The Postcard (38 page)

‘I might do for a pint,’ he laughed. His wife pushed him up.

‘Get rid of him for me while I sort out this clutter. He can’t part with anything . . . Go and talk shop for fifteen minutes and let me get on with trying to sell something for a
change.’

The three of them found a corner in the cafeteria. Melissa listened as Humph reeled off everything he knew about this musical star.

‘She was one of the It girls of her day, one of the Postcard girls, but she did her bit in the Great War with the concert parties that entertained the troops in France. Not much after
that, a film or two. She did one with Ivor Novello, I think, or was that Lily Elsie? Now,
she
was a huge star. A signed photo of her is worth a bob or two.’ He sipped his coffee and
smiled at her. ‘I did have one of Phoebe in army uniform but I sold that to a suffragette collector. No one’s asked for her in years and now two in the last month.’

The names meant nothing to Melissa. He was talking of nearly a hundred years ago.

‘Did she marry?’

‘That I can’t tell you. You’ll need to find her obituary somewhere in the archives. She was a minor player but she must’ve been good. George Edwardes, the impresario,
chose his Gaiety Girls well. Many were from humble stock but they had potential: good looks and good voices. Quite a few of them married into the aristocracy. Does that help you?’

‘Thanks, it’s a start.’ Melissa shook Humph’s hand as he stood to return to his stall. ‘Where would I find obituaries?’ she asked Mark. As she sipped her
coffee she felt herself being drawn further into the life of Phoebe Faye.

‘You could start with the British Library,’ Mark suggested. ‘They hold all the newspapers, but we need to know when she died. That will mean a trip to the Family Records Centre
for the registry of births and death. She’ll be in there somewhere – unless she’s still alive,’ he added.

Melissa felt daunted and yet excited. Phoebe was becoming real, not just a pretty face in a photograph. ‘I don’t think I’ve time to go searching round London. We’ve got
rehearsals soon, but thanks just the same.’

‘If you need any help . . .’ Mark offered. ‘You’ve got me curious now why a girl comes all the way from down under clutching a postcard of a long-lost
relative.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Melissa said, looking at Phoebe more closely.

‘I have my suspicions already.’ Mark laughed, glancing up at her. ‘She was a singer; you’re a singer. She was a looker and so are you.’

‘Thank you . . .’ Melissa flashed him a look and caught interest in his eyes.

‘Look, I’m serious. Here’s my card and email address. I really am interested so, if you don’t follow her up, I will. I’m going to search my collection in case
I’ve missed anything.’

She followed him back to his stall, not sure where to go next in this strange search, but one thing was certain: she’d like to know a bit more about Mark Penrose, opera buff, lawyer and
postcard addict
.

Melissa was so wrapped up in rehearsals the following week, she was taken aback when a postcard arrived on her mat: ‘Let’s meet at Patisserie Valerie next Saturday
about eleven. I’ve got news. Mark Penrose.’

She didn’t need any persuading to visit the French pastry shop and café on the High Street, having already found a fondness for their
tarte aux framboises.
It was touching
that Mark was keeping his promise to search out more postcards, but she hoped he wasn’t expecting something more than a cup of coffee.

I’m not in the market for emotional entanglements. Time enough for all that when I’ve made my mark in the music world. I’m here to further my artistic career and not be
distracted, she thought. But it would be nice to see him again.

None of her usual jeans and sweaters suited her that Saturday morning. Her ensembles piled up on the floor as she decided which jeans and top struck the right note: not too scruffy and not
looking as if she was making a special effort. The look she was after was what her friends called smart casual, and her aboriginal art earrings added a touch of exotic interest.

So busy preening was she, she was almost late. Saturday on the High Street was always buzzing with weekend shoppers and browsers. She waved to some college friends as she sped along. It was one
of those balmy days in late autumn with a hint of bonfire smoke in the air. Her first term at the Academy was rattling along and it was good to feel part of the place.

Mark was sitting at one of the outside tables on the pavement. He stood up, looking stylish in his tweed jacket and jeans. He was taller and better looking than she recalled. ‘Hi.’
He smiled, ushering her inside. He was carrying a portfolio case, which looked hopeful. They found a corner tucked in the back of the café and ordered. He leaned over and she caught a whiff
of expensive aftershave. So he had made an effort too.

‘This is good of you. I wasn’t expecting such a prompt response seeing as I’ve not had time to do anything,’ she offered.

‘No problem, there’s lots to get to . . . I’ve got a rugby match later.’

‘Is there no end to your talents? Postcards and rugger – what a combo.’ Mel laughed.

‘Don’t mock. It’s only a scratch side but keeps us fit. The secret of life is balance, my grandma used to say and she was right.’

‘Was this the gran who got you into postcards? I only knew one of mine and she died when I was ten, and my mom later . . . Families are a mystery to me.’ It was still painful to
recall her mother’s sudden death.

‘I’m sorry. Perhaps this will cheer you up. Here . . . what do you make of this obituary?’ He handed her a photocopy of something out of the
Daily Telegraph.

‘How did you find this?’

‘Oh, we lawyers have ways.’ He smiled, and his eyes were grey-green flecked with amber behind his glasses. ‘This tells us all we need to know about Phoebe. Her real name was
Phoebe Annie Boardman, born in Leeds, and she died in 1948 from a long illness. She didn’t marry but was engaged to someone in the Great War. There’s a bit about her serving in Lena
Ashwell’s concert parties . . . her film career . . . but it’s the bit at the end that might interest you. She was survived by a niece, Caroline.’

Melissa was speed reading the piece as he spoke. It was headed by the portrait of an elegant woman of about thirty with crimped hair gathered into a chignon at the back.

‘Sometimes “niece” was shorthand for a daughter in those days,’ Mark continued. ‘It covered the embarrassment of having a child out of wedlock. It
says Phoebe died in a village near Glasgow. That might yield up some information. What do you think?’

Melissa suddenly recalled her mom saying Granny Boyd was Scottish . . . ‘Oh. yes, this is brilliant. Thank you. Are you saying that this Caroline might be the one who sent the postcard?
That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

‘Her birth certificate could be useful. You’d be amazed what can be gleaned from them: place of birth, full name, parents, unless it’s a short certificate.’ He paused,
shaking his head. ‘If so, what’s being hidden?’

‘But we don’t know her date of birth . . .’

‘You just take a rough point around the 1914-to-’18 war period and look for a Caroline Boardman. If she’s legit, then she’ll be the child of one of Miss Faye’s two
brothers. There were no sisters. It’s all guesswork, I know, but then with her full name, look for her marriage certificate and perhaps her death certificate. If there isn’t one,
chances are she’s still alive . . . The daughter of Phoebe Faye. She’s the key to all this . . . our only lead.’

They sipped their coffee in silence as Mel took in this barrage of facts. It was nice that he said ‘our lead’, as if he was a part of this.

She wondered if she was really linked to these two women. Could there be another family over here she never knew existed? Finding Phoebe was just an exercise she’d promised to do for Lew
but Mark was taking it all seriously. Was he being helpful because he was interested in her? How could she repay him without encouraging too much?

‘Look, I’ve got to thank you for this. Could I give you tickets for our Christmas concert? Perhaps there’s someone you can bring along.’ She smiled hoping he’d get
the hint.

‘I’d be delighted. I ‘m sure I can drum up support for you but you must keep going on this. These old dears have a habit of popping off and who will answer your questions then?
Next job is the Family Records Centre. How about I go with you? Two pairs of hands will get through more searches than one.’

‘I’m not sure. I can’t take up any more of your time and I’m up to my ears in rehearsals right now. I didn’t come to London to play Sherlock Holmes.’ She
hesitated, sensing how rude that sounded. ‘I’m sorry. I really appreciate your help, but this search will have to fit in . . . I get your point about Caroline being very old, but now we
have this and the other photos in the box—’

‘Now you tell me.’

‘Just a snapshot of two schoolgirls with writing on the back, but I’ve not looked at it closely.’

‘Is it in the same handwriting as the card?’

‘I’d have to check . . .’

‘Do you live nearby? Let’s have a look at them both.’ He jumped up, looking at his watch. ‘There’s just time.’

Melissa thought of the state of her flat, all the clothes strewn about. Still, if he had any ideas of seduction, one look at the state of her room would dampen his ardour. ‘It’s just
off Wells Street.’

Mark went to the counter to pay and browse the mouthwatering array of goodies. ‘Sarah will love these,’ he said as the waitress filled a box with what he’d picked out.

So he had a girlfriend. She was safe, so why did that make her suddenly feel flat? Why had she assumed he was single? Such a good-looking guy wouldn’t still be single unless he was gay,
and she’d sensed from the start he wasn’t. There was a Sarah in his life, another lawyer perhaps.

She wanted to ask but somehow couldn’t bring herself to enquire as they walked to her flat. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she warned as she put the key in the door. ‘I slept
in,’ she lied. ‘Now where the hell did I put Dad’s shoe box? It might be still in my case.’ She was waffling on, knowing it was shoved under her bed, gathering dust.
Cleaning was something she’d not yet built into her routines. ‘Here it is.’

They cleared a space on her dining table. She pushed the letter aside – that was not for sharing – and rummaged through the snapshots for the school one. ‘There they are . .
.’

Mark held up the obituary photo and placed it next to the tall girl with long blonde plaits. ‘Those two are definitely related. There’s a look across the eyebrow and the shape of the
nose. The little one is all hair.’ On the back it read, With Primmy and me.

They were both wearing regulation gymslips of the 1930s, and in the background was a castle-like building or a school, perhaps.

‘It could be anywhere. I guess Primmy’s short for Primula or Primrose. What a name to go through life with . . .’ Melissa smiled. ‘They look a couple of
tearaways.’

‘Can you see what it says on their tunic badges?’ Mark peered closer with his glasses. ‘If we blew that up we might find out which school.’

Melissa laughed. ‘Trust a legal eagle to spot that. Their hairstyles could be twenties or thirties. A girls’ school could be anywhere.’

‘Not with the badge. Can I take this?’

‘I can’t let you keep doing this. I should be doing it myself,’ Melissa replied, reluctant to involve him further but he seemed to have more time than she did.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll have to do all the leg work later in your vacation. Just let me give you a start.’ He fingered in the box and picked out the medal. ‘This looks
like a
Croix de Guerre.
This just gets curiouser and curiouser. What did you father tell you about all this?’

Melissa hesitated for a second. Oh, hell, Mark might as well read the letter; no point in hiding any of it now. ‘Read this,’ she said, shoving it into his hand, and sat in silence as
he read it slowly, pausing to look up at her with concern on his face.

‘I’m sorry. This is private,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘Thanks for trusting me with this. You must see it through. Your dad’s giving you something here,
something very important. He loved you.’

‘He had a funny way of showing it,’ she snapped, feeling the emotion of it all welling up again. ‘Why did he have to leave it until he was dying to tell me? It’s not
fair.’

Mark reached out to hug her. ‘I know it’s not fair, but look what you’ve achieved in just a few weeks. You’ve named the picture and found out about her family. This is
all linked in some way to your father, and if you want to find out how and why . . . birth certificates and school badges, the whole shooting match, will bring you closer to your goal.’ Mark
glanced at his watch. ‘Must dash, got a ball to chase.’ He made for the door. ‘I’ll be in touch. Don’t be sad, you’ll get your answers.’ With that he was
gone.

‘Don’t forget Sarah’s cakes,’ Melissa yelled, following down the stairs with the box.

‘Thanks. Enjoy your weekend.’ He looked up at her with a grin.

Melissa shut the door, feeling empty now that’d he left and strangely envious of Sarah and her box of cakes.

Three weeks went by before she heard from him again, another of his curious postcards with a cryptic message: ‘Look up St Margaret’s School for Girls, nr Arbroath,
Scotland on the web. Could be useful to contact. Mark.’

She was getting to know her nearest internet café well, emailing to friends back home about her London life, so it was no big deal to pop in and search out the name. Mark was right.
Before her eyes was the very castle school in her photo, and an image of the school crest with its motto, ‘Onwards and Upwards’, plus a potted history. But how could she visit the wilds
of Scotland when opera rehearsals were reaching their peak?

There was an address in Cheltenham for the secretary of St Margaret’s Alumni Association. An old-girl’s network would never fail to find who was where, Melissa hoped. It was worth a
try, and at least she could tell Mark she was doing her bit.

Between costume fittings she composed a simple letter asking for details of the whereabouts of two former pupils: Caroline and Primrose, with their rough dates, addressed it to the secretary and
sent it off, not expecting to hear before the New Year.