The Postcard by Leah Fleming

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