‘Certainly is,’ Daniel said proudly. ‘Quite the young lady, isn’t she?’ He gently pushed his daughter forward. ‘Say good evening, Cathy,’ he prompted.
Tongue-tied and pink-cheeked, she mumbled a polite greeting. Gerald sat down and reached forward to take her hands and draw her towards him, looking intently into her face.
‘The last time I saw you, you were about the size of sixpence and yelling your head off at the font,’ he said. ‘And now look at you.’ He smiled. ‘Now tell me, what did you think of my playing this evening?’
‘It was — very nice.’
He laughed. ‘Very nice? Is that all?’
She wanted to tell him that it was the most wonderful, magical music she had ever heard. That she had loved every minute of it and would remember it for ever. But she was far too shy. Acutely aware of the pressure of his cool hands and the dark eyes searching her face, she blushed crimson and stared at her feet. Daniel came to her rescue.
‘Cathy enjoyed the concert very much,’ he said. ‘Especially your playing.’
Gerald smiled and gave her hands a final squeeze before releasing them. Turning back to the mirror again he said: ‘I’m only teasing. I wouldn’t expect a child of your age to enjoy anything that went on for so long.’ He took up a silver-backed hairbrush and began to brush back his smooth dark hair. ‘Poor baby, you must have thought it would never end.’ His eyes smiled at her reflection in the mirror. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you were bored stiff.’
‘I wasn’t bored,’ Cathy said, stung out of her shyness. ‘I listen to your records all the time at home. And the Grieg Concerto is one of my favourites. And anyway, I’m not a baby. I’m twelve.’
‘Cathy!’ Daniel stared at his daughter in dismay, but Gerald threw back his head and roared with laughter.
‘I can see I’ve underestimated your daughter, Dan,’ he said. ‘Of course you’re not a baby, Cathy. And to make up for insulting you I shall insist that you let me take you and your dad out to supper.’
Cathy was too excited to sleep that night. Long after she was in bed she was still thinking about the wonderful evening she and Daddy had spent with Gerald Cavelle. He was a very special, magical kind of person, like no one she had ever met before. Closing her eyes she pictured his tall, slim figure and the handsome face with its high forehead and dark eyes. Tanned skin was drawn tautly over high prominent cheekbones, and the faint shadow on his jaw gave him an exciting, slightly foreign look. Best of all she liked the smooth dark hair with its slight frosting of silver.
Over supper he had been very courteous to her, treating her as an adult in a way that she found quite intoxicating. The restaurant where he had taken them was sumptuous and plushy with crystal chandeliers and soft red carpets. The head waiter had greeted Gerald like royalty, ushering him and his little party to the best table and pulling out the chair for Cathy with a flourish that was fit for a queen. They had eaten exotic, delicious food and Gerald had insisted on pouring her a glass of wine.
‘Only half a glass, Dan,’ he said to Daddy with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘It can’t hurt her. After all, it is a special occasion.’
Afterwards, as they said goodnight, Gerald had insisted that they must certainly meet again.
‘It’s so sad to lose touch with old friends,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t go for so long again without making contact. It’s been marvellous seeing you both.’ He shook Daniel’s hand warmly.
‘Thanks for the tickets,’ he said. ‘And for the supper. It’s meant a lot to Cathy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And so will the other. You’ll never know how much.’
Gerald smiled. ‘I’m glad I was able to help. Do let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, Dan. You and I go back a long way. Don’t forget, I’m only a telephone call away.’ He bent to tilt up Cathy’s chin with one long finger. ‘As for this little lady — well, she really is quite something. I shall certainly look forward to seeing more of her.’ Cathy cherished fond hopes of developing a regular relationship with Uncle Gerald. She boasted about him quite shamelessly at school after that special night. But although he had sounded utterly sincere at the time he made no attempt to get in touch again. Cathy talked about him incessantly in the weeks following the concert. She often asked Daniel why they didn’t go again to see him play, or why they didn’t telephone to invite him to come and see them. Daniel always shook his head, saying that Gerald was busy with an overseas tour or that he wouldn’t be able to find time for them in his busy schedule.
‘Maybe Uncle Gerald could help you get a better job,’ she suggested. ‘I heard him say he’d help you if you asked him. When I’m sixteen I could leave school,’ she urged, her face serious. ‘I could get a job and then you can get Uncle Gerald to fix up some concerts for you.’ Her face lit up as she visualised a golden future. ‘It would be lovely to have your picture on all those record sleeves like his and to go abroad, wouldn’t it? I could come with you. We’d have a lovely time.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that, love.’
‘You work so hard though, Dad,’ she added anxiously. ‘And you get so tired. You know you do.’
But Daniel only smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Concert pianists begin when they’re very young. I used to dream about it when I was younger, but I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks now.’ His expression was wistful. ‘Maybe I never really had that kind of talent anyway. Perhaps I’ve only ever been good enough to be a useful jobbing pianist anyway.’
‘You’re not to say that,’ she told him, vehemently. ‘I bet you could have been as good as Uncle Gerald if you’d had the chances he’s had — better even.’
Sometimes Cathy wondered if it was her fault that her father hadn’t had the chances he deserved. If she hadn’t been born, who knew what heights he might have reached? But she kept these thoughts to herself, a little too afraid that they might be true to voice them.
Cathy had just had her sixteenth birthday when Daniel knew for certain that he was seriously ill. For weeks he wondered what to do, who he could confide in. At last it was his housekeeper he turned to.
He chose a Monday morning after Cathy had left for school, an hour before the arrival of his first pupil. They sat at the kitchen table as they often did at this time of day, sharing a pot of coffee.
‘Johnny, I’ve got something rather shocking to tell you,’ he said suddenly.
Mary Johnson looked up. She had known Daniel Oldham for fourteen years and she liked and respected him. Although she was only a few years his senior she always felt that he was much younger. She mothered him much as she did her son, Matthew. He had never shocked her and she didn’t believe him capable of doing so now. She smiled.
‘Shock away. My mind is as broad as my back.’
He looked up into her eyes with a look she was never to forget. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to die, Johnny.’
She put down her cup very carefully on its saucer and stared at him. ‘Oh please don’t say things like that.’
‘I’m sorry if that was rather abrupt, Johnny. I’m afraid it’s true though. I didn’t know how else to tell you. I’ve got this wretched tumour thing, you see. Oh, I’m all right at the moment and apparently I will be for a while. But it will get worse.’
Swallowing hard at the lump in her throat, she asked: ‘But surely — an operation…?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Apparently not. Eventually I’ll have to go into hospital of course and I’m worried sick about what will become of Cathy.’
‘Well, you can stop worrying about her at once,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve looked after her all these years. She’s like my own child. I’ll not see her without a home and someone to care for her.’
‘But you’ve got your son to bring up on your own, and your mother living with you too. I couldn’t expect you to take on my daughter. Especially as you’ll be out of a job with me gone.’
‘I’ll get another job all right,’ she told him. ‘And my mother’s a great help
. Why shouldn’t I take Cathy? She’s a good girl and no trouble.’
‘But she’s growing up, Johnny. And, to be truthful, I haven’t much money to leave, to provide for her. There’s the house, of course, but it’s her home. The only home she’s ever known. I wanted her to stay on at school — maybe go on to university. I believe she’s capable of it. She deserves the best I can give her. I might just have managed if I’d kept going.’ He sighed and rubbed a hand across his jaw. ‘Somehow I must find a way to provide the means.’
Johnny reached across the table to cover his hand with her own. ‘You shouldn’t be fretting like this,’ she said. ‘Cathy’s got a good head on her. She’ll make her own way in the world. She wouldn’t want you to worry about her future.’
‘But I do. What shall I do, Johnny?’ He looked up at her with haunted, despairing eyes.
‘What you should do is to make these last months with her as happy and memorable as you can,’ she told him. ‘You’re not without friends. And you can be assured that I won’t see Cathy alone in the world.’
‘Do you think I should tell her — prepare her?’ he asked.
Her heart went out to him. ‘No. At least, not yet. She’s too young to cope with news like that. Just enjoy the time you have together. Make these coming months ones she’ll remember with happiness.’
‘You’re right, Johnny.’ His face brightened. ‘I know, I’ll take her on holiday. We haven’t had a proper holiday together for years. She’s grown up so much these past couple of years — right under my nose without my noticing. It’s time I got to know my daughter properly while there’s still time.’
They went to Bournemouth during the Easter holidays. It was early April and quiet. The holiday season hadn’t really started, but neither of them minded that. The weather was pleasantly warm and as they walked along the almost deserted sea-front they talked as they had never talked before. In the evenings they went to concerts or to the pictures, but one afternoon when it was raining Daniel took his daughter to a tea dance at The Pavilion.
She’d never been to a proper grown-up dance before and at first she was a little nervous. Daniel danced the first dance with her himself, but after that she didn’t lack partners. As he watched her circle the floor in the arms of a series of young men he realised for the first time that his little girl really was a woman now. And so like her mother that at times it hurt him to look at her. For a moment he was angry that he wouldn’t see her grown to full maturity, know the joy of giving her away in church to the man she loved on her wedding day; never hold her children in his arms. Surely to God he might have been granted that one small thing in return for the disappointments life had dealt him — all the years he had spent alone. Was it really so much to ask? But his anger soon faded. His main concern was for Cathy. Had he really done all he could to prepare her for life? It was at that moment, watching her enjoying herself, that he decided the time had come for him to tell her the secret he had kept from her since childhood. There might not be another chance.
When they emerged into the late-afternoon the rain had stopped and the air was fragrant with the earth-rich scents of spring. They walked back to their hotel through the pleasure gardens, enjoying the freshness of the air after the rain, the spring flowers and the tangy scent of the pines.
Cathy was in a happy mood. Her step was so light that her feet hardly touched the ground as she danced along at his side. She was humming one of the tunes the band had played: All I Have To Do Is Dream. Her sweet, light voice tore at his heart.
‘Let’s sit down a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to tell you, Cathy.’
She stopped singing and looked at him. ‘What is it, Dad?’
‘Nothing to worry about. Just something I think you should know.’
They sat down together on one of the benches and Cathy looked at him anxiously. ‘You look very serious. Is it something I’ve done?’
He shook his head. ‘No, of course not. Look, Cathy, it’s about your mother. There’s something I really should have told you a long time ago.’ He paused for a moment, looking apprehensively at her expectant, upturned face. He’d started now. There was no going back. He was no good at beating about the bush, there was only one way to say it. He cleared his throat. ‘The truth is — she didn’t die.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You mean — she’s still alive?’
‘Oh, no. She was killed in a car accident about eight years ago. The fact is — she left us, Cathy. When you were a baby.’
‘Left us? But why, Dad? Didn’t she love us? Didn’t we make her happy?’
‘I thought we did. I believed we did. I’m still convinced that she was happy — until… ’
‘Until what?’
‘Until she met someone else, Cathy. Someone who captivated — obsessed her, heart, body and soul. She had to be with him — said she couldn’t help herself.’
Cathy was shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand. Didn’t you try to stop her?’
He bent forward on the seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. How did you explain the heartbreak, the stark, gut-wrenching misery of rejection to a sixteen year old?
‘You can’t make people love you, Cathy,’ he said sadly. ‘Not once they’ve really stopped. Of course I tried. I pleaded with her to stay with us, if only for your sake. Looking back now, I suppose it was emotional blackmail. I wanted her to stay so much I didn’t care what I did or said to make her. But in the end I could see that it was no use. It was tearing her apart not being with him. In the end I had to let her go.’
Cathy bit her lip. ‘So she wouldn’t even stay for her own child — not even for — me? And you’ve always said she loved me, Dad.’
‘She did love you. Nothing surer than that. It broke her heart to leave you. I know it did.’
‘But she left just the same.’ She felt the hurt of betrayal bite deep into her heart, and when she looked at her father she saw her own pain reflected in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ she asked, her voice thick with tears.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘At first you were too young to understand. It was easier to let you believe she was dead. After all, she wasn’t coming back and you didn’t remember her. Then, when she was killed… It didn’t seem right somehow to betray her memory. I suppose if I’m honest I didn’t want you to know I’d lied to you all those years.’
‘Who was he, this man?’ she asked angrily. ‘Did you go and see him?’
‘She never told me.’
‘Didn’t you ask her? Didn’t you try to find out?’
‘She said it was better I didn’t know. And I suppose I was cowardly enough to prefer to remain ignorant.’
‘Did they get married?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They couldn’t. We were never divorced. All I know is that she went abroad to live. I never saw or heard from her again — except through a solicitor of course, after the accident.’
They sat for a moment in silence, then Cathy said: ‘So — so why are you telling me now, Dad?’
He looked into her eyes, saw the deep hurt his revelation had inflicted and decided that he couldn’t tell her the real reason. ‘You’re a woman now,’ he said. ‘I saw you this afternoon how grown up you are. I thought it was time I levelled with you. Can you forgive me, Cathy?’
For a moment she searched his eyes, then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. ‘Of course I can. Poor Dad. How unhappy you must have been. I’m so glad it was you who brought me up. You’ve done a terrific job — been both mother and father to me. I couldn’t have had a better childhood.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘I love you so much, Dad. I’ll always love you.’
‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ Daniel cleared his throat and made himself laugh as he disentangled her arms from his neck. ‘Hey, come on, just look at the pair of us. We’re getting all soppy.’ He stood up and pulled her to her feet, tucking her hand through his arm. ‘Come on
now, time we were getting back to the hotel. I’m starving, aren’t you? What are we going to do this evening?. Shall we go to the Winter Gardens again? Or do you fancy that film at the Westover?’
It was late in October 1960 when the leaves from the sooty plane trees in Laburnum Close carpeted the ground, that Daniel died. He had kept his illness from Cathy almost to the end, hiding his pain and putting his weariness down to hard work until his final collapse. He had been in hospital only a few days when the end came. For Cathy it was a devastating blow. For days she went around in a daze, unable to take it in.
Johnny took her home to stay with her. At first the girl was stunned and disorientated, asking repeatedly why he hadn’t told her and why no one had done anything to help him?
‘There was no more they could do, love,’ Johnny told her gently. ‘He knew that. He just wanted to keep going till the end, for your sake. And the doctors were able to help him with that. It was all he asked.’
But to Cathy it made no sense. She felt angry and cheated, terribly alone and afraid. There was so much she wished she had done and said. Now she would never have the chance. Why hadn’t he treated her as a grown up — trusted her?
When the solicitor wrote, asking her to see him at his office, Johnny decided that she must go along with her. No doubt the question of whether to sell the house would arise and goodness only knew what else there was to be sorted out. How could a girl of barely seventeen be expected to make such monumental decisions about her own future?
Sitting side by side on the other side of Mr MacAlister’s enormous oak desk they looked at him expectantly. He was a tall man with sparse grey hair and heavy horn-rimmed spectacles which made his pale eyes look large and impersonal.
‘Your legal guardian will be joining us shortly,’ he said, pulling out his watch impatiently and peering at it. ‘I do hope he isn’t going to be late. I really can’t begin until he arrives.’
Cathy and Johnny exchanged a puzzled look. ‘I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake,’ Cathy ventured. ‘I haven’t got a legal guardian.’
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 2
