I'll Be Seeing You (25 page)

‘That sounds a bit mixed-up, darling. I take it that what you actually mean is that you'd like to find out about your father without him finding out about you? And, if you succeed, you'll just come winging home and get on with your life, as usual?'

‘Something like that.'

‘As I told you before, it would never work. If you trace him, you'll have to meet him. Why else bother?'

‘Curiosity. Compulsion.'

‘It's not quite as simple as that, though, is it? Your mother kept your existence a secret from him. So far as he knew, the minute she thought he was dead she'd waltzed off and married someone else. He must have been rather upset about that, to say the least. However, in the end, she told you the truth because she thought you should know it. She wanted, as they say in the well-worn phrase, to put the record straight.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Well, darling, it can't really be put straight until, and unless, he knows too. Can it?'

A new commission, doing illustrations for an alphabet book, kept me busy during October and November – the usual sort of easy-to-recognize things: apple, banana, castle, dog, elephant. No bunnies this time: in modern and more realistic times R was for rat.

I had kept in touch with Chris, my school-friend, over the years. She had met her American husband, Dan, in London when he was working there for an American bank and when they had moved back to his home state, California, we had written to each other fairly regularly. Even so, it was more than ten years since I'd last seen her. I wrote to her now, with the same old half-truth. My mother had died early in the year, I told her, and I was trying to trace an old wartime American friend of hers from California – probably from somewhere in the south. I had been thinking of coming over in December to see if I could track him down. It all sounded pretty lame to me but Chris answered almost at once, with her usual enthusiasm. It was wonderful to hear from me. I must come and stay – for Christmas if I could. It was the only time she got homesick for England and it would be great company to have me there. What was the name of my mother's friend? She'd see if she could find out anything, meanwhile.

I told Flavia about the invitation, leaving out the fact that I had instigated it, and, of course, the real reason. Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . . ‘Do you mind if I go, darling? If I'm not here for Christmas?'

She laughed. ‘Of course not, Ma. Christmas was three months ago for me. We're already thinking about Easter. You must go. It sounds wonderful.'

I'd forgotten about magazines working so far ahead in the seasons. ‘What about you? What will you do?'

‘Don't know, really. Callum's auditioning for another TV series, so he might be working. We'll see. We might splurge some of Grandma's money on an exotic holiday.'

I didn't like the ‘we', but Flavia's inheritance had had no strings attached and she could spend it how she chose – or Callum could spend it for her. Last year we'd both gone to Oxford – without Callum, who had gone to visit the family he never talked about. In fact, we'd spent almost every other Christmas together for as long as I could remember: sometimes in London, other times in Oxford, once with Adrian and Eric in France, or with other friends. The exceptions had been when Flavia had spent them with her father – tricky for her, I knew, with his new family and Caroline's demanding lifestyle, but she coped.

I booked my ticket with British Airways: Heathrow to Los Angeles. The return fare at that time of the year was horrendous and I had to raid my savings. Then I rang Drew and brought him up to date.

‘Well I hope you know what you're doing, Ju.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I've no idea but I'm going to do it anyway.'

‘I wouldn't, if I were you.'

‘That's the whole point, Drew. You're not me, so you're not in this situation.'

‘You could be in for a big disappointment . . . unnecessary heartache.'

‘I'll risk it.'

‘I hope you haven't said anything to Flavia.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Thank God for that. Let me know, anyway, how you get on.'

I called Stella Morrison – champion of the War Children. Her California contacts had drawn a big blank so far. I told her about Adrian's theories and she agreed that they made sense.

‘It all helps to narrow the field. Like I said, Juliet, it's partly luck. By the way, I meant to tell you that most American telephone directories are on microfilm so you can look them up in the library and go through possible names. If you do happen to get any leads while you're out there, I'd advise you to play it very carefully. Stick to your old-friend-of-the-family story – people will be much more inclined to help and it's close to the truth. And even if you're certain you've found your father, don't go telling him straight out. You might give him a heart attack.'

‘I'm not sure I'd want him to know at all.'

‘Wait and see.'

I said, ‘How did your father react when he learned about you?'

‘He took it wonderfully – accepted me at once, without question. But some of them don't. It can turn quite nasty.'

‘How did
you
feel?'

‘Terrified – at first. Very awkward. It's quite a strange happening, you know. Very traumatic. Of course, you can never get the past back – what's gone is gone – but it meant a lot to me to find him – a sort of natural instinct, I suppose. The need to
know
.

I gave her Chris's phone number in Santa Monica in case her contacts over there came up with anything. She wished me good luck and good hunting.

I worked flat out on the alphabet book. After R for rat, there was snake, tomato, umbrella, violin, windmill, xylophone, yacht and – inevitably – zebra. If the choice had been mine, I think I'd have tried some fresh alternatives, but I did my best to make the illustrations different. The tomato was being squeezed whole out of a ketchup bottle, the umbrella was dragging an old lady into the air, showing her red bloomers, the violin was played with a saw by a mad-looking musician, a miller whirled round on the windmill's sails, the yacht was crewed by monkeys, the zebra's stripes were hidden, puzzle-like, among trees. The xylophone stumped me, though: all I could think of was to make it of candy with the sticks as lollipops.

Callum's detective series was shown on television and I went downstairs to watch the first episode. I wasn't expecting more than the previous blink-and-miss-him appearances, but this time he had a larger part as assistant to the lead detective. It was a dogsbody role but he did it very well, and he looked extremely good in a belted raincoat with the collar turned up. It really seemed as though the big break he needed was finally coming nearer.

The evening classes stopped for the Christmas holiday and I had finished the illustrations and delivered them, on time, to the publisher. Flavia insisted on driving me to the airport and waiting until I'd checked in. As I went off into the departure lounge I looked back to see her still there, waving and smiling. I wondered whether she would still have been smiling if she had known the crazy thing I was doing.

On the plane I sat next to an English woman flying out to stay with her married daughter, who lived in Los Angeles. She didn't think much of the city but she liked the Americans and she loved the California climate. Santa Monica, she assured me, was very nice. Very nice indeed. I listened politely to her chatting on about her American son-in-law who was a doctor and had no faults except that of transplanting her only daughter six thousand miles away. Her two grandchildren, similarly, only had one failing: speaking with an American accent. She had nothing against it, per se, but she would have preferred them to speak proper English. Fortunately, her daughter still did – unlike some expatriates she had met over there who had gone completely American. Personally, she thought that a great mistake – especially when Americans seemed to love an English accent. She'd lost count of the number of times she'd been told so and asked to repeat things. Eventually, to my relief, she fell asleep.

We flew steadily west, going backwards in time – perhaps that was appropriate, since it seemed to be what I was aiming to do. We went past Iceland, across the tip of Greenland, down over Canada, and on, for more long hours, across the United States of America. Forests, plains, rivers, lakes, mountains, deserts . . . to insular English eyes the immense scale of the North American continent was staggering.
From sea to shining sea
meant three thousand miles in between, not a mere few hundred, and two completely different oceans.

We came into Los Angeles from the east, descending gradually in smoggy afternoon sunlight over a vast sprawl of Monopoly houses lining grid-patterned streets. I could see red, brown and grey roofs, the blue glitter of swimming pools, a hazy cluster of downtown skyscrapers, and, across it all, a Scalextric labyrinth of multi-lane freeways, flyovers, highways and toy cars racing along.

The woman beside me had woken up and was patting her hair in place. ‘Did you do your immigration and customs forms? They can be quite unpleasant if you don't fill them in properly.'

I stepped off the plane into the New World: an American voice squawking over the tannoy, American spelling on the signs, a gigantic photograph on a wall of the American President beaming a welcome to visitors, and a very long queue for a very small number of immigration officials. When my turn came at last the man behind the desk, unlike his President, was unbeaming and far from welcoming. He examined my passport, turning pages very slowly, and stared at the green and white forms I'd filled in. Then he stared at me.

‘What is the purpose of your visit to the United States, ma'am?'

‘I'm visiting a friend.'

‘Where?'

‘In Santa Monica.'

‘At this address you've given?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘How long are you intending to remain?'

‘Two weeks.'

‘Do you have adequate funds to support your stay?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘In what form?'

‘Travellers' cheques and some dollars. I've put the amount on the customs declaration form.'

‘Have you a return ticket?'

‘Yes.'

He clicked his fingers and I fumbled in my bag.

The return ticket was scrutinized, the passport reopened. ‘It says here you're an artist.'

‘That's right, I am.'

‘What kind of artist?'

‘I illustrate books.'

‘Are you looking for work here in the United States?'

‘No, I'm here for pleasure – like I said. To see an old friend.'

Finally, he reached for his stamp, passport and forms were handed back.

‘Enjoy your visit, ma'am.'

I collected my suitcase from the carousel. In the customs hall I was ordered over to a bench and told to open the case. The official, an immensely fat woman, was as frightening as the immigration man. She went through the contents of the suitcase, turning things upside down. The Marmite, the Harrods Christmas pudding and mince pies were all confiscated.

‘You did not declare any of these items on your form. It's against the law to bring foodstuffs into the United States.'

She went off with the illegal foodstuffs and disappeared through a door. I slumped wearily on the bench beside the open case, wondering if I and them were going to be deported on the next plane out. At that moment, I was past caring. The flight had taken more than ten hours and back in England it was long past my bedtime. After what seemed like a very long time, the customs woman came back with my provisions.

‘You can keep them. And you can shut the case now.' She didn't tell me to enjoy my stay.

The ring of waiting faces in the Arrivals Hall belonged to strangers and just as I was wondering what to do next, I heard my name being called and saw one of them waving and smiling at me. I would have known Chris anywhere by her teeth – slightly prominent and with a gap between the two front ones – except that now they weren't and there wasn't, and her hair was blond, not brown, short, not long, and she was thin not plump. The English jumpers and skirts had been superseded by designer jeans, a cream polo neck, a pale blue suede jacket and an outsize shoulder bag to match. We hugged.

Julie . . . you haven't changed a bit!'

‘
You
have, Chris. You look so glamorous!'

‘I've been made over – California style. Teeth, face, boobs, liposuction, hair, the works . . . you have to keep up in this place. How was the flight? What kept you so long in there?'

Underneath the before-and-after makeover, I could tell that Chris was just the same and the speech was still more English than American. ‘The flight was fine, thanks, but immigration and customs took a while. I'm sorry you've had to wait.'

‘They can be pigs here. So many undesirables trying to get in to live the American Dream, not to mention the drugs and the diseases.'

We went outside and the sunlight was dazzling. Blue skies, palm trees waving in a little breeze; back home it would be pitch dark and probably raining. In December it felt as warm as a nice spring day in England, and people were dressed in casual clothes and bright colours as though they were on holiday. Chris's car was a metallic bronze convertible with cream leather seats.

‘It's a Chrysler. Fantastic, isn't it? I love it to bits. I'd put the top down if it wasn't so cold today.' We swung out of the car park with a screech of tyres, past the pay kiosk and out onto a highway. ‘Sorry I can't take you the scenic route. There isn't one from LAX.' We zipped past multi-storey hotels and concrete office blocks and joined a six-lane freeway. Chris drove with one hand on the wheel, changing lanes at random, and, apparently, without looking before she did so. The inky, nail-bitten fingers of long ago now sported unbelievably long red talons.