The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘The prayer book that I kept for you, for a start?’

  ‘If you want,’ he conceded after a long silence. ‘It belonged to Joe. But fetch it anyway.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised. As if she could still hear the clock above the nurse’s desk ticking and measuring out the short time that her uncle had left, she went to the heart of the matter. ‘Uncle Donald … I’ve worked things out at last.’

  ‘What things?’ A flash of the old suspicion appeared in his glittering eyes.

  ‘Why you were so dead set against me and Stan. It was because his father was my father too.’

  ‘Douglas Tankard.’ The dying man filled two simple words with a lifetime of bitterness. ‘He was a married man, but that didn’t stop him.’

  ‘It’s true, then?’

  For a long time Donald struggled for air but he held Violet’s gaze. ‘Florence Shaw had got hitched to my brother but that didn’t stop her either. The two of them were as bad as one another.’

  ‘From what I can gather, Joe had already gone off to the Front?’

  ‘He answered the call straight off, in late 1914. I went to the town hall and signed up with him.’ There was pride in this and it set the memories flowing more freely. ‘It’s true Joe wasn’t as steady as me when we were growing up, but he had a decent heart, not like Tankard. No one had a good word to say about him, not once they got wind of the way he treated Gladys Sowden and their little lad.’

  Violet leaned forward. ‘Mightn’t there have been two sides to the story – especially if Joe wasn’t a good husband either?’

  ‘No. Right is right and wrong is wrong. Your mother broke a holy commandment when she went with him. Winnie suspected it and by promising not to tell a living soul she managed to winkle the truth out of her. Florence admitted that Tankard had got his feet under the table by Christmas and nine months later you were the result.’

  So then, there was no room for doubt. The jigsaw of Violet’s life, first broken apart by her discovery of the bracelet, was pieced together again to form a new picture, a new identity. ‘What about Gladys and Stan?’ she asked shakily.

  ‘Winnie kept her word so they never found out. Anyhow, with another baby on the way, and out of wedlock this time, Tankard saw he was in a tight spot so in the spring of 1915 he upped and enlisted as well. He was never seen or heard of again.’

  Listening to the halting words, Violet began truly to see what it must have cost Donald to agree to adopt her after he’d returned from the trenches. His brother and Florence – betrayed and betrayer – were both dead. There was an illegitimate child and every reason in the world to have nothing to do with her. Yet, out of love for Winnie, Donald had given in to her desire to nurture the baby. ‘I see,’ she said slowly, laying a hand on the cool bed cover.

  ‘You see some of it …’ A raw cough rattled in Donald’s throat and panicked Violet into calling for the tall nurse who came with more pillows to prop him up.

  ‘He needs to rest.’ Edith spoke to Violet more kindly than before, waiting at the bedside for her to leave.

  ‘… but not all,’ Donald carried on with difficulty, as if he hadn’t been cut off.

  Violet felt a shudder of apprehension. ‘What else should I know?’

  There was a grim silence while he dredged through ancient events. ‘No last letter home, no personal effects – nothing. And there was never any telegram.’

  ‘To say Tankard had been killed?’

  ‘He didn’t come home to Gladys and Stan – that’s plain. But no – Gladys didn’t get proper word of what happened to him in France.’ Donald coughed again but as the nurse moved in to help, he pushed her away, seized Violet’s hand and pulled her close. ‘No telegram,’ he repeated with an urgency that shocked her.

  ‘Please,’ the nurse murmured to Violet as she came between them. ‘It’s time to leave.’

  ‘I have to go now, Uncle Donald.’

  ‘Joe’s prayer book,’ he reminded her amidst a fit of violent coughing, falling back against the pillows.

  ‘I’ll bring it tomorrow,’ Violet promised. She was glad that she’d come, if ‘glad’ was the right word. It showed Uncle Donald that she cared and that she’d won the chance to do this one last thing for him.

  ‘Aye, do,’ he gasped, letting his outstretched hand fall onto his chest.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ she said softly.

  ‘Aye and God bless,’ he sighed, as if begging and not bestowing.

  Shaken to her core, Violet backed away from the bed and turned to walk out of the ward, down the long green corridor, with Uncle Donald’s pitiable gaze etched in her memory.

  A sober mood hung over Violet during a visit from Eddie later that evening. They sat together over a cup of tea in Jubilee’s small kitchen, Violet glad of Eddie’s company while she thought out her next move.

  ‘In my heart I can’t help but believe that Douglas Tankard loved my mother, despite what Uncle Donald said.’

  ‘Because of the bracelet?’ Eddie quickly picked up her train of thought and saw how this might help Violet to feel better.

  ‘Yes. In the note he calls her his dearest Flo. He asks her to keep the bracelet for his sake. That shows he did love her, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ There was a note of caution mixed in with gentleness in Eddie’s voice. ‘We’ll probably never know for certain.’

  Weary from the day’s events, Violet gripped his hands more tightly across the table. She felt comforted by everyday things – the brown teapot and mismatched cups and saucers on the deal table, the flecks of white paint on Eddie’s cheek. ‘What if we could?’ she ventured.

  ‘Could what?’

  ‘Find out for certain that what Douglas wrote in the note came from the heart. “Lifelong affection” – that says something about him, surely?’ Shaking off her weariness, Violet’s mind raced on. ‘He never came back from France – we already knew that. But Uncle Donald told me there was a mystery about what actually happened to him out there.’

  ‘That went on a lot,’ Eddie cautioned. ‘Sometimes a whole regiment was blown to smithereens and afterwards they couldn’t put names to them.’ Every schoolchild learned about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Westminster Abbey and though men who had survived the trenches rarely talked about their experiences in the Great War, it was an accepted fact that they’d been offered up as cannon fodder, foot soldiers following orders to go over the top and slog it out over a few yards of muddy ground – lions led by donkeys.

  ‘So what happened afterwards?’ Violet wondered. ‘If Gladys didn’t learn for certain that Douglas had been killed and there was never any death certificate, what would she do next?’

  ‘I expect she’d have to wait a certain while and see. After that they’d decide he’d been killed in action and sort out a widow’s pension for her – that kind of thing.’

  Violet freed her hands and stood up in sudden agitation. ‘And there’d be a record of that, surely?’

  ‘Somewhere.’ Eddie was deliberately vague. ‘But do you really want to go down that path? What if you end up banging your head against another brick wall?’

  ‘I’m not saying I will try to find out for definite.’ Violet reined herself back and reminded herself of the more pressing situation. ‘For the time being I have to concentrate on Uncle Donald. I’ll go upstairs this minute and dig out Joe’s prayer book. I promised to take it in tomorrow and I can’t let him down.’

  A male customer was a rarity in Jubilee, so Violet and Ida were surprised next morning to see Frank Bielby, the chapel preacher, come in through the door.

  ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’ Ida’s greeting was wary as she took in the sturdy brogues, tweed suit and bald head.

  The minister averted his gaze from the feminine frippery on display. ‘Good morning, Miss Thomson. And Violet, how are you?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you.’

  Pleasantries exchanged, there was an awkward pause during which Bie
lby shuffled and cleared his throat, Ida sorted through the morning’s post and Violet waited for him to state his business.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,’ he said at last, his eyes fixed on Violet in a way that made her nervous. ‘I’m afraid it’s because I’ve been the recipient of bad news.’

  ‘About Uncle Donald.’ Violet responded quickly in a quiet, flat voice that held no surprise.

  Frank Bielby nodded then went on in measured tones. ‘Donald succumbed to pneumonia during the night. The hospital chaplain, who, as you know, is also the Church of England vicar in Hadley, saw fit to inform me since he knows your uncle’s past connection with Chapel Street. I promised I would pass on the bad tidings to you, his next of kin, at the first opportunity. I’m sorry, my dear – it’s a sad end.’

  Violet’s first, irrational reaction was to regret that she had failed to take in Joe’s prayer book in time. ‘I broke my promise,’ she murmured tearfully.

  Seeing her sway and turn pale, Ida rushed to fetch a chair from the kitchen. ‘Here, love – sit down. Are you all right?’

  As a man who prided himself on his self-control, Bielby continued to concentrate on practical matters. ‘Of course, if you’d like to hold the funeral here on Chapel Street, I’d be more than happy to lead the service. Mr Turner will be able to put the necessary arrangements in place.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bielby.’ Speaking over him, Ida shook his hand and led him to the door. ‘We’re very much obliged. Once Violet has had a little time to get over the shock, we’ll be in touch.’

  Violet was only dimly aware that the bell had rung and the door had closed. First Aunty Winnie, now Uncle Donald. I’m adrift, she thought. Lost at sea.

  ‘Don’t bother your head with the funeral details.’ Ida crouched at Violet’s side. ‘There’ll be time for that later.’

  ‘I think he had regrets,’ Violet said faintly.

  ‘Who – Bielby?’

  ‘No, Uncle Donald. About the way he treated me.’

  ‘There, there,’ said Ida, stroking Violet’s arm.

  ‘He didn’t come right out and say sorry, but I know he was.’

  ‘Hush, Violet. Don’t cry.’

  ‘He told me “God bless”. Those were his last words, just like Aunty Winnie’s. You should have seen him, Ida, he was skin and bone.’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘He was lying there and he gave me the story, chapter and verse – how Douglas Tankard was Stan’s father and mine too, which is what we suspected. But I learned something new.’

  Violet’s distress brought tears to Ida’s eyes. She held her hand tight.

  ‘They couldn’t say for sure that Douglas … my father … died in France. That’s what Uncle Donald said – that there was no death certificate.’

  ‘Hush. Don’t go on.’ Wanting to stem the flow of Violet’s distress, Ida helped her to her feet. ‘Can you manage? Come upstairs and tell Muriel all about it,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll sort out the rest later.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘You know what they say – there’s nothing we can do for the dead, so let’s concentrate on the living.’ Muriel’s wise advice when she heard the sad news about Donald Wheeler was put into action before his funeral took place on the following Tuesday.

  Monday morning was cold and damp and she and Violet walked briskly into town from Chapel Street, leaving Ida to man the fort. ‘I mean you, Violet. If this business about Douglas Tankard is still bothering you, we can drop in at the library to find out more.’

  ‘I won’t rest until I know what happened to him,’ Violet confessed. Though Eddie had tried to keep her chin up over the weekend by inviting her to Valley Road for Sunday dinner, her head had been filled with endless, worrying questions about her father.

  ‘And Eddie’s guess is that he went missing in action – is that it?’ Emerging from Brewery Road onto Canal Road, Muriel gathered what she could from Violet before their proposed trawl through records in the reference department of the central library.

  ‘I’m thinking about the look on Uncle Donald’s face when he was telling me about it.’ In fact, Violet couldn’t get rid of the memory of his dark eyes glittering as he gripped her hand and drew her towards him. No last letter, no death certificate. Nothing. ‘I’m certain he wanted to tell me more but the nurse stepped in and he didn’t have time.’

  ‘Half an hour in the library should clear it up.’

  ‘What will we be looking for in the library?’ Violet asked Muriel as they walked under the railway bridge and turned a corner onto St David’s Street where the clean, curved façade of the new Odeon dominated the older Victorian buildings. A stiff breeze swept down the steep hill, raising autumn leaves and litter from the gutters and blowing cold drizzle in their faces.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs into the reference section.’ Muriel knew her way around the library and she had a clear strategy. ‘All the men from round here who enlisted for the Great War joined the Yorkshire Warriors – that was their nickname. It was really the Yorkshire Regiment. The Second Battalion went to the Western Front in October 1914 then the Fourth and Fifth Battalions followed in spring the next year. But before we make our way upstairs to read the records we’ll be checking the names on the Roll of Honour inside the main entrance.’

  As she and Muriel reached the entrance to the library, they came face to face with a group of chattering schoolchildren with satchels and books, surging down the wide steps onto the pavement.

  ‘Let’s wait until the coast is clear,’ Muriel suggested, standing to one side. Her slim-fitting grey coat and maroon cloche hat, handbag and gloves gave her a sophisticated air that wouldn’t have made her seem out of place on the fashionable streets of much larger cities. ‘The Roll of Honour gives the names of infantrymen with the Yorkshire Warriors who fell in battle. They should be in alphabetical order,’ she told Violet.

  Violet felt small and inexperienced beside Muriel. If she’d been prepared for coming into town she would have dressed more smartly. As it was, she was in her second-best, navy blue coat, threadbare around the collar and cuffs, which had been made for her by Aunty Winnie when Violet was fifteen.

  The children flowed past, full of laughter and excited chatter.

  ‘Ready?’ Without waiting for Violet’s answer, Muriel went up the steps, between fat, fluted stone columns, through hefty doors with brass handles into the library.

  The peculiar smell of old books – a mixture of leather bindings, musty paper, glue and ink – hit Violet immediately, together with lavender furniture polish and linoleum. There in front of them was a turnstile entrance into the lending section – a high-ceilinged room lined with thousands of brown, black and red volumes, many too high to reach without the use of a special stepladder. And to their right was the Roll of Honour for the Yorkshire Regiment, printed in gold on a varnished oak panel – name after name of privates, corporals, sergeants and captains who marched into battle and never returned. Sons, husbands, fathers.

  ‘Watson, West, Weatherly … Wheeler.’ It took Muriel no time at all to find Joe’s name on the list. ‘Savage, Selkirk, Swinson, Taylor …’

  Violet could see for herself that Douglas Tankard did not appear.

  ‘What did happen to him, I wonder?’ Muriel’s curiosity took her up some wide stairs ahead of Violet until they came to another turnstile manned by a smart young woman with neatly waved hair and a dark brown blouse with cream collar and cuffs. Muriel showed her membership card and signed Violet in as a visitor. They went through the waist-high turnstile into another vast room filled with a maze of bookcases separated by narrow walkways. Straight ahead was a counter with a large sign above it. The sign read, Reference Stacks. No Books to be Taken Away.

  A second attendant, less well turned out than the first, stood behind the desk, pencil poised. ‘Good morning. What is the name of the book or document that you wish me to fetch?’

  ‘We want to look at the military records of men who joined the
Yorkshire Warriors in the spring of 1915, please.’ Muriel kept her voice low so as not to disturb other readers in the vicinity. ‘I take it you keep a copy for the general public to consult?’

  ‘We certainly do. Wait here please.’

  The woman glided off and soon returned bearing a slim foolscap volume bound in green cloth and decorated with a gold regimental insignia. She put it down on a table to the side of the counter then invited Muriel and Violet to sit down and peruse it at leisure.

  ‘Alphabetical again,’ Muriel murmured, opening the volume at the letter R and turning pages until she came to names beginning with S. She traced her finger down the page and they read in silence.

  Pte Tankard, Douglas, 4th Battalion, 12 March 1915 – 3 May 1915, AWOL.

  Muriel’s finger hovered. She looked in alarm at Violet then closed the book with a faint thud.

  ‘AWOL?’ Disconcerted, Violet shook her head.

  The woman behind the desk cast a quick, curious glance in their direction.

  ‘Hush!’ Muriel slid her arm through Violet’s and walked her away, back through the turnstile, down the stairs and past the painting of the mayoral dignitary.

  Outside on the steps Violet asked again: ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘AWOL is “absent without leave”. It means Douglas Tankard abandoned his post without permission.’

  ‘Not injured?’

  ‘No, and not necessarily dead either,’ Muriel confirmed, wondering whether Violet could stand another shock after all she’d been through. ‘As far as the army is concerned, Tankard was the lowest of the low. He was a deserter.’

  From their vantage point at the top of the hill, Violet stared down towards the railway bridge at the bottom, her shoulders slumped. People hurried heads down about their Monday-morning business – in and out of shops, on and off buses and trams, crossing the street. ‘They executed men like that, didn’t they?’ She knew this much from her history lessons.

  ‘Yes. They put them in front of a firing squad and shot them at dawn as an example to others.’

  Violet shivered.

  ‘But that’s not what the record is telling us,’ Muriel said, slowly piecing together her own knowledge about such things. ‘It doesn’t show a date for a court martial, for instance, let alone an execution.’