The Postcard (18 page)
‘Did your trip go well? You never wrote or rang,’ she scolded.
‘Too busy now I’m going to open an office in Haifa.’
‘This is news! Do we have to move, then?’ she replied with a surge of relief. Perhaps this was the solution to everything.
‘No, nothing like that, but I’ll be on the road. I’ve bought a new car. Come and look. Wait till you see its open-top roof, perfect for those long desert roads.’
Callie went cold. ‘Does that mean you’ll be staying out there?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll come back when I can. Got to get things up and going. Arabs can be such slackers if there’s no one cracking the whip.’
‘So you’re taking on staff? I could help, too,’ she offered. If they worked together she might understand his business better.
‘You stay here by the telephone, my eyes and ears in Cairo . . . come and see my new baby.’
Callie was dragged round to the back of the house to admire a sleek American roadster painted olive green, with a canvas roof. ‘This looks expensive.’ She sighed.
‘Only the best. Got to look the part. It gives customers confidence when I turn up with this little honey.’
‘It’s very nice,’ she lied, feeling sick at how much he must have spent on the purchase.
‘Nice! Is that all you can say?’ Toby snapped. They walked back indoors in silence.
‘I’m going to miss you . . . and talking of babies . . .’ She paused to gather herself to seize the moment. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we had one of our own?
It would be company for me if you’re going to be away so much.’
‘All in good time. You know how I feel about other folk’s brats . . . not sure I could cope with one of my own.’
‘But I’d be the one looking after it,’ she continued, knowing it was now or never to have this discussion.
‘And I’d have to fund the nurses and school fees and all that stuff.’
‘Are you saying you don’t want children ever?’ She felt suddenly cold, not wanting to hear his reply.
‘Now don’t start going all broody on me. How can we make babies if I’m away?’ he laughed, completely failing to read her desperation.
‘I could come to Haifa with you, make trips for two instead of one,’ she smiled, knowing they would then have to sleep together.
‘Wouldn’t work. I work alone, always have. Anyway, you knew my feelings on the matter from the start.’ Toby poured himself a drink. ‘Want one?’
Callie shook her head, suddenly flattened. ‘I thought you’d change your mind. I thought children were a natural part of a marriage,’ she offered.
‘Not in my book. Smelly nappies, puking, sour milk stains, screaming in the night – not my ideas of fun.’
It was the reply she dreaded, but she was too shocked to protest further. A stone weight landed heavy on her heart as she realized Toby meant what he said. He was a spoiled selfish brat who did
what he wanted without consulting her. And he liked life as it was. Why had she been so blind to his self-centred world? As he sat there, slouched on the sofa, she saw him through a clear lens for
the first time. To save this marriage the choices were grim. She must accept his decision and either live with it or walk way. Persuading him to see her point of view was not going to happen. She
sat paralysed with disappointment.
‘Now don’t go all quiet on me, darling. I’ll take you out tonight to celebrate your return.’
‘No, thank you. Let’s just stay in for a change and make the most of our time together while we can.’ She smiled, but it was a bitter smile filled with shock and uncertainty.
It was as if they were now waving at each other from opposite banks of a river, which had suddenly risen up to divide them. There was no bridge in sight.
Dear Marthe
I hardly know how to write this, but you of all people will look on my words with forgiveness. I came to Cairo with such hopes of happiness with Toby, but now I have fallen in love with a
wonderful man who is everything my husband is not: cultured, gentle and very clever. He is Belgian, would you believe, the very young man I first met all those years ago, and now I feel as if
I’ve known him all my life.
My husband works away. He is always busy making and losing money. He doesn’t want us to have children. He hates them. I have tried to change his mind but he is adamant and I feel so
cheated, so lonely and so desperate. My new love fills the empty space in my heart. We met again by chance. I didn’t intend to betray my vows, such as they were – made not before
God in a church but on board ship – but I cannot live a lie.
Ferrand lectures in the university and I have work in the city. He sought me out through friends to renew our friendship and we have found a rendezvous in a quiet tearoom where we can
lunch in private. Then we go back to his apartment for siesta time. I have such peace when I am with him. My French is improving by the hour.
I know you will be disappointed in me. For you there is no ending to a marriage, and it is for the procreation of children. Toby has always insisted we take precautions to prevent this
natural process so our loving times have gradually faded away to nothing. I fear he finds comfort elsewhere.
I came to the city with such expectations. After three years, I do not feel that anything much has been achieved by my being here. Believe me, I have tried to make it work but our house is
not a home, just a joyless residence. I feel so ashamed to have failed, but it takes two to make a marriage work and I fear Toby has been tired of the bonds of wedlock for some time. He acts
like the bachelor he’s always been.
I don’t understand why this is so but I suspect it is something to do with his upbringing in Wales. In all the time we have been here, he’s not had so much as a Christmas card
from his family, and when I ask him about them, the only answer I get is: ‘The past is my business and it’s passed.’ What I to do? I feel so torn. Do I abandon my new chance
of happiness and stay in a loveless marriage, or do I burn my anchored boat and sail off to be with Ferrand? Divorce is such an ugly word.
Please write and tell me what to do. I can’t ask my mother. She did warn me I was making a big mistake and now I know how right she was. Perhaps it’s better that I walk away
and return home for a while to think things through but I no longer know where home is.
Your loving desperate friend,
Callie
The lovers were lying in bed in Ferrand’s apartment on the Isle of Zamalek. His room had high ceilings with a fan whirring the air, tall bookshelves filled with art
books, interesting ornaments, copper bowls and ancient artefacts. The shutters were closed against the world as Ferrand rested his arm on the pillow, gazing down at Callie.
‘I’ll never get used to this. Each time is so special, so very natural. I wish you wouldn’t get dressed and go back. What is there to go back to but an empty house?’
‘Because I must, just in case Toby returns unexpectedly.’
‘It’s weeks since you last saw him. He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘He’s my husband and I owe him some loyalty.’
‘You owe him nothing, not now. You were too young when you married him; people grow apart. It happens.’ He kissed her lips as if to make the point, but Callie was not convinced.
‘I feel as old as Methuselah sometimes, weary of all this hiding away, but Toby told me discretion is everything. I owe him that at least.’
‘So why does he live in Haifa and not invite you to join him? I want us to be together. My contract here ends soon and I’m not sure I want to renew it. Maman has not been well.
Jean-Luc is busy and Karel is a priest. Things are hotting up back home, I fear. It’s time to go back and I want you to come with me, Callie.’
‘That’s impossible. Your mother would never accept me. A divorced English Protestant for her son? Never!’
‘You are not marrying my mother. She will learn to love you as I do. I’ll not rush you, but perhaps our time in Cairo has come to its natural end. It has served its purpose in
bringing us here to find each other again. I still can’t believe what luck that was.’ Ferrand smiled his mischievous warm smile, which melted Callie’s resolve and left her wanting
more of him every day.
‘I must do this correctly,’ she said. She must discuss everything with Toby in private when he was sober and then see a lawyer about a permanent separation. People kept up
appearances here; discretion was everything. ‘I hope only Monica knows about us.’
‘If you believe that . . .’ he sighed. ‘This is a small village,
ma chérie.
Everyone knows everything. Servants talk, gossip fuels more gossip . . . but that
shouldn’t concern us. We have to be together. Life is too short to live apart. Who knows what is round the corner if Germany starts marching west?’ He kissed her again, pushing her back
down, but Callie rolled away.
‘I have to go. I love you so much. I thought I loved Toby but that was just a rehearsal for this wondrous thing.’ She dressed hurriedly and made for the door. ‘I don’t
think I could’ve survived this past year without being with you every afternoon. There has to be a way out with dignity and mutual consent. Can’t think how . . . but I’m going to
try.’
That was the trouble. Toby was seldom there to discuss anything, and when he was he was tiddly, restless, wanting them to go out in his sports car to the Gezira. It was the last place she felt
comfortable. Monica and Ken were camping out in the desert, taking photographs of Nomadic tribes. They did so much together. The only time Callie arranged for her and Toby to sail up the Nile on a
cruise, Toby got a bout of sandfly fever and was in hospital for two weeks, furious with her for messing up his schedules.
When Callie returned to the bungalow, Hassan was waiting on the veranda, wringing his hands. ‘Madam, you have visitors. They are police, I think.’
She rushed into the drawing room where two men in linen suits stood up. ‘Mrs Lloyd-Jones? Sorry to trouble you. We’re from the British Legation.’
‘What’s wrong? Is it Toby . . . an accident?’ She felt weak and sat down.
‘Nothing like that, just an enquiry. When will Mr Tobias Jones return from work?’
‘I’m not sure. He’s in Haifa. He never lets me know till the last minute,’ she said, puzzled by the formal use of his name. ‘Can I help you? Do sit down. Hassan
will bring some tea.’ She summoned the servant and gave him orders, trying not to shake.
‘There are certain legal matters we need to discuss with your husband, matters outstanding.’
‘Has he not being paying his taxes . . .? He is very forgetful,’ she said apologetically.
‘No, it’s a question of the legality of certain documents. Our clients have made complaints. They handed over sums for the purchase of shares in the Delta Property Development
Company and nothing has been forthcoming. They’ve rung the offices to no avail, and now we find those offices have been vacated with no forwarding address.’
‘I don’t understand. Toby said he was opening a second office in Haifa and you say he’s closed the Cairo one? I don’t understand.’ Callie’s hands were shaking
as she tried to pour the tea.
‘There is a suspicion that he has taken money from clients and so far they have received no confirmation of the purchase of shares. Furthermore, the land said to be developed has,
according to our inquiries, no permissions for any development.’
‘You mean that he’s defrauded them?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Jones. You do have your husband’s contact address in Haifa?’
‘No. He told me he was working from hotels until he found somewhere permanent. He usually rings me from hotels.’ Suddenly, Callie felt their eyes were sharply fixed on her, staring
at her with suspicion. ‘I know it sound irregular but he’s always been on the move and I’ve had no reason not to trust him.’ Her heart was hammering now. Did they think she
was involved? They must be wondering how a wife could not know where her husband worked.
‘You do realize there is no registered office for his company? Mr Jones has a lot of explaining to do. Are you part of his business enterprise too?’
Callie shook her head. She must think clearly. ‘He’s never involved me in anything. I’m as mystified as you are. He’s never allowed me to help in his paper work. I had a
part-time post with Jarrolds recruitment offices until recently.’
‘Did you ever wonder where all your husband’s moneys came from?’
‘Well, none of it came here, as you can see.’ She gestured with annoyance. ‘This is a rented furnished property; the other furnishings I bought myself. I’ve always kept
to a tight budget. There is no money. Though he did buy a big car . . . behind my back, as it happens.’
‘Do you have moneys of your own, Mrs Jones?’
‘Only in England: a trust from my late father . . .’
‘And you’ve never signed anything over to Mr Jones?’
‘No . . .’ She paused as a terrible sinking realization struck her. ‘There was a form recently he asked me to sign. I never really read through it. He said it was just a tax
form. You don’t think—’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Over three years,’ she croaked, her throat tight with the tension mounting.
‘And you have family here to vouch for you?’
‘We have no children. My family is in London. You might as well know I eloped with Toby against their wishes. I’ve never met one relation of his. They have an estate somewhere in
mid-Wales, I think.’
‘Is that what he told you? Interesting . . . From our records we find that his father is the Reverend Obediah Jones, a Baptist preacher in Cardiff. His family disowned him after he stole
his mother’s jewellery and ran away from his boarding school with the under matron.’
Callie sat back in shock. ‘It’s all lies then?’ she cried. ‘Everything he’s told me is lies?’
‘I’m afraid so. We have reason to believe that your husband got wind of the complaints and has headed from Palestine, maybe to Istanbul on a false passport. I’m sorry to bring
this to your attention. We had to check just how you stood in all this. I would advise you to find someone to represent you, should clients make a claim on your estate. These are serious
allegations: obtaining money by deception, forging signatures, issuing false documents – clever stuff but criminal offences.’