The Yearning Heart Read online

  Her heart ached and how she longed to tell Michael that she, not Isabel was his mother. Then, common sense told her to think of Michael’s future and consider what was best for him, but her heart twisted this way and that, and the turmoil within intensified. She trudged down the lane, thinking of anything to take her mind off her state of unhappiness. The lane seemed narrower than she remembered, hedgerows were overgrown, though they were full of birds as they foraged for food. Her high-heeled court shoes clicked rhythmically on the tarmac surface of the footpath. She stopped to shake a stone from her shoe and, resting her hand on a bar gate, glanced to the field where a crop of rapeseed, raw green, was beginning to sprout.

  She reached Bloomsbury’s old house, a wispy spiral of smoke curling up from the chimney. Who lived there now? Vanessa had been her classmate and friend, but there had been no contact between the two since Fran had fallen pregnant and was sent away. She suddenly thought of her first love, Charlie Moxon, who had ditched her for another. Sadly, he had been killed in action, as were many others from the area. She walked on, spying in the thicket of hedge a clump of wild primroses their tiny, pale gold faces upturned, shining brightly, their fragrance sweet. The sight of these fragile flowers uplifted her heart. She marvelled at nature’s amazing power to produce such beauty amongst wild nettles and scrub land. As if not to be out done, a blackbird perched high in a tree suddenly burst into song. She reached the Anchor Inn and from the open doorway she caught the hub of men’s voices, the shuffle of dominos and the smell of tobacco. Nothing much had changed. She remembered her father used to relax here after his Sunday dinner.

  She climbed the grass bank and caught her first glimpse of the river. Its sparkling water was awash with silver dancing lights as the sun appeared from behind a cloud. Unexpectedly, her whole body surged with delight. How she’d missed this river. She inhaled its tangy freshness. She slipped under the rail of one of the empty landing stages, the moorings now geared for pleasure crafts, not working barges as she remembered from her childhood. The swish of the river lapped the bank, stirring reeds and grasses, sending a family of ducks skittering further upstream. She felt the pale warmth of the sun on her face as she walked the path along the bank. She rounded the bend in the river and there it was her childhood home! Immediately, she was struck by its isolation. It was reached only by the river or the single-track lane.

  High Bank House in the hamlet of Burton Banks was situated on the eastern boundary of Beverley. It was built in 1914 by a local businessman for a son who never returned from the Great War. Since then, it had been in her father’s family. Once, the joinery yard had been full of timber, stretching down to the river. Now everything was still, quiet, deserted. The landing stage, once heaving with workers, loading and unloading the barges with timber, now lay broken and partly submerged. She climbed down the bank to the lane leading to the front of the house, which faced away from the river. As she approached, the house seemed to groan with neglect. A broken branch of a willow tree brushed across the red brick facade, paint flaked from the dry sash window frames and the baked, brown front door. Once, it had been a fine house and her mother had cared for it. More than she cared for me, Fran thought. But in spite of her past unhappiness, there had been some carefree days of innocent youth spent there: lazy days on the riverbank with Vanessa, picnicking on chunks of homemade bread and blackcurrant jam, washed down by cider they were not supposed to drink, and Fran couldn’t resist a smile at this memory. She opened the white picket gate of the front garden and the rusting sneck came away in her hands. She trod her way carefully through the tangled weeds of what, once, was her mother’s immaculate flower garden and around to the back of the house.

  Quietly, she let herself into the porch and found an old cloth to wipe mud and grass from her shoes. A small window looked through into the kitchen and she saw her father dozing in a chair. She was shocked to see how frail and old he looked. Isabel had given her mild warning, but Fran had given no thought to it, for her heart and mind were so full of Michael. Now, she felt pity for her father, whom she’d always pictured as robust and healthy, and she wondered if he’d suffered another stroke. Bracing herself, she tapped lightly on the door and then entered the kitchen-cum-sitting room.

  Will Bewholme stirred in his armchair in front of the fire as the draught from the opening door touched his legs. He twisted awkwardly in his chair, seeing only an outline of a figure or was it two? ‘Michael?’

  Her heart quickening as he called the name, she hurried to his side. ‘It’s me, Dad. It’s Fran.’ She heard his knees creak as he placed swollen knuckled hands on the arms of his chair in an effort to raise himself to look at her.

  His face drawn, lips papery, he sneered, ‘You took your time coming.’

  ‘Dad!’ Stunned for a few seconds, she backed away. His attitude was so unexpected that she didn’t know how to respond. Perhaps she had disturbed his sleep and he wasn’t properly awake yet. She turned away, saying, ‘I could do with a cup of tea, I expect you could as well.’ He didn’t answer. Enveloped in a strangeness that seemed like a time warp, Fran busied herself. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she looked round the room. Nothing much had changed and it was still her mother’s kitchen, with the same green-and-cream-painted walls, the pine dresser and the scrubbed, wooden table. The only thing missing was the old cooking range that only her mother had known how to control. In its place was an electric cooker. She was surprised, though, thinking Isabel, who always had such big ideas, would have modernised the kitchen to her taste. But, for some reason she wasn’t sure of, she was glad Isabel hadn’t. She found a dusty tray slotted between the dresser and the wall, cleaned it and then set out cups and saucers, a jug of milk, the brown earthenware teapot and a plate of digestive biscuits. She carried the tray over to Will’s side table.

  She wished she had brought his gift of tobacco with her because it would have given them something to talk about. Pulling up a chair to the other side of the table she sat down and poured out the tea. Handing him a cup, she enquired, ‘How are you keeping?’

  His big rheumy eyes looked with contempt at her as if to say, ‘what a daft question’. And she knew it was. ‘Have a biscuit, Dad.’ She proffered the plate. He took one and munched. She looked into the fire, fixing her eyes on the bright red glow, which sent out tiny blue flames.

  ‘When are you coming back?’ Will ask brusquely.

  Resigned to his silence, Fran was surprised to hear his voice and looked up. ‘Isabel will be back soon and we are going to discuss the situation.’

  ‘So, I’m a situation, am I?’ he flared.

  ‘Of course not, but I live and work in York so it’s a big decision to make.’ The truth was she hadn’t given the care of her father any thought. She didn’t want Michael to go to Australia. Then, it struck her, if she came back to care for her father, would Michael stay?

  ‘Well, don’t bother about me. I’ve not long for this world,’ Will said, banging his cup down on the saucer. ‘You’ll be old yourself one day and see then if anyone wants you.’

  ‘Dad! Don’t talk like that. You don’t have to be old to be on your own and lonely. I’ve had years of being shut out from this family.’

  ‘That’s your own fault for not keeping Michael, then she wouldn’t be carting him off to bloody foreign parts.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I love that boy. He’s the son I never had.’

  Fran knelt by his side. She had never seen her father cry before, not even at her mother’s funeral. Shocked, she pleaded, ‘Dad, please don’t distress yourself. We will work something out. Michael won’t stay in Australia for ever.’ She wanted to believe that too. ‘I’ll miss him just as much as you will. While he was here, I knew he was safe. But Australia …’ Tears welled in her eyes but she forced herself to be cheerful, ‘We’re a right pair. Let’s look on the bright side. It’s an opportunity for him not to miss and he will be broadening his horizons, extending his education. He seems happy to be going …’ Her voice tra
iled off.

  Will sniffed back his tears and reached for Fran’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, lass. I’m just a selfish old man. But, I’ll miss him!’

  Gently, Fran squeezed his hand in hers, saying. ‘Let’s have another cup of tea.’ Will nodded, leaning back in his chair. They sat in awkward silence. Fran thought she must talk to Isabel about their father’s health. If she came to care for Will, how would they spend their time? Bickering or what? Her thoughts had been so full of Michael that she had given no thought actually to coming to live permanently at High Bank. Was it such a good idea to return to her roots and to care for an aged parent?

  ‘Oh, Michael!’ she whispered silently. ‘If only it was you I was coming to care for. I would gladly come.’ She fought back tears, the lump in her throat making her cough. Taking a gulp of the tepid tea, she tried to think rationally instead of emotionally, but couldn’t quite manage it. Should she tell Michael that she was his mother, not Isabel? Would he welcome her with open arms? Or would he hate her? What a mess! She didn’t want to ruin his life, his chance and his future in Australia. Though did he have a future there? She didn’t know anything about John Stanway, only what Isabel had said. But was she telling the truth? Fran wanted what was best for him, but why did it have to be with Isabel! Only now, with hindsight, did she realise she should have come back sooner and taken responsibility for Michael’s life, to be part of his future, then he wouldn’t be going off to the other side of the world. But she was determined he would learn the truth of his origins sooner rather than later. He would then be free to make his own decisions on his future. Fran heard the sound of the outside door unlatching. Isabel! Sighing, she fumbled under the chair for her shoes that she had kicked off earlier. Could she face living in a house that held such unpleasant memories? And Will, did she want to share her life with him?

  The kitchen door opened, she rose to her feet and turned to face Isabel. But when she saw who was standing there, she swayed, almost falling backwards and a cry issuing from her lips.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stunned by Michael’s unexpected appearance, Fran was unable to respond to his greeting. She was only aware of Michael’s dominating presence in the room.

  He laughed at her startled expression. ‘Aunt Frances, I’m not that bad. Am I, Shirley?’

  Fran had been oblivious of Shirley’s presence. Swiftly regaining her composure, and welcoming this unexpected pleasure, Fran smiled warmly at them both. Her dearest wish to see Michael again had come true and here she was behaving like a shy, tongue-tied child.

  Shirley slipped her hand into Michael’s, her eyes full of adoration. ‘You’re ace. Look,’ she enthused, pulling a packet of her favourite jellybeans from her coat pocket. ‘Mike’s treat.’ Letting go of his hand, she proffered the sweets to Fran.

  Fran looked from Michael to Shirley and, laughing, she delved into the cone twisted white paper bag; she came up with a bright yellow jellybean. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage to say.

  Will, not to be left out, demanded, in an amazingly strong voice, ‘What about me?’

  Shirley sauntered over to him. ‘How are you, Mr Bewholme?’ She bent down and kissed him on the cheek and rattled the sweets under his nose.

  Will beamed at these two lively young people and Fran felt moved by the glowing transformation in him. The presence of Michael and Shirley changed the dull grey atmosphere to a vibrant, brilliant vermilion red, filling the room with warm vibes of pleasure. An experience to treasure, Fran thought, longing to hug Michael, but instead she fussed, ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘It’s okay, we’ll have ginger beer,’ Michael replied, striding over to the pantry. He came back with two glasses brimming and handed one to Shirley, and then he pulled up two kitchen chairs, forming a semi-circle: Shirley next to Will and Michael next to Fran.

  As if in a trance, Fran handed round the biscuits, still unable to believe that Michael was sitting next to her. Her mind bubbled with joy. This is my son! How she wished she could say the words out loud. To tell him how she held him in her arms when he was just a few hours old. Now, though, it was hard for her to envisage. From such a tiny baby he’d grown into this tall, wonderful young man. There was so much she wanted to know about him. What was his taste in music? Did he play any sport or support football? What were his favourite books? She looked down at his feet, guessing he must be a size nine or ten. She knew he had a good appetite by the amount he’d eaten at dinner. And, she knew he wanted to undertake further education. When she’d written the cheque for him, she had no preconceived idea of what he would use it for and education was a bonus. No matter what Isabel said or did, Fran would have a part in his life, an important part: his education, the key to his future success. Proudly, she allowed herself the luxury of feasting her eyes upon her son.

  Will was saying to Shirley, ‘What do you think to our Michael gallivanting off to the other side of the world?’

  Shirley, young, full of confidence, replied, ‘We’re going to keep in touch by letter, Mr Bewholme. After we’ve finished our education, we’ve promised to meet up and travel round Australia.’ She gazed into Michael’s eyes. He, full of admiration for the positive way in which she was taking his departure, kissed her full on the lips.

  ‘Ah, you young ones, you have it all planned,’ remarked Will, wistfully. Then he glared at Fran. ‘Not like you. If you hadn’t made a mess of things, Michael wouldn’t be going away.’

  Fran’s body stilled. She felt the colour drain from her face at her father’s harsh words. Michael and Shirley looked at her, unable to conceal their bewilderment at Will’s outburst.

  To cover her dread of what he might say next, she jumped up, collecting the empty tea cups, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Dad. Isabel is entitled to her happiness.’ Whisking the tray across to the draining board, she leant against the stone sink to support her trembling body. Bleakly, she stared out of the window. How could he say such a hurtful thing? To be so insensitive in front of Michael, she just didn’t understand her father’s attitude. This was not how she remembered him. She didn’t want to spend his remaining years at loggerheads with him, making them both unhappy. Isabel seemed to think Will wanted her to return, but Fran suspected her sister just needed to clear her conscience.

  Her life was in limbo, and she was at a crossroad and wasn’t certain which direction to travel. Not that she had many choices: Burton Banks or York. Then, a voice deep within her answered, ‘You wanted a husband and children.’ A buried dream overshadowed by the fear of being in another wrong relationship. This fear she found more difficult with each passing year to shake off. As self-pity threatened to swamp her, she busied herself with the washing up.

  Behind her, she heard the scrape of a chair and footsteps leaving the room. Instinctively, she knew they were Michael’s. Enjoy these precious moments with him, she told herself.

  His footsteps returned. ‘Aunt Frances.’ Her heart contracted at the sound of his voice and wished with all her heart that he was calling her ‘Mother’. ‘Come and look at these photos of Shirley and me in our school play.’

  Turning, she smiled brightly at Michael and accepted the photos from him. What play it was she wasn’t sure because her vision blurred, with threatening tears.

  ‘That’s me as a fairy, would you believe.’ Shirley laughed, showing a photo to Will.

  ‘Aunt Frances …’

  Michael’s hand rested on her arm, radiating warmth through her whole body. She could smell his freshness, breathe in his nearness, this young man to whom she had given life.

  ‘Grandad’s upset because Mam and I are going to Australia. He’s not upset with you.’

  She looked up into his concerned face. That touched her more than anything, to think he cared that she was upset by Will’s harsh words. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. But she knew her father blamed her because he believed it was her fault Michael was going to Australia. Will was right. If only she had be
en strong and fought to keep Michael.

  But Agnes Bewholme had been a formidable woman and, after the birth of the twins and her grief when told her baby daughter had died, Fran had been very ill. Agnes had taken charge of Michael, which seemed helpful at the time. It had been six long months before she had felt fit enough to travel to Burton Banks, only find it was too late. Though the telephone calls she made to her mother asking about Michael should have warned her. ‘Our Isabel is a natural mother.’ And Fran thought Isabel was being a caring sister!

  How could she forget that fateful September day? Desperate to see her baby son, she arrived back at her parent’s home unannounced and found herself in the middle of Michael’s christening party. Isabel was holding the baby with Agnes and Will, posing for photos for the family album, relations and friends looking on. She had screamed some incoherent words and, dashing up the stairs to the bathroom, had been violently sick.

  Her mother followed, demanding, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Holding a damp flannel to her face, Fran retorted angrily. ‘I’ve come to see my baby.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? Our Isabel is a fine mother. There’s no place for you here.’ She gripped hold of Fran’s arm, pushing her. ‘Now get yourself into my bedroom and stay there until the guests have gone, then you’ll get on the first train back.’

  Speechless, Fran stared at her mother, unable to believe what she heard. Then she managed to whisper, ‘He’s my baby.’

  ‘You’re not a fit person to care for the baby,’ Agnes hissed, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Slumping down on the bed, Fran sobbed with frustration and exhaustion. After a while, her tears spent, she slid off the bed and tiptoed onto the landing. Leaning over the bannister, listening to the voices below behind the closed front room door, she heard the faint cry of her baby. Hurriedly, she descended the stairs, her arms aching to hold her son, when a woman appeared. Seeing Fran, she called, ‘Agnes!’ Fran fled back upstairs …