I'll Be Seeing You (29 page)

Three days before New Year's Eve, Rob Mclaren phoned.

‘That guy still on the roof?'

‘Yes. No sign of movement.'

‘What a dipstick! He blew it.' A pause, a more serious tone. ‘We've got a possible, Julie. A Hammond Wright who lives down in Orange County – place called Garden Grove. He was a pilot in the Eighth, served at Halfpenny Green, Suffolk, England in '43 and was shot down early '44. He adds up. I think we should go down and check him out.'

I should have felt excitement, instead I felt total panic. ‘You mean,
meet
him?'

‘That's exactly what I mean. Come on, Julie. It's the only way we're going to find out fast. No need to spill all your beans. We'll give him the wartime-friend-of-your-mother angle. You can ask him some questions, show him the photo . . . see what he says. After that, it's up to you how you play it.'

‘When would we go?'

‘The sooner the better. I'll call him now.'

He picked me up an hour later in the Jeep and we headed south on the San Diego freeway.

‘What did he sound like?'

‘OK. He thinks he might remember your mother, but he's not sure.'

Thinks
. I remembered Adrian's prophetic words.
A wartime romance
 . . .
young people thrown together. He probably can't even remember her name
. And my own response.

‘I'm sure he'd remember her. She wasn't the sort you'd forget easily.'

He said, ‘Do you look like she did? Or, to put it another way – did she look like you?'

‘People always said so.'

‘Then maybe you'll jog this guy's memory.'

Garden Grove was less than an hour away – a pleasant place with quiet streets, modest homes, far removed from the excesses of Beverly Hills. A bedroom community, Rob called it. The street in question had one-storey houses – chalet-style with shingle roofs and a small patch of lawn in front. He stopped the Jeep outside number 2006 which had a neglected look: uncut grass, an unswept path, a dead palm in a pot beside the front door. I felt slightly sick. Rob put a steadying hand on my arm.

‘Take it easy, Julie.'

‘I'm trying to.'

‘And, by the way, I'm a very old friend of yours – that's what I pitched him.'

We went up the concrete path – me skulking behind Rob – and rang the bell. Nothing happened. My heart was imitating a sledgehammer, my knees jelly. Rob gave me a bracing grin, pressed the bell again, and then the door opened.

He was a big man, almost bald and overweight, a Father Christmas belly sagging over his belt, creased clothes, a stain on his shirt front. I searched his face for any resemblance to the face in my photo but found none. And I waited for him to smile, but he didn't.

Rob said, ‘Mr Wright? I'm Rob Mclaren and this is Julie Porter from England. The one I told you about who's trying to trace her late mother's old wartime friend.'

‘Yeah . . .' He peered round Rob's shoulder and looked at me. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile – somewhere in the middle. ‘Well, I don't know if I can help you, but I guess you'd better come inside.'

We followed him into a depressing living room. The slatted blinds filtered out any sunlight and the furniture and furnishings were all dark colours – brown, orange, black – with a grubby shagpile carpet. There was another palm in a pot – this one alive, but only just. He gestured towards a moquette sofa.

‘Sit down. Can I get you folks something to drink? I've got beer, Coke, maybe some tea – if I can find it.'

Rob asked for beer, me for Coke – I didn't want it in the least but it seemed a good idea to accept. He went off and came back clutching cans and glasses in his fists and put them clumsily down on the coffee table.

‘I'm on my own these days. My wife took off six months ago. Haven't gotten used to coping yet.' He handed Rob the Coors beer and poured the Coke into a glass for me. ‘You married, Julie?'

‘No. I'm divorced.'

He shook his head. ‘I guess it happens to most of us. Enid and I were married more than thirty years. It was one hell of a shock when she walked out, I can tell you. No other guy, she said. She just wanted a change – to do something else with the rest of her life. I don't know what.' He shrugged despairingly.

I said, ‘I'm very sorry.'

‘Not your fault. And I can't see how it was mine.' He poured his own beer and settled back in his armchair. ‘Well, what's all this about? Rob here gave me the gist but you'd better fill me in some more.'

I did and he kept nodding while I spoke. ‘Sure, sure . . . I was at Halfpenny Green then. My crew and I did eighteen missions before we got shot down. A 109 sneaked up under us before we knew it. Gutted us like some goddamned fish.'

‘Were you over France?'

‘Yep. Somewhere near Caen. Three of us got out OK and the French hid us for a while. They passed us along from one hiding place to the next till we finally got away back to England.'

It could be him, I thought. It could be him. And I prayed it wasn't. I said, ‘Do you remember my mother, Daisy Woods – the WAAF who worked with the RAF liaison officer?'

He frowned and rubbed at the side of his nose. ‘You know, I've been thinking ever since Rob called and it's coming back to me. I'd clean forgotten her name but there
was
an English WAAF on the base – I do recall that for sure. She was a real pretty girl. I guess we all tried our luck with her – that's the way it was in those days. You never knew how long you'd got and you sure wanted to make the most of it while you were still alive.'

Rob said, ‘How lucky did you get?'

‘With the English WAAF? Didn't even get to first base, so far as I remember. There were other English girls who were a whole lot easier – no shortage, I can tell you. They liked us Yanks a lot. And we liked them. They had a lot of guts.' He looked at me. ‘You said you're looking for a particular guy who knew your mother? Someone she told you about but you don't know his name? That's kindofa long shot.'

I handed over the photo. ‘He's in this photo, with his crew. The one at the back on the far right.'

He groped for spectacles in the breast pocket of his shirt. I held my breath, heart pounding, remembering Stella Morrison's wise warning:
the reality can be a let-down
, and Adrian's . . .
there's no guarantee that you'd care for this man
.

After a long, long moment, Hammond Wright said, ‘I don't remember any of these guys. You know, there were a lot of crews coming and going – specially going – and it's a hell of a long time ago.' He tapped with his forefinger. ‘This one, you said? He won't look like that now. None of us do. Do you want to see a picture of me and my crew?' He got up and went over to the wall and unhooked a framed photograph. ‘This is us.' The forefinger jabbed again as he held it out in front of me. ‘And that's me there in the centre. You wouldn't know me, would you?'

I stared at the tall and slim young man in his flying kit, grinning amiably at the camera. There was no easy or polite answer to the question. Instead, I asked another. ‘Did you have a nickname? For instance, did they call you Ham?'

‘Ham? No, never. I was always known as Mack. Still am, by most people. It's only Enid calls me Hammond. Or used to.' He returned the photo to its hook on the wall and sat down again. ‘I've just remembered something else. Funny how things come back when you start talking. There was a family who lived in the farmhouse by the airfield – I think they owned the land and they farmed what was left of it. I can't recall their name but they used to invite the crews over some evenings. I went once or twice and I remember the English WAAF was billeted there. Must have been your mother. We'd go over sometimes and chat her up. Didn't go there too often, though. Like I said, we were after the easy girls and they were in other places – Ipswich and Cambridge and London. We went those places whenever we could.'

‘Can you remember if she was specially friendly with any of the Americans who went to the farmhouse?'

‘Can't say I do. There were always guys buzzing round her.'

‘Do you think any of your old crew would remember?'

‘Like I said, only three of us survived. I kept up with my navigator, Dean, but he died last year. I don't know what happened to my bombardier. We lost contact long ago.'

‘Do you remember a pub in the village called the Mad Monk?'

‘Sure do. It was a great place. There was a piano and we used to sing these Limey songs – “Roll me over in the Clover”', “Roll out the Barrel”, stuff like that. And they had a contest to see who could down a glass boot full of beer the quickest.' He wagged his head. ‘Oh boy . . . I've forgotten what the record was but I know I wasn't far off it.'

We finished the drinks and left. He came with us to the door and shook hands.

‘Sorry I couldn't help, Julie. Are you going back home soon?'

‘In a few days.'

‘Well, give my regards to England. I always had a soft spot for the old country. Never been back in all these years – couldn't afford to. Now, I guess I never will.'

As we drove away, Rob said, ‘Just as well it wasn't him. Bit of a sad case.'

‘Poor man. I felt so sorry for him.'

‘Yeah . . . I'd've been sorrier for you, though.'

I said, ‘I've no right to expect some sort of handsome hero figure – I know that.'

‘It's only natural. You'd sooner look up to your father than down on him.'

He asked me if I'd mind calling by on his daughter who lived with her mother in the same neighbourhood. ‘My first ex. The second one didn't hang around long enough for us to have any kids.'

The house was as bright and cheerful as the other had been depressing, and the daughter a smiling, vivacious girl of about fourteen or fifteen who quite obviously adored her father.

‘Mom's gone to the store,' she told him. ‘She won't be back till later.'

‘That's OK, sweetheart. It's you I came to see. This is Julie Porter from England.'

Her eyes widened. ‘From England! Hey, that's cool!'

She wanted to know if I'd ever met the Queen or Princess Diana and was disappointed that I hadn't. ‘I wish I could go there. I keep asking Dad but he never takes me with him. He's real mean.'

‘I'll take you one day, kiddo.'

‘Swear it.'

He tugged her ponytail. ‘OK, I swear it.'

She looked from one of us to the other. ‘Hey, are you guys . . . you know, Dad . . . you and Julie?'

Rob said, ‘Forget it, Beth. Julie's not stupid.'

‘Oh, I kinda hoped . . .'

‘Sorry about that,' he said, as we climbed back into the Jeep. ‘She's always hoping.'

On the way back to Santa Monica, I said, ‘What about
your
father, Rob?'

‘What about him?'

‘How do you get on with him?'

‘I don't. He's dead. Died years ago when I was still a kid. And I didn't see too much of him when he was alive. They were divorced early on.'

‘Still, he was your father.'

‘Far as I know. I guess we all have to take it on trust.'

‘I did – until last year.'

He looked at me. ‘There's no mileage in feeling bitter, Julie. Your mother kept it from you for your own good.'

‘Why tell me in the end, then? It hasn't done me much good.'

‘She figured you could take it – now you're a big girl. And she wanted you to know about it. The guy meant a lot to her. He was something special. That should mean something to you, too.'

Later, I asked him about the Vietnam vets I'd seen on the Santa Monica Palisades.

‘What about them exactly?'

‘Why were they treated so badly when they came back?'

‘I guess you could say they were the fall guys. It was a no-win situation. A no-hope, hopeless war. We couldn't win militarily, nor could the other side. Everyone had to wait till finally America defeated itself by losing the will to fight. That's something most Americans would much sooner forget – that and the nasty, cruel things that were done. Only those poor old vets are still wandering around like walking wounded, reminding everybody.' He glanced at me. ‘No good looking shocked, Julie. Your country has a few skeletons rattling in the cupboard. That's the way it goes.'

He drove me back to Georgina Avenue and handed me out of the Jeep onto the sidewalk. ‘I'll let you know as soon as my pal's come up with another possible.'

‘Do you think he will? It's not long till I have to leave.'

‘Have patience. He's going through the files, making calls, asking questions – it takes time.'

I said, ‘I'm sorry, Rob. I'm grateful to him – and to you.'

I was – very. He'd been a rock to cling to, getting me through the ordeal of Hammond Wright. He'd understood my terror and he'd been kind.

He touched my cheek – only for a second. ‘Think nothing of it, Julie. Just keep your eye on that bozo over the road.'

‘I've been watching him.'

‘He could make a sudden move. You don't want to miss the take-off.'

I went indoors and Chris looked up from the sofa. ‘You look happy. Was it the right guy?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Rats! I thought from the way you were smiling . . . Anyway, I've got some nice news. Flavia's boyfriend just called. He's in town and I invited him over this evening. Kim and I can't wait to see him.'

He arrived by chauffeur-driven limousine, dressed in his customary black. Chris had her hand kissed, Kim was given a smouldering Heathcliff look, Dan and Ricki man-to-man handshakes. We air-kissed. Somewhere on the flight over he had acquired an American accent. They all wanted to hear about the audition and he obliged with a short excerpt which he did very well. I watched him, thinking that there was already an aura about him, a little sprinkling of magic stardust. The soap days were probably over.