Some Day I'll Find You Page 2

  Her husband shifted in his chair. ‘There’s nothing tiresome about these discussions,’ he said irritably. ‘Nothing tiresome at all, as it happens. I like to hear the children speaking their minds. I—’

  ‘We’re hardly children, Daddy,’ Diana interrupted. ‘I’m at Girton learning how awful politicians are and John is at Cranwell learning how to kill people. Not exactly the occupations of infants.’

  Mr Arnold looked at her over his glasses and put down his Sunday paper, from which he had just been reading aloud, and with rising anger, to his family.

  ‘You may be reading politics at Cambridge, young lady, but it’s infantile to compare Adolf with Victoria. Surely you—’

  ‘It’s infantile not to! Victoria and her ghastly prime ministers and gunboats built the biggest empire the world has ever seen, and they did it with threats and brute force, smash and grab. Remind you of anyone? Hitler may be a horrible man and his party a bunch of gangsters, but he’s only doing what we’ve been getting away with for centuries. It’s the height of hypocrisy to say anything else. Come on, Daddy, surely you must see.’

  ‘I certainly see that you’re oversimplifying things. You can’t compare British democracy with Nazi thuggery. We built partnerships across the world. We—’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, both of you.’ John pushed his plate away. ‘Dad, you know Diana doesn’t believe a word of what she’s saying. She just likes a good row.’

  ‘I do not. Shut up, John. Anyway, Daddy and I agree on one thing – Britain and France have sold the Czechs completely down the river. It’s awful. I feel so ashamed.’

  Her father threw back his head. ‘Well, we’re in the minority, my dear. Most people,’ he waved his paper, ‘think Mr Chamberlain’s the hero of the hour; he’s saved us from war and stood up to Hitler. Wrong, on both counts. Our PM may have said “no” to the bully for now, but he’s agreed to give him everything he wants in regular instalments in the near future. A sell-out in easy stages. And we promised the Czechs we’d stand by them. Some promise! We’ve forced them to hand over half their country to Hitler. You’re right, Diana. It is shameful.’

  ‘But if it stops a war . . . I mean, the PM has at least stopped that, hasn’t he, Dad?’ asked John.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t. Good God, John, haven’t you read any of Churchill’s articles in the papers? Hitler’s a blackmailer, and blackmailers always come back for more. After what we gave him on Friday, he must think we’re abject worms. I’ll tell you this: there’ll be German troops in Prague by Christmas.’

  Gwen, who had gone to the kitchen to see what Lucy was doing about dessert, returned in time to hear her husband’s prediction. Her shoulders dropped.

  ‘Let’s pray you’re wrong, Oliver,’ she said. ‘Otherwise John will have to go to war, just as you did. You can’t want that.’

  ‘Of course I don’t want that! Why is no one listening properly? What I’m trying to say is—’

  John coughed. ‘I don’t think Dad wants war, Mum. But . . . er . . . a lot of us rather do, you know, if we’re being honest. It’s obvious Adolf’s going to have to be stopped sooner or later. I’m training on Tiger Moths now and the chaps say that could mean qualifying for a Hurricane or even a Spitfire squadron. If Dad’s right, we might actually get a crack at showing Hitler where he gets off.’

  His parents stared at him.

  ‘You never mentioned this,’ said Gwen, after a pause. ‘You never said you were training to be a fighter pilot. Isn’t that awfully dangerous, Oliver?’

  Mr Arnold hesitated. ‘Well, up to a point. All flying has its risks, especially in war. We just have to—’

  Diana clapped her hands. ‘What fun, Johnnie! A girl I know at Girton goes out with a fighter pilot. He flies Gloucester something-or-others . . . Radiators – oh no, it’s Gladiators. Anyway, he’s gorgeous and so is everyone in his squadron. You simply must fly fighters!’

  She turned to her mother. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. Like it says in the song: “There ain’t going to be no war, no war”. Old Adolf won’t dare attack us, or France. Especially France. Professor Hislop told us during a lecture this week that the French have a massive army, much bigger than ours. We’ll be fine.’

  She pointed at her brother. ‘When you start flying fighter planes, Johnnie, promise you’ll bring home the best-looking pilot in the squadron to stay for Christmas, and I’ll bring home Sarah Tweed, that girl you kept making ridiculous sheep’s eyes at during the Freshers’ Ball. Agreed?’

  John smiled. ‘I haven’t even got my wings yet, sis.’

  ‘Oh, but you will. You have my fullest confidence. Anyway, talking of old Hislop, I ought to be off. No time for pudding. Will you give me a lift to the station, Pa?’

  ‘Me too, please,’ said John, standing up. ‘I’m due back at camp tonight. Flying first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Arnold, with forced cheeriness. ‘This lawyer can run a one-man taxi-rank with the best of them. No difficulty there. I’ll get the car out.’ He turned to Diana. ‘Come on, Piglet – you open the garage for me while I start her up.’

  Gwen said nothing as her children kissed her goodbye. Foreboding had risen from her throat like ash and her tongue was choked.

  4

  Diana slammed the telephone in the hall back on to its cradle so fiercely that a small crack appeared across the smooth brown Bakelite surface.

  ‘Mum! Oliver! Come on! Hurry!’

  Muffled exclamations floated from the drawing room and a moment later Mr Arnold opened the door.

  ‘What on earth’s all the racket about? What’s happening?’

  Diana was already halfway into her coat. ‘It’s John! He’s going to be up there in about twenty minutes. Come on.’

  ‘Up where? Calm down and tell me—’

  Diana stamped her foot. ‘How can I, when you keep asking silly questions? Up there!’ She pointed at the ceiling. ‘In his thingy, his kite, his Spit, his plane, for heaven’s sake. You get the car out and I’ll fetch Mum.’

  ‘But how do you know he’s going to be up there?’ Oliver couldn’t keep up.

  ‘Oh!’ Diana stamped her foot again, ‘Damn the man, damn him to hell . . . because he called, didn’t he, and told me. John just telephoned from his aerodrome. He says his squadron’s taking off on an exercise any second now and they’ll be over the Weald in twenty minutes. He says we should head for Upper Hartfield – they’ll be passing directly overhead. Come on!’

  Gwen appeared in the hall. ‘Why is everybody shouting?’

  ‘It’s John,’ Mr Arnold said, searching frantically through a set of drawers for his car keys. ‘He’s going to be up there in a few minutes. We need to leave right now, if we want to see him.’

  ‘Up where?’ Gwen looked bemused. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘How can I when you keep asking questions? Put your coat on – we’re going to see John fly his Spitfire. Now where are my blasted keys!’

  Three minutes later, Mr Arnold and his wife and daughter were hurtling under leafless branches towards Upper Hartfield. Mr Arnold had parked his car there often the previous summer on his solitary holiday excursions.

  Today, the March air was cold under a summer-blue sky. Diana and Gwen craned their necks out of the windows as the car raced through the lanes.

  ‘I think I can see them!’ Diana screamed when the big green Humber swerved to the south and the north-west sky opened like a luminous page beyond an oak spinney. ‘There – look, like lots of little silverfish! No, there, Daddy!’ as Oliver looked the wrong way.

  He pulled to a juddering halt opposite the village church and leaped out, saying, ‘Quickly – there’s a clear spot behind the spinney at the back of the church. We can look from there.’

  A few moments later, the family were standing on an ancient grassy knoll; all that remained of a Crusader’s grave, anointed 800 years earlier, abandoned and all but forgotten for centuries.

  They stared up at the new Kn
ights Templars: would-be warriors of the skies, untested yet in battle.

  ‘My God,’ muttered Mr Arnold to himself as a dozen Spitfires cruised swiftly above them, engines throbbing and sunlight flashing off Perspex cockpits and aluminium wings. ‘My God – how long before John will be flying into war?’ He shivered as a ripple of disquiet passed through him.

  ‘What’s that, Daddy?’ asked Diana.

  ‘Nothing, dear,’ he replied, trying to shrug off his premonition. ‘I was just wondering which aircraft John is flying.’

  The squadron moved off to the south-east, the deep rumble of engines dwindling as they swept towards Rye and the Channel. The wonderful moment was over, and the Arnolds walked slowly back to their car.

  5

  Six months after what Mr Arnold invariably described as ‘the son and heir’s flypast’, lingering hopes of peace quietly evaporated and war was born on a sluggish, late-summer morning as German troops swept into Poland. Gwen and Oliver sat by their mahogany wireless set and listened intently to the Prime Minister admitting comprehensive diplomatic defeat. He sounded desperately tired.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said Mr Arnold, switching off the radio. ‘We’re all for the high-jump now.’

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ Gwen said quietly. ‘I always thanked God for the miracle that brought you back to me the last time. I always promised Him, when I was praying for you, that I would never, ever, ask for another one. And I haven’t. I kept my promise. But what am I supposed to say to Him about John? What? It isn’t fair. It simply isn’t fair.’ Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

  Mr Arnold stared at his wife.

  ‘Look, Gwen,’ he said finally, pulling her to him. ‘God’s mercy is – oh, you know how difficult I find it to believe in all this stuff, after what I saw in France the last time – but surely God is supposed to have infinite compassion? If you believe He saved my worthless skin twenty-odd years ago, surely you can believe that He has the power to keep our son safe too?’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ Gwen said miserably. ‘I don’t know if God even heard my prayers about you. Maybe you were just one of the lucky ones. Maybe John won’t be. Oh God . . .’

  The telephone rang.

  John.

  ‘I can’t bloody believe it, Dad,’ he shouted down a bad, crackling line. ‘They’re disbanding the entire squadron in some kind of stupid reorganisation. Bloody bureaucrats. We’ve just declared war and I’ve been given bloody leave. It’ll all be over before I get a chance to do anything. Hell! I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m spitting rivets here.’

  ‘Yes, I’d rather gathered that,’ said Mr Arnold, putting his hand over the receiver. ‘It’s John,’ he whispered to his wife. ‘Looks like your unsaid prayers have been answered. He’s coming home for a bit. The RAF have put him on standby.’

  Gwen grabbed the telephone. ‘John! Are you coming back here now?’ She listened for a few moments, then said, ‘Of course, darling. We’ll see you both tomorrow.’ She hung up.

  ‘Both?’ her husband repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gwen quickly. ‘John is bringing his flight commander. Apparently the poor boy’s parents are in Canada at the moment and the family house is shut up. He can’t stay in camp all alone and John says he’s terribly nice and very funny. Now, what did he say his name was? I forget . . . oh yes, it’s James. James Blackwell.’

  Mr Arnold shrugged. ‘A full house for the weekend, then, with Diana coming home too,’ he said. ‘She’ll be most invigorated at the prospect, I’m sure. You’d better go and tell Lucy to make up one of the spare rooms. Actually, let’s put Mr Blackwell up in the top attic. You know what these fighter boys are supposed to be like with the girls. Predatory so-and-so’s.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ said Gwen as she pulled the bell for the maid. ‘I’m sure that Flight Commander Blackwell is an officer and a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s a fighter boy too,’ her husband muttered under his breath as he left the room.

  Diana, as her father had predicted, was electrified by the news that Flight Commander James Blackwell would shortly be arriving with her brother.

  ‘He’s bound to be a dish,’ she said confidently as she ran upstairs to reapply her make-up. ‘All Spitfire pilots are impossibly glamorous. It’s practically one of the qualifications for the job. What time do him and John get here?’

  ‘He, dear, he,’ her father called after her. ‘So much for the Girton girl. I thought language and politics were your passions, not Brylcreem Boys. In fact, I thought . . .’

  Diana’s muffled answer drifted down from above, but he could only make out two words – ‘absurd, Daddy’ – before her bedroom door slammed shut.

  ‘It’s absurd, all right,’ said James Blackwell, as coffee was served in the Arnolds’ dining room that evening. ‘Everyone else racing back to barracks at maximum speed, and our lot gets sent home. Hardly the most martial start to a war for us, is it? The whole squadron’s furious. It’s a total waste of resources. I don’t know what Mr Chamberlain would make of it.’

  I wonder what Mr Chamberlain would make of you, thought Mr Arnold as he passed their guest sugar cubes and silver tongs. James Blackwell was pin-up material; a gift for the RAF’s propaganda unit. As Diana had predicted, based more on hope than intuition, he was impossibly glamorous. Indeed, all three of the young people sitting at his table were, in Mr Arnold’s view, excessively attractive.

  His daughter’s dark brown hair and green eyes were a source of initial surprise (and continuing private discussion) between her parents. These features – and her olive skin – owed nothing to their own fairer colouring. Gwen’s blonde hair and blue eyes, and Oliver’s light brown hair and pale grey irises, had been bypassed in Diana by some genetic resurgence from the past. She looked, her parents agreed, more Irish than English and sometimes even Spanish, especially when the long Kentish summers turned her already burnished skin a glowing brown, a setting from which her eyes glittered with emerald intensity.

  ‘She’s a Changeling,’ Mr Arnold told his wife at Diana’s tenth birthday party, as their daughter raced, screaming with laughter, along the ha-ha with her friends in blazing August sunshine. ‘Nothing to do with us. Our real daughter is in Faerie. This? This is a cuckoo-creature from the Underworld. She’ll disappear on her twenty-first birthday when they come to reclaim her, you’ll see.’

  John, though, was a Janus. Tall and slim, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he could be, depending on his mood, the reflection of either of his parents. At his most thoughtful, his expression was identical to Gwen’s when she hesitated before one of her unfinished paintings. But when relaxed and amused, he became a young Oliver, suppressed humour dancing behind his eyes. He had inherited his father’s smile, but was more conventionally good-looking, with a straight nose and high cheekbones. From his middle teens, John had fascinated the opposite sex. He was entirely unaware of it.

  James Blackwell, thought Mr Arnold as he sipped his coffee, was, at a casual glance, not dissimilar in looks to his own son. Like John he was blond, although his eyes were a brighter, almost glittering blue. He radiated a sense of self-possession, speaking in clear, confident tones. But there was something a little odd about his accent. It was public-school, certainly, but tinged with something else.

  Mr Arnold tried to place the inflection as James told a wide-eyed Diana about a recent crash-landing at the squadron airfield. Was that a colonial twang he could hear? The boy’s parents were in Canada, apparently; maybe the family was originally from there. But he didn’t think that was it. James Blackwell’s vowels were slightly clipped, rather than drawled. South Africa, perhaps?

  Oliver gave it up for now and looked from his son to their guest. Both men were a little over six feet tall, and from a distance they would be practically indistinguishable in their blue RAF uniforms. Closer examination would reveal that one was a flight commander and the other a more junior pilot officer. But, Mr Arnold reflected, that wouldn’t count for anything, anythi
ng at all, when either boy was in the enemy’s gunsights.

  At the moment, though, one of them was very much in his daughter’s sights. Clearly, it wasn’t her brother.

  6

  Diana was, at nineteen, far from sure of who she really was, or would turn out to be.

  ‘I feel like a walking question-mark,’ she told a friend at Girton. ‘I don’t have the faintest idea how I’ll end up. Part of me wants to stay here in Cambridge forever and slowly become a fossilised academic, part of me wants to marry as soon as possible and have millions of babies, part of me wants to have endless liaisons dangereuses and be a woman with a certain reputation – you know, like the Dean’s wife here at Girton. Actually, maybe that’s my answer. I should marry a Dean, have his babies and lots of affairs. What do you think?’

  This little arc of reflection was, as it happens, a neat summary of Diana; a character sketch in shorthand.

  She knew she possessed a fine mind. She had cruised through exams and her School Certificate, and was universally regarded by her tutors as the brightest in Girton’s intake of 1937. Academia called to her. She adored Cambridge and its ancient college buildings. She loved the river that slowly rolled through the town and lazily curled through the fields and water meadows surrounding it. The thought that she might stay here her whole life was, at times, intoxicating, and brought with it a deep sense of inevitability and peace.

  Sometimes, during lectures, she would stare at a tutor in full flow and say to herself: ‘I know I could do what you’re doing. I’d do it better, too.’ And she would glimpse a future of stately intellectual growth. She would hone her intelligence in the great college libraries, and in lectures to, and exchanges with, the finest young minds in the land. She would compose insightful essays and ground-breaking papers which would be published to academic acclaim. And when she died, peacefully in her study, behind her desk and at a great age, there would be calls for a college to be named after her. The calls would be heeded . . .