Patsy began secretly to imagine that the hat stall was hers. As she sat waiting for customers, or played at rearranging the displays, she would pretend that Annie had retired and then she would ask herself what she could do to brighten up the image of the stall. It seemed to be full of sensible, everyday hats in boring brown and grey and navy. The kind of hat that, as Annie herself had said, a woman used automatically to put on before ever she left her house.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case any longer. Most women now spent more money at the hairdresser’s, and liked to show off their perms or their kiss curls. They all wanted to look as though they’d had their hair done by Mr Teasy-Weasy, even if it was in fact Joyce’s Hair Stylist on the corner of Champion Street. Joyce was doing well as a result, and had taken over neighbouring premises in order to expand. But hats were suffering by comparison, nowhere near as popular now as they once were.
The older woman still wore a hat to church on a Sunday, and little girls were still bought an Easter bonnet which they would often wear for the Whit Walks too. And people still wore them for special occasions, like weddings, christenings and funerals. Unfortunately, Annie never had quite enough of these more dressy, showy sort of hats to meet demand.
Patsy found herself staring at the dull navy straw she’d put on display only yesterday. High-crowned, with a narrow, insignificant brim, and circled by a ribbed-silk ribbon in the same colour, she saw nothing in the least appealing about it. That hat had sat on its stand for all the months she’d been here, and nobody had even tried it on. Patsy put her head on one side to study it more closely. It needed livening up, a touch of colour and frivolity.
For want of something better to do in the boring wait between customers, she began to study the catalogues Annie had left under the counter. The brightly coloured pictures inside showed only too clearly what could be achieved with just a little artistry and imagination.
Next she set about searching through the trimmings drawers. Fruit perhaps? No. Maybe a bunch of violets? Better, but not quite right either. She tried one or two more possible solutions and then right at the back of the drawer found what she was looking for: several beautiful butterflies in palest lemon gauze.
Patsy stitched each one neatly on to the front of the navy straw so that it looked as though a flight of butterflies had settled upon it. The hat was instantly transformed. It suddenly became distinctive and eye-catching. What’s more, she sold it the very next day.
Thrilled by her own success, Patsy next trimmed a dull green felt with pink satin ribbon, forming a bow with curly ends, as she’d seen Clara do on occasions, and added a few pink rosebuds. It made all the difference, and that too sold.
She remembered what Clara had told her: that a hat must flatter the face, and set off the whole ensemble. It should make a woman more attractive, lend her grace and poise.
Few of the hats Annie had chosen were capable of doing any such thing. And it was clear that many of these trimmings had lain in their drawers for years untouched, save for when Patsy had been asked to tidy them out and put them all back again. Now she had great fun bringing them out into the light, stitching them on to the hats on display and then watching with interest as more and more people paused to study the results of her labours, and were frequently tempted to buy.
It might be more fun serving, and eating, Strawberry Sundaes in the ice cream parlour, Patsy thought, particularly in this drowsy summer heat, but making hats attractive enough to sell was a more interesting challenge.
Patsy was seeing Marc that evening. He’d finally persuaded her to go out with him on a proper date but she was already regretting it. There was absolutely no doubt that she fancied him like crazy, but what good would that do her if she had to leave? Patsy could sense, in her heart, that he was already becoming far too important to her, which was surely a bad thing.
Better to end it now before they got any more involved.
He was taking her dancing at St John’s Sunday School which was holding what they called ‘a hop’ to raise money for the starving babies in Africa. Even so, there was a large notice on the door saying ‘No jiving or bopping’.
‘How can you have a dance without bopping?’ Patsy scornfully remarked.
Marc chuckled. ‘See those big guys? They’re here to make sure we obey. Just wait till the quickstep starts, though, and you’ll see they’ll have their work cut out trying to stop kids from rocking and rolling.’
And so it proved. The band weren’t exactly wonderful, comprising a piano, a double bass and a violin that sounded like a tom cat having a bad night on the tiles. But every now and then the three musicians would retire outside for a smoke and be replaced by a man putting records on a gramophone.
The more sedate adults stayed in one half of the dance floor doing the quickstep as it should be done, while in the other half the teenagers rock ‘n’ rolled. Patsy had never been to an actual dance before, other than the wedding where the dancing had been lively and mainly Italian, but she’d practised all the steps in the privacy of her own bedroom to the records she played on her new record player, using the door handle or a chair as a partner. Here at last was the opportunity to try them out.
Oh, and it was wonderful! Marc might not be brilliant at the fox-trot but he could certainly rock ‘n’ roll. He had a real sense of rhythm, knew all the steps, and could spin and catch her without missing a beat. They went wild to a Jerry Lee Lewis number, Whole Lotta Shakin Going On, and laughed till they cried to Giddy-Up-A-Ding-Dong. Patsy couldn’t ever remember having such a good time.
There were egg sandwiches and yellow sponge cake for supper, and after that came more dancing including a smoochy number to end the evening with The Platters singing Only You. Patsy’s heart just melted as Marc held her close in his arms, his cheek against hers, his breath stirring wisps of her hair. She felt as if she could spend her life in his arms, threading her fingers through the dark curls at his nape, gazing into those chocolate brown eyes.
Later, though, as he walked her home, Patsy remembered her earlier vow to finish with him this evening before she got to like him any more than she did already. Not that she intended to tell him the real reason, but when he asked if he could see her again, she simply shrugged her shoulders in a dismissive gesture and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. Why would I want to?’ That well worn phrase of Annie’s came in so useful.
‘Perhaps because you find me irresistible?’
‘And utterly arrogant.’ Patsy tried not to look into his face as she said this, aware of the hurt dawning in those big brown eyes. ‘I went to your family wedding. You persuaded me to go out with you on a proper date, and I’ve enjoyed it. It was good fun. But let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
Now she did look at him, curious to know his reaction despite her misgivings. His eyes were hooded so that Patsy couldn’t quite see his expression, but by the way the muscles tightened around his jaw, she could tell he wasn’t happy with her decision.
‘Why do you drop me? You have problems, Patsy? Is Annie ill again?’
‘No, nothing like that. I just don’t think it would be a good idea for us to see each other any more.’
He gave a harsh little laugh, as if she had said something amusing. ‘And why would you make this crazy decision, little one?’
‘Don’t call me that, I’m not little.’
‘You seem so to me. You are the elf, the pretty fairy with your long silky silver hair, mia carina. You are slender and fragile, not the big, strong creature you imagine yourself to be. And since you know how good we are together, that I am the man for you, why do you turn away from me?’
Patsy cast him the fiercest glare she could summon up, furious at his description of her. ‘I’m not in the least bit fragile! I’ve had to be strong, believe me, to get through what I’ve had to deal with in life. And no, I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want your pity either. Just don’t you dare say such a thing.’
But when he reached out and gently
touched her cheek she didn’t feel strong. Her knees went all weak, something melted inside her and Patsy recognised her own vulnerability. She ached for him to hold her, to tell her that he could make all the bad things go away, that he would love her and care for her. Panic hit her. If she didn’t put a stop to this dangerous emotion right now, she’d be doing more than kissing him, and what good would that do?
It was but a short walk up Gartside Street, along Grove Street and then they turned into Champion Street. Patsy didn’t say a word throughout the short journey but resolutely kept her gaze fixed on the glimmer of moonlight on the cobbles, determined not even to look at him again. Marc walked silently beside her, hands in pockets, not attempting to touch her.
When they reached the door of number twenty-two, they stopped. ‘You could at least tell me why. Don’t I deserve that much, Patsy?’ His voice was gentle, coaxing. How could she resist?
Patsy swallowed. ‘The fact is, I can’t stay here. Even if the stallholders manage to save the market, the sisters don’t want me to stay. Why would they? I cost too much. I’m nothing but a nuisance, an irritating, noisy teenager in their quiet house. A little thief who steals pies. No wonder nobody likes me or wants me around.’
He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him and gave her a little shake. ‘I like you. I want you around. I think you know how much I like you, so maybe you’re simply fishing for compliments, denying me so that I’ll want you all the more.’
Patsy was appalled that he should consider her to be so devious. ‘I’m not! That’s not how it is at all.’
‘Then how is it? Do you like me, or are you playing cruel games?’
‘No, I don’t play cruel games!’ Patsy said, in as firm a voice as she could muster, wishing he would let her go, that she couldn’t smell the enticing warmth of his skin, trace every dark curl. She pushed him away, whipped off her Alice band, shook back her hair and slipped the band back in place again, tucking and tidying each strand. Anything rather than meet the intensity of that gaze.
‘The whole problem with men like you is that you don’t listen to a word a girl says. It’s over, right? Got that clear now, have you? I’m chucking you.’ And tilting up her chin, Patsy walked away. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
But still he wouldn’t let her go. ‘I don’t believe you, Patsy. I know that you like me really because your nose is growing long, like Pinocchio’s,’ and then he caught her to him and kissed her hard.
Oh, and Patsy was eager for his kisses, couldn’t seem to help herself. The feel of his mouth against hers, their tongues dancing together, was utter bliss. She tasted his need, his power, his sorrow even that she should deal so heartlessly with him. The kiss deepened and she arched her back, instinctively pressing herself closer.
Encouraged by her response, his hands fell to the buttons of her blouse and he unfastened one, then another, without breaking the kiss. She felt his cool fingers graze the warmth of her breast, slip beneath her bra to stroke the tautness of her nipple. It was like a bolt of electricity racing through her and Patsy knew she wanted him to make love to her.
But she also knew that she really couldn’t take the risk of loving him and it all going badly wrong, as it surely would. When had anyone ever stayed in her life longer than five minutes? And once she’d given herself to him, all the cards would be in his hand then, instead of hers.
To give in now, like this, would mean Marc Bertalone was getting her on his terms, and Patsy was having none of that. If – when – she came to him, it would need to be very much on hers, and so much could go wrong before that dream ever had a chance to come true.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fran had been avoiding her mother for what felt like weeks but was in fact only a matter of days. She couldn’t go on like this indefinitely but right now it was the best defence she could devise. Her mother would be bound to realise in the end that she was the one who had done the dirty on Eddie’s wife, and want to know why. Fran had no wish to tell her. The less her mother knew about her problem, the better. If she could somehow find a way to put things right, then Mam need never know.
The solution, however, was becoming only too clear. Eddie was in no mood now for sweet talk or to be fooled by clever manipulation. He was beyond all of that. My Josie! That’s how he’d spoken of her, that wife of his, his pregnant wife, who he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with any longer.
Fran shivered, feeling sick deep in the pit of her stomach. She’d been made a fool of, in more ways than one. He’d used her for a bit of fun on the side because he was fed up with Josie’s constant nagging about wanting a kid. At first, Fran had been content with those terms, believing his marriage to be a bad one anyway. But he’d lied. He clearly still adored the silly cow, and that hurt. Very badly.
And now that he’d got them both up the spout, he couldn’t believe his ill fortune. Nor could Fran. Falling in love with the daft beggar hadn’t been part of the plan at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to her.
She could think of only one way out of this mess. He was right about that, at least. When Fran spotted Patsy at dinnertime sitting in Belle's caff, she went over to join her.
Patsy looked at the cup of tea and plain biscuit Fran set on the table as she sat down and said, ‘No frothy coffee?’
‘Don’t feel like it.’
‘And only a Marie biscuit? No chocolate éclair? You’ll fade away. Or have you been nibbling your mam’s pies all morning?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Even the smell of them makes me feel sick. Coffee is even worse, and anything fried just makes me throw up.’
The smile slid from Patsy’s face. ‘Oh, no, so that’s the way it is?’
Fran edged closer. ‘I have to do something about it, Patsy, pretty damn quick.’
Patsy gasped. ‘What, you mean . . ?’
‘Shush! Don’t say the word, not here.’ Fran glanced around to check they weren’t overheard. ‘It’s illegal, you know it is, so I shall need your help, and I haven’t much time. I must be well over two months now, nearly three happen.’
‘Hell, what can I do? I don’t know anything about . . . ’
‘Don’t worry, I know where to go to get it fixed, and I believe the money can be found. But I can’t go alone, I’m too scared. Will you be a friend and come with me? Hold my hand, at least. You’re the only one I can trust to keep my secret.’
Even as Patsy agreed that she would, flattered at being selected for this important and intimate task, she knew in her heart that she would live to regret it. And she really didn’t need any more secrets.
Unaware of her daughter’s situation, when Eddie Davidson had appeared the other morning shouting vile accusations at her, Molly had assumed the culprit who’d left the dog mess to be not Fran, but Billy Quinn. She’d gone from pub to pub looking for him, all over Castlefield, from the Donkey to the Crown, from the Pack Horse to the Globe, finally finding him in the Dog and Duck on her own doorstep. Making the arrangements, as she’d vowed to do, had not been a pleasant experience. It hadn’t helped when Ozzy point-blank refused to go with her.
On your own head be it, was his attitude.
But then, Quinn wasn’t the sort of person anyone could warm to.
He had a lean, hard face with high cheekbones, a long straight nose and wide mouth. His brown hair was turning grey and starting to thin on top and he was obviously much broader of girth than he’d been as a young man, though the extra weight suited him. It seemed to add to his aura of power. He was really quite good looking, for a man in his late-fifties.
But it was the eyes which got to you the most. A deep, piercing blue that could smile softly at a woman or freeze her to the spot. He still wore the trademark slouch cap at a rakish angle, a cigarette permanently attached to his lower lip.
Legend had it Billy Quinn had come over from County Mayo as a lad of fifteen to seek his fortune, with nothing more than a bag of clothes slung over his broad shoulders, a bit of luck
money in his pocket and the devil in his eyes. He’d slept in ditches and under haystacks, common lodging houses or ‘kip’ houses as they were called then, and clawed his way, tooth and nail, to the top.
Merely the sight of him chilled Molly. Violence seemed be latent in him, like a coiled viper waiting to strike.
But then nobody took the risk of crossing Billy Quinn. Even Big Molly knew that wouldn’t be wise. Stories abounded about those who had lived to rue the day they’d ever thought to try. She almost felt sorry for Belle. No wonder she was considering Quinn’s offer of compensation for developing Champion Street Market. It wouldn’t be easy to refuse. Big Molly shelved the notion of tackling that subject with him herself. She had enough to deal with right now. No point in alienating him unnecessarily.
So when he’d agreed to do what she’d asked and named his price, she’d quickly stifled her gasp of outrage and agreed. It was more than she’d expected but if it got Eddie Davidson off her back and out of Fran’s life for good, it would be cheap at the price.
Molly hated the thought of her lovely young girl being interfered with by a man a good ten or twelve years older than herself, and married at that, the dirty beggar. If the worst happened and Fran fell pregnant, they’d be the talk of Champion Street. The scandal would kill her. After all, Big Molly had her own reputation to think of. She’d tried broaching the subject with Fran once or twice more in an effort to persuade her to give him up, only to get the brush off or for the lass to turn near hysterical so that they almost came to blows on one occasion. Molly had given up, realising that wasn’t the way.
Eddie must be the one to pay for his sins. And serve him bleeding right.
So it was that the morning he’d turned up at her stall, Molly’s first reaction on seeing him standing there, waving his arms about and slagging her off, had been one of keen disappointment. She’d asked Quinn to do him over. Not exactly break his legs, but certainly make it painful for him to walk for a while. But there he’d stood, fit as a fiddle, bold as brass, and bristling with pride and self-opinionated anger.
Fools Fall in Love Page 22
