The Shop Girls of Chapel Street by Jenny Holmes Page A

room and abruptly switching off the wireless. ‘The window’s open. Do you want the whole world to hear that din?’
    Anxious to avoid another pointless argument, Violet bit her tongue and went back to her sewing.
    â€˜It’s bad enough listening to your contraption rattling on without the wireless belting out that racket,’ Donald continued. ‘It’s giving me a headache.’
    â€˜This extra work will help us pay the rent,’ Violet explained then continued with short bursts on the machine. ‘I’ll be finished in half an hour, I promise.’
    â€˜Then you’ll be gadding off as usual, I expect.’ Donald’s next step was to go over to the window and slam it shut.
    â€˜Could you move out of the way of the light, please?’ Violet asked, growing more exasperated but not anticipating the explosion that followed.
    â€˜Can’t a man go where he likes in his own house?’ He turned from the window and advanced on Violet, towering over her. ‘I’m asking you a civil question – who are you to stop me standing where I like, doing whatever I like?’
    Sitting in his shadow, Violet found herself trembling. Her uncle’s face was sunken, the skin pulled taut across his sharp cheekbones, the corners of his mouth downturned beneath his grey moustache and there was a trace of spittle on his bottom lip. Nevertheless she stood up for herself. ‘I don’t call that a civil question,’ she said quietly.
    â€˜Don’t answer me back,’ he snarled. ‘I won’t have it, not from the likes of you.’
    â€˜What do you mean, the likes of me?’ It was no good – Violet felt herself drawn in despite her earlier resolution. ‘What have I done wrong?’
    â€˜Ask anyone on Brewery Road and all the way up Chapel Street what you’ve done wrong. You’ll find plenty of people willing to give it to you chapter and verse.’ Donald thumped his fist on the work area surrounding Violet’s machine, dislodging a box of pins that fell onto the rug and scattered everywhere. ‘There’s your carrying on with Stan Tankard for a start.’
    Violet stood up. It was his sneering, holier-than-thou tone that angered her more than anything. ‘Once and for all, Uncle Donald, can you please tell me what you have against Stan?’
    â€˜Oh, so you don’t mind having your name dragged into the dirt along with his?’
    â€˜A girl can have a lark with him,’ Violet insisted. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
    â€˜There’s plenty wrong. He’s got himself a bad name, the way he struts around reckoning he’s cock of the walk. And what is he really? A loom tuner at Kingsley’s, that’s all.’
    â€˜No. Stan’s got a job as a lifeguard at Brinkley Baths as well,’ Violet said before realizing that this would set the seal on her uncle’s bad opinion.
    â€˜That’s why you’re so keen on swimming all of a sudden, is it?’ Donald’s sneering contempt reached a new peak. ‘Those lifeguard costumes are downright indecent, if you ask me …’
    â€˜No one did ask you,’ she muttered.
    â€˜Not to mention the skimpy outfits you girls wear these days. It proves what I’m saying – you and Stan Tankard are heading for the gutter, which is where you both belong.’
    Incensed and with trembling hands, Violet put away her sewing things. ‘Aunty Winnie must be turning in her grave,’ she whispered. ‘You’d never dare say such things if she was still alive.’
    Donald took a step back and a look of shame flickered in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well, she’s not,’ he declared with renewed bitterness. ‘So it’s me you have to answer to now, not her.’
    â€˜Worse luck,’ Violet said after a long pause. She put her scissors into her sewing basket then crouched to pick up the