Where the Heart Lies (38 page)

Julie had slipped back into the house while everyone was occupied elsewhere, and now she was lying on her bed, William beside her, his little arms and legs waving about as she tickled his tummy and nuzzled him under the ear. Charity Farnsworth was due to arrive within the hour, and she desperately craved a few still moments with him.

‘Oh, William,’ she sighed. ‘What a mess our family has made of things. If only it could all have been different.’ She curled her body round him, the tears pricking as she ran her fingers through the golden curls that were beginning to darken. ‘But they’re not, are they? And I have to be brave and let you go, no matter how hard it is. But I promise I’ll keep in touch so we don’t forget one another, and if you should ever need me . . .’

She closed her eyes and held him gently. She was only torturing herself, and it would do neither of them any good in the end. William would be loved and cherished by Bill’s parents and she couldn’t deny him that, but her freedom to carry on with her life and career was costing a heavy price, and she didn’t know if she truly had the heart to pay it.

Impatient with her inability to keep the doubts and fears at bay, she climbed off the bed and gathered a set of clean clothes for William. A small case had already been packed to go with him, and it stood by the door – a constant reminder of what the morning would bring.

She took her time changing his nappy and
dressing him before reluctantly carrying him downstairs and into the kitchen for his evening feed. The room was warm and the atmosphere happy as Suzy and Fran used cold tea and an Oxo cube to stain Rita’s legs so they looked as if they were sheathed in nylons.

‘Will you be holding still, there, Rita?’ laughed Fran as she carefully drew a pencil-line up the back of her leg.

‘It tickles,’ she protested.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ murmured Suzy as she worked on Rita’s other leg.

‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ muttered Mrs Finch as she peered at the shenanigans over the top of her glasses. She sighed happily and shot Julie a grin. ‘I wish I was young again,’ she said, ‘but these old legs won’t pass muster any more.’ She stuck them out and eyed their bony and rather knobbly length distastefully. ‘I used to have good legs. Old age is a devil, and no mistake.’

Julie’s spirits were so low that she was untouched by the warmth and harmony in that kitchen, but she dredged up an answering smile and skirted round the other girls so she could prepare William’s food. There was mashed potato and vegetables, and a tiny bit of rabbit from the stew along with some gravy. William enjoyed his food now, and as Julie sat him in the high chair, he started banging his hands on the tray with anticipation.

She had just tied the bib over his clean matinee
jacket when there was a sharp rap on the door knocker. ‘Could you make a start here, Anne?’ she asked, handing over the spoon. ‘That’s probably Mrs Farnsworth.’

‘Good luck,’ Anne murmured, taking the spoon.

Julie’s heart was pounding as she crossed the square hall, and she took a deep breath before she opened the door, praying that she could get through this without making a complete fool of herself and upsetting William.

Despite the balmy summer evening, the large woman on the doorstep wore a heavy gabardine mackintosh that was tightly belted beneath a pendulous bosom. Sturdy brogues shod big feet, the columns of her legs were sheathed in wrinkled lisle stockings, and the hand that clasped the small suitcase and gas-mask box looked as strong and capable as a man’s. A felt hat completed the outfit, squashed over a severe bun of iron-grey hair, the brim shadowing a pair of humourless grey eyes and a downturned mouth.

Julie stared at her as icy fingers of dread ran down her spine. ‘Mrs Farnsworth?’ she managed through a tight throat.

‘
Miss
Farnsworth, aye,’ she replied grimly, ‘and I’ll not be left standing on this doorstep a minute more.’ She stepped into the hall without further ado and eyed her surroundings with little pleasure as she put down her case. ‘I tek it you be lass what’s looking after our William,’ she said, looking Julie up and down.

She resisted licking her lips, but her mouth was dry with dread. ‘I’m Julie Harris, yes.’

Charity sniffed with what looked like disdain. ‘Yon train were late,’ she said, taking off her hat, ‘and there’s nowt more I could do with right now than a strong brew of good Yorkshire tea.’ She turned that piercing gaze on Julie again. ‘I tek it they know how to brew proper tea down ’ere?’

Julie hadn’t quite lost her power of speech, but she found she was unusually daunted by Charity Farnsworth, and didn’t like it one bit. ‘It might not be as strong as you’d like,’ she managed, ‘but it’ll be wet and warm.’

‘Happen it’ll do if there’s nowt else,’ Charity muttered. She unbelted her navy blue mackintosh to reveal a brown tweed skirt and hand-knitted sweater that strained over the headland of bosom and thick waist. She hung her coat on the rack and picked up her case. ‘Lead on,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve not come all this way to stand mithering in t’all.’

‘My landlady, Mrs Reilly, has set out the dining room so we can talk in private,’ stammered Julie.

‘By ’eck, you southerners tek strange ideas,’ Charity muttered. ‘There’s nowt to be said between thee and me that’s private.’ With that she strode across the hall and stomped into the kitchen.

Julie hurried after her, her heart pounding, the fear rising with every beat. She couldn’t let this awful woman take William – she just couldn’t.

‘How do?’ she barked at the room in general as
she plumped down in the armchair opposite Mrs Finch. She didn’t seem to notice the stunned silence that greeted her. ‘Which one’s our William then?’ Her stern gaze went from Rose in the playpen to William, whose face was smeared with gravy and mash.

The babies immediately started to wail and Anne and Julie rushed to pick them up and soothe them.

‘Good heavens,’ muttered Mrs Finch, her hands covering her ears as she glared at Charity Farnsworth. ‘Does everyone north of the Thames shout as if they’re in the middle of a field?’

‘Happen I don’t tek kindly to folk looking down their noses to us oop north,’ Charity retorted with a glower.

‘And I don’t take kindly to people who come into my home and start throwing their weight about,’ snapped Mrs Finch.

Julie quickly stepped between them. ‘This is William,’ she said, trying to get his face clean and soothe his tears. But William was clinging to her neck as if the sight of Charity frightened the life out of him. Which was hardly surprising, she thought grimly. That woman would frighten anyone.

The grey eyes regarded the sobbing baby with little pleasure. ‘Happen it’s best we do the introductions when he’s stopped that racket,’ she said dourly. ‘Where’s that brew you promised?’

Julie exchanged a worried glance with Anne and hurried to pour a cup of tea. She was a horrible
woman, and the thought of her going anywhere near William was making her feel sick.

Charity Farnsworth eyed the cup of very weak tea in disgust. ‘Call that a brew? Looks more like dishwater, if you ask me.’

‘Well, it’s the best we have,’ said Peggy as she strode into the room and introduced herself. ‘There is a war on, you know.’

Charity eyed Peggy with a gleam of caution in her eyes. ‘Happen it’ll do,’ she muttered, and took an experimental sip.

‘Right, now that’s settled, I think it’s time to finish feeding those babies and get them ready for bed so we can sit down to our tea in peace.’ Peggy turned to Julie. ‘I did remember to get that prescription for William while I was out. The bottle’s in the larder.’

‘What’s wrong with babby that he needs prescriptions?’ asked Charity sharply.

Julie carefully explained about his heart condition, and the very real need for him to continue his medication. ‘But the doctors are very pleased with his progress,’ she finished, ‘and they think there’s a real chance that the hole will heal itself.’

‘You never said owt about this in yon letters,’ Charity rasped. ‘And medicines cost money. My sister can’t afford to tek on a sick babby.’ She eyed Julie with fierce intent from beneath wayward greying brows. ‘There’s no history of heart disease in our family,’ she said stoutly. ‘Strong as oxen we are – have to be, living in Dales.’

‘Then perhaps it would be best if you left William here,’ suggested Julie with quiet desperation.

‘Aye. Happen it would.’ Charity sipped her tea and grimaced. ‘I warned ’em agin teking him on. Knew it were mistake right from start.’ She took another sip of tea, unaware of the almost tangible silence that filled the room. ‘I’ll think on it overnight,’ she murmured almost to herself. ‘Aye, that would be best.’

Julie’s heart was pounding as she held William close. ‘If you have to think about it, then you don’t deserve him,’ she said flatly. ‘I love William and want the best for him. It don’t matter to me if his medicines cost money. They’re making him strong and well, so he can grow up like every other baby.’

‘Think on, lass,’ Charity warned. ‘Babby’s not yours. Probably not Bill’s neither, if truth be known.’

‘How dare you?’ breathed Julie.

‘I think this has gone far enough,’ said Peggy with unusual sharpness. ‘Mrs Farnsworth, let me show you to your room so you can freshen up before supper. Julie, see to William, and the rest of you get on with something useful.’

‘It’s
Miss
Farnsworth,’ snapped Charity as she heaved herself out of the chair. ‘Never had need of a man. Most of them not worth trouble.’ With barely a glance at William or Julie, she stomped off after Peggy.

Julie’s legs threatened to give way and she sat down with a bump on the kitchen chair. ‘I won’t
give him up to her,’ she breathed into William’s hair. ‘If Bill’s parents are anything like her, then William will . . .’

‘Never you fear, Julie,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘A few minutes with Peggy Reilly and that woman will be going back to Yorkshire empty-handed.’

Julie didn’t have the heart to argue. She knew only that this would be the longest night of her life. Charity Farnsworth and her family were entitled to take William and raise him as their own. The birth certificate proved it.

Ron hated scenes, but he hated fat, loud women even more, and after two minutes of listening to Charity Farnsworth, he’d had enough. Sneaking out of the kitchen while everyone’s attention was taken by the spat between Charity and Mrs Finch, he hurried downstairs and fetched his hat and coat. He’d lost his appetite for rabbit stew and apple sponge. What he needed now was a large whisky and Rosie’s soft, sweet company.

He ordered a whining Harvey to stay indoors, and tramped through the hazy twilight of the early summer evening, relishing the tranquillity as he breathed in the scent of the sea and the alluring sweetness of the few roses that had survived the raids in a nearby garden.

He stopped by the wall at the end of the street, and with a hasty look to make sure no one was watching, plucked a pink rose from the bush that
clambered over it. Its perfume was quite heady; it was the perfect gift for Rosie. Tucking it into the buttonhole of his suit jacket, he dug his hands in his trouser pockets and began to whistle ‘The Rose of Tralee’, which he considered most fitting for the occasion.

He arrived at the Anchor to find it already busy, with Rosie supervising two middle-aged women behind the bar. Barmaids with pretty faces and youthful figures were as rare as hen’s teeth these days, but these two looked capable enough, and at least they weren’t sour-faced like that Charity Farnsworth. She was enough to put any man off the drink.

Rosie sashayed delightfully towards him. ‘Well, well,’ she said admiringly. ‘Don’t you look smart?’

‘I do me best,’ he replied with a bit of a swagger.

She gave him a beaming smile and placed a large glass of whisky on the bar in front of him. ‘Happy birthday, Ron,’ she murmured with a wink.

Ron’s heart swelled with pride as she continued to smile at him. He must be the envy of every man in the room. ‘To be sure, you’re a sight for sore eyes, so y’are, Rosie Braithwaite.’ He grinned back at her. ‘Are ye ready to be danced off your feet?’

She giggled. ‘Give me five minutes, and I’m all yours,’ she murmured. ‘You’re a bit earlier than I expected and you’ve caught me on the hop.’

‘It’ll be worth the waiting,’ he replied, the silly grin still on his face as he relished the idea of having Rosie
all to himself for the evening. ‘And while you’re at it, perhaps this rose might go well with your dress.’

She took the rose and buried her neat little nose in the velvety petals. ‘Heavenly,’ she breathed, her lovely eyes warm with pleasure.

Ron’s gaze followed her as she left the bar and headed through the door towards the stairs. He’d managed to buy tickets to go to the Grand Hotel on the seafront for one of their big fund-raising dances, and the thought of having Rosie in his arms for the rest of the evening was definitely worth any wait. He eased his collar and tie, unused to the restrictions of dressing carefully, but his chin was smooth, his hair tamed with Brylcreem, and his suit was pressed. All in all, he thought, as he caught his reflection in the mirrors behind the optics, he was looking very dapper.

He’d just finished his whisky and was contemplating asking for another when he saw Rosie peek round the door that led to the stairs. She beckoned him, her slender arm encased in a long black glove, and he hurried over.

Rosie quickly shut the door behind him. ‘I didn’t want them wasting our time together with their gawping and asking questions,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go the back way.’

Ron took her hand and stilled her as she was about to turn away from him. His admiring gaze followed the curve of her figure in the black silk dress which clung to her like a second skin, and
settled on the pearls at her throat and in her ears. His rose was pinned just below her shoulder, the petals almost caressing the peachy swell of her breast. ‘Rosie, you look beautiful,’ he managed.

She reached for her white fox fur wrap and then leaned towards him, brushing her soft lips against his cheek. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself, Ronan Reilly.’ Then she was gone with a delightful chuckle, pushing through the door and into the alleyway that ran between the pub and the shop next door.