Why had she expected Marc to be any different? He might profess to like her, had even claimed at one point to be falling in love with her. What a tale! It had been nothing more than pity and a self-serving desire to get what boys always wanted: sex. And when she didn’t come up with the goods, he’d turned back to his old flame, Fran Poulson.
The pair of them deserved each other. Patsy sincerely hoped they’d rot in hell. She certainly wasn’t going to give Marc Bertalone another thought.
But if that were the case, why did she spend so much time looking out of her bedroom window, watching the Bertalones as they filed out of a morning, as she had always done, aching to see one particular figure come striding down those steps? She longed for a glimpse of his dark curls, his wide smile, his strong athletic figure. Morning after morning she would watch for him, breathless with anticipation, and if he should appear, she drank in the sight of him, desperate for him to glance up at her window and smile at her, or give that famous wink of his. He never did, and disappointment would be a raw ache in her side all day.
By way of consolation and comfort Patsy concentrated on her hat making. Keeping her fingers busy helped to keep her mind off what might have been. It prevented her from dwelling too much on the memory of Marc’s delicious kisses, the ones that still turned her insides to water whenever she thought of them.
Today, Patsy was forming a hat from a swirl of pink georgette, while Clara was busily stitching flowers on to a cap of lime green tulle, to create a fun hat for a wedding. Customers were coming to them with specific requests now, asking Patsy to design a hat especially for them. She loved doing this, matching the colour and shape to their chosen outfit, creating a glamorous, chic and elegant look.
They’d also done well recently with a line in baker’s berets in a range of jewel colours, which looked splendid all set out on display and were particularly popular with young girls. Clara had taken to selling the corsages she was so good at making. One of autumn fruits and berries could freshen last season’s costume and make it look quite new and different.
Not that any of this was making Annie happy. Despite a healthier bank balance and a slight improvement in her health, she insisted on worrying and working too hard; claiming custom-made hats were an expense and a responsibility, that sales of a few berets weren’t going to save them from penury.
‘It’s the way you’re always so cheerful, Annie, that keeps us all going,’ Patsy teased, making Clara giggle. Annie, of course, didn’t even smile but declared she was off to the wholesaler to buy some ‘proper’ hats.
‘Don’t buy any more drab felts,’ Patsy warned. ‘They aren’t selling.’
She could tell by the way Annie’s mouth tightened that she disliked being told what to buy by the hired help, but a touch from her sister’s hand silenced whatever riposte she’d been about to make, and she left without further argument.
Over in Belle Garside’s café, Big Molly and her friend and comrade-in-arms Winnie Watkins were laying down the law over the threatened demolition of Champion Street Market.
‘Over my dead body,’ Winnie was saying. ‘And don’t take that as some sort of challenge, Belle. I mean, we won’t let it happen, not at any price. We’ve had a meeting, several in fact, and all the stallholders are agreed. We don’t want our livelihoods destroyed, not even for a wad of notes by way of compensation. We don’t want no block of flats to replace Champion Street. For all its faults, its draughty old houses, mucky back yards and bent chimleys, we like it as it is, warts an’ all, all right?’
‘Aye, we do,’ Big Molly agreed. ‘So keep your mitts off it. And tell that Billy Quinn to do the same. He’s not getting it, no matter how hard he pushes, or how much money he offers. He can look elsewhere for his so-called development.’
Belle Garside, with her pointed chin, heart-shaped face and skin like the hide of a rhinoceros, merely smiled at them with lips plastered in fuchsia pink lipstick. ‘I heard you and Quinn were getting quite cosy, Moll, so I’m surprised you aren’t more on his side. I should’ve thought it would be in your interests to get your hands on a wad of money just now. Isn’t he pulling your purse strings a bit too tight for comfort?’
‘By heck,’ Big Molly said, ‘you can’t sneeze round here without somebody sending round word you’ve got pneumonia.’
Belle smiled, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Now don’t take offence, Moll. You know you have my complete sympathy. Your Fran’s not the first to find herself up the spout, and your Amy is a sweetie. It’s just a pity that husband of hers can’t get it up.’
Big Molly went puce in the face. ‘How would you know?’
Belle gave an elaborate moue with her mouth, revealing a beguiling dimple at one corner. ‘I was standing under their window, minding my own business, you understand, and I heard them arguing. It was perfectly plain what the problem was, I’m afraid.’
‘Walls are that thin in this row, you can hear folk stirring their tea,’ Winnie Watkins put in.
‘Maybe he doesn’t fancy her quite as much as he thought he did, or else he’s been put off his stroke by his mother-in-law expecting him to be a real stud, just like his Uncle Howard.’
Before Big Molly could catch her breath to answer that one, Winnie hastily chipped in once more. ‘That’s a bit near the knuckle, Belle. It was a tragedy what happened to that poor lass. Moll has suffered enough over it, so leave off.’
‘Oh, right! Okay, sorry, Moll.’ Looking somewhat chastened, Belle tried, and failed, to get a smile out of Big Molly. The woman’s fat cheeks were quivering with emotion. It looked as if she’d either commit blue murder or burst into tears at any moment but hadn’t quite made up her mind which. Belle quickly changed the subject. ‘As for the market, am I to take it that you two are here as a deputation?’
‘Whatever that is when it’s at home, aye we are,’ Winnie agreed.
‘They’re scraping the barrel this time, then?’
‘Don’t sharpen your wit on us, Belle. We’re here to give you the opinion of all the stallholders, not simply our own. We won’t agree to sell. We won’t sign any form proposing to hand over our market plots, or our houses, to Billy Quinn, or any other developer for that matter.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘He can lump it.’
Belle's mouth pursed into a hard line of annoyance. She’d already planned what she would do with her own cut of the compensation, not to mention the little back-hander Quinn had promised her for pulling off the deal. She’d been considering a nice little property in the South of France, and an early retirement. Now she saw these dreams fade into the distance like a puff of smoke from one of Manchester’s many mill chimneys. ‘And this is the opinion of you all?’
‘It is. Jimmy, Alec, Sam, Lizzie, Abel, Barry, even the Higginson sisters who haven’t two halfpennies to rub together. Everyone, in fact. We’ve signed a petition.’ Winnie handed over several sheets of paper filled with names. ‘So don’t try none of your tricks. The answer is no.’
‘Right,’ Belle murmured, stunned by the level of opposition. ‘I’ll pass your decision on, inform Quinn of your decision.’
‘Light the touch paper and retire to a safe distance,’ Big Molly warned.
Belle attempted a smile. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’ And as the other two turned to go, she tried to have the last word at least. ‘Maybe he’ll agree to put it on the back burner for a while, allow you all more time to consider your options. . .’
‘We don’t need more time,’ Winnie said, incensed that they still didn’t seem to have settled the matter.
And now Belle did smile, a sunny, sexy, crooked little number that would have had the men eating out of her hand, which was why Big Molly and Winnie had elected to be the ones to act as representatives. ‘All I would say is that it isn’t simply the stallholders who have any say on this matter. You don’t all own your own houses, do you? Some of you only rent, and the landlords too will be given their say.’
/> It wasn’t till they were back behind Winnie’s stall that the pair expressed their disquiet over this. Big Molly drew in a great breath and blew it out again as if her lungs were a pair of giant bellows. ‘We never thought of that, did we, chuck?’
Winnie shook her head, looking troubled. ‘No, this problem might come back to haunt us one day, if we don’t watch out.’
Patsy apologised for being rude to Annie. ‘But she’s always against everything I say, and she lives in the past.’
‘There will always be ladies who prefer what you term “drab felts”, although I admit we shouldn’t buy too many.’ There was a short silence while they concentrated on their stitching before Clara continued, ‘I understand that Annie warned you off talking to me, or at least asking any more questions.’
‘I only asked if she was sorry to leave Southport, if either of you missed your friends.’ Patsy did not feel it necessary to mention her own tenuous connection with that town, or her grandmother, Felicity Matthews. It seemed more important at this juncture to ease Clara’s concerns, and to reopen a channel of enquiry. ‘I told her I was sent to school in Harrogate by the Bowmans, and how thankful they were to be rid of me.’
Clara looked stricken. ‘That is so sad, not to have enjoyed a loving home life. I can see, my dear, that this may well be the source of your insecurity, and no, I’m not pitying you or even attempting to offer sympathy. I can well understand how that could grate. But there was really no necessity for Annie to take such a stand. She can be a bit too protective of me at times, which makes her sound rather more fierce than she means to be.’
Patsy was sceptical about this since she’d rarely seen Annie any other way, but made no comment and kept her attention on her work. Criticising one sister to the other, she’d discovered, was never productive. Clara could be equally as protective of Annie, for all they might often appear to be at odds.
Clara continued, ‘I want you to know that I haven’t once found your questions intrusive, Patsy, even though there have been times when I’ve wondered what you were driving at . . . when you’d get to the one that all this interrogation must be leading up to.’
Patsy looked up from her stitching, startled by this remark, cheeks flushed and embarrassment ripe in her expression. ‘Was it so obvious?’
Clara smiled. ‘Why don’t you ask it now, whatever it is?’
Patsy drew in a steadying breath. The moment seemed to have come at last, quite out of the blue. She’d lived with the Higginson sisters for almost an entire year and in all that time she’d never quite plucked up the courage. But no more prevarication. This was the day, the hour, the moment.
She cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s certainly true that there is a question I’ve been longing to ask. I know you told me about your affair with Louis, but I asked you once if you’d ever been married and you didn’t properly answer. More importantly, what I really want to ask is, did you once have a daughter?’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Clara dropped the scissors from her lap with a clatter.
Patsy spent several moments scrabbling about looking for them, heart racing, almost thankful for the diversion as she felt quite unable to face Clara while she waited for her answer.
‘Whatever makes you ask such a thing?’ Clara gently asked, when order was once again restored.
‘Well, I wondered if that was perhaps why you took me under your wing in the first place, not just because you felt sorry for me but because you missed your own daughter.’
Clara drew in a deep breath which sounded remarkably shaky. ‘You are a surprisingly perceptive young woman.’
‘I’m not in the least bit perceptive. It was just a thought I had. And then I found a shoe, a baby’s shoe, among your things. You were quite right, I did go through your stuff, Clara. I was looking for a birth or marriage certificate, anything which might provide an answer, and all I found of any interest was a pink and white silk shoe. Did it belong to your child?’
Clara was silent for so long that Patsy thought she might never answer and all this agonising would be for naught. There was on her face that same faraway expression she assumed whenever she was deep in thought, as if she’d been transported to another place, another time. At last she spoke. ‘I did once have a daughter, though as you must realise by now, I was never married.’
To Patsy, in that moment, it felt as if the world had stopped spinning. She could hardly breathe for the tension clamping her chest. ‘When was she born? Was it in 1940?’ The hat in her lap forgotten, Patsy laced her fingers tightly together as she waited for Clara to look at her and tell her that yes, that was indeed the year, and Patsy was that daughter.
‘January,’ Clara said, with a slight nod. ‘January the fifth, 1940. We named her Marianne and she died of whooping cough before she was five months old. She was the child of my lover, of course, and I – we - were both devastated by her death. I blamed myself, naturally, because I was ashamed of my fall from grace. And Louis already had a family, as I told you.’
Clara lifted her eyes to Patsy, half expecting to find sympathy and understanding, but what she saw in the young girl’s face was utter shock and bewilderment, and something more. Something so terrible she didn’t even wish to put a name to it. ‘What is it? What have I said?’
The girl seemed to be in a state of near paralysis, her face ashen, her whole body shaking.
‘What is the significance of what I’ve just said? I don’t understand . . . Oh, my God, of course! That’s the year you were born too.’ Clara put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my! Oh no, is that it? Is that why you’ve been asking me all these questions about where I lived, when I came back from Paris, whether or not I was married and if I ever had a child? You thought that child might be you, didn’t you?’
Patsy said nothing. She couldn’t have found her voice in that moment, even if she’d tried.
‘Oh, my dear girl, what can I say?’
Patsy was on her feet, scattering half stitched georgette, scissors, silk and pins everywhere. ‘Don’t say anything, not another word. I - I think I’ll just go to my room for a bit, if you d - don’t mind. I need to think things through.’
And before Clara could stop her, she was gone.
She was not Clara’s daughter then, after all. This whole story had been nothing more than speculation on Shirley’s part. Patsy was filled suddenly with unreasonable anger, not only towards the busybody neighbour who had first sown the seed of this idea, but also towards Clara herself.
Why had she not owned up to it before now? Why had she strung Patsy along like this for the better part of twelve months? In her heart, Patsy knew this to be unfair, since how could Clara have known she’d even imagined such a thing?
Perhaps it was really herself she was angry at, for being too afraid to ask the question sooner. Oh, but it hurt so much. The knowledge that she still belonged to no one, had no family of any kind was once again a deep, open wound in her heart. The pain was spreading across her chest, stopping her from breathing, even from crying.
Patsy had lived with this idea for so long that she had come to believe it to be true. Asking the question had seemed almost unnecessary, as if it were merely academic. Clara was her mother, she must be because Shirley had guessed as much; gossip and circumstance had made the idea so feasible that it must indeed be true. And Patsy had wanted, needed, to believe in this dream. All she’d required from Clara was confirmation of that fact.
But that confirmation hadn’t come.
Instead, Patsy had received a very firm negative. She was not Clara’s daughter. She was no relation at all. That, of course, was the deep-seated reason why she had been afraid to ask the question, because Patsy had known all along it was really only a dream, a fantasy, a product of her own desperation.
She had been in need of a mother so she had invented one, exactly as she had done when she was a child, lonely and afraid at school.
Now anger was replaced by shame. She’d made a complete fool of herself, not on
ly with Clara and Annie, but also with Marc. She’d trusted and hoped, dreamed and believed, that her future might lie here, with them on Champion Street Market, but it had been nothing more than a foolish daydream.
And this was the moment when the dream ended.
Solemn faced, she got to her feet. Still reeling from shock and without shedding a single tear, Patsy began to pack. She couldn’t stay, not now that she knew the truth. The dream was over, finished, and she must move on.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The doctor sat and contemplated Amy over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Can’t have sex, you say? And how long have you been married?’
Amy told him again. She couldn’t remember ever having felt quite so embarrassed or humiliated in all her life. But much worse was to come.
The doctor told her to hop up on to his couch and he’d take a look at her.
Amy felt herself freeze inside. ‘Is that really necessary? I mean we – we haven’t got anywhere yet.’ Most girls had a mother they could turn to in times of trouble. Amy’s mother was the one who had caused her problem. She wished now that she’d asked Fran to come with her, but she hadn’t seen sight nor sound of her sister in ages, not since the confrontation with their mother in the street.
‘I need to examine you before I can help. Isn’t that the reason you came?’
The doctor brought out a small black box and from it took out various pieces of plastic. Amy was bemused as to their purpose, but then he told her to slip out of her undies and her heart skipped a beat. What on earth was he going to do to her? She glanced across at the nurse standing nearby. The woman gave a brisk nod, indicating that she should get on with it and stop wasting the doctor’s time.
What he did was to test the opening of her vagina with various plastic penises, after having asked Amy to choose one which was roughly the size of her husband’s. Blushing furiously, Amy scarcely glanced at the one she chose.
Fools Fall in Love Page 32
