The Shop Girls of Chapel Street (16 page)

It was a warm, cloudy Sunday with the threat of showers but this didn't deter the romantic pair from going out on the Norton as planned – Violet in bottle-green corduroy trousers and a cream pullover, Eddie in sports jacket and his favourite ‘ratting cap' – a flat, checked cap that matched his jacket. They whizzed out of town and up onto the moors, Violet holding on tight as Eddie eased open the throttle and they soared up hill and down dale.

‘Farewell, self-raising flour!' Violet laughed at having to raise her voice above the roar of the engine. ‘Ta-ta, Ringtons tea!'

‘What will old man Hutchinson say?'

‘Not much, I shouldn't think. He'll soon find another slave to weigh out his sugar and slice his ham.' She had no regrets on that score, and no sentimental loyalty towards the old curmudgeon.

Eddie slowed down and leaned the bike into a sharp bend then he stuck out his right hand to indicate that he was pulling across the road to enter the small lay-by. From here there was a sign directing visitors towards the footpath that led to the local beauty spot famed for its spectacular outcrops of odd-shaped, weather-worn boulders. Eddie parked the bike and they set off on foot, feeling the first spots of cool rain on their faces.

‘I know – we'll call in at the café for toasted teacakes.' Violet hit upon a plan for them to stay dry. ‘It's along here a little way. I used to come here with Aunty Winnie.'

They pressed on in single file down a narrow path bordered by wet ferns towards the largest of the rocks and a flat, grassy area where there was a hut selling refreshments, with a view of the valley below.

‘I can picture her face now.' Violet sighed. ‘She used to tell me the tale of how a giant called Brimstone carried these rocks in his leather apron. He scattered them across the hillside while he was running away from his scolding wife and they've lain here ever since.'

‘You've done your aunty proud.' Feeling a rush of warm affection, Eddie stopped to take Violet's hand as they came out into the clearing where the café stood.

‘Yes. She'd have been pleased with my latest news,' Violet agreed. She grimaced then laughed as he leaned forward to kiss her and drips from the peak of his cap splashed onto her face.

Inside they ordered tea and teacakes from Kitty, an ancient lady who had served refreshments there since the year dot. ‘Or at least ever since I've been coming here,' Violet pointed out. Kitty invariably wore a dark brown dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a high, cream lace collar and her hair was pinned up in a style that hadn't been in fashion for thirty or forty years. She showed no more interest in her customers than if they had been flies buzzing and crawling across the window pane.

‘Ta very much,' Eddie said with exaggerated politeness as he carried two teas to a table by the window. It seemed they were the only customers Kitty was likely to have until the rain eased. ‘Just so you know – you're not the only one with prospects,' he told Violet as he sat down opposite. ‘It seems I'm getting on well at the Victory, according to my boss, Mr Ambler.'

‘You mean you've managed to play the reels in the right order so far?' Violet enjoyed teasing Eddie, just to see him colour up. ‘You haven't shown the ending before the beginning?'

‘All in the right order at the right time, with a fifteen-minute interval for ice creams and pop.' He winked then took a loud sip of his tea. ‘We're not doing too badly, you and I. Not when you think I have to show the Pathé News before the feature film and on it I see hundreds of poor blokes joining hunger marches and standing in dole queues that stretch further than you can see. Then there are little kiddies picking over the slag heaps looking for handfuls of coal to keep their families warm of a night and women having to pawn their wedding rings. Between you and me, it makes me wonder what the world is coming to.'

‘I know. We're well off compared to some.' Their conversation turned serious, and it was a chance for Violet to see where Eddie's sympathies lay.

‘I back the unions against Ramsay MacDonald every day of the week, even though he calls himself a Labour man,' he confided. ‘I say a working man deserves a decent wage for his blood, sweat and tears, whatever the bosses tell us about gaps in their order books and the cost of keeping machinery running. And without a union, look what happens: my dad scrapes by with his painting and decorating but he has no one to back him up if customers don't stump up the money on time.'

‘I don't know what the answer is – it's beyond me,' Violet confessed. ‘All I know is, I'm glad to move on from Hutchinson's into something I'm bound to enjoy.'

‘And you'll be good at it, too.' Eddie felt it was time to lighten the mood. ‘Watch out for Ida, though, she can be a right little tyrant.'

‘Don't worry – I'll join a shop workers' union if there is one, and they'll back me up. I'll go to the library with Muriel and learn my rights!'

‘That's the ticket,' he said with a grin. ‘Now where's that teacake? Do I have to go behind the counter and toast it myself?'

Since the discovery of the heart inside the flap of the tiny envelope, Violet had stopped carrying the note with her and stored it back in its blue case in the writing box under her bed. Out of sight, out of mind, had been the intention behind this as she'd hastily tucked it away.

On the last Monday in July, she handed in her notice at the grocer's shop and offered to work out the week until Ben Hutchinson found someone new. On the Tuesday, however, she arrived to find Lizzie Turner already behind the counter with her red hair pinned back and a new, outsized blue apron wrapped around her slim waist.

‘Now, Missy, you can be on your way and good riddance,' Ben Hutchinson told Violet.

Lizzie looked embarrassed until Violet gave her a reassuring wink. ‘You're sure you don't want me to show Lizzie the ropes?' she asked.

‘I'm obliged to you, but I can do that myself.' Without a word of farewell Hutchinson shuffled off into his lair – the stockroom stacked with cardboard boxes, barrels and sacks – and Violet stopped only long enough to wish Lizzie good luck.

‘Stick up for yourself when he's in a bad mood,' she recommended quietly. ‘And don't let him push you around.'

Lizzie squared her shoulders and tried not to sound as apprehensive as she felt. ‘Rightio.'

‘And remember, his bark is worse than his bite,' was Violet's parting shot.

Hutchinson's was in the past and Jubilee was Violet's future. She launched with gusto into the sultry days of August – opening up the attic window to let in some fresh air while she worked at her sewing machine alongside Ida or Muriel, the small workroom humming to the sounds of wheels turning to drive needles through fabric and of treadles rhythmically rocking back and forth. Down below, the shop bell tinkled as customers came in and out.

‘Ida has asked for two shop mannequins to be delivered before we close today,' Muriel informed Violet during one of their spells working together to finish an order for a summer dress for Alice Barlow. ‘One will go in the window to show off our work. The other will stand in the corner next to the rack of zips. Ida thinks there's room for it to fit in there.'

‘We can dress them up in the latest fashions so customers will want to buy what we make,' Violet said, her heart lifting at the prospect.

‘You know we're relying on you for that part.' Muriel snipped and carefully trimmed a shoulder seam.

Bending over her machine, Violet worked her treadle and steered the cornflower-blue fabric under the rapidly jabbing needle. ‘I think we should make a house dress for the mannequin in the window.'

‘I like the sound of that,' Muriel agreed. ‘You choose the pattern and the material then Ida and I will help you make it.'

Downstairs the doorbell sounded then Ida came to the foot of the stairs. ‘Violet, will you come down and lend a hand with this delivery?' she called up to the attic. ‘The mannequins have arrived.'

Violet sped eagerly downstairs to find Ida unwrapping two life-sized, plaster-of-Paris models with the longest necks and legs imaginable and, packed separately, two heads with beautiful, snub-nosed, blank faces painted in the style of Greta Garbo, all arched eyebrows and pouting lips.

‘We'll stash them away in the kitchen until we're ready to dress them.' Ida, too, was excited as she took hold of a headless torso and carried it out of sight.

Violet followed her with the second mannequin, describing to Ida a style of dress she had in mind for the window. ‘Sleeveless, with a V neckline, tailored at the waist and with a wrap-over skirt ending mid-calf.'

‘Something slinky, that moves when you walk?' Ida asked.

‘Yes, but not shiny – that would be for the evening, not for daytime. A lightweight jersey knit would be more like it, in orange and yellow or pink and green – something summery.'

The lively discussion was cut short by the sound of the shop bell. ‘Could you see to that for me?' Ida asked, busy fixing heads to torsos.

Violet rushed into the shop to find Alice Barlow tapping her fingers impatiently on the counter-top, accompanied by a woman of roughly the same age dressed in a lilac costume with a scalloped neckline and elaborately pin-tucked bodice. Both women wore straw cloche hats that Violet privately thought looked rather outdated.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Barlow, how can I help you?' Violet asked, nervous in case she was obliged to tell this short-tempered customer that her dress wasn't ready.

But it turned out that Alice Barlow had a different objective. ‘This is my friend, Mrs Ella Kingsley, in case you didn't know.'

A second quick glance told Violet that this was true. She recognized the mill owner's wife, though she'd never seen her at close quarters before. Taller than her companion, with a slimmer figure, she had chin-length dark hair styled into regimented waves beneath the cloche hat and a manner that seemed quieter and less overbearing than Alice Barlow's. ‘How can I help?' Violet asked again.

‘Mrs Kingsley is looking for a new dressmaker,' Alice explained. ‘She's grown dissatisfied with the standard of service provided by Sybil Dacre higher up the street. I mentioned Jubilee because I know you will offer reasonable rates.'

Violet smiled and nodded, trying not to let her objection to Alice Barlow's hoity-toity manner show, though there was definitely something about the woman's voice, with its over-careful pronunciation and nasal twang that set her teeth on edge. ‘We do our best to work satisfactorily,' she assured Ella Kingsley.

‘That's good to hear.' The mill owner's wife studied Violet for a while, as if trying to solve a puzzle. ‘I know – you were the Whitsuntide Gala Queen!' she said at last. ‘And very pretty you were, too.'

Violet dipped her head and smiled modestly, thinking it was time to bring in Ida from the kitchen. ‘Would you like me to fetch Miss Thomson?' she offered. ‘She can tell you about our prices, and so on.'

‘No need – I'm here.' Ida announced her appearance, allowing Violet the opportunity to slope off to the workroom. ‘It was decent of you to recommend us, Mrs Barlow. We're much obliged. Now, Mrs Kingsley, what exactly did you have in mind?'

‘Flattery is the key,' Muriel informed Violet as they sewed in the attic, putting the finishing touches to the dress for the window mannequin, whom Violet had dubbed Maud. It was two days after the visit from Alice Barlow and Ella Kingsley, which had resulted in a firm order for an autumn tweed jacket and matching skirt from the mill owner's wife.

‘That's right. We have to make them feel special,' Ida agreed. ‘And whatever they say and do, you have to remember that the customer is always right.'

Violet was as eager as ever to take advice from her new employers. ‘Even when they're not?' she queried.

‘
Especially
when they're not,' Muriel insisted. ‘The trick is to listen then steer them gently to what you know will work – a slightly longer skirt if the customer's legs are nothing to write home about, a couple of extra darts inserted into the bodice to flatter the – ahem – shall we say, fuller figure?'

‘And then, of course, a dress-shop girl needs the patience of a saint,' Ida reminded Violet as they dressed ‘Maud' and got her ready for display later that day. Muriel had gone out to the bank to start an account that would take weekly payments from customers who chose to buy garments on the never-never. ‘Remember – yes, madam; no madam; three bags full, madam – that's the road we have to go down, come what may.'

Violet helped draw the mannequin's dress down over its head then pull it straight.

‘Patience may not be my strong point,' Ida admitted, turning down the corners of her mouth and warning Violet not to comment.

Violet giggled and did up the zip on the dress. Together they lifted Maud into the window and out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a slight figure running down the street. She frowned as Evie stopped outside and gestured to her. ‘I won't be a sec,' she told Ida, stepping down from the window and out into the street. ‘What is it?' she whispered.

‘Sybil's read the Jubilee advertisement in the
Herald
. She's on the war path,' Evie blurted out, only stopping to glance anxiously up the street before hurrying on out of sight.

Violet went back inside, but before she had time to warn Ida what was afoot, a stern-faced Sybil appeared.

‘What's this I read?' the newcomer demanded, brandishing a copy of the local newspaper as she thrust open the door.

Violet needn't have worried – Ida was ready for her. ‘I take it that you mean our advertisement?' she asked coyly as she stepped out of the window.

‘Come off it, Ida. You know very well that's what I mean.' Face to face with her adversary, Sybil Dacre was an imposing figure. She was equally tall for a start, with a natural dignity and she seemed fired up for a confrontation. ‘What do you mean by setting up in competition with us – and behind our backs, too?'