by Mary Gibson
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Dedicated to the memory of my parents and grandparents,
whose lives and stories were my inspiration.
1
Custard Tarts
Nellie tried not to look up at the clock. She’d checked it not more than a minute ago and knew there was only half an hour till the end of her shift. But the temptation to check again was overwhelming. She looked up at the large white-faced clock hanging on the brick wall between two tall factory windows. The clock had a two-inch-thick coating of pale golden powder over its rim and the square panes in the windows were edged with the same substance, as if a yellow snowstorm had blown through the factory floor, dusting every nook and cranny with a fine powder. But it wasn’t snowing. It was high summer and the room was filled with choking custard powder. Albert, the foreman, had gone round earlier with a long pole, pulling open the top windowpanes and letting some air in to alleviate the oppressive heat of the long room. But to Nellie it felt as though the air must be the only thing that wasn’t moving in the powder-packing department of Pearce Duff’s custard factory.
Nellie had been standing at the bench for almost eleven hours now, filling packet after packet with custard powder, and her calf muscles, thighs and back all screamed as though they’d been stretched on a rack. She shifted continually from one foot to the other in search of momentary relief. Any minute now the hooter would sound, a jarring high-pitched scream, which was nevertheless always welcome. Quickly glancing from the clock back to her best friend Lily, she checked to see if her friend’s hands were idle. Lily had stood beside her all day, folding and pasting the filled packets of custard Nellie passed to her. They had to make sure their hands were always moving. Albert constantly prowled between the rows of filling machines, checking on the girls’ every movement. He could spot an idle hand from the other end of the factory floor. A pause in the filling, folding or packing procedure was considered the cardinal sin in the powder-packing department. Nothing was ever allowed to be still. She nudged her friend to let her know Albert was approaching and handed her the next packet for pasting.
‘Not long now, Lil,’ she muttered.
Lily raised her eyes, and without pause shoved the next packet to Maggie Tyrell for loading on to the trolley.
Suddenly a high-pitched screeching noise came keening up from the factory yard below and through the open windows. Nellie and Lily exchanged glances. It was not the welcome sound of the factory hooter sounding the end of their day, but the unmistakable wail of a baby. Instantly Nellie saw Maggie Tyrell freeze. She was a frazzled-looking woman with six children.
‘That’s my little Lenny!’ Maggie darted a look at the clock. ‘Me daughter’s brought him too early!’
Albert was approaching at a steady pace and Nellie saw panic written on Maggie’s face. Ethel Brown, a large woman working at the next machine who had also heard the baby’s cry, leaned over to Maggie.
‘Ask to go early, Mag,’ she suggested.
But Maggie shook her head. ‘He’ll dock me half hour.’
More and more women became aware of the baby’s insistent screaming, shooting quick looks at Maggie to see what she would do, some making gestures for her to go. Only Albert seemed not to hear the cries coming through the high windows as he passed behind their backs, adding up the quantities of packets on each trolley.
Maggie was becoming more and more agitated. ‘Oh, poor little bugger, I can’t stand much more of this. He’s hungry, that’s all.’
She fumbled with a packet, dropping it on the floor, its contents spilling out in an accusing golden stream. Nellie quickly kicked the broken packet under the bench.
‘Mag, he’s coming back, ask him for a toilet break, quick!’
Maggie smoothed her worried features into a placating smile and looked over her shoulder, catching Albert’s attention with her raised hand.
‘I need to go to the lav, Albert,’ she whispered.
‘Can’t you wait?’ Albert said irritably. ‘There’s only ten minutes to go!’
Maggie crossed her legs and made a face. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have an accident…’
‘Oh, go on then.’
Maggie scuttled off towards the double doors.
‘You women drink too much tea, that’s your trouble!’ he called after her as Ethel Brown waved two fingers behind his back, which set Lily and Nellie giggling.
Soon the sounds of the baby’s cries faded away as Maggie fed him at the factory gates, and not long after the scream of the factory hooter sounded their release.
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!’
More whistles followed and some called out girls’ names. Nellie peered over the heads of the crowd as she heard someone call hers. Sam, one of the delivery boys, was seated up on a cart, holding the horse’s reins steady.
She pretended not to hear him. Every day he offered to give her a lift on the cart back to her home in Vauban Street, next door to the carter’s stables, where he worked with her father.
‘He’s not bad-looking,’ whispered her friend Lily, ‘and he’s here, regular as clockwork.’
Nellie shook her head and shushed her friend.
‘Leave off, Lily, I’m not getting up on that cart! Anyway, he’s such a soppy ’apporth, I’m not givin’ him the time of day.’
Nellie, at sixteen, was a fresh-faced girl with bright blue eyes and a sweep of chestnut hair, which she attempted in vain to keep contained in a loose roll, framing her face. She couldn’t say why his attentions irritated her so much, but they did.
You’re not for me, Sam Gilbie, she thought, as they swept on past the young man with his carefully brushed, wavy dark hair. Undeterred, he jumped down and called after them.
‘I was wondering, Nellie—’
‘Not interested!’ Lily called back as the two girls leaned into one another, their wide flat caps touching, to form a shield against the young man’s advances. But after they had passed, another young man detached himself from the crowd and ran to catch up with Lily and Nellie.
‘Hang on, girls!’
At the sound of his voice, Nellie tightened her grip on her friend’s arm. He was a tall, lithe fellow of about twenty, and as he caught up with them he joined his palms, swimming between them, like a sinuous eel. They parted to allow him in, and he draped an arm over each of their shoulders.
‘All set for tonight, you two?’ He kissed Lily on the cheek and attempted to do the same to Nellie.
‘Get off, you saucy sod.’ She jerked her head back, but blushed all the same. Nellie had spotted Lily’s brother, Ted, in the crowd and now found herself angry at the rising blush, which she was unable to disguise. He was a head taller than the two girls and wore a flat cap and a white choker, tied around his neck. His clothes, though obviously a docker’s, always looked dashing on his long-limbed figure and Nellie found herself noticing the jaunty angle of his cap.
‘I told you, we’ll be there,’ said Lily. ‘Don’t keep on about it.’
‘I’m not sure I can come,’ Nellie said. ‘My dad’s not too keen on me going out on my own at night.’
‘Well, tell him you’re going to me mum’s house.’ Ted smiled down at her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘It
’s true enough, it’s where I’m meeting you, so you are going there… first!’
He broke away, laughing, calling over his shoulder, ‘Make sure you come, I want you to meet someone special!’
Nellie’s father, George Clark, was a large barrel-chested man with a drooping moustache and a stern manner. He worked as a carman for Wicks, the carter whose stables were next door, delivering grain, foodstuffs or timber to and from the nearby docks. Years of driving a horse and cart, in all weathers, had given him a ruddy, lined complexion and a powerful physique. A man of few words, when he did speak his children made sure they took notice. Nellie tried not to defy him. Growing up, she and her two brothers and sister had learned to fear his anger and, even more, the leather belt he produced when family discipline demanded it. Tonight, he was sitting in his favourite chair as usual, pipe in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up and braces undone.
Nellie thought now would be as good a time as any. Her father was always most amenable after a good dinner and she had obliged by cooking his favourite: boiled bacon and pease pudding. When her mother died two years earlier, she’d found herself the surrogate mother of the whole family. With the help of her younger sister, Alice, she cooked and cleaned and took care of her two little brothers, Bobby and Freddie. Bobby, who’d been six when their mother died, had needed her constant care. For a year he’d clung to Nellie’s skirts, burrowing in like some little lost animal. She often felt she was missing out on her own youth, leaping from childhood to motherhood with no preparation, but one look at Bobby’s mournful little face, peering up from the folds of her skirt, told her she had no choice. Sometimes an unaccountable sadness would overtake her and for a long time she thought she was simply missing her mother, but lately, as she saw other girls her age launching forward into independence and even the promise of romance, she realized she had been mourning her lost girlhood.
After she and Alice had cleared away the tea things, she determined that she would go out that night. In the scullery as they washed and dried the plates she leaned over to whisper to Alice.
‘Can you get the boys ready for bed tonight? I don’t want to give him,’ she nodded towards the kitchen, where her father sat, ‘any excuse to stop me going out.’
Eleven-year-old Alice was Nellie’s confidante and staunchly loyal. When their mother died, it had been Nellie who’d taken the children into her arms and comforted them. Their father believed in managing grief, as he managed his family, with an iron rod. She couldn’t remember him shedding a tear. He’d just seemed to grow more stern, surrounding himself with armour plating. His upright, tight, buttoned-up figure, walking behind the hearse, had never bent or faltered and, as they’d stood sobbing at their mother’s grave, his only words had been, ‘Control yourselves, you’re showing me up.’ Sometimes Nellie thought he showed more affection to the horses he drove than he did to his own children.
Alice readily agreed to help with the boys and Nellie went upstairs to change. She dressed with some care, in her best blue skirt, cinched in at the waist with a wide belt, and her frilly white blouse with the leg o’mutton sleeves. Not her absolute best, but she didn’t want any awkward questions.
‘I’m just popping out to Lily’s for an hour, Dad. The boys are in bed.’ She leaned down to kiss his cheek. He nodded and carried on picking at his pipe. He let her get to the kitchen door.
‘Make sure you’re back by ten and don’t let that Ted turn your head.’
Nellie raised her eyes, before turning back to him. ‘I don’t expect Ted’ll be there.’
Her father began plugging the pipe with tobacco; he didn’t look up. ‘Oh, he’ll be there all right, don’t worry your head about that,’ he said impassively. ‘And remember what I said, no later ’n ten!’
Nellie sighed, then carefully closed the door behind her and pulled her little blue cape off the peg in the passage. Her sister was there, to see her off.
‘Don’t talk to no strangers.’
‘Oh, Al, there are no strangers in Bermondsey!’ Nellie laughed at the very idea that their world of poor streets, bounded by the Thames, girdled by docks, stuffed with factories, permeated by smoke, and plagued with noxious smells, should contain anything so unexpected as a stranger. Bermondsey might be situated at the heart of a great metropolis, but for those who lived there it had the familiarity of a village, a soot-covered one made of London brick and slate roofs, but a village none the less, where everyone knew each other and where no one had to face life’s trials alone. Nellie reflected that, in Bermondsey, a street was as good as a family. Her real family, at times, felt a little diminished, despite her efforts.
Nellie threw her arms round her sister and kissed her.
‘Well, just look after yourself. You look a treat,’ Alice said.
‘Thanks, Al.’ Nellie did not consider herself a great beauty, but her complexion was peachy and her bright blue eyes always drew attention. And this evening she’d spent a while on her glory, her long chestnut hair. But as she closed the door behind her, she found herself musing that tonight Ted would no doubt be far more interested in his important guest than in Nellie Clark from Vauban Street.
The little room at the back of the Labour Institute was full. About two dozen women, seated on rows of hard-backed chairs, filled the small space. In spite of the stiflingly warm night, they kept on their broad, decorated hats and wide capes, their leg o’mutton sleeves alone seeming to fill the room, which buzzed with their high-pitched chatter. Ted and two other dockers were the only men there. Nellie and Lily sat in the front row, waiting for Ted to introduce his guest. He’d been excited on the way round to the institute, and had rushed them all off from the Boshers’ house so that Nellie hadn’t even had time to say hello to Lily’s mum. But then Ted had been excited through all this sizzling summer of 1911; sometimes Nellie wondered if it was the ninety-degree heat that had got him into such a fervour. If the country was being set on fire, then it seemed Ted Bosher was in the middle of it, stoking the flames. She had read the newspaper headlines – the ‘Summer of Unrest’ they were calling it, and Ted was certainly restless. Every day, for weeks, he had been on at her and Lily to join the union, full of tales of workers striking all over the country. Eventually he’d worn them down and tonight they’d agreed to hear this mystery speaker, for he’d refused to tell them who she was.
‘She’s important in the movement,’ was all he would say. ‘Wait till you hear her, she’s a bloody inspiration, she is.’
Nellie noticed that his eyes were sparkling and felt a wave of disappointment wash over her that the light in them wasn’t for her.
‘Oh, the movement,’ she’d said in mockery and then regretted it when he turned on her.
‘It’s the likes of you that keep us lot under the thumb. Just listen tonight as though you were a grown-up, that’s all I ask.’
Now, looking up at the lady standing next to Ted, she felt tired and irritated. She had no patience with do-gooders who came to improve their lot. A woman sitting next to them leaned over and whispered, ‘Looks like the big guns are out tonight!’
‘Who is she?’ Nellie whispered back.
‘It’s “Madam Mecklenburgh”!’
When Nellie looked unimpressed, the woman went on, ‘Well, that’s what we call her behind her back. Her real name’s Eliza James, and, speak as you find, she’s done a lot for us girls.’ The woman nodded in approval. ‘She’s high up in the NFWW.’
Nellie didn’t like to show her ignorance by asking what the NFWW was, so instead she asked, ‘Why do you call her Madam Mecklenburgh?’
‘Only ’cause she lives in Mecklenburgh Square, that’s where the name come from, I reckon.’
‘So she’s not a proper lady then?’ Nellie was rather disappointed.
‘Well, she might act like one…’ The woman looked at her as though she would like to say more, but just then Eliza James moved forward to speak.
To Nellie’s eyes, she certainly looked like a proper lady, with her chiffon sc
arf, wide-brimmed hat and her velvet-trimmed pale grey suit; all very tasteful and not cheap. She had a long face, wavy auburn hair and deep-set dark, almost black eyes. She looked to Nellie vaguely familiar, but a woman like her would not be from Bermondsey. Nellie could tell; it was the clothes. But the voice, when it came, told a different story. It wasn’t the cut-glass accent Nellie had been expecting, and the vowels spoke of origins much humbler than Mecklenburgh Square. She could tell that the woman had smoothed out the rougher edges of her accent, carefully sounding her aitches. No, Nellie concluded to herself, if you was born a lady, then I’m the Duchess of Duffs!
But just as Ted had promised, she was an inspiration. She introduced herself as a leader in the National Federation of Women Workers and then took a long look around the room, as though taking the measure of her audience. Then she launched into a powerful, passionate condemnation of the poor wages and inhuman conditions in the Bermondsey food factories, which soon had the little room full of clapping women. She drew Nellie in and made her feel as if she was the most important person in the room. Three-quarters of the way through her talk, she asked them each to say which factories they worked for.
‘Duff’s,’ shouted Nellie, and the others followed with calls of ‘Pink’s Jam’ and ‘Crosse & Blackwell’, ‘Shuttleworth’s’, ‘Peek Frean’s’. Most of the factories mentioned had large numbers of women workers and paid the lowest wages. Lady or not, Madam Mecklenburgh certainly knew what she was talking about, for when each of the factory names were called, she came back straight away with the exact wages paid.
‘Pink’s? Six shillings a week for you, double for the men.’
Then she pointed at Nellie. ‘How old are you, young lady?’
‘Sixteen, madam.’
The woman smiled, as though at some secret joke. ‘You work eleven hours a day, the same as boys your age, but you only get half the wage, five shillings a week. And that doesn’t pay the rent, does it?’
Nellie flushed, but was determined not to be over-awed. ‘No, it don’t even keep me dad in tobacca!’
