The Yearning Heart Page 6

  ‘Miss Newton, I’m Reverend Fairweather.’

  For some unfathomable reason, she wanted to giggle. But the giggle threatened to revert to tears. She let out a huge convulse gulp.

  ‘I’m very sorry. I’ve just heard of the passing of dear Mrs Newton.’

  Tina knew he was the vicar of Saint Peter’s Church where Maggie had worshipped most Sundays. Tina never went to church, except at special times like Easter and Christmas.

  She gestured him in and he followed her through to the tiny kitchen where he hovered awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Sit down,’ she offered. He sat on one of the narrow chairs. In a trance, she poured out two cups of tea and placed them on the Formica tabletop. Wearily, she sank down on the chair opposite the vicar, her eyes downcast.

  After a few silent moments, he pushed the brimming cup towards her. ‘Drink up, my dear.’

  She clasped the cup in both hands, drawing comfort from its warmth, and sipped the hot liquid. Suddenly, her stomach rumbled with hunger and guilt filled her. How could she think of eating at a time like this?

  The vicar cleared his throat. ‘Miss Newton.’

  She glanced at him, some of her old spirit rising. ‘Call me Tina, I ain’t that ancient.’

  He nodded and said, ‘Tina, I know Maggie was a widow. Have you any other relatives?’

  She considered for a moment. ‘There was once an aunt or a cousin who came to visit, but that was years ago.’ Tina recalled the woman dressed in a smart coat and hat. She asked Maggie lots of questions and even wanted to inspect Tina’s bedroom. Tina hadn’t liked the woman and wasn’t sorry that she never came to visit again.

  ‘Well, my dear, if you will permit me, I will help you with the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Funeral …’ Tears welled up and the ache in her body came shuddering back. She bit on her lip, her voice barely audible. Frightened at what lay ahead, she asked, ‘What do I have to do?’

  The bleak January wind sliced through the graveyard of Saint Peter’s Church as Margaret Mary Newton was laid to rest. The damp earth and the fragrance of delicate snowdrops mingled in tribute. From the graveside, a small group of mourners followed Tina Newton. She wore her best grey coat and a black hat. Her mother had a thing about hats, she loved to wear one for special occasions, like now. Tina’s heart wrenched with sadness and the wind tore at her cheeks, bringing more tears, which fell unheeded. Her forlorn figure moved slowly along the gravel path.

  Inside the church hall, the high wall heater threw out little warmth and Tina couldn’t stop shivering. She stood just inside the doorway, uncertain what to do, not sure what was expected of her. How she longed for Maggie to be by her side, to guide her as she had always done. Tina didn’t remember much about her father – he had died when she was young. Her lasting memory was of him sitting by the fireside, smoking and coughing. He’d been injured in the war and Maggie made excuses for him saying. ‘He wasn’t always bad-tempered, he was a lovely man before the war.’

  ‘Tina, come and sit down.’ She felt a light touch on her elbow and the Reverend Fairweather guiding her. Around her the sound of hushed voices. More tears threatened. She sank onto a wooden chair. The table before her was covered with a green checked cloth, laid with tea plates, cups and saucers. The Women’s Guild, to which Maggie had belonged, had all clubbed together to provide the funeral tea. Two of the ladies were now quietly coming round, serving cups of tea, and plates of ham sandwiches and Victoria sponge cakes.

  Although the ladies never voiced so in words, Tina got the distinct impression that they disapproved of her. Her mother had been a good, kind woman and Tina felt guilty for taking her so much for granted. Perhaps, if she had helped around the house more instead of going out dancing and to the pictures, Maggie would still be alive. A lump rose in her throat, choking her and tears welled in her eyes. Under the table, she kicked her ankle hard, making herself sit up sharply and reminding herself why she was here.

  Neighbours came to pay their respects: Mrs Johnson from the corner shop, Mrs Booth from next door and her sister Dora, both of whom had gone to school with Maggie, and other friends and neighbours from down the street, reminiscing. This was Maggie’s day.

  Someone pushed close in the chair next to her, Annie from work. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get away earlier, but we’ve been so busy.’ Annie surveyed the room full of mourners. ‘You’ve done your mam proud and given her a good send off.’

  Tina was glad of her friend’s comforting presence. Annie tried to press her to go to the pictures to see Miracle in the Rain, starring Van Johnson and Jane Wyman. ‘Come with me and Bert.’

  Tina shook her head. ‘I’m tired. I’ll have an early night.’

  Later, at home, Tina sat curled up on Maggie’s chair, wearing Maggie’s old brown dressing gown. She nestled her face into the floppy collar of the gown, smelling the faint perfume of Lily of the Valley and the warm, comforting smell of Maggie herself. She would have stayed snuggled up all evening, but she mustn’t put off sorting out the tin box which held all of Maggie’s official bits and pieces. The Reverend Fairweather had said she needed to deal with the insurance policy and to claim towards the funeral fees.

  ‘Could you do it?’ she had asked him. It troubled her, prying in Maggie’s box.

  He thought for a second and then said, ‘Maggie would wish her daughter to sort out her documents, but I will help if there is anything you don’t understand.’

  Tina brought her mind back to the present. She uncurled and stretched out her bare toes to catch the warmth from the fire. It was the first time she’d raked out the cold ash from the grate and relaid the fire, and now it blazed, sending out dancing flames. With a deep sigh, she rose to her feet and went over to the mahogany sideboard and opened the drawer. She traced the lid of the tin box with its raised pattern of roses and leaves. It had been Maggie’s mother’s box and Tina had never been allowed to touch it, let alone see its contents.

  Gently, she lifted up the tin, surprised that it felt heavier than she imagined. She settled back onto the chair and, for a moment, she stared absently into the fire. She was an intruder even to be handling the tin, never mind delving into its contents, which were so private to Maggie, but it was a task she must now do. Maggie was always strict about paying things on time and everything being in order, so now it was up to Tina to make sure Maggie’s affairs were all in order. The tin box balanced on her knees, she steeled herself to open the lid. It was stiff – she supposed it hadn’t been open for some time. She gave it a huge jerk and the lid sprang open. Inside, on the top, rested old photographs. Were these the last things Maggie had looked at?

  ‘Oh, Mam,’ she cried. Grief overcame her and huge tears slid down her cheeks. ‘Why did you have to go and leave me?’ Through wet lashes, Tina gazed down upon a photo of Maggie and her taken at Scarborough. She recalled the feel of the golden sand, soft and warm as she sifted it through her toes, and Maggie laughing as Tina frolicked in the sea, her knitted swimsuit stretching down to her knees with the weight of the water. A recollection stirred: it was the posh lady, the aunt or cousin, who had given Maggie the money for this holiday.

  As she went through the box, Tina thought, for the first time, that it would have been nice for her to have had a brother or sister, someone to share her grief with, to hold her hand. But she had no one. She was completely alone. While Maggie had been alive, giving Tina her full attention and unconditional love, Tina would have resented another sibling, but not now. Tears came again and she sobbed uncontrollably.

  She dried her eyes on one of Maggie’s big, white handkerchiefs. What use were tears and feeling sorry? But she did need something to steady her nerves. She rose from her chair and went to the fireside cupboard where Maggie kept her medical supplies and found the small bottle of whisky. She poured a small measure and swallowed it in one gulp, shuddering as the fiery liquid rushed down her throat. Surprisingly, its warm glow in the pit of her stomach helped to calm her; soon, she began to feel more in contr
ol of her emotions.

  Back to the box, Tina waded through the pile of receipts Maggie had kept, going back years. Fancy, she thought, paying ten shillings for a hat and nine pence for trimmings. She found the insurance policy Reverend Fairweather had mentioned – it had a contact address. She hated writing letters, but it had to be done.

  She found letters to Maggie going way back, and from people Tina didn’t know. At the very bottom of the tin sat a document folded in quarters. Carefully, she opened it out. It looked very formal. Her birth certificate. Fancy going to all that fuss to record her birth. Still, she mused, it showed who you were. She peered closer. She wasn’t aware of being born near Gainsborough, she’d always assumed Stillingham. She supposed it was because it had been wartime.

  As she scanned the certificate further, a chill gripped her heart. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and shock. She wanted to shout something, but words failed her. Her eyes misted so that the lettering on the certificate became blurred, merging into a mass. In an angry swipe with the sleeve of the dressing gown, she wiped her eyes dry and focused on the faded handwriting.

  Mother, Isabel Renton. Father, Victor Renton.

  Who were these strangers? Not her parents. And she was definitely not Christine Renton. She was Tina Newton. There must be some mistake. She gulped and swallowed hard, her emotions over flowing. This was not her birth certificate. Then whose? And where was hers?

  Chapter Seven

  Armed with a bulging paper carrier, Tina Newton sat in a back pew, enduring the Sunday service at St Peter’s. She was waiting for a chance to speak to the Reverend Fairweather. The singing of hymns and the sermon were lost to her as she went over and over in her mind what she had found in Maggie’s private box. The strange birth certificate with her date of birth, but with neither her name nor Maggie’s on it. Then there were the letters from a Mrs Agnes Bewholme to Maggie, but with no address on them. Tina gave an involuntarily shudder as she recalled in frustration how she had scattered the contents of the box all over the floor and found a letter inside another envelope. It was an official looking, judging by the letter heading. On closer inspection, it seemed to concern her. But, why would anyone want to send money to Maggie for her? It was baffling.

  She sat for ages, wondering what to do with the documents and who to turn to for advice. She thought about asking her friend Annie, but she had a fancy for gossip and Tina didn’t want everyone knowing about her business. Besides, Maggie would not have approved. Her only hope of help would be from the Reverend Fairweather.

  The service came to an end and, clutching the carrier, she edged forward to wait until most of the congregation had departed before she joined the line to shake the vicar’s hand.

  ‘Miss Newton, Tina,’ the vicar exclaimed in surprised. ‘It is a pleasure to see you at church.’

  Suddenly, Tina felt physically sick with fear and hunger. She couldn’t remember when last she had last eaten. ‘I need your help, Vicar,’ she said and then, remembering her manners, uttered, ‘Please.’ She delved into the paper carrier and showed him a wad of documents.

  Alarm registered in his eyes, but he recovered quickly and she could almost see his brain selecting the right words to say to her. Her heart sank: she expected he would be too busy.

  ‘Tina, would you care to join me for dinner? My housekeeper has left me a casserole in the oven and there is plenty.’ It usually did for his Monday dinner as well, but that was no matter.

  Surprised by his invitation, her face lit up. ‘That’s kind, Vicar, thanks.’

  They made an odd couple as they walked side by side through the churchyard to the vicarage. She was petite with bright red hair and he, stockily built and balding, not quite the father figure. The vicarage was an old Victorian house of genteel dilapidation, rambling and built to house a family and servants, not a bachelor.

  The vicar swung open the heavy, half glass-panelled door and ushered Tina inside. Rising above the musty smell of old books was the delicious aroma of the casserole. She felt and heard her stomach rumble. ‘Excuse me,’ she said lowering her eyes in embarrassment. He led her through into the dining room and she was pleased to see a fire glowing in the hearth. The table was set with a white linen cloth and with silver laid out for one.

  ‘There is cutlery in the sideboard and I’ll see to dinner.’ He bustled off.

  For a few moments, Tina stood inside the door not moving. She’d never been inside a room like this before. It was so spacious. Her living room and kitchen would fit into this room. She crossed the faded carpet to the sideboard and ran her hand over the well-polished top. She guessed it must be ancient. Maggie had liked the new utility furniture. She felt like an intruder as she opened the drawer to take out the cutlery, although the Vicar had given her permission. It flashed through her mind: would Maggie have approved? The thought of her mother brought a lump to her throat. How she missed her mother, her gentle, caring manner, her love. The silver fell with a clink back into the drawer as Tina’s hands flew up to her face. Overcome with grief, her body was racked with uncontrollable sobs.

  She didn’t hear the vicar enter the room until he spoke. ‘My dear child, come and sit down.’

  He led her to the dining table, drew out a chair for her and poured out a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘Drink this. You’ll feel much better.’

  The vicar passed her a big, white handkerchief. She hid behind it until more composed. He left the room and returned minutes later, carrying two steaming plates. He placed one before her and the other in his place, then he fetched the cutlery.

  She looked at the huge plateful, not sure if she would eat it all. The vicar began to eat and, in between mouthfuls, he spoke about what Maggie’s involvement in the church had been. ‘She was a staunch member, always ready to help. She was on the flower arranging rota, refreshments at various functions, always willing to lend a hand with the polishing of the brasses.’ He gave a deep sigh, as if remembering something.

  Tina sat quietly, thinking what a good person her mother had been. Tina’s most vivid recollection was of the church Christmas parties Maggie used to organise. The lip-smacking jelly and custard, fairy buns, angel’s wings, and the games: pass the parcel, musical chairs and many others. She spoke her thoughts out loud. ‘Mam was always there for me, ever patient when I was naughty and sometimes rebellious. I don’t understand.’ She pointed to the carrier bag propped against the wall near to the door where she had left it. ‘What’s that about?’

  The vicar dabbed his mouth with his napkin and rose to his feet to remove his empty plate and, surprisingly, Tina’s empty one. He placed them on the sideboard and, picking up the carrier, put it on the table in front of Tina. He moved his chair to her side and sat down. ‘Now, my dear, you tell me what the problem is and I’ll do my best to help you.’ He smiled kindly at her.

  Tina gulped, feeling bewildered and totally bereft by Maggie’s sudden death. She withdrew the sheaf of letters and documents from the carrier and her hands trembled as she passed them to him. ‘Vicar, I’m not sure what to do with these or if they’re anything to do with me.’ She said, her body shivering with cold and uncertainty.

  He glanced at her forlorn expression and said, ‘Sit nearer the fire while I study these.’

  She sank into an old leather armchair and stretched out her legs so that her toes caught the warmth from the fire. She glanced at the garden through the long window, seeing a patch of green lawn edged with huge trees, oak or sycamore. She wasn’t sure what they were in their winter skeletal form. Nature was never her strongest subject and Maggie’s garden was a window box in the backyard.

  The vicar coughed and, startled, she jerked her head and glanced his way. He rose from the table and came to her. ‘It seems, Tina, that you may have been fostered as a baby. The documents seem to indicate this. With your permission, may I ask my solicitor to check out the known facts and verify them for you?’

  She couldn’t believe what she heard and just stared
blankly at him.

  Patiently, he repeated his words.

  Her voice was shaking as she whispered, ‘Maggie isn’t my real mother? How can that be?’

  ‘Didn’t she tell you of your origins?’

  ‘Never!’ She exclaimed as if it was a sin. Then her eyes filled with tears.

  He brushed away a single strand of hair from his furrowed brow. ‘Tina, you must take comfort that Maggie was a good Christian woman who loved you dearly and, in every sense of the word, she was a wonderful mother to you. Nothing can ever alter that fact. Always remember that, my dear.’

  Her mind in a whirl, not able fully to comprehend the situation, she stammered, ‘If Maggie wasn’t my real mother …’ She gulped, feeling a choking sensation in her throat. When she spoke, her voice barely audible. She asked, ‘Then, who is my mother?’

  He glanced again at the birth certificate, which he still held in his hand, but he could not lessen the blow. ‘It would appear to be a woman named Isabel Renton.’

  Chapter Eight

  York

  The letter from Isabel finally arrived. Fran had almost given up hope. She had decided to give Isabel until the end of the week and, if an answer to her letter hadn’t arrived by then, she would go to catch the train to Beverley and confront Isabel.

  Coming in from work, Fran went into the kitchenette and dumped the string-bag of shopping on the Formica table. Not waiting to take off her coat, she tore open the envelope.

  The words were stark black written on cold, white paper. No salutation, no sign of forgiveness. But none of this touched Fran, only the bluntness of the words. That one sentence shattered her most cherished dream. She read it again, but the words and the meaning remained the same.