Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Clara straightened her spine and considered the girl with closer attention, half admiring her spirit, half amused by it. She was back in the droopy red skirt and faded cardigan, which Clara had quickly washed and ironed for her overnight, making a mental note that the purchase of alternative attire must be a high priority. ‘You’ll need to pay for bed and board.’

  Irritated, Patsy shrugged this fact aside, as if it were incidental. ‘I understand that, but I’ll not be used as a skivvy, for scrubbing and washing and such like.’

  ‘You must do your share of the chores, Patsy, as we all must.’

  ‘But I’ll not have you two telling me what to do all the time, even if I am living under your roof, and glad as I am of the work.’

  ‘I should hope you are glad,’ Annie snapped, glaring at Patsy over the tortoiseshell rim of her spectacles. ‘I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. You should be more than glad, girl, to have been spared incarceration in a prison cell, or at best a hefty fine and a criminal record. You should show proper gratitude and be appreciative of our generosity.’

  Patsy rolled her eyes, and her lovely young face twisted with cynicism. ‘Now where have I heard that before? Gratitude! That’s the only reason folk do anything for you these days, so’s they can feel good themselves.’

  ‘You should learn to watch that impudent tongue of yours or you’ll find yourself back out on the streets in a trice. Do you understand? And make no mistake, miss, there will be rules if you are to live under our roof. Most certainly! You won’t find me quite so easy to manipulate as my sister.’

  ‘So long as it’s understood,’ Patsy persisted, undaunted by the tightening of Annie’s lips, ‘I’m not to be put upon. I’m a woman now, not a child.’

  ‘That is still open to conjecture.’

  Clara watched the incongruous pair leave, Annie’s manner all stiff-backed and starched, the young girl with a strange mix of restrained excitement and a kind of nervous agitation.

  ‘But what was she afraid of? Why did she feel it necessary to make such a spirited stand when she had nothing in the entire world to fight against? Did it have something to do with this strong objection she had to feeling gratitude? If so, who had she been forced to show gratitude to, and for what reason? The girl clearly wasn’t going to be an easy lodger to accommodate.

  ‘Oh dear, what have I done?’ Clara murmured, hand pressed tight against her beating heart. ‘What have I let myself in for?’

  Chapter Five

  Amy was wrapped tight in Chris’s embrace as they lay together beneath the protective arms of an old chestnut tree in the autumn sunshine, as lovers do. They’d enjoyed a trip on the pleasure steamer ‘Little Eastern’ on the large boating lake at Belle Vue. Found themselves a quiet corner away from the crowds, eaten the meat paste sandwiches they’d brought with them and kissed till they were all hot and breathless and aching with frustration. It was just as well they were in a public place or they might well have been tempted to go further. Now they were overcome with despair, and swamped with frustration and misery.

  ‘It’s right what you said the other day,’ Amy conceded. ‘We are going to have to tell them soon. We can’t go on like this for much longer.’

  ‘I know, love, but you’re right too. Let’s not kid ourselves that it’s going to be easy. Your mam doesn’t like me and that’s a fact.’

  A child skipped past, chasing a ball, his mother calling to him that if he didn’t hurry, the steamer would leave without him.

  ‘She’s never really met you. It’s your family she hates, though I don’t know why, save for the obvious: that they’re in competition with each other, them both being bakers. But there must be more to it than that. Do you know what it can be?’

  Amy had asked this question a million times before, and always his answer was the same, nothing but a shake of the head. ‘I did once ask my mother why she wouldn’t speak to yours, but she clammed up tight. Said it was past history and none of my business.’

  ‘Maybe they can’t even remember,’ Amy offered hopefully. ‘I do wonder sometimes if that’s the case.’

  ‘No, it’s far more serious than that. And it’s not just because your mam has decided to make cakes as well, instead of concentrating on pies and steak puddings, though I’ll admit that doesn’t help.’

  Amy said, ‘I don’t know about making cakes, not just yet, but our Robert is setting up proper kitchens so’s we can expand. Mam can’t make enough pies and puddings in our own kitchen, not now we’re so busy. He has big ideas though, my brother, so who knows what he might do with the business in the future? Anyway, your dad’s bakery makes pies too.’

  ‘I know, but Mum nearly threw a fit when she heard. Dad had a right job calming her down.’

  ‘Oh, Chris, how will we ever get together. It’s so awful!’

  ‘I feel the same, love. I’m at my wits’ end, I am really.’

  A slight pause during which the pair clung to each other in their distress, kissing and stroking cheek or mouth, each delicious fingertip, hair, eyes and throat, as if by way of comfort, till they became dazed by emotion, giddy with their love.

  Having him touch her so tenderly made Amy’s chest go all tight, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She really didn’t know how much longer she could resist him when they wanted each other so badly. Chris had been the light of her life for over a year now. She adored his gentle greeny-grey eyes, his long brown curling lashes, and he only had to smile at her for her insides to melt.

  He was neither particularly handsome nor tall, really rather lean and skinny, not padded with muscle like some, though she knew he would like to be and regularly attended Barry Holmes’s boxing club in an effort to improve his physique. But since she was only five foot two herself, Amy didn’t mind in the least. He was perfect for her. They were perfect for each other, in every way.

  They both liked music and dancing, and riding out of a Sunday together on their bicycles as they were doing today. They were neither of them overly ambitious, Chris quite happy being a milkman, but seemed to share the same simple dreams for the future, and if only things were different they’d be planning their wedding by this time.

  Amy knew in her heart that Chris longed to ask her to marry him, but couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to do so because of this insoluble, mysterious problem which separated their two families. She wished she was twenty-one, old enough to please herself as Fran was, instead of three years younger. Always bitter rivals, right now Amy almost hated her sister for having that freedom.

  ‘Have you told your family yet? Have you told your dad about me?’

  Chris shook his head, ‘Though I reckon he might’ve guessed I’ve got a girl friend. He hasn’t said anything but he doesn’t miss much, my dad. Probably waiting for me to confess to whatever it is he knows I’m up to.’

  He rubbed his cheek against the smooth sheen of Amy’s hair, looped her auburn curls around his fingers to pull her close while he kissed her again. A kiss that swiftly changed from soft and gentle to fierce and demanding, that had him pulling her blouse out of her skirt so that he could slip his hand inside and savour the softness of her. He kneaded her flesh with a reverent gentleness, his hunger for her growing to a painful ache in his loins. He needed her so badly, so desperately. He wanted to make her a part of him, so that they could never be separated again, not by anyone. He reached for her bra fastening, but then thought better of it and broke away, breathing hard.

  Chris sat up, put his head in his hands. ‘I need you so much, Amy, but I want us to come together in a way that’s right, not hole in the corner like this. I’ll tell them tonight, I promise.’

  Amy wrapped her arms about him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, her eyelids squeezed tightly shut to stop the tears from falling. There had been so many occasions in recent months when she would have been more than willing to surrender to him, even run the risk of getting pregnant. Maybe if she were, her parents would be keen then to see he
r march down the aisle. Yet Chris was always the one to call a halt, respecting her too much to take advantage, and sufficiently mature at twenty-two to understand that an unwelcome pregnancy wouldn’t solve anything. Might even make things worse.

  But telling her parents, her mother in particular, wouldn’t be easy. It would be like dropping a bomb in their midst.

  ‘Right, I will too,’ she said, wiping away a betraying tear. ‘I’ll tell Mam and Dad tonight. Then once it’s all out in the open, they can do their worst eh?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, cupping her rosy cheeks between his hands, his voice low and fierce. ‘I’ll come over about eight, once I’ve told mine, and we’ll tell yours together. I won’t let any of them hurt you, I swear it.’

  Sometimes Amy felt as if Chris was the only person in the world who really cared about her.

  It was a quarter to eight and Amy breathed a sigh of relief that at least all was quiet below. No loud voices raised in argument permeated the floorboards this evening. At least so far.

  She glanced across at her sister, painting her nails a bright crimson, and drew a steadying breath. Quite casually, Amy said, ‘Chris is coming over later to talk to Dad.’

  ‘What?’ Fran paused in the painstaking process, small brush dripping spots of red nail polish rather like blood on to the carpet as her eyes grew wide with shock. ‘You and Chris? Is he going to say . . .?’

  ‘That we mean to marry? Yes, he is.’ Amy nodded, unable to keep the happiness out of her face.

  Fran seemed momentarily lost for words as she rubbed frantically with the sole of her shoe at the red blobs, hoping the smears would blend in with the floral pattern. They didn’t.

  ‘He’s coming to ask for your hand? Oh, how romantic. Tonight? Oh, my God! He has more guts than I gave him credit for. This I must not miss. What time is he coming?’

  Amy’s face turned crimson. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near. We’re going to tackle Mam and Dad together, face to face. We intend to make it very clear how much we love each other. That we mean to get married and nothing anybody can say will stop us.’

  ‘Well, bully for you, girl.’ And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Fran dropped the brush on to the dressing table top, stretched out her arms and gathered her younger sister into a swift bear hug. It was so unexpected, so unlike her, that Amy burst into tears.

  Drying her sister’s face with the flat of her hand, Fran said, ‘I hope it works out for you. And at least if you marry Chris I’ll get the bedroom to myself.’

  Amy laughed. ‘You do like him, don’t you?’ Much as Fran brought out all her worst instincts, her sister’s good opinion was still important to her.

  ‘You do, and that’s all that counts. You stick by him, girl, and don’t let anyone persuade you otherwise. But don’t expect it to be a double confession. The less they know about my Eddie, the better. Mainly because he isn’t mine at all,’ she added, half to herself, picking up the brush again. ‘You keep your trap shut about him and me, right?’

  ‘As if I’d say anything. What do you take me for?’

  So far as Fran was concerned, she was answerable to no one. Free to have fun and enjoy herself if she’d a mind, without anyone controlling her and telling her what to do. It was a good feeling, and in her opinion did no harm to anyone. Except perhaps Eddie’s wife, but then if the daft cow was so stupid that she couldn’t hold on to her husband, that was her lookout.

  If only her sister would show something of the same spirit, she might find happiness with her lovely Chris, after all. It was the nearest Fran would ever come to a generous thought.

  ‘And who might this be when he’s at home? Not the rent man, is it?’

  This was one of Mam’s droll little jokes. Trouble was, Amy wasn’t in the mood for laughing. She was far too nervous. They were both standing fidgeting on the mat and there wasn’t a word of welcome on it. They stood there long enough wiping their feet for Amy to look around and see her own home as a stranger might, as Chris was seeing it now for the first time.

  She hadn’t warned her mother of the impending visit so the living room looked as it always did, messy and far from clean with clothes and newspapers strewn everywhere. The milk bottle still stood on the table along with the remains of a half-eaten meal; the blue and white checked cloth was spotted with grease. One of her mother’s old cardigans hung from the doorknob, the stockings she’d peeled off when she came home from work were half tucked under a cushion. Amy made an instant decision not to ask Chris to sit down.

  Molly’s kitchen was the only room where cleanliness and order ruled, just as well since that was where the pies were made, but she showed little interest in the rest of the house. A fact which struck Amy now quite forcibly.

  Her father was sitting in his grubby vest and trousers, feet up on a stool making notes on his newspaper as he listened to the sports results on the wireless. Beside him, amongst the ash on the smeared brown tiles of the hearth, stood a glass of Guinness. The dog lay at his feet, patiently waiting for the odd crust from the bread he was eating.

  And through the dirty lace curtains could be seen a grim view of a long back yard split in two by a line of none-too clean washing with little hope of drying in the steady drizzle; the old tin bath in which the two sisters had been bathed every Friday night when they were small, before they’d had the bathroom put in upstairs, hung in full view on the wash-house wall.

  Amy was suddenly, overwhelmingly ashamed. Why on earth had she brought Chris here? What would he think of them?

  Molly herself stood before him, her large frame swathed in a wrap-around pinny, fat bare legs scarred with knobbly blue veins, flabby arms folded and pursed lips well nigh invisible above her several chins.

  Chris stretched out his hand politely. ‘I expect you’ve seen me around. Chris is the name,’ he offered. ‘Christopher . . .’ and for a split second Amy thought he was going to come out with it and bluntly announce that he was Christopher George, son of her mam’s arch rival. Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all. Swiftly she intervened, eyes wild, her voice sounding panicky and high pitched.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine. We went to the same school. Only, we weren’t in the same class.’

  ‘That’s right, I’m four years older.’

  ‘Three and a half to be exact, only a bit older than me, since I’m nearly nineteen.’ Amy knew she was gabbling, felt as if she were dying inside.

  Her father chuckled in his chair in the corner. ‘You’re a sly one. Getting round to boy friends now, eh? We’ll have to watch you, lass. They grow up too quickly these days, eh Molly?’

  ‘Actually . . . ’ Amy took a deep breath, anxious suddenly for them to get the whole thing over and done with, and make their escape. Once she’d told them she was in love, however much they might dislike the idea of an alliance between the two families, what else could they do but accept the inevitable? ‘Chris and me have been seeing each other for quite a while now.’

  ‘Over a year,’ he added, taking firm hold of her hand.

  ‘That’s right, and there’s something we’d like to talk to you about – to tell you.’

  ‘You’re not up the creek, are you, lass?’ her father asked, putting down his newspaper long enough to study his daughter, instead of form for the next race. ‘Not in the pudding club, eh?’ And Amy found herself blushing.

  ‘No, of course not. How can you suggest such a thing? No, the fact is . . .’

  Her father interrupted again. ‘Did you know anything about these goings-on, Molly?’

  She didn’t answer, too busy staring at the young lovers, her shrewd eyes narrowed in thought, looking very like hard black currants in the large round bun of her face. ‘You were about to tell us your name, young man. There’s something familiar about you. Why is that?’

  This time Amy did get in first, though even to her own ears her voice sounded shaky. ‘That’s what we want to tell you. This is Chris George. His father is Thomas George, the baker, as you know.’r />
  Somewhere a clock whirred and began to strike. Not a soul in the room spoke a word, or even seemed to breathe, and the heat from the fire became suddenly stifling. Her parents sat as if turned to stone, not revealing their thoughts by the slightest flicker or twitch of eyebrow, nerve or muscle. Even her father’s pencil had stopped making marks on his newspaper.

  Amy’s pounding heart began to compete with the clock, hammering into her brain the words she longed to shout out loud - I love him! But she didn’t dare. She cleared her throat. ‘Did you hear me, Mam? Chris is . . .’

  ‘I heard.’ Swifter than you would expect from a woman her size, Molly moved to the door and flung it open so ferociously that it banged back against the living room wall. There was already a dent in the plaster from similar occurrences in the past. ‘Out!’

  ‘But, Mam . . .’

  ‘Out, I say, this minute!’

  ‘If he goes, then so do I.’

  Chris demurred, ‘No, Amy, don’t say such a thing. I’ll go. Don’t worry. I was hoping we could perhaps talk things over rationally, in a mature and adult way. I love your daughter, Mrs Poulson, and I mean . . .’

  ‘Don’t say another word, if you know what’s good for you. I want you out of my house this minute or . . .’

  ‘I’ll throw you out,’ said Ozzy Poulson, rising to his feet and reaching for his stick, as if he meant to break it over Chris’s head.

  ‘Okay, I’m going.’ Chris held up the palms of both hands placatingly. ‘But I don’t want you to take this out on Amy. It’s not her fault either that we fell in love.’

  Amy was feeling frantic by this time. She’d never seen her invalid father move so quickly, nor her mother look so white and angry. ‘I’ll be all right. You go, Chris. We’ll talk later.’