The Yearning Heart

by Sylvia Broady

  Tina spoke quietly, ‘I didn’t know I was Christine until Maggie died.’ Her voice caught in a sob.

  Fran looked up, her voice trembling, she said, ‘Tina, on 8th March 1942, I gave birth to twins: a son, Michael, and a daughter, Christine.’ Tears ran unheeded down her face as she looked across the table into the stunned face of her beloved daughter, Christine.

  ‘You are my mother! But why did you let me go?’

  ‘Oh, Tina.’ She gulped back more tears. ‘I was told you had died.’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t,’ she said indignantly. ‘But, how did Maggie get me?’

  ‘I think it was entirely my mother’s doing. She was ashamed of me. I was unmarried and had brought disgrace to the family. Isabel couldn’t have children, so my mother gave her my son, Michael, and she must have given you to Maggie.’

  ‘What a wicked woman. Didn’t your father know?’

  ‘Yes, about Michael, but not you.’

  ‘Does Michael know?’

  Fran shook her head.

  Suddenly, realisation gripped Tina as she blurted, ‘So, Mike is my brother. I hoped – I knew there was something between us, but I wasn’t sure of my feelings. I felt so mixed up.’ She smiled, her face lighting up with joy. ‘I’ve got a brother.’ Then she burst into tears.

  Fran pushed back her chair, nearly toppling it in her haste to be at her daughter’s side. Fran gathered Tina into her arms and hugged the trembling girl close, whispering, ‘Tina, my darling daughter, I will never let you go again. Never!’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After hugging and kissing, and eyes wiped dry, mother and daughter just sat quietly for a few moments. Then Fran jumped up, saying, ‘I have something to show you, Tina.’ She went over to the dresser where her handbag was, opened it and drew out the well-worn leather wallet, soft to her touch. She felt her heart contract as she held it in her hands, so precious it was to her. She went back to Tina and sat on the chair next to hers. All the time, Tina was watching her, her eyes unsure. Fran smiled, reassuringly, and flipped open the wallet to reveal two compartments holding the cherished photographs of two babies, one of her son and one of her daughter, and placed it on the table in front of Tina.

  Tina gazed at the two photographs, her eyes wide with wonderment. She picked up the wallet and, caressing it, she traced her finger tenderly over each photograph and whispered, ‘Is this … is me and Mike?’

  Fran, her voice barely audible, replied, ‘Yes, taken when you were both only a few days old.’ She wanted to say more, but words would not come, so she just watched her daughter’s beautiful face and saw the joy and the happiness in her eyes.

  Tina held the wallet for a long time, not wanting to let go of her new-found past.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Fran, reaching out for the wallet, which Tina was reluctant to let go of. On the other side of the pictures was a single closed compartment. Fran eased it carefully open, her heart beat faster and she caught her breath. She hadn’t looked at this photograph for such a long time, because it always tortured her.

  ‘What is it?’ said Tina. Fran handed her the wallet. Tina stared at the photograph of a young girl, in bed, with a baby resting in each arm. ‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed in surprise, ‘and Mike and me. It’s amazing. Oh, Fran, you were so young.’

  Suddenly, both mother and daughter were laughter and crying at the same time.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Both women turned to see Nick and Will standing in the doorway of the kitchen and, by the look on their faces, not sure whether to enter or not.

  ‘Why are you both crying?’ asked Will. His face etched with bewilderment, he ran a trembling hand through his sparse hair.

  Fran answered, ‘Because we are so happy. Come in, don’t stand there.’ Both men came in.

  Then Will’s face lit up and he muttered, ‘I don’t understand the ways of women, everything teks them so long.’ He shed his coat and shoes, put on his slippers and sat in his chair and lit his pipe.

  Nick, guessing what had happened, didn’t comment, but wisely went and filled the kettle to make a pot of tea. Tina slipped upstairs to the bathroom and Nick looked across at Fran who was still sitting at the kitchen table. She smiled at him. He turned back to pour the tea.

  Tina returned, her face fresh and pink. She was not sure what to do or say, though there were so many questions she wanted to ask – but, at the moment, they were all racing around in her head. She sat down next to Fran and watched as Nick carried the four mugs of tea to the table. She was just about to say she would take Will’s to him when Fran said, ‘Dad, can you come over here for your tea. I—Tina and I have something to say.’

  ‘Um, just when I’m comfy,’ he muttered, knocking out his pipe. But he creaked up from his chair and ambled to the table. He surprised them all by saying, ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Will’s.

  Fran said, ‘How can you?’

  ‘Ah,’ Will replied. ‘You say, lass, and we’ll see.’ With that he took a long sup of his tea.

  Mystified with her father’s riddle, Fran coughed and cleared her throat, and found herself blurting out, ‘Tina is my daughter.’ She reached for Tina’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

  Nick smiled and gave Fran a wink, to say ‘I told you it would be just fine’. She returned his smile and looked to Will.

  ‘Dad.’

  Will beamed and said in a loud voice, ‘I was right – I always thought she was yours, because, Fran, Tina reminded me of you when you was young.’ He leant back in his chair with a degree of satisfaction. Then he startled them by sitting bolt upright. ‘What I don’t understand is how she came to be.’

  Tina turned to look at Fran, waiting.

  All eyes were fixed on Fran. She sat erect and held her head high. Her voice was soft but clear. ‘Tina is Michael’s twin.’

  Will gasped. Fran looked directly at her father. ‘Did you know, Dad?’

  Will’s ruddy complexion had blanched. He stuttered out his words. ‘No, I never. I only saw Michael and there was no talk of a baby girl. Agnes never said. I would have remembered, surely.’ He glanced bewildered at Fran. ‘What happened?’

  Fran’s voice was cold and harsh. ‘Mother told me that Christine, my baby daughter, had died. I was heartbroken and ill for months. Why would she do that, Dad, tell me that my baby was dead?’

  Will, unable to take it in, just shook his head, looking shocked.

  It was Nick who intervened. ‘Fran, I think it is best if we let Will have a rest.’

  Fran slumped back, emotionally drained.

  Tina waited for Nick and Will to leave the room before speaking to Fran. ‘Why do you think Agnes hid the fact that I was alive? She must have been ashamed of me.’

  Quickly, Fran sat up and reached from Tina’s hand. ‘Oh, my darling daughter, you must never say that. Agnes was only ashamed of me.’

  ‘And I had Maggie to love me.’ Tina sighed, thinking of Maggie still as her mother. Suddenly, a thought jolted her. ‘How did Maggie come to get me?’

  ‘I wondered about that. All I can think was that when I was confined with you and Michael, there was a woman whose baby was stillborn and I remember how sad she looked. On the day we were waiting to leave the hospital, she was also in the waiting room. She came to look at you and Michael and there was this longing in her eyes. I think that woman was Maggie and knowing her grief at the loss of her baby, Agnes took advantage of the circumstances.’

  The two women were silent, both deep in their own thoughts and memories. The silence was broken by Fran when Nick entered the kitchen. ‘Is Dad all right? I really thought he knew about Christine.’

  Nick came and put an arm around Fran. ‘He’ll be all right. Said he was just having a nap and he’ll be down in an hour or so.’

  Tina stood up. ‘I’d best be going now. I’ll catch the four-thirty bus.’

  Fran moved away from Nick and rose to her feet. ‘I’ll walk down the lane with you.’
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br />   Mother and daughter, arms linked, strolled down to the bus stop. ‘Life is strange,’ said Fran. ‘The years I’ve spent longing to be reunited with Michael, for him to call me “Mother”.’ She paused, remembering those lost years. ‘Unrequited love is hard to bear. But in all my years of longing, Tina, I never dreamt that I would be reunited with you, my daughter. It is a miracle.’ Fran stopped in her step and so did Tina. Fran held Tina’s gaze. ‘You are happy?’

  Tina averted her eyes from Fran, saying, ‘Yes, but I’m not sure if I can call you mother. You see Maggie …’ Her voice trailed away, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Fran drew her close, saying, ‘All those years Maggie brought you up and you called her mother, which was only right. You and I know we are mother and daughter, and that is all that matters to me. Tina, I am happy for you to keep on calling me Fran.’

  ‘You don’t mind? I was worried.’

  ‘Now the air is clear, we’d better move on or you’ll miss the bus.’

  At the bus stop, Fran said, ‘Can you come tomorrow after work?’ She saw the look of uncertainty in her daughter’s eyes. ‘Bring Joe, come for a meal. I’ll have a talk with Dad to see if he can remember anything more.’

  Tina flung herself into Fran’s arms. ‘I’m so glad I found you.’

  ‘Me too. Bus is here.’ Fran quickly kissed her daughter on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Fran waved until the bus was out of sight then turned to retrace her steps down the lane. She walked slowly, as if in a trance. So much had happened in such a short space of time. It seemed a surreal situation, for never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that her daughter was alive, the daughter she had been told by Agnes had died in infancy. Silently, for years, Fran had mourned the loss of her beautiful baby girl. What if Tina hadn’t been searching for her birth mother, would she have ever known? She shuddered at such a thought.

  The next morning, Fran was woken up sharply by banging and bumping coming from Will’s room. She glanced at Nick, but he was sleeping deeply. She slipped out of bed and reached for her dressing gown and slippers, and went to tap on Will’s bedroom door, calling, ‘Dad, are you all right?’

  His gruff voice echoed, ‘Course not.’

  She pushed open the door, gasping. ‘Dad, what on earth are you doing?’ She couldn’t believe what she saw. The dressing table drawers were all open and the contents were scattered across the floor, and her father was on his knees, his head and upper body inside the huge Edwardian wardrobe, where he was rummaging. Treading carefully, not wanting to damage anything, Fran crossed the room and dropped to her knees to see what Will was doing.

  ‘It must be somewhere,’ Will muttered.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Your mother’s box of tricks,’ he wheezed.

  ‘Dad, you get up and let me look. Come on.’ She put her hand under his elbow to help lever him to his feet and he came up, panting for air. ‘You shouldn’t be doing things like this,’ she admonished. ‘I don’t want you to trip, so mind where you put your feet,’ she said, leading him to a chair. He wheezed and panted some more, and Fran went to fetch him a glass of water.

  When Will had his breath back, Fran asked, ‘What is so important about what you were looking for?’

  Will looked glum-faced. ‘It’s Tina. I didn’t know about her.’ He looked at the chaos scattered about the room then at Fran. ‘Agnes used to have a fancy chocolate box with all her bits and pieces in. I wanted ter see if there were anything about Tina, but I can’t find it.’

  She thought that Isabel had probably thrown it out, but to humour him she asked, ‘Do you want me to look?’

  Will’s face brightened a little. ‘Please, lass.’

  First, she tidied up the room and then Fran went over to the wardrobe and, hitching up her dressing gown, she dropped to her knees. The interior was dark and gloomy. A torch would have been useful, but she was here now so she fumbled, moving shoes and belts and a pair of trousers, and she tugged at something wedged in a corner. A box. She eased it out and blew off the dust, coughing as she did so. It was a square, flat box with a faded picture on the lid of a cottage with a garden and a stream. Once, it must have been bright and colourful, now it was a dull green and yellow. It was fastened with a bow of ribbon, once white, now grey. Fran felt a prickly tingling of her spine. This was Agnes’s box. Carefully, she rose to her feet and turned to Will. She didn’t say a word, but handed it to him.

  He stared at the box, a fearful expression on his face. He looked to Fran and said, ‘I can’t, lass. I can’t open it. Will you?’

  Fran did not want to unlock what Agnes had stored in her box but, nevertheless, she took the box from Will’s shaking hands. Slowly, she untied the ribbon, not wanting to discover what lay beneath the dusty lid. To her mind, nothing that Agnes did was good. She just wanted to forget about her, the woman she once called Mother. She was dead and had no part or future in her life. But, here she was … Fran squeezed her eyes tight. She could never forgive Agnes for her cruelty in keeping Fran away from her beloved Michael and the lie of saying that Christine had died, the yearning years of longing for her children and the suffering of unbearable grief, all caused by Agnes. She opened her eyes and, with a mighty pull of anger, the ribbon snapped, releasing the lid, which fell to the floor.

  Fran stared down at the contents of the box, a damp, musty odour secreted from the brittle paper, making her stomach turn, nauseating her.

  ‘What do they say?’ Will asked, his voice not more than a whisper. She looked at him, startled for a moment because she had forgotten he was there in the room with her.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She rose, crossed the room and tipped the contents of the box onto the bed. She winced inwardly, feeling loath to touch them. Will, his knees cracking, struggled over to stand by her side and stare down at the bundles of letters. They both stood in silence for what seemed an eternity.

  Will broke the uneasy stillness. ‘What shall we do with them?’

  Fran pushed her own feelings away and replied. ‘We’ll have to read them for Tina’s sake and Michael’s. To see if they explain anything.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to gather her thoughts. ‘Tina’s coming for tea today, and Joe. If there is anything she needs to know, the sooner the better to tell her.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After breakfast, Will and Fran sat at the kitchen table. Nick busied himself upstairs, painting the spare bedroom, leaving father and daughter to peruse their findings. The bundle of letters was now undone and each one lay separately on the table. Fran looked at them and then let her gaze wander around the kitchen, searching for anything to delay the task ahead. She didn’t want to probe into Agnes’s past. Fran would always hate her, no matter what was revealed. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to pick up the first letter, aware that Will was watching her.

  The envelope was faded white to beige and from it Fran extracted the single sheet of paper. The date at the top of the page was 12th May 1925. So long ago, she thought, and glanced down to the bottom of the page, squinting to decipher the scrawling signature as she read out loud, ‘George Spring.’ She looked to Will to see if he recognised the name. He shook his head. Fran went back to the beginning of the letter, her voice held a tremor as she read.

  Dear Mrs Agnes Bewholme,

  Just to let you know that my dear friend, your mother, Martha Boswell, passed away on 10th May. Martha made all her own funeral arrangements before she died and asked that I inform you. The service takes place on the 20th at 2 p.m. at the Methodist Church in the village, prior to her interment in the family grave. Her last words were to ask for your forgiveness. You know what that means.

  Fran looked to her father, her voice now touched with sadness. ‘Was Martha my grandmother?’

  Will’s eyes held a faraway look, as if trying to remember, and it was a few moments before he answered. ‘Aye, she was, lass, but I never met her. Your mother left home when she was fi
fteen and never went back.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Fran asked. Will closed his eyes. Was he trying to remember or trying to forget? ‘Dad,’ she said, impatiently.

  ‘I’m not sure your mother would want you to know,’ he prevaricated.

  She leant across the table towards him, her patience waning. ‘Look, Dad, we’re doing this for Tina’s sake and Michael’s. Agnes is dead,’ she said bluntly.

  Will reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Sorry, lass,’ he said. He inhaled deeply, letting out a halo of smoke. He said, quietly, ‘Your mother was illegitimate.’

  Fran gawped at her father, feeling stunned by this revelation. It was not what she was expecting to hear, if anything. Thankfully, today the stigma of being born illegitimate had diminished a great deal. But Agnes had been born in 1896 when it must have been considered a terrible sin for both child and mother.

  Will continued, ‘Your mother had a very unhappy childhood, living with her mother and grandparents who were strict Methodists. Both Martha and Agnes were confined to the house and garden except for church on Sundays. When Agnes went to school, she was ridiculed by the other children for having no daddy and the terrible fact that her mother had sinned. Agnes was never allowed to forget.’ Will drew on his cigarette, not happy to be disclosing his late wife’s past. As far as he was aware, she never told anyone else of her past and they never discussed it, so he dismissed it from his mind. But now it seemed to matter.

  Fran, though sorry for what the young mother and daughter had to endure, could not relate it to Agnes, the woman who had so cruelly denied Fran the right to bring up her own children. At least, Martha had kept her daughter.

  The rest of the correspondence was to do with Christine. There were letters to Mrs M. Newton, which mostly were about the welfare of Christine and of Agnes’s intended visits to see Mrs Newton and Christine, and letters to solicitors, Fawcett & Farrow, regarding the financial arrangements for Christine’s care. Fran looked to see if there were any of her letters which she had written, over the years, to Agnes, but there were none.