She glared again at the envelope.
Perhaps Shirley had failed to discover anything at all and the letter was nothing to do with her grandmother but simply the Bowmans wanting to know where she was. No, she dismissed that idea almost the instant it came into her head. It couldn’t possibly be from them. Why would they care where she was or what she was doing?
But she’d never know the answer to any of these questions unless she opened the flipping envelope.
Patsy slipped from the bed and picked it up, turning it round in her fingers, studying the postmark, just as Annie had done. It told her nothing except that it was blue, and came from the Liverpool area. Back on the bed, she slit it open with her finger and swiftly read the contents.
It was a will, a very short will, evidently written shortly after the end of the war by her grandmother, Felicity Matthews, duly signed and witnessed. Patsy frowned over the legal jargon but then came to a sentence which Shirley had underlined for her. . . . that my son Rolf Matthews be sole beneficiary to my estate. In return I ask him to make provision for all my grandchildren as I have done for him over the years.
And that was it. Nothing after that but more legal jargon. No mention of her by name, nor any mention of Mrs Matthews’s daughter-in-law, Patsy’s mother.
Patsy read the will with more care a second time. How could she be certain of anything if she didn’t even know her own name? How could she hope to belong anywhere? The humiliation of this fact cut deep, pouring salt into the raw wound.
Was her grandmother entirely without heart? She’d given Patsy away without a second thought, handed her over to foster parents. Did the woman take no responsibility for that? Apart from sending a little money from time to time, she’d never once contacted Patsy or allowed her to visit. Why? And even in her will she’d made no special provision but left all her grandchildren’s future care in the hands of Rolf, the father who’d abandoned Patsy as cruelly as her mother had, by going off to live in America.
It all seemed unbearably cruel.
And who were these other grandchildren? Had her father remarried? Did Patsy have sisters and brothers she didn’t even know about, or had they been fortunate enough to be taken to America with him? So many unanswered questions.
There was a letter from Shirley tucked inside the document. Patsy unfolded it and began to read, brow creased with anxiety and puzzlement.
‘I do hope you aren’t too disappointed with this, Patsy. The solicitors weren’t prepared to help, client confidentiality I’m afraid, so I had to wait till the will went through probate before I could get a copy. That’s why it’s taken so long. I realise it gets us no further. A clerk at the solicitor’s office was more sympathetic when I went back to try for any further information, but he admitted that your grandmother’s will was a pointless exercise. She died penniless, the house mortgaged to the hilt, most of her worldly goods having already been sold. She did indeed have a granddaughter but the clerk has no information about her, nor anything about the other grandchildren mentioned either, which is unfortunate to say the least. The partner who dealt with her affairs died in 1949, and the young solicitor who handled probate knows very little about her. According to the clerk, she was considered to be a very kind woman, well liked, had been a widow for years, was heavily involved in charity work. The son wasn’t particularly well thought of, so far as he was aware, and is assumed still to be in America. Generally, all most unsatisfactory.’
Patsy felt overwhelmed, her mind still buzzing with questions. There was a PS.
‘I suppose if you were to present yourself to them in person they might be more forthcoming, but I believed the clerk when he said they knew nothing further. He was also of the opinion that Mrs Matthews’s housekeeper was
quite old, even at the end of the war, and is probably dead by now. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, and that it’s taken so long. Remember that you’re always welcome to visit any time, Patsy, and don’t forget to write and let me know how you’re getting on. And don’t worry, I’ll keep on digging.’
The long awaited reply and still they were no nearer the facts. Patsy looked again at the letter with its signature, ‘Your friend, Shirley’. At least she had tried, was the only real friend Patsy had in the world. Patsy put her head in her hands and sobbed as if her heart might break.
Clara fussed around her the next morning at breakfast, Annie casting long quizzical glances in her direction. Patsy could tell by the open curiosity on both their faces that the Higginson sisters were aching to know the contents of the letter. She had no intention of satisfying their nosiness.
What could she say anyway? Unfortunately the will had proved nothing, provoked more questions than answers. Why hadn’t her grandmother made proper provision for her? Didn’t she owe Patsy that much at least, after the way she’d been treated?
Since Patsy knew she’d been abandoned by both her mother and her father, why hadn’t her grandmother taken her in? Why give her away to the Bowmans? And why had the old woman formally left all her money to a son who had neglected her too, when in fact she had nothing left but debts? Had she gone crazy in her dotage, as people sometimes did?
Patsy still didn’t know if Clara Higginson was Felicity Matthews’s daughter-in-law, or even the mistress, or ex-mistress, of this Rolf, her son. And most vital of all, the will offered no proof as to whether or not Patsy herself was Clara’s daughter. It was all so frustrating.
Patsy had written back to Shirley, a short letter of thanks for her efforts, making no mention of her dissatisfaction with the result. Shirley had promised to keep in touch, but of course she wouldn’t. Patsy knew the woman had only said that out of politeness. In reality they were little more than strangers, not friends at all. She didn’t have any real friends, and where was the point in making any if she was going to have to leave the market?
Clara placed a boiled egg before her, not even glancing at Patsy as she seemed more concerned about Annie. She was lecturing her sister about needing a proper breakfast inside her, but Annie refused, saying her tummy was playing up this morning.
‘At least have some porridge, dear.’
‘Don’t you listen to a word I say, Clara? Porridge would be far too heavy. I have stomach ache and pains in my chest. And is it any wonder, with all the worry I have? Why can’t you accept that I don’t wish to eat anything this morning?’
‘A boiled egg then? Look, I have one nearly ready. One more minute.’
‘Clara, I shall lose my temper shortly, and where will that get us?’
Patsy stopped listening to their squabbles, too wrapped up in her own problems to care about Clara’s concern for her sister’s health. She cracked open her egg and began to eat, although her appetite had quite deserted her.
If only Clara had not been interrupted by Annie yesterday. If only she’d finished whatever it was she’d been about to say. Patsy had felt quite certain she’d been close to a revelation, that Clara had been about to divulge the truth about their relationship, about this monstrous thing that had happened to her. Could she bring her back to that moment now? Patsy wondered.
A few moments later, Annie went upstairs to the bathroom and Patsy decided to take advantage of her absence. ‘Um, yesterday, before Annie gave me the old heave-ho, you said you wanted to tell me something.’
‘Did I?’ Clara looked vague, almost deliberately so. She buttered a slice of toast for herself then left it untouched as she took the second egg off the stove, cooled it quickly under the tap then began to chop it up and make it into a sandwich, perhaps in the hope Annie might eat it later.
Patsy knew she had only a few moments alone with Clara before Annie returned. ‘Something monstrous, you said, once happened to you.’
After a pause, ‘Really? I can’t think what that might have been.’
‘You said it had badly affected you, like a ripple through time.’ Patsy dipped a finger of toast into the yolk, watching as it ran over the sides of her egg.
‘Dear me!’ Clara went pale, and then with an embarrassed little laugh cut the sandwich in half and began to wrap it in grease proof paper. ‘I never meant to sound quite so melodramatic. Perhaps it was about our fleeing from Paris, and I’d forgotten I’d already told you. But I certainly wanted you to know, Patsy, that you are welcome to continue lodging here, even though you are no longer going to be employed by us.’
Patsy’s disappointment was keen. She rather liked working on the hat stall, had started taking an interest in the catalogues and magazines that were kept behind the counter. The stall may be dowdy and old fashioned, and its stock far from up-to-date, but it did still have a regular clientele. Sadly, more often than not, they didn’t find what they were looking for. Annie didn’t hold with veils and flowers and pretty hats for weddings, and kept very few in stock.
Besides all of that, working on the stall with the sisters made Patsy feel useful, almost as if she did belong and was part of a family.
She glared at her half eaten egg, knowing she must eat it or Clara would guess there was something bad in the letter and try to make her say what it was. Life for her seemed to be filled with pain. Why couldn’t it be simple, and happy? Why couldn’t her life be normal, like that of other girls?
Patsy so wanted to be happy, to find a place for herself and build a new life.
Clara said, ‘We’ll talk later, dear, when I have more time. Now you mustn’t be late on your first day at the ice cream parlour, so eat up your breakfast quickly. You’ll like Papa Bertalone. He’s a lovely man.’
‘Pity we can’t say the same for his son,’ Patsy grumbled, nibbling on her toast as she went to fetch her coat.
Clara chuckled. ‘Marc isn’t half the braggart he pretends to be, but he does love to tease. See that you accept his invitation to the wedding. It will do you good.’
Patsy’s first day at the ice cream parlour was tiring and confusing but really quite good fun, she supposed. There were many new things to learn, of course, not only how to operate a different cash register but also how to make up the various ice creams: the Raspberry Dash, the Strawberry Ripple, the Peach Sundae and the Knickerbocker Glory. Then there were the chocolate and coffee varieties, the various sauces, nuts and different toppings. All rather bewildering.
Marco Bertalone, Marc’s father, gave her a small sample of all the different flavours, heaped into one glass dish. ‘You eata every scrap, as much as you like, but don’ta make yourself sick. I always tell my new girls they can eat as mucha ice-a-creama as they want. And at first they greedy, yes? But soon they stop. They can face no more ice-a-creama. Too much of a good thing, yes?’
Patsy thought if she ate one of these every day, she might very well feel the same. But right now, she gobbled it all up and licked the spoon clean. It was delicious. She was sorely tempted to lick the dish too but fortunately stopped herself in time.
Just as well she didn’t as a voice in her ear said, ‘I understand we are to have the pleasure of your company in our ice cream parlour in future? Does that mean you’ve had second thoughts about me?’
Patsy turned to glare at Marc, her expression as haughty as she could make it. ‘Why would you imagine that my working here has anything at all to do with you? This may come as a great shock to you, but you were the last thing I considered. In fact, your presence very nearly put me off, but I need employment and your father kindly offered me a job, so it would have been churlish to refuse.’
Marc grinned at her. ‘Churlish! You use long words for a girl who came out of nowhere.’
‘I had an education like anyone else, quite a good one actually.’
He shrugged, as if it were of no account, but inwardly he smiled to himself. Every scrap of information he acquired about her was like a nugget of pure gold to Marc. ‘I think you’ve decided that you might get to like me better if you saw me more often. You want to come to the wedding, that’s it, isn’t it? You like me enough after all, yes?’
‘No, I think you’re insufferable! There, is that a long enough word for you? Too long, I should think.’ She spun on her heel, chin in the air, and hurried away to serve a young woman and her child.
By the end of the day, hectic though it was, Patsy decided she had quite enjoyed herself. It didn’t feel like work at all.
‘You likea your new job, yes?’ Mr Bertalone asked her. ‘You do well, for a first day. You forget the nuts on the Chocolate Nut Sundae. You put the scoop back in the wrong ice cream once or twice, and you are hopeless on the till. But you will learn, no?’
Patsy gave a sheepish smile. ‘I will try.’
‘And my Marc, he tell me you come to the wedding next Sunday, always the lucky day for a wedding. That ees good! You will likea my family and they will likea you. My wife, my children, my sons. You nice young lady. We get on good, si?’ And he kissed her on both cheeks before striding away, humming happily to himself.
He’d gone without allowing Patsy the opportunity to explain that she had no intention of going to the wedding with his son. Yet how could she refuse now that Papa Bertalone himself expected her to be there? He might be insulted by such a refusal and sack her. And she couldn’t afford to lose two jobs in one week. Drat and damnation, Patsy thought. Everyone seems to be conspiring against me.
Biting her lip, she sauntered over to where Marc was washing the ice cream scoops in a special solution. Patsy felt smitten by an attack of nerves. How could she tell him that she’d changed her mind after insulting him the way she had earlier? How could she find the courage to swallow her pride? She needn’t have worried. He turned to her with a wide grin.
‘I’ll pick you up at a quarter to two on Sunday, okay? Be ready. We don’t want the celebrations to start without us.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The landlady told Chris and Amy, with sorrow in her voice and pity in her heart, that if they’d come to Gretna to get married, they were too late. It was no longer possible for them to marry before the anvil. ‘The law put a stop to all of that back at the start of the war.’
Chris went white. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s right enough. Ask at the smithy, if you don’t believe me. We still get plenty of tourists, and even weddings, but not irregular weddings. No marriage here unless it’s all done legal and proper with a registrar present. Och, I’m sorry, but there it is. Poor wee bairns, don’t look so sad.’
Chris was devastated. Amy looked dazed, not quite able to take it in.
But sadly, when they checked later with the smithy, something they should have done when they first arrived, of course, they found that their landlady was absolutely correct.
But there was still hope, of a sort. They could indeed be married, if they signed the proper forms and found a local priest or vicar willing to marry them. Notice should preferably be lodged with the registrar about four to six weeks before the date of the proposed marriage. Which, naturally, necessitated much more expenditure than Chris had bargained for, and yet more time spent waiting. But the easy route to a quick marriage had been stopped.
Consequently they were back in the woods, mulling over the problem and their bad luck, worrying over what was best for them to do.
Amy was the first to break the silence, her spirit and determination undiminished. ‘I still want to marry you. I’m nineteen, old enough to know my own mind, and considered to be so here in Scotland. I wouldn’t have to wait here till I’m twenty-one before I can marry you, even if the quick, hand-fasting weddings are gone. That fact is still true, so we’ll just have to fill in the necessary forms and stay a bit longer, that’s all.’
‘But it won’t be easy, love.’
Amy could read the worry in his eyes. More quietly, she asked, ‘How much money, exactly, have we got left from the sale of the car?’
Chris sat on a fallen tree and counted it out, making separate piles of notes, shillings, sixpences and half crowns. ‘I reckon we’d have just about enough to survive another couple of weeks, but we’d have to forego t
he honeymoon, and no more bed and breakfast. We’d have to carry on sleeping here in the woods and it’s going to get much hotter in August. Then it could be well into September before we get a date for the wedding, when it will start to feel cold.’
Amy’s eyes were gleaming. ‘Two weeks . . . that’s ages. We might have found a way to earn some money by then. And when we find a priest, we could ask him to try and hurry things up a bit, couldn’t we?’
‘I suppose.’ Chris couldn’t help but respond to her eagerness, her face alight with hope, and she was so dear to him, how could he refuse? We must keep our train tickets safe, or how will we ever get home?’
She put her arms about his neck and kissed him soundly. ‘Then we can still do it?’
Chris remained cautious. ‘It might be worth a try. I suppose I could get a job, here in Scotland, for the summer.’
Amy jumped to her feet. ‘Course you could. Me too. I could wait on at tables, work in a shop, turn me hand to anything so long as I have you as my husband at the end of it. And we can go on living here, like babes in the wood.’
He was smiling at her now, won over by her enthusiasm. ‘But no canoodling, right? We have to be careful for a bit longer, Amy. We can’t start a baby till we have that ring on your finger, even if it is one of me mam’s curtain rings.’
They looked at each other for a long moment of poignant sadness, knowing this would not be easy for either of them.
‘I can cope if you can.’
‘I can do it for you, love.’
And then they were hugging each other, all happy smiles again, certain they could triumph over their misfortune, that their love would see them through any adversity.
Fran could hear her mother ranting on at some unfortunate woman, claiming she had only one pair of hands, which was fairly immaterial since they were at least twice the size of everyone else’s. Of course, she knew why Mam was carrying on. She was desperately worried about Amy.
Fools Fall in Love Page 17