The postcard, p.1
The Postcard, page 1
Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire and is married with three sons and a daughter. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.
Also by Leah Fleming
The Girl from World’s End
The War Widows
Orphans of War
Mothers and Daughters
Remembrance Day
Winter’s Children
The Captain’s Daughter
The Girl Under the Olive Tree
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Leah Fleming 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-0-85720-400-4
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-85720-401-1
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-403-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
BEGIN THE BEGUINE (from ‘Jubilee’) Words and Music by COLE PORTER © 1935 (Renewed) WB MUSIC CORP. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Remember before God
those men and women of
The European Resistance Movement
who were secretly trained in Beaulieu to fight
their lonely battle against Hitler’s Germany
and who before entering Nazi occupied territory,
here found some measure of the peace
for which they fought.
From the plaque in the Cloisters of Beaulieu Abbey,
unveiled 27 April 1969.
Contents
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Part Two
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Part Three
40
41
November 1956
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
Finally
Prologue
Adelaide, Australia, 2002
The summons from the hospital came in the middle of the night. Although it was expected, it was still a shock.
‘Your father’s asking for you, Melissa. I think he wants to make his peace,’ said the concerned-sounding nurse.
Why should I go? Mel’s head was spinning. Why should I bother? He’s never been the greatest dad in the world. Where was he when I needed him after Mum died? When did he ever give me anything but cheques and empty promises?
Yet something stronger than her anger made her shoot out of bed, ring for a taxi, then throw on her jeans and T-shirt before dunking her face in cold water.
Lew Boyd was all the flesh and blood she had left in the world. Years of heavy drinking had taken its toll on his liver, and all his success in the world couldn’t spare him now. Besides, Mel owed it to her mother to hear him out one last time.
The hospital corridors were silent but for her scurrying footsteps, and Mel’s heart sank at the thought of what was waiting for her in the private ward. The one and only time she’d visited, she’d breezed in with a bunch of grapes and a smile to tell him she’d won the coveted Post-Grad Music Scholarship to the Royal Academy in London, but her excitement had been quickly doused by the sight of the once big man reduced to skin and bone. They’d made small talk, but she had been shocked at the change in him and glad to escape.
This was different. This was the last goodbye. With a sinking heart she wondered what he wanted to say that couldn’t have been said before now.
Lew sat propped up with an oxygen mask by his side. His tanned skin was now a papery yellow, his cheeks pinched, his hair in sparse tufts from the chemo. He looked a shadow of his former handsome self. At the sight of his daughter he held out a bony hand.
‘You came,’ he croaked. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t.’
‘They rang and said you wanted to see me.’ Mel’s voice trembled as a nurse retreated discreetly from the room. Mel sat down, staring at this frail figure struggling for breath, shocked at his deterioration. How could she have thought of not coming?
He turned slowly, those blue eyes fixed on her. ‘Not been much of a dad, have I?’
‘You’re the only one I’ve got,’ she replied, trying to hide years of resentment. He’d been such a driven man, developing his building empire, making a fortune, and for what?
‘Time to come clean, Melissa. I’m sorry for letting you down so many times. I really loved you and yer mom, but when she was killed in the car I couldn’t handle it, lost the plot, as they say now. I’m sorry, kiddo. I’ve always been so proud of you and those lungs of yours.’ He paused as if saying each word was agony to him. ‘I’ve often wondered just who gave you that wonderful voice. Not me or your mom, for sure. She was tone deaf, bless her. Must have skipped a generation, I reckon.’
‘You didn’t bring me here to talk about my voice,’ she snapped. ‘Sorry, but I don’t understand you.’
‘Of course you don’t. I don’t understand myself, but I need to tell you a story and I’m hoping you’ll be able to finish it.’ He took a gulp of oxygen.
‘Long ago I came on a ship from England with Ma, yer gran Boyd. It was after the war. I don’t remember why we came or where we went. The truth is I don’t know who I am, Mel. You’ll not find a birth certificate for me. Granny Boyd was not my mother. You need to know all this in case . . .’ Lew tailed off and Mel could see tears in his eyes. She reached out her hand to take his.
‘It doesn’t matter now, Dad. It’s all in the past.’
‘You’re wrong. I’ve lived with these blanks all my life. I once saw a shrink in rehab who wanted me to have some hypnotherapy but I wouldn’t go there. Now I wish I had. It might have made me face this head-on instead of just drowning my sorrows. I’ve been a closed book to you with my binges and my moods. I never deserved the love your mom gave me.’ Lew stared at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I sense such a waste of potential in me, love. I worked so hard to blot out bits of my childhood. My folks were kindness itself but they never shared my past and I never asked until it was too late. When I asked your gran about things, she clammed up tight.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Your mom opened my heart to such loving possibilities but I let you both down. I’m ashamed of how I neglected you. I’ve messed up on you and your mom big time. I thought if I was successful it would prove I was a proper provider, but it all went too far. I wanted you to be proud of me but no one is proud of a drunk.’
‘Stop this! It doesn’t matter now.’ Mel felt the tears rising.
‘If only I knew . . . There’s blanks in my memory but there’s one thing I do remember when I was a kid . . . One day you’ll have kids of your own and they ought to have a proper history to blame for all their failings. I’ve left some stuff for you with Harry Webster, my lawyer. Promise me you’ll go and see him when I’m gone?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Mel leaned forward, the better to catch his words.
‘When you go to England you might find the places, people who might recognize my stuff. I meant to do this for myself but I was always too busy and now I’ve run out of time. I just know Gran was not my real mom. There was a lady who once came from England when I was little . . .’ He paused, staring towards the wall. ‘Would you find out who she was and why she never came back? She may be still alive. Please, Mel, before it’s too late. Will you do it for me?’
Panic rose in Mel at the thought of what he was asking of her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before? We could have searched together.’
‘I just never gave it much thought until I got crook, and then with the chemo it went out of my mind.’ Lew sank back as if all the breath was leaving his body. ‘See Harry – he’ll help you – and forgive me for letting you down . . .’ Those were the last of hi
The nurse slipped back into the room. It was almost dawn. ‘You take a break, Miss Boyd. It won’t be long now.’
‘I’ll stay,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not leaving him alone.’
One afternoon two weeks later, Mel, wearing her black audition suit, found herself walking along the busy King William Street, climbing up the steps to the offices of Harry Webster Associates for an appointment with the senior partner. Having delayed the meeting until she felt strong enough to face this stranger, now she felt nervous. So many questions were racing through her mind and here was someone who might provide some answers.
Webster was a squat little man of her father’s age. He looked like a rugby player, with his squashed nose and his arms bulging beneath his jacket sleeves. His cheeks were ruddy as he smiled and ushered her into his office, which was a clutter of files, books and coffee mugs. The walls were covered with certificates stating his legal qualifications, but sports trophies acted as paperweights.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Melissa. Lew was so proud of you – I hear you are in for the Elder Hall Award. We go back a long way, yer dad and me . . . school and that sort of thing. Great man for keeping stuff in order,’ he laughed, glancing around his room. ‘Not like this. My father knew the Boyd family and looked after their affairs . . .’ He looked straight at her, then made for a cupboard and pulled out a shoe box from the bulging shelves, catching the files before they clattered onto the floor. He took the box to his desk, swiping away some papers to make a space for it. Mel sat expectant. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly. At last, some answers were on their way.
Harry tapped his finger on the box. ‘Lew came to see me six months ago as soon as he knew . . . He said to open the package after his death so I’ve opened it. There’s a letter for you and some bits and pieces of private stuff. He’s made good provision for you. It’s all straightforward: the apartment; moneys, should you wish to travel. His will is in order.’ He pushed the box across the desk to her. ‘I think his whole life is in that box . . . what little he knows of it. The Boyds were not his birth parents. I reckon he meant to follow up on his real history but you know what he was like.’ He hesitated. ‘He could get easily distracted.’
Oh, yes, full of promises never fulfilled was Lew Boyd: birthdays forgotten, outings cancelled. She’d learned early to take any contact if and when it came, but now he was gone she felt bereft.
‘There’s been a lot in the papers about child migrants,’ Harry continued. ‘But I don’t think he was one of those poor sods who got shipped out here after the war. He never said much, only that the Boyds saved his life.’
‘Do you realize I only found out they weren’t my real grandparents at his bedside?’ Mel snapped. ‘Why couldn’t he have shared all this with me himself instead of making it all a mystery?’
Harry sat down and sighed. ‘I’ve met a few guys like Lew, guys with no history. They can’t remember and there’s no one left to jog their memories. He just didn’t talk to anyone about his past. Perhaps he had a bad start. Humankind copes as best it can, but I think this is the nearest we’re going to get unless that box holds any clues. I’ve not opened anything addressed to you. I hope it’s all in there – what he wanted you to know, Melissa. I realize he wasn’t much in the dad department but he was proud of you.’
Mel took the box from him, shaking her head. ‘Thank you. I prefer to open it alone.’
‘If I can help in any way, feel free to ask,’ Harry said, ushering her to the front door.
She nodded curtly and fled down the steps into the bustle of the busy traffic and the bright afternoon, heading straight back to the Music School to shove the box in her locker, where it stayed for a week until all the formalities of her future studies were confirmed and she took it home.
The box stayed unopened for another week. She just couldn’t face what might be inside. One evening, however, curiosity got the better of her, so armed with a bottle of Shiraz and a large block of milk chocolate, she carried it to her father’s flat in his apartment block. It was all black leather sofas and glass, the sort of soulless place she’d hate to live in. Now it felt emptier than ever.
This was a private wake between the two of them. She poured herself a large glass of the wine before she sank down to open the letter addressed to her. Her heart lurched to see that familiar scrawl. From out of the envelope a postcard fell to the floor. She picked it up. It had an old British stamp with a King and Queen’s head on it and it was addressed to ‘Master Desmond Lloyd-Jones c/o Mrs Kane, Ruby Creek, South Australia’.
Opposite, the message read: ‘TO DARLING DESMOND . . . from Mummy with lots of love’.
She flipped over to the picture, a sepia-tinted photograph of some village by a lake.
She picked up his letter with trembling fingers.
Dear Mel
Sorry to spring all this on you but I wondered if you were up to solving the mystery I never got round to sorting in my life. I feel I owe you an explanation . . .
I’ve had this postcard for years. Found it when I was clearing out old Grandma Boyd’s effects. It was stuffed in with Pa’s love letters. She’d kept it for a reason and when I saw the picture and the name, I just knew it was something to do with me. Don’t ask me why, I got a tingle of something, a fuzzy memory that just wouldn’t surface, but when I asked Pa he just laughed and offered to chuck it out. He said she liked the picture. It reminded her of her home in Scotland before the war. I knew he was telling fibs so I kept the postcard, and the other bits.
I don’t recall much how I came to be in Australia. My memories are like shards of broken glass: fragments, flashes of colours in a kaleidoscope. I recall the taste of the metal of a ship’s railings, flaking grey paint, salt spray on my cheeks; these are images that come to me in dreams. Some bits are heavy as lead, dark memories. It’s as if I am peering through a hole in a huge wall at a garden full of flowers. I’m not one for flowery lingo, as you know – don’t know one plant from another – but I can tell the smell of roses anywhere.
I’m not making excuses, but there are memories and bits of my life I’ve worked hard to blot out. Perhaps if I could have faced up, I might have made you proud of me instead of ashamed. The Boyds were kind folk but not ones to lavish the praise and affection I craved. It was your mom who opened my heart. I wish things could have been different for all of us . . . I’m handing on the baton to you. You have a right to know what made me the way I am, warts and all. There’s a Berlin Wall between me and my past.
I know once you get your claws into a job you see it through, but don’t let this interfere with your future. Have a wonderful life. I just hope you are curious. If you can find out who I really am, you’ll know where you belong too. The answers are out there somewhere but time may not be on your side.
Remember I never stopped loving you both, so forgive the apology who was your father, Lew.
The room swam around Mel as the tears flowed for all the misunderstandings and arguments they’d had in the past. Now she was completely alone.
Eventually, she gathered herself to see what else the box contained. At the bottom were swimming badges, snapshots, a postcard of some old-fashioned lady in a cartwheel hat smiling up at her, and a medal, its ribbon faded, its inscription in a foreign language.
For one angry moment, she wanted to ditch the whole box of tricks into the bin. What had all this junk got to do with her? Why should she burden her new life in London with a search for mystery ancestors? She knew in her heart, however, that she could not let her father down.
Perhaps fate was taking her to England for a reason.
Darling boy. Mummy is safe and coming home to you soon.
Part One
CALLIE
1923–45
When they being the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender
It brings back the night of tropical splendour
It brings back a memory evergreen.
‘Begin the Beguine’, lyrics by Cole Porter, 1935
1
Caroline came tearing through the wood down the path from the walled garden of Dalradnor Lodge, bent and holding her bleeding knee from climbing the Witch’s Broomstick, which Niven Laird said was made by the devil. She knew it was only an old bent branch covered in knots but it had skelped her just the same, and that hurt. She didn’t want the twins to see her crying so she shot off home so Marthe would make it better. And she was starving.
