The Yearning Heart Page 10

  She squeezed her way in. ‘Excuse me,’ she said politely. His face was turned to the window and he didn’t answer her. More loudly she repeated it, but still no response.

  An elderly man sitting opposite, lowered his newspaper to say, ‘He’s asleep.’

  Her action was so quick that she surprised herself. She kicked the sleeping man on the shin. Startled, he woke up, staring bleary eyed at Fran. ‘Is this seat taken?’ she asked sweetly.

  Jerking his head, he looked round in bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry, I’d no idea the train was full.’ In one swift movement, he undraped his long legs and pulled his thin frame into a sitting position. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, patting the now vacant seat.

  ‘Thanks.’ She was just about to put her case on the overhead rack, when he jumped up.

  ‘Let me.’ She murmured her thanks again and sank down on the seat.

  ‘I’m Nick Saunders,’ he said. The hand he extended was long and thin, but his handshake was firm and solid.

  She glanced sideways at the man, seeing his unkempt brown hair, his gaunt face with such dark shadows etched beneath sad eyes. Those sad eyes watched her. Quickly, she averted her glaze. ‘Frances Meredith,’ she said, withdrawing her hand from his.

  She could sense him studying her and, for something to do, she began rummaging in her handbag. In her hurry to get away, she’d forgotten her book. It still lay on the table by her bedside, but her fumbling fingers found a notebook and pencil. So, she decided to make notes of the things she wanted to ask Michael. Favourite sports, books, music and … She paused; she had no idea what a sixteen-year-old boy liked.

  ‘Hard to concentrate,’ Nick Saunders’ voice interjected into her thoughts, indicating her doodling on the notepad.

  She looked down to see that she had drawn a row of matchstick men and he was studying the page and what she had written about Michael. She quickly flicked over the page. ‘It’s private,’ she said, irritated by his intrusion

  The hint of sparkle which had touched his eyes, evaporated and the sadness returned. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered and turned away to look out of the steam smeared window. The man sitting opposite lowered his newspaper to look across at them both and then quickly raised it.

  Fran stared down at her notes and couldn’t think of another thing to write down. Nick Saunders was right, she couldn’t concentrate. Was she expecting too much? Michael was her son. He had grown inside her for nine months and she had given birth to him, given him life, but she had not seen him grow up. And yet, that wonderful feeling of the warmth of his tiny body next to hers as he lay in her arms had never left her. She closed her eyes and it was there, so vividly. In her heart, the bond was still strong. But now, Michael was no longer a baby, but a young man. Could he possibly feel anything for her? Would those feelings first nurtured all those years ago survive through time to now? This was the hope which had kept her going all these years. So, it was possible he would he know instantly that she, Fran, was his real mother? She kept her eyes closed and, listening to the rhythm of the train, she hugged those past feelings close, willing them into the future.

  She must have dozed, because the next thing she was aware of was Nick Saunders saying to her, ‘You’ve dropped these.’

  She opened her eyes to see him holding the notebook and pencil which had slipped from her lap. She reached out to take them. ‘Thank you,’ she said, feeling slightly guilty about her earlier behaviour. Hastily, she put them back in her bag. Eyes downcast, she peered into the bag, espying an unopened packet of Spangle sweets. As she opened the top of the packet, an impulse gripped her and she proffered one to Nick Saunders.

  Surprised, he gave her a grin and accepted. ‘Fruity orange, my favourite,’ he said. For the rest of the journey they sucked their sweets, not uttering another word.

  ‘Beverley,’ the porter called. Fran watched as the train steamed into the station, her heart quickened and her body trembled. Passengers were rising from their seats and still Fran sat there, immobile. She was unaware of Nick Saunders reaching up for her case.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re as white as a ghost,’ Nick said with concern.

  Fran inhaled deeply and got a grip on herself. ‘I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t.

  He looked dubiously at her. ‘Is anyone meeting you?’

  ‘No. I’m not expected until tomorrow.’ Not that Isabel would have met her.

  ‘Family?’ he enquired, still concerned.

  She bit on her lip. ‘Sort of, but I’m staying at a hotel.’

  He nodded as in understanding. ‘Look, my brother is meeting me. We can offer you a lift.’

  She brightened at this, but then said cautiously, ‘That’s kind of you.’

  He must have sensed her wariness, for he said, ‘You’ll be quite safe with me.’

  She glanced into his brown eyes and she felt she could trust him.

  He took her arm and carried her case, and she was glad of his strength, for hers seemed to have deserted her, both mentally and physically.

  Out on the platform, the cold air hit her and helped to revive her. Feeling the need to say something to this man who had befriended her, she asked. ‘You live in Beverley?’

  He hesitated before replying, ‘I’m planning to live nearby.’

  ‘With your brother?’ As soon as the question left her lips she sensed it was wrong. She gave him a fleeting look as they walked out of the station.

  His face was expressionless, his voice harsh as he replied, ‘No.’

  By now, they were outside the station and slow drizzle of rain persisted.

  ‘Over here, Nick,’ called a jovial masculine voice. A man with a mane of red hair and sideburns jumped from a mud splattered Land Rover. He strode forward, his hand outstretched. Nick put down Fran’s case, and the two men shook hands and affectionately slapped each other on the shoulders. ‘Great to see you.’ Then, he turned his attention to Fran. ‘And who’s this little lady then?’ He took in her blonde hair under a smart beret, her vivid blue eyes and her slim figure. ‘You’ve picked a good looker.’

  Fran blushed, feeling the warm tingle of blood rush to her cheeks and the adrenalin begin to rush round her body. She smile and was grateful to the man.

  ‘Frances, this is my brother, Rufus. Frances and I met on the train.’

  Fran extended her hand and Rufus raised it to his lips and kissed it, giving her a wink at the same time. ‘Welcome.’ She blushed again and feeling a little embarrassed.

  Nick picked up her case and Rufus asked, ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Burton Hotel, please.’

  Soon she was settled on the back seat in the vehicle, next to a friendly golden retriever who wanted to lick her face. She stroked it and then it seemed contented to rest its head on her lap.

  Nick and Rufus were talking and Fran turned her attention to gazing out of the window. As they passed people walking on the pavement, she saw a boy of about sixteen, her heart leapt could he be Michael? Her son was born with dark brown hair, but his eyes were the blue eyes of a newly born baby, so she wasn’t sure what colour they would be now.

  The Land Rover juddered to a halt. ‘Burton Hotel,’ called Rufus over his shoulder. ‘It looks a bit posh, but I dare say you’ll be comfortable. Now, if you fancy something with a bit of atmosphere, Nick and I are going to the Old Grey Mare tonight. Log fires, gaslights, good beer and live music – none of that jukebox stuff.’

  By now, Rufus was out of the driving seat and opening the passenger door for her. ‘Goodbye,’ she said to Nick. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  He half turned to her, saying in a quiet voice, ‘Glad to help.’ She noticed he didn’t echo Rufus’s offer to join them at the Old Grey Mare.

  Rufus handed her case. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ she said.

  He grinned broadly, saying, ‘It’s not every day I get to see a pretty woman. And, don’t forget, tonight at the pub. We can collect you if you wish.’

  ‘I know where it is, but thank you.’ He rai
sed an eyebrow and gave her a mock salute.

  She turned and walked up the steps of the hotel, her thoughts with Michael, her son.

  In her hotel room, Fran soaked in the deep bath for an hour, washing away the grime of the day. As she lay amidst the luxury of frothy bubbles, Fran thought of Michael and wondered how he would receive her tomorrow. Over the years, she’d given a lot of thought to his well-being. It broke her heart, but finally she had agreed to let him grow up uncluttered without any demands from her. She reached out and burst a bubble with her toe. Was her bubble about to burst? The constraints, which her mother had imposed on her, keeping her apart from her son for all these years, had taken their toll. She wasn’t a fool but she was in denial. Deep down, she was only too aware that Michael must think of Isabel was his mother. How could he think otherwise if he hadn’t been told the truth of his birth? That she, Fran, was his real mother, the young girl who had given him life only for him to be so cruelly wrenched away from her. She thought bitterly of her mother: how could Agnes rest easy in her grave knowing the deceit and the miseries she had caused? Fran would never understand why her mother had acted in such a devious way. She shivered and reached for the warm towel.

  After dinner, she sat alone in the lounge, the dead silence of the hotel room promised the night to stretch, long and lonely. She made a quick decision. She knew her way to the Old Grey Mare. In the war years, it had been easy to dress up and wear make-up and so Fran and her friend, Vanessa, would appear older than their fifteen years. Of course, their mothers never knew. Fran sighed, thinking of her lost youth and the lonely years she had spent on the farm in Lincolnshire.

  Now, standing outside the Mare, listening to the noise coming from inside, savouring the smell of beer, seeing the shining panels of coloured glass on the wooden door, the intervening years slipped away. She wondered if Vanessa still came and if so, would she recognise her? Would anyone from her past recognise her?

  ‘What do you think?’ Tina held out her hands for Nancy to admire the deep pink nail varnish.

  With a pretence of a frown, Nancy studied the deep pink nails and then stood back to admire Tina as a whole. She took in the newly dyed red hair, the smooth, delicate skin of her face, the white see-through lacy blouse, which was all the fashion among the young girls. But Tina’s biggest asset was her lovely blue eyes. Gone was their dull sadness. Since her setback at not tracing Isabel Renton through the telephone directory, which they had poured over together, Nancy had encouraged Tina to spend some of her first week’s wages on buying clothes and little luxuries, like the nail varnish. ‘Do you know what, love, you look just like that film star, Leslie Caron.’

  Tina gave a twirl, her full skirt swishing high, showing off her shapely legs.

  There was a knock at the front door and Nancy let Joe in. He was dressed in the latest fashion. He wore a Teddy-Boy style jacket with long velvet lapels and drainpipe trousers, and his ginger hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, quiffed and styled into a DA. ‘Hello, Mrs Dee,’ he greeted her.

  ‘Cheeky monkey,’ Nancy beamed at him. ‘I’ve said to call me Nancy.’

  ‘My pa always said to be polite to me elders,’ he grinned at her.

  She shook her head with laughter, her tight curls bobbing. ‘Where is it tonight?’

  ‘Surprise,’ he said, tapping a finger on the side of his nose.

  Now Tina joined in the conversation. ‘I hate surprises so you’d better tell me where.’

  ‘Women,’ he rolled his eyes. ‘Folk Club at Mare’s. You can come if you want, Nancy.’

  Nancy replied, ‘No fear, those gaslights play havoc with my breathing. Besides, I’m off to the club with Mrs Wood. We’ve got an entertainer on tonight who sings just like Bing Crosby.’

  ‘Your Cyril not home?’

  Nancy’s smile faded. ‘Not while Monday, a rush job on.’

  Ah, thought Joe, we might have the house to ourselves later.

  ‘Come on, daydreamer, I’m ready,’ said Tina, who had been to collect her coat.

  ‘Excuse us, missus, are you going in?’

  Fran gave a startled look to the fashionable young couple. He was dressed in the latest Teddy-Boy style and she had the most sparkling blue eyes and ridiculously red hair, but it suited her.

  ‘We’ll take you in if you like,’ the young man offered.

  Suddenly, Fran laughed and said, ‘I’m sorry. I used to come here a long time ago, to the folk club, and I was just reminiscing.’ She stood to one side, saying, ‘I’ll follow you in.’

  So, the young couple led the way in. Fran followed in a trance along the well-worn stone flagged passage and up the staircase. On the wall, halfway up, she felt sure there was the same well-hacked notice board of her youth. The girl stopped to read it and Fran hung back, listening to her sing-song voice. ‘Due to continuous complaints, can all dogs be kept on a lead and off furniture. Thank you.’ The couple laughed and Fran joined in. All three entered the room laughing. Heads turned, glum faces smiled. For a moment, panic gripped Fran. What had she let herself in for?

  Then, a masculine voice shouted from across the room. ‘Frannie, over here.’ Relief swept over her as she recognised Rufus. She made her way through the crowded room, dodging wooden tables, benches and sprawled out legs to squeeze on the bench between Rufus and Nick.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, feeling a little strange, sitting between the two brothers.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Frannie, and glad that you made it. Isn’t that so, Nick?’ Rufus’s voice boomed over the chatter going on around them.

  Nick nodded a half-hearted greeting and Fran got the impression that he didn’t welcome her company. She sighed inwardly and was determined to make the best of the evening. Rufus poured out a bottle of pale ale into a glass and pushed it towards her. ‘Thank you.’ She took a sip, surprised, unaccustomed to drinking beer, she found it quite refreshing.

  ‘I won my bet,’ said Rufus.

  Puzzled, Fran asked, ‘What bet?’

  ‘Nick said it was doubtful if you would come.’

  ‘Oh.’ She laughed and glanced at Nick. His lips parted in half a smile.

  Taking another sip of ale, she studied Nick over the rim of her glass. His expression was serious and his dark eyes held a troubled sadness. She’d noticed the same air of desolation about him when they had travelled in the train together. But then he’d seemed to pull himself out of it. Feeling a little uneasy, she babbled, ‘I used to come here when I was a girl, many years ago.’

  ‘You did? Amazing.’ It was Rufus who answered. ‘Has the old place changed much?’

  She glanced around the room and replied, ‘No, it still has the same gaslights, but the atmosphere is livelier.’ Suddenly, her eyes rest on a young man sitting at a nearby table and her heart gave a lurch. He was tall, dark with a pleasant looking face and shining blue eyes. She shook herself, wishful thinking.

  The folk group begin to tune up. Drinking glasses were quietly placed on tables, cigarettes extinguished and all eyes fixed on the group of three men and a girl. The girl was dressed in a gipsy skirt of shades of red, she wore her raven hair long over her shoulders and her eyes were smouldering, dark as coals. Music filled the room, reaching every corner, through the crowded doorway and beyond to the latecomers standing on the stairs. The girl began to sing. The soft lilt of her Irish voice sent shivers of pure enchantment down Fran’s spine as she listened, entranced by the sad story of a woman waiting in vain for her lover to join her, in a country far away from their homeland. As the last note died away, the cheering was loud and, with a toss of her long hair, the girl bowed low. Then, the tempo changed to an upbeat, catchy tune and, enthusiastically, Fran joined in the clapping of hands and feet stomping, loving it. Even Nick relaxed and joined in.

  At the interval, eyes sparkling, Fran asked Rufus, ‘Is it like this every Saturday night?’

  ‘No, more is the pity. This is a special event.’

  She wanted to ask Rufus more, but someone claimed
his attention.

  Nick, lounging back on the bench, suddenly swung round to face her. ‘Tell me, you must know what is going on in Beverley? Didn’t you say to Rufus that you grew up here?’

  ‘I did, but I left when I was sixteen.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘That must have been the war years. Have you family here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You keep in touch?’

  ‘Postcards, that sort of thing. The last time I came back was for my mother’s funeral. It was not the time for social chit chat,’ she replied, sharply. Not that her past was any of his business. She wasn’t sure if he was genuinely interested in her or talking for the sake of it.

  She hadn’t thought about her mother or her funeral for a long time. Her father and Isabel had little to say to her and Michael had been sent away to stay with a friend. The other mourners, not knowing the true situation, cast her as the uncaring daughter.

  As if reading her mind, Nick said, ‘You’re not a close family?’

  Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. The music started up, so she didn’t have to answer him.

  It was after ten when the evening ended. ‘Excuse me,’ said Rufus, ‘I won’t be long. Just need to find a telephone.’ He ambled off down the stairs.

  Nick rose. ‘We may as well go down.’

  In the downstairs passageway, Rufus was using the payphone. ‘Don’t worry, Helga. I’ll soon be home.’ He slammed down the receiver. ‘I’ve got to dash. My wife needs me. See you tomorrow, Nick. Bye, Frannie.’ With that, he was gone.

  Outside the air was cool and fresh on her cheeks. Fran turned to Nick. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said politely, holding out her hand. Surprisingly, his hand was warm and firm in hers and he held it a fraction longer than was necessary. She turned to walk away and he was suddenly by her side.