The Postcard (43 page)

It wasn’t enough just to know the bare facts. If a job was worth doing and all that . . . No use leaving all these puzzles hanging in the air, she sighed.

It was almost dark when she stood at the gates of Dalradnor Lodge, peering up the driveway to the tall house with the stepped roof. She could hear children shouting as they played out in the
twilight and then a voice calling them inside for the night. If this was Caroline’s rightful house why had she never returned? Oh, hell! This whirlwind visit was not the end of her quest but,
as Churchill had once said, ‘the end of the beginning’. To answer all these puzzles, she’d have to find Caroline, if she was still alive.

1966

Callie woke up on the bench of a deserted station, not knowing where she was or how she found herself here. She recalled being in London, but where was Dolly? Then she
remembered her dog was at Sunset Camp, and safe. She was stiff from sleeping rough, her tongue was furred and her hands were twitching. She could smell the spirits on her lips but the rest was a
blur. She felt sick and shaky, unable to focus, her body weak as if she had been crushed. Her skirt was soiled and wet. What had she done now? How could she be in this state and not remember?

There’d been crowds and the traffic and a fear of suffocating . . . Yes, the mist was clearing . . . She’d needed a drink to steady her nerves. The last thing she could remember was
sitting in a bar.

Looking around, Callie was flooded with fear, seeing this wasn’t anywhere she recognized, but at least her handbag was in her lap. Did she ever get to the Ministry? She recalled the tall
white stone buildings towering over her as she stumbled off the bus and up the steps to the foyer. There was a man in uniform who had asked with whom she had an appointment but she’d brushed
past him.

‘Take me to the bloody traitor who betrayed us . . .’ She could hear the echo of her shoes on the stone steps, the hush of officials around her as she was shouting. This must be a
bad dream, surely? It was terrifying not to recall another thing. She felt groggy and faint as she rose up gingerly.

‘Ah, there you are.’ A woman in a tweed suit marched down the platform. ‘You’re awake and ready to come now?’

Who was this figure looming over her? What had she done? Was she safe?

‘Who the hell are you?’ Callie demanded.

‘Oh, don’t start that again. You know who I am, Charlotte,’ came the brusque reply.

Why was she calling her Charlotte? ‘I’m not Charlotte.’

‘You are as far as I’m concerned, and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ll get some tea down you and out of those disgusting clothes. You look
ridiculous.’

Am I dreaming? Callie thought again, staring up at the woman, a little older than herself, in a trilby hat with a feather perched at the side. There was something familiar about her, though, but
she was too befuddled to know where they’d met before.

‘Where are we? I don’t remember.’

‘Little Brierley Halt, our nearest station. We’ve come off the milk train. Thought you’d better sleep it off before I take you to see the girls. My goodness, Charlotte, you
know how to wreck yourself,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Madge Cottesloe, but you’d know me as “Marcelle”, for my sins.’

‘Marcelle . . . Charlotte . . . Beaulieu Abbey all those years ago. Was this the large army officer who got herself stuck on the net ropes at Arisaig on the survival course?

‘Arisaig?’

‘Exactly, hole in one . . . You went on to glory and I failed spectacularly . . . They put me out to grass until the war ended. I gather you got the worst of it.’

Callie suddenly felt sheepish and embarrassed about what was coming next.

‘You came to HQ, shall we say a little worse for wear. I was told to make sure you survived the traffic. Had a rough ride, I gather. Still, that’s all in the past. Thought I’d
better find you a billet, judging by the state of you. You’re finding civvy street not to your liking? Have you been living rough?’

‘Where are you taking me? Am I being kidnapped?’ Callie said as she was bundled into an ancient Morris estate wagon.

‘Just depends how you look at things. Got to get that poison out of your system and get you
compos mentis
. You can take it from there. It’s up to you.’

Callie sat in silence, staring out with half-shut eyes. She was in no state to jump out of the vehicle and the mad woman next to her was ex-SOE so she knew all the tricks. May as well sit back
and be resigned to whatever fate had in store.

Madge lived with her companion, Alfie, in a tumbled-down manor house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields, sheds and stables. Alfreda was an ex-army nurse who took
one look at the state of the new arrival and bundled her into the bathroom, such as it was, to wash and change into clean clothes: dungarees and a work shirt. They ate a hearty breakfast, which
Callie tried to face but managed only toast.

‘Now come and meet the girls . . .’ Madge ordered, and escorted her out into a field where two ponies and a donkey rushed over to greet them. ‘Meet Poll, Nina and little
Bella.’

Callie was confused. ‘Is this a riding school?’

‘Hardly. This is a retirement home for old ladies and gents who’ve fallen on hard times.’ Madge paused, giving her a look. ‘A bit like yourself, I reckon. You look as if
you need a bit of R and R. An extra pair of hands is all I ask. Alfie’s recovering from a big op and can’t do heavy work. You can earn your keep but first things first. Do I call you
Charlotte?’

‘That was my codename. I’m Caroline, Callie. I’d not had a drink for months until I got off that train and went into the city. Sorry, it’s all just a blank.’

‘Well, there’s no booze here. Can’t afford it. Everything goes on the horses. You’ll have to go cold turkey, I’m afraid. You’re as brown as a berry. Doing
outside work, by the look of those hands?’

‘Just fruit picking, bar work. I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘Good, because the state some of our guests arrive in you’ll need all your wits and strength to deal with them. You have worked with horses?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘Thought you might, but you never forget routines: mucking out, grooming exercising, the usual stuff. Welcome to Animal Comfort Farm,’ Madge laughed. ‘You just take one day at
a time and you’ll be fine. You’ve faced much worse.’

‘Dolly might like it here . . .’

‘Dolly?’

‘My dog.’

‘Sorry, no dogs here, not yet. Some of our guests get spooked by them when they arrive. Where’s she now?’

‘Safe where I left her, in a camp with friends. I’m not about to uproot her.’ Callie looked around, uncertain. ‘Is there a lot to learn? I’m not a nurse.’
What was she letting herself in for here?

‘All my girls and boys need is routine care, rest and respect for what they’ve been through. Our trust has to be earned.’

‘I’m sorry if I made an utter fool of myself,’ Callie sighed. ‘I have no idea what I said.’

‘You made your point most eloquently, and with great effect, that the experience of war never ends for some people. You stood at the foot of the stairs yelling for all to hear. “Will
some bastard tell me who betrayed my
réseau?
Who was it took down false messages and passed them on as true? Did no one suspect . . .?” They ushered you into a room pretty
damn quick after that, but you were on your moral high horse by then. They nearly arrested you.

‘ “How come when I returned, no one would speak the truth? No one wanted to know about what we’d been through. They took statements but no one asked how it felt to find you had
lost your child, your future, your lover. We were left to rot in silence, keeled over like wrecks on the shoreline. How can you compensate us for nightmares and the hidden scars?” Your
eloquence was impressive and shook some of those desk johnnies out of their complacency.’

‘Oh, dear, that bad, was it?’

‘Not at all. Very impressive and to the point. We all sensed you needed help and I just happened to be around. Don’t worry, our guests here don’t know your CV. Just let them
teach you what you need to know.’

Later on that first evening, as she sat by the range with Alfie and Madge sipping cocoa, Callie knew it was a bit of a rum set-up, living with a lesbian couple amongst fields full of rescued
horses, but for the first time in months she felt safe. This was a second chance to turn things around once and for all, but it was going to be hard. There was no Dolly to keep her on the straight
and narrow, just her own determination to find some purpose and meaning for herself, and a good Samaritan who knew just what she’d been through.

Callie couldn’t believe the state of the little donkey they called Jumpy when she came out of the horse box. Her coat was matted, hoofs curled up through lack of cutting.
She’d been left in a shed knee high in her own waste, scraping wood to stave off hunger. Madge had a phone call from a vet to come and see for herself. The owners had left her behind to die.
Madge and Alfie saw to the worst of it, while Callie looked on with a heavy heart. She prepared a stall with fresh straw bedding, water and a horsey companion nearby, ready to nudge her back to
life. The donkey cringed when she touched her, as if expecting to be beaten. She eyed Callie with suspicion, so Alfie taught her how to approach sideways on, speak calmly and not stare. ‘Talk
to her like a child, in a soothing voice.’

Over the weeks, with her hoofs cut, her fur brushed and a good diet, she was healing physically, but mentally Jumpy was scarred, kicking out and running away. Callie rose to the challenge of
winning her trust.

The old pony, Poll, assigned as her companion, began to approach her in the field, sensing her turmoil and, being rebuffed, just sauntered away. Then Jumpy began to tolerate Poll’s
presence and allowed her closer and closer until she followed her from a distance. Then there was that wonderful morning when Callie saw her trotting behind her new friend. When she shook the
bucket Jumpy came to meet her at the field gate. Callie cried as she allowed her to stroke away her fear and on the momentous day when Jumpy nuzzled her with affection. It had taken months but was
worth all the effort.

Jumpy was so like her own self, Callie smiled, suspicious, distant, not trusting, and yet together they’d made this mutual victory. It was only then that Callie realized she’d found
something worthwhile in her life, that she was no longer a drunken dropout but a useful human being, worthy of respect from her charges.

There were heavy bills to keep the horses and the shelter safe, and she knew she’d have to use her pension and any compensation to help out. They needed to raise more funds and get
donations and sponsors or there would soon be nothing left in the kitty.

It was at one of their fundraising open days that she was introduced to the vet, Tom Renard, newly retired but willing to look over their stable of patients for a nominal charge. He’d
moved into the area after his wife’s death and seemed keen to be involved.

‘You’re doing a grand job here,’ he said, shaking Callie’s hand, and she noticed how his arms were piebald, tan and white, mottled as if the sun had missed bits of his
skin.

He smiled at her curiosity. ‘Just a little gift from the Far East,’ he said. ‘I was a guest of the Japs at Changi.’ He didn’t need to say any more. The Japanese
prisoner of war camps were notorious. Callie felt here was someone who had lost his freedom but had come through unscathed, and she relaxed, showing him around their buildings.

It was Alfie, always so full of practical ideas, who suggested he came on to their committee. He offered to give talks around the county on their behalf to some of the local business groups and
societies to raise funds for the sanctuary. Alfie was relieved because this had been her role for years, but since her operation she wasn’t up to travelling all over Herefordshire.

‘Callie can go with you, if you like,’ she suggested. ‘Madge is too busy.’

The thought of talking to a roomful of people was too scary for Callie to contemplate without a large gin in her hand, but that was no longer an option. Tom could stand up and spout without
notes, but she needed to write down a speech and rehearse it in front of the mirror. Soon, however, she relaxed and developed a warm and friendly style that charmed her audience. She’d
parachuted into Belgium and faced the Nazis – what was there to fear in a roomful of well-heeled businessmen?

One evening, Tom was due to address a ladies’ circle, part of the Round Table, but he lost his voice so Callie had to stand up and deliver on her own. She didn’t hesitate. Her
audience were spellbound by her heartfelt account of little Jumpy’s recovery and the need for finance to save more neglected donkeys like her, and the applause was enthusiastic.

‘That was bloody good,’ Tom said, clapping warmly as Callie descended from the church hall platform. ‘You should get that in print. Send it to a magazine with some pictures. It
could do no harm.’

Madge and Alfie were keen on this new idea. ‘Just get on with it,’ said Madge. ‘It’s not about you, it’s about Jumpy and Poll and all the others.’

Encouraged by their response, Callie reworked her talk and sent it to the
Lady
magazine. To her amazement it was accepted. The magazine sent a photographer to take photos of the
founders and their girls to illustrate Callie’s article. Madge and Alfie were game for anything that raised the money they so badly needed and they suggested locations and posed for endless
photographs with their rescued animals.

The magazine was due to be published in two months’ time, and Callie realized she needed a pen name with which to enter her new literary life: no more Callie Jones or Boardman. She
deliberated for a whole morning, while grooming Nina and Jumpy and mucking out an entire row of loose boxes. Of course . . . Using her two first names she became Caroline Rosslyn, which she felt
struck just the right note.

Caroline Rosslyn was free to say what her old self could not, and Callie soon found plenty she wanted to say.

With Tom’s help she began to expand her subject. Soon she was writing articles about how living with rescued animals helped her deal with her own turbulent wartime experiences.