Marc waited a moment, hoping Patsy would look up and smile, show that she’d forgiven him for disappearing like that. She went on stitching. ‘We seemed to lose track of each other last night,’ he said, a false brightness in his tone. He was anxious not to make it seem important, not to give the impression it was deliberate on his part.
‘Indeed. I expect you had bigger fish to fry.’
‘I’m sorry I missed you. Fran needed to post a letter and was afraid of the dark, in case Quinn or his heavies were around.’
‘I see.’
Patsy too had received a letter, only this morning. More of a note, really, delivered by hand and pushed through the Higginsons’ letterbox. It was from Billy Quinn, warning her to keep her nose out of his business in future, or she’d be sorry. Patsy had showed it to no one, certainly not to the sisters. She’d felt a momentary chill between her shoulder blades then screwed the note into a ball and thrown it on the fire. So far as she was concerned, the whole nasty business was done and dusted.
Marc stifled a sigh. He was getting nowhere. Her voice, her entire manner were ice cold and she wasn’t even looking at him. He edged closer, hands in pockets, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘I was back within minutes, hoping for the last waltz, but I couldn’t find you.’
‘I went home with Clara and Annie. I was tired.’
‘Winnie told me.’ Another awkward pause during which he watched her pale hands skilfully stitching the veil. Marc cleared his throat, tried again. ‘I wondered if you felt like going to the pictures tonight? There’s a St Trinian’s film on. Give us a laugh. We could do with one, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Patsy interrupted. ‘I don’t reckon there’s much point, do you?’ She risked a glance up at him and almost quailed before the agony in his eyes. She went quickly back to her stitching. ‘You’re still with Fran, right?’
‘No, no I’m not! Whatever gave you that idea?’ He hunkered down beside her. ‘I’m going to ask you only once more, Patsy, because there are only so many rejections a guy can take, but as I said the other day, I’d like us to try again. Please, come to the flicks with me this evening? It will give us a chance to talk. I can tell you about my new job, and you can tell me about your plans for taking a hat making course, and how things are between you and the sisters. What do you say? Isn’t it worth giving it one more shot?’ He rested one hand on hers, preventing her from moving the needle. ‘Isn’t it?’
She looked at him then, met his steady gaze and almost drowned in it. Oh, how she wanted to say yes, how she needed him, ached for him. He must have read her answer in that look because he responded with a smile. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’
Fran was still nursing her grievances: the rejection by Marc, and the generally sorry state her life seemed to be in. Her sister’s face, by contrast, had seemed alight with happiness this morning, her eyes shining, a rare glow about her as she hummed merrily to herself. Fran had seen her when she’d delivered a tray of pies to the stall.
‘I thought I’d pop over with these in my coffee break,’ Amy told her. ‘I wanted to see how you were after that dreadful business with Quinn, and if you had a good time at the party last night?’
Fran muttered something unintelligible.
‘Oh, we did. Absolutely fabulous. And Chris and me have made a decision. I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else. We’re thinking of leaving Champion Street. If Chris still hasn’t found work by the end of this week, we’re off to pastures new. It’s 1957, for God’s sake. There must be jobs everywhere. We aren’t going to let Quinn hinder us and spoil our future any longer, nor our parents either with this stupid, outdated feud. Much as we might sympathise with their feelings, we have our own lives to lead, and we mean to concentrate on ourselves from now on.’
Fran found herself listening carefully to all of this, and couldn’t help but feel admiration for her little sister. ‘Good for you, girl.’ Overcome by an unexpected burst of affection, she put her arms around Amy and hugged her tight. That was twice in one week. She must be going soft in the head. ‘Don’t let anyone stop you two from being happy.’
Amy laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t intend to.’
But watching Amy walk jauntily away made Fran’s heart ache all the more. Her own problems seemed huge by comparison, her life even more of a miserable mess. Marc had been avoiding her all morning, and she’d pretty well accepted that there was no hope for her in that quarter, not any more.
Worse, she’d be stuck on this dratted pie stall for the rest of her life, if she didn’t watch out. As the day wore on, Fran’s feelings of discontent grew and she turned her mind back to the source of all her troubles: Eddie Davidson.
Spotting her mother’s discarded copy of the Manchester Guardian, Fran scanned quickly through it till she reached the personal column. Seconds later she was smiling once more.
She’d got her revenge. Last week she’d placed a small ad in the newspaper, claiming to be from friends and family offering deepest condolences to Mr and Mrs Eddie Davidson over the recent loss of their beloved son. It was a pity she hadn’t known the child’s name, but never mind, this would make him sit up and take notice, the bastard. Oh, sweet revenge!
Patsy had a second visitor to the stall that morning: Eddie Davidson, looking half demented with worry and begging for her help. He showed her his copy of the Guardian, gabbling out some story about Fran not only having placed this unforgivable ad in the paper, but also sent his wife an anonymous letter. ‘She received it just this morning. It threatens to kidnap our baby boy who of course, is alive and well, as Fran well knows.’
Eddie was clearly fearful that he may not be for much longer, that Fran may just be mad enough to make the ad come true. ‘I know it was from her. I recognise her writing.’
Patsy was appalled. ‘I’m sure she would never actually hurt the child. She’s probably just trying to be difficult and frighten you.’
‘Well, she’s succeeded. And since she used to speak about you as a friend, and I heard how you saved Fran and her sister Amy from that evil shit Quinn, I thought you might help. Tell her she’s wasting her time. I’m sorry if I hurt her. Even though it was agreed between us from the start, that it wouldn’t be anything more than a fling, nevertheless I’m sorry. Tell her that.’
Patsy listened in silence, wondering why the hell everyone came to her for help in dealing with Fran; why she’d ever allowed herself to get mixed up in her affairs.
Eddie was still talking. ‘We’re making a fresh start, Josie and me, and our little lad. He’s a right bobby-dazzler, a real little treasure. I never thought I’d take to kids, but I have, and I don’t want anything to spoil it for us. So, can you also tell her that we’re moving on? We’re leaving Manchester and emigrating to Australia. Starting a new life, as a family. We’re happy, Josie and me, and I hope Fran will be too, one day.’
‘I wonder if Fran Poulson knows how to be happy. She certainly won’t want to hear that you are,’ Patsy said with foreboding.
Nor did she. Patsy related to Fran, word for word, what Eddie had told her and Fran had no wish at all to hear how happy he was, how delighted with his son, or his wonderful plans for a new life down-under. Fran was furious, swearing she would follow him to the ends of the earth to get her revenge one way or another.
‘Don’t talk daft. You’ve got to stop this at once. Be thankful he doesn’t sue you over those dreadful condolences you put in the paper, not to mention the anonymous threat to kidnap his son which you sent to his wife.’
‘He deserved it. She deserved it. Her son is alive, mine is dead. What’s wrong with offering my condolences to Eddie for the loss of our son?’
‘Stop that. You weren’t thinking of your own child. You wanted to hurt him, and his wife, but it’s not her fault. And she very nearly did lose her child, thanks to you.
‘Face it, Fran, you are the one responsible for your own misfortunes, as I am mine. Nobody else. We can’t blame an
yone but ourselves for the choices we make. You chose to have an affair with a married man. You knew what you were letting yourself in for, so why be surprised that it all went wrong and Eddie, quite rightly, decided to stay with his wife? Revenge is not the answer. And revenge for what anyway? For making a big mistake and suffering for it? Nor will it do you any good beating yourself over the head because of that abortion. You made that decision too, of your own free will, so live with it.’
Fran stared at her, distraught.
‘Look at Amy, she’s faced up to her problems and is getting on with life. You should do the same. It’s long past time you made a fresh start.’ As Patsy turned to go, she let drop one final comment. ‘Oh, and keep your thieving little mitts off my man, right?’
Fran swept a stack of pork pies on to the ground with one clenched fist then walked smartly away, fury burning her up like a ball of fire. She didn’t care where she was walking, chose to ignore her mother’s raucous voice yelling her name, shouting after her. She stormed out of Champion Street, down Gartside Street and headed for Quay Street. Nothing had changed. She was right back where she’d started, chained to a boring routine serving meat and potato pies day after boring day, jumping to attention whenever her mother called.
Fran walked for a good ten minutes, her mind in a whirl, rage eating her up inside, and then a voice spoke in her ear.
‘Hey, up, are you working today, Fran?’
She whirled about, ready to give an earful to whoever was daring to suggest she should go back to the pie stall, when she saw a grinning face that she recognised all too well.
‘Well, strike me down with a feather, it’s you.’
‘My ship’s just come in,’ the young sailor said, beaming happily at her.
‘It certainly has. Mine too. I could just do with a bit of cheering up? Hey, this is the life, eh?’ taking his arm with a dazzling smile.
And it was. This was the excitement Fran craved, the fun she so longed for. She could stay with Maureen tonight, but tomorrow she’d rent herself a little nest and feather it exactly as she chose, entertain lots of nice sailors and never again come running in answer to Big Molly’s call. Never mind Champion Street and the pie stall. This was the life for her.
Patsy had one more visitor that day. Around dinnertime, just as she was about to sit down to a dish of tomato soup, the police came knocking. Not to Quinn’s Pleasure Palace, as she had threatened, but to number twenty-two, Champion Street. They wished to take her in for questioning over a burglary.
It seemed the Madonna statuette which the Bertalones kept in their display cabinet had gone missing, and the police had evidence to show that Patsy was the culprit.
‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Clara vigorously protested. ‘How can you prove it was Patsy who stole it? Who says so?’
The police constable avoided Clara’s fierce glare, but nonetheless remained firm. ‘We had an anonymous tip-off.’
‘And we can guess where that came from,’ Patsy said. ‘Quinn taking his revenge by implicating me in something he no doubt set up himself. Maybe the parents of those other girls didn’t pay up, but how can we find out? I don’t even know who they are.’
‘They have absolutely nothing to do with you,’ Clara stoutly assured her. ‘Quinn won’t get away with this.’
The policeman was saying, ‘We don’t know nothing about any revenge but the lass will have to come along with me to answer a few questions down at the nick. Meanwhile, begging your pardon, ma’am, but my colleagues will need to search the premises. Would you mind showing them to this young lady’s room?’
‘We will do no such thing,’ Annie stoutly responded, stepping forward as if she might be about to embark upon fisticuffs with the young policeman. ‘Do you possess a warrant, officer?’
Patsy cringed, and gently touched her arm. ‘Don’t argue with them, Annie. It’s all right, I didn’t do it. Let them search as much as they like, they won’t find anything.’
Unfortunately, they did. The police found the Madonna tucked right at the back on the top shelf of her wardrobe, and although the window of the downstairs back kitchen was found to have a broken latch, neither sister could prove that it had been forced, or that someone had sneaked into the house while they were all out enjoying the party and hidden the statue in Patsy’s room.
Patsy was taken off to the police station in a large black car. It was her worst nightmare come true.
Chapter Forty-Six
Patsy sat in the police station, answering the same questions over and over again. They’d called in a local solicitor: a large, red faced individual with a bald head, shiny suit, and a school tie spotted with the remains of his breakfast. Jonathan Fairbrother, as he introduced himself, sat beside her throughout the interrogation, saying little except now and then warning her, ‘Don’t answer that.’
He’d certainly been at pains to explain the seriousness of the charge. Were they to charge her with the offence of burglary, she would be brought before the magistrates without delay and remanded in custody.
‘Which means what exactly?’ Patsy had tentatively enquired.
‘You will go straight to prison and stay there until the case comes before the quarter sessions. So do please take care how you answer the officer’s questions.’
Patsy was desperate to answer everything, to be as clear and honest and upfront as she could possibly be with the police, in a desperate bid to prove her innocence. What else could she do? She’d no wish to have all her past offences brought before the public gaze; for Clara and Annie, and most of all Marc, to hear just how badly she had behaved over the years.
Patsy knew she’d lost Marc for good this time. He certainly wouldn’t be picking her up to take her to the pictures tonight, or any other night, once he heard she’d been arrested. He’d never want to see or speak to her ever again. The Bertalones had welcomed her into their home, trusted her, made a friend of her and shown her their most private and valuable possessions. Now they would think she’d rewarded that trust by stealing from them. How could she hope to convince Marc otherwise?
And her stomach quailed at the prospect of serving a jail sentence.
‘I didn’t do it. I’m innocent, I swear it.’
‘Now where have I heard that before?’ the policeman sarcastically responded.
‘I was set up, framed.’
His face was a picture. ‘Oh, aye, who by? King of Siam?’
‘By Billy Quinn. I got one over on him and he wanted his own back. It all started when Big Molly . . .’
The police sergeant put back his head and roared. ‘A little sprat like you got one over on Quinn, biggest villain in the manor? Don’t make me laugh.’
‘It’s true. It was all because I saved Fran and Amy from the nasty scheme he had planned for them. Then he ran off with Amy and we had to chase after him, climb a crane to get her back. He was furious and sent me a threatening letter.’
The policeman’s eyes were merry with laughter. ‘I doubt our Billy can even write, and where is it, this alleged letter?’
She didn’t have it, of course. God, if only she hadn’t burnt it. ‘I - I threw it in the fire.’
‘How convenient. So you have no proof of this far-fetched tale.’
Patsy shook her head, mute with misery.
‘Let’s get back to business then, shall we? And I’d advise you not to mess me about any more, girl, I’ve not got all day.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what it was: a long list of her previous misdemeanours. ‘Isn’t it true that you stole a pie from Molly Poulson on the very first day you arrived on Champion Street Market?’
Someone else has been telling tales, Patsy thought. Or had Quinn himself told the police this fact when he’d made his anonymous call? She remembered foolishly admitting this to him, during their bargaining. ‘I was starving hungry, but it was paid for later.’
‘Yet on the day in question, you took it without permission. You stole a pie from M
rs Molly Poulson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak up.’
‘Yes!’
‘And on the fourth of March, 1952, you stole a pair of earrings and a copper bracelet from Woolworths?’
‘I was twelve years old,’ Patsy muttered. ‘It was a dare.’
The policeman ignored her. Instead he began to read out a list of other offences from this period of her life which ranged from sweets taken from the corner shop, to five pounds stolen from her own father.
‘Foster father,’ Patsy said, interrupting his flow. ‘I needed money to pay for sports kit at school, and he wouldn’t give it to me.’
Mr Fairbrother at her elbow made a growling sound in his throat. Patsy ignored him. She remembered the occasion only too well. Mr Bowman had called her a scheming little thief who had shown him up in front of the head teacher, then locked her in the understairs cupboard for two hours with the spiders. She supposed she deserved it. Stealing, from so-called family members was wrong, but it seemed a harsh way to discipline a child. It was a life changing moment for Patsy, one in which she learned not only that he was neglectful, but that he really didn’t care for her at all. Nobody did. This simple, soul destroying fact left deep scars on her, fuelling her hatred of the world from that day forward.
The sergeant scowled at her. ‘I’m sure your foster father had his reason for so doing. Presumably these foster parents of yours never saw fit to adopt you?’
‘No!’ Patsy almost screamed at him. ‘Why would they, when I’m obviously the child from hell!’
‘Perhaps we might have a short recess?’ suggested Mr Fairbrother. ‘My client is, not surprisingly, rather upset at finding herself in this predicament.’
The policeman, however, was determined to press on. Time, he said, was of the essence.
Fools Fall in Love Page 38
