Netta paused twenty yards from Dorelle’s to gather herself for the day’s onslaught. As she saw the discreet sign on the three-storey soot-blackened building her heart sank. The shop was along a smart parade of similar properties with overhanging glass canopies that sheltered shoppers from the squalls of rain off the moors. There was a solid, no-nonsense quality about this row of buildings: the very stuff of smart Griseley. Dorelle’s was the exception. One day Netta would have her own premises down this row and they would be the smartest.

Miss Venables was waiting for admiration of her latest attempt at window dressing. ‘Where have you been? You’re late again.’ She pointed Netta towards the back room.

Netta engrossed herself in the usual stream of drab outfits to be altered, bending her head to the daily tasks. It was Maybelle’s day off and there were just the two of them in the showroom. It was quiet first thing. Madam Maudie would demand that the mirrors be polished and it was Netta’s job to vacuum the velvet pile of the dove grey carpet, dust the copper beech leaves arranged in a cracked lustre vase and check the cubicles for any stale smells while Miss Venables just checked the post and tidied along the hangers, picking over the stock as if it had fleas.

Dorelle’s customers were not window shoppers. A price tag was of no consequence to many of them so none was evident. From the moment they walked through the door they would be at the mercy of Madam Maudie.

It was the future Mrs Herbert Batley of Batley’s Mill who opened the batting on that miserable wet morning, coming in to make the final choice for her bridal two-piece outfit.

‘I’m going to try on that pink job again – the one you ordered for me, Miss Venables, just to be sure.’

Netta brought down the sample dress and jacket. Elsie Cumberbatch peeled off her clothes and tried it on. ‘What do you think?’ She had squeezed herself into ‘Aurora’ but it was a tight fit. Elsie was to be the second wife of one of the wealthier mill owners; a war widow whisked from her loom in Cinderella fashion. Poor lassie would never have dared cross these snooty portals once upon a time but her husband’s wallet, being as full as any in Griseley, meant his intended would have only the best of wedding outfits.

‘What’s the problem?’ sniffed the proprietress. ‘Mrs Cumberbatch, aren’t we satisfied?’ Netta could clearly see the bulges round the waist and the unsuitable colour.