The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  He looked up in surprise. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So — what was she like?’

  He shrugged. ‘She was beautiful. Stunning auburn hair like yours and green eyes.’

  She shook her head. ‘I know all that from her photographs. I meant, what was she like — as a person?’

  ‘Well — what can I say? It was a long time ago. She was Dan’s wife — your mother.’

  She twisted the spoon between her fingers. ‘You know of course that she left us — Dad and me? When I was a baby. Went off with some lover.’

  ‘I did hear something, yes.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Dad was so forgiving. I don’t see how he could be. I know I could never forgive someone who let me down like that. He only told me what really happened a few months before he died, you know. Until then I’d always thought she died when I was little. He didn’t want me to think ill of her, especially after she was killed.’ She looked at Gerald. ‘You did know she was killed — in a car accident?’

  ‘Yes. And he never told you.’ He smiled gently. ‘That sounds like Dan.’

  ‘I’ve tried not to, and I know he wouldn’t want me to, but I do think badly of her,’ she admitted. ‘Dad didn’t deserve to be treated like that and I don’t see how anyone can leave their baby.’

  ‘We none of us know what we’d do, faced with the same dilemma,’ he said softly.

  ‘I keep thinking that maybe if she’d stayed — if Dad had been happier …’

  He reached out to touch her hand. ‘Cathy, don’t torture yourself, wondering what might have been. I’ve learned that it’s no use raking over the past. What’s done is done. We can never know what might have happened if things had been different. Look at me. I’m losing so much through this — this wretched ailment of mine. But it’s no use wishing for something we can’t have. Things happen. We have to accept, adapt, and make the best of it.’

  ‘You said something like that once before.’

  ‘I’m not a wise man but at least I’ve learned that much.’

  ‘You’ve got so much courage, Gerald. I wish I had half as much.’

  *

  They walked back up through the winding street to Cuckoo Lodge to stand staring at the house again. Gerald looked at Cathy. ‘You still haven’t seen the rest of it,’ he said. ‘There’s lots more.’ He took her hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ At the back of the house was a huddle of tumbledown outbuildings: a decaying wash house, its brickwork green with moss, an unspeakable corrugated iron privy, apparently occupied by several hundred spiders, a fuel store, and a rather imposing barn built of stone and timber.

  ‘Once these are down you’d be able to see the garden from the back windows,’ Gerald said with a sweep of his arm. ‘Thought the barn might make rather a good studio. It was once used as a grain store for the mill and the agent seems to think it’s structurally solid.’

  They skirted the buildings, wading through the waist-high grass to what had once been a beautiful garden. Cathy recognised a group of lilacs, and there were fruit trees cordoned against a sun-warmed wall of pale pink brick. Foxgloves, ox-eye daisies and roses, long since gone to rampant briar, struggled for supremacy with invading nettles and rosebay willow herb. There was a huge gnarled apple tree with the remains of a swing hanging from one of its springy branches. Cathy was enthralled. ‘Oh, Gerald, this could be lovely!’

  A rusty iron gate at the bottom took them on to the bank of the stream where willows dipped their graceful fronds into the glassy green water. Among the reeds yellow flag iris grew in profusion, throwing their bright reflection into the stream. Looking into the dark water Cathy glimpsed a large brown speckled fish moving sluggishly among the weeds. Then suddenly she was startled as a family of mallards emerged from the curtain of willow, stirring the water into a thousand spreading ripples. The big fish vanished as the mother duck fussed noisily with her flotilla of ducklings, sending them scudding through the creamy water lilies. Cathy laughed delightedly.

  ‘Oh, Gerald, look. Aren’t they sweet? I wish I’d brought some bread so that we could feed them.’

  He watched her enjoying it all. It made him ache deep inside to see her spontaneous pleasure. She was so young — so easily pleased by simple things. She reminded him so much of … He turned away abruptly. ‘Time’s getting on. I think we should make tracks for home.’

  She followed him reluctantly back to the car. As he settled himself in the driving seat he said, ‘I’ll get that firm of architects on to it tomorrow. I wonder how long it would take them to make the place habitable? Always supposing it’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’ Cathy sighed. ‘Oh, Gerald, I do envy you. It’ll be so exciting, watching the house come back to life again.’

  He’d already started backing the car out into the lane, but now he stopped and switched off the engine, turning in his seat to look at her. ‘How would you like to be part of it?’ he asked. ‘How would you like to come and live here with me when it’s done?’

  Cathy felt the warm blood creep up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘What — what do you mean?’

  ‘What I say. After all, I am your guardian — and your godfather.’

  ‘But — I have my course to finish.’

  He studied her face for a moment and then turned away. ‘Of course. You have your own life — all your own friends. And then there’s Matthew, isn’t there?’

  She frowned. ‘Matthew? What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘He’s your — what do you call it? — steady boyfriend, isn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  He started the engine again. ‘You talk an awful lot about him, or perhaps you hadn’t realised that.’ He was out on the road now and began to press his foot down on the accelerator. ‘Forget that I asked you, Cathy. Silly of me to imagine that a girl of your age would want to bury herself alive in a hole like this — and with a sick old man.’

  Shocked, she turned troubled eyes on him and laid a hand lightly on his wrist. ‘Gerald, you’re not sick. And you’re not an old man. You know you’re not.’

  He glanced at her. ‘I must seem like one, to you.’

  ‘But you don’t. And there’s nothing I’d like more than to live at Cuckoo Lodge and be part of all the exciting things you’re planning.’

  ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to be kind or feel sorry for me, you know.’

  For the next few miles they drove in silence, Cathy puzzling over what she could have done or said to upset him. She wasn’t aware of having talked a lot about Matthew. And going to live at Cuckoo Lodge with Gerald would be like some kind of wonderful dream come true. But how could she make him see this without making a fool of herself again?

  They drove for most of the way in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts. The countryside gave way to buildings. They were almost home and Cathy had begun to despair, fearing that they would part on a sour note when Gerald suddenly turned to her.

  ‘Would you like a drink before you go home? I think perhaps we should talk.’

  She nodded silently, wondering apprehensively what they would talk about.

  She’d been expecting him to pull up at a coffee bar or cafe and when he drew the car on to the forecourt of the Dog and Feathers she was a little surprised. Apart from the Queen’s Head she had never been inside a pub before, but she didn’t want him to know, so she tried to look as though it was something she did everyday.

  It was a typical suburban pub, with folksy decor: mock beams and chintzes, horse brasses, and a log fire that was powered by electricity. But it was comfortable enough. As it was early in the evening there were few customers and plenty of seats. Cathy settled herself at a table by the window and Gerald asked her what she would like to drink. She said the first thing that came into her head.

  ‘A dry martini, please.’ The heroines in films always drank dry martinis and it had a sophisticated, feminine sound to it.

  If Gerald was surprised he didn’t show it. He cam
e back to the table with the drinks and sat down beside her. ‘Cathy — first I must ask your forgiveness. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

  ‘You didn’t. It’s all right.’ She couldn’t look at him. Raising the glass to her lips she took a mouthful of the pale liquid and almost choked on the bitterness that coursed down her throat like liquid fire.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, seeing her eyes water.

  She nodded. ‘Yes … it’s … ’ She pulled a face. ‘I’ve never actually had one of these before. I’m sorry but I’m afraid I don’t like it very much.’

  Smiling gently he took the glass from her hand and put it on the table. It was the proof that he’d been pushing her too hard. She’d probably much rather have had a lemonade or Coca-Cola. She was trying so hard to please him. ‘You don’t have to drink it.’ He leaned closer. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Cathy. It was mean of me to pressure you like that. Selfish. It’s just that sometimes the thought of starting again — of being alone — scares me.’

  She squeezed his hand and looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘But I would like to live at Cuckoo Lodge with you,’ she said. ‘When I’ve finished my course.’ She smiled at him. ‘Anyway, it’s going to take ages for the place to be ready, isn’t it? There’s plenty of time.’

  He sighed, his heart heavy. Plenty of time was something she took for granted — whereas he … ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘And you will take me again — to see the work, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘To see the house taking shape? I’ve had such a lovely day, Gerald.’ She glanced at him. ‘Oh, and by the way … ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t see you as an old man. And I don’t feel in the least sorry for you. So there!’

  He laughed, leaning across to kiss her forehead. ‘I’m delighted to hear it!’

  Chapter Eight

  The row over Mrs Blake senior’s room marked the end of the honeymoon for Una and Don. For days afterwards Rosalind had to endure mealtimes frigid with animosity when neither her mother nor Don spoke one word; embarrassingly making whatever requests were necessary through her. Once, when Una addressed a scathing remark to no one in particular about living in the past, Don looked up from his Daily Telegraph, his face dark with anger.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, woman! Here we are on the brink of nuclear war and all you can think of is your damned bungalow.’ He pushed the newspaper under her nose. ‘Here — read about it.’ He jabbed a finger at the headline that read: CUBAN CRISIS. Kennedy Calls Up 150,000 Reservists. ‘If something isn’t done soon about Castro none of us will have any need to worry about living in the past. We won’t ever see 1963!’ He strode out of the room.

  But even thoughts of being blown to Kingdom Come didn’t prevent Una from complaining. At night, through the walls of her room, Rosalind could hear the angry hum of their voices, spiked with the odd distinguishable word or phrase — selfish — obsession — living in the past. Her heart sank as she buried her head among the pillows, reminded miserably of her anguished childhood. At times she almost wished she had given up her cherished career dreams and accepted Ben and Freda’s invitation to go with them to Australia. Rows, even those she was not directly involved in, made her feel physically sick. Voices raised in anger made her stomach churn and her heart thump uncomfortably and all the fears and insecurities of her childhood crowded in on her till she felt suffocated and wretched.

  As Una and Don quarrelled behind their closed door she would shut her eyes and force herself to picture the lovely home she would have one day. A home that would be her livelihood too. Once she had achieved that no one could ever take it away from her.

  Even when Don wasn’t home there was little peace. Una constantly carped about him, tacitly urging Rosalind to take her side. She began to dread coming home from school each afternoon to hear a catalogue of Don’s shortcomings. The weeks went by and the Cuban crisis was resolved, but at Blake’s Folly things grew worse instead of better. Don stubbornly refused to move from Jay’s Lane, paying no heed to Una’s threats to leave him. She began to realise that he wasn’t as easygoing or as eager to please as she had been led to believe. Without referring to the fact, both of them knew that with no money of her own, no job or home, she had little choice but to stay. His calm complacency infuriated Una, who felt trapped and cheated.

  ‘If you ask me he’s some kind of pervert,’ she said waspishly for the hundredth time one day in early-November as she and Rosalind were having tea. ‘Keeping all his mother’s things locked up in that room like some kind of holy sanctum. I couldn’t put up with that, could I? I mean, it was like something out of a horror film. When he came home and found I’d turfed them all out that afternoon he went white with rage — white!’ she repeated with lurid satisfaction. ‘I tell you, Rossie, I thought he was going to hit me.’ She puffed out her breath explosively. ‘Not that he wouldn’t be sorry if he tried anything like that, I can tell you. Even your pig of a father knew better than to lay a finger on me. Don might think he’s got the upper hand, but just you wait. I’ll think of something, never you fear.’

  Rosalind ate up her tea quickly, wanting desperately to take herself off to her room and get on with her homework. She hated hearing her father spoken of in those terms. And she found the atmosphere of hostility in the house oppressive and nerve-racking. She didn’t really blame Don for being angry. On that awful afternoon Una had not only forced the lock on the bedroom door but thrown all Don’s mother’s clothes and possessions into boxes and telephoned the Salvation Army to come and collect them. All without an ounce of respect for his feelings on the matter.

  Rosalind had once made the mistake of trying to make Una see his point of view. ‘She was his mother, Mum,’ she ventured. ‘He must have been deeply hurt to see you throwing all her things out as though they were rubbish.’

  Una bridled. ‘They were rubbish,’ she said unrepentantly. ‘There was stuff there that must have come out of the ark. Anyway, she’s dead. It’s unhealthy, hoarding dead people’s things.’ She glared at Rosalind. ‘Anyway, who asked for your opinion? It’s me he’s married to. I’m his wife and mistress of this house now. I should be able to have some say in what happens in it.’

  Privately, Rosalind thought Una had got away with plenty of say so far. She had already thrown out most of the furniture without too many reproaches from Don. But she knew better than to express the opinion.

  ‘What that poor Monica went through God only knows,’ Una muttered darkly, rolling her eyes ceilingward. ‘Thank heaven I wasn’t here when his old cow of a mother was alive. Mind you, if I had been things would have been different.’

  ‘Who’s Monica?’ Rosalind asked mildly.

  ‘Don’s first wife, of course. I told you. She came to see me when he was at that conference. Not a bit like he said she was. Really nice and ladylike. She told me a thing or two about Don and his precious mother!’

  Rosalind was of the opinion that ‘poor Monica’ had visited Una simply to make mischief, but again, she kept that thought to herself, knowing better than to antagonise Una still further.

  Since the big row, Don had taken to staying out till quite late each night on the pretext of working late at the office. And with Rosalind alone in her room, busy with her homework, Una soon found time hanging heavily on her hands. As week followed week her belligerent mood changed to one of wounded martyrdom. One evening when Rosalind went downstairs to make herself a bedtime drink she found her mother poring over her photograph album. There was a glass in her hand, and beside her on the table was a half-empty bottle of gin.

  ‘Look, Rossie,’ she said, pointing to the album. ‘This one was when we were in Here We Are Again on Clacton Pier, summer of ’39, it was. Just before the war started. See, all dressed as pierrots for the opening chorus. Those were the days. I was just fifteen. It was my first job.’ She shook her head and dabbed at a tear on her cheek. ‘Your father was twenty-two and so handsome. I f
ell for him the moment I set eyes on him. They were happy days. It was before we were married of course — long before you were bom.’

  Trying to ignore the implication, Rosalind pushed a mug of cocoa towards her mother. ‘Come on, have your cocoa, Mum. You’ve drunk too much of that stuff. It always makes you depressed.’

  Una raised mascara-smudged eyes towards her daughter. ‘Depressed? Bloody devastated more like! Oh, Rossie, I thought all our worries were going to be over when I married Don. I really thought he loved me and wanted me to be happy. But he doesn’t want a wife. He wants a replacement for his damned mother. He’s useless as a husband. He’s living in the past when he was a kid and he and his mother were living here together.’

  She snuffled into her handkerchief. ‘He told me he admired me — said I was attractive and smart. He said he liked strong women. But he still wants all his own way. Sometimes I get the feeling that what he really meant was that he’d like me to take a hairbrush to his backside!’ She looked at Rosalind’s shocked face, her eyes slightly unfocused. ‘There — didn’t know there were men around like him, did you? Well, you do now. Creepy, isn’t it?’

  She closed the photograph album with a slap and sighed despairingly. ‘I tell you, Rossie, if I had any money I’d be out of this morgue tomorrow. I’ve been thinking lately. I’ve a good mind to go back to the stage. I believe my voice is as good as ever it was. I practise every morning when I’ve got the house to myself. I’ve a damned good mind to look for an agent and see what I can get.’

  Rosalind’s heart sank. She remembered only too vividly the tempers and depressions; the fruitless trips up and down Charing Cross Road; the dingy back street bed-sits and always being hungry. Suppose they had to move away — some place where it was too far for her to get to school? She bit her lip, ashamed at the selfishness of the thought, then reminded herself that if no one else was prepared to consider her future, she would have to take care of it herself.