentlemen."

Most of them produced their identity cards, all but two, in fact, and one of them was Colemore. He felt in his inside pocket quite naturally as all the others did, and his cheerful face fell suddenly.

"Damn," he muttered. "Left it in my other coat. What a fool!"

Anstruther looked sympathetic and said, "Never mind, I'll vouch for you." The other cardless man was known to the Inspector personally and was merely reminded that it was an offence not to carry it and the omission would probably cost him five bob. The police made a note and worked round the room till they came to Colemore.

"Sorry," said Anthony. "Left it behind in my digs. My brother was ill and I was rather worried and clean forgot it."

"Very unfortunate," said the Inspector in a friendly voice. "Perhaps somebody here could vouch for you?"

"I can," said Anstruther.

"That's good," said the Inspector, and asked Colemore for his name, home address, and identity card number. He gave the name of William Thistlethwaite and an address in Leeds, hoping the Inspector didn't know Leeds as it would be awkward if he said, "Mayfield Road? Don't remember that, where is it?" However, 147 Mayfield Road, Leeds, went down in the notebook just as readily as if there really were such a street. The identity number was another matter. Colemore had never seen a civilian identity card and had no idea what the numbers were like. He said he was sorry, he'd never attempted to memorize it and had never looked at the card since it was handed to him.

"Lots of people don't," said Anstruther, coming to the rescue. "This gentleman's all right, he's a friend of mine and staying the night with me, aren't you, Bill? His brother George has been taken ill and had to be rushed off to the Memorial Hospital. Bill's all right."

"You wouldn't expect to find a German prisoner singing a song in a saloon bar," said another man. "Especially 'The Old Sow.'"

"Well, no, that's quite true," said the Inspector. "Proper old song, that is." He told Colemore to produce his identity card at the police station in the village where Anthony had said he was spending his holiday. After which he finished his round of the room and went out; Colemore sighed with relief and decided to leave Piketon that night.

---

The Inspector crossed the road to an adjacent call box and rang up the Memorial Hospital. Had a patient named George Thistlethwaite been brought in that evening? No, not an accident case; illness, he understood. Yes, certainly he would hold on... No one of that name? Quite sure? Thank you very much....