Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have anything to play them on, having left her record player behind too.

  ‘I need a record player,’ she bluntly announced to Annie one evening. Patsy had waited until she’d set aside her Bible, as it was risky to interrupt her when she was reading it, which she did every evening. Although any time could be a bad time where Annie was concerned.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Patsy sighed. ‘I’d like a record player, please.’

  Annie frowned at her as if a record player were something she’d never heard of in her life before. Perhaps she hadn’t. The sisters still used a wind up gramophone to play their scratchy, ancient dance music. It sounded excruciatingly bad, like cats screeching in an alley. Every time they put it on, Patsy would stop up her ears.

  Annie’s response was predictable. ‘Why would you want one of those? Whatever it is.’

  ‘To play records.’

  ‘Do you have any?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t. At least, not any more, but I could buy some from Alec Hall’s music stall. I’m in the Frankie Vaughan Fan Club.’

  It was clear from Annie’s expression that she hadn’t heard of him either. ‘But why would you want to buy records when you don’t have anything to play them on?’

  Patsy sighed. This was getting silly. It was perfectly clear, however, that there would be no record player. Did that mean the test had failed, that it was a waste of time her staying here because she really wasn’t wanted? But Annie was not done yet, never being one to miss the opportunity to gibe a lecture.

  ‘You’ve only been here five minutes and already you’re making demands. You could always save up and buy your own record player.’

  ‘On what you pay me? You must be joking.’

  ‘My sister, in her generosity, has decided not to charge you very much at all for bed and board, not until you get on your feet, so that needs to be taken into account. When you have proved your worth, which could take some time the way you’re going on, I may consider a small rise.’

  ‘Don’t I work hard enough for you?’ Patsy was still unwilling to admit that the test had failed. After all, Annie was at least offering her hope for the future and the prospect of leaving made her feel suddenly rather ill.

  ‘I am prepared to review the situation in, say, a month.’

  With that she had to be content. By way of compensation, all Patsy could hope to do was to go round to Hall’s Music and play records in the music booths, even though there was little point in buying any since she had no means of playing them.

  But she did secretly retune the wireless and listen to Radio Luxembourg, very quietly, once the Higginson sisters were safely tucked up in their beds.

  Patsy decided that wearing an Alice band was perhaps more childish than cool. She pulled her hair up into an elastic band to form a ‘ponytail’, hoping that the new style would make her look more grown-up and glamorous, which in turn helped her to feel happy and upbeat. She would enviously watch Fran Poulson, who always looked so sexy, voluptuous and curvy, swinging her bottom outrageously as she walked along, and try to do the same.

  She’d stick out her bust as far as it would go, not happy about her lack of curves. Patsy liked to behave like a tomboy, but had no wish to look like one. She tried stuffing socks down her bra but the result just looked weird and lop-sided.

  Once or twice she attempted to strike up a conversation with Fran, even though the other girl was a few years older and not overly friendly. She tried asking after her sister Amy, whom she hadn’t seen around for a week or two, and was told she was staying with relatives in the Lakes. Fran’s expression said much more, that Patsy should mind her own business for a start. Which only confirmed her belief that you never quite knew where you were with people. If you tried to be open and friendly, it didn’t always work.

  But despite her best intentions to remain aloof and detached from everyone, Patsy grew increasingly content living on Champion Street, and the market folk were such characters.

  Molly Poulson, for instance, would scowl at her as she passed by. They were just about on speaking terms now, Patsy having paid Clara back for the pie she’d ‘borrowed’.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ Molly said, rather mysteriously. Although since she’d got a job as a result of her thieving, Patsy wasn’t complaining. Perhaps crime did pay, after all, she thought, rather irreverently.

  There were many others.

  Sam Beckett who sold all manner of puzzling items on his ironmongery stall and looked pretty tough to Patsy, though quite good looking for a man of his age, unlike his ugly bulldog. Patsy had been terrified the first time she came across the animal. The second time even more so as it bounded towards her and leaped right up, placing its big paws on her shoulders, although fortunately only to lick her face.

  ‘He likes you,’ Sam had said, pleased. ‘You’re his friend for life now.’

  Patsy liked Jimmy Ramsay, the jolly butcher, though she wasn’t so sure about Winnie Watkins who only nodded to her through the drapery of fabric that trimmed her stall.

  ‘It’s none of my business, lass, but are you new round here?’ she asked one day.

  ‘Clever of you to spot that,’ Patsy insolently responded, and earned herself a boxed ear the next time she passed that way.

  Every morning, watching from her bedroom window, Patsy would see the Bertalones pour down the steps of their house opposite and out on to the street, a tide of colour and noisy exuberance, all talking at once so that it seemed a miracle anyone would hear a word anyone else said. Papa Bertalone would always lead the way, marching proudly to his ice cream parlour, expecting his family to follow, while Mama stood on the steps to see them off, waving her handkerchief as if they were travelling miles and not simply to the local school, or to the market to work.

  The boys, being Italian, were all dark and good-looking. Patsy would draw in her breath and marvel at their beauty. Sometimes she would spot one of them out and about on the market, but, wracked by shyness, she never dared risk speaking to any of these demi-gods, despite her efforts to appear tough and in control.

  She’d learned that the youngest was called Giovanni and was about eight or nine, then there was Alessandro. The eldest was called Marc, and was quite the most handsome of the three. But whenever she met them, Patsy would always carefully avoid making eye contact and hurry away.

  It was the little girls who delighted her the most.

  Their dresses were a rainbow of reds, blues, yellows, mauves and greens, with mismatched sleeves, frilly skirts and collars, polka dots, checks and stripes, all stitched together in a riot of disharmony. It was as if Mama Bertalone was in possession of a huge bag of patchwork pieces from which she would make a random selection. From these she would sew a dress for one of her girls, and when its wearer had outgrown it or become tired of the design, each part would be unpicked and put back into the bag, so that what had once been a skirt could later become a bodice, and in time take its turn as a sleeve or a collar.

  Patsy was almost sorry when the sunny October days passed and they all started wearing navy gabardines against the cold and wet of coming winter.

  But when she saw them smile and laugh and kiss each other goodbye, her heart would ache. Why could she not be part of a big loving family? For Patsy, watching this daily parade was never anything less than fascinating, for all it reminded her of what she herself lacked.

  And as she watched the folk of Champion Street, so they in turn watched her, trying to make up their minds what they thought of this newcomer who had come into their midst.

  Belle Garside, who ran the Market Hall Café and considered herself Queen of the Market, or would be, folk said, given half a chance, naturally found it necessary to introduce herself when Patsy went in one morning for a bacon butty. She was particularly keen to make her own credentials clear.

  ‘I shall be on the committee once I’ve won the next election. In the meantime, I certainly have the ear of
the Market Superintendent so you’d best mind your Ps and Qs with me. I heard what happened about that pie you stole from Molly Poulson. I shall be keeping a close eye on you in future.’

  ‘Along with everyone else, so far as I can see,’ said Patsy, taking a huge bite of her bacon sandwich. ‘Nosy old beggars, the lot of ‘em.’

  A short stunned silence, and then, ‘How long do you expect to be with us, I wonder?’

  Patsy lifted her nose in the air and said she hadn’t quite decided yet, but when she did, Belle would be the first to know.

  ‘I can see you’ve been in the knife drawer. Take care you don’t cut yourself, girl. And remember,’ Belle continued, tapping Patsy in the chest with one lethally sharp, scarlet fingernail, ‘it doesn’t pay to make enemies round here. So put a guard on that clever tongue of yours, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Patsy stood up, saying, ‘And next time you take a cigarette from that packet, remember the rest of us poor sods have to put up with the stink of it on your breath,’ whereupon she picked up her sandwich and walked out, without paying.

  Annie very nearly suffered a heart attack when Belle came round later to complain. ‘Why didn’t you pay for it?’ she asked Patsy.

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Forgot? You’ll be out on your ear next time, that’s what will happen to you, girl, if you don’t mind your manners. Packed off to the police station to make your excuses there.’

  Patsy shivered over that threat later, once she was safely in her own room where no one could witness her fear. Would she ever be anything but an outsider, an unwanted outcast living on the edge of the law?

  Chapter Nine

  Having dealt with one daughter’s lover to her own satisfaction, Molly set about ridding herself of the second. She discovered the section of the gas board Eddie worked in, which proved to be remarkably easy. All she had to do was hang around outside first thing in the morning when the staff were arriving.

  Once she’d spotted him drive up in his Vauxhall Cresta all she had to do was wait until he was safely inside and the coast was clear. She crept quietly up to his car, keeping a sharp look out to make sure no one spotted her and unscrewed the valves to let the air out of his tyres.

  Pity she couldn’t do the same to his lungs, or other parts of his anatomy, but this was a start anyway. Eddie Davidson would find life far less comfortable in future. He’d soon be wishing he’d never set eyes on their Fran.

  But as the weeks went by Molly knew in her heart that, despite her claims to the contrary, Fran was still seeing him. Letting down his tyres had achieved nothing at all. No doubt he’d assumed it was a bunch of kids playing tricks on him. Molly decided that much more radical action was called for.

  She would stand guard outside his smart little semi-detached till she knew he’d spotted her. He’d come to the door and they’d glare at each other across the road. Then he’d go inside, close the door and draw the curtains in the room he called the lounge. But for all his fancy modern ways, he was, in Molly’s estimation, nothing but a dirty minded cheat. He had no right at all to touch her lovely lass.

  At least he knew she was on to him.

  One day Molly sauntered over, took a key from her pocket and scratched the wing of his nice new car. She tied tin cans to the bumper, and broke all the plant pots in his pretty little garden. Then she dropped an envelope through his door containing a dead mouse. The note with it said, ‘This is only a mouse. You’re the rat!’

  And still Fran kept dolling herself up every Wednesday and Friday evening, to go swaggering off to meet her married lover, defiance in every bright-eyed glance of triumph she shot in her mother’s direction.

  Molly was in despair. No wonder the once rich tones of her brown hair were fading to a dull grey, and she wasn’t even fifty yet. It seemed that the more she tried to stop Fran, the more determined the stupid mare was to stick by this Eddie Davidson. Big Molly clipped her offending tresses back with an old tortoise-shell hair slide and sat deep in thought, all alone in the sanctuary of her kitchen as she waited for the kettle on the gas to boil for her morning cuppa. Here she was, up and about at four in the morning, with not even any baking to do.

  Robert was now in charge of the production side of the business, in the new kitchens he’d had fitted out with the very latest equipment.

  ‘All you have to do, Mam, is run the stall,’ he’d told her as he’d emptied her cupboards of the tins she used for steaming the individual steak and kidney puddings. She’d objected to him taking them, because he’d bought all new, together with huge steamers and industrial-style ovens. But Robert said that if he left them there, he didn’t trust her not to use them and interfere, as she so loved to do. ‘And if anything went wrong, I’d lose my licence.’

  ‘What could go wrong?’

  ‘This isn’t a hygienic kitchen, Mam. Somebody might catch something.’

  Molly had been outraged. ‘I’ve not poisoned anyone yet, not in all the years I’ve been catering.’

  ‘Who cared, with a war on and food in short supply? But this is the fifties now. We’re in the modern world. We need to be more efficient and adventurous. I might try lamb hot pot, chunky beef stew and dumplings, or maybe a new line altogether, like pâté, once I’ve got the routine running smoothly.’

  ‘What’s pâté when it’s at home?’

  Robert had explained, in careful detail.

  ‘Oh, like potted meat? Why didn’t you say so? Stick to the old favourites, they’re the best.’ But he was another who didn’t listen to her advice.

  ‘No, Mam, I can’t do that. Life is changing and competition is fierce. I mean to get on, make something of Poulsons. Leave the cooking to me now and you stick to running stall, then you can put up your feet of an evening and sleep in in the mornings. Take life easy for once.’

  That’s all she ever heard from him these days, like a stuck record. Day after day he’d tell her that she should leave the worrying to him, as if she’d suddenly become decrepit. ‘So you’re putting me out to grass, are you?’

  ‘I want you to relax and enjoy life. And stop worrying about our Fran and Amy. They’re grown women. Leave them to sort out their own lives while you take things easy and lie in bed.’

  Molly had never had a lie-in in her life, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now.

  As she sat and drank her tea at the empty table, she felt oddly bereft. She massaged the swollen joints of her fingers. Her hands were red and sore from all the kneading of dough and pastry that she’d done over the years, a task they would be spared in future. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing Robert was playing a proper role in the business, making it his own. Didn’t he want only the best for her? She’d been only eighteen when she’d had him twenty-five years ago, so was hardly in her dotage now. Still, Molly was not against taking things a bit easier, so long as she could still play a role in the business. And wasn’t she proud of her fine son?

  It worried her slightly though that she wasn’t made particularly welcome at his house by that toffee-nosed wife of his, Margaret as she liked to be called. She certainly wasn’t a Maggie, and she was clearly even more ambitious than Robert. No doubt if Molly ever tried visiting the new kitchens, she’d be equally unwelcome there as well.

  ‘Eeh, what is the world coming to? It’s not what it was, that’s for sure,’ she told the small black-and-white terrier who lifted her head to listen, and when Molly said nothing further, sighed and propped her chin back on her paws.

  Molly echoed the sigh as she sipped her tea.

  Robert was probably right, though. She should be looking forward to a more relaxing life, to grandchildren and time to have a bit of a laugh with her mates.

  But how could she when she had all this trouble on her hands? How could she sit back and do nothing when her beloved girls were about to destroy their lives? He was wrong on that score at least.

  The annoying thing was, Fran could have any lad she fancied. She had but to cast
them a sideways glance from those warm, come-hither amber eyes of hers, and they fell at her feet with the eagerness of a thirsty man in the desert heading for water. Yet she’d no confidence in herself and had instead chosen this loser, got herself embroiled in an affair that was going nowhere.

  Both her daughters, fools that they were, had allowed themselves to fall in love with the wrong man, absolutely refusing to heed a mother’s sound advice.

  Molly sipped her tea, wishing she had some dough to thump about, instead of sitting here stewing in self pity. She felt cheated. She’d done her best for her two girls. All right, they might never have had much money but she’d fed and cared for them with precious little help from Ozzy, and, more importantly, loved them to bits.

  They both had good jobs in the family business, and she’d dreamed of them finding nice young men to marry. She’d hoped to see them settled by now, producing a clutch of grandchildren for her to enjoy. Instead, they’d brought nothing but trouble to her door.

  Life was so unfair.

  The tea had gone cold. Molly got wearily to her feet to brew herself some fresh, her anger mounting, souring her moof. If neither girl was able to stand up for herself, then she must be the one to do it for them. Wasn’t it her responsibility, as their mother, to protect them? Something she’d been denied during her own sadly neglected childhood. So she’d do everything possible for her two lasses, and tackle anyone who threatened to hurt them.

  Molly mentally rolled up her sleeves just thinking about it.

  Two cups of tea later, she had her plan all worked out. She would send a letter; a carefully worded anonymous missive addressed personally to Eddie Davidson’s wife. This she did later that same day, delivering it by hand to his house so that there would be no betraying postmark, choosing a time when he was safely at work and unable to intercept the delivery.

  There was no one, Molly thought, better skilled at controlling a cheating husband than his adoring wife. Once the poor woman had read that letter, she’d tighten the reins and keep him safely at home. That would soon cool his ardour. And if that didn’t work either, then Molly had one or two more ideas up her sleeve. Eddie Davidson would rue the day he’d ever laid a finger on her daughter.