The Yearning Heart Read online

  ‘Isabel?’ He held her gaze.

  She found her voice. ‘You took me by surprise. Only three weeks, quite a whirlwind courtship.’ His face faltered. She added softly, ‘I’d love to marry you John, but my son?’

  Without hesitation, he replied, ‘Michael comes as well.’

  ‘Oh, John,’ she said, tears filling her eyes.

  John refilled their glasses and raised his to hers. ‘To our future.’

  Hopefully, she thought, Michael will see Australia as an adventure. The obstacle would be her father.

  Later that night, in the privacy of her bedroom, Isabel stood before the Edwardian wardrobe mirror. Naked, she studied her body, something she hadn’t done for years. John had said she was beautiful. She couldn’t ever recall anyone else telling her so. Her hands smoothed over the generous curve of her stomach and she sighed. Perhaps if she cut out cakes and peddled faster on her bicycle, her shape might improve. Then it occurred to her, would their relationship be physical? A faint tinge of excitement touched her inner core.

  She slipped a nightgown over her nakedness and dropped into bed, drawing the eiderdown up to her chin and shut her eyes. But she couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept on replaying the action of the evening, of John’s marriage proposal and of Frances’s letter. Now she would reply, but the contents of the letter wouldn’t be what Frances was expecting.

  After a fitful night’s sleep, Isabel awoke very early in the morning. She lay for a moment trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. She needed to talk to someone and try to make sense of it all. She glanced at the bedside clock and groaned. It was only just after six.

  As soon as politely possible, Isabel rang her friend and confidant, Deirdre Baker.

  ‘Can we meet? There’s something I need to talk over with you.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing. About eleven at Miss Martha’s. What’s it about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Bye.’

  Isabel entered the kitchen, where Will was sitting by the fireside. ‘Where’s my breakfast?’ he grumbled.

  ‘Here you are, Dad,’ she said, absently, placing a tray of tea and toast on his side table. Will didn’t answer. His expression bleak, he continued to stare out of the kitchen window, which looked out onto his dilapidated joinery workshop and yard.

  ‘Dad, don’t let it get cold.’ She hesitated a moment, then said, ‘I have to go out.’

  ‘You’re always out,’ he moaned. ‘And Michael spends too much time playing that record player. I don’t know why I bother to keep on living.’

  ‘And neither do I,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Not wanting to antagonise Will further, she said, ‘On my way home, I’ll buy you a nice piece of smoked haddock for your dinner.’

  He turned and glowered at her, suspiciously. ‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she replied, sharply, as she slipped into the hall. She put on her navy wool coat, tied on her headscarf and picked up her handbag. ‘See you later,’ she called. Will didn’t answer. She sighed; her father was never easy. She set off on her bicycle.

  Deirdre was already seated at a table in an alcove as Isabel entered the teashop. She sat in the seat opposite. Deirdre was dainty, with light brown, neatly permed hair, kind, tawny-coloured eyes and dressed in a pink twin-set with a row of pearls – the very opposite of Isabel, who was tall, with dark hair and eyes with a sullen temperament. But, today, a soft glow surrounded Isabel.

  Deirdre waited until the waitress finished taking their order, then spoke. ‘You look absolutely blooming. So what’s so urgent it couldn’t wait?’ She grinned, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  Isabel told her of John’s proposal of marriage.

  ‘Congratulations! You’re a dark horse. You never gave a hint you were serious about him.’

  ‘It was a surprise to me, too,’ Isabel replied with a laugh.

  ‘What does Michael say?’

  ‘I’ll tell him when he comes home from school, but I don’t see a problem with him. It’s my father I’m not looking forward to telling. What am I going to do with him?’

  ‘Take him with you,’ was Deirdre’s matter-of-fact response.

  ‘But would he come?’

  ‘Try asking him.’

  Isabel marvelled at her friend’s common-sense approach. Perhaps that was why they’d remained friends all these years. They had met first as young mothers at the baby clinic, Isabel with Michael and Deirdre with her daughter, Shirley. Deirdre was easy to talk to and a good listener and so, over the years, they had remained good friends.

  ‘Have you told John about Michael’s adoption?’ Deirdre asked.

  Isabel’s eyes clouded. ‘John and I have a lot of things to discuss,’ she replied, brusquely.

  Deirdre reached out to touch her friend’s clenched hands. ‘I don’t want you to make things difficult for yourself. And, there’s Michael.’

  ‘What about Michael?’

  Deirdre sighed deeply. ‘Will you now tell Michael that he is adopted? We’ve discussed this before and you’ve always said when he’s old enough. And now …’

  Isabel snatched her hands away from Deirdre’s touch. Thank goodness she had never told Deirdre or anyone else who Michael’s birth mother was. ‘When we settle in Australia,’ she snapped. But in her heart she knew she would never tell him because he would ask questions. How could she tell him that his father had raped her sister? However much her mother had chosen to disguise and hide the fact, it was the truth.

  Later, when Isabel told Michael her good news, he cheered, surprising Isabel by his spontaneous reaction. ‘Are we really going to live in Australia with John, Mam?’ Michael asked again. They were both upstairs in his bedroom and out of Will’s earshot.

  His eagerness shone in his face and eyes, echoing his voice.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘You try to stop me going. What an adventure! Just wait until I tell my pals.’ He vaulted over his bed and pulled an atlas from his bookshelf. As he studied the map of the state of Victoria, he traced his finger from Melbourne to the mountain and hill ranges of Dandenong. Isabel, looking over his shoulder, could sense his enthusiasm and it whet her appetite for more knowledge of this country that would become their home. Yet, it seemed unreal, frightening almost. Could it happen? More than anything in the world, she didn’t want to lose her son. To keep him by her side, she was prepared to cross oceans to the other side of the world. No sacrifice was too great. She was fortunate, John was a kind, caring man and they got on well together. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Michael. It was a great relief to her that he had so readily accepted this blind leap into an unknown future. But she was dreading telling her father.

  Michael suddenly looked across at her and asked, ‘Is Grandad excited?’

  She bit on her lower lip. She now saw her father as a burden, and one she no longer wanted to bare. Lord knows, since her mother’s death, she’d done her best for him, but it never seemed enough. ‘I wanted to tell you first.’ She omitted to mention her talk with Deirdre. ‘I’ll speak to him after we’ve eaten. Are you going out?’

  ‘I was, but I’ll stop in.’ His boyish face became serious.

  She rose from the bed and patted his shoulder. ‘It would be better if you weren’t here. You can speak to Grandad about it later.’

  That evening, after supper, while Isabel washed up the pots, Michael regaled his grandfather with what he’d been doing at school. ‘What yer going ter do when you leave?’ asked Will.

  Michael shot his mother a quick glance before answering. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You youngsters have it cushy. I started work at eleven. Up at five sharp and six days a week.’

  Michael had heard this tale many times, but he replied politely, ‘Did you, Grandad?’

  Will lapsed into deep concentration as if remembering his youth and Michael made his excuses.

  Isabel made a pot of tea and set the tra
y on the table next to Will’s chair. She drew up a chair on the other side and poured out the tea. ‘Dad.’ He inclined his head slightly in her direction. She handed him his cup and she let him have a sip first, then, taking a deep breath, her heart thudding, she began. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

  ‘I knew it. You’re up to summat!’ Will spluttered, tea spraying the front of his checked shirt.

  She forced herself to take a drink of her tea, then revealed, ‘John and I are getting married.’

  A log on the fire spurted and hissed. Will’s face turned as red as the flames, his words came out with coughs and gasps. ‘Married? You mean you and that foreigner?’

  Indignantly, Isabel retorted, ‘John’s not a foreigner, he’s an Australian. And yes, we are getting married.’

  Looking puzzled, Will said, ‘But you hardly know him. And why do yer want to?’

  ‘Because he’s asked me. And I’ve been a widow long enough.’ She moved her chair back, away from the heat of the fire.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. I didn’t imagine another man would tek you on.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded, angrily.

  ‘You’d have enough to do, looking after Michael and me and …’ His rheumy eyes narrowed. ‘This is still my house.’ He pulled himself up in the chair, his back ramrod straight, wincing with pain as he did so. ‘And I’m still boss. So mark my words before yer do owt daft.’

  Isabel laughed a nervous pitched laugh as she drew out her trump card. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I’m going to live with John in Australia, and so is Michael.’

  Will’s ruddy face turned grey and the cup in his hand rattled, tea spilling into the saucer.

  Isabel jumped up, hoping he was about to have another stroke. ‘Dad, do try to stay calm.’ She peered anxiously at him and hurried over to the pine dresser. She poured out a measure of brandy and hurried back to him. ‘Drink this – it’ll make you feel better.’ She held the glass to his thin, blue, dry lips. After a few sips, the colour began to return to his face.

  He drank all the brandy and then spoke. ‘I’m right shocked. It’s the last thing I expected.’

  Going back to the dresser, she poured herself a brandy then returned and sat down to face Will. ‘You are shocked that someone cares enough about me to want to marry me.’ She couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from her voice.

  ‘Aye, mebbe, but you don’t have ter go away. This house is big enough for us all. I’ve a bit of money put by – we can do the place up.’

  Isabel was surprised at Will’s admission of savings; he’d always professed to have only enough money for his funeral. Wearily, she rose to her feet, picked up the empty glasses and refilled them. It was going to be a long night. She let Will ramble on until he became short of breath. Then she spoke. ‘John’s in the wine industry, his business is in Melbourne, so he can’t live here. I am going to marry him, and Michael and I will live with him in Australia. Dad …’ She leant forward in her chair and drew a deep breath. ‘You can come with us. We can still live as a family.’ Her eyes pleaded. Experiencing guilt at leaving him behind.

  Will turned away from her and stared deep into the smouldering fire. Outside, from the river bank near the inn, came the sound of happy voices. Inside, the tension of silence hung. It was Will who broke the uneasy quiet. His face set in granite, he rasped, ‘I’m staying here. This is my home.’

  A wave of relief swept Isabel at his decision not to come with them, but, then he posed another problem. ‘I suppose you could go—’

  He cut her off with his rising voice. ‘I’m not going to be shoved into the workhouse.’

  ‘Dad, they don’t have them any more. They have nice residential homes now.’

  ‘Same difference. I’m still not going.’

  ‘But, how will you manage on your own?’

  Will’s reply was razor-sharp. ‘You can send for our Frances. She can look after me. And she can settle in before you go.’ And just as quickly his mood changed to one of sorrow, his voice full of emotion he said, ‘I shall miss our Michael.’

  ‘Michael!’ Isabel threw up her hands in despair. ‘Oh my God, she can’t come here.’

  ‘Why not? He’s—’

  Isabel covered her ears, not wanting to hear what her father was saying.

  Chapter Six

  Stillingham, Lincolnshire, 1958

  Tina Newton, still in shock, went home to an empty house. She slumped on a chair in the chilled sitting room, her damp coat clinging to her petite frame. Numb with grief, she stared into space, unable to believe. How could it be? Her lovely, caring mother Maggie – dead!

  Over and over, Tina replayed Maggie’s final hours. It started with the telephone call earlier that morning. She had been surprised to receive the call at the department store where she worked – no one ever rang her there. Heart attack. The words resounded still in her head.

  Panting from running so fast, she caught the bus to the cottage hospital on the edge of town. The journey was a blur. In a draughty anteroom, she waited to go into the ward to see Maggie.

  ‘The doctor’s with her,’ said the nurse in a quiet voice. ‘I’ll take you through in a moment.’

  Tina twisted her short, red hair into corkscrews, thinking that when she left for work earlier that morning, her mother looked fine. Maggie didn’t leave for her job in a factory canteen until eleven. ‘Bye, Mam,’ she’d called. Maggie, who was on her second cup of tea, smoking her first cigarette of the day and reading her library book, propped up against the sugar bowl, replied ‘Bye, love.’ Just a normal morning, so what made her ill?

  The nurse reappeared. ‘Tina, I’ll take you to your mother now.’

  Along a quiet corridor, Tina walked in a trance, her mind and body tense. Entering the ward, Tina gasped with shock, her insides contracting violently. She was unprepared for the sight of Maggie wired up to monitoring equipment. She looked so frail and pale. Only her hair, dark against the stark white of the pillow, bore any resemblance of the mother she loved. Her senses numbed, Tina sat by Maggie’s side. She felt unable to comprehend the magnitude of Maggie’s illness. It was like a bad dream, only she was awake. Tina squeezed Maggie’s limp hand, but no response, no sign that she knew her daughter was here.

  Then, suddenly, the rhythm of the monitoring equipment turned erratic. Tina stared at it for a full second and then at Maggie. ‘Mam!’ she cried fearfully.

  A nurse appeared and quickly checked the monitor. ‘She’s arresting.’ Within seconds, a doctor appeared and ushered a trembling Tina from the room.

  Outside, alone in the corridor, Tina leant against the cold, hard wall. She wanted to shut her eyes, erase all traces of her mother’s illness and will her back to how she was that morning. But her eyes refused to close. She wondered what they were doing to Maggie, or if it was the machinery which had gone faulty and they were putting it right.

  Eventually, the door opened and the doctor came out. ‘Can I see her now? I want to …’ Her voice faded as she saw the doctor’s weary face. Her insides wrenched and she began to tremble.

  His touch was gentle on her shoulder. ‘She hasn’t much time left.’

  The panic was evident on Tina’s open face. ‘What can I do?’ she whispered, not quite taking in the doctor’s words.

  ‘Talk to her.’

  In a daze of unreality, she sat by her mother’s side. Maggie was no longer connected to any machinery. She lay serenely quite still. Tina’s heart contracted painfully as she was gripped by a frightening terror at the quickness of Maggie’s deterioration. Her skin had turned a translucent bluey white and her breathing was so shallow. She stroked the limp hand and then held it in hers. Fighting back tears, her voice breaking, she began talking to her mother. At first her words came out in a jumble and then she began to recall snippets from her childhood, things which they, mother and daughter, enjoyed doing together. Like shopping on a Saturday morning, looking for bargains. ‘Do you remember, Mam, when you sent me into Hamilton’s to buy
a penny duck? I thought they would throw me out of the shop because where would you buy a duck for a penny. It turned out to be a savoury slice, which was made popular when meat was on rations, and the holiday we had in Scarborough, paddling in the sea, running from the waves. Do you remember, Mam?’ Looking earnestly into her mother’s motionless face, Tina saw a slight twitch of her lips and Maggie gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Then there was silence.

  They were very kind to her and gave her a cup of tea while the necessary documents were dealt with. But, all the time, Tina was expecting to wake up from this terrible nightmare.

  Now, she was at home, alone, unable to believe her mother was dead. It seemed so unreal. But it was true. And yet, how could it be? She couldn’t understand it.

  All night, she sat in a chair in the cold sitting room, going over in her mind Maggie’s last hours, trying to see what she should have done to prevent this tragedy. If only she had taken more notice of Maggie that morning to see if she was ill, but she seemed her usual self. Then the thought occurred to her – had Maggie been poorly for a while and not mentioned it? She pondered a moment, but surely Maggie would have said. She often complained about indigestion and asked Tina to bring home a packet of strong mints. But nothing else. Tina sat on, her mind and body numb with sorrow. As the night passed, her body chilled and she felt as though she’d become an icicle.

  Then a strange thing happened; she heard Maggie’s voice, her lovely soft tones seemed to drift around her saying, ‘Put the kettle on, love. We’ll have a nice cup of tea. It’ll do us good.’ The flood of hot tears stung her cold cheeks. ‘Come on, love, stop dilly-dallying.’

  Picking up on the slang left behind by the Yanks, Tina replied out loud, ‘Okay, ma’am,’ and without hesitation she jumped to her feet and hurried into the kitchen and filling the kettle.

  She was about to pour the tea, when she a loud rapping sounded on the front door. She sighed deeply; it would be one of the neighbours. The street door opened onto the sitting room and, opening it, she was surprised to see a man standing there. He was of medium height, stocky build, with a round face, his grey eyes held a look of compassion, and his sparse wisps of thin brown hair were windblown.