She sighed. ‘But it wouldn’t work, would it? There’s my A levels for a start.’
‘Oh — well, I daresay you can do them over there — or the equivalent.’
‘Not if you’re going to be touring. Then afterwards I want to go to business college. Study hotel management.’ She looked at him. ‘I really want that, Dad. It’s all I’ve worked for.’
His face dropped. ‘Yes, I know you do, love. But they must have those courses over there too. You could get into a college somewhere, surely. We’d see each other as often as we could.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Dad. It wouldn’t be any different than it was before, would it — when you and Una were together and I was at Aunt Flora’s? And I think I’d feel lonely — even lonelier on my own in a strange country. You’d feel you had to keep coming to see me too. No. Better for you and Freda to be free to concentrate on your work.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘I can’t see what’s so special about the hotel business. Isn’t there anything else you’d like to do?’
‘Not really.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway if I toured with you I wouldn’t be able to study for anything anyway, would I?’ She wanted to add: I’d just be another piece of luggage you’d have to carry around. A dead weight, but she knew that would hurt him so she didn’t say it, even though she knew it to be true.
Almost as though he read her thoughts, Ben was silent for a moment. ‘You could come over for a holiday though,’ he said at length without conviction. ‘You could come over every year if you wanted.’
It was so typical of Ben. Una had always said that one of his biggest faults was his inability to face up to the realities of life. ‘Yes, of course I could,’ Rosalind said, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice. ‘I’ll have to start saving up right away, won’t I?’ She smiled at him reassuringly. ‘It was lovely of you both to ask me, Dad, and I do appreciate it, but it wouldn’t work, really it wouldn’t. I want to study and make a career for myself. I want to be independent.’ His depressed silence showed that he had reluctantly accepted the fact and Rosalind felt close to tears. Once again she was odd man out. It seemed that she didn’t really fit in anywhere. She was a millstone round everyone’s necks. Una’s reproachful words echoed in her mind. I hope you realise how lucky you are. How bitter it felt to know you were a nuisance and a liability; that the best emotion you merited was guilt. She looked at Ben’s anguished face and reached for his hand.
‘Dad, don’t feel bad about it. It’s my choice. I want you to go and be a big success, honestly. We’ll write to each other, and as soon as I can I’ll come and see you.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘I want you to know that you can come any time you like, baby,’ he said earnestly. ‘If you change your mind and want to come out, just wire and I’ll send you your fare. Promise me you’ll do that?’
She smiled at him. ‘Okay, if you say so.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘What will you do about Ivy Cottage?’ ‘We’re letting it on a short lease,’ he told her. ‘Maybe one of these days we’ll come back and retire there.’
‘So you’re not selling it?’
‘No fear. Not after all the work we’ve put in. Anyway, even if we don’t come back it’ll be a little nest egg for Free and me in our old age.’
*
When Rosalind went home from Brighton it was to Blake’s Folly — except that it didn’t feel much like home. Una met her at the station and complained at once about the new hairstyle.
‘I see you’ve been letting that woman influence you again,’ she said scathingly.
Rosalind lifted a hand to her hair. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I do not. It makes you look as if it’s been cut with a knife and fork.’
‘It’s called the Italian cut,’ Rosalind said hopefully. ‘It’s all the rage in Brighton.’
Una snorted derisively. ‘Whoever told you that was having you on.’
Rosalind felt rebellion welling up inside her. ‘No, they weren’t,’ she said warmly. ‘I had a lot of nice compliments from the artists at the theatre.’
Una shrugged her shoulders. ‘Rosalind, you really will have to learn to tell a real compliment from people just having a laugh at your expense,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to go around looking silly. Grow it out as quickly as you can, there’s a good girl.’
She had chosen the room over the garage for Rosalind. It had two windows, one facing the front garden and another looking on to the side entrance. It was a darkish little room, shaded by the evergreen trees at the front and the wall of the next house at the side, but there was enough space for the few things Rosalind had. Una had added a desk and an armchair to the existing furniture, making it clear that she expected her daughter to spend most of her spare time here.
Rosalind saw at once that while she had been in Brighton her mother had lost no time in making changes. In spite of her decision to replace the first Mrs Blake’s furniture gradually she had refurnished most of the ground floor in one fell swoop, replacing the heavy oak reproduction pieces with contemporary furniture in light woods. The heavy velvet curtains with their braided swags and tails had been replaced with plain pelmets and curtains made of brightly coloured fabrics in jazzy designs. From what Rosalind could gather it had already caused a disagreement between her mother and Don, who was of the opinion that the spindly style of furniture Una favoured did not go with the style of the house.
‘I told him — we’ll just have to change the style of the house then, won’t we?’ Una recounted to Rosalind. ‘After all, I have agreed to save him money by living in the house his ex-wife chose. How many women would do that? And he did say I could change anything I liked, didn’t he? You were witness to that.’
Rosalind said nothing. She hoped she wouldn’t be expected to take sides in any arguments.
‘Oh, yes. He said change anything you like and that’s what I intend to do.’ They were standing on the oak-panelled landing and Una suddenly swept her arm around impatiently. ‘I hate all this dark, gloomy wood. I’m working on having it all done out in cream emulsion. And do you know, he keeps that room locked?’ She pointed to one of the back bedrooms. ‘It was his mother’s and he keeps all her things in there, would you believe? Even her clothes! Creepy if you ask me, not to mention the waste of space. Still I had to give in on something, I suppose,’ she added grudgingly. ‘But I’ll get that cleared out too in time, don’t you worry.’ Rosalind made a non-committal reply. Her mother looked at her enquiringly.
‘Well? I haven’t heard anything about your holiday yet. Still climbing the ladder to success, those two, are they?’
‘The show was very good,’ Rosalind said as she started to unpack her case. Her back to her mother she added: ‘They’ve had a very good offer. They’re going to Australia.’
‘Oh, yes? How long for?’
Rosalind could feel her mother’s envy and resentment boring into her back as she put away her things. ‘It’s an extended tour. They might even stay there, I think. Settle down for good.’
‘Huh!’ Una tugged viciously at a corner of the bedspread. ‘I suppose they want us to think they’ve hit the big time. I’ll believe that when I see their names in lights.’ She straightened up and looked at Rosalind, her eyes flashing like chips of ice. ‘They didn’t ask you to go with them though, did they? Oh, no. It only pleases Mister Bigtime to own he’s got a daughter when it suits him. He won’t want you hanging round his neck. Once he’s left the country you won’t hear from him again. Just you mark my words.’
When she’d left, slamming the door behind her, Rosalind sat down on the bed and swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. Every instinct that was in her had wanted to scream at her mother: But he did want me. He did ask me to go too. The only reason she had held back was that Una might have insisted on her accepting the invitation.
When the new term began she went back to St Margaret’s eagerly. The sooner she could pass her A levels and
move on to college, the better.
*
It was one wet afternoon in November that she met Cathy Oldham at the bus stop on her way home and heard again about the position of Saturday girl that was vacant at the Queen’s Head. Her spirits rose. It was just what she was looking for. If she could only get it, it would be good experience for her as well as extra pocket money. Cathy promised to put in a word for her and two days later she telephoned to say that Rosalind could go along and see Mrs Gresham, the manageress, that afternoon after school.
The interview was a success. Mrs Gresham engaged Rosalind to work every Saturday from nine till two and then from six till ten in the evenings. The money wasn’t exactly generous, but she was promised that there would be tips. It was a temporary job to last until the New Year, after which they would review the situation. Rosalind was thrilled. She had a job that would bring her extra money, get her out of the house at weekends and gain her some valuable experience too. And a bonus was that Cathy would be there too, so she wouldn’t be entirely among strangers.
*
It was in the spring of the following year that Una had the first indication of the truth about Blake’s Folly. Although she no longer worked at Hallard’s with Don she had agreed to go in for a few weeks at the beginning of each new season to organise the fashion shows. Don was away for three days in March, attending a management conference in Eastbourne, and she was spending a day in the office, making out her VIP invitation list. She was deep in the list of account holders when one of the girls popped her head round the door. Una looked up irritably.
‘Yes? What is it, Peggy?’
‘There’s someone in the showroom to see you.’
Una frowned. ‘Didn’t you say I was busy? Who is it anyway?’
‘It’s Mrs Blake.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs Blake? Which Mrs Blake?’ The girl stifled a giggle. ‘It’s her,’ she hissed in a stage whisper. ‘You know — Mr Blake’s ex.’
‘Didn’t you tell her that Mr Blake is out of town?’
‘Yes, I did. It’s you she wants to see.’
Una felt her face colouring. ‘What does she … ?’ She bit off the end of the question and took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you’d better send her in then, Peggy.’ As the girl turned she added, ‘Oh, and send down to the restaurant for a tray of tea — Earl Grey — and some chocolate biscuits.’ Might as well let the woman see that she was civilised.
‘Yes, Mrs Blake.’ The girl withdrew, a smirk of gleeful excitement on her face. Just wait till she told the other girls about this. What she’d give to be a fly on the wall!
As soon as the girl had gone Una reached for her handbag and took out her compact, powdering her nose and tweaking at her hair. If only she’d known she would have put on something smarter. Truth to tell her knees were knocking with nervousness. Her best frock would have given her confidence. She uncapped her lipstick and applied it generously, pressing her lips together. She had just slipped it back into her bag when the door opened and Peggy ushered the first Mrs Blake in.
At first glance Una was surprised at how ordinary she was. Aged about forty-five, she had greying hair drawn back into a chignon and wore no make-up apart from a little pale pink lipstick. But there was a certain classiness about her that made Una feel over made-up and common. To compensate she smiled widely.
‘Please — won’t you have a chair? I’ve just sent down for some tea. I hope you’ll join me?’
‘How kind.’ The other woman looked perfectly relaxed as she sat in the chair opposite and crossed one leg over the other. Una’s sweeping glance of appraisal registered that she had good legs and that the charcoal grey suit she wore, although plain, was expertly cut. The white blouse was obviously pure silk and her accessories were expensive-looking. ‘Actually I’ve come to ask a favour of you,’ she said, accepting a cigarette from the box that Una pushed across the desk towards her.
Una was relieved. That meant that she was in the position of being able to grant or refuse. ‘Of course,’ she said sweetly. ‘Anything at all that I can do, Mrs — er … ’
‘Monica.’ The woman smiled. ‘Call me Monica. After all, it’s rather embarrassing to keep calling each other Mrs Blake, isn’t it?’
Taken aback by the woman’s cool composure Una nodded agreement. ‘Oh — er, yes. My name is Una.’
At that point Peggy came in with the tray of tea. She searched the faces of both women for signs of battle and withdrew, disappointed.
Una poured the tea, glad to have something to do with her hands. ‘So, what is this favour, Monica?’
‘It’s just the little desk in the dining room. It’s Regency — an antique; the only genuine antique in the place as it happens. And the one piece that is actually mine. I bought it at a sale two years ago with my own money. I wondered if you and Donald would agree to my having it?’
Una was shaken. ‘Did you say it was the only piece that was actually yours?’
Monica nodded. ‘Yes. Everything else was Donald’s mother’s. We always lived with her, you know, right from the first. It was Mrs Blake senior’s home. Not mine.’
Una felt as though all the breath had been knocked out of her body. ‘So Don never bought the house?’
‘Good heavens, no. He wouldn’t leave his mother. She was widowed quite young, so I believe. And he was her only child. They were very close. Almost unhealthily so,’ she added under her breath. She gave an ironic little laugh. ‘Strange that she died just after I left him.’
Una crumbled a biscuit as she allowed the information to sink in. ‘He still keeps her room just as it was,’ she said. ‘All her clothes are in the wardrobe and everything.’
Monica nodded. ‘A shrine. I can well imagine.’
‘What was she like?’ Una asked.
Monica sighed. ‘I suppose there’s no harm now in saying what I think,’ she said. ‘And anyway, she’s dead.’ She looked at Una. ‘She was a monster. An absolute monster. She wrecked our marriage and made my life a living hell. And she had Donald utterly under her thumb. It was always what his mother wanted. No one else mattered to him.’ She smiled. ‘But that’s something you’ll never have to put up with. The house and Donald are all yours now.’
Una had the uncomfortable impression that she would have liked to add: And you're welcome to them. She cleared her throat. ‘Well — of course you must take the desk.’ Privately she thought the thing ugly and old-fashioned. It had been next on her list for the auction room anyway. ‘Just ring and let me know when you’re having it collected.’
‘I will. Thank you so much, Una.’ Monica stood up and began to pull on her gloves, smoothing the soft kid over her fingers. ‘It’s been so nice to meet you. I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to write, but I was passing this afternoon and, knowing that you work here, I thought I’d just pop in.’
Work here indeed! Una bridled indignantly. ‘I only come in occasionally, to do a little administrative work.’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘You were quite lucky to catch me actually. Goodbye. And if there’s ever anything else I can do, just let me know.’
Monica looked at her curiously. ‘The same goes for me, Una. I can assure you I bear no grudges. I hope you feel the same about me. And if ever you want someone to talk to … believe me, no one understands Donald Blake and his little idiosyncrasies like I do.’
When she’d gone Una sat for a long time deep in thought, her invitation list quite forgotten. The woman had a bloody cheek with her patronising offers of help and advice. All the same, a lot of things were clear now. Don’s inhibitions in the bedroom; his strange prudish habits. The way he always undressed in the dark and refused to look at her until she’d put on her nightdress. He’d been unreasonably reluctant to dispose of that awful old furniture too and he was adamant about that room of his mother’s. She felt a chill run through her veins. It was creepy — almost as though the old woman still occupied the house. As though she were still watching everything they did. Well, she’
d soon put a stop to all that, Una told herself firmly. When Don got home from Eastbourne he’d find a few changes. And he’d be getting an ultimatum.
*
It was two days later that the row erupted. Rosalind arrived home to hear the raised voices of her mother and step-father. She stood just inside the door, her stomach quaking in the old familiar way, reminded of those far-off days when she had wakened in the night to the terrifying sound of her parents’ quarrelling. In the hall tea chests were stacked ready for collection. On closer inspection she saw that they contained clothing, books and ornaments. There were several framed photographs and on top of one a rose-embellished chamber pot was precariously perched. From the landing Una’s shrill voice could be heard. Rosalind could tell from experience that she was well on the way to working up one of her ‘states’.
‘All that stuff has got to go,’ she was shouting. ‘Either it goes or I do. And that’s only the beginning. I want this house put on the market straight away. I want a nice little bungalow on the new estate — with picture windows, central heating and a patio. And if you don’t get it for me, Don Blake, you can live in this mausoleum by your bloody self!’
Chapter Six
Lying in bed in his hotel room Gerald stared at the moonlit ceiling. Although he had drunk almost half a bottle of whisky before falling into bed, sleep still eluded him and he felt depressingly sober. He turned his head and watched the curtains gently moving at the window. He hated the Swiss way of folding the shutters over the windows at night. It made the room so inky dark; made him feel so alone.
For a while he watched the floating pattern, made by the moonlight on the ceiling, then he tested his memory by picturing the scene outside the window, trying to recall every little detail. It wasn’t difficult. He knew this place so well. It was here that he’d spent his ecstatic honeymoon, in those far-off, long-gone days when life was uncomplicated and love was new and exciting. In recent years this was where he always came when there was some crisis in his life, a decision to make or something to think through. It had never failed to soothe and heal him. Till now.
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 11
