Some Day I'll Find You Page 5

  ‘Don’t you dare talk like that, Diana! Don’t you dare!’

  Mr Arnold was surprised. The last time he had seen Gwen this agitated was when he told her she had no case for a libel action against the art critic who had been so dismissive of her first exhibition.

  ‘Even if you don’t get a degree yourself, one day other women will, and it’ll be because of girls like you. You’ve read all the stuff Girton sent here when you told them you were thinking of applying. They’re almost there! Cambridge University has made heaps of concessions – one more heave and Girton will be in! It might even happen while you’re studying there, who knows? Just wait a minute . . .’

  She went to the oak Welsh dresser and rummaged through a drawer. ‘Yes, here it is. It came with all the other things they sent to you.’ She unfolded a single sheet of paper, grabbed her reading glasses from the dresser and jammed them on her nose.

  ‘This was written over sixty years ago. It’s about the very first three women to study at Girton. I know it’s sentimental and awfully “jolly hockey sticks”, but it’s brimful of pride and passion. Listen!’ Gwen cleared her throat.

  ‘And when the goal is won, girls

  And women get degrees,

  We’ll cry “Long live the three girls

  Who showed the way to these!

  Who showed the way we follow

  Who knew no doubts or fears,

  Our Woodhead, Cook, and Lumsden –

  The Girton Pioneers!”’

  Diana burst out laughing. ‘Beautifully read, Mum, and thank you. But that decides it, I’ll have to go to Girton now. They’re desperately in need of some new songs.’

  Gwen laughed too, a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, better verses have been written, I grant you, but Diana – of course you must go! Even if you don’t get a “proper” degree, you’ll benefit hugely from the experience, and as you yourself have said, you’ll be a part of history and progress. I won’t hear of any other outcome. Don’t you agree, Oliver?’

  Mr Arnold smiled at her, spreading his hands. ‘You’ve missed your vocation, Gwen. If some of my juniors in the firm could make cases as succinct and compelling as you just did, I’d take a sleeping partnership.’

  So it was settled. In the autumn of 1937, Diana’s parents delivered her to Girton. The green Humber swept under the gate-house and past the neo-Tudor red brick and terracotta façades, built around close-cropped grass quadrangles. ‘Very nice,’ murmured Mr Arnold, glancing around. ‘Very grand indeed, I must say. I’m surprised they don’t charge for entry – and are you sure they allow us chaps in here? Am I about to be run off the ranch? Should I have dropped you outside the gate-house?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Daddy. It’s not a nunnery.’

  Now, two years later, Diana sat in the library and thought long and hard about what she wanted from her life. She was still only twenty. She was coming up to her crucial final year at Girton and knew she couldn’t afford any distractions. Yes, she was strongly attracted to James Blackwell, but so what? He was at war and the two of them were ninety miles apart.

  In any case, there was nothing to decide, was there? She hardly knew the man and as she’d said to Sally, the idea that he’d come up to Cambridge to see her was preposterous. She was behaving like a silly schoolgirl with a crush; she had been since the day she met the man. It was ridiculous. She needed to grow up and get down to some hard work.

  A few minutes later, Diana crossed the courtyard on her way back to her room. Darkness was falling and as she walked past the porter’s lodge, she could see its elderly occupant fussing with his blackout curtain. He seemed to be having trouble with it. She stopped and called to him. ‘Want a hand with that?’

  He glanced at her through the window and beckoned.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Miss Arnold. No, I can manage this all right, thanks very much. There’s a message for you, miss.’ He nodded to a table by the door. ‘It’s on that slip of paper there. Gentleman telephoned about an hour ago. Wants you to call him back. Drat this thing, I can’t get it to close properly . . .’

  While the porter grumbled, Diana picked up the piece of paper with her name and a telephone number neatly written on it and, underneath, the briefest of scripts.

  Flt Cmndr Blackwell. C/O Officers’ Mess, Upminster. Please call back.

  16

  The battered MG Midget pulled up at the camp gate so its driver could show his pass to the guard. James Blackwell had managed to wangle two days’ leave, which he reckoned would be enough to take care of everything, for now anyway.

  He’d saved up as many petrol coupons as he could for this trip – tricky, as they expired soon after issue to discourage hoarding – but he’d had to shell out for a couple of black-market jerry cans of fuel, all the same. He calculated he’d have just about enough to get him to Cambridge and back, if he went easy on the throttle. Not that the 1932 convertible could do much more than forty without feeling like it was going to shake itself to pieces. It had been a long time since the car had come anywhere close to the 78mph top speed it was originally capable of. Black smoke from leaking cylinder gaskets billowed behind the two-seater every time he pulled away from traffic lights. It was embarrassing.

  Christmas was long gone and the little car’s canvas top had been up since October. But the fit was poor and it was freezing inside, with a constant forced draught of cold air rushing underneath the tatty, patched-up hood.

  James loathed his car. It symbolised everything he wanted to leave behind him. That included the girl who was about to receive an unexpected visit.

  Jane Timming worked in the dress shop in Upminster High Street. She had a flair for designing and making women’s clothes. Even now, barely seven months into the war, material was becoming scarce, but Jane could work wonders with the bits and pieces she picked up cheap from jumble sales. She had a good ‘eye’ – she’d even taken a sewing needle to her new boyfriend’s already exquisitely tailored RAF uniform, telling him that one side of the expensively cinched-in waist didn’t quite match the other. She’d been right. The jacket now fitted perfectly.

  Jane had met her flight commander at a dance at the aerodrome. She’d seen him notice her the moment she walked into the hall, and he went straight up to her, just like that. Normally, boys were shy to begin with. They eyed her up from a safe distance, intimidated by her beauty: the glossy, dark brunette hair and the large saucer-shaped hazel eyes. Even the most confident lads stuttered and blushed when they finally got up the nerve to speak to her.

  James Blackwell hadn’t been like that at all. He’d taken her hand – without so much as a by-your-leave – and bowed, ever so slightly.

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you straight away.’ He’d spoken so quietly that she had to lean in close to him to catch the words. ‘You must be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. You simply have to dance with me.’

  He’d led her to the centre of the floor, introducing himself when they got there. ‘I’m James, by the way. James Blackwell.’ And then he had kissed the back of her hand, just like in the films. No one had ever done that to her before. You’d think it might be a bit – well, corny, as the Yanks said, but it wasn’t at all. It was lovely. She felt as if she’d been asked to dance by a prince, really she did.

  Since then, she’d seen him at least twice a week. He took her to the pictures, or drove her out into the Essex countryside in his sweet little sports car. None of her previous boyfriends had had a car. They’d had to catch the bus or walk to wherever they were going. And a car meant that you could – you know. Do things. Do things she’d never done before, and that she wouldn’t dare tell her friends about, not likely. If her mum or dad were ever to find out . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. They’d throw her out, bag and baggage.

  She introduced James to her parents in the little terraced house she had lived in all her life. They’d both been in absolute awe of him, with his officer’s uniform and wings on his tunic a
nd his stories about flying. James had been so sweet to them. She’d seen an expression on her dad’s face she’d never seen before. She couldn’t think how to describe it, not until she came across the right words in a soppy magazine story the next day. ‘Hero worship’. That was it. James was a hero, and everyone worshipped him, including her. She’d do anything and everything he asked of her. In fact, she already had. And that had been lovely too.

  Now she was putting on her hat and coat ready to walk home for her lunch, when the shop door opened and the little bell above it jingled. She turned to see James, wrapped in his thick RAF greatcoat, coming in from the pavement outside.

  ‘James! What are you doing here? What a nice surprise!’

  ‘Hello, Jane.’ He stepped forward and kissed her on the mouth. ‘I’m glad I caught you before you went home. I’d rather tell you this here, and not with your mother around. Are we alone?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Mrs Purbright had to pop out and she left me in charge, didn’t she? I was just going to lock up for an hour or so . . . Sorry, tell me what?’

  He was expressionless. ‘I’ll get straight to it. We’re finished, I’m afraid. I don’t wish to see you any more and I have no plans to do so. I’ve met someone else and we’re to be married, probably in the summer. That’s all there is to it.’

  She stood frozen. Then a crooked smile appeared. ‘What? This is a joke, ain’t it, James? You’re having me on.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll say it again: we’re finished. There’s someone else.’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Come on, Jane, I’m an officer and you’re – well, you’re a shopgirl. Surely you didn’t tell yourself you had any kind of future with me?’ He saw her eyes widen. ‘Ah, you did. Well, more fool you. I never promised you anything, did I? We’ve had some good times together, but it’s over now.’

  He looked at his watch again, more impatiently. ‘Look – I have a long way to drive and I think it might snow. I should get started. This is goodbye, Jane.’

  Perhaps she’d closed her eyes in shock, just for a moment, but when she opened them again, he’d gone. She was reminded of a magic trick she’d seen at the theatre, last Christmas. One minute the magician was standing right there in front of them all; the next, he’d vanished in a puff of smoke, just like that.

  James had disappeared as quickly as the magician. She couldn’t believe it. After a few moments, she found she was able to move. She rushed to the door, opened it and looked up and down the street. James was nowhere to be seen.

  She closed the door again. A high-pitched tone began to hum inside her head.

  Alone in the shop, she swayed slightly and then, very slowly, crumpled to the floor.

  17

  James Blackwell never acted on impulse. He always thought things through before coming to a decision. Afterwards, he rarely analysed what he’d done. He couldn’t see the point, unless it was to congratulate himself, as he did now.

  He’d timed it and reckoned the whole business of dumping the girl had taken no more than forty-five seconds, if that. A personal best; had to be.

  He dismissed the scene from his mind as he looked out for signs to the A11, the road that would take him straight up to Cambridge, and Diana. She was expecting him. With luck he’d be there before dark. One headlight wasn’t working; it never bloody had – but if the RAF’s Met boys were on the ball, he reckoned he should just about stay ahead of the late-season snow.

  He began singing softly to himself. It was one of his mother’s favourites. ‘Moonlight Becomes You . . .’

  He was experiencing a sensation that had become familiar to him over the years, and he welcomed it as an old friend. An unmistakable, satisfying feeling.

  Everything falling smoothly into place.

  But it had been a tricky few months, he had to admit. That phone call to Diana last autumn when she was back at Girton had turned out to be somewhat premature, to say the least. It was meant to be the opening move in his campaign to have an engagement ring on her finger by Christmas, but infuriatingly the war mucked all that up. Without notice, all leave was cancelled, and the squadron flew endless training exercises and boring patrols up and down the Channel. Then January plunged the whole country into blizzards and the coldest winter anyone could remember. Driving all the way to Cambridge was out of the question. He’d have needed a battle tank to get through. The big freeze lasted for weeks and weeks.

  One bright spot was that Diana had returned his phone call (that very same evening, in fact – an encouraging sign) and they’d had a most agreeable chat. James had long ago discovered that girls were flattered to be asked questions about themselves and he had shown great interest in Diana’s life in the university town. He’d managed to make her laugh, too, and she’d ended up happily accepting his suggestion that he motor up to Cambridge the very next weekend, to take her to dinner.

  Cancelled leave had put paid to that. He’d had to telephone another message, explaining. Then came the atrocious weather. He’d never known such a run of bad luck. Of course, he’d written some letters to Diana to keep the pot boiling, as it were, and her replies were friendly enough, but he could hardly move matters forward in any significant way until he saw her again.

  He had thought he might get his chance at Christmas – the Arnolds had invited him to spend it with them at the Dower House – but the squadron ‘leave lottery’ scuppered that, too. To his fury he drew one of the short straws. So he’d been stuck in Upminster with the other saps and losers while John Arnold went down to Kent alone. Another lousy break. It was maddening. If he hadn’t had the delightful distraction of that shop-girl over the last couple of months, he’d have gone up the wall.

  But now it was the first week of April 1940, and finally, he’d got his leave. He was back in control. Doing what he did best.

  James Blackwell always made his own luck.

  18

  As the MG spluttered its way towards Cambridge, John Arnold was on his motor bike going in the opposite direction, headed for the Dower House. He had a two-day pass too, his first leave since Christmas. Gwen was longing to see her son again, and although her husband affected nonchalance, secretly he was too. When they’d spoken over the phone a day or so earlier, Oliver casually asked if John might be able to get off camp and come down to Kent – ‘your mother’s missing you rather badly, you know, old son’ – and his heart had leaped at the reply: ‘Actually, yes, I think I can. Tell Mum I’ll try and get there for the weekend.’

  John’s parents had gradually become reconciled to his role as a fighter pilot. He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. In fact, this war was developing into more of an inconvenience than a desperate struggle for survival. A few days after New Year, butter, bacon and sugar had been rationed, but that was an irritant, not a cause for despair. Now petrol was ‘on points’, but that seemed manageable enough too.

  There had been a few skirmishes in the air, none of them involving John or James’s squadron, and some incidents at sea, but neither side had attempted a lethal thrust. The old battlefields of France and Belgium were dormant and safely under Allied control. Perhaps all the squaring-up of the previous autumn had been a lot of bluster and Herr Hitler would see sense.

  ‘As Diana always says,’ Gwen said comfortably to her son over breakfast on his first morning home, ‘the French have a huge army and, anyway, our men are there with them too, now. Look at this.’ She showed him the headline on the front page of the morning paper: HITLER’S MISSED THE BUS! ‘It’s too bad, darling. I know you wanted an adventure but your father and I think it’s all going to fizzle out.’

  Mr Arnold looked up from his own newspaper. ‘Hey, I didn’t quite say that.’

  His son smiled at him ruefully. ‘Mum’s probably right, Dad. And truly, I’ll be glad if you are, Mum, although I’ll also feel a bit let down, in a completely selfish sort of way. We’ve all trained so hard and for so long – and it’s so exciting, in
the most primitive sense, when you’re barrelling along through the air at three hundred miles an hour and you flick open the firing-ring and press the button and eight machine-guns simultaneously burst into life . . . It’s pretty indescribable. The noise is incredible, I can tell you. Like eight great canvas sails being violently ripped in half. The whole aircraft shudders and you feel like – I don’t know . . . like an avenging angel.’

  His father stared at him. ‘My word. And what does the inestimable Flight Commander Blackwell make of it all?’

  John shrugged. ‘He feels like I do. That it’d be a real shame to have done all these rehearsals and not put on at least one show.’

  The breakfast-room door opened and Lucy came in. ‘Please, ma’am, it’s almost eight o’clock and I’ve put the wireless on. It should have warmed up by now.’

  Listening to the first main BBC news of the day had become an institution at the Dower House since the war began. Lucy was allowed to stay and listen. She had a brother in France with the British Expeditionary Force.

  The four of them moved into the drawing room. The radio’s speaker issued a promising hiss, and then a deep voice boomed out. ‘This is the BBC in London. Please stand by for an important announcement.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Mr Arnold, as John whistled. ‘This is new.’

  More static. Oliver and Gwen stared at their son, who was pressing a forefinger against his lips. Gwen reached for her husband’s hand. The wireless seemed to briefly whisper something they could not quite catch, and then the deep voice was back.

  ‘This morning, powerful German forces invaded Denmark and Norway. It is understood that Denmark is seeking an immediate surrender, but that Norway is fighting on. The Prime Minister, in a statement, said that . . .’

  ‘This is it, everyone,’ Mr Arnold said, when the news bulletin was over. He jumped up and began to pace the room. ‘This is most definitely IT. A classic spring offensive. Hitler is guarding his northern flank and grabbing some extra ports; then he’ll attack in the west.’ He turned to his son. ‘You’d better call your unit. I’d imagine they’ll want to—’