The Postcard (9 page)

A man was lying on a makeshift bed close to the range. The room smelled of Lysol and cough linctus, but it was spotless and tidy. The man lifted his head in surprise.

‘So who’s this then, Hilda?’

‘She says she’s Joe’s daughter. You’d better sit down and shout, miss. He’s very deaf.’

‘Who told her that, then?’ The man stared at her. He had hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and a pallor that suggested he was an invalid.

‘I’m Caroline Boardman. This is my friend Primrose. We thought we’d look you up as I’m Joe and Beryl’s daughter, you see, and I don’t know much about my
family.’ Callie paused, hoping he’d heard her.

‘So who told you that cock-and-bull story?’

‘Ted, now none of that . . .’

‘My aunt Phoebe told me, your sister.’ Disconcerted, Callie held out a postcard of Phee in her Gaiety days. He took one look and burst out laughing.

‘Is that what she told you? Our Phoebe was allus a romancer. By heck, she’s pulled a right stunt here.’ He stared closely at Callie. ‘I’ll say this, you take after
her, right enough.’

‘My mother, Beryl Poole?’

‘Never . . . Beryl married Ernie Mathers, no kiddies either, and our Joe was knocked off his bike on the Wakefield Road in a blackout. He wasn’t married neither. This is our Phoebe,
all right – went to London and never looked back. Not as I blame her. She saw her dad right but never turned up at his funeral. He were good enough to give her a start on the stage –
I’ll forgive her for that – but telling you a pack of lies . . . Sorry, young lady, whoever you are, if you’re a relation o’ mine it’s the first time I heard of it and
I’m wondering why. I think you should be asking our Phoebe some hard questions. It’s not for me to say owt more on the matter. Glad to make your acquaintance. You never know what the
wind’ll blow in these days.’

‘Pack it in, Ted. The poor kid’s had a shock.’ Hilda turned to Callie and said kindly, ‘Sorry we can’t be more helpful.’

Callie didn’t know what to say to Ted Boardman’s revelation but Primmy stepped in to fill the silence.

‘Thank you for your help. I can see there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re sorry to have troubled you on your day off.’

‘Day off?’ Ted sneered. ‘My days are all off since they shut up shop. No work for anyone in this street, or didn’t you notice them hanging around on the pavements?. Hilda
does some charring to tide us over. I don’t suppose Phoebe is out of work.’

‘She’s in motion picture films and she teaches singing.’

‘Aye, she allus did have a grand pair of lungs and big dreams. Never married, then?’ It was Ted’s turn to fish for answers.

‘Her fiancé was killed on the Somme. We went to his grave in France once.’

‘Aye, there were a lot o’ lads round here as never made it home. Sorry to have squashed your little story but I’ll not speak ill of the dead. Joe fathered no babby. He was no
womanizer – just Beryl. You go back to my sister and tell her to get her facts right afore she sends youngsters to my door.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend,’ Callie croaked, swallowing back her tears.

‘Hey, I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault, but someone’s not being straight with you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Boardman.’ Primrose backed towards the door. ‘Come on, Callie, time to go.’

‘Stay and have a cuppa,’ said Hilda. ‘Kettle’s on the hob. It’s nice to have a bit of company.’

‘Thank you, but we have to be on our way. I think Callie’s got a lot to think about.’

‘She’s not the only one,’ said Ted. ‘I’ll say this, the apple don’t fall far from the tree. Let us know when you find the true story,’ he added more
kindly. ‘You’re always welcome here, whoever you are. Nice to see pretty faces brightening up the place.’

The girls walked down the street in silence. ‘This is all my fault. I pushed you into it . . . Sorry,’ said Primrose, trying to grab Callie’s hand but Callie shook her off.

‘Just leave me alone.’ She fell silent but her friend stayed close and, eventually, Callie turned to her, distress on her face. ‘Oh, Primmy, who am I? What did he mean about
apples not falling far from the trees?’

‘I don’t know, but I think you’d better ask your aunt Phee just what she meant by telling you lies.’

The knowledge sat heavy on Callie’s heart all holiday. At first it spoiled everything at the Guide camp. She kept wandering off on her own to recall what the man Ted had said to them. She
kept seeing that look on his face, his laughter at her tale and his denial of any knowledge of her. Why had she been told all this? There had to be an explanation and only one fitted the bill.

She must be a waif and stray adopted in secret so Aunt Phee could have a child to bring up, a child of her own. She was one of those poor orphan babies given away and this story was spun to
protect her from the shameful truth of her birth. It explained why there were no pictures in the house of her parents, no little mementoes left for her to inherit, and why Aunt Phee didn’t
talk about her own background and her upbringing in the back-streets of Leeds, which was so different from the privileged education she had provided for Callie.

Primmy was quiet, too, and upset for forcing her to go on the wild-goose chase. She kept fussing round, wanting to make it right, but no one could ever make this right for Callie now. She really
was an Orphan Annie after all.

It was hard for her not to wallow in self-pity about her plight, but eventually the mountains did work some magic, the river walks soothed her spirit and camping under the stars, with fires and
late-night singing, was fun. ‘Will you be all right? Have you written to your aunt?’ Prim asked, as they folded up the tents and prepared to go home.

‘I’m fine and I’m saying nothing, not yet. It’s not really important,’ Callie lied.

‘Are you sure? You ought to know the truth.’

‘When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it,’ she snapped, then was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry . . . just leave me alone.’

She knew Prim was upset, but this was her burden to bear and to deal with in her own time. There was one other person who might know something and that was Marthe. Callie vowed to write to her
as soon as she got home. Marthe wouldn’t lie to her or let her down . . . but then she remembered Marthe was married and busy with her new life, and she sank into hopelessness again.

Why couldn’t you just rub out stuff you didn’t want to know about once you knew it, like rubbing out mistakes with an eraser, she wondered.

There was, however, one place that wouldn’t change just because she was feeling strange and lost. Dalradnor was her home and she couldn’t wait to get back to the safety of its walls.
There, all her troubles would fade. That was the only place where she truly belonged now.

Phoebe noticed the change in Caroline the minute she saw her in Dalradnor. It was if as she had curled up inside and closed the door on everyone, going for long walks and rides
alone, picking at the meals Nan Ibell so lovingly prepared, choosing to sit on the window seat in the stairwell, head in a book.

‘I thought the Highland camp would put colour in her cheeks,’ Phoebe whispered to the housekeeper.

‘May be it is the time of the month . . . She’s quite the young lady now and I know she misses the wee dog. Dinna fasch yerself . . . she’s at that awkward age, neither fish
nor fowl.’ Nan was whisking up a chocolate cake. ‘This’ll cheer her up.’

‘Has she fallen out with her friend?’

‘No, I just think she’s a bitty lost off with hersel’. It’ll soon be term time. How long will she stay up in the school?’

‘Nothing is settled. I thought Switzerland might be a good place to finish her off but now I’m not sure.’

‘That’ll cost a pretty penny,’ sniffed the housekeeper. ‘Aren’t there places closer to home, in London?’ Was there a hint of rebuke in that question?

‘She’s good with languages and she’ll improve her French. There’d be skiing a chance to make new friends, all that sort of thing.’

‘Aye, a change of scene may do her good. She’s just no’ herself. I’m wondering if something is worrying her. Girls of that age get awful stirred up . . . A young man,
perhaps?’

‘Surely not, she’s only sixteen.’ In Phoebe’s eyes she was still a harum-scarum in black stockings and gymslip. ‘Time enough for all that when she’s
out.’

Phoebe still clung to the hope that she could find someone to help the girl have a proper Season but they had no real aristocratic connections willing to oblige. Sir Lionel’s wife would
have nothing to do with the two of them now. It was Miss Corcoran who had suggested a language school or secretarial training. ‘She’s not university material, I’m afraid. A good
all-rounder but not dedicated to key subjects, I find.’

Phoebe was glad she’d made time to come north for the remainder of the school holidays but they hadn’t spent much time together so far. She was planning trips to Edinburgh and
Stirling Castle, and the art gallery in Glasgow, and perhaps to take in a show at the Alhambra Theatre.

Times were hard in the city, the shipyards idle and men on street corners with that pinched look of poverty, but the motion pictures she was making seemed to get packed houses. She had a part in
a Jessie Matthews musical and one with Jack Buchanan. The talkies had opened up a whole new world of sound for audiences and Phoebe’s voice was superior to those of many stars. There was
plenty of work for her, and like the wartime concerts of old, the talkies cheered folk in these grim times.

Something, however, was definitely bothering Caroline. She wasn’t one of those ‘I want’ sort of girls; in fact buying clothes for her was a waste of time. She wore her kilt or
jodhpurs and carried a book to read. She had no idea how pretty she could look in a dress and jacket. Phoebe sighed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she left Nan to her baking and
returned to the drawing room. Lines were appearing with flecks of grey, her waist was thicker and she had to watch how much she ate or the camera would double her backside. Her forties meant a slow
fading as her daughter bloomed, but that was part of the rhythm of life. You couldn’t hold back time, she sighed. Thanks goodness she had made the leap into character acting. Her postcard
days were long gone, but with a bit of slap, clever lighting and a tint in her hair she was ageing well enough.

She wandered through the old house, searching out the girl, and finally discovered Caroline hunched over a book on the bench close to Cullein’s grave in the walled garden.

‘What are you reading?’ she asked out of genuinely interested. She was not a book reader herself.

Caroline closed her book swiftly and turned away slumped. ‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, come on, what’s up? You look like a wet wakes week in Huddersfield.’ The joke fell flat.

‘I’m fine.’ The girl didn’t look up so Phoebe took her courage and sat down.

‘Nan says you’re off your food. You know how she hates waste, and with so many of her family unemployed, it’s a shame not to empty your plate.’

‘I’m not hungry and she gives me too much.’

‘But you were always starving. Are you ill? Is it your monthly time?’ That was one thing she’d made sure Caroline knew about and was prepared for, although she knew the school
gave the girls a serious lecture about the facts of life when they turned fourteen.

‘Stop fussing.’ The ‘go away’ was left unspoken.

‘But I worry about you. You look so miserable. Tell your aunt Phoebe.’ She moved in closer but Caroline backed away.

‘Are you my real aunt or is that another of your tales?’ Out came the grenade, and she knew she’d hit the mark as she felt the impact.

‘What do you mean? I’ve been here all your life.’

‘But are you really my aunt?’

‘What is all this about? Of course, I’m a Boardman.’

‘Well, don’t give me that shit about my mother and father. I’ve seen Uncle Ted and he says it’s all lies.’

Fear seeped into Phoebe’s limbs and her heart was suddenly racing. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat. ‘When was that?’ she said carefully, trying to stay composed.

‘Primmy found a letter you never sent in your scrapbook with an address on it. She dared me to go and see if there was family there. We went to Peel Street and then to Gladstone Street
where I met Ted and Hilda Boardman.’

‘I see. And what did he tell you?’ Phoebe swallowed her panic and tried to sound matter-of-fact.

‘I showed him one of your postcards. He laughed at it and said I must ask you what you were playing at, passing his dead brother off as a married man. Beryl is married with no children, so
why did you lie to me about them?’

‘Look, dear, I just wanted to spare you the truth. It seemed the easiest way to protect you.’

‘Why should I need protecting? So you adopted me and brought me up as your own – what orphanage did you buy me from, and then pretended to be my aunt? What’s so wrong in being
adopted?’

Phoebe felt faint. Caroline had got everything so wrong – how could she explain without hurting her further? Kitty had warned her that this day would come and now there was no hiding from
what she’d chosen to do all those years ago. She wished she were here to advise her. Nothing for it, however, but to battle on alone.

‘First, you were never adopted. Secondly, you are not an orphan but a child born from the love of two young people in wartime, a child who could never have a father because he died serving
his country. Your mother wanted to protect you because they were unable to marry before you were born.’ Phoebe found she was trembling. ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Of course, I’m illegitimate, a bastard born to an unmarried mother,’ Caroline replied, her voice icy, her eyes flashing like flints.

‘No . . . well, yes . . . in the eyes of Society and the law, perhaps, but you were a loved child. It was an unfortunate act of fate that robbed you of both parents.’

‘So where is this mother of mine?’ Callie demanded furiously. ‘Did she die too or give me to you as a souvenir?’

‘Can’t you see, Caroline? Do I have to spell it out to you?’ Phoebe pleaded, reaching for her hand.

‘Oh, no, it’s not you? Surely not you . . .?’ Caroline jumped up, horror on her face. ‘How could you . . . how could you let me think all these years you were my aunt
when you were really my own mother? I don’t believe this. Ted said you’d pulled a stunt but I never thought even you could be so cruel as to deny your own baby!’