The boy cleared his throat and Rosalind looked up, surprised to find him still there.
‘Any reply, miss?’
‘What? Oh, no. No reply — thank you.’
Slowly she closed the door and stared helplessly at the packed cases standing ready by the front door. Now she had no one. Dad had gone. She wouldn’t see him again — ever. There would be no new life in Australia now. No love and no belonging. Just a greater loneliness than ever.
Oddly, the tears wouldn’t come. She wanted — needed — to cry but there was a deep, hard coldness inside her that refused to thaw. Uppermost in her mind was the question of where she should go. In a little while a taxi would be here. Where should it take her now? Sitting down on the bottom stair she thought quickly, her mind suddenly crystal clear. Then she rose and went into Don’s study. Lifting the telephone, she dialled the number of the Queen’s Head and asked for Mrs Gresham, the manageress. When she answered Rosalind explained that she wasn’t leaving the country after all — and the reason.
‘I’d like to come back to work on a permanent basis if there’s a job,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind about going to college. There’s just one thing though. Would it be possible for me to live in?’
Chapter Sixteen
Autumn at Melfordleigh was beautiful. The summer visitors began to thin out and Cathy found that she could often walk for miles along the sand without seeing a soul. She preferred the dunes. The garden at Cuckoo Lodge seemed melancholy now that summer was over and most of the flowers had gone. The roses hung sad, windblown heads and the bright petals of the dahlias were bruised with early frost. Even this year’s brood of baby ducks on the mill stream, which had enchanted her all summer, had grown up and gone.
In November the shocking news of President Kennedy’s assassination cast a dark shadow over the whole world. Autumn turned to winter and Christmas loomed once again. Cathy hoped it might be a chance to lift the gloom. Gerald’s students, Robert and Simon, were both going home and obviously looking forward to the holiday. Cathy heard their good-natured banter and laughter as she went about her household tasks. She envied them, often wishing she could join in with their youthful camaraderie. But she kept her distance, feeling that Gerald would not approve. She had nursed a fond hope that maybe they’d invite Johnny, Mrs Bains and Matthew to Cuckoo Lodge for Christmas, but when she suggested it to Gerald he shrugged off the idea.
‘Didn’t you say that the old lady wouldn’t travel back in the summer? It isn’t likely she’ll want to come here in the middle of winter, is it?’ he said dismissively.
Cathy had to agree that he was probably right. Johnny wouldn’t leave her mother alone at Christmas as she had in the summer. It seemed that they would be spending the holiday alone. She examined the reasons for her crushing disappointment, forced to acknowledge at last that there was something badly wrong with her marriage. All year she had seen so little of Gerald. A year ago the prospect of having him to herself for a few days would have filled her with excited anticipation, so why did she now find herself viewing the prospect with such a heavy heart?
The answer was something she would have preferred not to think about, yet as the end of their first year approached she realised that it was something she must face up to. Instead of growing closer together during the year they had been at Melfordleigh they had been drifting steadily further apart. Gerald was busy with his students. That was as it should be. It was part of their plan and she had been prepared for it. But even during his off duty hours he seemed to have little time for her; indeed, she sometimes wondered if he even noticed she was there. And the fact that she had so little to do made her all the more aware of it. The organising and administrative work she had hoped to do for the school had been taken out of her hands. Gerald had engaged a secretary, a middle-aged woman who came in twice a week to attend to his correspondence. The financial side of things was taken care of by an accountant. If they had been close to a college she might have gone back and finished her Home Economics course. But the nearest one was twenty miles away and the local bus into town ran only twice a week. It would have been impossible for her to get there and back each day.
She spent her days pottering round the house, helping Maggie prepare meals and walking — endlessly walking. By now she knew Melfordleigh as though she had been born there. She talked to the fishermen on the quay; watched the barefoot children sitting on the sea wall, hopefully dangling their bread-baited crablines; acquainted herself with the many kinds of seabirds as they foraged for food on the sandbanks at low tide.
Fascinated by the artists, she took up painting, buying materials from an art shop in Ipswich on one of her weekly shopping trips and taking care to work well away from the real artists. She was shy about her amateur, schoolgirlish efforts and afraid of their critical eyes. As the weeks went by she gradually improved and found satisfaction in the challenge of trying to capture the ever changing landscape of sea and sky with the aid of pigment and brushes. It was so much more satisfying than merely taking photographs, but it did not make up for her loneliness, or for the widening gulf in her marriage.
Once winter had truly set in her outdoor activities ground to a standstill. The rain and the relentless icy winds blowing off the North Sea made the dunes a wild, unfriendly place where walking was a bone-chilling ordeal. The gale-force winds were strong enough to lean on and the cold seemed to penetrate the thickest clothing. The yachtsmen and artists had all gone and even the fishermen stopped lingering on the quay to smoke a pipe, gossip and-mend their nets.
Christmas was lonely. Without Robert and Simon there was no laughter or friendly chatter to brighten up the house. Cathy missed them even more than she had expected to. She had looked forward so much to this, their first Christmas together, especially after the traumas of last year. But Gerald spent most of his time in the studio, preparing work for next term and arranging next summer’s concerts and seminars. He worked late into the night, retiring to his dressing room sometimes during the small hours, long after she was asleep, and sleeping late in the mornings. Cathy occupied herself between the kitchen and the drawing room, where she whiled away the long evenings watching the newly acquired television set that Gerald had bought, she guessed, to keep her amused and out of his way.
Maggie had taken two weeks off to be with her children until the new term began and Cathy missed her big breezy laugh and the village gossip she brought with her each day.
Bad weather kept her confined to the house and when the snow came a few days after Christmas the village was actually cut off for several days so that Robert and Simon were obliged to take a few more days’ holiday.
Being shut up in the warm, comfortable house should have been cosy and romantic, especially for two people so recently married. Instead it seemed to make Gerald restless and irritable. He began to snap at her for the smallest thing. Sometimes, when he looked at her, Cathy felt it was almost as though he had difficulty in working out who she was.
*
The gloomy weeks merged, one into the next, like a slowly grinding treadmill until, to Cathy’s relief, the days began to lengthen and the wind from the sea turned noticeably kinder. Wrapped in a thick woolly sweater and gloves, she began once more to take her daily walks down to the quay or along the dunes.
When Robert and Simon returned, Gerald worked them extra hard to make up for the holiday, but in April, just after the builders had moved in to put the finishing touches to the barn, ready for the summer seminars and concerts, Robert announced that he was breaking into his course to go off on a tour of the north of England with a youth orchestra; something of which Gerald strongly disapproved, having intended that the two students would help him with the summer seminars. He warned Robert that he would acquire bad habits and would need to begin all over again. ‘If I decide that you’re worth taking back' he added threateningly.
At the beginning of the spring term, Gerald, much against his better judgement, had agreed to take a few promising s
ixth-form pupils from the local grammar school at the head’s request. But it was a mistake. Their comparative ineptitude stretched his patience to breaking point. Even though the students were keen and worked hard he was intolerant of their shortcomings. Cathy came to dread the days when they came for their lessons. Afterwards Gerald would crash around the house, muttering under his breath and finding fault with everything she did.
Once when he refused his dinner and flung off in a mood she followed him to the studio. Closing the door carefully behind her she stood with her back against it, watching him as he paced up and down in front of the window.
‘What’s the matter, Gerald?’ she asked. ‘Why are you so angry?’
He swung round to face her, his face dark. ‘Why am I angry? Why?’ he shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Cathy! Can’t you use your imagination for once? What the hell am I doing? I should be at the peak of my performance — enjoying a successful career — not sitting listening to a lot of acne-covered cretins thumping the piano to a pulp. It’s such a criminal waste of my time. They’re never going to amount to anything if they live to be a hundred!’
‘Oh, Gerald, that’s unkind. They’re not children. They’re intelligent sixth-formers.’ She didn’t remind him that they were only a year or so younger than she was herself. ‘They’re really keen and they admire you so much. Besides, from what I can hear they sound very talented.’
‘Oh, do they? Well, if you like them so much, you bloody well teach them!’ He glared at her. ‘Anyway, what would you know about it?1 he added rudely.
‘I did grow up with a musician father,’ she said quietly.
‘Precisely! I mean, you could hardly call what Dan did playing the piano, could you?’
Tears filled her eyes and she turned away. ‘That’s very cruel, Gerald.’
Instantly he was contrite. ‘Oh God, Cathy, I didn’t mean that.’ He crossed the room and pulled her round to face him, holding her stiff body tightly. ‘Dan was a good man and a fine musician.’ He threw up his hands in despair. ‘It’s this bloody illness of mine. I get so frustrated, then I take it out on people who don’t deserve it.’
‘But I thought you wanted to be here at Cuckoo Lodge - to teach?’ she muttered. ‘I thought you were tired of the concert circuit and everything to do with it?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I was — I am. But I still miss it all. I can’t help it. It just takes time adjusting.’
‘And you’ve got Simon. Surely he’s rewarding? He does sound very good to me, even though my standards aren’t as high as yours.’
‘Don’t!’ He rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘I didn’t mean what I said about Dan. You know I didn’t. And yes, Simon is good. That’s part of the trouble if I’m honest. I see myself in him sometimes and I … ’ He sighed and turned away from her. ‘I envy him, blast it, with his whole career in front of him. His whole healthy life just waiting to be lived!’
‘None of us knows what’s in store though,’ she reminded him. ‘You didn’t when you were Simon’s age.’
‘I do now though, don’t I?’
‘What do you mean?’ She looked at him closely, disturbed by his bitter tone, but he shrugged and drew a deep breath.
‘Take no notice. I’m just feeling a bit down, that’s all. It’s probably the medication I’m on. The doctor said — oh, let’s forget it.’
‘What is this illness you’ve got, Gerald?’ she asked.
He looked at her, his eyes guarded. ‘You know what it is.’
‘I don’t. Not the name of it.’
‘What’s the difference anyway? You know how it affects me and that’s all that matters.’
‘Is that what makes you so cross?’ she asked him. ‘I mean - you would say if it was me, wouldn’t you?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, Cathy, of course it isn’t you. This — this thing I’ve got stops my muscles from doing what I want them to. That’s what makes it so frustrating. It affects my movements as you must have noticed. Sometimes - sometimes I forget things too. It’s so maddening!’
She looked at him anxiously. ‘Is it painful?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes worse than others.’ He looked at her. ‘That’s why I sleep in the dressing room. So as not to disturb you when I’m restless.’
‘You needn’t worry about me. I wouldn’t mind you being restless. I miss you, Gerald.’
‘I know. I miss you too. But I get tired. Maybe once we’ve got the place up and running properly … ’
‘But once the summer starts you’ll be busier than ever.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you sure you’re not overdoing things? Gerald … ’ She touched his arm. ‘Your illness — it won’t get worse, will it, darling?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not if I do as I’m told and take the medication. I’ll have to go up to Edinburgh to see the consultant again soon. Maybe he’ll have good news for me. They’re always hoping for some new breakthrough from the research they’re doing up there.’
She could see that he was itching to bring the conversation to an end, but there was something else she was determined to say. ‘Gerald — I’ve been meaning to ask you, only you seemed to have so much on your mind. Can we think about starting a baby soon? You did say we might when we were settled.’
His eyes clouded and he turned away. ‘You could hardly call us settled yet, could you?’
‘When then?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe when we’ve got the first summer season over. Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
‘Yes, but — if you were just to start sleeping in our room again … ’
‘Leave it for now, Cathy, there’s a good girl.’
The impatient, dismissive note in his voice and the familiar lines that tightened his mouth told her all too plainly that it would be useless to press the subject further. ‘At least come and have your dinner,’ she said quietly. ‘You should eat something. It’s not good for you to go without.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ he said abruptly. ‘Tell Maggie to keep it for me. I might have it later.’ He walked towards the door. ‘I’m going to work in the other studio for a while. I don’t want to be disturbed.’
She watched him turn away from her with despair. ‘It’s just that I get so lonely sometimes, Gerald,’ she said despairingly as he was halfway through the door.
He paused, his head half-turned. ‘Why don’t you ask Simon to watch the television with you?’ he said without looking at her. ‘I think he gets lonely too sometimes. He misses Robert and it’s dull for him here when he isn’t working. Why don’t you take him on some of those walks you like so much. I’m sure he could do with the fresh air to blow the cobwebs away.’
For a long moment she stood staring at the empty doorway, her heart heavy with hurt. Didn’t he love her at all? Didn’t he understand how she felt or what he was doing to her? Didn’t he even care?
From that evening on Cathy spent more time in Simon’s company. He enjoyed watching programmes on TV with her and when he felt in need of fresh air and some time away from the piano he would accompany her on her walks. He would just tag along without asking and at first she resented him a little. She’d grown used to walking alone and she valued her privacy and the freedom to paint if she felt like it. Besides, just at the moment it made a welcome escape from the builders’ intrusion; the mess they made and their constant demands for cups of tea. The open seascape and the tangy air seemed to clear her head and calm her nerves but with Simon along she was obliged to make conversation.
But to her surprise she soon forgot her initial irritation and found herself looking forward to his company. His lively conversation and boyish sense of humour lifted her spirits and refreshed her far more than the hours of solitude. He had a youthful zest for life and looked forward to his future as a concert pianist with a confidence and certainty that made her envious.
Lately she had begun to be doubtful about her own future. There seemed no role for her here. Sometimes she felt that Gerald had no need of
her at all. His mood swings were so frequent and unpredictable that she often felt as though she were walking on eggshells. She was barely a wife and, as the months went by, it seemed less and less likely that she would ever be a mother either.
For his part, Simon sensed the growing tension between the Cavelles. He was often a witness to Gerald’s impatient sniping and cruel criticisms of his young wife. Sometimes his tutor would make oblique references to his wife’s restlessness, putting it down to her inability to adjust to the change from London to village life. Simon was surprised and slightly embarrassed when he suggested that it might be beneficial to them both if Simon spent some of his free time with Cathy, indicating that she needed entertaining by someone of her own age to help her settle.
It wasn’t hard to imagine how difficult Gerald Cavelle must be to live with. He was a brilliant pianist and coach — the best. Simon knew he was privileged to be taught by him. But he was brutally impatient and mercilessly critical, with his young wife no less than with his students. Simon put up with it, knowing that it was in his best interest to do so. After all, it would not be for long. But he concluded from Cathy’s increasingly withdrawn manner that she found her husband’s attitude intolerably hurtful.
Often when he was alone in his room he would think about her, wondering how she had come to marry a man so much older. One day, he promised himself, he would pluck up the courage to ask her outright. That day came one spring afternoon when she walked so fast that he had trouble keeping up with her. That morning he had reluctantly witnessed Gerald reducing her to tears because his breakfast egg was too hard and the toast was cold. She had clearly wanted to be alone this afternoon, but he had chosen to ignore her hints and accompany her anyway.
‘Do you think you could slow down a bit?’ he asked her breathlessly.
She slowed her pace. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise.’
‘Thanks. It felt more like rushing to catch a train than a leisurely walk.’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘Walking off a black mood?’
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 30