I'll Be Seeing You (35 page)

‘But he hasn't told his family. And you haven't told Flavia.'

‘No, not yet.'

‘Better not, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie.'

‘The dogs are already wide awake, Drew. And I'm not sure if they'll go back to sleep again.'

He sighed. ‘We should have burned that photo and Ma's letter in the first place. Much the best thing all round.'

‘But I'm awfully glad we didn't.'

I phoned Stella Morrison.

She said, ‘I'm so glad you found him, Juliet. What was he like?'

‘A wonderful man.'

‘Even better. No dreadful disappointments or let-downs. How did his wife take it?'

‘He's a widower.'

‘Any children?'

‘Two married sons, six grandchildren. But I asked him not to tell them.'

‘Oh, why did you do that?'

Stella and Rob and Adrian would all have got along famously. I said, ‘He's got a very great deal of money. They'd think I was after it.

‘I've never met you, Juliet, but I'm sure you're wrong. And if he wants to tell them, you should let him. He needs to, as much as you needed to find him. Have you told your daughter?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Don't worry, the moment will come. Take your time. Everything will work out in the end.'

The alphabet-book illustrations had gone down well and I'd been given another and very different commission to illustrate a book for older children. No bunnies or fairy magic this time. No pretty flowers or spotted toadstools or enchanted woods. The story was bang up to date, about a black foster child growing up in a multiracial city community, and it was a welcome challenge for me. It was also a welcome mind-absorber. While I was concentrating so hard at making a good job of it, I couldn't think too much about anything else. But when I could concentrate no longer, I made some coffee and drank it, staring out of the attic window and thinking about faraway California and two Americans there.

My father had called several times and we had talked without any constraint on either side. We had agreed that I should call him Howard – part of what he had described as ‘straightening things out between us'. He was coming over to London in March and we had our lunch date in the diary. I was looking forward to it very much and to us doing some more straightening out. I had heard nothing from Rob, though. I'd read one of his articles in
The Times
– all about the impact of the American way of life on Japan – and he had obviously been spending time there. As Chris had said, he got around. I wondered when he'd get around to London and whether he'd call me when he did. ‘I need time, Rob,' I'd told him when I left LA. ‘OK,' he'd said. ‘I'll give it to you.'

The evening classes started up again and Monica and I resumed our coffee-bar visits afterwards. Naturally, she wanted to know everything about my trip to California, and, naturally, I only told her part of it. Yes, by an amazingly lucky coincidence, I had found my mother's American wartime friend. He was still alive and living in Los Angeles, and, yes, he remembered her very well and we had talked a lot. Monica had listened, her head cocked to one side like an inquisitive parrot, and I knew she was mentally filling in the gaps.

‘By the way,' I went on. ‘I had two letters from those American veterans' magazines.'

‘Oh? What did they say?'

‘One chap said he was definitely in the photo – middle of the bottom row – and, anyway, it hadn't been taken at Halfpenny Green but at an air base in Norfolk.'

‘And the other?'

‘He knew exactly which crew it was and if I cared to send a cheque for a hundred dollars, he would be prepared to give me some more information.'

‘Oh, dear.'

‘But it was worth a try and it might have worked – and thanks for all your help. Monica.'

She looked at me quizzically and I knew she still suspected the truth, but she could also see that I still wasn't going to share it with her. Not yet. ‘Well, that's that, then, Juliet. Mission accomplished.'

‘Yes,' I said, guilty but determined. Stubborn, Adrian would probably have said. ‘Over and out.'

Callum got the part. There were photos and articles in the newspapers about the exciting new young British actor who was heading for Hollywood stardom, and, inevitably, they'd dug deep into his background. Apparently, he was the illegitimate son of a Welsh miner's daughter, born when she was only fifteen. The parents had kicked her out, the boy father had skipped off and she'd brought Callum up entirely single-handed, working in factories and shops, seeing him through school and, later, drama school where he'd been awarded a grant. Not even Flavia had known the details. It was a very brave story and I wished he'd told us about it before. When he came upstairs to say goodbye, I said so.

‘I learned early from Mum to keep my mouth shut,' he said. ‘It's been a whole lot better that way.'

I kissed his cheek, rather than air, and wished him luck. I could have told him that I was illegitimate myself.

January had turned to February and one evening towards the middle of the month the phone rang. It was Joyce Atkins, the ex-WAAF who had trained at Morecambe with Ma. She'd been up in her attic, having a tidy-up, she said, and had come across a suitcase full of old papers. ‘Roy never found it because of his bad back. He couldn't manage the ladder, you see.'

I remembered the clutter-hating husband and his regular fire-risk clear-outs.

She went on, ‘I've had a knee operation and I've been out of action for months, or I might have gone up there a lot sooner. I do hope it wasn't important.'

Apparently, when she'd gone through the suitcase she'd found a letter that my mother had written to her during the war.

‘You said you wanted to find out the name of her station in Suffolk. Well, she put it at the top. It was Halfpenny Green. I knew it was a nice sort of name.'

I thanked her very much.

Then she said, ‘I read the letter again, of course. Made me quite nostalgic after all these years . . . they were wonderful times, you know. Everybody pulling together in a common cause, doing their bit without complaining. None of the selfish greed and grab and whining you get nowadays. I was lucky to have been part of it. I expect your mother felt the same.'

‘Yes, I'm sure she did.'

‘By the way, she mentioned that American you were asking about – the one she fell for. The B-17 pilot.'

‘Oh?' I was all ears. ‘What did she say about him?'

Just that they were going to get married as soon as he'd finished his ops. It was all planned. He was a chap called Howard Hamilton – from a place called Pasadena in California. Nice name that, too. Then, of course, he went and got killed. Jolly sad. Would you like me to send you the letter?'

I took out the old record, put it on the gramophone turntable and pressed the start button. Frank Sinatra sang for me, exactly as he had sung for my parents all those years ago, and I listened to him as they had done. And it made me weep. Life is full of all sorts of weird and wonderful happenings, and coincidences, and surprises, and ironies. And of some things that, perhaps, were just meant to be.

Later the same evening, the phone rang again. It was dark outside and raining hard.

‘Julie? It's Rob here. How are you doing?'

‘Fine, thanks. How are you?' I was very casual. Non-committal. But I was smiling.

‘OK.'

‘It's a very good line. You sound awfully clear.'

‘Could be because I'm in London. I got in this morning.'

‘London!'

‘That's right. London, England. Not the other one.'

‘I didn't know there
was
another one.'

‘It's in Ontario.'

‘How long are you here for?'

‘Several months. A guy I know has lent me his apartment while he's away. In Kensington.'

‘Sounds wonderful.'

‘Yeah . . . no ocean view though, and lousy sunsets. When can we meet? How about this evening?'

‘Isn't it getting a bit late?'

‘Hell, it's only one o'clock in the afternoon.'

‘That's in California.'

‘I haven't gotten around to changing my watch. I'll come by your place in half an hour. OK?'

I heard a taxi stop outside, the front doorbell ring and Flavia cross the hall to answer it. Then I heard his voice, very American, and Flavia's answering, very English. They were chatting away as I reached the landing – he was joking about the wonderful weather and brushing the wet off his trench coat and the raindrops out of his hair, and she was laughing. I could tell she'd liked him at once.

He saw me standing there – stuck halfway down the stairs, hesitating. We looked at each other for a moment. I noticed that he was wearing a tie.

‘Hi there, Julie,' he said.

 

THE END

My very grateful thanks to Shirley McGlade who created and runs the organization
War Babes
, to Quentin Bland of Grafton Underwood, to John and Alice Pawsey of Lavenham, to Bob Cooper and Bill Harvey – American 8th Air Force veterans, to Jane Leycester Paige, artist, to my American husband, Philip Kaplan, and to my editor, Linda Evans.

Margaret Mayhew was born in London and her earliest childhood memories were of the London Blitz. She began writing in her mid-thirties and had her first novel published in 1976. She is married to American aviation author, Philip Kaplan, and lives in Gloucestershire. Her previous novels,
Bluebirds
,
The Crew
,
The Little Ship
,
Our Yanks
,
The Pathfinder
and
Those in Peril
, are also published by Corgi.

BLUEBIRDS

THE CREW

THE LITTLE SHIP

OUR YANKS

THE PATHFINDER

THOSE IN PERIL

and published by Corgi Books

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I'LL BE SEEING YOU

A CORGI BOOK: 9780552150866
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446437322

First publication in Great Britain

PRINTING HISTORY

Corgi edition published 2004

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Copyright © Margaret Mayhew 2004

The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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