The Yearning Heart Read online

  I am to be married again and Michael and I are going to live in Australia.

  Fran stood rigid for what seemed hours. All she could think of was that Australia was on the other side of the world.

  ‘Oh God,’ she cried so plaintively. ‘How much longer have I to be punished? To be kept apart from my son?’ There was no answering reply.

  Her limbs stiff and numb, she pulled a stool from under the table and sank on to it. Resting her elbows on the table, she cupped her hands to her chin and made herself think. She must plan what her next step would be. One thing was sure: she wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

  Isabel had made no mention of telling Michael the truth about his birth. Could she legally do that, whisk Michael off to the other side of the world? Shouldn’t Isabel be consulting her, after all she was Michael’s rightful mother?

  But Agnes had been cunning. In the nursing home where Fran had been confined with her babies, Agnes had booked her in under the name of Isabel Renton. She said to save face, Fran being an unmarried mother and so the babies wouldn’t have the stigma of illegitimacy. Fran dearly hoped Michael had never suffered that burden. But, later, with hindsight, over the years, she came to realise her mother’s subterfuge was double-edged.

  She could consult a solicitor, but to do so she would need proof of facts. Maisie knew the truth of Michael’s birth. But Maisie had married the elder son of the Gemblings and they had four children. Mr Gembling had died and Mrs Gembling, now an invalid, was looked after by Maisie. Would it be fair to drag Maisie to the courts on her behalf? No, she decided, Maisie had her own problems, though Fran knew she would help if she could.

  Before Fran married Peter Meredith, she had told him of her son and she had also told his sister, Betty. Betty, the nurse who cared for Fran after the twins’ birth, had been very upset. ‘You should have told me.’ Fran sighed. Betty had long gone out of her life, married and living abroad. The last she heard of Peter, he was in America, following his dream. Of course, there was Will, her father. But Fran wasn’t sure how much he knew about the situation of Michael’s birth or if he would say anything in her defence.

  It would take weeks to travel to Australia and, judging by the letters Laura received from her mother, conditions sounded very grim. They lived in a hostel, no better than a Nissen hut. She wasn’t going to have Michael subjected to those conditions. Let Isabel go off to Australia, but not with Michael.

  That was it. She jumped up and thumped the table so hard the shopping from the string bag tumbled out, spilling onto the linoleum floor. The blue bag of sugar burst open, drenching rashers of bacon. But Fran ignored the mess. She was determined to see Michael this very weekend and she would confront Isabel.

  On Friday morning, Fran was met by a scene of disaster at the bookshop where she worked. Mr Spencer, the owner, clutched a bucket and cloth in his hands and looked around despairingly. ‘In all my fifty-nine years, I’ve never had to cope with anything like this.’ He pushed his spectacles further back on his head, tangling with his thinning, brown hair. ‘Mrs Meredith, so glad you are here. We had a burst pipe and there’s water everywhere. My precious books,’ he lamented, flinging his arms about, the bucket swinging precariously.

  Shocked at seeing her usually calm employer in such a state, Fran quickly looked around. The electricity had been switched off and, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw the devastation and gasped in horror. At the back wall of the shop, water still trickled down onto the shelves of books. Some shelves were now empty, but not all. Throwing off her coat and rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, Fran said, ‘I’d better make a start in clearing those shelves.’

  The shop closed for business, they set about clearing up the mess. The plumber arrived in the afternoon to repair the damaged pipe and replace parts. ‘Needs lagging, guv,’ he said to Mr Spencer, ‘or it’s gonna happen again. Mark my words. Surprised it ain’t burst before now, what with this freezing weather.’

  Mr Spencer stood, ringing his hands. ‘Is it costly?’

  The plumber pushed back his flat cap and eyed Mr Spencer thoughtfully. ‘If yer don’t, I’ll be coming back again in a couple of weeks, and you’ll have another mess to clean up.’

  Mr Spencer turned to Fran to ask, ‘What do you think, Mrs Meredith?’

  Fran knew the bookshop was his pride and joy, and that his life revolved around it. ‘The plumber’s right.’ Then, trying to sound enthusiastic, she said, ‘Once we are straight again and open for business, perhaps we might have a selling drive to make up for our losses.’

  He looked unconvinced. ‘But our customers like to come in to browse and take their time.’

  ‘All we need is a quiet corner, a few comfy chairs and to organise a different promotion every week. We could start off with York’s history, then maybe a lighter vein, romance.’

  ‘That sounds exciting,’ said Miss Blanchard, the other assistant, as she came in from the shop next door carrying four cups of tea.

  The plumber, taking a break, chipped in. ‘I think the ladies have out done yer, guv.’

  By late afternoon, the light had faded and the shop had become cold. ‘We’ll leave the rest until tomorrow,’ said Mr Spencer.

  Fran, tired and in need of a hot bath, reached for her coat, still lying on the back of a chair where she’d thrown it earlier. It was then that Mr Spencer’s words struck her and she spun round. ‘Mr Spencer, have you forgotten, I’m away tomorrow?’

  His brow creased. ‘I had Mrs Meredith, but in the circumstances, I would be most obliged if you rearranged your day off.’

  Fran stared at him for a full second, realising she had no option; she couldn’t let him down, not after such devastation. He was such a good and fair employer, and she enjoyed working here. She’d still catch the train to Burton Banks on Sunday. She heard Miss Blanchard saying. ‘I can come in on Sunday, Mr Spencer.’ They were both looking at Fran.

  ‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ she said, too brightly, not wanting to let her employer down. But she wanted so much to see Michael. She sighed, regretfully. Now it would have to be the next weekend.

  But the next weekend the shop was far too busy, books needed to be reshelved. Much to her acute disappointment, it was necessary for her to help, again, on Sunday with new stock.

  Michael was so near, yet so far away, but hopefully not for much longer. She managed to pin Mr Spencer down into letting her have time off in March for Michael’s birthday. She had to be satisfied with adding the Monday to the Sunday, because Saturdays proved far too busy.

  She had written to Isabel again, making known her strong objections to Isabel taking Michael to Australia. She had suggested that Isabel wed her man and she, Fran, would take care of Michael. He would come and live with her in York. After all, he was her son. Waiting for a reply sent her emotions into a seesaw mode.

  Isabel answered by return post. Surprised, Fran ripped open the envelope and read in disbelief.

  … Michael is very happy and looking forward to our new life in Australia together. Neither you, nor York, holds any competition. On the other hand, Father wishes you to come home and care for him as he considers it is your duty to do so …

  Fran felt as though her heart and soul had been squeezed from her. Stunned, she stared at the letter. Unbelievable that Isabel could be so cruel. Over the years, Fran had accepted the rules Agnes had set down: not to interrupt Michael’s growing up and his well-being, but to wait until he was older. So, with great difficulty, acting in her son’s best interest, she stayed away. But now she yearned for the love and the recognition of her son. She was his mother. She had given birth to him, not Isabel. She leant against the cold, painted wall and buried her head in her hands, as her emotions overflowed and her body was racked with painful sobs. She wasn’t sure if she could carry on living like this. Her whole life was focused on Michael.

  ‘Fran, what on earth is the matter?’ Fran raised her tear-stained face to see Laura standing in the doorway. ‘I di
d knock. The door was open,’ Laura said with uncertainty.

  ‘Come in.’ Fran sniffed, fishing in her coat pocket for a hanky. She dried her eyes, feeling rather foolish, a grown woman crying. Pathetic.

  She busied herself making a pot of tea, her back to the silent Laura. By the time she had the tea tray set, she felt more in control of her feelings. She forced a smile as she turned round, placing the tray on the table. ‘Sit down.’ She gestured to Laura to pull up a stool.

  Laura sat down, saying, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude, but I heard you crying as I passed by.’

  Still with her coat on, Fran poured the tea. ‘Actually, your timing was just right.’

  ‘It was?’ asked a troubled Laura.

  ‘Yes, feeling sorry for oneself is not good. Can you bear to listen to my woes?’ Looking puzzled, Laura just nodded. So, Fran told Laura about Isabel’s plans to remarry and take Michael to Australia, and of her thwarted plans to go and see him. Laura listened in silence. When she’d finished, Fran asked, ‘What do you think?’

  Laura spent moments deep in concentration. Then she said, ‘Isabel might be bluffing. Why not go along with her, humour her? See how things really are.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but come what may, I am going to see Michael on his birthday.’

  Excitedly, Laura said, ‘How about if you arrange a party for Michael’s birthday. Make a big thing of it. Splash out.’

  Fran smiled. ‘For one so young, you have great perception. On Michael’s sixteenth birthday, I was always going to make myself known to him, but I didn’t want anything too formal. A party, now that’s a great idea.’

  This time, Fran didn’t waste time writing to Isabel. She gauged a time when Michael would be at school and her father would be dozing, mid-morning, and she knew the telephone was situated in the hall. She had asked Mr Spencer’s permission to use the office telephone.

  Now, as she dialled High Bank House’s number, her heart and mind did double somersaults. But she hung on, listening to the burr of the ring, and then Isabel’s receptionist voice answered.

  ‘Isabel, it’s me, Frances.’

  There was a gasp and Isabel replied sharply, ‘What are you doing, ringing this house?’

  Fran stood tall, not that Isabel could see her, but it gave her confidence. ‘To inform you that I am coming to see Michael for his birthday.’

  ‘No!’ the word was a screech.

  Fran held the telephone slightly away from her ear. ‘Isabel, nothing you say will make any difference. I am coming.’

  ‘We’re going to Australia.’

  ‘Are you really? Michael is my son.’

  ‘You forfeited all rights to him. I am his mother.’

  ‘It was our mother who betrayed me.’ Her voice faltered to almost a whisper. ‘I would have never given up my child, the son I gave birth to.’

  ‘It is my name on Michael’s birth certificate.’

  ‘But you and I know that is false.’

  Silence followed, and then Isabel spoke, her voice strained. ‘If you come to see Michael, promise me you won’t tell him. Think what it would do to him.’

  ‘He is old enough to be told the truth.’

  ‘I shall take him away and you will never see him,’ Isabel’s voice rose hysterically.

  Fran flinched at her words, but said quietly, ‘I shall be coming to see Michael for his birthday.’

  ‘You are not going to tell him?’

  She didn’t answer directly, but replied, ‘I am planning a birthday meal for Michael on Sunday at the Burton Hotel and I intend to see my son.’ Fran said firmly.

  ‘I suppose I must agree,’ Isabel replied grudgingly.

  Quickly, before Isabel ended the conversation, she said, ‘I will be staying at the Burton Hotel and I will organise everything. Will you ask Michael to invite his friends or shall I ask him?’

  ‘No. I will,’ Isabel shouted down the line.

  When Fran replaced the handset on its cradle, her hands shook.

  Now, at last, she was going to see Michael and to talk to him. This would give her the chance to establish his true feelings about going to Australia. She leant against the cool office wall, her heart and mind racing. She felt jubilant. The yearning to be reunited with her son would soon be a reality. There was so much she wanted to know about him. She winced at the futility of all those lost years. They had so much to make up. And she wanted to tell him that she had never stopped loving him. He was her child.

  Chapter Nine

  Towards the end of February, the Reverend Maurice Fairweather collected Tina Newton to drive her in his black Austin, to New Holland to catch the ferry to Kingston upon Hull. She felt quite vulnerable as she sat next to the vicar, clutching her handbag tightly. Inside was her week’s wages plus her holiday pay and a small amount of money left over from Maggie’s life policy, after the funeral expenses had been paid. Also, it contained her birth certificate, which the vicar’s solicitor had checked for its authenticity. She found it hard to believe that those people named were her parents. Parents don’t just give you away.

  ‘Tina, it’s not too late to change your mind,’ the vicar broke into her thoughts.

  She glanced at him, her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Now Maggie’s gone, I want to belong to someone. Find my real mother.’ She wasn’t too bothered about a father. ‘And I might have brothers and sisters, a whole new family,’ she added wistfully.

  The vicar sighed inwardly and said gently, ‘Tina, try not to expect too much.’

  She replied, her voice harsher than she meant, ‘I know what you think, why would she want me now when she had already given me away.’ She turned away so he couldn’t see her hot, angry tears.

  At the ferry-boarding stage, the vicar extended his hand, saying, ‘God be with you, Tina. I do hope you find what you are looking for.’

  On impulse, ignoring his hand, she dropped her case to her feet and flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Then, standing back, she picked up her case and said, ‘Thanks, Vicar, for being my friend.’ His care and help had touched her heart and she would miss him.

  His face reddened, but his eyes shone. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’

  Boarding the ferry, she stood by the rail and waved to him. She stayed there until she could no longer see his figure. She gripped the rail tightly, trying to prevent the tears which threatened as the awful sensation of loneliness swamped her. Around her, she could hear the happy voices of passengers. Abruptly, she swung away and made her way down the stairs to sit below.

  Huddled on a corner bench, she contemplated her future or the lack of it. She realised now that she had been too headstrong in not heeding the vicar’s advice. He had suggested trying to trace Isabel Renton and then writing to her, to build up the relationship. She could hear his voice now. ‘Tina, this may be painful, but have you given any thought to the fact that Isabel Renton might not want to have contact with you?’ But Tina was too impatient. She was determined to find this woman and demand to know the reason why she abandoned her own daughter.

  She wasn’t sure what connection Mrs Agnes Bewholme, if any, had with Isabel. The vicar had been in touch with the solicitors mentioned in the documents, but they had moved offices and the file of Mrs Agnes Bewholme was presumed lost in a fire or in transition, and no one could recall a woman of that name and the letters Maggie had kept from Agnes didn’t have an address.

  Tina was relieved when the ferry docked at the pier and she stepped on terra firma. She hung on to her beret as the wind whipped hard, raw to the touch on her cheeks. She was glad to be wearing her winter coat, her sensible shoes and warm stockings.

  Her pace was quick as she walked through Market Place, past Posterngate to Whitefriargate, marvelling at the lovely shops, but she had no time to stop and admire. At last she reached the station and caught the train to Beverley, each stage of the journey taking her nearer to Isabel Renton. She must have dozed because the next thing she heard
was the porter calling out the name of the station. She stumbled to her feet and reached for her case from the overhead rack. She alighted onto the station platform and followed the scurrying passengers out into the rain drenched town. She sheltered in the lea of a wall, withdrew from her pocket a piece of paper the Vicar had given her and studied the address written on it. She wasn’t sure of the direction and looked around to ask someone, but the passengers had all gone and the porter was nowhere to be seen. She spied a shop across the road and she stepped off the pavement.

  Suddenly, there was a screeching of brakes and the scraping of tyres as the motorcycle skidded on the wet, greasy road surface. The rider, swerving to avoid hitting Tina and missing her by inches, caught her case, wrenching it from her hand. Shaken, she gasped in dismay as she saw her case hit the road with a crack and burst open, scattering her belongings across the wet, dirty road. She screamed at the young man and his pillion passenger, both of whom were struggling to right the machine.

  ‘It was your stupid fault, stepping out in front of me,’ retorted the driver angrily. Then he turned to his pillion passenger. ‘Are you all right, mate?’

  With the sleeve of his jacket, the youth brushed away the blood from his cut lip. ‘I’ll live.’ He glanced at Tina who was now sitting on the edge of the pavement, trembling.

  Seeing his friend now had control of the bike, he swung off to come and crouch down by Tina’s side. ‘Are you OK?’

  Fighting back her tears, she fumed, ‘Of course I’m not!’ Her lips quivered and her upturned gaze faltered under the intense blue of his eyes. Suddenly, the tears began to flow. She wanted her mother, Maggie, to hold her, sooth her, but she was dead, gone.

  ‘She’s in shock,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘She needs a strong cup of tea.’

  Looking through her tears, Tina gulped. ‘My clothes …’ Her best green skirt and matching blouse lay in a murky puddle of water with all her other clothes.