Worse, her mother climbed in beside her, just to make sure she didn’t escape, and accompanied Amy personally right on to the train at London Road Station.
‘Go on, get on it. Stop shilly-shallying. You’re staying at your Aunt Jessie’s for a few weeks, till you get this nonsense out of your system. And don’t think you can get off at the next station. This isn’t a stopping train and our Jess will be waiting for you at the other end. Don’t try telling lover-boy where you are either because the farm is in the middle of nowhere and Jess will make sure you aren’t disturbed.’
Amy was in tears as the train drew out of the station, fearing she might never see Chris again.
Fran was jubilant. Her dear, darling sister had drawn all the flak away from herself, leaving her freer than ever. Unfortunately that meant she had to work a lot harder too, helping Mam with the chores as well as doing longer hours on the stall, but at least she got the bedroom to herself. Definitely a bonus.
She could nip in and out at will, scrambling over the wash-house roof without fear of her sister asking awkward questions, or the risk of Amy inadvertently blurting out what she was up to.
Fran could also indulge her love of experimenting with cosmetics without her efforts being commented on or criticised by her more conventional sister. She tried out different shades of eye-shadow, blues and browns and greens, with pencil liner and mascara; devil’s horn kiss curls to adorn her forehead, and even put up her hair into a sophisticated French pleat. She’d bought a hair piece to pad out her bleached blonde locks.
She tried out any number of creams, lotions and face masks, and lipsticks in a dazzling range of shades from cherry red to strawberry pink. She rifled through her sister’s wardrobe, intending to borrow some of Amy’s clothes which had been left behind. Trouble was, few of them would fit her as, infuriatingly, her sister was so much thinner.
Fran bought herself a girdle, making a vow to go on a diet which lasted at least until she’d got it home. Even as she struggled into the tight elasticised garment she was nibbling on a cream horn. Admiring herself in the mirror, Fran was quite certain she looked inches thinner. The girdle had done the trick. She’d start the diet tomorrow, or next week. Anyway, Eddie liked a woman who was cuddly, he’d told her so countless times.
He called her his lovely, giggling girl, and couldn’t keep his hands off her ripe, plump breasts.
‘And these love handles of yours turn me on something shocking,’ he’d say, kneading the excess flesh around her middle, and Fran would feel faint with desire. Ooh, he was lovely was Eddie. Always knew the right thing to say to please a girl.
Molly too was feeling mighty pleased with herself. In her eyes she’d put paid to whatever nonsense young Amy was up to. See how long romance would continue to bloom with a hundred or so miles between them. Not very long, if she was any judge. Men, young ones in particular, didn’t have the staying power.
Despite Molly’s constant wailing that she missed Amy, but loved her girls too much to have them fall into the wrong hands, it was Ozzy who was the one most distressed by his younger daughter’s sudden departure.
He adored Amy, and loved having her around. Didn’t she fetch his slippers for him, buy him his paper each day and make him a cuppa whenever he felt the need? He didn’t care to imagine how he would manage without her. ‘You can be a hard woman at times, Molly Poulson. Where’s your heart? Sending our lovely Amy away isn’t going to solve anything.’
‘It’s worth a try. If I know young men, he’ll soon get bored and find himself another girl to mend his broken heart. And since we know he comes from a family notorious for their selfishness and fickleness, that will no doubt happen before the month is out.’
Ozzy was consoled. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Neither of them expected to be coping without Amy for more than a month, two at most. Just as well. She was too handy to have around, particularly with the business expanding. The girl was a hard worker, unlike her empty headed, selfish sister. And Molly missed having a camp with her over a cuppa when the day’s work was done.
Even Buster the dog missed her. She’d sat moping and whimpering at the bottom of the stairs most of the time since Amy had left. A small, black and white terrier bitch, she was devoted to Amy and followed her everywhere when she was at home.
‘Gerroff with you,’ Molly told her but Buster simply gazed sadly at her with pleading dark eyes and started barking in indignation. ‘Oh, don’t start, you stupid animal. You’ll wake Ozzy up.’
It was only nine o’clock but she was fair worn out. Her husband was already asleep and, knowing she had to be up at the crack to do the baking, Molly liked to retire early too. She’d already undressed, leaving her clothes handily spread out on a chair by the fire so they’d be warm when she came to slip them on again in the morning.
Now the dog was being a pain, and how could Molly take him out when she was already in her old dressing gown and slippers?
Fran . . . the perfect solution. Her lazy daughter could do the honours tonight. Molly herself had walked the animal round the block for the last week since Amy had gone. Let Fran take on the duty for a change. Less malleable she might be than good natured Amy, but she was considerably younger and had far more energy than Molly herself, particularly at this time of night.
‘Fran, come and take this animal out, it’s driving me round the bend.’
No response.
‘Fran?’ Surely the lass wasn’t asleep already? Molly started up the stairs. The dog became increasingly agitated, barking like a mad thing, and Molly was complaining bitterly by the time she’d puffed her way to the top. ‘Fran, for God’s sake, this silly animal is yapping it’s head off. Take it out this minute, will you? It must be busting to go.’
Whereupon she opened the bedroom door and found the room empty. In that moment Molly realised that she didn’t just have one recalcitrant daughter, she had two.
She was still there, seated on Amy’s bed, when Fran climbed back through the window at past midnight.
‘Oh, my giddy aunt, you nearly gave me a heart attack,’ the girl cried out as a light snapped on.
‘Pity it didn’t, that’d save your father having one instead. He’ll go off his chump when he hears about this. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to, madam, or shall I make a wild guess?’
‘How did you find out?’ was Fran’s first, if predictable, response. It couldn’t be her sister who’d told on her, so who had blown her cover?
‘It was the dog.’
‘What? Learned to tell tales now, has it?’
By the time Molly had explained, Fran was near ready to strangle the creature, and her sister for having left it behind.
‘Are you going to come clean or what? Who is it you’re seeing? Not another of the George family, I hope.’
‘Nobody you know,’ Fran said, and unscrewing a small white jar began to slap Pond’s cold cream over her face. She had no intention of becoming involved in an argument, not at this time of night. ‘Now can I get to bed? We can talk about this some other time.’
‘When you’ve come up with some fanciful excuse, you mean? By your reluctance to explain, I assume I wouldn’t approve of him any more than I do our Amy’s chap. Why is that, then?’
Fran was wiping off her make up with a face cloth when she saw understanding dawn in her mother’s eyes. Molly always was sharp, but her expression now made Fran’s stomach clench into knots.
‘He’s married, isn’t he? Dear heaven, you’re having an affair with a married man. Your dad’ll kill you - that’s if I don’t do the job first. What have I done to deserve this? As if I haven’t enough to contend with keeping our Amy away from that dreadful family, now you’re at it an’ all. Haven’t I been a good mother to you both? Why would the pair of you deliberately set out to hurt me?’
‘This isn’t about you, Mam, it’s about me. And what our Amy does has nothing to do with me neither.’
‘Who is he? Go on, tell me the w
orst. What’s his name?’
Fran sighed, feeling deeply weary. It seemed such a shame. Her mother was ruining what had been a perfectly wonderful evening. She and Eddie had been dancing together at the Ritz and could hardly keep their hands off each other. So much so they’d had to sneak out during the interval and slip up a back street for a quick one.
Eddie had slammed her up against a wall and practically devoured her. His urgency had excited her so much, she’d even forgotten to ask him to use a rubber johnnie, as she usually did. Which was a bit worrying, come to think of it. The last thing Fran wanted was trouble landing at her door. Still, once wouldn’t hurt, surely. Fran was quite sure her luck would hold.
There really didn’t seem any point in pretending innocence, not any longer. Once her mam had her teeth into you, or rather her dentures, Fran thought irreverently, you might as well lie down and confess. She certainly didn’t want to be banished from Champion Street as daft Amy had been. Best to make a clean breast of it, own up, swear to stay away from Eddie in future, and then in a day or two, when Mam had forgotten all about it, they could carry on where they’d left off.
Fran told her mother everything, bragging about the passion they felt for each other as if he was Mark Anthony and she Cleopatra. She gave Molly not only Eddie’s name, and the fact that he worked for the gas board but also inadvertently mentioned where he lived and even what his stupid wife was called.
It proved to be a bad mistake.
During the rest of that sleepless night, Molly made up her mind on two points. One, that she wouldn’t make any mention of Fran’s transgression to Ozzy, not at this stage. The two of them didn’t get on, were more often than not at daggers drawn, constantly sniping at each other, Fran having no sympathy whatsoever for her father’s situation. So what would be gained by making a difficult situation worse?
Secondly, Molly intended not to be beaten by her daughters’ foolishness. If they were daft enough to fall in love with the wrong men, then they must suffer the consequences. Molly was determined to make them both see the error of their ways. She’d put a spoke in the wheel of their respective romantic adventures, or her name wasn’t Big Molly Poulson.
She’d already sorted Amy, so all she had to do now was think of a way to stifle their Fran’s amorous gallivanting.
Molly was rolling out suet pastry for the last batch of her steak puddings the following morning when she heard a knock at the back door. It was still quite early, a little past seven o’clock.
She glanced about her with a sigh of irritation. She’d intended to put this last dozen puddings on to steam, then wake the rest of the household and make them all a nice cuppa. A visitor was an unexpected nuisance but she assumed it would be Robert. Who else would call so early?
Life would be so much easier once he’d got the new premises up and running. Her son constantly moaned about the state of his mother’s house where Poulson’s pies and puddings were made. The kitchen was certainly cramped, although reasonably clean and tidy in comparison with the rest of the house anyway. The untidiness of the living area didn’t trouble Molly in the slightest. That was Ozzy’s province. Besides, she didn’t have the time to be bothered with it. When she wasn’t confined to this kitchen, baking, she spent her entire day at the market.
In any case, Molly was of the school of thought that a bit of muck never hurt anyone. Her son, however, did not agree, and kept nagging her about food hygiene or some such nonsense.
Robert had become very particular since he married that fancy wife of his. Mind you, he always had been the picky sort, ever since he was a lad, putting his clothes in the wash long before they really needed it. And since he’d taken up with that Margaret from down Cheshire way, he’d gone even worse. Posh new front door on their terraced house, fancy new car, fresh flowers on the window sill. The pair of them certainly had big ideas, that was for sure.
Not that Molly was averse to the idea of improvement and expansion. Plans were progressing nicely, although, as always, money and time were the problem. So until he had it all set up, she kept on with the old routine, trying to cope with the baking side herself. If only she could persuade Ozzy to get off his backside and help she’d get it done twice as fast, but he was too wrapped up in his own pain and depression, poor man. And the Sporting Chronicle, of course.
Maybe Robert had a bit of good news. She could do with some right now. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, chuck, t’door’s on the latch,’ she shouted, hands still covered in flour.
And there he was, standing on her clean doorstep. Chris George, large as life, his young face such a picture of misery Molly almost felt sorry for him. Almost . . . Then she recalled who his father was and which family he came from, and her heart armoured itself afresh in its hard shell.
‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘Is Amy here? I haven’t seen her in days and I’m worried. Where is she? Why hasn’t she met me at our usual spot?’
‘Oh, so you have a secret trysting place, do you? Well, not any more, you don’t. Our Amy has gone, and she won’t be back until she’s got you out of her system, which I’m sure won’t take long.’
‘Gone where?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Mine too, I love her.’
‘Then you’ll just have to get over her.’
He looked so shocked and hurt by the very suggestion, it almost made Molly laugh out loud.
‘How can I do that? Love isn’t like chicken pox, something that you can treat and it will get better.’
Molly snorted her derision, wiped her hands on the back of her stained apron. ‘Find yourself another girl, there’s plenty around, and leave my lass alone.’ With that she started to close the door but, quick as a flash, Chris inserted his foot in the crack to prevent her from doing so.
‘Here, don’t you start no trouble or I’ll call the polis.’
‘Just tell me where she’s gone.’
‘Not on your sweet life. Get over her, it’s finished.’ And kicking his foot out of the way, Molly slammed the door shut.
Chapter Eight
Patsy became increasingly intrigued and entertained by the comings and goings on Champion Street, by solemn-faced women in drab coats and head-scarves rooting through racks of second hand clothes. They might choose a jumper for young Johnny to wear to school, a skirt for themselves, or a new apron from several pegged up on a clothes line strung over a stall stacked high with towels. And despite the large price tag which adorned each garment, they would still argue over the price.
She was fascinated by the lines of market stalls with their intricate displays of tablecloths and lace doilies, strings of bags, and ropes of beads and knitted scarves creating a kaleidoscope of colour. The colours and smells were what had struck her most about the market on that very first morning, the hearty Lancashire voices calling out their wares, and the stallholders’ droll sense of humour.
Such as Barry Holmes getting his own back on a fussy customer. ‘Don’t look down your nose at these King Edward tatties. You could fit five pounds in your hat, yer head is that big.’
Amazingly the man concerned thought this so funny he happily bought ten pounds, saying he’d have to borrow Barry’s bowler as well to carry them all home.
Patsy remained grateful for his gift of a rosy red apple but saw Barry himself as a strange little gnome of a man with his sloping forehead and upper lip that was well-nigh invisible. He had large bony hands with long fingers, and straight black hair slicked down with Brylcreem. Yet he was friendly enough, giving her a cheery wave most mornings, although he showed no inclination to repeat his generosity.
And there was Molly Poulson, always striving to draw a crowd. ‘Never try flicking mushy peas at your old man, love, they might get stuck in his ears and then he won’t be able to hear the foul names you’re calling him. Throw a black pudding at him instead.’
As well as pies and puddings, and the essential mushy peas, Poulson’s also sold cheese and butter.
Patsy loved to watch the stack of yellow cheeses dwindle as they were cut into wedges, weighed and wrapped and slipped into waiting shopping baskets. Huge links of Jimmy Ramsay’s prize winning pork sausages were strung up for all to admire. Baskets of flowers and buckets of roses, crates of lettuces and barrels heaped with rosy apples nestling in sawdust littered the cobbles. Home made rock cakes as big as doorstops, and perfect eggs all brown and speckled were sold by farmer’s wives on their little clutch of stalls.
Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin was a favourite stop whenever she had money to spend. Patsy could choose from slabs of toffee in a range of delicious flavours from raspberry to banana cream, peanut brittle to sticky treacle. Lizzie Pringle would break it into pieces with a little silver hammer. Or Patsy might buy a triangular paper bag filled with pear drops, or milk chocolate buttons covered all over with hundreds and thousands.
Pringles were famous for their rich chocolate, truffles and coffee creams, montelimar and caramel, none of which Patsy could afford, but she would linger in the cabin simply to breath in the glorious aroma before treating herself to a bag of dark mint chocolate chips.
Not such a bad place to live, after all.
After a few weeks at the market, Patsy decided it was time to test the security of her position. If the test failed, she could walk out and move on before she startled to feel settled, got too attached to the place and to everyone in it. Annie was in charge of the purse strings so she was the one to tackle first. Patsy knew she could always appeal for help from Clara later, if necessary.
One of her favourite places was Alec Hall’s music stall. Patsy was a member of the Frankie Vaughan Fan Club and back home in Yorkshire she’d left her collection of records, together with all her other stuff. Not that it mattered. There was nothing particularly precious and personal that she missed, but she would like to replace some of those records, and buy Frankie’s new one, The Green Door.
Fools Fall in Love Page 6
