The Yearning Heart

by Sylvia Broady

  She dialled the number. She would tell Isabel that she was going to take Michael on a day’s outing, even if it was just to sit in the pictures or a cafe with him and his friends. At least she would be near to him. She wanted to cherish every precious moment with him.

  On the twelfth ring someone finally picked up the phone, a woman out of breath.

  A voice she didn’t recognise, a stranger’s said, ‘Hello, High Bank House.’

  ‘Can I speak to Isabel, please?’

  There was a pause before the woman replied, guardedly, ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  There was an even longer pause before the woman spoke. ‘Can I take your name, please?’

  ‘It’s Frances. Is there something wrong? Is Michael all right?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  The clink of the handset hastily put down, the woman’s clattering feet on the parquet floor of the hall resounded in Fran’s head. She clutched the phone in a vice grip so tight that her knuckles turned a bluey white. ‘Hello, hello, are you there?’ she demanded into the distant buzz on the line. Was Michael ill? Had there been an accident? She counted sixty horse brasses fixed around the bar structure before the woman returned, gasping.

  ‘Mr Bewholme wants to know where you are.’

  ‘I’m here, in Beverley.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ The woman went off again.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Fran shouted down the phone to the emptiness. ‘What is wrong?’

  Then, the woman answered, ‘Can you come now?’ The line went dead.

  Bewildered, Fran turned from the bar to find the landlord looking at her.

  ‘Everything all right, love?’

  ‘I need a taxi, quickly.’

  ‘Market Place’s your best bet.’

  In the taxi, she hardly dared to think what was wrong. Oh God, she thought, not Michael. On the road east towards Burton Banks, a farm tractor was shuffling slowly along the road and traffic began snarling up. Sitting on the edge of the seat, she cursed. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ she demanded to the driver. ‘This is an emergency.’

  Observing her through his rear-view mirror, he shrugged. ‘Not a lot I can do.’

  At last, the taxi turned off down the lane and she finally she arrived at High Bank House. She paid the driver and hurried round the side of the house and pushed open the kitchen door.

  ‘Dad!’ Will dozing in his chair jerked up his head as she burst into the room. ‘Dad, what’s the matter?’

  Will did not reply. His face ash grey, his lips trembling, tears began to spill, coursing down his unshaven face. He just stared vacantly at her, speechless. Unable to move, she could only stare back at him. Then, fearing the worse, she closed her eyes for a moment.

  Hurrying footsteps sounded and a homely looking woman entered the kitchen. ‘Mrs Meredith, I’m so pleased you’ve come. I didn’t know how to get hold of you. I’m worried about Mr Bewholme.’

  Acknowledging the woman with a nod, Fran moved to her father’s side and placed a hand on his thin shoulders, feeling his body trembling. Then she turned back to the woman. ‘Where are Michael and Isabel?’

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Gone! Gone? Where to?’

  ‘Why, Australia, of course.’

  The colour drained from Fran’s face and her whole body lurched and shuddered with shock. She leant heavily against her father’s chair. ‘When?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Fran stared at the woman, her head in a whirl. Surely this could not be right?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stunned, Fran felt her legs weaken. Somehow, she managed the few steps and slumped in the chair opposite Will. His head hung low and he was just staring at the floor. The woman went over to the stove and busied herself. Fran stared into the low embers of the fire. Michael, Michael, she said his name like a sad mantra. He’s gone. Isabel has taken him. I might never see him again. A sob caught in her throat, but her eyes were dry.

  ‘Drink this hot, sweet tea and you’ll feel better.’ The woman suggested kindly, thrusting a cup into Fran’s hands.

  She drank, not tasting anything. Her mind whirled, nothing made sense. She just couldn’t take it in. All she could think about was Michael travelling to the other side of the world and she might never see him again. Foolishly, she had hoped against hope that circumstances would change and John Stanway would have misgivings about marrying Isabel and taking on Michael – a wild fancy, but not impossible. Never did she envisage Michael would be snatched so quickly and so cruelly from her for the second time in her life.

  Her most cherished dream was to be reunited with her son, to hear him call her mother. Now all hopes were dashed. The cold reality of what had happened slapped her hard in the face, sending her reeling, shattering her expectations – the fulfilment of her life’s ambition to be a real mother. The cup slipped from her fingers to clatter on the saucer and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed as if her heart was broken. And it was.

  It seemed an age before her emotions calmed. Not looking at her father or the woman, she hurried up to the bathroom and drenched her red, blotchy face in cool, clear water. After this setback, would she be able cope with life, her future? What future? She closed her eyes, not knowing how she would be able to bear the intense pain. She turned away and slowly returned to the kitchen. The woman was standing by Will. She looked very concerned, her eyes fixed expectantly on Fran.

  Fran found herself going through the motions of some kind of bizarre normality. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name,’ she said in a trembling voice.

  ‘It’s Nancy, Nancy Davis. Now, you don’t worry about a thing. I can stay until you’re properly settled in. My Cyril is working away and my lodger can fend for herself. So I can stay.’

  Fran made her first decision and sent Nancy by taxi to Mrs Stephenson’s boarding house to collect her belongings and to cancel the room. Then she just sat with her father, holding his frail hand, neither of them speaking. Words couldn’t convey the misery they both felt.

  When Nancy came back, between them, they managed to take Will upstairs to his room. Fran sat by his side until he was asleep. Closing the bedroom door, she was surprised to see Nancy hovering on the landing. ‘He’s settled then.’ Fran nodded. Nancy rushed on. ‘I’ve run you a nice warm bath and I’ve put a hot water bottle in your bed.’

  ‘Bed.’ Fran hadn’t given any thought as to where she would be sleeping. The one thought that ran through her mind was her attic bedroom. The one where Victor had … ‘Which room?’ she whispered.

  ‘Your sister said to put you in the spare room. Is that all right?’ asked Nancy anxiously. ‘And she said for me to use her old room.’

  Sensing Nancy’s unease, Fran replied, ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll make some cocoa,’ said Nancy as she went downstairs.

  The next few days dragged by in a haze. Fran was grateful for the presence of Nancy who saw to the running of the house and tempted them with tasty meals. But both Will and Fran had little appetite, though they made an effort to please Nancy. Fran rang Mr Spencer, at the bookshop, and explained, without too much detail, that there was a family crisis. ‘Take the week off, Mrs Meredith. The new assistant is most capable, so don’t you worry.’

  She put the phone down. She knew a week wouldn’t solve this particular family crisis, but it gave her time to think things through and then … What? She wasn’t sure.

  Will seemed to age within the few days she was there. His face was gaunt, his body more stooped and shaky. Concerned, she said, ‘I’ll ring the doctor to come and see you.’

  ‘There’s nowt he can do for me,’ Will replied stubbornly, his eyes filling with tears.

  Fran felt her insides quiver with pain. She knew only too well what he meant. There was no cure for heartbreak. Needing some fresh air, she slipped on her coat and went outside the back way and stared across at the derelict timber yard.
She sniffed the air and caught the faint whiff of seasoned wood ingrained in the soil. She closed her eyes and she could hear the voices of yesteryear calling, the bargees unloading their cargo of timber. Her father had been a master joiner, mostly connected to farming projects, but the coming of the war and the terrible death toll of the nearby city of Hull meant that his skills were called upon to make coffins. Strong, forthright and much respected, Will Bewholme could always be relied upon by his fellow men. But not by his daughter, she thought, bitterly. When she needed him most, he wasn’t there for her. He could have overruled Agnes and she, Fran, could have come home.

  She spent restless nights and walks along the river bank before she came to her decision. ‘Nancy, can you stay on a few more days? I have to go back to York to attend to some business.’ It was Wednesday; they were in the kitchen sorting through the contents of the pantry.

  Nancy pushed a curl off her forehead. ‘I can stay until Friday afternoon, then my Cyril is home at teatime and I like to make him a nice meal. Is that all right Mrs Meredith?’

  Fran suddenly realised what a treasure Nancy was and hugged her. ‘Oh, thank you, Nancy. And, my name’s Fran. Mrs Meredith makes me feel so ancient.’ They both laughed.

  Fran caught the afternoon train to York and went straight to her flat. Once inside, and without taking off her coat, she sat down on the sofa, her insides churning in knots as she thought, once again, of the magnitude of past events and their devastating effect on her life. Michael was now on his way to the other side of the world, lost to her for ever. Gone was her dream, her hope of being reunited with her beloved son, the child she’d only held as a baby. Even now, after all these years, she could still feel the warm softness of his tiny body as he snuggled close to her breast. That wonderful feeling was part of her being, the longing which kept her going, gave her something to plan for and to live for. Exhaustion overcame her and her eyelids begin to prick. She closed her eyes and fell into a shadowy half-sleep. The turmoil in her mind raced, dreaming of people passing through, trying to make contact but never quite there long enough to do so.

  The damp coldness of the flat seeping into her body woke her. For a few moments, in that hazy time between sleep and consciousness, she wondered if she’d dreamt about Michael going to Australia. Her heart gave a quick leap and then dropped as she realised the cold reality. The confusion of her mind began to clear and she realised that the shadowy people in her dream were facets of herself throughout her life. She shuddered. A frightening thought.

  Stiffly, she rose to her feet. Her life was in shreds and somehow she must piece it together. She set about sorting through the flat to see what items she would need and what could be discarded. Absorbed in her task, she hadn’t noticed the semi-darkness, which now filled the flat. She was in the kitchenette, checking the top shelf of the food cabinet, when she accidently knocked over a jar of jam, which came hurtling down, smashing on the linoleum floor with a resounding crash. Fran just stood there, rooted, looking at the mess which seemed so like the state of her life at the moment.

  The next morning Fran went to see Mr Spencer. As she entered the bookshop, the ambiance greeted her, allowing her to stand unnoticed for a few moments breathing in the wonderful atmosphere of the smell of old and new books. She felt joy at seeing a mother and two young children sitting at a table tucked in the corner, pouring over a volume of Arthur Mee’s The Children’s Encyclopaedia. She could feel the children’s captivation as they listened to their mother. This pleased Fran, for such a book needed a parent’s guidance. A lump rose to stick in her throat. Was she never destined to be a proper parent? Her attention was diverted as a thread of spring sunlight wove through the window display of books devoted to the Brontë sisters and crossed her line of vision to catch dust motes dancing around the back of an unsuspecting grey-haired man. She couldn’t resist a faint chuckle. She felt a pang of abandonment, she would miss all this.

  ‘Mrs Meredith, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ Mr Spencer breathed enthusiasm.

  ‘The shop is doing well,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes, pleasantly so.’

  ‘Can I have a private word, Mr Spencer?’

  His bushy brows arched. ‘Come through to the office.’ He turned and, in an authoritative voice, said, ‘Miss Blanchard, take charge.’ Fran followed him into the cramped office, which was more of an overflow storeroom. He gestured her to sit down and waited for her to speak.

  She told him the barest necessary facts of how her sister had gone to Australia and her father, in Burton Banks, was old and failing, and needing her to care for him. ‘So, it’s with great reluctance that I must give you notice, Mr Spencer.’ There was silence in the tiny, stuffy office and, for a moment, Fran thought he’d forgotten she was there.

  He coughed, cleared his throat and looked kindly at her. ‘Mrs Meredith, I feel you are making too hasty a decision. Naturally, you are duty-bound to care for your father.’ He paused, his brow furrowing and then, relaxing, he continued, ‘Would you consider taking a three-month sabbatical? By that time, your father’s health may be much improved. Alternatively, have you thought that he might like to come and live in York with you?’

  Fran stared wide-eyed at Mr Spencer. Will coming to live here had never entered her thoughts. ‘Mr Spencer, what can I say? Your offer is very generous. Three months …’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘On the other hand, if you decide to stay with your father and you wish to seek employment, I can recommend you to an excellent colleague of mine, Mr Barleyfield, who has two bookshops in Beverley.’ He held up his hand as she began to speak. ‘You are a loyal and trusted worker whom I value, Mrs Meredith. Take the three months and then let me know your decision.’

  Back at the flat, she began packing her clothes, her few personal possessions and books. She would take what she needed for now and the rest could be sent on by carrier. She had paid the rent on the flat till the end of the month, but she couldn’t afford to keep it on for the three months. Laura was going to move into it, if the landlord agreed.

  ‘I’m so excited,’ exclaimed Laura. ‘A whole bathroom to myself, such luxury,’ she enthused, as she and Fran enjoyed Babychams together.

  The next day, Fran was ready to go. Laura was going with her to the station to help with the extra luggage. They hugged farewell. ‘I’ll send any post on to you,’ promised Laura.

  On the train, the thought which struck her most was that she was on her way home, after all these years of wandering, seemingly aimlessly, though this homecoming was not as she had often envisaged it. Going home to care for Michael, her son, had been the dream. But it was not to be.

  Then, voices deep within her exclaimed, Never give up hope. And with that resolution firmly in her mind, Fran sat back in her seat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tina, home from work, let herself into the house and sniffed the still air. She stood for a moment, disappointed by the absence of the familiar aroma of cooking she had come to love. Nancy must still be at that house, she thought. How she missed her and they expected too much of Nancy. She went into the sitting room to grab an apple from the fruit dish and was startled to see Nancy stirring from a nap. ‘Nancy, are you all right?’

  ‘Hello, sweetheart, just a bit weary, had a busy day. Put the kettle on.’

  Tina noticed the strained look on Nancy’s face. Without a word, she went through into the kitchen. She wondered if Nancy was ill, and this filled her with dread. Nancy was so dear to her. She had never forgiven herself for not noticing when her beloved Maggie was so ill. She didn’t want this to happen to Nancy. She placed the tray on the occasional table next to Nancy and poured the tea. She handed her a cup and sat on the comfy chair opposite.

  ‘This is nice, love,’ Nancy said, lifting the cup to her lips.

  It was then Tina noticed she was having difficulty lifting her arm. ‘Nancy, are you ill?’ Nancy tried to plaster a smile on her face, but it turned to a wince. ‘You don’t look well,’ she said co
ming to kneel by Nancy’s side.

  Nancy momentarily closed her eyes and then opened them to look up into Tina’s concerned face. ‘It’s nothing. I must have pulled a muscle in my shoulder moving a wardrobe.’

  ‘That’s daft, shifting heavy furniture at your age.’ Tina said, feeling panic rise in her throat.

  Nancy tried to make light of it. ‘Less of thinking I’m old. I’m in my prime.’

  ‘You should still see the doc.’

  ‘Tina, stop fussing. I’ll be right as ninepence after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking of going to work tomorrow?’

  ‘I must. I can’t let Fran down. She’s relying on me.’

  ‘She can get stuffed.’

  ‘Tina!’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s you I’m bothered about.’

  ‘But I’ve promised.’ Nancy wished she hadn’t, but wasn’t one to break a promise.

  Tina dropped to her knees again. ‘Look, Nancy. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll go. It’s my day off tomorrow.’ She placed a protective arm round Nancy’s ample waist to help her to her feet. ‘I’ll help you upstairs and run you a nice hot bath. Then, I’ll rustle us up an omelette.’

  Nancy replied, ‘You’re a lovely girl, Tina. Your mum doesn’t know what she is missing.’

  The dark, cold face of that Isabel Renton flashed into her mind. She can go to hell!

  Then, aloud, she said to Nancy, ‘I’d rather have you any day.’

  In the spare bedroom at High Bank House, Fran woke after another restless night, her body aching. She knew she was driving herself to physical tiredness, but she couldn’t stop the process. Each night, she fell exhausted into bed, hoping this would quell her emotional pain. This was the theory, but, still, endless pictures and thoughts of Michael crowded her mind, torturing her. She loved him now more than ever, more than when she had first held him in her arms when he was the sweet-smelling baby. How she missed the vibrant young man her son had grown into. She sighed deeply at so many wasted years. Then, with an angry jerk, she flung back the blankets and jumped out of bed. The threads of the worn carpet were rough on her bare feet as she crossed the room and pulled back the curtains. She saw a grey day, which ironically matched her mood.