The Yearning Heart Read online

  She found work in an insurance office. It was dull and routine, but she didn’t mind as she would be able to save for them to rent a bigger flat, and soon, Michael would come to live with them. Each day, this dream drove her on. But Peter’s dream of being a top photographer was proving difficult.

  ‘I know I’m good,’ stormed Peter one night. ‘But they want me to start at the bottom, taking photographs of boring dignitaries and I’m destined for greater heights.’ So, he left that job and found another, equally unfitting for him so he left that one too.

  One night, he announced that he was going freelance. Uncertain, Fran asked, ‘What does that mean?’ Peter lit a cigarette, blowing out a halo of smoke. Fran didn’t like him smoking, but it seemed to calm his nerves.

  ‘It means, my darling wife, we will have to rely on your wages until I get established.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Fran said. She was happy to be of help to her husband.

  The dream she nurtured, to rent a larger flat for Michael to live in with her and Peter began to seem as distant as ever. How naive she had been. It took her two years to realise that for Peter she was his meal ticket. While she continued working in a dull routine office job supporting him, he promoted his photographic ambitions. Models were his speciality. They were mostly naked in front of his camera and then in his bed. She endured his philandering for five years and filed for divorce. Her only sadness was they didn’t have children. She moved to York to be nearer Beverley and Michael.

  The divorce added fuel to Agnes’s ruthless determination that Michael would stay with Isabel until he was sixteen. No matter what plans Fran put forward, they were refused. One day, so angry and frustrated with Agnes, Fran caught a train to Beverley. Michael was eleven by now and she guessed which school he would be attending, for Agnes would have chosen the best one. It was afternoon when she arrived. As she passed a baker’s shop, her stomach rumbled with hunger pangs, but she didn’t have time for food, she needed to see her son. She hurried down the busy street, thronged with shoppers, people on bicycles and a man pushing a handcart. She kept her head down, not wanting to see anyone from her past, not wanting to explain her presence. Breathlessly, she came to the school gate. The playground was empty. Her stomach knotted. Was she too late? A sudden wave of desolation swept over her as she clutched the cold, iron railings for support. The sound of singing reached her ears. Pure and clear, she listened and her heart sang in tune. Michael, I am here, Michael, I am your mother.

  The first rush of boys tumbled out of school into the playground. Eagerly, Fran scanned their faces, looking for her son. More boys came out. One dropped a satchel and others fell over him, their laughter filled her ears and her heart became full of mother love. Smiling, she turned back to look for Michael. She would take him to the little teashop next to the bakers and treat him to the biggest cream bun. Now, only a small trickle of boys came out of school. And then there was none. Had he been kept behind for misbehaving? She was about to enter the building, when a woman came from the side of the school wheeling a bicycle.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the woman said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Michael Renton. Has he been kept back?’

  The woman seemed surprised. ‘No, Michael was one of the first pupils out of school.’

  Fran felt the knot of unease in her stomach. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Most certainly, I’m his teacher. May I ask who you are?’

  Fran wanted to say, I’m Michael’s mother, but instead she said, ‘I’m a family member.’

  ‘Well, no doubt you will find Michael at home.’

  Fran nodded and turned away, sensing the teacher watching her go. Desolation returned two-fold to swamp her. She loathed herself and anger stirred within her at not being able to recognise her own son. She should have known him instinctively. Tears blinded her eyes as she hurried away from the empty playground, her insides leaden. Michael was so precious to her, and yet she had failed him. Did he wonder why his mother had abandoned him? So many questions left unanswered. She had written to him many times, trying to explain about the situation of his birth and the reason why she couldn’t care for him when he was first born. She had never received a reply and, in truth, she didn’t expect to because Agnes would have destroyed the letters. The hard fact was Michael was unaware that she was his mother. She never missed sending him a birthday card. Once, after a quarrel when Michael was tiny, when she signed her card Mam, Agnes had threatened to accept no more cards. So she had resigned herself to simply, Fran. She wrote to her mother, asking for a photograph of Michael but, as usual, Agnes ignored her request.

  All that happened such a long time ago. Now, Fran’s eyes strayed to her handbag where she kept the photograph of Michael, the one taken of him as a baby, a photograph so precious to her. Outside her tiny flat, the wind howled, she sighed. She had procrastinated long enough. Now it was time to write the letter. It was the most important letter of her life. She felt quite light-headed and her heart began to sing.

  A loud knock on the flat door startled her. She didn’t move to answer, but waited, hoping whoever it was would go away.

  ‘Fran,’ called a female voice through the letter box. ‘It’s me, Laura.’

  Laura lived in the flat above Fran. Reluctantly, she rose from her chair, wondering what she wanted. She opened the door to a young woman in her early twenties with short, curly, black hair, wearing a pair of fashionable trews and a tight sweater. The cold air blasted and Laura was shivering on the step. ‘Anything wrong?’ Fran enquired, politely.

  ‘Been stood up again and on a Saturday night. Do you fancy sharing a Babycham with me?’ She held two small bottles high, her brown eyes wide with anticipation. Fran hesitated, not speaking. The letter, she must write it. Laura ventured cheerfully, ‘Or you’re welcome to come up to my flat.’

  Fran thought of Laura’s untidy flat and her one uncomfortable chair, or the alternative, the cushion on the floor. ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door wide.

  ‘Bottles have been out on the windowsill, so they’re nice and cool,’ Laura bubbled.

  Fran’s heart sank at the young woman’s jollity.

  Laura followed Fran into the kitchenette. ‘I haven’t brought any glasses.’

  Fran brought out two tumblers from the cupboard and a packet of nuts and raisins left over from Christmas, opened them and tipped them into a dish. Laura followed into the sitting room.

  ‘You’ve got it nice.’ Laura glanced around appreciatively. It was the first time she’d been in Fran’s flat. ‘It puts mine to shame, but I’m never in it much to do anything.’

  Fran glanced in the direction of the bureau and the virgin sheet of writing paper. Sighing inwardly, she turned her wilting attention back to Laura and asked, politely, ‘Have you any close family?’

  ‘They emigrated from England a couple of years ago to Australia,’ she replied, helping herself to some nuts.

  Fran ventured, ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’

  ‘A big hunk of a rugby player said he loved me. The bloody cad ditched me. End of story.’ She reached for a bottle and topped up their glasses.

  Fran watched the white bubbles swirling around the glass. For a fleeting moment she was reminded of when she was a girl, sitting on the river bank with nothing more to do on a hot summer’s day than to gaze at the fish darting in the clear water.

  As they sipped, nibbled and chatted, some of Laura’s zest for life began to rub off on Fran. To her amazement, she was quite enjoying the younger woman’s company. She sat back on the sofa and curled her legs beneath her, feeling more happy and relaxed than she had done in ages. Laura sat on a cushion on the floor. Fran found herself talking about her divorce from Peter.

  ‘So, you’ve no kids?’ asked Laura, draining the last of the drink into their glasses.

  ‘Not with Peter.’

  Laura looked at her quizzically. ‘So you’ve got a dozen somewhere else?’

  Before Fran could
stop herself, she answered, ‘I have a son.’

  Laura glanced round the room, expectantly. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He lives with my sister.’ Fran avoided Laura’s wide, brown eyes.

  ‘Say if I’m being too nosy, but why doesn’t he live with you?’

  Tears sprang into Fran’s eyes, and she felt angry and sad at the same time. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Sorry, Fran, I am being too nosy.’

  Fran swallowed hard, fighting her emotion. She jumped up, muttering, ‘Excuse me.’

  She crossed over to the kitchen, willing herself not to cry. Her hands were shaking as she filled two tumblers with orange juice. She heard Laura searching for a programme of music on the wireless. Now calmer, though feeling a little foolish, she wondered what Laura must think of her.

  She returned to the sitting room with the orange juice, and Fran was surprised to see Laura waltzing to the dance music on the wireless. They both laughed and the tension eased.

  They sipped their drinks in silence for a while. Laura coughed and, raising one pencil-slim eyebrow, she asked, ‘Have you a photo of your son?’

  Fran reached for her handbag and drew out a worn leather compact. She pressed a catch and it sprung open to reveal two sides. She passed it to Laura. Her voice shook a little as she said, ‘This is Michael.’

  Laura studied it. ‘He’s quite a cutie. Who’s this pretty one?’

  Even after all these years, she still had to steel herself. She swallowed hard before replying. ‘That was Christine, Michael’s twin. She died as a baby.’

  Laura’s voice was a whisper. ‘How sad, it must have been heart-breaking for you.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘How old is Michael now?’

  Suddenly, into her mind leapt the agonising painful moment and the callous way Agnes had delivered the news of the death of Christine. The shock caused her health to suffer even more. If it hadn’t been for Maisie’s care in looking after her, she wouldn’t have survived.

  ‘Fran.’

  She blinked. ‘Sorry, miles away. Sixteen in March.’

  ‘You must have had him young.’

  ‘I was.’ Fran realised that she must have been Michael’s age when she became pregnant and was cast adrift from her home and family.

  Laura handed the compact back to Fran. ‘Will you see him on his birthday?’

  Fran stared longingly at the faded photograph. She could almost smell the scent of the newly bathed body of her beloved son and the touch of his warm, tender skin against hers filled her mind. ‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice soft but firm.

  Later, when Laura had gone up to her flat, Fran wrote the letter to Isabel. The letter she had waited sixteen long years to write. Soon, her yearning would be over.

  Chapter Five

  Burton Banks, 1958

  Isabel Renton shook with anger as she read the letter again. She was in the privacy of her bedroom at High Bank House and she let her fury erupt. ‘How dare Frances? How dare she?’ Isabel shouted at the faded green walls. Then, just as quickly, her anger evaporated to be replaced with gut-wrenching fear. She flopped down on the bed, her energy deserting her. Her head throbbed as the words reverberated in her head …

  … I am coming to see Michael, as agreed by mother, on his sixteenth birthday. It is time he learnt the truth about his birth, that he is my son and that I intend him to live with me.

  What truth? How could she tell Michael that his father committed adultery with her sister? This would be her worst nightmare come true.

  She lay on the bed with her eyes closed. The letter had come in the morning post and, recognising Frances’s handwriting, she slipped it into her cardigan pocket to read later. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she had been expecting, even dreading, Frances would make some sort of move towards Michael. Now, she had. And Isabel wasn’t sure how to tackle it. Her first instinct was to hide him away and forbid Frances to come and see him. But he wasn’t a small boy now, and she didn’t want to arouse his suspicions and have him asking awkward questions. So far, he viewed Frances as a distant aunt.

  With an effort, she lifted herself from the bed. She was trapped with her father. Ever since her mother’s death, Will’s health had deteriorated, he became more demanding. It was only Michael who kept her going. Her heart ached with a tight emotion and she put her hand there to steady it. Life without him wouldn’t be worth living.

  She wasn’t sure how she would survive the day at work. She worked part time as a receptionist at a doctor’s surgery in Beverley, the late afternoon shift, when Michael would be home from school to keep Will company. Grandfather and grandson had a special relationship. Not quite father and son, because Will wasn’t active, but they talked a lot together. Isabel was grateful for Will’s interest in Michael because he never knew his father. Victor had been killed during the war, and the only feeling Isabel experienced when she received the news was one of relief. Yet again, her sister wanted to create havoc in her life.

  That afternoon at work, Isabel was busy, with no time to dwell on the letter. The telephone rang constantly and some patients still mixed up the new appointment system. Her patience was stretched and she was tired when into the surgery strode a tall, silver-haired man.

  ‘G’day,’ he said pleasantly in an Australian accent.

  She was just about to retort what was good about it when he disarmed her with a most charming smile. Despite her weariness, Isabel found she was returning his smile. She even fitted him in to see the doctor. He introduced himself as ‘John Stanway’ and explained that the manager of the hotel where he was staying had recommended this surgery.

  At the end of the session, when she was tidying up, John, having seen the doctor, made a point of coming to see her in reception. He glanced at her name badge and said softly. ‘Isabel, that’s a pretty name.’ She blushed and he said, ‘Mr Renton’s a lucky man.’

  ‘I’m a widow,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a widower, and life is lonely at times.’ He glanced into her eyes.

  She responded, ‘I suppose so.’ She was never lonely with Michael to love and care for, though sometimes she missed the company of a man, someone to care for her.

  John was speaking again. ‘I appreciate your kindness in fitting me in at such short notice. Would you care to have dinner with me one evening?’

  She stared at him. It was as if he’d read her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, perhaps that was too bold of me.’

  She shuffled some leaflets on the desk, her hands trembling. ‘No, it’s just that well it’s been a long time since anyone asked me.’ She swallowed hard. He must think her a foolish woman.

  His tanned face creased into a ripple of smiles. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve taken a lady out. I guess I’m a little rusty, but I would be honoured.’

  She found herself accepting, graciously.

  Over the following weeks, Isabel and John shared many a meal together at his hotel, and she invited him to Sunday lunch to meet Michael and Will. They both took to John, liking his open, friendly ways. John was a generous man, both with his time and his money. She learnt a lot about his life and family. With his son, he ran a winery on the outskirts of Melbourne and he was in Britain on business, combining it with looking up distant cousins in Yorkshire. Now he was leaving for home, and soon he would be disappearing from their lives.

  As she dressed for a final meal with John, before he returned home, Isabel realised how much she was going to miss this dear man. In his company, she was able to push to the back of her mind the letter from Frances. She just wanted to ignore it, disregard its contents. But soon she would have to reply, but what to say? She certainly wasn’t going to give up Michael.

  John had chosen to take her to a country inn with a renowned restaurant. They were shown to a table in a secluded corner where the silver shone resplendently on the white linen cloth. The room, with low oak beams, was warm and cosy, obliterating the bleak, February night outside. From where they
were sitting, Isabel watched one of the waiters put another log on the fire and, within seconds, the gentle flames blazed. She contemplated the uncertainty in her life. It had always been there in the background, never a threat, until now. Michael was her life and she would fight for him, whatever it would take.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’ John’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  She glanced across at him. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she answered truthfully.

  ‘Not for too long, I hope.’

  She held her breath, wondering what he meant. He leant across the table towards her, catching her full attention. ‘I meant to say this to you later, but I can’t wait.’ She could almost feel him taking a deep breath. ‘Isabel, would you consider marrying me?’ His Australian accent rolled softly.

  Stunned, her eyes widened in amazement as she held his intense gaze, her heart give a little lurch and her body tingle with undiluted pleasure. A proposal of marriage was the last thing she expected. Furtively, she glanced about the dining room, as if she imagined everyone to be listening. She swallowed hard. He’d taken her completely by surprise. Though she was aware of their friendship, nothing intimate had passed between them except a kiss on the cheek, a touch of hands.

  John reached across the table. His strong, capable hands reached for hers and she felt his tension. He spoke quickly. ‘I realise it’s sudden and we’ve only known each other a short time, but it’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a woman’s company as much as yours and you are a beautiful woman. I am ten years older than you, but you make me feel as if I’m still in my forties. Isabel will you marry me and live in Australia with me?’

  The warm tender touch of his hand on hers sent her heart spinning as if she was a young girl once more. Australia! Her mind catapulted into overdrive and to Frances’s letter. Was this the answer to her problem? The ideal solution, a possibility she never dreamt of. Yes, she would cross to the other side of the world to keep Michael close by her side. She felt giddy with happiness.