The Postcard (37 page)

‘Listen to me, please. I know you’ve spoken to the minister but I need to be sure for myself. Would you come back on the big ship with me, back to our big house where there’s
horses and chickens?’

‘No. I hate chickens,’ he replied, not looking at her.

‘So what do you want to do?’

‘I want to live with Aunt Jess and Uncle Jim for ever.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Dunno . . . They are my family now.’ He stared at her with those blue, blue eyes.

‘I suppose they are.’ Callie sighed, kneeling down to his height, holding out her hand. ‘But that can never stop me being your mummy. Can I write to you? Will you write back to
me?’

He shrugged. ‘If you want, but I hate writing.’ He carried on kicking his ball as if she wasn’t there, ignoring her outstretched hands.

‘I’d better say goodbye, then.’ Callie swallowed back her tears as she drank in his serious face, wanting to fall at his knees and beg him to love her. Then the boy held out
his hand but she couldn’t take it, turning to flee from the terrible heat of his rejection with a howl of grief.

When Louie returned to the drawing room, the lady was gone. He knew she wasn’t coming back and he felt important to have sent her away. Now he’d have Jessie all to
himself once more and no one would ever talk about this again. He just knew it was a secret that wasn’t to be shared outside this house. When he went to bed that night, Louie kept hearing
that cry the lady made when she ran off and saw the tears in her eyes as she kneeled before him.

He remembered how he cried when Bob killed the little hen, the one he’d had to choose. He could smell the lady’s perfume and suddenly saw that garden in the picture, the path where
roses tickled his face and he heard her singing in his dream; singing the song that always made him sad. When he woke, the bed was wet and Jess was cross and he couldn’t tell her why. All he
knew was they’d never talk about that visit again and the sooner he forgot about the lady in the rose garden the better it would be. No one would ever call him Desmond again. From now on, his
name was Lou.

Callie sat in the bar of the Queen’s Head, hugging her drink. She’d lost count of how many she’d downed, but not enough yet to banish the expression on her
son’s face in the garden. She tried to blot out that look of triumph and defiance in his eyes.
Have I done the right thing in abandoning all right to him? Why have I no fight left to
claim him? What are you doing? No proper mother gives up her child to another just like that?
She felt so befuddled by her shifting emotions
. Is it better to give a child a chance of
happiness where he feels secure, or to drag him kicking and screaming to a strange country he no longer remembers? How can I do that to him?
Her heart was crying but her mind answered
back.

You can’t bribe feelings into a child who won’t accept them. You have to leave him to get on with his life with those good people, with that strong family unit. How can you stand
up to them? Who are you but a wreck thrown on the shore, battered by life’s rocks with no one to support you in this decision? You are nothing, a failure at everything you ever did. You chose
the wrong husband, if indeed he was one. You made the wrong decision to join a dangerous mission that failed before it even began, and you stayed away too long from your child. You deserve
everything . . .

Callie slumped over the bar. ‘Another. Make it a double,’ she called, but the barman ignored her.

‘I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?’ said a waitress. ‘Better get you a taxi home.’

‘There’ll never be enough of these to blot out what I’ve just done,’ she snapped. ‘A double!’

‘Come on, love. “Home, James”,’ the barman said. ‘She’s a resident. See her up the stairs, will you?’

Callie was led into her bedroom and flopped on the bed. ‘Where’s home? Where do I go from here?’ she cried into the silence of the night.

Mima was rehanging the Nursery curtains when the letter arrived. They’d had the room redecorated in blue striped wallpaper and bought curtains with ships on them for the
windows. All the baby toys were put away and there was a school desk and a bookshelf full of old books. Everything was ready for Desmond’s return. Phoebe brought the letter up the stairs to
share the news with Mima, but the stamp puzzled her. They must have stopped off somewhere exotic. She sat down to glance through it, but couldn’t see much without her spectacles.

‘Read it to me, please,’ she asked her housekeeper.

‘Ought I to read on, Miss Faye? It’s awful private . . .’

‘Read on . . .’ she ordered.

‘Oh dearie me.’ Mima handed Phoebe back the letter.

She clutched it to her heart. ‘My poor, poor child,’ she cried out. ‘What’ll become of you now?’ Phoebe felt the brittle words searing into her, all those unspoken
accusations. She heard the sadness and despair behind them as she collapsed onto the bed, knowing she’d never see her daughter again in this life.

‘Miss Faye, are you all right?’

Phoebe didn’t move, she could hardly breathe as the icy chill of realization stabbed like a dagger into her chest. ‘Caroline . . . I’m sorry.’

They were the last words she could mouth before the darkness overtook her.

I know where I’m going

And I know who’s going with me

You’re the one I love

But the dear knows who I’ll marry . . .

There was something magical about a Sunday morning in London, thought Melissa Boyd as she kicked the crinkly leaves along the quiet streets on her way to Bloomsbury. She could
hear church bells in the damp air, the traffic was light and people were sitting relaxed outside the cafés, their heads in Sunday papers. ‘Easy Like Sunday Morning’ was the song
playing in her head. As she sprang down the gracious streets she was getting to know so well, her heart lifted. That first wave of homesickness for Adelaide was passing.

How could it not when she was settled as a post-grad student into the busy routine of the Royal Academy of Music, a conservatoire steeped in musical history? There was no time to mope around
with such an intense repertoire to learn, classes not only in voice performance but in stage movement, Italian pronunciation . . . She was learning to get around the city on buses and the tube, and
attending the social events in college organized for international students. What a melting pot of talented artists she was working beside.

Melissa was flung into the deep end when a student didn’t show for their first Master Class with a visiting professor, who asked her to sing instead. No chance to chicken out. This was
what performance was all about, forgetting the nerves that would cripple her breathing and phrasing in front of the audience, and learning from one of the greatest sopranos in the world as she
gently offered criticism and encouragement. There was so much to learn.

The flat she was renting was close to Marylebone High Street, not far from the college and Regent’s Park. Walking in the autumn mornings reminded her of all the parks around her home city.
If only her parents could know how thrilled she was to be here in a city that never slept. There was only Patty, her best friend in Australia, to email now and she promised to come and visit
her.

Her father, Lew’s, strange letter was not forgotten, nor his request to find out more about his early years, but life was so busy this first term that it had gone on the back burner. Now,
clutching the postcard, she was on her first foray into the world of postcard collecting at a hotel in Bloomsbury where, she’d been told, regular fairs were held for enthusiasts. This would
be her starting point, if she ever reached there. Everything in London was further than it looked on her street guide but on such a lovely morning she didn’t care.

She wasn’t expecting such a crush of stalls and browsers in the exhibition room, many selling only one thing: postcards. After her brisk walk, she was sweltering in the crush as she began
to look around for some likely sources of information.

There was every sort of postcard known to man: saucy seaside ones, pictures of old streets and ships in harbours, foreign cities, wartime pictures, hand-tinted shots, embroidered souvenirs and
mourning cards, Royalty and ships; all the weird and the wonderful, neatly stacked in boxes, priced and labelled. But where to start? There must be a theatrical specialist somewhere but in the
hubbub it was difficult to seek out the right stalls. Soon she was standing in a daze.

‘Can I help?’ asked one stallholder. She was sitting knitting and eyeing the punters between rows.

‘I just want some information about this,’ Melissa replied, showing her the picture.

‘Ah, you need Mark over there. He does films and early theatricals.’ She pointed to a man in shirtsleeves, who was sorting out his stock. ‘Come with me.’ Melissa was
swept along to be introduced.

‘Mark, this young lady needs rescuing,’ the friendly woman laughed. ‘I don’t think she’s seen anything like this before, not where she’s from . . . New
Zealand?’

‘Australia,’ Melissa corrected, smiling. Brits never knew the difference. ‘Thanks, but I’m not looking to buy. I’m just a poor student. I wanted someone to take a
look at this postcard to point me in the right direction.’ She passed it over to the tall young man, who examined the front and back.

‘Early twentieth century, she’s one of the Gaiety Girls. From the look of her signature . . . Phoebe Faye? Not top of the premier league but definitely a beauty in her day.’ He
looked at Melissa and then at the photo again. ‘Any relation?’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere but I’m not here to buy. Haven’t got a clue who she is, but my father found it years ago and had a feeling it might be important. I’d
like to find out more about her.’

‘It won’t be her real name, of course. Stage names were carefully chosen. I’ve got a box of girls somewhere but I don’t think I’ve got anything else of her. They
produced hundreds of them for their fans. Not very valuable, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Melissa said. ‘I just promised I’d find out why it was sent, and this one of a ship. The name on the back isn’t even his name or at
least, it’s not the one he used. Desmond’s a bit old-fashioned now, isn’t it? It’s all a bit of a mystery, but thanks for your time.’ She turned to move
away.’

‘Wait,’ he called. ‘I know someone who knows more about that time. I’m general early theatre stuff, films of the thirties and forties. Would you like a coffee . . .?
There’s a guy you’ll never find if I don’t introduce you. I’m Mark Penrose, by the way.’

‘Melissa Boyd.’ They shook hands warmly. He had kind eyes and a strong face.

‘Just have a look in that box under the counter, while I ask Ben to mind my stall. There might be something else. I forget what I have.’

‘Is this your job?’ Melissa was curious.

‘Good Lord, no! It’s my hobby, or rather my obsession, ever since I was given Great-gran’s postcard scrapbook. I’m a lawyer, for my sins, and you?’

‘Post-grad student over here on a scholarship from Adelaide, studying at the RAM.’

‘Wow, a musician. You must be good. What instrument?’

‘Voice . . . singing.’ She found herself blushing at his interest.

‘Opera?’

Melissa nodded. ‘You like Opera?’

‘What’s there not to like . . .
Tosca
is my favourite. So why aren’t you rehearsing your arias instead of trailing round this madhouse?’

‘I’m on a mission for my late father. I promised him to find out who he is . . . was. This postcard is part of a box of clues. I have a gut feeling it’s important. I have to
find her.’

‘Ben, mind my stall . . . I need to take my friend to Humph . . . fifteen mins?’ Mark shouted to the man next to him. ‘Oh, and watch the guy in the blue anorak . . . blink and
he pockets stuff.’

Mark edged her through the crowds to the furthest corner of the room where a stall was covered in theatre programmes, posters, postcards and autographs. A couple sat behind it. ‘Humph,
this is Melissa. Do you know anything about Phoebe Faye, a Gaiety Girl?’