By the time she’d straightened her slim pencil skirt, tugged off her Alice band and tidied her fly-away hair, she felt all pink-cheeked and flustered. ‘You can do as you please,’ Patsy snapped.
‘Then why are so cross with me the whole time? Why is it that I always seem to say the wrong thing with you?’ He caught her arm, forcing her to stop, giving her a little shake when she obstinately refused to meet his gaze. ‘What is it you want from me? Tell me, then I can be whatever it is you need. I care about you, Patsy. Can’t you see that? Don’t you believe me?’
She looked at him then and he saw her mouth tremble, as if she were moved by his words, but then they firmed into rigid tightness and his heart sank once more. Her next words only deepened his despair.
‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that you would say whatever it took to get your own way. Isn’t that how boys always are?’
‘Is that your problem, then? Has some boy let you down in the past, and I’m getting the fall-out from that?’
Patsy shook her head, half turned away but he held on to her, wouldn’t let her go. ‘No, tell me. Explain to me, Patsy, what it is I’ve done to hurt you? Or what someone else has done?’
‘I’ve got to go. I’m due back at the stall.’
She wrenched herself free and, as she strode away, Marc dropped his arms to his side in a gesture of despair. He felt more like tearing his hair out, but where would that get him? He would abandon all hope of winning her if only he weren’t so certain that somewhere, deep in her troubled heart, she secretly cared for him as much as he cared for her.
It was with this thought in mind that Marc called out to her, in a firm, strong voice, sounding far more confident than he felt. Loud enough for heads to turn and Patsy to pause in her helter-skelter dash to listen to his words over her shoulder.
‘I can’t keep on waiting and hoping forever for you to change your mind about me, Patsy. I like you, I think I could get to like you rather a lot, and I want to see more of you. Will you give me a chance? Will you at least think about it?’
She didn’t answer, but as she lifted her chin and carried on walking, one or two customers, men and women alike, perhaps intrigued by what they saw as a lovers’ tiff, called after her: ‘Aw, go on, love. Give him a chance.’
Patsy couldn’t get this little scene out of her head. She kept on replaying it constantly, like a stuck record. And she began to wonder if perhaps she was being rather hard on Marc. He’d sounded genuine enough. She knew that she’d absolutely no reason to think he was two-timing her. That was just an excuse she’d made up, and not at all the reason she’d refused to see him again.
She had tried to tell him the truth, but he hadn’t listened.
But no matter how much she might like him, she didn’t dare agree to go out with him because she liked him too much. And when she had to leave the market, which was bound to come, sooner rather than later, she’d be badly hurt. Where was the fun in that?
Yet there was another, deeper reason.
She was also afraid that once he got to know her better, learned something of her past - not only her lack of a family but that she had done rather more than steal a pie; that she was well known to the police, with a criminal record - he would turn away from her and reject her, as all the other people in her life had done before him. Hadn’t she watched her friends drop her, one by one, pretending they hadn’t been involved in that first childhood prank and leaving her to carry all the blame? She still carried the scars her foster father had inflicted, and they ran deep. Her anger and sense of injustice stirred her to commit greater mischief, not less.
Having Marc see her the way she really was would be unbearable.
Live for the day, that was the answer.
Desperate to keep her mind from constantly thinking about Marc, and bored with sitting doing nothing as she waited for customers who were finding it far too hot to try on hats in the August heat, Patsy changed her mind about learning hat making.
It was Dena Dobson’s fault. She’d been buying one of Dena’s summery daisy skirts and they had got chatting about clothes, hats in particular. Patsy happened to mention how she’d trimmed one or two of Annie’s more drab choices and sold them as a result, and that Clara had offered to teach her something of the craft. Dena had bluntly told her to have a go.
‘How do you know what you can do if you don’t try?’
Patsy was careful how she responded to this. She couldn’t be too dismissive as she and Dena had much in common, in a way. They’d both suffered from a difficult background, and uncaring mothers. Patsy knew a little of Dena’s history: how she’d been put into care after her brother had drowned and now was making a real success of her life, despite having an illegitimate baby. She was building up a business of her own making really beautiful, fashionable clothes.
Not that Patsy had told Dena anything of her own background. That was something she kept entirely to herself. ‘But what if I start on a course and then have to leave?’
‘Why would you have to do that?’
‘When Annie is better, she won’t need me any more.’
‘She will if you’re making fantastic hats which sell,’ Dena had said.
And so Patsy had been tempted to try. She’d started lessons with Clara, but after two whole hours of battling with wire and blocks this afternoon, was already regretting the decision.
Patsy felt all fingers and thumbs and just couldn’t get the hang of it. The fabric seemed to have a life of its own, bending and flicking off in all directions, and the hat just wouldn’t stay in shape as the blocking pins kept popping out. Now her fingers were sore, her back was aching and she was in a fury of frustration.
‘It won’t go where it’s told,’ she cried, flinging the half finished hat to the ground.
‘Given up already?’ The sound of the familiar Italian drawl had Patsy glowering across at Marc.
Every single day he stuck his head round the door of the fitting room to chat to her, or to try and persuade her to come out with him. He absolutely refused to give up. Despite her having dumped him and told him to stay away, he would shrug his shoulders in that characteristic Italian way and say he was quite certain she would change her mind about him in the end, that all he needed was patience. Yet he was trying hers to the limits.
‘Go away!’ she shouted now. ‘I don’t need you to see my humiliation. I can’t do it, and that’s that.’
Clara put a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Manners, Patsy. Marc is only showing interest. Now, dear, let’s try this again, shall we? I do think you should go though, Marc. She needs to concentrate.’
‘Thank you,’ Patsy said with deep gratitude when they were alone again. But she’d seen the glint of pain in his eyes and struggled to curb the urge to run after him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
While Fran was still at number twenty-two, Molly received word from Quinn that the job had been done. The moment she saw him approach the stall with his characteristic swagger, feet flung out, hands in pockets, slouch cap in place and a cigarette hanging from his lips, her heart gave an uncomfortable jerk.
‘Hiya, Billy. Your usual, is it?’ She was reaching for two steak and kidney pies as casually as she could, giving no indication of the turmoil she felt within.
Big Molly handed them over. When he made no move to pay she very nearly sharply reminded him that they weren’t free, but fortunately stopped herself in time. She still owed him the last payment on the favour he’d just done for her, so was in no position to argue about a few pennies.
He glowered at her from beneath the brim of his slouch cap. ‘I’ll be expecting a visit from you shortly, Molly, regarding our bit of business.’
She looked up at him, curiosity in her keen-eyed gaze. ‘It’s been done then?’
‘Done and dusted, as they say. Our friend will not be doing the quickstep for some time.’
The folds of Molly’s several chins shook softly as she gave a broad grin. ‘Eeh, that’s best bit o’ news
I’ve heard in a long while.’
She glanced about her, relieved the day’s rush was largely over and there was no one around. Even so, she took the precaution of dropping her voice as she leaned over the counter. ‘I’ll have the rest for you by the end of the month, as we agreed. I’d get some of it for you now only I’m on me own today, our Fran is off sick.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’ He nodded curtly and turned to go, but then raised one finger in the air as if a thought had just struck him. ‘Ah, of course she is, and doesn’t that remind me what it was I came for, besides two of your delicious pies. While I was carrying out that little task for ye the other day, I came across a bit of information that might interest ye.’
‘And what would that be?’ Instinctively, Big Molly didn’t want to hear any more bad news, yet she was intrigued.
‘That daughter of yours . . . Fran is it? Well, didn’t I see her going into Mo’s house, just under the arches, near the Bridgewater viaduct? I mentioned this to our friend, not that he was in much of a mood for conversation, you understand, but he did admit that getting the business done had cost him a packet.’
‘What bit o’ business?’
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Well, would you believe it, and you the wee girl’s mammy. There y’are then, a bit of free info on the side regarding your daughter’s state of health. All part of the service. Ah, and did I mention the extra fee?’
‘Extra fee? What extra fee?’ Molly continued to look blank. She was still striving to take in what exactly he’d just told her and couldn’t quite focus on this sudden change in direction. What bit of business could he be referring to? And why should Quinn concern himself about their Fran’s health?
True, Molly had heard her being sick the other morning. She’d said she must have eaten something that didn’t agree with her. And so it had turned out. Hadn’t Clara explained how she was round at number twenty-two where young Patsy was looking after her because she was suffering from some stomach bug or other? She still wasn’t back, in point of fact.
But who was this Mo, and what would Fran be seeing her about?
Quinn’s mention of the extra fee threw her completely. Here was something else to worry about. It had been difficult enough finding the fifty quid he had demanded to deal with Eddie, the thought of an extra charge made Molly’s heart quail. She’d paid him twenty-five so far: fifteen up front and another ten later. But she still had another twenty-five to find from somewhere. A fortune to Molly.
‘Shall we call it a mummer’s fee?’ he was saying, and chuckled, seeming to find his own wit amusing. ‘If you’re wanting me to keep me gabbing mouth shut about our little arrangement, not to mention the scandal of what your Fran has been up to, I’ll be needing a bit extra, if you catch my drift. ‘Hush money. And, to be sure, silence always has to be paid for. I’m thinking you’ll not be wanting the rozzers to get wind of this private arrangement of ours, now will you?’
Molly near exploded with outrage. ‘But that’s blackmail!’
Quinn’s piercing blue eyes narrowed, and he went so far as to remove the cigarette from his lower lip while he adopted a pained expression. ‘I’m thinking that’s a nasty word to be using between friends, is it not, Molly girl? Wouldn’t you agree that a service rendered ought to be paid for? And silence is a service too, so far as I’m aware.’
‘Yes, Billy. Sorry Billy. You’re right, Billy.’
He smiled at her then, and handsome though he still was, it was not a smile intended to warm her heart. ‘The name’s Quinn, by the way. That’s what I prefer, Molly girl. Quinn. Only me old mam used to call me Billy, and that’s a long time ago now, back in Ireland when I was a boy. Don’t forget again.’
Molly would like to have returned the favour by telling him not to call her ‘girl’, but once again common sense prevailed. ‘Right, em - er Quinn. And what would this extra fee amount to?’
The sinister smile softened a little and he looked almost perky as he stuck the cigarette again between his lips. It bobbed up and down as he talked. ‘Just add ten per cent to our agreed sum.’
‘Ten per cent!’ Molly was horrified and had to swallow hard to bite back the sharp retort that sprang to mind.
‘Would that be a problem for you, Molly girl?’
‘N-no, I’ll find it from somewhere - somehow, B – Quinn.’
‘Same time as you make the last payment, if you don’t mind.’
Molly swallowed. ‘End of the month it is then.’ Not for the world would she admit it, but deep down Big Molly was frightened. Hadn’t Ozzy warned her from the start that you didn’t mess with the likes of Billy Quinn. Now she saw why.
Dear heaven above, where was she going to find another five quid? She hadn’t even found the last twenty-five yet. She only hoped she’d got good value for money. It would be worth it to know that Eddie had suffered. As she watched Quinn swagger away she kept saying that strangely familiar name he’d mentioned, over and over in her head.
Mo. Mo. Which Mo lived down by the arches? Must be short for Maureen. What bit of business could our Fran have with a woman down by the Bridgewater? And why would it be important for Quinn to keep quiet about it?
When it came to her, she well-nigh keeled over from the shock.
It took two more days before Fran felt brave enough to go home, by which time she’d been allowed scrambled egg and dry toast, and even a bit of fish. She was pounds lighter, in more ways than one, and still fairly sore but otherwise almost her old self again. But Fran knew that she couldn’t avoid facing the music any longer.
She only hoped she could bluff it out.
The moment she walked through the door, one glance at her mother’s angry face brought a sinking feeling to the pit of her stomach. There was no possibility of bluffing her way out of this mess. She could see quite clearly that Mam already knew everything.
Big Molly hoisted her full bosom on to her folded arms and glared at her elder daughter. ‘And where have you been all this time, might I ask?’
Fran repeated the story of the stomach bug, knowing her words were falling on deaf ears. Molly didn’t even trouble to let her finish.
‘Try another yarn, that one won’t wash. So what were you doing going into that Mo’s house then? Borrowing a bottle of Milk of Magnesia?’
Fran could actually feel the blood drain from her face. Her suspicions were correct then, her mother did indeed know. How? Who could possibly have told on her? Nobody else knew except Eddie, and it was unlikely he’d want to blab to anyone about her ‘little problem’.
Fran turned and deliberately walked away, deciding she really had no wish to get into a shouting match with her mother.
Molly yelled at her in her loudest, sergeant-major voice. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me, madam, when I’m talking to you. Answer me! Where’ve you been this last couple of days?’
Cradling her stomach in a protective gesture, Fran sank into a chair with a grateful sigh. ‘You know damn well where I’ve been. Miss Clara brought you a message that I wasn’t well.’
‘Pull the other one and see if that’s got bells on it. Come on, I want to know. Were you with him? You’ve been up to no good, I know it.’
Fran jumped to her feet again in a fury, instantly forgetting her vow not to get involved in a row. Sticking her face up close to her mother’s she shouted right back. ‘No, I wasn’t with him, and yes, you’re right, I did go to see Maureen. I had a problem, as somebody has clearly told you, and she sorted it out for me. So what? What are you going to do about it? Send me to bed early for being a naughty girl?’
‘So what? So what?’ And big Molly flung out one ham-like hand and struck Fran across the face, sending her flying.
As luck would have it, Ozzy chose that precise moment to walk in. He was sorry he had, the instant he saw what was going on. Ozzy was not a man for confrontations. Big Molly was fond of saying he’d hide behind a stick insect rather than face a row. But he could hardly ignore the sight of his own da
ughter lying crumpled on the floor, sobbing her heart out.
‘What have you done to our Fran? Why can’t you two try to get on a bit better?’
‘Because she’s a trollop, that’s why. A whore, a tart. Because she got herself knocked up, that’s why, and then got rid of it.’
‘Got rid of what?’ Ozzy asked, eyes blinking in puzzled confusion behind his spectacles. Ask him the odds on the outsider in the two-thirty and he was your man. But anything that smacked of ‘women’s troubles’ and he was lost. A state of affairs he intended to keep that way. ‘Don’t tell me. I’m sure I don’t want to know.’
‘Well, you should. That little madam . . .’ Molly wagged a finger at Fran who had dragged herself up off the floor to huddle back in her chair, ‘that little trollop has had an abortion! Is that clear enough for you? She went round to that prossy Maureen’s house, her what does certain little jobs on the side, and got herself sorted.’
Ozzy looked at his lovely young daughter with a sad expression as understanding dawned. ‘Is this true, love?’
Fran could do no more than give a hiccupping sob as she nodded miserably.
‘Aw, lovey, what pickles you do get yourself in.’ Going over to her, Ozzy gathered her in his arms for a cuddle.
‘Don’t you molly-coddle her. She’s no better than she should be, the little whore. Never would listen to good advice.’
‘Nay, lass, we all make mistakes. Why should she go through life saddled with hers? She’s the right to choose, surely. It’s none of your business.’
Fran could hardly believe that her daft, useless father was the one taking her side. She turned her face into his old tweed jacket that smelled of dogs and beer, and sobbed. It felt almost as if she were a child again, and he was protecting her from the bullies in the playground who called her Fatty Arbuckle.
Fools Fall in Love Page 24
