The Postcard (20 page)

Once she’d returned from Egypt to the beloved arms of Dalradnor Lodge, life with Toby in Cairo had quickly begun to feel like a distant nightmare. She’d built up her strength with
long walks and gentle rides. Baby was an unexpected reward for any disappointments and anxiety, a bonus gift that belonged to her and Dalradnor.

Now there were two weeks lying-in to recover from the hard birthing, time to think about their future and choose names for her little prince. No one would guess his provenance, and that was how
it was going to stay.

‘Why Desmond?’ Phoebe was holding her grandson, rocking him, searching for Arthur’s eyes, for any resemblance. ‘Are you sure about this?’ she
nearly said, but bit her tongue just in time.

‘I just like the sound of it. Desmond Louis Lionel Lloyd-Jones. I know it’s a bit of a long handle but it trips off my tongue.’

Phoebe smiled. Old Sir Lionel would be pleased, but why the Louis?

‘I’m not giving him anything to do with Tobias Obediah Jones, but there are so many Joneses so I’m keeping the Lloyd part.’

‘I thought you might have something Scottish,’ Phoebe offered.

‘No, this is his name and he’s registered now so that’s another thing off my list. Did you bring the thank you chocolates for the nurses?’

Caroline was being so efficient with her orders and lists, sitting in bed at the nursing home like a Queen Bee, writing postcards, receiving cards and gifts: romper suits, knitted jackets and
bootees. Kitty sent a beautiful quilted pram set for the old pram they had found in the attic. Mima disinfected it with Jeyes Fluid and made new sheets and pillow slips. Now it was waiting in the
hall for his lordship to arrive home that afternoon.

Phoebe had to admit Desmond was a fine-looking specimen, long-limbed, with a fuzz of dark hair and blue eyes. Caroline was cooing over his matinée jacket and his flannelette nightgown as
if he were a doll. She’d put mittens on his hands to stop him scratching his face. Then he was swaddled in a fine wool shawl that Nan Ibell had knitted, even with her failing eyesight.
Finally he wore a tammy bonnet in blue check to round off his going-home outfit. No prince of the realm could be dressed any better than he was, Phoebe smiled as they made their way to the waiting
car and Burrell, their gardener, who was driving them home.

In those months before the birth, Caroline had learned to drive and bought herself a smart Morris estate car suitable for country roads. She tried to plan everything. Cairo had definitely
changed her from a dizzy girl to a determined young woman who would now bring up her child alone. Phoebe looked on her with awe these days.

How could she not recall her own quiet arrival at Dalradnor all those years ago, with Marthe and baby, carrying the burden of her shameful secret under cloak of darkness, but finding only warmth
and acceptance here? How could she not be grateful that, on hearing of her pregnancy, Arthur had made sure his family were provided for, no matter what happened. She recalled that frosty meeting
with the lawyers when Verity and Lionel’s wife had thrown fits on hearing of Arthur’s child and the change to his will. Now another fatherless bairn was arriving, but this time to a
fanfare of joy. He would not be blamed for the criminal acts of his father and must never be sullied by Toby’s reputation. Caroline would protect him from what was not his fault, as
she’d tried to protect Caroline from her origins. At least her daughter would make a better job of it than she’d done. Here in Dalradnor, no matter what happened in the world outside,
little Desmond would be safe from harm.

‘Would you mind staying on a little longer?’ she asked Phee, knowing she would oblige. ‘Ferrand is coming to London and I’d like to see him again.’
She added, ‘I’d prefer to see him alone for a few days . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she felt herself blushing.

‘Of course. I saw your face when that letter arrived. You mustn’t let
that
woman interfere.’

It was sweet how Phee felt that the countess was some bullying dragon who needed to be banished.

‘Don’t worry, Ferrand has the measure of his mother. I do want to see him again. If it wasn’t for him in Cairo . . .’ she paused. ‘I have to see how it will be
between us. Cairo is one sultry place; back north, in the chill and rain, perhaps there’ll be nothing between us.’

‘How sensible you are,’ Phee smiled. ‘A break from baby will do you no harm. He won’t realize you’ve gone and I can see to his routine. Mima is his slave. I’m
so glad you feel you can trust me with him. It’s such a long time since I had anything to do with little ones.’ She stopped to gauge Callie’s response. ‘It was different
then, in the war.’

‘I know, Phee.’ Her mother was trying to compensate for all those absences. She’d stayed on, settling back into the old house for the summer, enjoying its peace and garden. She
paced the floor with Desmond when he screamed with colic, singing old music-hall songs to him. She’d escaped back to London just for a few weeks, leaving Callie to enjoy the summer shows and
events, pushing baby round the village, showing him off to the shopkeepers, putting him in a makeshift sling and walking him round the lochside in the dappled shade, singing to him
‘Slaap, kindje, slaap .
. .’ Marthe’s old Flemish lullaby. But it was ‘The Skye Boat Song’ that he loved best
,
opening his eyes as she rocked
him.

During these few months of isolation Callie felt as if she was building up her strength for the next part of her life. In the wings was the promise of a life with Ferrand in France. How would he
react to the news he had a son who bore part of his name? How could he not adore his boy, knowing he’d cemented their loving under the Cairo sun? She didn’t want the countess demanding
answers, finding out she was not even divorced but suspended in mid-air by Toby’s disappearance. If Toby had gone for good it would be seven long years before she was free to marry again.

If Ferrand did not accept this, then she would bring up her child alone, as Phee had done, and he would have no part in his upbringing. Every moment she was with Desmond she was more and more
enchanted by his smile and his waiting arms. It would be hard to leave him even for a week, but this was too important a reunion to let slip.

Callie began her preparations for London with a long overdue visit to a famous Kelvinside hair salon for a restyle. They refused to give her a permanent wave, instead cutting her thick hair into
a pretty bob and hand-waving it. She had nothing new in her wardrobe and her figure had filled out into curves so she treated herself to a new dress and shoes in Daly’s of Sauchiehall Street.
After, she had afternoon tea at the cinema, watching
The Wizard of Oz.
It felt strange not to be rushing back to feed Desmond, but she wanted to make sure she also had a little trousseau
of silk underwear. She felt so excited to think she’d be in Ferrand’s arms again soon.

On 26 August, she took the train south to stay in Phee’s flat off Marylebone High Street, from where she’d take the train to Dover to meet Ferrand’s ferry from Ostend. For once
there was no bag of nappies and bottles, blankets and baby toys to carry. She sensed even at Glasgow Central Station an atmosphere of excitement tinged with unease. People were on the move, and
when she arrived in London she was amazed to see sandbags outside buildings and air-raid precaution signs. The newspapers she had read on the train were full of accounts of the German army
gathering on the border with Poland only a few days ago. Could this mean Britain would be going to war with Germany and Russia?

When Kitty called in to welcome her, Callie was full of questions. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Have you not been listening to the wireless?’ Kitty scolded. ‘We’re arranging the evacuation of patients to hospitals outside the capital in case of . . .’ she
paused. ‘Look, don’t even think of leaving the country. The balloon could go up at any moment.’

‘But surely it can’t affect us? Ferrand’s on his way from France.’

‘Chamberlain said only in March that if Poland was attacked, we could not stand by and let them be overrun. There’s thousands of city children being evacuated to the country.
“Surplus mouths to feed,” is what they call it. Sorry to be a Job’s comforter but you should go home in case there’s an air raid,’ Kitty ordered.

Callie’s heart sank. She’d just thought it was all bluff, and after Munich there would be peace again, but Aunt Kitty didn’t exaggerate. It wasn’t her style. When
she’d gone Callie put on the wireless and listened to every bulletin. There was talk of queues at the Channel ports, both sides. Holidaymakers were returning from the Continent with stories
of fleeing refugees and panic. Even so, Callie decided she was going to Dover to wait for her lover, no matter how long it took for them to be reunited.

The train was packed with foreigners heading home. She listened to the chatter of French families, hanging out of the window at each delay in a siding, waiting for troop trains to pass them. The
ferry port under the great cliffs was teaming with passengers queuing for tickets, lugging cases and tired children. There were cars snaking down the hill, waiting to board the ferries. Callie
watched incoming ships offloading a cargo of humanity, hundreds of people pouring down the gang plank. ‘It’s chaos the other end,’ shouted one man to those waiting in the queue to
board. ‘We’ve left our car behind. They’re filling the hold with passengers.’

This can’t be happening,
Callie cried as she waited by the dock gates, trying not to miss any passenger returning. The ferry from Ostend came and went and there was still no sign
of Ferrand.

Perhaps she’d missed him and he’d already headed for the waiting trains and was making his way to the flat. He had the address so it would be better to wait for him there, after all,
she decided. Callie returned to London, weary and sick with disappointment, hoping against hope that Ferrand would arrive at any moment in a taxi. She was hot and sticky and needed a bath. The flat
seemed chilly and too quiet. Already she was missing her son. What if Ferrand had changed his mind? What if his mother had found out she was married and had brought her influence to bear? But there
were a hundred more valid reasons why he might have been delayed.

Then the phone rang, shrill in the lonely silence, but it was only Phee, checking she’d arrived safely and giving her a bulletin on baby.

‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you,’ Phee went on, sounding relieved. ‘Don’t leave the country, not now. It looks like war is about to start. The papers say British
travellers are advised to leave the Continent as soon as possible. Did you meet your friend?’

‘Not yet. He’s been delayed. The ferries are packed but he’ll be here soon,’ Callie said, more for her own benefit than Phee’s.

She waited three days, wondering why he didn’t ring or send a telegram, and just as she’d given up hope there was a letter, a hasty scribbled note.

She felt such anger she couldn’t sleep. Why was war spoiling everything? What had it to do with them? Why hadn’t she gone to join Ferrand earlier: blown caution to
the wind and arrived with Desmond? You silly woman, she berated herself, what does it matter what others think about his paternity? But it did matter. She knew only too well what secrets were
hidden around herself, and now she’d done the very same thing with her own baby. She felt such panic now at the thought of being separated from Ferrand by war. She must write and tell him
about their son before it was too late.

She paced the flat all night until she was exhausted, watching all the preparations from the windows, hearing the headlines called by newspaper vendors, hearing the grind of air-raid sirens
practising and people scurrying, looking for the shelter. There was nothing for it but to return home, but even that was easier said than done.

Callie had never seen so many trains heading out of the capital. She followed lines of children in crocodile queues, some in school uniforms and carrying suitcases; others in coats with sagging
hems and plimsolls, carrying brown-paper parcels; women pushing go-chairs with babies plugged into rubber dummies. She watched mothers trying to hide their tears as they waved their children off.
Babies wailed as their mothers wept and Callie felt guilty to be going back to her own baby.

The train companies were overstretched, the tracks were overcrowded, and delays in sidings became the order of the day. The compartments were packed with soldiers and sailors heading north to
their barracks. Everyone had a false jokey sense of excitement. For once, the English reserve was shattered by the news that the whole world was going up in flames before long. Many had to stand
from Euston to Glasgow, or crouch down in the corridors, and as the steamer rattle over the Douglas Moors, all the lights went out. It was a ghastly endless journey. The toilets blocked and the
smell of human bodies grew ripe in the heat. At least they would be safe in Stirlingshire, but Phee’s flat was another matter. Callie had brought with her all the documents and jewellery she
could find in case of an air raid.