by Dilly Court
Dedication
For Tricia, a friend in need.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
An Excerpt from Poppy’s War
About the Author
By Lily Baxter
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
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.’
Fred nodded in silent agreement and sipped his tea. His real name was Fred Brown but Ginnie’s dad had a penchant for giving people nicknames. Fred Brown had become Fred Chinashop in order to distinguish him from Fred Harper, also known as Fred Woollies, the manager of the Woolworth’s store situated a little further along the parade. ‘I’m fine now, ducks.’ Fred raised the cup in a toast. ‘Sweety, weaky and milky – just how I like it.’
‘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.’
Ginnie set off at a brisk pace to walk the mile or so home. Situated in the middle of a large estate of identical 1930s semi-detached houses, Cherry Lane was a tree-lined suburban street. It was not the poorest part of town but it was on the edge of the industrial area where the gasworks sat cheek by jowl with the glue factory and the abattoir. The station with its sooty sidings and noisy shunting yard was nearby, and small businesses plied their trade beneath the railway arches.
Ginnie had been aware from an early age that the girls who lived on the other side of town, notably the posh Monk Avenue area, came from homes where they called their parents Mummy and Daddy and not Mum and Dad. Their fathers were professional men, and their mothers played bridge or socialised while charwomen did their housework. The houses in Monk Avenue were set in large gardens shielded from the road by high walls or hedges, with the golf links at the rear and the grammar school only two streets away.
Shirley might have aspirations to live in Monk Avenue, but Ginnie was fiercely loyal to her roots. There was nothing wrong with number ten, she thought as she approached the house. The exterior was pebble-dashed and the lounge and master bedroom had the benefit of curved bay windows. There was a good-sized garden at the rear and a smaller one at the front, separated from the pavement by a low brick wall. Ginnie paused at the gate, looking up at the small triangular window behind which was her personal domain, cluttered with her most prized possessions, including a silver-backed dressing-table set that her paternal grandparents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. They had been killed in the Blitz, although it was still hard to believe that Hitler had got the better of Granny Travis. Ginnie still missed the old lady, with her acerbic tongue and wicked sense of humour. Her maternal grandparents had succumbed to heart attacks within weeks of each other when Ginnie was twelve years old, leaving her with nothing but happy memories of Christmases and summer holidays spent in their bungalow at Frinton-on-Sea.
She took her front door key from her handbag and let herself in. ‘Mum. Hello, it’s only me.’
Mildred Travis bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her floral pinafore. Snail-like pin curls had escaped from the scarf tied turban-fashion around her head, and her cheeks were flushed. ‘Did you hear that doodlebug go over, Ginnie? I was in the Anderson with Mrs Martin from next door, and when it stopped my heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to pass out with fright. Thank God you’re all right. D’you know where it landed?’
‘In the park, Mum. Mr Adams said the cricket pavilion copped it, and the shop window’s cracked, but Dad’s going to board it up.’
‘About time too. I keep telling him that he should have done it years ago, but will he listen to me? No, of course he won’t. Your father is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.’ Mildred shot back into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with a saucepan in her hand. ‘Just caught the spuds before they boiled dry. I’ll serve up right away.’
Ginnie tossed her handbag and gasmask case onto the hall stand and peeled off her gloves. Although it was a hot day she would have been nagged to death had Mum seen her less than immaculately turned out. War or no war, standards had to be maintained. Ginnie took her seat at the table and waited for her mother to bring in a steaming plate of Woolton pie. It was Wednesday and meals were served on a strict rota, so at least she knew what to expect, although a salad would have been more welcome.
‘Flaming June,’ Mildred said as she brought the plates to the table, placing one in front of her daughter. ‘It’s too hot to spend the day slaving away in the kitchen, but your dad likes his midday meal, and I’ve never let him go one day without a proper cooked lunch since we were married.’ She nodded, sighing. ‘That’ll be twenty-four years ago in July.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Ginnie picked up her knife and fork. ‘You’ve done wonders. This looks really tasty. I’m sure Dad will love it. I’ll go back early and relieve him so that his dinner won’t be dried up.’ She sampled a mouthful and swallowed manfully. It was stodgy and salty with an overriding flavour of onions, but it was hot and filling and she would not have hurt her mother’s feelings for the world. ‘Lovely.’ She washed it down with a sip of water.
‘At least you’ve got a good appetite, not like your sister.’ Mildred pushed a piece of potato round her plate, eyeing it with distaste. ‘She’s been looking very peaky recently. I blame the chemicals in the munitions factory.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Ginnie continued to plough her way through the plate of food. Shirley was probably eating in the works canteen and listening to Workers’ Playtime on the wireless, surrounded by her friends and colleagues. It was impossible not to envy her sister’s independent spirit. Shirley had refused to help their father run the shop when she left school and had made a feeble and unsuccessful attempt at job-hunting. She had spent most of her time at the tennis club, but this had ended abruptly when the government decreed that single women over the age of twenty would be compelled to enlist in one of the armed forces or take up war work. The munitions factory had not been Shirley’s idea of a perfect job, but she had chosen not to enlist, stating that all the uniforms were hideous and unflattering and she would not be seen dead in any of them. Ginnie smiled to herself. Blessed with impossibly good looks and irresistible charm, Shirley could probably commit murder and get away with it.
‘Are you listening to
me, Ginnie?’
Her mother’s voice cut across her thoughts and Ginnie looked up. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘I was saying that I’d have taken you girls to stay with your Auntie Avril in Shropshire at the start of the war if it weren’t for your dad and the perishing shop.’ Mildred sighed and pushed her plate away. ‘But I couldn’t leave him to look after himself. He can’t boil an egg, let alone cook a decent meal.’
‘But I thought you didn’t get on with Auntie Avril, Mum? You’ve always said she was no better than she should be.’
‘I never did.’ Mildred dabbed her lips with a gingham table napkin. ‘I just said that Avril’s way of life wasn’t my cup of tea, but at least she’s calmed down a bit since her last husband died.’
‘She’s only had two, Mum.’
‘And both of them dead before their time. That’s what comes from living the high life, but she’s still my sister and it would be her duty to take us in.’
‘You wouldn’t enjoy living in the pub. You don’t even like the smell of beer.’
Mildred sniffed and set her knife and fork down at a precise angle on her plate. ‘Anything would be better than waiting to be blown to bits by a buzz bomb. Anyway, it’s a lovely part of the world. Your dad and I spent our honeymoon in Shropshire, only Sid took to fishing and I spent most of my time standing on the riverbank being bitten by gnats.’
‘Poor you.’
‘Why are you grinning?’ Mildred demanded, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘It wasn’t funny, and we had to eat fish for dinner every night. I hate trout and I’ve never touched it since.’
Ginnie dabbed her lips with her napkin. ‘That was delicious, Mum. I’d better get back to the shop now and let Dad come home to enjoy a feast.’
‘But you haven’t had your dessert.’
‘I’ll have it for tea, Mum.’
‘But it’s strawberries from the garden. I picked them this morning.’ Mildred pursed her lips. ‘You’ll suffer from dyspepsia like your dad if you’re not careful.’
‘I’ll take them to work with me, Mum. I’ll have time to enjoy them later.’
