Patsy’s cheeks fired to a bright crimson and she snatched her hand away. ‘I really couldn’t care less which girls you talk to, or whether you’re going out with Fran this evening, or not. Haven’t I said all along that you are an incorrigible flirt, Marc Bertalone, and totally insincere? Now I have absolute proof.’ And she whipped open the door of the music booth and stormed away.
Farewell, goodbye, although I’ll cry. Ain’t that a shame?
Alec Hall watched her go, saw how Marc slammed the heel of his hand into the door frame and uttered a few furious words to himself.
Alec shook his head in sympathy. ‘Maybe I chose the wrong record for you today, huh? Still, take comfort from the fact that at least she didn’t break it over your head this time.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Amy stared miserably at the calendar. It was an anniversary, of sorts. They’d been married more than a month and she was still a virgin. She couldn’t go on like this any longer and thought that maybe she should see a doctor. There must be something wrong with her. She’d heard of women who were frigid. Was she one of them? Or maybe there was something wrong with Chris. She’d asked him if he would come with her but he’d dismissed the idea out of hand.
‘You’re not getting me to go to no doctor. There’s nothing wrong, Amy. You’re worrying unnecessarily.’
‘Then why haven’t we – you know?’
Chris avoided the agony in her gaze. ‘Need you ask, with the way your family has treated mine these last weeks.’
‘And what about the way your mother, and your father for that matter, have treated me? Doesn’t that count?’
‘My mother is ill in bed suffering the after-effects of concussion because of what your mother did. And it’ll cost Dad a small fortune having all those windows renewed.’
‘You’ve no proof Mam broke them, that’s pure speculation.’
‘It’s a fair assumption. And if you’d just relax instead of weeping and wailing about things all the time, we might start to get somewhere.’ He was very nearly shouting at her, certainly raising his voice. Amy’s eyes filled with tears yet again, and she dashed them swiftly away, hating him to be proved right.
‘Look at us,’ she sobbed. ‘We do nothing but fall out all the time, that’s assuming we’re speaking at all. Is it any wonder if I cry?’
‘And whose fault is that? Where’s the point of talking when we only end up with you blaming my parents for everything?’
‘Or you blaming mine?’
‘It was your mother who started it!’
‘No! Your father’s brother started it years ago when he caused the death of Mam’s sister.’ At which point, Chris slammed out of the flat and Amy sank to the floor in floods of tears. It was their worst quarrel yet.
Attention may have been temporarily diverted from Fran’s situation but hours later, when she returned to her friend’s house, weary from a long day stacking boxes in the warehouse, Sal too had heard the gossip about her chatting up Marc, and bluntly asked her to leave.
‘You know very well Marc is potty over Patsy. Why do you always have to prove your pulling power with men? Why do you have to interfere? You’re just like your mother, always poking your nose in, trying to make other folk do what you want, determined to be in control.’
Fran saw that her bag was packed, standing ready and waiting at the front door. She was appalled. ‘You’re not throwing me out now, this minute, Sal? I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘You should’ve thought of that before you got yourself into this mess. You should learn to show respect for other people. Pinching another girl’s fella isn’t the answer to filling the gaps in your own loveless life. You’ll be after my Bill next.’
Sal opened the door. It was that time of day when goods were being stowed away, stacked into boxes and hauled off to lock-ups for the night. Stallholders were calling out to each other, enjoying a few jokes or making plans for the evening ahead. Fog was drifting in from the canal and dusk was already starting to fall. Fran was suddenly swamped with loneliness.
‘Where the bleeding hell am I supposed to go at this time of night?’
‘That’s your problem, not mine. You could always try making it up with your mam.’
As luck would have it, Big Molly was standing at her own front door as Fran stepped outside. She was leaning on the doorjamb, arms folded as she watched the goings on in the street. A couple of glaziers were fixing glass in the Georges’ windows opposite. Winnie was haranguing Belle Garside, which was always entertaining, waving her arms about and shouting that the market was more important than any stupid development, even if there was a housing shortage and lot of money being offered. There’d be a punch up any minute, the way they were going hammer and tongs at each other. All part of the rich texture of life on Champion Street. Molly considered stepping in to add her own two pennyworth when she spotted Fran and her suitcase.
‘By heck, what’s dragged you out of hibernation? Don’t tell me you’ve seen the light of day and come to beg for my forgiveness?’
Fran stared at her mother for a long moment, her gaze shifting to the Georges’ broken windows then back to Big Molly again. ‘Have you any idea of the trouble you’ve caused? Not satisfied with ruining Eddie and throwing me out into the street, now you’re after Chris and our Amy.’
‘I’m not after our Amy. I just want her to leave that lot and come home.’
‘And you think this is the way to achieve it, by breaking all their windows? Why I should care I really don’t know, only for once I’m on our Amy’s side in this, not yours. You’re turning yourself into a laughing stock, Mother, and what good will it do? They’re married. Even you can do nothing about that, you stupid mare.’
‘Don’t you call me names!’ Big Molly was out in the street immediately, the pair of them facing each other like two gunslingers at the OK Corral. Faces turned in their direction, work stopped, even Winnie and Belle paused in their heated argument to listen.
In her desperation and misery over the way her life had gone so badly wrong, Fran needed someone to blame other than herself. Her voice rose several notches. ‘You’re an embarrassment to me, Mother. And to our Amy. Can’t you see what you’re doing? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, throwing bricks through windows at your age. Grow up, will you! More important, let us grow up. Leave us alone.’
‘I didn’t throw no bricks.’
‘Who did then? No one hates the Georges more than you do, so who else could it have been?’ Fran looked into her mother’s face and something inside her went cold, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Oh, no, tell me it’s not true? Tell me you didn’t involve that Billy Quinn in our Amy’s problems too? Dear God, do you have a brain in that fat head of yours?’
‘It was worth every penny.’
‘And have you managed to pay off every penny?’ Fran shouted, knowing full well how hard up her mother was.
‘Not yet, but I will.’
Fran shook her head in disbelief. ‘Whatever possessed you to get involved with the likes of Quinn? Once he’s got his claws into you, he’ll never let go.’
Molly had heard this remark during the last weeks more times than she cared to recall. Ozzy never stopped bleating on about it, morning, noon and night, jumping at shadows half the time. He’d even taken to staying in, not going half so often down to the pub, complaining that she’d ruined what little pleasure was left in his miserable life. Molly had stopped listening to him long since, and she certainly had no intention of heeding a warning when it was issued by her own daughter.
‘Right,’ Fran said. ‘That’s it. You’re on your own this time, Mam, and may the angels protect you, because I can’t.’
For once in her life, she didn’t have the appetite for a shouting match with her mother. She felt at her wits’ end. Big Molly had ruined her cosy little affair with Eddie, now she was interfering in Amy’s marriage and no doubt she’d ruin that too. So if somebody had her on the run, and Quinn could certainly d
o that if he’d a mind to, maybe she deserved to suffer too.
Picking up her bag, Fran walked right past, nose in the air. Enraged, Molly shouted after her, ‘I did it for you . . . for you and our Amy! You’re my girls. I need to look out for you.’
Fran whirled about to scream at her mother, making heads turn once more. ‘Not like this, you don’t! This isn’t the way. Just leave us alone, will you?’ Then she carried on walking.
‘Where are you going? Stop right there! Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you . . .’
‘I’m done listening. You don’t have any control over me now, you daft cow, so shut your face!’
‘Don’t you speak to your mother like that.’
A soggy tomato hit Fran in the back of the head. ‘What the . . .?’ Now her own temper flared too and she turned furiously on Big Molly. ‘All right, if you want a row, you’ve got one coming!’ And scrabbling in the gutter she picked up several more pieces of rotten fruit that Barry Holmes hadn’t yet swept away, and began to pelt her mother with them. Big Molly yelled like a banshee and began to throw equally vile stuff back.
Nobody made a move to stop them. Being entertained by the wild Poulsons was turning into a way of life, rather like the shorts before the big picture, though the way they’d been going on lately, it was more like a gala performance.
A door banged and Amy came running across the street towards them. ‘What do you two think you’re doing? Mam, stop it! Fran, give over . . . Leave off, will you? You’re making a spectacle of yourselves.’
She stepped between them, hands outstretched, and caught a heavy clod of earth right in the chest. She staggered for a moment then sank to her knees and collapsed in the filthy detritus left by a typical day on the market.
Amy was brought round by Winnie, who’d come running with a mug of water, shouting at folk to stand back and give the lass air. Barry rushed to find Chris, certain that the poor lass would be in need of her husband after being knocked for six by her own stupid mother.
Once Winnie had Amy sitting up and some colour was coming back into her cheeks, she turned on the two warring women, venom in her voice. ‘It might be none of my business but you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the pair of you. What do you reckon you’re doing to this little lass here? I’ll tell you what, you’re destroying her. You sure as hell have nearly destroyed her marriage. Go home, go on. Get out of my sight before I clock you both one.’
‘But . . .’ Fran was about to say that she’d nowhere to go, but Winnie wasn’t listening.
‘Go!’
Big Molly was visibly shaking. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
Amy managed to find her voice. ‘No thanks to you, but yes, I’ll live. Now do as Winnie says, Mam. We’ve entertained the neighbours enough for one day.’
Molly turned on them all in her fury. ‘Stop your gawping, the lot of you! As for you, Belle Garside, I’ll speak to you later. I’m not done with you yet.’ Then she marched into her own house, slamming the door after her.
Fran hunkered down to hug her sister, and kiss her on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry, love. I never meant to involve you in this stupid row. Don’t let the daft cow bully you. Could I stay at yours tonight?’
‘Oh, Fran, we only have one bed in our tiny room, how can you?’
‘Never mind, it was just a thought.’ She stood up to face the assembled company, her so-called friends and neighbours: Sal, Lizzie Pringle, Alec Hall and Sam Beckett, Jimmy Ramsay, not forgetting Patsy and the two Higginson sisters, of course. ‘Is anybody prepared to offer me a bed for the night?’
Her request was met by complete silence, no one quite willing to meet her gaze. Even Patsy didn’t show a jot of sympathy. But then why should she, after the way Fran had tried to steal her chap?
Fran picked up her bag and walked away, straight out of Champion Street, although she hadn’t the first idea where she was heading.
As dusk fell, with various other friends’ hospitality seemingly worn to shreds, Fran bedded down under the railway arches, furious with her mother and fiercely jealous of her sister’s wedded bliss.
The ground was wet, hard and bitterly cold, but there didn’t seem anywhere left for her to go, until Maureen found her there some time in the early hours and took Fran back to her place. The crinoline lady lamp was beaming rosily, the kettle was on the hob, and, after a bite of supper and a sip of a hot toddy to warm her chilled bones, Fran fell into bed with relief, the smell of cheap perfume, excitement, and stale sex strong in her nostrils amidst the jumble of bed clothes. It felt very like coming home.
Amy could feel Chris’s restlessness. He’d hardly slept a wink all week. Night after night he would toss and turn beside her, tangling himself in the sheets and muttering to himself if he did sleep, as if he were having some sort of bad dream. She wasn’t feeling too good herself tonight, after this latest performance by her family. She hadn’t suffered any lasting ill effects from being knocked off her feet, but shame over the very public brawl was eating into her. Amy wondered when her problems would ever end.
And Chris had shown little interest in the tale, making the comment that nothing her family did would surprise him.
What was happening to them all, and to her lovely husband in particular? He couldn’t seem to find work anywhere, and if it weren’t for Robert they wouldn’t even be able to afford to pay the rent on this awful bedsit. Not that this fact pleased Chris. He was racked by guilt, hating to take money off his wife, which he saw as demeaning.
‘But it’s money I’m earning by working hard in Poulson’s kitchens,’ she’d told him. ‘Not charity at all.’
‘That’s the point, Amy. It’s money you are earning, not me.’
If they weren’t falling out over their parents, it was about jobs, or money, Chris constantly complaining because he couldn’t afford to take her out of an evening, not even for a drink or a bag of chips. He had no job, no car, no decent home to offer her. He called himself a useless husband, not worthy of the word. She hated to hear him talk this way, sounding so defeated, but no matter how often Amy assured him that it really didn’t matter which of them earned the money, that she loved him anyway, nothing would convince him. He’d sunk into depression, overwhelmed by his own feelings of inadequacy and failure, and nothing she said could bring him out of it.
This evening, he’d come home late, clearly having had several pints of beer. Amy had made the mistake of asking him where he’d got the money from and he’d been angry with her all over again, shouting at her that his mates had bought the rounds, out of pity. She’d felt his own shame that, jobless, he couldn’t afford to buy them one in return.
Amy was keenly aware that time was running out for them. If Chris couldn’t find a job soon, if they didn’t overcome this barrier between them, whatever it was, they’d have to leave Champion Street or their marriage would be over when it had hardly begun.
Now, aware of him tossing and turning beside her, Amy stroked his back. ‘Can’t you sleep, love?’
‘I’m too uncomfortable. It’s this awful bed. I can feel every spring sticking into me.’
Amy reached for him. ‘Come here, let me give you a cuddle. I’m sorry about what I said earlier, about you going to the pub. We really shouldn’t quarrel like that. It only upsets us both when we argue about money, or get involved in this blasted feud.’
‘I know.’ He stroked her cheek, kissed her gently on the lips and something shot through her. It was the first response to his kisses she’d experienced in a long time, and it thrilled her. Chris felt it. He kissed her again.
‘I love you, Amy.’
‘Oh, and I love you, Chris. So very much!’
He was stroking her breast and Amy could feel herself start to relax. It felt so good, just as it had all those months ago in the quiet of the wood. Then he pulled up her nightie and, half dazed with sleep, smelling strongly of beer, lay on top of her. She was alarmed suddenly by the weight of him and the speed with which thi
ngs were progressing. He’d stripped off his pyjama trousers and Amy could feel something large pressing between her legs. She had a sudden memory of her first sight of his erection and instinctively knew that she wasn’t ready, wasn’t moist enough to accept it. He’d kissed her only once, touched her breast only a little. It was too soon, too quick.
She felt him trying to penetrate her, pushing as hard as he could to get inside, grunting a little, and the harder he pushed, the more she shrank and closed up. She felt dry and tight.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Not yet, give me time . . .’
‘Damn it, Amy, I need you!’
‘I don’t feel ready.’
‘When will you ever be ready?’ He jerked away, flung back the blankets and flounced out of bed, pulled on his trousers, and, as he did so often these days, snatched up his shirt and jacket and slammed out of the flat.
Amy sat bolt upright and called after him, eyes wide with fright. ‘Chris, don’t go! Please don’t leave me like this.’ But everyone in the entire block must have heard his footsteps clattering down the stairs.
He crept back into bed around dawn, put his arms about her and whispered an apology for his impatience. ‘I’m sorry, Amy, for being so clumsy. I wasn’t thinking properly. I do love you, and I so want it to be good between us.’
‘I know you do, it’s all right, love.’ He lay in her arms while she cuddled him and soothed him into sleep, but neither of them made a move to try again. By then her tears had dried but any urge to make love had quite gone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Patsy felt desperate for good news, for something pleasant to happen to her. She hadn't seen Marc in a couple of weeks, not since they’d had words in Alec Hall’s music booth over that business with Fran. She hadn't seen Fran either, for that matter. Nor did she care. The girl had turned out not to be a friend at all, her behaviour serving only to renew Patsy’s inherent distrust of people who tried, or at least pretended, to get close to her.
Fools Fall in Love Page 31