Aerial Echoes

Aerial Echoes

"Thank goodness we don't have to go out today!" I said, watching the
rain 'stotting' on our newly laid patio outside the french windows. The
Sunday football match on the TV mirrored the weather (basic and
plodding) and I was bored.

Half awake from her lunch time snooze, Briony shivered and replied
"Brrr - turn on the central heating, there's a dear, it's got cold all
of a sudden".

Thankful to escape from the dreary game and the frosty silence between
my wife and her mother, dozing in the other arm chair, I got up to
fiddle with the thermostat. As boiler was new and we hadn't got the
heating balanced for the autumn weather yet, this was something I had
already got used to. If it had been a good match, I would have
grumbled, but this time it was easy to be the loving husband and sort
the problem out.

I was only gone five minutes , but when I got back, the air was
distinctly colder. Not only in the physical sense, but there was also a
chill in the room between 'Bee' and her mother."

As I settled back into my chair, the old lady leant to me and
whispered: "Where did he go?"

"I heard that," interrupted Bee. "Mum was asleep all though lunch and
then she wakes up with this daft story about a man with a stick."
Puzzled, I put on my 'stern' face and asked "What on earth are you
talking about, both of you?"

"I'm sure he was here when woke up," Gran insisted.

"You must have been dreaming. Nobody's been here but us chickens all
afternoon', my wife replied. She was being firm with her mother. but
was doomed to failure - her mother is a strong willed 80 year old and
always gets her own way in the end.

After many years of eavedropping on this battle, I enjoy helping the
old lady to dig her hole a little deeper each time, so I joined
in:

"Well - it wasn't me. You know I haven't got a walking stick. What did
he look like?"

"He was tall and fair, just like you, but he spoke in a foreign accent
and had a limp."

"He spoke, did he? What did he say?"

The obvious disbelief on Bee's face made the old lady hold more
strongly to her story.

"You don't believe me! Well, I'm not dottled yet. I DID see the man
with his walking stick and he DID speak to me. He asked me how long I'd
been here and I was just about to tell him when you came into the
room." She pointed at me.

"Did he say what his name was?" I was determined to keep the game going
and pressed her further into her story.

"She thought for a moment and then "I think it was Otto, but I'm not
sure. He said he was very happy here and loved watching the aeroplanes.
Especially when they did their formation flying."

While Gran was telling me about Otto, behind her back Bee was making
faces and signalling me to stop. Taking her hint, I said firmly "Well,
I'm sorry I didn't see him and I don't know anyone called Otto. Anyway
I want to watch the next programme - it's got the Red Arrows in it. You
like them too."

This last was my favourite ploy. It gets Gran off her high horse and
back to whatever we are trying to do. This time, however, it didn't
work.

"Otto said he was in the Luftwaffe and he remembers getting shot down
late in the war." Gran was in full flow now, hardly taking a breath."He
said he was in a hospital near here and we looked after him so well, he
stayed on after the war had ended.

My wife couldn't hold back any longer."Don't be silly, we don't know
any Germans and what's more he'd be nearly ninety, if he's a
day!"

"Oh,no, he was a nice young lad!" insisted Gran.

At this stage I decided to keep out of the argument, which was
descending into a typical "Yes I can/No you can't" barney between the
two. I announced that I needed to go to the 'loo', got up and left the
room. When I came back, a sulky truce was in operation, which I thought
best to ignore and settled down in front of the 'telly' to watch the
aerial display.

That night, we were talking in bed about the strange 'feel'of the
afternoon and my wife confessed that she had now remembered
she did know of a German family, but not very well. Thay had settled
here after the War. Their grandfather had a brother who was a pilot and
he had been lost escorting some bombers over England. His grave is
close to us here, apparently, and when the family decided to make a new
start in this country, they chose to be close to his remembrance.

They said his name was Otto. They didn't like talking too much about
him, especially to the older generation, but one day they let slip his
name. My wife only remembered it after the argument and wondered if she
should tell her mother as a peace offering.

"I don't think that's a good idea, it'll start her up again," I
responded. "How about taking her out to lunch tomorrow at her favourite
retaurant? I know it'll cost us an arm and a leg, but this way we can
make up without anybody apologising!"

My wife's happy smile was reward enough, as she liked the restaurant as
well, but I fell asleep that night wondering if Otto had paid her Mum a
visit.