by Mary Gibson
But not all the men were of that opinion and with the dockers’ support, the women’s courage had got the final boost it needed. Ted Bosher was a useful man to have on the ground. He understood the women’s grievances. His own sister was working all hours as a powder packer, for a few shillings and grateful for it, by all accounts. Eliza was also conscious of the power of his undoubted charms, which he used to good effect, she had noticed, to draw in even the most apathetic of the women workers. That bold little thing, sitting next to his sister, certainly couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face had been aglow all evening, though whether that was a result of young Nellie’s attentions, or her own, she couldn’t be sure.
‘We’ll have them all out in August, I guarantee it,’ Ted Bosher said at the end of the meeting. ‘This lot will carry them. After that speech of yours, you’ve turned them into the firebrands that’ll light the fire!’
He had a pleasant voice, and an easy manner, but his eyes had an intensity that Eliza James had grown to recognize in her years as a union activist. Such burning anger as she had seen in them could be as much of a danger to their own cause as it could be to their adversaries. She preferred a more measured approach.
‘I hope they’ve seen the sense in my arguments too. Fifteen thousand women, walking out on one day, has got to make their bosses sit up and take notice. But I know it’s going to be hard for the women. They’ll get opposition at home, especially the younger ones.’
Ted brushed her misgivings aside. ‘It’ll be worth it, what’s a bit of family upset? The struggle’s worth it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, bristling slightly, ‘I wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t think it was worth it.’
At the door she shook hands with the other two dockers, and Ernest’s driver showed her to the waiting car. He opened the back door for her, got in to the front himself and set off towards London Bridge. They had been driving for several minutes, when she leaned forward to tap on the sliding window between her and the driver.
‘Simmons, could you turn round? I’d like to take a different route home.’
She gave him instructions, and a puzzled look passed across his young face. But he merely turned the car round, with a nod of his head, and drove towards Rotherhithe as she had asked. The gas lamps along Southwark Park Road were still blazing, but their cheerful glow soon receded. The lamps grew sparser as they skirted the entrance to Brunel’s tunnel and moved into the area of docks and wharves strung along the great loop of the river at Rotherhithe. The driver followed her occasional instructions and then stopped when she tapped on the window again. They had come to a street that fronted on to the Thames. A sign pointed to Globe Stairs, down on the foreshore. The little row of terraced houses was squashed between the wide blackness of the Thames on one side and the square, silent basin of Globe Dock behind. Here and there, the indigo skyline was pierced by the black bows and masts of ships, many of them marooned and still unencumbered of their cargos, while they waited for the dockers’ strike to end.
‘I won’t be long, Simmons.’
She peered at the door numbers as she walked down the dimly lit street, and hesitated before eventually stopping at the last house in the little terrace. She knocked, a weak knock; certainly it seemed less loud than the pounding of her own heart. The door was opened by a young man with dark wavy hair. He didn’t smile, just swung the door wide open and stepped to one side.
‘Hello, Sam,’ Eliza said.
Nellie’s lungs burned and she was gulping in painful breaths by the time she arrived at the front door of their terraced house in Vauban Street. A gas lamp hissed and flickered halfway down the street and a few of the houses still had lights in the downstairs windows, but her own home was in darkness, with the shutters closed. She banged on the front door and when no one answered, stooped to call, in a half whisper, through the letterbox.
‘Alice, it’s Nellie, let me in!’
She heard footsteps on the stairs and, for a moment, was relieved that her sister had heard her. Then she heard her father’s voice booming.
‘Get back to bed, girl. I told her ten!’
Her sister’s muffled, pleading voice floated down to her and Nellie put her ear to the letterbox.
‘Please, Dad, she can’t stay out all night.’
She heard no reply, just her father’s footsteps, thumping down the stairs.
Nellie’s face was wet with sweat from her run in the sticky warm night, but now she shivered on the doorstep. She wasn’t sure which terrified her more, a night out here on the streets or a confrontation with her father. The front door was flung open and his large figure filled the passageway. He was dressed only in long johns and a hastily donned pair of trousers, baggy at the waist and held up by a pair of braces. He looked faintly ridiculous, but she wasn’t going to laugh, not now.
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I lost track of—’
‘What’s it to be?’ Her father held up the thick leather belt that he usually wore as well as his braces.
‘This, or a night on the streets?’
His voice was quiet and controlled, but his face was even redder than usual and thin spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth. She knew there was nothing George Clark hated more than to be crossed, especially by his children. Nellie avoided looking directly at him.
‘I’ll come in then.’ She knew what was coming.
He took her by the elbow and marched her into the little kitchen. She shot a glance up the stairs, to see her pale-faced sister hovering at the top. Alice shook her head, in a resigned way, that told Nellie she had tried on her sister’s behalf and failed. Nellie managed a weak smile, before being pulled into the kitchen. There her father grabbed her hand and administered his usual six smart slaps of the belt.
‘You dare defy me again and you’ll get more than that, next time!’
His large red nose glowed with exertion and what Nellie guessed was the effect of a drop too much of his favourite tipple. She wanted to grab the belt and strike him back. Images of red welts across his cheek flashed into her mind. But it was useless, then she really would be on the streets. One thing she wouldn’t give him was a tear. The bloody big bully could wait till kingdom come for that, she thought, in silent rebellion.
‘Get up to bed and don’t think you’re going out again of a night. And you dare lie to me again! I know it was a barefaced lie, about that Bosher boy being there tonight. You listen to me, girl, him and his Bolshy friends are trouble. Always stirring up people to be discontented with what they’ve got. Prancing about on soapboxes, telling me I’m hard done by. I can look after me own, and I don’t need some jumped-up docker’s son telling me different. I don’t want you having nothing more to do with them union lot. D’yer hear?’
Now he was shouting. Of course she heard, the whole bloody street could hear. She nodded, longing to get away, and then he let her go. She followed him upstairs and crept into the front bedroom, where, as expected, three heads shot up. The two boys, Freddie and Bobby, sat up in their bed, looking at her expectantly, and Alice jumped out of the bed she shared with Nellie, to put her arm round her.
‘Did the old git hurt you, Nell?’ she whispered.
‘Nah,’ Nellie lied, ‘he’s getting old and soft.’ But her palm stung as if a hot poker had been laid across it.
‘Gawd, you’re shaking, though.’
‘It’s temper, Al. I’m only shaking ’cause I can’t have a go back at the old sod.’
‘Come on, love, let me help you get changed,’ said Alice, starting to unbutton the back of her blouse.
But Nellie noticed that the two wide-eyed boys were still staring at her. Bobby, especially, looked close to tears. She knew his soft heart would not be able to manage seeing her vulnerable or in pain.
‘Go on, boys, back to kip,’ she said encouragingly. ‘I’m a tough old boot!’ She reached down to tickle Bobby and give Freddie a hug, before pulling the little curtain that separated their half of the room from the boys’ beds.
>
‘It’s so unfair, Al,’ she went on in a whisper. ‘He treats me like I’m still a child, but if it weren’t for me he’d have no one to cook and clean for him, or to look after the boys.’
She was seething as Alice tried to calm her.
‘Don’t leave us, Nell, will you? He’s harder on you than the rest of us and I know it’s not fair, but we’d be lost without you.’
When Nellie saw her sister’s lip trembling, she forgot her own injuries. It was easy to forget Alice was little more than a child herself.
‘Shhh, love, ’course I’m not leaving you, it’s just I think he could let me have a bit of a life.’
They didn’t dare light the lamp, so in the darkness, Alice helped Nellie out of her blouse and skirt. And when they were in bed, the sisters put their arms round each other, till they had both stopped shaking.
Available now
Acknowledgements
Grateful thanks are due to my agent Anne Williams at Kate Hordern Literary Agency and to my editor Rosie de Courcy, for their invaluable advice and expert guidance. Thanks also to all the team at Head of Zeus for their enthusiasm and dedication.
Thanks to all the Bexley Scribblers for their continued support; to Violet Henderson and Jim Munday, for their stories about life in Bermondsey before the Second World War and to Roger Metson for sharing his childhood memories of Hop Picking in Kent. I would also like to acknowledge the work of Theresa Tyrrell in preserving the oral and pictorial history of Bermondsey through the Bermondsey Memories project.
Many thanks to my ever supportive family and friends, especially to Daniel Bartholomew for giving me the character of Jimmy. Lastly, my special thanks to Josie Bartholomew, without whom this book could not have been written.
About this Book
Southwells jam factory is where many of the girls work. And Milly Colman knows she’s lucky. At Southwells she can have a laugh with her mates. She’s quick and strong and never misses a day’s work. She needs to be. Because at home things are very different.
The Colman household is ruled by the tyrannical rages of the old man – her father. Often Milly feels she is the only thing standing between her mother, fey sister Elsie, defiant little Amy and his murderous violence. Autumn hop-picking in Kent gives all the Colman women a heavenly respite.
But it is here, on one golden September night, that Milly makes the mistake of her life and finds her courage and strength tested as never before.
Jam & Roses is a wonderful saga about the lives and loves of working women between the wars, and especially of one brave, feisty girl, determined to do things her way – if she can.
Reviews
Praise for
‘A fabulous, fascinating read.’
Vanessa Feltz
‘Mary Gibson is going to go a long way... a really good read’
Dee Williams
‘A story of real hardship and friendship in East London in the years leading up to World War I. A wonderful tale where family means everything.’
Lovereading
‘Cracking tale full of warmth and history.’
Bella
‘I simply couldn’t put it down. Gibson sets the bar extremely high with her first novel and I can’t wait to see what she produces next.
She is an exciting and promising new author.’
Bookbag
About the Author
MARY GIBSON was born and brought up in Bermondsey, where her grandmother worked at Pearce Duff’s factory – the setting for her first novel, Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts. Her mother’s family originated from the Dockhead area of Bermondsey, which is the backdrop for her second novel Jam and Roses.
Also by this Author
Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts
Nellie Clark walked out of Pearce Duff’s factory, arm in arm with Lily Bosher. A crowd of women and girls shuffled around them, many linking arms, some laughing, others looking about them. Nellie herself was searching the small crowd of young men who hung about the factory gates, for one special face. One of the bolder boys took his hands from his pockets and whistled, ‘Aye, aye, boys, here come the custard tarts!’
They call them custard tarts – the girls who work at Pearce Duff’s custard powder factory in Bermondsey – ‘London’s larder’ – before the First World War. Conditions are hard, pay terrible and the hours long and unforgiving, but nothing can quench the spirit of humour and friendship – or the rising tide of anger that will finally bring the girls out on strike for a better deal.
For one of them, striking spells disaster. Nellie Clark’s wages keep her young brothers and sister from starvation, while her father sinks into drunken violence after the death of their mother.
While Nellie struggles to keep her family together, two men compete for her love, and over them looms the shadow of the coming war, which will pull London’s East End together as never before – even while it tears the world apart.
Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts is available here.
A Letter from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more.
If you have any questions, feedback or just want to say hi, lease drop us a line on [email protected]
@HoZ_Books
HeadofZeusBooks
The story starts here.
First published in the UK in 2014 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Mary Gibson, 2014
The moral right of Mary Gibson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 9781781855904
ISBN (HB) 9781781855911
ISBN (XTPB) 9781781855928
Head of Zeus Ltd
Clerkenwell House
45–47 Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.headofzeus.com
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: ‘We are the Bermondsey Girls!’
Chapter 2: The Set of Jugs
Chapter 3: The Letter
Chapter 4: Home Comforts
Chapter 5: The Snares of Paradise
Chapter 6: The Hop Princess
Chapter 7: A Bloody Good Hiding
Chapter 8: The Sewing Circle
Chapter 9: When the Bough Breaks
Chapter 10: Hop Harvest
Chapter 11: A Home in the Country
Chapter 12: Goodbye to Eden
Chapter 13: Her Solitary Way
Chapter 14: Turning Tide
Chapter 15: Safe Haven
Chapter 16: ‘Then Like My Dreams’
Chapter 17: Withered and Flown
Chapter 18: Gardens for Everyone
Chapter 19: A Good Man is Hard to Find
Chapter 20: The Right Place
Chapter 21: Stonefield
Chapter 22: She Didn’t Come for Me
Chapter 23: Run Outs
Chapter 24: The Joy Slide
Chapter 25: ‘Turn ’em Over’
Chapter 26: Absent Husbands
Chapter 27: Tuppence
for the Tram
Chapter 28: The Slut on the Stairs
Chapter 29: Escape Plans
Chapter 30: Daughters of the Flood
Chapter 31: Return of the Dove
Chapter 32: Sweet Thames Flow Softly
Chapter 33: Trees of Heaven
Preview
Acknowledgements
About this Book
Reviews
About the Author
Also by this Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
