‘She said you were difficult, constantly trying to take over and interfere.’
Tears filled Amy’s eyes. ‘That’s so unfair. I’m damned if I do offer to help, and damned if I don’t.’
Chris looked at her ashen face and was instantly filled with remorse. ‘Oh, love, I’m so sorry. What are we doing, quarrelling over this awful business? Didn’t we once promise ourselves that we wouldn’t?’
Then they would kiss and make up, curl up together in their misery, yet still they didn’t make love. All the fire and passion seemed to have gone out of them, replaced by a curious restraint, as if Chris were still holding back. Amy could only think that the long difficult months of not daring to touch each other, coupled with the antagonistic reaction to their marriage of their respective families, had in some way built a barrier between them too.
Somehow the feeling of being natural and happy together had dissipated. A strange awkwardness was growing between them, even a cool politeness, almost as if they were strangers and not a young married couple deeply in love.
There were occasions when all would seem to be well between them. Perhaps at breakfast when they were at their most relaxed, or if they met up in the afternoons, they would laugh over something that had happened during the day; still good friends like they had always been. Content simply to be together, ready to sit and chat or enjoy a bicycle ride.
But in the evening, when the door of the tiny bedsit was closed against the outside world, instead of feeling cocooned in their own private space, free at last from the simmering anger and resentment of their parents, an awkwardness would fall upon them, a pressure build up between them. Amy had fallen into the habit of dressing and undressing quickly and furtively, in private, as she had done every morning back in the wood when they were striving to be sensible and not inflame each other’s passion, which at that time had been so alive, so vibrant.
The fact was that although they at last had a double bed, the distance between them was now so great, neither was willing to make the first move, perhaps too afraid of rejection, too beaten down by family warfare.
Chris would climb into bed and read the newspaper while Amy lay silently beside him. After about half an hour, he would stroke her back a little or kiss the top of her head, switch out the light then turn onto his side, away from her. And the pair of them would lie, back to back, not speaking, not touching, overwhelmed by circumstance and their misery, as if they’d once been shown a fleeting glimpse of paradise but somehow the moment to savour it had been lost to them, perhaps for ever.
They’d lived together for over three months, had been married for almost one, and still they had not made love. Their love had not been consummated, and secretly each of them wondered if it ever would be.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Patsy couldn’t stop thinking about Mr Bertalone’s remark on how brave the sisters had been during the war. She longed to know more. She was also deeply troubled by Marc’s casual comment that Annie may actually be her mother, and not Clara at all. The thought haunted her and eventually drove her, for the first time, to approach Annie on the subject.
She chose the moment when she was up a ladder tidying the hat boxes off the top shelves, handing them down to Annie for her to dust and check out the contents before putting them back again, probably for another twenty years. A total waste of time in Patsy’s opinion. But it seemed an ideal opportunity to engage in a little gentle quizzing.
Patsy so longed to be accepted, to feel secure. And Marc was right. One way or another, the only way to achieve any sense of security was to face her gremlins and deal with them. She had to discover the truth, no matter if it turned out to be the exact opposite of what she wished to hear. And perhaps if she and Annie talked together a little more, she might persuade her to open up, even warm to her, as Clara had done these last weeks. The only way to do that, Patsy decided, was to open up a little herself.
‘I remember doing this sort of thing for Mrs Bowman, my foster mother. She was a great one for organising and tidying. Drove me mad, it did.’ Patsy laughed, trying to sound relaxed and casual.
It was a moment before Annie answered, and then came a question, just as Patsy had expected.
‘I trust she wasn’t a cruel foster mother?’
‘Not intentionally, only neglectful. Once she had children of her own she lost interest in me.’
‘I see. That must have been difficult, hard for a young girl to understand and deal with.’
‘Oh, I understood well enough. The reason was perfectly clear, but yes, dealing with it was hard. Mr and Mrs Bowman dealt with it by sending me away to school.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘Eight.’
‘And where was this school?’
‘Harrogate. That was the nearest town, about twenty miles from the village where the Bowmans lived.’
‘So they were able to visit you often?’
Patsy shook her head. ‘I don’t remember them ever coming except on speech days and parents’ meetings, when the teachers practically ordered them to attend.’ The moment to change the subject had come, she decided. ‘Your own family must have been so different. You were very lucky to have such adoring parents. Do you remember, Annie, telling me that your family home was in Southport? I was wondering why you decided to leave. I mean, it’s such a lovely place, why would you want to leave the seaside to come to the heart of a city?’
She could see Annie frowning as she considered this, but the answer came, frank and open as her own had been. ‘I had no reason to stay. It was my childhood home but I grew out of it. Perhaps I was ready to stand on my own feet. You can understand that, surely? Such friends and good neighbours as we had were of my parents’ generation, not mine.’
‘What about Clara? Didn’t she have any friends? Did neither of you have a boy friend, for instance?’
‘We led a very sheltered life.’
‘Even so. Did none of your neighbours have sons?’
When Annie said nothing to this, Patsy stumbled on, ‘I ask only because if either of you did have a beau, as I expect you would call them, it must have been hard to leave. And Manchester is so different from Southport, so big and noisy, and it suffered badly during the war. Was there some sort of problem, did you feel compelled to move for some reason?’
Aware that the question was rambling on for far too long as she added to it out of sheer nervousness, Patsy couldn’t seem to stop herself from talking. Yet Annie had now fallen stubbornly silent.
‘You weren’t involved in a wicked scandal or anything, were you?’
Patsy knew she’d gone too far almost the instant the flippant comment was out of her mouth. She could feel Annie almost physically withdraw. Cold fury emanated from her in waves as she gripped the sides of the ladder. Then with a sharp crack of her knuckles she rapped on a rung and ordered her to come down at once. The tone was such that not even Patsy considered defying it.
Standing before the older woman, she felt very much as she used to feel when standing before her house-mistress at school. Patsy knew she was going to be punished but couldn’t for the life of her think what she’d done to deserve it.
‘I dislike this fondness you have for asking questions. I’ve been aware of you pestering my sister, winkling out of her all manner of indiscretions while I’ve been laid up, and . . .’
‘She wasn’t indiscreet, and Clara volunteered . . .’
‘Do not interrupt when I am speaking. Now I learn that you have been pestering the Bertalones, which is quite unforgivable.’
‘I haven’t. I mean, they asked me to tea and . . .’
‘And you interrogated them on what they were forced to endure during the war.’
‘How did you . . .?’
‘Know? It may surprise you to learn that I hear a great deal of what goes on in this market. I am not quite the bumbling old fool you take me for. Mr Bertalone himself told me that you had been showing an interest.’
‘H
e called you very brave and suggested I ask you to tell me what you did in France after 1940,’ Patsy spoke up, holding her breath as she waited for Annie’s reaction. It wasn’t long in coming, and ferocious in its tone.
‘Impudent child! How dare you presume to ask such a question? You are far too inquisitive for your own good.’
‘Don’t call me a child.’
‘I shall call you whatsoever I choose. You have far too much to say for yourself, in my opinion, which shows lack of breeding and not a vestige of good manners. Perfectly vulgar, in fact. These endless questions must stop forthwith. At once, do you hear? Nor will I have Clara upset. After she spoke to you the other week, many painful memories far better left in the past where they belong, were stirred in her by your obstinate persistence.’
Patsy was distressed by this. The last thing she’d wanted was to upset Clara, and she hurried to say as much. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset anyone, but I did have a reason for asking. A very good reason actually. I wanted to know because . . . well, because I think about my own past sometimes, and I thought that if Clara told me she’d ever been married, for instance, ever had a child . . .’ There, she’d got it out at last. ‘Then I might come to understand the reason . . .’
‘Enough, I say! Aren’t you even listening to me?’ Annie clicked and whistled through her false teeth in a fury of impatience. ‘We will have no more of these interrogations. You will leave Clara alone. She has endured enough of your poking and probing. Not another question, it stops right now, or you will indeed be out on the next bus. Is that clear enough for you?’
‘Yes, Annie,’ Patsy said, deeply contrite. ‘Perfectly clear.’
Patsy was looking for Marc. She was anxious to tell him of the utter futility of her latest efforts, to gossip a little over the scandal of the Georges’ broken windows and speculate over the culprit, and, of course, eager to learn how he’d got on with his interview.
Since it was a Saturday, she went straight round to the ice cream stall and found him talking to Fran Poulson. Marc saw her and instantly jumped to his feet, hurrying over with a broad smile on his face.
‘Mia cara, great to see you. Fancy a Nut Sundae?’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Patsy grumbled, as she always did without quite knowing why, then stared past him, right into Fran’s eyes, and saw the triumph written bright in those amber depths. It was this expression, this purring gleam of satisfied superiority rather than simply finding them together, which made her think that something was going on.
‘I can see what it is you fancy!’ And turning smartly on her heel, Patsy made to walk away but wasn’t quite quick enough. Marc grasped her by the wrist and pulled her up short.
‘Hey, don’t just walk away like that. What’s biting you now? I thought you’d come looking for me. I hoped you had. Okay, you don’t have to say it, I can see it written in your eyes: you wouldn’t come looking for me if I were the last man in the world, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Then why are you here?’ He frowned and looked around in puzzlement, his gaze finally settling on Fran who still sat at the table where, until just a moment ago, she’d been pouring out her troubles, telling him how Big Molly must have lost her mind completely, how she’d get herself arrested if she carried on this fashion.
‘Ah, I am understanding now. You thought that Fran and I were . . . ’ He put back his head and began to laugh. Patsy didn’t join in and Marc’s laughter quickly faded. Even Fran was looking less than pleased by his reaction. This clearly wasn’t a joking matter for either girl. Yet again he’d said the wrong thing. He pulled Patsy close, his voice tender and concerned. ‘It’s you I want to go out with, Patsy, not Fran Poulson. Haven’t I made my feelings plain enough? Just say the word and I’m all yours.’
Fran appeared at his elbow and, reaching up, cupped his face in her hands to kiss him full on the mouth. ‘Thanks for the coffee and our little chat. See you later, alligator. Seven o’clock suit you? Oh, hi, Patsy. Byee.’ And swinging her hips with blatant sexuality, she sauntered away.
Marc met Patsy’s furious gaze, his own filled with panic. ‘I can explain. This isn’t what you think . . .’
‘Get knotted!’
It didn’t take long before word was spreading round the market that Fran Poulson was setting her cap at Marc Bertalone, and he was falling for it, hook, line and sinker. Which must mean that poor Patsy Bowman had very firmly had her nose put out of joint. Some took satisfaction from this, never having taken to the cheeky newcomer, while it gave others the opportunity to murmur fresh complaints against the Poulsons.
Without exception though, everyone had something to say on the matter. The goings on of the Poulsons and the Georges was an entertaining diversion from their general worry over the future of the market.
‘By heck, if anyone asked my opinion,’ said Winnie Watkins to Lizzie Pringle as she bought her daily bag of Everton Mints, ‘I’d say they could make a film out of this.’ She pronounced the word ‘filum’ and Lizzie had to agree. Barry Holmes was for ringing up Paramount and offering to tell the story to them. ‘Aye, well, that young madam needs her bottom smacking, and I might be the one to oblige.’
Lizzie giggled. ‘Which one, Fran or Patsy?’
‘Happen both, but no, I was thinking of that little Poulson tart.’
‘We’d sell more tickets for folk to come and see you having a go at Fran than any picture house could to see Elizabeth Taylor. But I’d recommend you stay out of this, Winnie. There’s big trouble brewing between the Poulsons and the Georges, and you don’t want to get involved.’
‘You’re probably right. I have an awful feeling it’ll end in tears, and it’ll be them what’s shedding them. How that poor young couple are coping with all of these carryings on, I daren’t think. They have my deepest sympathy.’
At that moment Alec Hall sauntered over to inform them that he’d just spoken to Belle Garside who’d told him the development company had upped their offer, and she was seriously considering accepting it.
‘No, she can’t do that! Drat Fran Poulson, and a pox on her daft mother, this is far more serious. Our livelihoods are hanging in the balance here. What do we do now?’
‘Good question, Winnie,’ Alec said. ‘What indeed? The Extraordinary General Meeting we called did no good at all. Belle is steaming ahead regardless, transfixed by Billy Quinn’s offer like a rabbit in the headlights of a car.’
‘I’ll go and bend her ear with my views on the matter, shall I?’ Winnie suggested.
‘Take care,’ her friends warned, but Winnie was off, hot foot, to confront her worst enemy.
Marc’s pleas for Patsy to believe in his innocence seemed to be falling on deaf ears. ‘Look, Okay, so Fran was trying it on, that doesn’t mean I was interested.’
‘Oh, you were interested all right. I saw the way you were leaning over the table as close as you could get, looking right down her blouse.’
Marc responded to this taunt with exemplary patience. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. She was speaking in a quiet voice, I had to lean close to hear her properly. Things are in a mess in that family right now.’
‘Huh, and they think they’re the only ones with problems?’
‘What’s this? I never thought to hear Patsy Bowman wallowing in self-pity.’
‘Damn it, I’m not!’
Nevertheless, the accusation hit home and Patsy winced. The pair of them were huddled in a music booth, Fats Domino singing Ain’t That A Shame? utter misery etched on both their faces.
You made me cry, when you said goodbye. Ain’t that a shame?
Patsy let the music waft over her, hoping it would calm her down, trying to get a grip on the sick feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach. Following Sunday tea with the Bertalones, and the walk home in the dark when Marc had confessed he might be falling in love with her, she’d felt a bit more disposed to trust him. She should have known better. It’d all been a lie,
an absolute porky. But just the thought of Marc fancying Fran made her want to throw up. Why did nothing ever go her way? Why did she even allow herself to care? If he preferred the likes of Fran Poulson, then he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was.
The music was beginning to annoy her, and Patsy reached for the door handle. ‘I really don’t know why I agreed to come in here with you. I’m off.’
Marc grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her round to face him. ‘Not yet, Patsy, please. Give me a chance, will you? You know you want to. Fran has a lot of problems right now, and we’ve known each other a long time, since our schooldays. She’s also, for once in her life and despite usually being at odds with her sister, concerned about Amy. I was just listening, being sympathetic, that’s all.’
You broke my heart when you said we’ll part. Ain’t that a shame?
Patsy regarded him with a cool, appraising glance. ‘Oh, is that so? You were just listening and being sympathetic, were you?’
Marc gritted his teeth. He wanted to laugh this off, tell her she was being stupid, kiss her and have done with it, prove to her here and now how much he cared for her. But that wasn’t the way, not with Patsy. She was too sensitive to have her feelings ridden over roughshod, too raw and sore inside. ‘Yes, I was. What is so wrong in that?’
Patsy shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nothing at all. So what’s happening at seven o’clock tonight? What was all that about?’
Infuriatingly, Marc gave his most dazzling smile, the one that made her go all weak at the knees. It almost made her fall into his arms. Almost.
‘I never expected you to be jealous, Patsy, never thought you cared enough. Maybe I should’ve talked to Fran, or some other girl, before now. But for your information, nothing is going to happen at seven o’clock, not tonight or any other night. She only said that to annoy you and it seems she’s succeeded. Though maybe she’s done me a favour. I like it when you’re jealous, mia carina. When you are mad with me for talking to someone else.’ He kissed the tips of her fingers.
Fools Fall in Love Page 30