The Yearning Heart Read online

  The heat from the bottle soothed Fran and, to the strain of Victor Sylvester’s orchestra playing on the wireless, she drifted off to sleep, only to be woken up a couple of hours later with an agonising pain, low in her expanded belly. She jerked up with a start.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked a sleepy Maisie.

  ‘It’s a boxing match.’ Fran gasped as another pain gripped her.

  Maisie, now alert, swung from her bed and, lighting the candle, held it close to Fran’s face. ‘You look a funny colour.’

  ‘It’s the baby coming. I’m sure.’ She let out a low moan and ran a hand across her brow, wiping away the beads of sweat, but they kept coming back. ‘It’s coming, I tell you!’

  ‘Don’t fret, first bairns always tek their time,’ Maisie said reassuringly. ‘I’ll go and wake up Mr Gembling to tek yer to hospital.’

  ‘And let my mother know so she can come.’

  In the delivery room in the nursing home, the huge overhead electric light dazzled Fran’s eyes as the pain intensified, ripping through her belly. She couldn’t stop the scream. Sweat poured from her brow into her eyes.

  The midwife wiped them clean, saying, ‘Be brave, Mrs Renton.’ She turned aside to Agnes. ‘I’ll have to call the doctor to perform a Caesarean section.’ Then, turning back to her patient, she said soothingly, belying her anxiety, ‘I won’t be long, Mrs Renton. Your mother’s here.’

  Fran clutched at her mother’s arm and, through a short respite of pain, she asked. ‘Why does the midwife keep calling me by our Isabel’s name?’

  ‘Shut up, you fool. Haven’t you caused us all enough trouble and shame? I’ve booked you in under Isabel’s name to save face. Do you want the whole world to know about your bastard?’

  Fran didn’t answer. It was her sin, so she must pay. She wondered how Victor Renton was paying for his sin. Suddenly, a bolt of fire whipped through her body and she was lost in the most terrible, gut-wrenching pain. Then, darkness invaded her.

  Later, when she came to, it was to a soft whimper. Fran opened her eyes, taking a moment to focus in the dim room. A young nurse was attending to the crib at the foot of the bed. ‘Nurse,’ she called feebly.

  The nurse came to her side. ‘Mrs Renton, it’s lovely to see you awake. I’m Nurse Meredith, but you can call me Betty when Matron’s not around.’

  Fran smiled weakly. ‘Can I see my baby, please?’

  ‘Babies, Mrs Renton. You have twins, a boy and a girl.’

  Taken aback, Fran asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I was at their birth.’

  Tears welled up in Fran’s eyes at such a miracle. She tried to sit up, but found she didn’t have the strength. Gently, the nurse tucked pillows either side of Fran for extra support. ‘I’ll place the babies in the nest of pillows so you can see them.’

  ‘They are so tiny,’ Fran murmured, her heart overflowing with tenderness and love. Then, she was surprised by her fierce feeling of protectiveness towards her babies, something that she had never experienced before. She gazed at them: their fragile beauty so perfect, her son with dark tufts of hair and her daughter with fair wisps of hair. Slowly, because she found it such an effort, she slid her hands to her babies, grasping their tiny fists with her little fingers. ‘Oh,’ she sighed with pure pleasure and wonderment as all three bonded together.

  Later, Betty said, ‘I can borrow my brother’s camera to take the babies’ pictures and then you can send them on to your husband.’

  ‘My husband,’ Fran stuttered, bewildered. Then she realised her mother’s subterfuge. ‘Yes, it’s kind of you.’ Fran had been upset when Agnes returned home straight after the births, but, now as she thought about it, perhaps her mother was busy making arrangements for Fran and the babies’ homecoming.

  The next day, Betty took the pictures: one of Fran with the twins and a separate one of each baby. ‘He’ll develop them in his dark room this evening and I’ll bring them in tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ Fran said.

  ‘It’s a favour to me,’ Betty said. ‘He’s based on the aerodrome three miles away. His work is important though he can’t talk about it. When the war’s over he’s going into freelance photography,’ Betty added, with pride.

  The pictures were a treasure. Fran gazed at them in delight. ‘I’ve no money to pay your brother, but if you let me have his address then I can send some money on to him,’ she said, apologetically. She collected no wages for working for the Gemblings, only her lodgings and food, and she had come to expect nothing from her mother. She didn’t even receive a Christmas present. She dashed away the hurt. It didn’t matter now she had her babies. They would be her world and she would always take care of her son and daughter.

  ‘Don’t worry about the money,’ Betty said. ‘Now, what names have you decided on?’

  Fran’s face lit up with joy. She announced, ‘Michael for my son and Christine for my daughter.’

  After a week, Fran was wondering how soon she could go home and asked the ward sister.

  ‘Mrs Renton, you have had two difficult births, with an emergency Caesarean section. You will be here for another week, and then you must have plenty of rest, at least two months.’

  Fran closed her eyes, trying to think what would be the best routine for her babies, when Betty entered the room.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Renton.’

  Fran hated being called Mrs Renton, but not as much as she would have hated being called Isabel. She loathed this subterfuge her mother had forced on her and longed to tell Betty to call her Fran, but she daren’t upset her mother any more than necessary.

  ‘I’ve come to prepare to move you into the main ward,’ Betty said.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Fran was dismayed. Here in this small room on her own with her babies, she did not have to answer any awkward questions.

  ‘Sister has just informed all staff that next week we are changing over from maternity to nursing the injured armed forces, and the single rooms are to be made ready first.’

  In the main ward, Betty was busy attending to other new mothers. Fran noticed that one of the women was crying and Betty was comforting her.

  Later, when Betty came to put Michael back in the crib, she brought Christine to her. Fran glanced in the woman’s direction, at her empty arms and whispered, ‘Where’s her baby?’

  Betty put a finger on her lip and whispered back, ‘It was stillborn.’ Fran’s eyes welled up. She was so blessed with two babies.

  The week soon passed and Fran and the woman who lost her baby were the last to leave. They sat in the dayroom waiting to be collected. The woman came across to stand and stare at the twins and Fran had whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’ The woman didn’t speak and moved back to her chair.

  Fran turned her attention to practical matters and wondered how she would manage in her attic bedroom with two babies to care for. Then an idea came to her.

  ‘Are you ready then?’ were Agnes’s first words to Fran. ‘The taxi’s waiting.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, looking with loving pride at the twins snug in their makeshift crib by her side. Eagerly, she began, ‘Mam, I was thinking. I won’t be able to manage the stairs at home, can I have the front room for me and my babies until I’m well enough?’

  ‘Your babies!’ Agnes sneered through tight lips. ‘How can you care for babies when you are not fit to care for yourself?’

  Fran gripped the arm of the chair, determined not to let her mother upset her. ‘When I’m well, I—’

  Agnes cut off her words. ‘Don’t think I’m having you in my house after the trouble you caused our Isabel.’ She hissed with disgust. ‘You’re a trollop. You’re going back to the farm and I’ll take charge of the bairns.’

  The woman, whose child had been stillborn, stared with open curiosity and interest at this exchange between mother and daughter.

  Fran struggled to get to her feet, but she was still weak and her legs buckled beneath her.

  ‘See what I m
ean,’ Agnes said, wagging a finger in Fran’s face. ‘Now, my girl, you’ll go back to the farm and make no fuss, and be grateful to the Gemblings for being willing to take you back. Our Isabel was born to be a mother; she’s going to help me with the bairns.’

  ‘Isabel, why?’ Fran couldn’t think why Isabel would want to help look after her children.

  ‘Why?’ Agnes said with such vehement. ‘They’re half hers. Didn’t you commit an unforgivable sin with her husband? You have no rights, girl.’

  Fran put her hand to her head to stop the whirling. Her mouth felt like cardboard, dry and rough. She banged her thigh against the chair side as she slumped, suddenly drained of all energy to fight her mother.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ It was Betty.

  Agnes became all sweetness and smiles. ‘She’s tired and upset at having to leave so soon.’

  Betty bent down to Fran’s level and kissed her forehead. ‘You take care.’ Fran strived to find words to tell Betty of her plight, but none came.

  The woman, who had lost her baby, slipped a piece of paper into Agnes’s hand. ‘If I can help.’

  At the farm, Fran struggled down the stairs to the kitchen. Maisie was kind: she brought her a cup of tea each morning before setting off to work. But, during the day, Fran had to fend for herself. As Mrs Gembling was fond of telling her, ‘Don’t expect us to fetch and carry for you.’

  She leant against the kitchen sink to get her breath back. Glancing out of the window, she saw only miles of nothing and hated it. How she longed to go home, to hold her babies again. She ached to feel their warm bodies next to hers, to inhale their sweet baby smell. Tears threatened. Angry with herself, she dashed them away. She must stay positive and concentrate on getting well, back to her full strength. Then, she would go home and she would take care of her babies. Nothing else mattered to her.

  The ringing of the farm telephone broke into her thoughts. For a moment it startled her because it rarely rang when the Gemblings were out. It must be something urgent. With slow and painful steps she made her way into the front parlour used as the farm office.

  Her hands trembled as she picked up the receiver. ‘Gemblings Farm.’

  ‘It’s me,’ said the terse voice.

  ‘Mam!’ Fran exclaimed with surprise. Then she realised it must be important for Agnes to telephone.

  ‘Bad news.’ The statement was stark.

  Fran leant heavily against the desk, her insides knotting. Was one of her darling babies ill?

  But nothing prepared her for what Agnes said. ‘It’s Christine, she’s dead.’ Her words were blunt, shattering and heartbreaking.

  Chapter Four

  York, 1958

  Fran Meredith walked down the Shambles of York on her way home from the bookshop where she worked. On reaching High Petergate, she pulled up her coat collar against the frosty air of the January evening and stopped briefly as she did most evenings. She glanced to her right, catching her breath at the sight of the magnificent York Minster silhouetted against the darkening sky. The view always gave her heart a lift, helping to take away the loneliness of going home to her empty basement flat.

  She turned into the narrow street where she lived, her thoughts of Michael, her son. He would be sixteen in March. Agnes’s cruel action had thwarted Fran at every turn when she made desperate attempts to see Michael or contact him. So, gradually, over the years, and against her natural maternal instincts, Fran came to accept the rules which Agnes had laid down. It hadn’t been an easy decision to make. Her arms aching to hold her son, to hear him call her Mam, to laugh with him and soothe him when he was ill. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips as the chill wind caught her cheeks. Her paramount concern was Michael’s welfare and education. Reluctantly, she had given in to this agreement thrust on her by Agnes for her son to live with Isabel until his sixteenth birthday. Then he would be told the truth. She said the words aloud. ‘Michael, I am your mother.’ Her heart filled with love for her son whom she had not seen since Agnes snatched him so heartlessly from her all those years ago. Now Agnes was dead so now there was no reason to stop Fran from rightfully claiming her son. And Isabel must accept this fact.

  The wind gusted and, hugging her coat closer, she hurried on down the street. Over the years she had saved hard, going without the luxuries of fashionable clothes. She lived quite frugally. Her only extravagance was an annual holiday when she would take the train to Scarborough. Here, she would delight in walking by the sea, planning and dreaming of the future she would share with Michael.

  Inside the flat, she switched on the light of into her small but comfortable sitting room, switched on the standard lamp and glanced round, pleased with her effort to make the room cosy on a tight budget. She had re-covered the old sofa in a colourful chintz pattern and added scatter cushions stitched from remnants of material. In front of the sofa stood a low occasional table, and a writing bureau and chair placed near to the window to catch the light. She’d painted the walls a pale primrose to give her the sense of basking in sunshine. She bent down and lit the gasfire, looking up at the delightful painting on the wall above of children frolicking by the sea. She pretended that the little boy building a sandcastle resembled her son. This was her home: suitable only for one person. But when Michael came to her, they would choose a home together. It would be such joy.

  She made herself a simple meal of beans on toast and, carrying it on a tray into the sitting room, she switched on the wireless. ‘In Town Tonight’ was on and she liked the sound of voices, they helped to take away the emptiness. A tiny pang of regret filled her that the marriage to Peter, brother of Betty, the nurse at her babies’ birth, didn’t last. He was a charmer, but fickle.

  Peter was the freelance photographer who had developed the pictures of her twins when they were born. Quite by chance, after the war, she met up with Betty when shopping in the nearby town of Sleaford. Betty invited Fran to her wedding, to be held in the local church, and there Fran met Peter. He was taking the photographs, and afterwards she found herself sitting next to him at the reception and enjoyed his charming company.

  ‘There’s a good flick on at the Majestic, Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth in You Were Never Lovelier, fancy coming?’ Peter said, giving her a dazzling smile, his dark eyes twinkling.

  Her heart missed a beat. ‘Yes,’ she answered shyly. ‘Oh, I’d love to come.’

  Peter had an ancient Ford car and picked her up at the farm, and they rattled into town. Inside the cinema, they sat in the back row, like other courting couples. She experienced a thrill of delight when he slipped an arm around her and drew her close to him.

  Afterwards, they found a coffee bar and talked about the film, discussing the magical dancing of Fred and Rita. ‘Hollywood is where all the best people are, the women are so glamorous,’ said Peter with passion.

  Wide-eyed, Fran said, ‘Their dresses were so beautiful.’ She sighed, looking down at her well-washed dirndl skirt.

  ‘One day, I’ll take you to America,’ said Peter, in earnest. ‘It’s my dream to go there.’

  Fran thought of her dream, her yearning to be reunited with her son. From her handbag, she drew out the little leather wallet and opened it, showing Peter the pictures of her two precious babies. ‘Remember this?’

  Peter looked closely, saying, ‘Of course I do. Where are your children now?’

  Fran took a deep breath before speaking. ‘My little girl died.’ Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered her tiny, fragile daughter, taken from her. ‘And my son is with my sister and my mother. And I want him back.’ The tears pooled her eyes and her throat choked with emotion.

  Peter slid along the bench seat nearer to Fran and slipped a comforting arm about her shoulders. Taking a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, he tenderly wiped away her tears. When he finished, he gazed into her eyes and she into his. ‘Now, tell me why your son does not live with you.’

  So, Fran told him the whole story. When she’d finished, she felt
drained.

  Peter sat back, deep in concentration, and then he spoke. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’

  Taken aback by the surprise of his words after such a short acquaintance, she answered, ‘Do you really like me?’

  ‘Yes! We would make a great team.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time to drive you back to the farm. Can you get away tomorrow? I’ll take you out for a spin and we can talk some more.’

  Delighted, and warm and bubbly inside, Fran replied, ‘I finish at one on a Sunday.’

  On Sunday, they talked and talked, Peter, of his ambition to become a top photographer and Fran, of her yearning to bring up her son and for them to be together for ever.

  After that Sunday, they saw each other at every available opportunity. One day, Peter came with some exciting news. ‘I’ve been offered a job in London.’

  ‘How wonderful for you,’ responded Fran. ‘But I won’t be able to see you.’ She would miss his attentiveness, his humour and his passionate kisses. A hot blush spread across her cheeks.

  ‘As I said before,’ Peter said, taking hold of her hands. ‘We make a good team. Frances Bewholme, will you marry me?’

  She experienced a wonderful floating sensation. Marriage? She never dreamt or expected it to become a reality. She would be able make a home and Michael would come to live with them. ‘Oh, Peter, yes, I will marry you.’

  Everything happened in a whirlwind. The banns were read at the village church, she wore Betty’s wedding dress. Maisie was her bridesmaid and Betty’s husband, Alan, gave her away. She really wanted to have her father to walk her down the aisle, but Agnes said it was too short notice to attend.

  They had a small reception in the village pub where they spent their wedding night. And, the next morning, they were on the train to London. At last, she’d escaped from Gembling Farm.

  They found rooms in an old house near to Green Park. ‘Only temporary,’ said Peter, ‘until I am established.’ She smiled with happiness. The future looked good and Michael would soon be with them.