The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  As Christmas approached a party was arranged backstage for the cast and friends of Sweet Violet. Rosalind was invited but she told Freda she couldn’t possibly go. The Queen’s Head was busy now with the Christmas rush. The restaurant was booked solid, mainly with dinner dances and private firms’ Christmas functions. Most of the accommodation was booked too, as many people liked to stay over after a party and she explained to Freda that she couldn’t ask for time off. But a few days later when Mrs Gresham heard about the party she insisted that Rosalind must go.

  ‘I hear it doesn’t start until after the performance,’ she said. ‘Miss Moore rang me and explained. She says you are the only family she has and she wants you to be there very much.’ As Rosalind opened her mouth to protest she held up her hand. ‘No arguments. I’m going to insist that you go, Rosalind. You’ll enjoy it so much, meeting all those celebrities, and you’ve worked so hard here. You deserve it.’

  Rosalind had mixed feelings. In a way she was excited about the party, but, truth to tell, she was half-afraid of walking into a room full of such glamorous people. They were all so confident and accomplished, even the chorus girls exuded a charisma that made her feel plain and insignificant. But Mrs Gresham was adamant that she must go and Rosalind knew Freda wanted her to be there. So, swallowing her misgivings, she went out to buy a new dress, determined that at least Freda would not be ashamed of the way she looked.

  It was arranged that after the party Rosalind should stay at Freda’s flat for the night, and as the following day was Sunday and her day off they could spend some time together.

  Rosalind arrived at the stage door at half-past ten, soon after the final curtain. Freda was in her dressing room. She had already changed into a stunning dress of white silk, embroidered with beads and sequins, and had just finished putting on fresh make-up when Rosalind arrived. She looked up at her through the dressing-table mirror, her face breaking into a smile.

  ‘Rossie. You look lovely!’ She got up and held out her hands, admiring the slim black dress with its short flared skirt and ribbon sleeves. ‘And you’ve had your hair cut too!’ She turned Rosalind round, admiring the hew swinging jaw-length bob. ‘Sit down and let me make up your eyes for you,’ she invited. ‘I’ve got a new eye shadow that will make them look enormous.’

  Very skilfully she shadowed Rosalind’s dark eyes in soft shades of brown and beige, accentuating them with liner and mascara. ‘There,’ she said, standing back to admire her work in the mirror. ‘You look fabulous.’ She held out her hand. ‘Now — come and meet the rest of the cast.’ She laughed, giving Rosalind a quick hug. ‘And don’t look so terrified. Relax, darling. I want you to have a good time.’

  On the stage the set had been taken down. A long table was laden with a sumptuous buffet and in one corner a bar had been set up. Whoever was in charge of music had put on a Dusty Springfield record and already several couples were dancing. Rosalind shrank as the familiar shyness engulfed her. She’d looked forward to this evening so much, convincing herself that she had conquered her old insecurities, yet now her one desire was to turn tail and run away.

  Freda, feeling the reluctance in the sudden dampness of the hand she held, grasped it tightly, refusing to allow Rosalind to give way to her nervousness. At the bar she asked for two large gin and tonics and pressed one into Rosalind’s trembling hand.

  ‘Drink that,’ she ordered. ‘It’ll make you feel relaxed in no time.’ She cast her eyes around for a face that would be familiar to Rosalind. ‘Look, there’s Julian over there,’ she said. ‘You know him. And there’s Brian with him. Come on. I’ll take you over.’

  Freda tapped Julian on the shoulder. ‘Look who’s here. I know you’ve met Rosalind before.’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘Of course. How nice to see you,’ he said, holding out his hand and taking hers warmly. ‘How is your mother?’

  She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t really know. I left home some time ago and we don’t keep in touch.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame you,’ Julian said wryly. ‘Though I suppose I shouldn’t say that.’ He turned back towards the group he had been talking to. ‘Let me introduce you. Brian you know of course. This is Paul Greirson, our musical director, and … ’ He tapped the shoulder of a man whose back was turned towards them. ‘Stuart — look who’s here.’

  The man turned and Rosalind found herself suddenly face to face with Stuart. The shock made her heart quicken uncomfortably. Knowing that he was no longer involved with Julian and Brian, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be at the party. If it had she would probably not have come. Now there was no escape. Tentatively she offered her hand which he took, looking at her with an expression of frank astonishment.

  ‘Hello, Rossie. How marvellous to see you again. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  The others in the group seemed suddenly to melt away and she found herself left with Stuart. He looked very handsome. He had grown his fair hair longer in the current fashion and the dinner jacket and frilled evening shirt he wore were well cut and looked expensive. He was staring at her with open admiration. So many times she had visualised a chance meeting such as this and wondered how she would react, but now that she had recovered from the initial shock of seeing him again she found that her emotions remained surprisingly cool.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you for a moment,’ he was saying. ‘You look absolutely wonderful.’

  She took a sip of her drink, trying to ignore the back-handed compliment. ‘Thank you. I hear you’ve landed rather a good job. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks. Yes it is going rather well. Working for TV is very exciting. What are you doing?’

  ‘Training for hotel management, just as I always meant to,’ she said. ‘Boringly predictable, that’s me.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he said with an appraising smile. ‘I wouldn’t say that at all. Will you dance?’ Without waiting for her assent, he took the glass from her hand and put it on a nearby table, leading her on to the space reserved for dancing.

  In his arms as they circled to a romantic tune, Rosalind was amazed at her own coolness. Just a short time ago she had thought herself deeply in love with this young man; her world had fallen apart when he had dropped her so callously in favour of someone else. Yet now when she looked at him she saw only a shallow, slightly foppish young man; self-centred and ineffectual, certainly unworthy of the tears she had shed for him. To prove it, both to him and to herself, she asked casually: ‘How is Elaine?’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Elaine Frisby,’ she prompted. ‘The girl who made the costumes for Sweet Violet.’

  Light dawned in the lazy blue eyes. ‘Oh, that Elaine,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages.’ He looked round at the other dancers. ‘She might be here this evening, I suppose.’ He smiled down at her. ‘How is Una?’

  Rosalind smiled wryly. ‘I wouldn’t know. I left home some time ago. Soon after my father died. We haven’t made contact since.’

  ‘Pity she never made it to the West End with the show,’ he said casually. ‘Jacobson always felt she was wrong for the role, you know. Between you and me, he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. It sounds harsh, I know, but you can’t afford sentiment with such a huge financial investment at stake. And I must say that Freda is an enormous improvement. She has a fantastic voice and brings such vibrance and vitality to the part.’

  ‘Yes, she does, doesn’t she?’ Rosalind looked at him. ‘I’m very proud of her. But Una and Don did get the three of you off the ground, didn’t they?’ she said dryly. ‘I’m sure none of you will ever wish to forget that.’

  To her amusement and secret satisfaction he actually blushed.

  When the music stopped she made an excuse and went to find Freda, relieved that an unhappy chapter of her past had been successfully brought to its conclusion. To her relief Stuart avoided her for the rest of the evening.

  After that first dance she
found to her astonishment that she was in demand. She hardly sat one dance out. Even Stephen Troy, the male lead from the cast, asked her to dance, and Freda told her later that several young men had asked her who her attractive friend was. Rosalind suspected her of making it up to boost her confidence, but nevertheless she was quietly pleased with herself. The party she had dreaded turned out to be most enjoyable and she was sorry when it came to an end.

  She and Freda spent a quiet Sunday relaxing until it was time for Rosalind to catch her train. Freda travelled with her as far as Tottenham Court Road underground station and waved her off, promising to ring her again before Christmas. She was going up to Birmingham to spend the two days she had off with her sister so this would be the last they would see of each other till the New Year.

  As Rosalind sat in the train, her thoughts on last night’s party and the coming holiday, she was suddenly aware that the glamorous blonde girl in the seat opposite was staring at her. She looked up and instantly recognised Carla Maybridge. She wore a striking black velvet coat whose huge fur collar framed her blonde head and exquisitely made-up face. Below it her long legs were encased in shiny black patent boots. She smiled in surprised recognition.

  ‘It really is you, isn’t it — Rosalind Blair? I couldn’t make up my mind at first.’

  ‘Hello, Carla. Haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘You look fabulous.’ Secretly impressed by the transformation in Rosalind, Carla moved across to join her, engaging her in what was mainly a one-sided diatribe about her own madly gay social life and her success in modelling. ‘I’m going home to see the folks,’ she explained. ‘I don’t see them very often and when I found I was free this Sunday, I thought I’d better make the effort.’

  ‘You won’t be going home for Christmas then?’

  Carla shook her head. ‘God forbid! All my lot seem to have hordes of kids. You can’t hear yourself think for the noise. Screaming babies wall to wall and sticky fingers all over your clothes! It’s just not my scene. No, they’re going to have to exist without their Auntie Carlie this year. I’m off to Austria instead. A whole bunch of us are going — boys and girls.’ She smiled in anticipation. ‘A little ski lodge high in the mountains. Log fires and après ski parties. I can’t wait! A lot more fun than washing up endless greasy dishes and fishing the nut shells out of the loose covers.’ She looked inquiringly at Rosalind. ‘What are you doing these days?’

  ‘I work at the Queen’s Head. I’m a trainee manager,’ Rosalind told her. ‘I’ll be working over Christmas. It’s our busiest time.’

  ‘God, how dreary! Poor old you.’ Carla’s expression transmitted her opinion of hotel management as a career. Although, she mused, it seemed to have made poor old Rosalind pull up her socks on the appearance front. Still very conservative, of course, but certainly an improvement on the plain, lumpy schoolgirl in specs and baggy cardigans. Her legs weren’t bad either, now that one could actually see them.

  Thinking of school reminded her of her recent meeting with Cathy. She said, ‘I saw Cathy Oldham last summer, or Cathy Cavelle as she is now. Said she was up here for a couple of weeks’ holiday.’ She looked at Rosalind inquiringly. ‘Did you happen to run into her at all?’

  ‘Yes, I did as a matter of fact. Actually she invited me to go and stay with her in Suffolk. I went a few weeks ago. We had a lovely time.’

  ‘Really?’ Carla bridled. She’d received no such invitation and after the good turn she’d done her too. She raised an eyebrow at Rosalind. ‘I see. So — as you’ve become such close friends I expect she told you about her little trauma.’

  ‘No. What trauma?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you about her abortion? Well, I am surprised.’

  ‘Cathy?’ Rosalind frowned. ‘Surely, you must be mistaken?’

  ‘I don’t think so, unless of course she decided not to go through with it. In that case she must be going ahead with her pregnancy.’

  ‘She wasn’t pregnant when I saw her last.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case there’s no mistake.’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘Are you sure — about Cathy? I mean, it doesn’t sound like her at all. It wouldn’t do to go spreading stories like that if it isn’t true.’

  ‘I only know what she told me,’ Carla said defensively. ‘For all I know perhaps everything resolved itself without any help. And I’m not spreading stories as you put it. I only mentioned it because you and she have obviously become close friends.’ Carla felt distinctly uncomfortable. She’d clearly said too much. As the train rumbled to a halt at Hendon Central she seized her opportunity of escape and edged towards the door. ‘Look, I can’t stop now. I’m getting off here. Have a call to make. Someone else I have to drop in on before going home. Super to see you, Rosalind. Have a good Christmas. ’Bye.’ And with a waft of Chanel and a swish of fur-trimmed velvet she was gone.

  The casual remark gave Rosalind plenty to think about. So much in fact that she almost went past her own station. Had Cathy really been pregnant last summer? She certainly hadn’t looked at all well. If she had lost a baby it would explain a great deal. Poor Cathy. No wonder she looked sad and wistful.

  When she arrived back at the Queen’s Head Mrs Gresham came out of her office and met her in the hallway.

  ‘Rosalind, you have a visitor. She’s been here for over an hour. She spent a lot of that time in the bar, but I’ve put her in your room to wait for you. I had to use the pass key. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ Rosalind looked mystified. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s your mother, dear,’ Mrs Gresham said quietly. ‘And I’m afraid she seems a little — er — under the weather. I told her you might be some time but she insisted on waiting.’

  Rosalind was quaking with apprehension as she pushed open the door of her room and went in. At once she could see what Mrs Gresham had meant by ‘under the weather’. Una had obviously been drinking. Rosalind could smell the alcohol from here. No wonder the staff were anxious to get her out of the bar.

  On closer inspection she saw that her mother had lost weight. Her skin looked sallow and her features sharp and haggard. When she saw Rosalind she stared at her accusingly.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she demanded stridently. ‘I’ve been stuck in this poky little room for hours! That snooty manageress woman made me come up here. Who does she think she is?’

  ‘Sunday is my day off,’ Rosalind said. ‘And I think Mrs Gresham thought you’d be more comfortable in here.’

  ‘I rang last night and said I’d be coming along at six. I think you might have made the effort to be here.’

  ‘I wasn’t here, so I didn’t get the message. What’s wrong, Mum? Why are you here?’

  Una affected a wounded expression. ‘Why am I here? That’s a nice thing to greet me with, isn’t it? I hope I have the right to visit my own daughter.’ When Rosalind didn’t reply she said, ‘I want you to come home, Rossie. It’s as simple as that. I want us to make up our differences.’

  Rosalind’s heart sank. Una’s whining tone and maudlin expression didn’t fool her. There was more to her sudden request for a reconciliation than met the eye and Rosalind knew from experience that whatever it was would not be to her advantage. She sank on to the chair opposite. ‘Why, Mum? What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘Does there have to be something wrong for me to want my own daughter home with me again?’

  ‘Why now?’

  Una shrugged. ‘It’s Christmas. It’s the time for families, isn’t it?’

  Rosalind sighed. ‘I can’t come home now, Mum. This is our busiest time. I’ll be working all over the holiday.’

  ‘Afterwards then. Say you give in your notice now and come home in January?’

  ‘Give in my notice?’ Rosalind stared at her. ‘You’re asking me to give up my job? I can’t. I’m training for management. I go to college two days a week and I work here the rest of the time.’

  ‘But surely if your family ne
eds you … ?’

  ‘What’s all this about, Mum? Why don’t you just tell me? Is it Don? Have you left him?’

  Una grunted. ‘Huh! Chance’d be a fine thing. Look, Rossie, I’ve got the offer of work — up north. It’s important to me. I want to take it.’

  ‘A show?’

  ‘No.’ Una avoided her eyes. ‘Just, you know, singing.’

  ‘A tour?’

  ‘Not exactly. Cabaret — I suppose you could say. Clubs, the northern circuit.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, you’ve done clubs before. It didn’t work out.’

  ‘This is different,’ Una insisted. ‘Northern clubland is different now. Industry and mining are booming up there apparently. There’s a lot of money around nowadays. Working men’s clubs are very different places to what they were years ago. Sophisticated; glamorous even. The pay is good too. I’d get top billing. I want to do it, Rossie.’

  ‘So — what’s the problem?’

  Una sighed and twisted her fingers in her lap. ‘It’s Don. He’s planning to retire from Hallard’s next year and he wants me to retire with him. He says he’s had enough of being on his own, but I’m fairly sure I could get him to agree to a compromise. I’m going to suggest that he lets me have this one last try. If I make it, well and good. If I don’t, then I’ll do as he says and retire.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’d agree if I got you to come home and look after him while I’m away.’

  Rosalind stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘You want me to give up my training and my job so that you can go on a short tour of northern working men’s clubs? Mum, why don’t you face up to reality? You’ve got a lovely home and a good husband. You could have a life of leisure. He’d do anything for you — give you anything you wanted, you know he would. But it’s you he wants with him, not me. I’ve heard about these northern clubs from some of the guests here. They might look glamorous, but the audiences are as tough as before. They’d destroy you.’