The Postcard (47 page)

‘Did I have a visitor?’ she asked a passing orderly.

‘You did indeed, and she jolted you back into the land of the living and no mistake. You said she was your granddaughter from Australia.’

‘So I did, so I did,’ Callie replied. ‘So perhaps it’s not all over for me yet.’

Callie couldn’t believe the transformation when she returned from hospital in Vera’s car. It was as if a fairy had waved a magic wand and sparkled up her kitchen.
The Aga was lit and when she peeped in the drawing room there was a large Christmas tree with lights, and a fire in the grate.

‘Who’s done this?’ She looked at her friend in surprise.

‘Oh, it wasn’t just me. It was Melissa and some friends. She came down last weekend and did the place over, and one or two helpers gave the room a lick of paint.’

‘But I can’t repay them . . . and the oil . . .’ Callie felt weak at such kindness.

‘Don’t go worrying about that. It’s just a little thank you from the Trust to see you through the winter. You’ve never taken a penny for yourself. It’s about time
you did. And the doctor’s arranging some help. We’ve let you do far too much so it’s a back seat for you . . .’

‘I don’t understand how . . .’ Callie felt overwhelmed with the brightness of her home.

‘Melissa will explain when she comes down this weekend. She wanted to give you a chance to settle back and she’s got some ideas for raising funds. She’s going to arrange a
special recital with some of her musical friends. They’ll perform in the Abbey, what do you think of that?’

‘Where is she? She never came back to visit me.’

‘There’s a letter on the mantelpiece. I’ve persuaded her to come here over Christmas. We have to give your young Aussie a proper English Christmas.’

‘But upstairs isn’t fit—’

‘You just take a peek. Everything’s spick and span. I’m so glad to have you back here. It doesn’t feel right being empty.’ Vera smiled. ‘It’s such a
relief.’

Callie felt herself reaching for her hanky. ‘I don’t deserve all this fuss – and all this snivelling, it’s such bad form.’

‘Tears are good . . . they help us heal. But no lifting buckets for you. We’ve got a rota for feeding time.’

‘You’re such good friends . . . I don’t deserve you.’ How could she repay Vera and the village for this support? ‘What are we going to do about the
sanctuary?’

‘You can stop that right now. You’ve given heart and soul to this place over the years, now it’s time to receive for a change, so shut up and drink your tea. Just keep faith.
All will be well.’

Callie was exhausted with the return journey and now this surprise makeover of her home. She plonked herself into the old Windsor chair to survey her domain. Everything was the same but
different, shiny, tidied up. Goodness knows where she’d find anything, but it all felt fresh and welcoming, a new beginning in many ways. It didn’t solve the problem of the Trust,
however. How would they survive another winter and where would they go then?

It was then she noticed the letter waiting for her from Melissa, and she rootled for her glasses.

She picked up the old postcard of Dalradnor village, the one she’d written to her son all those years ago. How on earth had this survived? She stared at the sepia image with amazement,
memories flooding back of the excitement of crossing the world to find her son. She laid it down gently, reaching for Desmond’s letter, holding it up to the light.

‘Dear Mel . . .’ She lingered over every sentence, trying to imagine his voice ‘. . . it’s as if I am peering through a hole in a huge wall at a garden full of flowers .
. .’ His words brought tears to her eyes. Did he remember the garden at Dalradnor? Oh, why had they never met again? She clutched his words close to her chest.

The house fell silent. She was glad to be alone with her thoughts. So much had happened in the past weeks, events that were turning her life upside down.

She read her son’s last words to his daughter and felt the sadness within. He had lost all memory of her and yet the smell of roses had reminded him of something and someone. She wept,
recalling the bench in the rose garden where she’d sang the old ‘Skye Boat Song’ to him and he’d said, ‘Sing it again.’

He suffered the same weakness for drink as she did, trying to fight his demons with hard work and success, but the loss of his beloved wife, Sandra, set him back, which she understood only too
well. How alike they were. How she would’ve loved to have known him. Had he sent his daughter to find her, sent her blind into another country in the hope of making his peace with her?

If only she could turn back the clock and not have enlisted, if only she’d pursued her claim on him, if only, if only . . . Callie stared into the fire shaking her head. That was then,
this was now. Be grateful for a second chance to make amends, she sighed. Perhaps there was a purpose in this wonderful reunion. She couldn’t wait to see Melissa again.

‘What’s got into you?’ Mel was chuntering to herself in the car. ‘Ever since we left London you’ve got such a cob on you . . .’ I’m
just tired, she snapped back at herself, in no mood for argument.

‘So you’ve chucked over Mark like you chucked all the others. He lasted longer than most so what did he do wrong?’ Nothing, that’s the trouble. He kept wanting to be
involved and I just needed to do things my way. ‘Now you wish you hadn’t.’

‘Ring him,’ said her heart, ‘apologize before some other beaut grabs him.’
Oh, shut up!
she screamed in her head. Mark was free to make his own way and I’m
free to go mine.

She glanced into the back, hoping she’d not forgotten all the bumf from the lawyers. Mel had emailed Bensons with Caroline’s address. Their reply had given her food for thought but
she didn’t want to upset her grandmother just yet.

The special recital in the New Year was taking some last-minute organizing. It was going to be a gala night in the Abbey with wine and supper. A packed church would help the Trust funds along.
The artists, all friends, were coming for expenses only and she’d arranged a brilliant quartet. Angie would do flute solos and be her accompanist for her own medley of items.

Mel was still getting used to finding Caroline by chance – or had some guiding hand been there all the time? How could her grandparents, Jess and Jim, deliberately have kept Lew in the
dark about his birth mother? They’d left him to choose. No one forced him to go back with this stranger and it had broken his mother’s heart, causing a rift with Phoebe Faye that had
lasted for the rest of their lives. How sad, she thought.

Had her father known deep down what he’d done? Surely he was too young to understand such powerful feelings. She’d always felt there was a sadness at the heart of him even before he
lost Sandra. Perhaps that’s what turned him to drink, and when Mum died it was the last straw. Meanwhile, Callie kept hoping and drinking. Did he remember more than he was letting on when he
wrote that last letter? He had spoken about the lady who came to visit and never came back. Maybe he guessed who she really was.

Mel fixed her eyes on the road ahead with a sigh. She would never know. There was so much she wanted to know about Father Karel’s brother, Louis-Ferrand. She must write to Father Karel
with all her news. It felt like having a whole new family to discover, thanks to Mark’s efforts . . .

Mel found she was smiling. Perhaps it was time to concentrate less on the past and more on the future. She’d done her father’s work. Perhaps it was her turn to learn from the
mistakes of the past, but was Mark Penrose history or part of her future? Did he deserve a second chance too?

She drove in silence through the gathering gloom of December darkness with eyes glued to the signposts to Little Brierley.

It was the strangest of Christmases for Callie having a guest in the house, a guest who waited on her hand, foot and finger, bringing her tea in bed, mucking out and grooming,
taking telephone calls, shopping as if she was a helpless invalid. Callie was not used to all this attention, but when she tried to do her old chores, she was out of breath.

She loved watching Melissa bustling about her kitchen, practising her scales in the stables when the horses were out. She had high notes that could shatter glass, a gift of a voice that must
surely come from her own mother, Phoebe. How Phee would have loved to see this girl, this mirror image of herself in her prime, so like her old postcard pictures, fair and feisty, graceful and yet
boyish. Callie was dying to see her dressed up. The girls these days lived in jeans and boots.

Once, in her cups, Melissa whispered that she’d just dumped her recent beau, the one who had gone out of his way to help trace her family history and how she was having second thoughts but
was too proud to tell him so. Now who did that remind her of, Callie mused.

It was hard to believe the difference a year could make. Christmas last year was a pork chop, TV and a stroll around the fields. She’d always refused all offers of hospitality. She was
going to miss all this company when it was over. She never tired of listening to Melissa’s stories about Sandra and Lew when times were good. It cheered her heart. He had tried to be a good
father but his struggles with the demon drink got the better of him at times and brought about his final illness.

He had found love and fulfilment in his wife, but it was snatched away from him as it had been from her. It was good to know the truth, both black and white. Yet between them, Sandra and her son
had brought this golden girl into the world and brought her back to her own family.

There was the promise of the concert in the Abbey to look forward to. The acoustics there were wonderful but Callie was still worrying about the Trust’s future. The anxiety had made her
ill. She knew she was on borrowed time but determined now to make the most of what time was left, set her house in order, just as Madge had done all those years ago. How could she forget the
kindness of those two strangers in taking her in, wreck that she was, bringing her back to life as Melissa had done by appearing by her bedside only a month ago, and yet it was as if she known this
child in her heart all her life.

It was the day after Boxing Day, when she had the evening alone with Melissa by the fire, that the girl brought out a large typed email.

‘I’ve been saving up some news for you, Gran. It’s been burning a hole in my bag for days so please read it.’ She shoved the sheet into Callie’s hand and gave her
the spectacles that were stuffed down the chair.

‘You know I told you I went to the lawyer in London to find out who you were? Well, he sent me this.’

Callie read the letterhead. ‘Goodness, are they still going?’

‘Read on.’

With regards to our recent discussion about the estate of the late Phoebe Annie Boardman.

We received notification some time ago from Pettigrew and Copeland, Solicitors in Glasgow that the present tenants of Dalradnor Lodge in the county of Stirlingshire desire to purchase the
property and adjoining lands subject to current valuations, etc. if the Estate is willing to sell the aforesaid property.

Now that we have the current address of Caroline Rosslyn Jones, née Boardman, we enclose a copy of this offer for her consideration.

‘Do you realize that if you sell Dalradnor,’ Melissa added, ‘maybe then you can dispose of the assets and help secure the CottesloeTrust and make this place
more comfortable for yourself: a downstairs loo and shower . . . extra insulation, roof repairs. You could afford permanent help. What do you think?’ Melissa was excited at the thought of all
these options, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Callie felt her heart clutch her chest for a second. She breathed deeply to release the pain. ‘But Dalradnor has belonged in the family . . . It would be yours one day. I don’t need
anything at my time of life.’

‘It doesn’t belong to me. I have no connection to the place. I never even went inside it. What matters is what you want now.’ Melissa smiled, poking the fire. ‘My father
left me quite comfortable so don’t worry about me.’

It was wonderful news about the possibility of selling the Lodge, Callie thought, hard to take in, and the timing couldn’t have been better. ‘I suppose the Madge Cottesloe Sanctuary
would then have a secure future. We could take in more horses, better housing, train up local staff. I know I’m not going to be up to much.’

‘I gather that Phoebe’s estate is more than just the house. You’re going to be a wealthy woman.’ Melissa seemed excited by this but Callie just shrugged.

‘I would give it all back to make my peace with her. Money never buys us happiness, just security and comfort, but not what really matters in life. I can’t take anything more from
her.’

‘Why not? If you don’t claim her estate it could all go to the government.’

‘Don’t push me, young lady. This is too much to absorb – and now it’s about time you and I had a little chat on another matter.’ It was Callie’s turn for some
straight talking.

‘About what?’ There was a defensive look in Melissa’s eyes.

‘About a certain young man, who played a big part in your detective work. I’d very much like to meet him.’

‘There’s no point now. It’s over between us. You have to understand when you’re a musician, there’s no time for romance.’

‘Rubbish, that’s poppycock. Lots of artists have wonderful partners. Learn from my life: don’t let what really matters slip through your fingers in a search for what will come
to you anyway with luck and hard work. You’ve got a lifetime ahead for success. I guess searching for me has been distracting but I won’t be around for ever. I’d like to thank
this Mark for all he’s done to help us find each other. It sounds as if he’s in love with you or he wouldn’t put up with all your song and games for so long.’

‘Oh, don’t say that. He’s not what I planned,’ Melissa argued, refusing to catch her grandmother’s eye.