I'll Be Seeing You by Margaret Mayhew Page A

Electricity, central heating and a phone line were extended upwards, and running water to a nice old sink that I had rescued from the garden, while the spaces between the roof beams were filled in with plasterboard and painted white. I bought sisal matting for the floor, a big trestle table, a comfortable office chair that could be adjusted to different heights, a side table, bookshelves, cupboards, lamps . . . and, hey presto, the loft became my studio. I could work up there for hours, undisturbed, with the London sparrows and the pigeons for company and a wonderful view over chimney pots and tree tops all the way down to the river.
    I had brought a bundle of unopened letters of condolence with me from Oxford and there were several more among the post from the hall table. I took them all into the sitting room. The letters invariably made me weep: so many kind words, so much sympathy, so much affection expressed for my mother, and so many good memories told of her. They were intended to console and they did, but they also made hard reading. Among them was one from the ex-WAAF who had been at the funeral. There was an address in Leeds and a name at the bottom: Joyce Atkins.
    I found her phone number through Directory Enquiries. She sounded surprised that I’d called her but I invented the excuse of trying to trace another old wartime friend of Ma’s.
    â€˜She served on the same station in Suffolk as her, before the Americans arrived. I hoped you might be able to tell me the name of it.’
    â€˜I’m sorry . . . I just can’t remember, you know. It was a nice sort of name – I do know that. The village name, I suppose.’
    â€˜Apparently, the local pub was called the Mad Monk.’
    â€˜Was it? What an odd name for a pub! I’ve never been to Suffolk myself – it’s a bit too much off the beaten track.’
    I persisted. ‘You said my mother wrote to you occasionally. Perhaps the name of her station would have been on her letters.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m afraid those would have been thrown out years ago. My late husband was never keen on a lot of clutter. He used to insist on regular clear-outs of everything. He always said it was a fire risk.’
    I went on doggedly. ‘You mentioned that she met an American she was rather keen on.’
    â€˜Did I? Oh, yes. A pilot, I think he was. I don’t think she ever told me his name. He was killed, though – I’m sure of that. A lot of the American air crew were, you know, especially when they first came over. The Luftwaffe fighters used to shoot them down like flies, before they got the Mustangs to escort them. Were you hoping to trace him, too?’
    â€˜I was just curious. I don’t seem to know anything about my mother’s service life. It’s rather a pity.’
    â€˜Well, some people never stop going on about what they did in the war – half of it invented, of course – and others, like your mother, aren’t the sort to say anything much. The WAAF did a wonderful job, you know, and
I
don’t mind saying it. They made all the difference to the RAF. Well, so did the women in
all
the services, but it’s never been properly acknowledged. No statues, or anything like that.’ A deep sigh. ‘You might be able to trace that WAAF through the MOD records, if you’ve got her name. They won’t let you have her address but they’d let her know you’d like to get in touch, and leave it up to her. It’s worth a try.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜Lucky it’s not the American you’re after. One WAAF I knew wanted to find a GI she’d got engaged to during the war, but she never did. Their service people wouldn’t help her at all. Quite nasty to her about it. She gave up in the end – probably just as well. He can’t have been very keen, can he?’
    â€˜Do you still keep in touch with other ex-WAAFs?’
    â€˜One