Read Online Some Day I'll Find You by Richard Madeley - Free Book Online Page A

you.’
    His father had found his keys. ‘I’ll open the garage for your bike. Do you have enough petrol to get back? I’ve a couple of jerry cans you can have.’
    ‘I’ve plenty. But thanks, Dad.’ John hesitated, and then looked steadily at them both.
    ‘Look, you’re not to worry, either of you. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve had heaps of it. Everything’s going to be fine.’
    The silence that followed this was broken by Lucy, who almost ran into the room.
    ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she panted, ‘but I’ve brought your bag downstairs. You’d only unpacked a few things and I think I’ve put them all back.’
    The three of them came to the door to see him off. There was a light dusting of snow on the gravel drive and Mr Arnold called to his son as he wheeled his motor bike out from the garage:
‘Mind you don’t skid!’
    John grinned, eyes shielded behind goggles. ‘Dad, if I can manage not to prang a Spitfire, I can manage this thing, trust me. Bye, everyone!’
    And with a deafening roar and a back-spray of snow and gravel, he was gone.

19
    Over a hundred miles north, Cambridge was under three inches of snow. It had begun falling in earnest as James Blackwell swung his little car under Girton’s gate-house,
and pulled up, looking for somewhere to park. A porter came puffing up behind him and rapped on the driver’s window.
    ‘Excuse me, sir, you can’t come in here,’ he said. ‘No visitors after dark, without a pass. I must ask you to leave the college precincts immediately.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ said James. He enjoyed this kind of confrontation with functionaries. All one had to do was speak complete nonsense in a confident tone to assert
control.
    ‘I’m here on RAF business,’ he said pleasantly, briefly showing his leave-pass. ‘The Dean asked me to pop up here personally to discuss the forces’ mentoring scheme
for quasi-undergrads. It’s all covered under section six of the putative war dispensation procedures. Now, where can I park? I’m already late, thanks to this bloody snow.’
    The porter blinked. ‘Well, if it’s like that, sir, I suppose you can take one of the faculty spaces up there to the right – but I’m surprised no one told me you were
coming.’
    ‘Not a problem, old chap. There’s a war on. Everything’s fouled up. You’ll get the paperwork tomorrow, rest easy. Park over there, d’you say? Thanks.’ The MG
chugged away.
    Christ, it was just too bloody easy, sometimes.
    He pulled up next to a large grey Wolseley –
God
, what were these poncey lecturers
on
to afford cars like this? – and stepped out of his tiny two-seater. The
freshly falling snow had an antiseptic aroma and gave the college buildings an added lustre. Even his mother’s grimy Whitechapel garret looked better under a fresh covering of snow –
until London coal-smoke turned it a dirty grey.
    Here at Girton, the transformation was safe from metropolitan grime. Diana’s college looked like the illustration on a Christmas card. But where was he to find her? He noticed a figure
walking diagonally across the quadrangle, head down against the strengthening blizzard.
    ‘Hello there! Excuse me!’
    The figure turned towards him, uncertainly. ‘Hello yourself!’ came a faint voice. ‘Can I help? Sorry, I can’t see you too well – my eyelashes are full of
snowflakes.’
    James laughed. ‘Mine too . . . I’m looking for Diana Arnold . . . well, her rooms, at any rate.’
    ‘Then you’ve come to the right shop.’ The figure materialised out of the snow and dusk. She was blonde, rosy-cheeked, short and dumpy, wrapped up thickly in coat and scarf. She
looked exactly like a Russian doll, James thought.
    ‘I’m Sally, Diana’s friend. Who are you? How did you get past our fearsome gatekeeper?’
    James shrugged. ‘I lied through my teeth,’ he admitted, putting out his hand. ‘James Blackwell. Flight Commander Blackwell, actually. I’m here to take Diana out to