Some Day I'll Find You (6 page)

Now he had the Arnolds squarely in his sights. Yes, there were richer families out there and who knows, they might have daughters even more gorgeous than this one, but James Blackwell had
learned a long time ago that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. The Arnolds would do very well, thank you. They were rolling in it; they had a stunning daughter who, with luck, would
bring a generous settlement on her marriage. The lawyer might even stump up for a house to get them started in, who knew? He looked the kind of doting, sentimental type who’d do something
like that. He certainly had the means, that was obvious.

There was the slight problem of that stupid story he’d told James about his parentage, which James was certain John had repeated to Diana, but he could bluff that one out indefinitely. At
least it had the advantage of being half-true, and in the unlikely event of any of the Arnolds meeting his mother (
very
unlikely) she’d say exactly what he told her to.

If everything went the way he planned – and it would – James Blackwell and Diana Arnold would be walking down the aisle by the summer of 1940.

By the time he had circumnavigated the airfield, he concluded that the next stage in the rise and rise of James Blackwell wasn’t merely achievable, it was inevitable.

He went to find the girl’s brother. He only needed two things. An address, and a telephone number.

Diana did not believe for one moment that James Blackwell would call on her in Cambridge. He would have far better and more important things to do with his squadron, and
anyway, the two of them had only exchanged a few remarks during his fleeting visit to the Dower House. It was hardly the basis for . . . for what, exactly? An affair? Was that what she wanted to
happen?

After her conversation with Sally, Diana took herself to the college library, selected a book at random, and retreated to a secluded corner to think things through. She had an analytical mind
and was impatient with what she thought of to herself as ‘drift’. As far back as she could remember, Diana had always wanted to know where she was heading and how she would get
there.

This single-minded attitude was what had led her to apply to Girton in the first place, two years ago, despite well-intentioned opposition. Her friends in Kent had told her she would be wasting
three years of her life. Most of them seemed content to be launched into society by their well-heeled parents, the chief aim being to find a suitable husband. Quite a few of them were already
engaged or actually married.

Even her headmistress had tried to discourage her.

‘You have to face facts, Diana,’ she’d said. ‘Girton isn’t a proper university college. They don’t exist for women, anywhere. You won’t get a degree
however hard you study – Cambridge doesn’t recognise female graduates. Nowhere does.’

It was true. Ever since opening its doors in Cambridge in 1873, Girton had had to wrestle every concession from the university of which it aspired to be a full member. Even now, more than sixty
years later, it was still academically semi-detached from the other colleges.

Diana had read up on Girton’s history. She was intrigued and impressed that thirty years before the Suffragettes, women were fighting to be treated on equal terms with men. The battle was
still being fought. If she went there, she would be a part of living history.

But the day after she’d dropped her application to Girton into the village post box, Diana was assailed by sudden doubts.

‘It’s a complete waste of time, isn’t it?’ she asked despairingly of her parents that evening at dinner. ‘Everyone’s right. There’s no point. I could
work twice as hard as the boys at Cambridge but I still won’t get a degree. I must be mad.’

Mr Arnold, who had been inclined to this viewpoint from the very beginning, opened his mouth to gently agree but his wife slapped the table with the flat of her hand.

‘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.

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.

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 and 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.’