The Postcard (4 page)

‘Of course,’ said Phoebe, feeling strangely challenged by this folk tale. What was she really like this inside, dark or fair?

She watched Marthe put the child to bed and turn out the lamp. ‘She likes the curtains and the door open so she can see the hills in the morning,’ the nursemaid smiled as she tidied
away clothes and toys from the floor.

Phoebe looked away, knowing she wouldn’t have done this. There was so much she didn’t know about Caroline’s routine. Tears filled her eyes, and she was unsure whether they were
tears of guilt, shame, love or confusion. Perhaps it was all of these feelings that darkened her heart . . .

The trip into Glasgow next day was a great success They took the train First Class into the city and went to Miss Cranston’s tearooms on Sauchiehall Street for soup and
cakes. Phoebe always loved to dine here among the startling décor, the tall-backed chairs, the wonderful wall murals and fancy cutlery. The waitresses wore identical outfits. It was like a
theatrical production. Nairn and Niven Laird wriggled but managed not to spill anything, and then Marthe supervised them all onto the green and yellow tram as a treat. They went to the Fossil Grove
to admire the stone tree trunks, and then it was back to town, to the Argyll Arcade and Henderson’s Jewellers so Caroline could choose a pretty gold watch with a white leather strap.

‘But I can’t tell the time, Aunt Phee . . . Can I have a bangle instead?’

‘You’ll soon get the hang of it,’ Phoebe insisted, hoping she liked the expensive gift. Then they made for the picture house, sitting at a table to watch the latest Charlie
Chaplin film and having tea and ices. Chaplin really was a fine actor and his face looked so sad that Caroline sat clutching Marthe, and Phoebe was suddenly overwhelmed with jealousy for their
closeness.

As the party arrived back at Dalradnor, Phoebe stiffened at the sight of a large car outside the front door. It was not the one she’d ordered from the garage; she recognized it, though.
The two boys jumped out to examine the shiny black monstrosity and the chauffeur offered to run them down the lane when they’d finished looking. Caroline wanted to go with them, but Marthe
pushed her into the hall.

‘It’s time for you to have tea. We have a visitor.’

Phoebe held back to compose herself, wondering why Sir Lionel had come again.

Nan Ibell was bustling round them. ‘Tea’s laid out in the dining room. Go and wash your hands, young lady, and greet your guest.’

Phoebe walked in, praying he’d be alone and, to his credit, he was. It was such a relief. Lionel had always shown sympathy towards her, and it was close to the anniversary of
Arthur’s death as well as being Caroline’s birthday. Why shouldn’t she seek some solace in the fact that he too would see that her child was growing more and more in looks like
her father?

‘Sir Lionel, it is good of you to call again. I’m sorry I missed you yesterday. As you can see, we’ve had a busy day in town, but do stay for the cutting of Caroline’s
cake. Caroline, here is Sir Lionel come to see you again. Isn’t that kind?’

‘Did you bring it?’ She bobbed a curtsy with her smile.

‘Bring what, young lady?’ He put on a face of mock surprise.

‘It’s my birthday today,’ she said proudly. ‘I’m seven now.’

‘So you are, and I thought I’d better bring something.’

‘Where, where is it?’ The minx was searching round the room for a box. ‘I got a watch. Aunty Phee gave me this . . . I chose it in a shop.’ She held out her wrist so it
could be admired.

‘Oh, that’s a fine watch. Now where did I put that penny whistle for you?’ He was teasing her, seeing her impatience. ‘Oh, it’s there in the basket, I think.’
He pointed round the back of the leather armchair by the window to a wicker basket. ‘Can you open it for me?’

Caroline rushed to the basket and opened it with a screech. ‘Oh, look! Marthe, Aunt Phee, look, look, come and see.’ She lifted up a small furry creature, a sleepy little puppy just
a few months old. ‘For me, it’s for me?’

Sir Lionel’s face was a picture of gratification as he nodded. ‘Now you have to care for him, take him on long walks and teach him how to behave. His name is Cullein, hero of the
clans. He’s a Cairn terrier so he won’t grow very big but he’ll be very fast. I think seven is old enough to know he’s not a toy but a real living thing. Don’t you
agree, Miss Faye?’

‘Phoebe, please,’ she muttered, knowing he was asking her approval after the event. The clever old man had won the child’s heart with such a thoughtful gift, so very
appropriate for an only child. He’d got it so right and she’d got it so wrong. Who wants a watch when you really want a bangle, when you can have a puppy as a friend and playmate? Why
hadn’t she thought of that herself?

You don’t know your own daughter, that’s why you’re peripheral to her world here. You are just the aunt who pops in now and again and then disappears. Why are you bemoaning
your lot? You chose this for yourself. Now you must pay. Pin on your smile and get on with it. This is Caroline’s special day, not yours.

They processed into the dining room by candlelight. There was a beautiful iced cake waiting, with seven candles on it. Caroline sat bemused, clinging onto her new friend for dear life.

For Phoebe, the day was ruined. She felt like a child with her nose up against the window, looking through the glass into something to which she was no longer party. She took a deep breath and
sat down: time to play the hostess, time to pin on a smile.

‘Isn’t this wonderful, all of us together? What a wonderful end to the day . . .’

Callie couldn’t wait for the summer holidays to begin even though it was a turning out to be a time of sad farewells. The Laird family was moving to a bigger farm in the
Borders, and Marthe was going to visit her family in Belgium for the summer. Callie was to spend the whole time with Aunt Phee, travelling down to the south of France with her friends. They would
cross the Channel to Boulogne to tour Paris, then take a train right down to a place called Nice on the Mediterranean. Mrs Ibell was busy sewing cotton dresses and sunhats, putting liver salts in
her trunk in case the foreign food didn’t suit her. Marthe was escorting her on the train to London to meet Aunt Phee, then taking a steamer across to Ostend. In preparation, they had studied
their journeys on the map on the Nursery wall. Marthe spoke good French and made Callie practise some of the phrases from her language book.

Marthe was packing her own suitcase and not saying much at all. A letter had come from Aunt Phee with all their instructions, but when she read it, Marthe had started to cry and stared out the
window, holding the new skirt she had made herself in the shorter style that showed off her slim legs. Her hair was bobbed and Callie thought she looked very pretty.

‘Are you sick?’ Callie rushed to hug her.

‘No . . . just sad.’

‘Why?’

‘Sometimes things have to end . . . But I’m being silly. Come on, let’s find some of your books to put in the trunk.’

Callie wondered if Marthe had found a boyfriend who might carry her off somewhere far away from Dalradnor.

It was up to Tam and Nan to see that Cullein got his walks because they couldn’t take him across the sea. Callie knew she’d miss him badly. Perhaps Sir Lionel might call in on his
annual holiday and check she was looking after Cullein well. He never brought his wife or daughter, which always upset Mrs Ibell. ‘It’s a gey queer state of affairs is that . . . they
stay not five miles from here with the Balfours, and have never called in here all the years I waited on them until now . . .’

Callie liked the old gentleman. He brought her comics to read and sweeties in a pokey hat cone with half a crown hidden at the bottom for her to save or spend as she liked. He always looked sad
when he said goodbye. With the twins leaving, who would she play with when she got home? She was always falling in and out with girls who teased her for being Orphan Annie. It wasn’t her
fault she had no brothers or sister or parents. There were lots of girls in the school who had lost their fathers in the Great War. Aunt Phee lost her fiancé. She kept a picture of him in a
silver frame in her bedroom. He had a uniform on, and he was Sir Lionel’s son, too, with his name on the war memorial. Aunt Phee was always very sad when she looked at his picture.

At last, the day came for the train journey down to London. It was a hot and dusty drive to Glasgow Central Station but she loved the bustle of the porters with their luggage, the crowds on the
platform waving off the travellers, the big paper stall where they bought a
Girl’s Own
and a Fry’s Five Boys for the journey. There was so much to see out of the window as the
train rattled its way south. Marthe brought out sandwiches and a Thermos at Carlisle, and they played hangman and noughts and crosses. Then at Lancaster Marthe got out her knitting and made Callie
read her book and try to nap. At every station, Callie asked if they were nearly there and Marthe laughed and said, ‘Be patient.’ Then they talked in Flemish just for the fun of it, but
soon Marthe grew serious.

‘Never forget it, make it your secret language. No one else will understand you. That could be fun one day.’

Callie smiled and nodded. She was quite good at understanding Marthe, even when she spoke quickly.

Suddenly the green fields turned to brick houses and factories, chimneys and tunnels, and they drew into Euston Station at long last. At the end of the platform, Aunt Phee was waiting, waving.
She looked quite different from the last time Callie had seen her, with a permanent wave in her short hair and a little beret clinging onto the side. She wore a short cotton shift dress that came
just to her knee, with silk stockings and heeled shoes with straps across her foot.

‘Look at you, like a boiled lobster in that kilt. Couldn’t you have put something thinner on the girl?’ she snapped at Marthe.

‘It was cool when we left, and better to save her new clothes for her holiday,’ Marthe said, looking cross.

‘I suppose so. Come along, we’ll get a taxi.’ Phee turned to Marthe. ‘What time’s your boat train? Might as well say goodbye here; I’ll take over now. You
might want to freshen yourself up.’

Callie felt she was a parcel being passed across. ‘Can’t Marthe come with us?’ she asked, but Phee ignored her.

‘Better to split up now. I’ve got tons to do before we leave tomorrow. Well, Marthe, have a lovely holiday . . . and a safe journey. Oh, Kitty says to send her best regards to all
your family and hopes everyone is settled back home now,’ she added.

Marthe bent to kiss Callie. ‘Be a good girl and have a wonderful time. I shall miss you.’ Her voice was trembling.

‘We’ll call for you on the way home, won’t we?’ Callie turned to Phee, seeing Marthe looking upset.

‘Of course, if there’s time. I’m sure we’ll pay a visit.’

‘I wish you were coming with us.’ Callie clung to her tightly. Marthe was the most important person in her life, the one true fixture both night and day. ‘I don’t want
you to go,’ she said in Flemish, and Marthe whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t worry . . . I will always be there for you.’

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Phee interrupted them. ‘Marthe has her own life to lead. She doesn’t want you making a scene in public. You’ll see her again . .
.’

Callie waved and waved as Phoebe drew her away until Marthe was lost to her in the crowds. Suddenly they were out in the bright sunlight among crawling traffic, honking horns, drays, buses,
cars. It was like Glasgow but three times as busy, with people rushing up and down the pavements. Where did they all come from? Sitting in the taxi as if they were in a bubble, Callie gazed out at
the buildings towering above her, and people staring out of bus windows. She felt very small amongst all this rush and bustle.

Aunt Phee, however, sat back, looking relaxed. ‘Are you excited?’ she smiled.

‘A bit,’ Callie replied, feeling shy. ‘Where are we staying?’

‘In my apartment off Marylebone High Street. You’ll love it. I’ve made up your bedroom in the latest style. Tomorrow we’ve got an early start for Dover to catch the
ferry. Sailing to France, just like I did when I went to war with the concert party.’

‘But my French isn’t very good,’ Callie said.

‘You’ll know more than me, and everyone speaks English. I want to show you all the wonderful places. We’re going to have such a wonderful holiday together. A special holiday to
remember.’

Callie said nothing, wishing she was safe back by the loch, chasing sticks with Cullein. She ought to feel excited but she didn’t. Instead she had a sick feeling in the pit of her tummy
that nothing would ever be the same again.

Phoebe couldn’t sleep. The responsibility of making sure Caroline had a good holiday lay heavy on her chest. It was hot and noisy outside. She felt ashamed of pointing
out how the little girl looked in that shabby kilt and blouse, like a country mouse come up to town. That would have to change now Marthe was out of the way. They’d have time to get to know
each other much better in the next four weeks.

Everything was planned: suitable clothes for the beach and sun, walks and swimming parties with Maisie’s friends. Even Billy was going to call in with his latest protégé, and
he was good with children. Caroline would blossom in the sunshine, lose that pale face. Her time would be filled with visits to châteaux and cathedrals, vineyards and gardens. Plans for her
education were already in hand.

Miss Cameron’s Academy had been fine for her early years but now the child needed a more formal structure to her day in a good boarding school, one where she’d meet the right type of
girl, get a decent grounding in the basics before being finished abroad. She must have every opportunity to take her proper place in Society, eventually making a suitable marriage, unhampered by
the shame of her birth. There was no reason yet to break the secrecy of her true identity.

Lionel Seton-Ross was keeping his end of the bargain. His financial advisers continued to ensure Arthur’s fiancée and his daughter were financially secure. Phoebe never touched a
penny of any future inheritance coming from Arthur’s estate; the house in Scotland was the only gift she’d accepted. Everything must come to Caroline. She kept herself in London through
her work in the theatre.