The Postcard (46 page)

‘Oh, hell! Not now, not here,’ she cried, but only the horses stirred, hearing her voice as she crawled back towards safety and the phone. It felt like a mile on the cobbles, the
longest crawl of her life.

‘You’ve done it now, old girl,’ she sighed with relief, but sank helpless onto the doormat as the next wave of pain flooded over her.

Mel left London on Friday afternoon, driving west, crawling through the weekend getaway traffic and wondering whether to turn round before she’d even begun. She had her
practice CD playing so she could rehearse and not waste the journey to Herefordshire. The forecast was chilly but bright, and she’d studied the road map to find the quickest route to Brierley
Abbey.

This was the only free weekend she had so it was now or never. Was she on a wild-goose chase or was the burning instinct that she’d found her quarry more than a coincidence of name? It was
just too strong a gut feeling to let go. She felt mean not to have rung Mark with the news but he hadn’t kept their last casual catch-up, leaving a message on her answer phone to say he was
working away. It ought not to have bothered her but she was peeved so in return she decided to withhold her own amazing news.

She thought of their holiday in Paris and Belgium, and those heady nights when they’d made love. He was quite an athlete, she sighed with a smile, but the timing was not right and she
preferred to do this last bit of the quest on her own.

Still, she must admit another driver would’ve been useful. Why did she keep cutting herself off when she really liked him? All her relationships ended like this, not trusting a guy to
follow through. Better to go it alone rather than be let down. It didn’t need a therapist to tell her this was all to do with Lew and how he’d let her mother down time after time with
his broken promises. So why was she going out of her way to follow his example? Why then had she bothered to trace his history to Scotland and Belgium, and now to the borders of Wales? Why
couldn’t he have done this himself?

Come on Dad, what’s going on here? Why am I sitting in this awful traffic in a strange country on your bloody business, not mine? This is nothing to do with me. Caroline whatever her
name now is may be part of my gene pool but that’s about as far as it goes
.

She argued with her dad mentally as the city turned into suburbs and gave way to stretches of motorway and then onto dual carriageways, then down twisting lanes and byroads. This was not the
best use of her weekend, searching out a Travelodge, then trying to sleep over some noisy TV in the next bedroom. She got her revenge next morning, rising early to practise her vocal scales in full
voice, scaring her neighbours witless before she dodged out for a quick breakfast and exit before they complained. An operatic voice had its uses.

She was glad of the layers of jumpers and scarf when she arrived in Little Brierley. It was just a hamlet: one street, a post office shop, no street names, a pub and a beautiful golden stone
church signposted as Brierley Abbey. Then she saw a notice board pointing to the Madge Cottesloe Horse Sanctuary, and began a tortuous drive up a windy lane with overhanging bare-leaved trees
reaching out to scratch the car roof with bony fingers. There was a gate to open and then a track, but she could see a horse box and a car parked in the distance.

She found she was shaking with excitement. In front of her was a beautiful golden stone house with mullion windows and a thatched roof. It looked centuries old. Mission accomplished, she sighed,
sitting back in relief to have found this remote place. Then she saw a figure coming out of a large shed-like building in jodhpurs and green wellies. She jumped out of the car with a smile. Now
I’ve got you, she thought.

‘Caroline Rosslyn, I presume . . .’ She tried to make a witty opening even though she was shaking inside as she strode forward, surprised how young the horsewoman looked for someone
over eighty.

‘Can I help you? Miss Rosslyn’s not here. I’m Vera Hayes. If it’s about a horse rehousing . . . I’m sorry we can’t take any more at the moment. We may have to
move soon.’

Mel felt flat. ‘No, no, it was Miss Rosslyn I wanted to see. I’ve come all the way from London. I’m Melissa Boyd. Where can I find her?’

‘I’m afraid you’re too late . . .’

‘Oh, no, she’s not . . . oh, damn, I was hoping to speak to her. I’m sorry.’

‘She’s in hospital, it’s serious. We found her yesterday collapsed . . . She’s been neglecting herself. Her heart is unstable so we usually exercise her guests. It was a
good job my husband and I were early for once. She’s not been up to things for quite some time. Are you wanting to do an article on the Trust?’

Mel shook her head sadly. She’d left it too late, as Mark had warned. ‘I’m sorry, of course. It’s just a bit of a shock. I was so hoping to meet her. It’s a family
matter. There’s so much I need to ask her.’

‘Then come inside, we’ll have a coffee. I brought a flask; the water’s frozen. It’s a bit of a mess inside but Callie was never one for housework.’

There was the proof she needed. Callie – that was the nickname Libby Steward had used for her.

Vera wasn’t joking. The large kitchen was a jumble of clothes, horse magazines, a clutter of packets and unwashed pots. There was a smell of hay and horse muck in the air as they sat down
gingerly. The room felt cold and damp, no place for an old lady. ‘She can’t keep doing this to herself but she’s so stubborn. What brings you out into the sticks in search of her,
then?’

Mel could see she was curious but she didn’t want to give too much away. ‘My father wanted me to look her up when I came to England. She’s not been easy trace. He knew her as
Mrs Lloyd-Jones, I think. I’ve been searching in all the wrong places.’

‘Callie is a very private person. She keeps her own counsel. Her life has been rescuing horses and donkeys. All I know is she lived with Madge Cottesloe and her partner long before we
moved here. I assumed she was single like them . . .’ Vera paused, looking round the room. ‘As I said, she never talked about her past but I’m sure she’d want to meet you,
especially since you’ve come all the way from Australia.’

‘Actually, I’ve been studying in London.’ She told Vera about the Royal Academy and her career.

‘Can you stay around? I can find out if she’s up to visitors. I’m afraid the house’s not very savoury but I’m sure she’d want to give you hospitality –
or you can stay the night with us if this is all too much.’

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here. I can help you out too. I loved riding as a kid. My mother was keen on horses.’

‘We’ll bring you some bottles of water and light a fire in the other room. The old pipes from the well supply are too near the surface and need digging up and lowering. As for the
electrics . . . It’s a lovely house for a picture postcard but not for living in the twenty-first century. I don’t know how she’s made ends meet for all these years on just her
pension, and now all the worry about the lease coming to an end. It’s been praying on her mind,’ Vera added as she took Mel upstairs, showing her a corridor of bedrooms with one
shambolic room in use, reeking neglect. But there was another room at the far end under the eaves, musty, untouched, that just needed airing with a hot-water bottle and a duster. It would do for
one night.

Together, they tidied up the kitchen and then Vera showed Mel the horses and donkeys. She nipped off home and brought back a flask of thick soup and a loaf of bread with some milk.
‘You’ll eat with us, tonight, and that’s an order. You can tell us more about your father and your musical career.’

Over dinner in their own village cottage down the Main Street, Vera gave Mel some important news.

‘I’ve rung the hospital and told a little fib. They think you are a relative over from Oz so you can visit for fifteen minutes tomorrow afternoon, all being well. Otherwise,
it’ll just me or the vicar’s wife who’ll do the honours, and I’m sure she’d much rather see you.’

‘You’re very kind to her,’ Mel said.

‘It’s no chore. Callie has such a generous heart. She’s helped so many others in her time, setting them on the right path, especially some of the young tearaways from the
towns. She has a knack of gaining their trust, giving them a second chance in life. Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?’

They talked late into the night about the Trust and its history, about Madge and Alfie the strange couple who’d founded the sanctuary, and rumours that Callie had been involved with secret
war work.

‘She never said a word about her exploits. No one could open her up about her past, but Madge once let slip that she’d been in a concentration camp. I think she’s a marvellous
woman.’

It was strange sleeping in the ancient house with floorboards that creaked when you walked, windows rattling in the wind, with only night sounds and silence instead of noisy sirens and traffic
in the streets. Melissa examined the low-beamed drawing room with its inglenook fireplace and landscape pictures on the walls. It was hard to find clues to this new Caroline. She was proving not to
be who Melissa had thought. It looked like she was a reader, judging by the paperbacks on her shelves. Her choice of music was old-fashioned: a few classics but 1940s band music mostly. There were
pictures of horses and donkeys and people Mel wouldn’t know. The mantelpiece was cluttered with dusty rosettes and certificates going back years. There was a silver-framed picture of two
women talking to a young Princess Anne. This was a room never used. Callie seemed to live only in the kitchen and the stables. That made Mel sad. Here was a woman who inspired hope in others but
gave no comfort to herself.
What would she make of my arrival tomorrow? Will she send me away or approve?
Suddenly it mattered enormously that when they met they would connect.

Lying in a hospital bed was a bore. Callie worried about her girls and whether Vera and Roger had drummed up more support to help them. It was good of them to help out but she
didn’t want to be a burden. Had the pipes burst with the frost? She felt so tired and weary with wires and drips attached to her arms, all the gadgetry bleeping and glugging as she lay trying
to take an interest in the ward full of geriatrics coughing and spluttering, This place was a long way for anyone to visit regularly, so the sooner she got home the better.

Doctors and nurses fluttered past her bed and stopped to ask impertinent questions about her bodily functions. She knew exactly why she’d collapsed. ‘I’ve been run down, not
eating enough and it was too cold in the house,’ she explained to those who would listen. What she didn’t say was that all the scrimping and saving was in a good cause and if they
thought they could dump her in some overheated glasshouse of a care home, they had another think coming. She’d rather conk out on the job than give into that sort of ending. She would never
fit in to communal living. What was needed was a little help in the house and stables, but without any income she’d just soldier on until she dropped. It wasn’t so simple now, though,
not with some solicitor breathing down her neck about selling the property.

Her eye caught a young woman hovering by the ward door and the nurse pointing in her direction. The girl with sunlit hair was tall and willowy, smiling as she held a bunch of bright orange and
pink daisies, and there was something about her stride that lifted Callie’s spirit.

‘Miss Rosslyn?’ She paused, looking down at her. ‘Would you also be known as Caroline Lloyd-Jones?’

‘Who’s asking?’ Callie replied with a flicker of excitement tinged with fear on hearing the Australian accent.

The girl searched for a free chair and sat down.

‘My name is Melissa Alexandra Boyd from Adelaide.’ She paused as if reluctant to continue. ‘My father was Lew Boyd. Desmond Louis Lionel Boyd or Lloyd-Jones, I’ve only
just found out. Am I right in thinking he was your son?’

Callie turned her head away to hide the impact of those names. ‘Is he here too?’

‘Sadly no, but in spirit perhaps. It was his last wish to find out who sent him this.’ She was holding out an old postcard, one Callie recognized so well.

‘Good God. He kept that all these years?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a long story but it’s brought me on one hell of a journey. You were hard to find.’ The girl smiled and she saw her own mother’s eyes reflected
back at her.

Callie couldn’t smile; she found she was weeping. ‘Desmond is dead?’

‘Yes, sorry.’

The girl reached out her hand and Callie grabbed it like a drowning swimmer grabs a lifebelt. ‘He remembered me then? I wrote many times but no one ever answered.’

‘I don’t know anything about all that, but he left me these bits and pieces to find you with,’ she replied, pulling out a wallet of photographs and Ferrand’s
Croix de
Guerre,
a picture of Primrose McAllister and Netta’s photo of Jessie Boyd with Desmond, one Callie had never seen before. Suddenly her bleeper was making a noise and a nurse came running
to check her over.

‘You mustn’t upset her or you’ll have to leave,’ the nurse warned.

‘No, she must stay. This is my granddaughter.’ Callie looked at Mel, hardly believing what was she was saying. ‘Are you really his daughter?’

‘Yes.’ They sat in silence, staring at each other in a moment of recognition, a moment like no other.

‘And you came all this way to find me?’

‘Only from London. I’m studying there but they think I’ve come from down under,’ she whispered. She told her how she’d recognized her name in the magazine.
‘Thank goodness Phoebe Faye gave you an unusual second name.’

‘I can’t believe this is happening. You won’t rush away, will you?’ Callie could see the nurse hovering by Melissa. ‘Let her stay. We’ve so much to talk
about.’

‘Just five more minutes . . .’

‘Tell me about your father and mother. How I’ve longed to know about my son . . .’ Callie found she was drifting off even as the girl was speaking.

When she woke again there was no girl. Callie remembered the dream, the pretty girl with the sunlit hair and jazzy pink scarf, who brought news of Desmond and gave her hope. It was a comforting
dream for a dying woman, but then she saw the bunch of gawdy daisies on her bedside shelf.