The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ was Winnie’s advice to Violet whenever her uncle seemed too severe. ‘It’s not that he enjoys coming down hard on you. He does it for your own good.’

  And it was apparently for Violet’s good that the ill-matched pair had stayed together, keeping a roof over her head through the worst of times, putting a meal on the table even when Donald had fallen out of work as a clerk in the office at the local mine and onto the dole when Violet was a little girl. Winnie had immediately taken a part-time job in the spinning shed at Kingsley’s Mill and Donald had rented an allotment on the edge of the Common to save the cost of buying vegetables by growing everything himself. Then he’d taken up scissors and razor and taught himself the skills needed to become a barber. Countless short back and sides and sticks of shaving soap later, here was Donald Wheeler at the age of fifty-two, nicely set up in rented premises, snipping and clipping hair and trimming moustaches all day long. Meanwhile Winnie, long ago accepting that she would never have children of her own, had cut back her hours at Kingsley’s to wash and iron, cook and bake and generally dote on precious, pretty little Violet, the centre of her world.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Donald asked as Violet reached for the scarlet felt hat hanging from a hook on the back of the kitchen door. A sunny evening meant that the window overlooking the back yard was open, letting in the sounds of boys playing cricket in the alley between Brewery Road and Chapel Street. Cries of ‘Howz’at!’ and the solid chuck of leather ball against willow bat interspersed the short interrogation beginning inside the house.

  ‘I want to catch the seven o’clock session at Brinkley Baths.’

  ‘Ah, gadding off, as per usual?’

  ‘I’m not gadding, Uncle Donald. Swimming is good for you.’

  ‘Is that what they say? You can never sit still – that’s your trouble.’

  Setting her hat at a jaunty angle and taking up the bag containing her swimming costume, rubber cap and towel, Violet blew her aunt a kiss and fled.

  ‘If you see Emily, tell her she still owes me that tanner she borrowed for her tram fare a week last Wednesday,’ Winnie called after her from the top step.

  ‘Emily Thomson? You mean Ida and Eddie’s mother?’

  ‘Yes. She’s found herself a new job taking entrance money for the swimming baths. Tell her I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘I will do, Aunty. Now I have to dash.’

  At somewhere between a walk and a run, Violet crossed Brewery Road and threaded her way down back alleys, between rows of shabby terraced houses, down steep, moss-covered stone steps until she came to the canal. From here she hurried on along Canal Road, past the tall, oppressive walls of Kingsley’s woollen mill then Barlow’s chemist’s shop and finally the brightly lit Victory Picture House until, at seven o’clock on the dot, she came to the green-tiled entrance of Brinkley Corporation Baths.

  ‘Hello, Violet. Fancy meeting you here!’ were the words that greeted her from the lips of Stan Tankard as she stepped inside to join the short queue of women waiting to purchase a ticket. He stood beside the box office with a rolled towel under his arm, wearing grey flannel trousers, canvas deck shoes and a white shirt but no jacket.

  ‘Hello, Stan,’ Violet answered with a hint of reserve. Even though they’d danced together after the gala, Stan needn’t think that he’d laid claim to her in any way. Yes, he was funny and you could have a lark, and yes, he had a certain way of flattering a girl and making her feel special, but for some reason she wasn’t that keen on him. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘What, aren’t I allowed to practise my breaststroke along with everyone else?’ he said with a wink at the woman in front of Violet.

  ‘Of course you are, but I thought this was a ladies-only session.’

  ‘It is, but I’m the new lifeguard, so I’ll be looking after you lovely girls, seeing that you don’t come to any harm.’

  It was Violet’s turn to pay and recognizing Emily Thomson’s long, serious face behind the desk, she quietly passed on Winnie’s message about the sixpence. With that done and clutching her ticket, she headed for the changing room without taking any more notice of Stan. Five minutes later she emerged from her cubicle and followed the smell of chlorine through the tiled archway containing the footbath out onto the side of the pool.

  She found to her satisfaction that there was plenty of room for her to dive in at the deep end and swim some steady lengths. Plunging in head first, she enjoyed the buoyancy of the clean water, the feel of her limbs pushing and kicking, the cool splash against her face. Lost in the pleasant sensations, she came to the shallow end and was about to turn when Stan called down to her. He was standing on the wet tiles directly above her, legs wide apart and wearing his lifeguard’s swimming trunks, with a whistle dangling down his bare chest.

  ‘Now then, Violet, don’t forget to let me know if you get into difficulties then I can blow my whistle and put my life-saving certificate to good use.’

  ‘Do I look as if I need saving?’ she countered, pushing off strongly and aware that he was walking along the length of the pool, keeping pace with her.

  Honestly, Stan was slow to take the hint, which annoyed her, but at the same time she couldn’t help being flattered. And when she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t ignore the fact that his recent short stint in the army had helped him to develop a broad chest and shoulders, that his legs were long and shapely, and that his thick, dark hair and twinkling eyes made up for the fact that both his nose and Adam’s apple were that little bit too big.

  ‘Nicely does it,’ he called again as she reached the shallow end once more. ‘Now let me see your back stroke.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Stan,’ she grumbled, surging away at a diagonal.

  ‘Yes, Stan, leave the poor girl alone,’ a fellow swimmer echoed. The woman, who was older and up for a joke, flailed her arms and thrashed her legs to create a splash. ‘Help!’ she cried. ‘Never mind about Violet, Stan – it’s me you have to save!’

  Violet smiled to herself and swam on. After half an hour she finished her lengths and got out of the pool, deliberately dodging her would-be admirer as she went to get changed back into her cotton dress. She would have slipped past him again on her way out, only he spotted her as he stood in his swimming things with his towel around his shoulders, talking to Emily Thomson.

  Evidently Stan was now in a more serious mood. ‘I hope you didn’t take umbrage earlier,’ he said quietly as he stepped out in front of Violet. ‘It was only a bit of fun.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ she replied, chin up and sounding chirpy. Her short, damp hair was combed back from her scrubbed face, her eyelashes still wet from her swim.

  ‘Good, that’s all right then. Because I was wondering if you might fancy a night out at the flicks with me some time?’

  ‘Oh!’ The surprise invitation left Violet lost for words.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow night?’

  Violet’s instinct was to hurry away without framing a proper reply. ‘I don’t know about that, Stan, but thanks for asking.’

  ‘The Fay Wray picture is back on at the Victory. Or Greta Garbo’s on at the new Odeon in town if you’d prefer. We could really push the boat out,’ he persisted.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’ve just remembered I’ve got something else on tomorrow.’

  Aware that Emily was eavesdropping, Violet kept one eye on the exit. ‘I promised Ida that I’d audition for the new murder mystery that the Players are putting on.’ Goodness, how did that slip out? It wasn’t a downright lie, but as good as.

  ‘Never mind. Another time maybe.’ Crestfallen for once, Stan shrugged and beat a retreat.

  Emily opened the glass partition of her box office and leaned out of her ticket booth to speak to Violet. ‘Shall I tell Eddie that you’ll be needing a lift over to Hadley?’ she asked in her weary, dispirited way.

  Violet shook her head and made her escape. ‘No, ta. I’ll make my own way there,’ she calle
d over her shoulder as she stepped out into the street.

  Back home on Brewery Road and sitting on the edge of her bed in the silent house, Violet knew that she’d got herself into a fix.

  Her curtains were open and she could see the sky turning fiery red as the sun went down behind the grey slate roofs and sentinel chimneys of the houses opposite. She was barefoot and still in her white petticoat, able to see her reflection in the old-fashioned mirror resting on the mantelpiece of the cast-iron fireplace across the room. Tugging impatiently at her fringe to take out the kinks caused by her tight-fitting swimming cap, she frowned at her reflection.

  You should have told Stan no, pure and simple, she chided herself. Then you wouldn’t have had to pretend you were joining the Players.

  But then again, did she really want to put him off for good? After all, she could try going out with Stan Tankard just to see. She might like him better than she imagined. Only, he was so full of himself and thought he was a better catch than he actually was, with his whistling and singing and generally drawing attention to himself …

  Violet sighed and turned back her sheets. She made a fist and thumped her pillow into shape, ready to get into bed. The point was, she was eighteen years old, without many friends other than Kathy, and it was high time she found a nice young man to go out with. Eighteen and grubbing along as a grocery shop assistant, sweeping floors and stacking shelves, wiping down counters and slicing bacon for a boss who never smiled at her or praised her but grudgingly paid her a paltry weekly wage. Often, as Mr Hutchinson handed over her hard-earned pounds, shillings and pence, he made a point of telling her she was lucky to have a job at all, considering men all over the country were going on hunger marches to protest against the government’s Means Test. ‘And never forget that your aunt and uncle had the Christian charity to take you in as a baby where many wouldn’t have. I should count my blessings if I were you.’

  Almost nineteen and still single: if she wasn’t careful she would end up left on the shelf like Muriel Beanland. She would be one of those spinsters without a family, forced to spend her spare time in the library, reading books or else doing good works.

  I should have said yes to Stan, she decided as she drew the curtains and got into bed. And maybe I still will. As it is, I have to get all the way over to Hadley tomorrow night, and I have only myself to blame.

  Though Violet liked to see herself as someone who could rise to a challenge, she approached the Hadley Institute building with butterflies in her stomach. Fresh from the five-mile bus journey over Overcliffe Moor, and with her head down against the usual stiff breeze blowing straight down the main street of the small mining town, she made a plan for the evening ahead.

  She would take a deep breath and step through the oak doors of the Institute into the main body of the building. Picking Ida out from the crowd and making a beeline towards her, she would tell her casually that she’d dropped by to take a look at what the Players got up to but that she only had a few minutes to spare due to the fact that her Aunty Winnie needed her home early tonight. She hadn’t got as far as making up a reason for this when she had to step to one side in the yard outside the Institute to allow a motorbike to squeeze into a space between a parked Baby Austin and a red three-wheeler. It was only when the rider had switched off the engine and stepped into the porch at the same time as her that she realized it was Eddie.

  ‘Fancy that – us arriving together after all.’ Violet seized her chance to use Eddie as a way of sliding in unnoticed. She would let him go first to distract everyone’s attention while she merged into the crowd. ‘After you,’ she added, gesturing for him to go in ahead of her.

  He hesitated. Taking off his leather gauntlets and unbuttoning his tweed jacket, he was once more put off his stride by everything about Violet Wheeler – her flushed face, shining brown eyes that he could only compare with the colour of hazelnuts, soft lips, slender figure in its apple-green dress – everything.

  ‘I didn’t have you down as a matinée idol, Eddie.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, ignoring her offer and holding the door open for her. ‘I’m more the outdoors type. But Ida’s roped me in to painting the scenery, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Through the door and inside the big hall Violet glimpsed a dozen or so people grouped together in small knots. At the far end was a raised platform with a proscenium arch and faded crimson curtains. Near to the stage there was an upright piano and running around the perimeter of the somewhat dusty, shabby space was a thick metal pipe which brought hot water to ornate cast-iron radiators set against the walls. ‘I mean it – I’ll follow you,’ she told Eddie, the butterflies positively swarming.

  ‘No – ladies first,’ he insisted.

  So she stepped in and immediately felt everyone’s eyes on her, which flustered her and left her unable to pick out the one person she wanted – Eddie’s sister, Ida.

  ‘If it isn’t Monday’s Gala Queen!’ Someone over by the piano recognized Violet and came quickly towards her. It was Kathy, accompanied by Evie and her friend Peggy Bainbridge. So Violet needn’t have worried – she did know people who would make her feel at home after all.

  ‘Welcome to the Hadley Players, Your Majesty!’ Kathy greeted her with a playful smile.

  ‘Hello, Kathy. I didn’t know you were a member here.’

  ‘We three joined for the Christmas pantomime last year. We must be gluttons for punishment, mustn’t we, girls?’

  Peggy and Evie agreed. ‘It was Cinderella. I only had three lines and on the opening night I forgot each and every one of them,’ Peggy admitted.

  ‘I was in the chorus so I didn’t have any lines to learn, thank heavens.’ As she spoke, Evie bowed her head and looked up from under thick lashes in a way that was reminiscent of the shy but clever schoolgirl that she’d once been. However, Violet could tell that she was blossoming into a more confident young woman, most likely under the encouragement of Sybil, her seamstress employer. She dressed well, of course – tonight in a jade-green dress with a square neckline and crossover skirt. ‘Ta for the dress pattern, by the way. I hope you didn’t get into bother with Mr Hutchinson.’

  It was true, Violet’s boss had been his usual sour self when Evie had dropped by that afternoon, tapping his pocket watch and letting Violet know that he disapproved of any interruption to her work.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s never happy unless he finds something to harp on about,’ she informed Evie.

  ‘What part will you go up for?’ Kathy wanted to know. Ever since she’d come second to Violet in the Gala Queen contest, she’d started to view her erstwhile school pal as a potential rival, though they were opposites in the looks department: Kathy was fair haired with soft, small features and a fuller, more curvaceous figure than Violet. ‘I play the girl who goes to the races with the villain and gets herself killed. I’m going to wear a big hat and long gloves.’

  ‘Ida mentioned something about me having a small speaking part.’ At last Violet spotted Eddie’s sister and excused herself. Despite her nerves, she started to take an interest in what was going on around her, noticing an elderly lady arranging sheet music at the piano and Eddie and another man, up on the stage with their backs towards her, laying out dust sheets and mixing a pot of blue paint.

  ‘You found us all right?’ Ida spoke to Violet above the general buzz of conversation. She carried a sheaf of dog-eared, closely typed pages and had a blue pencil tucked behind one ear. ‘Did I mention that they made me the director for this production? I’m in charge of the actors, music, costumes, scenery – the whole bang lot. If it all goes wrong they can blame it on me!’

  ‘You’re pluckier than I am,’ Violet acknowledged. ‘I’ve never even stepped onstage before.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Ida insisted as she went round introducing Violet to the other Players and then to the tall, pleasant-looking man helping Eddie with the scenery. ‘Harold, this is Violet Wheeler. Violet, meet my young man, Harold Gibson.’<
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  ‘Hello,’ Violet said, registering her first, favourable impression of Harold and feeling a twinge of envy that Ida had bagged herself such a handsome suitor.

  He smiled down at her before dipping his brush into the pot then slapping paint onto the canvas backdrop.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ida went on, ‘if your nerves do get the better of you up there on the stage, at least you’ll be a dab hand at making costumes for us. Eddie, tell Violet you don’t have to be Douglas Fairbanks or Joan Blondell to make yourself useful around here.’

  ‘That’s true,’ her brother acknowledged from halfway up a ladder, brush in hand. The unfinished backdrop behind him consisted of an outdoor scene with the white rails of a race track set against green hills and trees. ‘I can’t act to save my life.’

  Violet’s heart went out to a fellow sufferer. ‘I’m surprised you let your sister railroad you into this,’ she said as a busy Ida bustled off to rehearse lines with one of the lead actors.

  ‘You shouldn’t be,’ he grumbled, coming down the ladder to change paint pots. ‘I’m not saying Ida’s a bossy boots but when she wants you to do something she has a knack of getting her own way, doesn’t she, Harold?’

  His fellow scene painter gave a wry nod of agreement.

  ‘Ta, I’ll remember that. I like the scene you’re painting, by the way.’ Keeping Eddie talking seemed to Violet like a good way of putting off the moment when she would actually have to audition. Meanwhile, the pianist had begun to run through some melodies and other people, including Kathy, Peggy and Evie, were playing out scenes in various corners of the hall.

  Eddie took a crumpled photograph out of the bib-pocket of his white overalls. ‘We copied it from this picture of the course at Ascot.’

  As Eddie came close and squatted at the edge of the stage to show her the picture, Violet breathed in a strong smell of wet paint and saw that his face was speckled blue. She resisted the urge to reach up and wipe away the flecks of paint, wondering for the first time why she hadn’t paid much attention to Eddie Thomson in the past. After all, he had the same lithe, loose-limbed physique as Ida, only taller and stronger, and his hair was darker. She put it down to the fact that whereas Ida’s confidence drew you to her like a magnet, Eddie preferred to stay in the background.