The Postcard (40 page)

Callie remembered the ploughed field in France she’d visited all those years ago with Phee, the empty field with the obelisk. If only she’d known all this then, but at least she knew
how brave Arthur had been, and how respected. She was glad he didn’t know what a mess her generation had made of the world; that his sacrifice had been short-lived and that she had had to
sacrifice her own lover to the dogs of war.

This, however, would have been no comfort to her aunt as she prepared to give birth alone.

Oh, Ferrand, I never knew where you were buried. I have no letters to pass on to your son, just the medal
.

Phoebe had clung to these letters all her life and now they were hers and she’d nearly thrown them overboard. How can you throw love overboard? The last letter was in her father’s
handwriting. She could hardly bear to look, but knew she must. It was all she had left of him now.

How I wish I could have known this man. Callie wept. How his words pierce me with shame. My mother did her best to protect me the only way she knew and I fought her for the rest of her life.
There was a gulf between us, an ocean of misunderstanding, missed opportunities and now it’s too late. What a fool I was. Why can’t I get anything right? No wonder I am alone. How
disappointed Arthur would be if he knew how I’d turned out.

Callie picked up the letters and fled to her cabin to drown her sorrows and sleep.

As the ship eased into Southampton Water, everyone came up on deck to savour the chill of the English morning. There were hoots and horns as if they were all heroes back from
the wars, not exiles who’d suffered a humiliating defeat. The bombardment and assaults on Port Said were over before they got started – the Americans and Russians had seen to that
– so why all the Dunkirk spirit? Callie’s clothes were unsuitable, the silk and cotton suit no match for the wind and rain, marking her as an outsider, but somewhere on the dockside
Primrose was waiting to gather her into the fold and she must show her gratitude.

She waved goodbye to Monica, knowing she’d never see her again. Callie had tried to make amends buying her dinner and trying to explain her crass behaviour over the past years. She’d
let Monica down, as she let everyone down, but she thanked her friend for finding her a berth and sticking with her moods. Monica was polite but distant. They made no arrangements to meet.

To Callie’s relief, though, Prim was there waiting to greet her, plump as a capon, with her glorious mane faded into pepper-and-salt fuzz under a thick felt hat. They hugged and she felt
her hands feeling her bones.

‘You need fattening up. What a time you’ve had of it, all those troops and bombs. It’s lovely to see you again. Callie. It’s been far too long.’

I need a drink, thought Callie, hoping she didn’t reek too much. ‘Thanks for the offer of a bed but I must find a hotel.’

‘Nonsense, you are coming to us . . .’ Prim was clucking. ‘You must meet your namesake, Elizabeth Caroline – but she only answers to Libby – and Peter. He’s
nearly four now. They’re dying to meet you.’

The last thing Callie needed was children in the house to remind her of the child who was lost to her now.

‘I’m not sure . . . I’m not very good company and children don’t seem to take to me.’

Prim looked at her. ‘Sorry. I know it must be hard going all that way, but Libby is dying to meet you and we’ve got so much to catch up on. I did keep in touch with your mother and
we went to her funeral. All the old Gaiety chorus girls of yesteryear turned up in their furs and glitz. I think Dalradnor had never seen the like. It was a shame you . . . Never mind, you can see
where she’d buried for yourself.’

Oh, Prim, you know how to rub it in. I’ve hardly stepped foot in the country and you remind me of my failings already, Callie sighed, but said nothing as she climbed into Prim’s
saloon car for the drive to London. Suddenly she was feeling this was going to be a visit to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Prim and Ralph lived on the outskirts of the city, in a mock-Tudor detached house with a large garden in a tree-lined avenue not far from the station. Prim had a daily and a gardener, and spent
her time volunteering in the Girl Guides, the WVS, the church. Callie tried to be impressed with their sparkling home and new gadgets but Prim’s life was so far removed from Callie’s
experience. The children were pretty and polite, but Peter unnerved her, being around the age Desmond had been when she last had him to herself. He was inquisitive and lively. It was a good job she
had a supply in her suitcases or she’d have gone mad and let the side down. It was terrible to realize she and Prim had outgrown their childhood friendship. Prim was everything she was not:
reliable, satisfied with her lot, a bit smug. Ralph was kind and kept out of the way. Callie was bored and tried to make excuses to move on.

‘But it’s nearly Christmas. You must spend it with us. Give yourself time to acclimatize before you head up to Scotland,’ Prim argued one breakfast time.

‘Why should I go there?’

‘Dalradnor Lodge is your home.’

‘Not any more. I told them to rent it out. I couldn’t stand the snow up there after Egypt.’

‘But you were always so happy there. It seems a pity . . .’ Prim realized she’d said too much.

‘I don’t recall being happy on my last visit, or have you forgotten?’

‘That was a terrible mix-up, Phoebe was distraught. She never recovered from the shock. Have you heard from Desmond?’

It was the first time his name had been mentioned. Callie tensed. What could she say?

‘Yes, he’s fine,’ she lied. ‘Doing well at school and the Australian air is so bracing for children. They go barefoot . . . His letters are full of sport.’ How did
she make this up? But cover stories in the SOE were her forte, after all. She hoped what she said was really true for him.

‘Are you busy today?’ Prim blurted. ‘Only, I have to do the flowers in church this afternoon. Would you take Peter to the park and collect Libby from school at four? Take him
to play on the swings.’

Callie nodded. It was the least she could do and it would give her a chance to call in for a top-up bottle in the licensed grocer, buy flowers as a thank you, and some cigarettes. Then she must
make an exit, find an excuse to leave their cosy coterie.

The December sun was weak but the sky was bright. She was wrapped in one of Prim’s tweed jackets. Peter skipped along the path, racing for the slide and turntable. She tried to pretend she
was just another mother out with her little boy but with his red hair and freckles he was a miniature of Primrose.

It was good to smell the crisp air after the dust and heat of the desert, but she was thirsty and there was still a whole hour before school came out. Then she spotted a smart hotel at the busy
crossroads, with a tea room attached. They could go in out of the chill and have toasted tea cakes and she’d order a snifter to see her through until home time. To be sure of service she went
into the residents’ lounge.

‘I don’t suppose I could have a proper beverage?’ she asked the waitress.

‘It’s out of hours but I can ask the manager,’ came the reply.

‘Be a sweetie. I’m just off the boat from Suez and it’s a shock to my bones . . .’

‘Oh, how awful. I’ll see what I can do, madam.’ The other residents smiled at Peter, expressed sympathy about her plight and wanted to know her story. She told them about
Nasser and the Arab protest. Somehow the drinks just flowed after that.

Peter tugged at her sleeve, wanting the lavatory. The waitress took him and it was then that Callie looked at her watch. Heavens, it was half-past five and dark outside. She’d forgotten
about Libby! Callie jumped up but the room was spinning. She must pay the bill and find a taxi. She was in no state to walk home. Peter held her hand to guide her down the steps as if she was
blind.

A taxi was summoned but she was so confused she couldn’t recall the address.

‘I live in the house with the green door in Portland Avenue,’ Peter told the driver.

When they arrived there was a police car waiting in the drive and Prim flew out, gathering up Peter in her arms. ‘Where the hell have you been with my child?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry isn’t the half of it. You left Libby at the school gate in tears, and now this. Where did you take him?’ She smelled Callie’s breath with a look of disgust.
‘You’re drunk.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You take my little boy into a pub and drink yourself silly, forget the time. How could you do this to me?’

‘I’m so sorry. I was talking . . . It wasn’t a pub . . . It won’t ever happen again.’

‘You bet it won’t. I can’t have you in this house, putting my children at risk. How could you stoop so low? What’s got into you? Don’t think we haven’t
noticed you’re never sober . . . always sneaking upstairs to top up. Pull yourself together, Callie. No wonder the Boyds wanted Desmond to themselves, if this is what you’re capable of
Prim couldn’t have hit her any harder than with that accusation.’

‘I said I’m sorry.’ She saw Libby staring at her wide-eyed with shock.

‘Do you want to press charges, madam?’ The policeman had seen it all. ‘Being drunk in charge of a minor is an offence.’

‘No. No harm’s been done this time and there won’t be another. Just get her out of my house.’ Prim flared up again. ‘If you don’t watch it, you’ll have
no friends left. We all have to live with what the war did to our families. I lost my brother. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something useful or you’ll end up in the gutter at this
rate. I’m sorry but you have to leave. I can’t let my children be exposed to bad habits.’

Callie packed her suitcases in silence, suddenly sober, wanting to get as far away as she could from this stifling suburb and the look on Prim’s face.

The policeman dropped her off at the station and, with a look of concern, asked, ‘Have you somewhere to go now, miss?’

‘I’ll be fine, Officer,’ she replied. ‘I’ll find a hotel for the night.’

‘Watch yourself then,’ he said with a wave and drove off, leaving Callie to stand in the cold and the dark.

Libby closed the album with a sigh. ‘Mummy never talked about her again. That was the parting of their ways, I’m afraid. It was all to do with the war and something
that happened in Dalradnor, the house in Scotland where she lived with Phoebe. Mummy said it was a happy house in a beautiful setting until war came.’ She paused, rubbing her fingers over the
leather with a sigh. ‘You have to understand how that generation clammed up about their private affairs and kept their feeling bottled up. I must have witnessed that scene, but all I recall
is the reek of booze on her clothes and the policeman in uniform. When I asked later, all Mummy would say was, “The heart has its reasons.” I didn’t understand then and I
don’t now. I did hope Callie would turn up at Mummy’s funeral. It was all in the papers. I tried to spot her from memory but she wasn’t there. So I can’t help you after
that.’

‘I’m not sure I want to know any more about this Caroline woman. She sounds a nasty piece of work.’

‘Oh, no, you mustn’t say that. Mummy did say she suffered in the war in one of those concentration camps so you have to make allowances, and if she is Phoebe’s daughter, not
just her niece, you must keep searching. She might still be alive.’

‘Not if she’s an old soak. She’ll be long gone by now.’ Melissa was feeling uncomfortable around that subject.

‘But you don’t know that. Remember the saying: never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes . . .’

Melissa slammed her coffee down. ‘But I do know what it’s like to live with an alcoholic. I know what it did to my parents.’

‘It was your father’s burden too?’

Melissa nodded. ‘They told me the weakness can run in families. I try to be very careful what I drink and anyway it’s not good for the voice. I couldn’t face all that
again.’ She’d heard enough from Libby Steward and none of it very encouraging. ‘Thank you for meeting up and putting me in the picture, though.’

‘I’m not sure I’ve helped very much, but do keep in touch. We’d love to hear you sing. We often go to recitals in the Wigmore Hall when we’re in town. I’ve
had the privilege of hearing some amazing young artists make their debuts there. Perhaps one day soon it will be you.’

Melissa stood up from the table to catch the waiter’s eye.