by Dilly Court
‘Steady on,’ Ginnie whispered. ‘People are looking. Don’t make a scene.’
‘I’d think it was frightfully funny,’ Olivia said carelessly. ‘But I don’t think that Mummy and Daddy would approve.’ She flicked her ash-blonde hair back from her face.
‘Then they’ll just have to get used to it,’ Shirley said angrily. ‘Laurence is the father and we’re going to be married. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.’
Ginnie stifled a gasp of dismay. She had not seen this coming. ‘Shirley,’ she said urgently. ‘This has gone far enough.’
‘Come on, then, Shirley.’ Olivia struck a pose. ‘Admit that it’s a pack of lies. I’ll bet the father is that chap from the sewage works. That would be about your mark.’
‘Charlie worked for the water board,’ Shirley said through clenched teeth. ‘He was a decent bloke and now he’s dead. But my son’s birth certificate gives his name as Colin Travis Mallory and I’ve changed my surname to Mallory so that it doesn’t matter whether Laurence marries me or not. You and I are very nearly sisters-in-law, Olivia. We’re equals now so you can’t patronise me like you did when we were at school.’
Olivia’s face paled to ashen. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you hardly knew Laurence. How dare you take his name?’
‘Of course I know him. He was always there in the background while we were growing up, even if he didn’t take any notice of me then, but that all changed at the tennis club dance last April.’
‘It was just a fling before he returned to duty,’ Olivia said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t have thrown him your way if I’d known that beneath the boring working-class mantle of respectability you were really a man-eating shark. Besides which, you were always the class clown and no one ever took you seriously, let alone my brother.’
Ginnie fisted her hands at her sides. She might tease her sister but she was damned if she was going to let Olivia speak to her in such a manner. ‘That’s enough. There’s no need to be mean.’
‘She’s making it all up,’ Olivia said, scowling. ‘Laurence would never tie himself to a girl from Cherry Lane.’
‘That’s what you think.’ Shirley leaned towards Olivia with a martial light in her eyes. ‘Laurence and I got on like a house on fire at the dance and he took me home afterwards. He’s not a stuck-up snob like you and he didn’t think I was a clown. We had a cosy half-hour snogging in the back seat of your father’s car, only it went a bit further than that. Do I have to spell it out for you, Olivia?’
Ginnie grabbed her by the arm. ‘That’s enough, Shirley.’
‘It’s the sort of talk she expects from a common working-class girl,’ Shirley said with a defiant toss of her head. ‘What else can I say?’
‘I think you’ve said too much already.’ Olivia picked up her handbag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. Larry’s far too honourable to behave like that, and anyway he wouldn’t want to tie himself to a family like yours. He’s got better taste.’
Shirley raised her hand as if to strike Olivia but Ginnie stepped in between them. ‘I think you’d better leave. You’ve gone too far this time, Olivia. That was a cruel thing to say.’
‘It’s the truth, but don’t worry, I’m going. I’ll tell Larry about your little plan to trap him into marriage, Shirley. It won’t work.’ She stormed off, pushing her way through the crowd of mourners.
‘You’ve done it now,’ Ginnie hissed. ‘What on earth possessed you to make up a story like that?’
‘I wasn’t making it up.’ Shirley hung her head. ‘Anyway, it was Olivia’s fault. She’s always treated me like an inferior. I’m sick of being patronised by her and her family.’
‘But you like Laurence. You asked him to our house for tea.’
‘Yes, I did. I do like him, a lot, but I know he’s too upper class for a girl like me. I suppose it was wishful thinking that a chap like him would want to marry me.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re as good as the next person and you don’t need to have a name like Mallory to prove it.’ Ginnie enveloped her in a hug. ‘Forget them. They’re not worth worrying about, but Mum is and she needs our support to get through this.’
In the days that followed Ginnie was too busy assessing the needs of the shop to worry overmuch about her sister’s private life. Laurence was away at sea and unlikely to get shore leave for a while at least, and Olivia had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with Shirley or the baby. Ginnie could only hope that Olivia did not mention the conversation to anyone, but she did not hold out much hope. It would be awful if Laurence returned home from sea and heard the rumours that were bound to circulate, as discretion had never been one of Olivia’s virtues.
But there was no point worrying about things over which she had no control, and Ginnie spent long hours at the shop, sorting out the chaos in the office, and making the retail area look as attractive as possible. There was still the threat from the V2s, but as the weeks went by it seemed that Kent was suffering the worst of these attacks and London was being spared. Even so, there was a definite demand for furnishings, as Ginnie explained to the bank manager when he granted her a brief interview in the New Year.
‘As you know, sir,’ she said tactfully, ‘the Assistance Board has a scheme for giving grants for essential furnishings and household articles to people who have lost everything in bombing raids and whose incomes fall below a certain level. I would like to increase the range of items that were previously sold in the shop.’
‘Really? And what had you in mind?’ Mr Walton leaned his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers and regarding her with a steady look. His expression was not encouraging and she was beginning to feel that she was being interrogated as if she were a spy or a hardened criminal who had come up before a particularly stern judge. She took a sheet of paper from a rather battered file she had taken from the office and handed it to him. ‘I’ve been doing a random survey of shoppers on the High Street, asking them what they would need in such circumstances. I’ve made a list.’
He set a pince-nez on the end of his nose and studied it. ‘This seems quite comprehensive, and I see that you’ve worked out your costings. Are these accurate, or simply an educated guess?’
‘I’ve been to the wholesalers, Mr Walton. I’ve studied their price lists and worked everything out to the last penny. I’ve written down how much I need to restart the business and I’m confident that I can make a go of it.’
‘Really?’ He slid the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘You’re very young, Miss Travis. Do you mind telling me how old you are?’
‘I’m almost twenty.’
‘You’re still a minor.’ His frown deepened. ‘I would be taking a huge risk if I agreed to this loan.’
Ginnie clasped her hands tightly in her lap. This was going to be tougher than she had thought, but she needed the money or the shop would fail and with her mother, Shirley and the baby dependent upon her failure was not an option. ‘I am determined to succeed in this, Mr Walton. I’ve worked in the shop since I left school and I know the customers and I know what they like and what they don’t like. Everyone says that the war is almost over and then people will want to rebuild their homes. Men will return from battle whether it’s on land, sea or in the air, and they’ll get jobs in the local factories and earn good money. Some of that will be spent in my shop.’
For a brief instant she though she saw a flash of humour in Mr Walton’s brown eyes, but it was momentary and his expression remained guarded. He looked down at his notes. ‘You’re extremely confident, Miss Travis, and you seem to have done your homework.’
She smiled for the first time during their meeting. ‘I studied hard at school, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had to prove myself. I know I can do it; I just need a helping hand at the start, but I’ll go on to bigger and better things.’
He was silent for what seemed like an eternity and he tapped his fountain pen slowly and rhythmically on the blotter,
perhaps in time with his thoughts. His deadpan expression gave no clue as to what he was thinking, but the constant drumming might be the death knell of her hopes. She crossed her fingers and her palms were damp with perspiration. She glanced at the Art Deco mantle clock and suddenly its ticking seemed to fill the room, drowning out the tap-tap-tap of the pen on the desk. The sounds echoed in her head and she was beginning to feel faint when Mr Walton cleared his throat and she realised that she had been holding her breath.
‘Agreed.’ He took the cap off his pen and signed a form with a flourish.
‘You mean you’ll give me the loan?’ Ginnie murmured on a gasp of air.
His lips sketched a smile. ‘That’s what I said. You do understand the terms of repayment and the interest that you will be charged?’
‘Yes,’ she said dazedly. ‘I understand.’
He rose from his seat and extended his hand. ‘Good day to you, Miss Travis. And good luck.’
It was snowing when she stepped out of the bank door into the High Street, but in Ginnie’s mind the sun was shining and life was filled with endless possibilities. She had already made out the orders for the various wholesalers and now she was in a position to stick stamps on the envelopes and put them in the red pillar box on the corner of Cherry Lane. It was no greater chore than sending Christmas cards but the effects would be long lasting and if she had made the right choices she would achieve a modest success. She did not expect to make a fortune in the first year, or even the second, but she was determined to earn enough money to provide a decent living for herself and her family. When Shirley was fit enough to return to work she might even give her a job as a saleslady. Shirley would charm the customers into buying things they might not have chosen until she put the thought in their heads. Shirley had always been good at getting her own way.
Ginnie hurried back to the shop to relieve Mrs Richmond, who had volunteered to keep an eye on things while Jimmy took over the shop floor. He might be a bit slow on the uptake but he knew the cost of each item of stock without consulting the price tag. His fresh-faced boyish looks and diffident manner endeared him to the older ladies, and his cheerful disposition made him a hit with everyone. He had been dealing with a customer when Ginnie walked through the door, but he abandoned his task and bounded over to her like an eager puppy. ‘Well, did you get it?’
‘Yes, I did. Go and put the kettle on and I’ll finish serving the lady.’ She hurried over to the woman who was staring at her in astonishment. ‘I’m so sorry, madam. Jimmy is a bit over-enthusiastic at times. That’s a very fine rug, and I’m afraid it’s the last of our pre-war stock. I don’t know when we’ll be able to get more in.’
‘Well, dear, I do like it, and a live coal fell out of the fire and burned a great big hole in our rug at home. I know we should make do and mend, but it’s gone past that and my daughter is getting married on Saturday and everyone will be coming back to our house for tea.’
‘How exciting!’ Ginnie thought for a moment, trying to decide whether to forgo a little bit of profit in return for goodwill. ‘As it’s such a special occasion I’ll let you have it at sale price.’
The customer’s eyes lit up and she opened her handbag. ‘I’ll take it, and I’ll recommend you to my friends. I usually go all the way to Leytonstone and shop at Bearman’s, but you’re much nearer.’
‘And I’m branching out. I’m going to stock items of household linen that don’t require coupons, and some kitchen utensils too.’
‘Then I most certainly will use your shop in future. Thank you, my dear, and good luck to you.’
The new stock started to arrive and Ginnie spent her evenings at the shop unpacking crates and displaying the items to their best advantage. Despite the crack in the plate glass she had the boarding taken down from the window, and she sought advice as to whether it was likely to shatter or if it was safe to wait until she could afford a replacement. The glazier took a look at it and said that in his opinion the damage was minimal and unlikely to be a danger to the public. ‘The war,’ he said, ‘is almost over. I listen every night to the BBC Home Service and that chappie Alvar Lidell who reads the news said the Allies were advancing on Berlin and the Jerries were virtually beaten. We’re winning, ducks. We’ve almost beaten that bloody Hitler.’
Ginnie could only hope that he was right as she arranged a window display to resemble the sitting room of a comfortable home. She placed easy chairs around a coffee table and a tea trolley, complete with paper doilies and a china tea set borrowed from Fred Chinashop. She completed the scene with a wireless she had on loan from the electrical shop further along the parade, putting a placard to this effect on the top together with a photograph of a young man in uniform. She went out into the street to examine her work, but it lacked colour. It needed something else to make people stop and stare. Mrs Richmond provided the answer when she came down from her flat half an hour later with a fish paste sandwich for Ginnie’s lunch.
‘You don’t eat enough, my girl,’ she said sternly. ‘You’re too thin. It’s not attractive. You’ll never catch a husband if you look like a stick bean.’
Ginnie turned her head away so that Mrs Richmond would not see that she was close to tears. Her careless words, no doubt meant to be jocular, had brought back memories of Nick that blotted out everything other than the pain of parting and the knowledge that she would never see him again. She took the plate. ‘Thank you, but you shouldn’t waste your rations on me.’
‘What’s the matter, ducks?’ Mrs Richmond peered into her face. ‘You’re not crying are you, Ginnie?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve got something in my eye.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’ Mrs Richmond took off her glasses, huffed on them and polished them on her apron. ‘You’ve been overworking. I’ve seen the lights on late at night when you should be out enjoying yourself like other young girls, or home in bed getting your beauty sleep.’
Ginnie took a bite of the sandwich and realised that she was extremely hungry. She took another. Despite the fact that she was heartily sick of margarine and fish paste, she ate it with relish. ‘I’d like your opinion on the shop window,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Come outside and tell me what you think.’
Mrs Richmond followed her outside and stood at the edge of the kerb with her arms folded across her ample bosom. ‘Colour,’ she said firmly. ‘Cushions are what’s needed. Those utility chairs look a bit plain and boring in that beige uncut moquette. I’ve got just the thing in my flat. You don’t have to sell them but they’ll brighten up the display. You could do with a bit of fancy glass or a china ornament on the coffee table. I’ll have a word with Fred and see what he’s got tucked away in his back room.’
‘But he’s already loaned me the tea set.’
‘Think of all the cups of tea your dad gave Fred over the years. I’ll bet if they was laid out in a straight line they’ve stretch to Southend and halfway back again, not to mention the pints of mild and bitter that Sid treated him to in the pub of an evening. I love Fred to bits, but he’s a mean old sod.’ She patted Ginnie on the arm. ‘Leave it to me, ducks. Go back inside and finish your sandwich and I’ll do the rest.’ She marched into Fred’s shop, leaving Ginnie standing on the pavement feeling slightly dazed. She glanced once again at the display and decided that Mrs Richmond was right. A splash of colour here and there was all that was needed to bring the window to life. Maybe she ought to scatter some women’s magazines on the coffee table, and perhaps an overflowing ashtray. She giggled at the thought. That would definitely be going too far.
She had barely finished her sandwich when Mrs Richmond returned with a large blue glass vase and a china fruit bowl. ‘I’ve got some wax fruit upstairs,’ she said triumphantly. ‘My Norman gave it to me for our twentieth wedding anniversary, the silly old fool. What I really wanted was a posh silver cigarette case like the sort that Paul Henreid had in Now, Voyager. You remember the scene when he lit two cigarettes and gave one to Bette Da
vis. I always wanted Norm to do that but he only smokes a pipe.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You’re looking less peaky now, dearie. You’ve got to remember to eat or you won’t be able to lift a spoon and fork, let alone a roll of lino.’
‘Thank you for the sandwiches,’ Ginnie said, laughing. ‘And the vision of Mr Richmond lighting two pipes and handing one to you. That’ll haunt me for the rest of the day.’
‘At least I’ve cheered you up. I’ll go upstairs and get the cushions and the imitation fruit. We’ll make your window display the best outside of Selfridges.’
As soon as Shirley was fit enough to consider taking a job Ginnie asked her if she would like to help in the shop. With the new and improved range of goods on sale trade was gradually picking up, and when Jimmy was out delivering furniture or laying carpets and lino Ginnie needed someone to serve the customers. Shirley was reluctant at first. She had been snubbed by several of Olivia’s friends when she had ventured into town, pushing Colin in a second-hand pram that Mildred had bought from one of Mrs Martin’s daughters. It was clean and serviceable, but it had seen better days and could hardly compare with the coach-built Marmet or Silver Cross prams that the mothers in Monk Avenue bought for their offspring.
‘I wish I’d never made up that silly story about me and Laurence,’ she said tearfully when Ginnie broached the subject again one evening after a meagre supper of bread and dripping. Shirley emptied the washing-up water into the kitchen sink. ‘How can I work in the shop with everyone believing that spiteful gossip put about by Olivia?’
‘The Monk Avenue crowd aren’t likely to give us their custom. Most of them wouldn’t be seen dead in Collier Lane. They patronise the big department stores up West. We don’t get a look in.’ Ginnie did not add that she was determined to change their habits and attract a wider clientele. That would come in time, but for now she needed an assistant whom she could trust.
‘I must start bringing in a wage,’ Shirley said doubtfully. ‘But I was thinking of going back to the munitions factory.’
