Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  So what right did Patsy have to complain?

  Clara said, ‘I’m sorry to burden you with all of this, but the ripples of that event still affect me, still colour my judgements.’

  ‘That’s why you were willing to help me, isn’t it? You wanted me to have a second chance because you didn’t. Because Louis and his little daughters didn’t.’

  Clara smiled, and there was warmth as well as sadness in it this time. ‘You really are a remarkably perceptive as well as sensitive girl, Patsy. Not nearly so tough and unfeeling as you make out.’

  When Patsy said nothing to this Clara continued on a brisker note, as if needing to put away all this sadness and move on, ‘I should mention that Annie will be coming back to work on the stall soon, certainly by the first week of September.’

  ‘Oh!’ Patsy tried to think of something pleasant to say. She was aware, naturally, that Annie had been making good progress, but had secretly hoped for a little bit longer on her own at the stall. She’d been making such good progress herself, really getting into this hat-making lark.

  ‘Which does not mean we will no longer need your help,’ Clara continued. ‘We shall continue to require your assistance for some considerable time, and I hope you’ll feel able to give it. Everything has changed now.’

  Patsy felt a huge sense of relief, elated and fearful all at the same time. She was delighted that the sisters wanted her to stay, and yet, in the face of Clara’s sad tale, her own particular quest seemed somehow much less significant. Did that mean she was growing up, coming to accept her own fate at last?

  Clara was saying, ‘I’ve made it very clear to Annie that she may do mornings only. I thought perhaps you could look after the stall in the afternoons, and in the mornings, once I have done my chores in the house, you and I could continue with our hat-making. There’s not a lot more I can teach you though. You should go on a course if you wish to learn more.’

  Patsy didn’t answer. Where was the point?

  It was perfectly clear that with Annie coming back to the stall, she wasn’t ever going to get the chance to create her own designs. Annie had already been delving into the accounts and making criticisms. If she was insisting on returning to work so soon, then Patsy’s freedom was almost at an end.

  Which was a great pity. There was so much more she longed to learn, and not just about hat-making.

  Clara’s next words seemed to echo this thought. ‘As well as the obvious improvement in your skills, I believe this time together has given us the opportunity to get to know each other a little better, which is a good thing, don’t you think?’

  Patsy nodded, giving a shy sort of smile.

  Clara gave her a wry look. ‘Though it goes without saying I would welcome your feeling able to trust me with your confidences, as I have trusted you with mine.’

  Had the time come to tell Clara how she came to be here, on Champion Street Market? How she longed to solve the puzzle of her birth?

  Yet Patsy still nursed a lingering fear that when she did finally speak of it, all her hopes and dreams would be shattered. The only way of keeping them alive was not to ask the question until she was absolutely certain she would receive the right answer. And that might never be possible.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Summer had gone and September was upon them, but with still over two weeks to the date of their wedding, Amy and Chris were on the brink of starvation. Neither had managed to find employment despite having tried everywhere they could think of, even walking out of town to neighbouring villages. They couldn’t reach bigger places such as Dalbeatie or Castle Douglas, not without transport, and so had no alternative but to stay close to Gretna. They daren’t even risk spending money on bus fare to check out jobs in these more distant places.

  This morning Amy was warming a can of soup on a pitiful fire by their shelter. Chris had gone out at first light, job hunting as usual, and she’d promised to have a meal ready for him on his return. She had been reduced to tears by the difficulty she’d found in getting the fire going in the damp Scotch mist that had lain low over the entire woodland all morning. And then having finally got it going, she carried a can of water from the stream to boil up for a cup of tea and accidentally spilt it on the fire. She’d had to start all over again.

  Amy was ashamed of the way she kept on weeping. She’d never expected this to be easy, but neither had she expected it to be quite so difficult. Much as she loved Chris and wanted to stay and see it through so that they could become man and wife, as they so longed to be, there were times when she would have given anything to go home. She missed her mam and dad, longed to see her friends on the market. Even missed the silly scraps she used to have with Fran.

  She wondered if her sister ever missed her, though doubted it, not if she was still seeing that selfish twerp, Eddie Davidson.

  And what she wouldn’t give for some of her mam’s home cooking: a piping hot steak pie running with gravy; Lancashire hot-pot with lamb chops and kidneys; a creamy rice pudding or treacle sponge and custard. Amy’s mouth watered at the thought. She couldn’t stop dreaming about food.

  Gone were the days when she and Chris could afford to treat themselves to cod and chips, or sausage and mash. They felt themselves fortunate now if they had a heel of bread and a dish of soup to help get them through the day, which was what they were having today.

  It was nearly three o’clock and Amy had been waiting hours for his return, her stomach was aching with hunger and all she could think of was a bowl of hot and tasty tomato soup. She would put the pan on the fire to warm it, then take it off again when he didn’t show up. An hour later she’d build up the fire and try again.

  By four o’clock she was utterly exhausted and close to despair when she suddenly heard him crashing through the undergrowth. Chris came galloping towards her, leaping over fallen trees to reach her as fast as he could.

  ‘Where have you been till this time?’ she cried, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone.

  He knelt beside her, stroked her auburn curls back from her face. ‘I’ve got a job!’

  ‘Oh, Chris, where?’

  He grinned at her. ‘You’ll never believe this. I’m going to be milking cows.’

  She stared at him for a whole ten seconds and then burst out laughing. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  Chris was laughing too, holding her tight and rocking her in his arms. ‘No one can say I don’t know about milk. First I sell it, now I’m going to be at the production end for a change. How about that?’

  He explained how he’d met a farmer while he was out and about exploring that morning. ‘I’d walked a couple of miles down the lane out of town and spotted this farmer having a bit of bother with his cows. One had taken it into her head to go walkabout and of course the others followed her, and in trying to get them back he’d lost control of the rest of the herd and they were all over the place. His dog was going in one direction, him in another and the cows were everywhere. I helped him get the wanderers back to the herd and he was so grateful, he invited me in to share his breakfast. Before I knew it, he’d offered me a job.’

  ‘Oh, Chris, that’s wonderful!’

  ‘It’s only temporary, for a couple of weeks while his son is away on holiday but I said that was all I needed. His wife was lovely too, and she seemed pleased by the arrangement. Said she had enough to do, thanks very much, with the house, the hens, the vegetable garden, the pigs and calves, without helping with the milking as well.

  ‘And Mrs Duncan, that’s what’s she’s called, the farmer’s wife, insisted that I bring you with me every morning. She says it’s not safe for you to be left on your own in the woods, and anyway, she’d be glad of an extra pair of hands in the house while her daughter-in-law’s away. How about that? We both have a job.’

  ‘Oh, Chris, that’s wonderful! How clever you are. I can’t believe it. We’re saved!’

  ‘It’ll see us through nicely, love, don’t you think? We can survive now. You won’t
run out on me before the big day, will you?’

  She could see anxiety still in his eyes, hear it in his tone of voice. ‘You’ve asked me that a score of times these last weeks and my answer is always the same, Chris George. I love you, and while I’ve breath in my body, I’ll hang on, half starved though I may be.’

  ‘Hey, I was forgetting.’ He handed her a brown paper bag he’d been carrying. ‘Look at this. Mrs Duncan gave me this for our supper.’

  Amy looked inside and found two freshly baked scones, thickly buttered and rich with fruit. She stared at them in open disbelief, breathed in the intoxicating aroma, then lifted moist eyes to Chris. ‘I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Real food! Such bounty, and look at me. Even though I’m happy now instead of sad, I’m crying again.’

  But, as always, he kissed her tears away.

  Fran had gone round the market time and time again, asking every stall-holder if they could give her work, and without exception they had all said no. Only blunt talking Winnie Watkins had been willing to give her a reason.

  ‘Your reputation on Champion Street Market isn’t good, lass. Even if I needed an assistant, which thankfully I don’t, I wouldn’t give you the time of day. I’d listen to your mam, if I were you. Go home and eat humble pie, that’s your best bet.’

  ‘It’s for Mam to apologise to me, not me to her. It’s my life, and I’ll live it how I choose. I suppose she’s told you what happened, but she was the one who asked me to leave. And she’ll have to go down on her bended knees and beg if she wants me back.’

  ‘The pair of you are as stubborn as mules, bad as each other. But don’t expect any help round here. If Big Molly doesn’t trust you, why should we?’

  This attitude, Fran soon discovered, was reflected throughout the market. She considered leaving Champion Street altogether, but where would she go? At least while she stayed in her home territory she could find a roof over her head at one or other of her friends’ houses, although none of them was keen for her to stay very long. She was constantly packing up her stuff and moving on to the next.

  Fran did find herself a job in the end, packing and sorting goods in a warehouse down by the docks, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She still craved excitement, not monotony, a bit of fun rather than filling out boring shipping dockets. The job wasn’t particularly well paid and it was only part-time, which left the afternoons free for her to look for something better, or more likely wander around like a lost soul.

  Fran would often see Dena Dobson strolling around with her baby, still unmarried, though walking out apparently, and happily building a new life for herself despite having an illegitimate child.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fran, that we don’t need anybody,’ Dena told her. ‘I’ve got Joan Chapman and her sister working for me.’

  ‘That’s okay, I’ve got myself fixed up with something. I’m no good at sewing anyway.’

  Watching Dena jiggle the pram and chat away to her little girl as she walked away, Fran felt an unexpected shaft of envy. For the first time the reality of what she’d done finally registered. She couldn’t bear even to look at the kid, pretty little thing though she was. Or into Dena’s happy face.

  It was as if Fran was seeing herself with new clarity and didn’t much care for it. In that moment she hated herself but most of all she hated Eddie for getting her into this mess.

  One afternoon she went round to his house, hoping to see him. He owed her, and Fran’s intention was to blackmail him into slipping her a few quid to help tide her over. She’d give him a piece of her mind if nothing else. But there was no sign of either him or his precious wife. A neighbour saw her hovering in the garden and came out to tell her that they’d gone away.

  ‘They’ve had such bad luck, bless them. First Josie very nearly lost the baby, had to spend the better part of a week in hospital before she got the all clear, then poor Eddie startled some burglars and ended up in hospital himself with cracked ribs and a broken foot. I think they’ve gone to stay at Josie’s mother’s for a bit, till she’s safely delivered, I expect. Such a shame. I really don’t know what the world is coming to.’

  Fran mumbled some sympathetic remark and escaped. So she hadn’t lost the baby after all? Drat the woman. What right did she have to be so lucky?

  Back at the market, Fran wandered about in a lost sort of daze, in and out of the market hall, up and down the rows of the outside stalls, all the time worrying about where to go, what to do, how to fill her time. She’d been banking on Eddie, and as usual he’d let her down.

  It started to rain and since she didn’t have an umbrella Fran huddled under the dripping awning of Abel’s stall, minding it for him while he went for a warming cuppa. She could do with one herself. And with the heat of August long gone, how she would face the coming winter with no place to call her own, Fran didn’t dare to consider.

  She was staying with Sal again for a night or two, but daren’t go to her house till after her mam and dad were safely watching television, as they didn’t approve. Sal would choose her moment to open the door and let Fran slip quietly upstairs, rather as Patsy had done at the Higginson’s house.

  It didn’t surprise her that there was gossip, but Fran hated the high moral tone everyone was adopting. They’d turn their backs as she approached, or pretend they hadn’t heard if she spoke to them.

  ‘I bet their lives aren’t so perfect as they make out.’ It was all so sordid, so gut-wrenching being turned into an outcast. And she didn’t for a moment imagine Eddie would be suffering the same sort of treatment.

  A part of her hoped she would never clap eyes on Eddie Davidson again, but the rest ached to have his arms about her, to have him make love to her with the passion she’d come to need. Love and hate were all mixed up in Fran’s head, adding to her general misery. Maybe she should give up men altogether, since she couldn’t seem to find a decent one.

  As the rain beat down she wished Abel would hurry up, then she could go back into the market hall where at least she’d be warm and dry, even if folk did talk behind their hands about her. If things didn’t improve soon, she’d be on the next bus out of here. Fran was turning over various possibilities in her mind when Marc Bertalone came around the corner. He was carrying a pile of boxes, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere, but with a deep frown on his handsome face and his gaze fixed on the ground as he strode along.

  Fran shook back her damp hair and stepped out from under the awning to greet him with a smile. ‘You look a bit down in the mouth. I’m feeling rather low myself, not to mention wet. Care for a coffee so’s we can cheer each other up?’

  Marc came out of his reverie to look at her in surprise. As usual he’d been worrying about Patsy, trying to work out a way to win her round, how to melt the frozen shell she’d built around herself. Now here was a pretty face smiling up at him. An attractive, friendly girl, if a bit brash for his taste, with soft round breasts filling her sweater nicely. An old friend. One might almost call Fran an old flame, since they’d enjoyed one or two dates in their youth.

  It was true what she said, he was feeling low. It wasn’t as if he could look forward to seeing Patsy later today, more’s the pity. Not unless he went looking for her, and even then she’d probably bite his head off. Patsy Bowman didn’t want to know. She just kept on pushing him away, had pretty well shut him out completely.

  So why the hell not? What harm could it do? It was only coffee, after all.

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll just deliver these to Papa then meet you later at Belle's caff.’

  It was the end of September and Molly could see no possibility of paying her debts. When she hadn’t found the money by the end of August, she’d gone to see Quinn and begged for more time. He’d been surprisingly understanding and given her another month till the end of September, but still she couldn’t pay him more than a tenner, and as interest had been added, this hardly made a dent in the debt.

  People laughed in her face when she asked if they could lend her thirt
y quid. Even Ozzy admitted to owing Quinn money for gambling debts, and Molly knew she was in deep trouble.

  It was brought forcibly home to her just how much when she returned home one afternoon after a hard day on her stall to find a ‘message’ attached to her door knob. It was a piece of rope, the attached noose swinging in the breeze. There was no note with it, but she knew what it meant. If he gave her enough rope, she’d hang herself.

  ‘Lord above, I’m in dead lumber now.’

  When there came a knock at the door the very next day, Molly began to shake. He’d come for her. What now? Panic struck her and she looked about in desperation, seeking a place to run. There was nowhere.

  The tapping came again, following by a whispered, ‘Hello! Mam, are you in there?’

  Molly allowed herself the luxury of a smile of triumph. So madam had come crawling back, had she, begging to be allowed home?

  Didn’t she love her daughters to bits and want only the best for them? Clearly Fran had at last realised this fact and seen the error of her ways. The little floozy had discovered that she couldn’t possibly manage on her own. If she’d come back ready to kiss and make up, Molly was willing enough to do that; on her terms, naturally.

  She rolled up her sleeves and went to open the door. But it wasn’t a contrite and humble Fran standing on her nice clean doorstep, it was Amy. And standing right beside her, bold as brass, was Chris George. They were even holding hands.

  And as if that weren’t shock enough, Amy held up her left hand to show off the glint of a ring on her third finger. If Big Molly had been a weakling, she would have fainted clean away on her own doorstep. As it was, her scream of outrage could be heard the length of Champion Street. It went down in history as one of the loudest ever recorded.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Annie was back with a vengeance, bossing and ordering them about something shocking, complaining that the accounts weren’t in order, that the stall was untidy, which was patently untrue, and of course objecting to the flibbertigibbet hats on sale. All Clara’s plans for herself and Patsy to spend their time quietly making hats, once the morning chores were done, went out of the window. Annie considered this to be a complete waste of time.