The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Yes, I’m happy as Larry here,’ she said, edging close to Eddie and smiling up at him.

  ‘And it’s good just to see you wearing a smile after Mother’s stroll down memory lane,’ he told her.

  ‘Yes. Well, I’m glad she showed me the picture.’ The rush of water over worn stone almost drowned the sound of Violet’s voice. ‘I thought it might upset me but it didn’t. It was nice hearing about my mother but we didn’t get far with what I’m really after, did we?’

  Eddie squeezed her hand. He pulled at a grass stalk and chewed on the juicy end, keeping it hanging between his teeth as he went on. ‘What we need is a Sherlock Holmes type – someone with a razor-sharp memory and more of a bloodhound instinct to pick up clues. That’s not Mother, unluckily for us.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have been more truthful about the reason behind it all.’ Violet sighed, resting her head on Eddie’s shoulder.

  ‘Not unless you felt up to it,’ he consoled and they sat a while enjoying the green, secret place. Eventually he stood up and offered her his hand. ‘Are you ready to go back and see if Stan is still behaving himself?’

  ‘He’d better be.’ Violet grinned, brushing herself down and leading the way. She and Eddie emerged from the leafy glen into the sunlit clearing to hear Stan render an out of tune version of ‘Daisy’ in front of an embarrassed Evie while a small bunch of fellow ramblers laughed and generally encouraged him.

  ‘Dai-sy, Dai-sy, give me your answer, do …’

  Violet ran to the rescue. ‘Shy my foot!’ she exclaimed, knocking Stan out of the way and pulling Evie to her feet. ‘Stan Tankard, behave yourself. We’ve got a long walk home and Eddie and I will be keeping an eye on you every step of the way.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Against the grimy bustle of mills and factories, of trams and buses loaded with their cargos of workers, of women shopping in Clifton Street market and children playing in the cobbled streets, the rich colours of late September shone forth. Leaves on the horse chestnut trees at the entrance to Linton Park turned to gold and in the distance, bracken on the moors showed russet brown. Early mornings brought silvery mist to the Common.

  ‘They say we’re in for a hard winter,’ Emily Thomson grumbled to Muriel on Monday morning when she called in at Jubilee with a message for Ida. ‘They can tell by the berries. When the trees are laden at this time of year, you can bet we’re in for weeks of snow in December and January. Anyway, where’s Ida got to? I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘She’s upstairs in the workroom,’ Violet reported. ‘I told her you were here.’

  ‘We could pass on the message for you if you like,’ Muriel offered. Lately she’d taken to wearing glasses for close work and she had them perched on top of her bobbed, fair hair. The prim effect was countered by a soft, flowered blouse and a shiny belt around her trim waist.

  ‘I’ll wait, thank you.’ Contrary as ever and with half an eye on Violet until the customer had paid and left the shop, Emily examined embroidery silks. ‘I hear your birthday’s coming up soon,’ she mentioned in the lull that followed.

  ‘At the end of the month,’ Violet confirmed. ‘I’ll be nineteen years young.’

  ‘And I expect you’re glad to be away from slicing bacon and weighing out butter?’

  ‘I truly am,’ Violet said with a laugh. ‘Give me silk stockings and kid gloves any day of the week.’

  ‘Violet, this order for Mrs Kingsley is ready to go out,’ Muriel informed her. ‘Why not have your dinner early then you can ride out with it straight afterwards?’

  The arrangement suited Violet. ‘My tummy’s rumbling. I think I’ll nip up to Hutchinson’s for a pork pie.’

  ‘That’s what comes of not having any breakfast,’ Emily tutted. She opened the door for Violet and followed her out onto the street. ‘Tell Ida I couldn’t wait any longer – I need to buy flour and sugar before I catch the bus home,’ she called to Muriel.

  ‘I can buy your groceries for you and send them up with Ida,’ Violet offered as Emily started up Chapel Street.

  ‘No, but you can give me your arm, thank you. You’ll have to slow down a bit, though. You youngsters don’t know what it’s like, making your way up these steep hills when you get to my age.’

  Violet knew that Eddie’s mother couldn’t be more than fifty-two or -three but she took into consideration Emily’s cup-half-empty outlook and slowed down to a snail’s pace. The two of them together made an interesting contrast – Emily Thomson was stooped and dour, her wispy grey hair untidily brushed back and held in place by a gap-toothed tortoiseshell comb while Violet walked with a spring in her stride and a smile on her face, shoulders back, her hair as glossy as one of the horse chestnuts nestled inside their green, spiked shells.

  ‘By the way, I was thinking that Ben Hutchinson is the man you need to talk to,’ Emily told Violet, seemingly apropos of nothing as they passed under the shade of Sykes’ striped canopy.

  Violet was taken by surprise. ‘What about?’

  ‘About the old days and that mother of yours. He’s got a memory like an elephant, has Ben.’ Putting on an uncharacteristic burst of speed, Emily led the way into the grocer’s shop before Violet had time to object, up the black-and-white, mosaic-patterned step into the cool interior with its strong smell of smoked bacon. ‘Come along, slow coach. There’s no time like the present.’

  ‘What’s the good of raking up the past?’ was Ben Hutchinson’s first response when Emily collared him in his storeroom and demanded to hear everything he could remember about Violet’s mother, Florence Wheeler, née Shaw. At that moment Violet felt ready to agree. Backed up against boxes of cornflakes and with the door of the cluttered, airless room shut tight, she viewed her old boss with the usual trepidation.

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to find out as much as you could if you were in Violet’s shoes?’ Emily challenged. ‘The poor soul’s just getting over losing her Aunty Winnie, not to mention her Uncle Donald jiggering off. That’s enough to unsettle anyone, I should think.’

  ‘Where’s he jiggered off to, as you put it?’ Ben seemed more interested in this than in Violet’s plight. ‘No one’s seen hide nor hair of him at Chapel lately.’

  ‘Never mind Donald Wheeler – it’s Florence, his sister-in-law, who we want to hear about. Tell us what you remember about her carryings-on.’

  For someone who lacked the bloodhound quality, Eddie’s mother was doing a good job of sinking her teeth into a reluctant Ben Hutchinson, Violet realized. Though Emily was small and skinny, she seemed to have forgotten her frailties and cornered him against a high stack of cardboard boxes with no chance of escape.

  ‘Carryings-on is right,’ he muttered, pressing his silver-rimmed glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. ‘What if little missy doesn’t like what she hears?’

  ‘“Little missy”, meaning me?’ His dismissive tone made Violet stand up for herself, even though she felt the familiar rising panic when on the brink of revelations about times gone by. Then she recalled the weeks and months she spent under the mean-minded grocer’s thumb and it brought out her stubborn, independent streak. ‘You can tell me the truth – it won’t bother me.’

  ‘And think on – none of us were angels,’ Emily warned. ‘Not with the country about to go to war. You least of all, Ben Hutchinson.’

  ‘Pots and kettles, Emily Thomson,’ he grumbled with another tap at his glasses and a loud sniff.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Violet vowed, as though preparing to face the firing squad.

  ‘The truth?’ Ben repeated. ‘The fact is we were no different to anybody else back in those days. We worked hard and we played hard, those of us who had roofs over our heads and steady jobs – either down the mines or in the mills, you took your pick. If you were lucky, like me, you went into shop work, starting at the bottom and gradually working your way up.’

  ‘What about my mother in particular?’ Violet prompted.

  ‘Mill girl over in Welby,’ came the quic
k, abbreviated reply. ‘Not from these parts. And if you must know, no better than she should be.’

  Thinking about the shy, serious face she’d seen in the old photograph, Violet instinctively rose to her mother’s defence. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean, she had men swarming about her like wasps around a jam pot.’

  ‘Including you, and she turned you down flat.’ Emily reminded him that his opinion of Florence Shaw might be no more than sour grapes.

  ‘All right, then. Even if she couldn’t help being popular because of the way she looked, when it came to it she didn’t do herself any favours. Right from the start, soon after she’d joined the Hadley Players, she played us all off against one another – me and Joe Wheeler, and a few others. And the women didn’t take to her either, apart from Winnie Craven – your Aunty Winnie – who never had a bad word to say about anybody.’

  ‘I didn’t mind Florence – I could take her or leave her.’ Emily defended herself in her usual laconic fashion. ‘And she was good friends for a while with Gladys Sowden, as was, until all that went wrong.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Ben insisted. ‘Wherever Florence Shaw went, trouble was bound to follow. She left Welby Mill and came to live on Westgate Road to be near her new job at Calvert’s. Gladys was already married and she was an overseer in the weaving shed – a good-looker in her own right, but no competition for Florence. She found out that being friendly with the new girl put her in the shade and she didn’t like it one bit. They soon fell out.’

  ‘I’d overlooked poor Gladys,’ Emily admitted as she turned to Violet. ‘That’s what I mean about Ben – he never forgets.’

  ‘Are you going to let me out of here, or not?’ he demanded crossly. ‘I have customers to serve, as if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Lizzie’s doing a grand job out there, don’t you worry. Explain to Violet who or what Florence and Gladys argued over.’

  Grudgingly Ben took the only way out of the cramped storeroom and back to work. ‘It was after Florence got married to Joe Wheeler and they set up house on Railway Road in Hadley. The argument was over a pal of mine – the chap who Gladys was already married to. They had a little boy between them – about three or four years old. Gladys was sure that Florence was set on stealing her husband away from her, even though she’d recently settled down with Joe.’

  ‘And was that really my mother’s plan?’ Violet wanted to know, turning uneasily from Ben to Emily and back again.

  ‘Some said it was, some said it wasn’t.’ He shrugged. ‘I once took the bull by the horns and asked Douglas about his fling with Florence. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer.’

  ‘Douglas?’ Violet echoed. A shudder of alarm ran through her.

  ‘Ah yes, I’d left him out of the picture too,’ Emily murmured with pursed lips and an apprehensive look at her young companion.

  ‘Douglas who?’ Violet insisted. This then was the Pandora’s box that she had been afraid of, and it turned out that the key was not with Emily Thomson or Marjorie Sykes, but was held in the unlikely hands of Ben Hutchinson – open the lid and out would fly a horde of dark secrets that could never be put back.

  ‘Douglas Tankard,’ he told her straight out. ‘You probably know Gladys and Douglas’s son, Stan – everybody does.’

  That’s why! Violet said to herself over and over as she set off on Ida’s sit-up-and-beg bike. When Ben had dropped his bombshell, she’d felt the blood drain from her face and had run from the shop. No wonder Uncle Donald was so much against her walking out with Stan and had done his utmost to prevent it – with good reason if what Ben had said was true.

  Almost without realizing it, she found herself cycling along Canal Road, work, parcel and deliveries all forgotten in her shaken state of mind. It was too hard to keep this to herself, she realized. She had to find Stan and speak to him. Knowing that he usually worked mornings at Kingsley’s, she decided that the best place to track him down during a weekday afternoon was at Brinkley Baths.

  Along the wide, flat road she pedalled with the wind in her hair, bombarded with new thoughts and fears that she had no control over.

  Her mother had entered into a love affair with a married man. She had deceived her new husband, the ne’er-do-well Joe Wheeler. Douglas Tankard had wooed her by sending her the gift of a gold bracelet in a blue velvet box shaped like a heart. Keep this bracelet for my sake.

  Or else it was all a lie, made up by gossips – men who had been turned down by Florence and women who were jealous of her. But that didn’t explain the initials on the inside of the envelope or the lack of other keepsakes and photographs in Aunty Winnie’s possessions. It was as if there was something to be kept secret and to feel ashamed of surrounding Florence’s marriage to Joe.

  Ideas flitted like moths in and out of Violet’s head. She could almost hear dry wings beating, the faint brush of them before they veered off and were replaced by new ones, even more unwelcome than those preceding them. That’s the real reason why Uncle Donald didn’t want me. He knew I was nothing to do with his brother Joe. I was a cuckoo in the Wheelers’ nest. Like mother, like daughter, he’d said with savage anger. It made sense now – a mother, Florence, who had enjoyed the company of men too much and had gone astray. A daughter, Violet, whom he suspected of stringing men along, whose looks reminded him daily of the wrong that had been done to his brother.

  Violet’s heart beat fast as she reached the swimming baths, flung down her bike and mounted the broad steps. She strode through the tiled entrance and towards the ticket office to ask for Stan.

  ‘We’re not open yet,’ the man behind the desk informed her – a diminutive, portly stranger with a florid complexion and a bald head. ‘Stan’s due in any time now to start his shift.’

  An exasperated Violet considered what to do. Should she ride out to Ash Tree House with the Kingsley delivery then catch Stan on her return? No, she would rather wait here then explain later to Muriel why she’d taken so long, because in this current state of mind she couldn’t trust herself to cycle safely without ignoring traffic lights or crossing the path of an oncoming tram. So she went outside and paced the pavement, all the time keeping watch for Stan.

  He came at last, full pelt on his bike down Ghyll Road and onto Canal Road, jacket flying open and cap tilted forward over his forehead, screeching to a halt outside the baths then leaping off and wheeling his bike down the side of the building.

  ‘No time to talk – I’m running late!’ he yelled when he spotted Violet rushing towards him.

  At the thought of him vanishing without her having a chance to talk to him, suddenly and without warning she broke down in tears.

  Startled, he drew her to one side. ‘There, there, don’t cry,’ he said, offering her his crumpled handkerchief. ‘Tell me what’s up.’

  ‘No, you haven’t got time. You’ll get the sack if you’re not careful.’

  ‘So what if I do? Have you and Eddie had a fight, or is that too much for me to hope for?’

  ‘Stan, this is serious.’ His flippancy was good for her. It made her dry her tears. ‘Besides, you promised.’

  ‘Yes, take no notice.’ Leaning his bike against the wall, he kept his distance, folded his arms and waited for her to go on.

  ‘I’ve found out something important that affects us both. It’s to do with my mother and your father.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  Violet paused and studied the sudden look of bewilderment on Stan’s face. It made him seem younger than his years and vulnerable. So, with her own feelings back under control, she proceeded more cautiously. ‘How long have we known each other – you and me?’

  ‘Since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Why?’

  ‘And in all that time you’ve never mentioned your family and I’ve never thought to ask about them.’

  ‘That’s because there’s nothing to say. You know I lost my dad in the war, like you did.’

  ‘But … No, carry on.’
Violet stopped herself from interrupting.

  ‘Then ten years ago, in March 1924, my mother took ill with TB. She died in the November.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Stan – I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I was thirteen. They wanted me to go into an orphanage but I said no, ta very much. Instead, I left school early and managed to make my own way, doing odd jobs – cleaning windows, cutting hedges, and so on, until I landed the job at Kingsley’s.’

  ‘I didn’t know that either,’ Violet said gently.

  ‘I wasn’t going to be cooped up in an institution after Mam died, was I?’

  ‘No, I can see that wouldn’t have suited you. But what affects us is to do with your father, not your mother – if what I heard turns out to be true.’

  ‘Not that devil,’ Stan said with a grimace. He thrust his hands in his pockets, scuffed at a stone with the toe of his boot then looked up at Violet as if half anticipating what she was about to say.

  ‘There’s a rumour,’ she said softly.

  ‘Just one? You’re kidding me. From what I know, you could take your pick from at least a dozen.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as, my father, Douglas Tankard, managed to get the sack from at least three different jobs – one as a miner down Hadley pit, one in a pawnbroker’s shop in Welby and another here as a boiler man at Calvert’s – and after that it was downhill all the way. Such as, he was a regular propping up the bar at the Green Cross when he should have been out looking for work. Oh, and not forgetting that he was well known as a ladies’ man, which is something my poor mother had to put up with until the day he enlisted and disappeared out of our lives for good.’

  Emboldened, Violet drew breath before going on to divulge what Ben had told her. ‘The rumour I’m interested in is that in 1914 your father, Douglas, had a love affair with my mother, Florence.’

  Stan stared. Still with his hands deep in his pockets, he turned away then spun back towards her.

  ‘He gave her a bracelet.’ She met his gaze and held it, along with her breath.