Read Online I'll Be Seeing You by Margaret Mayhew - Free Book Online Page B

let alone an American one.’
    â€˜You’d be in quite exalted company. Winston Churchill’s mother was.’
    â€˜So she was. Somehow I don’t feel any better.’
    â€˜Well, it seems that you have a straight choice, Juliet darling. Either you try to find out more about this mysterious man, or you forget all about him. Put the whole thing right out of your mind. Personally, I’d definitely do the latter – that’s my advice, if you want it. But then I never had a father – or not one that I can remember. Mine departed when I was a babe-in-arms and, from all accounts, he was very far from wonderful. And I have to admit that I’ve never missed having one. Not in the least. I’d never want to find mine again. God forbid!’
    â€˜I can’t put it out of my mind. I’ve tried. It won’t go away.’
    â€˜All right.’ Another snip at the grapes. ‘What else did she tell you about him?’
    â€˜That I’d inherited his artistic talent.’
    â€˜You were lucky. The only thing I inherited from my father was flat feet.’
    â€˜I found a sketchbook in the desk, as well as the letter. Pencil drawings done on an American bomber station. They’re obviously his. And I draw in almost exactly the same way. It’s uncanny. And there was something else – an old 78 record of Frank Sinatra singing “I’ll be Seeing You”. I’ve been listening to it . . . it’s rather like hearing the past.’
    â€˜Those golden oldies are powerful stuff. I didn’t know Sinatra had recorded it. I’ve only heard the Jo Stafford version.’
    â€˜The students told me that my mother kept playing it before she died.’
    â€˜Well, I expect it was
their
tune. It reminded her of him. Rather sad that she never
did
see him again.’
    â€˜She also said in the letter that she’d never stopped loving him. Never forgot him for a single day.’
    â€˜That’s very touching.’
    â€˜Actually, I’d far sooner she’d kept it to herself.’
    â€˜Your mother paid you the compliment of thinking you’d understand, darling. But obviously you don’t.’
    â€˜I know what it’s like to be completely potty over a man.’
    â€˜You’re surely not speaking of your ex? And if you mean that other one you were carrying on with for all those wasted years, then
potty
is exactly the right word. Thank God you came to your senses – eventually.’
    I had wept many times on Adrian’s exquisitely tailored shoulder. I said huffily, ‘Anyway, I don’t know what to do next.’
    â€˜I think you should take my advice. No need for shredders or histrionics. Simply put the letter and photo away at the back of a drawer and stop thinking about them.’
    â€˜I’d like to know, at least, if he’s alive or dead. Whoever he is.’
    â€˜In short, you’re determined to track him down like a bloodhound, whatever I say.’
    I smiled faintly. ‘The trail’s rather old and cold, Adrian. I don’t know his name or where he came from, or even the name of the bomber station where he served. Only that it’s somewhere in Suffolk.’
    â€˜Well, you have a photo of him.’
    â€˜I don’t see how it can help.’
    â€˜Nor do I, darling. But it’s something. And you’re not alone in your predicament, you know. I remember coming home once, several years ago, to find Eric blubbing away in front of the television. You remember what a great big softie he was. Heart of gold. He’d been watching some programme where a woman had found her long-lost GI father. The two of them had never actually met but she’d somehow managed to trace him. It took her years, apparently, but she never gave up. The BBC – I think it was – had got hold of the story and flown him over from America. They clapped eyes on each other for the very first