The Shop Girls of Chapel Street by Jenny Holmes Page A

night.’
    â€˜No, Uncle, it wasn’t. It was Stan Tankard.’ Violet ignored his startled expression and let a sullen silence develop between them. She was weary of it all – the dogs, the clock, the ashes in the grate and Uncle Donald’s attempts to make her conform to his joyless view of life.
    â€˜In any case, I want you to stay in more and help your aunt,’ he went on with a heavy-handed switch of subjects. The kettle boiled and he warmed the teapot then put in two spoonfuls of tea. He poured in the water and waited for the leaves to mash. ‘She’s not as young as she was.’
    Violet considered this a blow below the belt, intended to give her a guilty conscience. ‘Honestly, Uncle Donald! That won’t work with me and you know it – Aunty Winnie is fit as a fiddle.’
    â€˜I knew my ears were burning,’ Winnie declared as she opened the front door and set down her shopping bag full of vegetables from Clifton Street market. She smiled her way through what she could sense was the build-up to a serious argument. ‘And yes, here I am – fit as a fiddle, just as Violet says!’
    â€˜No, sir – I did not know that my sister had gone to the races on the day she died.’ Violet read carefully from the script that Ida had given her. ‘I believed she had gone to work as usual.’
    â€˜Put a bit more life into it,’ Ida urged. ‘Not so flat and stiff. Try again.’
    Violet sighed and caught sight of Kathy and Peggy rehearsing their parts in a different corner of the hall, while Harold was painting scenery on the stage. So far there was no sign of Eddie. She repeated the line again, trying to follow Ida’s advice.
    â€˜Better,’ Ida told her. ‘Try to show that you’re nervous and upset. You have to pretend I’m a nasty policeman intent on tripping you up.’
    What have I let myself in for?
Violet wondered. It turned out she wasn’t a natural when it came to acting and the more she tried to get it right the more self-conscious she became.
    For more than an hour she had tried to master the part of the murder victim’s sister, taking tips from the director and concentrating on getting it right. When they broke for tea and biscuits, she drifted towards Kathy for advice.
    â€˜The trick is to forget that anyone’s looking at you.’ Kathy sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. Her hair was pinned up to show the nape of her neck and she wore a pair of trousers with turn-ups, giving her the air of a fashionable girl-about-town.
    â€˜Rather you than me,’ Harold commented. He perched on a stepladder, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette. Broad-faced, with even features and wavy hair combed back from his forehead, he had an air of permanent cheerfulness, which made him easy to like.
    â€˜I’ll feel such a fool if I can’t get it right,’ Violet complained. ‘But the thing is, Uncle Donald is dead set against me doing this and I want to prove him wrong.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, you’ll soon pick it up,’ Ida said as she breezed by. She too was in trousers with a neat cream-coloured blouse tucked into a high waistband. Violet decided it was the look to copy in future; her own calf-length skirt and short-sleeved jumper felt dowdy in comparison.
    â€˜Has anyone seen Eddie?’ Harold asked from his onstage perch. ‘Or do you expect me to roll up my sleeves and finish this backdrop all by myself?’
    â€˜He’s working at the Victory tonight,’ Ida told him before rushing everyone to finish their tea.
    Hearing this made Violet realize how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Eddie, and perhaps even another ride home on his motorbike.
    â€˜Oh, now someone’s down in the dumps!’ Kathy noticed Violet’s disappointment and teased her for it.
    She blushed then protested, ‘Don’t be daft, Kathy. It’s none of my