The Shop Girls of Chapel Street Read Free Page A

pattern,’ she offered in a burst of generosity. ‘It doesn’t have to be made out of rayon – it could be a nice summer cotton or a light linen.’
    Taking charge of her groceries, Evie smiled brightly. ‘That would be champion.’
    â€˜Drop in tomorrow – I’ll have it ready for you.’
    â€˜Ta very much. Ta-ta then.’
    The shop bell tinkled as Evie left and Violet watched her through the window, following her progress up Chapel Street. She allowed herself a moment to ponder how life might be if, like Evie, she could find work as a seamstress – pinning, cutting and sewing cloth instead of weighing out flour and sugar, cutting cheese and slicing bacon all day long. Violet glanced around at the shelves stacked with cereal packets and biscuits, tins of salmon, sardines and mandarin oranges.
There’s no point dreaming
, she told herself as she dusted flour from her dark blue apron. There was no doubt about it – the Whitsuntide Gala Queen of 1934 had her feet firmly back on the ground.
    That same afternoon Ben Hutchinson, family grocer and lifelong grumbler, made up the order for Jubilee Drapers shop. ‘Drop this off on your way home and no arguments,’ he told Violet in his dry-as-dust voice, which matched his cautious, penny-pinching ways. It was the same routine every Tuesday without fail – an order of digestive biscuits, tea, butter, Wensleydale cheese and Jacob’s Cream Crackers to be delivered to Ida Thomson and Muriel Beanland on the corner of Chapel Street and Brewery Lane.
    â€˜Remember I’ll have to leave five minutes early if I want to catch them before they lock up.’
    â€˜Have it your own way.’ Her curmudgeonly employer ticked items off a list then thrust the Jubilee box into her arms. ‘By rights I should dock your wages – these few minutes add up over the weeks, I’ll have you know.’
    â€˜Ta, Mr Hutchinson.’ Resisting the urge to retaliate and glad of the early release from her humdrum work, Violet left with a spring in her step, carrying the order under one arm.
    â€˜Hello, Violet!’ Their neighbour, Marjorie Sykes, was busy raising the canvas canopy that shielded her window display of bread and cakes from the sun. ‘I saw you up there on the Common yesterday. You did a grand job!’
    â€˜Ta. It already seems a long time ago.’
And a world away, worse luck.
    â€˜You did your Aunty Winnie proud.’ A low sun cast long shadows down the street as Marjorie leaned her hooked pole against the wall. ‘I did laugh about that donkey running off with Stan Tankard,’ she went on. ‘And the donkey man chasing after the runaway all the way up onto the moor.’
    â€˜Who can blame the poor thing?’ Violet was eager to get away from the bread shop owner, who had become known as a good gossip since taking over the bakery following the death of her mother three years earlier. In fact, if you were in a hurry, you did your best to avoid catching the eye of the dumpy spinster in the yellow flowered overall.
    â€˜You mean you’d run a mile from Stan too?’ Marjorie chuckled.
    â€˜So would anyone with any common sense. Sorry, Marjorie – I have to dash and catch Muriel and Ida before they close.’
    Violet reached the drapers just as Muriel was bringing down the blind and bolting the door. Spying the arrival of their grocery order, she quickly slid back the bolt and made way for Violet to step inside. ‘Come in, come in. We were beginning to think you’d got lost.’
    â€˜I’m sorry about that, Miss Beanland.’
    â€˜Muriel – please.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Muriel. Mr Hutchinson always cuts it fine getting the order ready.’
    Entering the multicoloured Aladdin’s cave of buttons, bolts of fabric, ribbons and lace, Violet deposited the box on the spotless glass counter.
    â€˜Never mind, you’re here now and I