I'll Be Seeing You (5 page)

He shrugged. ‘Not the one I was after.'

It wasn't the big break, then. I wondered how long Callum would go on waiting before he gave up hope. At the moment time was on his side. He was still young. He lived rent-free, supported by the State, and I knew that Flavia paid all the domestic bills. I guessed that she gave him money too, but it was absolutely none of my business. There was an unwritten rule between us that we might share a house but not our lives. I had broken it once, by asking her questions about Callum. He never spoke of his family or his home or his past life. The beautiful speaking voice was no real clue; he could do all kinds of accents and did – both on and off-screen. He was a chameleon, taking on whatever camouflage suited him. A closed book. A mystery. Flavia, not unnaturally, had felt that I was prying and told me so. She'd been angry and resentful.

‘You don't like him, do you, Mum?'

I wished I'd kept my stupid mouth shut. ‘I honestly don't feel I know him well enough to like or dislike him.'

‘Well, you don't have to worry about us. I'm blissfully happy.'

‘That's all that matters to me, Flavia.' I meant it. I'd spent too much of my own life not being at all happy to wish that state on her.

I said to her now, ‘What about you, darling? How are things at work?'

She was the features editor of
Country Stile
, a coyly titled magazine peddling dreams of the rustic life in idyllic houses in idyllic places. According to Flavia, its readership was almost entirely composed of people living in cities and suburbs.

‘We're doing a new series about people who've given up the Rat Race and started Another Life in the Country.'

Callum rolled his eyes. ‘You know – throwing wonky clay pots and spinning greasy wool. Carving lumps of wood into butter pats. The usual sort of crap.'

Flavia said defensively, ‘Actually, there's one woman who's producing some wonderful handmade organic cheeses. She's quite a success.'

‘Don't tell me.' A dramatic retch. ‘Goat's milk Brie and sheep's roulade.'

He always mocked the magazine; it was an easy target. But it never seemed to occur to him that doing so might upset Flavia. I hated to see her looking hurt, as she did whenever he taunted her. Sometimes I wondered whether he did it partly to annoy me; I was an easy target too.

I changed the subject and talked about the house contents. As I'd known, the furniture wasn't Flavia's sort of style but she asked if she could take a few small things of sentimental value – ornaments and bits and pieces that had been part of her childhood and would remind her of the grandparents she'd loved. I decided then and there that those memories should stay unchanged and unspoiled. And I knew that I should follow Drew's advice for my own sake – destroy the letter and the photograph; erase them completely from my mind.

Over the weekend Flavia gave me a hand with going through the clothes. Of all the distressing tasks to be faced in life, this has to be one of the saddest. The familiar garments, once so much a part of the warm and living person, are left behind like empty shells. We kept a few special things in a suitcase; the rest we burned on a bonfire in the garden. The idea of taking them to a charity shop, to be pawed over and worn by others, was unbearable.

The funeral was to take place on the Wednesday after the weekend. On Tuesday evening Drew returned from Cambridge with his wife, Sonia. She was almost as tall as him and wore loose-fitting clothes swathed about her large frame like a desert sheikh. She travelled all over the world with a chamber orchestra, giving concerts, and to look at her, you would guess her instrument to be something substantial to match her size – the cello, say, or the double bass. In fact, she played the flute, and like a dream.

She drew me aside, a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Andrew's very worried about you, Juliet.' She never shortened names. ‘He won't tell me exactly why or what it is, but I can
tell
. You don't look at all yourself.'

There was something of the all-seeing spiritual medium about her – a touch of Madame Arcati.

‘I'm upset about Ma's death, that's all.'

She squeezed my shoulder, plainly unconvinced. ‘You'll let me know if there's anything I can do.'

There was a fresh fall of snow during the night but luckily not enough to cause serious problems. Flavia and I had decorated the church with as many flowers as we could handle, and the wreaths and bouquets from other mourners lined the pathway up to the church door. The hearse, when it arrived, was overflowing with still more, the coffin crowned with what the funeral director called our personal tributes. The church was packed, the singing loud. I'd chosen hymns that I knew Ma had loved and that were also well known and loved by others: ‘Lift Up Your Hearts', ‘O Worship the King', ‘Now Thank We all Our God'. Nothing dirge-like that she would have hated. Drew did the first reading, Flavia the second. The nice young vicar climbed up to the pulpit and spoke words of praise and thanks for a life well spent, service given to others, for a loving wife, mother and grandmother – a gift from God now reclaimed by Him. He must have done it many times before. I stared at the oak coffin and found it so hard to accept that my mother lay inside, out of my reach for ever.

From the church we went to the cemetery, a bleak place on the edge of the town where she was to be buried in a plot beside Da. I should have so much preferred a churchyard for them both but, as the funeral director had rightly pointed out, space was a problem.

And it was cold – so cold: snow and ice and an arctic wind. We gathered, shivering, round the spot where a piece of emerald green fake grass had been artfully draped over the newly dug grave, masking the bare earth.

Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister, Marguerite, here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust
.

There was comfort in the dignified words and in the ancient ritual, but no comfort in watching the coffin being lowered down into the ground. The only consolation was that she would be lying next to Da. She might not have loved him passionately, as she had loved the American, but she had certainly been deeply fond of him and they had been happy together. And he had loved her.

Afterwards, at the house, I circulated dutifully among the two hundred people or so who turned up. Most were from Oxford – town, as well as gown – Ma had by no means confined her friendships to the latter. Others had come from all over the country – people from out of her past, at different stages in her life, and some I had never met or heard of. One of these, a white-haired, bright-eyed woman from Yorkshire, told me that she had been in the WAAF with her during the war.

‘We did our initial training together, at Morecambe, billeted at the same digs. Hell on earth, I can tell you. Square-bashing up and down the prom in pouring rain, outdoor PT in our blackout knickers, everyone yelling at us. And the food was diabolical. Still, your mother and I managed lots of good laughs in spite of it. She was a lovely person.'

‘Were you posted to the same place afterwards?'

‘Oh, no, different places, worse luck. I stayed up north and Daisy was sent off to Suffolk. But we still kept in touch, you know. When you've shared that sort of experience, there's always a bond.'

‘Did she write to you during the war?'

‘Once or twice. There wasn't much spare time, you know. We were kept very busy. We met up occasionally after it was all over, and we always sent Christmas cards.'

I said, ‘I gather she got to know some of the American Air Force.'

The woman smiled. ‘Well, she couldn't very well help it. The Americans took over her station and she had to stay on with the RAF liaison officer. They'd've made a bee-line for your mother, of course, with her looks. They were like that. Big flirts. It didn't do to take them too seriously.'

I said casually, ‘Any of them, in particular?'

‘There was one she was rather keen on, if I remember rightly.'

‘Did she give his name?'

‘I expect she did, but I can't remember. It was all so long ago.'

I was about to ask the name of the station in Suffolk when we were interrupted by a very old and very deaf friend of Ma's who claimed my full attention. When I was free again and looked round the room, the ex-WAAF had vanished.

The catering people were going round and round with tea and sandwiches and cakes and there was the harder stuff for those that wanted it. I could have done with some of it myself and then, right on cue, Mark came up with a glass in hand.

‘I thought you might need this.'

‘Thanks.'

As I said, there was no bitterness between us; we were very civilized. I hadn't seen him for more than a year and he looked prosperous and satisfied with life – a bit overweight, perhaps, and quite grey now, but he was still a handsome man. I sometimes tried to remember how it had once been with us when we had been in love, but I always failed. I'm sure he had forgotten too.

He said again how sorry he was about Ma. ‘I always liked her, as you know. Much better, I have to say, than my second mother-in-law. I'm sure you'll miss her very much.'

‘Yes, I will.'

‘Flavia's pretty cut up too, isn't she?'

‘Very. She adored her.'

‘I wish she'd get rid of that useless chap she's living with. No hope of it, I suppose?'

‘Not that I can see, I'm afraid.'

‘No good saying anything, of course.'

‘None at all. In fact, it would probably make her more determined, wouldn't it?'

‘Well, she knows what
I
think of him. And Caroline agrees. We had them both to dinner once and it was a disaster. He turned up in a sweater and jeans and, of course, he didn't fit in at all – or even try to. Quite rude, in fact. Caroline won't have him in the house again.'

I could imagine the scene, knowing it well: the black-tie dinner party, the long table set with silver and crystal and bowls of beautifully arranged flowers. Jewels sparkling, candles flickering, the conversational ball rolling adroitly to and fro. And Callum, probably putting on his best Michael Caine accent, and doing his absolute worst. He would have enjoyed baiting Caroline.

Mark went on, ‘Wizzie loves your book, by the way.'

‘Not
my
book. I only did the illustrations.'

‘Well, that's the part small children look at, isn't it? The pictures. You were always rather good at animals. Especially the bunnies.'

I was used to the condescension, which was quite unintentional. ‘You're looking very well, Mark.'

‘So are you. You hardly seem to change with the years, Juliet. Still just the same.'

I smiled. ‘The same old mess, you mean.' I knew that he had hated the way I dressed – the odd clothes thrown together, often vintage ones culled from flea markets and charity shops – and the casual way I did my hair, screwed up in a wispy knot at the back and held there with a big tortoiseshell clip.

‘Well, it seems to suit you.'

It had never suited him; Caroline's faultless appearance was his ideal and I didn't blame him. Even when he'd paid for my clothes and I could have shopped at all the good stores, I'd refused to be conventional.

I moved on to listen to more recollections of Ma coming from kindly people with kindly faces and kindly hands that clutched at mine in sympathy. To my relief, they started, at last, to leave. I kept on looking for the ex-WAAF but she must have gone after speaking to me. She had introduced herself but I couldn't, for the life of me, remember her name.

Aunt Primrose, in firm possession of a large gin, stayed on while I showed her the old family photographs that I had found for her. She was delighted with them. ‘Sweet of you, dear. Such good memories.'

‘I didn't find any photos of Ma and Da on their wedding day. I don't think I've ever seen one, have you?'

‘There weren't any, dear. They got married in secret, didn't you know? In a register office somewhere.'

‘They never talked about it. When was that?' I wondered how much my aunt knew; she had been close to my mother, after all.

She shrugged, without a sign of guilt. ‘I don't think I ever knew the exact date – sometime in January '44. I was busy doing the ambulances and the others were away, too. They didn't tell a single soul, not even the parents. That sort of thing happened in wartime, you know. People would decide to get married on the spur of the moment . . . everything was topsy-turvy. Daisy went back to the WAAF and Vernon went on doing his decoding, of course. Then she got very ill with pneumonia and came home and that's when they finally told everybody – they had to because you were on the way. It was a big surprise, I can tell you. I'm not sure Mother ever quite forgave her for doing her out of a proper wedding.'

They'd simply turned the clock back from April to January – to explain me. ‘I don't suppose you found any of Ma's letters?'

‘Just one, that's all, I'm afraid.' She delved into her handbag. ‘Here you are. Keep it, if you like. It's something of your dear mother.'

She left as soon as she had finished the drink, hurrying to get back to Reggie and the spaniels.

The caterers began to clear things away, and the few people still lingering took the hint and went.

Drew came to find me.

‘Sonia and I are going to head off fairly soon, Ju – if you don't mind. She's leaving on tour first thing tomorrow and I've got an early tutorial. I'll get back at the weekend, if you like.'

‘Not necessary. The estate agents are coming round tomorrow to value the house and take all the details. I'll let you know what they say. Do you want us to go ahead and put it on the market straight away?'