Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Big Molly’s face had gone purple with rage. ‘Is it not then? Well, I’ll tell you what is my business, and that’s whether or not I’m prepared to have her in my house after her shaming me like this. And I’ll tell you for nothing, I’m not.’

  Picking up a bag which she’d obviously previously packed and stood ready at the bottom of the stairs, Molly dropped it at her daughter’s feet. ‘There’s your stuff. Now pick it up and start walking.’

  Fran stared up at her mother in startled disbelief. ‘Are you throwing me out?’

  ‘Got it in one. What you did was a criminal act, not to mention immoral and disgusting. You ought to hang your head in shame. If that’s the way you want to behave, having affairs with married men then disposing of the inconvenient consequences, you can go and do it some place else.’

  Obviously distressed by the tension and loud voices, Buster started to bark in sympathy.

  Ozzy put out a hand as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it might have been he didn’t get the chance. Fran leaped to her feet, snatched up the bag and screamed at her mother, ‘All right, you win! I’ll go, and don’t expect me ever to come back! I hate you, do you hear me? I hate you. Some bleeding mother you are!’

  The sound of the front door slamming behind her echoed through the house for endless moments after she’d gone, followed by a dreadful, deafening silence before Ozzy said, ‘There was no call to do that. No call at all.’

  But for once in her life Big Molly didn’t have an answer. She just stood in the middle of her untidy, grubby living room and wept.

  Fran went straight back next door to Patsy. ‘Can I stay here for another night or two, just till I find somewhere more permanent?

  Patsy looked worried. ‘I’m not sure. It’s not my house, you see. Annie makes all the decisions here. You’d have to ask her.’

  ‘You ask her,’ Fran begged, weary of facing further conflict. ‘I know she isn’t well and I don’t want to upset her, but I’ve had a row with Mam. She’s found out about – you know – what I’ve been doing, so she’s chucked me out. I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  Patsy frowned with concern, then glanced back down the lobby. She could hear the strains of a violin as the two sisters listened to an orchestral recital on the Third Programme. Annie was making good progress and some time in the next week or two would be reclaiming her stall, a fact which filled Patsy with trepidation and regret. She’d really enjoyed having it all to herself for a while, was even becoming quite interested in hat-making.

  But interrupting the two sisters would not be easy, and she knew in her heart that Annie would be against becoming involved in what she termed the ‘domestic disputes’ of the Poulson family. Nevertheless, Patsy felt sorry for Fran, who had to sleep somewhere tonight. She came to a swift decision.

  ‘Come on. If we can get you upstairs without making a sound and disturbing them, you’ll be safe till morning in my room. After that, you’re on your own, right? You’ll have to leave first thing, before anyone’s up.’

  Fran breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Patsy, you’re a pal.’

  She left at first light, without the sisters even being aware she’d been in the house. Her intention was to find employment on one of the other market stalls, and accommodation with a friend, if she was lucky. Patsy wished her every success.

  ‘If necessary, Eddie could always let me kip down on his sofa.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure his wife would love that.’

  ‘He owes me a roof over my head. It’s his fault I got in this mess, after all.’

  Patsy thought this stretching the truth somewhat but didn’t attempt to argue. Fran was clearly upset and still hurting from her treatment at the hands of the back street abortionist, let alone the row with her mother. Privately, Patsy thought she’d got off lightly not to suffer any serious infection as a result. At least Maureen seemed to know what she was doing.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Fran had finally gone. The girl wasn’t an easy person to have around and Patsy found that she secretly disapproved of what she’d done, knowing she herself could never have disposed of a child so callously. What if someone had done that to her just because she was an inconvenience? As she clearly had been. Better to have no mother than no life at all.

  Chapter Thirty

  It took the better part of three days but by the end of it Patsy had made what might be recognised as a hat, albeit somewhat lop-sided, but at least all her own work. She was secretly delighted and really rather proud of her first effort.

  Clara was too. ‘You have the touch. I could teach you so much more. Annie was never particularly interested in our going into custom made hats, but I’ve always thought it an interesting possibility.’

  Over the following week Clara showed her how to dye the sinamay to exactly the right shade, how to make flowers out of silk, and how to mount feathers so that they were suitable for fixing to a hat or head band.

  Patsy enjoyed working with Clara. She was kind and patient, taking time and trouble over the task, almost as you would expect a mother would when teaching her daughter a new skill. This was something she’d never before experienced and Patsy felt herself growing closer to the older woman.

  Yet she understood that Clara was also engaged in nursing her sister with loving care. Annie was demanding and really quite hard work, needing her meals taken upstairs, things fetched and carried for her, and even though she was not able to work at the stall, wasn’t even permitted to do the accounts or correspondence, she required a daily report of what was going on. Clara would give her a carefully edited version and then distract her by asking what she would like for her tea.

  Patsy secretly hoped her convalescence would last a long, long time, although she doubted it would. Annie was tough as old boots.

  Most difficult of all, at least for Patsy, was learning how to cut the sinamay correctly, sometimes on the cross, sometimes in interesting shapes of leaves, petals or coils which could be dyed, twisted, wired or stitched into all manner of designs. There was a lot to learn, but Clara was an excellent teacher.

  ‘I shan’t need to go on a course, after all you’ve taught me,’ Patsy said, feeling a warm burst of satisfaction. She had never expected it to be such fun.

  Best of all, she loved working with net and feathers. So exciting! If Clara ever gave her the opportunity, Patsy was quite certain she could design the wildest, craziest hats. Of course, whether they would sell or not was another matter. She was still a long way from daring to put one of her own efforts out on sale, but felt confident that her skills were gradually improving.

  Clara was at constant pains to keep her mind on the tightness of their means. Reminding Patsy from time to time how everything they made must eventually be saleable, even if Clara had to remake every one of Patsy’s failed attempts herself. Not a penny could be wasted in this experiment.

  ‘Where did you learn hat-making? Did you go on a course?’ Patsy wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, I attended a course in Paris. It was very exciting at first, but then the war came and spoiled everything.’

  ‘Tell me about Paris. What was it like? Where did you live? Did you fall in love with a sexy Parisian?’

  Clara paused in her cutting and that familiar, faraway look came into her eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. In these moments she didn’t look middle-aged at all, but really rather girlish.

  ‘We lived close to the university, handy for Annie’s teaching, and it was fun, yes. We were young and idealistic, spent a good deal of time sitting in cafes, discussing Hitler and the wrongs of the world; how we could make everything come right. And, yes, you’ve guessed correctly, I did fall in love. But I’m afraid I made the same mistake that Fran has made. Don’t look so surprised. I’ve heard the rumours about her, and did wonder about this so-called tummy bug she apparently suffered from. However, I have no wish to hear the details. Who am I to judge? I too fell in love with a man who already had a wife. A bad mistake.’ />
  ‘Oh!’ Patsy was startled. This possibility had never occurred to her. But then, Clara seemed to be a woman full of surprises. Just when Patsy thought she had a possible scenario all worked out in her mind, Clara would let fall some unexpected new snippet of information.

  When did Clara have this affair? When, and why, did she hand over her child to her mother-in-law? Was that why Rolf left her, because of this affair, or had he already gone off to America, leaving Clara pregnant and alone? If so, why would he do such a thing? Was that the real reason she went to Paris? And if he did leave her, no wonder she fell in love with someone else.

  But if she, Patsy, was that child - and she wasn’t born until 1940 - the affair must have been after that, unless . . .

  Oh, heavens! What if Rolf Matthews wasn’t her father after all? What if it was this Frenchman, whoever he was? Patsy felt a tightness in her chest, couldn’t think what to say in response.

  She stitched furiously at the hat and tried to think.

  Clara had still not confirmed that she’d ever been married. In fact, she remained vague about most things, such as when exactly the sisters had left France. They didn’t come here to Champion Street until after the death of their parents, towards the end of hostilities. So what had happened in between? Did the sisters spend that time nursing their elderly parents, or doing something else entirely?

  Patsy was growing increasingly confused. The dates didn’t quite fit. Nothing made sense. Dare she ask for more details? She cleared her throat, tried to steady her nerves.

  ‘Who was he, this man? Was he handsome?’

  ‘A lecturer at the university. Oh, indeed, yes. Trés handsome! Dangerously so. All the students were in love with him. Me too, fool that I was.’

  ‘You never married him then?’

  ‘Marry my lover? No, I never married him. He went back to his wife, as they generally do.’

  ‘Did you ever marry anyone?’

  But Clara was no longer listening. There was a bleakness to her gaze now, a desperate aching sadness, as if she really had no wish to remember but couldn’t seem to help herself. It didn’t surprise Patsy when she called a halt to the conversation.

  ‘That’s enough chatter for one day. Finish stitching that spotted veil in place then we’ll shut up shop and go home. Grilled plaice for tea, I think. Fish will be good for my dear sister’s fragile health.’

  And Clara gave Patsy what she could only describe as an arch look. She certainly dare ask no further questions.

  ‘May I experiment on my own for a little while?’ Patsy asked, and explained how she wanted to try her hand at making some little flirty numbers with the scraps they had left over. Cocktail hats, she called them, which could equally well be worn at a wedding or any other social event. Patsy had seen pictures of them in the catalogues under the counter; the ones that Annie largely ignored.

  ‘I feel we need to appeal to a wider clientele, not just teenagers and old ladies. We have to attract women with money.’

  ‘On this market?’ But seeing Patsy’s eyes flicker with disappointment, Clara recognised that she had given the subject serious thought, so didn’t press the point. The girl had certainly been far less disruptive and argumentative since she’d become absorbed in this new craft. It would do no harm to give her her head for a while longer.

  And Clara too was aware that once Annie was back in power, she would not be allowed such leeway.

  She smiled indulgently. ‘If you wish. We are now selling some of the hats you’ve made, so I have every faith in you, Patsy. But don’t make too many. Annie doesn’t care much for frivolity. She will not approve of silly hats.’

  ‘Did you wear frivolous hats in Paris?’ Patsy tentatively enquired, hoping to draw the conversation back to Clara’s past, but she only laughed.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve told you, we were far too Bohemian. We didn’t wear hats at all. I suppose it’s hard for you to imagine us ever being young, but we were once. Annie was always rather conservative of course, but I . . . I was a little more radical.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine Annie as anything but critical and disapproving. Didn’t she ever do anything silly, even in Paris? Was she always so prim and boring?’

  ‘Now you are being impudent, child. Annie is a talented, strong woman, with many attributes which are not always visible on the surface. A woman to admire.’

  ‘Why, what has she ever done that was so wonderful, besides a bit of teaching?’

  Clara looked at her consideringly for a moment then sadly shook her head. ‘Spoken with the innocence and ignorance of youth. Believe it or not, there was a time when I was perhaps a little too radical, too Bohemian, but she didn’t criticise me then. She stood by me, even when it all went terribly wrong.’

  Patsy’s fingers stilled and she leaned closer. ‘You mean, when you had your affair with the professor?’

  ‘He wasn’t a professor, only a humble lecturer, a teacher like my sister, but yes, that is what I mean. She didn’t preach at me then. At least, not when she saw how pointless it was. And later – later, when the monstrous thing happened she was the greatest support in the world.’

  Patsy could hardly breathe. This was the closest she’d come to hearing the whole tale. ‘What was it, this monstrous thing that happened to you? You were going to tell me once before.’

  Clara looked at her, eyes blank, and Patsy knew that she didn’t hear the everyday sounds of the market, didn’t see that child fingering the straw bonnet or her mother slap her prying fingers away.

  ‘It wasn’t something that happened to me, not directly. It happened to Louis. That was his name, my lover, Louis Simons. When the Germans came he tried to get his wife and children out of France, but they were caught and killed. All of them. Louis included.’

  Patsy sat as if turned to stone, in complete shock. After a long moment, she managed to find her voice. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Clara gave a half smile with no hint of humour in it. ‘There is nothing to say.’

  ‘Do you know how it happened?’

  She drew in a breath, clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘I know very little. Louis decided not to risk the Gâre du Nord as the Germans were searching every train, so they packed a few essentials, a change of clothes and a little food, and rode out on their bicycles one bright May morning as if they were going on a family picnic. The roads were packed with refugees, of course: women pushing prams or handcarts heaped with household goods, dragging their children along beside them, or sitting them on top of the pile. Some families drove their cars with all their life possessions strapped to the roof. And they were constantly dive-bombed by German planes, forced to run and hide in ditches.

  ‘There were military personnel everywhere, German officers with yellow lapels who could stop anyone and ask to see your papers. You didn’t argue, you put up your hands and let them search you . . . feel you . . .’

  In that moment Patsy saw that Clara was not simply relating a story, she was speaking from experience. She did not interrupt.

  ‘You could bribe railway officials, buy yourself transport sometimes, but you would never attempt to try such tricks on the Gestapo.’

  Only by the tightness of her laced fingers could her tension be seen. Patsy kept her gaze fixed on those hands, wanting to hold them but not quite daring to.

  ‘As for Louis and his family, they were never seen again.’ After a moment Clara’s gaze came back into focus and she gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I heard from other students who had word from survivors that they’d joined up with a group of refugees heading for the Belgian coast. They were stopped and searched, bundled into trucks and taken away, the men in one, women and children in the other. Possibly to Dachau or one of the other death camps, I don’t know. Some of the escapees resisted arrest and were shot on the spot. Perhaps Louis was one of those who died trying to protect his family. He had such a brave heart. I only know that he promised to telephone or write to me when he reached sa
fety, but he never did.’

  ‘He was Jewish then?’ Softly asked, Patsy not wishing to sound intrusive.

  ‘He was. A delightful, sweet man. He had two beautiful little girls, seven and five years old. They were the reason for my guilt. That I, young and foolish as I was, should dare to draw their papa’s attention and love away from them. I never meant to harm them, and he always put them first, so when the time came for them to leave, he did not hesitate to choose them before me. Quite right too.’

  ‘It must have hurt a little though, when you loved him so much,’ Patsy ventured.

  ‘A little, yes, but I was a grown woman. I could look after myself. They were children.’

  ‘Yet he chose his wife too.’

  Clara looked up at her, clear eyed. ‘She was the mother of his children. It makes a difference. But, like many others, they did not make it.’ After a moment she seemed mentally to shake herself. ‘I survived, though whether I deserved to is another matter.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault that this terrible thing happened to them.’

  ‘It was my fault that Louis neglected his wife in the last year of her life. She might have found more happiness if I hadn’t been around. She deserved that, don’t you think, dying so young? And her children too. The guilt of my youthful selfishness will haunt me for as long as I live.’

  The silence between them now was sad and reflective, the hat making lying forgotten.

  Patsy saw her own problems in quite a different perspective. She realised in that instant that many terrible things happen in life over which you’ve had no control. Even Clara, who had enjoyed the advantage of a loving family: a mother and father, a sister who cared for her, a sheltered upbringing, couldn’t help herself from falling in love with the wrong man. She couldn’t stop this monstrous thing happening to Louis, and to his family, and to all those other refugees helpless at the hands of fate.