Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Later, Clara told Annie how badly she’d failed. ‘I thought if I confessed some of the traumas we’d suffered, she might open up and tell me about hers. It didn’t work.’

  Annie said, ‘How much did you tell her?’

  ‘Just about our leaving Paris, how difficult it was for us to get out.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  Clara nodded. ‘I thought it was enough.’

  ‘But not enough to coax her own story out of her?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. Would it help, do you think, if I told her more, and about Marianne? About why we want to help her?’

  Annie put a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. ‘No, and it would only bring you pain. Let us simply have patience and wait. Patsy may come to trust us in time.’

  Coffee with Fran Poulson became a regular occurrence and the two girls were increasingly friendly, although Fran remained oddly jumpy and distracted. Whatever her problem was, she clearly wasn’t about to share it, which was disappointing in a way. Patsy felt that since she’d suffered so badly herself, she had a great deal to offer, were anyone interested in asking her advice.

  Though why should she care? What did it have to do with her if Fran had a problem with her love life? Any day now the sisters would say they could no longer afford to keep her, and ask her to leave. Patsy lived in hope that they might get to like having her around too much to do that, but then she’d screw things up by being awkward or difficult, as she had done today. She couldn’t seem to help herself.

  And then something happened which confirmed, all too clearly, that she was right not to imagine she was anything more than a stranger in this place.

  When Annie’s birthday came round in the first week of June, Patsy bought her a pretty silk scarf in a box. She was pleased with her choice, and took a great deal of trouble wrapping it in silver paper and tying it with crimson ribbon, complete with a curly bow.

  From the startled surprise in the woman’s eyes, and the flush on her cheeks, anyone would think she’d never received a gift before. Clara gushed about how kind it was of Patsy to have remembered her sister’s birthday, but Annie’s reaction, pleasure being something completely alien to her, was less forthcoming.

  Her cool response was really quite insulting. All she said was that she hoped the scarf hadn’t cost Patsy too much money, and even though Patsy assured her that it hadn’t, she was adamant that it must be returned.

  ‘I do hope you kept the receipt.’

  Patsy felt as if she’d been struck. ‘Don’t you like it? I chose it most carefully. You like blue, I know you do, it’s your favourite colour.’

  ‘I wear navy a good deal, that is true, but not this bright cobalt - azure – this brilliant blue. Navy is far more serviceable.’

  ‘I know, but I thought this scarf might brighten up that navy suit you wear, and you can wear it with your grey coat too.’

  But Annie was not to be gainsayed. The scarf had to be returned, and Patsy was deeply hurt. She made a point of not speaking to Annie for days afterwards. Clara tried to ease things between them by explaining how tight money was, trade being so slack, and how her sister could never abide waste, but Patsy was unmoved by the excuses.

  ‘It was my money, so why shouldn’t I spend it as I like?’ Miserable old bag could do without a present then, see if she cared.

  In her heart Patsy knew they didn’t want her here, no matter how they might pretend otherwise. Nobody did.

  To add to her deep sense of insecurity and uncertainty, the very next evening when Patsy went for a walk down by the canal, she became aware that someone was following her. It turned out to be Marc.

  Patsy swung round on him, hands on hips. ‘Were you wanting something?’

  His grin was very nearly her undoing, tripping her heart and melting her insides. ‘Now that’s a question I’d better not answer. What is it that you want, Patsy Bowman, that’s more to the point? If I could only find that out, I might discover the key to your soul. To your heart at least.’

  ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘Is that because you don’t have a heart, or because you’ve simply mislaid the key?’

  If she smiled at him, instead of arguing all the time, he’d probably fall into step beside her and they could talk, even become friends. He might hold her hand, laugh with her. Kiss her. Her gaze drifted to his mouth, trying to imagine what it might feel like. Patsy was seventeen years old, a rebel at heart, yet had never been kissed, not properly. Nothing more than a few clumsy fumbles which she’d quickly put a stop to. She’d made sure to keep boys always at a safe distance, as she was doing now. But this one was different from all the rest. This one she actually liked. Patsy considered.

  And what if she did let him do any of those things? She’d fall for him, that’s what. And when Annie gave her the old heave-ho, which must happen any day now, money being as tight as it was, where would she be then? Heart-broken, that’s where.

  She tossed back her hair, free from both Alice band and pony-tail on this occasion, so that the fine silver fronds floated about her face in the evening breeze. ‘I’m sure there are any number of hearts for sale. All you have to do is take your pick. I’m keeping mine in cold store for now, just to be safe.’ Patsy turned to walk away but Marc followed her, keeping just one step behind. Turning on him, she shouted, ‘Don’t do that.’

  He stopped, held up his hands, palm outwards. ‘What are you afraid of, Patsy? Why can’t you unbend just a little? You might find you actually like me if you took the trouble to get to know me. If you went out on a date with me.’

  ‘I’m sure there are plenty of girls simply aching for a date with you. I’m not one of them, so leave me alone and go and pester them, why don’t you?’

  There was a sadness in those chocolate brown eyes of his as they roved over her face, as if determined to memorise every detail. ‘Oh, I agree, I am the big catch. Even though it is Alessandro who wants to go into the ice cream business with Papa, not me, they think I am rich perhaps; that I will inherit my father’s business. It can’t be my simple, country-boy looks, after all, can it?’

  Patsy said nothing. Just gazed at the square jaw, the perfect oval of his handsome face, the crisp dark curls falling so enticingly over his brow . . . and dug her hands deep in her pockets in case they should betray her by reaching out and touching them.

  ‘So the girls, they queue round the block just in the hope of my noticing them.’

  ‘How wonderful for you.’

  ‘But they don’t interest me. Perhaps because you’re the one I want, little one, not them.’

  She wanted to say ‘stuff and nonsense’, but her breath caught in her throat at his words, at the dangerous intensity of his gaze. What was he saying? What did he mean? This was all getting far too intimate. ‘When I’m ready to start dating arrogant show-offs, I’ll let you know. Till then, stay off my patch, Marc Bertalone. Leave me alone!’

  He shook his head in sad resignation, allowed a beat before giving a half shrug with those powerful shoulders of his. ‘Okay, have it your way.’

  He didn’t follow her this time as she walked away, but the quiet smile that lifted the corners of his wide mouth should have warned her that he wasn’t done yet, not by a long way.

  Patsy arrived home from work the next day to find a large cardboard box in her room. Filled with curiosity, wondering if it had come from Shirley, which again reminded her that she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to ring her and ask after any further news, she cut off the string with her nail scissors and opened it.

  Inside was a record player. Not any cheap sort of record player either, but a Ferguson with twin speakers and auto play, so you could put on more than one record at a time.

  There was a card with it. It read, ‘Happy Birthday, whenever it was, Annie and Clara’.

  Unable to contain her excitement, Patsy galloped downstairs and flung herself first at Annie and then at Clara, kissing them both soundly on each cheek.
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  ‘You are the most wonderful people in the world, and I love you!’

  Clara said, ‘Oh my,’ and sat down rather abruptly.

  Annie, crimson cheeked, mumbled something about Clara having scolded her for behaving rather badly over the returned birthday gift.

  ‘We’ve both been a bit hard on you recently,’ Clara added, as if unwilling to allow her sister to take all the blame.

  Annie pursed her lips against the hint of a smile. ‘Besides, we rather wanted our old wireless back. We’re more Third programme people ourselves than Radio Luxembourg, and we thought it might take too long for you to raise the money. By which time our nerves will be in shreds and our hearing ruined. But, yes, I suppose we have grown rather fond of you too. Surprisingly!’

  And then, just in case Patsy should interpret this as weakness on her part, she quickly added. ‘But it mustn’t be on too loud and distress the neighbours. I will have respect and good manners in my home, at all times.’

  ‘Off course, Annie. Would I do anything else? Shall I show you how to bop?’ and grabbing the older woman around the waist, Patsy flung herself into a demonstration, twirling her into a dizzying spin. Flustered, Annie put a stop to such nonsense at once, her cheeks flushed and her mouth very nearly twitching into a smile.

  ‘Really, Patsy, you are incorrigible, far too much of a live-wire.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so. I want to be happy, don’t you? It makes life so much more fun. And thanks so much for the record player. Now I can start buying more records. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ And running back upstairs, Patsy spent a happy evening setting it all up and playing the only two records she owned so far: Frankie Vaughan’s Green Door and Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire, over and over again.

  Maybe they did like her a little, after all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It wasn’t going to be easy. It seemed to Amy’s agitated mind that her mother had eyes everywhere that morning. Amy tried to sneak some basic essentials such as a hunk of cheese and a few slices of bread from the kitchen cupboards into her overall pocket while she was making herself a slice of toast for breakfast. But Buster kept sniffing and nosing at her pocket, taking obvious interest in food being put in strange places, so she had to give up on that one, and hope that Chris would have better luck, as he had promised.

  Her mother was constantly walking in and out of the kitchen, hovering around, watching with her narrow-eyed shrewd gaze as if she guessed what was going on. But how could she? Amy would reassure herself, smiling serenely as she spread butter and jam on her toast, her heart beating pitter-pat.

  Getting out of the house was another problem. Amy had to dash back upstairs to her room to snatch up her bag into which she’d packed pyjamas and toothbrush, clean underwear and a change of blouse and skirt. She’d done this while Fran was snoring away in the middle of the night, and could only hope her sister hadn’t found it tucked under her bed.

  No, it was still there. She snatched it up, turned to leave and bumped straight into her mother. ‘What’ve you got there?’ Big Molly wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Don’t look like nothing to me.’

  Amy told herself to stay calm. Act natural. Breathe deeply. Smile. ‘I meant, nothing important. Excuse me, Mam, but I must dash. Our Robert will be furious if I’m late.’

  ‘No need to worry about him. I thought you could happen help me on the stall today. I’m fair sick of our Fran’s moans and groans.’

  Amy was mortified. Oh, no, this would never do. This wasn’t the plan at all. Chris was meeting her at Brunswick Basin, near to the kitchens, not here on Champion Street. If she wasn’t there, he’d think she’d deserted him. Stood him up. ‘Sorry, Mam, I can’t do that. Wouldn’t be fair on Robert.’ She tired to make a joke of it. ‘Can you see our Fran with her hands covered in flour?’

  ‘She doesn’t need to. Hasn’t he got mixers now to make the pastry?’

  ‘Well, yes, but you still have to roll it out, cut out the circles. He hasn’t bought that sort of machinery, not yet, and Fran wouldn’t enjoy all of that. She’d be bored. I know she moans a bit but she quite likes chatting to the customers on the market. It’s much quieter in the kitchens.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to get used to it. She’s already gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I sent her off an hour ago. You’re stopping here today, with me.’

  It was the longest day Amy could ever remember. It was hot and sticky, despite it only being early June, and trade was poor. Such customers who did venture into the market seemed to take forever to decide what they wanted to buy. It certainly wasn’t the weather for pies and puddings, or the delicious home made crumpets Poulson’s were also famous for. But cheese was popular, Robert’s new pâté, and various cooked meats.

  ‘Eeh, you only want a bit of ham salad, don’t you chuck? Too hot to eat,’ said one old lady. ‘Go on, slip an extra slice on. It’ll do me a nice sandwich tomorrer.’

  Amy wondered if it would still be hot in Scotland. She hadn’t brought a blanket, couldn’t carry one. So if it was cold at night, how would they manage?

  The day wore on and she kept thinking of all the things she should have packed, a lipstick and perfume perhaps, she hadn’t even thought to bring those. A pretty nightie rather than boring pyjamas. What would Chris think of her? This was her wedding after all.

  She didn’t really regret not having a white dress, bridesmaids and all that eating and drinking at a crowded reception. Amy wasn’t the sort of person who liked a fuss. And since their respective families weren’t speaking to each other, what would be the point?

  But she had dreamed of what her honeymoon might be like. She’d pictured a quiet hotel, crisp white sheets, a meal together first and a glass of wine perhaps, just to get in the mood. Amy guessed they might both be a bit nervous, since it would be their first time, and your wedding night was so important, wasn’t it? It had to be just right.

  But she was going to spend hers in a field, without even a blanket.

  ‘Are you day dreaming again?’ Molly asked, giving her a hefty nudge. ‘You’ve got your head in the clouds today. I’ve asked you three times if you want to take your tea break. Happen you’d better, before you fall asleep on the job.’

  ‘Oh, yes please, that’d be great. Can I get off early, Mam, I am a bit tired.’

  ‘No, you can stay till six, as you always do.’

  ‘Dad’s right, you are a hard task master. But I’m taking half an hour for me tea, right? I’m shattered.’ That might give her time to find Chris and explain the change of plan. Amy went to pick up her bag.

  ‘You don’t need to take that with you, not just for a cup of tea,’ Molly said.

  Amy floundered for an excuse, couldn’t find one and shrugged, giving a vague sort of smile. ‘You never know,’ then fled as quickly as she could, the bag tucked firmly under her arm, in case her mother decided to intervene physically and deprive her of it, which she was perfectly capable of doing. And Amy was certain that if she left it there, under the counter, she was nosy enough to open it and go through her things.

  Running through the market, Amy desperately tried to think where Chris might be. He often spent his afternoons sleeping, since he had to be at the dairy at the crack of dawn to deliver milk, but sometimes he would go for a walk first, or do a few jobs for his mother. And if she didn’t find him in the next half hour, and Mam wouldn’t let her off early, what on earth would she do?

  Amy hadn’t gone more than ten steps when she was halted by Winnie Watkins who was deep in conversation with Alec Hall, Sam Beckett, Abel and several other stall holders. If Belle Garside was Queen of the Market, Winnie was its eyes and ears.

  ‘Hey up, chuck, what do you think of this latest carry-on?’ She was drawing Amy into their group whether she liked it or not.

  ‘What carry on?’ Amy glanced about her, hoping for a glimpse of Chris.

  It seemed that the rumour was t
rue. A developer was indeed keen to flatten all of Champion Street and put a block of flats on it. ‘To help solve the housing problems of Manchester, apparently, and since there’ll probably be a kick-back for our Belle, she’s seriously considering accepting the offer.’

  ‘She can’t do that,’ Barry Holmes protested. ‘Not without our agreement, surely?’

  ‘If she believes it’s in her interests to agree with the plan, she’ll certainly try. Anyway, there’d be compensation for us all,’ Sam put in. ‘Not just Belle. Trouble is, would it be enough to justify losing our livelihoods?’

  Alec Hall agreed. ‘We’d have to find another market prepared to let us in, or open a shop somewhere. Not easy.’

  ‘Aye, and far more expensive,’ Abel put in. ‘My second-hand stuff wouldn’t run to paying shop rent.’

  ‘Don’t forget, many of us would be losing our homes too, if all of Champion Street goes,’ Alec reminded them. ’That would be a sorry situation in my eyes, and I for one would miss the camaraderie of the market.’

  Murmurs of assent all round.

  Despite herself, Amy was intrigued, concerned by this news, and yet fidgety and anxious to be away. She had only half an hour to find Chris and warn him of the change in arrangements. Surreptitiously she glanced at her watch. Unfortunately, Barry Holmes spotted the movement.

  ‘Are we keeping you from somewhere?’

  ‘No, no, - well, I did have an appointment but it doesn’t matter.’

  Winnie frowned at her. ‘I would’ve thought you’d be more interested in the prospect of being homeless. Your mam certainly will be.’

  ‘We can’t let it happen,’ Lizzie Pringle said, handing round a bag of caramels to try to cheer them all up.

  Barry nodded as he sucked the delicious sweet. ‘No, we have to fight it. Someone has to speak to Belle, make our feelings on the issue clear. Didn’t Jimmy say he’d do that? Have we heard yet how he’s got on?’

  Winnie shook her head. ‘Not yet. But word has it that some of the newer stall holders are saying they’d be glad of the compensation, content to fill their pockets with a bit of brass and leave. Which means we have to speak to everybody to put the other side, happen get a petition going.’