It is no secret to readers of this magazine, even to members of the wider public, that the lives of the aristocracy are often chequered to say the least. We are all familiar with the antics of the 4th Earl of Ribchester and his peculiar interests and, of course, our own Royal Family has experienced more than its share of mishaps, well documented in the media.
Of course this publication, indeed this commentator, does not favour scandal of this sort. The aristocracy are there to be revered, held aloft as ambassadors, their position privileged and one not to be taken lightly. There is nothing so unsavoury as to gloat at the downfall of those in a position of influence.
It is then, with a heavy heart and no small degree of genuine regret that I report to you the passing of Lady Edith Cattermole, only daughter and heir of the fifth Lord Cattermole of Hertfordshire, himself a regular contributor of poetry and musings to this very publication until his unfortunate death in the early part of the twentieth century. But there are already numerous volumes documenting Lord Cattermole’s life so, for now, allow me to focus upon his late daughter, Edith.
Born at the turn of the twentieth century only a few years prior to her father’s passing, Edith Cattermole was Lord and Lady Cattermole’s only child. Her life was one of privilege and status and she was brought up in the regal surroundings of Castle Torrance, rising majestically to overlook the nearby river and surrounded by extensive parkland.
Of course, as many readers will doubtless know, Torrance is not a castle in the strictest sense. While its character cannot be questioned and its towers and bastions do put one in mind of a great fortress, Torrance’s triumphal entrance is, in fact, a façade grafted on to the much older house.
The first Lord entertained King Henry and Castle Torrance has always been courted by Royalty. As befits a family of the Cattermole’s standing Lady Edith’s life was one of parties, soirees and balls, rubbing shoulders with high society and learning the ways of a Lady.
All fairly typical, one might imagine. Lady Cattermole comes of age, marries, runs the family estate, has children and lives out the remainder of her days with a quiet dignity, perhaps serving various charitable organisations.
But here, loyal reader is where this particular tale takes a fascinating twist. For the young Lady Cattermole was introduced to tragedy of the gravest kind with the untimely death of her beloved father.
Rudderless without him at the helm the fortunes of the Castle Torrance estate began to wane, never more so than when, perhaps from sheer loneliness or desperation – we can only speculate – Lady Cattermole, Edith’s mother, remarried a man of lower standing, a commoner if you will.
This in itself would be story enough, except this was only the start of it. A womaniser, drinker and, worst of all, a keen gambler, the new Lord by marriage soon worked his way through the fortunes of the Cattermole family.
Perhaps unable to bear the loss of her father, perhaps unwilling or unable to meet the challenge of sustaining the estate and the family name in the face of such flagrant disregard for that which is important (moral fibre, a need to conduct oneself properly) young Edith Cattermole fled the estate for the bright lights of London where, aged just sixteen, she found work as a chorus girl in the music halls.
It seems she had found her true calling. Lady Cattermole – plain Edie to her new friends – made no reference to her background and got by only on her wits and no small amount of talent.
Over the following decades Edith would perform across London and in later years, Paris. Initially on the chorus line she soon progressed to solo roles as a singer and performer in plays and musicals.
She won rave reviews and worked with the majority of the most popular male leads but is perhaps best remembered for her work with Charlie Saunders, usually at the Alhambra Palace. Indeed there are those who are brave enough to suggest that, before his work with Edith Cattermole, Mr Saunders own career was on a downward trajectory.
Of course Edith’s life was not always easy, despite her background. Lady Cattermole was a brave and courageous woman but, in an age of inequality, she was unafraid to speak out. As her fame grew so it was that her every move was splashed across the popular press, one day their darling, the next being torn apart.
But the public always loved Edith and it was with much regret that a packed audience, fittingly at the Alhambra, waved her goodbye upon her retirement from the stage owing to ill health. She then faded from the public gaze, living quietly with her beloved husband Harry Hird until his death in the 1970s.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank her friend, Geraldine Grimman, for notifying me of Lady Cattermole’s passing and for allowing me the chance to bring her back into the public eye. The world will never see her like again.
An all round performer who felt her strength lay in dancing, it is her singing that will live on in the form of a number of recordings which, I hope, will be posthumously reissued to celebrate her life. Might this writer be so bold as to suggest, for the cover of any future albums, that famous image of Lady Cattermole on the swing in the Gainsborough scene?
It is not, perhaps, difficult to achieve fame. It is undoubtedly harder to win respect. Lady Edith Cattermole attained both and can truly be said to have mattered.
32 A family reunited
Alfie could not help but smile as he walked along the cul-de-sac towards Loriana’s magnificent house. He felt lighter for sharing his secret but she was still curious and, now that she’d had time to digest the revelations, she had some questions.
‘And your mother, Alfredo, what became of her? Is she…’
‘Oh no,’ he said quickly. ‘When Dad killed himself Mum had a complete breakdown. I did my best, tried to look after her, but I was only small.’ Alfie shrugged. ‘Long story short, I spent some time in care and some time with foster parents until I ran away when I was sixteen; nobody tried too hard to find me. My mum went into a mental facility and now she’s in a nursing home. I still ring, occasionally, to ask after her but I haven’t seen her since I was a kid.’
‘Oh my goodness, she’s alive! Alfie, why have you not been to her? She must have been so worried all this time.’
‘I couldn’t bear it. Too scared at first, then it got harder the longer I waited and then, eventually, it became easier to ignore it, to pretend she was dead I suppose. Besides, it’s Frank they loved, Frank they missed, Frank’s death that led to the collapse of everything.’
Loriana paused for thought.
‘Alfie, as you know I have experienced heartache, been estranged from my sister, lost my father. I have been alone, felt rejection. You have a chance to make amends. You must see your mother; let her see her son is okay, that he has grown into a man. Let her know she is not alone in the world. I implore you.’
Alfie vigorously shook his head.
‘I can’t, love, I just cannot. She’ll be old now, in her eighties. She won’t know me, wouldn’t recognise me. It’s been too long.’
But Loriana Cipriani was a determined woman, had inherited her strong will from her late father and she would not be denied.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘There has been too much pain, too much loss for anyone to cope with. If you do not do this you will never truly have peace, never be able to find true happiness.’
‘I’m happy with you,’ he countered.
‘And we will be happy together, but you know in your heart that you need to do this, for your mother, for me, if not for yourself.’
Alfie knew Loriana was right, this wise and beautiful woman whom he was now lucky enough to call his own.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, Alfie rang the care home where his mother lived to confirm she was okay and up to a visit. This was greeted with some surprise by the Matron as the only visitors Mrs Gorman ever received were pastoral visitors who would sit with her for an hour once a week.
Loriana said she would accompany him, even agreeing to drive since the Aston Martin was just sitting in the garage. They established tha
t the home was located over a hundred miles away, within a few miles of the house where Alfie had spent too few happy years with his family.
As they approached the Foxhill Nursing Home Loriana reached for Alfie’s right hand and he turned to smile at her as they drove through the gates. The receptionist listened to Alfie’s request and picked up one of the phones on her desk. A few minutes later a middle-aged woman appeared. She was wearing a maroon dress with frilled sleeves and two badges pinned to the front. She introduced herself as Matron, the lady to whom Alfie had spoken earlier.
They were escorted towards a lift and then found themselves on the third floor in the grandly titled Queensbury Suite. Matron led them to her office and closed the door.
‘Well, well,’ she said, leaning back in her large royal blue chair. ‘This is, to say the least, a significant turn of events.’
Alfie nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his own, less impressive, chair.
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Now, Mr Gorman, your mother. I’m happy to tell you that she’s been very comfortable with us for the last six years.’
‘Six years?’ Loriana asked suddenly. ‘So where…’
Matron smiled. ‘Foxhill is a home for those with specific requirements. Mrs Gorman came to us when her previous home could no longer meet her needs. We have the capacity…the space and the time, to allow our residents to be themselves.’
‘So what exactly is it you do for them?’ Alfie asked, perplexed. ‘I assumed this was a nursing home where, well, you nursed people.’ He paused, shrugged, looked at Loriana and then back to Matron.
Matron smiled again, an expression well-practiced and often used to placate and suggest understanding.
‘Your mother is elderly and confused. Essentially she’s living in her own world, in her head, and we haven’t had much success. Sometimes she looks sad, sometimes she seems happy; occasionally she needs treatment, medication to help with her moods. Aside from that there are all the usual conditions you might expect from a lady of her age.’
‘Such as?’ Loriana asked.
‘Mrs Gorman’s blood pressure is quite high, she’s diabetic but that’s fairly easily managed through her diet and some tablets, and she has arthritis in her hands and her right knee.’
Alfie absorbed this information in stunned amazement. Here he was in a strange place; listening to a woman he’d met five minutes earlier telling him things about his mother that he would otherwise never have known.
‘So then,’ he began tentatively. ‘I can see her then?’
Matron sighed. ‘Of course you can Mr Gorman. I would have to be utterly heartless to deny you but you will understand that my primary concern is for my patients’ wellbeing. As I understand it you and your mother have had no contact since you were…’ She paused for a moment and her eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to some papers on her desk. ‘Nine years old.’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ Alfie argued. ‘I went into care because of what had happened to my brother, Frank, and my father. Mum couldn’t manage so when she went into hospital I was taken away. But I wrote letters and I send a postcard from every town I visit.’
The professional smile returned to Matron’s lips.
‘I’m sorry. Of course there are the postcards, and they do seem to make a difference.’
‘So Mrs Gorman remembers Alfie?’ Loriana interrupted. ‘She asks about him?’
‘Oh yes indeed,’ Matron replied. ‘Aside from very occasional utterances about her other son or her husband, she only ever speaks of you Mr Gorman, sometimes just a word, a sentence, but always you.’
‘Blimey,’ Alfie said simply.
‘Perhaps it’s time I took you to her,’ Matron suggested. ‘Lunch has just finished so most residents will be in the Day Room. Shall we?’
As they left the office Loriana reached for Alfie’s hand and gave it a supportive squeeze, noting as she did so that his skin felt clammy.
They passed a number of rooms, the aroma of urine unmistakable as they walked along one particular hallway, causing Alfie to turn his nose up. Matron paused to speak to a care assistant who was walking towards them, then nodded before turning to Alfie and Loriana.
‘It seems your mother decided to go to her room after lunch. It’s just around this corner.’
They reached the door and Alfie read his mother’s name off the attached sticker.
‘I shall introduce you to your mother,’ said Matron, ‘and then monitor the situation until I am satisfied it is not too much for Mrs Gorman to cope with.’
She turned and knocked firmly on the door before pushing it open. Her tone when she spoke was artificially upbeat and her enthusiasm as forced as her smile.
‘Mrs Gorman, it’s Matron. You have visitors dear, isn’t that nice?’
They followed Matron into the room which was spacious enough to accommodate them all comfortably. There was a wardrobe and chest of drawers and another small room which they assumed to be the bathroom. Alfie’s eyes scanned the room and he found that he recognised some of the ornaments and photographs from the family home, pieces like the porcelain clown which he hadn’t seen since childhood.
‘Mrs Gorman, there’s someone to meet you,’ Matron said again with feigned excitement.
Alfie stared at the frail, paper-skinned lady sitting in front of him in a high-backed easy chair. Her hair was various tones of silver and white, her grey eyes distant and her expression vague. Alfie looked to Loriana; his own expression told her everything: I don’t recognise this woman, I don’t know her.
‘It’s been a lifetime Alfredo, be brave,’ Loriana said.
‘But I…’
The old lady in the chair turned her gaze from the window and looked at the man standing before her.
‘Alfie,’ she said simply.
‘Mum?’ Alfie managed, a question, seeking confirmation.
‘’fredo,’ Mrs Gorman said, her eyes clearing, becoming focussed. ‘My boy, my ‘fredo.’
‘Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the Day Room Mrs Gorman, a bit more space. I could arrange for some tea…’ suggested Matron, her hand already on the door.
‘Yes,’ Alfie agreed. ‘I think that might be nice.’
He was beginning to feel claustrophobic in this room, and far too warm.
Matron assisted Mrs Gorman into a wheelchair and said she’d escort them to the Day Room. Loriana seized Alfie’s arm.
‘I shall wait here for you my darling,’ she said. ‘This is your moment to be with your mother.’
Matron frowned ever so slightly.
‘I’m afraid we cannot have unaccompanied visitors, non-relatives especially, in residents’ rooms. I shall send someone to escort you to a family room where you can have a cup of tea.’
They arrived at the day room where classical music was playing quietly through hidden speakers. Alfie couldn’t recall ever hearing classical music in the house as a child and wondered if his mother liked it or not.
There were more than a dozen residents in the day room but it was large and bright owing to a number of large windows which overlooked the road below. Matron led Alfie and his mother to an unoccupied corner before moving to the far side of the room where she picked up a phone to organise for tea and biscuits to be sent through.
* * * *
Loriana looked about her. Mrs Gorman’s room was well proportioned and thoughtfully laid out. The bed, which was evidently raised up to allow for easier access, was directly opposite the door. Beside the bed was a small table on top of which was a novel, a pair of spectacles, a box of tissues and a lamp with a large on/off switch. The wardrobe and chest of drawers faced each other and at the far end of the room a large window overlooked a patch of garden below. On the left hand wall was a doorway leading to the bathroom.
Loriana sat in the terracotta fabric easy chair positioned at the end of the bed, and looked around the peach coloured walls. Next to the bed was a black and white photograph of a couple and two boys �
�� the Gorman family. Loriana smiled, the smaller boy must be Alfie.
There was a variety of ornaments on the shelves, on the bookcase and on the windowsill, mainly clowns and the occasional animal – giraffes seemed to be a favourite. On the bookcase Loriana noted a number of novels she’d read herself and liked the way photographs had been placed intermittently between rows of books.
She had been nervous about coming here, had felt uneasy. She’d been careful not to let Alfie see this because it had been obvious he needed her support. She was glad he’d finally come to see his mother before it was too late. Almost his entire life had been a series of unanswered questions and an overriding sense of rejection and loneliness. If his mother had died without some form of reconciliation Alfie would most likely have lived out the remainder of his own life as he had the previous decades, burdened and unhappy. Now, at least, he had a chance at redemption.
Loriana’s dark eyes danced over the various pictures on the shelves. A girl appeared in two or three of the shots and now Loriana leaned forward to better study the scenes. The older boy in the pictures she assumed to be Frank. But the girl, also young, was unfamiliar. Certainly Alfie had never mentioned a sister. In one of the photographs the girl was cradling a baby in her arms.
Loriana studied the pictures of Mr and Mrs Gorman with their children. The baby in the other photograph was Alfie. The resemblance was unmistakeable. But who on earth was the girl? Loriana mused, noticed that Frank had his arm around the girl in the photograph. They were a couple. So what did that mean? Hadn’t Alfie said his older brother was fifteen or sixteen years older than himself? His big brother, who looked after him, took him camping, stepped in when he was being bullied, watched over him.
Not a big brother then, but a father figure.
Alfie’s father.
Frank.
Loriana gasped, her eyes fixed on the photograph of the young parents with little Alfie held between them. How had this been kept from him? His entire life he had idolised his older brother. Frank’s death had left Alfie mentally scarred, emotionally fragile and yet he had never known the truth. Well, he would know now.
All the Fun of the Fair Page 28