The Shop Girls of Chapel Street (32 page)

‘I'm only … I didn't …' An incoherent Les hardly seemed to know what was happening. With clumsy movements he tried to wrest himself free until Kenneth stepped in to pull them apart.

‘All right, sonny, let's get you out of here while you're still in one piece.' The older man took charge of Les just as Stan came back with the coats. ‘There's been a bit of bother,' he explained.

‘What about?' Stan looked at Violet and saw that she was trembling, then at Eddie, speechless with anger.

Alf helped Kenneth to take hold of Les by the scruff of the neck. ‘Ask them,' he advised, brows knotted as he took note of Violet's shaky state.

‘I don't have to,' Stan muttered. ‘I've had this out with Les once already.'

‘Yes, well, some people never learn.' Alf turned Les towards the door and started to march him away, then he had second thoughts and addressed Stan once more. ‘Your pal back there – Eddie Thomson?'

‘What about him?' Stan's belligerent tone was his way of sticking up for his friend but it rattled Alf Shipley.

‘Tell him to keep his hair on in future. And don't look at me like that. I'm not the enemy round here.'

‘Who is?' Stan demanded.

‘You can work that out for yourselves.' The Barlows' driver felt he'd said enough, and anyway Les was trying to wriggle free, lashing out with his fists again. He and Kenneth Leach dragged him out of the hall and had him propped up against the cloakroom counter when Kenneth felt a tap on his shoulder and they both turned to see Evie standing there – fair haired and dressed in pale blue satin with frills and bows, five feet four inches of fierce determination.

‘Eddie was only sticking up for Violet,' she pointed out.

‘Yes, and I'd have done the same in his shoes,' Kenneth conceded. ‘Stand up straight, Les, there's a good lad. The trouble is if the wrong people hear about Eddie losing his temper and lashing out, that'll be one more black mark against your troublemaker friend – the one with the dark hair – the Jubilee girl.'

‘Violet!' Evie gasped.

‘They'll say she put him up to it, that it's her fault.'

‘Even when it isn't?'

‘It makes no difference.' Alf stepped in to explain. ‘Not if they've got it in for someone. The Barlows and the Kingsleys – they're the ones who shout the loudest, not the likes of Violet and Eddie. You hear?'

Frowning, Evie understood and accepted what Alf and Kenneth said. ‘Thank you. I'll pass it on.'

With a curt nod, Alf turned away. ‘Make sure to leave our names out of it,' he mumbled, helping Kenneth to keep Les upright and reaching for his coat.

‘I will,' Evie promised.

‘Otherwise we'll all be out of a job. And what good would that do?'

‘There goes another order down the Swanee,' Muriel said glumly as she entered the shop. ‘That's the fifth cancellation this week and it's only Wednesday.'

Behind the counter, Violet and Ida exchanged worried glances.

‘Who is it this time?' Ida wanted to know.

‘It's Eunice Shackleton – Lizzie Turner's married sister. She put in an order for a christening gown for her first baby but I popped into Hutchinson's for biscuits and while I was there Lizzie let on that Eunice has changed her mind.'

‘Why would she do that?' Ida asked, while Violet stayed quietly in the background.

‘Lizzie said that Eunice can't find the money for it after all, but reading between the lines, I worked out the real reason.'

‘Which is?' Ida prompted.

‘Which is that Eunice does ten hours per week scrubbing floors and polishing furniture for none other than – guess who.'

‘Alice Barlow,' Ida said without hesitating.

‘Bingo! The truth is, she's warned Eunice off using us. At this rate we'll be out of business by the end of the week.' Too upset for once to put on a brave face, Muriel shook her head and went upstairs. Violet too was cast down by this latest cancellation.

Ida was more resilient. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,' she decided as she unbuttoned her coat. ‘Sybil isn't the only one who can advertise further afield – out as far as Hadley and even Welby if we feel like it. In fact, Violet, why not get Eddie to bring you to rehearsal half an hour early tonight – that'll give us time to pop our leaflets through letter boxes.'

‘Eddie's working at the Victory so I'll have to catch the bus. And do you really think it's worthwhile?' Violet wondered.

‘What are you talking about?' Ida demanded. ‘Of course it's worthwhile.'

‘I only mean that Alice Barlow is like an octopus. Her tentacles spread everywhere you look.'

‘Squeezing us to death?' Ida's lively imagination took up the idea.

‘This is serious,' Violet protested. Shaken by the latest cancellation, her heart sank and she felt boxed into a familiar corner. ‘Perhaps we need to think again about me leaving Jubilee, at least for a little while.'

‘And then what?' Ida demanded, bustling through to the kitchen and carrying on the conversation from there.

‘Then I could find new lodgings and look for a job.'

‘Violet, I've said it before and I'll say it again, Alice Barlow can squeeze all she likes – she won't throttle the life out of us, not while I have anything to do with it.'

At the end of the afternoon, while Muriel was out collecting new leaflets from the printer's, a customer came to Jubilee to collect an order that helped put the fight back into Violet.

‘I take it my blouse is ready.' Ella Kingsley addressed her with an open, friendly smile, altogether different from what might have been expected.

‘Yes, Mrs Kingsley.' Violet's heart skipped a beat. ‘If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment, I'll tell Miss Thomson you're here to collect it.'

‘Finally!' was Ida's reaction when Violet raced upstairs to pass on the news. She rapped down her scissors and took the finished blouse from a tailor's dummy in the corner of the room. ‘Come with me,' she told Violet with an eager smile. ‘I've been waiting days to have this conversation with Ella Kingsley.'

Ida hurried downstairs to greet her customer and show her the finished article, laying it flat on the counter. ‘Violet managed to find the exact buttons to match the shade of the material,' she said proudly. ‘She's the one who did the finishing touches – the buttonholes and facings, and suchlike. Violet is painstaking over details, I hope you'll agree.'

‘I do.' Ella Kingsley examined her purchase before glancing up at Violet who hovered nervously behind the counter, bewildered and a little embarrassed by Ida's lavish praise. ‘I certainly can't fault the workmanship.'

‘No. We jumped at the chance of employing her the minute we saw what she could do with a needle and thread. And, despite what some people are saying, we haven't regretted it, not for a second.'

Mrs Kingsley received the thinly disguised challenge and let an awkward pause develop. She looked uncertainly from Violet to Ida and back again.

‘I'm glad to have the chance to speak plainly,' Ida went on in her courageous way. ‘We were very upset here at Jubilee to hear what went on last week.'

‘At my house,' Ella Kingsley acknowledged, deep frown lines appearing on her unmarked brow. As if to distract herself, she carefully peeled off her grey leather gloves and ran her fingers over the crêpe de Chine blouse. She sighed. ‘It's a bad business. I wish I'd been there to prevent it.'

‘Luckily for Violet, Mr Kingsley
was
there,' Ida said pointedly. ‘He did see what happened.'

Violet swallowed hard at the risk Ida was taking and wished the floor would swallow her up. Her heart beat loud and fast.

The frown deepened. ‘Thomas was there, certainly. Inside the house, I believe.'

‘Ah!' Ida's exclamation spoke volumes.

‘He told me he was in his study, speaking on the telephone.' Quick to acknowledge the implications of what she was saying, Ella Kingsley continued nevertheless. ‘I'm afraid Thomas couldn't possibly have anything useful to say about what went on outside.'

‘No witnesses,' Ida confirmed with undisguised triumph. ‘Then it comes down to who is to be believed – Violet or Mr Barlow.'

‘Quite.' Ella Kingsley's expression was inscrutable, but she quickly turned the conversation in a new direction, one that proved without doubt where she stood.

‘Now tell me, Violet, how hard would it be for you to copy a house dress I've seen in the latest copy of
Harper's Bazaar
?' Sliding the magazine from her handbag, she showed her a picture and together with Ida they pored over details about hemlines and ruffled collars, tailored bodices, shoulder pads and three-quarter length sleeves.

‘I'm sure we can do it.' Violet smiled in relief. She felt in a small way that the octopus's tentacles had begun to loosen. ‘It would look best in a bright colour, perhaps in rayon or nylon, which is nice and shiny.'

Ida added her ideas. ‘Violet could make it in royal blue trimmed with white, or perhaps a warm red for winter.'

‘Both!' Their customer threw caution to the winds. ‘A blue one and a red one, with contrasting piping around the neckline.'

There was more enthusiastic discussion. Should the dresses be lined? Should the shoulder pads be quite so wide?

‘That all sounds satisfactory,' Ella Kingsley said pleasantly, once the decisions were made. Then she gave Violet a direct look and a reassuring smile before she put her gloves back on.

Everything was agreed at last with smiles then handshakes all round. ‘Thank you, Mrs Kingsley,' Ida said.

‘Thank
you
,' came the calm, confident reply.

‘Well I never!' Violet exclaimed to the jangle of the shop bell and the sight of their loyal customer crossing the street.

‘Hallelujah!' Ida grinned, her chest puffed out. ‘Unless I'm mistaken, Ella Kingsley has reached her own conclusions about the Barlows.'

‘She's broken ranks.' Violet's smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds.

‘You can say that again. Now who says it's not worthwhile us handing out leaflets in Hadley tonight?'

That evening, Violet caught the double-decker bus to Hadley, climbing the metal stairs and positioning herself at the front to enjoy the sight of the glorious, heather-covered moors – a blanket of pale purple stretching as far as the eye could see. At the end of the journey she found Ida standing on the main street with Harold.

‘About time too,' Ida grumbled when she saw Violet alighting.

‘Why – I'm not late, am I?'

In a rush as always, Ida handed leaflets to Harold and Violet. ‘We've got twenty minutes before the rehearsal is due to start. Harold, you can go up and down Railway Road. I'll do Minehead Terrace and Victoria Street. Violet, take this batch and drop one through every letter box on Main Street. Come along – chop-chop!'

Taking the yellow leaflets, Violet pretended not to notice long-suffering Harold's raised eyebrows and hurried off to deliver to the post office with its lowered blinds, then to the mean-looking terraced cottages that fronted straight onto the road. Hurriedly she delivered to the blacksmith's forge then crossed the street and carried on with her task, up garden paths, getting her fingers caught in letter boxes with vicious hinges and avoiding a dog – a snappy Yorkshire terrier with a yapping bark. At last she came to the final house – the stately vicarage with its neat lawns and leaded windows. As she walked up the path she became aware of the vicar himself, complete with dog collar and worn grey jacket, standing in the doorway.

‘Good evening,' he said, stretching out a hand to take a leaflet then reading the top line. ‘“Jubilee Drapers and Dressmakers – Good quality, Reasonable rates.” I'm afraid it's a waste of time leaving one of these with me,' he pointed out. ‘There's no call for dresses here, unless you include church vestments and altar cloths.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't think.' Violet was ready to take the leaflet back and hurry off but tonight the formerly aloof vicar seemed in chatty mood.

‘Yes, but you weren't to know that I lived alone. Most people suppose that a clergyman has the support of a loyal and loving wife but that's not so in my case, unfortunately. I can only suppose it's God's will.'

To Violet, it seemed that the well-worn phrase drew attention to the vicar's loneliness and her heart unexpectedly went out to him. True, he wasn't one to attract sympathy – he was too stiff and formal for that, with an artificial, sing-song voice and with those odd tufts of white hair so sparsely spread over the dome of his head. Strangely this made her think of her Uncle Donald and his barber's scissors, which once upon a time would have made short work of the straggly locks.

‘Donald Wheeler,' the vicar said suddenly and with such concurrence of thought that Violet's hand shook as she received back the unwanted leaflet. ‘Your uncle, I believe?'

She looked in alarm at the clergyman. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘And Donald's late wife, Winifred – she would have been your aunt?'

‘Yes, sir. She was.' For Violet, the reminder brought on a rush of grief almost as fresh as the day when her Aunty Winnie had passed away.

‘I'm sorry.' The vicar's sympathy was gentle and sincere. ‘She was a good woman, by all accounts.'

A nod was all Violet could manage as a lump rose in her throat and she fought back tears.

‘You said your uncle found it hard to go on without her. I did my best to reach out and offer the hand of kindness.'

‘Yes. Thank you for that.'

‘Since we last spoke, I happen to have received notification of your uncle's whereabouts.'

The revelation, delivered hesitatingly, rocked Violet back on her heels.