The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  The fish supper was eaten and Violet had taken its newspaper wrapping down to the ash pit in the back yard shared with the brewery and with numbers 3, 5 and 7 Chapel Street. She was back inside, ready to go upstairs again, when the outline of a figure in the shop doorway, obscured by the lowered blind, made her hesitate. It was probably a local chap hanging about, waiting for a friend, she thought – nothing she should worry about. Then again, perhaps she should go and see.

  She was still in two minds when there was an insistent rap on the door and Violet hurried to answer it, astonished to be confronted by, of all people, Donald Wheeler.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not coming in,’ he began in what could only be described as a surly manner. ‘I can say what I have to say out here on the doorstep.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ she gasped. It was true – his chin was unshaven, his hair uncombed and the lapel of his jacket was ripped as though he’d been in a brawl. A closer look at his lined, sallow face revealed a recent bruise under his right eye.

  ‘I saw you with Stan last night, don’t think I didn’t.’ He spoke as if this was a sin that would send her careering straight to hell.

  ‘What of it?’ Violet said wearily. She was tired of going down the same old track, of not being listened to and being treated like a criminal. ‘I wish to goodness you’d mind your own business.’ Almost adding ‘Uncle Donald’ to the end of her complaint, she remembered what the note inside the bracelet box had revealed and stopped herself just in time.

  ‘This is my business, and you’ll thank me in the end,’ he insisted. ‘Listen to me. I’ve already had words with him and now I’m telling you once and for all to steer clear of Stan Tankard.’

  So that was where the bruise had come from, Violet decided. Donald had tried giving orders to Stan and got a punch in the face for his pains. It served him right. ‘And my answer is I don’t need advice from you, ta very much.’

  ‘I mean it, Violet.’ Suddenly there was a new note in his voice – the tone was urgent but not bullying for a change. ‘You have to listen to me: Stan isn’t the one for you.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d say that about every young man I took up with, wouldn’t you? It would be the same thing – don’t do this, don’t do that – on and on until I was sick of hearing it.’ Exasperation rose from deep inside. Here was the man who should have taken a father’s responsibility from day one, who had hidden the truth and thrust the burden and the joy of Violet’s upbringing onto Winnie, standing to one side and interfering only to issue orders about the way she led her life. ‘You’re nothing but a lousy, rotten hypocrite,’ she said in a raised voice, aware of spying eyes and ears behind net curtains at front-room windows. ‘I don’t know how you have the nerve to come here and tell me what to do.’

  ‘He isn’t the one for you,’ he repeated, as if oblivious to Violet’s anger. ‘You have to tell him to leave you alone, you hear me?’

  ‘And if I don’t do as I’m told?’ she asked defiantly. ‘For once in your life, you have to.’ He stared at her with great intensity, refusing to budge an inch.

  ‘Oh, I could throttle you!’ she cried, her voice breaking down as her feelings swept her along like storm water in the gutter. ‘Tell me one thing before I slam this door in your face – why have you been so nasty to me? I don’t mean just lately, but all my life, ever since I can remember – giving me sour looks and tut-tutting and always making me feel I was in the wrong. Why couldn’t you have … loved me?’

  Violet’s halting plea affected Donald more than either had expected. He lowered his gaze and his lips quivered as tears welled up. Violet felt her own eyes water and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

  ‘I tried my best,’ he attempted to say, but the words fell half-formed from his mouth. ‘But you were wilful and your Aunty Winnie didn’t help – she spared the rod and spoiled the child.’

  ‘Wilful?’ she echoed in a faint voice, realizing with a shudder that he blamed her even now. ‘That’s not fair. I was only tiny – too young to understand what I had to do to please you.’

  ‘We won’t go into it now,’ he said, regaining control. ‘I came here with a final warning and now I’ve done all I can to make you steer clear of a certain person.’

  ‘Well, there was no need.’ Violet’s frustration receded and gave room for a different picture of Donald Wheeler to form in her mind. He had become an old, broken, lonely man who couldn’t take care of himself let alone anyone else. ‘You can rest assured that I’m not walking out with Stan. I never have and I never will.’

  ‘Then my conscience is clear.’ Donald stepped back onto the pavement. ‘It’s the last conversation I wanted to have with you before I cleared off.’

  The finality of this last remark panicked Violet into joining him on the pavement and asking more questions. ‘Cleared off where? Are you leaving your job and house in Hadley?’

  ‘I am and that’s that.’ He lifted his hand, forefinger raised in a peculiar reminder of a priest giving a blessing. ‘Don’t ask me where I’m going because I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Then I won’t ask,’ she decided. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  He met her gaze for another instant then looked down again. ‘It is,’ he said. Then, without looking back Donald Wheeler shuffled down Chapel Street and turned onto Brewery Road, out of sight.

  That’s the last I’ll ever see of him, Violet decided. Her thoughts flew to her beloved aunt. ‘I’m sorry, Aunty Winnie,’ she whispered with a final pull on her heart strings; sorry that the only solid link with her past had ended this way in bitter regret.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Violet was in the shop window, putting the finishing touches to Gertie’s wedding dress that she, Ida and Muriel had slaved over for weeks. She spread the full skirt as wide as the small space allowed then tweaked the gathering at the shoulders, puffing out the sleeves for maximum width. Having arranged things to her satisfaction, she went outside to judge the effect.

  ‘Not bad,’ was Sybil’s comment as she rounded the corner from Brewery Road and cast an appraising eye over the satin confection in the window.

  ‘Is that all?’ Violet prompted with a secret smile. I hope Aunty Winnie’s up there listening to this echo from the past, she thought.

  The practised seamstress gave her professional verdict. ‘You’ve overdone the pearl trim around the cuffs for my liking, otherwise you’ve made a good job of it.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘Tell Muriel and Ida they’d better be on their toes, though.’ Sybil was ready to walk on but not before she’d delivered a lively parting shot. ‘We’re putting new adverts in the Herald next week.’

  ‘I’ll let them know,’ Violet promised.

  ‘And two mannequins in our window.’ On Sybil went without waiting for a reaction, head held high, humming a tune.

  ‘Good – the race is hotting up,’ Ida said when Violet passed on the latest development. She was like Boudicca at the head of her small female army, holding a sewing machine aloft and marching on.

  ‘I’ll make posters to put in Hutchinson’s and Sykes’ windows,’ Muriel decided. ‘And we can pin one up on the noticeboard in the entrance to the library if they’ll let us.’

  This was a Friday in early September and Muriel had an appointment with the bank manager. She would be back before dinner, she said. Meanwhile, Ida decided she would man the shop while Violet made a few deliveries.

  ‘My bike’s in the back yard,’ she told her. ‘I want you to go to Hutchinson’s with the blouse Lizzie ordered and then on to the Victory to drop off that bolero jacket with George Ambler – it’s a surprise birthday present for his wife. Last but not least, there’s the evening dress for Ella Kingsley. She’s asked us to leave it in the mill office for Mr Kingsley to take home later on today.’

  Violet took the bike and set off willingly up Chapel Street. By the time she reached the mill, her hair was flyaway and her cheeks flushed.
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br />   Doubting that she looked her best, she tucked her blouse more firmly into the waistband of her skirt and patted her hair as she approached the wide stone entrance to Kingsley’s Mill, where overpowering noises and smells told her that spinning and weaving machines were going full tilt.

  Tall buildings to either side of the street formed a wind tunnel down which thick smoke billowed from two tall chimneys that dominated the skyline – acrid, dirty stuff that clogged up the lungs, adding to other unhealthy conditions surrounding mill work. For a start, in the yard behind the elaborate stone façade there were insatiable, roaring furnaces that powered steam engines to drive the giant machines. Then there were the notorious spinning and weaving sheds – cavernous spaces that were so cold in winter that ice formed on the insides of the window panes and so stifling in summer that young loom cleaners and reaching-in workers fresh from school would often collapse from heat exhaustion.

  Grateful as always that she didn’t have to endure this kind of daily grind, Violet took her last delivery from the basket then ventured under the archway where the stench of raw wool hit her and the sound of pounding engines overwhelmed her.

  ‘Who are you looking for, love?’ a boiler man in grubby grey overalls shouted across the yard.

  ‘Mr Kingsley,’ she called back.

  ‘Try the General Office. They’ll know where to find him.’

  Violet thanked the man and followed the direction of his pointing hand. She knocked on the office door and heard a faint, ‘Come in.’

  Violet turned the handle and entered to find a homely, middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses seated at a desk. ‘I’ve brought a parcel for Mr Kingsley,’ she explained.

  ‘He’s out. Try the chemist’s next to Brinkley Baths,’ the secretary suggested, giving short shrift as she tapped busily at her typewriter.

  Violet’s heart sank to hear that her errand was taking her to a branch of Barlow’s, but what else could she do other than carry on with her task? She went back out onto the street to wheel her bike a hundred yards further on until gold lettering on a shiny black background told her that she’d arrived at one of Colin Barlow’s five shops.

  Propping the bike against a lamp post, she squared her shoulders and entered an unfamiliar scene. Hundreds of glass jars lined the shelves behind the counter, each with a gold-edged label inscribed with an abbreviated Latin name: P:SANG:DRACON, TAB:SODA.MINT and PULV:BISMUTH:CO. Below the jars were small drawers with more mysterious chemical ingredients for the medicines made up by the dark-haired female pharmacist working intently in a glass booth to one side of the shop. Then there were shelves reaching the ceiling to all sides, stacked with tooth powders and toothbrushes, shaving soaps and talcum powder, razor blades, tweezers and Brilliantine and in the centre of the shop a stand displaying Max Factor face powders and rouge.

  The pharmacist, who was young, fashionable and evidently short tempered, glanced up from her work rolling out a thin white paste from which to make prescription pills. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Mr Kingsley here, by any chance?’

  ‘In the back,’ was the snappish reply.

  Violet spotted a door to one side of the counter. ‘Shall I knock?’ she asked tentatively.

  But just then the door opened and Thomas Kingsley emerged, followed by his wife, Ella. ‘No need,’ he said, taking in the sight of a confused Violet holding a parcel wrapped in tissue paper and tied with white ribbon that could only be for his wife. ‘For you,’ he told Ella before saying he had important things to do and quickly departing.

  Ella Kingsley took delivery of her evening dress with a pleasant smile and a sincere thank-you. ‘It was clever of you to track us down,’ she told Violet. ‘We called in here to finalize arrangements with Mr Barlow for an outing to the theatre.’

  ‘And lo, speak of the devil!’ Colin Barlow announced as he emerged from the back storeroom, dressed in a dark business suit with a grey silk tie. ‘And if it isn’t our shrinking violet,’ he smirked.

  ‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ Ella Kingsley told him, pretending not to notice Violet’s blushes. ‘Thank you again for finishing my order in good time for our night out,’ she said as she followed her husband onto the street.

  Violet hurried after her but haste made her clumsy and she knocked Ida’s bike sideways from the lamp post onto the road where it was almost run over by a tram. Violet watched helplessly and with frayed nerves as the tall tram rattled by.

  ‘By Jove, that was a close shave.’ Colin Barlow came rushing out of the shop and pulled Violet back from the kerb. Then he made a big show of dusting her down and picking up the bike. ‘Why not come back in and sit down until you’ve got over the shock?’

  Violet shook her head and took the bike from him. ‘No, thank you. I’ll be getting back to the shop.’

  ‘This is a busy road. You have to watch your step.’ As Violet crossed the road then got on the bike and started to pedal towards Kingsley’s Mill, Colin Barlow strode alongside her. ‘Look out for the drain cover. And there’s a stray dog ahead. Mind he doesn’t bite.’

  Barlow’s solicitations made Violet wobble unsteadily, giving him time to step out in front of her and lay one hand on her handlebars, the other on her shoulder. ‘You see – I was right to be worried about you. You should have let me look after you, as I suggested.’

  Without saying a word, Violet shook his hand from her shoulder then waited for him to step aside.

  He stood firm and smiled. ‘Little Violet – has anyone told you how beautiful you are when you’re angry?’

  His nonsense rendered her speechless though inwardly she seethed. Who did Colin Barlow think he was, standing in her way and doling out compliments willy-nilly? Did he suppose she would be taken in, even for a second?

  ‘Because you are a truly lovely specimen in anyone’s book,’ he went on, shamelessly disregarding the curious glances of passengers in a double-decker bus and of the girl running to catch the stray dog. ‘You know, Violet, your looks could be your fortune if you play your cards right.’

  This was enough! Violet wrenched the handlebars free and launched out into the middle of the road before pedalling full steam ahead past Kingsley’s. She was too furious to glance back to see what Barlow was up to now or to notice Ella Kingsley standing with a puzzled expression under the imposing portico entrance to her husband’s mill.

  If it happens again I’ll be good and ready for him, she swore to herself, cycling furiously up Canal Road. No more perfume, no more compliments – I’ll give Colin Barlow a piece of my mind and let him know exactly where he stands.

  For a change the next evening, Violet agreed to meet up with Kathy at the Green Cross on Ghyll Road, where they would have one drink then catch the late evening showing of a new film at the Victory.

  ‘Two birds with one stone,’ Kathy said with a wink as they sat at a copper-topped table sipping at their cold ginger ales. ‘You can watch the picture then enjoy a tryst with Eddie afterwards.’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ Violet agreed brightly.

  ‘Is that why you’ve come out in your best bib and tucker?’ Kathy teased. She was the sort of girl who could chat with a friend at the same time as staying alert to the possibility of flirting with any likely lad who happened to catch her eye. This included Stan, drinking at the bar with a couple of football teammates, and Harold Gibson, sitting at a table near the window with Dick Thomson.

  ‘I thought I’d make an effort.’ Violet admitted that getting ready for her evening out had entailed extra time in front of the mirror. She wore a new red dress with cap sleeves and a skirt cut on the bias, with canvas, wedge-heeled sandals that she’d Blancoed a pristine white for the occasion. Her hair too was looking especially nice – glossy and groomed to frame her oval face with its touch of lipstick and rouge.

  ‘Stan, come over here,’ Kathy called with a devilish air. She too had dressed up for the girls’ night out in a flowery summer dress, nipped in at the waist by a thin white belt. Her ha
ir was swept up at the back and waved on top, tumbling forward over one side of her forehead. ‘Tell Violet how pretty she looks. Come on – it’s not like you to be shy.’

  ‘Stop it, Kathy.’ Violet’s protest was mild and unworried. ‘Let poor Stan drink his beer in peace.’

  Unable to resist the invitation, Stan and his two pals joined Violet and Kathy at their table, drawing up stools and bantering loudly.

  ‘Blimey – it looks like you picked the whole blooming garden for that outfit,’ Stan told Kathy as he sat close to Violet, backing her into a corner in order to make room. He nudged her with his elbow. ‘This is snug, isn’t it?’

  ‘But not for long,’ she told him, still confident that their last talk had set new ground rules which Stan would keep to. ‘We’re off to the Victory in two ticks.’

  ‘And we’re off to the Assembly Rooms, aren’t we, lads?’ Stan’s high spirits made him the centre of attention as usual. He raised his glass at Harold and Dick, who were crossing the bar to begin a game of darts. ‘Where’s Ida tonight, Harold? Has she let you off the lead for once?’

  ‘Ha-ha, very funny, Stan.’ Harold knew better than to rise to the bait, though he gave Violet a long stare as he and his prospective father-in-law passed by. Soon the thud of darts into the board in the far corner told Violet that the game had begun.

  ‘We have to go,’ she reminded Kathy, who by this time was perched on the knees of Les Craven, a tall, gangly lad who was learning to be an electrical engineer and who played goalkeeper in Eddie and Stan’s team.

  ‘You see – we have to love you and leave you,’ Kathy cooed at Les. ‘But you can look out for me later at the Assembly Rooms if you like.’

  ‘Will you be there too?’ Stan asked Violet, who had stood up and was waiting patiently by the door.

  She shook her head. ‘Have a nice time without me.’

  ‘And don’t forget to save me the last waltz,’ Kathy called to Les as she followed Violet on to the street.