by Beezy Marsh
‘Smells like the inside of a bleeding pub,’ she grumbled to Peggy. ‘All those sweaty blokes.’
The meeting was called to order and the assembled crowd stopped chatting to each other and stared at the gaggle of female interlopers.
‘Comrades,’ said the union rep.
‘And ladies,’ interrupted Miss Fisher, who clearly wasn’t having any truck with this Moscow nonsense.
He cleared his throat as a ripple of laughter washed across the room. ‘Comrades and ladies, thank you for coming along this evening to this very important meeting.
‘Management want our views on whether there is scope for some jobs – men’s jobs and in the cable room, to be precise – to be made available to our female comrades in the workforce.’
Miss Fisher sighed audibly.
‘They’ll do our jobs for less pay, and where will that leave us?’ said one bearded man, stuffing tobacco into his pipe with vigour.
‘And what about the unemployed? There’s not enough jobs for the menfolk as it is!’ The room became rowdy with an exchange of complaints from the assembled male workers.
‘Order!’ cried the union rep. ‘We want to support our female comrades but the mood of the meeting seems clear—’
‘If I may be allowed to speak,’ interjected Miss Fisher, as Peggy stood at her side. ‘It is not a case of women taking men’s jobs. Yes, we are paid less for doing the same tasks, which is something that the union should be talking to the management about in any case, but women are capable of doing more, much more, than they are allowed to do within the Post Office. At busy times, such as Christmas, it would be useful to have women trained and ready to step in and help at the very least in areas such as the cable room.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Peggy, before she realized what she was even saying.
Susan nudged her in the ribs. ‘Shush! You’ll draw attention to yourself.’
Miss Fisher went on, ‘We would also ask the union to support the demand for the marriage bar to be lifted, so that if women wed, they should not be forced to resign.’
A loud chorus of jeers erupted. ‘Oh, come on, love!’, ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know, we’ve got enough problems of our own!’
‘Who will look after the kids, then?’ another man said.
Miss Fisher produced a copy of Red Tape from behind her back and waved it in the air. ‘If you want a real revolution, let it be a women’s revolution. Please feel free to read my letter in the latest edition of the union magazine on equal pay for women and the right for women to have both a fulfilling private life and a professional career.’
The boos were almost deafening but Miss Fisher would not back down that easily and began engaging her detractors, one by one. Peggy was amazed to see her boss calmly taking on the men in this way. It gave her a new respect for Miss Fisher. She was about to ask Susan what she thought of it all but when she turned around, she saw that Susan was no longer by her side. She pushed her way through the double doors and into the corridor, to see her friend running off down the stairs and into the staff canteen.
Peggy followed, quickening her pace, and got into the canteen just as Susan darted into the ladies’ lavatories. The sound of retching bounced off the tiled walls.
‘Are you all right, Susan?’ Peggy whispered, knocking on a cubicle door.
Susan emerged a few moments later, wiping flecks of vomit from around her mouth. Her hands were clutching her stomach. Peggy noticed, for the first time, that it was fuller than usual, and protruding from the tight waistband of her skirt.
Their eyes met, in a moment of recognition and horror.
Susan began to cry. ‘I think I’m pregnant, Peg. I’m done for. Me dad will kill me for this.’
Susan disappeared from her work at the Post Office Savings Bank almost overnight, before the shame of her situation became glaringly obvious. Peggy didn’t tell her parents about it. She wasn’t sure how her mother would react but her father would tell her to cut off all contact with her friend. She desperately wanted to see Susan but was too frightened to go around there in person. Peggy was almost ashamed to admit it but she was scared: scared to face Susan’s parents, in case they blamed her. She was supposed to be with her on the night that it all went wrong with Bert, so she felt somehow responsible and now Susan was pregnant, which was the worst thing for an unmarried young woman.
She spoke to the one person she could trust: George. Peggy skirted over the more gruesome details of how Susan came to be in this predicament but she made one thing clear: it wasn’t really Susan’s fault.
‘What do you suppose she’ll do?’ said George, as they made their way down to the Trocadero to catch another show. They talked in hushed tones, so that Kathleen and his little brother Harry didn’t overhear.
‘I’m going to write to her and find out,’ said Peggy. ‘I suppose she’ll have to keep it.’
George lowered his voice even further. ‘There are other ways . . .’
They both knew that in their neighbourhood there were women who would help girls who had got themselves into trouble. One was rumoured to do it with a knitting needle and the payment was a bag of coal. But there were also horror stories, whispered in the draughty corridors of tenement blocks and passed around in hushed tones at the communal laundry, of things going wrong: of girls left unable to have children or bleeding to death after botched abortions.
Of course, girls did have babies out of wedlock. There was one around the corner in Tenison Street, for a start. But her mother was raising the baby as her own and the daughter just pretended she was her sister and went out to work at the jam factory. Her parents watched their daughter like a hawk, though, and she was never seen on the streets after dark. The whole area knew the child was illegitimate but nobody said anything about it or made fun of the baby, in fact, quite the reverse. It became a sort of neighbourhood secret. Even Mrs Davies from number 16 kept her trap shut on that one, which was a mercy.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ said Peggy, wringing her hands. ‘I expect she will have to have it but she was worried that her dad was going to beat the living daylights out of her for getting herself in the family way.’ Peggy could only hope that people in Susan’s neighbourhood would be as nice as her own but she had her doubts.
Back at the office, if Miss Fisher knew the real reason for Susan’s absence, she didn’t let on to Peggy. Edna didn’t have much to say about Susan’s departure either, other than a rather barbed comment about her friend having had ‘a rather high opinion of herself’. Edna bustled off towards the filing cabinet, singing an old musical hall song: ‘Little bits of powder, little bits of paint, make a girl look like what she ain’t.’ Had Edna guessed what had happened to Susan?
Peggy found it hard to focus and kept glancing out of the window, wondering whether a letter from Susan might be waiting for her on the mat when she got home from work. She’d tried to keep the tone of her letter to her friend jolly, she offered to meet her somewhere for a proper chat and told her she missed her but part of her didn’t really expect a reply. Families tended to close ranks when such disasters happened and she wasn’t even sure if Susan’s father would let her out of his sight to post a letter, in any case.
Just as she was about to go on her tea break, she heard a commotion in the corridor outside. A crowd of clerks were gathered around a notice which had been pinned to the back of the door.
‘I saw a fella put it up just now!’ said one girl. ‘He wasn’t even supposed to be over this side and he ran off, sharpish, when he saw me.’
Miss Fisher came storming over from her desk at the other side of the room to see what all the fuss was about.
In bold, black writing, the notice said: ‘Miss Fisher is MRS SMITH. We know the truth!’
‘What does it mean, miss?’ said another girl, as the colour drained from Miss Fisher’s face.
The supervisor reached up and tore it down, screwing the paper into a little ball. ‘Get back to work!’ she whisp
ered.
Peggy tried to put her hand on Miss Fisher’s arm, to comfort her in some way, but she brushed her away. ‘No, Peggy. Please return to your seat and get on with what you have to do.’ Her tone softened. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to know that you are a very promising young clerk and I expect the very best from you.’
Then, Miss Fisher turned on her heel and marched twenty yards down the corridor and into the manager’s office. Moments later, she left, walking out of the building with her back straight and her head held high. The manager followed her for a few steps, his mouth open in shock.
Nobody ever admitted pinning that notice up about her. Nobody was punished for it but some of the girls insisted it had been the work of the men in the union. Others around the office – including Edna – said she’d let everyone down by lying like that, marrying and still coming to work day after day, to boss them all around.
Peggy just felt sad that Miss Fisher, who had turned out to be a good boss, was no longer working just because she had dared to try to have a life and a career at the same time.
15
Kathleen, May 1935
‘It was the gas what got him,’ said Grandad.
‘What are you on about now?’ snapped Nanny Day. ‘He had tuberculosis.’
‘Yes, but his lungs were never the same after the mustard gas attacks. You ask the butcher.’
‘Oh stop wittering on,’ said Nanny, who had been ever so grumpy since her brother, Old Uncle Dennis, had died.
Kathleen had been spending more time around in Cornwall Road, with her mother’s blessing, to try to cheer Nanny Day up but it didn’t seem to be working. Even going up to the Cut to get her a pint of prawns or whelks did little to lift her mood. To make matters worse, Grandad’s leg had been playing up and he had to go up to the hospital a lot to see the doctors, which meant he wanted looking after too and Nanny didn’t want to be bested in her hour of grief. Kathleen felt she was keeping two squabbling children apart half the time when she was round there. Only the prospect of her new job at the Hartley’s jam factory down in Bermondsey seemed to break the deadlock.
‘I expect you’re excited about going out to the factory, aren’t you?’ said Nanny Day, stirring a pot on the range. ‘Do you know what section you will be working in?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Kathleen, who was pleased to put her school days behind her, but nervous about entering the world of work.
‘She’ll be in the clever girls’ section because that is what she is,’ said Grandad. ‘Makes me proud.’
‘Of course she’s clever! She’s my granddaughter!’ said Nanny Day, turning to pinch Kathleen’s cheeks.
Kathleen smiled. She was bright but she knew she was not as clever as her big sister Peggy, who seemed to have got all the brains in the family. Peggy had helped Kathleen’s twin, Jim, to get a job as an errand boy for the General Post Office up at Mount Pleasant, which her parents were really pleased about. Kathleen, meanwhile, was going to be a factory girl, with a few of her friends from school, including Nancy.
Of course, it wasn’t her dream job. She hadn’t given up hope of going on the stage in the West End but she was realistic enough to know that she had to earn a living. She was young, only fourteen, so there was plenty of time for her to make it to the West End. She had mentioned to her parents about getting some proper dance lessons and maybe trying out as a chorus girl up at one of the shows but the look on her father’s face had stopped her pursuing that – for now.
When Dad’s back was turned, Mum had whispered, ‘We’ll talk to Eva about starting a little fund for some lessons. Don’t you worry.’ And that had made her feel a bit better. She still had plenty of time to make it on stage and some of the big stars from Hollywood started out waiting tables, so there was no shame in it, Nancy said so.
Besides, Mum was cock-a-hoop at Kathleen getting the job because she knew from other people in the neighbourhood that, among the many factories south of the river which kept Britain’s larders stocked, Hartley’s was one of the most generous firms to work for. There was Peek Frean’s for biscuits, Jacob’s for cream crackers and Crosse and Blackwell for pickles, but Hartley’s gave their workers a share of the profits, a pension, sick pay and a convalescent scheme. There was even a social club and day trips out on a charabanc to Margate – Kathleen couldn’t wait to go on one. There’d be bound to be loads of sing-songs for a start, and she relished the chance to show off her singing voice.
‘I don’t care how boring it is, Kathleen,’ her mother told her early on her first morning, as Kathleen sat, bleary-eyed in the scullery. ‘You make the most of it, my girl, because it ain’t jam tomorrow, it’s jam today as far as you are concerned with that factory. You won’t find anything better, you mark my words.’
Some of the other girls from Tenison Street had told her how to get to the factory and they had warned her not to be late, so Kathleen got up early on the first day, with butterflies in her stomach which even a chunk of bread and marg couldn’t sort out. She met up with Nancy at the tram on Waterloo Road, which took them down to the Elephant, where they hopped on a bus to Rothsay Road. They joined a horde of women and men hurrying towards a vast red-brick building, six storeys high, spreading out in all directions, with a central chimney billowing smoke into the morning sky and the name HARTLEY’S picked out in white lettering on the brickwork. A hooter sounded at eight minutes to eight and there was a stampede towards the wrought-iron gates which guarded the factory entrance. Kathleen and Nancy were swept along with hundreds of people, pushing into a courtyard.
The most delicious sweet smell filled the air. ‘Jam,’ said Nancy, licking her lips. Kathleen was just happy they didn’t have to work at one of the tanneries or the glue factory, which stank to high heaven, but she had a feeling that after a day, she’d be sick of the smell of jam.
Once through the gates, people filed off to different parts of the factory and the girls had to ask where to go. A man in a smart uniform directed them up to the third floor to register for work and get their cards to clock in and out. The thrum of the engines in the basement which kept the vats of hot jam bubbling could be heard and felt as they made their way up the narrow staircase. They walked down a highly polished parquet floor and stopped outside a door with a little sign on it. It said ‘MANAGER, MISS KENDRICK’. Knocking quietly, they heard a woman say, ‘Come in!’
She was busy with a pile of papers and barely looked up as she said to Kathleen, ‘Labelling. Go down to the factory floor and report to the supervisors there. They will fit you out with an apron and hat.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Kathleen.
‘What about me?’ said Nancy, twirling a finger through her hair.
The woman looked over her half-moon glasses. ‘You can work on filling. We have a vacancy there. And you’ll have to tie that back,’ she said, waving a pencil at Nancy’s abundant curly hair. ‘It’s three-quarters of an hour lunch break and if you are late by more than five minutes we will dock you half an hour’s pay. Two lavatory breaks per day while you are on shift and you clock on at eight and clock off at six – noon on Saturdays. Clear?’
‘Yes, miss,’ they chorused. It was as if they had never left school.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she said, handing them their cards, to clock in and out. ‘Run along.’
The factory floor was a bustling centre of activity, with vast vats of red liquid boiling away and the constant chink of ceramic pots. A round woman who was almost as red in the face as the jam liquor came bustling over. She may have looked kindly but her eyes were hard, like little lumps of coal, and she barked at them, ‘You’re late!’
‘Sorry, miss,’ said Kathleen. ‘We’re new.’
The woman threw her hands up in the air. ‘I can see that. Talk about statin’ the obvious. Come on, come on!’ She hustled them over to the supervisor’s office, a little whitewashed room, with windows overlooking the factory floor, and from a peg behind her door pulled a couple of white ov
eralls which tied at the side, and little caps for their hair.
‘These are yours and I expect you to look after them. You will get another set at the end of the week. Take these home and wash them. If you lose them I will dock your pay. Clear?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Kathleen wondered if soldiers got bossed about as much as this. She was like a little sergeant major.
‘We have quotas to fill on our jam production and you are joining us at our most busy time as the strawberry season is upon us. Everything has to run smoothly. I will give you today to learn the ropes and after that, I expect you to keep up with the others.’
Nancy looked as if she was about to cry.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman, patting her on the arm. ‘We all had to start somewhere. I was once a new girl, fresh from school, just like you. My name is Miss Bainbridge, by the way. And tie that hair back!’
‘Yes, Miss Bainbridge.’
The girls put on their overalls and stuffed their hair into the caps, which made them giggle, as they did look quite silly. They followed Miss Bainbridge out into the factory. ‘You, over there.’ Miss Bainbridge gestured Nancy towards the filling stations, where ceramic pots were loaded onto a circular turntable.
‘Good luck,’ Kathleen whispered to her friend, who gave a scared sort of smile in return.
The women at the filling station worked in pairs, scooping little pans full of the hot jam from a sort of metal bath on wheels, before carefully pouring it into each jar. Exactly the same amount had to go in each jar and they wore heavy aprons over their overalls to protect against spills. Now and then, one of the women would go over to one of the big vats in the corner and refill the trolley-bath with boiling hot liquid. The smell of strawberries and sugar was everywhere. The fruit was arriving by the truckload each day from Kent, as the season had begun early, with a warm May, and tons of sugar came each day by barge up the river Thames. The factory looked as if it was full of worker ants.