Free I'll Be Seeing You by Margaret Mayhew

time in the television studio in front of an audience, with everyone clapping. Not a dry eye in the house.’
    â€˜I’d absolutely hate that.’
    â€˜I agree. But it made very good entertainment. Eric was most moved.’
    â€˜Did he happen to say how the woman had managed to trace her father?’
    â€˜If he did, I can’t remember.’ He laid a hand on mine. ‘Listen, darling, what you have to consider very carefully is that your father –
if
he’s still alive – will have a family of his own: children – grandchildren, most probably. Is there really any point in stirring things up? What good would it do? What possible harm? Think about that. He doesn’t know that you even exist. He’s an elderly man now and you’re a middle-aged woman – not Daddy’s little girl to be bounced on his knee and spoilt rotten. That delightful relationship never happened between you, and it never can. And he won’t look like he does in that photo any more. You’ve had one perfectly good and loving father and there’s no guarantee that you’d care for this man. Lots of people don’t actually like their parents at all – they’re just stuck with them. Why run the terrible risk?’
    â€˜I’ve thought about all that, Adrian. I wouldn’t necessarily want to meet him, or let him know anything about me, but I’d still like to find out something about
him
.’
    â€˜Don’t delude yourself. If you trace him, you’ll want to meet him. To talk to him, see what he’s like, get to know him. And it could be such a
big
mistake.’
    I said slowly, ‘I wonder if
he
still remembers her in the same way.’
    â€˜Unlikely. Let’s be realistic, darling. A wartime romance . . . young people thrown together in high-octane circumstances: alive today, dead tomorrow. And the Americans made hay while the sun shone. He probably can’t even remember her name.’
    â€˜My mother was pretty special,’ I said. ‘I think he would have remembered her.’
    â€˜Oh dear,’ he snipped at the grapes again. ‘I can see you’re quite determined.’
    â€˜So, where do I go next? What do I do?’
    He chewed thoughtfully. ‘The Americans call their ex-servicemen veterans, don’t they? Vets. They must have associations, just like our service people do, and all associations have magazines for their members. Nostalgic articles, reunion photos, terrible poems, letters,
Where Are They Now?
appeals . . . all that sort of thing. If you contact the American Air Force lot who were over here in the Second World War, then you might be able to persuade them to print your photo in their magazine and see if it rings a bell with anyone.’
    â€˜How on earth would I find them?’
    He nibbled at another grape. ‘If I were you, darling, I’d start by ringing up the American Embassy.’

Four
    It was several weeks before I rang the American Embassy. Now that I had taken the big decision, the need to act on it somehow seemed less pressing, as well as more daunting. Besides, there were other things that demanded my attention – the illustrations for the nursery-rhyme book, for example. I finished the Frog a-Wooing and was pleased with it, but not so happy with Sing a Song of Sixpence which took several attempts before I felt satisfied. I strove, as always, to create images that would endure in a child’s mind – not only instantly appealing but lastingly memorable. At the same time, as the publishers reminded me, the person who buys the book, handing over the hard cash, is a grown-up with different perceptions. Commercial nursery designs, of all kinds, must aim primarily to please the parents, godparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Why else embroider babies’ bibs with cute words which the wearer cannot read?
    And then there were the evening classes. On Tuesday and