The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  The Lost Daughters

  Jeanne Whitmee

  © Jeanne Whitmee 1996

  Jeanne Whitmee has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1996 by Judy Piatkus.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  Edgware, London 1955

  For as long as Cathy could remember she had lived in the house in Laburnum Close with Daddy and Johnny, which was her name for the motherly war widow who came in each day to look after them. Mary Johnson was the only maternal figure in Cathy’s life. She had no memories of her real mother at all. There were photographs of her of course: a large one on the mantelpiece in the front room and another beside Daddy’s bed. Cathy knew that her name had been Jenny and that she had curly auburn hair and green eyes just like her own. She knew too that her mother had loved her very much, but only because Daddy told her so. Sometimes when she was in bed at night she would close her eyes and try very hard to remember, but however hard she tried the memories refused to come.

  Number thirteen Laburnum Close was the semi-detached Victorian villa where Daniel Oldham had taken his young bride when they married in 1943. It had been his parents’ house then and Cathy had been born here while Daniel was still in the RAF. Soon after that Cathy’s grandparents had both died, leaving number thirteen to the three of them. But their family life had been sadly curtailed when Jenny Oldham died too, leaving Daniel and his baby daughter alone. All this Cathy had learned from her father. All she remembered was being here with Daddy — and Johnny of course.

  All the houses in Laburnum Close had been built in the nineteenth century. They had high corniced ceilings, panelled doors and a long narrow hall that led right through from front door to kitchen. It had a floor of blue, red and black mosaic tiles. Cathy had used this to devise complicated hopping games that she played on wet days when she couldn’t go out to play. Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom and above them an attic reached by a steep staircase. The attic had sloping ceilings and one small dormer window. It was stiflingly hot in summer and icy cold in winter, so it was used mainly for storing junk and unwanted items of furniture. Cathy loved to play up there on rainy days, dressing up in the old discarded clothes packed away years before by her grandmother, and acting out the fantasies that fill the minds of all lonely children; fuelled by an over-developed imagination and derived from all the many stories she had read.

  Downstairs there was a big living room and a cosy kitchen with a big cooking range. But the front room was Daniel’s. His grand piano stood in the bay window — in almost solitary splendour because there was very little space in the room for anything else. It was where his pupils came in the daytime; an endless stream of people with musical aspirations. They came in all shapes and sizes, all ages and both sexes, and filled the house for hours each day with the sound of the scales and arpeggios which they pounded out with varying degrees of skill and proficiency.

  In the evenings Daniel would put on what he called his ‘penguin suit’ and go off to work, playing with a dance band at various venues all over London, leaving his young daughter with Johnny or an obliging neighbour. Cathy was used to the arrangement. She would watch television and do her homework, then go to bed dutifully at the appointed time.

  Through her early years when Cathy knew of no other way of life it had all seemed quite normal and acceptable. She loved her father, and although she often wished she could share more of his time, she was always happy enough to be with Johnny. It was only when she started school that she began to see other girls led quite different kinds of lives. They had mothers as well as fathers; fathers who went to work in the daytime in offices or factories and came back to spend their evenings and weekends at home with the family. Some, like Carla Maybridge, had brothers and sisters too.

  Carla was the most popular girl in the class and Cathy could hardly believe her luck when the pretty, outgoing girl befriended her. The first time she was invited round to the Maybridges’ house for tea she got a glimpse of what real family life could be; a glimpse so attractive and seductive that she longed to be part of a big, noisy family herself.

  The Maybridges lived two streets away in a house very similar to her own home. But the similarity ended with the bricks and mortar. The moment you stepped inside it was all so different. Carla’s family filled the house to bursting point. Every room, including the attic, was lived in with a delightful carefree abandon that would have had Johnny shaking her head in horror.

  Carla had four elder brothers and a sister, and the six of them plus their parents filled the three-bedroomed house to bursting point. Toys, sports equipment and school books littered every available space. No one ever seemed to put their clothes away or hang up their coats or school bags. Cathy loved it, and when she returned to Laburnum Close after one of these visits, her own house seemed silent and empty by comparison.

  Mrs Maybridge was a plump lady who always wore an apron and seemed to live permanently in the kitchen. She was totally unconcerned by the chaos all around her; never shouted or got cross. Mr Maybridge was a cashier at the local bank. He had thinning hair and horn-rimmed glasses and seemed to spend most of his spare time digging in the back garden which was full to bursting with every kind of vegetable and fruit.

  On Sunday mornings the family went to Mass at the little Catholic church near the park but once they were home the rest of the day was spent pursuing whatever activity they wished. They were all allowed to have friends round to the house — as many as they liked. The more the merrier, Carla said with a nonchalant wave of her hand.

  Sitting in the large untidy living room Cathy would watch as Mrs Maybridge opened up the big round gate-leg table and began to set it for tea. Surreptitiously Cathy would count the cups to work out whether she was expected to stay. Usually she was. Mrs Maybridge didn’t stand on ceremony. She didn’t issue formal invitations. If there were ten children in the house she provided tea for them all. It just meant making one tin of salmon do the work of two.

  When Cathy was eleven and the time came to move schools Carla announced that she was going to St Margaret’s, which was a Catholic school. Cathy begged her father to let her go too.

  ‘But you already have a scholarship to the high school,’ Daniel argued. ‘St Margaret’s is private for non-Catholics. It would be very expensive. I don’t think we can afford it.’

  Cathy pouted. ‘Carla says that if you’re clever enough you can get in cheaper. You have to take an entrance exam.’ She watched her father’s face for signs of the vulnerable chink in his armour that she almost always managed to penetrate. ‘Everyone says what a good school it is and all the people I like best are going there,’ she said wistfully. ‘If I have to go to Mitchell Street High I shan’t know a soul. I’ll be lonely and miserable.’

  Daniel gave in in the end. Cathy
was interviewed by the headmistress of St Margaret’s. She sat and easily passed the entrance examination, and Johnny took her along to be kitted out with the smart blue and gold uniform.

  Cathy loved her new school, but at St Margaret’s the differences between her own home life and that of her friends soon became even more apparent. Now elder brothers and sisters were bringing home their teenage friends. There were parties, and the passing down of trendy clothes and the latest records. Christmas that year was preceded by weeks of secret preparations, noise and surprises. A time charged with excited anticipation. At thirteen Laburnum Close, although Daniel did his usual best, life seemed tame and lonelier than ever before.

  ‘Why haven’t I got any brothers and sisters, Johnny?’ asked Cathy one afternoon towards the end of term, as she sat watching the housekeeper preparing the evening meal.

  Johnny turned to look at her and realised for the first time that the child was growing up. ‘Your mother died before she had time to have any for you,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sure if she’d lived you would have had some, duckie.’

  ‘But you’ve only got Matthew and you’re not dead,’ Cathy pointed out.

  ‘Ah, but Matthew’s father died in the war. It takes a mother and a daddy to make babies.’ Johnny would have thought that Cathy would already know this and made a mental note to have a word with Daniel about telling his daughter the facts of life. It really was time someone prepared her for womanhood. Daniel Oldham was a good man and a conscientious father, but there were times when she wondered if he realised that Cathy wouldn’t always be a little girl.

  When his housekeeper tactfully pointed out to Daniel that he was neglecting his parental duty, he was dismayed. Somehow he hadn’t given a thought to his daughter’s growing up and all that it entailed. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think I know where to start, Johnny.’ He looked hopefully at the housekeeper. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t … ’

  She frowned. ‘Well — I will if you really want me to, but I must say that I think it would come better from you.’

  Daniel raked a hand through his thinning fair hair. ‘What did you do — about Matthew, I mean? It must have been difficult for you too, as a widow with a young son.’

  ‘Luckily they have sex education classes at his school,’ she said. ‘And somehow it doesn’t seem so important with boys. There aren’t so many — well, physical complications.’

  Daniel smiled and kept his opinions on that to himself.

  ‘I have explained to him that girls and women should be treated with consideration and respect,’ Johnny went on. ‘But he’s a sensible boy. Kind and sensitive too. I haven’t any real worries about him.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I must admit that I’d find it less awkward if Cathy were a boy,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I’ll just have to do the best I can.’

  On Saturday afternoons she always had her music lesson. It was a special time for both father and daughter, one of the rare times they spent together. Cathy played the piano well for her age and Daniel was proud of the way she always practised without being reminded, as soon as she came home from school each afternoon.

  After her lesson they would have tea together and Daniel would hear what had been happening at school and try to sort out any problems that Cathy might have. So it seemed natural to choose this time to make his first fumbling attempt at acquainting his daughter with the facts of life.

  ‘Cathy — you’re twelve now. You’re growing up,’ he began awkwardly. ‘Soon certain — things will be happening — changes in your life and your — body. Maybe you will have noticed that — er … ’ He slipped a finger inside his collar and it was only then that he noticed that Cathy was smiling. It was a wise, sympathetic, womanly little smile and all at once he had the odd feeling that their roles had been reversed; that he was now the child, Cathy the parent.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t worry, Daddy, we’ve done all that growing up stuff at school,’ she told him reassuringly. ‘Carla told me some too. She’s got an elder sister and lots of brothers too, you see.’

  Daniel was taken aback. ‘Oh — well, that’s all right then. I just wanted you to know that if there’s anything you don’t understand — anything that worries you — you can ask me. I’d rather you came to me than anyone else.’

  She smiled at him. Thanks, Dad.’

  He looked at her anxiously. He had the distinct feeling that he was getting away with this just a little bit too easily. Did she really know, or did she just think she did? And how did he find out for sure? ‘So — is there anything you’re not sure of? Anything you want to ask me now?’

  Cathy considered for a moment, her head on one side. ‘Well, there is one thing,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How old do I have to be before I can… ?’

  Daniel’s mouth dried. ‘Yes — before you can what?’

  ‘Wear high heels? I’ve seen this lovely pair in Mason’s in the High Street and I wondered… ’

  Daniel laughed, relief making him light-hearted. She was still his little girl after all. At least for a while yet. ‘I should think you’d need to be at least sixteen for that kind of thing,’ he said, ruffling her hair. ‘But I’m no expert. We’ll ask Johnny, shall we?’ He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Now young lady, when you’ve finished your tea there’s a surprise in there for you.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Tell me. Look I’ve almost finished anyway.’

  He nodded towards the envelope. ‘Open it for yourself.’

  Shaking with excitement, she tore open the envelope and stared at the two slips of paper inside. ‘Tickets for a concert. At the Royal Festival Hall. Tonight. Oh, Daddy!’

  ‘Have you seen who the soloist is?’

  She looked again at the tickets. Gerald Cavelle. Uncle Gerald!

  Jumping up from the table, she threw her arms round Daniel’s neck.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy. Oh, I can’t wait.’

  *

  Cathy cherished the Saturday afternoon music lessons. Daniel’s life was so busy all week. When he wasn’t teaching or playing with the band he was working away in the front room on what he called his ‘composition’. Playing a few bars, making alterations and playing again, his glasses low on his nose and his brow furrowed in concentration as he filled in the notes on the manuscript paper. Cathy knew that composing meant writing music and she wasn’t to disturb him when he was doing it. She resented it a little. There was so little time for them to share. Surely there was already enough music for people to play and listen to without him writing any more? But when she confided her resentment to Johnny the housekeeper explained patiently that it was his hobby and important to him.

  ‘Leave him to it, Cathy, love,’ she would say kindly. ‘It helps him relax.’

  Because of his preoccupation with his music, having him all to herself was a special treat, which was partly why Cathy took so much trouble over her practice. She was afraid that if she gave up the piano maybe they would have no time together at all.

  There was nothing she liked better than to get him into a reminiscent mood. She never tired of hearing about his youthful days at music college and the things he and his best friend, Gerald Cavelle, used to get up to.

  When the war broke out Daniel had to give up his studies and go into the RAF. And by the time it was over he had married Jenny and Cathy had been born, so that returning to his music studies had been out of the question.

  His friend, Gerald, had been luckier. He was a year younger than Daniel and had gone into ENSA when he was called up, where he could continue with his music. After the war he had returned to college and now he was a well-known concert pianist.

  In spite of the fact that he was her father’s best friend and her own godfather, ‘Uncle’ Gerald Cavelle had been no more than an exalted name to Cathy for years. She listened to his records of course. Daniel had them all. And she had occasionally heard him on the radio, so the idea of
seeing and hearing him in the flesh was so exciting she could hardly contain herself.

  Cathy had seen the Festival Hall from the outside when Daniel had taken her to the South Bank Exhibition four years ago in 1951. She sat enthralled, stunned by the atmosphere of the beautiful concert hall and thrilled by the music she was hearing live for the first time in her life. When it was time for the piano concerto and the conductor led Gerald on to the platform to a storm of enthusiastic applause, she stared hard at the tall handsome man dressed immaculately in tails and white tie. Nudging her father she whispered: ‘Is that really him, Dad? Is that Uncle Gerald?’

  Daniel squeezed her hand. ‘That’s him,’ he said proudly. ‘How would you like to meet him after the concert?’

  She looked at him, her eyes round. ‘Oh — could I?’

  ‘Of course. He knows we’re here and has invited us to go round afterwards.’ He squeezed her hand and lowered his voice. ‘Shhh now, they’re about to begin.’

  When they tapped on the door and stood waiting in the corridor Cathy looked up at her father and reached for his hand. She was suddenly overcome with shyness and her heart was beating fast. Gerald Cavelle’s playing had been magnificent, better than anything she had ever heard, and now she felt very much in awe of the famous godfather she had never met.

  But the voice that called ‘Come in’ sounded normal enough. A pleasant deep voice that sounded much like anyone else’s. Daniel smiled reassuringly at her as he turned the door handle.

  Gerald sat at a dressing table, his back to them. He had taken off the black tail coat and white tie and now he wore a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. Catching sight of Daniel in the mirror he jumped up, turning to greet them, his face beaming with pleasure.

  ‘Daniel, you old so and so!’ He grasped Daniel’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘So glad you could make it. It’s wonderful to see you. It must be years.’ He stopped short at the sight of Cathy standing behind her father. ‘And who is this little lady? Not my goddaughter surely?’