Some Day I'll Find You (20 page)

There was a smudged official stamp underneath ‘
MISSING PRESUMED DEAD
’ and yet another scrawled signature. Nothing else.

Diana carefully replaced the pages in their envelope and pushed it to the back of a drawer. Douglas was a stranger to the kitchen; he’d never find it there. Then she made herself a pot of
tea and took it out on to the terrace. She opened a large yellow parasol and sat in its shade for a long time, barely moving in her rattan chair.

He’s not dead
.

Two words – ‘presumed dead’ – were the fixed point around which her thoughts swirled. Why ‘presumed’? The men who saw what happened to James were clear enough
on the question. One could describe them as expert witnesses; fighter pilots used to dealing in matters of life and death on a daily, even hour-to-hour basis. If they thought James had – what
was the expression they would use? – ‘
got the chop
’, then he had.

Perhaps it was the absence of a body. Diana shivered slightly. The report had said that the Germans hadn’t taken James prisoner, but clearly they hadn’t found a body either. They
would have reported it to the Red Cross; that was how such things worked. But there must have been some remains in the burned-out wreckage of James’s plane; surely? Something to identify
him?

He’s not dead.

The cicadas were starting to sing now as the sun grew hotter. The lawn beneath the sun terrace was dotted with small olive trees and that was where the insects hid, signalling their presence to
each other with their endlessly repeated
chi-chi-chi
calls.

You could never actually see them, but you knew they were there.

*

Diana went back into the kitchen and returned with a pencil and pad. For the next few minutes, she bent over the little table under the parasol, making a series of notes, her
brow furrowed with concentration. Her eyes glittered fiercely and her mouth was closed in a tight line, almost a grimace. When she had finished, she sat back to consider what she’d
written.

Diana wrote the last sentence so firmly that the pencil broke.

She sat back, taking short, shallow breaths. A light sheen of perspiration had appeared on her forehead, and one foot jiggled restlessly under the table. She got up and walked to the
terrace’s wrought-iron balustrade.

Normally the view of picturesque St Paul, nestling on its hill opposite, claimed her attention. But this morning her eyes slid south and east to the distant Mediterranean. Nice was hidden behind
the hills that folded their way down to the sea, gradually petering out in the narrow coastal plain where the city stood.

But just because you couldn’t see it, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Like the cicadas in the olive trees.

Like James.

Hidden
.

She was going to find him.

It never occurred to Diana to take Douglas into her confidence.

She was certain he’d think her a fool – or worse, an obsessive. It would be impossible for her to communicate her certainty that James was alive, based as it was on scant evidence.
Douglas would tell her she was being ridiculous.

But there were other reasons to keep silent. If she told Douglas what she thought she’d seen and heard at the flower-market, he would immediately detect her hunger to see James again. It
would be impossible for her to conceal it from him once the subject was broached. Douglas would be hurt, and almost certainly feel threatened.

Would he be justified in considering that his marriage might be in jeopardy? Diana’s thoughts shied away from the question.

Of course, she knew that if she was right and, incredibly, her first husband was alive and actually here in Nice, the consequences of finding him again would be enormous. But Diana refused to
allow her thoughts to travel any further in this direction. Subconsciously she knew that too close an examination of her motives in searching for James would probably cause her to call off the
whole exercise.

So she ignored her inner fears and told herself that it was simply none of Douglas’s business. The thought that she might be behaving selfishly, dishonestly or even dangerously
didn’t enter her mind.

She wouldn’t allow it to.

She dreamed of James constantly, from the very first night after the incident in the flower-market. Usually these dreams were profoundly frustrating, involving endless pursuits
of him, always one step behind as he disappeared through doorways, around corners, and into the backs of dark cars that bore him away, oblivious to her desperate cries of, ‘Stop! Oh please,
stop!’ She often woke with tears of frustration fresh on her cheeks.

Other dreams of James were altogether different, and even if Douglas had been in her confidence, she would never have discussed these with him. They were deeply erotic, almost always concluding
in convulsive, physical pleasure which jolted her awake, confused and fearful that her involuntary cries had woken Douglas. Fortunately, he was a heavy sleeper.

Outwardly, Diana’s behaviour did not change. She still waited for Maxine to arrive each morning to give Stella her French lessons, before walking into St Paul and taking a taxi to the
flower-market.

Armand continued to greet her with what he considered the epitome of English wit, before bringing her coffee and
Nice-Matin
, which Diana affected to read.

A close observer, however, would have noticed a change in her behaviour. No passing car or taxi went unscrutinised. No tall, suited and hatted man hoving into view went unremarked. And Diana
stayed at the pavement café for far longer than she used to, sometimes for more than two hours, lingering over a third
café crème
when once a single cup was all she
drank.

In fact, there was one such close observer; Hélène, a woman in her late fifties who owned the flower-stall opposite Armand’s café. Diana had never really noticed the
woman who worked quietly at her bouquets and arrangements most mornings. She was an unremarkable figure in her plain, neat dresses, greying hair invariably tied back in a conventional bun.

But Hélène had noticed Diana from almost the first time she visited the market, admiring her beauty, which reminded her greatly of her own daughter. Marie too had dark looks, and
the same green eyes, and like the Englishwoman opposite, she knew how to dress. Hélène had missed her child since she had left Nice to work in Paris, and took a secret pleasure in
pretending to herself that the girl opposite was her own beloved daughter, come to visit.

Now, Hélène saw that something had changed in the Englishwoman’s demeanour. It was obvious she wasn’t paying her newspaper the attention she once had, and she seemed
obsessed with passing traffic, particularly taxis. Men, too. The young woman was constantly on the look-out
,
giving sharp glances to almost any smartly dressed man who approached. Her
expression flickered from hope to disappointment throughout her sojourn at the table and when she finally left, she appeared sad and defeated.

Hélène, already minded to feel maternal towards the young woman, became increasingly concerned. Finally, one morning, when Diana had been fidgeting at her usual table for more than
an hour, Hélène came to a decision. She smoothed the front of her apron, propped a painted wooden
Fermé
sign against her stall, and crossed the street to the
café. She walked straight up to Diana’s table on the corner of the little wooden terrace.

‘
Bonjour, madame
. . . you are English, I think?’

Diana, who was staring in the opposite direction at a suspicious taxi that had, in fact, just disgorged two elderly ladies carrying tiny dogs, gave a slight start.

‘Oh, my goodness, you gave me a fright. Yes, I’m English. How did you know?’

The woman gestured to Armand, who was washing glasses inside, behind his tiny bar. ‘I sometimes come here for lunch and Armand likes to talk about you.’ She smiled at Diana.
‘He is a little in love with you, I think.’

Diana smiled back. ‘Won’t you sit down? My name’s Diana.’

‘And I am Hélène.’ The woman sat opposite.

‘Would you like a cigarette?’ Diana asked, offering her the packet. ‘Your English is frightfully good.’

Hélène took a cigarette and Diana lit one for each of them.

‘
Merci
, Diana.’

‘
Je vous en prie
.’

‘Your French is good, too,
madame
.’

Diana blew out a thin jet of smoke. ‘Thanks. It’s coming along. Where did you learn English?’

‘From my late husband. He was from Manchester.’

‘Well, that would explain it.’

The two women sat smoking companionably for a minute before Diana spoke again.

‘
Madame
– Hélène – what is it that you want?’

The older woman nodded slowly. ‘But that is the question, my dear, is it not? What is it that
you
want? What – or perhaps who – are you looking for every day when you
sit here?’

Diana looked slightly haunted. ‘Is it that obvious?’

Hélène gestured over her shoulder to her flower-stall, which at this time of the morning was almost bare. Only a battered metal bucket containing a dozen white roses remained.

‘It is obvious to me from over there each morning. I noticed you weeks ago, when you first came here. Truly, you remind me of my daughter. You are much the same age, I think. My Marie is
in Paris now and I miss her greatly.’ Hélène tapped ash from her cigarette into the little tin ashtray between them before continuing.

‘But,
alors
, it is to you that my . . .’ Hélène searched for the word. ‘ahh . . .
ma curiosité
—’

‘Curiosity – it’s the same.’

‘Of course . . . my curiosity is directed to you. There has been a change,
madame
,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘What do you mean? And call me Diana, please.’

‘There has been a change, Diana. Armand says that some days ago, a mysterious event took place. You saw a man in a taxi you thought you knew, and since then you have not been
yourself.’

Diana felt a sudden overwhelming desire to unburden herself to this woman, but she resisted a little longer.

‘But we have not met or spoken until this moment, Hélène. With respect, how would you know what my normal self is?’

Hélène blew her cheeks out and gave a little shrug. ‘
Écoutez
, my dear, I am a woman like yourself. Such matters are clear to us. No, you are not yourself and
that much is plain to see.’ She placed her hand on top of the young woman’s. ‘Tell me. Who are you waiting for?’

The unexpected physical contact and the sincerity in the Frenchwoman’s voice were enough to breach Diana’s already shaky defences. She dropped her head low over the table. Glittering
teardrops fell from her eyes and she plunged both hands into her hair, and then down to cover her face.

‘I can’t stand it . . . I can’t stand it any more,’ she wept through her fingers. ‘I don’t know what to do – I’m in complete
limbo
.’

Hélène swiftly moved her chair next to Diana’s, and put both arms around her. The younger woman fell on her shoulder, wracked with sobs.

Hélène let her weep, making occasional sympathetic noises and clucking softly. Armand watched, transfixed, from behind his little bar.

Eventually Diana regained control and Hélène passed her a napkin, on which Diana noisily blew her nose.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Hélène . . . It’s been such a strain. Goodness, you must wish you’d never come over to me.’

‘Nonsense, my dear . . . but, please, where is this limbo you speak of?’

Diana laughed despite herself, and then hiccuped.

‘Limbo is a word that means, oh I don’t know . . . lost; in the middle of nowhere . . . you’re stuck there and time seems to stand still.’

‘Ah,
la salle d’attente –
the waiting room.’

Diana nodded, hiccuping. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly.’

Hélène nodded slowly, and then lifted Diana’s chin with one finger.

‘And so now,
ma chérie
, you will tell me who it is that you have been waiting for.’

Diana told her everything. How her brother had brought James Blackwell home to the Dower House; his visits to Girton and their whirlwind engagement after Dunkirk; the double
tragedy that crowned their wedding day; and how she and Stella had begun to build a future under Douglas’s protection here in Provence.

At first Diana started off at a rush, and more than once Hélène was obliged to ask her to slow down. But gradually, the more Diana spoke, the calmer she became. The jerky hand
movements that had accompanied the opening of her story died away, and she found it increasingly easy to look directly into the older woman’s kind eyes as she unburdened herself. The only
remaining sign of strain was the series of cigarettes that she lit for herself, one after another.

Hélène listened mostly in silence, until Diana told her about the taxi that had driven past Armand’s café over a week ago. Here she stopped the younger woman and asked
a series of sharp questions. When she was satisfied, Diana carried on, finishing with the findings of the RAF report into James’s death.

By the time Diana finished her story, Armand had wiped down all his tables and covered them with white tablecloths. The café was ready to serve lunch. Knives and forks with pretty blue
handles, and glasses – green for water, plain for wine – shone and sparkled in the sunshine. It was only a little past noon, but already the chairs around them were beginning to fill
up.

Armand bustled over to them, tying a fresh white apron around his tubby waist.