The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood

by Whitmee, Jeanne

  He glanced at the card, noting the good address with interest. ‘Okay, I’ll let you know one way or the other.’

  ‘When, Monty?’

  He sighed impatiently. ‘When I’ve read it. I’ll give you a bell and tell you what I think.’ He held up a warning hand. ‘But if I decide it’s no deal, Una, you’ll have to accept my decision.’

  ‘Of course.’ At the door she turned and asked the question that had been clamouring to be asked ever since she walked through the door. ‘Oh, by the way, do you still represent Ben and Freda?’

  He glanced up at her. ‘We’re still in touch, but they have an Australian agent now. You did know they were in Australia?’

  ‘Yes, I just wondered … ’

  ‘They’re doing very well. Booked solid for months ahead from what I hear,’ he told her. ‘Plenty of TV work too. Their kind of act is very popular over there at the moment.’ He paused to light a cigar, looking up at Una through the cloud of blue smoke. ‘And of course Freda’s a real doll. Gorgeous girl. Great voice too,’ he added caustically.

  Una threw her fur stole carelessly around her shoulders. ‘Yes, I suppose she has, if you like that kind of thing. That syrupy stuff is old hat over here now, of course. Well, I’ll have to go now. Talk to you soon, Monty.’

  He waved his cigar at her. ‘Sure.’

  When she’d gone he picked up the script and opened it with curiosity but little enthusiasm. Most of these amateur efforts were a load of old crap. No reason to suppose that this one was any different, but you never knew. No agent worth his salt could afford to miss what might turn out to be a bright new talent. And it took no more than a couple of pages to tell if it had anything or not. No need to waste too much time.

  An hour later when his secretary, tired of buzzing him on the intercom, came in to see if he’d fallen asleep, he was still reading.

  *

  Rosalind’s night off was Friday. At the end of the school week and before her weekend job at the Queen’s Head she kept one evening for seeing Stuart. She looked forward to it all week, promising herself that as soon as exams were over she would see him much more often. Not long now before all the revising and hard work were over. She was counting the days to exam time now.

  When she heard his ring at the bell downstairs she gave her hair a final flick with the comb and hurried down the stairs. But, as so often happened, Una was there before her. Rosalind was halfway down the stairs when her mother hurried out of the living room and opened the front door with a flourish.

  ‘Stuart darling! Come in. I’ve got the most marvellous news! I can’t wait to tell you.’ With only a cursory glance at Rosalind she chivvied him into the small breakfast room next to the kitchen. Don was watching TV in the lounge and anyway, this was between Stuart and her and Una wanted to savour the moment she’d looked forward to all day, ever since she got the telephone call. When she saw that Rosalind intended to join them she felt a stab of irritation, but couldn’t very well exclude her.

  ‘Come in if you’re coming then. And close the door,’ she said tetchily. ‘We can’t hear ourselves think for Don’s wretched sports programme.’

  Rosalind closed the door and sat on the chair nearest it. Stuart gave her a half-apologetic smile.

  ‘Now,’ Una began with relish, ‘you’ll never guess what. Harry Montague — the agent I told you about — has read the script. He likes the story and thinks it definitely has a lot going for it. He’s asked me if he can hear the music next. What do you think of that! Isn’t it exciting?’

  Stuart’s face lit up. ‘Oh, Una, that’s wonderful! We’ll have to fix up a date. Oh!’

  Seeing his face fall, Una asked anxiously, ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s our piano. You know what it’s like, Una. We can’t really do justice to Brian’s music on that awful old thing.’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that. We’ll do it here,’ she said triumphantly. ‘There’s a perfectly good piano going to waste in the lounge. I only had it tuned at Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, that would be marvellous! I can’t tell you how grateful we are to you, Una. We could never have got this far without you.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Talent will out,’ she said. ‘I just hope it all goes well and that Monty comes up trumps.’

  ‘It won’t be your fault if he doesn’t. You’ve done wonders. We’re very lucky.’

  ‘So you agree then? I’m to tell Monty to come here?’ Una was delighted. It would give her a chance to show Monty that she didn’t need the likes of him to help her out any more. In fact she’d rub it well in that he was in her debt if Sweet Violet got off the ground successfully.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Stuart said. ‘I’ll get the other two over here just as soon as you like. Any time Mr Montague finds convenient.’

  Una nodded. ‘I’ll get on to him first thing Monday morning and I’ll let you know what he says.’ She looked at Rosalind who was peering surreptitiously at her watch. ‘Well, I can see that Rosalind is anxious to be off. Going to the pictures, are you?’

  She stood up. ‘Yes. It’s Doctor No. Everyone says it’s very good.’

  ‘Then I mustn’t keep you,’ Una said magnanimously.

  But the evening was already spoilt. As far as Stuart was concerned, the exciting news he had just heard already outshone James Bond’s outrageous exploits. All the way to the cinema and all through the film he kept talking about the play and how wonderful Una was — how much, how very much, they all owed her. So much so that people seated near them began to fidget and shush at them angrily.

  Later, over coffee in a nearby coffee bar, Stuart was still making excited plans and voicing his uncertainties.

  ‘I wonder if he’ll like my costume designs,’ he said, chewing his lip. ‘They’re a bit way out, but then that’s the point, you see. The people of St Crispin’s have lived such an isolated life that they’ve devised their own fashions, made dyes and fabrics from plants, woven wool from their own sheep. Each character’s costume is individual, you see, reflecting his own personality. And the contrasts with the modern Americans’ mass produced clothes is the whole … ’

  ‘Stuart!’ Rosalind looked at him. ‘Do you realise that you’ve talked of nothing but the play ever since we left the house this evening?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He smiled ruefully at her. ‘I suppose I have.’

  ‘I bet you couldn’t tell me one single thing about the film we’ve just seen.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I could. But it is frightfully important to us all.’ He leaned across to touch her hand. ‘And to you too, don’t you see?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve talked of supporting me until I can get established, and believe me, darling, I appreciate it. But if this takes off, I wouldn’t need support.’

  She stared at him. What exactly did he mean? She’d been looking forward to helping him — showing how much faith she had in him — proving her love. Didn’t he know that? Or could he possibly mean something more significant — more exciting? That if the play were a success he could support her! That they could be married? She felt her cheeks colouring. ‘Well, that would be lovely of course. But I don’t think I’d want to give up the career I’ve been working so hard for,’ she said slowly. ‘At least, not until we had children.’

  It was Stuart’s turn to colour. ‘No! No, of course not. 1 just … ’ He looked desperately around. ‘Look, what about another coffee? It’s not too late yet.’

  As he parked Julian’s car outside the gate of Blake’s Folly she turned to him. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Stuart.’

  ‘No. Thank you — for listening to me wittering on about the play.’ He slid an arm along the back of the seat. ‘I’m afraid it’s in my mind the whole time these days. Can’t seem to think of anything else.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ she told him wryly. Then, relenting: ‘I don’t really mind, Stuart. I just know it’s going to be a success.’ His preoccupied silence since she’d blurted out tha
t awful thing about having children had made her curl up inside. If only she could turn the clock back — unsay it.

  He drew her towards him and kissed her. ‘The day I met you and Una was the luckiest day of my life.’

  ‘Was it really?’ Rosalind looked at him thoughtfully. If only he didn’t always have to include her mother. ‘I knew then that you had a brilliant talent, you know. Long before I fe- before we started seeing each other.’

  He kissed her again, then looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Good heavens! Look at the time. Your mother will murder me. She’ll be wondering where you are.’

  Hurt, Rosalind stared at him. ‘We don’t want to risk upsetting Mum, do we? Not until after she’s introduced you to Harry Montague anyway!’ She opened the door and jumped out of the car. Stuart followed, hurrying after her up the path to the front door.

  ‘Rossie! Wait!’ He caught up with her just as she was putting her key in the lock. He grasped her shoulders firmly and turned her to face him. ‘What was all that about?’

  She looked up at him, eyes bright with hurt tears. ‘Sometimes I feel you only take me out to keep in Mum’s good books,’ she said. ‘Well you needn’t, you know. She doesn’t give a damn for my feelings, so you’re wasting your time. If you don’t want to see me any more, just say so now. You needn’t worry. It won’t spoil your chances of getting your play put on.’

  He shook her gently, then pulled her close. ‘Shut up, blockhead! You know none of that is true. I go out with you because I want to.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ she mumbled into the front of his jacket.

  ‘Well, stop wondering at once and kiss me goodnight properly.’ He raised her face to his and kissed her, gently at first, then in the passionate intimate way that took her breath away and left her with trembling knees. ‘Off you go now and get a good night’s sleep,’ he told her breezily. ‘You work much too hard, you know. I worry about you, you silly little goose.’

  She watched with an aching heart as he got back into the car and drove off with a wave. She loved him so much. Too much for her own peace of mind. Did he really love her too? He was so good-looking, so talented. He could surely have any girl he wanted, so why should he want her? And whatever either of them might say, he couldn’t risk driving any kind of wedge between himself and the Blake household just now, could he?

  It was a week later that the three young men arrived at Blake’s Folly for the meeting Una had arranged with Harry Montague. They arrived in Julian’s Mini, dressed in their best, neatly groomed and shaven, except for Brian who had a beard. Clutching their copies of the script — in Brian’s case the fully orchestrated score, plus his own piano parts — they rang the bell and then stood looking nervously at each other as they waited on the doorstep to be admitted.

  Monty was already there. Una had invited him to dinner so that he could meet Don. She felt it was good policy to keep her husband advised and involved, seeing that it was his money that would make the whole project possible. The two men had been polite to each other, though it was clear that neither was completely comfortable in the other’s company, and it was a relief to everyone when the meal was over.

  Una opened the door and greeted the three warmly, ushering them into the lounge where Monty, Don and Rosalind were already waiting. She offered them coffee first, to break the ice, encouraging small talk. Then, when she felt the atmosphere to be sufficiently relaxed, she invited Brian to present the music of Sweet Violet to Monty.

  Settling himself at the piano, the stocky, bearded young man played the main themes from the show, then launched into one of the songs, singing the words himself in a growling bass. Listening to his monotonous drone, Una knew that her moment had arrived. Her heart quickening, she rose from her chair and went over to the piano.

  ‘Er — forgive me, Brian, but would it help if I were to sing it for you?’ she asked with a beguiling modesty. ‘I mean, your voice is … ’

  ‘I think ‘lousy’ is the word you’re looking for.’ Brian laughed. ‘Please, Mrs Blake, be my guest. I’m only too delighted. Can you follow the music or shall I play it over for you first?’

  ‘No, I can follow,’ Una said, positioning herself behind him where she could see the music. She omitted to mention that she couldn’t actually read music, or that she’d learned the songs by heart from the tape that Stuart had given her, rehearsing the songs privately at every opportunity since with the help of the tape machine in Don’s study.

  She sang the song through, putting over all of the emotion and pathos the character demanded, just as she had rehearsed it. Monty looked on with shrewd appraisal. He’d always known that her voice hadn’t the power or the timbre of the best singers on his books, but for an impromptu rendering it wasn’t at all bad, he conceded grudgingly. When the song came to an end everyone clapped and Una blushed, affecting surprise and confusion at their appreciation.

  ‘I just thought Monty might get a better idea of the song’s effectiveness with a female voice,’ she said modestly.

  Sitting quietly in her corner, Rosalind said nothing. Suddenly she knew what all this was about. During the singing of the song everything had dropped into place for her. All Una’s altruism, the weeks of selfless striving and scheming, her apparent approval of the relationship between herself and Stuart. Now it all made sense. She looked at the faces of the men around her, all of them totally unsuspecting. Don, gazing with pride and wonder at his talented wife; the three young men, dazzled by yet another new facet of Una’s appeal. Even the cynical Monty looked on benignly. It was clear that none of them saw beneath the surface to the real reason for her mother’s devoted generosity.

  Brian continued with the other songs and Una sang them all, Brian doing his best to join her in the duets. When at last the music came to an end and the buzz of enthusiasm died down, Rosalind was aware of her mother’s eyes on her. Sidling over Una hissed in her ear, ‘Make some more coffee, will you, Rossie? Really, I’d have thought you’d do it without being asked.’

  When she returned from the kitchen with the tray Monty was telling them with guarded optimism that he thought they definitely had a show.

  ‘Mind you,’ he warned, ‘the public is a funny animal. I’ve seen surefire hits close in three days flat and real turkeys run and run. There are no cast-iron certainties in this business. But I’m willing to give it a go. Now, there’s a little theatre free in Stoke Newington. It’s an old music hall and due for demolition. There are plans for one of those new supermarkets. It’s not exactly Drury Lane, but at least it still has everything intact and working — well almost. I can get it at a knock-down rent for you from the LCC. Suppose we take it for a month and see how we go?’

  The three faces looking at him were alight with enthusiastic disbelief. It was Julian who found his voice first.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Mr Montague. That would be fantastic. Could we see the place sometime?’

  ‘Sure.’ Monty paused to light up one of his pungent cigars, drawing a disapproving glare from Don, whose mother had never allowed anyone to smoke in the house. Una’s ‘cool-as-a-mountain-stream’ Consulates were bad enough, but cigars! She would never have trusted a man who wore a bow tie and a homburg hat either, come to that. Don fumed with resentment. Who did the man think he was — sitting there calmly dispensing his money as though it was some sort of largesse?

  ‘I’ll give you a bell when I’ve fixed it all up,’ Monty was saying. ‘Now, in the meantime, what do you want me to do about casting? Is there some place where you can hold auditions?’

  ‘Have them here if you want,’ Una put in.

  Monty waved a dismissive hand, scattering cigar ash on the carpet. ‘No, no. Too far out of town. Anyway, it looks amateurish. I’ll find us a hall somewhere. Shouldn’t cost much for a couple of hours or so. Let you know about that too.’ He looked at the three eager young faces. ‘Just one thing. What do the three of you do for a living?’

  Stuart looked at the others. ‘Julian works for a solicitor,�
� he said. ‘Brian’s in his last year at music college and I’ve been on the dole ever since I left art school. I take anything I can get.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Monty drew on his cigar. ‘Well, wouldn’t be a good move to give up the day job, Julian. Maybe you can fix it to take some holiday. I’ll leave you to sort that out.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Better get off, I suppose. I’ll be in touch.’

  They shook hands all round and Una showed Monty to the door. As she was letting him out he paused and looked at her speculatively.

  ‘Haven’t got any ideas about making a comeback, have you, Una?’

  She gazed at him with wide, innocent eyes. ‘Comeback! Why on earth would I want to do that, Monty?’

  ‘Just an idea. I thought maybe it was something you might have tucked up that scheming little sleeve of yours.’

  ‘All I want is to help the boys.’ She laughed. ‘Really, Monty, what an idea! Why on earth would I want to go back to all that hard work and stress when I have a life of leisure here?’ She swept an arm expressively round the spacious hallway.

  Monty shrugged. ‘Who knows why people do things?’ As he walked down the path to his car he added under his breath, ‘Especially frustrated over-the-hill singers.’

  *

  After that things moved fast. Monty was as good as his word. He hired a hall for auditions and notified a group of possibles from among his clientele for the cast. He also inserted an advertisement in The Stage just in case. He promised to sit in at the auditions and give the boys the benefit of his experience. The Prince Regent Theatre was hired for the month of July, but as it wasn’t being used Monty had obtained permission for the boys to go in beforehand and do any necessary work. It was a good month for tourists, he told the boys. And producers weren’t so busy in the summer either. It was also the silly season in the newspaper world and critics might just be tempted out of the Fleet Street pubs to look at something intriguingly fresh by a group of newcomers.

  With the help of friends and relatives the three boys cleaned up the theatre and did the necessary repairs. Brian found enough young musicians from among his fellow students to form a small orchestra who would play for minimum union rates. In their last year they were encouraged to get as much practical experience as they could. And all three looked forward eagerly to the date set for the auditions.