The Postcard (3 page)

Callie snuggled down under the covers with not an ounce of sleep in her. The last time she’d seen Aunt Phee was at Easter egg time and she’d brought her friend Aunt Kitty to stay.
She was a nurse in a big hospital and quite strict. Marthe was so excited when she visited. It was Aunt Kitty’s father, the Reverend Mr Farrell, who’d rescued her family and given them
a home in the war. She would bring news of Marthe’s family. Marthe’s sisters and parents were back in Belgium in a town called Bruges, where they were teachers, but one of her brothers
had gone to Canada. Callie couldn’t bear to think that one day Marthe might leave and join them, especially not just before her birthday . . . Would that old man in the hall really bring her
a present too? She reached out for her little toy cat, Smoky, shut her eyes tight and hummed her favourite Belgian lullaby: ‘
Slaap, kindje, slaap. Daar buiten loopt een schaap .
.
.’

Phoebe Faye stared out of the carriage window as the view changed from the tunnels and smoke-filled dark recesses of Buchanan Station, to sandstone tenements and the great
shipyard cranes of the Clyde, onwards north to the leafy suburban gardens of Bearsden and Milngavie, then out onto the moors and the rise of the Campsie fells. She never tired of the last part of
her journey, knowing Nan, Effie and Marthe would have a warm welcome for her. Tam would be waiting at the station and she had a surprise for him. She’d ordered a new automobile from a garage
in Glasgow to be delivered tomorrow, one that he could soon learn to drive and would store in the stables.

Leaving London, with all its glamour and busyness, was never easy, but now there was a telephone at Dalradnor Lodge she could be in touch for any new auditions. The Season was always quiet with
everyone out of town for the shooting and school holidays, but the Scottish school year had different terms from the English, with breaks in September, so she would make the most of her visit and
relieve the household of their duties towards Caroline. Picnics, outings, treats – she would spoil her for a few days. It was her birthday, after all. It was months since Phoebe’s
Easter visit and she wondered if the child had grown and if the clothes she’d bought her would fit. She’d meant to come earlier but the play had had a decent run for once, then
she’d stayed to audition for a new film, though that had come to nothing.

Watching through the train window as the hills became steeper and the landscape more rugged, Phoebe felt the return of the excitement, anxiety and not a little guilt that always tinged her
coming back to Dalradnor. She recalled that very first visit, when she was still reeling from Arthur’s death and the reading of the will that had left her this house. The long journey north
with Marthe and the baby had felt like an exile. Yet when she opened the large wrought-iron gates and saw the fine house in the starlight she just knew she’d found a refuge. The lamps were
lit and the door flung open.

The housekeeper gathered them in with surprise. ‘We were awful scunnered to hear of the master’s death. So who do we have here?’ She peered at the baby swaddled in thick
blankets, her face peeping out from the covers. ‘I wasnae prepared for a bairn.’

Then came the big lie. ‘This is my niece, Caroline. Her parents are dead in an accident. I am her sole relative now. And this is her nursemaid,’ she added, pointing to Marthe.

Now she had been living this lie for years but it still didn’t sit easy. What the child didn’t know wouldn’t harm her. Better this than to be labelled a bastard. The deception
had given Phoebe the chance to continue her war work. It was a drastic solution but what else could she do to protect them both?

This was Caroline’s home and the decision to leave the girl here with Marthe had not been straightforward or easy to make, but it did have much to recommend it. The house stood in open
grounds with magnificent views. The village was only half a mile down the road. They had a tennis court and a paradise of grounds for a child to roam in safety. There was clean fresh air.

The first year she had stayed here to recover from her fiancé, Arthur’s, death felt like a far-off dream now. Away from prying eyes she’d grown to love the staff, the village
folk who admired the Seton-Ross clan and had been so kind when they learned she was Arthur’s fiancée, receiving a telegram of his death only days before their wedding.

Then the pull of the greasepaint and limelight began to draw the former Gaiety Girl back south. It began when she made guest appearances at Erskine House, the magnificent mansion turned into a
hospital by the River Clyde, a specialist centre for limbless soldiers and sailors. She’d started to entertain the boys in the Great Hall with songs from the shows, taken tea with them on the
terrace, watching the great ships slowly gliding out into the estuary. Sometimes she’d taken Caroline to cheer them up until the child became frightened of the disfigured men. Then the call
came back to rejoin the YMCA Concert Party tours, and Phoebe knew her duty was to them, not to sit idly in a houseful of women. It was hard to let go but when Caroline hardly noticed her absences,
attached as she was to Marthe, she knew she’d done the right thing.

It was only when Kitty had arrived home from Salonika, sick with dysentery, and Phoebe had brought her up to Dalradnor to recuperate that she’d got the hard word from her best friend.

‘What on God’s earth are you thinking of, leaving that child up here in the wilds?’

‘Everyone thinks that I am her aunt, not her mother,’ Phoebe confessed, and Kitty looked at her in horror. ‘It’s for the best,’ she continued, hoping she’d
understand her motives.

‘Best for whom? A lie like this is dangerous,’ snapped Kitty. ‘The trouble with you is you’ve always wanted the cake and the bun, Phoebe. She is your daughter – how
can you think of deceiving her like this?’

‘She’s too young to be told the truth. I’ll explain when she’s older. You can see how happy she is up here. It’s a beautiful place to bring up a child.’

‘You’ll both pay for this one day,’ said Kitty with a sharpness that was wounding. ‘I can see its charms, and the staff are kind and Callie is happy, but it’s all
founded on lies. Oh, do be careful. It’s not too late to rectify your mistake.’

Much as Phoebe respected her friends’ honesty, she wasn’t ready to heed their warnings. They just didn’t understand. Poor Kitty was stuck nursing ageing parents and trying to
adjust to life back in a London hospital after the freedom of the Scottish Women’s Hospitals. Maisie Gibbons, her other friend and flat-mate from those dizzy theatrical years, surprised
everyone by leaving the stage to set up a school of dancing and stagecraft in Kensington with Billy Demaine, her co-star. All of them had been there at Caroline’s birth, keeping this secret,
but none of them approved of her decision.

She hadn’t told Kitty that Billy, on hearing about Arthur’s death, had written offering to marry her himself to give the baby a name. That would have been a worse disaster than the
solution she had found. Billy was a dear friend, but as a husband he was out of the question. She knew he was being generous, but a little careful, too, for his own reputation. As a married man
he’d be safe from gossip, although all the theatre world knew of his proclivities. Their marriage would have been a farce.

Maisie adored baby Caroline. ‘You will miss all her childhood,’ she warned Phoebe. ‘If I had a little girl, I wouldn’t leave her with strangers. You are so lucky to have
her.’

Phoebe didn’t feel lucky; at times she found it a burden to be responsible for everything. She had to be father and mother to the child, making sure they received the right income from
shares and funds, running the Dalradnor household from a distance, ensuring accounts were filed and expenditures tallied, while furthering her own career to fit in with everything. As an aunt she
could dip in and out of life at Dalradnor with no awkward questions asked of her.

She did love Caroline. She couldn’t wait to see the little girl flinging herself into her arms, shouting, ‘Aunty Phee, Aunty Phee, you’ve really come!’ She would twirl
her around until they were both dizzy and collapsed on the lawn. But always at the back of her mind was the truth waiting to explode one day, and the regret that Arthur Seton-Ross never saw his
baby daughter. If she revealed the truth it would label Caroline the illegitimate girl of an unmarried mother. Women were put in lunatic asylums and the workhouse for less.

Then there was the guilt that she had never shared her secret with her own father before he died suddenly of chest complications in the Spanish flu epidemic. She had always kept her humble
beginnings in Leeds to herself. She’d used her brother Joe’s untimely accident to give Caroline some parents. Her other brother, Ted, who was married, was kept in the dark and
she’d lost contact with him years ago. There were so many secrets to hide away and she felt ashamed, but it was better this way. No one needed Society’s condemnation.

Now she had a trunk of goodies to distribute, a smart new outfit from Marthe, a tray of exotic fruits for the kitchen, and for Caroline’s birthday she planned a perfect present. As Tam
drove her slowly up the lime-tree avenue to the turning circle outside the front door, she looked up at the old Lodge, admiring its crow-stepped gables and the red sandstone dormer windows, the
French windows opening out onto the stone terrace with its steps down to the immaculate lawns and tennis court. Every time she arrived she thought of Arthur returning for his summer holidays, eager
to alight and find his horse, go fishing and picnicking by the loch. I’ve brought your baby to where you were happiest, she told him in her thoughts. I know she’ll have deep roots here.
I hope you’re proud of me in this, if nothing else. But would Arthur approve? That was something she’d never ever know. His final bequest was to give them this house, much to his
family’s horror.

‘We’ve kept the lassie up to see you,’ said Nan smiling. ‘And you had a visitor today, old Sir Lionel Seton-Ross himself. He kent it was the anniversary of his
son’s passing and came to cast his eye over the war memorial in the square. His son’s name is up there now at his request.’

Phoebe felt a stab of alarm at this news. Had he come to see his granddaughter too?

‘Was her ladyship in the house?’ she enquired as calmly as she could.

‘Oh, aye, bounding in, nearly knocking our visitor over. He was quite taken with her and promised to send her a birthday present.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I hope she behaved in front of him.’ Phoebe did not want Sir Lionel coming to spoil the party, or his daughter, Verity, who looked at Phoebe down her
long nose as if she was a bad smell. The family had been shocked by their son’s revelation that he had a child who must be provided for. Verity had stormed out of the lawyer’s office in
disgust at this news. Sir Lionel had been the only one to be concerned for her welfare. Now he was coming to check on her.

‘So is everything arranged for tomorrow? You’ve invited the Laird twins, I suppose?’ she sighed. ‘I’d’ve preferred to have her to myself apart from Flora from
school.’

‘It’ll just be the boys; there’s been a falling-out with the girl. I’ve made sure Marthe’s got her dress ironed or that wee divil will wear her kilt again and
it’s covered in mud.’

Phoebe climbed the stairs to the second floor, to the Nursery bedroom with its adjoining living room. Caroline was sitting by the fire.

‘You’re late. I waited and waited.’

‘I’m sorry. Come and give me a big hug and let’s see if you’ve grown.’

Caroline jumped up and stood by the door. Marthe found a ruler and placed it over her head and made a mark. ‘A whole inch since Miss Phoebe was here last. I think she will be tall like
you. Was her mother tall?’

They never mentioned her late brother, Joe, killed on the roads in the blackout, or his fiancée, Beryl Poole, in Caroline’s hearing as a rule. It made sense to make them
Caroline’s deceased parents. They were family, after all. There were no false photographs – she had drawn the line at that – but trust Marthe to keep bringing this up. A girl
needs to know about her mother, she had once hinted. But tonight Phoebe ignored her, unwilling to tell any more lies. ‘She gets her height from my side of the family, it appears. Come, let me
read you a story.’

‘Will you tell me the one about Brown Carrie and Fair Carrie? I can nearly tell it in Marthe’s language.’

‘I don’t know that one. I’ll find something else.’ Phoebe turned to the bookshelf. She didn’t like the idea that Marthe and Caroline shared a language, but what did
she expect if she hired a foreigner?

‘No, I want that one.’

‘Where is it then?’ she said, feeling tired and hungry.

‘I’m afraid it’s in my head,’ Marthe replied. ‘My mother told it to me. It’s a famous folk tale in our country. I can tell it to her, if you like.’

Phoebe was disappointed that nothing was quite as she’d hoped about her arrival. She poked the fire, feeling out of sorts. The news of Sir Lionel’s visit had unsettled her. Was
Arthur’s sister, Verity, in the district too? What if they both turned up tomorrow? Now Marthe was taking centre stage, spinning some tale about two little girls, sisters with the same name
as Caroline. One Carrie was fair and pretty, the darker sister, plain and pock-marked, so much so that their stepmother wanted to scald the pretty one to make her more like her favourite ugly one.
The sisters ran away to a lake and were carried on the back of a swan but grew too heavy for him. He asked one of them to drop off into the water and it was the ugly one who offered to drown.

Then the fair one was left to weep for her sister by the shore until the dark one rose from the water, unblemished and beautiful. When the stepmother caught up with them she was ashamed of her
actions and they all lived happily ever after . . . ‘She laid down her life for her sister and as a reward she’s as beautiful on the outside as she always was on the inside,’
whispered Marthe, seeing that Caroline was fast asleep. ‘It is always what is inside that matters, yes?’