The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘He hasn’t got over Aunty Winnie,’ Violet explained. ‘He’s not been himself lately.’

  ‘Good for you, love, for sticking up for him,’ was Marjorie’s response. ‘And I promise I’ll keep my ears open for you. If I hear of a room going begging I’ll be sure to let you know.’

  This was the pattern throughout the afternoon – customers coming in and offering sympathy, badmouthing money-grabbing landlords and telling Violet that a similar thing had happened to a cousin or a friend. ‘Don’t you worry, love, you may be out on your ear but people don’t end up without a roof over their heads, not round here,’ was the general opinion, which was some comfort to Violet but didn’t bring her closer to a concrete solution.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Ben Hutchinson told her more than once as closing time drew near. ‘With a face like that you’ll curdle the milk.’

  Forcing a smile for the mill workers who poured out of Calvert’s and Kingsley’s and called in for pork pies and cured ham for their teas, Violet was relieved to stay busy. She served potted beef to Frank Bielby, Wensleydale cheese to Kathy and Jacob’s Cream Crackers to Alf Shipley, dressed in the pale grey uniform that the Barlows provided, with black gloves tucked into his belt and peaked hat under his arm. Out on the street she caught a glimpse of Colin Barlow himself ensconced on the back seat of his gleaming car, the window wound down to allow him to flick cigarette ash onto the pavement.

  ‘That’ll be nine pence halfpenny,’ Violet told the chauffeur after he’d added more items. He was her last customer and when she followed him out of the shop to raise the awning with the long pole kept by the door, she found herself skewered by the sharp gaze of his boss who had stepped out of the car to grind the stub of his cigarette into the pavement.

  From under the brim of his fawn trilby hat Barlow looked her up and down, taking in her blue apron and rolled-up sleeves, clearly not concerned that his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. ‘Weren’t you this year’s Gala Queen?’

  ‘I was,’ she answered, red in the face and awkwardly holding the pole in both hands.

  ‘Hmm,’ the shop owner concluded with a shake of his head. Alf Shipley held open the door and Barlow got back in the car.

  What did he mean by ‘hmm’? Violet wanted to know. Did he mean that he was disappointed to see that the glamorous Whitsuntide Queen turned out to be a lowly shop girl, because that’s what she’d read into it. Anyway, who was Colin Barlow to lord it over people, or any of the mill bosses and shop owners round here, for that matter? Violet hadn’t been brought up to kowtow and just because she served cream crackers and Colman’s mustard to the man’s chauffeur, she wasn’t about to start.

  Still tetchy over the Barlow incident, Violet was inside the shop taking off her apron when Muriel rapped her knuckles against the glass panel and Violet unbolted the door. ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed – it’s gone half five,’ she began but Muriel breezed in and spoke over her.

  ‘Eddie told us what’s been going on so I went and had a word with Wilf Fullerton down at the brewery. He’s promised to line up the horses and cart ready for your removals.’

  ‘When?’ Violet asked, taken aback by Muriel’s energetic manner.

  ‘Tomorrow teatime, of course. That’s when you have to be out of number eleven, isn’t it? Wilf says the best thing is to take the furniture straight down to Manby’s on Canal Road. He reckons it should fetch a few pounds at auction.’

  ‘Hadn’t I better ask Uncle Donald first?’ Violet put in. ‘He might have other ideas.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Muriel said abruptly, letting her low opinion of Violet’s uncle show through. ‘But yes, you should probably check. Anyway, we’ll have Wilf standing by. And now I want you to come down to Jubilee with me. Is that all right with you, Ben?’

  Huffing, puffing and chuntering his way towards the storeroom to hang up his brown shopkeeper’s overall, Hutchinson gave his permission for Violet to leave work. ‘I want you here at half past eight sharp, though,’ he reminded her. ‘Move or no move.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ she promised, flying out of the shop after an eager Muriel.

  The heat of the late-afternoon sun hung heavy over the grey terraced houses and seemed to radiate from the stone pavement as the two young women hurried down the hill. They passed three girls chanting a rhyme and playing a skipping game, then Arthur Briggs and another boy, both in school caps and short trousers, dragging a go-cart out of the alley. Muriel almost tripped over the cart in her haste to reach Jubilee.

  And there was Ida waiting in the shop doorway and beckoning them inside. The shop bell tinkled as Muriel pushed Violet through the door then closed it, shutting out the noise from the street. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,’ Ida promised, her lively features showing that she was scarcely able to hold back the surprise that lay in store.

  Her new short haircut added to her boyish air, Violet decided, yet there was still a girlish slimness and elegance to her figure that men must find attractive. Beside the more conventional Muriel, Ida looked very modern indeed.

  ‘Come on, Violet, have you lost your tongue?’ Ida urged. ‘Don’t you want to know what this is about?’

  ‘Muriel already told me that Wilf is willing to lend a hand with clearing the furniture,’ Violet explained.

  ‘And Eddie,’ Ida added. ‘He’ll be there to lift the heavy things – wardrobes and such like. But that’s not why Muriel dragged you down here.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ Despite the confusion, Violet kept in mind how much she had to do at home – packing ornaments and household items such as the iron, kettle, crockery, cutlery and last but not least her sewing machine, though what she would do with them she had as yet no idea.

  ‘No. We’ve been chewing things over, Muriel and I, ever since Eddie put us in the picture first thing this morning.’ Ida smiled from ear to ear and practically hugged herself over the secret she was about to divulge.

  ‘Let me put the poor girl out of her misery,’ Muriel broke in, looking almost as pleased as Ida.

  ‘No, it was my idea. I’ll tell her.’

  Violet looked from one to the other then at the fabric stacked on the shelf by the door, then at the white kid gloves and lace hankies on the counter and finally at the plaster bust in the corner wearing the latest style of hat – a Garbo ‘Empress Eugenie’, fitting close to the head and tilted over one eye. They want to give me more to do, she decided. Perhaps they’ll try me out on millinery work, sewing feathers onto hat bands, that kind of thing.

  ‘As I say, Muriel and I have talked this through carefully,’ Ida continued. ‘We’ve considered the pitfalls. It would make things quite crowded for a start and we’d have to be careful not to tread on each other’s toes.’

  ‘What would?’ Violet didn’t understand.

  ‘And we could only afford to go without rent if you agreed to carry on doing extra sewing work for us whenever we happen to need it.’

  Without rent? Violet thought she must be being especially stupid but she still couldn’t work out exactly what was on offer.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ Ida said, seizing her by the hand. She led the way, with Violet in the middle and Muriel close behind, up the narrow stairs and along the landing, turning left at the bottom of the attic stairs and arriving in a tiny room with just enough space for a single bed with a bare mattress and a wicker chair.

  ‘Yours if you want it,’ Muriel told an astonished Violet.

  ‘Mine?’ Violet queried.

  ‘Yes or no?’ Ida asked.

  It took Violet a little while to take in the bare boards and faded sprigged wallpaper, the rickety legs of the chair, the mattress that was sunk in the middle. She saw that the iron fireplace-surround needed black-leading to bring it back to life and that the window overlooking the cobbled brewery yard was dim with cobwebs and grime. ‘Are you saying I can live here?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘It’s not much, I agree,’ Muriel conceded, doubt entering her mind. ‘But you could soon freshen it up wit
h curtains and a pretty bedspread.’

  Impatient for an answer, Ida paced the landing then peered back into the room.

  It struck Violet like a lightning bolt – this meant there would be no knocking at doors on the worst stretches of Canal Road, no heart-sinking viewing of cellar rooms shared with rats and spiders, no bumping into strangers in the dark on the way to an outside toilet. Instead she, Violet Wheeler, would be living above her favourite shop, a close neighbour to satin ribbons and silk stockings, Lastex girdles and hat mannequins. And all this was thanks to Eddie, Ida and Muriel.

  She took a deep breath. ‘It’s smashing,’ she murmured in a choked voice.

  ‘You’ll take it?’ A beaming Ida linked arms with Muriel and together they waited for Violet’s reply.

  ‘Like a shot,’ she told them through her tears. ‘Thank you, Ida. Thank you, Muriel. I can’t wait to move in!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Violet arrived home to find that an empty tea chest had miraculously arrived on the doorstep of number 11, much to the delight of a small boy with curly red hair who had decided to climb inside and hide.

  ‘Hop it,’ she told him when he peered out to check the whereabouts of his fellow hide-and-seekers.

  The lad scrambled out and took to his heels, leaving Violet to unlock the door and cart the tea chest into the corridor. It could stay there, she decided, while she had a bite to eat then began to collect together Winnie’s ornaments and framed photographs, ready for moving. She would wrap everything carefully in newspaper then pack items she wanted to take with her in the chest – whatever would fit in, including the blue and white crockery, the linen tablecloth and if possible the clock from the kitchen mantelpiece.

  She set about her task methodically, trying to ignore sharp pangs of regret and the sensation that a loved one’s life didn’t add up to much when it came to it – just a pair of Staffordshire dogs, a Minton vase and a couple of photos in silver frames. It was only when she came to Winnie’s sewing box in the front room and opened it to find the embroidery silks she’d bought for her still wrapped in their white tissue paper that she could fend off the sadness no longer and she sat down and wept.

  I’ll take the two sewing boxes – Aunty Winnie’s and mine – with me to Chapel Street, she decided as she blew her nose and pulled herself together. I’m sure the needles and scissors will come in handy for a start. Then she turned on the wireless, hoping for cheerful tunes to brighten up an evening that had turned to grey skies and drizzle. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice her Uncle Donald appear in the doorway. He stood there a while without speaking and startled her when she came out into the corridor with more ornaments for the chest.

  ‘You look done in,’ she said, taking in his dishevelled appearance. His jacket was rain soaked and his shirt collarless, his moustache badly in need of a trim. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Out,’ he said as he edged past the tea chest. It was obvious that there was no more to be said.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Violet offered. ‘I haven’t packed the kitchen things yet and there’s milk in the pantry.’

  Donald shook his head and trudged on down the corridor.

  Violet followed him to the foot of the stairs. ‘Have you found somewhere to live?’

  He stopped with one foot on the bottom step. ‘What if I have?’

  ‘I’m glad, that’s all. I expect you’ll want to take pans and the kettle with you, and some plates and knives and forks.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ he insisted, taking two more steps before halting again. ‘You can keep the lot.’

  ‘Why? Won’t you need the basics wherever it is you’re going?’ Worrying on his behalf, Violet couldn’t fathom this display of apathy. It was so unlike him to let himself go and not to bother about practical things.

  ‘I said no, didn’t I?’ He went on up the stairs and into his bedroom, where Violet found him at the window, staring down into the yard.

  ‘Muriel and Ida have offered me their spare room above the drapers,’ she informed him. ‘It’s not very big so there won’t be room for much apart from the sewing machine and my personal bits and bobs. Are you sure you won’t want Aunty Winnie’s ornaments, for instance?’

  Slowly Donald turned to look at her. ‘What would I do with ornaments?’ The question came out not as a bad-tempered objection but as a weary appeal from a man worn down by events.

  Violet moved towards him. ‘They might help you remember better times,’ she suggested softly.

  He shook his head but said nothing.

  ‘Uncle Donald, it’ll be all right in a little while, you’ll see. We both have to get used to things and try to carry on, don’t we?’

  ‘Carry on?’ he echoed.

  ‘Without Aunty Winnie.’ There was a pause and a thought struck her. ‘The barber’s shop is still empty. Why not take that up where you left off?’

  He rebuffed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m not going back to that. What’s the point?’

  ‘It’s better than nothing, surely.’

  ‘No.’ Donald was adamant. ‘Not without Win, it’s not.’

  It was a simple, short sentence but Violet saw in it the full reason behind her uncle’s disintegration. It was Winnie’s strength that had supported him and sent him digging on the allotment all those years ago, after he’d lost his job at Welby. And Winnie’s optimism that had seen him through the dark days – her chatter that had sustained him and her faith in him that had kept him on the straight and narrow. She had shored him up and given him a reason to polish his shoes on a morning, put on collar and tie and go out to work. Without her, everything had collapsed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Violet whispered.

  Donald made a strange sound – a choked sob that turned into a dry cough and once more he batted her away. ‘I knew I wouldn’t cope,’ he said. ‘I begged her not to leave me even though I could see what was happening in front of me. Dr Moss realized it as well, the minute he got here, but I still clutched at straws. And Winnie saw it in my eyes. She squeezed my hand and said she was sorry.’

  Pinned to the spot and hardly able to breathe, Violet knew she had to let her uncle have his say.

  ‘You know it was Winnie’s idea to take you on. I was against it from the start.’

  At the sudden switch of topic, Violet took in a sharp breath and pressed her lips together. I’m your brother’s child, she wanted to cry. Not a stranger, but flesh and blood.

  ‘It was too much to ask of me and she knew it. But she did it anyway.’ Speaking in a low voice, Donald’s gaze was unwavering as he got off his chest what he’d felt for going on twenty years.

  ‘But you agreed,’ she reminded him, desperate for a drop of comfort.

  ‘No, I never did – not in my heart of hearts.’

  The full force of her uncle’s rejection struck Violet like a blow to the chest but in a strange way she felt relieved. ‘I won’t be a burden to you,’ she promised. ‘I’ll make my own way in life from now on, don’t you worry.’

  Donald gave a dismissive nod and remained silent.

  ‘From tomorrow I’m a free agent. Wilf Fullerton is coming at teatime to cart the furniture away to Manby’s. They’ll need an address to send you any money it makes.’

  ‘Tell them I’ll call in and collect it when I’m ready.’

  The practical arrangements over and done with, neither Donald nor Violet found anything more to say. ‘Goodnight then,’ she murmured, backing out across the landing to her own room.

  He didn’t reply.

  Violet shut her door and lay down on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, convinced that she wouldn’t rest. Misery settled over her like a pall on this, her last night on Brewery Road. Rain splashed against the window panes, the house creaked as if ghostly footsteps trod up the stairs and along the landing. At three o’clock in the morning her eyes closed and she drifted into a dream-filled sleep.

&n
bsp; It was already light when Violet awoke with a start. She knew in an instant that Donald was gone.

  Good riddance, she told herself. At least there would be no awkward goodbyes.

  Up and dressed by the time the knocker-up for Calvert’s Mill came down the street rattling mill workers’ window panes, she spent the time before work placing items in the chest then methodically folding her clothes and packing them in her aunt’s brown suitcase, which she found under the bed in the front bedroom. At quarter past eight she was ready to leave the house.

  Nine hours of stacking and weighing, sweeping and wiping later, Violet finished work and returned to the house on Brewery Road for the last time. She found two Clydesdales standing patiently at the kerb, with Wilf, Harold and Eddie perched on the back of the empty cart.

  ‘Here she is with the key at last,’ Wilf grumbled. ‘We’ve been here ages, twiddling our thumbs.’

  While Violet unlocked the door, the blinkered horses stamped their heavy feet and ignored a small group of children who had gathered to pet and admire them. ‘Ta for doing this, Wilf,’ she told the brewery man, whose grumpiness hid a heart of gold. ‘And Harold, ta very much.’

  ‘We don’t mind, do we, Eddie?’ Ida’s fiancé was the first to follow Violet over the threshold. ‘Not if it gets us off painting scenery for the evening. Where do you want this tea chest, then? Is it going to Manby’s with the rest?’

  ‘No. You can drop it off at Jubilee, along with the sewing machine, ta.’

  ‘Rightio, we’ll put them at the back of the cart, ready to drop off first.’ Harold and Wilf sprang into action while Eddie stayed in the hallway to have a quiet word with Violet.

  ‘I see that the chest came in handy,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I might have known it was you who organized that,’ she replied, smiling back and giving his cheek a quick peck. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Mind out, you two love birds!’ Harold cried, backing towards them carrying the kitchen table with Wilf at the other end.

  They blushed and made room, then joined in with the loading work. Out of the front door and down the three worn steps went kitchen chairs and the food-safe from the pantry, the fireside chair and mangle, all bound for the auction. From the front room they took the horsehair sofa, the set of shelves and two framed pictures, then they moved upstairs for the bed frames and mattresses, the chests of drawers and the wash stand with the old-fashioned pitcher and ewer. This left only the wardrobe in Winnie and Donald’s room, which would require all three men to manhandle down the stairs.