The Postcard, page 6
J.
Penny thought it could have been worse. It could have been the sack.
She hovered between opening the next two.
She opened the one from Mavis.
TO: Penny Leighton
FROM: Mavis Crewe
SUBJECT: Jack Bradbury
Dearest Penny,
I really cannot deal with Mr Bradbury any longer. What an arrogant bully. Even if I were able to write more Mr Tibbs tales, I would never again let them go to Channel 7.
I can see now why your last email was trying to butter me up. Oh yes, I can tell. I wasn’t born yesterday. The odious Mr Bradbury has been leaning on you, hasn’t he? No wonder you made the wild suggestion that another writer could take over. No no no, my dear. That is never going to happen. Mr Tibbs is my creation and I will never give permission for another writer to take on the franchise while I have the copyright.
I understand this may be inconvenient for you and Penny Leighton Productions, but all good things come to an end, don’t they?
I have adored working with you and am still waiting to hear that you can come and join me on this marvellous cruise. How about hopping over for LA?
With affectionate regards,
Mavis
Penny felt dizzy. Black spots were clouding her vision. She was breathing in little rapid pants. She heard her father’s voice: Keep going, Penny. She wished she had a drink but couldn’t face Simon’s disappointment if he caught her creeping to the fridge.
She concentrated on getting herself calmer then she opened the email from Marion.
TO: Penny Leighton
FROM: Marion Watson
SUBJECT: SUZIE
Darling Pen,
Long time no see and all that. I have received an email from Suzie, which she has asked me to forward to you. She contacted me at my House of Commons address (very easy to find) wondering if I had your contact details. Apparently she has mislaid them. I sent them to her but she wants me to be an intermediary, God knows why, given that she and I only met at sports days and the like, hence my involvement. Being a nosy old cow, I did read it and may I say how very sorry I am to hear of your ma’s death. She was always the most glam of all the mothers at speech day.
Anyway, next time you’re in London drop in. I’d love to show you off in the Stranger’s Dining Room.
Regards,
Marion
Penny scrolled down.
Dear Penny,
Since you lost contact with Mummy and me, I have had to resort to going through Marion as she is a trusted friend of yours.
I’m sorry to break the news in this impersonal way. I would have rather phoned you or come to your home, but since I have no idea where you are, this is the best I can do.
Mummy died. She was very, very brave and was terribly ill at the end. I nursed her myself and friends and neighbours were very kind, bringing in meals. They have all said how marvellous Mummy was and how she wouldn’t have lasted as long as she did if it weren’t for me. I was with her till her last breath. It was so peaceful and such a privilege for me. She died listening to that lovely Schubert that she and Daddy adored. I made sure we played it at her funeral as she left the church for the crematorium.
I thought long and hard whether to contact you before the funeral but, honestly, after we last spoke I think Mummy wouldn’t have wanted you there.
As you can imagine, I am exhausted with it all and, even after all that happened, feel the need to make contact with you again. We are sisters and have been through so much together. Your life has been a lot luckier than mine. You have forged a career and now have a family of your own. I couldn’t have selfishly left Mummy to do what you have done. I forgive you for all the upset of the past and would like to come and visit you. Perhaps in the New Year? I am taking a little sunshine break over Christmas. Doctor’s orders. Too many memories of Mummy … You are my only family and my dearest wish is for us to reach the hands of goodwill towards each other in my bereavement.
Yours truly,
Suzie
Penny’s breathing became ragged again. She clutched at her bed sheets as if the bed was tossing on an open sea and she was to be cast into its chilled depths. Her eyes scanned the horrible words again.
Lost contact. Mummy died. Last breath. Schubert. Funeral. Wouldn’t have wanted you there. I forgive you. Penny had never felt so alone. Not since she had walked away from their last meeting. How could they have held such secrets from her? And Suzie, her sister. Always on target when inflicting emotional pain. Suzie, the sister who had kept the secret that Margot, their mother had shared with her but not with Penny. But the secret had popped out over that terrible lunch a few years ago. No apology. No comfort. A secret that had blind-sided Penny. A secret she still hadn’t processed. A secret she’d swept under the carpet where it could stay.
Would her father have told her the truth?
*
The memories that Penny had kept so tightly locked inside her were flashing back thick and fast, so real it was as if she’d stepped back into the shoes of her younger self. Little Penny standing in the kitchen holding her hands over her ears as her mother scolded, ‘You are responsible … If he dies now … it will be your fault.’ Penny still felt the pain of her mother’s words after almost forty years.
She hadn’t been allowed to visit her father in hospital.
‘He’s very ill. He certainly doesn’t want the stress and noise of a silly little girl like you,’ her mother had said.
Penny had watched as her mother had put Suzie’s little coat on and carried her out to the car.
‘Is Suzie allowed to see Daddy?’ she’d asked.
‘Of course. Daddy wants to see Suzie. She’s a good girl.’
Penny would sit on the monks seat of the small hallway, watching out of the window and waiting until they returned.
‘Is Daddy coming home soon?’ she’d ask.
Her mother would look at her with impatience. ‘Absolutely not. He’s much too ill.’
Then one day the answer was different. ‘The doctors say he can come home tomorrow.’
Penny was filled with happiness. ‘I shall make a coming-home picture for him.’ She ran up to her room and found her crayons and drawing book. She drew a picture of her father wearing his old jumper. He was in the garden and a big smiley sun with curly rays was over his head. Behind him was the greenhouse with red blobs of ripe tomatoes and long green cucumbers. She wrote welcome home daddy xxxxx across the fluffy clouds and along the bottom by Penny Leighton age 7.
She kept it under her bed as a surprise for the next day.
Penny had been waiting impatiently for her mother’s car to pull into the drive. When it did, she opened the front door and rushed to meet her father. She stopped a few feet away as she saw him climb out. His perpetual suntan had faded and his clothes were loose on him, but as soon as he saw her he beamed and spread his arms out wide. ‘Penny,’ he said lovingly, ‘I’ve missed you.’
She ran to him and hugged him close, his stomach soft on her face, ‘Have you missed your old dad?’ he asked, ruffling the top of her hair.
‘I have. I wanted to see you but Mummy said you were too ill and that I’d get you over excited.’ Her words were muffled by his jacket and her tears.
‘Did she? Well, I think you would have been the best medicine. I feel better already just seeing you.’ He took her hand and together they walked to the front door.
The daily, Linda, came out on to the step. ‘Welcome home, Mr Leighton. I’ve got the kettle on.’
Margot had caught up now, carrying a small suitcase and Suzie. She thrust both at Linda. ‘I’ll do the tea. If you could just put Mr Leighton’s case upstairs, in the spare room, and see to Suzie, please.’
Linda did as she was asked.
‘Come and sit in your chair, Daddy.’ Penny led her father to the sunny drawing room that ran the length of the house. At one end you could see the front garden and the road and at the other end the back garden. His chair was facing the back garden. Mike sat and patted the arm for Penny to sit on. ‘So, Pen, have you been looking after my greenhouse?’
‘Mummy said I wasn’t to touch it.’
‘Well, we’ll go and have a look later, shall we?’ He held her hand and squeezed it.
‘Oh, that reminds me …’ Penny jumped down. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
When she came back, Margot was fussing with teacups and plates of bread and butter. ‘Here you are, Daddy.’ Penny handed him her drawing. ‘I did it for you last night.’
He took it and admired it carefully. ‘You’ve got it all just right. My old jumper, the greenhouse … And I love the sun shining down.’
Penny glowed with this praise.
Margot admonished her. ‘Penny, don’t just sit there, help with the tea.’ She helped to pass round the little plates and gave Suzie her beaker of milk. ‘Mummy, Daddy says we can go and look at the greenhouse together later.’
Margot looked incredulous. ‘Look at the greenhouse? Oh no you won’t. Either of you. The doctor has told Daddy to take things easy which means no more digging and lugging heavy watering cans around.’
‘But I can do that for him,’ smiled Penny, thrilled with the idea of helping her father. ‘Can’t I, Daddy?’
Mike smiled at his wife. ‘Seeing to the greenhouse isn’t hard work; and anyway, the doctor said I need to take exercise to keep me fitter.’
‘No,’ said Margot flatly. ‘The greenhouse is too much and I’d never be able to trust you again. As soon as my back is turned you’ll be smoking again and worse.’
Mike chuckled and gave Margot one of his most handsome glances. ‘Come on, old thing. A man is allowed the odd bit of fun.’
She remained impervious. ‘In case you have forgotten, you nearly died because of your secret smoking and drinking.’
Two bright spots of colour formed on his cheeks. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he said angrily.
‘Now don’t lose your temper. I’m trying to help you,’ said Margot.
‘Help me? Castrate me you mean.’
‘Drink your tea and calm down. You know you’re not to get agitated.’
Penny watched this exchange with mounting anxiety. ‘Mummy. Daddy. Stop.’
Margot sniffed and sat on an upright chair, balancing her teacup on her lap. Mike looked out of the window at his greenhouse and drained his cup. ‘Penny, put this on the table, would you, darling?’ He handed her the empty cup and stood up. ‘I’m going to have a look at my greenhouse,’ he said. ‘Care to come with me, Pen?’
She glanced quickly at her mother who was finding the toe of her shoe fascinating.
Penny took her father’s hand. As they got to the kitchen and unlocked the back door they heard her mother shout bitterly, ‘Take a good look. I’ve got a man coming to take it down tomorrow.’
*
Penny leant back against her pillows feeling the familiar tears pricking her eyes. Why were these memories flooding back now? Drowning her. The death of a parent? The fact that she hadn’t shared the truth with a soul? The opening of old wounds? The fear of what would happen next? Or just a deep dark sorrow …
*
ELLA
At exactly the same time in London, Ella was wiping tears away too. Tears of fury and frustration because of her mother, her irresponsible, unreliable mother, who had left her and her not-much-older brother, Henry, two tiny children, with their grandmother and disappeared to God knew where. Ella blamed her mother for the early death of her darling granny – after all, she had worried night and day about where her daughter had disappeared to, as well as being left in sole charge of two young children. But Granny had devoted every breathing moment to making their childhood magical.
Ella thought back to a time when she was about eight years old and she and Granny were walking on Shellsand Beach looking for shells.
‘I want you to find the prettiest, the smallest, the most colourful and the biggest,’ Granny had said. Ella had dashed down to the rock pools and begun scrabbling through the seaweed and sand. Something caught her eye. ‘Granny!’ she shouted excitedly. ‘I think I’ve found a hermit crab. Look.’
Her grandmother was settled on a dry piece of sand. She was sitting on a beach towel and wearing her usual garb of blue linen trousers and fisherman’s smock, faded through sun and wear. ‘Put it in your bucket and show me,’ she called back.
Ella had some trouble catching the little hermit crab that sidled speedily under a cloud of seaweed, but eventually she got him and trundled up the beach, trying not to slop the bucket. ‘Look, Granny.’
Her grandmother always took the time to examine treasures fully. ‘Oh yes. He’s a beaut. What shall we call him?’ she asked.
‘How about Crabby?’
‘Perfect. Crabby he is. I’ll look after him while you find me those shells.’
Ella smiled at the memory. How she missed her grandmother. There was nothing to miss about her mother, who just hadn’t been there.
Straightening her shoulders and wiping her eyes, Ella called Henry’s mobile. ‘Hey, it’s me. Granny’s solicitor in Trevay has just called. He thinks he may have another lead on Mum’s whereabouts.’
She heard Henry swear under his breath. ‘Hasn’t she done enough damage? If they find her she’ll swoop in and inherit everything. Granny will be spinning in her grave.’
7
Getting up the next morning, Penny couldn’t remember when she’d had more than a two-hour run of sleep. She felt weak and dizzy most of the time. Her appetite had drifted and her eating had become chaotic. Jenna was the centre of her being and yet she was being grizzly and difficult and Penny had started to berate herself for being a terrible mother. Simon, who was caught up in his preparations for Christmas and all the needs of his flock, hadn’t appreciated how low she was until last night.
Penny had had too much wine and accused him of ignoring the most important commandment of all. ‘Remember, do unto others as you would have them do unto you!’ she shouted at him. ‘Would you love me more if I dressed up as Mary and slept in the garage with Jenna in the wheelbarrow? Chuck in a couple of sheep and an angel or two then we’d have your full attention?’
‘Penny,’ he said, ‘you and Jenna are my top priority but I’m a vicar and this is one of the busiest times of the year for me.’
She clung to him, starting to cry. ‘It’s busy for me too. Christmas is less than four weeks away and I haven’t done anything. No presents. No cards. No tree. No husband to help me.’
Simon had held her tight. ‘OK, my love, OK. You tell me what you’d like me to do and I’ll do it.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise,’ he’d said.
Penny drooped down the stairs and sat at the bottom to listen out for Jenna who was settling down for her morning sleep. Satisfied that all was quiet she hauled herself to her feet and made her way to the office. She was exhausted mentally and emotionally but, with wearying inevitability, she knew she had an email to write.
To: Mavis Crewe
From: Penny Leighton
Subject: The Mr Tibbs Mysteries
Dear Mavis,
I can’t tell you how upset I am by your decision but I will honour it. In the next day or two I shall talk to David Cunningham and Dahlia Dahling’s agents and let them know that there is to be no more Mr Tibbs. David and Dahlia have worked so hard on their lead characters and I know they will be as distraught as I am seeing Mr Tibbs and Miss Trumpet leave our screens. I shall have to work on a press release that will go out once all the cast and production team have received the news.
On a personal note, I can’t express how much I shall miss you. Your friendship has meant a lot to me. However, as you said, all good things come to an end and I guess this is the end.
With fondest memories,
Penny.
She pressed send and quickly wrote another email, this time to Jack Bradbury, confirming that she accepted Mr Tibbs was no more and that she would not be presenting Channel 7 with plans for a future series.
In the kitchen she opened the fridge and took out an opened bottle of Chablis. She looked at the kitchen clock. Just after eleven fifteen. She reached for a wine glass. The bottle of wine was cool in her hand and, as she pulled out the cork the nostalgic smells of hot, uncomplicated summers assaulted her. She poured just half a glass. That would be plenty to take the edge off. She pulled her chair, with the soft cashmere cushion on it, out from under the table and sat down. She put the glass to her mouth and drank. The wine slid down like oil into a rusted engine. She could feel her body waking to its silky caress and took another mouthful; almost as good as the first; and another, until the glass was empty. She went to the fridge and took a last refill from the bottle. With every sip a new fear tripped into her mind: how could she ever be a good mother when her own mother had hated her? When her sister hated her so much? She sat and closed her eyes, hoping it would help shut out the memories. She knew there was another bottle in the fridge. Maybe just one more glass? The more she drank, the more relaxed she became, and the more it didn’t matter. She stood up and knocked her chair backwards, making a loud clatter. ‘Shhhhh,’ she said to the empty room, ‘mustn’t wake Jenna.’ She took the remains of the bottle to the fridge. Her legs felt wobbly. ‘Oh Penny,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘you’re pissed. You need a little lie down on the sofa. Just forty winks.’
*
Penny had come home from school and her mother was sitting in the drawing room looking wronged. ‘Hello, Mummy, are you OK?’ asked Penny.
Her mother shot her a look. ‘The doctor says your father needs a holiday. He needs a holiday? What about me? I’m the one who has suffered. I need a holiday more than he does.’
Penny went to put her hand on her mother’s knee. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll swim with him and you can get some rest.’
‘You’re not coming.’
Penny was baffled. ‘But Daddy likes to swim with me.’
‘You are staying with your aunt and uncle. You have school to go to. Daddy, Suzie and I are going to the south of France where it is warm.’ She pushed Penny’s hand away. ‘God knows how we can afford it.’
