Some Day I'll Find You (23 page)

Her first husband pulled a slim gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘You?’

‘No, thank you.’ Diana shook her head. ‘I’d probably throw up.’

He nodded and lit one for himself. ‘Yes. Looking at you, I can see you probably would.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry, I only meant . . . well, you’ve had a shock.’

‘You could say that. Everyone thinks you’re dead. So did I, until we came to Nice.’

He drew on his cigarette. ‘We?’

She stared at him. ‘Do you know
anything
about what’s happened back home since you disappeared, James? Anything at all?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not a thing – not about you, I mean. I read an English newspaper from time to time to keep up, but as far as you’re concerned . . .’ He shrugged
helplessly. ‘How could I?’

Her eyes widened. ‘What do you mean, “how could I?”’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘I’ll bet it is.’ Diana felt the first stirring of anger. ‘Why didn’t you send me a message of some kind? The war ended six years ago, James. God knows what you
were doing here until then, but why didn’t you come home afterwards?’

He drew slowly on his cigarette and looked out to sea, considering his answer.

Suddenly, Diana wanted to hit him. She wanted to punch and kick and scratch him, and pull at his expensively cut hair, so hard it would come out in bloody clumps in her hands. She began to
quiver with suppressed rage.

‘You bastard,’ she hissed at last. ‘You utter, utter bastard. Do you have
any idea
what you put me through? The slightest comprehension?’

He looked calmly at her. ‘Please try not to be angry with me, Diana, I can explain all of it. I’ll answer all your questions, I promise. You must have heaps of them. I’ll tell
you everything, I swear, and when I’m finished I know you’ll understand.

‘But before I begin . . . what did you mean by “we”?’

When Diana had finished, James turned his face and stared out at the glittering Mediterranean.

It had been obvious from his expression when she began to explain about her pregnancy that the thought he might have left her with child had simply never occurred to him. He’d even
protested a little. ‘But we only did it a couple of times. Are you sure?’

She had silenced him with a look.

‘Why did you call her Stella?’ he asked now.

‘Dickens.
Great Expectations
. I always liked the name Estella but she’s not a very nice person in the book, so I shortened it to Stella . . . What would you have wanted to
call her?’

‘Good God, I have no idea – I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I have a daughter. Does she look like you?’

‘People say so. She’s definitely got your smile. Only a few of us can see that, of course – me and Mummy and Daddy.’

He paused. ‘What about
my
mother? Did you make contact with her after I was shot down? Has she seen Stella?’

Diana looked sadly at him. ‘You really did cut yourself off from everyone, didn’t you?’ Then: ‘Your mother is dead, James,’ she told him after a pause. ‘She
died in the blitz, before Stella was born. My parents wrote to her after you died –’ she shook her head – ‘I mean after you went missing. There was a plan for us to meet her
in London, take her out to lunch. I was so looking forward to it, but she was killed before we could do that. I’m sorry.’

James was whey-faced. ‘Do you know what happened, exactly?’

‘Yes. She was in one of those above-ground community shelters. It took a direct hit – you’ll know they weren’t designed to cope with that. Everyone was killed outright.
She wouldn’t have known a thing, James.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Poor old girl, she was a good mother. At least she didn’t have long to grieve for me, did she?’

‘No, that’s true, I suppose. About five months. She was killed in November when the raids had got really bad.’

‘Is there some sort of grave?’ he asked her after a while.

‘Yes, a mass one. There wasn’t . . . there wasn’t much left, not of any of them. I told you, it was a direct hit.’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘So my mother’s dead, and I have a daughter . . . It’s quite a lot to absorb in one morning. Diana, can I please see Stella? She doesn’t have to
know who I am. We could—’

Diana interrupted him. ‘Just a minute, James. You’re running ahead of yourself, aren’t you? I’ve had a lot to take in, too! I have no idea if you can see Stella. I can
still scarcely believe we’re having this conversation. This is the strangest day of my life. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up from a . . . a preposterous dream.’

They sat in silence for a minute before Diana spoke again, less sharply.

‘I’ll have that cigarette now.’

He lit one for both of them.

‘James,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t suppose you’re aware of what happened to my brother either, are you?’

He shook his head and blew out smoke.

‘He died the same afternoon you were shot down.’

James looked astonished. ‘What? He
can’t
have been! He didn’t get back to base in time for the mission. He didn’t fly that day!’

Diana sighed. ‘No, he didn’t. It was just awful, James. John was on his way back to Upminster when his motor bike was hit by an Army lorry. It happened near Sidcup. He didn’t
stand a chance.’

‘Hang on a bloody minute.’ James was lost in thought. ‘Yes, I remember now. John and I left the Dower House together after the wedding, didn’t we? I couldn’t get
past Dartford that afternoon – there was a complete jam. Nothing was moving. That must have been John, I suppose. The poor sod. I owed him. He saved my skin at Cranwell, did you know
that?’

He brooded over his cigarette for a while before continuing.

‘When I arrived at Upminster I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t already there. I assumed he’d broken down or got a flat tyre or something. Jesus . . . poor old John. I
often wondered if he made it through all right. But to die in a stupid road accident . . .’

He looked keenly at her. ‘Christ, that must have been a gruesome day for you all. Did you get the news at the same time?’

‘About the two of you? Yes, more or less. First the police rang to tell us about Johnnie. Daddy had to go and identify his body. It was dreadful for him. Then almost as soon as he got
back, the RAF arrived to tell us about you.’

He reached across for her hand but Diana drew back. She looked at him accusingly.

‘James, they were certain you’d been killed, even then, before the official report. I’ve read it. It said you were dead. Two pilots from your squadron both made statements.
They said there was definitely no parachute, and both of them saw your plane explode on the ground.’

She stared at him, as if she were seeing him properly for the first time. ‘What are you doing here, James? How on earth did you survive a terrible crash like that?’

He took a deep breath.

‘All right. All right, Diana. Where do you want me to start?’

He was exhilarated.

He was exhausted.

Three kills in as many minutes.

The first encounter had been over almost as soon as it began. The German fighter exploded the moment James’s bullets struck it. The plane transformed instantly into a ball of flame and
black smoke – a sudden blemish in the summer sky which until that moment had been blue and clear and without stain.

Bloody hell. I must have hit his fuel tank or a magazine full of shells, he thought, banking sharply to avoid the tumbling wreckage of his own making.

The second and third kills were unexpectedly conflated. His aircraft and a German Me 109 had been flying head-to-head on a direct collision course. He could see the other plane’s gun ports
emitting little puffs of smoke as they twinkled and flashed, both aircraft closing at over 600mph.

Glowing cannon shells whipped past on either side of his cockpit, somehow missing everything. His own answering tracer bullets were dipping just under the other plane’s belly. James
adjusted his trim slightly and grunted with satisfaction as he began to see the flash and sparkle of hits all over the enemy’s nose-cone.

A strange calmness settled over him. One of us is going to have to pull away soon, he thought dispassionately.

His thumb stayed stubbornly on the firing-ring.

Actually, I couldn’t give a toss either way.

The 109 broke first, corkscrewing wildly up and to one side. It was a disastrous move: the plane smashed into another German fighter that was diving to help out. Both aircraft vanished in a
giant fireball.

Christ. Poor bastards
.

He scanned the sky. He couldn’t see any other aircraft at all, friend or foe. For the first time in minutes, James had a chance to get his bearings. He looked down and around him for the
coast.

Whoa!

He’d drifted a long way inland during the fighting. The Channel was a blue shimmer away to the north. Below him, French villages and farmland moved swiftly beneath his wings.

OK, that’s enough. Time to go home.

He pushed the stick forward, kicked the rudder and made a diving turn towards the sea. If he kept his nose clean and stayed low, he should be landing at Upminster in about twenty minutes. He
peered at his fuel gauge. Low.

Or maybe ditching off Rye.

His Spitfire bucked like a startled horse and sheared sideways, shuddering horribly. He twisted violently in his seat and looked behind him. A 109 was just above and to his starboard, weaving
from side to side like an angry wasp.

Fuck.
It had shot most of the tailplane away. His plane was now practically unflyable.

This heart-stopping realisation had barely registered when more cannon shells slammed into his engine. The Merlin coughed and stuttered before giving a metallic shriek of agony. Shattered
piston-rods and chunks of metal flew in all directions and orange flames shot out of the engine compartment.

Fire began to lick along one side of his cockpit and there was the stench of aviation fuel. Sooty black smoke mixed with the oil that was spraying onto his windscreen from some rupture, and at
once the Perspex canopy was comprehensively blacked-out. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. It was like trying to fly in a blindfold.

He couldn’t believe how fast it had all happened – four, five seconds? – and he felt his plane begin to curl into a dive. Gravitational force pushed him upwards in his harness
and his head pressed against the canopy above him.

Christ, what a bloody horrible way to die, in the dark like this.

He wrenched at the black Perspex above him and tried to force it back on its runners. It jammed (
of course
) and he punched it repeatedly with his fists. At last it jerked open a couple
of inches and light flooded back into the cockpit. He tried again, fear lending him frantic strength, and the damnable thing reluctantly grated back a little further. Then, suddenly, the slipstream
did the rest, snatching the whole wretched business up and away. Wind roared into the cockpit, forcing its way into his eyes, mouth and nose. He could hardly breathe.

Just like the last time. Except that today, gentlemen, we are crashing.

He poked his head over the side and looked down.
Shit.
He was barely at 300 feet, if that, and dropping fast. It would all be over in a few moments.

A line of tall poplars rushed towards him and instinctively he hauled back hard on the stick and worked the flaps. Incredibly, the aircraft responded, just a little. The nose lifted and he
somehow cleared the trees. Then the Spitfire wallowed, juddered, and plunged into its valedictory dive.

This was it. The little plane would meet its end in the meadow below.

Not with me in it.

In one fluid movement James released his harness and heaved himself over the side, yanking at the ripcord of his parachute as he fell. The meadow was less than 100 feet beneath him.

Bloody hopeless
.

He had the impression of poppies dotted in a mist of yellow flowers. Buttercups? Dandelions?

He screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t have to watch his own death.

There was a sharp crack above him as his canopy opened and the webbing jerked hard between his legs. He opened his eyes again. The burning plane was barely thirty yards in front of him, almost
on the deck. So was he. His feet hit the ground, hard. Simultaneously there was an enormous explosion and searing heat. His scalp felt as if it had been dipped in acid.

After a moment, he realised his hair was on fire. He beat frantically at the flames with his gloved hands and then saw that his flying jacket was alight too. He tried to roll on the ground but
inexplicably, he stayed upright. Looking up, he saw that his parachute had snagged on the top of the last poplar on the meadow’s edge. The taut lines kept him dancing on the balls of his
feet, like a fiery marionette.

Jesus Christ.

He thumped the metal release catch on his chest. The lines snapped away and he fell to the ground like a sack of coal.

Still on fire.

He rolled over and over in the grass, smothering the flames on his jacket and beating frantically at the ones in his hair. Finally they were out. He lay there, panting.

His aircraft was still burning fiercely. Acrid smoke billowed over him and he heard the ominous popping of exploding ammunition coming from inside the plane’s wings.

He had to get out of this.

He struggled to his feet and immediately screamed in agony, almost falling over again. His spine felt as if great bursts of electricity were being passed through it. The pain was
overwhelming.

Bullets were zipping and cracking through the air in all directions; he
must
get away from what was left of his Spitfire.

He had only staggered a few steps when he felt a tremendous blow to his left leg. It flew up in front of him in a parody of a chorus girl’s high kick and his whole body followed it, arcing
through the air before slamming back down to the ground. Badly winded, he lay there for a minute or so trying to get his breath. Eventually he worked his way into a sitting position and eased off
his flying boot.