After that, Amy would creep down to the stream while he was still asleep, or pretending to be, to wash and dress herself quickly before he stirred. Somehow, being so secretive, yet wanting him so much, made her feel even more unclean.
Once a week she would take their clothes to the launderette, but it was expensive and when it rained, as it seemed to do a great deal, the clothes took ages to dry. Amy thought she must have spent most of that summer sneezing and coughing.
And cooking, particularly on wet days, was well nigh impossible. At first it had seemed fun to light a fire in the woods and cook sausages at the end of a stick, or make bread dampers out of flour and water, wrap them around a green twig and bake them over the heat as Amy used to do in the Girl Guides.
It seemed quite romantic, in a way. They would laugh if the dampers were smoked, the baked potato turned into charcoal or a sausage dropped into the flames and burnt to a cinder.
But after a while it ceased to be either fun or a novelty. If they were wet and hungry and they couldn’t get the fire going, or couldn’t afford to buy any more flour or sausages that week to replace the food they’d lost, they became tense and upset.
They learned to keep some dry kindling in a bag, a stack of wood covered by bracken under the tree, but it was frightening how quickly it got used up, then they’d be scouring the woodlands again for more dead wood dry enough to burn, an endless and soul destroying pursuit.
They tried to fashion themselves a shelter out of sticks and bracken, but no matter how carefully they wove reeds and leaves into it, rain would pour through and soak them anyway, and if the wind blew it fell down.
And since they didn’t sleep well, because it was either too hot, too cold, too light at night, too quiet, too wet, the ground was too hard or else they were simply lying there worrying about how long they could afford to go on like this, they became tired and tetchy with each other.
‘Why don’t you try for a job at the petrol station?’ Amy suggested one morning. ‘I told you about that notice I saw stuck up on the office wall when we walked past the other day.’
‘Because I don’t know anything about cars.’
‘You know enough to put petrol in a tank, surely.’
‘Amy, the job was for a car mechanic. I’m a milk man.’
Another time, she suggested he apply to the council to be a street cleaner, and this just because she saw one paper bag blowing in the street.
‘Gretna has a street cleaner. I’ve seen him.’
‘They might need another. Perhaps he’s old, or can’t manage the job by himself.’
‘He’s not old and he can manage perfectly well. The streets here are clean. This isn’t Castlefield or Champion Street Market.’
‘Have you even tried at the local dairy?’
‘It was the first place I visited. It’s no good, love, I’ve been everywhere, asked everyone.’
Amy was near to tears. ‘Then go round and ask them all over again. It’s not as if we can give anyone a telephone number to ring us if a job becomes available, is it? I’ll go round again too. Maybe that café on the corner has lost one of its waitresses by now, or is busier with the summer trade and needs extra help.’ She got to her feet, as if she were about to go that minute, although it was past nine o’clock at night.
‘All right, love. We’ll give it another go tomorrow, if you want to. Now try to get some sleep. You’re tired out.’ Chris pulled her gently down again. He was very patient with her, wishing he could put everything right.
She sat huddled in misery. Tears filled her eyes and Amy knuckled them away, like a child. She felt exhausted, bone weary, though she didn’t quite understand why. It wasn’t as if they had any real work to do, often having hours on end with nothing to fill the time at all. It must be something to do with the strain of not daring to touch or even look at each other, of how hungry she was, and really rather frightened. Eloping was no fun at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, a perfect day for a wedding. Despite her nervous jitters, Patsy was quite looking forward to it. The market was closed on Sundays so she was able to take her time getting ready, enjoy a relaxing bath, wash her hair, apply make up with a little more discretion than normal. She’d spent all her carefully hoarded savings on a new dress: ice blue polished cotton with string straps and a knee length skirt that swirled delightfully over layers of crisp lace and net petticoats. She cinched in her waist with a broad white belt, put on high heeled strappy white sandals, and felt ready for anything.
Not that she was trying to look attractive for Marc Bertalone, she told herself. She’d only taken all this trouble for the sake of her own self-esteem, which needed a bit of boosting right now. Patsy had never felt so low as she had since reading her grandmother’s will. It had made her realise what little consideration had ever been given to her future care. What kind of a family could be so heartless? And she’d made a bad situation worse by losing Clara’s trust. Patsy had known all along that it was wrong to go through her things, so was it any wonder she’d been accused of snooping? If only she could explain.
But she must try not to think of all that today.
Annie was even now giving her a lecture on social graces and how she must be pleasant and polite to people. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to offend the Bertalones. Apart from being well respected in Champion Street, Mr Bertalone has been good enough to give you a job, so do try not to be . . . how shall I put it . . .?
‘Difficult?’ Patsy supplied.
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Annie said tightly. Patsy thought she looked even more condemnatory and miserable this morning, her lips so tightly pressed together they seemed robbed of all colour, almost blue.
Clara, ever the peacemaker, smiled and kissed Patsy on both cheeks. ‘I know you hate to be fussed over but you’ll get a great deal of that today, so accept it. The Italians love kissing. And don’t look so anxious, dear, your new dress looks delightful. Very pretty. I’m sure Marc will think so too. Ah, here he is now.’
Marc had arrived on the dot and Patsy could tell by the widening of his eyes at first sight of her, and the low whistle he gave under his breath, that he was impressed.
‘You look beautiful,’ he told her, handing her a corsage of pink and cream orchids.
Patsy was struck speechless by this touch of kindness, didn’t quite know how to thank him while Clara busied herself pinning the flowers into place.
‘Thank Marc for his generosity,’ she whispered in the girl’s ear.
Patsy pouted. ‘I thought it was usually carnations for a wedding.’
‘Only the best for my date.’
‘I’m not your date,’ and Clara and Marc exchanged speaking glances, which infuriated Patsy all the more. Oh, but she was pleased he thought her beautiful.
‘Have a good time,’ Clara called after them as they left, Marc extending his arm for Patsy to take with old fashioned courtesy. She studiously ignored it.
The two sisters stood side by side, watching them walk down the street, several chilly inches separating them, and Clara shook her head in despair. ‘If that girl manages to keep that sharp tongue of hers under control for the entire afternoon, it will be a miracle.’
The wedding ceremony passed in a whirl. The groom stood patiently waiting at the church door for his bride, ready to present her with her bouquet. And she arrived late, as tradition dictated, looking incredibly beautiful.
When the service was over the bride and groom disappeared for a short time to catch their breath and perhaps decide how they felt about being married to each other. Meanwhile, the guests were served refreshments: delicious little ham pasties and cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks. Patsy had never seen the like. The women, herself included, were given a sweet liqueur to accompany them, the men something stronger.
It was all very relaxed with lots of jokes being cracked about how everyone was looking forward to free ice cream later. And there w
ere any number of toasts including ‘per cent anni’, for a hundred years.
‘Heavens, I can’t imagine being married to someone for ten months, let alone a hundred years,’ Patsy said.
Marc gave her a quizzical look. ‘You don’t want to marry? To have babies? But you would make the beautiful mama.’
‘I – I’m too young to think about such things, but I can’t quite see myself as a - a mother.’ She was startled by the unexpected compliment, if that’s what it was. But how could she imagine herself in that role when she had no proper example to base her ideas on? Mrs Bowman had certainly never demonstrated the kind of affection and care one would expect from a mother.
‘Why not? Are you afraid you won’t find the right man? Or that some other girl will snap me up first?’
‘Very funny. Let’s say, not everyone is as fortunate as your own parents when it comes to finding wedded bliss.’
He put back his head and laughed, revealing strong white teeth. ‘That shows how little you understand Italians. If my parents are displeased with each other, everyone knows about it. But the next day, the next hour even, it is all forgotten. They kiss and they make love. That is the Italian way. Latin fire stokes a good marriage.’
He reached forward and tentatively touched her cheek. ‘But I forget, you don’t know who your mother is. Who brought you up mia carina?’
‘You’ll grow a long nose like Pinocchio if you keep asking questions.’
Marc laughed. ‘He got the long nose for telling lies, not for being curious. Do you tell lies, little one?’
‘Yeah, I’m really the daughter of a millionaire. Didn’t you guess?’
He immediately adopted an expression of mock sadness. ‘Oh, that is a great pity. If that is true, then you would never look at a humble Italian boy. My heart is broken.’ And he dramatically held the flat of his hand to his left side. Patsy began to giggle. She really couldn’t help herself.
After the cocktails, the guests gathered in the hotel dining room, ready to be introduced to the bridal party. Patsy had never seen so many people at a wedding, not that she’d ever been to one in her life before, so how was she to judge?
Everyone lined up opposite a partner, forming a pathway for the bride and groom. There was a great fanfare of music and then the newlywed couple progressed along the path, nodding and smiling and kissing people as they went along.
The bride carried a small satin bag on her arm, and sometimes an envelope would be slipped inside it as she passed by. Patsy asked Marc what it was and he told her that many people preferred to give money as a wedding gift, and that was the accepted way to present it.
‘I’ve brought them a present.’ And she showed him a small parcel. ‘Should I slip that in too? Not having much money I bought them a silver jam spoon, second hand, but I’ve cleaned and polished it to make it shine.’
‘They will love it,’ Marc said. ‘That was kind of you, Patsy. But then, you are a kind girl at heart, not at all the rough diamond you pretend to be.’
She wasn’t given the opportunity to argue with him on that one as it was her turn to kiss the bride and groom. As she did so, she slipped her gift into the little satin bag and wished them many congratulations and a hundred years of happiness, which seemed to be the right thing to say.
Next came the speeches by friends and family, and seemingly endless champagne toasts to the newly wedded couple. Patsy began to feel quite giddy from the wine and Marc teased her about getting ‘squiffy’.
Papa Bertalone was on top form, boasting how Italians always provided the best food. ‘No one will go hungry at a Bertalone wedding,’ he roared.
And he wasn’t wrong. First came the anti-pasta and the salad, followed by chicken in a delicious sauce with a variety of vegetables and several assorted pastas. Fortunately, time was allowed between courses for people to relax and make room for the next one.
In one such interval Marc whispered in her ear ‘And now, at last, I get to dance with you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea . . .’ Patsy began, but he was dragging her to her feet and across the floor to join a crowd of people, all of whom seemed to be jumping up and down to rousing music in dances such as mazurkas and tarantellas which involved a great deal of circling and clapping, waltzing and twirling, and any amount of helpless laughter. Never had Patsy laughed so much at her own ineptitude.
Marc gave his famous wide grin. ‘You’re having the good time. Don’t pretend you’re not, I can tell.’
She laughed up at him, too happy for once to argue.
Next came the cake cutting, and an array of desserts that made her mouth water just to look at them: a delectable selection of pastries, fruits, cakes, and ice cream too, of course, were presented on what Marc called a Viennese Table.
‘Or it is often called the Vienna Hour,’ he told her. ‘You have a spot of cream on your mouth, and I most desperately want to lick it off.’
She licked her lips quickly before he could carry out the threat but, laughing, he must have taken that for assent anyway for he bent his head and captured her mouth with his. The moment his lips touched hers she was lost, the room seeming to spin about her. Of course, it would only be the champagne having that effect on her, not his kiss at all. It lasted only a moment before he was once again grinning down at her, stroking her flushed cheeks.
More dancing followed, while the matrons sat and gossiped, and children slid and skated on the slippery floor or pretended to ape the dancing of the adults. The bride and groom circled the floor, speaking to everyone and handing out small gifts to their guests, in this case a few sugared almonds wrapped in net the same colour as the bride’s cream dress.
‘My sister Maria, she is beautiful, yes?’
‘Oh, she is indeed,’ Patsy breathed.
‘Amazing when she was once such a skinny, ugly kid.’
Patsy giggled, thinking that she might well have been transported to another world, a paradise of warmth, and love, and happiness. It felt wonderful to have Marc’s arms about her, holding her close in a waltz or quickstep. Patsy wasn’t used to this style of dancing, being more accustomed to rock ‘n’ roll. Perhaps Marc felt the same because he trod on her toe for the second time, making her yelp.
‘I am not the good dancer,’ he excused himself, eyes mournful, begging for her forgiveness.
‘That is quite clear. Trouble is, I’m not much better.’
He grinned down at her. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. I like to hold you. You feel so good in my arms, as if you belong there. Do I hold you right? Ees like this . . . or this? I no good with girls.’ Each time he spoke, he snuggled her ever closer, holding her tightly in his arms, his cheek pressed against hers. ‘You tell me what I do wrong. Where I put my hand. Here? Is good for you, yes?’
Patsy burst out laughing, and brushed his wandering hand away from where it had settled on her bottom. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Marc Bertalone. And don’t play the dumb Italian either. You’ve lived in England all your life, so don’ta speaka the pigeon English to me.’
‘You mock us?’ said an outraged voice in her ear, and, mortified, Patsy turned to find Papa Bertalone scowling down at her.
‘Oh, goodness, n-no, of course not. It was a joke. Marc and I . . . we . . . I mean, I was teasing him. He was pretending to . . .’
‘He was being the naughty boy, yes?’
Patsy gave a rueful smile. ‘Maybe just a little, but his charming tricks don’t work on me. I wasn’t born yesterday.’
Papa Bertalone put back his head and laughed loud and long, slapping his son on the back with great vigour. ‘I thinka you have met your match in this little princess. She have you taped, as they say here in Lancashire. Come, little one, come and see the rest of the family.’
And so Patsy at last got to meet Mama Bertalone, and all the little girls who had acted as bridesmaids for their elder sister, resplendent in a pastel rainbow of dresses. She already knew Alessandro and Giovanni
but it was good to talk with them too.
Patsy was sorry when the time came for the bride and groom to leave for their honeymoon and for the guests all to go home, back to their mundane lives. For one afternoon she had forgotten her troubles, had laughed and danced as a young girl should, a handsome and attentive young man by her side.
Marc walked her home, stopping only when they came to the Higginsons’ doorstep. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should kiss him. His mouth tasted so good against hers, the smell of his skin intoxicating: of wine and garlic and sweet pastry, of heat and desire.
‘That’s by way of saying thank you for a lovely day,’ she murmured. ‘I know I didn’t want to come but I’m glad that I did. Your family are wonderful. You are so lucky to have them.’ And to her horror Patsy felt a tear spill over and start to roll down her cheek. She brushed it away with a laugh. ‘Weddings always make people cry, don’t they?’
‘Let me kiss you again, to keep that light shining in your eyes for a little longer.’ And when he took her in his arms and kissed her this time, Patsy thought she might like to stay there forever.
They kissed for quite some time, Patsy matching his passion with her own till she burned with need inside, yearning for more and more. Marc seemed almost startled by her response, but how could she resist when she’d dreamed of this moment night after night? He was the one to break away first.
‘This is not the place mia carina, and it is late. I promised Miss Clara I would bring you home safe and on time.’ He stroked the fall of her silver hair, treasuring its silky quality. ‘You will see me again, I think. We will have the second date.’
‘And what makes you so sure?’
‘I know you will. How could you resist?’
Patsy pursed her lips, striving to appear cross and unimpressed by his charms when inside her heart was racing. Unaccountable happiness flowed through her veins, bubbling through her blood like the champagne she’d been drinking. Was that what made her feel so joyous and light headed, or something else entirely? She’d never felt so wonderful in all her life. It was as if every part of her were on fire, alight with emotion. ‘And you are as full of yourself as ever, I see.’
Fools Fall in Love Page 20
