I'll Be Seeing You (27 page)

‘You don't say?'

I said coolly, ‘We had a lovely summer this year – actually.'

‘Sure you did. What else?'

‘Well, it seemed to me more likely that he was from southern California if he was used to warm weather. I gather it can get quite cold up north.' He was staring at me, without comment, smoking his cigarette.
Will the witness please confine herself to the facts, not her own opinions
. I floundered on. ‘But, of course, he may have moved somewhere else. For all I know, he might be dead. I realize it's pretty hopeless and I certainly don't want to put you to any trouble.'

I'd made up my mind by then that I didn't want to put him to anything at all.

‘You're not,' he said. ‘Not yet, anyway. I'll let you know if you do.'

Another guest came up – a svelte blonde, and from the perfect look of her she'd had the complete California makeover too. She laid a hand on the sleeve of the checked jacket with talons even longer than Chris's. I'd since discovered that the nails were all false and stuck on by the manicurist. Yet another brilliant trouble-saving device.

‘Hi, Rob . . . good to see you again. Hey, you haven't called me in months.'

‘Hi, Deanne. This is Julie from England.'

‘Oh, hi there! From
England
? Say, what do you think of California?'

By midnight the party was more or less over, the stragglers drifting towards the door. Rob Mclaren came over.

‘Here's my card. I'll call by around eleven o'clock and take you to lunch. We can talk more then.'

He was gone before I could argue. The card said:
Robert F. Mclaren, Journalist
. The address was in Malibu.

Chris said later, ‘Well, how did you get on with him?'

‘Look, I really think it would be better if I hired a private detective.'

‘Didn't you like him?'

‘I don't think we were quite on the same wavelength.'

‘That's not what women usually feel about Rob. He told me he's picking you up in the morning for lunch.'

‘Did he, indeed?'

‘You'd be a fool not to go, Julie. If anyone can find your mystery man for you, he will. Rob knows everyone worth knowing in LA and a lot more who aren't worth a dime. Give him a chance.'

I felt ungracious. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound ungrateful, Chris. It's very good of you to try and help.'

‘Look, here's one of Rob's articles in the LA
Times
– take a look. See, he's serious.'

She thrust the newspaper at me. It was a piece on the dreadful war in Bosnia and I could see that it was high-class journalism. I handed the paper back. ‘OK. I'm convinced.'

‘He was over there in the summer. He gets around.'

‘Then I don't know how he could be bothered with helping me.'

She smiled. ‘I wouldn't worry about that, Julie. He wouldn't do it if he didn't want to. Come on, let's you and I have a nightcap. Dan's gone off to bed, so we can have a good old chinwag.'

She poured brandies and we sat on the squashy leather sofa beside the fake log fire. The Christmas tree lights twinkled away prettily. We talked about the shared memories – schoolteachers, the other girls, the boys we'd known, the men.

Chris said, ‘I never liked Mark, you know. Always thought he was a pompous prick. I could never understand what you saw in him.'

‘We both got it wrong, that's all.'

‘Yep . . . easily done.' She waved her near-empty glass at me. ‘Dan hasn't been the only one with me, you know. I've gone off piste a few times, but nothing too serious. Most people do here.'

‘Do they?'

‘What do you think all the makeovers are for? Hey, you've never mentioned any other man in
your
life, Julie?'

‘That's because there isn't one.'

‘Oh, come
on
! No-one since Mark? I can't believe that.'

‘There
was
one, but he was married and that was an even worse mistake.'

‘God, don't talk to me about married men and affairs! I know all about them. They won't leave their wives and they won't leave their mistresses . . . they want it both ways. And they're trailing all that unhappy baggage . . . guilt, children, lies. I've always avoided them like the plague. How long did your thing go on?'

‘Oh, years . . .'

‘Grim. And since then?'

‘I've stayed
hors de combat
.'

‘Don't you get lonely?'

‘Not really. I've got friends and my work, and Flavia's downstairs.'

She wagged a finger at me. ‘You shouldn't rely on her, Julie.'

‘I don't – at least, I hope I don't.'

‘She's living with that actor guy, isn't she? You said about him in one of your letters. So she's got her own life. Which leaves you free to do as you damn-well-pleasy.'

‘I more or less do. Which I couldn't if there was a man around.'

‘Point taken. But I'd still miss having one. Maybe you'll meet a guy here. There's plenty of divorcees to pick from in California – Rob, for one.'

‘I'm not on a man-hunt, Chris.'

‘Actually you
are
– in case you'd forgotten.' She leaned towards me. ‘Do tell me, why are you so bloody keen to find this other guy, Julie? I don't buy the old-friend-of-your-mother's story. There's
got
to be something more to it than that. Come on, you can trust
me
.'

I couldn't confide in her for the same reasons I hadn't told Monica. I didn't want to and I couldn't risk it. The spoken word is the fled arrow. Maybe one day – but more likely never. ‘There really isn't anything more, Chris. It's just like I said.'

She looked hurt and I could see that she didn't believe me. I felt ashamed to be repaying her kindness by hiding the truth. The web was getting too tangled, too deceitful, and I almost felt like giving up.

Later, alone in my bedroom, I took out the photo and studied it yet again – the face part-hidden by the cap's brim and the turned-up sheepskin collar. The smile.

And I knew I had to go on.

Rob Mclaren called by late in the morning the next day, driving some kind of modern black Jeep and wearing a leather jacket and jeans. At least we had a casual attitude to clothes in common.

‘We're going to Canter's on Fairfax so I hope you like Jewish food.'

‘I'm not sure I've ever had it.'

‘Well, this is the best Jewish food in LA. The best outside New York, in fact. Great bagels, great deli, great soups . . . great place. It's been there ever since the Thirties and that's a long time over here.'

Fairfax Avenue was a long street with a Mexican-Asian mix of shops and eateries – a sort of California Soho. From the outside the Jewish restaurant didn't look anything so special. Inside there was a bakery and a deli counter near the door, and, beyond that, a cavernous, rather gloomy room with old-fashioned booths, brown leather benches, wipe-over tables and middle-aged, boot-faced waitresses. One of them brought menus and slapped them down.

I opened it.
Chicken Matzo Ball, Brisket of Beef, Chopped Liver, Matzo Gefilte Fish, Noodle Kugel
 . . .

He said, ‘You can have the non-Jewish stuff, if you like. There's all sorts. Pastas, salads, burgers, chicken – no pork, though. They draw the line at that.'

I was all for Jewish since that was what the place was about – you don't go to an Indian restaurant and order fish and chips – but the long menu with its unfamiliar dishes was daunting. ‘What do you recommend?'

‘The chicken kreplach soup then the hot corned beef on rye. It comes with pickles and potato salad.'

‘That sounds fine by me.'

‘I'll get a bottle of wine too.'

He ordered and the soup and wine appeared almost immediately. ‘Let's talk a bit more about this guy. If he served as a bomber pilot in '43/'44 he'd most likely have been around twenty to twenty-three years old then. Which makes him in his seventies now. Soup OK?'

‘Very nice.' It was. So was the wine.

‘What did your mother tell you about him?'

‘We never talked about him at all. I didn't know he existed until she told me about him in a letter she left for me when she died.'

‘So what did she say about him in her letter?'

‘That he was a bomber pilot that she'd met during the war when she was in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force.'

‘OK. What else?'

‘I can't think of anything else.'

‘Think harder. There's always something else. Have you got that crew photo you mentioned?'

I gave it to him. ‘That's him there. According to the crew chief I met in England.'

‘Nice-looking guy – what you can see of him. Can I keep this?'

‘Yes, I've got copies. I sent some to American Bomb Group Association magazines – in case anyone recognized him. No luck, so far.'

He looked at me hard. ‘You've been trying your darnedest, haven't you?'

I thought he was going to ask me the old question –
why?
– but he didn't. He put the photo away in an inside pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Well, if you get any replies, watch out for some wacko stringing you along; there's plenty of those around. How about the letter your mother left you? Are you going to let me see it?'

I shook my head. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Too personal?'

‘Yes. Look, if you'd sooner not bother with this, I'd quite understand. There's not much hope of tracing him, is there?'

‘Sure there is. I'll find him for you.'

I said, not really believing him, ‘Actually, I've got something else that I think must have belonged to him.'

‘What's that?'

‘A sketchbook. It was in her desk.'

‘Let's see it.'

I took the book out of my bag and gave it to him.

He turned pages. ‘What makes you think this was his?'

I hesitated. ‘My mother said something about him having artistic talent.'

‘Well, this guy sure did . . . OK if I keep it too?'

‘If you let me have it back.'

‘Trust me.'

I didn't but there didn't seem much choice. ‘There was another thing in the desk – together with the sketchbook.'

‘Oh?'

‘An old record of a wartime song.'

‘Which one?'

‘Frank Sinatra singing “I'll be Seeing You”.'

‘Great song. Great singer.'

‘I don't see how it can help, though.'

He smiled – the first time I'd seen him do so. ‘If we come across some guy and he starts crooning it, we'll know for sure he's the one.'

We finished the chicken soup and the waitress brought the hot corned beef on rye, with side dishes of giant pickles and potato salad. Unexpectedly, she smiled too as she set them down on the table. It was a warm and motherly smile that transformed the boot face. ‘There you are, folks. Enjoy.'

‘Cast iron outside, pure gold inside,' Rob Mclaren said. ‘Never judge a book by its cover. Do you like the corned beef?'

‘It's nothing like when it's out of a tin.'

‘I've seen that crap in England – I can't eat it. This is the real thing.' He refilled the wine glasses. ‘Are you married, Julie?'

‘No. Divorced – a long time ago.'

‘Me, too. Twice over. Most women won't put up with me – not on a permanent basis. I'm a selfish kind of guy and they soon figure that out. Any kids?'

‘One daughter.'

‘Same as me again. Beth's teenage now. Lives with her mother down in Orange County but I see her pretty often. How about yours?'

‘Flavia's twenty-four. She lives in the flat below me.'

‘In London?'

‘Suburbs of. Putney.'

‘Yeah, I know . . . I've some friends there. I get over to London several times a year. It's a great city. Boyfriend?'

I said stiffly, ‘You mean, me?'

‘No, I meant your daughter.'

‘Yes. An actor. He lives with her.'

‘But you're on your own?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can't be necessity, so it must be choice.'

‘That's my business.'

‘Sure. Potato salad OK?'

‘It's very good, thank you.'

‘They know how to make it here. What do you do for a living – when you're not out hunting for guys?'

‘I illustrate books.'

He looked at me. ‘That's kind of interesting. What sort of books?'

‘Mainly children's. Sometimes other kinds. And I teach watercolour painting at evening classes.'

‘I guess that keeps you busy.'

‘Yes, it does. Look, Mr Mclaren—'

‘Rob.'

‘Rob. Do you really think you can find him?'

‘I just said so. Didn't you believe me?'

‘No. There's so little to go on.'

‘As a matter of fact, there's quite a lot.'

‘The American Embassy in London wouldn't help – even if they could have. You have a Privacy Act.'

‘Yeah, that's right, we do.'

‘It's almost impossible to find out anything about veterans.'

‘Going down your route it would be.' He speared a pickle with his fork. ‘But I have an old pal in the Vets' Administration here in LA who owes me a big favour. That's the difference. How long are you over here?'

‘I'm booked to fly back the week after next.'

‘OK. Christmas is two days away and this guy's taking a couple of days off work. After that he'll be back at his desk. It's not like England where every goddam thing shuts down till January. You'll get some news before you leave.'

‘The thing is . . .'

‘What thing is what?'

‘If your friend
does
manage to trace him – for certain – I don't necessarily want this man to know I've been looking for him.'