Lily Baxter | Excerpt from THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

Lovers of history and romance, sample Lily Baxter's war-time love story in this excerpt from THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER, available now from Avon Impulse.

Excerpt from THE SHOPKEEPER'S DAUGHTER

East London, June 1944

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.