The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  *

  When she arrived home the flat was empty. She looked for a note but there was none. Una must have slipped out to the shop for something. Looking round she saw that her mother hadn’t fulfilled her promise to spring clean the flat. There was dust everywhere and unwashed dishes in the kitchen. She went to her room and began to unpack, putting her things carefully away in the wardrobe and drawers. She was still wearing the red blouse that Freda had given her. It fitted perfectly and the colour made her feel light-hearted. Freda had shown her how to put the rollers in to her hair too, to give its straightness a lift. And as she was helping her to pack she’d popped the coral lipstick Rosalind liked into a corner of her case.

  ‘I’ve never used it. It isn’t really my colour,’ she said. ‘But it suits you beautifully so you might as well have it.’

  Rosalind found it at the bottom of the case and put some on, peering into the dressing-table mirror as she pressed her lips together. It did make a difference. So did the blouse and the hair. They made her feel quite a different person. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so desperately plain after all. Freda had told her she had nice eyes and that maybe next time they needed testing she could ask the optician about trying the new contact lenses. It would be lovely not to have to wear the glasses any more. She heard the sound of a key in the door and went out to meet her mother.

  Una stood with her back to her in the small hallway, taking her key out of the lock. She wore her best suit and her highest heels with sheer black stockings, and there was a suitcase on the floor beside her. When she turned and saw Rosalind she gave a small cry of alarm.

  ‘Oh!’ She clutched at her throat with one gloved hand. ‘Oh, my God, you scared the living daylights out of me. I wasn’t expecting you home till later this evening.’

  Rosalind was looking at the case. ‘You’ve been away after all then?’

  Una was instantly defensive. ‘Yes. Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just thought you said… ’

  ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’ Una interrupted, peering at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Where did you get that awful blouse and what do you think your hair looks like?’

  Rosalind put a hand up to her hair uncertainly. ‘I set it — put some rollers in. Freda showed me how, and she gave me the blouse. She said the colour suited me.’

  Una gave a disapproving grunt as she lifted her suitcase and headed for her bedroom. ‘Huh! I might have known she’d had a hand in it. You look an absolute fright. The woman obviously has no taste at all.’ She dumped her case on the bed and turned to look at Rosalind standing in the doorway. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Come and give me a hand to unpack. Or better still, go and put the kettle on, I’m gasping for a cup of tea.’

  Ten minutes later Una appeared in the kitchen doorway in her dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Tea’s made,’ Rosalind said. ‘There aren’t any biscuits though.’

  Una sat down at the table. ‘I know. I haven’t had time to go shopping.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘The shops will still be open. When you’ve had your tea you’d better pop down to the corner and get a few things.’

  Rosalind’s heart sank. ‘All right.’

  ‘Well, don’t sound so enthusiastic about it! I expect you’ve been spoiled rotten down in Little Piddling or whatever it’s called, but you’re home now. Time to come down to earth again.’ She looked at her daughter speculatively. ‘I take it you had a good time?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Una sipped her tea. ‘Well — aren’t you going to ask me if I did then?’

  ‘I — thought you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.’

  Una looked at her sharply. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Being sarky, are we?’ Before Rosalind had time to reply she hurried on: ‘Well, as it happens I did have a good time. I stayed in a hotel in the West End and saw the latest shows. I had some wonderful meals too. We ate at the Savoy Grill on Friday, and last night… ’

  ‘We?’ Rosalind looked at her mother enquiringly. ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘I was coming to that.’ Una put down her cup. ‘I’ve been seeing Don — Mr Blake — ever since I started my new job,’ she said. ‘I never said anything before because he’s been in the throes of divorce, poor love. His wife is a vindictive bitch by all accounts, so we’ve had to be very discreet. It’s all over now though and this week has been a real tonic for Don after what he’s been through. And for me too, of course.’

  ‘I see.’

  Una looked at her daughter sharply. ‘No, you don’t! It wasn’t a dirty weekend or anything like that. Don has asked me to marry him.’ She sat back, smiling with satisfaction. ‘And you might as well know that I’ve said yes.’

  Rosalind was already wondering just how much her mother’s forthcoming marriage would change their lives. ‘Does he — does he know about me?’ she asked.

  ‘My God!’ Una raised to the ceiling. ‘If that isn’t typical. No — Congratulations, Mum. No — I hope you’ll be happy. Just, What’s going to happen to meT She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke explosively at the ceiling. ‘You’re your father’s daughter all right.’

  ‘Of course I’m glad for you if it’s what you want,’ Rosalind said painfully. ‘But I do need to know where I stand too.’

  ‘You stand wherever you want to. Of course Don knows about you. How could I keep you from him? He’s quite looking forward to meeting you if you want to know. He’s perfectly happy for you to live with us when we’re married.’ She tapped ash thoughtfully into her saucer. ‘Or perhaps after this week you’d prefer to go and live with your father?’

  Rosalind coloured. ‘I haven’t been asked,’ she said quietly.

  Una laughed. ‘No? And it’s my guess that you won’t be, so you’d better make the best of what’s on offer, hadn’t you?’ She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and reached across the table to give Rosalind’s shoulder a push. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop looking like a wet weekend and cheer up! Don’s got a good job and plenty of money. We’ll be living like lords when he and I get hitched. You’ll be quids in.’

  Rosalind washed up the cups while her mother went off to have a bath. The flat was no palace, but she hated the thought of moving into a new home with a man she’d never met. What was he like, this Don Blake? And would he really take kindly to sharing a house with her? She thought fondly of the cottage and dreamed of living there. But it was only a weekend home — not even that during the summer when ‘Ben and Benita’ would be sharing top billing in Brighton. She couldn’t see any way she could live with them while she was still at school, even if they wanted her to. She dried the cups and put them away carefully. It boiled down to the same old thing really. Everyone else had their own lives. She was in the way again. An embarrassing liability.

  Chapter Three

  As the last notes of the concerto died and the audience broke into enthusiastic applause, Gerald rose to his feet with relief. His palms were sticky and his head was buzzing with tension. As Carl Kramer led him forward to take his ovation Gerald thought he caught a fleeting look of concern in the conductor’s eyes. Those mishandled phrases in the slow movement, the faltering fingering. He had recovered in seconds. It would have taken a seasoned musician to spot them. But Carl Kramer was a seasoned musician. One of the finest conductors in the world. They had worked together many times and they respected each other. Carl would certainly have noticed. But it was clear from the audience’s reaction that for them Gerald’s performance had been as brilliant and faultless as ever. He took a final bow and walked off the platform.

  In his dressing room he removed his tail coat and white tie and slipped into his comfortable dressing gown, then he poured himself a large Scotch: the treat he always allowed himself after the performance — never before. Sitting down at the dressing table he regarded himself critically in the mirror. The signs of fatigue were there in the lines of tiredness and the dark smudges around the eyes, the slight h
ollowing beneath the cheekbones. But surely it was only natural? The tour had been the longest he had ever made, the schedule heavy and exhausting. He flexed his fingers, trying to ignore the painful stiffness in the joints. What was worse than the stiffness was their sudden and unpredictable refusal to obey his commands; those inexplicable memory lapses. Works he had performed a hundred times would be momentarily wiped out as though he had never played them before, often frighteningly, like tonight, in the middle of a performance. But surely even that was understandable at the end of such a punishing schedule? He tried to assure himself. It could all be put down to tension — nervous exhaustion — though he was forced to admit that he had never experienced it before.

  As he sipped his whisky and felt the warmth seeping through his veins and relaxing him, he heard the first bars of the Beethoven symphony through the dressing room intercom. The concert was continuing. Music and the show, like life, went on. However talented, however acclaimed and celebrated a concert artist might be, there was always a new someone, more talented, more brilliant than ever before, waiting to thrill and inspire the fickle and voracious fans. Had his time come already at the age of forty-one? Was his career tottering on the edge of oblivion just when he should be in his prime?

  He swallowed the last of his whisky and hurriedly changed into his outdoor clothes. The fans wouldn’t gather until after the concert was over. He would get back to his hotel and have an early night. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone. If Carl wanted an explanation then he should have one. He was entitled to that. But he must first think it out — make it a good and a plausible one. It wouldn’t do to have rumours starting. And at the moment he didn’t feel up to it. His mind didn’t seem to be functioning properly.

  Leaving his hire car in the car park he took a taxi back to the hotel. He couldn’t face the mad jostle of the New York streets tonight. Once in his room he rang down to room service for sandwiches and coffee. He ate, then undressed and showered. He was just about to get into bed when there was a soft knock on the door. With a sigh he drew on his dressing gown and went to open it. Kay Goolden stood on the threshold. She wore a pastel mink jacket over her black Givenchy evening gown and the expression on her exquisitely made-up face was a mixture of anxiety and annoyance.

  ‘So here you are! I went round to your dressing room after the concert and you’d gone. I’ve been worried sick.’

  His heart sank as he turned back into the room, leaving her to follow. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling too good. I thought an early night would…’

  ‘But you didn’t even leave me a message,’ she interrupted indignantly. ‘Surely you hadn’t forgotten that we were having dinner together?’

  Gerald sat down on the bed. He had forgotten. The worry over the mess he had made of the slow movement had rattled and upset him. The last thing he wanted at this moment was Kay whining about a forgotten dinner date.

  Kay Goolden worked in the PR department of his recording company. They’d met when she was doing the publicity for his last but one album and they’d been lovers for the past year. Kay was good at her job, but he’d wished more than once since the tour began that he had never suggested her accompanying him. She could be protective to the point of claustrophobia. Sometimes she treated him like a retarded five year old, leaping in to speak for him as though he was incapable of speaking or thinking for himself.

  He rubbed a hand across his brow. ‘I’m sorry, Kay. I told you, I wasn’t feeling too good.’

  ‘What is it?’ She crossed the room and placed a hand on his forehead. ‘A touch of flu maybe. Shall I get you some Paracetamol?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’ve got some in my room. Maybe I’d better move in here with you tonight, then I can keep an eye on you.’ She crossed the room to the telephone. ‘I’ll ring down to room service and get them to…’

  ‘Leave it!’ He felt the familiar irritation twang his nerves. ‘For God’s sake, Kay, I told you, I’m all right. Just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘All right, there’s no need to snap my head off.’ She slipped off her jacket and moved closer to him, slipping her arms around his waist and rubbing herself against him provocatively. ‘I think I know what you need to relax you,’ she said softly.

  He pushed her away. ‘No, you don’t. Not this time.’

  Kay stiffened, her seductive smile changing to a pout of resentment. ‘What’s the matter, Gerry? You can tell me. Didn’t the concert go as well as you wanted it to?’

  He looked at her intently. ‘What do you mean by that? Who’s been talking to you?’

  ‘No one.’ She backed away from him. ‘For heaven’s sake, Gerry, why are you so damned touchy? What on earth is the matter with you?’

  ‘I told you, I’m tired. It’s the tour. Thank God there’s only one more week to go.’

  ‘It's not just that. You haven’t been yourself since we left London. Are you tired of me — is that it?’

  He sighed. ‘Look, Kay, I don’t need this just now. Leave me to get a decent night’s rest, will you? I’ll be fine in the morning.’

  Her face darkened. ‘You’ve found someone else, haven’t you? It’s so obvious. There was a time when you couldn’t get enough of me, but ever since we came on this tour you’ve showed a marked lack of interest to say the least.’

  ‘There’s no one else, Kay. Why must you always assume that what ever is wrong with me is down to you?’

  ‘What else am I supposed to think? It’s not very flattering, lying in bed next to someone who turns his back on you night after night. I’m not so thick that I can’t take a hint, you know. I don’t have to be hit over the head with a sledge hammer!’

  Gerald winced. Her voice was like a steel saw, grinding into his already aching head. ‘For Christ’s sake, Kay, surely you of all people can understand that the tension of two concerts a day for weeks on end…’

  She gave an explosive little snort. ‘Tension! There was a time when all that adrenalin made you as randy as hell. Now you’re saying it just claps you out, are you? Well, I don’t believe you, Gerry. I wouldn’t put it past you to be two-timing me with one of those giggling little groupies who hang around after you. But then I suppose at your age flattery and reassurance are pretty important, especially when your playing is on the skids!’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ His head was pounding as he reached out to grab her wrist.

  ‘Let go of me!’ She shook him off angrily. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Tears of humiliation stood in her eyes as she faced him. ‘I’ve had about enough of your temper tantrums on this trip, Gerry. You’ve really shown yourself in your true colours. I’ve worked damned hard ever since we met to build a good image for you and to shield you from the public. If this is all the thanks I get I might as well let your precious fans find out what you’re really like!’ She flounced to the door. ‘Tonight is the last straw as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be taking the first plane home in the morning. If you want another publicist you’d better get on to Zenith and get them to send you someone!’

  He groaned as the door slammed behind her. A scene with Kay was the last thing he needed tonight. But truth to tell, all he really felt about her leaving was relief. Women could be so demanding. They wanted all of you. At first it was enough just to be seen with a celebrity — to bask in the reflected glory. Then they wanted more of your time — or your money, or both. Finally they wanted to own you, body and soul. To eat you up and swallow you whole. He’d first discovered this fact when he’d married Sara at twenty. She was a fellow music student and together they planned to take Europe by storm with their talent. The marriage had lasted just eighteen months. When it failed Sara had blamed him for wrecking her career; accusing him of doing it deliberately because she had more talent than he had. Was there, anywhere in the world, he asked himself, an undemanding woman capable of thinking of someone other than herself?

  Remembering Sara’s wild accusations reminded him of Kay’s
remark about letting the fans see him as he really was. Was it a veiled threat? Would she really be vindictive enough to rat on him to the press? He decided not. It would cost her her job with Zenith Records and she’d never let that happen. Then he recalled something else she’d said; something even more disturbing. Especially when your playing is on the skids. Kay was hardly a music buff. If she’d noticed… His heart sank. It was even worse than he’d thought.

  *

  Gerald woke feeling much better. He had been worrying for nothing, he told himself. Last night’s little lapse was due to nothing worse than fatigue. As for Kay — she had lashed out wildly, knowing that any remark about his playing would hurt. All the same, he hoped she’d meant it when she said she was catching the first plane home. She’d been getting far too possessive for comfort lately.

  He got up and showered, planning the day ahead. The sooner he talked to Carl, the better, he decided. He was dressed and looking up the conductor’s number when the telephone rang. It was Reception. Mr Kramer was here to see him. Could they send him up?

  Carl Kramer was a handsome man in his late-fifties. His Jewish parents had arrived in America from Poland at the turn of the century and proceeded to bring up their large family. Parents and children were all musical and Carl had been involved with music since childhood. Since the end of the war he had risen to the heights, first as a concert violinist, then as conductor. During his career Carl had seen many concert soloists come and go. He and Gerald Cavelle had worked together on many occasions and he liked and respected the pianist enough to be concerned about him.

  Gerald went out to the lift to greet the maestro with a feeling of apprehension. For Carl to be coming to him was ominous to say the least. But as the lift doors opened he put on his brightest smile and held out his hands in welcome.

  ‘Carl! This is an unexpected pleasure. I hope you’ll join me for breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve already breakfasted.’