by Jenny Holmes
‘My wife asked me to call in on my way home. What was it for now? Let me think.’ Running a gloved hand along the counter until he reached the stand that displayed sheer silk stockings, he cast a salacious eye over Violet, from her stylishly bobbed hair, down her wary face, on to her long, slender neck and down again to the flowered, flimsy crêpe de Chine blouse which she’d chosen for its lightness and coolness on this hot August day. ‘What did Mrs Barlow require from Jubilee, I wonder?’
‘Perhaps she wanted to know how we were getting on with her latest garments,’ Violet suggested, refraining out of shyness from giving an exact description of Alice Barlow’s recent order for pink silk lingerie consisting of petticoat and camiknickers edged with Belgian lace.
‘Ah yes, that was it – her under-things!’ Colin Barlow smiled to see the blush that crept up Violet’s neck and over her cheeks. ‘She’d like to know – are they finished?’
Violet clung to the second commandment – thou shalt smile. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her customer’s wandering eye. ‘I’m not sure, sir. Shall I go upstairs and see?’
‘No need,’ Ida interrupted. ‘It so happens that I spoke to Muriel half an hour ago. She thought we’d have the work finished by Monday, as promised.’
‘Alice will be disappointed – and so will I.’ Appearing disgruntled, but with a smile hovering on his lips, Colin Barlow seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘Perhaps I should buy her some stockings to make up for it.’
‘Shall I go upstairs and check again?’ Violet asked Ida, by this time so embarrassed by the blatant way that Colin Barlow was undressing her with his eyes that she felt her palms begin to sweat. She rushed up to the attic without waiting for an answer, only to find that the earliest, revised deadline Muriel could meet for Alice Barlow’s under-things was in two hours’ time.
Violet went back downstairs and reported accordingly. ‘Miss Beanland says she will do her best to finish the work and get the garments delivered to you at Bilton Grange later this evening.’
‘Will she now?’ Everything about Violet – her words, her appearance, and especially her embarrassment – seemed to amuse the chemist-shop owner. ‘That’s very good of her. And who will deliver it? Will it be the good-looking young man on the motorbike as before?’
Ida looked up from her pattern book. ‘No, I’m afraid Eddie’s working at the picture house this evening.’
A frown appeared on Colin Barlow’s brow, but Violet could tell that it was for theatrical effect. He pretended to be at a loss. ‘Oh, dearie me.’
‘I’m holding an extra rehearsal for my principal players in Hadley tonight and Muriel will have to go to her St John Ambulance meeting once she’s finished here,’ Ida went on. ‘But, Violet, you could borrow my bike and cycle out there with Mrs Barlow’s order.’
Violet’s heart sank at the same time as a fresh smirk appeared on Colin Barlow’s face. ‘Are you sure it would be all right for you to cycle all the way out to my house with the parcel for my wife?’
Sweating in earnest now, Violet knew she had to agree. ‘Of course, it would be no trouble at all.’
‘Smashing!’ came the quick rejoinder followed by an equally rapid exit. ‘Now that, ladies – and I speak from the point of view of one who recognizes a well-run shop when I see one – is what I call excellent customer service!’
‘I could have done without this,’ Violet grumbled to Dick Thomson after she’d caught the bus up to Valley Road and knocked on the door of number 20 to borrow Ida’s bike, propped in its usual place against the front of the house. She deposited Alice Barlow’s carefully wrapped petticoat and camiknickers in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars while Dick sat in his overalls on the doorstep and smoked his pipe.
‘What’s the rush?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me. But when the Barlows say jump, we jump – that’s all I know.’
Violet would have stopped for a longer conversation with Eddie’s dad, who seemed to her more approachable than Eddie’s mum. Though at fifty-four he was worn down by the years of hand-to-mouth existence that had followed on from the war, he usually managed a smile and a joke and Violet enjoyed the similarities between father and son – they had the same loose-limbed, easy gait, for instance, and the same thick hair, though Dick’s was now grey and dull whereas Eddie’s was a glossy dark brown.
‘I’d better get a move on,’ she told him as he turned the bowl of his pipe and tapped it against the step. ‘Say hello to Eddie from me when he gets home from work. Tell him I hope to catch him later.’
‘Rightio,’ Dick promised, watching her manoeuvre the pushbike out onto the road. ‘And mind you take care on that moor road. The dynamo is broken so you’ll have no lights once it gets dark.’
‘I will,’ Violet promised. ‘I want to get this over and done with long before dusk, believe me.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The approach to the Barlows’ showy, modern house was down a wide gravel drive flanked by horse chestnut trees that had been there much longer than the house they sheltered. Violet was hot and out of breath from the long ride and the tyres of Ida’s bike spat up pebbles as she cycled down the drive. She stopped outside the front entrance, took Alice Barlow’s parcel from the basket and hurried to push the doorbell. Hearing the melodious chime, she waited for what felt like an age.
Eventually there were footsteps crossing a tiled hallway and the door was opened by Colin Barlow in black trousers, shirtsleeves and braces. Resting one hand against the door jamb, he surveyed Violet’s windswept appearance.
Violet filled the silence by thrusting the package at him without ceremony. ‘This is for Mrs Barlow, as promised.’
‘It’s certainly not for me,’ he agreed in his usual mocking tone. ‘Not unless I’ve taken to wearing ladies’ under-garments on the sly. And I’m not that sort of chap, believe me.’
Violet’s eyes flashed wide in distaste. ‘The bill for the work is inside the parcel,’ she went on. ‘Miss Beanland said it would be all right for Mrs Barlow to call into the shop with the money whenever it’s convenient.’
‘It’s not Alice who’s paying and it’s convenient for me to pay now,’ Barlow insisted as he methodically untied the string and unwrapped the petticoat and camiknickers. He took out the envelope containing the bill. ‘So this is what it costs me to keep my wife in nice new under-things,’ he mused, deliberately taking his time in order to better enjoy Violet’s discomfort. ‘Two shillings and sixpence, including materials.’
‘It’s Belgian lace, the best we can lay our hands on.’ Violet tried to account for the expense. ‘And the work is fiddly, so it takes time.’
Colin Barlow felt in his trouser pockets. ‘Well, it turns out I don’t have the money on me. That means I’ll have to call in at the shop to pay my dues.’
‘Any time you happen to be passing,’ she said, glad to be let off the hook for now and eager to beat a retreat.
But before she had a chance to escape, Alice Barlow swanned down the wide stairs and across the hall, dressed for dinner in a sleeveless, silvery gown with a slim belt and a corsage made up of a crimson silk rose and dainty sprays of lily of the valley. ‘My petticoat!’ she exclaimed crossly when she saw it draped over her husband’s arm. ‘Really, Colin, was it necessary to unwrap it on the spot? Your hands are so rough – they’ll snag the silk.’
He shrugged carelessly as his wife snatched the flimsy garments from him. Then he winked at Violet. ‘See – that’s all the thanks I get.’
Violet repeated Muriel’s message about payment to Alice Barlow then fled. She was back on the bike, high on the moor road, with dusk quickly drawing in, when a car came up behind, its headlights raking across the mounds of heather, its engine roaring. Cresting the hill, Violet kept close to the grass verge as the Barlows’ Daimler cruised by with Alf Shipley at the wheel. She wobbled in its slipstream, aware that Mrs Barlow had stared studiously ahead as they passed, while Mr Barlow had wound down his window and called out a remark that she ha
dn’t caught.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought as the car sped away. I hope they have a rotten evening, wherever they’re headed.
Violet returned Ida’s bike to Valley Road and was pleased to run into Eddie, who had just got home from work. He was in high spirits, telling her all about a swashbuckling film from the old, silent days with Douglas Fairbanks he’d been showing at the Victory.
‘There’s always a rope handy for our hero to swing from in an emergency,’ he said wryly. ‘And there’s never a hair out of place when he finishes off the enemy with his trusty cutlass.’
‘Lord knows who does his laundry,’ Violet agreed.
They sat in the Thomsons’ untidy kitchen, with Emily doing some crochet by the unlit fire and Dick scraping out his pipe at the table. A ginger cat sat on the window sill, licking his paws to clean his ears.
‘That cat – he’s been fishing for tiddlers in the quarry pond again,’ Dick remarked when Violet went to stroke him. ‘It’s thirty feet deep. One of these days he’s going to lose his footing and fall in. Splash! That’ll be the last of his nine lives used up.’
Violet picked up the cat and cuddled him. She liked the higgledy-piggledy nature of the Thomson household – Ida’s theatre books piled on the window sill next to the cat, dishes left to dry on the draining board, the threadbare hearth rug and some oily nuts and bolts from Eddie’s bike resting on newspaper on a shelf meant for crockery. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, resting her cheek against the tom’s soft fur.
‘Crackers,’ Emily said, crochet hook poised over her work.
Violet laughed. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because that’s what he is – crackers.’ Eddie slid his arm around Violet’s waist and walked her out into the front yard. ‘Barmy, like the rest of us in this house. Take me for a start – I’m crackers about you, Violet Wheeler!’
The cat wriggled and escaped as Eddie moved in for a kiss. Violet surrendered willingly, putting her arms around Eddie’s neck and tilting her head back to let him press his lips against hers then take small nibbling bites down the side of her neck. ‘That tickles,’ she said with a low laugh.
‘I’ll stop if you want me to.’ His breath was warm on her skin.
Violet shook her head and felt his lips on hers again. She heard a noise in the doorway and opened her eyes to see Eddie’s dad knocking his empty pipe against the jamb.
‘Time to take the young lady back home,’ Dick told his son in a gruff voice. ‘At this rate you’ll have the neighbours tittle-tattling.’
Eddie cleared his throat and stepped away. ‘Rightio, Father.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Dick commented, disappearing back inside.
‘You should have seen your face when your dad came out,’ Violet teased once she and Eddie were on the motorbike and threading through the cobbled streets, past shops and schools, churches, chapels and row after row of identical houses running downhill towards Chapel Street. She had her arms around his waist as usual and her cheek pressed to the rough tweed jacket he wore to keep out the wind. ‘And the second you heard his voice, you dropped me like a hot potato.’
Eddie chuckled and patted her hand. ‘Good job Dad came out when he did. Otherwise I might’ve got carried away.’
When he dropped her off at Jubilee, he planted an almost chaste kiss on her cheek before saying a quick goodbye. Violet waved him off and went inside, up to her clean, orderly bedroom with its smell of fresh paint and the scent of lavender from the linen sachet she kept under her pillow.
Lavender was supposed to calm you down and help you sleep, but tonight it wasn’t working as Violet changed into her nightdress and slipped into bed. Her heart was beating too fast at the memory of Eddie’s kisses and she could still feel the touch of his lips.
Maybe Uncle Donald is right, she reflected uncomfortably as she lay wide awake, reliving the thrill of her time with Eddie and conjuring up the picture of what he meant by getting carried away. Maybe I am a bad girl after all.
She slept at last and was up with the lark, in the workshop before either Ida or Muriel arrived. The day went by in a flurry of cutting and stitching, trotting down to the shop to serve a customer whenever the bell rang, boiling a kettle for their tea breaks and spending her dinner time with Evie when they ran into each other in Sykes’ bakery.
‘Fancy a stroll up to the Common?’ Evie suggested as they emerged from the shop with a warm sausage-roll apiece. ‘We could sit on a bench and eat these.’
Violet was glad of the company and happier still when they encountered Eddie, Stan and the rest of the Canal Road Rovers putting up the goalposts and preparing for the afternoon’s local derby against the Hadley Town eleven.
Eddie said he was too busy to stop and sit with them, worse luck, though Stan was his usual cocky self, strutting up to the girls to steal a bite of sausage-roll and finding time to arrange a meeting with Evie at the Assembly Rooms later that evening. ‘I’ve given up on Violet,’ he admitted with a comical wink.
‘But I’ll do instead?’ Evie laughed at his barefaced cheek and told him she might see him there if he was lucky.
The girls left soon after, with Violet blowing a kiss at Eddie, saying goodbye to Evie at the top of the street then walking down to Jubilee to discover with a sinking heart that the Barlows’ limousine was parked outside the shop, although the ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign was clearly on display.
Colin Barlow opened the car door and stepped out in front of her, blocking her way. ‘Fresh as a daisy as usual,’ he commented, a lightweight overcoat slung around his shoulders and his panama hat set at a rakish angle. He nodded towards the sign on the door. ‘You’re an obliging girl. I’m sure you’ll open up for me.’
‘Of course, Mr Barlow. Come in, please,’ Violet squeezed past and drew out the key to unlock the door. She quickly took refuge behind the counter, lifted a slip of paper off a spike and adopted her best shop-girl manner. ‘We were expecting you to drop by so I have a receipt here ready for you.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any change.’ Colin Barlow handed her a ten-shilling note, not sounding sorry at all.
Violet took the money and opened the till. Then she counted the change into his outstretched hand.
Barlow closed his fingers over hers and squeezed – an action so quick and smooth that it left her flustered and confused. ‘I happen to have a little something in my pocket that I thought you might like,’ he said with a tilt of his head and a knowing smile.
Alarm flashed through Violet, making her step backwards against the shelf piled high with boxes of buttons. Suddenly the shop felt too small for comfort.
‘All girls like scent, don’t they?’ Barlow drew a miniature bottle from his pocket and put it on the counter. It had a gold and turquoise label which read, No. 4711 Eau de Cologne.
‘Oh no, Mr Barlow, I couldn’t!’ Violet gasped.
‘Don’t be silly – of course you could. I keep it in stock in all of my shops. It’s a very popular line.’ Brisk and matter-of-fact, he pocketed his change and headed for the door, bumping into Ida who had popped to the market during her dinner break and had come back bearing meat and vegetables for the Sunday dinner. Barlow tipped the brim of his hat and said good afternoon. Then he was gone.
‘What’s this?’ Ida spotted the cologne and picked it up to examine it. ‘“Glockengasse, Cologne on Rhine”.’ Squinting to read the small print out loud, she rapped the bottle back down on the counter. Then she frowned, took a quick, suspicious look at Violet and went upstairs without another word.
The day was spoiled after this. Though Violet hid the perfume out of sight and made up her mind to donate the unwanted gift to a church raffle or some other good cause, there was an awkward atmosphere in the workroom. Ida seemed to sew with extra vigour and made hardly any small talk before going home early without explanation.
‘What’s got into her?’ Muriel wondered as she and Violet worked on into the evening.
‘She’s up
set with me for something that happened earlier,’ Violet confessed. She felt she could confide in Muriel without her flying off the handle the way Ida might.
Muriel snipped a thread to free the fabric she was sewing from the spool of her machine. She shook it then folded it and set it aside ready to continue on the Monday morning. Her face was calm as she listened to a troubled Violet.
‘Ida saw some scent that Mr Barlow gave me as a present. I tried not to accept it but he caught me off guard then he left the shop without me having time to hand it back.’
‘Scent?’ Muriel repeated slowly.
‘Eau de cologne.’
‘And he sprang it on you? You’re certain you didn’t do anything to lead him on?’
‘No!’ Violet felt a pang of guilt that came from nowhere and for no reason. Perhaps she had encouraged Colin Barlow without even realizing it?
‘Don’t worry. I don’t have a high opinion of Mr Barlow, given the way he treats his poor wife. So I believe you,’ Muriel said kindly. ‘But you’re worried that Ida doesn’t?’
Violet nodded. ‘What if she goes home and tells Eddie?’
‘She won’t do that. Ida may be a hot head over some things, but she doesn’t tell tales.’
The reassurance calmed Violet and she went on to explain the various ways in which she’d tried to keep Colin Barlow at bay. ‘It’s the same with Stan Tankard,’ she told Muriel. ‘I try my best to put him off but sometimes he just won’t leave me alone.’
‘I wouldn’t compare Stan with Mr Barlow,’ Muriel pointed out. ‘That man’s a different kettle of fish altogether, what with his chemist shops and fancy house and car. Are you sure you’re not even a little bit tempted?’
‘Not in the least.’ Violet thought about it then shuddered. ‘As a matter of fact, I dreaded him calling into the shop today and with good reason, as it turns out.’
‘The trouble is, you’re not a plain girl,’ Muriel commented with typical understatement. ‘It’s bound to happen to you a lot – men running after you, whispering sweet nothings and giving you presents. The trick is not to let it go to your head, especially now that Winnie’s not around to keep an eye on you.’