I'll Be Seeing You (28 page)

‘Hang on a second, Julie. Tell me that again, will you? When you find this guy, you don't want him to know he's been found?'

‘I'm not sure it would be such a good idea, you see.'

‘You mean you've come six thousand miles in search of someone you don't even want to meet? No, frankly, I don't see.'

‘I realize it sounds ridiculous.'

‘It sure does. Still, I guess you've got your reasons.' He waved the half-eaten pickle at me on the end of the fork. ‘All right. Let's get this thing straight. You want to know if he's still breathing? And you want to know his full name and where he lives and his occupation. What else?'

‘Anything else there is to know.'

‘You mean what sort of a guy? A good guy or a hopeless bum? Before you decide if you want to meet him?'

I said coldly, ‘No, I didn't mean that at all. It's difficult to explain.'

‘And you're not doing too good a job at it, but never mind.'

‘There's something else that I need to know.'

‘Yeah?'

‘You're a journalist, a newspaperman.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Are you doing this because it might make some sort of gossipy news story?'

He said, ‘I don't do that stuff.'

‘But you must know people who do.'

‘Sure, but I'm not going to spill the beans on you. You're not looking as though you believe that either, but you're just going to have to trust me, Julie.'

‘Actually, it's
Juliet
, not Julie. That's just Chris who calls me that.'

‘Julie suits you better. You're not the balcony type.'

I could see he'd go on using it, regardless. ‘I meant to ask you, as well . . . what sort of a fee will there be? For your friend's time, and yours?'

‘
Fee?
' He looked amused. ‘I hadn't thought about that one. I'll let you know. And, by the way,
Julie
, you're going to have to learn to lie a whole lot better.'

After the lunch he offered to drive around to show me some of the sights. I wasn't sure I wanted him to, but, on the other hand, I didn't want to be rude since he was being so helpful.

‘Can you spare the time?'

‘No, I should be working. But I'll make an exception in your case.'

He drove the modern Jeep round Los Angeles much as William had driven the wartime version round Halfpenny Green airfield. We cruised up and down the wide streets of Beverly Hills so I could gawp at the multimillion movie-star houses – the
Gone With the Wind
mansions, the turreted French chateaux, the English Gothic halls, the Italian palazzos and Spanish haciendas. After that we went very slowly down Rodeo Drive so I could see where the Beverly Hills residents shopped for the bare necessities of life: Cartier, – Tiffanys, Dior, Armani, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, Versace . . . Then the Art Museum and the old tar pits; Culver City and the MGM studios, disappointing, tacky Hollywood with Grauman's Chinese Theatre and the stars' footprints.

‘Like to see Malibu, where I live?'

‘Is it far?'

‘No. We'll take Sunset down there.'

The very long, romantically named Boulevard ended at the ocean where the sunsets happened and he turned the Jeep north along the Pacific Coast Highway, tall cliffs on one side, golden beaches on the other, the Santa Monica mountains ahead. After a few miles, we came to a row of old painted wooden houses on the beach side – lovely sun-bleached blues, greys, pinks, yellows. He pulled up in front of one of them. ‘It ain't much, but it's home.'

Downstairs there was a bedroom, a bathroom, a storeroom; upstairs was all one big open room with a kitchen corner, table and chairs, a studio couch, shelves and shelves of books, a desk with a computer, a telephone, tottering piles of papers and more books, an ashtray full of cigarette ends. And a spectacular view of the Pacific ocean through a huge plate-glass door.

He slid open the door. ‘Take a closer look.'

The telephone rang then and he went to answer it. I stepped outside onto a wooden deck cantilevered out above the beach and the rocks below and leaned at the rail, watching the rollers sweeping in and breaking over the rocks, the white spume flying up, the blue water sparkling.

After a while, he joined me. ‘You should see the sunsets,' he said, standing close behind me – a little too close for comfort. ‘They can blow your mind.'

We went back inside and he fetched wine and glasses, uncorked the bottle, handed me a glassful. ‘I live and eat and work in this room,' he said. ‘I wouldn't trade it for any of those dumps in Beverly Hills.'

I gestured towards the overloaded desk. ‘Speaking of work, I'm afraid I must be interrupting yours.'

‘Yeah, you are,' he said. ‘But it's the holidays. I can spare some time.'

‘Well, it's awfully good of you.'

He smiled. ‘No, it isn't, Julie. I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to.'

Chris had been quite right about that.

He lit a cigarette with a steel lighter that snapped shut like a trap, and stared at me for a moment. I was back in the witness box again. ‘OK, Julie, suppose we stop pussyfooting around and you tell me the truth.'

‘I have done.'

He sighed. ‘You're such a lousy liar. This guy you're looking for is your father, isn't he? That's what your mother told you in that letter – the one you won't let me see. It's time to level with me. That's if you want me to help you.'

I hesitated.

‘Come on. Play fair, Julie. Spill the jolly old beans.'

I could see there was no alternative with him. ‘All right. That's what she told me. I suddenly found out that I was the daughter of a total stranger. An American. It was a bit of a shock.'

‘An
American
!' He whistled. ‘Jesus! That's
terrible
.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was that he belonged to another continent – somewhere thousands of miles away, somewhere I'd never been and didn't know.' I gulped at the wine. ‘I simply couldn't believe it at first . . . I thought my mother's illness had made her imagine the whole thing. When I finally realized that it was true . . . it seemed like a nightmare. But I suppose, at my age, it shouldn't really matter who my father was, should it?'

He said, ‘I reckon it matters at any age, Julie.

It's about our identity. We all like to be clear on that.'

His sympathy seemed genuine but I still didn't trust him. ‘All I know is that I want to find him. After that, I don't know a thing.'

He nodded. ‘OK. Let's take this one step at a time. And the first step is showing me that letter. After that, you can tell me the rest of it.'

It was getting dark by the time he drove me back to Georgina Avenue. He stopped the Jeep outside the house.

‘I'll call you after the holidays. Tell you what's happening.'

I said politely, ‘I hope you have a good Christmas.'

‘Hell, I gave up Christmas years ago. It's just another day to me. I guess it'd be OK in England – so long as it snowed and you guys were all dressed up like in Dickens. Otherwise, forget it. In California it's a joke. Fake snow, fake ice, fake everything, and that includes fake goodwill to all men.'

I smiled. ‘Well, thanks for the lunch and the tour. And the talk.'

He nodded towards Santa and his reindeer glittering away on the roof across the road. ‘That guy's going to have to get a move on. Time's running out.'

‘He hasn't moved an inch since I've been here.'

‘Maybe he'll get going tomorrow. Keep him under close surveillance.' He clasped my shoulder briefly. ‘Merry Christmas, Julie.'

‘Happy Holidays, Rob.'

The Jeep roared off down the avenue.

The next day, Christmas Eve, the King's College carol service was broadcast live from England, early morning California time. Chris sat listening with the tears trickling down her cheeks. It made me feel quite weepy myself – the angelic-sounding choirboys, the readings in clear English voices, the vision of the dear old beloved country in the deep midwinter and so far away.

Ricki, Chris's son, arrived afterwards. He was tall and handsome with an easy, warm smile and lovely manners. I could see that Chris was very proud of him. Fifty years ago thoroughly nice American boys just like him were being shipped off to England. I thought of the thousands of white crosses in the cemetery outside Cambridge.

On Christmas Day itself the sun shone brightly from blue skies. We opened presents by the tree, drove to the Episcopalian church and then went back and ate the turkey and the Harrods Christmas pudding and the mince pies. And then we pulled the crackers, read out painful riddles and put on ridiculous paper hats. Except for the weather and the lack of Brussels sprouts, it was much like an English Christmas – to Chris's deep satisfaction.

Flavia phoned in the afternoon – late in the evening London time.

‘Happy Christmas, Mum.'

‘Thank you, darling. How's yours been?'

She'd had a wonderful day, she said. She and Callum had gone to some friends down in the country and only just got back. The weather had been pretty awful – rainy and dull – but it hadn't mattered a bit. She sounded pleased and excited and I wondered what was coming next.

‘The most
wonderful
news, Mum . . .'

They're engaged, I thought. He's asked her to marry him, at last, and I've got to sound thrilled about it. I started to get the words ready.
Darling, how lovely! I'm so happy for you
 . . .

‘Callum's been offered a screen test in Hollywood. Isn't it amazing? Some American director guy was over here and saw him in that TV series. They want him to audition for a big part in a cops and robbers movie. Isn't it marvellous?'

She went on telling me all about it. The American had been staying at a hotel in London and had just happened to switch on the TV when the detective series was being shown. A complete fluke. He'd rung Callum's agent the next day. Apparently, he thought Callum had the sort of looks and charisma that it took to go places in Hollywood.

‘Callum's flying out next week and they're putting him up at some swanky hotel in Beverly Hills.'

‘Can't you come too?'

‘No . . . too busy at work and it'd be too expensive. Besides I'd cramp his style a bit, don't you think?' She seemed amused and far from resentful.

I said, ‘Wish him luck from me. And tell him to phone me while he's here, if he gets the chance.'

When I told Chris she was mightily impressed. ‘Wow! He must have something.'

‘He does. He's extremely good-looking and very charming – when he chooses to be. He can act quite well too, and do almost any accent perfectly.'

‘My God, Julie, he might be a big star one day. How thrilling! If he calls, ask him straight over here.'

On the day after, instead of a bracing English Boxing Day walk, Chris and I went shopping in a big shopping mall – two levels of enticing stores crammed with desirable things, all under one convenient roof. I bought American jeans, a cashmere sweater and a pair of loafers – far cheaper than in England. Chris shopped till we both dropped and went to lunch at a restaurant full of glamorous women pecking at low-calorie salads and sipping mineral water. Nobody, I noted, was smoking – bearing out Walter's pious prophecy. We drove back a different route, taking the palm-tree-lined Palisades on the cliff top at Santa Monica, overlooking the ocean. People were out jogging purposefully along the grass verge wearing sun visors and track suits – arms pumping away like pistons. And little groups were engaged in curious on-the-spot exercises, limbs moving in measured unison.

‘T'ai chi,' Chris said. ‘Chinese yoga and meditation. Chi is a vital force that animates the body. I'm not sure about the T'ai bit. It's supposed to teach you about the genesis of movement from the body's vital centre and give you a calm and tranquil mind. I went to a couple of classes once but it didn't do a thing for me.'

Then we passed a man: an unshaven, straggle-haired man dressed in dirty clothes and lying asleep on the grass. Then another man slumped on a bench. And another sitting with his back against a palm tree, staring blankly into space. And another curled up, foetus-form, with his arm wrapped pathetically over his eyes.

I said, ‘Chris, those men . . . they look like down-and-outs. Surely they can't be. Not
here
.'

‘They are, poor sods. We've got loads of them in Santa Monica. They come from all over. It's the climate – they survive a lot better than in colder places. They're mostly veterans who've dropped out or been kicked out. It's very sad.'

‘You mean they fought in the war?'

‘Not the war you're thinking about. The Vietnam war.'

‘But I thought the US government took such good care of its veterans.'

‘It does, generally. Very good care. But those ‘nam guys are different. They had a bloody raw deal. They made them go and fight a shitty war, and when they came back all screwed up nobody wanted to know them – not even their own families sometimes. They were outcasts. Shunned for having done what they were ordered to do.' She glanced at me. ‘Don't look so worried, Julie. You won't find
your
man pan-handling on the streets. His war was a good one. He'll have had something to be proud of.'

‘A
good
war?'

‘Well, World War Two was a simple choice, wasn't it? Us against the Nazis. Right against wrong. White against black. Vietnam was something quite different. Nobody here's proud of what happened, I can tell you.'

We drove back to affluent Georgina Avenue where Santa Claus was still driving his reindeer merrily over the roof and where everything was so clean and so neat and so ordered. But I couldn't get the pitiful image of the ragged homeless vets out of my mind.