I'll Be Seeing You (8 page)

I said slowly, ‘I wonder if
he
still remembers her in the same way.'

‘Unlikely. Let's be realistic, darling. A wartime romance . . . young people thrown together in high-octane circumstances: alive today, dead tomorrow. And the Americans made hay while the sun shone. He probably can't even remember her name.'

‘My mother was pretty special,' I said. ‘I think he would have remembered her.'

‘Oh dear,' he snipped at the grapes again. ‘I can see you're quite determined.'

‘So, where do I go next? What do I do?'

He chewed thoughtfully. ‘The Americans call their ex-servicemen veterans, don't they? Vets. They must have associations, just like our service people do, and all associations have magazines for their members. Nostalgic articles, reunion photos, terrible poems, letters,
Where Are They Now?
appeals . . . all that sort of thing. If you contact the American Air Force lot who were over here in the Second World War, then you might be able to persuade them to print your photo in their magazine and see if it rings a bell with anyone.'

‘How on earth would I find them?'

He nibbled at another grape. ‘If I were you, darling, I'd start by ringing up the American Embassy.'

It was several weeks before I rang the American Embassy. Now that I had taken the big decision, the need to act on it somehow seemed less pressing, as well as more daunting. Besides, there were other things that demanded my attention – the illustrations for the nursery-rhyme book, for example. I finished the Frog a-Wooing and was pleased with it, but not so happy with Sing a Song of Sixpence which took several attempts before I felt satisfied. I strove, as always, to create images that would endure in a child's mind – not only instantly appealing but lastingly memorable. At the same time, as the publishers reminded me, the person who buys the book, handing over the hard cash, is a grown-up with different perceptions. Commercial nursery designs, of all kinds, must aim primarily to please the parents, godparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Why else embroider babies' bibs with cute words which the wearer cannot read?

And then there were the evening classes. On Tuesday and Thursday evenings I taught watercolour painting to adult students in the art room of a nearby comprehensive school. Tuesdays was beginners, Thursdays intermediate. The standard in both varied wildly from hopeless to not bad at all and one woman in the Thursday class was a natural. I enjoyed both evenings. The students were there for pleasure as much as anything else; they took it seriously, but not too seriously.

I gave the beginners exercises in colour-mixing, making a wheel of many different shades from only three colours – say, Indian Yellow, Cobalt Blue and Scarlet Lake. They soon learned the magic that was at their fingertips. I explained to them that learning to paint took time and practice, that their mind, eye and hand would gradually begin to work in unison, and I encouraged them to draw with the brush, instead of pencil, to experiment with different strokes, to make hard and soft edges, to understand the value of a colour – how it relates to white or black – to simplify complicated forms and not to overwork a subject. I brought along things for both classes to paint – flowers in vases, plants in pots, wooden spoons in jugs, strings of onions, bowls of fruit . . . whatever I could find that would make a good subject. At the end of the class I gave them an idea to work on during the week and at the beginning of the next we all discussed the results. Much as I appreciated my attic studio, it was a welcome change to come out of solitary confinement for a while, added to which I greatly enjoyed teaching. The students were a thoroughly nice bunch. We were on first-name terms and several had become real friends.

After the Thursday class, I had fallen into the habit of going to a coffee bar round the corner with Monica, the star of the class. She was about my own age, the widow of a naval officer who had died suddenly in his late forties and with a grown-up architect son who had gone to live in Vancouver. As an antidote to loneliness and boredom, she had taken up painting. I thought that she was good enough to get professional work, perhaps as an illustrator like myself, and had said so, while feeling obliged to warn her of the fearsome competition and the grim reality of hard-to-please, flint-hearted art editors. But with money no problem, Monica had – probably sensibly – chosen to stay amateur and simply enjoy her painting.

On one of our coffee-bar visits, I asked her whether her husband had belonged to any service association. She shook her head.

‘John died before he got to that stage. In any case, I don't think he'd have enjoyed reunions much. It wasn't his sort of thing. Not like his father. He was a navigator in the war and he likes nothing better than meeting up with all his old cronies and chinwagging about the good old days.'

‘Does he belong to a naval association?'

‘Not naval – air force. The Bomber Command Association. He was in the RAF, navigating Lancasters in the dark to Occupied Europe and back. Heaven knows how they managed it. He says practically all they had was a stopwatch, a pencil and a ruler – nothing like today when it's all done for them by computers.'

‘Do they have a regular magazine?'

‘Indeed they do. Quarterly. He reads it from cover to cover and saves them all in a great big dust-collecting pile – much to my mother-in-law's annoyance.'

I said, ‘Do you think he'd know anything about the American Air Force in England during the war? What associations they have for their ex-servicemen?'

‘He might. I'll ask him, if you like.' She looked at me, mildly curious. ‘Why the interest?'

‘I'd like to try and trace an old American friend of my mother's – a bomber pilot. He was based somewhere in Suffolk.'

‘Well, I'm seeing my parents-in-law this week. John was their only son and I try to visit fairly regularly. I'll find out what I can.'

There was a certain amount of nerve involved in ringing the American Embassy. I had no idea which department to ask for or what to say, but eventually I summoned up my courage. I was passed from extension to extension and, finally, yet another American voice came on the line.

‘How can I help you, ma'am?'

He sounded quite uninterested in doing anything of the kind. I explained that I was trying to find out the names and addresses of associations belonging to the American Eighth Air Force stationed in England during the Second World War.

‘We're not able to help you in this department.'

‘Can you suggest who could?'

‘You could try writing to the Pentagon in Washington, DC. I'll give you the address.'

I wrote it down. ‘Thank you.'

‘May I ask what this is all about, ma'am?'

The tone was bordering on offensive and I should have answered, no, you may not. Instead I repeated the half-truth that I had given Monica – that I was trying to trace an old friend of my late mother's.

‘The National Personnel Records Centre in the US usually deals with enquiries of that nature, ma'am. They send you a form requesting certain data: full name, date of birth, rank, serial number and branch of service, matrimonial status.'

‘Well, I'm afraid I don't have any of those.'

‘Then they couldn't proceed.'

‘But I do have a photograph. That's why I thought an association might be able to help. Some of their members might recognize this particular officer.'

‘You should be aware that in the United States we have a Privacy Act. Nobody's going to hand out the home address of any ex-service personnel to you, or anybody else. They're not releasable to the public. No information regarding a veteran can be given without the veteran's written permission.'

‘So, it's virtually impossible to trace them?'

‘All I can say, ma'am, is that all enquiries are referred to the official government departments in the US. If the authorities are given sufficient information and can locate the relevant records, they'll sometimes forward a letter to the last known address. That way there's no invasion of privacy.'

He made it sound as though all decent, law-abiding, upstanding American citizens needed shielding from importunate foreigners like myself. I rang off, feeling upset and with the suspicion that it was embassy policy, in such cases, to be as unhelpful and discouraging as possible. It was obviously pointless to write to the National Personnel Records without having any of the red-tape answers.

After the next Thursday evening class, Monica reported on her visit to her father-in-law.

‘He said he didn't really have anything to do with the American Air Force – they were mainly in East Anglia and the Midlands, while he was stationed up in Yorkshire. But they certainly have ex-service associations – just the same as the RAF. He met an American navigator who was a guest at a Bomber Command Association dinner and belonged to one of their Bomb Group Associations – a group based in Suffolk, like you were after. They still correspond from time to time so he's going to write and ask if he could let him have some information. Oh, and he gave me this magazine to lend to you, but he'd like it back.'

I thanked her and later, at home, I sat down to read the quarterly magazine of the Bomber Command Association. There was a rather nice painting on the cover of a Lancaster coming in to land over a hedge and I was impressed by the contents. Notices of events and reunions being held all over the country, well-written articles, photographs, wreath-layings, book reviews, poems, obituaries . . . there was clearly a huge amount of interest and activity. Towards the end I found a page of letters and one had included a wartime photograph of an RAF bomber crew, with the request for the men in it to get in touch with the writer. If the magazine was prepared to carry such appeals, then, as Adrian had suggested, the Americans might too. There was really nothing to be done now but wait for Monica's father-in-law's letter to wing its way across the Atlantic and for the reply.

The Oxford estate agents phoned a week later to say that there had been a firm offer of the asking price on the house and would we wish to accept? Drew and I both agreed that we did and I went back to Oxford to tell the two students and to arrange the sale of the remaining contents. Most of it went to an auction house, except a few large pieces that our purchasers wanted to buy.

I was still hard at work on the nursery-rhyme book, with the deadline looming, and so I put everything firmly out of my mind except for the likes of ‘Old Mother Hubbard', ‘The Three Little Kittens', ‘Jack and Jill', ‘The Grand Old Duke of York' and the others still waiting patiently to be brought to life on paper.

It was mid-May before Monica handed me the reply her father-in-law had received from his American friend. She brought it round to the flat one evening, instead of waiting for the Thursday class.

‘I thought you'd want to see it as soon as possible, considering how long it's taken. The chap's been away – that's why.'

‘Thanks, Monica, and thanks to your kind father-in-law. Have a glass of wine?'

‘Willingly.' She settled herself comfortably on the sofa – a large, big-boned, grey-haired woman dressed in a plain skirt and sweater and sensible court shoes. As with Drew's wife, Sonia, appearances were deceptive. You would have taken her for a magistrate or a chairman of the local Women's Institute, possibly a head teacher; certainly not for a very talented artist with a magically light touch. ‘You know, I can't help being a wee bit curious about your search, Juliet. Do you mind?'

I didn't mind, but I wasn't going to tell her the whole truth – much as I liked her. I had felt the need to talk to Adrian but that need had passed. I said, ‘There's not much to tell. My mother met this American when she was serving in the WAAF during the war.'

‘A romance?'

‘I imagine so. But then they lost touch – as happened. She told me about him before she died. I think she'd been thinking a lot about the past. Isn't that what people tend to do at the end of the road? Go back over their lives . . . remember things they haven't thought about for years.'

‘John died so suddenly he didn't have time to think of anything, and my parents are both still very much alive and kicking, but I expect you're right. This particular American must have made a big impression, don't you think?'

‘It would seem so.'

She put her head on one side, considering me. She was nobody's fool, Monica. ‘And you're still going to try and find him – even after your mother's death? Is there any point now?'

‘Not really, I suppose. But I thought it would be nice to pass on a message – if I do happen to come across him.'

I could see that she was far from convinced but she was tactful enough not to pursue that line of enquiry. ‘When you read his letter, you'll see that Father-in-law's American buddy has come up with a suggestion or two. Apparently, a photograph would come in handy, as well as a name.'

‘Well, I don't have a name, but I do have a photo. Of his bomber crew.'

She sat up straight. ‘How fascinating! May I see it?'

I handed it over and, like Drew and Adrian, she studied it closely. What was its particular appeal, I wondered? Everyone seemed transfixed by it.

Monica said at last, ‘They all look so strong and full of life, don't they? They'd be getting on for old men now, of course. But when this was taken, they were golden youths engaged in the greatest adventure of their lives. Taking part in history. Making it, actually. Which is yours?'

I pointed. ‘That one, I think.'

‘You think?'

‘Well, he was the pilot, and captain, so he's the most likely – the officer in the middle.'

She took another long look, tilting the photo towards the lamplight. ‘Well, he looks very nice. An honest sort of face, don't you think? A decent, straightforward sort of chap. Looks like he would have been jolly good at football or baseball, or whatever they play at American schools.' She passed the photo back. ‘Well, I hope you're lucky finding him. Father-in-law says the American veterans are awfully keen on their associations and keeping up with each other – they take it all very seriously. So, there's a chance.'