The Postcard (30 page)

Her housekeeper was tight-lipped and shocked at Jessie’s betrayal, but not surprised. ‘She was awful close to the wee boy. I can see how she got to thinking he was her own.’
She sighed. ‘She must have been planning this for months. I didna think she was such a sleekit sort of lassie . . . Oh, there’s the phone . . . maybe she’s changed her
mind.’ Mima rushed to the hall to answer the bell, returning to say, ‘It’s a trunk call from London for you, Miss Faye, from yon Ministry in London.’

Phoebe struggled up to the telephone and took the receiver. The voice on the other was speaking too quickly. ‘Mrs Cameron, I’m not hearing you, the lines crackling . . . yes,
I’ll sit down.’ Phoebe lowered herself slowly onto the hall chair, waiting for the bad news coming.

‘I see . . . yes, yes . . . when . . . where? I don’t believe it . . . after all these months. I see . . . When? It is wonderful news. Wait until I tell Desmond . . .’ Phoebe
flopped back as the phone dropped out of her hand onto the tiled floor with a crash.

Mima came rushing in and took one look at her stricken face. ‘Oh, dearie me, it’s come at last. I’m so sorry. It’s always a shock . . .’ she made to comfort
her.

‘No, Mima, no . . . It’s good news . . .’ Phoebe was crying. ‘Caroline’s coming back to us . . . she’s alive!’ She buried her face in her hand to hold
in all the emotion – relief, shock and confusion – as it overwhelmed her. This is what she’d prayed for. It was the very best of news, but now the realization of what it would
mean was dawning. ‘My daughter’s coming home to her family. How can I look her in the face, Mima? How am I going to tell her about Desmond and Jessie? How can I explain . . .? Whatever
am I going to do now?’

Callie stared up the driveway of Château Grooten in horror and disbelief at the devastation before her. It was as if some giant bulldozer had flattened the building,
leaving nothing but crushed masonry and charred timbers. The house must have taken a direct hit. She sighed, thinking of the fairy-tale mansion it once had been, with its turrets and Gothic
windows, all those gracious rooms now stripped of all dignity, humbled into this mess of rubble. She’d come to pay her respects, more in hope than expectation, and now her worst fears were
realized. The van Grooten family was gone and she knew deep in her heart that Ferrand was not among the survivors. She had felt his absence increasingly since her recovery.

Once her memory returned, and with it all the images of their past loving, her body yearned for physical comfort, but there was none as she limped back to life.

Instead, she was processed by an efficient bureaucracy. She was passed over to American authorities for security checks. She knew she must cling to her British military identity, as was the
rule. She gave them her cover name and code identity, to be checked in London. HQ confirmed her details as agent Charlotte Blanken, and she was released into British care and flown to Brussels by
military plane for an overnight stop on her way to London. Time was short and she knew what she must do before she returned home.

A driver took her to find Marthe van Hooge but the house now belonged to someone else and there was no forwarding address. She persuaded the young officer to drive her out to the Château
Grooten on the off chance that Ferrand might be waiting for her there, as he did in her dreams. It was a silly fantasy she’d clutched all the way from Leipzig but she could not discard her
hopes, however unlikely.

As Callie neared the ruin she saw that there was a man in black – tall, dark hair – stooping over the rubble, picking things up and placing them carefully into a wheelbarrow. She
stopped, staring. Surely it could not be . . . and yet . . . She felt a sudden rush of joy to her heart. Her lover was restored to her, just as she’d dreamed! She ran up the gravel path,
dodging the stones and masonry, hardly daring to breathe with excitement, until the man looked up and she was plummeted back to reality. It was not Ferrand. She feared he was just a looter, picking
over the bones like a vulture.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked. He seemed entirely self-possessed in his task; his was not the furtive demeanour of a thief.

‘I was looking for the Countess van Grooten . . . I was here before the war,’ she said, wondering who the man in black might be.

‘Ah, Maman’s school for young ladies . . . Those were the days, and now this.’ He stood up, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Karel, her son. I’m afraid the news is
not good. And you are . . .?’

‘Caroline, a friend of Louis-Ferrand, your brother.’ She paused, realizing she was about to learn the truth, not wanting to see the look on his face. ‘He spoke often of his
brother the priest, and of Jean-Luc . . . How are they both?’ She had to ask. She had to know.

He bowed his head. ‘You are Ferrand’s English lady.’ There was something old-fashioned about the way he skirted over their relationship. ‘He wouldn’t wish to see
this ruin. He had such plans, but I suppose we all had plans. Now only the land remains,’ he said with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders.

She knew what was coming from the way he was hesitating to answer her question.

‘He’s dead?’ she asked, wanting to shield him from having to say the words.

‘I’m afraid so, like so many brave patriots.’ He looked at her sideways as if to gauge her reaction. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘How?’ she asked. Better to know in one fell swoop what she’d long suspected, although she felt herself reeling from the news.

‘This is no place to talk over such precious matters. There’s still the cottage by the stables. I’ll find you a drink,’ Karel said kindly, obviously seeing her distress.
‘You came alone?’

‘I have a driver but I’m sure he’ll wait by the gate.’

They walked in silence. Callie was trying to absorb his words but there was an empty hole,a numb sickening lurch in her gut as a wave of sadness seeped through her limbs.

The single room was cluttered with pictures and candelabra, pans and broken treasures, a cushion singed with smoke and books burned around the edges. It smelled of smoke and despair.

‘We saved what we could from the embers. German officers commandeered the house but it was fought over in the liberation. My mother lived here until she died. Then one night the entire
house was destroyed.’

How could the proud Countess have borne such an invasion and be reduced to one room?

‘And Ferrand?’ She wanted to know his story. Karel shoved a glass of brandy into her hand and pointed to a wooden chair.

‘After the defeat of the army and the beginning of the occupation, they tried to persuade us that things would go unchanged, but it did not last. He took a post as a professor in the
university and resisted as best he could the takeover of our language and the curriculum. Everything had to be in German. All the teachers were watched. He got involved with a resistance movement,
distributing leaflets and antipropaganda. They took over a newspaper and put it on the streets. It made fun of the conquerors, but it was only a matter of time before they were betrayed, arrested
and executed. There was nothing I could do. I wasn’t even allowed to visit him in St-Gilles Prison. I tried.’ He was in tears as he spoke.

Callie gasped, shaking her head. Ferrand had been in the very same place as she. Had they been close to each other, separated only by stone walls and stairs? If only . . . But after
Ravensbrück, how could anything shock her any more? She felt emptied of hope now.

‘The news of his death killed my mother. We lost Jean-Luc at Dunkirk. He was trying to cross to Britain. He drowned . . . Now there’s nothing left of our family, no future, no heirs.
I am a priest . . . or I was. I fear I’m no longer sure of my vocation. We have a saying: “Waste, error and war all go together and, of course, truth soon disappears too.”
’

Callie reached out and took his hand.

‘It was a priest in Germany who saved my life and nuns who healed me. I am so sorry. Ferrand was the love of my life. We had such a short time together. He would have made a wonderful
father,’ she said.

‘Alas, there are no more sons . . .’

Callie smiled through her tears. ‘That’s where you are wrong. I have a son, Desmond Louis. He’s Ferrand’s boy, waiting in Scotland.’

Karel covered his face with emotion. ‘And he never knew this?’

‘I was going to tell him when he came to visit us, but then war came and we never met again. I’m going home to be with him now. I just hoped for a miracle . . .’

Karel shook his head. ‘This is the miracle, Caroline, a hope for the future in this dark world. I thought everything was gone, and now this?’ He gulped down his drink as if to steady
himself. ‘If only my brother had known, it might have kept him from taking risks.’ He opened another bottle. His hands were shaking with excitement and emotion as Callie began to
describe Desmond, his black curls and blue eyes.

‘I haven’t seen him for three years. He’s nearly seven. I thought I was doing my duty but I didn’t really think of the cost or that I’d be away so long. I am one of
the few lucky ones to survive. Let’s hope there’ll be a better future for him and all the other children separated by war.’ Karel nodded and passed over the brandy to her. She
swallowed it in one gulp as they sat in silence, thinking about what they had learned.

After several minutes, Karel got up, went over to a large wooden dresser by the wall, opened a drawer and pulled out a box. ‘Your son must have this then, from his father. It’s all I
can give him. We’ve not even a photograph of any of us.’

‘Don’t worry, I have a few of Ferrand from Cairo.’ Callie fumbled with the clasp of the box. Inside was a medal, a
Croix de Guerre
with a red-and-green-striped ribbon
attached.

‘It’s for bravery, the country’s highest honour . . . You must tell your son all about Louis-Ferrand.’

‘Thank you, I will, I promise. He will treasure this all his life. But what will you do now?’

‘I have my church and house. The land will be farmed, but this house . . . there is no point. I have no use for it. What use are things without the people who give them meaning?’ he
sighed. ‘Come now and see where our relatives lie in peace.’

He walked her round to the little church and cemetery, leaving her alone to walk down the rows of van Grootens, reading the names. She saw the countess, her picture in a stone frame, and one of
Jean-Luc in uniform.

‘Ferrand’s not here. Maman demanded his body but it was not given back.’

Callie searched for something to say to comfort him. There were so many souls whose ashes were blown to the four winds, she thought, so much death and destruction. Her mind went blank at the
image of the crematorium chimney in the camp and the sickly smell of burned flesh that hung over the whole place. Karel saw her stumble and reached out to hold her arm.

‘You go home to your family and cherish them. Tell them what you can, tell them what you’ve seen. It’s the only way to make sure it never happens again. I can live easier
knowing there is a little bit of my brother out there in the world. All wasn’t destroyed as I thought. Thank you for coming. I’m glad to have met you. Please keep in touch. I would like
to see my nephew one day.’

‘And I should like him to meet you,’ Callie replied, shaking his hand firmly. ‘Tomorrow, I fly to London. Remember us in your prayers. It’s not going to be easy to go
home after all this time away.’

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.

Onward! the sailors cry;

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to Skye.

Desmond looked up at the great grey bulk of metal that was the
Stirling Castle.
How did such a big ship manage to float on water when it was so heavy? It rose up above
him into the sky, so he held Jessie’s hand very tightly as they climbed on board.

‘Now remember to call me Aunt Jessie and I’ll be calling you Lou. You haven’t forgotten, have you? It’s very important.’

Desmond nodded, more interested in exploring the deck and watching the soldiers lined up on the dockside, with their Boy Scout hats with a turned-up side. They were waiting to come on board,
going home from the wars, Jessie said. Scotland seemed very far away now and he wondered if Granny Phee would miss them.

They had to share a big cabin with a lady and her little baby who was called Dulcie. Jessie took him round the decks and he stopped by the railings, watching the ship being loaded with boxes and
cars, sailors rushing around shouting orders to the cranes. There were lots of ladies crying and waving to their families. Dulcie’s mother was sobbing into a hanky. He’d never seen a
grown-up cry before and Jessie was doing her best to calm her down.

Mrs Jackson was on her way to join her husband, like Jessie. ‘I’ll never see me mum again,’ she yelled. ‘Let me off the ship. I can’t go.’

Jessie kept patting her hand like she did with him when he fell and hurt himself. ‘Look, Elsie, you are taking your baby to see her pa and begin a new life where there’ll be sunshine
and oranges, wonderful beaches for her to play on and everyone is happy there. You can write and telephone home. Your husband’ll be counting the weeks till you arrive. Think how you’d
feel if he was waiting and you never came and he never saw his little girl again? Think about all those poor souls whose husbands are never coming back to play with their little ones?’

That did the trick, and with a final sniff on Jessie’s hanky she went for a cup of tea in the big dining room.

‘Are you going to cry, Aunt Jessie?’ he asked, staring at her carefully.

‘Why should I cry? I can’t wait to get out of this drab grey miserable winter. Bob’s promised me a wonderful life down under – and you, too, of course. He’ll be
pleased you came along, too.’

There was a map of the world on the wall of the big playroom set aside for young kiddies. Desmond thought it wasn’t too far from Southampton across and down to Australia. He could almost
stretch it with his hand – it wouldn’t take too long – but as the days turned into weeks it was as if they were living in a floating palace in a world of its own, only the Sunday
services marking the start to another week.