I'll Be Seeing You (26 page)

‘This American guy you're trying to find – Ham something. There are all sorts of names with Ham in them in the phone book, but that gets you nowhere. Did you find out anything else?'

‘I know a bit about him, but it's not very much. I was thinking of finding someone to help over here – a private detective, maybe.'

She glanced at me curiously. ‘What's the big deal about tracing him? Did your mother leave him something in her will?'

‘No, nothing like that. He was an old friend from wartime days . . . a bomber pilot with the American Eighth Air Force when she was in the WAAF. She left me a letter about him, and a photo.'

We changed lanes abruptly again. ‘Sounds like he was a bit more than a friend . . . don't you think?'

I said truthfully, ‘She never spoke of him before, so it's rather a mystery. I'd like to track him down, if it's possible.'

‘Well, I think I know just the man to help you. We're having some people in tomorrow evening and I've asked him along so you can meet him.'

‘Who is he?'

‘His name's Rob Mclaren.'

‘A Scot?'

‘Well, I suppose his family must have been once, but now he's a full-blown Yank. They all come from somewhere else – unless they're American Indians and there aren't too many of those around. He's a freelance journalist. Contacts everywhere. He'll know which strings to pull.'

‘I'd sooner steer clear of anything to do with newspapers.'

‘He's not a muckraker, if that's what you're worried about. He does stuff for the broadsheets and upmarket mags like
Time
. All pretty highbrow. See what you think of him, anyway.'

She glanced at me again. ‘You know, I can't imagine your mother two-timing your father, Julie. They always seemed the perfect couple to me.'

‘She didn't. And they were. She knew this American before.'

‘So he's come out of the past? Big surprise. Did she ask you to trace him – in that letter?'

‘Not in so many words. I'm just curious. She never talked much about her time in the WAAF and I never asked her. I wish I had. Maybe if I find him, he can tell me something.' I smiled at her. ‘And it was a lovely excuse to come and see you, Chris. I brought the Christmas pudding and the mince pies. And the crackers.'

‘Bless you! Now we can have an English Christmas. I love America the rest of the year, but not right now. They don't do it the same as us. It's Happy Holidays and bloody Santa Claus instead of Father Christmas, and they don't have Boxing Day. Did you bring the Marmite too?'

‘The biggest pot I could find.'

‘You're a star! I ran out ages ago.'

We left one freeway for another and I shut my eyes while Chris did some more rapid lane-changing. After a while we veered off up a ramp and turned onto a street lined with garish neon signs: Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Donuts, Burger King, Jack-in-the-Box. The people on the sidewalks were nearly all dark-skinned, black-haired Mexicans.

‘Most of them are here illegally,' Chris said. ‘They get all the grotty jobs nobody else wants to do.' She swung into another street. ‘We're more scenic now. There's the Santa Monica mountains in the distance.'

We crossed a boulevard into the residential area of Santa Monica. Adrian's Wimbledon-on-Sea had wide, tree-lined streets with clipped grass verges and beautiful homes set among hothouse greenery with flowers blooming exotically in midwinter – bougainvillea, azaleas, hydrangeas, birds of paradise. The architecture was mostly California Spanish, occasionally neo-Georgian, sometimes, incongruously, English mock Tudor. And everything looked so
clean
– as though it had all been jet-washed. No dirt, no dead leaves, no litter, no dogs' mess. And the air, away from smoggy LA, was crystal pure.

‘Wait till it gets dark,' Chris said. ‘You can't see them now, but the Christmas lights are a knockout.'

We came to Georgina Avenue and Chris and Dan's house – one of the California Spanish ones with a wavy terracotta-tiled roof, shady balconies, blue shutters against whitewashed walls, cascades of red bougainvillea, great green fans of luscious palms. On the front lawn there was a metal notice stuck in the grass:
Armed Response
.

‘That's the American version of
Beware of the dog
,' Chris said. ‘It means we keep a gun.'

I followed her into the house and into an open-plan living room where there was more greenery in Ali Baba-sized pots, ceramic-tile flooring, ethnic rugs, squashy white leather sofas, a stone fireplace of inglenook proportions and a very tall Christmas tree – every inch of it smothered with silver and gold ornaments and big red velvet bows.

Chris switched on the fairy lights which pulsated like a traffic-hazard warning. ‘Isn't it ghastly? It's not real, of course. It unscrews and you just get the damn thing out every year and screw it back together. I'll say one thing, it saves a lot of time and trouble. Come and look at the pool – that really
is
something.'

Shuttered doors led out to the garden at the back. Well, not a garden, exactly, more a paved area with more potted palms and a kidney-shaped swimming pool with mosaic sides and sapphire water.

‘There wasn't one when we moved in. It takes up most of the yard, of course, but I said to Dan, if we're going to live in this climate then I'm damn well having a pool so we can make the most of it.'

Chris's daughter, Kim, appeared – a smiling teenager with long blond hair and perfect teeth, wearing a candy-pink jogging suit and trainers. Ricki, the son, was still away at college and due back on Christmas Eve. By the time Dan came home from the bank it was dark and he took me out in the street to show me the neighbourhood decorations. I saw what Chris had meant and it put English efforts to shame. Candles shone in every window and thousands of coloured lights twinkled along eaves and balconies, round archways, over porches, up palms, through bushes, down steps and paths . . . and, best of all, on the roof of the house across the street, a glittering, full-size Santa Claus sitting in his sleigh, whip held aloft, was driving his four reindeer up across the Spanish tiles towards the California night sky.

‘Well, what do you think of California?'

It was the fifth time I'd been asked the same question during the evening and I gave the same jet-lagged answer. ‘I haven't had time to see much yet, but I'm sure I'll love it.'

‘Bit different from the Old Country, weather-wise?'

‘It certainly is.'

‘We've the best climate of any state in America . . . some say the best in the world. Sun all the year round, never gets too cold. You can swim in the ocean in the morning and go skiing in the afternoon, did you know that?'

‘No, I didn't. Good heavens! How amazing!'

‘Sure thing. The mountains are only a coupla hours' drive away. Laurel and I have got a time-share up at Big Bear and we've been going there for years. The kids have been skiing since they could walk.'

Chris had asked a roomful of people and kept introducing them in turn.
This is Glen, this is Janey, this is Art, Saul, Cary, Melanie, Bill
 . . . This was Greg, the owner of the house opposite with Santa Claus and the reindeer galloping across the roof. The guests were all well groomed, well dressed, squeaky clean – as though they'd just stepped out of their power showers, jet-washed all over like their sidewalks and their streets. How filthy dirty Europe and Europeans must seem to them. How backward our inefficient ways and unhygienic habits. Lucky Americans! They'd started from scratch, which had given them a big advantage. No Old World hang-ups about sticking stubbornly to ancient traditions, or guilt about taking new short cuts. No putting up with woeful inefficiency or pathetic inadequacy, or plain filth.

Their houses were designed to save all unnecessary labour and everything in them worked properly: baths, showers, heating, cookers, decent-sized fridges, proper-sized washing machines, garbage shredders, remote-control garage doors, automatic garden sprinklers . . . Chris hadn't slaved for hours in the kitchen and worn herself out getting food ready for the party. Instead we'd simply got in the love-it-to-bits Chrysler, driven to the nearest delicatessen and collected the gourmet delights that she'd ordered over the telephone: a mouth-watering variety of dishes all prepared and ready to serve. Nor had she had to do messy battle on her knees in the fireplace. The false logs burst into cheery Christmassey flames at a flick of a switch and looked almost indistinguishable from the real thing. There seemed to me to be an awful lot to recommend the American way. And they'd just elected themselves a young and glamorous new President, made in the Kennedy image. Europe was looking rather tired and old.

A woman called Sherry approached. ‘Say, that's a real cute blouse you're wearing. Where did you find it?'

I decided not to tell her that I'd unearthed the Forties polka dot in a charity shop in the North End Road and that it had cost 75 pence. One has one's pride, after all. Her husband, Walter, joined her. He wore rimless spectacles and a very intense expression.

‘How are you liking California?'

I could see that he expected a proper answer. ‘It's wonderful. So sunny and so clean.'

I must have said the right thing because he looked pleased.

‘We keep environmental cleanliness at the forefront of our agenda. Of course, we've been addressing the air-pollution problem here for some years but I think we're finally finding real solutions.'

‘You mean to the smog?'

He stopped looking quite so pleased. ‘That's an ongoing challenge, of course, and one that we take very seriously. We also have to consider other potentially harmful sources – smoking, for instance.'

‘Smoking? But surely that can't do much harm? Not compared with smog.'

‘Maybe you haven't heard of passive smoking, Juliet?'

‘I'm afraid I haven't.'

‘Inhaling the fumes from someone else's cigarette has been proven just as harmful as smoking yourself. Smoking will be banned in restaurants soon. It should be banned from
all
public places – and soon will be in the state of California. In my opinion, it should be outlawed completely.'

‘Completely? You mean, in people's homes as well?'

‘I most certainly do. Sherry and I could never travel to Europe because of the way they allow smoking there.'

Sherry nodded her supportive agreement. I thought, bewildered, of what they were missing in order to avoid smoking passively – all the wonders and glories of Greece and Rome, the culinary delights and beauties of France and Italy and Spain, the ancient history of green and pleasant England. It seemed to me that a trip on the California freeways could prove far more risky, not to mention the perils of keeping a gun as a response to intruders. Walter went on, expanding on the subject, citing grisly statistics.

Then, thankfully, Chris was at my elbow again, with another guest. Julie, this is Rob Mclaren. Remember I mentioned him?'

‘Of course.' I held out my hand. ‘How do you do?'

I waited to be asked what I thought of California; instead, he said, ‘Chris tells me you're trying to trace some guy.'

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.'

‘She thinks maybe I could help. So, tell me about it.'

I wasn't prepared and he wasn't at all like I'd expected – or had hoped. A lived-in face, grizzled hair, stocky build, navy blue checked jacket with an open-necked shirt sprouting more grizzled hair, lighted cigarette in hand with smoke spiralling, which had the happy side effect of removing Walter and Sherry immediately to the very opposite end of the room. Tabloids surely, not broadsheets. Scoops and gossip columns.

‘Well, it's a bit awkward at the moment . . .' I indicated other guests still close by, braving the cigarette smoke.

He took me by the elbow and marshalled me over to a free corner of the room. ‘OK. Let's start somewhere. Is this somebody you know?'

‘No, I've never met him. He was a friend of my late mother's during the Second World War, in England.'

‘Chris says you don't know his full name. Right?'

‘Only that he was called Ham. It could be part of his Christian name or surname – I've no idea which.'

He said drily, ‘We don't have Christian names in the US – we have first names. Same as we have Happy Holidays, not Happy Christmases. All part of our Constitution – no established religion. So far, not so good. What
do
you know about this guy, then?'

‘He's American and he served as a B-17 bomber pilot with the Eighth Air Force in England during the war.'

‘Do you know where?'

‘A place called Halfpenny Green, in Suffolk.'

‘Halfpenny Green? Crazy name.'

It was my turn to sound dry. ‘Crazy names aren't unusual in England.'

‘I know. I've been there. When was he over? What date?'

‘The last half of 1943 and early 1944 when he was shot down on a raid and bailed out over France. He was posted missing, believed killed, but he survived.'

‘Was he a POW?'

‘No, he managed to hide and evade capture.'

‘What else?'

‘I've got a photo of him – with his crew.'

‘Do you know any of
their
names?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘How do you know he lives in California?'

I felt as though I was being grilled on a courtroom witness stand, Perry Mason style.
Will the witness please answer the question. Do you, or do you not
 . . . ‘I don't know for sure. But I met someone at his Bomb Group reunion in England this summer who'd been a crew chief at Halfpenny Green and he recognized him from the photo. He's the one who remembered he was always called Ham and that he originally came from California – apparently, they were always joking about the awful English weather.'