Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  Isla and Duncan sat staring at their daughter who held their granddaughter tightly in her arms, running her fingers through the baby’s shock of dark, curly hair. Imogen was a natural.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Isla whispered.

  ‘You don’t have to whisper, Mum, they are surrounded by noise the whole time they are in the womb, us talking isn’t going to wake her!’ Imogen laughed.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been told that before,’ Isla sighed.

  ‘I’m feeling fine. Tired, obviously, bit sore, but good. No, better than good, amazing! She’s a great little feeder. Not quite got the hang of sleeping at night time yet, but that’ll come.’

  ‘Has Jen been in?’ Her dad whispered too.

  ‘Has she been in? I can’t get rid of her! She’s obsessed. Talks to Leah as though I’m not here, making plans and telling her all the places she’ll take her. Just hope I’m invited too!’ Imogen thought about the moment when she’d asked her best friend to be her daughter’s guardian, should there ever be the need, and the reply: Of course I fucking will! Who else is going to do it? I’m her aunty and I love her. Imogen smiled at the memory.

  ‘Oh, talk of the devil!’ Duncan smiled as his daughter’s mate poked her head around the door.

  ‘Hello, all! How are we?’ Jenny made a beeline for the bed and kissed the little girl on the forehead.

  ‘All good.’ Imogen beamed. A smile was never very far from her lips these days. It was as if she existed in this blissful bubble, where all she needed was to be close to Leah, inhaling the warm scent of her and feeling the softness of her skin against her own.

  ‘Isla, Duncs, this is going to sound really rude of me...’

  ‘That doesn’t usually stop you, Jen!’ Duncan chortled.

  ‘Ha! Right enough. But would you mind if I had a word with Imi on my own, in private?’

  ‘Oh!’ Isla grabbed her bag and sat up straight. ‘No, sure.’ She prodded her husband and touched her hand to her daughter’s leg under the cover. ‘Be back in a wee while.’

  Imogen waved, listening for the door to close. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Oh, god. Here we go.’

  ‘You all right, Jen?’ She could hear her friend pacing up and down and huffing.

  ‘Don’t speak! Just let me talk.’

  Imogen heard her take a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t always agree with you, Imi. But I always respect your wishes, you know that.’ Jenny spoke quickly, nervously.

  ‘True, that’s why we get on!’ She wondered where this might be going.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve done something.’

  ‘What?’ Imogen’s voice was stern. ‘Oh, god, what have you done? I’m thinking you’ve registered her for karate classes or changed her name by deed poll to Jenny!’

  Jen sat on the edge of the bed and ran a finger over Leah’s tiny, button nose. ‘No. It’s worse than that. Probably worse than all of that put together.’

  ‘You’ve killed a man?’ Imogen laughed to hide her rising fear.

  ‘No again, but you might kill me. Alls I can say is, it was an accident. Kind of an accident. I started a ball rolling with the best intentions and it kind of came back very quickly and hit me in the arse... more like a crap boomerang than a ball, really.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Jenny, that’s lots of kind ofs! Just spit it out!’ Imogen was starting to feel nervous and Leah shifted in her arms, in tune with her mother’s emotions.

  ‘I might have accidentally sent out a message to all my Facebook friends that my mate Imi had given birth to a beautiful wee girl.’

  Imogen laughed with relief. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that! Folk are sure to find out soon enough when they see me wandering around with this little bundle. Don’t worry about it. So you broke the news? That’s fine. You’re forgiven.’

  ‘Well, thank you. But that’s not the end of it...’

  ‘Oh, god! Go on.’ Imogen felt her heart-rate increase once again.

  ‘The thing is, I forgot that one of my Facebook friends is Chicago Boy – I added him when you two were... you know.’

  ‘Right.’ Imogen swallowed, wondering how Owen might feel about the news and whether he might get in contact. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. I’m sure he won’t even see it, and if he does, then he’ll probably just be glad he had a lucky escape!’

  ‘He did see it.’ Jenny was adamant about that.

  ‘Oh.’ Imogen held Leah a little tighter as she squirmed in her mother’s arms.

  ‘He’s outside.’

  ‘I’m... I’m sorry?’ Imogen thought she must have misheard.

  ‘Chicago Boy, Owen, he’s outside.’ Jenny repeated.

  ‘Out... outside the hospital?’ Imogen felt her pulse race and her head swim.

  ‘Outside the room,’ Jenny clarified.

  ‘Shit!’ Imogen managed.

  ‘Aye, shit.’

  Imogen turned her head at the sound of a light rapping on the door. And before she had time to think, to remonstrate or plan, she heard the tread of his soft-soled shoes on the shiny floor. ‘Hey, Imi.’

  She had forgotten the pleasant note to his baritone voice. ‘Hey, Owen.’ He stepped into the room and with him came the unmistakable scent of freesias.

  ‘I think I’ll leave you two to it.’ Jenny crept away.

  Owen Jackson from Chicago pulled the chair towards the bed and sat down, leaning forward to get a better view of Imogen’s baby and to steady his shaking hands on the mattress.

  ‘So,’ he offered, sounding calm.

  ‘I had a second round of IUI just before Amsterdam, in case you were wondering.’ Imogen spoke softly, feeling a wave of emotion that she hadn’t expected.

  ‘She’s beautiful!’

  ‘Wow!’ She loved hearing this.

  ‘Wow indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?’ he whispered.

  ‘It was a lot to take in, a lot to think about, and we were done and I figured I didn’t want to make it any more complicated than it needed to be.’ She spoke the truth, quietly.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Leah... Leah Mary.’

  ‘Mary was my mother’s name.’ He smiled.

  ‘And my gran’s.’

  ‘I brought you flowers.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully, listening to the rustle of cellophane as he placed them on the table. The sweet smell of freesias invaded her nose. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

  ‘I think so. I’m a bit nervous.’

  He sounded it.

  ‘Well, I am too. You’ll be fine, just hold her snugly and close to you. She’ll be happy.’

  Owen stood and placed his arms under the body of the child and lifted her to his chest, where he cradled her against him. ‘She’s so tiny!’

  ‘Not really, about average.’ Imogen tried to calm the nerves that fluttered in her stomach.

  ‘There is nothing, absolutely nothing, average about her.’ His voice was thick with emotion. ‘Oh, my! Hello, Leah. Hey there, little girl!’

  ‘Describe her to me.’ Imogen smiled as her hands toyed with the edge of the blanket.

  ‘Oh, Imogen.’ Owen paused. ‘She has long fingers with tiny nails that I can see dancing over piano keys or holding a bow against a cello. Her skin is pale like buttermilk, pure and soft. Her eyelashes, thick and dark, sit like tiny sleeping bugs on top of her rosy cheeks. She looks like goodness, she looks like happy, she looks like you.’

  ‘I forgot you have that wonderful knack of helping me to see things.’

  ‘As compliments go, that’s about a ten. I’ve missed you, Imogen.’

  ‘I’ve missed you, Owen, but you have to know that I am not looking for a man, not looking for any more than I have right now. Being a new mum is a big adjustment.’

  ‘I know. But the thing is, I love you, Imi. I do. I’ve tried not to since you called it a day, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop thinking about you, missing you. I’ve been so mi
serable. The only thing that’s made me happy is reliving that one day in Amsterdam. I want to be near you because I think I’ll be less miserable being near you in Scotland than far away from you in Chicago. I’m not asking for anything other than that we be friends and take it from there. I want to be with you, Imogen, only you, and if I can’t be with you, then I’ll be happy to be close to you, for now.’

  Imogen felt the flicker of love in her for this kindly man who had travelled halfway around the world to hold her baby. ‘I think Leah will be very lucky to have someone like you in her life. We both will.’

  ‘That sounds like you might be willing to give us a chance?’

  ‘I guess I am.’ She smiled. ‘But we have to take it slowly, Owen. One day at a time.’

  He reached forward and kissed her forehead, holding Leah tight. ‘I know, because you are not that kind of girl, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She laughed.

  Owen looked at the woman who held his hopes and dreams in her hands. ‘Someone once told me that you never know what’s around the next corner, never know what twists and turns life might throw at you, but that you should always be ready to face whatever comes at you.’

  ‘They did.’ She remembered.

  ‘And I’m ready to face this, Imogen. I won’t abandon you or Leah, not ever. I’ll never let you down. I’m going to stick around and see where this twist and turn might lead us. I have a lot of love to give and who knows what’s gonna happen? Not you, not me, but that’s got to be the best start, right?’

  TEN POUND TICKET

  Amanda Prowse

  Australia, 1962: Susie has just arrived on the boat from England. She is clutching a newborn baby, but she has no wedding ring on her left hand.

  The land is dusty and hot, and the work is hard and tiring. All Susie wants is to go home. But with no money, and no hope, how can she turn her life around?

  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  1

  Susie Montgomery held her son Nicholas close and stepped out of the bus and into the bright wintery day. She closed her coat over him, shielding him from the cold, until all that was visible was the top of his head. The sky was blue and the ground sparkled with a light dusting of diamond-like powder frost. She walked past Tilbury’s war memorial; the week-old poppy wreaths dazzled red against the pale palette, the paper petals lifting and settling in the wind.

  Susie needed somewhere to stay and had no idea where to begin; after all, she’d never had to consider her future before. Since leaving secretarial college, with her framed Pitman certificates confirming her proficiency in shorthand and typing, she had coasted from party to party, from boy’s bed to boy’s bed. She had lived in comfort under her parent’s detached roof, certain in the knowledge that, like all the other seventeen-year-old girls she knew, her future was bright, happy and secure. It was 1962: life was good and out there, ready for the taking whenever she chose to take it. But that was before.

  Now she skirted the square, protecting her baby from the November cold, swaddling him inside the front of her astrakhan coat and carefully moving her long tawny hair to ensure it wasn’t pressed against his delicate nose and mouth. Her eyes darted around until she spied a sign for bed and breakfast in the window of The Anchor.

  Susie stepped through the saloon doors and into a warm, welcoming fug of tobacco smoke and laughter. A large open fire blazed in the rusty grate, and two tarnished horse brasses hung on either side of it. The low ceiling, once white, was now stained yellow, and the concrete slabs around the bar looked sticky, thanks to years of slopped bitter and a dirty, ineffective mop. The walls, at least, were cheerful; covered with ornaments and knickknacks – Susie spotted a door knocker pinned up next to a bronze bed pan, while overhead a cluster of postcards from British seaside resorts hid the cream-and-scarlet wallpaper from view.

  The laughter stopped as she entered, and all eyes swivelled towards her. She was not only a stranger in this local bar, but she was a woman too. She looked around for a friendly face. An old man sat near the door, sipping his half pint but he kept his cap pulled down low over his eyes. A large black mongrel lay slumped across the hearth, greying hair peppered its muzzle. It was short of breath and she could hear the snuffles it made while it lapped at a saucer of beer.

  Susie took a deep breath; she had never been in a pub like this before.

  It was some moments before the barmaid and landlady, one in the same, trotted over from behind the bar on her black patented, high heels.

  ‘Yep?’

  Susie stared at the network of lines that crept from the woman’s thin mouth, evidence of puckering up for a cigarette, probably sixty times a day for as many years. Her red lipstick bled into these tiny tributaries. Her foot tapped with impatience, she had customers to serve.

  ‘I saw your sign. I’m looking for a room, for a couple of weeks, for my son and me before we get on the boat to Australia.’ Susie pulled her coat open to reveal her little boy who was still sleeping. His cheeks were pink against the fur of his mother’s coat.

  The landlady clapped her hand under her chin, showering ash from her smouldering cigarette down her front. She softened instantly as she took a shine to Nicholas, it was hard not to, he was angelic, beautiful and new. She poked a nicotine-stained finger into his sleeping face,

  ‘Ah, look at him, he’s a darling! Does he look like his dad?’ the woman drew on her cigarette and eyed the little gold curtain ring on the third finger of Susie’s left hand. She nodded and tried to smile.

  ‘And you’re off to Oz? What, is his dad already out there?’

  ‘Yes that’s it, we’re meeting him there.’ Susie delivered this to the sticky floor.

  Two old men, drinking pints of Mild in the corner, suddenly laughed loudly at the precise moment she finished her sentence. They were laughing at a joke, a comment, something entirely unrelated, but for Susie, it was as if they laughed in recognition of her lie. She felt the stain of a red blush over her neck and up her face as she fought the light headedness that threatened to make her faint. She silently pleaded; please I have nowhere else to go, please.

  The woman’s mouth twitched sideways, and Susie held her breath. Happily for Susie, this lady knew what it felt like to need a bit of luck.

  ‘I’m Sandra and I’ve got a room you can have for a while, it’s not flash…’

  Susie felt her shoulders sag with relief. ‘I don’t need flash.’ She was adamant. ‘Is there a phone box I could use, though? I just need to make a call.’

  The stench of ammonia filled the cubicle. A little chrome ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts that had spilled into a soggy heap on the concrete floor. Someone had obviously tried to light a fire in one corner if the layers of half-charred cardboard were anything to go by, and a greasy newspaper chip wrapper fluttered against her knee-high leather boots. Nicholas remained asleep while she juggled the purse in her right hand, balancing it on the front of the phone and searched for the correct change. Susie winced as she pictured the cash she had once frittered so easily on her social life. If only she had been more prudent, saved for now, when a healthy bank balance would make all of the difference to her son’s life. She looked at the three pence in her palm. This was the sum total with which she could talk to her mother, very possibly for the last time. Tears pricked at her eyes. Get a grip, Susie.

  The black receiver slipped in her palm. She was shaking with nerves, and Nicholas was wriggling, making small mewing noises as he tried to get comfy in her arm. The mouthpiece smelt of alcohol gone sour. Her breath fogged the air in front of her as she waited for the pip pipping noise to tell her the call had been connected.

  She pictured her mother standing in the square hallway in front of the ornate go
ld mirror, patting the hair-sprayed curls around her temple and checking the tangerine-glow lipstick across her thin mouth before picking up the telephone. Her tan patent leather shoes would co-ordinate nicely with the pale, khaki carpet. No element of design or decoration was left to chance in the Montgomery household, from the faux fauna in the Adams-style recess, to her mother’s cloying scent – 4711 by Maurer & Wirtz – which always hung around her in a pungent cloud.

  Susie balanced the receiver under her chin and against her shoulder, and pushed the coins into the slot. She only had only a few minutes before her call would run out.

  ‘Mum, it’s me… I haven’t got much time, I wanted to phone and say goodbye.’

  ‘Susie? Where on earth are you and what do you mean goodbye?’

  ‘I… we’re going away.’

  ‘Apparently so. I’ve had a rather awkward conversation with Sister Kyna at Lavender Hill Lodge. Why on earth have you discharged yourself and reneged on our agreement? Susan, this is totally unacceptable, especially after all you’ve put me through. Is this how you repay Daddy and I after all we’ve done for you? We had an understanding. You would spend time in London, do what was necessary to sort the situation and then come home! Where has this madness come from?’

  ‘I suppose it’s come from the fact that I became a mother. I’m a mother and you are a grandmother whether you like it or not—’

  ‘Not! Thank you very much.’ Her mother couldn’t help but interject. Susie pictured her generous chest heaving with disapproval as her fingers agitated the double row of pearls.

  Susie sighed. It was, as ever, pointless trying to reason with her mother, ‘I couldn’t do what was necessary as you call it, not when it came to it. I couldn’t hand my babies over, I couldn’t do it! I’m not asking for anything from you and Dad, I just didn’t want to disappear without you knowing where we were. We are going to Australia, Mum.’