The Postcard (39 page)

A reply came winging back by return:

Melissa picked out one of her witty Jacky Fleming postcards to tell Mark of this stroke of luck. Bit by bit perhaps she was edging closer to the truth about Miss Faye and her niece, so what had
Mrs Steward got to say that was so urgent she’d needed to reply by return?

Melissa pushed her way through the Christmas shoppers and up the escalator where a woman draped in a tartan shawl was peering across at the crowd. She was about fifty, with a
shock of curly aubergine-coloured hair.

‘Mrs Steward?’ Melissa asked, walking up to her slowly.

‘Miss Boyd . . . I can’t believe this, my goodness . . . I’ve saved us a table. Melissa – what a beautiful name, and to think you came all this way to find out about
Callie . . .’

‘Not exactly. I’m here to study.’ Melissa didn’t want any misunderstanding, trying to explain as they wove their way through the crowded dining area, skirting round
shopping bags.

‘It’s such a coincidence. I gave up being secretary a few months ago but somehow your enquiry was sent to me, not the new secretary. I just had to meet you.’ She sat down with
relief, plonking her bags on the floor. ‘I always come to town for a little Christmas shopping and to see the decorations . . . sad, isn’t it? I’m Libby . . .’

‘You knew them both then?’ Melissa fished in her bag for her postcard and photo. ‘A friend of mine managed to find the badge from this picture,’ she explained, holding
out the photo for her to see. ‘I don’t know how this came to be in my father’s effects after he died, along with this postcard, but I know who Miss Faye is now and this is her
niece?’

Libby delved for her glasses and looked at the snapshot with a smile. ‘That’s my mother.’ She sighed. ‘Primrose McAllister. The two of them met on their first day at St
Maggie’s, a couple of horrors, always into scrapes. Callie was her best friend.’

‘Was? Are they both . . .?’

‘Mummy died five years ago, an amazing woman – well, those wartime women were.’ She paused. ‘As for Caroline, I don’t know. Mummy was a wireless operator at
Bletchley Park, very hush-hush, and she married Ralph, my father, after the war. Callie was a bit of a mystery.’

‘You think she could be still alive then?’ Melissa couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘It’s possible, but you’ll never find her . . . a strange woman.’

‘You met her?’ She held her breath.

‘Only once, when I was about seven, after she came back from Suez in 1956. I do recall her as tall and very blonde, her skin dark from the sun. She brought my brother a toy camel and an
Egyptian doll for me but it was Mummy she came to see. I’ve brought Mummy’s album but there’s not much to show you after then.’

They ordered lunch and chatted on about the school as they looked at the album. Libby talked about St Margaret’s and her mother’s friendship. ‘I know she was married at
sometime and lived in Cairo, but Mummy never said much. I was too little to understand then. A child sees from a child’s height but even I recognized she was very different from Mummy’s
other friends.’

‘How?’

‘My dear, she had a scent on her, cigarette smoke and a strange perfume on her breath. I was a little afraid of her as she was so tall and elegant. Mummy said she had been in the war too
but I don’t think I was very happy when she came to stay.’

‘To stay?’

‘Oh, yes, to stay . . .’

Callie hung over the rails watching the ropes loosening their hold in the Alexandria dock. It was a relief to be making this hurried exit from Egypt after the Suez Crisis
erupted and the streets were full of troops. She no longer felt safe in the city, feeling against the British was rising, and Monica Battersby made sure they got a berth back to England at the
first opportunity.

Their friendship was strained after the business with Cecil Mason, who was Monica’s new escort after Ken died. He soon became Callie’s drinking partner. He knew all the best dives by
the river, good jazz clubs and night haunts. Monica made a fuss over the noisy crowd they brought back to the bungalow until all hours. She was getting old and cranky, taking Ken’s death
badly. Cecil was her consolation until Callie caught his eye.

Monica didn’t understand why she liked his bright company, noisy bars, lots of chatter – anything to keep her from thinking how Desmond was living without her in Adelaide. The
letters she’d written got brief curt replies from Jessie and nothing from her son, not even a proper thank you for Christmas gifts. Then everything stopped and her letters were returned
unopened. They’d moved house and left her behind.

Why didn’t I insist on my rights? she punished herself over again but she feared it was all too late and too complicated. Money was getting a problem. It seemed to evaporate between the
bank and the bars. Monica seemed jealous of her dizzy social life and they hardly met socially. They were not sharing a cabin on the ship home.

Callie peered up at the blue and the heat haze, thinking she’d have to face grey clouds, chilly winters and the emptiness at Dalradnor now Phee was dead. The news arrived too late for her
to return even by plane. She had a pile of Phee’s private letters that Mima forwarded, not knowing what else to do with them. They were shoved in her hatbox along with a letter from the
estate informing her of the will and its contents, but when she looked again it had got mislaid somewhere in the rush to leave.

She wanted nothing from Phoebe, certainly no written excuses for her appalling behaviour. That part of her life was over. She needed no reminders.

As she watched the ship edging slowly out of the port she felt no remorse, no guilt or, indeed, anything much these days. Living in a cocoon of pleasant oblivion in Cairo it was easy to pretend
none of the past had happened. Now the idyll was over and she must come back to the harsh reality that she was fair, forty and over the hill.

Only gin hit the spot, took away the fear, the pain and the shame. As long as she had her supplies she could survive, gliding over the surface in an elegant haze. Desmond could be forgotten. He
wouldn’t recognize her now and that was for the best. What was done was done. And yet . . .

He was there in her dreams, running along the lochside, but then the barracks at the camp loomed up and the great roller coming ever closer to flatten her. She heard the dogs tearing human flesh
and saw the frozen corpses hanging from the gallows like blocks of ice. Only death would release her from the pain of those images and that was something she swore on Celine’s dear spirit she
would never bring about herself. Life was a precious gift for some and an agony for others. She would not take the easy way out, but slowly, slowly, she could poison herself with liquor. She would
not make old bones.

Trust Primrose to write and keep an eye on her welfare from a distance, offering her a bed until she found her feet back in London. There was still some private income and a small war pension to
keep her fuelled up. Otherwise her prospects were grim. Who would employ a broken war veteran with no qualifications but a secret capacity to hide, dissemble and kill? She was a failure in every
department. She couldn’t keep a man satisfied in bed. They took her body but never touched her mind. She had no shame because she felt nothing when they coupled, but at least having somebody
in her bed was better than the emptiness of waking up solo. She had never once been anywhere in Cairo that reminded her of Ferrand’s love.

I can’t stand much more of life. If only I could crawl into a quiet corner and find some peace. My heart is an empty sack, a dark empty space.

Midway through the voyage she pulled Phoebe’s letters out of the hat box to chuck them overboard in one last act of defiance. If she was to return back to England she wanted no reminders
of the past. She stood, arm outstretched, on the deck in the moonlight, ready to scatter them to the four winds, to leave a trail of paper floating in the foamy wake, but then she noticed the
handwriting was not her mother’s and the envelope had a military stamp. She was curious, and found a lamp and a deck chair to sit down and examine them further.

This was no everyday correspondence but letters from her own father, Arthur Seton-Ross.

Much as she hated her mother’s actions, she could not blame him for desertion. She owed it to him to at least read his thoughts. It was all she would ever have of him now.

Callie couldn’t read any more. She felt she was eavesdropping on their lovemaking, and his voice was just like Ferrand in his letters. She reached into her pocket for the next. It was in
her mother’s hand.

Callie stared at the letter and swallowed hard. She would have written such words to Ferrand herself. Here were two young people in love in a war, just as they had been. It was so sad. She
couldn’t throw their love away. Now she could not tear herself away from the letters, searching for the dates to read them in order.

Callie curled up on the deck chair, shivering, sensing what was coming next for the doomed lovers. Judging by the date, Phoebe would know she was pregnant by then, and desperate, judging by the
crumpled letter that was stamped Returned .
. .

Callie froze, feeling the pain of learning that she’d been born the wrong sex. Was that why Phee had deserted her? At least she’d had the courage to write to her lover, which was
more than she had done herself. Ferrand died not knowing he had a son to live for. How can I curse my own mother for something I didn’t even do myself? Why did we never talk of these things?
There was a small telegram tucked into the envelope, with the words: ‘DARLING GOT NEWS WILL WRITE. ALL WILL BE WELL. ARTHUR.’

At least he knew about the baby but, why didn’t he come? Gripped by her parents’ story, Callie opened the next letter.

Callie stared out, watching the blood-red sun rising up out of the sea like an omen. She could feel tears of relief swelling in her eyes that Arthur had known about her and she was wanted by
him. What a pity . . . for the first time, she could feel Phoebe’s excitement and then bitter sorrow, left alone to face the consequences of their love. Dalradnor was her refuge and he had
been right. How she’d loved raising Desmond there.

There were two more letters but she couldn’t bear to read them knowing what was coming. It was almost daylight, she was shivering and in need of a drink, but some inner strength refused to
budge her from that deck chair. There was a letter from a stranger explaining Arthur’s fate.