The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Ida demanded. ‘Of course it’s worthwhile.’

  ‘I only mean that Alice Barlow is like an octopus. Her tentacles spread everywhere you look.’

  ‘Squeezing us to death?’ Ida’s lively imagination took up the idea.

  ‘This is serious,’ Violet protested. Shaken by the latest cancellation, her heart sank and she felt boxed into a familiar corner. ‘Perhaps we need to think again about me leaving Jubilee, at least for a little while.’

  ‘And then what?’ Ida demanded, bustling through to the kitchen and carrying on the conversation from there.

  ‘Then I could find new lodgings and look for a job.’

  ‘Violet, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Alice Barlow can squeeze all she likes – she won’t throttle the life out of us, not while I have anything to do with it.’

  At the end of the afternoon, while Muriel was out collecting new leaflets from the printer’s, a customer came to Jubilee to collect an order that helped put the fight back into Violet.

  ‘I take it my blouse is ready.’ Ella Kingsley addressed her with an open, friendly smile, altogether different from what might have been expected.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kingsley.’ Violet’s heart skipped a beat. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll tell Miss Thomson you’re here to collect it.’

  ‘Finally!’ was Ida’s reaction when Violet raced upstairs to pass on the news. She rapped down her scissors and took the finished blouse from a tailor’s dummy in the corner of the room. ‘Come with me,’ she told Violet with an eager smile. ‘I’ve been waiting days to have this conversation with Ella Kingsley.’

  Ida hurried downstairs to greet her customer and show her the finished article, laying it flat on the counter. ‘Violet managed to find the exact buttons to match the shade of the material,’ she said proudly. ‘She’s the one who did the finishing touches – the buttonholes and facings, and suchlike. Violet is painstaking over details, I hope you’ll agree.’

  ‘I do.’ Ella Kingsley examined her purchase before glancing up at Violet who hovered nervously behind the counter, bewildered and a little embarrassed by Ida’s lavish praise. ‘I certainly can’t fault the workmanship.’

  ‘No. We jumped at the chance of employing her the minute we saw what she could do with a needle and thread. And, despite what some people are saying, we haven’t regretted it, not for a second.’

  Mrs Kingsley received the thinly disguised challenge and let an awkward pause develop. She looked uncertainly from Violet to Ida and back again.

  ‘I’m glad to have the chance to speak plainly,’ Ida went on in her courageous way. ‘We were very upset here at Jubilee to hear what went on last week.’

  ‘At my house,’ Ella Kingsley acknowledged, deep frown lines appearing on her unmarked brow. As if to distract herself, she carefully peeled off her grey leather gloves and ran her fingers over the crêpe de Chine blouse. She sighed. ‘It’s a bad business. I wish I’d been there to prevent it.’

  ‘Luckily for Violet, Mr Kingsley was there,’ Ida said pointedly. ‘He did see what happened.’

  Violet swallowed hard at the risk Ida was taking and wished the floor would swallow her up. Her heart beat loud and fast.

  The frown deepened. ‘Thomas was there, certainly. Inside the house, I believe.’

  ‘Ah!’ Ida’s exclamation spoke volumes.

  ‘He told me he was in his study, speaking on the telephone.’ Quick to acknowledge the implications of what she was saying, Ella Kingsley continued nevertheless. ‘I’m afraid Thomas couldn’t possibly have anything useful to say about what went on outside.’

  ‘No witnesses,’ Ida confirmed with undisguised triumph. ‘Then it comes down to who is to be believed – Violet or Mr Barlow.’

  ‘Quite.’ Ella Kingsley’s expression was inscrutable, but she quickly turned the conversation in a new direction, one that proved without doubt where she stood.

  ‘Now tell me, Violet, how hard would it be for you to copy a house dress I’ve seen in the latest copy of Harper’s Bazaar?’ Sliding the magazine from her handbag, she showed her a picture and together with Ida they pored over details about hemlines and ruffled collars, tailored bodices, shoulder pads and three-quarter length sleeves.

  ‘I’m sure we can do it.’ Violet smiled in relief. She felt in a small way that the octopus’s tentacles had begun to loosen. ‘It would look best in a bright colour, perhaps in rayon or nylon, which is nice and shiny.’

  Ida added her ideas. ‘Violet could make it in royal blue trimmed with white, or perhaps a warm red for winter.’

  ‘Both!’ Their customer threw caution to the winds. ‘A blue one and a red one, with contrasting piping around the neckline.’

  There was more enthusiastic discussion. Should the dresses be lined? Should the shoulder pads be quite so wide?

  ‘That all sounds satisfactory,’ Ella Kingsley said pleasantly, once the decisions were made. Then she gave Violet a direct look and a reassuring smile before she put her gloves back on.

  Everything was agreed at last with smiles then handshakes all round. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kingsley,’ Ida said.

  ‘Thank you,’ came the calm, confident reply.

  ‘Well I never!’ Violet exclaimed to the jangle of the shop bell and the sight of their loyal customer crossing the street.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ Ida grinned, her chest puffed out. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, Ella Kingsley has reached her own conclusions about the Barlows.’

  ‘She’s broken ranks.’ Violet’s smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds.

  ‘You can say that again. Now who says it’s not worthwhile us handing out leaflets in Hadley tonight?’

  That evening, Violet caught the double-decker bus to Hadley, climbing the metal stairs and positioning herself at the front to enjoy the sight of the glorious, heather-covered moors – a blanket of pale purple stretching as far as the eye could see. At the end of the journey she found Ida standing on the main street with Harold.

  ‘About time too,’ Ida grumbled when she saw Violet alighting.

  ‘Why – I’m not late, am I?’

  In a rush as always, Ida handed leaflets to Harold and Violet. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes before the rehearsal is due to start. Harold, you can go up and down Railway Road. I’ll do Minehead Terrace and Victoria Street. Violet, take this batch and drop one through every letter box on Main Street. Come along – chop-chop!’

  Taking the yellow leaflets, Violet pretended not to notice long-suffering Harold’s raised eyebrows and hurried off to deliver to the post office with its lowered blinds, then to the mean-looking terraced cottages that fronted straight onto the road. Hurriedly she delivered to the blacksmith’s forge then crossed the street and carried on with her task, up garden paths, getting her fingers caught in letter boxes with vicious hinges and avoiding a dog – a snappy Yorkshire terrier with a yapping bark. At last she came to the final house – the stately vicarage with its neat lawns and leaded windows. As she walked up the path she became aware of the vicar himself, complete with dog collar and worn grey jacket, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, stretching out a hand to take a leaflet then reading the top line. ‘“Jubilee Drapers and Dressmakers – Good quality, Reasonable rates.” I’m afraid it’s a waste of time leaving one of these with me,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s no call for dresses here, unless you include church vestments and altar cloths.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’ Violet was ready to take the leaflet back and hurry off but tonight the formerly aloof vicar seemed in chatty mood.

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t to know that I lived alone. Most people suppose that a clergyman has the support of a loyal and loving wife but that’s not so in my case, unfortunately. I can only suppose it’s God’s will.’

  To Violet, it seemed that the well-worn phrase drew attention to the vicar’s loneliness and her heart unexpectedly went out to him. True, he wasn’t o
ne to attract sympathy – he was too stiff and formal for that, with an artificial, sing-song voice and with those odd tufts of white hair so sparsely spread over the dome of his head. Strangely this made her think of her Uncle Donald and his barber’s scissors, which once upon a time would have made short work of the straggly locks.

  ‘Donald Wheeler,’ the vicar said suddenly and with such concurrence of thought that Violet’s hand shook as she received back the unwanted leaflet. ‘Your uncle, I believe?’

  She looked in alarm at the clergyman. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Donald’s late wife, Winifred – she would have been your aunt?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She was.’ For Violet, the reminder brought on a rush of grief almost as fresh as the day when her Aunty Winnie had passed away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The vicar’s sympathy was gentle and sincere. ‘She was a good woman, by all accounts.’

  A nod was all Violet could manage as a lump rose in her throat and she fought back tears.

  ‘You said your uncle found it hard to go on without her. I did my best to reach out and offer the hand of kindness.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for that.’

  ‘Since we last spoke, I happen to have received notification of your uncle’s whereabouts.’

  The revelation, delivered hesitatingly, rocked Violet back on her heels.

  ‘When? How?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Hadley is a small parish but my duties reach further afield,’ the vicar explained carefully. ‘Among other things, I act as chaplain to parishioners who are admitted to hospital in Welby. The doctors there take care of their bodily ailments. Their spiritual welfare is left to me.’

  ‘Hospital, you say?’ Violet was slow to absorb the information. ‘In Welby?’

  ‘Donald’s last known address is noted as Main Street, Hadley. The hospital contacted me yesterday to say that he’d been admitted as a patient. I decided that I would try to speak to you tonight when you came to the Institute.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘I’m afraid he has a bad case of pneumonia. This morning I went to visit him, as I’m bound to do. Unfortunately, your uncle refused to see me.’

  Slowly Violet nodded.

  ‘I’m sure this has been a shock. Would you like to come in and sit down?’ the vicar asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I can’t stay. Is he … is he very ill?’

  The answer, when it came, was cautious. ‘The hospital thought it was wise for me to visit him sooner rather than later. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘I see.’ Seized by panic, Violet backed away from the door. ‘I do have to go now. Thank you.’

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do …’

  ‘No.’ Shaking her head, she reached the gate and blindly made her way to the Institute where she sank onto a chair in the anteroom, her head in her hands. Uncle Donald was dying, or had already died – the thought hammered away inside her head. He was departing this world and leaving her behind, taking with him everything he’d kept secret about her mother’s past. I might never know for certain who my father was, she thought with chilling finality. And now Uncle Donald and I might never get the chance to say goodbye.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ida bumped into Violet as she flew, white faced, out of the building and across the yard.

  ‘To see Uncle Donald,’ she gasped, seeing the bus appear at the corner. ‘He’s in hospital in Welby. I’m sorry I can’t stay for rehearsal, Ida. I’ll see you tomorrow, all being well.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Queen Victoria Hospital in Welby was the largest building Violet had ever approached. Built around a courtyard along the lines of a medieval castle, with arched windows and castellated ramparts, it stood back from a busy thoroughfare criss-crossed by tramlines and blocked by buses that lurched out from pavements to join the ranks of slow-moving black cars. Horns hooted, draymen in charge of wooden carts drove heavy-footed horses down narrow side streets and ambulances fought through traffic to deliver patients to the wide hospital door.

  Bracing herself to enter, she found a large, well-lit hallway leading to a daunting maze of corridors peopled by porters pushing trolleys and what looked like groups of bewildered relatives trying to follow signs to wards identified only by letters – Ward A, Ward B, and so on, through to the letter H. She walked uncertainly past an empty office furnished with metal filing cabinets and banks of black typewriters towards the open window of a booth where a dour-looking woman sat at a high desk.

  ‘Please could you help me?’ she began. ‘I’m looking for a patient here by the name of Donald Wheeler.’

  ‘Ward?’ the woman barked without looking up from the ledger she was scribbling in.

  ‘I don’t know. He was brought in with pneumonia.’

  The clerk sighed and began to flick through the pages of her ledger. ‘Date of admission?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘Address? Date of birth? Next of kin?’

  ‘Me – I’m his niece.’ Violet pounced on the one question she could readily answer.

  ‘W-H-E-E-L-E-R.’ Spelling out the name, the woman searched then finally stabbed her pencil onto the page. ‘Admitted on the twenty-ninth of September. Ward C.’

  Thanking her, Violet hurried down the corridor, its green walls and russet-coloured linoleum floor stretching on before her, the hushed atmosphere and disinfected smell designed to cow even the boldest of visitors. She kept her head down to avoid exchanging glances with the people she met along the way – an old lady in a wheelchair with wispy white hair trailing over her shoulders, a young lad with a bandaged head and sallow complexion – until she came to the ward she was looking for.

  ‘Yes?’ The nurse stationed at a desk inside the swing-doors at least looked up when Violet entered.

  ‘I’ve come to visit Donald Wheeler.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘He’s my uncle.’

  The nurse pointed to a chair. ‘Wait there.’

  She disappeared through another set of doors and didn’t return. Violet was kept in suspense, watching the hands of the clock above the nurse’s desk jerk forward. Visitors came and went, and occasionally a nurse in starched cap and apron, but not the one she’d first spoken to.

  At last she stood up and approached a porter – a heavily built man in a brown cotton coat with a receding hairline and an old scar stretching from his eye to the corner of his mouth. ‘Excuse me. I’m waiting to see my uncle. I asked a nurse about him but she hasn’t got back to me.’

  The porter tutted. ‘Was she tall with a snooty air? That’s Edith. You’ll wait forever for her if you’re not careful. What’s your uncle’s name, love?’

  Listening to Violet’s answer, he went behind the desk and was calling out that her Uncle Donald was in bed number eleven when the tardy nurse returned and caught sight of Violet sitting where she’d left her.

  ‘Are you still here?’ she said sharply. ‘I told your uncle you were here. His answer was that he didn’t want to see anybody.’

  Violet heaved a sigh. The long wait had deflated her and she was stung afresh by this latest rejection. Ah well, she’d made the last-ditch attempt at putting right the wrongs of the past, but she’d failed and that was that, it seemed.

  Then out of the blue came a mental picture of Aunty Winnie in a shaft of sunlight in the corridor, standing full-square with arms folded, an unshakeable presence. Don’t take no for an answer was the clear message in the loving, down-to-earth voice that Violet remembered so well.

  ‘The poor lass came all this way,’ the porter pointed out to the sharp-tongued nurse. ‘Why not try again – see if he’s changed his mind?’

  Edith frowned but then relented. She disappeared again. There was another, shorter wait until she came back. ‘Your uncle says you can go in after all,’ she reported. ‘But if I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.’

  Duly prepared, Violet thanked the porter for his help and entere
d the ward with mixed feelings. The last time she’d seen Uncle Donald, on the doorstep of Jubilee, she’d felt sure their paths would never cross again. Looking back to that moment, she realized she hadn’t even been sorry. Part of the reason was that she now had people who cared for her – Ida, Muriel, Evie, Stan, to name but a few, and, of course, Eddie above all. She didn’t have to rely on Donald any more. But if the vicar was to be believed, he was nearing the end here in this hospital bed.

  Once more Violet imagined what Aunty Winnie would have said – that it would be cruel to leave Donald all on his own and that their little family had stuck together through thick and thin.

  So Violet walked between rows of iron bedsteads, eyes straight ahead out of respect for the sick people lying there, until she came to the bay marked 11. The shape under the green blanket was skeletal, the head on the pillow skull-like. Only the dark, sunken eyes moved – glittering in the pale face, papery skin drawn tight over the cheekbones, lips dry, breath loud and rasping. Pity and sadness drew her close to his bedside.

  ‘Well?’ Donald said when he saw her.

  Violet swallowed her distress and tried to speak normally. ‘Well, how are you?’

  His eyes flickered shut. ‘How do I look? I told them to let me get on with it – to leave me there and let me die, but they carted me in here instead.’

  ‘Who’s “they”, Uncle Donald?’

  ‘The Public Assistance busybodies. They found me collapsed on their doorstep.’ Talking seemed hard. Words came in short snatches, in between painful attempts to drag air into his rattling lungs. ‘Who told you I was here, anyway?’

  ‘The vicar in Hadley. I came as soon as I heard. I’m sorry to see you in this fix, Uncle Donald, I really am.’

  ‘I’m not – I’m glad. I’m on my way out and it’s a blessing.’

  Gradually, as she pulled a chair close to the bed, Violet once more mastered her feelings and came to terms with what she saw. ‘But is there anything you need?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Like what?’