But Patsy warned herself to be careful. It would do her no good at all to get carried away and read more into this than there actually was, just because she’d enjoyed being with the Bertalones today.
‘I think you enjoyed yourself,’ Marc said, taking her hand as they walked along.
Patsy couldn’t help but smile. ‘How can I deny it? You have a lovely family. Your sisters are so bright and pretty. No wonder their papa adores them. Thank you for inviting me. I hope I didn’t upset him by asking too many questions.’
‘Always you are so curious, little one.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, stroking her fingers as he liked to do. Marc was thinking that today had gone better than he could ever have hoped, and wondering how much further he could chance his arm. ‘Have you asked Clara the big one yet?’
Patsy shook her head. ‘Don’t let’s talk about it.’
‘Have courage, my little lion-heart.’
‘I will, I will. When the right moment comes, I will ask her straight out: “Are you my mother?”’ Patsy spoke in a mock-dramatic tone to disguise the importance to her of the question. ‘But first I need to prepare myself for the answer to be no. She might laugh at the very idea.’
‘It is not easy, I know, but I have every faith that you can deal with it, whatever happens.’
She glanced up at his face then, saw not a trace of pity in it, only a belief in her. It warmed her heart to see it. They seemed to have reached a new understanding, one where Marc avoided showing sympathy because he knew how very much she disliked it.
‘What did your father mean by saying how brave the sisters were in the war? I wonder. What do you think they did?’
Marc slipped his arm about her waist and kissed her ear. ‘Another question for you to ask.’ And Patsy giggled. It felt good to be so at ease with him, to have someone who understood her uncertainties. ‘May I ask you one?’
‘What?’ She looked up at him through her lashes, feeling strangely shy of a sudden, deeply aware of the warm comfort of his arm about her, the intimate way he pressed her to his side.
‘Will you come out with me again? Will you be my girl?’
She waited a beat before answering, her smile teasing. ‘That’s two questions.’
‘Answer one of them then.’ His eyes were on her mouth and she could feel it slackening in expectation of his kiss.
In the event she really didn’t need to answer either question. The kiss said everything. When it was over, she lightly scolded him for taking advantage, although not really meaning it.
‘A man has to take what advantage he can, certainly where you are concerned, Patsy Bowman. You are so fierce, you make me shiver with fear!’
She laughed out loud at that, the very idea of Marc Bertalone being afraid of anything, let alone herself, seemed utterly ludicrous.
He gave the familiar Italian shrug. ‘It is true. You are always scolding me.’
‘And I shall scold you again. You shouldn’t have told your papa that the sisters were my aunts.’
‘I didn’t, I swear. Cross my heart. Papa makes assumptions. You can trust me on this, Patsy. I’ve talked to no one about what you told me. I wouldn’t wish to hurt you. You are the only girl for me. You can trust me on that too, because I think I am falling just a little bit in love with you.’
Patsy stood stock still, heart beating loudly in her chest. She didn’t ask herself how she felt about him as she studied his expression. She wanted only to read his mind, to judge if he was speaking from the heart or simply throwing her a line. He looked entirely serious, seemed so fervent, so genuine. Could she believe him? Could she truly trust him? Patsy’s own expression was filled with doubt. ‘I think you’re spinning me a tale, a fanciful yarn.’
‘Why? Why would I say such a thing if it isn’t true? Why will you never believe what I say? Don’t you trust my word, Patsy?’
And then, as he started to kiss her again, she began to think that it really didn’t matter whether she did or not.
The autumn days were turning colder as winter approached so as a change of activity from the hat block, and aware of the need to bring in some profits, Patsy got out Clara’s Singer sewing machine and fashioned a hat out of a remnant of striped fabric. She’d bought it from Winnie Watkins stall because it was not only cheap but beautiful, hand-woven in a rich palette of colours. It reminded her of the Bertalone girls. She would make a rainbow hat, bring a little sunshine into their own lives. Patsy folded back the brim and caught it in place with a stitch here and there, then cut out a scarf in the same fabric to match.
‘Should I add a tassel to the hat, do you think?’
‘No, leave it just as it is. It looks almost Russian. I love it,’ Clara said, full of enthusiasm. ‘So will all the young girls who see it. I believe we have a winner here, Patsy.’
And she was right. Ignoring Patsy’s modest reservations, she put the set out on display and it sold to a bright and pretty fifteen year old girl that very day. Patsy made two more and those sold too.
Clara was excited. ‘Should we make more, do you think? Or is that it?’
Patsy said, ‘We could buy different coloured fabric.’
‘Yes, vary the design a little.’
‘So long as it is warm for winter and suitably bright and cheerful.’
‘I’m sure they’ll sell.’
Clara offered to make some too. They were so close, such good friends now, on the same wave-length. ‘Clara, there’s something I wished to say. . .’
‘Oh, look, I can see Winnie putting out a length of green and mauve. It look likes heather. Pop over and buy some, Patsy. It would be perfect.’
By the time she had done so, the hat stall had a sudden rush of customers and yet another opportunity was lost.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Molly stood in the back room of the Dog and Duck, managing to hold her ground as she met the gaze from Quinn’s piercing blue eyes, although as always her instinct was to turn tail and run. She could feel the sweat under her armpits and it crossed Big Molly’s mind that Quinn might be able to smell her fear, as she could scent the hostility emanating from him.
‘I just want her scared out of that house, that’s all. I want her to wake up to what she’s let herself in for,’ Molly said doggedly.
‘And you think this is the way?’
‘It might work.’
‘It’s not my normal way of doing business, Molly girl.’
‘I know it’s a bit beneath you, B . . . er, Quinn, but you could put one of your lads on the job, surely.’
He smoothed a hand over his chin, as if considering the matter, and rocked himself back in his chair. At that moment they were interrupted by a knock at the door and a pause was called in the proceedings while a young girl bustled in with a loaded tray, placed a heaped plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding before him, a pint of Guinness and a shot of Irish whiskey beside it.
When she had gone, Quinn swallowed the whiskey in one, tucked a napkin into the neck of his checked waistcoat, loaded his fork and began to eat. Molly stood silently watching, praying her stomach wouldn’t rumble with hunger. She’d come here straight after closing the stall, hadn’t even been home yet. Ozzy would be doing his nut. He did like his meals on time.
At length, Quinn quietly remarked, ‘It’ll cost extra, and so far as I’m aware you’re still owing me from the last time. Is that not so, Molly girl?’
‘I’ve fetched what I can.’ She slid two ten pound notes across the table towards him. Quinn carefully folded each one and slipped them into his waistcoat pocket before considering her again, one eyebrow raised in mute enquiry. ‘Aye, I know there’s still another tenner owing. I’ll have that by next week, end of October at the latest.’ She would if she nicked it out of the takings as she’d done this month, hoping and praying Robert didn’t notice.
‘Plus another for this extra job.’ He speared a piece of beef and wagged it in the air, inches from her face. ‘Sure and I can see tha
t you’re a very determined woman, Molly Poulson. I’m glad you’re not my mother.’
Molly panicked, wondering if it was hunger that was causing the tight feeling in her chest or whether she was about to suffer a heart attack. ‘You don’t touch my lass, right? Just scare the shit out of the Georges. I want her back home, without him. Is that clear?’
Quinn smiled. ‘Crystal. Whether this will achieve your ends is open to speculation, but the choice is yours. The task will be carried out, forthwith, according to your instructions.’ Pushing the loaded fork into his mouth he chewed on the beef, dabbed meticulously at a trail of gravy that ran over his full lower lip.
Molly cleared her throat. ‘There’s just one other small task. That lad my lass married . . .’
‘You mean, your son-in-law?’
‘He’s no relation of mine.’ Molly said, outraged. ‘I hear he’s looking for work, asking all over the shop. I want you to put out the word that he’s not to be taken on, not by anyone who wants to stay friendly with us Poulsons.’
Quinn raised both eyebrows in wry amusement, speaking through another mouthful of food. ‘And it’s my clout you’ll be using to get this message across, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘Very clever. You mean them to listen, eh?’
‘I do.’
‘And you’ve money to pay for this little job too?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Money to burn, apparently.’
Molly swallowed, a momentary doubt nudging at her. Was she making a big mistake? She was getting in deeper than she’d ever intended, but this feud wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk. If her daft daughters wouldn’t listen to common sense, then she had to find some other way to make them understand. Wasn’t that a mother’s duty? She had to make Amy see what a mess she was embroiled in, what a mistake she’d made, getting herself involved with that stupid lad.
‘Just make them Georges sorry they ever got took the Poulsons on, that’s all I ask. I want my lass back home.’
‘It will be done, Molly. All of it. It will be done.’
Amy was in the kitchen with Mrs George when it happened. She’d come to offer her help with making tea, as usual, and despite her mother-in-law’s resolve not to speak to her, or even acknowledge her presence, had picked up a knife and begun to slice bread. Amy did her best to be friendly. It felt as if she were talking to a brick wall, but she was determined to keep trying.
‘Hasn’t it been a lovely day? The weather is just perfect, even if it is a bit cold. I love these golden autumn days, don’t you?’
Mrs George reached for a colander and began to peel potatoes, saying nothing.
Amy gazed bleakly at the pile of neatly folded shirts on the kitchen dresser. ‘Good drying weather too. Thank you for ironing Chris’s shirts. There was really no need to trouble yourself though, I’d have done it for him this evening.’
Still no answer, nothing but the blank wall of her mother-in-law’s silence.
‘Something smells good. I must say you’re an excellent cook, Mrs George. I’m sure we’re very fortunate, Chris and I, to be so well looked after.’
The woman levelled her chin and ignored this compliment.
Amy felt close to despair. The fact that she and Chris were now married had changed nothing. It didn’t seem to have made the slightest difference to relations between their families. The feud continued to bubble away in the background of their lives. The great barrier of animosity and anger was still firmly wedged between the two families, and no matter how hard they tried not to allow it to affect them, it was doing so.
The table was already laid with its lace edged cloth and pretty blue and white crockery. No doubt when the tea was ready, they would all sit around it to eat in silence, as they always did. It was a wonder the tension in the room didn’t give them indigestion.
She wished the Georges would say something, anything. Maybe if they had a good ding-dong argument as her mam and dad were inclined to do, it might clear the air.
But the young couple’s resolve to be happy in spite of the feud was gradually being worn down. Not only was there no physical contact between Amy and Chris, but less and less contact of any sort. They too would often sit in silent misery for hours on end, unable to find a single good thing to say to each other.
It frightened Amy to see her beloved husband so depressed, but she really didn’t know how to put matters right.
Sighing, she reached for the butter, which was hard and would need softening. Mrs George wouldn’t entertain margarine, not in her house, and the bread had to be cut very thin, not in great doorstops like Mam would cut. ‘I do love your son, you know. All we want is to be together, and to be happy. Chris is trying so hard to find himself a job. I can’t understand why he’s having such difficulties, can you? He’s such a lovely bloke, you’d think anyone would be pleased to employ him.
It was then that it happened.
The brick smashed through the dining room window, landing amidst a shower of glass right in the centre of the pretty lace tablecloth, sending plates and cups flying everywhere.
Mrs George let out a frightened gasp. Amy stood frozen to the spot. They could hear other windows being smashed in the front of the house too, and for the first time Mrs George spoke to her.
‘What is it? What’s happening?’
Then another brick struck. This one came through the kitchen window right over the sink where her mother-in-law was standing. Amy never saw it hit her but it must have done because one minute Mrs George was standing with the potato peeler in her hand, her face full of fear, the next she was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
Chris’s mother had to undergo nineteen stitches in her head, the windows had to be boarded up until a glazier could be found to put in new glass, and Amy was left in no doubt that her own family were the ones responsible for this act of vandalism.
For once, she lost her temper with her mother. She was shaking as she marched across the street to confront Big Molly. Never had her own home looked more squalid by comparison with the stark tidiness of the George’s, even with a great brick in the middle of their dining room table. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Amy shouted. ‘You could have killed someone back there.’
Molly kept her expression carefully blank. ‘I haven’t the first notion what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, yes, you have. Don’t play the innocent with me. Just leave me and Chris alone, do you hear? And his parents. How will it help us to make a good start in life if you keep on attacking them?’
Molly adopted her most pitying tone. ‘Come home, chuck, why don’t you? It’s not safe for you to be living with that lot. They’ve no heart, that’s their trouble. They’re evil. You’ve said yourself how hard it is, with them having sent you to Coventry an’ all. That lad can’t even support you, his own wife. Leave the bastard, and come home.’
‘How do you know he can’t support me?’
‘I know he can’t find work and nor will he, not in this market.’
Amy glared at her mother in cold fury. ‘And how would you know about that? Is it your doing as well? I wouldn’t put it past you. Why can’t you just keep your interfering nose out of our business? You won’t split us up, not if I’ve any say in the matter. If you starve Chris, or drive him out of Champion Street, I’ll starve with him. I’ll go with him to the ends of the earth. Got that?’
‘You don’t mean it,’ Big Molly whined.
‘I mean it right enough. Just you watch me.’
Amy and Chris found a place of their own, a tiny bedsit overlooking the fish market which Dena Dobson told them about, but that didn’t help as much as Amy had hoped. It was poky and damp, with barely room for anything beyond a bed and one chair, and it smelled strongly of smoked haddock.
Mr George put an advert in the local paper accusing an unnamed rival of trying to drive him out of business, but saying he was determined to withstand this cowardly attack and stay put. He also stuck up
posters to the same effect all over the market.
As a consequence, since Champion Street folk were perfectly able to put two and two together as well as witness the devastation to the Georges’ house, Big Molly’s trade fell off and the Georges’ soared. Her efforts had not quite had the desired effect.
And now she was even more in Quinn’s debt with nothing to show for it.
Neither Big Molly, nor Chris’s parents, came near the bedsit, and when Chris and Amy called round to see how his mother was, Mr George stood on the front doorstep and refused to let them in. He said that she was still in bed with a terrible headache and didn’t wish to see anyone.
‘Not even me, her own son?’
‘Not anyone,’ casting a sour glance in Amy’s direction.
Chris continued to argue that he surely had the right to see his own mother, but to no avail. His father simply closed the door in his face. There’d been no contact between them since. It seemed the young couple were on their own, outcasts from both their respective families.
This, more than anything, deeply affected Chris. ‘It might have helped if you’d tried to get on better with my mother,’ he said reproachfully one day.
Amy gasped. ‘But I did try. I used to offer to help make tea but she always shooed me away.’
‘You should’ve persisted, peeled the potatoes at least.’
‘How could I? It’s her kitchen, not mine. I couldn’t snatch the potato peeler out of her hand, could I? I would offer to set the table or wash up but she absolutely refused any assistance, didn’t want me in the room. She wouldn’t even let me do your washing and ironing. Any jobs I insisted on doing, such as buttering the bread, she put up with under sufferance. And she never spoke to me, not once, in all the time we lived under her roof. How was I supposed to deal with that?’
Fools Fall in Love Page 29
