Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Our Fran might have a point, Molly love,’ he quietly ventured, only to be immediately shouted down.

  ‘Never! She’ll do as I say. They both will. Not that you care. You’re only interested in yourself, like all men. But I’m not beaten yet, not by a long chalk.’

  Molly knew all about selfish men. As a child she’d been brought up, if that was the phrase, by her father, her mother having died giving birth to her. For all she had an elder sister, it had been a lonely childhood since much of the time her father rarely bothered even to speak to his two daughters, finding solace for his bereavement in the bottom of a bottle.

  He never laid a finger on them, neither by way of chastisement nor in any show of affection. Either would have done, just an acknowledgement that he cared, but he rarely seemed aware of their presence in the house.

  Young Molly was the one expected to put food on the table for him to eat, keep his clothes and home clean and tidy, though since she had no one to teach her how to do that, it very rarely was.

  Lena certainly couldn’t have shown her, for all she was two years older, because she was a bit simple in the head. Molly had to take care of her too, protect her from the bullies in the playground who thought it fun to taunt her for her ignorance, just because she wasn’t as bright as them.

  Her father never thanked her for that either.

  Molly knew that he blamed her entirely for the death of her mother, for causing her death simply by being born. That was what was wrong with all men: they were entirely self-obsessed. He never gave a thought to his children’s loss, to the fact they’d been forced to grow up without a mother.

  And if the young Molly had thought that was bad, there’d been worse to come.

  Was it any wonder that she’d married a weak, useless man like Oswald Poulson? She’d married him for his family business, of course, not his winning charm, so what did it matter? They largely went their separate ways and he didn’t trouble her, doing exactly what he was told, the daft hap’orth, which was just as well since he couldn’t think of anything beyond the next sure fire winner, or pint of Guinness.

  Her two girls were another matter. She might not be good at showing it, but they were the light of her life, and Big Molly would allow no one to quench their brightness or take advantage of them. Like a lioness protecting her cubs, she’d get the best for them or die in the attempt.

  Trouble was they were daft young lasses who didn’t know what was good for them. They imagined that now they were grown up, they no longer needed to march to her tune. Even Robert, her precious son had no further use for her, discarding her like an old paper bag after he’d emptied it of everything of value.

  Well, the whole bang lot of them would soon learn different. She was no spent force, no decrepit old soul ready for the knacker’s yard. Wasn’t she Big Molly? Hadn’t she always been in charge and wouldn’t she remain so?

  No matter what the cost, Molly meant to win.

  The following day the gas board received a letter to say that one of their employees, Edward Davidson, had taken advantage of a certain young girl who must remain anonymous for the sake of her reputation. That she’d been well nigh ruined by his bad behaviour. It went on to complain of the immense distress caused to her family. The letter, unsigned of course, concluded by begging the board to administer justice by dispensing with his services.

  ‘Where have you been dipping your wick?’ Eddie’s boss wanted to know when he called him into the office to discuss the letter, amusement ripe in his voice. ‘Sort it out, lad, will you? We don’t want this sort of carry-on, not at the gas board.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Patsy remained steadfast in her desire for independence. If there was a dispute, she would give as good as she got, hotly defending herself against any criticism, no matter if the sisters accused her of being impertinent, or said, ‘Less of your sauce, girl.’

  Their threatening to throw her out of hearth and home proved to be a regular occurrence during those first few months. It happened every time Annie told her to be in by ten and she wasn’t, which would generally lead to a row.

  Patsy paid her bed and board regular as clockwork nowadays, and therefore considered herself free to come and go as she pleased. Most of the time she was only taking a walk, or thinking things through down by the canal. She never did anything outrageous, like going to a pub, or dancing even, because she had no one to go with. But she liked watching others go out and enjoy themselves, seeing them stroll home again in a happy group, imagining she was part of it.

  In the end, the sisters’ insistence that danger lurked on every street corner once darkness fell, won through. Patsy knew they simply didn’t want to be held responsible if she was found murdered up a dark alley, her body chucked into some coal heap, so had to be content with keeping herself amused reading second-hand magazines she bought from Abel’s stall. She was still saving up for a record player. Trouble was, she kept being tempted to buy other things, too, like clothes and nail varnish.

  She’d come down to breakfast one morning with a rainbow of colours on her nails, from pink and poppy red through to a violent purple. Annie had been appalled, demanding she wash it off that instant.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you can’t wash nail polish off, you have to use a special remover.’ In any case, Patsy refused point blank. Old fuddy-duddie’s, the pair of them. ‘I might put some colour tints on my hair too. It’s all the rage now you can do it without splitting the ends. That’d be fun, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Not unless you were planning to seek alternative accommodation,’ Annie told her sourly.

  ‘What makes you think I was planning on stopping long anyway?’ Patsy hit right back, determined to keep up her defiance. Annie proved to be deadly serious, however, and stood over her while she cleaned the painted nails with nail polish remover. Such a fuss over nothing!

  Even Clara objected if she had the radio on too loud, or found her bopping in the living room to Radio Luxembourg at midnight, using the chair as a partner.

  And the next morning Annie would launch into yet another lecture, quoting from the good book, or sharply remind Patsy that using other people’s belongings without permission was tantamount to theft.

  ‘Theft? I didn’t run off with the flipping radio, or even try to pawn it,’ Patsy protested.

  ‘You stole the electricity needed to power the instrument, if nothing else,’ Annie insisted, and went on to make it clear that she wasn’t even permitted to alter the dial on the wireless without her say so.

  ‘Or blow my flipping nose either, by the sound of it, in case you have to use soap and hot water to wash my hanky. Or breathe, for that matter, which would mean that I might use up warm air I haven’t paid for. I’d hate to be a drain on your purse.’

  ‘Don’t say such things, Patsy,’ Clara begged, clearly shocked by her rebellion. ‘It has nothing to do with the cost of your keep. Annie is concerned about you, that’s all.’

  ‘She has a funny way of showing it.’

  Annie scowled at her more fiercely than ever. ‘We are the ones responsible for you, child, until someone claims you.’ Just as if she were a stray cat.

  ‘We want only what is best for you,’ Clara hastily intervened, seeing how the sparks flew between these two. ‘Have you written to your parents yet? Have you told them that you are safe?’

  Patsy had had enough of this. ‘Not another interrogation. I’ve told you before, I’m not a child, and I haven’t got any parents. None that matter anyway. They were only my foster parents, and they threw me out too, so why should they care where I am?’

  She hadn’t meant to say any of that, and was rewarded by a stunned silence as both sisters sat staring at her, shock registering on each startled face. After a moment, Clara said, ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

  ‘Would the pair of you like to keep your long noses out of my business?’ And Patsy had slammed out of the room, only to find herself in tears down on the tow path. She should have u
sed their concern as a way to ask some questions of her own. Why hadn’t she? Oh, why couldn’t she bring herself even to ask?

  Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.

  Whenever they’d had one of these spats, Patsy would sit huddled on the wall down by the canal, or by the lock, breathing in the smell of tar and coal dust, of cold damp water, mud and grass, hating her life, hating herself. She would tell herself to forget all this nonsense about mothers and move on, to make a fresh start some place else.

  Patsy would start off resenting the sight of a patch of blue sky, or a ray of sunshine lighting a prettily painted passing barge, bringing a startling new resonance to the industrial scene. In the end, though, she would find herself helping the barge owner to work the lock, or laughing as a mother duck took her young offspring for a walk in the spring sunshine. These moments would remind her that, if nothing else, she too possessed the power and vigour of youth. Only when the anger had quite died down and she felt calm once more would she return to number twenty-two Champion Street.

  No more would be said about their quarrel. Supper would be served as if nothing untoward had occurred, the conversation keeping to safe topics such as the weather and trade.

  But irritating as these incidents were, Patsy came to accept that the sisters at least provided her with employment and a roof over her head. They fed her regularly, didn’t ask her to do any chores that they weren’t equally prepared to do themselves, and as time went by complained about her less and less. Of course, that could simply be because they realised how pointless that was, but Patsy kept hoping it might be because they did quite like having her around, although they would never admit as much.

  The tattoo on her ankle proved to be a step too far though. She’d found an old sailor who did them, down by the docks. Patsy watched him scald the needles and took the chance that it was safe enough. The sisters, unfortunately, were aghast, absolutely hit the roof, and hovered over her anxiously for days in case she came down with some dreadful disease. Which, in an odd sort of way was strangely comforting.

  Nobody had ever cared before what happened to her.

  Now if she could just raise the courage to ask a few questions of her own . . . ? What did she have to lose besides everything?

  ‘Is this Cheddar cheese mature?’ Patsy wanted to know. ‘Perhaps I should take the Double Gloucester instead. Clara and Annie like plenty of flavour in their cheese.‘

  ‘Try it.’ Fran held a piece out on the end of a knife. She wasn’t paying much attention to Patsy, her expression showing complete disinterest, seeming far more engrossed in the comings and goings in the market around them.

  Patsy had only been shopping for half an hour, carefully following Clara’s list, and already her stomach was full to bursting. She’d tried pickles and prawns, gingersnaps and gooseberries - the latter rather sour, black pudding and chocolate cupcake. A strange mixture and she was beginning to feel slightly ill.

  Patsy agreed that she would take the cheese but Fran made no move to cut it for her. She was standing on tip-toe, looking as if she were about to call out to someone, and then subsided, disappointment keen on her face.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘No one you’d know. How much were you wanting?’ and then weighed a piece that was a good ounce over. By the time Patsy had decided to complain, the cheese had been wrapped and she felt obliged to pay for it.

  Money continued to be a major cause for concern in the Higginson household. It troubled Patsy, as it seemed to threaten her own situation.

  At least the hat stall had been busier in the last week or two, with ladies buying their hats in readiness for the Whit Walks, and Patsy couldn’t rightly recall how many straw bonnets she’d sold to small girls. They’d quite run out of rosebuds and pink ribbon.

  Even so, Annie had instructed her only this morning always to ask for ‘a little bit of something on the side’. Rather like the baker’s dozen, where you in fact received thirteen bread rolls instead of twelve, Annie always expected something extra by way of good will. Not that this happened very often these days, as Clara had gently pointed out. Nevertheless, Annie insisted that she ask, which Patsy found acutely embarrassing.

  Sometimes she’d be lucky. Barry Holmes had given her a whole bunch of soup greens, Jimmy Ramsay had slipped a sprig of sage in with the chicken she’d bought, even though it had been the smallest bird he had available on his stall. Patsy knew that Annie would be disappointed. She would have preferred a few sausages instead.

  Patsy was on her way back to the hat stall with her purchases when she caught sight of Marc Bertalone, and her heart contracted.

  Ever since they’d had their argument at Hall’s music stall and she’d broken the record over his head, she’d managed to neatly avoid him. Even so, she was always acutely aware of him whenever he was around, indicated by a little prickling sensation at the base of her scalp.

  Patsy had resolutely made up her mind never to speak to him again. No matter how often she saw him smiling or winking at her as he watched her go by, the vision from the corner of her eye being surprisingly good, Patsy refused to weaken. Let him wink as much as he liked. She’d seen him tease Fran and Amy Poulson in exactly the same way. Marc Bertalone was an incorrigible flirt. She had no intention of allowing him to break her heart.

  The other day he’d actually had the effrontery to speak to her. It had only been a cheery hello but Patsy had tossed her head and walked on without giving him the satisfaction of responding. His laughter had filled her with fury, which made her all the more determined to ignore him.

  Now here he was again, constantly turning up like a bad penny wherever she went. Champion Street Market was a small place. Too small.

  ‘Hiya, Patsy, and how are you this fine morning?’

  He sounded so cheerful, so full of himself. Patsy would have carried on walking this morning as well, basket on her arm, but he deliberately stepped in front of her. ‘I was hoping that you and I could get together. It could be fun, don’t you think?’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Damn, now she’d allowed him to trick her into speaking.

  ‘I paid for that broken record by the way, but you could at least tell me what I did to deserve it.’

  ‘If you don’t know, then there’s no point in my wasting time explaining.’ She really didn’t want him poking his nose into her business, or feeling sorry for her, let alone accusing her of drooling over him. She didn’t need anyone, least of all this arrogant Italian. And Patsy just knew he’d been talking about her to all and sundry, laughing at her for watching him from behind her lace curtains, and for cracking his head with that record. Some friend he would be.

  But he didn’t seem to be getting the message. ‘How about you and me going to the pictures? Or a dance, if you prefer. There’s a new skiffle group playing at the Co-op rooms tonight. Fancy going along to listen?’

  She would have loved to go and her heart did that funny little skipping sensation at the very thought, but Patsy pressed her lips together and lifted her chin in the air. ‘I’m busy, thanks,’ she said before brushing past him and walking away.

  She heard his heavy sigh. ‘I’m heartbroken. We’d be so good together, you and me. When will you give me a chance, Patsy?’

  As she turned the corner of the market hall, she glanced quickly back over her shoulder. To her horror he was still standing there, one hand pressed to his heart, watching her. When he saw her looking he lifted the hand and waved, and that gorgeous mouth of his twisted into a wide smile, the straight dark brows giving a little up and down jerk of amusement, as if he were mocking her. Feeling her cheeks flare with fresh embarrassment, Patsy fled indoors.

  She’d barely unpacked the basket and set the items out on the kitchen table when Annie pounced.

  ‘What do you call this? A twig?’ She was twirling the sprig of sage round in her fingers.

  Patsy took it off her with an impatient sigh. ‘Don’t you know anything
? It’s sage to make the stuffing with.’

  ‘Less cheek from you, girl. I am well aware that it is sage, what I’m wondering is why Jimmy Ramsay imagines this is going to make us want to shop at his stall in future, seeing as how his generosity seems to be on the slide. A few strips of fatty bacon would have been more use.’

  ‘Perhaps he knows we’ve no choice, since it’s the cheapest place around, and we don’t buy a lot of meat anyway, do we?’ Patsy put the bread rolls in the white enamelled bread bin. They’d be stale before they ate all thirteen, in her opinion.

  Annie’s face went white, then a deep shade of crimson. ‘Are you implying that I’m not feeding you properly? I’ll have you know that things haven’t been easy for us recently. Trade isn’t exactly as buoyant as it might be and we do have other problems to deal with besides . . .’

  ‘Having to accommodate me, you mean, and endure an extra mouth to feed,’ Patsy finished for her, brushing the crumbs from her fingers.

  ‘The money for your food, and your wages too for that matter, have to be found from somewhere. We’re not made of brass.’

  ‘So you’re telling me it’s time I moved on, is that it? You mean to turn me out, to save a bob or two.’

  ‘That’s not what I was going to say, and you know it.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything pleasant. I can sense bad news when it’s coming, like a foul smell in the air.’ The light of defiance in Patsy’s eyes caused Annie to look away to avoid meeting her gaze. It made Patsy’s heart sink as she realised she must have struck dangerously close to the truth.

  Annie was going to give her the push. The thought filled her with dismay. It was all very well for her to consider leaving, of her own free will, but another thing entirely to be asked to go.

  As if she sensed it too, Clara set down her crocheting and pressed her sister’s arm with the gentle touch of one hand, as she so often did when she couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to say the words.