by Jenny Holmes
‘I’m sick of this, Stan.’ Shaking with anger, she backed away, only to bump into the down-at-heel old man heading round the side of the building. ‘Uncle Donald!’ she cried, completely taken aback.
He frowned then cast a troubled glance from her to Stan and back again.
‘It’s me – Violet!’ she said, having failed to elicit a response.
‘You don’t have to spell it out; I know who you are.’ Seeing him trudge on, Violet ran after him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Uncle Donald, don’t be like that. I’m surprised to see you, that’s all. Is this where you’re living now – out here in Hadley?’
He took a deep breath. ‘The vicar gave me a job as caretaker,’ he informed her grudgingly. ‘I look after the church and the Institute – it comes with a house attached.’
‘That’s smashing. Isn’t it, Stan?’ She looked round for support, only to find that he’d disappeared inside. ‘That means you have room for some of the things I took from Brewery Road – the clock and pictures, and such like. You know you only have to ask.’
‘I thought I made it clear I didn’t want any of it.’
Realizing that he was thinner and more miserable than last time she’d seen him – if that were possible – Violet became all too aware of his razor-sharp way of cutting her off, yet still she risked one more try. ‘I found a wooden box with your brother’s prayer book and other bits and pieces inside. Surely there’s something there that you’d like.’
‘What bits and pieces?’ Donald spat out.
‘Your marriage certificate. And a gold bracelet in a blue box.’
Suddenly Donald staggered as if he’d been punched in the stomach. His face was stricken and he had to lean against the wall for support. As Violet reached out to help him, he thrust her away. Then he pulled himself upright and began to walk away without looking back, through a narrow gate at the back of the Institute.
Violet watched him go, fear clutching at her heart. What had she said to provoke this reaction? What was it about a marriage certificate and a bracelet that had almost floored him?
Donald walked on, head down, clutching the lapels of his jacket and leaning forward as if against a strong wind when in fact there was not even a breeze. He was so thin it looked as if he might break in two.
Violet recalled the blue velvet box, and with trembling fingers she pulled out of her pocket the tiny note that she always kept with her. She slid it from its envelope and read it again: To dearest Flo, as a token of my lifelong affection. Keep this bracelet for my sake.
On the point of slipping it back into its envelope, she lifted the small flap and noticed something that she’d overlooked until now. The sender had drawn a heart pierced by an arrow on the inside of the flap and inside the heart he’d written two letters – an ‘F’ intertwined with a ‘D’.
‘D’ not ‘J’.
A chill ran through Violet as a new version of events rushed in. ‘D’ not ‘J’ – Donald, not Joe.
At the end of 1914, Florence Shaw and Donald Wheeler had been in love! In the autumn of the following year, she, Violet, had been born.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The last thing Violet planned to do was to share her shocking discovery with anyone – not even Eddie. Instead, her instinct was to bury it deep.
If Uncle Donald really is my father – and it’s a big ‘if’ – he would deny it, she told herself during the days that followed. What then was the point of pursuing it further? So she did her best to put on a brave face and carry on as normal. Yet she didn’t feel brave on the inside – rather she was weak and trembling, nursing afresh the hurt of being rejected and wondering whether or not Aunty Winnie had been in on the secret from the start.
When Violet wasn’t weak, she was angry. Donald was a sanctimonious prig, hammering away at the difference between right and wrong, making Violet’s small, innocent self feel disobedient and unworthy when all the time it was him who’d committed a much worse sin than she could ever have imagined. Though Violet tried to keep busy in the grocery shop, Donald’s sour face with its sunken cheeks and clipped moustache intruded on her tasks and she couldn’t help bitterly re-enacting the unending, petty chastisements of her childhood – wash your hands; tidy your toys away; don’t speak with your mouth full.
‘What’s wrong, Violet? You don’t seem yourself today,’ Ida remarked at the end of the working week when their new lodger trailed in from the street.
A weary Violet had just come away from Hutchinson’s and was trying to cheer herself up with the prospect of a ride out to the moors with Eddie next day. ‘It’s nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t put right,’ she assured Ida and Muriel, who had appeared from the back kitchen. Something about their manner was different, she thought.
They stood together behind the counter, smiles playing across their features – Ida with her short hair combed back from her lively face, Muriel looking excited and younger than her thirty years for once.
‘Shall you tell her or shall I?’ Ida asked, as if keeping their secret might cause her to burst.
‘Let me guess – you and Harold have set a date to get married?’ Violet chipped in.
Ida gave a loud laugh. ‘Not on your Nelly! We haven’t saved up enough for a kitchen table yet, let alone chairs to sit on or a bed to lie in.’
Violet managed a smile. ‘Then it must be that the two of you have decided to go full steam ahead with the Jubilee dressmaking business.’
The clever guess did nothing to dent the pair’s excitement – Ida’s, in particular. ‘We thought it would be a nice surprise for you to end the week on – before you had a chance to read the advertisement we’re putting in the Herald next week.’
A faint smile flickered across Violet’s serious features. ‘I knew something was afoot when Muriel started quizzing me about the latest fashions.’
‘That’s right, but what I didn’t tell you was an idea that came to me last night when I was in the library.’ Muriel took up the thread. ‘I looked at adverts in the local paper and it struck me that a lot of people these days are happy to buy things on hire purchase, so I asked myself why not set up an arrangement for customers to do the same with our dresses? They could order a blouse or a dress, we would accept a down payment and make it for them straight away then they could pay us in instalments of threepence or sixpence a week over the next ten weeks.’
‘It makes sense,’ Ida insisted. ‘Some girls I’m friendly with do the same thing when they want to have a permanent wave for their hair. They call it the never-never. The hairdresser on Canal Road charges them a week at a time. The girl gets her hair done and the hairdresser gets her money in dribs and drabs. Everyone’s happy.’
Violet quickly agreed. ‘I don’t need convincing. I think it’s the right thing to do.’
‘And …’ Ida’s sense of drama made her pause and hold her breath.
‘What?’ Violet wondered. Muriel and Ida’s excitement was contagious and she let it bubble up through her recent worries.
‘If we can get this off the ground …’ Muriel began.
‘There’s no ifs about it,’ Ida declared then concluded without more ado. ‘So, Violet, what we’re building up to saying is that we’d like you to come in with us.’
Violet’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean you’d want me to leave Hutchinson’s and work for you full time?’
‘That’s exactly what we mean,’ Muriel assured her. ‘Not just mending and putting in zips, but helping us with the cutting out and sewing.’
‘You wouldn’t have far to go to work,’ Ida pointed out. ‘Just step out of your room and up one flight of stairs to the attic.’
‘And we’d be able to pay you a fair wage, once we get properly started.’ Muriel joined Ida in looking eagerly across the counter at Violet to judge her reaction. ‘What do you say?’
‘I say yes!’ Violet declared without a second’s hesitation and in a rush of pure deli
ght. ‘Yes, please – I’d love to. If you must know, it’s a dream come true!’
‘Goodbye to groceries!’ Eddie declared when Violet shared her good news with him on a ride out to Little Brimstone.
It was a warm, cloudy Sunday with the threat of showers but this didn’t deter the romantic pair from going out on the Norton as planned – Violet in bottle-green corduroy trousers and a cream pullover, Eddie in sports jacket and his favourite ‘ratting cap’ – a flat, checked cap that matched his jacket. They whizzed out of town and up onto the moors, Violet holding on tight as Eddie eased open the throttle and they soared up hill and down dale.
‘Farewell, self-raising flour!’ Violet laughed at having to raise her voice above the roar of the engine. ‘Ta-ta, Ringtons tea!’
‘What will old man Hutchinson say?’
‘Not much, I shouldn’t think. He’ll soon find another slave to weigh out his sugar and slice his ham.’ She had no regrets on that score, and no sentimental loyalty towards the old curmudgeon.
Eddie slowed down and leaned the bike into a sharp bend then he stuck out his right hand to indicate that he was pulling across the road to enter the small lay-by. From here there was a sign directing visitors towards the footpath that led to the local beauty spot famed for its spectacular outcrops of odd-shaped, weather-worn boulders. Eddie parked the bike and they set off on foot, feeling the first spots of cool rain on their faces.
‘I know – we’ll call in at the café for toasted teacakes.’ Violet hit upon a plan for them to stay dry. ‘It’s along here a little way. I used to come here with Aunty Winnie.’
They pressed on in single file down a narrow path bordered by wet ferns towards the largest of the rocks and a flat, grassy area where there was a hut selling refreshments, with a view of the valley below.
‘I can picture her face now.’ Violet sighed. ‘She used to tell me the tale of how a giant called Brimstone carried these rocks in his leather apron. He scattered them across the hillside while he was running away from his scolding wife and they’ve lain here ever since.’
‘You’ve done your aunty proud.’ Feeling a rush of warm affection, Eddie stopped to take Violet’s hand as they came out into the clearing where the café stood.
‘Yes. She’d have been pleased with my latest news,’ Violet agreed. She grimaced then laughed as he leaned forward to kiss her and drips from the peak of his cap splashed onto her face.
Inside they ordered tea and teacakes from Kitty, an ancient lady who had served refreshments there since the year dot. ‘Or at least ever since I’ve been coming here,’ Violet pointed out. Kitty invariably wore a dark brown dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a high, cream lace collar and her hair was pinned up in a style that hadn’t been in fashion for thirty or forty years. She showed no more interest in her customers than if they had been flies buzzing and crawling across the window pane.
‘Ta very much,’ Eddie said with exaggerated politeness as he carried two teas to a table by the window. It seemed they were the only customers Kitty was likely to have until the rain eased. ‘Just so you know – you’re not the only one with prospects,’ he told Violet as he sat down opposite. ‘It seems I’m getting on well at the Victory, according to my boss, Mr Ambler.’
‘You mean you’ve managed to play the reels in the right order so far?’ Violet enjoyed teasing Eddie, just to see him colour up. ‘You haven’t shown the ending before the beginning?’
‘All in the right order at the right time, with a fifteen-minute interval for ice creams and pop.’ He winked then took a loud sip of his tea. ‘We’re not doing too badly, you and I. Not when you think I have to show the Pathé News before the feature film and on it I see hundreds of poor blokes joining hunger marches and standing in dole queues that stretch further than you can see. Then there are little kiddies picking over the slag heaps looking for handfuls of coal to keep their families warm of a night and women having to pawn their wedding rings. Between you and me, it makes me wonder what the world is coming to.’
‘I know. We’re well off compared to some.’ Their conversation turned serious, and it was a chance for Violet to see where Eddie’s sympathies lay.
‘I back the unions against Ramsay MacDonald every day of the week, even though he calls himself a Labour man,’ he confided. ‘I say a working man deserves a decent wage for his blood, sweat and tears, whatever the bosses tell us about gaps in their order books and the cost of keeping machinery running. And without a union, look what happens: my dad scrapes by with his painting and decorating but he has no one to back him up if customers don’t stump up the money on time.’
‘I don’t know what the answer is – it’s beyond me,’ Violet confessed. ‘All I know is, I’m glad to move on from Hutchinson’s into something I’m bound to enjoy.’
‘And you’ll be good at it, too.’ Eddie felt it was time to lighten the mood. ‘Watch out for Ida, though, she can be a right little tyrant.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll join a shop workers’ union if there is one, and they’ll back me up. I’ll go to the library with Muriel and learn my rights!’
‘That’s the ticket,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now where’s that teacake? Do I have to go behind the counter and toast it myself?’
Since the discovery of the heart inside the flap of the tiny envelope, Violet had stopped carrying the note with her and stored it back in its blue case in the writing box under her bed. Out of sight, out of mind, had been the intention behind this as she’d hastily tucked it away.
On the last Monday in July, she handed in her notice at the grocer’s shop and offered to work out the week until Ben Hutchinson found someone new. On the Tuesday, however, she arrived to find Lizzie Turner already behind the counter with her red hair pinned back and a new, outsized blue apron wrapped around her slim waist.
‘Now, Missy, you can be on your way and good riddance,’ Ben Hutchinson told Violet.
Lizzie looked embarrassed until Violet gave her a reassuring wink. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to show Lizzie the ropes?’ she asked.
‘I’m obliged to you, but I can do that myself.’ Without a word of farewell Hutchinson shuffled off into his lair – the stockroom stacked with cardboard boxes, barrels and sacks – and Violet stopped only long enough to wish Lizzie good luck.
‘Stick up for yourself when he’s in a bad mood,’ she recommended quietly. ‘And don’t let him push you around.’
Lizzie squared her shoulders and tried not to sound as apprehensive as she felt. ‘Rightio.’
‘And remember, his bark is worse than his bite,’ was Violet’s parting shot.
Hutchinson’s was in the past and Jubilee was Violet’s future. She launched with gusto into the sultry days of August – opening up the attic window to let in some fresh air while she worked at her sewing machine alongside Ida or Muriel, the small workroom humming to the sounds of wheels turning to drive needles through fabric and of treadles rhythmically rocking back and forth. Down below, the shop bell tinkled as customers came in and out.
‘Ida has asked for two shop mannequins to be delivered before we close today,’ Muriel informed Violet during one of their spells working together to finish an order for a summer dress for Alice Barlow. ‘One will go in the window to show off our work. The other will stand in the corner next to the rack of zips. Ida thinks there’s room for it to fit in there.’
‘We can dress them up in the latest fashions so customers will want to buy what we make,’ Violet said, her heart lifting at the prospect.
‘You know we’re relying on you for that part.’ Muriel snipped and carefully trimmed a shoulder seam.
Bending over her machine, Violet worked her treadle and steered the cornflower-blue fabric under the rapidly jabbing needle. ‘I think we should make a house dress for the mannequin in the window.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Muriel agreed. ‘You choose the pattern and the material then Ida and I will help you make it.’
Downstairs the
doorbell sounded then Ida came to the foot of the stairs. ‘Violet, will you come down and lend a hand with this delivery?’ she called up to the attic. ‘The mannequins have arrived.’
Violet sped eagerly downstairs to find Ida unwrapping two life-sized, plaster-of-Paris models with the longest necks and legs imaginable and, packed separately, two heads with beautiful, snub-nosed, blank faces painted in the style of Greta Garbo, all arched eyebrows and pouting lips.
‘We’ll stash them away in the kitchen until we’re ready to dress them.’ Ida, too, was excited as she took hold of a headless torso and carried it out of sight.
Violet followed her with the second mannequin, describing to Ida a style of dress she had in mind for the window. ‘Sleeveless, with a V neckline, tailored at the waist and with a wrap-over skirt ending mid-calf.’
‘Something slinky, that moves when you walk?’ Ida asked.
‘Yes, but not shiny – that would be for the evening, not for daytime. A lightweight jersey knit would be more like it, in orange and yellow or pink and green – something summery.’
The lively discussion was cut short by the sound of the shop bell. ‘Could you see to that for me?’ Ida asked, busy fixing heads to torsos.
Violet rushed into the shop to find Alice Barlow tapping her fingers impatiently on the counter-top, accompanied by a woman of roughly the same age dressed in a lilac costume with a scalloped neckline and elaborately pin-tucked bodice. Both women wore straw cloche hats that Violet privately thought looked rather outdated.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Barlow, how can I help you?’ Violet asked, nervous in case she was obliged to tell this short-tempered customer that her dress wasn’t ready.
But it turned out that Alice Barlow had a different objective. ‘This is my friend, Mrs Ella Kingsley, in case you didn’t know.’
A second quick glance told Violet that this was true. She recognized the mill owner’s wife, though she’d never seen her at close quarters before. Taller than her companion, with a slimmer figure, she had chin-length dark hair styled into regimented waves beneath the cloche hat and a manner that seemed quieter and less overbearing than Alice Barlow’s. ‘How can I help?’ Violet asked again.