The Shop Girls of Chapel Street (38 page)

‘Your trouble is you're too soft,' Ida muttered.

‘Really it would. As it was, he wouldn't let me pity him. But I can't help it when I think about what he had to go through – the mud and the guns and the gas. It was enough to make me cry, just listening.'

‘Aren't you forgetting that he ran away from his comrades?'

‘Crawled away,' Violet insisted. ‘If you ask me, he only did what a lot of other men would have done given half a chance.'

The ring of the shop bell down below told them that they had a customer. ‘I'll go,' Muriel said swiftly.

She left Violet sewing interfacing to the collar piece, reflecting on where the day's events had left her. Not glad, not sad. Relieved because she knew she was undergoing a sea change and what it boiled down to was this: it wasn't her, Violet Wheeler, who wasn't fit to be loved, but her father, Douglas Tankard, who couldn't love.

‘It was the sight of him sitting there holding the bracelet that hurt the most,' Violet confided in Eddie when he came to the shop that evening to take her to the rehearsal in Hadley.

All day Eddie had been worried about her, hoping that Stan had been the right choice to go to Welby with her. Eddie had finished his decorating work early and arrived at Jubilee at half past five on the dot to find Violet pulling down the blind and putting up the Closed sign. ‘You did the right thing by handing over the bracelet to him.'

‘It belongs with him. But his hands were shaking and of course he's blind so he couldn't see to read the note he'd written to my mother.'

‘I know how to take your mind off things. Come on, Vi – let's go for a spin.' Eddie's sudden suggestion was aimed at pulling her out of the past into the present. ‘We've got time to stop at Little Brimstone if we set off now.'

‘But it's raining.'

‘No, it's nearly stopped. What are we waiting for?' So they locked the door and climbed on the bike just as the clouds lifted and by the time they reached the moor road, the wind had swept them away completely.

‘Do we have to stop?' Violet asked, her arms clasped around Eddie's waist as he pulled into the usual siding. ‘Couldn't we just ride on like this for ever?'

He laughed and parked the bike. ‘If we follow our noses in that direction we'd be in Morecambe and the Atlantic would stop us. The other way it's Scarborough and the North Sea.'

‘We could get on a ferry and keep going all the way to America,' she said wistfully. ‘You and me without a care in the world.'

Eddie kept hold of her hand as he led the way down the narrow path bordered by sodden bracken. ‘And live on what – fresh air?'

‘They need dressmakers in America, don't they? We could ride to sunny Hollywood and you could show the latest flicks in the picture palaces where they're made. I could sew costumes for Claudette Colbert.'

‘And pigs might fly.' They arrived at the clearing to find Kitty's café closed and boarded up in readiness for winter. Eddie chose a bench to sit on and together they gazed out over the eruption of black boulders scattered across the steep hillside. In the background they heard the sound of their very own tumbling stream. ‘I don't think we'd fit in,' he said with a smile.

‘Where?'

‘In Hollywood. We're Yorkshire born and bred. It's where we belong.' Rooted in the black earth of the open moors, treading the paved streets of the town shoulder to shoulder with mill girls and mechanics, shop workers, lamp lighters and delivery men.

‘I know that.' Violet smiled back at him. ‘I don't really care where we go.'

‘As long as we're together?'

She nodded. Her heart swelled with love for Eddie – for his laughing brown eyes and the way his black hair refused to stay slicked back no matter how much Brylcreem he combed through it. She loved him for the way he sat, legs splayed and stretched out in front of him, his head tilted back and resting against the green wooden boards of the window shutters, looking at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Yes, that's what I want.'

He sat up straight and drew his feet back under the bench. ‘That's all right then. Listen – I want to say something but as usual it might not come out right.'

‘Try,' she murmured, slipping an arm around his waist and nestling close.

‘First off, I realize you're down in the dumps about Tankard. I know he wasn't what you hoped he might be.'

‘No, I wasn't too surprised, just sad. And it was upsetting to find out that he can't see, and that makes me sorry for him.'

‘But you're glum because you wanted to love him and now you can't – that's the heart of the matter.'

‘Don't say that.' Even as Violet protested she knew he was right. Meeting her father had drawn attention to a lifelong space in her heart that he would never be able to fill.

‘So if you want someone to love, why not try me?' Eddie held his breath, waiting for her reply.

‘You already know I do. I told you,' Violet said softly, reaching up to touch his cold cheek.

‘I mean I want to take it one step further,' he murmured, turning his head to kiss her palm. ‘We love each other. We don't need anyone else.'

‘That's right – we don't.'

‘So we can get married.'

‘Oh, Eddie!' Violet pulled free, stood up and walked across the clearing.

Eddie followed her, afraid that he'd picked the wrong time and so upset her. ‘Not straight away. Not if you're not ready.'

‘Stop. I wasn't … I don't …'

‘I didn't say it right, I'm sorry.'

The doubt in his eyes made her take his hands between hers. ‘What about Jubilee?' Could she marry Eddie and still sit at her sewing machine with Ida and Muriel? ‘Getting married doesn't mean I have to stop work, does it? Only, that's the way Ida sees it – she says she can't marry Harold and expect to carry on working.'

Eddie gave a small shrug. ‘Ida sees things in black and white, remember. Who's to say you can't do both?'

‘That's right, I can!' Violet saw it in a flash – a white wedding in a dress made in the Jubilee workshop, a rented house on Brewery Road or Chapel Street that Eddie would decorate, with two bedrooms – one for her and Eddie, one for the baby that would arrive in due course. She ran ahead of herself so far and with such a dazzling smile that Eddie couldn't help wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close.

‘Where there's a will there's a way,' he said, his lips touching her forehead.

She tilted her head back. They were so close that his features blurred. She closed her eyes and kissed his mouth.

After a while he drew back, still with his arms around her waist. ‘I know you don't have any family left now, Vi,' he said gently, ‘but I won't run away and leave you on your own – not ever.'

Despite the thrill of Eddie's proposal, Violet had agreed to keep it quiet for the time being. At rehearsal Stan had been back on form, accusing Violet of looking like the cat that got the cream. As Violet had fumbled for an explanation, Ida had come, blue pencil tucked behind her ear, and dragged him up onstage.

‘Best not announce our engagement until I've had a chance to tell Mam and Dad,' Eddie had said.

‘So we're engaged now, are we?' Violet had laughed.

‘Aren't we?'

‘Not until I've got a ring on my finger, we're not!' she'd declared, pulling him to his feet. ‘Come on. Ida will be champing at the bit to start the rehearsal. We'd better get a move on.'

Then, next morning, after a night spent dreaming of wedding veils and bouquets, of ‘Do you take this man?' and ‘I do', Violet was charged by Ida with keeping secrets from her and Muriel.

‘I don't know what you've got to smile about. Didn't Douglas Tankard turn out to be a dead loss?'

‘You could say that.' Violet didn't attempt to describe the mixed feelings she'd experienced in Welby. Instead, she went on unrolling and measuring out a yard of pale blue ribbon intended to adorn a baby boy's christening gown.

‘Then why are you so blooming happy?'

‘Leave her alone,' Muriel advised as she came into the shop and placed her wet umbrella in the stand by the door. ‘She'll tell us when she's good and ready. Violet, will you be all right down here by yourself this morning? Ida and I need to get on with that rush job for Ella Kingsley.'

‘We'll be upstairs if you need us,' Ida promised. ‘By the way, I was chatting with Evie on my way here and she let slip that Sybil intends to put a card in the window advertising for more help in their workshop. That'll put her one step ahead of us if we're not careful.'

‘We can't sew any faster than we already are,' Muriel pointed out. ‘Anyway, even if Sybil does shell out for another dressmaker that still doesn't put her one step ahead. She'll have a total of three and we've already got three. That makes us even.'

As ever, the spirit of competition put wind in Muriel and Ida's sails and they bustled upstairs to begin work, leaving Violet to tidy the window display and await their first customer of the day.

It's time we put Gertie into something more suited to winter than a wedding dress
, she reminded herself as she squeezed past the mannequin then crouched to rearrange the folds in the flowing train.
This will soon be me
, she thought with a smile to herself –
all dressed up in white and walking down the aisle with Eddie.

In her happy daydream she was caught unawares by the jangle of the shop bell and couldn't conceal her panic at the sound of an agitated Alice Barlow announcing her arrival.

‘Shop!' Mrs Barlow rapped her knuckles on the counter and when Violet stepped down from the window, she launched into a complaint about poor service. ‘Never leave your counter unattended,' she told Violet. ‘It's the first rule of shopkeeping.'

‘Good morning. What can I do for you?' One look at her customer warned Violet that Alice Barlow was a loose cannon about to fire off yet another volley of accusations. She prepared herself for the attack.

‘The second rule is to smile at your customer and show good manners at all times.' The challenge was issued in a high, strained voice and a closer study of her mottled skin and swollen eyes showed a woman on the verge of hysteria. With no umbrella to protect her from the rain, water dripped from her hair and soaked through the front of her light brown coat, making her shiver.

‘Mrs Barlow, if you've come to buy something, I'll do my best to help.' Violet tried to overcome her uneasiness and to stand firm.

The patches on Alice Barlow's neck grew redder, the shivering more pronounced. ‘Can I help you or not?' Violet repeated.

Outstared by Violet, Alice Barlow let out a long breath, like a balloon deflating. She glanced nervously towards the door and the street beyond. ‘Don't worry – you can relax. It's not your blood I'm after.' When she spoke, her voice had lost the narrow, nasal quality that Violet disliked. It was broader, more hesitant.

‘No?'

‘Not any more.' Pushing her wet hair from her forehead, she rushed to the door and looked down the street. ‘If it's anyone's, it's that sly little minx who works for us on Canal Road.'

‘Minx?' Violet echoed. It wasn't a word she was used to hearing except on the silver screen when well-dressed women in evening gowns argued and exchanged insults.

‘Glenda Morris. Colin is rubbing my nose in the dirt by cavorting right under my nose.'

‘Ah, yes.' Glenda, the unfriendly, dark-haired dispenser. Violet felt a stab of pity for the unhappy woman before her.

‘No, don't say anything.' Alice Barlow closed the door and came back into the shop with a strained expression, her eyes flitting from the displays in the shop back to the rain-splashed pavement.

‘Please, Mrs Barlow …' Thrown off balance, Violet struggled for a response.

‘He likes to see me suffer, he takes pleasure in it. A snide remark here, a public snub there – that's nothing to Colin.'

‘Please don't talk like this.'

Alice Barlow put her hand to her mouth but it was an ineffectual gesture. She was incapable of holding back the confession that rose from deep within and in her despair had run straight to Violet. ‘You've seen him. You know what he's like. Behind closed doors it's ten times worse. I've put up with his bullying and pushing me around for years – what else could I do? But now … now we've reached the point where Colin says he's sick of me and ready to throw me aside like – like a worn-out shoe.'

‘Come through to the kitchen and sit down,' Violet offered. She thought tears would have been better than this wild-eyed, wailing torrent of words.

‘No – I don't want your pity.' Alice Barlow resisted Violet's proffered hand. ‘You heard him the other day – he says he'll chuck me in the gutter. Then what will I do?'

‘Would that really be so bad?' Violet said earnestly, her true feelings about Barlow coming through. ‘To stand up to him and be rid of him?'

‘You don't understand. Where will I go? What will I do?'

Violet had no time to find an answer before the door was flung open and Colin Barlow himself strode in. ‘Oh, very nice!' he mocked. ‘I might have known – not only does my wife create another scene in front of my dispenser but she high tails it over here to wash her dirty linen in public. I won't have it, Alice, do you hear me?'

Violet felt her loathing for every inch of the man – his sneering mouth beneath the trim moustache, his groomed hair, his swagger – boil up inside her. As he advanced towards his wife with a raised hand, she thrust herself between them. ‘Stop that or I'll call the police,' she warned.

He laughed again as he shoved her aside. ‘Showing your true colours now, eh, Violet?' Making a grab for Alice, he caught only the lapel of her coat, allowing her to twist free, duck under his arm and run towards the door. ‘Damn and blast, girl, get out of my way!'