Fools Fall in Love

by Freda Lightfoot

  Chris went, though not before kissing her swiftly and gently full on the lips. She loved him for that.

  Chapter Six

  Patsy Bowman didn’t quite know what she’d let herself in for. Annie was even now explaining to her the mysteries of the cash register which were bewildering, to say the least. Patsy did her best to look alert and interested, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the last few days in a desperate attempt to come to terms with it all.

  Patsy didn’t care to admit, even to herself, that she was bitterly disappointed. That would be foolish. Had she imagined the Higginson sisters might welcome her with open arms? Why would they do such a thing after abandoning her in such a callous way? In any case, she wouldn’t want them to. They weren’t what she’d expected either, or rather hoped for.

  They were old, for one thing, or at least they seemed so to her, particularly Annie.

  Clara wasn’t quite so rigid and didn’t peer at you over those dreadful horn-rimmed spectacles. Admittedly she was far more malleable than her crochety sister, if a little awkward and reserved. But however well-meaning Clara Higginson might appear superficially, the woman must be cold and unfeeling inside. Patsy only had to consider what she’d done in the past, to know that. She was also dull and rather ordinary. Even her clothes were faded and well worn, so money must be a problem.

  But then, what had she expected? She’d been looking for answers to a puzzle but was intelligent enough to realise these wouldn’t be easy to find, so where was the point in fretting?

  When did a dream ever match reality? Never, in Patsy’s experience.

  All her life people had accused her of being a dreamer. Perhaps it was true. Her probation officer had used the word ‘fantasist’, accusing her of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fancy.

  Patsy had openly scorned the notion, laughed in his face. She understood reality all right, none better. She just didn’t care for it, that’s all, and sought any opportunity to escape from its fierce grip. Where was the crime in that?

  All her life Patsy had dreamed of finding her mother. Sometimes she’d seen her as beautiful and fragile, always intending to return for her daughter one day but for some reason, perhaps because she was sick and confined to a wheelchair, or desperately short of money and struggling to better herself, she wasn’t able to manage it. Patsy had spent hours watching for her arrival out of classroom and dormitory windows. But she’d never come.

  Of course she hadn’t. That was the fantasy Patsy had spun for herself.

  At other times, when she was feeling particularly at odds with the universe, or at least her small part of it, she had viewed her absent mother far more realistically.

  On those bitter, lonely days, of which there’d been plenty, she’d seen her as wicked and selfish, caring only for parties and a good time, sleeping with men presumably and not interested in bringing up a child.

  That was the reality, surely. Patsy knew in her heart it was more likely to be the truth.

  In the end it had been easier to make up her mind that her mother was probably dead.

  Never, in her wildest moments, had Patsy considered she might turn out to be a dull mouse of a woman named Clara Higginson. Not that it had been proved absolutely that Clara was her mother. Not yet. That too might be pure fantasy.

  ‘Are you listening to me, girl? Are you taking any of this in?’

  Patsy looked up, her expression studiously bland. ‘Yes, Miss Higginson,’ she lied.

  ‘I very much doubt it. Well, we shall see. Can you add up and subtract? Do you know your times tables?’

  The corners of the girl’s lips seemed to be compressed together as if she were repressing a giggle, and her eyebrows twitched. Annie did not care for the expression one bit. ‘Well?’

  A quick nod, followed by a half choked gurgle. Patsy was thinking, If only she knew how many times I’d been made to write out those blasted tables, as punishment for my impudence or some prank or other.

  Annie said, ‘I assume you’ve had an education. Where did you go to school? Was it local?’

  Patsy remained silent but her impish smile faded, her pale, delicate features resuming their look of watchful caution, becoming once more politely uncooperative. Why should she open up old sores to tell this old cow she’d been sent away to board at a school in Harrogate by her foster parents? And how thereafter they’d largely ignored her.

  Watching this metamorphosis, Annie stifled a sigh. It was clearly going to be a long process to get anything out of the girl at all, and she really didn’t think she had the energy for it.

  ‘Very well, you can begin by brushing all the felts. Do it carefully, always in the direction of the nap. Do you even know what that is? I shall show you.’

  Patsy looked on in helpless bemusement as Annie demonstrated, wondering how she would ever learn to live with these two old maids! She would surely die of boredom and claustrophobia.

  Their home was small and cramped and the lavender furniture polish they used did not entirely mask the smell of bad drains and rotting vegetables from the market. Patsy shuddered inwardly at the prospect of staying there for any length of time. Why had she come? Why had she imagined she would find anything good here? Anyone who cared!

  Surprisingly, as the days slipped by, things did begin to improve, albeit slowly. Patsy got used to using the till, and to brushing the felt hats. She even came to quite enjoy helping people choose a suitable hat to buy, perhaps for a wedding or social function, although they couldn’t claim to get many of that kind of customer since the hats on display were so dull and boring. Or many customers of any sort, come to that. Trade was desperately quiet.

  By employing her on the stall, Clara was apparently able to spend more time at home to deal with the housework, which, strangely, she actually seemed to enjoy. Incredible! It seemed to Patsy that the woman was never happier than when she had her arms elbow deep in washing water, or was pounding dough to make bread, or crocheting endless covers for the backs of chairs.

  So Victorian!

  Clara did, however, buy her a new outfit, if not necessarily the kind Patsy would have chosen for herself, being a sensible pleated skirt and jersey to wear every day when working on the stall. It reminded Patsy of her old school uniform, although she tried not to think about that.

  She was at least free to buy whatever clothes she really wanted with her own money. With her very first wage packet she bought herself a pair of tight black toreador pants, and the following week a bright red and wonderfully baggy, Sloppy Joe sweater. Admittedly both second-hand from Abel’s stall but so utterly cool. She practically lived in these, much to the sisters’ surprise and dismay.

  The first time they saw her wearing them, they were horrified. ‘What on earth are those?’

  ‘The latest fashion,’ Patsy said, tying a scarf cowboy-style about her neck. ‘I like them.’

  ‘But those trousers are so tight – disgracefully so - you are showing every curve.’

  Patsy grinned. ‘Sexy, huh?’

  Annie had walked away practically bristling with disapproval, like an offended cat. Clara attempted to reason and cajole, to persuade Patsy to return them and choose a nice pair of Capri’s instead, which she’d heard were equally fashionable. ‘And isn’t that a man’s jumper? It’s huge!’

  ‘It’s supposed to be big. It’s a Sloppy Joe.’

  ‘A sloppy . . ?’

  ‘Joe. Don’t you know anything?’

  Then she’d started on about ‘those silly earrings’. Patsy ignored her.

  Another time Clara gently suggested that it might be a good idea if she bought a more sensible pair of shoes instead of those dreadful high stilettos which would surely deform her feet if she wore them for too longs, and were certainly in danger of ruining the polished wooden floor of the fitting room where customers came to try on the hats.

  Reluctantly, Patsy had to concede this probably to be true. She’d bought the shoes off Abel’s stal
l too and they were killing her. Clara very kindly loaned her the money for a pair of black ballerina flatties which she wore every day at work, but she still loved to wear the stilettos on her days off. Later she teamed them with a pencil skirt, worn rather long and elegant with a kick pleat at the back. She would strut around the market, hips swinging, striving to look glamorous and grown up, knowing all eyes were upon her.

  Oh, things were definitely improving.

  Yet despite this, at the back of her mind was a growing worry.

  When should she broach the subject? Was it too soon? If she was too impatient they might think she was only after their money. Not that they seemed to have much, though Patsy suspected they were more prudent than poor. Even so, whatever funds they had were of no interest to her. She had another goal in mind entirely.

  On one occasion in the first week Clara had suggested that her parents might be worried about her, and that she should write to them or telephone. Patsy responded by saying that such ‘parents’ as she had wouldn’t care in the least where she was, and had refused to be drawn further.

  She could tell Clara was longing to pursue the issue, and no doubt would, eventually. What she would say then, Patsy hadn’t the first idea. All her carefully devised plans seemed to have flown out the window.

  The sad fact was she hadn’t made a good first impression.

  Nothing had quite gone according to plan, but then, when had it ever? Wasn’t that the story of her life? Ever since she could remember Patsy had felt obliged to do battle and fight, every concession grudgingly given.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. There had been a time when all had been sunshine and play, happiness and undivided attention. A time when she had felt herself to be the centre of the universe. Emily and Arthur Bowman had been her dearly beloved parents and she their adored child. A safe, ordered world.

  And then Emily had got pregnant, produced a baby of her own, and the stars had fallen out of the sky. Nothing had been the same after that. They’d constantly neglected to provide basic essentials such as clothes, hockey sticks and boots for school, money for spends and for school trips. Sometimes they scarcely remembered even to feed her.

  The reason for this, Patsy soon learned, was that they weren’t really her parents after all. She wasn’t even adopted, only fostered. Her own mother had presumably abandoned her as a baby and they’d taken her in out of the goodness of their hearts, because they were childless.

  Once that was no longer the case, and when a second baby followed the first, Patsy felt herself becoming more and more isolated. She was the odd one out. Neglected. Rejected. Unwanted. Like a parcel that they’d really rather return to sender only they couldn’t locate the forwarding address.

  Was it any wonder if she became disruptive and attention-seeking? ‘Or difficult’ - to use Emily’s own word.

  It was just as well they packed her off to boarding school at eight. Patsy had rarely been allowed back since, even during holidays. More often than not she would remain at school, rattling around with the other neglected waifs and strays whose families for some reason or another couldn’t have them home.

  These were her only friends. Like Mary whose people worked in Africa and believed it to be too dangerous for her to travel there all on her own. Or Julia whose father was in the forces and moved around a lot.

  In Patsy’s case, however, she knew it was simply because her parents – foster parents, as she was now expected to call them - didn’t care for her enough to be bothered. Having her around the place was a nuisance. They had their own daughter now, and a son to carry on Mr Bowman’s business in the fullness of time. Far better she be left at school, with the experts, who understood difficult young girls.

  Look on the bright side, Patsy would say to herself. If I’d gone home, I might well have faded away altogether and nobody would even have noticed.

  That was the reality, which Patsy understood very well. Nothing in the least fantastical about it.

  It was reality too that she knew nothing about herself, not even her own name. The Bowmans had bestowed their own upon her as a baby ‘for the sake of appearances’. Generously, they allowed her to keep it since she had no other.

  So if Patsy made the rest up, who could blame her? Indulging in flights of fantasy and imagining where she might have come from, who her real family might be, kept her amused in dull moments, and helped her fall sleep at night.

  Was it any wonder if she got into trouble? Her teachers accused her of being disruptive, of getting in with the wrong crowd: a gang of local youths who were more fun than most of her classroom companions. All right, so she’d truanted, stayed out late, pinched a few sweets and cheap jewellery from Woolies. What of it? Was that any reason to shop her to the police?

  Her own father – foster father – did that to her. His excuse was that such behaviour was unacceptable, that it upset his wife and brought disgrace upon his family.

  His family, not hers! But then I no longer have a family, Patsy would think. I have no one.

  Since she’d left school in June and been forced to return to the Bowmans’ home, life had become a living nightmare. As if being put on probation for a year wasn’t bad enough, she’d compounded her sins by not passing the right number of exams. Or any at all, in fact. But then, Patsy had rarely bothered to turn up to lessons. Where was the point? Who cared?

  Arthur Bowman said this meant she’d flung their generosity and sacrifice back in their faces.

  It was made abundantly clear that she was no longer welcome in their home, and Patsy almost began to regret not getting those scholarships. If she had, then perhaps she might have found herself a good job and made something of her life. Instead, in Arthur’s own words, she was ‘hoist on her own petard’. No respectable company would employ a girl with a criminal record and no qualifications, so she would simply have to make the best of things.

  This apparently meant being used as unpaid help. So long as she acted as skivvy in their kitchen, she would be fed and clothed, after a fashion.

  It proved to be a long summer, one filled with uncertainty, fear and depression. But what else could she do? What would happen to her? Would she be confined forever in the Bowmans’ basement, to die there an old maid?

  And then, quite out of the blue, they announced one morning that they’d had news her grandmother had died. This had come as a huge shock to Patsy, who didn’t even know she had a grandmother, or even that she possessed a single relative in the entire world.

  ‘Unfortunately you are not mentioned in her will. She left you nothing, not a penny,’ Emily had coldly informed her, as if Patsy were to blame for this oversight.

  That was the moment she fully understood, when everything became crystal clear to her. It wasn’t the Bowman’s who had paid for her schooling or her clothes and food all these years. It had been this elusive grandmother, who apparently hadn't wanted her around either. And sometimes, perhaps when she was ill or simply forgot, the cheque would be late, or insufficient for her needs, and so Patsy would be obliged to wear clothes she’d outgrown for months on end, or have less to eat than the Bowmans’ own offspring. The cruelty of it struck her afresh.

  She hadn't left it at that, of course. Patsy had demanded to know full details. Who was this grandmother? Where did she live?

  All they knew was her address in Southport, and her name, of course, the one which she had apparently refused to allow her granddaughter to use. No doubt for fear of scandal.

  That was the day Patsy had walked out of the house. There hadn’t been any heated words, no accusations, no argument of any sort. They were over long since. She’d been too choked with emotion to consider any kind of confrontation at that particular moment. The Bowmans had bluntly told her the facts, and made some bitter comment about how on earth they were going to afford to keep her in the future. Patsy had responded by saying she could look after herself, thanks very much, and walked away.

  It had seemed the best thing to do at the time.


  Chapter Seven

  Ever since the night Chris was thrown out of the house, relations between Amy and her parents had been strained.

  Amy hated any dispute, above everything hating to be at odds with the mother whom she adored. She was a sensitive, caring girl who believed everyone should be happy and kind to one other, and would take almost any course rather than provoke an argument. On the other hand, she would be the first at your side if you were in trouble, and seeing the man she loved being so ruthlessly rejected by her own parents was more than she could bear. She had to fight for him, and for the love they felt for each other.

  Amy tried on several occasions to reopen the discussion about Chris only to be met every time by a blank wall of hostility. It was so frustrating, and utterly heartbreaking.

  ‘What have you got against him . . . against his family anyway?’

  ‘You might well ask,’ Molly would irritatingly and unhelpfully remark.

  ‘Did you have an affair with his dad or something?’ Amy recklessly suggested in desperation. Her mother was incensed.

  ‘Wash your mouth out! As if I would, with that pig.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Never you mind. You’re too young to understand but take it from me that all relations with that young man must stop, as from now, before they go any further. Do you understand? Do you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, but it’s too late, Mam, I love him. And Chris loves me. We’re going to get wed and there’s not a thing you can do about it.’

  There was a long, drawn-out silence in which Amy half feared for her mother’s health. Molly went purple in the face, fists clenched fiercely by her side as she drew breath so deeply Amy thought she might be about to explode. But she merely turned on her heel and stalked off from the stall without another word.

  For a while Amy thought that she’d won, that she’d made her point. But before the day was out her mother confronted her carrying a packed suitcase. A taxi, of all things, appeared at the front door and before Amy knew what was happening she’d been bundled into it, the suitcase placed at her feet and a ticket to Penrith pressed into her hand.