I'll Be Seeing You (3 page)

The handwriting had deteriorated progressively so that the final lines were hard to read, the signature a clumsy scrawl.

I don't know how long I sat there, clutching the letter in my hand – staring at it, rereading it and then reading it all over again, and yet again, as though doing so might somehow change its content or meaning. But my mother had, as she had felt compelled to do, given it to me straight out. The gentle, kind, quiet man I had adored was not, apparently, my father. Instead, my true father was some unknown bomber pilot who had met my mother when she had been the beautiful young WAAF in the photograph downstairs. One of those overpaid, oversexed, over-here Yanks. I simply couldn't believe it. I refused to. In her last days Ma must have become confused. She had been prescribed strong drugs to combat the cancer and the pain – the doctor had told me so – and she had imagined the whole thing. Old memories mixed with new drugs had played silly tricks on her mind.

At last, I put down the letter and picked up the photograph to look at it more closely. I could see now that the air crew was wartime American. These were unmistakably Yanks. The four standing had high-peaked caps sporting big brass badges, while the six men crouching in front of them wore baseball-type ones. It must have been winter because there was snow on the ground and they were all dressed in heavy sheepskin jackets, with life jackets on top and a cumbersome assortment of clips and buckles and attachments. The plane, partly visible behind and dwarfing them, was obviously some kind of bomber. I could see giant propellers, a canopied nose turret, part of the wings, the cockpit high above. I turned the photo over but there was nothing written on the back. No date, no names, no place – nothing. Presumably the pilot my mother had referred to was one of the men in the photo but there was no way of telling which one he was. All insignia was hidden by the heavy flying gear.

I put the photograph and the letter back in the envelope and went downstairs to the study. Drew was still deep in a book, his tea ignored. I went over to him and held out the envelope.

‘Look what I've just found in Ma's desk.'

He looked up – reluctantly. ‘What is it?'

‘A letter from her to me. I'd like you to read it.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes,
now
. If you don't mind.'

He took the envelope from me. While he was reading the letter – held in one hand, photo in the other – I went to sit beside the gas fire, hunched in my coat. The black chessmen on the table had their backs turned, the white ones faced me impassively. The room was silent except for the popping gas flame. Eventually, my brother spoke.

‘Christ! Bit of a bombshell.'

I said, ‘It can't possibly be true, Drew. The drugs must have made her imagine things. It
can't
be true.'

‘Well, it could be.'

It wasn't the answer I needed, or wanted. ‘What do you mean – could be?'

‘That sort of thing happened in the war, didn't it?'

Sometimes he could be infuriating. ‘For God's sake, Drew, I know it did. All right, Ma had a passionate love affair with some Yank years and years ago and then while she was ill and taking all those drugs she got confused and started mixing things up in her mind. Maybe she was going through her desk and found that old photo and it started her off dreaming – inventing things that might have been, but never actually happened. Sort of wishful thinking. That's possible too, isn't it?'

He held the photo up higher, studying it for a moment in the light from the standard lamp beside him. ‘Mmm. The plane's a B-17, you know. A Flying Fortress.'

‘I don't care what the hell it is.' I was close to tears now – not the tears of a rational, mature woman, but childish, stamp-my-foot ones.

‘Crew of ten,' he went on, still looking at the photo with heartless interest. ‘Officers standing behind – the rest of them sergeants. I think that's right. Funnily enough, I was reading about those Allied bombing raids recently. The RAF went in single file at night, armed with pea-shooters, while the Americans did their daylight trips in big box formations and lots of gun-power. Hence the name Flying Fortress. This plane's bristling with them, see.' He pointed with his forefinger. ‘Ma says he was a pilot so he'd be one of these chaps standing. Probably the one in the middle. The pilot would have been the captain, like she told you.'

‘Just burn it, will you,' I said furiously. ‘Stick it in the gas fire.'

Drew peered at me over his spectacles. ‘Sorry, Ju. I can see you're really upset. I'm sorry.'

‘Well, wouldn't
you
be? If it were you?'

‘Yes, I suppose I would. But even if it's true – and I'm not saying it is – Ma says he was a wonderful guy.'

‘Is that really meant to make me feel better? Actually, it doesn't. Not a bit. And it doesn't matter
which
one he is or
what
he was like because he's got absolutely nothing to do with me. As far as I'm concerned, Da was my father –
our
father – and that's an end to it.' I held out my hand. ‘I'll burn those, if you won't.'

He shrugged again. ‘OK. If that's what you want.'

Using the gas fire would make a mess in the grate, so I took the envelope with the letter and the photograph through to the kitchen. And then, of course, I remembered that the Aga was oil-fired now with no handy incinerating maw, like in the old days. Drew had already used the last match in the study to light the gas fire and while I was hunting through drawers for more of them, the other St Hilda's student came into the kitchen.

‘I just wondered if I could make a cup of coffee?'

I made an effort to smile at her. ‘Of course. Help yourself. I'm looking for matches. You don't happen to have any on you, do you?'

‘Sorry, no. But I've got some up in my room. Shall I fetch them?'

‘No, don't worry – thanks all the same.' I went on hunting while she filled the kettle.

The girl said quietly, over her shoulder, ‘I was very fond of your mother. I felt I could tell her about things and she always listened. My own mother died two years ago.'

I stopped searching, sensing her need to talk. ‘I'm so sorry. How awful for you.'

‘Mother had cancer, too. It's so cruel, isn't it? So unfair – the way it just picks on people who've done nothing whatever to deserve it.'

‘I know. It's cruel and horrible. Our mother never told us, you know. My brother and I had no idea that she was ill.'

‘Nor did Karen and I. We ought to have guessed, though. When we came back after Christmas we did notice that she was hardly eating anything and was losing a lot of weight, but we thought perhaps she was on a diet. And her handwriting was different. She used to leave notes for us on the kitchen table sometimes – about food in the oven and things like that – and towards the end we could hardly read them.'

Like her fellow student, she was a serious, earnest sort of girl. Probably extremely clever; certainly someone whose word could be relied upon. I said, ‘I wondered if the drugs she was taking might have had some other odd effect.'

‘What sort of effect?'

‘On her mind. Did she seem to be getting confused? Imagining things? Rambling about the past, perhaps? About the war?'

The girl shook her head firmly. ‘No, not at all. The symptoms were physical, not mental. She did talk to me once about the war but she didn't seem at all confused.'

‘When did she do that?'

‘About a week before she died. I was making a cup of coffee, like now, and she came into the kitchen. She said she'd just been looking at an old wartime photo and that it had brought back very happy memories.'

‘Did she say anything else?'

‘Not really.'

‘She didn't show you the photo?'

‘No.'

‘Or speak of people she'd known in the war? The people in the photo, for instance?'

‘No. She just said it was an unforgettable time. That was the word she used – unforgettable. She seemed rather sad – but not in a bad way, if you know what I mean. Sad, but happy as well. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.'

‘It's not important.'

I eventually discovered an old box of matches at the very back of a drawer, but the girl was still waiting for the kettle to boil and so I went back to the study. Drew looked up from his book.

‘Did you do the deed, then?'

‘Not yet. I'll do it later.' I stuffed the envelope and its contents in my coat pocket and sat down again by the gas fire. ‘Ma was stationed in Suffolk during the war, wasn't she? I can't remember where, though, can you?'

‘Not a clue.'

‘She must have said, surely.'

‘She didn't talk much about it, did she? Not much more than Da and he never said a thing.'

‘I've been thinking how little we know about her life then. I wish she'd told us more about it. I wish they both had.'

‘Well, Da couldn't and wouldn't. And Ma obviously had her reasons.' Drew closed his book. ‘Look, Ju, I think you were quite right. She must have got a bit confused at the end – bound to have done. Let's leave it at that. She didn't tell you the chap's name and he's probably dead by now, anyway. Best to burn that stuff and forget all about it. Da was your father. End of story.'

I stared at the fire, without seeing it. ‘You know, Drew, I've often wondered why I'm so hopeless at maths.'

Drew left for Cambridge the next morning and I set about dealing with all the other arrangements for the funeral. Flavia phoned from London, offering to take time off work, but I told her not to come until the weekend.

‘Are you sure, Mum?'

‘Quite sure. I can manage perfectly well.'

‘OK. We'll come up on Friday evening then and stay until the funeral.'

We
meant that she would be bringing Callum, when I'd rather hoped that he might find funerals outside his range. Three years ago the actor had moved into Flavia's half of the house that we shared and I could see no hope of him either marrying her or moving out. I could well understand, though, why Flavia had fallen for him. He was Welsh with darkly romantic Celtic good looks and a beautiful speaking voice, and he could be very charming. So far there had been only bit parts in TV soaps and commercials but he was waiting for the big break just around the corner. Maybe it would come one day, but whether it did or not, I couldn't help feeling that Callum was bad news for Flavia. My mother had thought so too, but, as she had reminded me, it was no good saying anything to a daughter. Comment had been fruitless when I had insisted on marrying Mark. On that particular occasion, Ma had offered me the polite but frank opinion that we were ill-suited, which, naturally, I had ignored.

Mark phoned on the day that the death announcement appeared in
The Times
.

‘Juliet? I've just tried to get you at home but Flavia told me you were in Oxford, sorting things out. I was very sorry to read about your mother's death. Are you coping all right?'

‘Fine, thanks.'

‘Flavia says she'll be with you on Friday. I'll come to the funeral – if that's all right. I'd like to pay my respects.'

She had, after all, been his mother-in-law and was his daughter's grandmother; he would see it as the right and proper thing to do.

‘Yes, of course.' There had been no mention of Caroline, so presumably she wouldn't be accompanying him.

‘I'll arrange for flowers to be sent. No objections?'

‘None at all.' They would be very expensive and in excellent taste – nothing like the ones in the
Flower Basket
folder.

‘How are things otherwise, Juliet? Keeping busy with the bunnies?'

‘Yes, pretty busy.'

‘I saw one of your books in Waterstones the other day. About hedgehogs.' I knew the one he meant:
Harry Hedgehog Goes on Holiday
. ‘Actually, I bought it for Wizzie.'

‘Wizzie?'

‘Isabelle. Our youngest. She's four now. You're probably much in demand these days.'

‘I wouldn't put it quite like that, but luckily I've got a good agent.'

A few more of our customarily polite exchanges and he rang off. I stood for a moment by the phone in the chilly wastes of the hall, thinking how bizarre it was that we could converse like virtual strangers in spite of having lived together for more than ten years and known each other for even longer.

I had met Mark when I was a student at the Ruskin School of Art in Oxford and he was an undergraduate at Balliol. He was three years older and, in my eyes, the epitome of sophistication. He dressed expensively, used a cigarette holder, drank cocktails, knew all about good restaurants, food and wine. A snap of his fingers brought waiters hurrying to his side and when he paid the large bill he barely glanced at it. At eighteen I was deeply impressed by such things. Of course, he took out other girls as well and after he went down from Oxford I didn't see him for nearly three years. We met again, by chance, at a party in London where I was living a lonely and fairly miserable existence in an Earl's Court bedsit, touting my portfolio unsuccessfully round the publishers. By then, Mark was something rather important in a City merchant bank. The casual, sweater-over-the-shoulders look that he'd affected at Oxford had moved on. His suits were Savile Row, his shirts and ties Jermyn Street, his shoes Lobbs. After the party he took me out to dinner and impressed me all over again with the way he handled the waiters and paid the bill, as well as with his considerable charm. For some reason, I also made an impression on him. Perhaps it was the fact that I was very different from the other girls that he usually took out – the debs in twinsets and pearls – or perhaps because, charming as he was, I wasn't the customarily easy pushover. Maybe I presented an unusual challenge as well as an unusual appearance.