The Yearning Heart Page 11

  ‘I’ll walk you to your hotel.’

  It wasn’t far, but it was nice to have company. He’s a strange man, she thought. He blows hot and cold in the same minute.

  After the dim gaslights of the pub, the street lights shone bright, twinkling beneath a jet-black sky. A gentle breeze scented the air with the perfume of almond blossom.

  They strolled along in silence. Fran’s thoughts were on tomorrow and Michael.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Michael!’ Isabel shouted up the stairs. ‘Are you up yet?’ There was no answer. Already the day was off to a bad start. Isabel stomped up the stairs. Hearing a loose floorboard creak, she stopped at the turn of the small landing and his bedroom door opened.

  Clad only in his pyjama bottoms, he slouched from his room. The very act of movement made him feel dizzy. He’d celebrated his birthday last night with Joe and his fun girl. That birthday drink Joe had given him was mighty strong, a mix of beer and cider or stout, he wasn’t sure which. He wasn’t used to alcohol and he shouldn’t have drunk so much. His mother would kill him. And now she had this meal thing arranged. A lot of fuss over an aunt he didn’t really know. He clung to the banister, his head spinning as he looked down upon Isabel’s angry face. ‘I’m up.’

  ‘About time. Now get bathed while I’ll make you a strong coffee.’

  He groaned. He hated that horrible Camp coffee drink.

  He felt slightly better after his bath, but his head still thumped. In the kitchen, he found his mother busy making sandwiches for his grandfather’s dinner. The thought of a heavy, hot dinner made his insides heave and he wished he could stay at home with Grandad. He didn’t want to spend his birthday having to make polite conversation to a boring old aunt in some stuffy hotel.

  As he slumped in the nearest chair at the kitchen table, his mother placed a cup of steaming dark brown liquid in front of him. The smell of the coffee nauseated him and his head throbbed even more. ‘Mam, have you anything for my headache?’

  ‘That Joe Miller is a bad influence on you, making you drink. You’re underage,’ she fumed. ‘If the police find out and you get a criminal record, they won’t let you into Australia.’

  He was a fool. He didn’t want to jeopardise his going to Australia. It was a dream adventure and he wanted nothing to stop him from going.

  ‘Here.’ Isabel thrust two aspirins and a glass of water at Michael, standing over him while he swallowed the pills.

  He looked sheepishly at her, saying, ‘Sorry, Mam. I won’t do it again.’

  Her set face relaxed a little. ‘Good. Now go and have another bath and this time make it a cold one. You have one hour to pull yourself together.’

  ‘Mam, can’t I stay at home with Grandad?’ he pleaded.

  ‘No,’ she yelled at him, but wishing with all her heart he could. But she knew if he didn’t put in an appearance at the hotel, Frances would seek him out. And if that happened, she didn’t want to think of the consequences, of what Frances would say.

  Then Will bellowed, ‘Why can’t our Frances come here? Save all this ruddy fuss.’

  Throwing up her hands in exasperation, Isabel snapped. ‘Well, no one’s asking you.’ She rounded on her son, pointing to the door leading to the staircase. ‘Michael.’

  ‘I’m going,’ he said, scraping back his chair on the tiled floor. He was glad to escape from his mother, if only for a short time. The only thing that was going to make this meal bearable for him was that Shirley was invited. Maybe they would be able to sneak away early.

  Fran checked her appearance in the wardrobe mirror, wanting to look her best. She had saved up for this lovely dress of aquamarine silk with a matching jacket, a pair of sheer nylon stockings and a pair of elegant black suede court shoes. Her blonde hair was fresh and shining in a page-boy style, her make-up light, but her lips bold in rose-pink. She clipped on a pair of pearl earrings. What would Michael think of her? She wanted to create a good impression for her son. No one else mattered. One last look and she was ready to see Michael.

  As she walked down the hotel corridor, her heart sang and her whole being burst with happiness. She sat in the front lounge of the hotel, where she had a good view of people entering and she could look through the window to the street outside. She wanted to see Michael before he saw her. Her stomach knotted and tightened, and she held her breath, waiting for this strange sensation to pass. As she did so, Fran considered how she was to greet Michael when he arrived. She wanted to fling her arms around him, hug him close. She flicked her gaze from the doorway to the window and glanced at the passing people, hoping to see Michael. But she only saw a man pushing a woman in a wheelchair. They stopped and the man leant forward to strike a match, holding the flame to the woman’s cigarette. She watched as the woman inhaled deeply and the man turned to look across at the hotel. It was Rufus.

  Turning her attention back to the lounge door, her heart gave a leap. He was there. Her son. So handsome and smartly dressed in grey trousers, white shirt and a navy blazer. He was taller than Isabel, with dark, thick lustrous hair, warm skin colour and the deepest blue eyes. Her eyes. She felt her insides contract like labour pains. She was on her feet, her arms instinctively began to rise in a gesture to hug him, hold him. My son, my son, her inner voice exploded. Did he know who she was? He smiled at her and it was if a great pool of light surrounded them both. Then a dark shadow appeared.

  ‘Michael, this is your Aunt Frances, my sister.’ Isabel’s voice was polite, but cold. She stood close to Michael, a protective arm about his shoulder.

  Mentally shaking herself, Fran extended her hand. Michael’s handshake was quick, barely touching hers. Something was missing. This was the moment she had waited for, her reunion with her son. ‘I’m your mother,’ her inner voice cried. ‘My son, I love you.’ The ache of holding back, the tears threatening to choke her, she felt as though the air was being pumped from her lungs. She fought to control her emotions and her facial muscles pinched and nipped as she tried to smile. She looked searchingly at him, willing him to know who she really was, but his attention was already diverted. Fran followed his gaze, watching his eyes light up and saw a long-legged girl about the same age as him. In that instant, Fran experienced a pang of jealousy for that is how she wanted her son to look at her: with a sign of recognition and affection. She watched the girl swing towards Michael, the skirt of her pretty green floral dress dancing around her in a carefree movement. Her brown eyes were laughing and her shining nut-brown hair hung loose about her shoulders. They greeted with a hug.

  Isabel said something. Fran half turned. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘My friend, Deirdre Baker, and her husband, Henry, are joining us for lunch and their daughter, Shirley.’ She indicated the girl with Michael and the couple following behind.

  After the formal introductions, they had a pre-luncheon drink in the lounge before moving into the dining room. Fran only half listened to the exchange of conversation between Isabel and Deirdre, her attention centred on Michael, sitting opposite her. He and Shirley chatted about pop songs and she caught the names of Elvis and Cliff and names which didn’t mean anything to her. Feeling left out, an outsider, Fran looked down at her napkin lying, snowing white, on her lap. This was not how she envisaged her reunion with her son. This was to be their most precious moment. She did, in fact, feel like an old maiden aunt, taken out for an airing, dusted and then to be put back in the china cabinet. ‘Consider this,’ said her inner voice. ‘Have you been fantasising about Michael all these years?’ She argued back. ‘He is my son.’

  Michael laughed at something Shirley said to him. It was an intimate laugh, which excluded Fran even further. A heated anger welled up inside her and the words began to form, to blurt out the truth of his birth. Then she caught Deirdre’s eye. The woman smiled at her and the moment was lost. The waiter came to serve their meal, traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘Will you pass me the horseradish sauce, Frances,’ s
aid Henry, who wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He’d rather be at home reading the Sunday papers and smoking his pipe. But, even those few words, helped her to act normally. Then, everyone chatted about the food, the weather, fashions and football. Isabel fussed over the wine.

  ‘We must have Australian wine,’ she told the waiter.

  ‘Are you going to help run the business?’ Fran asked, as if she was talking to a relative stranger, as she supposed she was, because Fran had no sisterly feelings towards Isabel and she knew for a fact that Isabel felt the same towards her.

  Isabel turned a frosty gaze on Fran. ‘Good heavens, no,’ she replied in horror. ‘John doesn’t expect me to work. He’s a man of wealth,’ she said, beaming with satisfaction.

  Fran just nodded. She could see why Isabel was eager to go to Australia and marry John. But there was no reason why she couldn’t leave Michael behind. She leant across the table towards Michael. ‘What about you, Michael, have you decided what you want to do?’ The words tumbled from her mouth before she had time to stop them.

  Michael glanced furtively at Isabel, who was talking to Deirdre, and then he turned his attention back to Fran. His voice was strong, enthusiastic. ‘When I get to Australia, I’m going to go to college and then on to university.’

  Isabel, who was half listening to the conversation, gasped in astonishment. ‘University! You never said anything to me.’

  Michael speared a roast potato with his fork. ‘I’ve being thinking about it.’

  ‘Sounds an excellent idea,’ Fran heard herself say.

  Michael shot an appreciative glance at Fran. ‘John thinks it is a good idea.’

  ‘You’ve discussed it with John?’

  ‘Well, sort of. He asked me what I would like to do once we get to Australia.’

  Something flashed across Isabel’s face as if she had just remembered something. She put a protective arm about Michael’s shoulder, smiled sweetly at him and said, ‘If that is what you want, my darling boy, so be it.’

  Fran looked in disbelief at her sister. When had she and Isabel ever agreed about anything? For them both to agree, in principle, on Michael’s future education was quite something. Fran had to admit that she felt happy about the outcome of her question, although she wished he wasn’t so set on Australia. She glanced down at her handbag, resting against the leg of her chair and the white envelope protruding from it.

  The waiter came to the table to take their order for pudding. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Fran said, rising to her feet. She went through into reception and collected the small parcels she had left there earlier. Returning to the table, she handed them both to Isabel. ‘There’s tobacco for father and chocolates for you.’

  Startle by the gesture, Isabel exclaimed, ‘A present for me?’

  ‘They’re Terry’s best. You are lucky,’ Deirdre said admiringly and thought this sister wasn’t as bad as Isabel had suggested.

  ‘Thank you,’ Isabel managed to say. ‘But you shouldn’t have bothered.’

  Fran sat down feeling slightly giddy. She reached down and extracted the envelope from her handbag. Her heartbeat quickened. She spoke her son’s name, ‘Michael.’

  He stopped talking to Shirley and looked across the table at her. She had his full attention and she smiled at him. ‘Michael, this is a gift for your sixteenth birthday. In view of your intention to further your education, I hope you will find it useful.’ All the time she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on his face and he on hers. This was their moment. Taken by surprise, he took the envelope from her outstretched hand and stared at it. ‘Open it,’ she urged.

  He ripped it open and slowly extracted the cheque. He seemed to take for ever studying it, then, ‘Wow!’ He jumped to his feet and, in his haste, he nearly knocked Shirley off her chair as he came round to Fran’s side and kissed her on the cheek. It was a beautiful kiss from a son to his mother. Then he went back to his chair and flopped down. ‘Wow!’ he uttered again.

  Isabel, not believing what had just happened, snatched the cheque from his hands. ‘A hundred pounds,’ she shrieked, forgetting where she was. Diners nearby looked towards their table.

  ‘Isabel,’ said Deirdre, persuasively.

  But Isabel was not to be quietened. ‘Too much. Far too much,’ she snapped.

  Fran looked Isabel full in the face and said firmly, ‘Under the circumstances, I think the sum is quite in order.’ She had intended to give Michael two hundred pounds, but that might have seemed over the top. She could always give him another hundred later.

  ‘What circumstances?’ asked Michael, looking puzzled.

  Isabel shot Fran a don’t-you-dare-tell look of pure hate.

  It took all of Fran’s self-will not to say, ‘Because you are my son.’ But, in her heart, as much as she wanted to say it, she knew now wasn’t the right time. Instead, she said in a tone of exaggerated brightness. ‘Because I haven’t been around for your previous birthdays and this one is very special. The money will help to afford you independence.’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention Australia. Her hope was that now John was home in his own country, he might be having misgivings about taking on a wife and a sixteen-year-old youth.

  Michael smiled, accepting her explanation. ‘It’s great. I’ve never had so much money.’

  Isabel sat stony-faced. Ignoring her, Fran sat back in her chair to drink in Michael’s state of jubilation as he showed the cheque to Shirley. When he flashed big smiles of appreciation at Fran, she experienced a wonderful feeling of euphoria.

  As if in a trance, she reached once more into her handbag and drew out a small box camera, bought second-hand from Mr Jones’s Emporium in York. ‘Michael.’ He looked across at her and gave her a most breathtaking smile and she clicked away in fast succession, capturing the wonderful moment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wanting to re-enforce her ‘I’m in charge’ attitude, Isabel rose swiftly from the table, saying, ‘We will have coffee in the lounge.’

  ‘Good idea,’ responded Deirdre, a look of relief on her face at this restoration to normal.

  Michael interjected, ‘Mam, is it all right if Shirley and I skip coffee? We fancy a walk on the Westwood.’

  Isabel was just about to tell Michael it was bad manners to leave so early, when it occurred to her that here was a chance to get Michael away from Frances. ‘Off you go then,’ she said sweetly. ‘Michael, say goodbye to your aunt.’

  ‘Bye, Aunt Frances. And thanks.’ He patted the breast pocket of his shirt.

  ‘Take care,’ she said brightly, wondering when next she would see him. Watching him over dinner had been a weird and yet a wonderful sensation of mixed emotions. All she could think of was when Michael was a babe in her arms and how she loved him so. Now he was tall and strong, no longer a child but on the first step to adulthood, and she was a stranger on the periphery of his life, she who had given birth to him. Much as she wanted to blurt out to him that she was his true mother, she couldn’t. She now realised the best way forward was to build up a relationship with him, no matter how tentative. And, she thought wishfully, Australia might not yet materialise. After all, John had returned to his homeland and, who knows, maybe he might reconsider on the wisdom of his proposal of marriage to Isabel. She watched Michael leave with Shirley, two young people happy in each other’s company. Would they want to be parted?

  She followed the others through into the lounge and, despite the stuffy atmosphere of the room, a chill of unreality swept through her body. Over the years, she’d longed for this reunion with her son, but the years gone could not be ignored. They were his formative years, and she had played no part in them. How foolish and naive she had been to believe Agnes!

  Fran sat down next to Henry. Isabel served coffee and Deirdre chatted about people in Beverley, but Fran didn’t recognise any of the names. She had been away from her home town far too long. She took a sip of coffee and felt nauseated. She needed fresh air. Making a quick decision, she rose abruptly, addre
ssing Isabel. ‘I’m going to see Father.’

  Isabel frowned. ‘I thought we were going to discuss you coming to care for Father now?’ Fran wanted to tell her to go to hell. Instead she kept her lips tightly pressed together.

  Deirdre, a born arbitrator, laid a light hand on Isabel’s arm. Her voice was firm. ‘You can both discuss your father’s arrangements later.’

  Still peeved, Isabel blustered, ‘You surely don’t expect Henry to take you in his car?’

  Deirdre leant across the table and rattled the newspaper Henry had immersed himself in. ‘Darling, will you go to reception and call a taxi for Frances, please?’

  ‘Well,’ said Isabel, as Fran gathered her handbag and slipped on her coat. ‘You must be prepared for a change in Father. Since mother’s death he’s become rather withdrawn. Michael’s the only one to get any sense from him.’

  ‘Michael,’ Fran whispered his name, thinking as always of the baby she once held. Aloud, she said, ‘He’s grown into a lovely young man.’

  Isabel’s face softened as she said, ‘He’s my life.’

  Fran stared at Isabel, and then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

  Fran alighted from the taxi at the beginning of the lane. She needed a little more time to gather her composure before she saw her father. Her mind and heart were still full of Michael as she recalled every detail of her meeting with him. She wanted to savour every precious second spent in his company, not to forget a single movement, a single word, a single touch. She wanted to remember everything, especially her first sight of her tall, handsome son, the way he moved so easily on his long limbs, the way he laughed, a soft throaty chuckle. She touched her cheek, still feeling his kiss. No kiss had ever been sweeter. Then, a shadow clouded her face. Would she see him again before he sailed away to that distant land? Why couldn’t Isabel marry a Frenchman or a Spaniard? Then she could casually have dropped by, on holiday or on business. But, Australia!