Fools Fall in Love

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Fools Fall in Love Page 11

by Freda Lightfoot


  Folding her lips into their accustomed thinness, Annie left the room.

  Whatever Annie had been about to say, Clara had saved her from it, but Patsy could sense the prospect of banishment hanging over her like an unspoken threat. Blast the woman, let her do her worst. She’d no intention of begging for a roof over her head, not one that should have been hers by right in the first place. And Patsy flounced out of the house, determined to enjoy herself while she could.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chris was waiting for her on the corner of the street after she’d finished her first day back at work, as Amy had known in her heart that he would be. Anticipation of seeing him again after all this time had made her stomach churn for days beforehand.

  She’d spent a week locked in her room before finally being allowed out, not to work on the stall in the market but with her brother Robert in the new kitchens a few streets away, part of an old warehouse down by the Brunswick Basin. It was better than nothing.

  Even so, she had been forced to promise faithfully that she wouldn’t go looking for Chris. Amy didn’t see her agreement to this as telling lies exactly, it was just that her loyalty now must be directed primarily towards him, and not her mother. The past was the past, and her concern was with the future.

  Amy wasn’t worried about not being allowed back on to the market. Chris would be sure to hear she was out and about and come looking for her, Amy was certain of it. Then they must decide what they were going to do about this impossible situation. She was almost nineteen, old enough surely to plan her own life?

  Now here they were, cuddled up on a bench in Heaton Park with the sound of birds in the trees, a soft spring breeze and the sun warming their faces, hardly able to believe they were together again, reunited at last.

  ‘I really don’t know how I’ve survived the winter without you. It’s been an absolute agony,’ Amy sighed.

  ‘For me too.’ Chris was kissing her nose, her eyes, a kind of wonder in his gaze as he stroked her hair and cradled her close in his arms, as if imprinting the image of her anew on to his soul. ‘You’re safe with me now. I won’t let them take you from me again. I’d die first. If they can’t recognise true love when they see it, that’s their problem.’

  Amy cast him a sad glance. ‘It’s our problem too, you know it is. I’ve found out what the feud was all about. Bullied it out of Aunt Jess.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It isn’t pleasant, Chris. Really nasty, in fact. So awful that I can see why Mam would never agree for us to be together. Never in a million years!’

  ‘Whatever it is, however bad, we can overcome it,’ Chris insisted, blindly resolute in his love.

  Amy let out a tremulous sigh. ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  ‘Go on, love. I’m listening.’

  She grasped his hands, glad of the feel of his strong fingers beneath her own, and took a deep breath. ‘Mam and Jess were friends long before she married Jess’s brother. They went to school together, and that’s when it all started - when it happened. Mam was about fifteen at the time. You see, She had a sister called Lena, two years older than herself, and not particularly bright. Aunt Jess said she was a lovely girl, very affectionate and friendly, but a bit simple. She was still a child in her head even when her body had grown into that of a young woman of seventeen. And that was the problem. Thomas George, your father, had a younger brother. I think Jess said his name was Howard.’

  ‘I don’t have an Uncle Howard. At least, I’ve never heard of one.’

  Amy pressed a silencing finger to his lips. ‘You said you’d listen. The story goes that this Howard interfered with Lena and got her pregnant. Jess thinks she might have had a bit of a crush on him. She used to follow him everywhere like an adoring puppy. It wasn’t rape or anything, but he knew how it was with her, that she wasn’t quite up to the mark, as it were, and took advantage.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Anyway, once this was discovered, it was agreed that she couldn’t possibly keep the baby. A doctor advised that she shouldn’t even be allowed to give birth to it, which was so sad, don’t you think? She was forced to have an abortion, and, tragically, caught an infection and died days later. Mam has never forgiven your uncle - your family - for what happened. Had it not been for this Howard doing what he shouldn’t, Lena would still have been alive to this day.’

  Chris looked stricken. ‘That’s terrible! Tragic. And what happened to him?’

  ‘He vanished, disappeared off the face of the earth. It’s thought your grandparents paid for him to go to America or Australia. Somewhere far away from my family’s wrath. According to Aunt Jess, Mam looks upon your uncle as little short of a murderer, and the rest of your family as conspirators in his escape from justice.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his fault that she caught that infection.’

  ‘I know, but if he hadn’t touched her, she wouldn’t have needed the abortion in the first place, would she?’

  ‘I shall ask Dad. See what he has to say.’

  ‘No, no, you mustn’t do that.’

  Chris grasped her hands firmly between his own. ‘I have to, don’t you see? I have to know what their attitude is to all of this. Don’t worry, I’ll try to ask in such a way that I don’t implicate you. I’ll say I’ve heard a bit of gossip, and want to know if it’s true. Not that I hold out much hope of a good response. When I finally told my parents about you and me, they were no more happy about the situation than your family were, and they wouldn’t tell me the reason for the feud either. They made no mention of Dad even having a brother called Howard, let alone this terrible story.’

  ‘It must have happened nearly thirty years ago now, yet still neither family can let it go.’

  ‘I suppose it’s easier for us to be distanced from it, since we didn’t have to live through it.’

  ‘And Lena was Mam’s sister, whom she’d loved and protected all her life. Aunt Jess said, that to make matters worse, Mam’s father blamed her for what happened. Said she should have looked after Lena better, and hardly ever spoke to her again after the death. And since he’d already lost his wife, he was a broken man and died shortly afterwards himself. Isn’t that dreadful? Mam’s carried that guilt all her life, quite unfairly in my opinion. No wonder she’s filled with bitterness. That’s the reason they’ll never let us be together. Never! No matter what we say, and how much we claim to be in love. It’s over, Chris. We don’t have a hope in hell of ever getting married.’ And she fell into his arms and began to weep.

  Fran was also feeling desperately sorry for herself. She hadn’t seen Eddie in over two weeks. She’d hung around outside his offices at the gas board, watched for his car every morning, even waited at their favourite coffee bar every chance she got, but not a sign of him anywhere. Anyone would think he was avoiding her.

  And serving pies to yet another queue of hungry customers did not inspire her. Robert might be excited about the new pâtés, hot pots and apple turnovers he was introducing, but they did nothing to fire Fran with any great enthusiasm. She wanted only to be with Eddie.

  She could hear her mother talking to Winnie Watkins round the back of the stall. Right pair of old gossips they were. Their cheerful chatter only reminded her how bored she was, how anxious to leave this place.

  ‘I never got to vote in the first place,’ Winnie was saying, ‘because of my accident, if you can call it that. But I shall certainly register it this time, and it won’t be for a Garside, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  All the stallholders could talk about these days was the coming election. Belle Garside, who’d finally been elected Market Superintendent, had been accused of gaining votes through the bullying tactics of her son Kenny, so the whole thing had been declared void and had to be gone through again.

  ‘What, vote for Joe Southworth again?’ Molly was saying. ‘What a prat! Ruled by women, he is. Don’t forget Belle has influence over Joe, very much so.’

  ‘No better than she s
hould be, that madam,’ Winnie said, with a loud sniff of disapproval.

  ‘Aye, lowest of the low,’ Molly agreed, ‘as is any woman who steals another woman’s husband.’

  Fran was riveted, taking in every word. Surely her mam wouldn’t tell that old gossip Winnie Watkins what she’d been up to.

  ‘So we can’t entirely escape her, no matter who we vote for.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  They turned then to the new market regulations Belle was wanting to impose and Fran stopped listening. The call for a second election was connected in some way with a protection racket run by Belle’s son, Kenny, now thankfully stopped and nothing at all to do with her.

  Fran was far more interested in her own problems.

  Good Lord, now Winnie was talking about her own coming wedding to Barry. Something about her young friend Dena being busy making her dress, and how Winnie was trying to decide where she and her new husband should live. ‘Not that we’re in a hurry, mind. I quite like long engagements, myself.’ Fran was astonished. Why on earth would the old goat bother to get married at all? It wasn’t as if she was capable of any actual sexual activity, surely? Fran shuddered at the thought.

  But Winnie’s obvious happiness depressed her, making Fran wish her own life could be half so rosy, when really it wasn’t looking good at all. What hope did she have of ever having a home of her own? She’d probably still be suffering from her nagging mother when she was in her dotage. Even marriage was beginning to sound quite attractive to her now, compared to the alternative.

  Fran was late. She couldn’t believe it had happened but she was nearly three weeks overdue. Which must be bad news because her monthlies were usually regular as clockwork. Besides, she’d nearly passed out the other morning when she’d walked past Belle’s café and smelled the coffee. It had made her want to throw up.

  So she needed to find Eddie and talk to him. Fast! They had to decide what they were going to do about this.

  But, oh, lord, what would her mam have to say about it?

  Big Molly watched her younger daughter as she stood before the hall mirror applying a delicate slick of pink lipstick. Fran tended to plaster on a thick coat of crimson or vibrant orange. Not their Amy. Such a little lady. Then as she pulled on a pale blue duster coat and picked up her clutch bag, Molly placed her substantial bulk between Amy and the front door. ‘Where you off to then, all dolled up?’

  ‘I’m not dolled up, as you call it. Just trying to look respectable. I’m going to the pictures with a friend. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Depends who this friend is.’

  Amy rarely lost her temper. That was the thing people liked most about her, her air of dignity and serenity, her ability to remain calm and not over-react. But she was fast coming to the end of her patience, so far as her mother was concerned.

  Amy’s nerves were in shreds, her misery so deep and ingrained that it felt as if she were going mad. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything, not the baking of pies and puddings, nor her brother dreaming of buying himself a flat in one of the new skyscrapers they were building all over Manchester which were supposed to provide the answer to the housing problems. Why would she care, when she couldn’t ever get married so would never buy a new home?

  And morning, noon, and night, her mother would warn her not to go anywhere near the George family, as if their very presence would contaminate her in some way.

  Amy felt trapped, forced to choose between the two people she loved most in all the world.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mam, I can’t live like this, with you breathing down my neck the whole time. This isn’t a jail. I’m surely allowed some freedom. Tell her, Dad.’

  Ozzy didn’t hear. He was engrossed in watching Mr Pastry acting daft on the new telly while listening to a football match on the wireless at the same time. He’d splashed out and bought himself a Bush television set, no doubt following a lucky win he’d had on the horses. All the family were gripped by it, except for Amy. She couldn’t bring herself to watch, not even managing to laugh at the Clitheroe Kid. She just felt too depressed.

  ‘I’m going out, right?’ And with tears standing proud in her eyes Amy marched out of the house, closing the door behind her with meticulous care.

  Molly flung it open again and yelled after her daughter, her fog-horn voice carrying the length of Champion Street so that heads turned and wry smiles were exchanged as folk acknowledged that Big Molly was on the rampage again.

  ‘Be back by ten, madam, or I’ll fetch that key out of storage. Ball and chain an’ all, if necessary.’ Then Molly slammed the door so hard the whole house shook, before turning to vent her fury on her ineffectual husband. ‘And if you weren’t such a useless lump of seaweed, you’d get out of that chair and follow her.’

  ‘With my bad hip?’

  ‘I notice your bad hip didn’t stop you getting down the pub this afternoon. Billy have a good tip for you, did he?’

  Ozzy didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Mr Pastry was in a right mess, as usual. Everything going wrong for him, just like in Ozzy’s own life. ‘Leave our Amy alone. She’ll come to no harm. Happen it’s time you let bygones be bygones, Molly. Let the past stay buried.’

  Molly slammed a huge fist down on the table, making the teapot jump a good three inches in the air, and the milk bottle topple over and spill its contents all over the dog chewed rug. ‘I will bury her before I’m done! You too, you great useless pudding. Nobody defies Big Molly Poulson, do you hear?’

  ‘I hear,’ Ozzy said, his voice thrumming with emotion, finally removing his attention from the screen. ‘As can half the street, so shut it. Just for once in your life, Molly Poulson, shut your gob and leave that lass alone!’

  It was the first time Molly could remember he’d ever stood up to her and it shocked her to the core. She watched in amazed silence as her usually weak, pliant husband hobbled out of the door, leaning heavily on his stick.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk out on me!’

  But he did. He walked out of the door without even a backward glance. He would be back, of course, no doubt with a skinful, but Molly didn’t like this show of resistance. Not one little bit. She couldn’t abide insubordination. The whole family were out of control. Even the dog had gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Have you owned this stall long?’ Patsy risked asking Clara one afternoon as she sorted and tidied hat trimmings. Annie had gone to visit a supplier in the centre of Manchester while Clara was happily fashioning lengths of ribbon into bows, making them curl with the ends of her scissors.

  It was a quiet day on the market. In fact, business was growing ever quieter so far as the hat stall was concerned. At least, it seemed so to Patsy. Fewer and fewer people wore hats these days, preferring to show off their new hair styles instead.

  Patsy had tidied all the glove drawers, brushed all the felt hats, remembering to brush correctly in the direction of the nap, now she was sorting trimmings. There were daisies and forget-me-nots, pearl buckles and jet beads, bows of every hue, bunches of cherries, and feathers ranging from pheasant to ostrich, all needing to be properly sorted and stowed safely in their allotted places. She quite enjoyed playing with them.

  ‘Heavens, yes,’ Clara said, in answer to her question. ‘It feels like we’ve been here forever.’

  ‘Since before the war?’

  Clara paused, thoughtfully smoothing a satin ribbon as she stared off into the middle distance. ‘We came here towards the end of the war, I believe, after our parents died. It sounds so long ago now, and yet it feels like only yesterday. Strange!’

  ‘Where did you live before? With your parents, I mean.’

  Clara smiled. ‘Southport. Do you know it? A delightful town. The golden sands stretch forever, and there are flower gardens and fun fairs. Oh, I used to adore shopping on Lord Street with those delightful verandas and arcades. So continental. That is probably where I developed my love of shops. Bon Marché being a par
ticular favourite. We were very spoiled, my sister and I. Had rather an Edwardian childhood in many ways, although we aren’t quite that old, you understand. But our parents were somewhat set in their ways so it was a sheltered upbringing. Rather privileged, I’d say. Smart girls’ school, panama hats, afternoon tea on the lawn. What about you, dear? What sort of an upbringing did you have? Far more difficult than mine, I take it? Oh, dear, I forgot. I really must stop prying.’

  ‘I was born at the start of the war,’ Patsy volunteered, steeling herself to accept the apology and not run away this time. ‘In 1940.’

  Clara gave a little jerk, turning curiously intent eyes upon her. ‘Were you really? How extraordinary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I - I – no reason.’ She seemed to shake herself mentally, gave a distant sort of smile. ‘Perhaps it’s being reminded of how very young you are, and to be born then, at the start of the war . . . So unfortunate. It was a lovely summer, I seem to remember.’ She seemed to lose track of what she was saying for a moment, then collected herself and made another attempt at a smile. ‘Put all the fruit into the lower drawer, dear. And the flowers in the top one. They’re all in such a dreadful muddle.’

  ‘Right.’ Patsy set about untangling the wire stems of a bunch of violets from what looked like miniature oranges and lemons. Who on earth would choose to have fruit on a hat?

  But her mind was not on the task in hand. Patsy was obsessed by the thought that Clara might actually be her mother, and this was the closest she’d come to approaching the subject. What should she ask next? She’d at least confirmed that Clara was a member of the very same Higginson family who came from Southport, who had once owned Shirley’s house.

  Dare she come right out with it and bluntly ask if they could possibly be related? If Clara could be her mother? She’d probably deny it, of course, even if it were true. But if she said yes, what then? She had only Shirley’s theories to go on, Patsy realised, which were nothing more than gossip and suspicion. But could they be right?

 

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