The Postcard by Leah Fleming Page B

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