The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  ‘I’d like to get hold of the person who did it,’ Johnny said grimly. ‘Are you sure everything was properly sterilised? It could be so dangerous.’

  ‘Yes — yes. It’s all right, Johnny, I promise.’

  ‘Why though?’ Johnny looked at her so directly that she could hardly bear to meet the candid eyes. ‘Why did you do it? You told me only last summer how much you wanted a baby. So why?’

  Bit by bit it all came out; Gerald’s moodiness, his refusal to include her in the running of the school, his cold indifference to her physically. Finally the relationship that had sprung up between her and Simon and the fatal night they had spent alone together last May.

  ‘He said Gerald had meant it to happen, Johnny,’ she said as the tears began to flow. ‘He said he’d thrown us together on purpose; that it could be the perfect arrangement. It made me feel so guilty and so — so cheap. I’ve let you and everyone else down, haven’t I?’

  Overwhelmed with anger and compassion, Johnny put her arms round the girl and held her close. ‘You haven’t let anyone down, Cathy love. You’ve been the victim of two selfish men. I’d like to give Gerald Cavelle a piece of my mind. I wish I could keep you here and take care of you. But you’re a grown-up married woman now. He is your husband and this is something you’ll have to sort out between you, I’m afraid.’ She took out her handkerchief and dried Cathy’s tears, just as she had done when she was a small child. ‘I do know one thing though, my girl,’ she said determinedly. ‘You’re staying here with me until I’m satisfied you’re completely well again. That’s one thing I can do, and I’m having no arguments about that!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rosalind was eating her breakfast in the staff dining room at the Queen’s Head when Bill Kendal, the night porter, came through with the mail.

  ‘One for you, gorgeous,’ he said cheekily, dropping the long envelope on to the table in front of her. ‘Looks official. Brown job with a window. Don’t like the looks of that. What you been up to then, eh?’

  Rosalind coloured and pushed the envelope into her pocket. ‘None of your business,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it time you were off home?’

  Bill assumed a wounded, indignant look. ‘Well, I don’t know! Try to be friendly round here and look where it gets you!’ He nudged her. ‘If that there’s your exam results I shall expect to be treated, so don’t you forget it.’

  Smiling at his characteristic cheek, Rosalind finished her breakfast and went through to Reception. She didn’t want to open her letter with other staff members looking on. Already the butterflies were beginning to churn her stomach. Could it possibly be her exam results? She could think of no other reason to be getting an official-looking letter.

  She’d been lucky in getting the job of receptionist at the Queen’s Head. When she’d applied for a job after her father’s death Mary Phillips, the girl who had been there ever since Rosalind had first come to work as a Saturday girl, had just handed in her notice. To Rosalind’s delight, Mrs Gresham, the manageress had offered her the job, and the room that went with it on a trial basis. After the month was out Mrs Gresham offered her the job permanently and suggested she train at the Queen’s Head for management.

  But she soon found that the life of a trainee-manageress meant that she was often expected to help out in other departments. As she lived on the premises she was constantly on call. She served behind the bar or in the restaurant — even in the kitchen when they were short-staffed, turning her hand to any task that needed doing. She worked long hours and she suspected that in some ways she was being exploited, but she didn’t really mind. She liked being busy and the main thing was that she was learning new things all the time. Anyway, there was nothing else to do in the evenings except sit in her spartan little attic room and listen to the radio.

  In the tiny office behind the reception desk she opened the envelope and saw at once with a pang of disappointment that it did not contain her exam results. It came from a firm of London solicitors at an address in Conduit Street and was written on their official-looking headed notepaper. It was short and to the point, requesting her to call into their office concerning her father’s estate at her earliest convenience. It was signed by someone called Alan Knight, who she saw from the notepaper, was the firm’s head clerk. Glancing at the date she noticed with dismay that the letter had been written almost a month ago. Una must have neglected to send it on until now.

  Picking up the telephone she dialled the number on the letter and asked to be put through to the man who had signed it.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Blair, Alan Knight speaking.’ The voice was pleasant and not at all intimidating.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Knight, but I’ve only just received your letter,’ Rosalind said anxiously. ‘I’ve moved, you see, and it’s only just been forwarded to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the delay, Miss Blair,’ he laughed. ‘Solicitors don’t expect things to happen quickly. Now, when would you like to come in and see us?’

  ‘Can you give me some idea of what it’s all about?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I made that clear in the letter. It’s to acquaint you with the terms of your late father’s will.’

  Rosalind frowned. ‘I know, but it says here his estate,’ she said hesitantly. The word ‘estate’ puzzled her. It sounded so affluent — completely unlike Ben who, according to Una, had always done extremely well to make his money last from one pay day to the next. ‘Are you sure it’s me you want?’ she asked. ‘I wondered if there was a mistake. You see my father didn’t have an estate.’

  ‘Estate is just a legal term,’ Alan Knight explained gently. ‘It means his worldly goods, if you like. Money, property and so on. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon at three, Miss Blair?’

  She agreed, dazedly. Her afternoons were free from two till five. ‘Yes,’ she said, still mystified. ‘I’ll be there.’

  She arrived with ten. minutes to spare at the offices of Turner, Turner and Braybrook the following afternoon, but Alan Knight saw her without delay. He was a tall, willowy man with thick grey hair and kindly blue eyes. Offering her a seat, he put on his glasses and opened the file containing her father’s will. For Rosalind there was a strange air of unreality about the situation. Making a will seemed so out of character for Ben. She could hardly believe he had actually gone along to a solicitor and done it.

  ‘As the only child of the late Benjamin Arthur Blair you are his sole beneficiary,’ the man was saying.

  ‘Oh.’ Rosalind looked up at him blankly. ‘I see.’

  He turned the page. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to know just what it is you have inherited?’

  She shook her head. ‘As far as I know my father had very little to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Not a lot of money, I’m afraid, as you’ve already anticipated,’ said Alan Knight, peering at some accompanying documents. ‘His bank account at the time of his death stood at one thousand four hundred pounds.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Not a fortune certainly.’ He cleared his throat. ‘However, as well as the money, you inherit the property known as Ivy Cottage in the village of Sherwood Magna, Northamptonshire.’ He looked up at her again. ‘You did know of the existence of the property, I take it?’

  Rosalind had flushed a deep crimson. The cottage! She’d completely forgotten about the cottage. But surely Freda should have that? It was half hers. She had helped to restore it — put so much work and love into the task and looked forward to living in it with Ben one day. It wasn’t fair. ‘I — don’t understand,’ she said. ‘The cottage was only half my father’s. He bought it along with his — partner.’

  Frowning, Alan Knight looked through the papers in front of him. ‘No, there is no mistake. Your father’s is the only name on the deed of ownership,’ he said. ‘It was his property. And now it is yours.’

  ‘You mean it was — it was actually paid for?’ Rosalind asked incredulously. ‘There was no mortgage?’

  ‘No mortgage.’ The man smi
led. ‘Your father was sole owner of the property and now it is yours, Miss Blair. You are a woman of property, you might say.’ He smiled indulgently at his little joke as he took a labelled key from the desk drawer. He handed it to her but she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t feel right about this,’ she said. ‘I must get in touch with my father’s partner.’ Seeing the man’s raised eyebrows she explained, ‘Dad was a singer, you see. He and his partner, her name is Freda Morton, toured with a double act: ‘Ben and Benita Blair’.’

  ‘Ah … ’ Light dawned on Alan Knight’s face. ‘This would be the Miss Morton who was with him in Australia. She is aware of the will, Miss Blair. In fact it was she who contacted us on his death. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from her yourself.’

  Rosalind sighed. Una would have guessed that anything with an Australian postmark would be from Freda and would conveniently have ‘forgotten’ to forward it. ‘I’m afraid not all of my mail has been reaching me,’ she said. ‘Have you an address for her? Is she still in Australia?’

  ‘No, she is back in this country.’ He rose from his chair. ‘If you would like to wait a moment I can find her address for you.’ He left the office, to return a few moments later with an address neatly written on a slip of paper.

  Outside in the street again Rosalind tried hard to come to terms with the news she had just been given. Ben had left her fourteen hundred pounds — and the cottage. But she could feel only guilt over Freda who apparently had been left nothing. Thank goodness she was back in England and that she had her address. She must try to put things straight as soon as she could.

  It was as she was coming out of Edgware Underground station an hour later that she saw Cathy Cavelle. She hadn’t seen Cathy since the day she’d been married, but the girl walking towards her seemed preoccupied and Rosalind hesitated, unsure if she should intrude. They drew level and were about to pass when Cathy suddenly looked up and saw her. Her face lit up in a smile of genuine pleasure.

  ‘Rosalind! How nice to see you. I wondered if we might run into each other while I was here.’

  ‘How are you, Cathy? Are you staying with Mrs Johnson?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been here almost a month. I only meant to stay a fortnight, but I haven’t been very well and Johnny persuaded me to take an extra couple of weeks. I’m going back tomorrow.’

  ‘I wish I’d known before. I would have rung you. Are you better now?’

  Cathy’s eyes clouded for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, fine now, thanks,’ she said dismissively. ‘What about you? You must have taken your exams by now. Any results yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Any day. I’m trying not to think about it.’ Rosalind looked round. ‘Why don’t you come and have tea with me? I work at the Queen’s Head now. I live in. We could go up to my room. It’s not very smart, but I do have a kettle.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘That would be lovely.’

  In the tiny top-floor room with its sloping ceiling Rosalind made tea and took out a tin of biscuits while Cathy sat in her only armchair.

  ‘You left home then?’ she observed, looking round at the threadbare carpet and worn furniture.

  Rosalind sighed. ‘Yes. Mum and I never did get on. I know this isn’t very smart, but it’s better this way.’

  ‘What will you do about going to college?’

  Rosalind handed her a cup of tea and sat down on the end of the bed with her own. ‘I’m working here as receptionist and trainee-manageress. If I pass my As they’ll let me go to college on a day-release course.’

  ‘Will that be as good as you wanted?’

  Rosalind shrugged. ‘I think so. I’m getting lots of practical experience here and I’ll have the advantage of having held down a real job when I come to apply for a post.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Mrs Gresham will give you a good reference,’ Cathy said. ‘If you ask me, she’s lucky to have you.’

  Rosalind looked more closely at her friend. Cathy looked pale and much thinner than she remembered. She’d mentioned that she’d been ill. Maybe it was something to do with that. ‘Is your husband’s music school going well?’ she asked. ‘I expect you’re enjoying life in your lovely house by the sea.’

  To Rosalind’s surprise Cathy’s pale cheeks coloured. ‘Yes. Everything is fine, thank you.’ She bit into her biscuit, her eyes downcast. ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘She’s well as far as I know. I don’t see much of her now that I’ve left. She went back into the theatre, you know. She has a major part in a musical play. They’re trying out for the West End at the moment. Down in Brighton.’

  ‘That’s good. And your boyfriend?’ Cathy asked. ‘Stuart, wasn’t it? We met him at the party you gave that New Year’s Eve.’

  Rosalind took a drink of her tea. ‘It didn’t last,’ she said. ‘He was busy with his work and me with my studying. It fizzled out. He found someone who had more in common with him.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just as well. I think he was more interested in Una than me. She got Don to put up the money for the show he was involved with, you see. That’s how she came to get a part in it.’

  ‘Oh, Rosalind.’ Cathy reached out to touch her arm. ‘That must have hurt a lot.’

  She nodded. ‘It hasn’t been the best of years for me. My father died a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He was in Australia at the time. Freda, his partner, wrote and told me he’d had a heart attack and I was going out to see him. I was all packed and ready to leave when the cable came to say — he’d died.’ She gave a helpless little shrug.

  Cathy’s heart went out to the other girl. She’d always seemed so lonely ever since school. Now she was all alone. From what she had seen of Una Blake she seemed a selfish, uncaring mother. Even an absent father was better than none at all. ‘I know how it feels to lose your father,’ she said softly. ‘I still miss my own dad.’

  ‘I never saw much of him of course,’ Rosalind said. ‘Unlike you I never knew my father while I was growing up. It was only much more recently that we grew closer. He wanted me to go to Australia with him, you know. I wish I had now.’ She got up to refill the cups. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve just been to see his solicitor. Dad left me all he had — a little money and a lovely cottage in Northamptonshire. I’m still trying to get over the shock.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘That’s nice. It’s good that he cared enough to want to provide for you.’

  ‘Yes, but I always thought that he and his partner bought the cottage jointly. I feel guilty that she has been left out. She was much younger than him but I always thought they might get married. I know she wanted to. I’m going to write and suggest that I sell the cottage and share the proceeds with her.’

  ‘Do you think you should? After all, your father obviously wanted you to have it.’

  ‘I must ask her at least,’ Rosalind said. ‘She was always very kind to me. And I know she loved Dad very much. She might be feeling betrayed that he left her out.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘Not many people would be as considerate.’

  ‘What about you?’ Rosalind asked, anxious to change the subject. ‘What have you been doing with your holiday?’

  ‘Not much. I saw Carla one day. Did you know that she’s a model now?’

  Rosalind smiled. ‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I never did think she was cut out to teach. She opted out of her A level course in the first term.’ She looked up. ‘You said you’d been ill? Nothing serious, I hope?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘No. I think I was a bit rundown. You know how Johnny fusses. And now that her mother is in a nursing home and Matthew is away she has no one to spoil.’

  ‘I daresay you’re longing to get back to your husband. He must be missing you too after almost a month,’ Rosalind said wistfully.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Cathy hid her face in her teacup. ‘He’s going to New Zealand in November. I’ll be on my own. Why don’t you come and stay for a few days?�
� The invitation slipped out impulsively, startling both girls equally.

  Rosalind’s eyes widened as she said, ‘Well — thanks, Cathy. I don’t know if I can get the time off, but if I can I’d really love to come and see the house you told me about.’

  Cathy stood up. ‘Good. I’ll be in touch nearer the time now that I know you’re living here.’

  Rosalind went downstairs with Cathy to see her out, then returned to her room to get ready to go on duty. As she changed she thought about their meeting. She could hardly believe the change she had seen in Cathy this afternoon. At her wedding she had looked so ecstatically happy; like a young bride should look. In love and looking forward confidently to a happy future. Now she had the appearance of a much older, careworn woman. She looked drawn and unhappy as though there were some deep sadness in her life. Rosalind wondered what could have happened to bring about such a change.

  She wrote to Freda that night before she went to bed. The address that the solicitor’s clerk had given her was in the Midlands. Maybe Freda’s parents lived there. For the first time Rosalind realised how very little she knew about the girl who had become her father’s partner.

  She had expected to get a reply or a telephone call within a few days, so she was surprised to look up from her typewriter two days later and find herself looking straight into Freda’s smiling eyes.

  ‘Hello, Rossie. Do you have a room free?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to stay for a few nights if that’s possible.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Rosalind consulted the book that lay open on the desk. ‘There’s a nice one vacant at the front on the first floor.’ She took a key from the board behind her. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up myself.’ She took Freda’s case and they went up together in the lift.

  ‘Thank you for your sweet letter,’ Freda said, once the door was closed. ‘When I read it I had to come and see you right away.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she held out her arms. ‘Oh, Rossie, I miss Ben so much. You’re all I have left of him now.’