The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  About the Book

  Orphaned young, Violet Wheeler has been brought up by her aunt – but after Winnie’s sudden death, she feels like she’s lost everything. With no-one to turn to, Violet has to rely on the goodwill of the community to help her out.

  At Jubilee drapers, amongst the spools of ribbon, skeins of silk and latest thirties fashions, Violet finds a refuge. She’s offered the opportunity to get back on her feet, and with that an unexpected chance to discover love. It’s only when a forgotten piece of jewellery with a mysterious note surfaces that Violet is thrown back in to the past again, and starts to wonder what might be hidden in her family’s history.

  As Violet becomes desperate to find answers about her mother and father, long-buried secrets threaten the stable life she’s been building. Can her new friends steer Violet towards a happy ending against all the odds?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Jenny Holmes

  Copyright

  THE SHOP GIRLS OF CHAPEL STREET

  Jenny Holmes

  For my father, Jim Lyne, who took me on

  unforgettable motorbike jaunts into

  the beautiful Yorkshire Dales

  CHAPTER ONE

  Violet Wheeler posed in front of the full-length mirror set up in a side office at Timothy Thornley’s brewery on the corner of Chapel Street.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked her Aunty Winnie, a knot of nervous excitement tightening in her stomach. It wouldn’t be long now before she had to face the crowd.

  ‘Not bad,’ came Winnie’s studied reply.

  ‘Is that all?’ A crestfallen Violet turned this way and that. She’d banked on looking better than ‘not bad’ this day of all days.

  Her aunt stole up behind her. Short and stout, she had to stand on tiptoe to peer over her willowy, eighteen-year-old niece’s shoulder. ‘No, love, I’m only kidding,’ she murmured. ‘You look smashing.’

  Violet wasn’t sure. ‘Does the shade of the shoes match the dress? They’re not from the market – I had to go all the way into town.’

  ‘And it was worth it.’ Winnie met Violet’s gaze in their reflection in the mirror and nodded her head. Here, in Thornley’s dusty office, surrounded by ledgers and order books and with the smell of fermenting hops in their nostrils, she couldn’t have been prouder of her niece.

  Despite her nerves, Violet soon grew more confident about what she saw. Her sleeveless dress in cream rayon silk wasn’t your usual Gala Queen creation of pink chiffon. No, Violet’s Whitsuntide gown was altogether sleeker and more à la mode, as she liked to term it, with its V-neck, nipped-in waist and draped handkerchief hemline below which her trim ankles and satin shoes could just be glimpsed. The outfit was topped off with long cream gloves and for a headdress, a bold arrangement of silk lilies clipped into her newly bobbed, auburn-tinged hair.

  Aunty Winnie relented. ‘Don’t worry – you’re a bobby dazzler in anybody’s books.’ She had one eye on the scene outside the window. Wilf Fullerton was in shirtsleeves, hitching a pair of grey Clydesdales to the decorated brewery float – the horses done up in shiny brasses and patriotic red, white and blue rosettes. The cart itself was transformed into a flower-decked arbour for the Gala Queen’s slow progress up Chapel Street then across Overcliffe Road onto the Common where the Whit Monday celebration was to take place.

  ‘Should I wear this pearl necklace?’ Violet asked.

  ‘No pearls,’ Winnie advised. ‘There’s no need to gild the lily.’ Now she could see Wilf helping the Gala Queen’s attendants onto the float – little Mabel and June Clough from Raglan Road in short white dresses, ankle socks and kidskin sandals, with bows in their hair. Then there was eighteen-year-old Kathy Land, Violet’s good friend and rival for the Gala Queen crown, who this year had had to make do with chief flower girl. She was already up on the float and looking round for Violet to join her.

  ‘You need to get a move on if you don’t want them to set off without you,’ Winnie urged. ‘Then it’ll be Hamlet without the prince.’

  Violet took one last look in the mirror. She and her aunt had made the dress from a pattern in the latest Butterick catalogue. Oh, the hours they’d spent making sure that the seams were free of pulls and wrinkles across the bust and that the hem hung just so. They’d put everything into it, just for this one short day.

  She’s on her way! Winnie mouthed through the window at Wilf who, having donned his tweed jacket and brown bowler hat, had climbed into the driving seat and taken up the reins. Hearing the horses stamp and their bridles jingle, she shooed Violet from the room, along the dingy green corridor, and down the stone steps onto the street.

  ‘About time too!’ Wilf called. ‘Stan, give her a leg-up, there’s a good lad.’

  On cue and with a wink and an exaggerated bow, Stan Tankard was on hand to lead Violet up the small set of wooden steps at the back of the float.

  ‘Violet, where’ve you been?’ Kathy sighed accusingly from beneath the arbour. ‘At this rate I thought I should have to stand in for you.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’ With a chirpy smile to disguise her nerves, Violet settled herself onto a faded throne borrowed for the occasion from the props department of the Hadley Players.

  ‘It won’t rain, will it?’ Winnie asked Wilf, who was raring to go. She looked anxiously at some wispy clouds gathered around the spire of St Luke’s church on the brow of the steep hill.

  ‘What am I, a bleeding oracle?’ the brewery man grumbled.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ Winnie retorted, dressed for the occasion in her best pale blue crêpe de Chine day dress and straw hat. ‘Are you all set?’ she called up at Violet, who nodded.

  Standing cheek by jowl with Winnie on the crowded pavement, several bystanders issued loud verdicts on this year’s Gala Queen.

  ‘Blooming lovely,’ one old chap commented to young Stan who had removed the wooden steps. ‘If I was your age, I’d be bagging the last waltz with her at the church hall later on tonight.’

  ‘Who says I haven’t already?’ Stan winked back. ‘Young Violet’s as pretty as a picture.’ A stout, middle-aged neighbour sighed wistfully, no doubt recalling her own glory days.

  ‘If you ask me, she’s skimped on material for the dress,’ her less charitable friend complained. ‘She’ll be nithered if the wind gets up.’

  A beaming Winnie was deaf to criticism. ‘Good luck, love!’ she told her niece, as the horses took the strain and moved away from the kerb.

  Violet breathed deeply and smiled down at her aunt. Then she raised her gloved ha
nd and gave her first queenly wave of the day.

  Despite Winnie Wheeler’s fears, the sun shone on the Whit Monday procession as it set off up Chapel Street led by the sturdy Clydesdale horses and the float carrying the Gala Queen and her attendants. It was followed by a Sally Army brass band oompahing until the windows rattled in the small terraced houses and shops either side of the narrow, cobbled street. Then, striding out after the band, came a gaggle of Sunday School children in fancy dress for the traditional parade, tripping up over Wee Willie Winkie nightshirts and Little Bo Peep hooped skirts. Hard on their heels were pupils from Lowtown Junior School dressed as rats, capering up the street after a harlequin-clad Pied Piper.

  Up the hill they paraded, past Sykes’ bakery and Hutchinson’s grocery shop to the junction with Overcliffe Road where a breeze swept down from the moors, lifting the delicate hem of the Gala Queen’s dress and making the ribbons of the dray horses’ rosettes flutter gaily in the breeze.

  ‘Not bad.’ Sybil Dacre’s comment unknowingly echoed Winnie’s teasing put-down of her niece. She and Evie Briggs sheltered from the wind in the doorway to Chapel Street Costumiers. Their special-occasion dress shop had been set up two years earlier by Sybil herself, with Annie Pearson and Evie’s oldest sister, Lily. The successful enterprise was situated next to the Wesleyan chapel in what used to be Henshaw’s haberdashers, and it was with an expert eye that the two needlewomen took in the details of the Gala Queen’s dress. ‘That bodice is nicely cut on the bias to show off Violet’s figure.’

  ‘I recognize the pattern,’ Evie declared as they stepped out of the doorway to follow the float towards the Common. ‘It’s from this summer season’s catalogue.’

  ‘You’re right, it is. And I’ll bet the rayon is from the market. I spotted something similar on a stall there last month.’

  ‘Violet must have sewn it herself.’

  ‘With back-up from Winnie, I expect.’ Sybil knew how much their neighbour from Brewery Road doted on her orphan niece. ‘Anyhow, between them they’ve made a good job of it.’

  ‘Toot-toot, stand back!’ Stan honked a horn fixed to the handlebars of his bike as he wove and wobbled through the crowd. He was in a race with his pal, Eddie Thomson, to be first onto the Common, ready to hand Violet and her attendants down from their float.

  ‘May the best man win.’ Eddie had accepted the challenge at the bottom of Chapel Street. He’d laughed to see Stan sneak off down a side alley to miss the crowd, only to re-emerge near the top of the street, back into the hurly-burly just a few yards ahead of him.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, Violet!’ Stan roared above the Onward Christian Soldiers growl of Sally Army bassoons and the roll of drums. ‘Yoo-hoo, Your Majesty!’

  The queen for the day made out his smooth dark hair and sharp-featured face flushed from cycling uphill and gave a slow, regal wave. He was a card, was Stan, with his car klaxon and booming voice, wobbling alongside and resting one hand on the side of the float.

  ‘Remember to save me that dance later on!’ he called now. ‘Waltz, foxtrot, quickstep – whatever you like.’

  ‘And me!’ Eddie yelled from further down the road. But his voice was lost in the hullabaloo.

  Anyway, it was impossible for Violet to give either Stan or Eddie an answer because with a jolt across the pavement Wilf had turned the horses onto the Common and she was greeted with a loud hurrah from the crowd awaiting her arrival. There were men and women in their Sunday best, a sea of smiling faces under caps and berets, cloche hats and jaunty straw boaters, the men in heavy jackets despite the sunny weather but the women in bright cotton dresses with frilled collars, lace and bows.

  ‘Would you credit it?’ A daunted Kathy took in the sight of the people jostling for a view in front of craft stalls, roundabouts, fortune-tellers and coconut shies. ‘Here’s everyone and his aunt!’

  Little June and Mabel Clough turned uncertainly to Violet. June looked as if she might burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t be put off.’ Violet took a twin in each hand and coaxed them towards a waiting Stan as they made ready to descend the float. ‘Look at me – cool as a cucumber, never mind that people are staring at us. Just think like a princess and give them a wave.’

  ‘That’s right, Princess June!’ Stan swung the little girl to the ground while Eddie came up for her sister. ‘You two wait there until we fetch their ladyships.’

  ‘Me first.’ Kathy nipped in front of Violet. When the hem of her dress caught in her heel, Kathy let Stan reach up to disentangle it, making sure he got a good view of her ankle and silk-stockinged calf.

  ‘Violet?’ Eddie was ready with a steadying hand but she scarcely noticed him, for she’d spied her aunt toiling across the rough grass.

  ‘Yoo-hoo – over here, Aunty Winnie! Where’s Uncle Donald? I haven’t spotted him.’

  ‘He’s here somewhere. At any rate, he should be. He dressed up in his Sunday best to mark the occasion.’ Breathless, overheated, but still brimming with pride, Winnie supervised Violet’s descent from her arbour. ‘That’s right, Eddie – careful now. Keep her well away from that horse muck. Don’t land her in the puddle, there’s a good chap. That’s it, take your time.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Wheeler, don’t you worry.’ As far as Eddie was concerned, he could have spent the whole afternoon lifting Violet down from the float. Then there would have been minutes to enjoy the feel of his hands around her slim waist, hours to breathe in her perfume and face powder as he lowered her to the ground.

  But all too soon Kathy spoiled the moment by letting Violet know that the lady mayoress had arrived early. ‘Her Ladyship’s twiddling her thumbs by the band stand, waiting to plonk the crown on your head.’

  Then Stan intervened too – ‘Better not keep Madam waiting,’ – and Eddie had to step right back.

  Violet was gone in her cloud of lily of the valley, attended by Kathy and the little ones – and he, Eddie, was tongue tied and rooted to the spot, condemned to continue his worship from afar.

  As it turned out, Violet felt that the crowning ceremony was a bit of a let-down. The lady mayoress, a sour-faced woman wearing a fox fur stole over her navy blue clutch coat and self-importantly sporting her chain of office, performed her VIP role with bad grace – Kathy’s description of her ‘plonking’ the crown on Violet’s head was spot on. Then she made a short speech telling everyone how lucky they were to have a town council generous enough to lavish money on the bank holiday celebrations. After all, times were hard – roads still needed sweeping, the ash pits had to be emptied and street lights lit. There was muted, grudging applause as the dignitary had her say then she turned to her chauffeur to engineer an immediate exit.

  ‘It looks like somebody got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ Kathy muttered to Violet as the gleaming limousine carried the mayoress across the Common onto Overcliffe Road.

  ‘Yes, and this crown is heavy and it hurts my head.’ Violet would have preferred to stick with the silk lilies but it seemed she had no choice. ‘How long do I have to keep it on?’ she asked Winnie, who was close at hand as always.

  ‘Until after you’ve judged the fancy dress,’ her aunt insisted, adjusting the bothersome crown.

  ‘But that’s ages. The children all have to eat their cakes and orange juice first.’

  ‘Chin up, there’s a good girl. Come along, June and Mabel. Line up behind Violet and Kathy.’

  ‘Hey up, Violet – try to look as if you’re enjoying it,’ Stan advised laughingly as he and Eddie dashed by with fresh sacks of coconuts for the shy. They’d both got rid of their jackets, unfastened the top buttons of their shirts and had the wind in their sails as they delivered the coconuts then sped on to try their skill at the rifle range.

  ‘When can we ride the donkeys?’ Mabel tugged at Kathy’s skirt as she and June fell into line behind the grown-ups. She cast lingering looks across the Common at school friends hopping into the saddle and kicking their beasts into reluctant action.

  ‘Aft
er!’ Kathy said crossly.

  ‘After what?’ June whined.

  ‘After we’ve walked round the stalls, listened to the band play and judged the fancy dress – that’s what.’

  ‘Smile!’ Violet told the girls. Then she reminded herself to wave at her Uncle Donald, head and shoulders above the crowd, unmistakable with his slicked-back grey hair, trim moustache and neat silver tie pin.

  Inscrutable as always, he acknowledged his niece’s wave with a slight nod of his head.

  Was he proud of her or embarrassed about the attention she was drawing to herself? Violet couldn’t tell. She walked on with her attendants, past the pie and peas stall, deafened by the Sally Army in the centre of a circle of straw bales set out for people to sit on. There was a green, earthy smell of crushed grass, hot pies, brandy snaps and candyfloss. Smile, she told herself. Chin up and smile!

  ‘That’s more like it!’ Stan popped up again, waiting in front of Eddie in the queue for Gypsy Rose Lee.

  ‘Eddie Thomson, you’re never going to get your fortune told?’ Kathy paused to poke fun.

  ‘It’s Stan who wants to do it, not me.’ Eddie gave an embarrassed cough then quickly stepped out of the line.

  ‘Eddie Thomson, look no further!’ Stan crowed in a high-pitched, mysterious fortune-teller’s voice. ‘Today, here at the gala, you will meet the girl of your dreams!’

  ‘Very funny,’ Eddie muttered as he backed away. ‘Look where you’re going!’ a warning voice yelled from behind.

  Too late – Eddie had come up against one of the straw bales, lost his balance and only just saved himself from landing on his backside in front of Violet.

  Thankfully the Gala Queen and her followers glided on, oblivious.

  ‘What’s up, Ed?’ Stan joshed. ‘You’ve turned red as a beetroot.’

  That was it – Eddie had had enough. A chap could fall out with Stan Tankard at times like this – Stan who was always winking and joking and putting himself first, forever making you feel small in front of people. ‘I’m off,’ Eddie said, turning on his heel.

  ‘Where to?’