The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

She stared at him. ‘Does Monty know? Is he in on this too?’

  ‘I believe he knows that we intended not to renew your contract, that’s all,’ Julian told her. ‘According to him you cancelled your agreement with him when you first came into the show. Our decision to recast your part in the show was nothing at all to do with him.’ He paused while she took in this piece of information. ‘Of course we shall see that Don receives his investment back, plus his share of the profits.’

  He began to edge towards the door, but a little too late to escape Una’s violent reaction. A scream of pure animal fury accompanied a flying jar of cold cream which struck him a painful and dizzying blow on the temple before falling to the floor. Without another word he fled, slamming the door behind him and leaving Una standing in the middle of the room, trembling and incandescent with rage.

  Don, who had been hovering in the corridor, listening apprehensively to the ominous sounds of his wife’s disquiet, appeared in the doorway, his anxious face almost hidden behind a huge bouquet of flowers.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ he said when he saw Una’s scarlet face and quivering mouth. ‘What on earth is the matter?’

  At the sight of him she burst into floods of noisy tears. ‘Take me home!’ she hiccupped between sobs. ‘Take me home, Don. I’ve been swindled — robbed! That’s what’s happened.’

  Don looked completely nonplussed. ‘But — I thought we were going to this party. Don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Go to the party?’ she wailed. ‘When I’ve been insulted and humiliated? I’ll never be able to show my face in the theatre again.’ Irritated by his bland, puzzled expression she scowled at him through her tears. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Don, don’t you understand? They’ve kicked me out of the show — dumped me. Told me I’m too old and that my voice is cracking up. Cast me aside like — like some old has-been.’

  Amazed though he was, Don couldn’t help admiring Julian’s pluck. He’d seen him emerge from the dressing room clutching his head. Clearly he hadn’t come out of the confrontation entirely unscathed. Don tried hard to keep the smile of relief off his face. He was actually going to have his wife back again. A proper wife who’d be there when he came home from the office every night, with a meal ready and maybe a smile and a kiss, like when Mother was alive. No more empty house and solitary meals. No more driving down to some seaside resort every weekend in order to spend a few hours with his wife. No more sharing her with those awful gushing stage people any more either; for ever kissing and calling each other ‘dah-ling'.

  Very carefully he laid the bouquet down on the chair near the door and went to her. Putting his arms gently round her, he patted her tentatively as though she were a recalcitrant terrier.

  ‘There, there, my love,’ he said soothingly. ‘If they don’t appreciate you, I know I certainly do. It’ll be so nice to see my little wife waiting for me in the kitchen when I come home at night; to have you all to myself.’

  Una pushed him aside with an impatient snort. The very idea of being chained to the kitchen sink at Blakes Folly when she should be starring in the West End, her name in lights, was unbearable. It made her feel physically sick. ‘Oh! Oh shut up,’ she snapped, stamping her foot. ‘Honestly, Don. You really do talk the most awful crap at times.’

  *

  Over the two weeks that followed Freda was busy. Shut away in her room all day she studied the script of the play.

  ‘I want to be word perfect by the first day of rehearsals,’ she told Rosalind excitedly. ‘This is my big break and I want to make sure I do everything I can to make it a success.’

  When the hotel was quiet in the afternoons Mrs Gresham let her use the piano in the bar to rehearse her songs. Secretly the manageress was quite excited herself at the idea of having a West End star staying at the Queen’s Head. She planned to put up signed photographs in the bar and reception area once the show had opened.

  It wasn’t long before the press got to hear about Freda’s potential rise to fame. Sweet Violet, the new musical, had received more than its share of advance publicity. Louis Jacobson had seen to that. His press office had dug out everything it could on the show’s new star, from her humble beginnings in provincial variety theatres to the TV shows she and Ben had taken part in before their departure to Australia. They had even cabled the Australian Broadcasting Commission’s press office for copies of write-ups and reviews of the British singing duo’s performances there.

  When Freda arrived at the theatre on the first day of rehearsals she was surprised to find several journalists waiting for her at the stage door. Almost before she knew what was happening her photograph had been taken and she had been asked to say ‘a few words’ for the papers. By the end of the week her picture was on the front page of The Stage as well as on the showbiz pages of several national dailies.

  ‘You’re a star even before the opening night,’ Rosalind told her as they read the reports together.

  One or two of the more sensational tabloids had asked personal questions about her relationship with Ben, and she was dismayed to find that one of them reported that they had never married because Ben was still traumatised by his disastrous first marriage. Freda read the article with disbelief.

  ‘I never said that!’ she said. ‘What on earth will Una say when she sees it?’

  ‘Even if you didn’t actually say it, it isn’t very far from the truth,’ Rosalind said.

  Freda sighed. ‘Which probably makes it all the more unpalatable. I’m grateful for one thing at least. They haven’t dug out the vital connection between us yet.’

  Rosalind shrugged. ‘It’s probably only a matter of time before they do.’

  Freda nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’ She looked sadly at Rosalind. ‘I really don’t want to make an enemy of her, Rossie,’ she said. ‘I know how devastated she must be at losing her part just as it was coming into the West End, but it was none of my doing. I wish these people would stop making so much of it.’

  Rosalind said nothing. She knew that Una had been Freda’s enemy long before this. There was nothing anyone could do to prevent the venomous feelings that would flow when she discovered that Freda had taken her coveted part in the play. For a moment her mind dwelt on kindly, well-meaning Don. He must be having a hell of a time!

  ‘Only a few days to go now till we start rehearsals,’ Freda said.

  ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to go and see your family before you start rehearsals.’

  Freda shook her head. ‘There’s only my sister in Birmingham. I stayed with her when I first came back from Australia. We’ve never been close. She’s ten years older than me and she has her own family.’ She smiled. ‘You’re the nearest to a family I have now, Rossie.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking. How about you and me having a day’s shopping?’

  Rosalind shrugged. ‘If you like. Is there something you particularly want?’

  ‘I was thinking more of you.’ Freda laid a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but you could make so much more of yourself. If you agree I’d like to help show you how.’

  Rosalind smiled. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m a bit of a lost cause. I’m not pretty like you. I didn’t inherit Una’s looks and colouring. All my friends at school were pretty and I got resigned to the fact a long time ago that I’m just a plain Jane, like it or not.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Freda said firmly. ‘You have good bone structure and beautiful eyes. Your hair is thick and shiny. There’s so much you could do to bring out all that potential.’

  ‘Someone else said that once,’ Rosalind said wistfully. ‘I had my hair cut and bought some new clothes at the time and — and I think I did look better too — for a little while.’

  ‘Was that a boyfriend?’ Freda asked gently.

  Rosalind nodded. ‘Stuart Hamilton. He designed all the sets and costumes for Sweet Violet. His friend wrote the play. I met him when he designed a setting for one of Hal
lard’s fashion shows. I think he only pretended to be interested in me so that he could get to know Una and Don better. Don put up the money for the show originally.’

  ‘And Una played a leading part?’ Freda’s eyes widened. ‘Ah! Now I see what you meant when you said that she manipulated her way into the play.’

  ‘It was all a put up job,’ Rosalind said unhappily. ‘With me in the middle. Stuart used me to get to Don. But Una made sure she was part of the package.’

  ‘And it took Jacobson to sort things out?’ Freda nodded. ‘Well, I must say that makes me feel slightly better about taking the part from her. Now … ’ She looked at Rosalind challengingly. ‘Are you going to let me help transform you?’

  She laughed, flattered that someone actually cared enough to want to help improve her appearance. ‘I think you’re on to a loser, but if you insist … ’

  ‘I do!’

  *

  Rosalind’s next full day off was the Friday before rehearsals opened for Freda. They went up to the West End early and Freda took charge from the moment they came out of the underground at Oxford Circus. An expert haircut, a facial and make-up came first. Then they went to look for clothes. Freda picked out colours and styles that Rosalind would never even have considered buying for herself.

  ‘Try it,’ she said persuasively. ‘Surely you’re tired of all those dull browns and navy blues you’ve been wearing?’ Gently but firmly she steered Rosalind towards the changing room. ‘Just try some of them on and see what you think. If you don’t like them we can put them back.’

  But to her surprise Rosalind found that she did like the new styles and colours. She had never realised how good she looked in yellow before; how russet gold brought out the warmth of her eyes; or how surprisingly sophisticated she could look in black. By the time they came out of the shop she had bought a smart black suit and several blouses for work, a dress for evenings and two more dresses for everyday wear — all with the new short skirt length. Shoes followed. Freda scorned the sensible flat-heeled brogues that Rosalind had grown used to wearing in favour of feminine pumps with a pretty trim, and some sandals with higher heels for evenings.

  ‘You have nice legs and feet. Why hide them in those clumpy things?’ she scolded.

  Over lunch Freda looked at Rosalind’s shining eyes across the table. ‘You know I was right now, don’t you?’

  Rosalind smiled. She was already wearing one of the new dresses and, on a visit to the cloakroom, she’d been unable to take her eyes off her reflection in the mirror, astounded at the new image of herself looking boldly back at her. ‘Is all this really me?’ she asked. ‘I mean, will I be able to keep it up?’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Freda promised. ‘It’s just a question of getting into the habit of having your hair trimmed regularly and schooling yourself to the make-up routine. Maybe you could even think about getting some contact lenses too. Or at least some more flattering frames.’ She leaned forward, her face serious. ‘There’s more than just glamorising to all this, Rossie,’ she said. ‘There’s a practical side too. In a way your job is like mine; you’re in the public eye most of the time. It’s important that you look good. I know how dedicated you are to your work, so you must see the way you present yourself as part of it. Right or wrong, people do judge you by your appearance. And first impressions are vital.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Rosalind said thoughtfully. ‘You’re right though. I can see that now.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks, Freda. You’re the only person who has ever taken any interest in the way I look. I’m grateful.’

  Freda squeezed her hand. ‘It’s been worth every minute, love, just to see you blossom into the real you.’ She paused. ‘There’s something else I want to say to you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you going to do with the cottage?’

  Rosalind looked away. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it on the market, Rossie? Realise the capital and invest it for your future.’

  Rosalind looked up at her. ‘I can’t bring myself to do that. It meant so much to you and Dad. I’d feel as though I were selling a part of your life. Your dreams.’

  ‘No.’ Freda leaned earnestly towards her. ‘That time has gone now. The cottage is yours. It’s such a waste letting it stand there empty.’

  ‘Would you like to go there again first — stay a few days, take a last look?’

  ‘No.’ Freda shook her head firmly. ‘It’s always a mistake, looking back. Ben and I were happy there. I’d prefer to keep my memories. I’d like to think that someone else might be as happy as we were.’ She patted Rosalind’s hand. ‘Get in touch with an estate agent. Put it on the market, Rossie. I mean it.’

  *

  Una was sunning herself on the balcony of their hotel room when Don came back with the English newspapers. He dropped them on to the table beside her and went to find himself a cup of coffee. Idly, Una reached out and picked up the first of them, scanning the front page before turning to the inside. Fashion, gossip, horoscopes, showbiz … Suddenly her attention was riveted by a photograph of an attractive blonde. Immediately she sat up, pulling off her sunglasses as a familiar name halfway down the page caught her eye.

  The caption over the photograph shouted at her in bold black letters:

  Benita’s Star In The Ascendant

  Beneath it the piece read;

  Lovely Benita Moore has replaced Una Blair in the role of Olive in Sweet Violet, the new musical that is taking London by storm. By a strange irony Benita also replaced Una six years ago as a singing partner and long-time close companion of Ben Blair, the recently deceased tenor. The partnership enjoyed success on British and Australian TV.

  Ben Blair began his career in time-honoured way with his wife, Una; first in end-of-pier concert party, then on the variety stage, to find considerable success at last with new partner Benita on TV and stage here and in Australia.

  It is understood that Una Blair was obliged to step down from her role following the prior to London run owing to problems with her voice. Already the critics are raving about Benita who, with her beautiful bell-like voice, stunning looks and sparkling personality is being hailed as a new Evelyn Laye.

  With a wail of anguish, Una picked up another paper — then another. In every one of them there was a write-up of the show. They ranged from a few guardedly optimistic words in The Times to a rave review in the Daily Mail. But in all of them Benita’s performance was invariably praised to the skies.

  When Don reappeared, smiling and refreshed from his coffee, he found his wife pacing the room in a state of near apoplexy.

  ‘Look at that!’ she shouted, thrusting a paper under his nose. ‘And that and that!’ She threw the other papers across the room where they spread themselves across the carpet like autumn leaves. ‘This is that rat Monty’s doing.’

  ‘But why?’ Don began to pick up the scattered papers. ‘Why would he do a thing like that to you? He’s your agent after all,’ he said, perplexed, shaking his head.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Una said defensively. ‘He wanted to represent me again when I took the part in Sweet Violet, but I said no. I’d got the part on my own after all, so why should I let him take ten per cent of my earnings?’

  Don frowned. ‘Wasn’t that a little short-sighted, dear?’

  ‘Was it hell! I put him on to the boys and their play. I got him all that. Not that he deserved it. He said some very harsh things to me after Ben and I split up. He didn’t want me then, so why should I let him take commission from me when I was on my feet again?’

  ‘And you think this is his way of getting his own back?’

  ‘I’m bloody sure it is!’

  ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. You can’t prove it.’

  ‘I can try. My God, I can try. Don’t you worry, I’ll think of something.’ Una picked up one of the papers and flicked frenziedly through it again, her heart quickening dangerously at the sight of Freda’s be
autiful face and the eulogies of the critics. When she thought of what that woman had taken from her … Ben was dead now. She would never see him again, let alone have him back. For the first time the finality of his death hit her and tears filled her eyes. She had loved him. No matter what anyone said, whatever he had done to her when they were married, she had never really stopped loving him. And they might have got back together again if it hadn’t been for this Benita or Freda or whatever she called herself. Now, not content with that, she had taken Una’s part in the play. Just as she was about to find the fame that had eluded her all these years, this woman had snatched it from under her nose. It was utterly intolerable.

  With a sudden piercing scream that terrified the wits out of Don, she threw herself on to the bed and began to weep hysterically, drumming her feet on the quilt and hammering her fists into the pillows, until, to Don’s consternation, she gave a gasp, shuddered violently and passed out cold.

  *

  Rosalind sat in her seat in the front of the dress circle and watched with pride as Freda took a final curtain call on her own. Although she wasn’t, strictly speaking, the main character in the play, she received the greatest acclaim. Brian French’s songs suited her voice to perfection and already she had been approached about recording an album of her songs from the show. Monty was currently negotiating the terms of a recording contract.

  Rosalind had seen the show three times now. She had been there on the opening night, rigid with nerves and almost as keyed up as Freda herself. She’d enjoyed a more relaxed visit a month later. But tonight was a special occasion. She had heard that morning that Ivy Cottage had been sold for a sum that outshone all her expectations. After tonight’s performance she was taking Freda out to celebrate.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Melfordleigh looked exactly the same as before she had left. Cathy felt a sense of surprise. Somehow she had expected changes, though she could not have said in quite what way. So much had happened in the month she’d been away. It was as though a lifetime had passed.