Lily Baxter | Excerpt from THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

Excerpt from THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

Ginnie had risked leaving the safety of the air raid shelter when Fred Chinashop
suffered one of his funny turns. Despite her father’s protests she had returned
to the small office at the back of their furniture store, and was about to add a
generous spoonful of her precious sugar ration to a cup of tea when she heard
the dreaded rasping buzz of the doodlebug. The cup rattled on its saucer and the
floor beneath her feet started to vibrate.

The deathly silence when its engine cut out made her hold her breath, closing
her eyes as she prayed that the bomb would fall on fields or wasteland, anywhere
but on the crowded suburban streets. The explosion when it came was too close
for comfort, and she felt the repercussion of the blast shaking the foundations
of the building. Large flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling and the air was
thick with dust. Her hand was trembling as she picked up the cup and saucer.
They had been lucky this time, but somebody somewhere must have bought it.

The all clear siren was blasting out its monotone wail of relief as she let
herself out into the back yard. Sidney Travis emerged from the Anderson shelter
red-faced and bristling with anger. ‘You stupid girl. You might have got
yourself killed.’

‘I’m all right, Dad. How’s Fred?’

Her father shook his head. ‘He’ll live, but you could have been dead and buried
under the rubble if there’d been a direct hit.’ He gave her a clumsy hug. ‘Give
the silly old devil his tea. I’m going inside to see if there’s any damage.’ He
hurried indoors and Ginnie could hear him exclaiming in annoyance, and cursing
the Jerries. She hesitated, gazing anxiously at the surrounding buildings, and
breathed a sigh of relief when she realised that the parade of shops in Collier
Lane had escaped the worst of the blast.

Purpose-built before the war, the box-like units had been designed with living
accommodation above and a functional but drab service road at the rear. The
concept, Ginnie had always suspected, might have looked stylish and ultra-modern
on the architect’s plans, but surrounded by a hinterland of small factories and
uniform streets of Edwardian terraced houses in one of the poorer suburbs of
East London, the Utopian dream had rapidly deteriorated into a shabby mass of
concrete and glass. Most of the windows were now criss-crossed with sticky tape
and sandbagged, but Sidney had steadfastly refused to have his shop boarded up,
declaring that it was bad for business, and Hitler and his Luftwaffe could take
a long walk off a short pier for all he cared.

Ginnie knew that they had been lucky this time. They had survived, and she could
only hope that no one had been killed when the bomb landed. She hurried into the
shelter, wrinkling her nose at the pervasive smell of damp and sweaty bodies.
Fred Chinashop was still sitting on the wooden bench looking pale and dazed. She
gave him his tea. ‘I hope it’s sweet enough for you.’

He managed a wobbly smile. ‘Ta, love.’

Ginnie glanced anxiously at the only other occupant of the shelter. Ida Richmond
lived in a flat above the shop and had been administering her version of first
aid to Fred, which consisted of making encouraging noises and fanning him with
her handkerchief. ‘Is he all right, Mrs Richmond?’ Ginnie asked in a whisper.

Ida nodded vigorously, causing her hairnet to slip over one eye. She adjusted it
with a practised tweak of her fingers. ‘It’d take more than a Jerry bomb to
finish our Fred Chinashop.’

‘He’s all right now.’ Ida picked up a willow pattern plate piled high with her
latest attempt at baking. ‘Nelson squares. Try one of these, Fred.’ She wafted
the cakes under his nose. ‘You need building up, love. You’re all skin and bone.’

‘I won’t say no.’ He took one and bit into it. ‘You’re too good to me, Ida.’

‘I was just using up the crusts of bread and some dried fruit that had been on
the shelf since last Christmas. My hubby doesn’t have a sweet tooth and I have
to watch my figure.’ She beamed at him through the thick lenses of her
horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘You bachelors don’t know how to look after yourselves
properly. I dunno why you never got married, Fred. You must have been quite a
good-looking feller years ago, before you went bald and lost all your teeth.’

He swallowed the last morsel and took a mouthful of tea. ‘I feel better now,
Ida. Ta very much, but I’d best get back to my emporium and see if there’s any
damage. The blast might have shattered what little stock I’ve got left. It’s
hard to get hold of decent crockery these days.’ He put his cup and saucer on
the wooden bench and struggled to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on
the wall. ‘Thanks for the cuppa, Ginnie.’

‘Any time, Fred.’ She stood aside to let him pass as he made his way out of the
shelter.

Ida rose to her feet. ‘That man needs a wife. He lives on tea and toast. No
wonder he hasn’t got any stamina. My Norman is twice the man he is. He’ll scoff
this lot in one go.’

‘It’s very kind of you to share them with us, Mrs Richmond,’ Ginnie said,
smiling. She was fond of Ida, who had always taken a motherly interest in the
Travis family. With no children of her own to care for and a husband who worked
long hours on the railways, Ida had nothing to do other than clean her tiny
apartment and she was always popping downstairs with samples of her cooking.

‘But you haven’t tried them yet, love. Norman won’t miss one more.’

Ginnie shook her head. ‘No thanks. They look lovely but it’s nearly lunchtime
and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t eat everything on my plate. Mum will have been
slaving away all morning to make something tasty out of next to nothing.’

‘You’re a good girl, Ginnie. It’s a pity your flighty sister isn’t a bit more
like you.’

‘Shirley’s all right, Mrs Richmond. She’s just high-spirited, that’s all.’

‘And you’re very loyal, ducks.’ Ida stepped outside, squinting in the sunlight.
‘Let’s hope the war ends before you get called up or have to work in the
munitions factory like your sister. How old are you now, dear? I lose track.’

‘I’ll be nineteen in August.’

‘At least you’ve got another year before you’re called up. The war might be over
by then, God willing.’

‘Let’s hope so, Mrs Richmond.’

‘Your dad would be lost without you, Ginnie. I dunno how he’d manage the shop if
you weren’t there to give him a hand.’

‘I enjoy it,’ Ginnie said stoutly. ‘Maybe it’s not what I’d set my heart on when
I was at school, but I’ve learned how to keep accounts and I know almost as much
about carpets and furniture as my dad.’

Ida patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’re a treasure.’ She ambled across the yard
and let herself out into the service lane. ‘TTFN, ducks.’

Ginnie collected a dustpan and brush from the outside lavatory and hurried into
the partitioned off area at the back of the shop that served as an office. She
had not been lying to Ida when she said she enjoyed working for her father, but
there was a part of her that wished he would allow her to enlist in one of the
women’s services and do her bit for her country. In a year’s time she would be
conscripted anyway, or else she would have to do war work like Shirley, but she
did not relish the idea of slaving away in the munitions factory or volunteering
as an ARP warden.

Shaking the plaster dust from her dark blonde hair, Ginnie brushed it back from
her face and fastened it in a ponytail with a rubber band that she found in the
bottom of one of the desk drawers along with a stick of sealing wax and an empty
Fisherman’s Friend tin. A stray strand tickled her nose and she secured it in
place with the aid of a kirby grip, checking her reflection in the scrap of
fly-spotted mirror balanced on a pile of account books, before setting to work,
sweeping and dusting until everything was cleaner than it had been before the
bomb fell. She had just finished when she heard her father talking to their
local ARP warden, Tom Adams, whose stentorian tones were unmistakeable.

She hurried through to the shop. ‘Where did the bomb land, Mr Adams?’

‘We was fortunate this time,’ Tom said solemnly. ‘It came down in the park and
smashed the cricket pavilion to smithereens, but it’s lucky it wasn’t Saturday
or it would have taken out half of the home guard and the team from the
munitions factory in Dagenham.’

‘That’s where Shirley works,’ Sidney said with a disapproving downturn of his
mouth. ‘That girl was top of the class in school. She’d have done well for
herself but for the bloody war.’ He shot an apologetic glance at his daughter.
‘Excuse my French, but it makes me blooming mad.’

‘Can’t stay here chatting all day, Sid. Got my duties to perform.’ Tom saluted
and ambled towards the door. ‘Abyssinia.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you in the King’s Arms later,’ Sid called after him. He turned
to Ginnie with a sigh. ‘The shop window’s cracked. I suppose I’ll have to give
in and board it up, although it goes against the grain.’ He bent down to heft a
roll of linoleum upright. ‘The blast tipped these over, Ginnie. Give us a hand
to put them back up, there’s a good girl, and then you’d best get home for your
lunch. You know how Mum worries if you’re even a minute late.’

About THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

In World War II–torn England, a young woman must fight to keep her family
together, whatever the cost.

Ginnie Travis has been working in her father's shop for the past five years,
trying to keep it afloat. When scandal rocks her family just as relentless Nazi
raids threaten their very lives, Ginnie and her sister are forced to flee and
stay with their aunt in the North of England. The last thing she expects to find
in the quiet countryside is love, especially with an American soldier. A soldier
who has secrets of his own.

Tragedy strikes, the horror of war rages on, and Ginnie will do whatever she
must to protect everything she holds dear.