And then, to her horror, Patsy saw the hat stall ahead of her. A middle-aged woman standing beside it, paused in reaching for a hat to see how the chase turned out. Without thinking, Patsy ran towards her and flung herself into the woman’s arms, just missing by seconds being snatched by Big Molly’s fat fingers. Patsy heard the woman’s cry of surprise, felt f her thin, wiry frame jerk, but, amazingly, she held on, sheltering Patsy with the warmth of an instinctive embrace. Then she put the girl gently behind her, at a safe distance from her pursuer.
Patsy began to gabble, her one thought being to save her own skin. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t, I didn’t, I swear. I don’t know what came over me.’
Big Molly had skidded to a halt and was standing, hands on hips, breathing so hard Patsy wouldn’t have been in the least surprised had flames roared from her nostrils.
‘Don’t let her take me. Please, please, please! I don’t want to go to jail.’ If the police were called, it wouldn’t just be a year’s probation this time, they’d lock her up for good and throw away the key.
‘She should be hanged, drawn and quartered,’ said Big Molly, her voice a low growl.
‘What is this all about?’ Clara Higginson disentangled herself from the girl’s clinging fingers and addressed her question directly to her. ‘Did you really steal this pie from Molly’s stall? If so, then you are a thief and should be punished.’
For the first time in her life or at least a long while, since she didn’t hold with tears, Patsy began to cry. Not so much for the fact she might end up before the beak, or dangling from the end of a rope, but for all the trouble she’d taken to find this place and to get here, only to cock it all up when she was within sight of her goal. ‘I only borrowed it, I was hungry,’ she retaliated, her voice an angry wail.
‘Huh, I’d like to know how you can borrow a pie?’ said Molly, in what was, for her, a reasonably matter-of-fact tone. She was struggling to keep her temper on a short leash, since Clara had got herself involved.
‘I’d have paid you back, once I had some money. You didn’t have to chase me, you miserable old . . .’
Big Molly opened her mouth to retaliate but Clara shushed them both with a slight lift of one hand. ‘That is no excuse at all. Do you know what people usually do when they need food? Hmm? Answer me, child. Do you know?’
Hating herself for being put in the wrong, and her accusers even more for being right, Patsy answered in her most truculent voice, ‘They work.’
‘And why do they do that?’
‘To earn money.’ She turned pleading eyes up to Clara. ‘I did want a job, honest. That’s why I came here, to Champion Street Market. But not on a pie stall, begging your pardon, even though I’m fair starved. I wanted to work here, on this fine hat stall.’
‘Flattery,’ said Clara, a hint of wry amusement warming her voice, ‘will get you nowhere.’
‘But it’s true, cross me heart and hope to die. I heard about your famous millinery stall and knew I had to work here. Give me a job, missus, you won’t be sorry.’ Oh, drat and damnation, Patsy thought. She could see by the expression of disbelief on this woman’s face that she’d really screwed up her chances now. Patsy could kick herself, she could really. Swallowing her pride she decided to give it another try. ‘It’s only a pie, for God’s sake. I’m ready to work and pay for it. Don’t put me in the clink, missus. Give me another chance, I’m begging you.’
There was a pause during which all Patsy could hear was Big Molly’s heavy breathing, and the crack of straw as Clara Higginson picked up a hat and started to smooth out its brim with her fingers, as if it might help her consider the options.
‘We seem to have a problem here, Molly. What do you reckon we should do with our miscreant? Should we give her a second chance or call the police?’ Another pause, longer this time.
‘You know my opinion of girls, Clara. They’re nothing but trouble. I’ve certainly enough with me own two, I’m not taking responsibility for anybody else’s.’
Clara frowned. ‘I couldn’t possibly consider hiring her myself. That’s my sister’s job and she isn’t here. She’ll be back shortly, of course, when she’s completed her business.’
Molly folded her ham-like arms. ‘Annie wouldn’t take kindly to having a thief on her stall in any case. I’d think carefully before I took any undue risks, if I were you. You know your Annie.’
‘I do indeed.’ Clara looked at the girl who had run to her for help, little more than sixteen or seventeen at most, and something inside her wrenched, a twist of the heart with which she was all too painfully familiar. How many times had she watched girls over the years and thought, Marianne would be about this age now. If only . . . before pushing the thought away and ruthlessly getting on with her life. Where was the point in looking back? as Annie frequently and caustically reminded her.
Except that no daughter of hers would ever have behaved like this, so – so audacious - so brazen. Was that the word? Not a pleasant description, certainly. But then what product of a respectable home would look like this? The girl was dressed in a scruffy red circular skirt that dipped at the hem, a cardigan worn fashionably back-to-front though it had seen better days, judging by its matted wool in a faded turquoise, plus a pair of white dangly earrings in her pierced ears. Clara thought it was at least a point in the girl’s favour that her face wasn’t plastered with pancake make-up and scarlet lipstick, although nor was it particularly clean. It certainly didn’t glow with health like it should, and as Marianne’s would surely have done. Her hair seemed clean enough though, washed by the morning’s rain no doubt, and held neatly in place by an Alice band in the same turquoise as the cardigan.
Nevertheless, despite her unprepossessing appearance, Clara recognised a thinly disguised vulnerability behind the girl’s fierce bravado. A deep anger against someone or other, buried beneath the insolence. This was a troubled child, there was no doubt on that score, perhaps in need of a little tender loving care.
Clara set the straw boater back on its stand, feeling her heart constrict and then start to soften. ‘Maybe I should take a chance.’
The girl stopped snivelling upon the instant, as if a switch had been flicked, glancing from one to the other of the two women, hope dawning in her bright blue gaze. Clara turned again to Molly.
‘I would be happy to pay for the pie, to see that you suffer no loss, if you agree to take the matter no further. For my part, I will undertake to speak to my sister about the possibility of procuring honest employment for this girl. If we cannot provide it, I’ll find someone who can.’
‘You’re a generous woman, Clara Higginson.’
Clara smiled. ‘Annie would say I’m easily taken advantage of.’
Big Molly put one of her plate-sized hands on the other woman’s shoulder and smiled, all the anger seeming to drain out of her. ‘No, you’ve a soft heart, that’s all. Something your Annie lacks.’
Clara hid a smile as she reached for her purse and, handing over a few pennies, said, ‘We have an agreement then?’
Molly weighed the pennies in her fat fist and scowled at Patsy. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, lass. Personally, I’d as soon see you boiled alive in my meat pan as see you get off scot-free.’
Patsy gulped but judged it wisest to say nothing further. Her fate seemed to have been taken out of her own hands.
Clara was chuckling. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say she’s entirely off the hook. As you rightly say, Annie doesn’t hold with thieving. She stands no nonsense from anyone doesn’t my sister.’
Big Molly smiled. ‘Eeh, that’s true. You might long for a quiet prison cell before you’re done, girl, you might indeed.’ Whereupon she strolled off, jingling the pennies in her apron pocket, still chuckling to herself.
‘Oh, bugger!’
Clara was startled. ‘We’ll have no swearing here, girl. That’s an absolute rule.’
Patsy cast a wary glance at her new employer and felt deep regret that she wasn’t exp
eriencing quite the excitement she should have been feeling at this moment, or any sense of relief or comfort. She’d spoiled everything, yet again, as she so often had in the past. And if the other sister was even worse than this one, heaven help her.
Amy Poulson had heard the rumpus, and chosen to stay well hidden until it was over. It was always best to keep out of the way when her mother was on the rampage, particularly where her elder sister was concerned. Once Mam had disappeared inside the market hall, Amy slipped seamlessly into place behind the pie stall and carried on serving so that customers craning their necks to watch the unfolding drama were reminded of their real purpose for being there, and gave precedence to their hungry stomachs.
Fran was already flashing smiles and acting as if nothing untoward had occurred, although Amy was under no illusions as to what exactly her sister had been up to. Fran was turning into a right little fast piece, no bones about it. She’d end up with a reputation if she carried on like this, which could scupper Amy’s own chances of persuading Mam to view her love life in a kindly light.
‘I suppose you were with that Eddie. I do wish you’d show a bit more sense,’ Amy muttered under her breath as they met at the cash till at the same moment. ‘It’ll end in tears, mark my words.’
‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep your nose out of my affairs. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, ’ Fran said, slamming the till drawer shut with a loud clang, very nearly trapping her sister’s fingers in it. Not that Fran cared. Being nagged by her mother was bad enough, but she drew the line at being lectured by her little sister.
‘I’m only warning you what might happen if you carry on like this.’ Amy cast her a furious glance before turning rather self-righteously to serve a customer. ‘There you are, Mrs Dawson, three pork pies. Will there be anything else?’
‘And who are you to offer advice?’ returned Fran through gritted teeth, smiling at a customer nonetheless as she handed over two sausage rolls and a pasty. ‘You love to see yourself as Mam’s favourite, taking her side in everything.’
‘That’s because I’ve inherited her good sense.’
‘So what does she say about you seeing Romeo then?’
Amy had the grace to look uncomfortable but quickly masked her emotions as she pretended to be fully occupied serving.
‘Ah, just as I suspected. You haven’t plucked up the courage to tell her yet, have you? Huh! Some favourite you’ll be once Mam finds out who her darling younger daughter is knocking around with. None other than Christopher George, son of her arch rival.’
‘Shut up! Leave Chris out of this.’
‘Maybe I should let drop a few hints.’
Amy’s fierce glare might have skewered her sister to the spot, but the very evident fear behind her eyes only made Fran laugh, which infuriated Amy all the more. ‘If you say one word, you’ll live to regret it, I swear.’
‘Ooh, I’m shaking in me shoes.’
‘Trouble with you is you can’t think beyond the end of next week, the end of your painted finger-nails or a good . . .’
‘Go on, say it, why don’t you? I’d like to hear the word come out of your prissy little mouth.’
‘Don’t you dare call me prissy! My Chris respects me, that’s all, but you wouldn’t understand anything about respect, would you? All you care about is having a good time.’
‘Better than sitting at home every night with me legs crossed.’
The next customer, patiently waiting in line to be served while the two girls snarled and snapped at each other, had finally had enough. ‘Which one of you two lasses is going to find time to sell me a steak and kidney pie before I collapse with starvation?’
They both reached for one simultaneously, glaring at each other for a furious second before Amy had the wit to put hers into a paper bag and take the customer’s money. As if by mutual accord, the girls moved to opposite ends of the counter. And as each served an ever longer queue of hungry people anxious for their dinners, Fran continued to nurse her discontent that she hadn’t reached the pie first, and to fume quietly over her sister’s cheek in lecturing her.
Wouldn’t she give her soul not to have to work here, on the family pie stall. She’d love to find a more exciting way of earning her living. Chance would be a fine thing.
Chapter Three
Amy arrived back somewhat later than expected because Chris had walked her home and they’d nipped up a back street so they could share a few kisses and a bit of a cuddle. Sadly, though, it hadn’t turned out to be quite the happy encounter she’d hoped for because, as they so often did these days, they fell to quarrelling instead.
Chris hated the fact they were forced to meet in secret, that he wasn’t welcome at Amy’s house. He’d wanted to pick her up later in the evening and take her to the pictures but Amy had said no.
‘We’ve been out twice already this week,’ she explained, ‘and I’ve been forced to lie on both occasions. I told Mam I was round at me friend Eileen’s, but even she’s getting fed up of covering for me. Says I should come right out and tell Mam. Easy for her to say. And Mam would be sure to get suspicious if I went out again tonight.’
Chris wasn’t pleased. Not a sign of the wide smile she so loved, or the usual bright twinkle in his greeny-grey eyes. No kisses were forthcoming, and he kept his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets as he frowned and scowled, arguing with her, doing his utmost to persuade her to change her mind.
‘I reckon your friend is right, Amy. We can’t go on like this. I love you, and if you love me, then you’d agree to stand firm.’
‘How can I, knowing how Mam feels about your family? And she has enough on her plate right now with Dad being ill and not able to work, and now our Fran acting daft with that Eddie Davidson.’
She’d cast him her most coquettish glance. ‘Aren’t you even going to kiss me?’
It seemed not. Nevertheless, Amy had remained adamant she wasn’t coming out. Consequently they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, Chris striding off home with his shoulders hunched and his face set tight. It was only a little quarrel and they’d be friends again tomorrow, she was sure of it, both regretting the harsh words they’d exchanged, but it upset Amy because it was all so unnecessary.
Now, as she hastily dabbed away her tears, Amy could hear her mother and father arguing in the kitchen, voices raised in temper as was so often the case in this house. Whenever she heard them like this she felt sick inside, as if she were the cause of it.
Yet Amy knew that once she’d told them she was in love with Chris George, as Fran had rightly said, the son of their fiercest rival, all conflict between her parents would cease. They’d join forces against her and make a formidable double act.
The wireless was on full blast, some show or other from the London Palladium. Slipping off her shoes so as not to disturb them, although they probably wouldn’t hear her above the sound of Victor Sylvester’s orchestra, not to mention the din they were making themselves, Amy crept upstairs to the room she shared with her sister. No doubt Fran too would be in a bad mood, following their earlier scrap.
She let out a weary sigh. Why did there have to be so much conflict and dispute in her life?
Amy thought that one of the main reasons she and Fran were constantly at each other’s throats was because they were in such close proximity to each other the whole time. Their bedroom, like the rest of the house, was small and untidy, since her sister never thought it necessary to put away anything which might be needed the following day. She took after her mother in that respect.
Right now it smelled of the fried onions Mam must have made for their tea, and the sickly-stale aroma of cheap powder and scent that her sister used in vast quantities.
They would get on so much better if they weren’t compelled to sleep under the same roof, and work on the same pie stall together. Every moment of every day and night, her sister was there. Omnipresent. Forever prying into Amy’s life, commenting on what she was doing, or not doing, a
nd endlessly mocking her for what Fran termed her ‘goody-goody ways’.
Now, the minute she walked through the bedroom door, Fran swung herself off Amy’s bed and jumped to her feet, round cheeks suffused a guilty pink. Had she been prying into Amy’s diary? She kept it well hidden under her mattress, but wouldn’t put it past her nosy sister to root it out. Amy decided not to give Fran the satisfaction of commenting upon it.
Amy put her coat and shoes neatly away in the wardrobe and made a mental note to find another hiding place for her very private diary. Then picking up her sister’s grubby bra from the rug at her feet, she held it up in front of Fran’s nose.
‘Does this have a home? Or was it on the way to the wash tub?’
Fran snatched it from her and stuffed it under her pillow. The guilt, if that’s what it had been, was swiftly set aside and her face came alive with curiosity. She was clearly itching to know why Amy was late and what she’d been up to. It took mere seconds for her to ask. ‘So, where’ve you been till now?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Seeing lover boy, no doubt.’
‘Put a sock in it, Fran. It’s you they’re rowing about downstairs, not me. You’re the one in the mire.’
Fran’s fully lips drooped in a sulk. Didn’t she know it? She’d been listening to the argument hammering away beneath the floorboards for what seemed like hours. She’d very nearly gone down and joined in, but had thought better of it. Just as well. There’d be blue murder done if she showed her face down there.
Fran was about to tell her sister all of this, seek her sympathy, when she saw that Amy was crying. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, not tears again. Look, why don’t you go down and tell them, own up to the fact that you love him? Be brave for once in your life.’
‘I was going to,’ Amy shouted back. ‘This secrecy is making us so unhappy we can’t go on much longer. But how can I, now they’re so furious with you? It’s not the right time. I daren’t take the risk of antagonising them further.’
‘What have I done? Only skived off work for an hour, that’s all. Hardly a hanging offence.’ Fran gave a little pouting shrug. ‘Well, so far as Mam knows that’s all I’m guilty of.’
Fools Fall in Love Page 2
