The Yearning Heart

by Sylvia Broady

  ‘Hello,’ she managed, weakly. He was the last person she would have expected to see.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  He still held her close and she was acutely aware of his physical nearness. She glanced down at the scuffed knees of her stockings and hastily pulled down her coat to cover them. ‘I’m fine, no real harm done. Thank you for rescuing me,’ she said, giving him a watery smile. His arms dropped to his sides and she wobbled slightly then righted herself. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. He didn’t answer her. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  Then, he said, ‘I’m staying in the area for a while, so I thought I’d explore the countryside.’

  ‘You’re staying with Rufus?’

  A shadow passed across his pale, gaunt face and his eyes dulled, filling with sadness. ‘It’s not convenient for me to stay there,’ he replied in a low voice.

  ‘I see,’ she murmured, but she didn’t. He looked so downcast. On impulse, she offered, ‘I’m on my way home. Come and have a cup of tea and meet my father.’

  His face lightened, but not his eyes. ‘An invitation to tea, how could I refuse?’

  Judging by the pain in his eyes, something seemed to be affecting him deeply. She wondered if her sadness, her loss of Michael once again from her life, showed in her eyes. Had Nick suffered a tragedy in his life? Her first reaction was to ask if anything was worrying him, but she didn’t want to pry and she could be completely wrong. After all, she knew very little about him.

  Silently, they walked side by side. She stole a glance at him, wondering if she should make polite conversation, but he seemed so lost in thought. They skirted behind Bloomsbury’s old house and she remembered. ‘Tall Chimneys!’ she exclaimed with delight. Nick stared at her. ‘I’ve just remembered the name of the house where my old school friend used to live.’

  He followed her eye of direction and said in a flat voice. ‘That’s Rufus’s house.’

  She repeated, ‘Rufus’s house. I didn’t realised he lived so near.’ She was just about to say, ‘Shall we call and see him?’ when Nick’s earlier remark, of it being inconvenient, flashed into her mind. She glanced at him, but he was staring straight ahead and she felt a touch of uneasiness. The last stretch to High Bank House seemed endless.

  On entering the house, she was so pleased to see Will sitting in his chair by the fire. He greeted her by saying, ‘Kettle’s on,’ and glanced questioningly at Nick.

  ‘Dad,’ Fran said, now wishing she hadn’t been so impulsive with her invitation, ‘I want you to meet Nick Saunders. We met recently on the train from York.’

  ‘How do you do, sir?’ Nick strode forward to shake Will’s hand.

  ‘I’ll be all right once I get my eyes sorted out.’ Then he proceeded to tell Nick about his visit to the doctor. Fran occupied herself with the tea tray.

  Refreshments served, Fran listened to the men’s conversation about the disused joinery shed and the yard. ‘Yes,’ Will was saying, ‘it was a thriving business. My father started it up in the twenties and, when he died, I carried it on. I worked alongside him from being a youngster. Aye, many a day I’d skip school and help bargees unload. My dad was a great character, taught me everything I know. And me, I’ve nobody to teach,’ he finished bitterly.

  ‘Another piece of fruit loaf?’ Fran offered, before Will could sink into remorse. ‘Nick?’

  ‘Please, it’s delicious.’ He winked at her and, taken by surprise, she laughed awkwardly. After that, Nick drew Will out, getting him to tell more of the heyday of the joinery trade.

  At first, Fran sat on the edge of her chair, hoping her father wouldn’t mention anything about Michael, but the conversation dwelt on the technical aspects of joinery. So, she leant back in her chair, feeling content to let their words ride over her until the scraping back of a chair startled her as Nick rose to his feet. She straightened up, feeling a little guilty – after all, she had invited him to the house and then practically ignored him. But he seemed unperturbed.

  He held out his hand, so strong in her small hand. ‘Thanks, Fran, for inviting me to tea. I’ve enjoyed it.’ He smiled, but his eyes remained veiled.

  She warmed to his politeness and, impulsively, again, she found herself saying, ‘You’re welcome to call anytime.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, still holding her hand and looking in Will’s direction. ‘Your dad’s promised to hunt out a book for me on carpentry and joinery, and …’

  Will assumed an obstinate face, his voice clear, ‘I’ve asked Nick over for Sunday lunch. It’s nice to have a yarn. I miss …’ Here, his voice faltered.

  Knowing what he was going to say, Fran said quickly, ‘Dad! You know I’m not a good cook.’

  ‘If it’s going to cause a problem …’ Nick said, withdrawing his hand sharply from hers.

  Once again, she found herself apologising for her rudeness. ‘Of course, you must come, but my cooking isn’t great, I warn you.’

  ‘What if we do it together, the preparation and the cooking – a joint effort?’ He cocked his head on one side, looking at her like a woeful spaniel.

  Surprised at his suggestion, she found herself agreeing. ‘That would be nice.’

  She walked with him to the front gate, conscious of its broken state. Nick eyed it, thoughtfully. ‘I could repair that for you. That’s if you don’t mind,’ he said, earnestly.

  ‘Kind of you to suggest it.’

  ‘Call it a thank you for lunch.’

  ‘You haven’t tasted my cooking yet.’

  He laughed and she was given the delight of seeing his eyes light up. He waved goodbye and she watched him stride away in the opposite direction from Rufus’s house. She still didn’t know what to make of him, of his mood swings. At least Will enjoyed his company. Maybe, Nick was just lonely, and that she could understand. Nevertheless, she viewed this coming Sunday’s lunch with some misgivings, wishing Will hadn’t invited him – because cooking for a virtual stranger would be a burden she could well do without.

  The next morning, as Fran came in with the post, Will asked, eagerly, ‘One from Michael?’

  Fran made an extra search through the letters, just in case she had missed anything. ‘Sorry, Dad.’ Under her breath she offered up a little prayer. Michael, please keep your promise and write.

  For the rest of that week, Fran was quite busy in the house. Nancy was back and Fran loved her bustling warmth, which filled the house. Friday, she was sitting at the kitchen table, flicking through an old cookery book.

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Inspiration for Sunday lunch,’ said Fran, pushing back an untidy strand of hair.

  ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, can’t beat it,’ Nancy replied, matter-of-factly.

  Fran replied, sheepishly, ‘I’m not sure how to cook either.’ Nancy feigned a look of horror. ‘I’m fine with vegetables and stews, anything in one pot but beef and Yorkshire pudding!’ Fran proceeded to tell Nancy about Will inviting Nick for Sunday lunch and his offer to help. ‘I don’t mind him helping, but I do need to know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I tell you what, Fran, you come shopping with me on Saturday and I’ll introduce you to my butcher. Then you can buy plenty of fresh veg from the market. I can come up early on Sunday morning and pop the meat into the oven and show you how to mix the Yorkshires.’

  ‘Nancy, you are an absolute angel.’

  So, on Sunday, the beef roasted slowly in the oven, its tantalising aroma filling the kitchen. As Fran weighed out the ingredients for the Yorkshires into a large basin, Nancy watched, commenting, ‘Now, you whisk love into a Yorkshire, that’s what makes it rise to perfection.’ So, Fran whisked with vigour, enjoying the process. Nancy, after giving instructions on cooking, said. ‘I must be off. Tina’s boyfriend’s coming for dinner.’

  Fran looked up at the mention of Tina’s name. ‘I like Tina, a nice girl, she’s fun.’

  ‘She’s just like a dau
ghter to me,’ Nancy said, proudly.

  Nick arrived later on, carrying a box of Black Magic chocolates. He sniffed the air. ‘Something smells good.’ He was dressed casually in grey trousers, blue shirt and a navy sleeveless pullover. As he put the chocolates into her hands, Fran noticed the fragrance of his newly washed hair and the smoothness of his freshly shaved face. She was pleased she’d made an effort with her appearance, for beneath her blue apron she wore a soft pink cashmere sweater and straight black trews. It was rather daring for a woman to wear trousers, but she found them comfortable, having worn breeches and dungarees when she was on the farm. Her touch of lipstick was almost gone and her hair was damp and ruffled from the heat of cooking.

  Will entered the kitchen. ‘I thought I heard your voice. Nice to see you,’ he greeted Nick.

  Fran looked at him, surprised to see him dressed smartly in dark brown trousers and a cream shirt with a matching tie, clean-shaven and his sparse grey hair neatly brushed. She smiled, glad to see her father happy. Nick had certainly made an impression on him.

  Will produced two bottles of beer from the larder and Fran looked enquiringly. Will grinned widely, showing his missing back teeth. ‘Nancy fetched them’ he said, handing one to Nick.

  Fran made a start on peeling the potatoes, ready to roast them in the oven. ‘Let me,’ offered Nick.

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she replied too quickly.

  ‘But I made a promise to help.’

  She glanced at him about to say there was no need, but something about the way he was looking at her stopped her. ‘You can scrape the carrots if you wish.’ So they worked side by side.

  The meal turned out reasonably well. ‘I need more practice,’ she lamented to the two men. ‘Perhaps next time I’ll try something different.’

  ‘Next time, now that sounds promising,’ commented Nick.

  Not falling into that trap again, Fran said quickly, ‘It won’t be for a long time. I’m too busy.’

  Nick looked at her, but didn’t say anything. He rose from the table and began to collect the plates. She pushed back her chair, but he halted her, his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll do the dishes, you sit with Will.’ Will was now sitting in the chair by the fireside, reading his newspaper.

  ‘He likes to be quiet after dinner. You wash and I’ll dry.’

  Nick rolled up his shirtsleeves and she was appalled to see a jagged-looking red scar stretching from his elbow down to his wrist. At the sight of it, she flinched and threw him a glance, expecting him to explain how he came by it. But he didn’t say a word.

  They worked in silence and she struggled for something to say. She stared out of the window, seeking inspiration. ‘The clouds are lifting. It looks as though it’s going to be a fine afternoon.’ He peered over her shoulder and she could feel his breath warm against her ear.

  ‘You’re right. Shall we have a walk later? That’s if you’ve not planned anything,’ he added.

  ‘We could, I suppose.’

  They sat round the fire for coffee. By the time they had finished, it was pelting down with rain. ‘Let’s have a game of dominoes?’ suggested Will, anxious not to let their visitor go yet.

  But Fran was finding the small talk a bit of a strain. She just wanted to curl up with a book. ‘I haven’t played dominoes since I was a child. I don’t think …’

  Will, cut in gruffly, ‘Michael always liked a game. I wish he …’

  ‘Of course we’ll have a game, Dad,’ Fran said too brightly. ‘Okay with you, Nick?’

  ‘Sure. I’m not certain who Michael is, but is he around to make up the foursome?’

  An unbelievable surge of heat shot through Fran’s body, reaching a peak in seconds then descending into a cold chill. Gripping the back of Will’s chair for support, she cried inwardly, Michael, oh, Michael I miss you so. Why don’t you write and let us know how you are? She gazed down at her father’s balding patch, avoiding Nick’s gaze.

  It was Will, who answered, his voice calmer now. ‘Michael’s my grandson. He’s in Australia.’ Fran’s hand slipped on to Will’s bony shoulder, her touch soothing, comforting.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fran was outside, hanging washing on the line, when Nancy opened the porch door and called, ‘There’s a letter arrived from Australia. I don’t think Will can wait a minute longer.’

  ‘Australia!’ Excitement filled Fran and she hurried into the kitchen.

  Will was on his feet coming towards her, a sheet of thin blue paper outstretched in his trembling hand. ‘It’s from Michael!’ he exclaimed, thrusting it at Fran. ‘Read it.’

  Will sat down on the edge of his chair and she stood by his side. Michael’s untidy handwriting leapt across the paper. A warm sensation filled her and the image of him kissing her on the cheek when she’d given him the cheque illuminated her mind.

  Impatiently, Will nudged her, urging, ‘Go on then.’ Fran took a deep breath.

  Dear Grandad,

  We arrived safely in Melbourne after a great voyage. I’ve taken pictures with the camera you gave me and, when they are developed, I will send them. Mam kept being sick. I was fine. John’s house is way out of the city in the country and in the distance you can see a range of hills and mountains. The house is so big, no upstairs and Grandad, can you believe, there are servants to cook and clean the house, so Mam’s taking it easy while we are settling in. I am itching to see the vineyards and the winery. When John has time, he is going to show me everything.

  It is winter here, would you believe. Not as cold as back home. It will take a bit of getting used to, the mix up of the seasons. Fancy having summer in December. You’d love the green-winged lorikeet, and red and blue parrots – so different from birds near the river back home. I miss you, Grandad. No one here plays dominoes, but I have a friend, Jarrod, and I’m going to teach him.

  Hope you are okay, Grandad, and Aunt Frances is looking after you well. I hope she stays, she seems nice. Mam sends you her love and will let you know when she and John get married.

  Cheers for now,

  Your loving grandson, Mike

  P.S. Write back soon

  Fran sat very still, staring down at the letter, hearing Michael’s strong, jovial voice so clearly in her head. She wished with all her heart she could be with him, sharing his experience of his new life, which he was obviously enjoying. She missed him now more than ever, but his happiness was her paramount thought. If he was unhappy he would want to come home, but his blissful joy radiated from the very words he wrote. How could she deny him that? A small consolation, she thought, but it gave her strength and from that strength, something stirred within her for, despite the thousands of miles separating her and Michael, she felt close to him, reading the letter.

  She looked up to see Will wiping the wetness from his eyes with the cuff of his shirt sleeve. ‘Well, he’s enjoying it, I suppose,’ he said, begrudgingly.

  For the next few days, it rained persistently and the level of the river was unusually high for July. The house was built on higher ground and the river bank along this stretch of water was quite high. If the river broke its bank, it would only go into the old yard. Will reminisced about the times the riverside pub flooded. ‘Many a time, Father and me sat in the bar, deep in water.’

  Looking out of the window at the torrential rain, Fran asked again, ‘Are you sure we’re safe?’

  Reassuring her, Will said, ‘I’ve lived here long enough to know. The only place likely to have a problem would be Magpie Cottage up near ponds. It’s low-lying there.’

  ‘Who lives there now?’ From her youth, she remembered the isolated cottage, inhabited by a retired bargee who was fond of whisky.

  Will snorted impatiently, ‘Well, you know!’

  Puzzled, Fran said, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Nick’s renting it. He must have told you?’

  She shook her head. She’d never given a thought to Nick’s accommodation arrangements. She didn’t know why she should, but s
he felt a little guilty for her lack of concern.

  The rains continued, and Will and Fran listened to the news on the radio. Both were quiet as the newscaster reported the devastation caused by rising rivers bursting banks, flooding homes and surrounding countryside. She looked across at Will, but he was dozing.

  Restless, Fran stood by the kitchen window watching the rain, feeling hemmed in by the still silence of the house. She needed air. She propped a note for Will against the sugar bowl on the table, letting him know where she had gone. Pulling on her Wellingtons and waterproofs, she set off through the yard to the landing stage. Avoiding the rotten wooden planks, she eased down to the river bank. Her booted feet squelched and slithered, and she nearly lost her balance. She should have used one of Dad’s walking sticks. Too late now, she would just have to take care. She stood still for a moment, the rain on her face, the smell, fresh and cleansing.

  On the opposite side of the river, its banks were already broken, flooding farm land that now resembled miniature lakes. From this point, she wasn’t able to see round the bend of the river to Magpie Cottage, where Nick was living. Suddenly, she had an attack of conscience and decided to find out if he was all right.

  Determinedly, she trudged along the sodden bank in that direction, but she didn’t get very far because it was so waterlogged and she was in danger of slipping down the bank. The only other way to reach the cottage was to backtrack, go down the lane and follow the path around the back of Tall Chimneys. ‘Rufus!’ Why hadn’t she thought about him before? He would know. So, to ease her mind, she splashed on, hurrying towards Rufus’s house.

  She knocked on the front door and waited, but there was no answer. She was wondering what to do next when she suddenly heard a scraping noise from within the house. The door opened to reveal a woman in a wheelchair, Helga, Rufus’s wife. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but—’