Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Amy really saw red then. ‘You think she’s stupid? You think she can’t guess what’s going on behind her back? You reckon she doesn’t know you’re behaving like a right little tart? How can I tell her about me and Chris when she’s in such a bad temper the whole time. Because of you!’

  Fran looked somewhat shame-faced.

  ‘Eddie’s no good for you, Fran. You should give him up.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not, for heavens sake? It’s not like it’s going anywhere, is it?’

  Fran sat down with a bump on her own bed, clasping her hands between her knees, her face a picture of anguish. ‘I don’t care. I just need him. I can’t give him up, not yet. He makes me laugh.’

  How could she say that she envied her younger sister for being slimmer and prettier than she, for always being the centre of attention, the favourite daughter; and for the bevy of boys forever hanging around, eagerly competing to take her out? At least that had been the case until she’d fallen in love with Chris George, and he’d seen them all off. Chris adored Amy, would do anything for her. Fran envied her that too.

  No matter how much effort she put into her own appearance, she despaired of ever looking other than fat, untidy and dishevelled. Crumpled must be her middle name. She was a freak. Admittedly she had quite good legs, which were rounded or slender in the right places, and neat, delicate feet. The rest of her, however, looked like an apple dumpling with the round solid apple still inside. She’d end up as big and fat as her mother one day, and Fran hated the thought.

  True, boys seemed to like her dimpled smile, claimed to adore her peachy skin. Some were ready enough to flatter her by saying she had a pretty face with lovely rosy cheeks, but Fran knew in her heart what they were really after.

  She believed that no bloke would look her way unless she was prepared to give him what he wanted, in Eddie’s case what he clearly wasn’t getting from his frigid wife.

  It had all started the night she’d gone to the Ritz Ballroom with her friend Sal, one of the endlessly changing stream of part-time waitresses at the market café. Mam had believed her to be locked in her bedroom as punishment for something or other, Fran couldn’t quite remember what. She did recall being thoroughly affronted that she should still be treated as a child when she was only weeks away from turning twenty-one at the time.

  But she hadn’t remained confined to the room for long. Fran had slid down the drain pipe, clutching a bag containing her best frock and dancing slippers, climbed over the wash-house roof, then run off to her friend’s house.

  There they’d dolled themselves up, twisting their hair into curls with pipe cleaners, added a dab of Goya face powder and poppy red lipstick which they’d bought at Woolworth’s and were soon ready to take the town by storm.

  And didn’t they just?

  That evening was to prove a turning point in Fran’s life. The heady mix of sweaty bodies and loud music in the ballroom excited her as it always did, bopping away to Rock Around The Clock or smooching to Love Me Tender.

  She and Sal were regulars at the dancing, although Fran never bagged quite so many partners as Sal, more often than not being lumbered with the ‘friend’. But once Eddie Davidson strolled casually over, everything changed for her.

  One glance at his sexy smile and she’d been instantly lost. Fran thought him absolutely gorgeous. His fair hair, cut in the latest style, flopped disarmingly over his brow and those charcoal grey eyes had set her whole body quivering with emotion just by the way they looked at her.

  That was nearly six months ago and they’d been inseparable ever since. Fran had instantly gone on a crash diet, anxious to make herself more attractive, but he’d insisted he liked her exactly the way she was. Compared her to a full-blown rose, ready for the picking. Fran’s stomach had turned somersaults over that. She’d even bleached her mousy brown hair blonde, just to please him, causing no end of bother with her mam.

  At first Amy had teased her, saying they’d be hearing wedding bells soon but Fran had swiftly put paid to such speculation by admitting that Eddie was already married. Her prissy sister had been shocked and deeply disapproving but Fran insisted that it was nobody’s business but theirs, and Amy should keep her nose out. Even so, whenever the two sisters quarrelled, the question always came up, as it had now.

  ‘Don’t fret about me, I’m happy as Larry. You certainly won’t find me ending up like Mam, looking after a husband and kids from dawn to dusk. Me, slaving away baking pies and puddings and serving on a market stall all day, then coming home to wait on a lazy husband? Not on your nelly.’

  ‘Mam likes looking after us, and Dad can’t help being out of work.’

  ‘He could try to do something about it. He never lifts his backside out of that chair, while she waits on him hand, foot and finger like some sort of skivvy. You’ll never catch me being so stupid. I want a man to look after me, not the other way round.’

  Amy sighed, having heard it all before. ‘Dad’s not been well, you know he hasn’t. Mam’s standing by him till he gets on his feet again.’

  ‘Huh! Which will be sometime never. The only time he gets on his feet is when they’re taking him down to the pub for swift half, or to put on an illegal bet. Why would he bother to do anything else with them, when he’s got her to run around for him?’ Fran had little time for her father. Mam was always saying she should be more understanding because he’d had a tough war and come back wounded, with a bad hip.

  He told a fanciful yarn about being shot down in his aircraft, making himself out to be some sort of World War II hero. Fran didn’t believe a word of it. Ozzy Poulson was, in her opinion, a layabout, a lazy weakling who was forever ailing. Some hero! She rarely bothered to acknowledge his presence in the house, and since nowadays she was more often than not at daggers drawn with her mother too, home was not the pleasant place it used to be.

  Fran snorted her derision and said a rude word which would have had Molly reaching for a bar of Lifebuoy toilet soap to wash her mouth out. Amy’s lovely face simply took on its familiar pitying expression.

  ‘I feel sorry for you, Fran, I do really. Don’t you want to marry and have children? It’s what I want most in all the world.’

  ‘That's the kind of daft remark you would make. There’s much more to life than a dish cloth and nappies, believe me.’

  The only exciting things in her life, Fran thought wryly, were the clandestine meetings she enjoyed with Eddie Davidson. But that was half the fun, the fact that they were secret and forbidden, so that his soft little wife didn’t find out, and because her mam would do her nut if she ever discovered what her elder daughter was up to.

  Fran smiled to herself. Where was the harm really? Secrets could be such fun.

  Chapter Four

  If asked, this would not have been the opinion of Molly’s next-door neighbours, Clara and Annie Higginson. They might have said that the possession of a secret had blighted rather than enhanced their lives. The tension of it lay between them, like a scab that must never be picked in case it might bleed.

  Yet they had muddled on, making the best of things, earning an honest living and keeping themselves to themselves, as Annie liked to do.

  Annie Higginson had a reputation for being unapproachable and severe. There were many on the market who said that she was a bully and bossed her sister Clara about something shocking. Clara would have laughed at the very idea, although she was certainly deferential towards her sister. Annie’s cold grey eyes set close together beneath lowering dark brows, seemed to demand respect, even before she issued one of her fierce orders or sharply worded criticisms in her deep, husky voice.

  And she had no facility for enjoyment. The smallest pleasure would be denied on the grounds that was quite unnecessary. On a dull Sunday afternoon Clara might suggest they bake a cake for tea.

  ‘You know flour makes me sneeze.’

  ‘But you like my pound cake.’

  ‘Certainly I do. But make it while I’
m not here, when I’m at the stall.’

  Or a suggested trip to the pictures would bring the response: ‘Why would you want to? You really don’t know who you’d be sitting next to. We’d be sure to catch their cold, or worse.’

  If sometimes Clara chafed at the tightness with which her sister held the reins, and longed for something more out of life, she tried to remain philosophical and stoically cheerful, considering disappointment to be her just punishment. Sins had to be paid for, after all.

  As Patsy must pay for hers.

  Unfortunately, however, exactly as Molly had predicted, Annie was not pleased at the prospect of taking a thief into their employ.

  ‘What were you thinking of to make such an offer? No, don’t tell me, I can guess. She looked at you out of milk-soft blue eyes and your tender heart crumbled.’

  ‘Something of the sort, Annie, I will confess.’

  The long day was now over and they were at home, cosy by a roaring fire in their tiny house on Champion Street. It might be only a two up and two down but it was neat and tidy, kept so by Clara herself, and handy for the market. It’s sparseness was leavened by a few treasures rescued from the larger family home in Southport where they’d been brought up, and which they’d been forced to sell on the death of their parents.

  Having enjoyed a sheltered childhood, and a good education, they’d always rather assumed they’d be quite comfortably off after their parents died. Sadly, that had proved not to be the case. Yet they’d stuck together, through thick and thin, and had remained surprisingly close, despite the differences in their temperament. But then appearances could be deceptive, especially where Annie was concerned.

  Even so, Clara took the utmost care not to cross her sister. Today there had been a simmering tension between them ever since Annie had returned from her errands and discovered what Clara had dared do in her absence. Now, at last, the question of the girl’s future could be properly discussed and debated in private. Clara had been hesitant over her explanation, only too aware that, as was generally the case, Annie would undoubtedly have the final word on what was to be done with Patsy.

  She’d enjoyed one small victory. Despite Annie’s initial shock and resistance to the idea, her furious insistence that the girl be sent packing at once, Patsy was now safely ensconced upstairs in the spare room, tucked up and fast asleep, her belly full of lamb hot pot.

  Neither of the Higginson sisters had managed to prise a word out of her with regard to her circumstances, despite her clearly being homeless, friendless and in possession of no luggage, not even a toothbrush. She wore neither coat nor hat, as if she’d simply walked out of somewhere, on a whim. Consequently she’d been practically soaked to the skin and greatly in need of the hot bath Clara had run for her.

  It was to Annie’s credit, Clara decided, that she hadn’t instantly called out Police Constable Nuttall. But then, despite the girl’s outwardly battle-scarred appearance there was a fragility about her too, like a plant that has grown without proper nourishment or sunshine. Choice of costume might not have been to Clara’s taste, the earrings probably acquired in the same way as the pie, yet the style was in keeping with her age, Clara supposed. A teenager, wasn’t that what they called them nowadays?. . . always likes to experiment a little. And the dirt on her skin was no more than superficial, her underwear of good quality and perfectly clean.

  It was all most puzzling.

  ‘If we get to know her a little better, try to ascertain some facts, we may discover where she has come from and be better placed to make up our own minds as to whether she is honest or not. Between us we can surely keep a close eye on her.’

  ‘That won’t be easy,’ Annie protested, rubbing her brow with her fingertips, as if she had a headache coming on.

  ‘She speaks reasonably well, don’t you think? She certainly doesn’t sound as if she comes from the slums, although perhaps from a broken home?’

  Annie looked sceptical. The flat planes of her long face, cheeks, brow and chin all deeply angled, with a high-bridged nose upon which were perched her spectacles, seemed sharper even than normal and tense with anxiety. ‘Manufacturing a background for her won’t help in the slightest. Someone may be looking for her, missing her badly; even calling out the police to search for her. Have you considered that?’

  ‘But she isn’t missing them, is she? And she’s not a child, she’s a young woman, albeit a confused one. What if she’s run away from an abusive father or cruel stepmother?’

  ‘Now you’re sounding like the very worst kind of cheap novelette.’ Annie made an impatient clicking sound in her throat, as if her false teeth had come loose; it was a sound Clara was deeply familiar with, and at times she came close to hating her sister because of it. ‘What if she’s a liar as well as a thief? Ask yourself, Clara, how would we recognise the truth, even if she gave her version of it?’

  Clara, at pains to plead the girl’s case, felt her own tension rising. She sat, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap. ‘She needs help not condemnation, and surely as good Christians we are in a position to provide that at least, to assess the situation more fully before handing her over to the authorities. We’ve never turned our backs on those needing help in the past, have we?’

  There was silence.

  Clara let it spin out between them, knowing that just because Annie may not be good at showing emotion, did not mean she didn’t feel it. But Clara had to make her see how vital it was for her to agree.

  After a moment Annie came out of her frowning thoughts and patted her sister’s hand, rather as if Clara were a fretting child who needed to be placated. ‘I could not bear it if she hurt you, dear. You know how you too easily allow your heart to rule your head.’

  The words may sound understanding, even caring, but the tone, as always, was gently scolding.

  ‘But she isn’t people, she’s a young girl! A young, homeless girl.’ A long uncomfortable silence again stretched out between them, seemingly forever, broken only by the fall of hot coals in the fire. Clara shifted forward in her seat. ‘What if she were Marianne?’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘I mean - what if Marianne were in this situation, equally bereft and homeless? Wouldn’t we want someone to take her in and look after her?’

  Again a silence, in which not even Annie attempted to find an argument to refute this statement.

  Clara flopped back in her chair, exasperated. ‘I sometimes feel that you don’t want me to be happy.’

  The irritating clicking sound came again. ‘Stop this at once. You’re growing positively maudlin. Let us not open up old wounds, Clara, for pity’s sake.’

  If this remark was meant to close the discussion, it had quite the opposite effect.

  It was really quite daring of Clara to continue to argue so passionately, not being in the habit of standing up to her more forceful sibling, yet she persisted. The two sisters continued to talk long into the night until gradually, little by little, Clara answered all of Annie’s protests. She wore down her resistance with the argument that it was indeed their Christian duty to assist the girl. Only hunger had driven her to take that pie, not malice. And surely everyone deserved a second chance.

  Clara made no mention of the swear word Patsy had used. Annie would never tolerate profanity.

  By the time Patsy lumbered downstairs the next morning at around eight o’clock, despite having been called at seven on the dot, Clara could announce that her future had been settled. She was safe from the police. For now. There would be no arrest.

  ‘But it really is up to you, Patsy. You will be expected to work hard, as I have already made clear. If you show promise you might even learn a useful craft. Right now, you can begin by getting yourself off to the stall.’

  ‘But I haven’t had my breakfast yet.’

  ‘That is your problem. You were called in good time but chose to stay in bed.’ Annie had been all for going up and dragging her out of it, but Clara had insisted s
he must be allowed to make her own mistakes.

  ‘She will learn. You can safely leave her daily welfare to me.’

  Annie had given her that old fashioned look, the kind that shrivelled Clara’s confidence to shreds. ‘You know that’s the last thing I can do. We will both be responsible for the little madam or the deal is off, and I hope and pray we won’t live to regret it. I shall certainly know who to blame if we are both robbed and murdered in our beds.’

  Clara only just managed not to laugh out loud at this absurd paradox, and now, remembering the conversation, continued, ‘Perhaps you’ll be less inclined to be lazy tomorrow and choose to make a better impression then. Now, put on this old coat of mine and you can start by helping Annie with the morning’s chores while I finish tidying up here. Hurry up, my sister doesn’t care to be kept waiting.’

  Right on cue Annie appeared at the kitchen door, buttoned from throat to ankle into a grey worsted coat. She’d wound a long woollen scarf around her short neck as protection against the cold wind, and pinned her everyday felt hat of the same drab colour firmly in place over her neatly cropped hair. A pair of kid gloves and a black handbag completed the picture, which never varied. She’d been wearing this same outfit every single day for the last ten years to Clara’s certain knowledge. But then, Annie was careful with her money.

  ‘Is she ready?’ Annie was ignoring the girl completely and addressing her question to Clara. ‘I’ve a great deal to do this morning. I can’t hang about waiting much longer.’

  ‘Get off with you then,’ Clara said, giving Patsy a gentle push of encouragement as she still hung back. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Then, to Clara’s great surprise, the girl lifted her chin, transforming her appearance from skinny waif to haughty young miss. ‘I’d like to make it clear that I’ll not be put upon, not in the smallest degree. I’m prepared to work for you, for as long as it pleases me to do so, but nothing has been said yet about wages. I insist on being paid at the proper going rate. I will, of course, pay you back for the pie, which is fair since I shouldn’t have stolen it, but after that, my wages will be mine to keep.’