The Postcard (19 page)

‘I don’t know what to say. I’ve not heard from Toby for two weeks but that’s not unusual. Our marriage has not been working for some time. I was going to ask for a
separation but this . . . Will he be caught? How could he do these things and leave me to carry . . .? Forgive me.’ Callie began to shake with shock.

‘Is there anyone who can stay with you?’

Callie nodded. ‘I have friends. What must I do now?’

‘Do nothing. We will keep you informed. There will be statements to make to the police, and further investigations. I don’t suppose you have any of your husband’s bank
statements?’

She shook her head, knowing Toby always kept those in a locked portfolio case separate from their own account. ‘I can give you ours,’ she offered, ‘but there’s nothing
much in there. I can’t believe he’d do this to me. I trusted him implicitly with everything to do with our moneys.’ A cold fear clutched her. ‘Do you think he forged my
signature too? He wouldn’t steal from his own wife, would he?’

‘You must check immediately with your lawyers in London. I’m afraid men with no consciences do very strange things when cornered, Mrs Jones.’

When they left she collapsed on her bed, exhausted. It all made sense now. He’d milked cash cows in London, had brought her to Cairo as a screen and had now moved on to Palestine. He
wanted no ties or a wife who was no longer useful to him. Had he stolen her father’s funds and left her penniless? Angry clients would demand justice for their losses. The marriage
she’d thought was crumbling now lay in total ruins before her. Toby was a confidence trickster preying on the gullible and those who wanted to get rich quick with his tempting schemes. Now
he’d vanished, leaving her under suspicion too.

She phoned Monica, who came to comfort her, plying her with gin and putting her to bed. ‘Sleep it off. This will pass. You are free now to be with Ferrand.’

‘You jest,’ Callie cried. ‘How can I be free with all this round my neck? Someone has to make amends.’

‘You are as much a victim as they are. Ferrand will come for you. You can put all this behind you. Toby’s done you a favour, set you free.’ Monica patted her hand. ‘It
will all look better in the morning. Go to sleep . . .’

It felt even worse in the morning. If only the solution was as simple as disappearing with her lover into the sunset, leaving behind all the chaos and disgrace. It may not mean much but she was
still Toby’s wife and she had her pride. She would not go to another man to be rescued. She’d see this through, no matter what it cost. Only when she’d made amends and taken
responsibility for her own laziness and stupidity would she be free to join Ferrand. This was the time to stand on her own feet for once and face what must be faced. Only then would she deserve
some happiness of her own.

Three weeks later, Callie stood waving from the deck of SS
Otranto,
watching until her friends were just specks on the shore. In the whirlwind of the past days
she’d faced angry interviews with irate businessmen, convinced she must have known about Toby’s activities. Monica’s partner, Ken, guided her through the maelstrom of accusations,
alongside a good lawyer, who proved Callie’s innocence and suggested she left for Britain on the next ship and put it all down to experience. They even helped her buy a ticket.

Ferrand’s contract was up and he wanted to go with her, but she was adamant she wanted to return alone. They would meet up as a soon as she felt she could face him again, she promised.

Of Toby there was not a word. He’d vanished into the Levant, along with his assets, under a new name. By now she was glad he’d forced the issue, removing himself from her life so she
owed him nothing. All that was left was the humiliation and the exhaustion of this emotional nightmare. She hoped the sea voyage would give her time to compose herself, to regain her appetite and
find some strength to face Phee’s disappointment when she turned up on her doorstep.

In those terrible days of questions and accusations, seeing the rage on victims’ faces, she had stared down at the Nile wondering if she should end it all in the water’s inviting
murkiness. She could wade in with her pockets full of pebbles and just sink into oblivion. What have I done with my life but mess it up? she asked herself. But in those moments of despair she could
feel the warmth of Ferrand’s love, holding her together, preserving her sanity.

Her friends wouldn’t understand. Primrose had got a first-class degree at Oxford. She was set for success. Even Pamela was modelling for a couturier. But Callie had nothing to show them
but a failed marriage and an empty purse. There were a few treasures she’d packed away. It was hard to recall how they had arrived in Cairo with just a suitcase between them, love’s
young dream, full of hopes, and now she was leaving with a trunk full of broken dreams. She’d sold Toby’s ring. She wanted no part in his ill-gotten gains.

Ferrand had been wonderful, trying to tempt her out into the city for a farewell supper under the cool night sky, but she hadn’t felt able to face public scrutiny.

‘You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ he’d soothed her.

‘Haven’t I? I’ve let myself and others down. Why didn’t I question him more, be suspicious and take more interest in our affairs?’

‘Stop beating yourself round the head. You trusted him and he wasn’t worthy of your trust. Come here, let me put a smile back on your face.’ He’d opened his arms to her.
‘Mistakes are the great turning points in our lives; like pearls, they’re to be cherished. They’re what make us stronger if we learn from them. We all have to make them.
Let’s not waste your last night with sad talk. We’ll look to the future together. You can still change your ticket and stay with me here,’ he’d offered.

Dear kind Ferrand, Monica and Ken, what good friends they had been, supporting her in her distress. She must prove herself worthy of their trust.

Callie had clung to her lover on that last night, making love until dawn, pressing herself into his body as if to make an imprint of it on herself for the lonely nights ahead.

Now, as the sea breeze chilled her cheeks, she faced her return journey with resignation and not a little fear and defiance. You made the bed, she sighed, and you must lie thereon.

She dined each night alone, not wishing to join in the jollities on board. There was a couple she recognized from the Gezira Club, who kept staring at her with interest, so she kept to her cabin
after that, composing what she would say to Phee.

The sea was choppy in the Bay of Biscay and her stomach heaved as the ship rolled. The air suddenly felt damp and chilly, and the change of climate made her shiver. How eagerly she’d fled
British soil and now she needed it for refuge. It was not the homecoming she ever imagined, and yet . . .

As the ship glided into Southampton water, there was a glimmer of change within her, a sneaking suspicion that perhaps she might not be returning alone, an awareness of an absence, strange
sensations in her body, a queasiness even though she generally had good sea legs. She searched her diary for confirmation. Could it possibly be true that hope lay within? Could a new life be
growing amidst all the chaos of the past months? Could it be in her darkest hour there was dawning promise of hope? If so, then she must make a decision for them both. There was a telegram to send
to prepare Phee and break the silence between them.

‘ARRIVING SOUTHAMPTON TOMORROW. BED FOR THE NIGHT PLEASE. HEADING FOR DALRADNOR. CAROLINE. PS. YOU WERE RIGHT.’

March 1939

Phoebe packed as soon as the telegram arrived saying Caroline’s baby was on its way. She cancelled her appointments and made for the first train north. She’d begged
her to stay in London for the confinement, close by in case of complications. Kitty told her to stop fussing, that her daughter was the epitome of rude health, and the fresh air of Dalradnor was
much better for baby than the city smoke.

‘But what if anything goes wrong?’

‘Scottish hospitals and doctors are some of the finest in the world. Just go and don’t interfere, woman!’ Kitty shooed her on her way.

All through the long journey Phoebe couldn’t concentrate on her novel. I have got to get it right this time, she reminded herself, praying poor Caroline would not suffer too much. Her own
birth had been quick and straightforward. Perhaps it was something mothers passed on. If she couldn’t bear Callie’s pain herself, she would at least be there to encourage her in
labour.

It was the longest journey of her life. At each stop or delay she paced the corridor. She hoped her daughter had booked a decent midwife in the nursing home she’d chosen on the outskirts
of Glasgow. Ever since her unexpected return, Phoebe had sensed a deep sadness in her eyes and manner. There was only half a story forthcoming from her so far: how Toby had absconded with other
people’s funds, leaving her to face the music and prove her innocence in his affairs, and leaving her pregnant to boot. Now, Callie had only one wish: to find somewhere to pick up the pieces
of her broken life. Phoebe admired the dignity with which she went about her affairs, returning to Benson and Harlow, her solicitors, to assess Toby’s damage to their finances. It was better
than they’d expected, mainly because Arthur’s trust were still untouched and must include Phoebe’s agreement in any draw on his estate. Now she was of age, it was time to make
sure Caroline was provided for. Dalradnor would one day be hers. It was key that she had a base in these uncertain times. Anyone who picked up a paper sensed it was only a matter of time before
Herr Hitler would want to push westwards, and Britain and her allies would have to respond. Preparations for war, halted after the Munich crisis last year, were now back in evidence. They were
building air-raid shelters in every street so perhaps London was not the best place for a baby.

After twenty years of a sort of peace, would she be asked to start up concert parties all over again, Phoebe wondered. Of course she’d do her bit, but not at the cost of her family’s
needs. If Caroline asked for her help, she must be there, and do it properly this time.

As they drew closer to Glasgow, her heart lifted. This could be a fresh start for both of them. She’d tried hard not to ask too many questions or to say, ‘I told you so.’ One
look at Caroline’s thin body and tired eyes and she sensed she’d suffered enough. It was a pity that Toby’s child would always be there to remind her of the mistake, but how can
you put blame on a baby for its father’s failings and bad nature? He or she would be Phoebe’s first grandchild and carry some of Arthur within too.

Sir Lionel was pleased to hear the news. He was resting in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair after a stroke, but proving himself a friend to Caroline as always. There was Primrose, too, a
reliable presence somewhere in the background with her placid common sense. There were good friends in Egypt, judging by the letters waiting for Callie’s arrival home: Monica Battersby, and a
nice-sounding professor called Ferrand whose letters put a smile on her face and a blush to her cheeks. He had invited her to stay near Brussels but she wouldn’t budge from Dalradnor once she
was settled back among the hills. She’d made good allies just as Phoebe had done with Kitty, Maisie and Billy over the years. Even Verity Seton-Ross was no longer hostile after that incident
in Scotland. It was a sign of a good heart and warmth to keep friendships in good order. Perhaps that was something she herself could take a little credit for . . .

By the time she arrived at the house, Mima Johnstone, Nan’s daughter, had supper ready.

‘No news yet, Miss Faye, but I don’t think it will be long. The Home promised to ring us as soon as it’s born. She’ll do fine, so no worries . . .’

It was an endless sleepless night, pacing the floor, begging the phone to ring. Phoebe relived each stage of her own labour and her heart raced with panic: what if . . . what if . . .?

It was dawn when the phone rang and she raced down the stairs barefoot, her hands shaking as she lifted the earpiece.

‘Dr Maclean. Just to let you know, all’s well that ends well. Wee bitty struggle but the baby’s out and fine . . . A boy, “a wee scoot”, as the midwives call the
boys. Eight pounds five ounces, looking like a fine rugby prop in the making.’

‘And Caroline?’

‘Tired but smiling. It wasn’t the easiest of births so she’ll need to rest here for a couple of weeks.’

‘When can I see them?’ Phoebe wanted to jump round the hall in excitement.

‘Perhaps tomorrow evening. I’ve knocked her out now to give her some rest.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ Phoebe replied, replacing the receiver. Then she sank down on the step, crying with relief.

I have a grandson, she smiled, and began to make lists of suitable names, only half listening to the morning wireless broadcast, which mentioned something about German troops marching into the
Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia.

Caroline kept looking to the crib with astonishment and wonder. How could that pink chubby-faced new person have come out of her body so perfectly formed? ‘You are my
son, my gorgeous boy,’ she whispered, wanting to nuzzle him, smell the newness of him, but Nurse Hislop was having none of this spoiling.

‘Time for baby to sleep off his long journey. He took his time and you’ve got the stitches to prove it. He’ll wake when you have enough milk to satisfy him. Nature knows
best.’

Why did they have to be separated, she sighed. If he were her foal, she’d be licking him and suckling by now. It was relief to have it all over and done with. If only Ferrand could see the
result of their loving. But that couldn’t be, not for a long time . . .

As far as everyone was concerned this was Toby’s son, born in wedlock. Thank God she had a wedding band on her finger. What Phee didn’t know wouldn’t upset her. It was no
one’s business but her own. Not even Ferrand was party to this secret. Time enough for revelations when they were free to be together. She lived for his letters but she’d made no hint
of a pregnancy. It would just complicate things and she needed time to recuperate from The Cairo Disaster – TCD for short – as she called Toby now. There was no further word of his
whereabouts but she guessed he’d be lying low in some Turkish bar, planning his next schemes.