She met the train at Ipswich. Standing eagerly on the platform as it drew alongside, she watched the passengers disembark. Rosalind, to her disappointment, did not seem to be among them. She was just turning away when she felt a hand on her sleeve.
‘Cathy.’
Turning, she was surprised to see her friend standing there — but a very different Rosalind from the one she had seen only a few weeks before. This tall slim girl in the smart tailored suit, with her hair cut in a sleek style, her face expertly made-up and minus the glasses she had always worn, looked totally different. The overall improvement was so overwhelming that Cathy felt it would be tactless to mention it.
‘Rosalind!’ she laughed. ‘I didn’t recognise you without your glasses.’
‘Contact lenses,’ she explained. ‘They take a bit of getting used to, but I think the effect is worth it.’
Cathy took her case and drew her towards the barrier. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll get a taxi. I can’t wait to hear all your news.’
The taxi dropped them at the gate of Cuckoo Lodge and Rosalind stood staring in stunned amazement at the lovely old house with its mellow red brickwork glowing gently in the watery autumn sunshine.
‘Oh, Cathy,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d no idea it was so beautiful. You must be so proud of it.’
Cathy smiled. ‘If you’re interested I’ll show you the photographs that were taken before the restoration work began.’
Inside Rosalind was entranced by the spacious drawing room with its inglenook fireplace and low-beamed ceiling. She was impressed by the studios, and the kitchen delighted her.
‘You’ve managed to keep the character of the place whilst including all the up-to-date mod cons,’ she said, looking round at the gleaming worktops, the cupboards and the Aga in its tiled recess.
‘A bit of a cheat really,’ Cathy told her. ‘This part of the house is completely new. You should have seen the state of the old kitchen. I think it was added in Victorian times and it would have given you nightmares.’
Upstairs Rosalind looked into all the rooms with their pretty furnishings and bright colour schemes, expressing her approval again and again. ‘Did you have a hand in the design?’ she asked.
‘Partly. We had the advice of a professional, but I chose most of the colour schemes and fabrics myself.’
It all seemed so long ago that she could scarcely remember the fun and excitement of it any more. The home she had helped so lovingly to restore now felt alien to her — almost like a prison sometimes. And Gerald’s music school, the dream project they had planned together that had once excited her so much, now seemed like something that had nothing to do with her.
Her pensiveness did not escape Rosalind. Again she saw the sad, wistful expression that had clouded the other girl’s face the last time they had met. There was something not quite right about her life. Rosalind wished they knew each other well enough for her to try and help.
Cathy suddenly smiled and took her arm. ‘Come and see the barn. It’s been converted into a concert hall. Then I’ll show you the garden and the mill stream. Do you like ducks?’
Rosalind laughed. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. We’ll take some scraps and you can feed them.’
Later that evening, after they had eaten and Rosalind had seen and marvelled at the photographs of Cuckoo Lodge in its original derelict state, the girls settled down before a log fire in the drawing room and Rosalind told Cathy her news — about her father’s will and selling the cottage.
‘I’ve never had any real money of my own before,’ she said. ‘It’s a strange feeling. I’ve invested it for the moment, but I feel I should do something meaningful with it. Something that Dad would have approved of; that would have made him proud of me.’
‘Do you have anything in mind?’ Cathy asked.
‘What I really want — what I’ve always wanted — is to buy a hotel of my own,’ Rosalind said wistfully. ‘If I could find a house, somewhere like this for instance, and turn it into a small hotel that would be marvellous. But the money I got for the cottage isn’t nearly enough for that kind of ambitious enterprise.’ She sighed. ‘Isn’t it funny? In some ways it seems such a lot of money, yet it isn’t nearly enough to do what I really want.’
‘You don’t have to put down all of the money,’ Cathy pointed out. ‘You could get a mortgage, and probably a bank loan to start your business if you could convince the bank that it was a worthwhile venture.’
Rosalind nodded. ‘I’ve learned a lot about management since I’ve been at the Queen’s Head and college. Perhaps I’m not really quite adventurous enough. The idea of taking that kind of risk terrifies me. Supposing it all went wrong and I lost the money?’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’
Rosalind shook her head. ‘It would be an awfully big thing to take on by myself. I don’t think I’d have the confidence.’ She went on to tell Cathy about Freda’s return to England and, listening to the warmth and affection in the other girl’s voice, Cathy realised how much of an influence Ben Blair’s singing partner was on Rosalind. A good one too by the sound of it. Clearly it was Freda who was responsible for the change in Rosalind’s appearance and the new self-confidence she exuded. Cathy found herself wishing she could meet the woman who cared enough about Ben Blair’s daughter to take her under her wing.
‘Freda has real talent. She’s been lucky enough to get a major part in a musical play in the West End,’ Rosalind was saying. She went on to explain how Freda had been cast in the part her mother had lost in Sweet Violet.
‘Oh, dear, that must have been awkward for you,’ Cathy said sympathetically. ‘How did your mother take it?’
‘I haven’t seen her. She hasn’t been in touch since I left home, so I don’t really know,’ Rosalind said. She pulled a wry face. ‘I can imagine though. She’ll have been bitterly disappointed at missing playing in the West End. It was always her dream to see her name up in lights.’ She sighed. ‘It won’t have helped when she found out that Freda was taking her part over either. I daresay poor Don is bearing the brunt of it.’
‘You and your step-father got along all right in the end then?’
Rosalind blushed. ‘I’m ashamed to say that I misjudged him,’ she said. ‘I have a lot to be grateful to him for. It wasn’t his fault that I left home.’ She paused, wishing she knew Cathy well enough to confide in her about the shameful stealing of the Meissen figure. It was something she had been too ashamed even to tell Freda. Maybe someday, if she was lucky, she would find a friend in whom to confide. Someone she could be sure would understand and forgive.
‘So maybe it’s as well you’re not at home at the moment,’ Cathy said with a smile.
‘Yes — although… ’ Rosalind glanced wistfully round her. ‘Being here in your lovely home makes me dread going back to that dingy little room of mine at the Queen’s Head. It felt like a haven at first, but now it’s beginning to depress me.’
Cathy could well imagine that it was. She had only been in Rosalind’s room once but she knew that the lack of space, the threadbare brown carpet and porridge-coloured walls would depress her too if she was obliged to live there. ‘You could use some of your legacy to buy a flat,’ she suggested. But Rosalind shook her head.
‘I want to save the money for the future.’
Cathy nodded. ‘Well, you’re always welcome here whenever you can take some time off,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll be glad of the company. I get lonely sometimes when Gerald is working.’
When it was time for Rosalind to leave both girls were sorry. The week had flown so quickly and they had enjoyed each other’s company so much. Cathy had enjoyed showing Rosalind the village; the quay and the dunes, the little craft shops and art galleries. Once they had lunched at the Admiral Nelson, but most evenings they had cooked together in the kitchen at Cuckoo Lodge. For Cathy it was a treat to have someone to cook for, and to have the kitchen to herself, though she did not tell Rosalind that. It would have
sounded so strange that she rarely cooked a meal for her husband and did not have full access to many of the rooms in her own home.
That week Cathy had seen a side of Rosalind she never knew existed. She had always liked the quiet, slightly nervous girl, but had never realised they had so much in common or shared so many opinions. When they said goodbye at the station, promising to write and keep in touch, what had been a casual acquaintanceship had developed into a warm friendship. It was with genuine regret that Cathy waved goodbye and went back to Melfordleigh and the empty house.
*
Cathy had booked a call to the hospital in Auckland for early on the morning following the day scheduled for Gerald’s operation. She was up bright and early on the day in question and as she made coffee in the kitchen she reflected that it would now be eight p.m. in New Zealand, whilst here it was still breakfast time. A whole world separated herself and Gerald. A whole world — and so much more. She had received two postcards from him since he left. One from Manchester, telling her of the success of Simon’s first concert; the other was posted soon after his arrival in New Zealand, giving her the date of his operation.
She was just finishing her breakfast when the telephone rang. The hospital receptionist put her call straight through to the ward where a Sister told her briskly that Gerald was resting comfortably after a good night’s sleep. As far as could be ascertained the operation had been a complete success and so far he was doing very well.
Cathy replaced the receiver with a sigh of relief. So — the first hurdle was over. Would this operation really turn Gerald into a different person? Would his love for her return, or would he want to turn back the clock, pick up the threads of his old life again? Only time would tell. With luck he would be home for Christmas. She must start preparing for it. Christmas had become an unlucky time for her over the past few years. Somehow something bad always seemed to happen at this time of year. But perhaps now she had reached a turning-point. Perhaps this year would be the happiest Christmas she had known since the last she had shared with Dad.
Cathy telephoned the people on the list he had left, noting with some irony that Kay’s name was not included. Her first call was to James Kendrick, his agent. He was delighted at the news.
‘I’m glad you’ve called, Cathy,’ he said. ‘There has been quite a bit of interest in Gerald’s rhapsody. You probably know that Simon is to be the soloist at its first performance next August?’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ she said dryly.
‘Yes. We finalised the details while he was here a couple of weeks ago. As you know, word soon gets around on the grapevine and enquiries have been coming in ever since. I wondered if he had any more copies?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. I suppose I could have a look though.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would. The original is with Froebel at the moment and I’m still waiting for the first batch of copies from the publisher to arrive. I don’t want to let any opportunities slip.’
‘I’ll have a look and ring you back, James.’
When she had finished her calls Cathy looked through the music library Gerald kept stored in files in the study, but she could find no more copies of his composition. Knowing that he would almost certainly not have parted with the only copy she tried to think where it might be. He had said it was something he had written some years ago. Could there be another copy in one of the boxes stored in the attic? She pictured the boxes stacked away in the roof space and shrank from the thought of searching them. Some had come from her home, some from Gerald’s flat. Most of them contained little-used things they had meant to sort out long ago. Somehow they had never got round to it, but she had very little else to do. It would be a good opportunity to deal with a long delayed chore.
On the landing she pulled down the extending ladder that led up into the attic and climbed into the void. When the house was restored Gerald had made sure the attic was wired for electric light and the floor was boarded. Finding the switch, Cathy made her way over to the corner where the boxes were stacked. Luckily they were all labelled with either her name or Gerald’s. The first one she searched was full of books, which she carefully repacked and put aside. The next contained a mixture; magazines, newspaper clippings and press cuttings of Gerald’s, some of them dating back more than twenty years. There was a thick manilla document wallet too. Glancing at the contents she saw that it contained some hand-written manuscripts. Perhaps the one she was looking for was among them. She put it to one side.
It was then that she noticed, right at the bottom of the packing case, an old cigar box full of letters. She took one out and looked at the envelope. It had Gerald’s name and an unfamiliar address written on it in faded ink. The writing looked feminine. There were others in the box, a dozen or more of them, all with the same handwriting. After a moment’s hesitation she took the letter out of the envelope in her hand. Inside was a sheet of notepaper, lilac-coloured and faintly scented. There was no address, but it was dated 20 August 1945. It read:
‘My darling
So the war is over at last. That terrible new atomic bomb they’ve dropped on Japan. It’s like some frightening apocalypse. So much suffering and death makes life seem so much more precious. Fifty-five million killed in the war, so they say. What a tragic waste. But in a way it has helped to make up my mind, my love. Life is too short to resist the way fate intended us to live it. I’ve finally decided, my darling, to do as you say. I’ll come to you. Now that peace has come your career can begin and I want more than anything else in the world to be your help and support. I want you to have the success you deserve.
We’ll be together, just the two of us. I’ll get a job and work for us both so that you can go back to college and study for the great career you must surely have.
I can’t pretend that it won’t be a dreadful wrench, Gerald, leaving everything behind. Leaving my darling baby will be the hardest thing I have ever done. But when we are settled perhaps I can have her to live with us. Whatever happens I can’t bear to lose you. You are all I have ever wanted. I long to be close to you where I belong. To feel your arms around me and to know we need never part again. I can only pray that they will understand one day and that they will find it in their hearts to forgive me.
Please let me know as soon as you can what arrangements you have made so that we can start making plans.
My heart is always with you.
Ever your loving Jenny.’
For a long moment Cathy sat staring at the signature on the bottom of the letter. Jenny. Gerald had said that his wife’s name was Sarah and that his marriage had ended at the beginning of the war. This letter was dated 1945. She tried to ignore the vile suspicion hovering like a dark evil shadow in the corner of her mind. Surely it could not be possible…? The thought repelled her, churning her stomach and quickening her heart. Not wanting proof, yet unable to resist the temptation to find out, she took out another letter. It was dated a year later.
‘Gerald
I’m sorry we quarrelled last weekend. I hate having our precious time together spoilt, but I really can’t believe that you meant to be so heartless. You promised that I could have Catherine to live with us. If Daniel agreed to a divorce I would almost certainly get custody of her, but you won’t let me ask him. If I were free we could be married. Why are you so adamant about not getting a divorce — and not telling Daniel I am with you? I came to you willingly. Are you ashamed of our love?
The only way I can have Catherine with me now is to throw myself on Daniel’s mercy and beg. But you even refuse to let me do this! Already I have lost more than a year of her life. I will be a stranger to her if I don’t do something to get her back soon. Please try to understand what it means to me. How it breaks my heart to be parted from her. Will you please try to come home from college this weekend so that we can talk?
Yours, Jenny’
Cathy sat down on her heels. So it was true. Gerald had been her mother’s lover; the man sh
e had deserted her husband and child for. And Dad had never known. He couldn’t have. And through all those years Gerald had continued to masquerade as his friend.
Bitter, angry tears scalded her eyes. Jenny, her mother, had loved and wanted her after all. It had been Gerald who had kept them apart. How could he have been so cruel? But what was the rest of the story? What had happened to Jenny? Maybe the rest of the letters in the box held some clues. Painful though it was she felt compelled to read them. Taking out another she saw that it was headed Trouville, France, May 1947. It read:
‘Oh my darling, How I miss you! So much. So very much.
I have settled in well here. Your friends the Labeque family are very nice and the children are sweet and very well behaved. You would be surprised at how well they speak English already. The little girl, Suzanne, reminds me so much of my little Catherine. She has the same green eyes and coppery hair. She is almost five, not much older than Catherine must be now. I can hardly believe that my baby will soon be going to school.
I hope your concert went well, my darling. How I would have loved to be there. It would have made me so proud to see you make your debut. But, as you said, this is best. It is not for long. Daniel would never think of trying to find me here in France and as I am living en famille, the money I earn is all mine. I will enclose as much as I can to help pay your tutor what you owe him.
I hope you will be able to come over soon. Madame Labeque says you are welcome any time.
I long so much to see you, darling.
Always yours, Jenny’
At the bottom of the letter there was a postscript. It read:
‘Monsieur Labeque is teaching me to drive so that I can take the children to school. When I am proficient I am to have the use of Madame’s car. Isn’t that generous? It feels very strange to be driving on the wrong side of the road though! All my love — J’
Cathy stared down at the faded writing for a long time. He had sent her to work as an au-pair in France — because, as she suggested in the letter, Daniel might try to find her? Or had it been so that she would not be tempted to try to see her little daughter and press for divorce?
The Lost Daughters: A moving saga of womanhood Page 38
