The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  Una was always unpredictable. Her reactions were never what one expected and Rosalind was used to her erratic changes of mood. But when she arrived home that evening and announced that she had decided that Rosalind should accept her father’s invitation, she took her daughter completely off guard.

  ‘But — I thought you didn’t want me to go?’

  Una turned to look into the mirror over the fireplace, unable to meet her daughter’s candid brown eyes. ‘I know, darling, and it’s true, I didn’t. Not at first.’ She fiddled with her hair, lifting it away from her neck and viewing herself sideways. ‘I know what I said, but I’ve been thinking. You’re not a child any longer. You’re a young woman now, and I know I can trust you. Maybe I’m being mean to both of you. After all, Ben is still your father, whatever he’s done to me.’

  A thought struck Rosalind. Suppose her father were ill, as Cathy Oldham’s father had been ill? Perhaps there was some special reason for his wanting to see her; one that perhaps her mother knew about. Her manner certainly suggested that she wasn’t being completely honest about this sudden change of heart.

  ‘Well, if you really don’t mind, I would quite like to go,’ she said.

  ‘Then you go, darling.’ Una turned to her with a smile. ‘Write him a nice letter straight away.’

  ‘And you really don’t mind — about our holiday and everything — about being alone for Easter?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ Una assured her brightly. ‘I shall spring clean the flat or something. I’ll find plenty to occupy me, don’t you worry about me.’

  *

  Ben replied by return, saying how delighted he was to receive his daughter’s acceptance and how much he was looking forward to seeing her. Arrangements were made that she should travel to Northampton by train on Good Friday where he would meet her with the car.

  When she first stepped down from the train and looked around her she thought he wasn’t there. Peering into the faces of the milling strangers on the platform she saw no one whom she could recognise. Then she saw the man standing close to the ticket barrier looking anxiously around him and her heart contracted sharply. She had been expecting him to look the same as when she last saw him, but this man looked so much older. She reminded herself that it had been several years — six in fact — since they had last met. Her mother was now thirty-seven and she knew that Ben was six years older. That made him forty-three. He had put on weight. And his hair, once thick and wavy, was thinner and touched with grey. To Rosalind’s dismay he looked old and she felt a lump gather in her throat.

  As she stood watching he turned his head and saw her. For a moment he hesitated. He took a step towards her, then another. Then he was almost running. She put down her case and held out her arms.

  ‘Dad.’

  Unable to speak, he drew her to him and hugged her for a moment, then he held her at arm’s length. As his eyes searched her face the familiar smile lit his eyes and to her relief he looked young again; more like the father she remembered.

  ‘You’re so grown up,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I can hardly believe it. My little Rosalind. I’d begun to think you wouldn’t come until I got your letter. Oh, it’s so good to see you, baby.’ He drew her arm through his and lifted her case. ‘Come on, the car’s waiting and Freda’s got the tea on at home. She can’t wait to meet you, but she wouldn’t come to the station — said it was our private moment; yours and mine. She’s very sensitive, Freda. I know you’re going to like her.’

  Sherwood Magna was enchanting. Rosalind had never seen a real village before. She thought they only existed in the pages of picture books, but this one was everything she had ever dreamed of. It had a village green with a duck pond, a thatched pub and an ancient church complete with tall elm trees. As well as an abundance of pretty cottages there was a manor house and a Georgian vicarage standing slightly aloof on the edge of the village. Rosalind turned to her father as they drove through.

  ‘Where is your cottage?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘Right here.’ Ben turned in through an open white gate and along a short gravelled drive. As the cottage came into view Rosalind gasped with delight. Built of honey-coloured stone, it was small and square, had latticed windows and a thatched roof through which protruded a stout red brick chimney. Surrounding it was half an acre of garden consisting mainly of old apple trees, frothy with pink and white blossom. Under them, growing among the grass, was a wild profusion of bluebells and daffodils.

  ‘Oh — it’s lovely!’ Rosalind breathed.

  Ben brought the car to a halt and switched off the ignition. ‘It’s not so bad, is it?’ he said proudly. ‘When we first saw it it was almost derelict and there’s still a lot to be done. We want to build a new kitchen on at the back, but we got a grant towards installing the bathroom and having the mains water and electricity laid on. When we found the cottage the only water came from a well out at the back.’

  ‘A well? I didn’t know there were any left. Can I see it? Is it still there?’

  Ben laughed as he got out of the car. ‘It certainly is. I wanted to have it filled in but Freda wouldn’t hear of it. She’s planning to make some kind of feature of it.’ He opened the boot and swung her case out. ‘Come on then. Come and see the inside of the place and meet Freda.’

  The front door was painted white and Ben swung it open and stood back for Rosalind to enter. He had to bend his own head to pass under the low lintel as he followed her into the dim, stone-flagged hallway. To their left an open door gave on to a square living kitchen that ran from front to back of the cottage with a window at either end. Rosalind could see an Aga standing in a tiled recess and a dresser, its shelves edged with red and white gingham frills. The floor was of red quarry tiles and in the centre of the room a table was already laid for tea with a gingham cloth and willow-patterned china. The back door was open and through it Rosalind glimpsed a paved yard and the well that her father had told her about.

  Ben looked around. ‘Well, this is it. Freda must be around somewhere… ’

  As he spoke a woman appeared in the open doorway. At once Rosalind was struck by her youth. Then she remembered that Freda was still only twenty-six, less than ten years her senior. Standing there framed in the doorway, the sunlight turned her fair hair to spun gold. She was slender, with the kind of figure Una had once had but now had to struggle to retain. She smiled and took a tentative step towards them.

  ‘So this is Rosalind,’ she said, holding out her hands. ‘I’ve wanted to meet Ben’s daughter for so long. This is a special occasion.’

  Rosalind took the hands held out to her and felt her own squeezed warmly. ‘How do you do?’ she said shyly.

  Freda smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘I’m fine. And I can’t tell you how much your father and I have looked forward to having you to stay. I’ll show you your room. I’m sure you must want to freshen up. Then we’ll have tea, it’s all ready.’

  She slipped an arm around Rosalind’s shoulders and guided her back into the hallway and up the narrow staircase. ‘We’ve only got two bedrooms so it was easy to decide where to put you,’ she joked. ‘We had to turn the third into a bathroom. Before that there was just a loo out in the yard.’ She giggled. ‘Not very cosy in the middle of winter.’

  The room was tiny. The walls were painted white and the ceiling sloped. On the bed was a rose-patterned bedspread that matched the curtains. Rosalind looked out of the tiny dormer window into the garden below with its tumble of apple blossom, daffodils and bluebells. Turning to Freda, she said: ‘It’s lovely. The whole place is lovely. Thank you for asking me.’

  ‘Not at all. I only wish you could have come the other times we asked you.’ She was busy turning down the bed to reveal frilled pillow slips. ‘Ben was so disappointed. He’s worried a lot about you, you know. He felt you were growing up without knowing him.’ She turned with a smile. ‘You’re very like him. Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. Come down when you’re ready. I’ll put the kettle on.’
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  When she’d gone Rosalind sat on the bed. What had Freda meant about the other times they had asked her? She knew nothing about them. Had her father written before — telephoned perhaps? Had Una turned down the invitations on her behalf without telling her? Slowly and thoughtfully she began to unpack and put away her things. Somehow, without betraying her mother, she must find out.

  The week went by all too quickly. The village and the cottage were a delight to Rosalind. Freda and she got along well right from the start, and getting to know her father again was much easier than she had thought. The weather was fine, warmer than normal for the time of year. They had picnics and drives out into the beautiful undulating countryside, fresh and green with burgeoning spring.

  One evening Ben and Freda treated Rosalind to a premiere of the songs they’d been rehearsing for their latest repertoire. She sat enthralled in the pretty drawing room of the cottage as Ben played the little upright piano and the two of them sang. From the first it was clear to her that Freda’s lovely bell-like soprano voice was better than Una’s had ever been. It blended beautifully with Ben’s melodious tenor. One of their new songs was particularly moving. Rosalind hadn’t heard it before. It was from the new musical version of Oliver Twist and was called, As Long As He Needs Me. Something in the way Freda looked — the depth of emotion she put into the song’s lyrics — seemed to Rosalind to encapsulate her feelings for her father. Later, that night as she lay in bed, she reflected that, unpalatable as the fact might be to Una, it was undoubtedly Freda who was responsible for Ben’s leap to success.

  It was on her last day but one that Ben had a telephone call from his agent and had to go up to London. After they’d waved him off together at the gate Freda turned to Rosalind.

  ‘Well, we’ve got the day to ourselves. What shall we do with it?’

  Rosalind shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. We don’t have to do anything. I just like being here.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ Freda blushed with pleasure as she looked at her. ‘Ben worried so much about whether you’d like it here — whether you’d like us. He thought you might be bored.’

  Rosalind laughed. ‘Bored? In a place like this. After Burnt Oak it’s like a little corner of heaven.’

  Linking her arm through Rosalind’s Freda began to walk back to the cottage. ‘He felt he didn’t really know you, you see — the grown-up you, I mean. He had all sorts of notions about how you might have changed. It was almost like inviting a stranger. He was so apprehensive; nervous as a kitten on the day you arrived.’

  ‘Nervous — at meeting me?’ Rosalind guessed that what he had been afraid of was that she might have allowed Una to poison her mind against him. She looked at Freda. ‘On the day I first came you said something about the other times he’d invited me?’

  ‘That’s right. We only had the flat in town then, of course, but we’d both have liked you to come. Ben was so pleased that you’d been able to get a scholarship to St Margaret’s at a reduced fee and he wanted so much to keep track of your progress.’

  Rosalind frowned. ‘No. You’ve got it wrong. I got into St Margaret’s free — on a scholarship.’

  ‘Of course. How silly of me.’ Freda turned away quickly but not before Rosalind had seen her flushed cheeks. Clearly there was more to all this than she realised and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘Tell me,’ she demanded. ‘Tell me the truth. I didn’t get in for nothing, did I? Dad pays.’

  They were inside the cottage now and Freda sat down at the kitchen table, her face troubled. ‘Oh, dear. I’ve put my foot in it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it. Ben would be so cross if he knew.’

  ‘I won’t say anything,’ Rosalind promised. ‘Just tell me. I have a right to know.’

  Freda sighed unhappily. ‘Your mother wrote. It seems you passed the entrance exam all right, but when they knew Una had lapsed — that you hadn’t actually been brought up in the Catholic faith — they weren’t so sure. In the end, when your mother persisted, they agreed to a compromise and offered you a place at a reduced fee.’

  ‘And Mum wrote to Dad and asked him to pay?’

  Freda nodded. ‘Oh, he was happy to do it, believe me. More than happy. He felt it was the least he could do for you. And it was your mother who stuck to her guns and insisted on a place for you.’ She paused. ‘All the same, Ben would have liked to see you more.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t let me come?’

  ‘She thought it would unsettle you. She pointed out that you’d suffered enough over the break-up. And of course we were never in the same place for more than a few days at a time.’ She reached out to take Rosalind’s hand. ‘Look, I know how you feel, believe me, I do. My parents were divorced too. They never stopped arguing, even after they split up, and most of their rows were about me. I know how guilty and wretched it makes you feel, but you shouldn’t. It’s not your fault, Rossie. Please try to remember that.’

  Rosalind swallowed hard. Freda was trying hard to be fair, to make excuses, but they both knew that keeping her from her father had been Una’s way of paying him back for taking a new and younger partner, and for being a success. ‘Yes, I suppose all they both want really is what is best for me,’ she said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘It’s between ourselves, mind?’ Freda said anxiously.

  Rosalind frowned. ‘Of course. I promise. After all, I asked you to tell me.’ She longed to go away by herself, creep upstairs to the privacy of her room to think it all through; to try to justify her mother’s cruel deception. But Freda was changing the subject, obviously anxious to lighten the mood.

  ‘Right. Now, have you ever thought of trying your hair in a different style?’ she said brightly. ‘And what about wearing something a little more frivolous — maybe a bright colour? Red would suit you. Let’s go upstairs and see what we can find for you.’

  *

  When Ben came back that evening he looked in through the kitchen window and saw the two of them busy preparing supper; laughing together over the stove as relaxed and friendly as sisters or school friends. He could see that Freda had been doing Rosalind’s hair. She’d washed and set it so that it fell in soft curls, framing her small face. She wore a little make-up too, and a red blouse that he recognised as one of Freda’s. It warmed his heart to see them getting along so well. He’d had so many fears and misgivings about this visit; been so afraid that his daughter might be lost to him for ever.

  It had been a good day. He’d just signed a new recording contract and heard that there was a strong possibility of a spot for them on a television Christmas Special to begin filming in the autumn. He had stopped off on his way home to buy a bottle of champagne with which to celebrate. He couldn’t wait to see Freda’s face light up when he told her. What a wonderful week it had been. Golden spring days in their new home; the prospect of well-paid work; but perhaps best of all, having his daughter back after the long parting.

  *

  On the day that Rosalind travelled back to London the weather broke. Ben drove her to the station and stood with her on the dripping platform as they waited for the train.

  ‘Thank you for giving me such a marvellous time,’ Rosalind said. ‘I’ve enjoyed it all so much.’

  ‘I’m glad. It’s been wonderful having you with us.’ Ben smiled down at her. ‘Now that you’ve been once, I hope you’ll make regular visits to the cottage.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ She looked up at him. ‘Dad — are you and Freda going to get married?’

  He smiled. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ask me that.’ He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Did you ask her?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t like to. But I can see how much she loves you.’

  Ben sighed. ‘I love her too. And I know it’s what she’d like, but I feel it isn’t fair. She’s so much younger than me, Rossie. All of seventeen years. I’m old enough to be her father. It’s too big a gap.’ He laughed. ‘Do you really think a lo
vely girl like Freda deserves to be tied to an old man? It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘But you’re not an old man. And if you love each other, surely… ?’

  Ben bent to kiss his daughter’s forehead. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, baby, as you’ll find out for yourself one day. Sometimes love can be a selfish thing. And it’s hardly ever enough on its own. Ask your mother,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Sometimes there are… ’ The end of his sentence was drowned by the crackling of the public address system as the station announcer began to speak.

  Rosalind wondered fleetingly if her father still had a weakness for other women; if that was why he didn’t want to marry again. But she was sure he was wrong about Freda. She wouldn’t care about the age difference. She loved him unreservedly; anyone could see that. Rosalind hated the thought of sweet, gentle Freda being hurt or feeling rejected. She hadn’t turned out to be at all like Una had led her to believe. She wasn’t a tart at all.

  The London train pulled in alongside the platform and Ben handed her case up to her and slammed the door securely.

  ‘Bye-bye, baby. Write to us if you have a minute off from all that studying.’

  Rosalind leaned as far out of the window as she dared. ‘Dad,’ she said urgently as the train began to move. ‘Dad… ’ She reached for his hand and he took it, walking down the platform with the train. ‘Take care of Freda.’

  He laughed. ‘I will.’

  ‘And, Dad — I never thanked you.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘No. I mean for the — for my… ’ The train was beginning to gather speed now and Ben was forced to let go of her hand. ‘For my school fees' she called. ‘It was good of you to pay them. It’s a nice school. I - I love it there.’ The distance between them was lengthening, but she could still see his face clearly. His eyes were slightly puzzled as he looked at her, his hand half raised.

  ‘I’ll do well, Dad,’ she called, her throat thick with tears. ‘I’ll work hard and make you glad. I promise.’