Thank goodness the ever-bulging wallet of photographs and information they had gleaned over the past year was safe in her bag. Out came all the postcards, letters and photos, including a family
group taken with Sandra, her mother, before she died in the road accident.
Karel snatched them all up. ‘Yes, yes, that’s him as I remember him. He was the best looking of us boys, so like Maman.’ His face was radiant with surprise.
‘No, that’s my father taken before my mother died in an accident. He looks about forty.’
The old man stared at the photo as if in another world, a past world, in happier times by the smile on his face. ‘Little did we know how it would all be destroyed. How is Caroline? She
suffered, too, in the war in those terrible camps, lost and forgotten, hoping Ferrand was still alive waiting for her. It was me who had to tell her he was dead and see the light go out of her
eyes. Then she gave me hope, telling me of his son, who was safe in England, the son she was hoping to show to him. We wrote for a while and then nothing more. He is so like his father. I would
like to meet him.’
Mel felt the tears coming as she swallowed. ‘My father passed away last year. He wanted me to find out more about his early life. All I know is he came to Australia with his nursemaid and
his mother came after him, but he stayed there. I don’t know any more.’
‘Mais oui,
that was the last letter she wrote. She told me he was taken from her. Caroline would never leave her boy. The thought of him kept her alive in the camp. All she wanted
was to get back to him so they might be together, but now you have come and kept her promise to return. Thank you – and I didn’t even catch your name.’
‘Melissa Alexandra Boyd. Louis was my father, but I never knew this Caroline; nor did he.’ She could hardly speak for emotion as Karel held out his hand to her.
‘Sometimes circles are completed by those who follow after us. I thought we van Grootens were all lost and then I find Caroline has a son and now that lost son has a daughter. That is how
the wheel turns, my dear. My circle rolls to its end and yours is just beginning.’ He paused as the strain of speaking took its toll. ‘Thank you, thank you. You give me peace. Caroline
will be very proud to know all this too.’
Mel turned to Mark. How could she tell the old priest that Caroline had played no part in her life, that she’d not even bothered to search her out? ‘We are tiring you with all these
questions,’ she said instead.
Karel turned to Mark with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Take care of my great-niece. I see my maman in her beautiful face: stubborn but strong, eh?’
Mark nodded.
‘Mais oui, exactement, Monsieur.’
‘You will send me a picture of Caroline and give her my good wishes? I have never forgotten her sad face or her courage. She will be old like me, and the old need the young to help them
turn the wheel on its last cycle. Bless you, Melissa, on your journey. May God keep you both safe.’
They left him smiling at his silent benediction.
‘You have to find her now if only to tell her you have met Louis’s uncle. We must go back over the records and see if she is still alive. Perhaps she’s in a home too, but she
must be on an electoral role. Pensions, tax returns, we are all traceable these days, and the Web might help us speed up this search.’ Mark was talking through the options. ‘We’re
so near and yet so far.’
‘What’s with the “we”? This is my search, not yours?’ Melissa blurted out her resentment.
‘Why do you always snap when I offer to help?’
‘I’m used to doing things on my own.’
‘But isn’t it more fun when you love someone to share things together?’ He tried to catch her hand but she withdrew it as they marched across the hotel lawn.
‘This isn’t fun, it’s serious now, and I’d rather manage solo. It’s my family. Oh, don’t look like that . . . I’m really grateful for all you’ve
done but when I get back I’ve got decisions to make. Do I go for a teaching post or go with the agent and try to make a career here, or back home?’
‘What’s this got to do with finding Caroline? You have just had the best news about her and now you want to rush back and think about other stuff. I was going to ask if you’d
like to move in with me now Sarah’s left London.’
‘To share expenses? I hope you’re not expecting me to do your ironing.’ Mel laughed, but Mark was not amused.
‘What’s got into you? It’s only a thought. We’ve had such a wonderful holiday . . .’ Mark stopped in his tracks to challenge her.
‘I’m not ready to move in with anybody. I need to stay close to college, find a good accompanist. You don’t want to hear me caterwauling night and day. Let’s keep things
as they are.’
‘Am I hearing a “don’t ring me, I’ll ring you” arrangement? Fine, no strings, no commitments, I get the message. London is expensive to live on your own; I just
thought—’
‘Oh, don’t keep hammering on about it. Let’s forget it . . .’
This was not how Mel wanted to end this important day. Why was she always doing this, keeping her lovers at arm’s length? Father Karel had given her so much to think about. Perhaps
Caroline was not the awful mother she’d assumed. He’d talked about her with such concern and love, about her courage and her loss. Now Mel’s mind was buzzing with all the
information just as Mark leaped in with his offer.
She knew she ought to be grateful for all his help but all she was feeling was fear. She was too young for a serious live-in relationship. Why couldn’t he keep things light-hearted and
casual?
As they sat on the terrace with their pre-dinner apéritif, she saw the disappointment in his eyes. Better they had this out now, even if it meant a parting of the ways.
Mel stared out over the dusk towards the lake with a sigh. Had Caroline sat here with her lover?
Was my father conceived here?
When it came to finding her grandmother, she knew it was
something she must do for herself, but how would she react now if this woman was no longer alive?
They dined in silence and retired early. Mel couldn’t sleep, feeling the first chill of autumn in the air between them, knowing their holiday together was over. Whatever might happen in
London was no longer certain. Sometimes, what is not said or done speaks loudest of all. She needed to be alone now to sort out her future plans, which had to include one last effort to locate her
grandmother before it was too late.
The search for Caroline drew yet another blank when she tried to find out through the estate agent dealing with the letting of Dalradnor Lodge. He just gave her the name of
some firm of lawyers in London to contact, saying they were the sole representatives of a trust. She felt like Sherlock Holmes, trying to discount one false lead after another, and time was running
out. Mel really wished Mark was there to cut corners for her, but they’d only met once since their holiday, to go to the theatre with pre-arranged tickets. He’d promised to come to her
first recital out of town but she’d not reminded him and he wasn’t there.
There were new students across the landing from her flat but she didn’t mix with them. Angie had got a place with an orchestra and Cilla was busy auditioning for the chorus of Opera North.
Soon they’d all be scattered. Somehow, Mel had lost that hunger to be an operatic diva. She found she preferred solo work with choral societies, but fees were modest and teaching as well was
essential.
Adelaide seemed so far away – too far to go for Christmas – and she wanted to experience another Dingley Dell winter with a carol concert, a walk in the park, a pantomime and, of
course, snow. The other Aussies in college would bring a bit of cheer with their annual party, but it was not the same as back home.
She’d made an appointment with the lawyers, Benson, Harlow and Ford, after school. All she could offer were verbatim anecdotes, photos and a copy of her father’s baptism record with
his birth certificate from the General Register Office for Scotland. This gave her his actual date of birth for the first time. Jess had made sure he’d celebrated on the right day. Louis
Ferrand was not named as the father but, as in the baptismal register she’d seen in Scotland, the first husband, Tobias, marked as deceased.
Having explained her mission to a stern-faced secretary, she was slotted into an office and told to wait.
‘Miss Boardman,’ said a young girl carrying a file, who appeared five minutes later and looked barely old enough to be out of school, ‘or Mrs Lloyd-Jones is, as far as we are
aware, the sole heir to the estate according to the last will of Miss Faye. They were estranged and under the rules of
bona vacantia
, the estate will revert to the Government in due course
if the legitimate heir is not found. There is no legal marriage certificate for Caroline Rosslyn Boardman and Tobias Lloyd-Jones but you have shown us evidence of an heir.’
‘That’s Desmond Louis, my father.’
‘Yes, we know this, but you say he is deceased, which makes you . . . but if this Caroline is still alive . . .’
‘I didn’t come here about moneys. I just want to find her.’
‘Wouldn’t we all, but she is proving very difficult to trace, even with her unusual second name. There is no evidence she is deceased, from our researches.’
If these experts couldn’t find her, how could Mel? Her only chance left was Caroline’s war record. Karel had told her she was a camp survivor. There must be army records, but how
could she circumnavigate red tape? Mark would have helped in this but she’d let him go. She wasn’t going to use him just to get information through the back door. There had to be
another way.
It was Cilla who suggested she try the World Wide Web and put in a request online.
It was a revelation just how many surfers responded to her request with some very strange suggestions and offers of personal services that had nothing to do with online heir hunting. There were
a couple of gems in the undergrowth suggesting she try the women’s armed services: the WAAF, ATS and FANY, but this would prove a mammoth task.
Nobody recognized Caroline Boardman, or Lloyd-Jones even, when she mentioned St Margaret’s School. This was getting too much, but she sensed an urgency hard to explain. Her father appeared
in her dreams, smiling and waving and beckoning her, but she could never hear what he was saying.
The next choral performance was
Messiah
and she must step up her rehearsals with her voice coach to be ready in time, so she was too busy now to carry on researching. She even thought
of hiring a private detective but the fees were way out of her budget. In addition she had an absess forming under a tooth and the pain quickly became so distracting that she simply had to see the
dentist.
As she sat in the dental surgery looking at the other grim-faced patients trying to relax, staring at the gold fish in the tank, she flipped through the dog-eared magazines, all so out of date,
curled round the edges, with all the crosswords filled in. There were the usual celebrity mags, the
Field
,
Horse and Hound
and a tatty copy of the
Lady.
She turned the
pages just for something to do, but her eye was caught by an article on horse rescue shelters. There were harrowing photographs of before and after ponies and donkeys, an article on animal welfare
charities, and one about the Madge Cottesloe Trust in Herefordshire.
Melissa would never know what made her eye glance at the bottom of the appeal advertisement where she caught the name and address of the Appeals Treasurer: Caroline Rosslyn.
‘It can’t be!’ She spoke so loud everyone stared at her as her name was called through the Tannoy. ‘Got you!’ she whispered, clutching the magazine to her chest
with satisfaction. ‘This has to be you.’
Callie couldn’t shake off this cold. It was making her feel weak, tired and out of sorts. It must be the frost and chill of late November and all those dark mornings as
she prepared the buckets of feed for the stable. The horses were safe indoors but the water trough was frozen. She piled on her fleece and boots and thick Barbour jacket, but she couldn’t get
warm.
The AGA had gone out. The oil tank was empty, but she had a kettle to boil up water and a hot plate of sorts, though she didn’t feel hungry.
‘Be sensible, old girl, and wrap up. Lots of warm drinks, and where’s your trilby?’ she told herself. She knew all the dangers of hypothermia, but why was any action such an
effort?
Animals must come first. Vera and Roger Hayes, who lived in Little Brierley village, would come out later to exercise the horses even if it was just a few circuits round the yard. Then there was
the donkey shed to check up in the field. If she was careful she could see to that herself. The fresh air might liven her up and put some feeling in her leaden feet. If only she could get rid of
this thumping headache. It was hard to raise herself from her chair.
There might be post to collect from the box at the end of the lane with more donations from their latest appeal. Money trickled in, but not enough to keep things going for much longer. If this
shortfall each month carried on, the horses would have to be rehomed elsewhere, but all the rescue shelters she knew were bursting with rejects.
‘Don’t go worrying about that,’ she chided her weary spirit. ‘Just get on with your chores, shift yourself. There’s no time for lounging about.’
Callie dragged herself across to the kitchen sink, turning the tap on. There was nothing coming through. Damn and blast, the pipes had frozen and she couldn’t even make herself a warm
drink unless there was some limey water left in the furred-up kettle.
She stared across at the bottle of wine on the dresser shelf. It had stood there gathering dust for years, a reminder that she was only one glass away from a drink if she chose. Even the bottle
held no allure at this time of the morning.
‘Come on, buck up. What would Madge think to see slackers in the ranks?’
The weight of her thick Barbour and boots seemed to be dragging all the strength out of her legs as she headed out the kitchen door. She took the iron shovel to bang on the surface of the ice in
the water trough, but as she lifted it a tight band of pain squeezed her chest like a tourniquet and she doubled up, breathless, shocked at the intensity of such an unexpected attack.