The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  ‘Your work is important. You know it is,’ she told him practically.

  ‘I only wish I could give my mind to it,’ he said wryly. ‘At the moment I can’t think of much else but you.’ He bent to kiss her, then pulled her arm through his as they walked. ‘Cathy, the Promenade Concerts start next month. I’ve been looking forward to going to the Albert Hall and hearing the premiere performance of Gerald’s rhapsody.’ He looked down at her. ‘You will come with me, won’t you?’ She sighed. ‘I know I said I might come, but we’re fully booked at Cuckoo Lodge. I don’t see how I can leave Rossie with all the work.’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that,’ he told her. ‘I’ve spoken to Matthew and he’s promised to come and help that weekend. As a matter of fact he had an idea. It seems that Rossie’s friend Freda will be off to America with the cast of her play in a few weeks’ time. Apparently she’s invited Rossie and Matthew up to a farewell performance and a party, but Rossie has the same doubts you’ve just expressed — about leaving you to cope alone. This way you could repay the favour.’ He looked at her doubtful face and squeezed her hand. ‘Oh, please say yes, Cathy. I’m sure Maggie would put in a few extra hours too, if you asked her.’ He bent to look into her eyes persuasively. ‘You must agree that it’s kind of a special occasion. You might think that’s a strange way to look at it, but if it wasn’t for Gerald we wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘You’re still very proud of him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you mind? Does that hurt?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s as it should be. He was your father — and a musical genius. It will be a very special occasion as you say.’

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll come with you, Paul.’

  To the amusement of two fishermen who were unloading their boat close by, he lifted her off her feet and swung her round. ‘Great! You’re wonderful, Cathy! The most wonderful girl in the world and I … ’

  She shook her head. ‘Shhh. Remember what we said?’ He shook his head in frustration and they walked on for a while in silence. ‘You still don’t really know how you feel about me, do you?’ he asked at length. ‘I wonder if you know how that makes me feel?’

  ‘I know that I look forward to seeing you and I love being with you,’ she told him. ‘You’re the nicest, kindest and most sincere man I’ve ever known.’

  He pulled a face. ‘God! That sounds so damned tame. Don’t you know that a man likes to be thought exciting and irresistible; wild and fiery and passionate and … ’ He stopped as she began to giggle. ‘Don’t laugh,’’ he said woundedly. ‘I’m not joking, Cathy. Nice, kind and sincere sounds more like an agony aunt or a cocker spaniel than a lover.’ He stopped walking and pulled her round to face him. ‘I want to be your lover, Cathy,’ he said angrily. ‘Don’t you realise that I want to sweep you off your feet? I want to pick you up and carry you off to bed and make love to you until you beg for mercy.’ He looked into her eyes and she saw the deep hurt and frustration there. ‘I’m just like any other man. I want you. And if you won’t let me say what I really mean — what’s in my heart — that will just have to do.’

  ‘Oh, Paul, I’m sorry.’ She drew his head down to hers and kissed him. ‘I know how you feel and I know I’m being unfair to you. If only I could make you understand. I — I think I feel as you do. It’s just that I’m afraid to trust those feelings, desperately afraid of being hurt. And afraid of hurting you too.’

  ‘So … ’ He lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘What do I have to do to prove that you can trust me — and trust what you feel yourself?’ he asked exasperatedly.

  She sighed. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘It really isn’t fair. I realise that. Maybe you should give up on me. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to.’

  For a long moment he looked down at her. ‘You know, sometimes I almost wish I could,’ he said. ‘Most of the time I’m afraid you’re going to tell me to get lost — that I’ll lose you. Sometimes I even wish you would. At least I’d know where I was. If you are going to do that, Cathy, I’d rather you did it now.’

  ‘I can’t blame you for feeling that way.’ She slipped her arm through his and hugged it close. ‘Let’s not spoil the time we have by arguing. I’ve planned so much for us to do.’

  But Paul’s obvious discontentment with their relationship had set the mood for the weekend. For the rest of the time he was quiet and by the time he left on Monday morning Cathy was uneasily aware that she was about to lose him. Later that afternoon she confided her fear to Rosalind as they worked together in the kitchen.

  ‘I can’t see the problem,’ she said. ‘You do love him, don’t you? It’s obvious to me by the way you look at him.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And then again, I don’t know. I’m not sure I know what love is any more. I know that he makes me happy; that I want to be with him; that each time we part is harder than the last. But is that enough?’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘I felt all that for Gerald. I was so sure, Rossie. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. I thought he loved me too, but in the end all the promises were empty. The people who warned me were right. Our marriage just — disintegrated, like dust.’ She sighed. ‘Now I’m completely confused. Did I ever really love him at all? If I had, how could I have turned to anyone else?’

  ‘Because he neglected you.’

  But Cathy shook her head helplessly. ‘If only there was some way of knowing for sure.’

  *

  The local builder Rosalind had asked to give them an estimate for converting the attic telephoned two days later to ask if it would be convenient for him to come and assess the job the following day.

  ‘There’s still a lot of junk up there,’ Cathy said. ‘Things of Gerald’s and mine that have been packed away ever since we first came here. I’ve been putting off sorting through it for ages. I’d better go up and do it before he comes.’

  ‘Shall I give you a hand?’ Rosalind asked. But Cathy shook her head.

  ‘I’d rather do it alone.’ She was remembering the last time she’d looked through the boxes in the attic. The letters from her mother were still there. Now she would be forced to make a decision about what to do with them.

  Seeing her pensive look, Rosalind touched her hand. ‘I forgot about those boxes,’ she said. ‘Shall I ring and put the builder off? After all, there’s no hurry, is there?’

  ‘No. It’s time it was all cleared up,’ Cathy said decisively. ‘Time I stopped putting it off. Besides, there’s nothing to be gained from hanging on to a lot of rubbish.’

  ‘But you won’t throw everything away, will you?’ Rosalind was looking at her. ‘You might regret it if you decide too quickly. Would you like me to help you go through it?’

  But on her own insistence Cathy was alone when she climbed the loft ladder that afternoon. Now that she had made up her mind she was determined to lay the ghosts from the past once and for all.

  There were fewer boxes than she remembered. Her own things were fairly impersonal. Most of the odds and ends from the house in Laburnum Close had been destroyed before she and Gerald married. The contents of Gerald’s boxes on the other hand were more difficult to sort. She began by putting the box of letters to one side. She would take them downstairs and read them just once more before burning them. There were some old clothes which she put aside for the Salvation Army. Then the box of books; she would have to look through them — perhaps donate them to the local library. Then she came to the manilla folder that contained the hand-written music manuscripts which she now knew to be her father’s. On the afternoon when she had found her mother’s letters she had abandoned these. Now Kay’s cold words came back to her: Gerald tried to make amends, you know. He even bought some of your father’s compositions to pay for your school fees. Little jingles that would never have been published.

  Slowly she opened the folder and looked at
the manuscripts. Seeing her father’s neat, sloping handwriting again brought quick tears that stung her eyes and blurred her vision. If only he had said that he couldn’t afford to send her to St Margaret’s, she wouldn’t have minded. All those hours spent teaching and composing these so-called jingles. They had been for her — to give her what she had set her heart on. And she hadn’t even known.

  Downstairs the house was quiet. It was a warm, sunny day and all their visitors were out. Maggie, having prepared the vegetables for the evening meal, had gone home for the afternoon and Rosalind had gone into Woodbridge on the bus. Cathy went into the small studio, now used as a sitting room, where her father’s baby grand piano still stood under the window and sat down on the stool. Through the open window came the scents of summer, honeysuckle and roses and the clove pinks that grew in clumps at the edge of the drive. The curtains moved gently in the breeze and a solitary bee buzzed against the window pane.

  She hadn’t played for months and her fingers felt stiff as she ran them over the keys. The piano could do with tuning, she told herself. Dad would have been horrified. He was always so particular about the instrument’s maintenance. Opening the folder she drew out the first of the manuscripts and, to her surprise, saw her own name written on the title page. ‘Cathy’s Theme’ was written in capitals at the top. Then, in brackets (For my darling daughter). Her throat tightened. Why had he never told her he had written something specially for her? Why had he never played it for her?

  She raised the music stand and rested the manuscript against it. Her fingers faltered a little over the first notes, then gradually, to her delight, she found that the music was familiar. As the tune slowly came back to her, her fingers relaxed and slipped easily into the nostalgic melody. She had heard it so many times before, when Dad was alone, working away at the piano in his studio back in the childhood days that seemed so far away. Kay had been wrong to describe his work as unpublishable jingles. This one was good — very good. It was heartachingly evocative; wistful and haunting. Maybe he could have made money with it if he had submitted it to a publisher — made his name even. But that was so typical of Dad. He had never had any real confidence in himself. She came to the end, paused, then played it through once more, savouring the unforgettable theme and brilliantly simple harmonies. She would cherish it always, she told herself. Whenever she wanted to feel close to him she could always get it out and play it. When she heard the front door slam and Rosalind’s voice call out to her she rose and put the manuscript away carefully inside the piano stool. Just for now she would say nothing, she decided. ‘Cathy’s Theme’ would be her secret.

  *

  The builder announced that he could make three rooms out of the roof space. And as the floor was already boarded and the electricity supply connected it would not be too difficult.

  He left, promising to send in his estimate as soon as he could. Rosalind was excited.

  ‘I thought we could make those rooms into our own summer quarters,’ she said. ‘A room each and a bathroom. Because, you see, we could hardly expect visitors to use a loft ladder, could we? Then we’d have two more rooms to let.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘I have an idea that you and Matthew will be married before those attic rooms are ready,’ she said, privately wondering just how much their marriage would alter the position. But Rosalind was shaking her head.

  ‘Whatever happened I’d never want to give up Cuckoo Lodge,’ she said. ‘The first time I saw this place I loved it, and on the day we moved in it was like coming home. This is my dream, Cathy. Matthew knows that. This is the first real home I’ve ever had, and it’s my career too. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

  Paul telephoned to say that he had bought the tickets for the Promenade Concert and booked Cathy a room at a nearby hotel. But on the morning she was to leave for London she found herself feeling nervous and apprehensive.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ she told Rosalind over breakfast. ‘It’s going to bring back so many unwanted memories.’

  ‘Just go to the concert and enjoy being with Paul,’ Rosalind advised. ‘Try and think of it as any other concert.’

  But in spite of her misgivings, Cathy felt a little thrill of excitement as the afternoon train drew in to Liverpool Street Station. One slight disappointment was that Paul was working at the hospital until later so he wasn’t able to meet her. He had arranged to pick her up later and take her out to dinner before the concert.

  She took a taxi to the hotel and found she had plenty of time to shower and change into the new dress she had bought specially for the occasion. It was made of a beautifully soft silky material in a silvery green that matched her eyes. The skirt was of the new mid-calf length, swirling around her legs and setting off her black patent sandals. She dressed her hair in a French pleat and clipped on a pair of diamante earrings which were her only jewellery.

  Paul arrived on time, looking handsome in black tie and dinner jacket. Apart from the suit he had worn for the memorial service it was the only formal clothing she had ever seen him wear. It suited him and she told him so. He looked pleased.

  ‘Not as much as that dress suits you,’ he told her. ‘You look like some kind of wood nymph, all russet and green.’

  It was a warm evening and they ate at a little bistro at a table in the open air. The food was good and the atmosphere relaxed. Cathy couldn’t help wishing they could stay there all evening instead of going to the concert. But she said nothing. This evening was so important for Paul and she would do nothing to spoil the occasion for him.

  It was a long time since she had been in the Albert Hall and she was awed anew by its vastness and Victorian splendour. Paul was impressed too as he gazed up at tier upon tier of crimson draped boxes and gilt ornamentation. They settled in their seats and Cathy opened her programme. Rhapsody for Piano and Orchestra by Gerald Cavelle was the third item on the programme and would not be played until after the interval. She breathed a sigh of relief when she read that the soloist was not Simon after all, but another well-known pianist who, the programme told her, was also responsible for arranging the piece for piano and orchestra. The brief programme notes outlined Gerald’s career and mentioned his tragic death in an air crash. As she read them, Cathy wondered at her strange feeling of detachment. It was as though she were reading about a total stranger.

  The familiar frisson of excitement rippled through the audience as the musicians began to take up their positions on the platform and tune their instruments. The leader arrived, acknowledging the flutter of applause with a discreet little bow before taking his place. Finally the conductor, Erhart Froebel strode on to the platform, immaculately attired in white tie and tails.

  As she applauded, Cathy was reminded poignantly of the concert her father had taken her to when she was twelve; the first time she had seen her childhood idol, Gerald Cavelle and heard him play. Instinctively she reached for Paul’s hand. He returned the pressure of her fingers, smiled reassuringly as the lights were lowered and the conductor raised his baton.

  When the first half of the concert ended and the lights went up for the interval they made their way to the bar. Standing amidst the crush waiting for Paul to get her a drink, Cathy heard a familiar voice at her side.

  ‘Cathy! How nice to see you!’ Carla looked at her most glamorous in an exquisite creation of white and silver. At her elbow stood a tall distinguished looking man of about fifty. ‘It’s good to see you back in circulation, darling,’ she gushed. ‘I was so sad about your loss.’ She turned to the man at her side. ‘May I introduce you to Adam Meynard? Adam, this is Cathy Cavelle, one of my oldest friends.’ The man nodded polite acknowledgement. When he’d gone to join the queue at the bar, Carla leaned toward Cathy confidentially. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? One of the best photographers in the business. Met him on an assignment in Paris and he was completely bowled over! He’s taking me to New York next month. You wouldn’t believe what he has planned for me and … ’ She broke off as Paul rejoined them
.

  ‘This is Doctor Paul Franklin, Carla.’ Cathy turned to Paul. ‘Carla, an old schoolfriend of Rosalind’s and mine.’

  As Paul offered his hand Carla’s face was a study. Her eyes flicked over him with unconcealed admiration as she flashed him her most dazzling smile. ‘Well, hello. How lovely to meet you!’ Rejoined by her escort she took a sip of her drink and leaned towards Cathy. ‘Well, well! Didn’t waste much time, did you darling?’ She gave them a little wave as they moved away. ‘Watch for me in all the glossies,’ she called. ‘Adam says he’s going to make me a star!’

  Paul and Cathy looked at each other in stunned silence as the couple were swallowed up by the press of people, then simultaneously they burst out laughing.

  As they resumed their seats Cathy felt her nerves begin to jangle once again. Seeing Carla had provided a welcome little diversion but now she was reminded that the music they had come to hear, Gerald’s rhapsody, was about to be played.

  The conductor led the soloist on to the platform and the applause died down as he settled himself at the piano. She stole a look at Paul’s face. It was eager with anticipation and she felt her heart contract for him. He looked so young, so vulnerable and suddenly she felt a closeness, a sweet affinity with him. Reaching out as the lights dimmed she took his hand and smiled at him. He smiled back, his dark eyes holding hers for a second before the conductor’s baton came down and the music began.

  As the first few bars of exquisite melody flowed from soloist and orchestra Cathy’s heart almost lurched to a stop. Even with the skilful and elaborate orchestration she could not fail to recognise the piece being played — not as ‘Rhapsody’ by Gerald Cavelle, but as ‘Cathy’s Theme’ by Daniel Oldham. Gerald had stolen it — passed it off as his own. How dared he? It was the ultimate infidelity — the final act of betrayal. The bitterness of bile filled her throat and mouth. She wanted to leap to her feet and scream that it was all a terrible deception. That Gerald Cavelle was a thief, a liar, a cheat! That the man who should be receiving the acclaim was her father. Inside the pain of it tore her apart as she silently cried his name over and over. Daddy — Oh, Daddy — Daddy. I’m sorry. So sorry. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks at the injustice as the music swelled and pulsed through her, its sweetness melting her bones while its bitterness broke her heart into a million pieces.