‘She’s afraid you’re — well, that you’re falling for him.’ Under the street lamp Cathy’s eyes were defiant as she looked up at him. ‘So? What if I am?’ she challenged. ‘It’s my look out, isn’t it?’
‘She doesn’t want you to be hurt, Cath. None of us do.’
‘None of you? How many people have been discussing my life then?’
He shook his head. ‘Only us, the family.’ He laid his hands on her shoulders. ‘The thing is, Cathy, is it true?’
‘Is what true? I don’t really know what you’re talking about.’
He chewed his lip in embarrassment. ‘You don’t make it any easier, do you? Have you given up your Saturday job to be with him?’
‘Okay — yes. What of it?’
‘Nothing, if that’s what you want. But why does it have to be a secret. That makes people think there’s something wrong in it.’
She tossed her head angrily. ‘It seems to me that these people you keep on about poke their noses into other people’s business far too much,’ she retorted. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get inside before I freeze to death.’
‘You’ve changed, Cathy,’ he said hurrying to keep up with her. ‘You’re just not the same girl you used to be.’
‘Because I don’t go out with you any more, you mean?’ At the door she turned to him. ‘If you dare say anything about me leaving the Queen’s Head to Johnny, I’ll never speak to you again. Understand?’
‘Okay, but I think you’re making a mistake.’
She turned her key in the lock. ‘Really? Well, who asked you, Matthew Johnson? And who cares what you think anyway?’
‘I won’t say anything for a little while, Cathy, but I hope you will.’ He looked at her, his grey eyes serious. ‘If it goes on too long I’ll have to … ’
‘It won’t. You’ll see.’ She pushed open the door and went straight upstairs. ‘Everything will be clear to all of you very soon.’ She looked at him over the banisters. ‘Tell Johnny I’m all right and I’m going to bed.’
Her scornful demeanour had put a stop to his questions for the moment and in spite of her unkind remarks to him, she knew that she could trust him not to mention their conversation to his mother. What neither could possibly have foreseen was the bombshell that was about to explode so ferociously about their ears.
Somewhere in Fleet Street a well-known Sunday paper was about to be put to bed. Its showbiz gossip page carried the photograph taken earlier of herself and Gerald kissing outside his flat. It bore the caption:
‘Retired Pianist to Marry Ward.’ Underneath, the accompanying comment was both cryptic and cynical.
‘Concert pianist, Gerald Cavelle, is rumoured to be suffering from a mystery illness that has forced his retirement from the concert platform. He looked far from ill last night, however, as he kissed his fiancée passionately outside his Mayfair flat. Could the secrecy surrounding their engagement possibly have anything to do with the fact that lovely nubile Catherine Oldham is the eighteen-year-old daughter of his best friend?’
Chapter Eleven
Christmas at Blake’s Folly was dreary. Don, Una and Rosalind spent it alone. They ate turkey and plum pudding, listened to the Queen’s speech with their tea and mince pies, and spent the rest of the day staring at the television. To Una it was simply another day — to be got through as best she could, a stepping stone towards New Year’s Eve and the party she had spent so much time and trouble organising.
After she had impulsively issued the invitation to Stuart she had begun to panic. She had rashly promised theatrical celebrities. Now where was she to find any? Each night after the light was out and Don’s breathing had deepened into gentle snoring, she lay awake, planning, scheming, trying to make lists in her head. Where were the guests to come from, let alone celebrities? As far as she could tell, Don had few friends and none of the acquaintances she had left behind when she married were at all suitable for the kind of gathering she had in mind. There were the models from the show of course. She could ask some of them. But girls like that must lead busy social lives. They would almost certainly be booked up months in advance. She had lost touch with all the show business people she had known during her years on the stage, and anyway, none of them came into the celebrity class. A brief vision of Saucy Stan Stacey popped into her mind. Stan, in his loud checked suit and bowler hat, had appeared at the end of every pier from Land’s End to John O’Groats, billed as The Comic with the Rubber Face’. She shuddered at the memory of his leering innuendos and suggestive jokes. No, to be completely honest there wasn’t one among them she’d wish to be associated with now.
Ben and Freda had made the big time of course. Damn them! If they had still been in England she would even have considered inviting them, such was her desperation. Then, like the answer to her prayers, salvation dropped into her hands in the shape of the Sunday Recorder.
That Saturday night she had gone to bed late to toss and turn until the small hours. At eight o’clock next morning she got up and went downstairs to the kitchen to make herself some tea, picking up the Sunday papers from the doormat on her way. As she sat sipping the strong brew she pushed aside Don’s Observer and opened the Sunday Recorder, turning at once to the showbiz gossip page. The photograph of the couple kissing drew her attention and she began to read. Furrowing her brow, she read the piece through again. The name Catherine Oldham rang a bell. Wasn’t Rossie at school with a girl of that name? Fancy someone Rossie knew marrying a well-known concert pianist! Her stomach lurched with excitement as an idea suddenly presented itself. She poured a fresh cup of tea and, tucking the paper under her arm, carried it purposefully upstairs.
Tapping on Rosalind’s door she called softly, ‘Rossie. Are you awake? I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
Rosalind sat up, surprised at her mother’s sudden thoughtfulness. ‘Oh, thanks, Mum.’
‘I couldn’t sleep so I got up early to make a pot and I thought you might like one.’ Una sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the paper. ‘You might be interested in this too.’ She pointed out the article. ‘Isn’t this the girl who was in your form at school? The one whose father died a couple of years ago?’
Rosalind reached for her glasses and slipped them on. Taking the paper from her mother, she read the piece with widening eyes. ‘Yes, it looks like her. Gerald Cavelle was her father’s best friend. He’s her guardian. Fancy them getting engaged.’ She sat back against the pillows, her face thoughtful. ‘She gave up her Saturday job at the Queen’s Head a few weeks ago,’ she said. ‘This must have been the reason.’
Una was smiling. ‘Romantic, isn’t it? Just like something out of a James Mason film.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Rossie, I’ve had an idea. Why don’t you invite them both to our little New Year party? You haven’t asked any of your own friends. I’ve been worrying about that. The party is for all of us, you know. Not just Don and me.’
Rosalind looked doubtful. ‘Oh, but I don’t know Cathy very well. She might think it funny.’
‘Why should she think it funny? You went to school together, didn’t you? You worked with her at the hotel.’
‘Yes, but we’ve never been what you’d call close friends.’
‘I’m only suggesting you ask her to the party,’ Una said exasperatedly. ‘Everyone likes parties, don’t they? Especially at New Year. And this will be a good one.’
‘They might not want to come though.’ Rosalind pulled a face. ‘I expect people like Gerald Cavelle get invited to all the smart affairs at this time of year. They’ll probably be booked.’
‘If everyone thought like that no one would ever get invited anywhere!’ Una argued. ‘You can always ask, can’t you? If they can’t come they’ll tell you. No harm in trying.’
Rosalind had already guessed that Una’s real reason for wanting Cathy and her fiancé at the party was to show off. The thought of having to watch her mother parading them round, masquerading as their friend, made her toes curl with embarrassment. She hated
the idea of subjecting Cathy to such an ordeal too.
‘I don’t see her any more now that she’s left the Queen’s Head,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t see how I’ll get the chance … ’
Una raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘For heaven’s sake, child. Haven’t you ever heard of the telephone? Now — what is the name of the woman she lives with?’
Before she had time to stall Rosalind heard herself saying, ‘Johnson.’
‘There you are then. Just look up the number in the book.’
Rosalind was stumped for words. It seemed there was no getting out of it.
‘Come on, get up and ring her now,’ Una urged.
Rosalind shook her head. ‘No, Mum. Not on a Sunday. The people she lives with might not like it. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
Una raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow. Always tomorrow. You’re just like your father. Well, just see that you do it.’ She bit back the criticism that rose to her lips and forced herself to smile. ‘I mean, it’s only right that you should have your own friends at the party, isn’t it. I want you to enjoy yourself.’
‘I will have Stuart,’ Rosalind ventured.
Una glared at her. ‘What do you mean, you’ll have Stuart?’
‘He’s my friend. That’s what I mean.’
‘But I asked him, didn’t I? You should ask some people too. Really, Rossie, do try to make a contribution for once, can’t you!’
It took all Rosalind’s courage to telephone Cathy. Unwilling to do it with her mother listening, she did it while Una was out shopping the following afternoon. When she asked for Cathy the woman who answered the call sounded suspicious.
‘Who is calling?’
‘My name is Rosalind Blair.’
‘Are you from a newspaper?’
‘No!’ Rosalind was surprised. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Who are you then?’
‘Cathy and I were at school together. I’m ringing to ask her to a party.’
‘Oh — I see.’ There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end. ‘Hold on. I’ll fetch her.’
‘Hello.’ Cathy’s voice sounded strained and apprehensive.
‘Hello, Cathy, it’s Rosalind Blair. Congratulations on your — er — engagement.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘You saw it in the Sunday Recorder then?’ Cathy’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I wonder how many more did?’
‘Yes, I saw it, and I’m very happy for you, Cathy.’
‘Are you? You’re the first person to say that Rosalind.’ There was a pause as Rosalind struggled to pluck up enough courage to come out with the invitation, then Cathy suddenly forestalled her, ‘Look, you wouldn’t like to meet me somewhere for a coffee, would you?’
Taken aback, Rosalind said, ‘Yes, of course I will. I’d like to. Where? And when?’
‘Now — if you’re free. In the Bluebell. You know, that coffee bar, near St Margaret’s?’
‘Okay, I know it. I’ll be there. It’ll take me about twenty minutes.’
‘Right. I’ll see you there.’
When Rosalind arrived Cathy was already there, waiting at a table by the window from which she had a view of the bus stop. The Bluebell had been a teashop, but now it was under new management and had been turned into an Italian-style coffee bar, complete with an espresso machine that hissed away irritably on the counter. Over cups of frothy coffee they sat looking at each other.
‘I just had to get out of the house,’ Cathy said. ‘Can I tell you something in confidence, Rosalind? I feel that if I don’t talk to someone soon I’ll go crazy.’
‘Of course you can.’ Rosalind felt flattered. She would have thought Carla would have been Cathy’s first choice when it came to confidences.
‘You said you saw my engagement blown up into a scandal in the paper?’
‘Well — yes.’
‘I can’t tell you how awful it was yesterday morning when the papers came.’ When Cathy looked up Rosalind could see the ravages of recent tears on her face. ‘It was such a shock. Gerald and I were keeping it a secret you see — until my birthday on the 22nd. But someone must have leaked it to the press. I don’t know whether you knew before that Gerald was a well-known concert pianist?’
‘Yes, I did know.’ Rosalind leaned forward. ‘But does it matter all that much that the secret is out? I mean, it’s the 19th now. Only a couple of days to go.’
‘It’s Johnny — Mrs Johnson, whom I live with. She doesn’t approve, because of Gerald being a lot older than me.’
‘But, is it really any of her business? I mean — she isn’t a relative, is she?’
‘No, but she brought me up after my — after I lost my mother. She promised Dad before he died that she’d take care of me so I suppose she feels responsible.’ Cathy paused to push her hair behind her ears. ‘She thinks I’ve been deceitful, keeping it from her — telling lies about where I was going.’ She looked at Rosalind. ‘I didn’t tell her I’d stopped working at the Queen’s Head you see. I’ve been seeing Gerald instead. Oh, I know it was wrong, but I didn’t really have any choice.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Rosalind thought it was all terribly romantic and exciting, but she could hardly say so when Cathy was so obviously distressed.
‘And to make matters worse we’ve been pestered by the newspapers ever since,’ she went on. ‘The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since yesterday morning. I’ve told her I’m happy and that everything will be all right. Gerald came to see her yesterday too, as soon as he’d seen the paper. He tried to explain how much in love we are and why we were keeping it quiet. It was exactly because he didn’t want the newspapers getting hold of it, you see! He promised Johnny he’d look after me, but she’s still upset. She says Gerald should have known better and that we must both have known it was wrong or we wouldn’t have done it so — so underhandedly.’
Tears began to well up and trickle down her cheeks. ‘I feel awful, Rosalind. I didn’t want to upset Johnny. I was so happy till this happened. Gerald gave me a beautiful engagement ring. He’s restoring a lovely old house in Suffolk and we were going to be married after I’d taken my exams next summer and go there to live. He’s going to start a music school — with me to help. But now it’s all spoilt.’
Rosalind’s heart went out to her. Why should anyone want to spoil two people’s happiness? Reaching out she touched Cathy’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll get over it. I’m sure you’ll think of a way to put things right.’
‘It’s all ruined. Nothing can be the same now.’ Cathy searched her handbag for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
Rosalind watched her friend’s distress for a moment before she asked: ‘Is the age difference Mrs Johnson’s only objection?’
Cathy sighed. ‘No. You probably saw in the article that Gerald isn’t well. He’s developed a kind of muscular complaint that makes playing difficult, which is why he’s taking up teaching instead.’
‘And Mrs Johnson thinks … ’
‘She keeps trying to tell me I’m still a child and that I’m taking on a sick man. It isn’t true. Gerald isn’t sick. It’s just that he can’t play in public any more. If some ordinary person had this thing it wouldn’t affect them at all. Gerald is furious that the press somehow found out about that too.’
Rosalind was frowning. ‘If you kept it completely secret, how do you think the paper got hold of it? Someone must have told them. Who could it have been if it was neither of you?’
Cathy sighed, her face anguished. ‘That’s just it, Rosalind. I’ve got a terrible feeling that it was my fault,’ she said miserably. ‘When I was alone at Gerald’s flat on Saturday afternoon a woman who used to work in public relations for Zenith records came to see him.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘I think I might have told her too much. She promised to keep it to herself. She said she was an old friend. I thought it would be all right.’
‘Have you told him?’
Cathy stared into her cup
. ‘No. Do you think I should?’
‘It’s not for me to say, but I suppose it would be better. He might be blaming someone else. Someone innocent.’
‘Oh!’ Cathy looked up at her. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
Rosalind looked at her hands that lay spread on the table and saw that they were tightly clenched with tension. ‘Poor Cathy. You must love him very much,’ she said quietly.
‘I do.’ Cathy swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. ‘And he loves me too. But Johnny just won’t understand. And he’ll be so cross when I tell him what I told this Kay Goolden woman.’
‘Surely not,’ Rosalind said soothingly. ‘It’ll all work out, you’ll see.’
‘I hope so.’ Cathy looked at her. ‘Thanks, Rosalind. It’s good to talk to someone. I know I can trust you.’
Looking into the other girl’s eyes Rosalind felt a rush of pride. She’d always admired Cathy so much and the idea of being trusted with such a personal problem, of actually being asked for advice, was almost overwhelming. ‘Of course you can trust me,’ she said fervently. ‘Any time you need a friend, please don’t hesitate.’ She smiled shyly. ‘You know, I’ve really missed you since you stopped working at the Queen’s Head.’
‘Me too, Rosalind.’ Cathy shook her head. ‘Heavens, I haven’t let you get a word in, have I? I don’t even know what you rang me for.’
To her own surprise Rosalind had almost forgotten about the party. ‘Well, after your news it sounds a bit frivolous,’ she said apologetically. ‘I was ringing to ask you to a New Year’s Eve party my mother is giving. But under the circumstances I don’t suppose you’ll want to think about parties.’ Deep inside she was relieved that Una wasn’t going to get the opportunity of embarrassing them all. But to her surprise Cathy’s face brightened.
‘New Year’s Eve, did you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It might be nice to get out. The atmosphere at home is awful and I’ve been dreading the rest of the holidays. I’ll ask Gerald if he’s got anything else planned. He hasn’t mentioned anything. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 20
