by Mary Gibson
‘Last week I was asked to attend a meeting with a rather boring civil servant by the name of Herbert Minor, most off-putting nasal voice I’ve ever heard, but I digress. He has been tasked with improving the national morale, and has a very modest budget to achieve it. The government’s feeling is that with factories closing and unemployment pushing three million, we all need a bit of cheering up and jollying along. So Herbert Minor has been appointed as a sort of unofficial morale monitor. And the rather plain little man had the good sense to call upon me for help! Of course I suggested we make some films with the express purpose of showing how much this country depends upon the labour of ordinary men and women, and how we can pull ourselves out of this malaise if we work together!’
Neville had stood up and with a messianic glint in his eye asked her, ‘You’ve been making films for the good of Bermondsey. Now I’m asking if you’ll make them for the good of your country?’
She could see he was thoroughly enjoying the role he’d cast for himself as some British Eisenstein.
‘I don’t know about all working together, Neville. Some work and some don’t...’ This was as near as she could get to pointing out the vast difference in wealth represented in the room, without being rude to her hostess, and she left the point hanging in the air.
‘But what if the film I’m talking about could cast ordinary working people as the heroes – show their value and worth? Would you be interested in that?’
‘But why me?’
‘Why you? Well, because – and I don’t say this to bend you to my will – you’re beloved! Everybody loves you, Matty. Doesn’t matter a jot who they are: working classes, aristocracy...’ Here he tipped his head to Lady Fetherstone. ‘Even mobster monsters are apt to fall under your spell – we all love you, Matty darling, and when you perform you make us smile, you cheer us up. And did I mention the film will have singing?’
Matty didn’t answer him directly. It had been a day of declarations and her heart was too full. ‘I like the bit about cheering you all up. There’s some miserable sods about these days.’
Neville trilled his high, brittle laugh and slapped the arm of his chair. ‘I knew you’d agree! Didn’t I tell you, Tom? Now let’s see if she likes your storyline...’
‘Yours?’
‘Don’t look so surprised. I’ve helped out D.M. with his scripts before now,’ Tom said.
‘And I had to occupy the poor chap somehow. He’s been pining like a lovesick puppy since he got here.’
Tom coughed, his colour heightening. ‘Well, the story is about a factory girl – played by Matty, of course – who’s laid off when the biscuit factory she works at is forced to close down. She and all her friends have to go on relief, but then she has an idea for making the biscuit-baking process more efficient, and she goes to the boss, who dismisses her idea. But the boss’s son, a handsome young charmer with no interest in the business, happens to overhear her and persuades him to give it a go. Of course we’ll need a bit of romance with the young charmer before the end...’ And the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.
‘But the point is to show that both sides have to listen and pull together if we’re to get out of this mess. Bosses can’t afford to dismiss workers as wage slaves and workers can’t tar all bosses with the same brush,’ Neville declared.
Will snorted. ‘Forgive me for saying it all sounds a bit naive. Workers need representation – they only get listened to when they stick together.’
‘Yes, yes, but we aren’t making a film in Russia, dear chap. We’re in good old Blighty and we had our revolution a long time ago. But there’s another consideration that was brought to my attention by Herbert Minor – if his fears about Herr Hitler are well-founded, a time might come when rich and poor will be fighting a common enemy. When that day comes we’ll need to have put aside all this class warfare nonsense you young fellows are so intent on stirring up.’
There was silence in the room for a minute and Will leaped to tear down Neville’s assessment of his views. Interrupting his friend, Feathers chipped in. ‘But don’t you see, Neville, true communism is the only thing that can save us from those fascist bully boys!’
The chorus of male voices grew louder and their faces grew redder as neither side would give way. On the pretext of getting another drink, Matty stood up and walked out on to the terrace. It was a cool night and she needed to think, somewhere away from the men’s fighting. She wanted to leave the terrace doors open, let in the cold air to bring them to their senses. Neville’s prophecy of another war had sent a chill through her. Matty could feel even now the agony of waiting for news of Sam at the front. What if she had to face that again with Tom one day? Back then she’d sung those rousing songs on stage at the Star, to keep their spirits up while they waited for news of sons, husbands, lovers, and part of her dreaded having to do that again. But if a war did come, then a divided country would have no chance against the ridiculous little man with the moustache. Neville was right about that. The country of haves and have-nots would need to find some common ground, and if she could help by singing in a film, then she would do it.
***
The last of the summer evening sun glanced through their bedroom window, falling across Matty’s hands as she sat at the dressing table. The burn scars were still visible, but less livid now.
‘Fancy coming to the pictures, Mrs Roberts?’ Tom asked.
‘Depends what’s on up the Star,’ she said, putting the finishing touches to her lipstick.
‘I was thinking of the Empire, Leicester Square, actually, but if you prefer the fleapit... sorry, Star...’
She laughed. ‘It’s a good job Bernie can’t hear you.’
She stood up and smoothed the front of her dress, her hand lingering on her swollen stomach. Tom came up behind her, laying his hand over hers and kissing the nape of her neck. ‘Is the baby moving?’
She smiled and pressed his hand to the spot where she had felt the fluttering. ‘There, feel?’ And she turned into his arms, meeting his smile with her own.
Just then there came a knocking on the door. ‘That’ll be the car. Are you ready? You look beautiful.’
‘I’m ready.’
He draped the gold velvet stole over her shoulders, and offered his arm. ‘No first-night nerves?’
‘Oh no. It’s done now – for better or worse. I just hope it achieves what we set out to do.’
‘Pull people together?’
‘Lift them up.’
Tom nodded. ‘It will.’
Neville had arranged for a chauffeur-driven limousine to collect them and when Matty slipped into its leather interior she was greeted by the excited chatter of Billy, Sammy and Albie. Nellie was vainly trying to calm them.
‘If you lot don’t settle down you’ll end up being carsick.’
The boys ignored her, but Nellie seemed to have shed her motherly self. With her thick chestnut hair beautifully waved and a touch of make-up to bring out her still perfect complexion, Matty had a vision of the pretty young woman she’d been when they’d first met.
‘You look lovely, Nellie.’ Matty kissed her and Sam nodded in agreement. ‘Doesn’t she?’ He smiled, and added hastily, ‘You too, duck.’
The boys managed to avoid carsickness and were stunned into silence by the time they entered the palace of dreams, the Empire, Leicester Square. They skipped the long queue and were ushered into reserved seats. She’d insisted there must be tickets for all her friends and family. Winnie and Wally were there, with Nellie’s brothers Freddie and Bobby and their wives, Kitty and her greatest fan Elsie. As she took her seat, Queenie stood up at the far end of the row and pointed to her own hat. ‘Oi, Mat, where’s yer titfer? What did I tell you, always come prepared, gel!’ Sugar, who looked as sharp as the leading man, though not as handsome, pulled her down into her seat. Behind Matty were the Peek’s Tiller Girls, who’d all acted in the film as the unemployed biscuit girls. Even Edna was there, as a thank you for allowing the
m another close-up of her biscuit-leg veins. Peek Frean’s had been only too happy to offer the factory as a location. Matty looked round as the lights dimmed, craning her neck to find Will, and was relieved to spot him at the other end of their row. She blew him a kiss and one for Feathers too. Will had been reluctant to attend the premiere, which he’d dismissed as government propaganda. But eventually she’d worn him down. ‘I’m only coming so I can hear you sing, not because I agree with Neville,’ he’d insisted.
She looked behind her, anxious that everyone should be here. Then with relief she saw Bernie and Esme hurrying towards her. Esme reached a hand to Matty. ‘I knew this day would come, darling,’ she said and Bernie beamed at her. ‘Never lost faith in my Cockney Canary!’ As her two mentors took their seats beside Neville and Lady Fetherstone, the Wurlitzer organ rose from the pit. The thrill-inducing chords trumpeted forth and even had she not been the star of the film, that sound alone was enough to stir up an almost painful anticipation in Matty’s heart.
When the last strains of the organ overture finally faded, the lights dimmed to leave the auditorium in darkness. The screen flickered into life and she heard her own voice, singing the familiar theme music.
Midnight, you heavy laden, it’s midnight.
Come on and trade in your old dreams for new,
Your new dreams for old.
I know where they’re bought, I know where they’re sold...
An aerial shot of the sprawling Peek Frean’s buildings appeared against a backdrop of smoke-spewing factory chimneys and terraced streets. On the railway viaduct hard by the factory, a train sped past, trailing a plume of steam. The engine’s haunting whistle was echoed by the factory hooter, and the camera zoomed in to a group of factory girls streaming through the entrance gates. As the film’s title unfurled above the factory: NEW DREAMS FOR OLD. Starring Matty Gilbie – The Cockney Canary, she heard herself singing again.
Dreams broken in two can be made like new,
On the street of dreams...
She had tried to fill her voice with all the yearning and all the hope she’d felt in her own long struggle to rebuild her dreams. It wasn’t hard to do. It was the song Neville had played on the night she’d risen phoenix-like from the ashes of his burning house. She reached for Tom’s hand and drew him in closer. His eyes shone bright in the darkness as he turned to kiss her, his face lit by the flickering screen.
Gold, silver and gold, all you can hold, is in a moonbeam.
Poor, no one is poor, long as love is sure
On the street of dreams...
And though the tune she sang might be a melancholy one, to Matty it had become a hymn of hope, reminding her that however many wrong turns and dead ends she had encountered along the way, love had always been leading her back here, to the place where her dreams were made new.
We hope you enjoyed this book.
Mary Gibson’s next book is coming in winter 2017
For a preview of Mary Gibson’s Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts, read on or click the following link
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Mary Gibson
About The Factory Girls Series
From the Editor of this Book
An Invitation from the Publisher
Author’s Note
Between 1923 and 1948 Bermondsey Borough Council’s Public Health Department made thirty-four public health education films. For the purposes of my story I have taken some liberties with the filmography and production dates. Matty Gilbie’s ‘Modern Woman’ films were made only in my imagination – though I like to think they might still be lying somewhere in a council archive waiting to be discovered!
I’ve also imagined the characters of the actual film producers: the photographer, C.F. Lumley; writers and directors Dr Connan, (MoH) and Mr H.W. Bush. I hope I’ve managed to evoke their visionary resourcefulness, good humour and pioneering spirit.
Many of the films can still be viewed at the Southwark Local Studies Library, the BFI, Imperial War Museum, also online at the Wellcome Foundation website and on Youtube. A fascinating account of the making of Bermondsey Borough Council’s education films, and a full filmography, can be found in Forgotten Futures by Elizabeth Lebas.
Acknowledgements
Once again I am indebted to my agent, Anne Williams, and my editor, Rosie de Courcy, for sharing their expertise and wealth of editorial knowledge with me; thank you for always guiding me in the direction of a better story! A huge thanks, also, to the dedicated team at Head of Zeus for all their hard work in bringing this book to publication.
Thanks are due to Maria Pia Brusadelli for help with Italian and also to Kim Neumann. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
I would like to acknowledge the many people who have generously shared their family stories of old Bermondsey and the Peek Freans biscuit factory, especially Violet Henderson; Bette Crickmar; Ann Eldridge; Irene Lock; Ivy Carpenter; Sally Innes and her father; Amanda Ward and her mother Valerie Gates; Rosie Peake and her mother; Pat Jarman and her mother Mary Teather; Jane Gaskell; Catherine Archer and her father. My apologies if I have forgotten anyone – without your stories my books would be the poorer.
Thanks to my friends at Bexley Scribblers and to my lovely family for their continuing support. Finally, special thanks to Jo, without whom this book could not have been written.
Preview
Read on for a preview of Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts...
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.
Can’t wait? Buy it here now!
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.