I'll Be Seeing You (7 page)

It could destroy your peace of mind
. Drew was right; it was already being destroyed. Since finding the letter, I had gone through shock, disbelief, bewilderment, curiosity, and, right now, I was feeling a bitter resentment – something I had never, ever, felt towards my mother. Death, desertion, betrayal . . . they had all merged into one. She had kept the truth from me; she had gone without saying goodbye; she had deliberately chosen to unburden herself, to purge herself of whatever guilt or regret was involved, at my expense. Why, in God's name, had she told me?
I want you to know the truth before I die . . . It seems only fair to him now . . . though perhaps it's not so fair to you?
No, it damn well wasn't. She had been well aware of the shattering effect the letter would have on me, and yet she had still written it. That was hard to forgive – at least in my present state of mind.

Your real father was a wonderful man, too
. Still no excuse; no justifiable reason. The Yank belonged to the past, not the present; his memory belonged to
her
, not to me. I might be his daughter, genetically speaking, but Da had been my actual father for all the years of my life.
Incidentally, you get your artistic talent from him
. For some reason, this was harder to dismiss. I think I might have succeeded in following Drew's advice, if it hadn't been for that particular nugget of information which linked me inescapably to this man, like a chain. I could draw and paint and earn my living doing so, because of him – a man I had never met and was never likely to meet.
You're a part of him, Juliet
. I resented this almost more than anything else: to be a part of a complete stranger – bound to somebody I had never met, knew nothing about and certainly cared nothing about.

The telephone rang and I went to answer it. Flavia, home from work, wanted to know if I had got back safely and whether I would like to have supper with them downstairs.

‘It's only pasta but I thought you might like a bit of company.'

It was typically thoughtful of her and I blessed her for it, but I knew she would be tired after work, and that the company would, inevitably, include Callum and I didn't feel up to him. I invented another invitation as an excuse and because company did seem like a good idea, I rang someone who I knew would provide it unhesitatingly, as well as wise counsel.

I had known Adrian Legget since my Ruskin days when I had taken part in university theatricals, painting scenery for several stage productions. Adrian, up at Magdalen and a leading light of the Oxford University Dramatic Society, had already begun what was to be a stellar career as a set designer. He was a homosexual, but discreetly so. Not for him the protest marches, the lobbying for rights, the hanging round the bars and the clubs. He had lived quietly and devotedly with his equally discreet partner, Eric, for more than twenty years until Eric's miserable and lingering death from cancer. He knew all about the indiscriminate cruelty of the disease, and all about bereavement.

‘Come round at once, darling. I can offer some excellent scallops I bought today from Harrods, if you'd care to share them.'

I changed out of my jeans and shirt into something more respectable and went round to the flat in Chelsea – a place of understated elegance, all muted colours and spare lines and very expensive fabrics and, always, large vases of beautifully arranged, fresh white flowers. Always white. Vivaldi was playing softly in the background. Adrian greeted me fondly, kissing my hand and then putting an arm lightly round my shoulders. Silver-haired, Armani-clad, faultlessly groomed.

‘A drink, darling. I've opened a rather nice bottle of wine in your honour – but would you prefer something a little stronger to start with?'

‘Wine would be lovely, thank you.'

He handed me a glass and showed me sketches he was working on for a play in the West End. ‘A drawing-room comedy revival, complete with French windows. Nothing I can really get my teeth into, unfortunately, but the money boys are too scared to do anything other than play safe with the tourists and coachloads these days. Still, I'm fairly pleased with it.'

He had won awards for his work and deservedly so; as with his living space and his lifestyle, it was deceptively simple, brilliantly effective and inimitable.

In the kitchen – another model of streamlining that made so many other kitchens look a complicated shambles – he busied himself with the plump and glistening scallops. A fish-eating vegetarian, he haunted the fish counter at Harrods. I watched him heating butter in a pan until it foamed and subsided, searing the scallops on each side, then adding crushed garlic to more melted butter with chopped parsley, and pouring the sauce over the scallops. The green salad was ready on the table, a dressing prepared, a loaf of granary bread waiting to be sliced.

We sat down and Adrian entertained me with theatre gossip and general chit-chat. He was thinking of selling his place in Provence, he told me, when we had moved on to the fruit stage – a bowl of luscious black grapes placed strategically between us. I had stayed there several times and loved the old farmhouse which he had restored from a ruin. It was hidden away up in the hills, unpretentious and sublimely peaceful.

‘That seems an awful pity.'

He shrugged. ‘Eric and I worked on the place together for years, as you know – the house, the terrace, the olive grove, everything. It's simply not the same without him. Life changes. One has to move on and not cling to the past.'

I said, ‘Well, life's certainly changed for me.'

He poured more wine. ‘Looking at you, darling, I'd say it was for the worst. Is that why you're here? To talk about it? I'm a wonderful sounding board, and the absolute soul of discretion, as you know. What has changed your life so dramatically?'

I knew that I could, indeed, trust him and I needed to talk to someone other than Drew – someone who could be utterly objective. ‘My mother died recently.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't know. You have my sympathy, Juliet. Mine died many years ago but I still grieve for her.'

‘She had cancer . . . well, you know what that's like. Thank God, her illness was fairly short.'

‘But it's not just that which has affected you so badly, is it?'

‘She left me a letter. She'd written it a few days before she died – I found it in her writing desk, sealed in an envelope addressed to me.'

‘And what did it say?'

I told him briefly.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘No wonder you're so upset, darling. It must have been a most ghastly shock. Have you said anything to anyone else?'

‘Only my brother.'

‘And what does
he
think?'

‘That I should tear up the letter and forget all about it. So did I – at first. I was convinced that my mother must have been affected by the drugs she was taking.'

‘Very possible. Eric had the most extraordinary hallucinations towards the end. He imagined all kinds of strange things.'

‘But I don't believe that any more. I'm sure the letter told the truth. For one thing, the students living in her house said she was perfectly rational, not a bit muddled. And then I found her marriage certificate and unearthed the interesting fact that I was born five months after the date, which fits exactly with what she said in the letter – that I was already on the way.'

‘And she thought this American pilot – your natural father – was dead. Which left her in a very sad and frightening situation in those puritanical days.'

‘There was a photo with the letter as well.'

‘Of what?'

‘An American bomber crew. No names, or any clues, but this man is obviously one of them. Whichever one is the pilot.'

‘Do you have it with you?'

I took it from my bag and handed it over, pointing with my finger. ‘My brother thinks he's probably the one in the middle at the back.'

He studied it in silence for a long moment before returning it. ‘Well, he looks a very decent sort of chap. Clean-cut. A regular guy, as the Americans say. But I wonder why your mother decided to tell you about him at that late stage.'

‘She said he was a wonderful man and that it was only fair to him to put the record straight.'

‘Well, that should console you a little.'

‘That she thought he was wonderful? So was my other father.'

‘Of course, and you were extremely fond of him, as he was of you. More grapes? No?' He snipped at the bunch of grapes with elegant little silver shears. ‘Does it bother you to think of yourself as half American?'

‘I hadn't thought about it. I can't get used to the idea of having a different father, let alone an American one.'

‘You'd be in quite exalted company. Winston Churchill's mother was.'

‘So she was. Somehow I don't feel any better.'

‘Well, it seems that you have a straight choice, Juliet darling. Either you try to find out more about this mysterious man, or you forget all about him. Put the whole thing right out of your mind. Personally, I'd definitely do the latter – that's my advice, if you want it. But then I never had a father – or not one that I can remember. Mine departed when I was a babe-in-arms and, from all accounts, he was very far from wonderful. And I have to admit that I've never missed having one. Not in the least. I'd never want to find mine again. God forbid!'

‘I can't put it out of my mind. I've tried. It won't go away.'

‘All right.' Another snip at the grapes. ‘What else did she tell you about him?'

‘That I'd inherited his artistic talent.'

‘You were lucky. The only thing I inherited from my father was flat feet.'

‘I found a sketchbook in the desk, as well as the letter. Pencil drawings done on an American bomber station. They're obviously his. And I draw in almost exactly the same way. It's uncanny. And there was something else – an old 78 record of Frank Sinatra singing “I'll be Seeing You”. I've been listening to it . . . it's rather like hearing the past.'

‘Those golden oldies are powerful stuff. I didn't know Sinatra had recorded it. I've only heard the Jo Stafford version.'

‘The students told me that my mother kept playing it before she died.'

‘Well, I expect it was
their
tune. It reminded her of him. Rather sad that she never
did
see him again.'

‘She also said in the letter that she'd never stopped loving him. Never forgot him for a single day.'

‘That's very touching.'

‘Actually, I'd far sooner she'd kept it to herself.'

‘Your mother paid you the compliment of thinking you'd understand, darling. But obviously you don't.'

‘I know what it's like to be completely potty over a man.'

‘You're surely not speaking of your ex? And if you mean that other one you were carrying on with for all those wasted years, then
potty
is exactly the right word. Thank God you came to your senses – eventually.'

I had wept many times on Adrian's exquisitely tailored shoulder. I said huffily, ‘Anyway, I don't know what to do next.'

‘I think you should take my advice. No need for shredders or histrionics. Simply put the letter and photo away at the back of a drawer and stop thinking about them.'

‘I'd like to know, at least, if he's alive or dead. Whoever he is.'

‘In short, you're determined to track him down like a bloodhound, whatever I say.'

I smiled faintly. ‘The trail's rather old and cold, Adrian. I don't know his name or where he came from, or even the name of the bomber station where he served. Only that it's somewhere in Suffolk.'

‘Well, you have a photo of him.'

‘I don't see how it can help.'

‘Nor do I, darling. But it's something. And you're not alone in your predicament, you know. I remember coming home once, several years ago, to find Eric blubbing away in front of the television. You remember what a great big softie he was. Heart of gold. He'd been watching some programme where a woman had found her long-lost GI father. The two of them had never actually met but she'd somehow managed to trace him. It took her years, apparently, but she never gave up. The BBC – I think it was – had got hold of the story and flown him over from America. They clapped eyes on each other for the very first time in the television studio in front of an audience, with everyone clapping. Not a dry eye in the house.'

‘I'd absolutely hate that.'

‘I agree. But it made very good entertainment. Eric was most moved.'

‘Did he happen to say how the woman had managed to trace her father?'

‘If he did, I can't remember.' He laid a hand on mine. ‘Listen, darling, what you have to consider very carefully is that your father –
if
he's still alive – will have a family of his own: children – grandchildren, most probably. Is there really any point in stirring things up? What good would it do? What possible harm? Think about that. He doesn't know that you even exist. He's an elderly man now and you're a middle-aged woman – not Daddy's little girl to be bounced on his knee and spoilt rotten. That delightful relationship never happened between you, and it never can. And he won't look like he does in that photo any more. You've had one perfectly good and loving father and there's no guarantee that you'd care for this man. Lots of people don't actually like their parents at all – they're just stuck with them. Why run the terrible risk?'

‘I've thought about all that, Adrian. I wouldn't necessarily want to meet him, or let him know anything about me, but I'd still like to find out something about
him
.'

‘Don't delude yourself. If you trace him, you'll want to meet him. To talk to him, see what he's like, get to know him. And it could be such a
big
mistake.'