by Mary Gibson
But, not long after the cottages were finished, Bertie had heard at the Labour Institute that the economic Depression was threatening to put an end to Dr Salter’s dream. The council had no more money to build garden estates, and though the worst of the slums were continuing to be demolished, from now on they would be replaced by flats. Neither of the men were skilled bricklayers or carpenters, but if they couldn’t contribute to building the new, they could certainly help demolish the old. That task was easy, as the old houses were collapsing under their own decrepit weight anyway.
Today they were going to look for demolition work in the area known as Downtown, in Rotherhithe. Here the houses lining the river had been amongst those worst hit by the January floods. The high waters had poured through already broken windows, undermining foundations dug more than a century before. Nothing could save them and nobody wanted them to be saved.
When she heard a soft snore coming from Bertie, she nudged him. ‘You can’t go back to sleep.’
A pearly February light was beginning to filter through the net curtains and the men had to make an early start of it.
‘I wasn’t!’ he protested.
‘Come on, move yourself. I’ll go and get the breakfast started.’
She saw the two men off with high hopes, but that evening when they returned, weary, wet and caked in what looked like Thames mud, their news wasn’t encouraging. They had been lucky to get a day’s work; there were hundreds of skilled bricklayers, carpenters and plumbers queuing up in front of them just for the chance to wield a sledgehammer. Milly could see they were both crestfallen.
‘Let’s get the bath in,’ she suggested.
Later, after the water had boiled in the copper and the grey tin bath had been filled, she leaned over to soap Bertie’s back. His hands rested on his drawn-up knees, but they were not the hands of the man she had married, soft, white, sensitive hands, used to weighing out flour and jam and sugar, used to writing entries in the ledger. Over the past two years, his hands had turned into those of a casual labourer; she felt their calluses when he cupped her face or stroked them the length of her back. His hands were not the only thing that had changed. The relentless rejections had sapped him of so much of that irreverent jauntiness which had made her love him. But she thanked God for that optimistic core, which remained. Suddenly overwhelmed with love for him, she embraced his wet, soapy body.
‘You’ll have better luck tomorrow, Bertie, I know you will.’
He let himself be kissed and then said, ‘If Bob wasn’t waiting for his turn, I’d have you in here with me, so think yourself lucky!’
It was next morning as she walked to Southwell’s that she got the idea. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Trees! Trees had been springing up all over Bermondsey, the result of yet another of Dr Salter’s seemingly impossible dreams. When Bertie had first heard the MP give a speech about his plan to see every street in Bermondsey lined with trees, and every house with a flower garden or window box, he’d come home so excited she had to sit him down and get him to repeat the speech to her. The doctor had the idea that arid streets were good for neither body nor soul, and that the health of both would be vastly improved if the rows of terraces that criss-crossed the borough were turned into avenues. And now his vision was being implemented, the results were plain to see, for as she walked along Storks Road, trees of heaven lined the pavement. Saplings still, but already softening the harsh lines of brick and slate. Even now, in their bare winter state, a black filigree of branches laced the leaden sky. Somehow, the trees made you lift your eyes, Milly thought, and for some reason the sky seemed bigger because of them. And it wasn’t just trees; old graveyards in the churches had been transformed, with gravestones moved aside so that beds of tulips or dahlias could be planted, splashing the borough with blocks of colour. When she’d last taken Jimmy to the joy slide in St James’s Park, the beds were full of bright winter pansies. It gave her some of that old ‘hopping’ feeling, brought on, she knew, by that indefinable smell of green-sapped, growing things. And it was all the work of the Beautification Committee, run by the doctor’s wife.
Milly stopped outside the Salters’ house. It was early, but Bertie had told her the hard-working MP’s wife was as dedicated as her husband. ‘They work triple shifts in that household!’ he’d said in admiration one day. The woman had proved a good neighbour once before. Perhaps she might again. So Milly, gathering up her courage, adjusting her hat and checking her shoes, breathed deeply before knocking on the front door. To Milly’s surprise, Ada Salter answered the knock herself. She held her hands in front of her like a surgeon waiting to scrub up, but they were filthy, nails rimed with dark soil.
‘Oh, Mrs Hughes, how lovely! I’m potting up seedlings. Do come in.’
Milly walked into the carpeted hallway. The house was the same layout as their own, but as she passed the parlour she glimpsed good furniture with the patina of age upon it, and looking slightly too large for the room.
‘Come into the garden, Maud!’ Mrs Salter laughed. ‘Forgive me, but I must just see to my seedlings, before they wilt.’ The back garden was a green oasis. A little like Bertie’s, its walls were covered in climbing roses and ivy, but towards the back was a greenhouse, stuffed with seedlings and plants in various stages of growth.
Mrs Salter continued her task of potting up what looked like tiny trees, listening intently, while Milly explained the reason for her visit.
‘My husband hasn’t had a proper job since he was locked out after the strike, Mrs Salter, and my brother-in-law’s out of work too. I was wondering if you needed any more men, planting all the trees?’
The woman looked up from her task, bare hands plunged deep into the tray of potting compost. ‘Oh yes, I do remember, your husband was such a stalwart during the strike! I wish you’d come to me before. I’m sure there’s useful work he can do for the Beautification Committee.’
Milly, breathless with excitement at what she’d just heard, grasped Ada Salter’s dirty hand and squeezed it. ‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Salter!’ But, eager to put in a word for Bob too, she pressed on. ‘And our Bob can reel off the names of every tree your Beautification Committee has planted. I know we’ve got trees of heaven in our road, and when we walked round Dockhead the other day, he was pointing out London plane, poplars, acacias, and he said there’s even cherry trees in Cherry Garden Street again!’
Mrs Salter beamed. ‘How wonderful, someone with as much enthusiasm for our trees as my husband and I have!’
‘Oh, we all love the trees. It’s nice not to have to go down hopping just to see some!’
For some reason she felt at home in the little garden, glad that Mrs Salter hadn’t left her sitting in the parlour, but had invited her out, as if she belonged there.
‘I can understand the draw of hop-picking. It’s not just for the income, is it?’
Milly shook her head and smiled. ‘It helps! But no, it’s not just for the money. When you’re a child, it’s the freedom and the open space. We loved it.’
‘Alfred and I love Kent. We bought a house there.’ Milly knew of the large manor house at Hartley that the couple had given to the borough, to be used as a convalescent home.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of Fairby Grange, I know women who’ve been grateful to stay there after their babies were born. Once they’re back home, they don’t get much rest, so it sets them up.’
Mrs Salter nodded and said softly, ‘Well, perhaps when your little one’s born, you can go there yourself.’
Milly didn’t think her pregnancy was that evident, but somehow the woman had guessed. Milly blushed. ‘I’d like that, but I’ve got two other children at home.’
‘Well, they can go too!’ Mrs Salter laughed, then went on. ‘You may not know that we use the grounds of Fairby as a nursery for all the trees we plant in Bermondsey, so you see, you have a little bit of Kent right on your doorstep!’
Milly was delighted with the idea. No wonder the very sight of them reminded
her of hopping.
‘Well, my dear, I’m sure the Beautification Committee can find work for your gardener brother-in-law too, especially now it’s planting season. We have hundreds of saplings just waiting to be put in the ground. And I have an idea for your husband. Back in twenty-six, Bertie drove the motor van delivering the strike bulletin, didn’t he?’
Milly nodded.
‘Well, my dear, all the saplings and bedding plants have to be driven from Fairby Grange to Bermondsey. Do you think he might like the job of transporting them?’
‘Yes!’ she said quickly. ‘He’d love to do that!’
‘Do you think you’d better ask him first?’
‘I don’t need to, Mrs Salter.’
For Milly knew that he would indeed love nothing more than driving out to the countryside every day, bringing back green pieces of Kent, and delivering beauty to Bermondsey.
It was May, and the three sisters were walking away from the polling station. The adult suffrage law, passed the previous year, meant that at twenty-three Milly was finally able to vote, in what was being called ‘the flapper election’. Amy and Elsie had waited outside the polling station with the children, almost as excited as Milly, while their sister had cast her very first vote. The trees of heaven lining the road were hung with all the promise of unfurling fresh green, and as they turned into St James’s Road, Milly pointed out a row of young, frothing cherry trees.
‘Just think, Elsie, Bob might have planted those.’
‘They’re beautiful!’ Her sister reached up to stroke the lowest pink blossom, setting it dancing on the slight branch.
Jimmy ran ahead into St James’s Churchyard, which they were cutting through on their way to Dockhead, and Milly expected a tussle with him when she told him they couldn’t stop at the slide. But something else had caught his eye.
‘Mum, look at the flowers!’ The five-year-old was pointing to a bed of early flowering yellow roses, planted in a sunburst pattern. ‘It looks like sunshine!’ He looked up at her, his eyes bright.
‘Yes, it does, love, just like sunshine.’
‘Quick,’ she said under her breath to Elsie, ‘let’s get a move on, before he remembers the slide!’
They quickened their pace as much as Milly’s heavy pregnancy allowed.
‘So, who’d you vote for?’ asked Amy. She was in charge of Marie’s pushchair, while Elsie pushed Ivy in the handed-down, big-wheeled pram.
‘Who do you think? The one who gave my Bertie and Elsie’s Bob a living wage, Dr Salter, of course!’
‘Well, I guessed that, but at least you’ve got the choice. You can have your say now, instead of having to wait till you’re old!’
‘Thirty’s not that old!’ At twenty-three, Milly’s idea of old clearly differed from fifteen-year-old Amy’s. She saw the wicked gleam in her sister’s eye and realized the jibe had been deliberate.
‘Cheeky cow,’ Milly said, shoving Amy’s arm.
‘But she’s right,’ Elsie chimed in. ‘I’m glad I’ll have my chance next time. I wouldn’t want anyone but good old Alf for Bermondsey, would you? Not the way things are going with the unemployment.’
‘My Bertie says if the others get in they’ll cut the dole, cut the wages, cut everything... and things look like they’ll get worse before they get better.’
Elsie gave a little shudder. ‘Just more hard times – you’d think we’d be used to it by now. Do you think we’ll be all right, Milly?’
Milly, slipping her arms through theirs, drew her sisters in close as they turned into Arnold’s Place. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she said, ‘as long as we’ve got each other.’
Their mother was outside, talking to Mrs Knight, and seeing her daughters walking along arm in arm, she smiled. ‘Look at ’em!’ Mrs Colman announced proudly as they reached the front door. ‘Me set of jugs, best of friends!’
And Milly felt a surge of joy as she realized the truth of it. How often had she despaired that her broken family could be healed, believing that she and her sisters would forever be at odds? But now she understood. Hard times had forged a bond between them that was stronger than all the wounds of war, stronger than the mighty old Thames itself. Whatever the future held, she had no doubt that the set of jugs would indeed remain friends for the rest of their lives.
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Acknowledgements
Mary Gibson
More books by Mary Gibson
An invitation from the publisher
Preview
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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.
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 h
er 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.’