The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  She lifted her shoulders. ‘Something like that.’ She’d felt so humiliated that morning, being shouted at in front of Simon. His insistence on accompanying her seemed like a further humiliation. She felt he must despise her for not standing up for herself. She despised herself too — more and more lately. In spite of the sunshine and the tangy, sea-fresh promise of summer she longed with a sudden agonising poignance for the happy uncomplicated days when her father was alive.

  ‘Gerald’s a lot older than you,’ Simon said, i daresay that must have its drawbacks.’

  His blunt remark felt like a barb, goading her into retaliation.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said defensively, quickening her pace even more. ‘He’s sometimes a little temperamental, but then he’s a talented musician. A genius, some people say. You have to make allowances.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make some for me too,’ he said, blowing out his cheeks breathlessly. He threw himself down on the long wiry grass and lay on his back looking up at her. ‘You must be fitter than me. I’m totally bushed. How about a little break?’ He pulled a piece of grass and began to chew it, squinting up at her with eyes half-closed against the sunlight.

  With a resigned sigh she sat down beside him. ‘Sorry. And you’re right,’ she said. ‘I was walking off a mood.’ She glanced at him, but he had his eyes closed against the glare of the sun. ‘I’m sure you know the reason. You heard Gerald shouting at me this morning.’

  ‘I could hardly help it.’ He opened his eyes and glanced sideways at her. ‘Why don’t you yell back? I would.’

  She was sitting up very straight, staring at the horizon. Her eyes were veiled with sadness. The wind blew strands of her long auburn hair across her face and she brushed them back, tucking them carelessly behind her ears. He saw that her skin was already beginning to take on a golden glow and the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheekbones gave her an air of childlike vulnerability. She’s lovely, he told himself with a small stab of surprise. Why hadn’t he noticed before how beautiful she was? He tried to guess at her age. She was probably younger than him.

  He missed the company of other young people at college, especially the girls. He’d always been popular with the opposite sex. He prided himself that he had a way with them. He could make them laugh, and that seemed to be the secret of success where girls were concerned. His musical brilliance helped too of course. He knew quite positively and without conceit that he was brilliant. It was a certainty that even Gerald’s most scathing criticism could not waver. He still had a lot to learn, he acknowledged that. But one day he would be great and famous. He had always known it.

  He chewed thoughtfully on his blade of grass. During the winter it had been easy enough to keep his mind on work. There had been little to distract him. But now spring stirred his blood and heightened his senses. In a way he had envied Robert, going off on his tour; the stimulation of meeting new people and seeing new places. He wondered how much longer he would be able to stand this isolation. He wondered how Cathy stood it too.

  Feeling his eyes on her, Cathy turned to look down at him. ‘Do you like it here?’ she asked with a perception that took his breath away.

  ‘Sitting here by the sea — with you, do you mean?’ he asked daringly, his eyes twinkling. ‘I like it very much.’

  She laughed. And for a moment the bleakness in her eyes disappeared. She looked much younger now — like a teenager.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ she said. ‘Melfordleigh — Cuckoo Lodge. Being coached by Gerald. I’m afraid he’s a very hard taskmaster. A perfectionist.’

  He nodded. ‘I like that. I love to work hard; to be stretched. It’s what I’m here for. But I do like to have fun sometimes too and, frankly, there doesn’t seem too much of that around.’

  ‘No.’ She looked away. ‘You must miss your friends.’

  He sat up until his face was on a level with hers. ‘What about you, Cathy? Do you miss your friends — going out, dances, cinema, the theatre? Having a good time? You used to live in London, didn’t you? This place must be one hell of a contrast.’

  ‘Not at all. I love Melfordleigh.’ She avoided his eyes, looking out to sea again. ‘Anyway, I have Gerald. I’m married.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was loaded with meaning and for a moment neither of them spoke. ‘So does all that mean giving up fun?’ he asked. ‘How sad! Maybe I’ll pass on marriage after all.’

  She got to her feet and looked down at him. ‘I think we should be getting back. Maggie will need a hand with the evening meal and I daresay you should be working.’

  She hurried off and he scrambled to his feet and ran after her. ‘I’ve made you angry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything, you know.’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘I only thought it might be good for you to have someone to talk to. We all need a friend — someone to unburden ourselves to at times, don’t we?’

  ‘I have friends. And a husband, thank you,’ she told him icily. ‘Gerald is your tutor and I’m his wife. If there’s anything you need please don’t hesitate to ask, but don’t expect me to talk about my husband behind his back.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you to. You’ve got me all wrong, Cathy. I’m sorry.’ He hung back, allowing her to walk on ahead. This time he’d been too confident of his charm. She made him feel brash and callow. Maybe she was older than she looked. Maybe marriage had made her extra sensitive. Or maybe — just maybe — she needed help more than she cared to admit. He shrugged. Oh well, you couldn’t win them all. If it was true, if she did want help, she’d come round eventually.

  When they reached the quay he caught her up. ‘Cathy … ’ He touched her shoulder. ‘Look — friends?’ He looked into her eyes and saw with dismay that there were tears in their sea-green depths.

  She shook her head. ‘Of course we’re friends, Simon. Please, let’s both forget what we said.’

  ‘You mustn’t take any notice of me, you know. I’m always putting my foot in it. I was famous for it at college.’ He smiled. ‘Next time just tell me to take a running jump, eh?’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I’ll try and remember. But I’ll try not to do it when you’re standing close to the edge of a cliff.’

  He laughed, yet something in her voice made him wonder if her words had a deeper meaning.

  *

  In late-May Gerald was due to make another trip to Edinburgh to see the professor. He wanted to get it over with before the first of the weekend seminars, which would start in June. Simon had arranged to pay his mother a visit while he was away and Cathy quite looked forward to having the house to herself for a few days. She had given Maggie some time off so that she could be with her children for half-term. On impulse she had telephoned Johnny to ask if she would like to come and stay with her during Gerald’s absence, only to learn that old Mrs Bains had been taken to hospital the previous day following a slight stroke, making it impossible for Johnny to leave London.

  Gerald left for Scotland by the early train on Wednesday morning. Simon drove them in to Ipswich station, then drove Cathy back to Melfordleigh afterwards. He was due to leave himself later in the day.

  At Cuckoo Lodge the house seemed strangely silent and peaceful. Cathy wandered through the rooms, breathing in the peace and quiet. It was strange how much more relaxed she felt with Gerald gone. Even though she saw little of him there was always a tension about the place when he was there.

  In the small studio she ran her hands over the keys of her father’s piano. It was ages since she’d played. Both studios were usually in use, and besides, she didn’t like anyone to hear her. The standard Gerald demanded from all his students was so high that it inhibited her, especially after the cruel remark he had made about her father’s playing.

  After a few scales to loosen up she began to play a Brahms waltz she had learned as a child. She was very rusty but with no one to hear her she felt relaxed. It was only as the music uncoiled her taut n
erves that she realised how tense she had grown over the past months.

  As she came to the end the sound of clapping made her turn, startled, towards the doorway.

  ‘What a dark horse you are. I didn’t even know you could play!’ Simon was leaning in the open doorway, his arms folded.

  ‘Oh! I thought you were upstairs, finishing your packing.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘I don’t play. Not really anyway. Surely you can hear that. My father was a pianist and he used to give me lessons, but neither of us ever pretended I was another Eileen Joyce.’

  He wandered into the studio in his casual way and leaned on the piano. ‘You’re what they call a competent player, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled wryly. ‘That about sums it up. No sparkle. No talent. If I’d lived fifty years ago I’d have taught reluctant school-children to play The Merry Peasant and played the harmonium in chapel on Sundays.’

  ‘No you’re putting yourself down,’ he said. ‘Seriously, I’m surprised Gerald hasn’t taken you under his wing.’

  ‘Gerald took me under his wing as you call it some time ago. Now he has better things to do.’ She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter, but that was the way it came out. Catching the now familiar note in her voice he leaned forward to look at her for a moment. She felt his eyes searching her face and blushed crimson. Then, as he opened his mouth to say something, the telephone rang.

  ‘Don’t move. I’ll get it.’ He hurried into the hall, closing the studio door behind him. Cathy began to play again, but it was no use, the moment had gone. Her fingers faltered, hitting the wrong notes. She felt inhibited and self-conscious. Maybe when Simon had left and there was no one to hear she could hammer, as Gerald called it, to her heart’s content. She closed the piano lid regretfully and stood up just as he came back into the room.

  ‘That was my mother,’ he told her. ‘It seems that she has to go away on one of her research jobs. Short notice. So it looks as though my visit home is off.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Oh, Simon, I’m sorry. You must be disappointed.’

  He shrugged. ‘A bit, I suppose, but it can’t be helped.’

  ‘It was such a good chance for you to go home though. Gerald gives you so little time to yourself.’ Her face brightened. ‘I know. Why don’t you ask her to come here one weekend? I’m sure she’d enjoy the concerts, and you could take her out to look at the countryside.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘That’s very kind. We’ll have to think about that.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘The immediate problem is, Cathy, what do I do with myself for the next three days?’

  She frowned. ‘Why — stay here, I suppose.’

  He smiled. ‘You don’t think the locals would gossip? It’s a tricky situation with Gerald away, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t see why anyone should object. If it comes to that, how would they know? As for me, I’ll be cooking for myself. Might as well cook enough for two. You could work — practise — feel free to use the studio — anything you like.’ She laughed. ‘Heaven knows the place is big enough.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure … ’

  ‘I am, of course — unless there’s something else you have in mind?’

  He looked at her, wondering for one crazy moment if she could read the mad fantasy that was in his mind. She wore a faded blue cotton dress and sandals. Her arms and legs were bare and her bright hair was carelessly tied back in a ponytail. And she clearly hadn’t the faintest idea of how desirable she was. For a moment he wondered how it would feel to pull the ribbon from her hair and see it cascade about her shoulders; to take her in his arms and kiss that tremulous mouth till it was bruised and tender; to see his own desire reflected in the fathomless green eyes. To …

  ‘No,’ he said with a casual lift of his shoulders. ‘I’m completely at a loose end.’

  *

  She prepared a casserole for dinner, then went out to the mill stream with an apron full of bread and kitchen scraps with which to feed the ducks. They had recently hatched a new brood of adorable ducklings and as she watched them dive and squabble over the scraps she remembered the first time she and Gerald had come to look at Cuckoo Lodge. She had fallen in love with the place even then, in its wild, neglected state. She’d had such hopes — such dreams — about their future here. What had gone wrong with it all? What she had visualised as their home had become something close to a prison. And in so short a time. It had to be her fault. If only she knew how to put things right.

  ‘Greedy little devils, aren’t they?’ She turned and found Simon leaning against a nearby willow tree. Suddenly she felt annoyed with him for intruding on her thoughts. Although she refused to admit it to herself, being in close proximity to him made her feel vulnerable and defenceless.

  ‘Every time I turn round you seem to be behind me,’ she said, her cheeks pink.

  ‘Sorry! If I’d known you wanted to be alone … ’ He began to walk away and immediately regretting her hasty words, she called out to him.

  ‘No! Simon, come back. I didn’t mean … ’

  ‘Look, if my being here is going to cause you any trouble I can always book into the pub,’ he said. ‘I thought you seemed quite happy about my staying.’

  ‘I did. I am! It’s just that I was deep in thought and you made me jump.’

  ‘Deep in thought?’ He looked at her. ‘Anything you want to share?’

  She brushed the crumbs from her hands and smoothed her apron. ‘Not really. I was just thinking about — I don’t know — silly girlish dreams that don’t come true and — you know — things that might have been.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing — and rather wistful.’ He smiled, reaching out to take her hand. ‘Look, why don’t I come and help you in the kitchen? I don’t see why you should wait on me. Besides, you might be surprised to find I’m really quite house trained.’ He fell into step beside her as she headed back to the house. ‘Then maybe you can tell me all about these broken dreams of yours over dinner.’

  They ate at the kitchen table, then went to sit in the drawing room. There was a chill to the spring evening air and Cathy put a match to the fire that Maggie had left laid in the grate. Pulling a cushion from one of the chairs, she sat with her back against the settee, her arms linked about her knees as she gazed into the flames.

  ‘When I was little my dad and I used to look for pictures in the fire,’ she said.

  ‘You miss him, don’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘He died so young. And so unexpectedly.’

  ‘I never knew my father,’ he told her. ‘But there have always been lots of photographs and letters from him. My mother and grandmother always tried to keep his memory alive for me.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘So — how did you come to meet Gerald?’ he asked, holding his breath against another rebuff.

  ‘He was my father’s best friend. They were at college together. Before Dad died he made Gerald my legal guardian.’

  So that was it? Simon gave a long, low whistle. ‘And you and he fell in love? How romantic.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it was.’

  Into the silence that followed he asked quietly, ‘Was? You said was. Has the romance faded so soon?’

  She sighed. ‘You know what Gerald is like. He’s very preoccupied with his work. He’s finding it hard to adjust to giving up his concert work.’

  ‘Why did he? Give it all up, I mean.’

  ‘He developed a muscular problem. You must have noticed the stiffness in his fingers.’

  ‘Yes. The trembling too. I thought … ’ He looked at her, busy with thoughts and speculations of his own. ‘What are you going to do, Cathy?’

  She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Do?’

  ‘Let’s face it. There isn’t much of a future for you here. You should at least be looking for a job; a satisfying career to make a life for yourself.’

  She turne
d to look into the fire again. ‘I thought I was going to do the administrative work for the school, but Gerald has handed all that over to Mrs French. And an agency in London is handling the bookings for the seminars.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything else you want to do?’

  She shrugged. ‘I was at college, studying Home Economics, but we got married before I could qualify.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go back and pick up where you left off?’

  ‘I can’t. The nearest college is twenty miles away and you know what the public transport is like here.’

  ‘Learn to drive,’ he urged. ‘I’ll teach you if you like.’

  She looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know what Gerald would say.’

  ‘Blow Gerald!’ he said vehemently. ‘You’re entitled to a life. This place is like a morgue. I put up with it because I’ll be out of it soon. Besides, I’m enjoying the work. For me it’s time well spent, but if I thought I had to stay here for the rest of my life I’d go stark raving mad!’

  ‘Well — that’s you,’ she said, thrusting out her chin stubbornly. ‘Luckily we’re not all the same.’

  ‘Face it. You’re no different from me, Cathy.’ He slid on to the floor beside her. ‘You’re young and full of vitality. Or you should be at your age. Since I’ve been here I’ve watched all the life draining out of you. If you don’t start living soon you’ll be old before your time.’

  She turned her head away from his intense stare. She found his eyes and his closeness even more disturbing now. When she spoke her voice trembled. ‘I don’t remember asking you for your opinion, Simon,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve got a cheek, telling me what I should do with my life.’

  His hand reached out and closed around her arm. ‘Oh, come on, Cathy. You don’t really believe that. I’m only telling you what I think because I care. It’s a damned awful waste, a lovely girl like you stuck in a Godforsaken hole with a man who doesn’t give a damn about you.’

  ‘Who says he doesn’t give a damn?’ Her cheeks flamed with hot colour, her eyes blazing with anger.