The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

It was evening and Rosalind was upstairs in bed, supposedly asleep. But the sound of voices floated up the stairs to reach her through the open bedroom door. The mention of her own name brought her instantly alert. Throwing back the bedclothes, she tiptoed out on to the landing. Creeping down to the bend in the staircase, she crouched by the banisters and listened to the voices of the two women as they discussed her future.

  ‘She’s a nice little thing and no trouble, I grant you,’ Aunt Flora was saying. ‘But she’s getting older all the time and she’s coming to the age when she needs a parent’s guidance. I’m sorry, Una but I’ll be frank with you. I feel it’s high time you were a proper mother to the child.’

  ‘And how do you think I’m going to do that with no job and nowhere to live?’ Una’s voice was shrill with resentment. ‘She’s Ben’s kid too. But does he want to know about her? Does he hell! Shouldn’t think he gives a damn whether he sees her again. Off with his fancy bit of stuff, he is, and no thought for anyone but himself.’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Groping the chorus girls — that’s all he’s ever been good for!’

  ‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you married him,’ Aunt Flora said dryly. ‘After all, if I remember rightly, you took him off someone else in the first place. Quite cocky about it, you were too, at the time. Stands to reason if you could turn his head, then there’d be others who could do the same.’

  ‘That’s not getting my problem solved though, is it?’ Una snapped. ‘What the hell do I do with a kid? How can I work with her round my neck?’

  ‘Get a day job,’ Aunt Flora suggested. ‘In a shop or something. She’s at school in the daytime.’

  Una gave an indignant little squeal. ‘Me? A shop girl? I’m an artiste, Flora. A soubrette.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but whatever fancy name you like to call yourself, the fact remains, you’re that child’s mother, and beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head there. That’s what I’ll be all right. A beggar. I should never have had her. I never wanted a kid. It’s all his fault, the careless swine. Not taking proper care. Now I’m lumbered and off he goes, scot-bloody free.’

  Una was working herself up into one of her ‘states’. Rosalind knew all the signs. She’d heard her enough times through the walls late at night. But this time it was all about her. This time she was the cause of Una’s anger. Aunt Flora always said, ‘Eavesdroppers never heard any good of themselves’ and now she knew that was true. The words: I should never have had her, I never wanted a kid and I’m lumbered brought a big lump to her throat and made her eyes sting with tears. Getting up from the stairs she scuttled back to bed and pulled the bedclothes up over her head, pushing a fist into her mouth so that they wouldn’t hear her sobs. No one wanted her. Not even Aunt Flora. But why? What had she done? She’d tried hard to be good and keep out of the way. She didn’t make a noise or ask for things. She missed her father too. Happy-go-lucky Ben with his sparkling brown eyes and his big laugh. She’d always thought he loved her and the shock of her mother’s revelation that he didn’t want to know about her any more hurt intolerably. Suddenly she felt very scared. Would they put her in an orphanage? That’s what happened to children that nobody wanted, wasn’t it? To seven-year-old Rosalind the future looked bleak and frightening.

  It hadn’t turned out like that, though there had been times when she had almost wished it had. It was 1951 and variety theatres in provincial towns up and down the country were closing for want of support. Television was what people were interested in now. All the top-name artistes right there in your own living room. When you could see them all without getting out of your armchair, why should anyone pay to see number four touring shows with tatty costumes at the local Hippodrome? Especially with the price of admission going up the way it had since the war.

  All through the school holidays Una dragged Rosalind up and down Charing Cross Road, trying one agent after another. They climbed endless narrow dusty staircases, drawing one blank after another. Una had walked out on the agent who had represented her and Ben in a fit of pique when he told her with brutal frankness that her voice was thin and didn’t stand up without the backing of Ben’s strong tenor. That had been a bad day; one of the worst. Back home in the bed-sitting room they shared Una had raged and wept by turn, calling Ben by every bad name she could put her tongue to. But there were bigger fish in the sea, she told Rosalind, her cheeks pink and her eyes glittering. She would find a better agent. She would be a big star and show them all. The trouble was — she hadn’t. Soubrettes weren’t in demand any more, except at Christmas time for panto. Una was offered the role of Fairy Bluebell in Jack and the Beanstalk at a converted cinema in Peterborough, but she had heard that Ben and his new partner were playing Birmingham that year, with no less than three well-known television personalities topping the bill. If he heard — and he certainly would hear — that she was playing a number three date in a cinema, she’d die of shame and humiliation. There were more emotional tears and tantrums, which Rosalind had to soothe and placate. By now she was getting used to it.

  The divorce finally came through and Una was awarded custody of Rosalind. Ben’s maintenance cheques came regularly, which should have pleased her. It meant that they could afford the rent of a better flat, and eat properly. But it also meant that if Ben could afford the maintenance, he was working, while she was not. The thought that he was doing better than ever without her tore her apart. Snippets of news of him reached them via the grapevine and his name appeared in The Stage, the theatrical paper which Una still bought and read avidly from cover to cover. His new singing partner was an outstanding success. ‘Ben and the lovely Benita’, they were billed as. Her real name was Freda Morton. She was blonde, and, at a mere nineteen, much younger than Una, a fact that wounded her deeply. They were booked for a world cruise on a new P&O luxury liner. After that there was television and radio work. When Rosalind spotted a photograph of them in the Radio Times one week she had to tear out the page and pretend it contained something she needed for school. To have let her mother see it would have been to trigger off at least a week of black depression.

  For Una, things went from bad to worse. She had a handful of cabaret engagements; two disastrous club bookings where she was booed off the stage for being inaudible above the chatter of drinkers; then the jobs dried up altogether. She began to go to pieces alarmingly. Slowly the roles of mother and daughter were exchanged. It was ten-year-old Rosalind who wheedled Una out of her abysmal depressions; coaxed her to get up and put on her make-up — have something to eat. It was Rosalind who cleaned the flat, did the shopping and most of the cooking while Una lay in bed and sulked, mourning her lost career and her broken marriage; bitterly blaming her errant husband for it all. Her moods would swing from frenetic optimism to bleakest misery. It was nerve-racking, but to her resigned daughter it became no more than the normal daily routine.

  The only good thing to come out of it all for Rosalind was that she was able to get a place at St Margaret’s School. Una’s deceased Irish parents had brought her up in the Catholic faith and when Rosalind came home from school distraught over failing her eleven-plus through the tension and overwork of her home life, Una’s conscience jerked her sharply out of her apathy. In many ways it had been her saving grace. Dressing in her most sober outfit, she had taken Rosalind along to St Margaret’s and demanded to see the headmistress. Una could be very persuasive when she put her mind to it. She claimed indignantly that her daughter’s ability had been shamefully underestimated and that, as a Catholic, she was entitled to a place at St Margaret’s.

  The kettle boiled and Rosalind made her mug of coffee and carried it through to the living room where she had laid out her books. She had an English essay to write and she’d better get on with it, she told herself, looking at the clock. When her mother came home she would expect the evening meal to be ready.

  The achievement of getting Rosalind into St Margaret’s had been a turn
ing point for Una. It had proved to her that she could get things moving if she made the effort. That autumn she had finally pulled herself together and taken charge of her life. Admitting to herself that her stage career was over, she took a job in the gown department of a West End department store. She hadn’t found it easy. At first she had arrived home each evening tired and dispirited. Kicking off her shoes, she would declare herself exhausted and unable to do the job one day longer. But as the time went by and the lure of the footlights gradually faded she seemed to grow resigned to her new role as a single working mother. More than that, the job began to grow on her. She was promoted to second sales, then first, which meant a rise in salary and status. She had been in the job for five years now and she and Rosalind had settled down at last to something approaching a normal life.

  Occasionally Una had been invited out by a man, but it never lasted very long. She had little interest in men who worked in shops or offices. They failed to excite her. She found them dull and boring. Sometimes, Rosalind wondered if she still loved Ben, but she never dared to ask. The mere mention of his name was enough to throw Una into a rage for the rest of the day.

  It was almost an hour later when Rosalind looked up from her finished essay. She had worked longer than she’d intended. Hastily stuffing her books back into her satchel she laid the table for the evening meal and went into the kitchen. It was only then that she noticed the letter. It must have come after she had left for school. Una had thrown it on to the kitchen table along with the newspaper and a couple of circulars. It was addressed to Rosalind in her father’s handwriting. Intrigued, she turned it over in her hand, wondering what he could be writing to her about. She had seen her father only a handful of times in the last nine years. Ben made contact with her only occasionally, usually by way of postcards from the more exotic places he played. Una always said that they were really meant to show her how well he was doing and not because he gave a tuppenny damn about his daughter. He sent her birthday cards too, and always a present at Christmas, but she saw him very rarely and this was the first time she had ever received a letter from him. Curious, she slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and drew out the sheet of paper inside.

  My dear Rosalind,

  This is to invite you to come and stay with us for a few days in the Easter Holidays. Freda and I have bought a nice little place of our own in a village in Northamptonshire. Now that they’ve built the new M1 it’s easy for us to get to at weekends. We’ve got a week out at Easter before we start rehearsing for a summer show in Brighton and we’d both love you to come and spend it with us. Now that you’re older I want you and Freda to get to know each other as I’m sure you and she would get along well. Please try to come, Rosalind. Maybe you don’t realise it, but you are the only blood relative I’ve got and in spite of what you might think, I’ve missed you all these years.

  Give my best regards to your mother.

  Hoping to see you soon,

  Your loving father

  Slowly and thoughtfully Rosalind folded the letter and pushed it into her skirt pocket. She was filled with mixed feelings. It was flattering to think that her father wanted to see her. Una had always been at great pains to point out that he cared less than nothing for her. Sometimes she could be so convincing that Rosalind had almost believed her, but by the sound of this letter he did still care about her. She found herself moved by what he had written and keen to accept the invitation. She had to admit that she was intrigued to meet Freda too, and to see this home they had bought for themselves. But the thought of her mother’s reaction filled her with apprehension.

  *

  Una arrived home that evening in a good mood. She breezed into the kitchen where Rosalind was peeling potatoes and did not seem to notice that the meal was hardly started.

  ‘Guess what?’ she challenged as she took off her coat. ‘I’ve been offered a new job. I was called into the general manager’s office this afternoon. Shaking with nerves, I was. I thought I was going to get the sack. Then — right out of the blue — Mr Blake said he wanted me to organise a series of fashion shows the store is about to promote. He thought I’d do well because of my stage experience and — get this, Rossie — because of my flair for fashion. Can you believe that?’ She threw herself into a chair and kicked off her shoes. ‘He said he’d noticed how well turned out and attractive I always am!’ She rolled her eyes and stretched out one shapely leg, hitching up her skirt to peer at it critically. ‘Maybe your mum isn’t over the hill yet, eh? Of course I’d noticed him giving me the once-over when he came up to the department, but I thought he was just — well, older men are like that. So you see, Rossie, — your mum isn’t as useless as you thought she was.’

  ‘I never thought you were,’ Rosalind said.

  Una leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms luxuriously. ‘Oh, I’ve got so many ideas. Bring a bit of life to the place, that’s what I intend to do. Drag the department into the twentieth century.’ Rummaging in her handbag for her cigarettes, she lit one and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Just think, I’m told I’ll be attending the managers’ meetings — having my say. Imagine, Rossie, your mum, fashion show organiser. Next thing you know we’ll be moving to a better flat — nearer to the West End perhaps — or even a house. How’d you like that?’

  Rosalind went on peeling potatoes, making no comment. Una always over-reacted to everything. She liked to dramatise what happened to her, good things as well as bad. There had been promises of better flats, ships coming in and dreams coming true many times before, alternating with dire prophecies of poverty and destitution. Still, it was good that she had something to be excited about this evening, Rosalind told herself. It would make it easier to break Ben’s news.

  The meal was easy, cold meat and chips, with tinned plums and custard to follow. When they had eaten Rosalind fingered the letter in her skirt pocket and wondered if it was the right time to tell her mother what was in it.

  ‘I had a letter today,’ she said tentatively

  ‘Oh, yes, who from?’

  ‘Dad, actually.’

  Immediately she had her mother’s attention. ‘Ben! What did he want?’

  Rosalind took out the letter and spread it out on the table for her mother to read, watching her face anxiously as she did so. Una scanned the few lines briefly, then frowned and read it through again. Finally she threw back her head with a derisive snort.

  ‘A little place of our own, eh? How sweet! He must be feeling his age if he wants to settle down in some dump at the back of beyond, that’s all I can say. Perhaps he’s scared of losing her, so he’s planning to bury her in the country out of harm’s way.’

  Rosalind bit her lip. ‘He says he’d like me to go and stay in the Easter Holidays.’

  ‘I can see that!’ Una snapped. ‘I suppose it suits him to admit he’s got a daughter now that she’s grown up. What about all those years you and me struggled on our own? Did he want his beloved only blood relative to go and visit him then? Like hell he did! Dead scared he might have to do something for you!’

  ‘He never forgot to send us the money though, did he?’

  ‘He did no more than he had to,’ Una said bitterly. ‘He could easily have afforded to send a bit more with what he was earning. Anyway, I’d have had him in court so fast his feet wouldn’t have touched the ground if he’d stopped my maintenance. He knew that all right. That’d have looked bloody good in The Stage, wouldn’t it?’

  Rosalind’s heart sank. Clearly Una would see her acceptance of her father’s invitation as blatant betrayal. She got up and began to clear the table. Una lit a cigarette, watching her daughter through narrow eyes.

  ‘You want to go, don’t you?’ she challenged.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. You’re disappointed because you think I don’t want you to.’

  Rosalind turned and looked at her. ‘Well, you don’t, do you?’

  Una shrugged exaggeratedly. ‘Why should I care
? Go if you want to. Actually I was planning to take a week of my holiday at Easter. It was going to be a surprise. I thought we could go off somewhere and have a little holiday. But if you’d rather spend it with your father and his tart … ’

  ‘It’s all right. I never intended to go anyway.’

  ‘No? Then why did you show me the letter?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to see it. I’ve never kept secrets from you, have I?’

  Una looked away. ‘No, you haven’t. You’ve been a good girl; a better daughter than I deserve.’ She ground out her cigarette and looked at Rosalind, her dark eyes brimming with the sudden tears that were so typical of her. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, Rossie. That’s really what upset me. Ben’s all right. He’s successful and he’s got her. You’re all I’ve got. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you now.’ Reaching out for her daughter, she hugged her close.

  Rosalind gently disentangled herself from her mother’s suffocating embrace. ‘Don’t be silly, Mum. Even if I did go and visit Dad, you know I’d come back.’

  ‘But you won’t go, pet, will you? We’ll book up somewhere nice for the holiday. I’ve got a bit of money saved. We’ll go to Southend if you like, or Hastings. You’ve always liked the seaside. We can celebrate my new job. Just the two of us.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Rosalind said resignedly. ‘That’d be lovely.’

  She didn’t know what to do about her father’s letter. For the two weeks that followed it burned a hole in her pocket and tortured her conscience. Again and again she got it out and read it, knowing she must reply and wondering what excuse she could make. Una’s comments had made her curious. What lay behind the sudden invitation? Just why did he want her to visit when he had made so little attempt to keep up their relationship before? Finally, knowing that she could put off writing her letter of refusal no longer, she made up her mind to do it that very evening as soon as she had finished her homework. But before she had the chance to begin something happened to decide the matter once and for all.