Some Day I'll Find You Page 4

  John shook his head. ‘Because the rest of the chaps have been told the Canada version, that’s all. He just wants to keep things simple.’

  He turned to his sister. ‘Wait until you get to know him, Diana. You’ll see. I’m sure he’ll confide in you, and Oliver and Mum too, in the end. Trust me, sis, he’s as straight as they come. James is probably the most upstanding chap I know.’ He opened the windows. ‘Ready?’

  They prepared to move quickly through the thick black curtains.

  ‘Ready.’

  A moment later they were inside and blinking in the sudden light. Voices drifted from the dining room across the hall.

  ‘And there’s something else you should know about him,’ John said, lowering his voice and adjusting the drapes so no chink of light escaped outside. ‘You asked why he outranks me. Well, I’ll tell you. He’s the best damn flyer in the squadron – by a long chalk. He might have needed some help with his navigation, but my God, the man can fly. He’s a total natural – first one of all of us to go solo, and he was sent to train on Spits while the rest of us were still lumbering around in bi-planes like Gladiators. Christ help the German pilot who comes up against James Blackwell.’

  Arm-in-arm, they went in to join the others.

  12

  Diana didn’t have the chance to get to know her brother’s friend any better on his first visit to the Dower House. Breakfast on Monday morning was interrupted by a phone call from the men’s squadron leader. John came in from the hall, laughing.

  ‘What a muck-up, good people; what a muck-up. Word has come down from Mount Olympus that we’re not to be disbanded, after all: it was all a huge mistake in the big flap.’ He turned to James, who was loading kedgeree from a silver server onto his plate. ‘We’re being transferred instead to another group, Jimmy – the best of the lot. Eleven Group, my fine friend. We’re going to be a part of Eleven Group!’

  ‘What’s Eleven Group, darling?’ Gwen asked. ‘And why do you both look so pleased with yourselves?’

  ‘You tell them, Jimmy,’ said John. ‘I’ll ring for a taxi to the station.’ He hurried from the room.

  Gwen, Oliver and Diana stared expectantly at their guest as he joined them at the table, his plate piled high with rice, chopped egg and smoked haddock.

  ‘Eleven Group’s the collection of fighter squadrons assigned to defend the south-east corner of England – in other words, here,’ he explained, forking food into his mouth. ‘It’s where pilots like John and I are most likely to see some fun. If Jerry sends his planes to bomb London, we’ll have to stop him. Or, as we’re closest to France, we might get sent there to support the Army when Herr Hitler invades, which he’s certain to do. Then of course there’s the Channel, and protecting the shipping lanes. However this war turns out, we’ll be at the main party. It’s terrific news.’

  Gwen stared down at her plate; Diana looked thoughtful. After a short silence, Mr Arnold cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, Mr Blackwell, I can see why this is good news for you both, and I congratulate you, I do, really. Forgive us, but from our side of the matter it will mean . . . well, a good deal of worry about our son.’ He inclined his head. ‘And, of course, yourself.’

  ‘A good deal of worry? This is terrible news, Oliver – just terrible.’ Gwen had lifted her head and was glaring at her husband. ‘Why does it have to be James? Why can’t he go and defend somewhere else – oh, I don’t know, Wales or somewhere? Why should they put our boy directly in harm’s way?’

  She turned to their visitor. ‘And how can you talk about it being “fun”? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but surely you realise . . .’

  Her husband raised a hand. ‘Darling, please stop.’ He smiled faintly at their guest. ‘Forgive us, Mr Blackwell, we need a little time to absorb this. We’ve only been at war for three days so there’s been a lot to take in. I’m sure your own mother will be as concerned as we are when she hears your news.’

  His son came back into the room. ‘Taxi’ll be here in half an hour, so we’d better get ready.’ He stared at them all. ‘Good God, why does everyone look so boot-faced? Jimmy, you haven’t told them one of your awful jokes, have you?’

  Nobody smiled.

  ‘Mr Blackwell’s been telling us about Eleven Group,’ Diana said in a small voice. ‘It sounds rather dangerous, that’s all. Mum’s a bit upset.’

  Her brother walked over to Gwen and kissed the top of her head. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’re flying Spitfires, remember? There’s nothing to touch a Spit. I’ve got eight machine guns to swat the blighters with and a ruddy great engine in front of me to keep the bullets off. Piece of cake.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Half an hour, Jimmy. The CO says we’ve got to fly to Upminster by five o’clock. That’s our new base. Shame it’s in Essex and not Kent, but you can’t have everything.’

  His father stood up. ‘What am I thinking of? I can run you both to the station myself. Cancel your cab, John.’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. There’s a war on. You’re going to need every drop of petrol for yourself. It’s bound to be rationed sooner or later. Which reminds me – I reckon I’ll get myself a motor bike. Upminster can’t be more than twenty or thirty miles from here, so when I’m not on flying duty I can roar down here and see you all, even if it’s only for an afternoon.’

  He turned to his mother. ‘See, Mum? It’s not all bad news. You’ll soon be sick of the sight of me.’

  Gwen stood up and kissed his cheek. ‘I very much doubt that, dear.’ She drew a deep breath and turned to James.

  ‘Mr Blackwell, I must apologise for my loss of control just now. It was perfectly selfish of me. Please say you forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Mrs Arnold,’ he replied. ‘But I shall only let it pass if you all stop calling me Mr Blackwell. From now on, I insist you call me James.’

  Mr Arnold inclined his head in agreement. James it is, then.

  He looked at his watch. ‘And now, everyone, war or no war, I must go to work.’

  13

  When Diana arrived back at Cambridge for the Michaelmas Term, she was disconcerted to see how few male undergraduates now cycled around the town. There were a great many more young men strolling about in uniform, though. It unsettled her and she was glad to retreat to the all-female fastness of Girton.

  Her college was two miles from the centre of Cambridge, and kept itself quite separate from the other campuses. Its Victorian founders had decided that a cordon sanitaire was required to protect Girton girls from marauding male students. Not that penetrating the establishment’s defences was beyond most resourceful young men. As fast as college porters sealed off one illicit point of access, another would be found, usually with the assistance of those inside who were happy to help accommodate a bit of marauding.

  ‘We might as well move into the middle of town lock, stock and barrel now,’ complained Sally, Diana’s closest friend at Girton. ‘We’d be quite safe. At this rate there’ll be no chaps left in Cambridge to pester us, more’s the pity.’

  Diana often wondered if Girton would be quite as much fun without Sally. She was blonde and bouncy; a judge’s daughter from York, with a wicked gift for mimicry. There wasn’t a lecturer in college she couldn’t impersonate. During the summer holidays she had telephoned Diana at the Dower House pretending to be her senior tutor, accusing her of plagiarism in a recent examination paper. An outraged Diana had been on the point of apoplexy when Sally finally broke into shrieks of laughter. ‘It’s me – Sal – you dodo!’

  Now Diana looked at her friend, who was energetically brushing her hair back from a wide brow. ‘What about all the soldiers?’ she said. ‘Don’t they count?’

  ‘Never mind the soldiers. It’s the RAF boys I like. Those blue uniforms . . . hello! I do believe you’re blushing, Diana! Am I about to hear a confession? I hope so. It’s about time you stopped living like a nun and had some fun.’

  Diana si
ghed. ‘I do have fun. I’ve been out with heaps of boys, as you well know.’

  ‘You’ve been out with precisely three. And you’ve not smuggled one of them back here, not even for a drink. Anyway, you’re avoiding my question. Why did you blush when I said,’ here Sally paused for emphasis and waggled her head as she pronounced breathily, ‘ARR . . . AY . . . EFFF!’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘There, you’re blushing again! Come on, tell your Aunty Sal all about it. You know you’ll have to eventually, so you might as well spit it out now.’ Sally tucked her legs under herself and settled back into her armchair. ‘Proceed.’

  Diana smiled at her. ‘All right. It’s nothing, really. Nothing at all. Just that my brother came home last month with another pilot from his squadron. They met at Cranwell last year. Anyway, he’s called James and, Sally, he’s so attractive. He’s exactly what you imagine when you hear the words “Spitfire pilot”. It’s ridiculous, really.’

  ‘Quick, quick! Describe him!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – tall and fair, with incredibly blue eyes. He’s extraordinarily confident, although he’s only my brother’s age – and there’s something . . . oh, I don’t know. Something a bit mysterious about him, I suppose. He certainly has a past.’

  Sally sat up. ‘A past? Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not supposed to know this and I probably shouldn’t tell you, but his mother used to work as a maid or something for a really important family, and she got taken advantage of. I think he was a lord. Anyway, it was a frightful scandal and it all had to be hushed up and she was sent packing before her pregnancy started showing. James is her son.’

  Her friend stared at her. ‘That’s quite a story, Di. And you believe it, do you?’

  Diana shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think. My brother certainly believes it and he’s James’s best friend. He thinks the world of him. I’ve only met the man twice – at dinner and then at breakfast next morning – but he’s tremendously impressive. Clever, and really rather funny. My parents obviously liked him a lot. He didn’t strike me as the sort to be a fantasist at all.’

  Sally nodded. ‘All right. So when are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Oh, Lord knows. They’re both stationed at Upminster and that’s miles away down in Essex. During the Christmas holidays, perhaps.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Sally shook her head. ‘If he’s anything like the fighter boys I’ve heard about, he’ll be up here in Cambridge before you can say “Heil Hitler”.’

  Diana burst out laughing. ‘What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know if he has the slightest interest in me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Sally said dismissively. ‘You’re beautiful. Of course he’ll come.’

  14

  Upminster was turning out to be a disappointment. As the autumn days shortened, so did the squadron’s patience with the war.

  ‘Nothing’s happening. Absolutely bloody, disgustingly, boringly, pointlessly nothing,’ said a young flight lieutenant as he drifted into the Officers’ Mess with the morning paper.

  ‘They’re calling it the Phoney War and they’re damn right,’ he continued. ‘Why doesn’t somebody do something? Invade somewhere? Drop some bombs on someone? I had more thrills and spills on the bloody dodgems last August Bank Holiday weekend.’

  James Blackwell twitched irritably. He was deep in thought over a post-breakfast cigarette. He had a lot to plan, and a lot to decide. This idiot prattling broke his concentration. He pushed past the fool, slipped outside and began to pace the aerodrome’s perimeter. He needed air.

  Becoming friends with John Arnold had turned out to be one of the smartest moves he’d ever made; perhaps even better than the business with his headmaster. It hadn’t just got him through a sticky patch at Cranwell, it had opened other doors, too.

  Specifically, the doors to the Dower House.

  Blackwell hated being poor. For the first time in his life he now had a bit of money to buy a few luxuries, but a ten-year-old battered two-seater sports car didn’t count as much of one. A flight commander’s pay was barely enough to keep him in beer, fags and petrol, the odd night out and a woman’s favours. If he didn’t have bed and board courtesy of the RAF, he’d be right up against it.

  Arnold had things much cushier, the lucky bastard. He got an allowance from Daddy and was able to afford anything he wanted – even to get his bloody uniform tailored. Granted, Arnold had paid for Blackwell’s tunic and trousers to be altered too, but that wasn’t the point. And that new motor bike of his had cost five times what Blackwell had paid for a sputtering, clapped-out car with a leaky roof.

  Then there was the parents’ home. Jesus, compared to his mother’s wretched flat in Whitechapel the place was a bloody palace. Compared to most houses, it was a palace. How many bedrooms were there? He’d counted at least nine and that didn’t include the maid’s quarters. The fixtures and fittings were of the very best – beautiful furniture, much of it obviously antique, one of the biggest wireless sets he’d ever laid eyes on and what looked suspiciously like one of those new television sets built into it. Not that there’d be any more television programmes until the end of the war, but again, that wasn’t the point.

  He’d noticed the way the girl had looked at him. Blackwell knew that look of old. He’d been getting it even more since his commission. Even the ugly buggers on the squadron were getting their legs over now simply because they wore the blue uniform of the RAF. He supposed it was because it made them somehow look more modern than the poor Army sods in their boring, khaki-brown tunics. Only the Navy could compete with the RAF when it came to uniforms.

  James Blackwell knew that one of the secrets of his success was sizing up a situation early on, coming to a decision, and then sticking to it. He’d worked out how to play his headmaster at Stones like a hooked fish, and then waited patiently for the right moment to reel him in. It hadn’t been pleasant – Christ, parts of it were repulsive to him – but he’d got exactly the result he wanted.

  Now he had the Arnolds squarely in his sights. Yes, there were richer families out there and who knows, they might have daughters even more gorgeous than this one, but James Blackwell had learned a long time ago that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. The Arnolds would do very well, thank you. They were rolling in it; they had a stunning daughter who, with luck, would bring a generous settlement on her marriage. The lawyer might even stump up for a house to get them started in, who knew? He looked the kind of doting, sentimental type who’d do something like that. He certainly had the means, that was obvious.

  There was the slight problem of that stupid story he’d told James about his parentage, which James was certain John had repeated to Diana, but he could bluff that one out indefinitely. At least it had the advantage of being half-true, and in the unlikely event of any of the Arnolds meeting his mother (very unlikely) she’d say exactly what he told her to.

  If everything went the way he planned – and it would – James Blackwell and Diana Arnold would be walking down the aisle by the summer of 1940.

  By the time he had circumnavigated the airfield, he concluded that the next stage in the rise and rise of James Blackwell wasn’t merely achievable, it was inevitable.

  He went to find the girl’s brother. He only needed two things. An address, and a telephone number.

  15

  Diana did not believe for one moment that James Blackwell would call on her in Cambridge. He would have far better and more important things to do with his squadron, and anyway, the two of them had only exchanged a few remarks during his fleeting visit to the Dower House. It was hardly the basis for . . . for what, exactly? An affair? Was that what she wanted to happen?

  After her conversation with Sally, Diana took herself to the college library, selected a book at random, and retreated to a secluded corner to think things through. She had an analytical mind and was impatient with what she thought of to herself as ‘drift’. As far back as she
could remember, Diana had always wanted to know where she was heading and how she would get there.

  This single-minded attitude was what had led her to apply to Girton in the first place, two years ago, despite well-intentioned opposition. Her friends in Kent had told her she would be wasting three years of her life. Most of them seemed content to be launched into society by their well-heeled parents, the chief aim being to find a suitable husband. Quite a few of them were already engaged or actually married.

  Even her headmistress had tried to discourage her.

  ‘You have to face facts, Diana,’ she’d said. ‘Girton isn’t a proper university college. They don’t exist for women, anywhere. You won’t get a degree however hard you study – Cambridge doesn’t recognise female graduates. Nowhere does.’

  It was true. Ever since opening its doors in Cambridge in 1873, Girton had had to wrestle every concession from the university of which it aspired to be a full member. Even now, more than sixty years later, it was still academically semi-detached from the other colleges.

  Diana had read up on Girton’s history. She was intrigued and impressed that thirty years before the Suffragettes, women were fighting to be treated on equal terms with men. The battle was still being fought. If she went there, she would be a part of living history.

  But the day after she’d dropped her application to Girton into the village post box, Diana was assailed by sudden doubts.

  ‘It’s a complete waste of time, isn’t it?’ she asked despairingly of her parents that evening at dinner. ‘Everyone’s right. There’s no point. I could work twice as hard as the boys at Cambridge but I still won’t get a degree. I must be mad.’

  Mr Arnold, who had been inclined to this viewpoint from the very beginning, opened his mouth to gently agree but his wife slapped the table with the flat of her hand.