The Yearning Heart Page 9

  Breathlessly, they drew apart, both looking deep into each other’s eyes. Joe whispered, ‘Does this mean you’re my girl?’

  She replied simply, ‘Yes, Joe.’ She watched him go and then let herself into the house.

  There was a lovely aroma to greet Tina as she went through into the kitchen where Nancy was preparing the evening meal. Nancy smiled a welcome and Tina felt her heart, so full of Joe and this motherly woman, over spill with love.

  ‘Hello, love.’ Nancy greeted her. ‘My, you’ve got plenty of colours in your cheeks. Different from that pasty-looking girl I first met.’ She bustled around, bending down to take a tray from the gas oven. ‘Hot cakes to go with ham and eggs, and apple pie and custard for afters.’

  ‘You spoil me.’

  ‘I think you need a bit of pampering after what you’ve gone through.’

  Tina felt a lump rising in her throat, she didn’t want to cry because she was so happy, but she couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

  ‘Oh, love!’ Nancy said, enveloping Tina into the bosom of her arms, stroking the tangle of hair. And, when Tina was quiet, she said, ‘Now, dry your eyes and let’s eat. And, afterwards, you and I are going to have a serious talk.’ After the meal, they settled comfortably by the fire, Nancy and said, ‘Tina, love, you can tell me to mind my own business. I know you’ve recently lost your mother, but there’s something more.’

  Then it came spilling out. How, after Maggie died, Tina found out that she was only fostered, that she was really someone else’s daughter and that she didn’t know why she had been abandoned. Tina went up to her room and brought down her birth certificate to show Nancy.

  Nancy studied the document carefully as if she was looking for clues to a crossword puzzle. ‘Isabel and Victor Renton are your real parents. But where are they? And who is this Agnes Bewholme who registered your birth? The only address on the here is the hospital where you were born.’ Nancy looked across at Tina. ‘Have you checked there?’

  Tina explained about her friend Reverend Fairweather. ‘He checked for me. Just after I was born, it was turned into a hospital for wounded troops and now it’s derelict.’

  ‘What about the solicitors, don’t they know anything?’ Tina told her about the lost files. ‘It seems to me there’ve been a lot of shoddy workers, not keeping proper records.’ Aware of Tina’s misery, she added, ‘But, it was wartime and things happened.’ They both lapsed into silence.

  Tina was feeling so mixed up, one minute wanting to find her real mother and the next minute feeling the fear of rejection, and then grieving for Maggie. She gulped back more threatening tears.

  The next day, she sent a postcard to her friend.

  Dear Reverend, just to let you know I’ve got a job in a department store and also to give you my new address: 27 Churchill Close. Mrs Nancy Davis is a lovely woman and I’m living as one of the family, she’s so kind. I heard that Mrs Dixon is home from hospital and staying with her daughter. I haven’t found Isabel Renton yet …

  Tina bit on her pen. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Chapter Eleven

  From the kitchen window of High Bank House, Isabel watched Michael climb onto the motorbike behind Joe Miller. She wished that Joe hadn’t deferred his National Service. She supposed it was because of his apprenticeship. He was two years older than Michael and only worked in a garage. They had both taken part in a school concert when attending junior school and it surprised her why Michael should remain friends with Joe, despite her opposition. She had ambitions for Michael to go on to higher education, not waste his time with Joe or Shirley, though she supposed Shirley was better than that girl Joe had teamed up with. She was so common looking, with her dyed red hair, and the skirts she wore were quite indecent, especially when riding on the motorbike. Only the other day they had been in the post office queue in front of her and Joe, still as cheeky as ever, had shouted, ‘Morning, Mrs Bell,’ the name he obstinately called her. It had arisen when she’d insisted he called her ‘Mrs’ and not ‘Aunty’. At first he called her ‘Mrs Isabel’, and then he shortened it to ‘Mrs Bell’.

  Rain began to spot the window and Isabel’s thoughts turned to Australia. It promised a warm sunny climate, new home, new husband, but most important was the security for her and Michael. Living in Australia would provide the greatest possible distance from Frances. She winced at the recollection of Frances always trying on some pretence or other to win Michael back. Agnes had put a stop to all that nonsense, but now she was gone. So, it was up to her, Isabel, to thwart any scheme which Frances might be planning. Like now, with Michael’s sixteenth birthday looming and Frances insisting that the silly agreement, which Agnes had concocted all those years ago, still held good. Isabel’s eyes hardened. Not as far as she was concerned. That is why the meeting with Frances on Sunday must run smoothly. As far as Michael was concerned, she was coming through to Beverley to discuss looking after Will. Which was true, but this could have easily have been discussed by letter. It was the unsaid, which bothered her. Would Frances make a fuss and instigate a claim on Michael through the courts? Though Isabel was named as Michael’s mother on the birth certificate, the record was falsified and this worried her. A shiver ran through her body, but she quickly shook it off.

  She turned her thoughts to the better things, of the day when she had first held Michael in her arms. From that day, her love for him was unconditional, her reason for living. He was her son in every sense of the word. When he’d cried with teething troubles it was she who soothed him, nursed him through chickenpox and kissed away the tears on his first day at school. No one was going to take him from her. Vehemently, she cried out loud, ‘No one, not even Frances.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Will, roused from his catnap, stared blearily at Isabel. She ignored him.

  Later on, Isabel was upstairs in her bedroom, surveying the contents of her wardrobe. She was looking for something fitting to wear for the lunch on Sunday. She wanted to create the right impression, to boost her confidence. Pulling out garments at random, she held a favourite of hers, a navy-blue dress with a white Peter-Pan collar, which she had often worn when out with John, but it wasn’t quite right. Michael called it ‘nunty’. She would have liked something new, a dress to make an impression. But she was saving up to buy material to have dresses made to take to Australia with her, as well as accessories. Michael also would need new clothes, he was growing so fast. She sighed and turned back to rummage once more in the wardrobe. Most of her clothes were ancient and from time to time she remodelled them, adding collars, trimmings and occasionally changing a worn dress into a blouse. She supposed the thriftiness came from the war years of make do and mend and it was hard to break the habit, though she was determined to do so once she was established as John’s wife in Australia. She thought of Deirdre’s warning to make sure John wasn’t out to deceive her. But she, Isabel, had no money so that wasn’t the reason for him wanting to marry her. No, Isabel knew in her heart, and as sure as she could be, that John cared for her and he was genuine in his desire to make a home for her and Michael.

  She had almost reached the end of the rail and pulled out an old brown coat, which had been intended to be cut up to make a rag rug and had been forgotten about. As she swished it along the rail, a garment hidden beneath the coat slipped off the hanger and she saw a flash of yellow material as it curled on the bottom of the wardrobe. She bent down to pick up the garment, feeling the soft cotton, now limp with age. As she shook it and held it up for inspection, a choking gasp escaped as she recognised the dress. She flung it across the bedroom as if it had bitten her. A hot sweat gripped her and she trembled. She collapsed on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. And there on the white-grey expanse, like a picture screen, flickered that terrible day. A memory for ever etched in her subconscious, coming to the fore when she least expected it.

  Images flashed through her mind, recalling how that day, back in 1941, had started happily. She sighed deeply, want
ing to erase the memory, but try as she might, she couldn’t. She had been so naive, wanting to believe she was the only woman in her husband’s life. But disillusionment of his faithlessness left a hard core in her heart.

  In 1941, she had been helping to organise a dance to raise money for the war effort and she had bought a new dress to wear for the occasion. She had seen the dress some weeks ago and had been paying money weekly to the shopkeeper and now the dress was paid for and hers. She wanted Victor to be proud of his wife. This was his embarkation leave. She dreamt that at the dance, heads would turn when they saw her on the arm of her handsome, soldier husband, just like at the pictures and the thought thrilled her. She would show them that he was hers. Then it happened. Her world was blown apart …

  …‘I’m home,’ Isabel called, merrily. She was eager to show her parents and Victor her beautiful, yellow cotton dress, a colour which would catch everyone’s eyes. She glowed with pleasure over her choice and Victor would love it, she felt sure. The colour showed off her dark brown hair and cream skin to perfection. Going through into the heart of the house, to the big kitchen, she was surprised to find both her parents slumped in their chairs on either side of the fireplace, staring into space. This pulled her up sharp and she frowned, saying, ‘Have you received bad news?’ But they didn’t speak. Her mother didn’t have any living relatives. Was it Aunt Maud, her father’s sister?

  Suddenly, Agnes broke the silence, saying in a strained voice, ‘It’s our Frances.’

  Isabel stared at her mother, a cold, sinking feeling filled her. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’ Agnes’s voice hit the air.

  ‘Pregnant!’ Isabel repeated, not sure if she’d heard correctly. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes,’ Agnes snapped.

  Then, for the first time in her life, Isabel witnessed a look of terror on her mother’s face. This frightened her. She forced out the question. ‘There’s something else?’ Her body abruptly sagged and she sat down on the nearest kitchen chair.

  Agnes looked to Will, but he didn’t speak, just lowered his head as if in shame. Visibly, she braced herself. ‘The father …’ She faltered, pulling the handkerchief from her apron pocket, and wiping the tiny beads of sweat from her brow.

  Isabel stated, ‘It’s Charlie Moxon.’

  ‘No.’

  Feeling puzzled by this reply, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her mother’s uncharacteristic behaviour frightened her. ‘Who then?’ she blurted.

  Agnes buried her face in her hands and when she did look up; her face was as white as a sheet. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘It’s Victor.’

  Stupidly, the name didn’t register as Isabel stared at Agnes. ‘Victor who?’

  Agnes buried her face again and couldn’t speak. It was Will who answered. ‘Your husband.’

  Isabel felt her whole body stilled, held in motion and then it exploded and she screamed. ‘No, it’s not true! Not Victor?’ She jumped up, knocking over the chair, rushing to her mother’s side. ‘Say it’s not true,’ she pleaded.

  Agnes tried to hold her sorrowing daughter close, but Isabel would not be consoled, pushing her mother away. Agnes murmuring repeatedly, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  Not listening, she stumbled upstairs to find Victor, but their bedroom was empty. Her sobs echoing, she ran outside. She found him in the joinery office, alone, sitting at the desk, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.

  ‘Isabel.’ His dark eyes narrowing, he asked, ‘What’s up?’

  Rage fired her. ‘You might well ask, Victor Renton. How could you?’ Her face puckered, distorting, ugly, as she fought to control her tears. Never before had she confronted him. Her voice quavered, her finger wagged. ‘I’ve put up with your philandering ways away from home, but my own sister?’ Humiliation, hurt, betrayal, self-pity mixing with anger, she lost her reasoning. She flew at him, her sharp, long nails clawing at his face, drawing blood.

  He caught her wrists, imprisoning her. ‘What’s that vixen been telling you?’

  ‘She’s pregnant! My little sister is pregnant by you. You bastard!’

  Victor paled, releasing his wife. ‘Never. It was only the once,’ he lied. ‘A mistake, believe me.’

  She gawked at him, lips quivering. ‘You don’t deny it?’

  ‘Why should I?’ He gave a harsh chuckle. ‘It proves I’m a man. I can father a child. I’m not cold and barren like you,’ he taunted.

  Wrenching her hands from his grasp, she backed away from him, his cruel remark adding to her devastation. She caught her body against a protruding corner of the metal filing cabinet. She didn’t feel a thing, so great was the pain which struck at her heart. She fled from the office and stumbling through the yard, she fell against a wood stack where she was violently sick.

  After that fateful day, she had thought of ending her life, but Agnes had cajoled her, bullied her, forcing her to stay married to Victor, promising to make everything all right. Agnes started by sending Frances away to stay on a farm in deepest Lincolnshire with distant relatives.

  Then, two things happened which changed her life. Victor was killed in action. And then, when Agnes placed the baby, Michael, in her arms, she began to live again.

  Now, Isabel sat up and swung off the bed. She picked up the yellow dress and, with a vengeance, she ripped the thin material to shreds, now more determined than ever to keep Michael, her son, close by.

  ‘Mam, are you there?’ The sound of Michael’s voice bought Isabel up sharp. Feeling emotionally drained, she replied as calmly as she could, ‘Yes, Michael, I’m coming.’ She went from the bedroom onto the landing and looked over the banister at her son in the hallway below.

  He looked up at her, saying, ‘I’ve promised to go into school to help shift some scenery. Any chance of an early tea, Mam?’

  ‘Of course, love. I’ll be down in a tick.’ She went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water and then rubbed it vigorously on a rough towel, wanting to remove all thoughts of the infidelity between her sister and Victor.

  After tea, she walked down the garden path with Michael and watched as he strode down the lane. Just as he reached the bend, he waved. She blew him a kiss. This was one of their little rituals that began on his first day at school. Now it was only done in private and mostly in a joking fashion. A doting mother she maybe, but she wouldn’t think of embarrassing him.

  She went into the front room, so rarely used these days, to hunt the shelves of the bookcase to see if there was a book on Australia. Suddenly, there was a crash from the kitchen. Closing the glass doors of the bookcase, she went into the kitchen to investigate what her father had knocked over this time. It was his small table and the contents of a mug of tea swam on the floor.

  ‘You never got me baccy,’ he accused.

  Ever since she had made it quite clear to him that she and Michael were definitely going to live in Australia, he had become clumsier. He was doing it out of spite, trying to make her feel guilty. Never once did he consider her happiness. Since her mother’s death, he had grown into a crusty old man. Bitterly, she thought of her wasted years spent in this house. First, by a cheating husband; second, by a dominating mother; and now, her father who didn’t appreciate the sacrifice she made to care for him. Well, let Frances have a taste of it now and look after Will.

  She eased Will back into his chair, wiped up the spilt tea and fetched his baccy from the dresser drawer. Thinking ahead to the meeting with Frances tomorrow, she didn’t want to upset her father so she didn’t rebuke him, anxious for him to be in a reasonably co-operative mood.

  Will lit his pipe and blew clouds of smoke, drawing on it with pleasure. Isabel hated the foul-smelling smoke and opened a small side window. She looked at him with disdain. His unshaven chin, the dribbles of food down his crumpled shirt front disgusted her. Before she could stop herself, she blurted. ‘I hope you’re going to smarten yourself up for tomorrow.’

  Wil
l inclined his head slightly, just enough to glare at Isabel. ‘No!’

  ‘What do you mean, no? You’d better. I’m not having you showing me up. It’s the best hotel in Beverley we’re going to and Deirdre and her husband will be there,’ she snapped, her dark eyes flashing. ‘You don’t want your wayward daughter to see you looking like a tramp.’

  Though cracked lips and pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth, he spat. ‘I’m not going. If our Frances wants to see me, she can come here.’ And, with that, he reached out and turned the wireless on full blast.

  ‘Dad, will you turn it down,’ she yelled. He ignored her. ‘Dad, please.’ Still, he continued to ignore her. Unable to cope with his mood, she rushed from the room to the sanctuary of her bedroom. She leant against the closed door, her heart pounded so fast she thought it would burst. Then, through clenched teeth, she muttered. ‘If I stay here much longer, I swear I’ll swing for him.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Fran hurried through the narrow streets, crowded with visitors and shoppers and, by cutting through snickelways, she reached home in record time. Mr Spencer had taken pity on her by suggesting that she worked her dinner hour and leave at four. Her case was already packed, waiting by the door. She scribbled a hasty note to Laura to let her know she had gone away a day earlier and pushed it through her letter box.

  At the station, she dashed along the platform. The guard, whistle poised, give her a frown and waited a few seconds for her to scramble aboard the train bound for Beverley. The whistle shrilled, the engine moved and steam billowed. Getting her breath back, Fran walked along the narrow corridor, glancing in the compartments to see if there was a vacant seat, but they all seemed to be full. Looking for a suitable place to lean against, she spied, in the compartment nearest to her, a man in a corner with his legs sprawled across the width of another seat.