The Shop Girls of Chapel Street

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Then what does it tell us?’ Confirmation of the suspicions that Violet had harboured since her last talk with Uncle Donald put her mind in a spin.

  ‘That Tankard ran away and they never managed to recapture him,’ Muriel explained. ‘He left his comrades on the field of battle. I’m afraid that’s a big black mark against him in anybody’s book.’

  That evening Violet arranged with Eddie for him to bring Stan up to Overcliffe Common to meet her there.

  ‘What’s wrong with the Green Cross?’ a mystified Stan had asked when Eddie had met him outside Kingsley’s. ‘I’ve put in a full day today. A man works up a thirst after ten hours of fine-tuning looms.’

  ‘Violet wants a word in private,’ Eddie had explained. ‘We can call in at the Cross later, if you like.’

  So at half past six in what was left of the daylight, the threesome embarked on a walk across the rough grass towards the far boundary of the Common, with a view of Little Brimstone and the moor beyond.

  ‘Sorry to drag you out here, Stan, but this won’t take long,’ she assured him. ‘It’s just … I’ve taken the trouble to find out more about our father.’

  ‘Who art in heaven,’ Stan quipped uneasily. He used his tried-and-tested weapon of flippancy to hide the storm of conflicting emotions that Violet’s recent revelation had awakened.

  Eddie frowned and gave him a warning look.

  ‘It’s bad news but Eddie and I talked it through and we thought you ought to know,’ Violet continued. ‘He is your father as well as mine, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘Is or was?’ Stan quibbled over the detail. He slowed his pace and gave a quick shake of his head, as if a fly was bothering him.

  ‘Is,’ Eddie confirmed. ‘It turns out he wasn’t killed by the Germans, Stan.’

  ‘Come off it,’ Stan muttered resentfully as he thrust his hands in his trouser pockets.

  ‘We’re serious. I went with Muriel to the library. She helped me look up the army records. They showed that Douglas Tankard went absent without leave.’

  ‘When?’ Stan demanded more details.

  ‘In May 1915, just a couple of months after he joined up.’

  Stan’s frown deepened. ‘Running away was what the bastard was best at,’ he said savagely.

  ‘We knew you wouldn’t like it and I don’t blame you,’ Eddie said. ‘But when you stop to think about it, absent without leave could mean a few things. Sometimes they were men who got captured by the enemy but then they would show up later as prisoners of war and that would be entered on the record. Others were wounded and were carted off to field hospitals, but likewise that would be written up afterwards.’

  ‘That’s how we can be sure that he ran off on purpose,’ Violet added.

  ‘So for all we know he skedaddled and could still be alive.’ Stan gritted his teeth and kicked aimlessly at a rough piece of turf. He thought back to the years of hand-to-mouth struggle when he was a small, skinny schoolboy – the one at the back of the class with holes in his shoes, no coat and an empty belly, who ran errands after school for the halfpenny that would buy him two bread buns to take home – one each for him and his mother.

  ‘He could,’ Violet acknowledged. More than anything, she felt sorry now for upsetting Stan. ‘Maybe I should’ve kept it to myself.’

  Stan stared at the ground. ‘Bastard,’ he said again. Then, still shaking his head, he took his hands from his pockets and turned his back on the emptiness of the moor. ‘Come on, you two – how about that drink? It’s on me.’

  The Green Cross was busy as usual. Chalky White stood behind the bar with sleeves rolled up, pulling pints as fast as he could. While Stan elbowed his way through the noisy crowd, Eddie and Violet found a corner table to sit at.

  ‘I should have kept quiet,’ Violet muttered. She’d spent the time during the walk down to Ghyll Road regretting her decision to involve her half-brother.

  ‘You know Stan – he won’t stay down in the dumps for long. And he deserved to know,’ Eddie reassured her. ‘Look at him now, chatting ten to the dozen with Alf Shipley and Kenneth Leach.’

  Sure enough, Stan was deep in conversation and when he brought the drinks across to Violet and Eddie, he dragged the Barlows’ driver and the local handyman with him.

  ‘What now?’ From the lively expression on his pal’s face, Eddie sensed a fresh turn of events.

  Stan settled the glasses on the table then nudged Alf. ‘Tell ’em.’

  Even out of uniform, Alf Shipley retained his military air. Head tilted to emphasize the square set of his jaw and with shoulders back, he could have stepped straight off the parade ground. ‘You’re looking at a man fresh out of work,’ he announced without any lead in, while Kenneth stood by shaking his head. ‘That’s right – Barlow gave me my marching orders.’

  ‘Or, to be more accurate, it was Mrs Barlow who blew her top,’ Kenneth added. ‘I was there to change a washer on the kitchen tap so I saw what happened.’

  ‘Blow me down.’ Eddie made room for the two men to sit at the table. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Earlier today.’ Alf seemed philosophical. ‘She near as damn it tore the uniform off my back and sent me packing.’

  ‘All over nothing.’ Kenneth made a good witness to events. ‘She’d had a barney with her friend Ella Kingsley. I was in the kitchen. They were next door in the breakfast room and I heard Mrs Barlow weeping and wailing like she does then screaming her head off. I don’t know the ins and outs but it ended with Mrs Kingsley driving off and Mrs B storming into the kitchen, yelling for Alf to bring the car to the door.’

  Alf took up the story. ‘It was in the garage and by the time I’d brought the Daimler round to the front of the house she was beside herself, calling me all the names under the sun for slacking. I was sacked on the spot. Kenneth was caught in the cross fire and she sent him packing too.’

  ‘So here we are.’ A gloomy Kenneth drowned his sorrows in his pint glass.

  Eddie and Stan commiserated while Violet pictured the scene at Bilton Grange and wondered what had caused the argument between Ella Kingsley and Alice Barlow, tuning in again when Alf offered his opinion.

  ‘If you ask me, it’s what happens when problems between a man and his wife run out of control. Everyone else takes the flak.’

  At the mention of Colin Barlow, Violet was suddenly alert, but she held back from drawing attention to herself. Luckily, Eddie stepped in and asked questions for her.

  ‘Why, what’s Colin Barlow up to now?’

  ‘Word is that he’s taken up with another of the young lasses that works for him.’ The hitherto inscrutable Alf made no bones about his ex-boss’s philandering. ‘Someone must have let the cat out of the bag. My guess is that the reason for Mrs Kingsley’s visit earlier today was to put Mrs Barlow in the picture.’

  Violet felt her stomach lurch but neither she nor Eddie passed comment. It was Stan who said what they all felt. ‘You’d feel more sorry for Alice Barlow if she wasn’t such a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘It’s hard to have any sympathy,’ Alf agreed. ‘I’ve been on the sharp end of her tongue once too often. Do it this way. No, do it that way. Job or no job, I’m glad to be free of the woman, believe you me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As was the way with the mill workers and labourers who lived, worked and loved in the rabbit warren of terraced streets nearby, the mourners at Donald Wheeler’s funeral chose to remember the man in his prime. They overlooked the last few months of his life and were sincere in talking about him as a faithful husband and an honest, reliable neighbour.

  ‘In the good old days you could always go to Donald for a favour,’ Marjorie reminded Ben Hutchinson after the service. There were fifty people gathered in the room behind the chapel where, with Violet’s agreement, Marjorie had laid on a spread at her own expense – sandwiches, scones and cake. ‘He’d let you have anything from the loan of a cup of sugar to a free haircut if you’d had a bad week money-wise
. Donald knew from experience what that was like.’

  ‘He never touched a drop of alcohol, even at Christmas,’ Ben recalled. ‘He was a man who held to his principles, was Donald.’

  Violet heard more along the same lines as she mingled with familiar faces, always making sure that she knew whereabouts Eddie was in the room as a kind of anchor for her own movements. She would glance over at him and he would smile.

  Teaspoons clinked against saucers, the urn hissed, the afternoon drifted on.

  ‘I’m proud of you – you’ve got through today with flying colours,’ Stan told her when he joined her. He and Eddie had volunteered to act as pall bearers and his dark suit and crisp white collar showed that he’d made an effort for the occasion.

  ‘Thank you.’ She was in a daze and scarcely took in what he said. From across the room, Eddie smiled again and nodded. He was close to the door, speaking to a lad in a grey jacket and old school cap that had seen better days. The lad was wearing bicycle clips around his trouser bottoms and was handing a small package to Eddie. Eddie beckoned Violet to join him.

  ‘It’s from the hospital,’ he explained, giving the lad a sixpence and sending him on his way.

  It was a brown paper parcel tied with coarse string. A white label was gummed to one corner: Donald Wheeler – personal effects.

  Violet read the label and shuddered.

  ‘Come next door where it’s quiet,’ Eddie suggested. He led the way back into the empty chapel and sat Violet down on the nearest bench.

  She took a deep breath and looked up at the high ceiling then at the white walls and clear, leaded windows. Sunlight flowed in. It fell across rows of plain chairs, each with its red hymn book slotted into a compartment on the back of the seat, onto polished pine floorboards, bringing up the intricate, swirling grain of the wood.

  Eddie placed the parcel on her knee. She untied the knotted string with shaking fingers then methodically folded back the paper.

  Inside was an old-fashioned watch on a chain that Uncle Donald had hardly ever worn. There was an oblong metal box containing a razor and razor blades, a shaving brush and small, pointed scissors to trim moustaches. It lay on top of clothes that he’d been wearing on his admission to hospital – shabby jacket and trousers, black shoes that had taken on the shape of their wearer’s feet, a grey knitted scarf and a cap whose peak was bent and shiny from fingering. A letter without an envelope slipped from Violet’s lap and fluttered onto the floor.

  Eddie stooped to pick up the flimsy paper.

  ‘Read it out,’ Violet whispered, steeling herself to hear what she knew must be her uncle’s last message.

  ‘“Dear Violet, a word before I go. The nurse wants me to rest but there’ll be plenty of time for that where I’m headed.” You’re sure you want me to go on?’ Eddie asked.

  A word before I go. Typical Uncle Donald, to be at death’s door and writing as if he’s taking his cap from the hook and leaving for work. ‘Yes, please,’ she told Eddie.

  ‘“To set the record straight – yes, Joe’s marrying Florence Shaw was a mistake. I should have made more of that when you visited. It was done on the spur of the moment and both regretted it. Joe wasn’t ready to settle down but he was dazzled by your mother’s looks. He asked her and she said yes – don’t ask me why. From what I gathered she had no one to advise her.” The writing’s in pencil – it’s hard to make out.’ Eddie explained the reason why he read so slowly.

  ‘“Joe was in and out of work and what spare money he had went on having a good time. Florence was soon in the family way but it wasn’t to be – the baby was early and stillborn. By that time, Joe had enlisted and left for the Front. She coped with that by herself.”’

  Imagine that. Getting married and knowing that you’ve made a mistake. Your husband seems not to care about you. You hope for a baby to heal the rift but the baby dies in the womb. You’re alone in the world.

  Eddie read on: ‘“There’s more to tell you about Tankard, too. I’m writing it down, just in case. There was a reason that there was no telegram from the War Office and this is it. It’s true that Tankard stepped into Joe’s shoes as far as Florence was concerned. She got pregnant again but it turned out that he didn’t take to the idea of being a father any better than Joe had, so he enlisted but didn’t take to military life either. He lasted a few weeks then he deserted his regiment.”’

  ‘Yes. Go on,’ Violet pleaded when Eddie paused to ask if she was all right.

  ‘“I found this out straight after Winnie died. She wouldn’t let me pry into things while she was alive, but the question ate away at me all those years – what had happened to Tankard? I got my answer by coming into Welby in the days after Winnie’s funeral and making enquiries. I found out where his family was from, the house he’d been brought up in and if anyone was still alive who knew him. A man can desert the army and hope to vanish for good, but it’s not that easy. So, Violet – I found an address.”’

  She took the letter from Eddie. The faint, scrawled words swam in front of her eyes. Wesley House, Albert Road, Welby. She handed it back. ‘Read me the rest,’ she pleaded.

  ‘“The odd thing is, curiosity drove me to track Tankard down but when it came to it I didn’t follow it through. Don’t ask me why. I kept putting it off, telling myself maybe tomorrow or the day after. But now there are no more tomorrows for me, Violet, so I hand it over to you – for you to decide.

  ‘“One more thing: if I haven’t been fair to you in your life, I’m sorry. If I’ve hurt you, I hope you can forgive me. The truth is Winnie was the only one who mattered to me. Sharing her with you was sometimes more than I could manage. She is the one you have to thank for all the good things in your life. Goodbye now and God bless again. Love from Uncle Donald.”’

  Without a moment’s hesitation Muriel and Ida agreed to Violet’s request to take the next morning off work.

  ‘I know you won’t rest until you’ve followed this up,’ Ida acknowledged when Violet showed her Donald’s letter. ‘We can manage without you for a few hours.’

  ‘Why not wait until Eddie is free to go with you?’ Muriel suggested. ‘I’m worried about you going all the way over to Welby on your own.’

  ‘He did offer but I’ve asked Stan to come with me instead,’ Violet replied as steadily as she could. Though it was only eight o’clock and the Jubilee blinds were still down, she was ready in her smart red dress, green jacket and hat.

  Ida was dubious. ‘Was Eddie happy about you doing that?’

  ‘Yes. He sees that this is more to do with Stan than him.’

  ‘And what about Stan?’ Muriel asked. ‘I can’t imagine him champing at the bit to track down a man who left him and his mother high and dry.’

  ‘He wasn’t keen at first but he says he’ll do it for my sake.’

  Violet was anxious to leave. With a hurried goodbye, she stepped out of the shop and turned left onto Brewery Road. From there she wove through the back streets onto Canal Road, hurrying to reach Stan’s lodgings by half past, as arranged.

  The main road was busy as always with trams, cars, bicycles and buses, and the roar and clatter from Kingsley’s Mill in full swing made her press on even more quickly. Then came the Victory, its doors closed, with a caretaker mopping the steps, next to Barlow’s, where the familiar maroon Daimler was parked at the kerb.

  Violet’s heart lurched at the unlucky coincidence. She made a snap decision to cross the road to escape notice but hadn’t found a gap in the traffic before the passenger door opened and Alice Barlow stepped out and ran towards her.

  ‘You again!’ Mrs Barlow took hold of Violet by the wrist and pulled her away from the kerb. ‘I might have known.’

  Held in a tight grip, Violet tried to wrench herself free. ‘Let go of me,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I knew he was up to something. He was in a hurry to leave the house without me and now I see why. But I wasn’t having it.’

  ‘Mrs Barlow, I’ve no idea what you’re tal
king about.’ Violet wrenched free and rubbed the skin on her wrist. Close up, she saw that Alice Barlow’s eyes were red and puffy and that she was without makeup.

  ‘Not so fast. I know your game.’

  ‘Please – I’m not playing any games. I’ve arranged to meet someone.’

  ‘Yes, and don’t I know who!’ There was wild triumph in Alice Barlow’s expression. ‘Caught red-handed – you and my husband. Why else would you come trotting down here first thing in the morning? He’s cowering in there now, hoping you’d have the gumption to make yourself scarce as soon as you spotted me. But I was too quick for you both!’

  Shamed by the tawdriness of the situation, Violet let out a groan. ‘Once and for all, Mrs Barlow, I’ve never gone near your husband of my own free will. He’s been in the wrong from start to finish and if you must know, after that time at Ash Tree House he’s lucky that I didn’t go to the police.’

  Violet’s retaliation sent Alice Barlow into an even greater frenzy. ‘You think you’re special,’ she screeched. ‘You suppose you’re so good-looking that no man can resist you; well, let me tell you – you’re just the latest in a long line.’

  ‘I am not in anyone’s line,’ Violet insisted, trying both to keep her dignity and to push her adversary out of the way but finding that she was trapped in the shop doorway.

  ‘The latest and the last,’ Alice Barlow vowed. ‘I’ve told Colin it has to stop. No more cheap flings. Do you know his reply? He said that if I knew what was good for me I would keep quiet and count myself lucky. Lucky!’

  ‘I’m sorry, this is nothing to do with me.’ Summoning her strength, Violet succeeded in pushing free, just as the door behind her opened and Colin Barlow emerged.

  His wife flew at him. She barged past Violet and pummelled his chest, letting out infuriated grunts while he let the ineffectual punches rain down.

  ‘You see what I have to put up with,’ he said to Violet, eyebrows raised and with a smile hovering on his lips.