It was like unexpectedly finding a treasure chest of memories. It meant so much to see Jeannie’s handwriting again, too. Yes, some of the postcards were scandalous, but they were so over-the-top that Eliza suspected her mother had invented details purely to amuse or startle Olivia and Maxie. Jeannie had never been coy about discussing sex with her, either, had she? She’d loved to shock.

Her mother hadn’t just written about her various male conquests. Eliza found out exactly where Jeannie had travelled during that year in Europe. Where she’d stayed. The different people she’d met. The many adventures she’d had. Eliza had also read more than she could have hoped about someone else.

The man who might be her father.

Why had Maxie and Olivia been so worried about her reading the postcards? They were wonderful! Who to ring first? To thank first? She called Olivia.

‘I’ve read them all,’ she said as soon as her godmother answered.

‘Are you okay?’

She laughed. ‘I’m better than okay. Olivia, it was like she was back with me, beside me. Telling me new story after story about her time here, all of her travels. I can’t believe it. Her best friend wasn’t a girl called Emma, was it? It was Emmet. An Irishman called Emmet. She mentions him in loads of the postcards. She says she was going to try to talk him into coming to Australia. Olivia, it’s Emmet, isn’t it? Emmet is my father.’

‘I don’t know, Eliza.’

‘But you must know. She must have told you.’

‘She didn’t. She always told us she would tell you everything first.’

‘I’m going to get the sleeper train back to Edinburgh tomorrow night. I’ll be back at the hotel by eight-thirty the next morning. We can talk about it all together then. Thank you both so much. I can’t wait!’

There was only a brief hesitation. ‘Neither can we,’ Olivia said.

*

Eliza was too distracted now to keep packing up the flat. She’d already made a good start. It was time for a break. Olivia had told her to be sure to do some sightseeing while she was here. As she carefully tied the shoelace around the precious bundle of postcards again, she knew exactly where she would go.

She borrowed a paper map she’d found in Maxie’s kitchen. She liked how old-fashioned it felt. Perhaps her mother had used maps like this too. She took the long way, across Green Park, past Buckingham Palace, along Birdcage Walk. The gardens were unfurling into colour, the long rows of flower beds being admired by dozens of tourists like her. Squirrels darted in and out of the foliage, posing perfectly for photos. A haze of the brightest green was appearing on the trees.