The Postcard (21 page)

It was the middle of the night when she arrived back exhausted. On Sunday, 3 September, Phee woke her to listen to the Prime Minister’s address to the nation. Mima, and Mr Burrell, the
gardener, stood with them, listening to his solemn words, not daring to speak until it was over.

‘Lord help all those soldiers. I’m awful glad my faither’s no’ here to see us go through all that stuff again. What did they all die for last time?’ Mima cried.

Callie was too heart-sick to do anything but sigh as she looked to Desmond in his play pen, rolling round, completely oblivious to what was happening. Here, he was safe from bombs, but if there
was an invasion, what then?

‘I shall go back to London and put my flat in good order,’ said Phee. ‘Stock up on a few bits and pieces. Desmond will need things as he grows.’

‘He’ll manage. We’ll all manage fine,’ Callie replied.

‘I think we should clear the bottom lawn for a pig pen. We’re fine for eggs, but a bit of pork will come in handy for Christmas,’ Colin Burrell suggested. ‘We can turn
over the flowerbeds and increase the winter root crops too. There’s talk of ration cards and petrol coupons so I can put the Morris in the stable.’

‘Oh, not yet, please,’ Callie cried. She loved the car she had nicknamed ‘Boris’. ‘Let’s wait and see. I suppose we ought to offer accommodation for
evacuees.’

‘Don’t be too hasty, Miss Caroline. With such a wee bairn in the house, you never know what germs strangers might bring with them,’ Mima was quick to jump in.

‘Everyone will have to do their bit, Mima. An untidy noisy house is a small sacrifice to make.’ She was feeling guilty to be living so far away from any threat of danger when Ferrand
and his family, across the Channel, feared the worst after what had happened to their country twenty years before. He was right to want to protect them as she must protect hers.

That evening she sat down and wrote a letter, pouring her heart out to him.

Callie couldn’t carry on. Tears were streaming down her face, falling and smudging the paper. It was too stark, too brutal a confession. How could he forgive her for holding out on him
like this? What would it do to him, knowing he was trapped on one side of the Channel and she on the other? Perhaps it was better to write when the situation was clearer, safer. This was not the
right time to be revealing her secret. She would wait a little longer, though she wondered how their love would survive such separation. That was the risk she must take.

She knew they would be no different from thousands of other wives and soldiers facing the same dilemma. Now it was enough to know she alone must secure the fabric and gardens of Dalradnor for
the future.

She found herself walking over the house, patting its walls with affection. This was their fortress and safe haven, a firm buttress against hardships to come. This was home, and here she must
stay.

Phoebe returned south to a very different atmosphere in the city. The streets were full of uniforms, blackout blinds and unlit streetlights plunging the roads in utter
darkness, and window panes were crisscrossed with tape.

Film work was patchy with so many actors and technicians being called up, but her agent found her a small part in a new film that told the story of what might happen if a village was invaded by
paratroopers. It was a harrowing tale, and so close to everyone’s secret fears, but with a strong cast and beautiful setting it would be very plausible.

The new Charlie Chaplin film,
The Great Dictator
, which took the rise out of Hitler, promised to be a rousing success, but the big hit was, of course,
Gone with the Wind
, with
the stellar cast of Clark Gable, Leslie Howard and Vivien Leigh. This epic tale of the deep American South, filmed in Technicolor, packed out the once-empty cinemas for three showings a day. Phoebe
saw it three times, carried away by its story, its characters and the romance of its location. She knew that, with its success, there’d be more work in costume dramas and thrillers. She
wasn’t in the full flush of youth but she could still play decent roles.

The peace of Dalradnor felt miles away and she missed the baby. The flat felt empty and quiet. Kitty was working long shifts and Billy was waiting for the theatres to re-open. London felt tense,
waiting for the war to really begin, marking time, girding its loins in defensive preparations. Phoebe didn’t hesitate to return north for Christmas and Hogmanay, cadging a lift with some of
the crew from the film studios, who were going to be making public information films and therefore had a petrol allowance.

Little Desmond was plumper, grabbing at his toys, delighted to see his granny. Primrose made a brief but welcome visit. She was working as a clerk in the Foreign Office, she told them. Her hair
was bobbed and rolled into the latest style and Caroline was cheered to see her old friend and show off her baby. She’d hit the doldrums over all her Belgium friends. Their letters were
irregular and at Christmas there was only a card from Marthe and nothing from Ferrand.

Caroline had hired a farmer’s daughter, Jessie Dixon, to be a nursemaid to Desmond. She was proving a hard-working motherly type and gave Callie freedom to get on with local war work. The
poor boy would be surrounded by devoted woman at his beck and call, if they weren’t careful, Phoebe thought.

The Women’s Voluntary Service took up some of Callie’s time. So far no one had been billeted on them, but it could be only a matter of time. There were welfare clinics, distributions
of ration cards and gas masks, all the paraphernalia of war. Caroline refused to put her baby anywhere near the horrific bell-tent gas mask intended for infants. ‘It’ll give him
nightmares, trapped in this,’ she defended her decision. ‘Boris the Morris’ was now in service as a temporary ambulance and delivery vehicle, with a small allowance of petrol, and
Callie’s ability to drive was proving invaluable.

Desmond’s first birthday seemed to come round so quickly. Phoebe managed to have Caroline’s old rocking horse repaired as his present. Caroline had loved it literally to bits. It was
a large dapple grey, too big for him just yet, but it sat in the Nursery window, ready for use.

The sight of the beautiful rocking horse took Phoebe back to her own childhood, with far more modest toys. This led once more to thoughts of her brother, Ted, and she knew it was time she
rebuilt the bridge between them. She had put it to the back of her mind for years, but with the war making everyone’s life uncertain it was silly to delay any longer. She found his address
and, giving him no warning to reject her, turned up on his doorstep, having disregarded government advice not to travel.

She was shocked to see how old he looked, and worn. It pained her to think of him and his wife stuck in the backstreets while she lived in such luxury.

He had greeted her with contempt rather than surprise. ‘So here comes the Queen of the May, slumming it.’ He eyed her, shaking his head. ‘I hope you’re proud of what you
did, sending that young kiddie to my door, making me do yer own dirty work. Joe’s daughter, indeed. You allus were one for tall tales but that takes the biscuit.’

‘Now, Ted, don’t get excited, it’s bad for your chest,’ his wife warned. ‘Do come in and sit yersel’ down. She’s yer own flesh and blood so behave!
Pleased to meet you. I’m Hilda.’

‘Yes, I know. Caroline said you were kind to them. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away so long.’

‘Sorry! You don’t know the meaning of the word, blackening Joe’s name when he can’t defend hissel’,’ Ted spluttered. ‘You were not brought up to
deceive. Our mam and dad, God rest their souls, had good hearts, but all that prancing on the stage’s turned your head, swelled it so it were too big to grace our door. You’re nothing
but a trumped-up chorus girl as got hersel’ in trouble with a soldier, or am I mistaken? Don’t you go putting on airs and graces wi’ me. I want nowt to do wi’ you.’ He
turned his face to the fire.

Phoebe bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I just want to make amends. I had to do what was best for the child and me. It was done with a good heart but secrets have a way of coming out
all wrong.’

‘You can say that again. Has she dumped you, gone off and left in a huff?’

‘No, she’s fine, with a bonny little boy . . . I know I haven’t been the best of sisters but now I’m in a position to help you both.’

‘I want nothing from you,’ Ted snapped.

‘You haven’t heard what I’m suggesting. There’s some nice cottages up Far Headingley and I could rent one of them for you, somewhere less damp and smoky in north of the
city.’

‘It’s a bit late for all that now. We can manage fine where we are,’ Ted replied.

‘So you’re too proud now to give your wife and you a chance of a better life? You’re just as bad as I am, Ted Boardman, you and your pride.’

‘Shut up bickering, the both of you,’ said Hilda. ‘Thank you for such a kind offer. I’d like that very much, and if you won’t go, I will.’ She winked at
Phoebe. ‘My washing will dry whiter up there. Now let’s just have a cup of tea and a drop scone and stop all this argy-bargy. It’s making my head ache. I want to hear all your
news about your grandson.’

With the help of Primrose’s parents in Harrogate they found just the right cottage in Far Headingley, close to a butcher’s and a grocery shop, with a cinema in walking distance and a
good bus service into town. If only she’d done this sooner, Phoebe thought, but at least they were now on speaking terms.

Being at war brought home how fragile life might be and how uncertain were all of their futures. Phoebe was fortunate in having the funds available to give her brother choices he otherwise could
never make. She was so anxious that this belated gesture would heal the past wounds of neglect. The answer came in the form of a newsy letter from Hilda, thanking Caroline for the photos of Desmond
she had sent them, and praising their new accommodation.

In the spring of 1940, everything changed, with news of the blitzkrieg invasions of Holland and Belgium. Then the retreat from Dunkirk catapulted the country into a bleak summer prospect of
invasion. Yet London continued about its business throughout the summer, and people took comfort in dance halls and the picture houses until the bombs came raining down on them each night.

Phoebe, back at her flat and working on a film, got used to droning aircraft overhead, sirens wailing, the ack-ack guns blasting from the parks and the searchlights arched over the night sky,
but the lack of sleep was another matter. She found it impossible to doze off in those crowded brick shelters. The earth shuddered with bomb blasts and the screaming whines of approaching planes
dropping incendiaries, and trying to be British and not panic took all of her fortitude. When she heard the all clear she staggered out into the night to the stench of cordite, leaking gas pipes,
the ring of ambulance bells and fire engines, and her heart went out to all those trapped in the blazing infernos that lit up the sky with a sickly orange glow.

After each raid there were terrible sights along the streets, and the foggy September mornings were thick with smoke and the sickly smell of death. Phoebe was lucky as her flat escaped damage
but one afternoon, Billy came to the door in tears, bringing the awful news that Kitty’s hospital had taken a direct hit as she was ushering patients to safety. There wouldn’t even be a
body left to mourn.

Phoebe went cold with shock, unable to cry or feel anything at first. Her two best friends were gone. Something died within her that afternoon.

Kitty had always been there to support her, strong when she’d been weak. Her good judgement had saved Phoebe on many occasions. Who could she turn to now to give her guidance? When Billy
had gone home, still crying, she sat on in her silent room, utterly stunned by the loss. What was the purpose in living amongst all this destruction? Hadn’t she seen enough? Was this what
being human was all about – the death of people she loved? The anger flared up, burning inside her at such helplessness. She suddenly felt old and utterly alone.

A week after the funeral service for Kitty and her nurses, the raids began again. The bombs dropped even closer to Oxford Street and the surrounding areas. In the air-raid shelter, no one could
sleep, and Phoebe sat clutching her handbag and rug, listening to ear-splitting explosions while an elderly neighbour played on his harmonica the old war tunes she’d sung so many times.

When at last the all clear sounded and they walked out in first light, the whole landscape had changed and she knew it was bad news. Her mansion block had taken a direct hit. Where the
four-storeys of apartments rose up, there was just a yawning gap of burning metal, charred furniture, smoking rubble and all the bits of people’s homes mangled into strange sculptures.

‘Back, back! Gas!’ yelled the wardens as the street was cordoned off.

There was nothing worth salvaging. Thank God Caroline had insisted she take her photo albums, scrapbooks and the precious document box containing Arthur’s letters up to Scotland, just in
case. Now she was homeless, with only the clothes on her back and her handbag full of papers. She couldn’t cry; it was only stuff. She’d lost a friend far more precious in this terrible
month.

‘Come along, dearie, to the hall for a cuppa,’ said a woman in uniform. ‘That’s it, you’ve had a shock.’ She wrapped a blanket round Phoebe’s shoulders
and shoved a cup of sweet tea into her hand. Phoebe moved in a daze from queue to queue, registering herself.