by Mary Gibson
Bermondsey had always been a place of muted colour, with its dominant palette of soot-blackened brick and grey slate. Although the council’s Beautification Committee had brightened it with flower beds and trees, Matty had always found the true colour of Bermondsey in its smells, and of these there was no lack. She could have made her way home blindfolded, just by following the smells. On the way up Drummond Road, leaving behind the buttery sweetness of Peek’s, she was assaulted by the vinegary maltiness of the pickle factory. She spotted a group of women on their dinner break, standing outside the factory gate. Wearing long sacking aprons soaked in vinegar, they were literally pickled themselves. She smelled their reek of pickled onions as she passed them. Pungent brown liquor dripped from their aprons on to their clogs, staining the pavement around them. She realized that compared to these women’s work her long hours on the Peek’s production line had been a piece of cake, her revulsion at the Bourbon-cream filling a mere indulgence. At least it had been ‘clean work’, a bonus in a borough full of foul-smelling, dirty industries. No doubt any one of these pickle girls, with their swollen red hands, would have swapped with her in a heartbeat. But it was too late for regrets now. She had to start thinking about how she would feed herself next week.
What could she do? She turned under the John Bull Arch beneath the railway and into the Blue. Mixed with the coke-tinged smoke from steam trains above came a sugary odour carried on the wind. Shuttleworth’s chocolate factory was exuding its usual confection of aromas. Matty inhaled chocolate and raspberry, were they making raspberry fondant creams? She caught a hint of something more exotic, coconut? Perhaps it was coconut-ice day. She almost crossed the road to enquire about a job there. But something stopped her. Did she really want to be that factory girl she’d escaped becoming all those years ago? But the cold reality was that without singing, she had little option. If only there was a way to find her voice again.
She walked slowly along the Blue, trying to calculate her weekly outgoings as she weaved her way round market stalls. Arithmetic had never been her strong point and her early success had meant she never worried about budgeting. She cast her mind back to the days when she’d been one of five children living on Nellie’s wage. How she’d managed Matty couldn’t imagine, though she did remember they made matchboxes round the kitchen table for a while to help out. She found herself wishing she could walk round to Vauban Street now for a lesson in managing her money. But her days of turning to Nellie for help were over.
She supposed, if the worst came to the worst, she would have to bump on at the Labour Exchange. Her head was ringing with a litany of pounds, shillings and pence, when she became aware of a different music altogether. The sound of accordions and drums reverberated off shop fronts and she noticed pedestrians stopping to look in the direction of the music. She peered along the busy shopping street and glimpsed between market stalls a long line of men approaching. The banner held by the two foremost read SAY NO TO DOLE CUTS! Another banner proclaimed they were members of the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement. There must have been a few hundred there, stony-faced marchers, orderly and as smart as their dole money would allow. Another banner further down the line caught her eye. Addressed to Ramsay MacDonald, it asked: Prime Minister’s Question Time: Could YOU live on 15/3d? It gave her the answer to her budget questions. Fifteen bob would be her income if she was lucky, though she doubted she’d get the full dole. Even her poor maths revealed that she’d be hard pressed to live on less. At least she had no rent to find. Not for the first time she blessed the house in Reverdy Road. It was only as the line moved slowly past her that she noticed that one of the banners was being held aloft rather shakily by a lean-faced young man with dark curly hair. It was Will.
He seemed to have grown older, his youthful complexion dulled and his high colour turned to pallor. It seemed that all the fire of his character had retreated to his eyes, which burned with a bright fervour. Now they looked through Matty as she raised her hand to wave at him, in a foolish forgetting. He stared at her briefly, then deliberately looked away and the column passed on, leaving her with a stone in her heart.
10
And Troughs
May–June 1931
When what remained of her wages ran out and she still hadn’t found another job, Matty’s fears came true and she was forced to sign on at the Labour Exchange, or the bun house as it was known. She found out from the Public Assistance Committee that she would have to live on fourteen shillings a week, with vouchers for buying tea, sugar and margarine at certain grocers. When she queried the amount the relieving officer informed her that as she only needed five shillings and ninepence to stay alive, the Public Assistance Committee was being more than generous, bearing in mind she was a single woman, with no children and a house of her own.
Fourteen shillings was little enough to get by on, but after paring down to the minimum her expenditure on coal, gas, electric and food she thought she could just about manage on twelve shillings and threepence, leaving a couple of bob for emergencies. But the following week she was surprised to find the Relieving Officer on her doorstep. He was a protuberant-nosed man, who walked into the house snout first, as if ready to sniff out any deception. He waved in front of her an order to look round her home.
‘But it’s all settled, I’m getting fourteen shillings a week, for what good it’ll do me.’
Matty had seen the cowed expressions on the face of other claimants at the bun house and she had hated the way they’d been treated, as if being out of work were a moral lapse.
‘Now, Miss Gilbie, that attitude will do you no good whatsoever.’ He sniffed the air, catching the scent of her perfume and wrinkling his nose as though it were pickling vinegar. To cheer herself up she’d dressed today in a flowing, silk dress, bought in California and totally unsuited for her days at Peek’s. Perhaps she looked rich. But he eyed the dress with disapproval.
‘I am here on a very serious matter,’ he went on. ‘It has come to our attention that you have another means of income.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I’ve not been able to get work since I was put off from Peek Frean’s, and believe me I’ve tried.’
‘You do realize it is fraud to mislead the Public Assistance Committee?’
‘But I haven’t got another form of income!’ Matty protested.
The Relieving Officer’s eye fell upon Eliza’s piano, on top of which was a framed photograph of Matty on stage. He picked it up.
‘Our informant has told us that you’ve recently inherited a substantial amount of money, which you haven’t declared! What’s more, you are a well-known singer and regular performer at variety halls all over London and you expect me to believe that you are in need of Public Assistance! You do realize you could go to jail if we find you’ve been lying about your circumstances?’
Matty had been standing during the interview, but now her legs turned to water and she reached for the back of a chair.
‘The money’s all gone,’ she said, realizing how unlikely this sounded. ‘And it’s true, I was a singer, once, but I lost my voice.’
The man gave a dismissive bark and slammed the flat of his hand on the piano, so that the strings sent up a jangling resonance on the frame. ‘That’s a good one, very good. Well, if you can’t sing any more, you won’t be needing this. You can sell the piano and your dole is cut to twelve shillings a week. And we’ll be watching you. If we find you on the bill at the Star, you’ll be hearing from us. I’ll see myself out.’
When he had gone Matty, still shaking from the encounter, poured herself a generous gin and sat down. There would be no money for another bottle, not unless she could ask Freddie Clark to get her some off the back of a lorry. As the clear liquid burned her throat she crossed to the piano. She lifted its lid and holding the glass against her cheek with one hand, she sounded a minor chord with the other, before leaning heavily on the keys and filling Eliza’s sedate little parlour with echoes of her own
discordant despair.
*
When Esme telephoned her and discovered Matty was on the dole, she’d insisted on taking her out for lunch. The restaurant in a hotel near Leicester Square was furnished with glamorous black and white angularity. Glittering with geometrical mirrors, it was a world away from the bun house. There was even a piano playing the latest tunes and it should have lifted her spirits. But it reminded Matty too much of the suite at the Ambassador, which Frank always took when they were in Los Angeles, and Matty was glad when lunch was over.
Esme insisted she come back to her office for a drink. As they went to mount the stairs, she bent to pick up a letter. Turning to Matty, her expression one of tight-lipped alarm, she said, ‘For you, care of me. It’s got an American stamp on it...’
Esme let Matty read in silence as she poured them drinks. Eventually Matty folded the letter and put it in her handbag. ‘It’s not from Frank,’ she said in answer to Esme’s enquiring look. ‘It’s from his sister.’
‘Thank God for that!’ Esme said. ‘What does she say?’
‘She wanted to let me know her mother had died.’
And Esme looked vaguely surprised. ‘Well, I suppose even monsters have mothers,’ was all she said before turning to her new radiogram and putting on a record. Perhaps Esme’s motive was to remind Matty why she should fight to regain it, but when the voice of the Cockney Canary floated out Matty felt nothing but surprise at how beautiful that voice was, and yet it was the voice of a stranger, no longer hers.
But the letter had unsettled her. Matty had hoped never to hear from Maria Rossi again. She’d given her agent’s as a forwarding address for emergencies, but they’d agreed it was best Maria knew nothing of where she was living, so that if Frank grew suspicious he wouldn’t be able to scare or beat the truth out of her. When Matty told Esme the letter was about Mama Rossi’s death, it was the truth, but not the whole truth.
That night, sitting in the parlour by the light of the standard lamp, she read the letter over again.
Dear Matty,
I hope you and my little nephew or niece are doing well – and being out of Frank’s life, you got to be better off than you were! I know we said I should only write in emergencies, and honey, we got one. I did my best, Matty, but he was on at me from day one, saying he knew I was in on it. He roughed me up a little, but I never let on I helped – what’s a black eye to me, cos you know I’m a tough old broad! Well, one of his guys was in London and told him you was there, and Frank said he was gonna take you for every penny.
But, Matty, Frank knows, he found out you were pregnant with his baby when you skipped. It’s bad enough you walked out on him, but taking his kid, I’ve never seen him so mad.
I’m not blaming Mamma, it was my fault. She was dying, Matty, and I thought she should know she had a grandchild growing up somewhere. So the sonofabitch comes round crying, and after the way he treated her I says, don’t water the flowers after they’re dead! But Mamma, she wants to make him feel better so she tells him about the kid. And he promises Mamma on her deathbed he’ll get you both back, treat you right. But after she dies he starts tearing the place up, all my room, all the letters, he tips them out, and then he’s on at me again to tell him where you’re living. I ended up in the hospital, with my jaw wired up, but I told him I don’t know where you live, which I don’t.
But I had to let you know, there ain’t a chance he’s not coming for you, not now you got something of his. So if you’re living in London, honey, you lie low, or get outta there if you can. I ain’t seen you in no more films so I reckon my brother put you off the business for life. Don’t write back here, Matty. If he found out I warned you I reckon I’d be seeing Mamma a lot sooner than I’d like, if you know what I mean!
Good luck, Matty, you was always too good for him, and don’t forget, give the kid a kiss from me.
She had signed herself Your sister, Maria.
Matty’s mouth had gone dry as she read the letter over again. The idea that he wanted her back felt even more chilling than if he simply wanted to harm her. As far as he was concerned he’d owned her, and she was sure he’d feel the same way about his child. Which was why she’d instinctively known to keep her pregnancy secret and why she’d risked everything to get her child away from him. Certain that now, with his skewed family pride, he would never let her go, she ran to the front door and slammed home the bolt, though she doubted any lock would keep Frank out if he decided to come calling. It struck her then that losing her voice had been a blessing; without it she had no need to go near a stage or Esme’s again. Instead she could sink into an anonymous life as a Bermondsey factory girl.
***
So Matty dutifully accepted the green job tickets that the Labour Exchange gave her and went along each morning to whichever factory had issued them. Most times the jobs were already filled and today, when she looked at the address on the ticket, she was confident this one would be no different from any of the others she’d tried for in the past months. But when she presented the ticket in the factory office she was dismayed to find that it was accepted and she’d got herself a job at the pickle factory across the road from Peek Frean’s. As the foreman led her down to the factory floor, she wished she’d been wise enough to lose the ticket on the way, which was what many people did if they didn’t fancy the job on offer.
The foreman gave her an apron that was little more than a huge sack and took her down to the bottling room. Soon her sacking apron was soaked in malt vinegar and her fingers as pickled as the onions she was bottling. The onions stung her eyes, but the tears that pricked them had nothing to do with pickles and she dipped her head, focusing only on trying not to splash her feet with the slopping malt vinegar. When the dinner break finally came she tagged along with a group of women going out to smoke. She stood at the factory gates, alternately inhaling tobacco and taking in grateful gulps of air that didn’t either sting her eyes or assault her nostrils. She realized she’d become one of those women dripping in vinegar she’d so pitied when she’d walked out of Peek Frean’s. She hadn’t been provided with any clogs, so the only decent shoes she owned were now squelching in vinegar. She looked down at her feet: her only other shoes were the high heels that she’d worn on stage and she doubted they’d last long on the pickling floor. Leaning her back against the brick wall outside the factory gates, she stared across at Peek Frean’s clock tower, and found herself longing for the smell of a Bourbon cream.
The Peek Frean’s dinner hooter announced a tide of hundreds of workers surging out through their gates. They flowed like a dark river along Drummond Road, hurrying with that particular head down, arm-swinging walk of the factory worker determined to make the most of their free time. Women were borne along in chattering groups and, without their aprons and caps, many of them emerged from the factory looking as glamorous as film stars with their dyed perms and freshly applied lipstick. Cloaked by the dense crowd, Matty hadn’t seen who was coming until the bold face was almost level with her. The sharp eyes lit upon Matty and she saw in them a sort of cruel triumph as Edna lifted her head and raised her voice so that all her group of followers could hear.
‘Oh look, if it ain’t the cock linnet! Must be doin’ research for a film about a pickle factory!’ And the woman’s laugh was echoed by her little coterie as Edna sailed past. Matty had no witty retort this time; the long queues at the Labour Exchange had driven out any lingering sense of defiance. Blood rushed to her cheeks, she clenched her fists and held her tongue. Only this morning when she’d picked up this job, there’d been a tussle over the green tickets. There simply weren’t enough to go round. It had ended in a fist fight between men grasping at any chance to feed their families. The sense of desperation was catching and it had given Matty an uncharacteristic carefulness, which checked her normal defiance. Choking back tears of humiliation, hardly knowing who she was any more, she turned away in a sort of daze and came face to face with Winnie, whose look of fury told Matty she’d
witnessed the whole thing.
‘Come on, love. I’ll take you for a cuppa down the Blue. Go and get that apron off ya.’ Winnie spun her round and gave her a little shove. Matty didn’t protest and soon the two were seated in the Blue Anchor café. Since Matty’s sacking from Peek’s, Winnie had become a regular visitor at Reverdy Road. Her friend had insisted on bringing the odd packet of tea or sugar, though Matty knew she was stretched near to breaking with supporting her parents.
‘This is my treat!’ Winnie insisted.
‘Not on your life, you need your pennies more than me. How are things at home?’ Matty asked.
‘They’ve stopped Dad’s relief altogether, he’s been out of work too long and to be honest, Matty, if our Tom wasn’t helping us out we’d be starving. Good for me figure though!’ Winnie said, patting her stomach and trying to put a brave face on.
Poor Winnie, Matty could see that her girth had shrunk noticeably.
‘So, is Tom living with your mum and dad now?’ Matty asked. She’d avoided probing her about Tom’s life, but being friends with Winnie again had brought him uncomfortably near. She was curious, but the less she knew the less chance she had of regret or guilt invading her life again. At least in America she’d been able to use the miles between them as a buffer.
‘He’s still got his own place, but he slips us a few quid, you know, on the quiet so the bun house don’t know.’
Matty nodded. ‘I hate it when the RO comes sniffing round. Since they cut my dole, they haven’t left me alone.’
‘I’m convinced it was Edna reported you!’ Winnie said. ‘Though what you ever did to her, the evil cow, I don’t know.’
Matty shrugged. ‘It could have been anyone, Win. People think we’re all spongers, don’t like the idea of their rates going into scroungers’ pockets. Still, the way things are going, anybody could end up on relief.’ And she told her friend about the fight over the green tickets at the dole office that morning.