Almost as tall as Gerald, the conductor had a shock of silver hair and piercing eyes that were so dark as to appear almost black. Gerald met their searching look now with some trepidation.
‘Coffee then? You’ll have some coffee?’
The conductor smiled and bowed his head. ‘That would be very pleasant.’
In the suite Carl took the seat Gerald offered him at the breakfast table, which had been laid out on the covered balcony that overlooked Manhattan. He watched as Gerald poured coffee, noticing the slight tremor of his hand as he passed him the cup.
‘You must be wondering why I am here,’ he said. ‘I went to your dressing room after the concert last night and found you’d left.’
Gerald shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact I was about to ring you — to apologise for last night.’
‘There is no need. You covered the mishap extremely well. I doubt whether the audience was even aware that anything was amiss. I am concerned however — for you, my friend. I think you are not yourself. Are you ill?’
‘No!’ Gerald took a deep draught of his coffee. ‘At least I don’t think so. I don’t really know. I put it down to tiredness. I certainly feel much better this morning.’
‘I’m glad, but — forgive me, Gerald — there have been other occasions during this tour.’
He looked at the conductor sharply. ‘You’ve heard… someone has said…?’
Carl lifted his shoulders. ‘These things soon get around. Bad news travels fast, as they say.’ He put down his cup and leaned towards Gerald. ‘I’m here this morning to give you some advice as a friend and fellow musician, Gerald. Cancel the rest of your tour. There can’t be many more concerts to go. See a doctor. Treat yourself to a good rest.’
Gerald’s heartbeat quickened. ‘What are you saying, Carl? You think I’m — finished?’
‘No, no! It could be nothing worse than tiredness, as you say. But I have to be frank with you; the way you are playing at the moment is doing nothing for your reputation.’ He reached across the table to touch Gerald’s sleeve. ‘Check on your health, my friend. Eliminate the worst possibilities and deal with what is left. It could be that your concentration is suffering through overwork and that all you need is a prolonged holiday.’
Gerald swallowed hard. Inside he felt the cold hand of fear clutch at his guts. He’d been fooling himself into believing that it was all in his mind. Now he knew otherwise. Others had noticed. It was true. He had a problem. A real problem. One that he was going to have to meet and cope with — alone. He forced himself to smile.
‘Maybe I’ll do as you say, Carl. Though I don’t know about cancelling the rest of the tour. There’d be one hell of a stink if I cried off now. We’re due to fly to Boston the day after tomorrow and it’s a heavy programme. Twelve concerts during next week.’
‘Then see a doctor today,’ Carl advised. ‘Face it, Gerald. You’re not up to one more concert. Let alone twelve. If you go ahead you’ll risk damaging your career, perhaps permanently. Cancel. They can hardly argue with a doctor’s opinion.’ He pulled out one of his cards and began to write on the back. ‘This is the name of my own physician. He’s the best there is. Tell him I sent you and he’ll fit you in this morning.’
Gerald tried to control the trembling of his fingers as he took the card. ‘You make it sound — so serious,’ he said with a shaky laugh.
‘It is,’ Carl said candidly. ‘What could be more serious than your health, Gerald? Especially when it is threatening to affect your career? Please, take my advice and see him.’
*
On his way out of the hotel Gerald enquired about Kay at the desk and learned that she had checked out at nine-thirty that morning — booked herself on the eleven-thirty flight for London. He looked at his watch. She’d be boarding about now. He’d been glad when she’d said their affair was over, but now he wasn’t so sure. It might have been comforting to have had someone along with him when he saw this Doctor Brewster. As he crossed the hall he took out his dark glasses and put them on, then he asked the doorman to call him a cab.
*
Gerald came out of the Curie Medical Building and stood for a moment on the pavement watching the people and traffic rush by. People — scores of them — all going their own way, their minds intent on their own worries. Odd, but he’d never given them a thought before. Until now people had been divided into two groups. Music lovers and others. If they didn’t go to his concerts, if they weren’t fans, they simply didn’t exist. Now, in his stunned state, he suddenly saw that to some extent they all had something in common. They were all basically insecure when it came to their own mortality; all afraid, not only of death but of facing the future alone.
Doctor Brewster had been chillingly positive in his diagnosis, but he had advised Gerald to seek a second opinion for his own peace of mind.
‘When you get back to London you should see your own doctor,’ he had advised. ‘There are tests you could undergo and it would be wise to do so, so as to be perfectly sure, you understand?’
‘And the treatment?’ Gerald had asked. ‘How long does it take to be cured? I’m a concert pianist. I need to be able to work.’
His heart was leaden as he remembered the look on the doctor’s face and the way he had shaken his head.
‘I have to be perfectly frank with you, Mr Cavelle. Parkinson’s Disease is manageable. Nowadays, thanks to research it can be controlled. As for a cure, that is something that so far has eluded medical science.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I have a colleague who is working on a research project at Edinburgh University. I’m sure he would be interested in your case. I’ll write to him if you like.’
*
‘Are you okay, sir? Can I get you a cab?’ The doorman was used to seeing people come out of the Curie Building looking dazed and he prided himself on his sympathetic and helpful manner. He put a tentative hand under Gerald’s elbow but he shrugged the man off impatiently.
‘I’m quite all right, thank you. It’s only a couple of blocks. I’ll walk.’
I’ve got to get home, he thought. There has to be an answer. It couldn’t be possible in 1961 that there was no known cure. Even this morning the papers were full of the latest space shot. The Russians had already put a man out there and now the Americans were planning to do it too. Why were they so bloody keen to get to other planets when there were people dying of incurable illnesses on this one? It was ridiculous. There must be a doctor somewhere with the answer. He’d pin all his hopes on this doctor in Edinburgh. Being a guinea pig was better than nothing! He’d ring his agent — tell him to call off the rest of the tour. Then he’d get the hotel receptionist to book him on the next flight to London.
Home. He pictured the flat, its spacious rooms echoing with emptiness. His piano standing silently in the window. Then the thought of that other piano, Dan Oldham’s baby grand that he was storing for Cathy. He wondered whether she had been to play it during his absence and found himself hoping that she had. It was comforting to think of her there. Suddenly, and with startling clarity, he remembered her eyes, green as the springtime sea, and that extraordinary amber-gold hair. Cathy. He said the name to himself, remembering how sweetly she had clung to him that afternoon in the attic of that hideous little house in Edgware. ‘I’m coming home, Cathy,’ he said aloud, and somehow found solace in the thought that there was at least one person who would be happy to see him.
Chapter Four
The envelope was waiting beside Cathy’s plate when she came down to breakfast. Three pairs of eyes watched her as she nervously slid her finger under the flap. She glanced at Johnny.
‘I can’t look,’ she said, passing the envelope across the table. ‘You open it.’
Johnny shook her head. ‘Oh, no. I think you should see it first, love,’ she said. ‘Go on. Take a deep breath and look. We’re all waiting.’
But still Cathy stared at the folded sheet of paper. ‘Oh dear. I wish … ’ Suddenly the letter was snatched from h
er hand by Matthew whose long arm shot across the table without warning.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, give it here.’ He unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly, then gave her a rueful look across the table. ‘Oh, well,’ he said with a sympathetic look. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’ He tossed the letter back to her and rose from the table to pull on his jacket. ‘Time I was going, I suppose.’
Cathy snatched up the letter, her cheeks very pink, and read it hurriedly, then she too was on her feet, half crying, half laughing. ‘Matthew Johnson — you absolute pig!’ She punched him on the shoulder.
Old Mrs Bains clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. What a way to talk. Young people nowadays.’ She wagged an admonishing finger at Cathy. ‘You may have failed your exams, young lady, but there’s no need to … ’
‘But I haven’t,’ Cathy said, swinging round, her eyes shining. ‘Look.’ She held out the letter. ‘Two grade ones, three twos, a three and a four. And that was only RE so as I’m not planning to be a nun it isn’t important.’ She laughed delightedly. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell Gerald.’
Matthew grinned at her. ‘Took a good shock to make you look though, didn’t it, chicken?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Have to go or I’ll miss the bus. I’ll have my champagne and cake when I get home, okay?’
After he’d gone Cathy helped Johnny to clear the table and wash up, her head still spinning with euphoria.
‘I want to leave school now that I’ve got my O’s, Johnny,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could face another two years of slogging away.’
‘Your father had his heart set on your going to university,’ Johnny told her as she put away the dishes. ‘I think he felt you were capable of it.’
‘Fathers always think their daughters are cleverer than they really are,’ Cathy said. ‘I want to get a job and start earning my living. Then I can pay you for my keep out of my earnings. It isn’t really right that Gerald should keep paying.’
‘I don’t think he is, yet. There must still be money left from the house,’ Johnny reminded her. ‘I don’t think you need worry yet awhile.’ She looked anxiously at the girl who was like a daughter to her. ‘It’s a mistake to rush into some dead end job just for the sake of leaving school, love,’ she said kindly. ‘I dare say everyone feels as you do at this stage. If you really don’t want to go to university how about training for something at college?’
Cathy stood staring out of the kitchen window dreamily. ‘I can’t really think of anything I’d like to study,’ she said. ‘My music isn’t good enough and I hate the thought of shorthand and typing, or anything else that means being stuck in some office all day. I had thought about nursing. I like looking after people.’ She turned with a smile. ‘And I really enjoy helping you in the house — cooking and sewing and making things nice. You’ve taught me such a lot about that since I’ve been here.’
‘What about domestic science then?’ Johnny said triumphantly. ‘You could take a course in that. And maybe when you’re qualified you could teach it in some nice school. It’d certainly stand you in good stead for when you have a home of your own.’
Cathy took the letter out of her pocket and looked at it again. ‘It says we have to go to school tomorrow afternoon,’ she said. ‘There’s a meeting with the head and the careers mistress so that we can make up our minds what we’re going to do next term.’
‘Right, then you can get it all fixed up.’ Johnny wiped her hands and took off her apron. ‘I dare say they’ll be able to give you a list of colleges. Would you like me to come along with you?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I’d better go alone. I’m going to have to get used to doing things for myself from now on, aren’t I?’
Upstairs in her room she made her bed and then sat down to look at her letter again. The grades were better than she’d dared to hope for. But then she had worked hard. Now all she wanted was to have the pleasure of telling Gerald and seeing his face. He’d be home very soon now. The last postcard she’d had from him was of Times Square, New York. Only one more week, he’d written. And that was a fortnight ago. She would be hearing from him any day now.
Would he be surprised that she hadn’t taken up his invitation to go to his flat? she wondered. There had been lots of times when she had wanted to. She still missed Dad. On some days it was so bad that she just wanted to be by herself. Johnny always knew when she felt like that and left her alone, but playing his piano — even just touching it — would have helped so much. One Saturday afternoon she had even taken the tube up to the West End and walked right up to the building. But it had looked so grand and so formidable that she had walked straight past. She hadn’t had the nerve to go in and ask the caretaker for a key as Gerald had suggested.
She wondered how all her friends had fared in the exams. Carla had hardly done any revision at all. She’d been much keener on going to the pictures or dancing. Rosalind Blair would have done well though. She always did. She had known exactly what subjects to take because she had no doubts about her future career. It must be nice to have no doubts about what you really wanted to do, Cathy thought.
*
When she arrived at St Margaret’s the following afternoon the hall was full of excited chatter as the girls exchanged news and exam results. To Cathy’s surprise Carla had scraped through four of the five subjects she had taken and seemed not to mind at all having low grades.
‘I’ve decided to go to teacher training college,’ she announced.
Cathy stared at her incredulously. ‘Is that really what you want?’
Carla pulled a face. ‘Dad’s idea. He reckons it’s a safe, secure job. His alternative was the bank. Teaching’s the lesser of two evils, I reckon, and you do get lovely long holidays.’
‘But it means you’ll have to stay on and take some A’s.’
Carla shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Still, who knows what might happen in the meantime?’ she said. ‘I might meet some handsome millionaire and get married.’
Miss Hanley, Cathy’s form mistress, was doubtful about the domestic science idea. ‘I think you should go away and give it some more thought, Catherine,’ she said. ‘I really feel that you’re capable of something a little more academic. Domestic science is fine, but you have a good enquiring mind and I’m afraid DS wouldn’t stretch you enough.’
‘I did think about nursing,’ Cathy said.
Miss Hanley smiled. ‘Well, I think that might suit you better, but you couldn’t begin training until you are eighteen. You don’t want to hang around doing nothing for almost a year, do you? So why not stay on for your A levels?’
All the way home Cathy’s mind was full of what Miss Hanley had said. So much so that she walked right past the car that stood at the gate without looking at it. It was only as she was letting herself in at the front door that she heard his voice and stopped dead in her tracks. Gerald! He was back — and here!
She stood in the hall uncertainly, suddenly overcome with shyness. It was eight whole months since she had seen him. Had she changed? she wondered. She peered into the hall mirror and saw two shining green eyes and the mass of fly-away auburn hair that would never stay in place. Why do I have to be so ordinary? she asked herself despairingly. Not only that but she had a spot coming on her chin. Carla wore make-up all the time now, even for school. Maybe Cathy should start using it more. Slipping silently up the stairs, she combed her hair and applied a dash of the pink lipstick Carla had persuaded her to buy when they were in Woolworth’s last Saturday. Standing back she regarded herself. Better, she supposed. Hardly the height of sophistication, but better.
He stood up when she came into the room and her heart gave a dizzying little jerk when he smiled at her.
She affected surprise. ‘Gerald! I didn’t know you were back.’
‘I got in some days ago, but I had a few things to clear up,’ he told her. ‘There’s always such a lot to do when you’ve been away.’ Bending towards her he said teasingly, ‘Well — does yo
ur old guardian rate a kiss after his long absence?’
Cathy blushed crimson and pecked his cheek.
‘Mrs Johnson has been telling me your good news,’ he said with a smile. ‘Congratulations. I think you deserve that special dinner I promised you. In fact, I think I should take you all out.’ He looked at Johnny who shook her head.
‘No, we couldn’t let you do that, Mr Cavelle. Besides, it’s Cathy’s success. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to discuss with her too.’
Gerald looked doubtful. ‘I’d love to take you all out to dinner, Mrs Johnson. I owe you a lot for looking after Cathy so well.’
Johnny blushed. ‘You don’t owe me anything, Mr Cavelle,’ she said. ‘Cathy is like one of my own. I’d have taken her in anyway after her father passed on. Even if I’d had to keep her myself.’
Gerald felt chastened. ‘Of course. I only meant … ’
Mrs Bains, who was sitting in her chair by the window, a shawl over her arthritic knees, broke into his sentence with a sound that was half cough, half grunt.
‘Besides, I like to be in bed by nine,’ she put in. ‘My days for gadding about to restaurants are over and done with.’
‘That’s right,’ Johnny said with an apologetic smile. ‘I couldn’t really leave Mother anyway.’
*
Johnny treated Cathy to a shampoo and set at Fleur Coiffeur in the High Street on the day designated for the dinner date with Gerald. When she got home she went up to her room and studied her appearance in the dressing-table mirror. The hairdresser had backcombed and teased her auburn hair into the new bouffant style that was becoming so popular. She wasn’t altogether sure that it suited her finely drawn features, but it certainly had the effect of making her look more grown-up. She took out her newest dress, made of pale lilac voile, and sat on the bed to shorten the skirt. Everyone was wearing them much shorter now and she was determined to look fashionable. With her pocket money she’d bought a pair of tights in a matching shade and she planned to wear her little black patent shoes with the flared heels. As she stitched she wondered whether she’d pass for twenty. With some mascara and eye shadow she felt fairly sure that she would. This afternoon she’d have a trial run with it.
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 8