One day, she and Betty had been told off by their charge-hand Julie McTaggart for taking too long on a toilet break.
‘It’s not fair, we was only ten minutes!’ Betty complained, when Julie marched off. ‘Why does she have to be so strict?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get our own back,’ Gladys said, confidently.
Gladys waited until Julie had gone into the glass-fronted office to speak to the forelady, Peggy Burrows. Then she left her machine and wandered over to where Alex, one of the boys, was unloading waste paper into a large bin. Gladys looked at him with a naughty smile on her face, and put a finger to her lips. Alex nodded and carried on with his work as if he hadn’t seen her.
Gladys knelt down and peered around the back of the bin, where bits of waste paper frequently got caught against the wall. She poked about gently with her finger until she found what she was looking for: a perfect little nest made of discarded sugar bags, containing a mother mouse and her six sleeping babies. She pulled the nest out of its hiding place, rose to her feet and walked calmly towards the glass-fronted office.
Then she knocked firmly on the window. ‘Julie,’ she called innocently, ‘what do you want me to do with this?’
Julie was leaning over Peggy Burrows’s desk, deep in conversation, and turned round with an annoyed look on her face. As she caught sight of the little mouse family – who were beginning to wake up and peer around inquisitively – she was suddenly transformed from sergeant major to terrified school-girl, throwing her hands up and shrieking.
Peggy jumped out of her seat and rushed around the desk to see what had prompted the usually implacable Julie to such hysteria. As soon as she saw what was in Gladys’s hand, she too looked horrified. The mice, agitated by the noise, were now squiggling around and attempting to escape from the nest, the babies hopping at the sides and falling backwards again onto one another. Meanwhile the office secretaries had also gathered at the glass, and were adding their own shrieks to the commotion.
‘Get rid of them! Get rid of them!’ Julie shouted frantically, gesturing to the nest.
‘What’s that? Can’t hear you!’ Gladys called. ‘I said what do you want me to do with this.’ She shoved the nest right up against the glass, causing the gaggle of women on the other side to take a collective step backwards in terror.
‘I think it’s safe to have a break now,’ Gladys called over her shoulder to the other Blue Room girls.
‘Nice one, Gladys!’ came the reply, as they gratefully took advantage of their bosses’ imprisonment and scampered off for a cheeky fag break.
Later, in Miss Smith’s office, Gladys prepared to face the music. Well, she told herself, she couldn’t be held responsible for the Blue Room being infested with vermin. Tate & Lyle ought to thank her for being the only girl on the floor brave enough to clean the things up!
‘You’ve really done it this time, Gladys,’ whispered Betty Harrington, looking worried.
Suddenly, Gladys was hit with a sickening feeling. If Miss Smith actually did sack her, she could say goodbye to her friends, to the nights out at the Tate Institute and the sports clubs – all the things that had made her decision to join the factory seem like the best she had ever made.
As Miss Smith marched in, the little office seemed to shake with every step. She really did look enormous today, thought Gladys. Her eyes were burning and her brow was deeply furrowed.
‘Gladys Taylor,’ she boomed. ‘I have given you warning after warning.’
‘I was only –’ Gladys began.
‘Don’t you dare interrupt me!’ Miss Smith shouted, jabbing a finger towards her. ‘I don’t want to hear your explanations. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’ve had your warnings. This time, you’re out!’
Gladys felt the rebellious Taylor blood boiling in her veins. All thoughts of the sports clubs, nights out and friendships went clean out of her head, and before she could stop herself she snapped back: ‘Please yourself!’
Miss Smith’s mouth dropped open and her eyes bulged. Gladys and the two Betties waited with bated breath for her response, the tension mounting with every second that ticked by.
Miss Smith stormed over to the filing cabinet and took out Gladys’s file, ready to initiate the dismissal procedure.
‘Wait!’ squeaked Betty Harrington, suddenly jumping out of her chair. ‘You can’t sack her!’
Miss Smith’s head swivelled towards her young secretary. ‘I can sack anybody I like,’ she retorted.
‘Not Gladys,’ Betty exclaimed. ‘She’s the fastest girl on the relay team. Without her we won’t stand a chance at the sports day!’
If there was one thing that pleased Miss Smith above all else, it was seeing her girls triumph over their counterparts at the Thames Refinery. This year Gladys was the athletic team’s secret weapon – as their best runner they were planning to keep her until last in order to surprise their opponents.
Miss Smith’s mouth twitched for a few seconds, and Gladys and the two Betties waited again, anxiously. Finally she spoke, her voice audibly constrained. ‘Gladys Taylor,’ she said, ‘you can count yourself very, very lucky. Now get back to work.’
Although Gladys’s participation in the sports day was now secured, the relay team soon suffered another crisis when a girl went off sick the day before the event. ‘We’ll never find anyone to replace her at such short notice!’ the others wailed.
‘I know someone who’ll do it,’ said Gladys. ‘Leave it to me.’
At break time, she approached her friend Betty Brightmore. ‘So, you know you’re on the relay team tomorrow?’ she said breezily.
‘You what? I can’t run to save me life!’ Betty protested.
‘I’ve seen you leg it for the 669 when you want to get home,’ replied Gladys. ‘We’re one girl short, and if you don’t help us we won’t be able to compete.’ She looked Betty squarely in the eyes. ‘Or are you too much of a lady these days?’
The next day, Betty and Gladys made their way to the sports field, dressed in identical black shorts and white T-shirts adorned with the Plaistow Wharf logo.
‘So what do I do again?’ asked Betty.
‘You just grab the baton and run as fast as you can!’ said Gladys, rolling her eyes. ‘You’ll be great, I promise.’
Down on the sports field there was barely a patch of grass visible, as hundreds of Tate & Lyle workers and their families milled about the grounds. An enormous crowd of children were gathered around a Punch and Judy stall, while others queued to get a ride in a wooden carriage drawn by a miniature pony. People dressed in their Sunday best took rides along the edge of the grounds on a little steam train, and girls cheered their boyfriends on in a game of tug-of-war. Down on the athletics track a sack race was taking place, with grown men falling over each other, to the whoops and claps of the onlookers.
At one end a large, covered stage had been erected, where some important-looking men in suits were sitting, along with a group of smart ladies. Betty elbowed Gladys. ‘Look, there’s John Lyle,’ she said, pointing to a blond man in his thirties. He was sitting next to his father Oliver, the refinery director. ‘Don’t he look gorgeous?’
‘Not as gorgeous as Derrick,’ said Gladys, nodding towards a dark-haired chap. Derrick de Marney, the star of Alfred Hitchcock’s Young and Innocent, sat smouldering alongside members of the Tate and Lyle families. They always recruited a celebrity to congratulate the sports-day winners and have their photo taken with them. The special guest would also present the ‘Inter-Refinery Shield’ to whichever factory was the overall winner, and was responsible for judging the beauty contest. In this, De Marney was following in the footsteps of fellow film stars such as Paul Dupuis and Dennis Price, who had recently done their duty for Tate & Lyle.
That day all Gladys’s early morning practices and long afternoons at the sports club seemed to pay off. First the netball team thrashed their counterparts from the Thames Refinery. Then, in the women’s athletics, Gladys herself scoo
ped gold in the 80 yards sprint, bronze in the high jump, gold in the 80 yards skipping and bronze in the long jump. By the time it came to the relay, she was on such a high that she felt sure they would win. While the men of Plaistow Wharf had already triumphed in their own relay race, the factory had lost in a few other events, and the Inter-Refinery Shield hung in the balance.
The starting pistol sounded and the team got off to a good start on the first and second legs, their girls three or four yards in front of those from Thames. Gladys, as the anchor, was waiting until the final leg, while Betty, the wild card, was in penultimate place. A look of determined concentration was on Betty’s face, as if she was about to tackle a complex mathematical equation, not run around a racetrack. ‘C’mon, Betty,’ shouted Gladys as her friend seized the baton. ‘Run for your life!’
Betty hugged the baton tightly to her chest and set off at full pelt. She was several yards ahead by the time the other team’s girl started running, and managed to keep her advantage for a good few seconds. Then suddenly a look of horror passed across her face. There in the crowd, staring right at her, was her boyfriend Sid.
Betty became acutely aware of the unladylike sports shorts she was wearing, the wet marks forming under her armpits and the ungraceful lace-up running shoes that were pounding the ground. A feeling of weakness passed through her and her sense of determination seemed to drain away. Gladys saw her falter and almost trip, while the girl behind her began to catch up.
‘C’mon Betty! You can do it!’ Gladys shouted anxiously as the pair of runners strained towards the line.
Hearing the words, Betty gripped the baton tighter than ever and made a concerted effort to speed up, her eyes pricking with tears as she saw the other girl overtake her.
‘I’m sorry, Gladys,’ she said breathlessly, as she finally passed her the baton. There was no time for a reply. Gladys snatched it out of Betty’s hand and set off, her teeth clenched, determined to make up the lost ground. Her legs cried out in exhaustion from all the day’s efforts, but she forced herself on, pushing harder than she ever had before. All the crowds now seemed to be lining the track, Plaistow Wharf workers shouting and egging her on as she gained ground on the other girl. Gladys saw the finishing line approaching and made a final massive effort.
A few yards from the end of the race she overtook the other girl and heard the crowd erupt into cheers. She sailed across the line, and collapsed panting onto the grass.
Her team-mates ran over, pulling her to her feet and holding her arm up in the air. ‘We did it!’ they cried, as Gladys fought to catch her breath. ‘We won every single medal in the athletics!’
Betty stood slightly to one side. ‘Sorry, Gladys, I saw Sid in the crowd and me legs went all wobbly,’ she said.
‘Come here, silly,’ said Gladys, pulling her into a hug. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’
With the sporting activities concluded, the crowds began to migrate over to the main stage for the most hotly anticipated event of the day: the beauty contest. The winner was to be the cover girl for the next edition of the company magazine, the Tate & Lyle Times, and would have her picture taken wearing the coveted Festival Beauty Queen sash and tiara.
A line of heavily made-up girls in swimming costumes and high heels filed up the stairs onto the stage, and one by one took a walk across the platform to a symphony of wolf whistles. In the last few weeks, Miss Smith had been busy recruiting girls for the event, twisting a few arms here and there to ensure they had the best possible chance of a Plaistow Wharf girl winning. Now Gladys could see her chivvying a couple of nervous-looking contestants up the stairs. Well, she thought mischievously, if she’s that desperate for volunteers …
She made her way towards the stage and went to jump over the rope that sectioned it off from the crowd. But still giddy from running, she missed her footing – and fell flat on her face, causing a stir among the onlookers. ‘What’s that girl doing?’ people murmured.
Gladys hauled herself up again, her knees slightly grazed from the fall and her white shirt now decidedly grubby. When she got to the steps at the side of the stage she saw Miss Smith, who had a look of panic on her face. ‘Gladys, this is the beauty contest,’ she hissed.
‘I know,’ Gladys replied confidently, marching up the steps close on the heels of a pretty blonde girl, before Miss Smith could stop her.
She strode across the platform, her hands on the hips of her dirty sports kit, and flashed a toothy grin at the crowd, who started laughing and clapping in response. The Tates and the Lyles looked at each other in dismay, while the girls in their bathing costumes exchanged annoyed looks, before shuffling up to let her join their ranks. For Gladys, however, the true triumph was seeing Miss Smith seething in the wings, unable to prevent the embarrassing spectacle.
Derrick de Marney left no one in doubt of his acting talents as he pretended not to notice the unusual attire of the scruffy redhead amid the line-up of perfectly groomed women. After some deliberation, he chose Kathleen Myers, a raven-haired 18-year-old from Plaistow Wharf, as the beauty queen, and while the onlookers applauded he surprised everyone by planting a great big smacker on her lips.
After the girls had tottered off the stage there was a pause in proceedings before the awards ceremony began. The victories of Gladys and her team-mates in the athletics had helped Plaistow Wharf to overall success, and in light of the significant part Gladys had played she was asked to collect the shield on behalf of the factory. The volume of applause was overwhelming as she took the enormous wooden emblem, which was almost as big as she was, and posed for photographs with Derrick de Marney.
‘I reckon I was robbed in the beauty contest,’ she told him cheekily. Ever the professional, he merely nodded and smiled at the cameras.
After the ceremony, Gladys went to find Betty. ‘I think I saw her with Sid,’ one of her team-mates told her. ‘Looked like they were heading off together.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Gladys, swallowing her disappointment. ‘See you girls in a minute then. I’m just off to get some lemonade.’
She walked away from the group towards a little drinks stall, but when she reached it she decided to keep on going. It had been an incredible day – not only had she held the shield in her arms, but she had cocked a snook at Miss Smith as well – yet suddenly she felt strangely empty.
Gladys carried on walking until she neared the edge of the ground, where she spotted a sight familiar from her childhood: a little red caravan painted with yellow flowers. It belonged to her mother’s sister Harriet, who had come to make the most of the sports-day crowds. On the door was a cardboard sign that read ‘Gypsy Rose Lee, Fortune Teller’.
Aunt Harriet, at it again, thought Gladys.
Two girls emerged from the caravan. ‘Ooh, a tall, dark stranger – don’t mind if I do!’ said one of them, and they both burst out laughing as they walked off. Their words made Gladys feel even worse.
She knocked at the little wooden door.
‘Cross my palm with silver to hear your destiny,’ a mysterious, low voice wailed from within.
‘Aunt Harriet, it’s me,’ called Gladys.
‘Oh, Gladys,’ her aunt replied in a brisk, normal voice, poking her head out of the caravan. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Can you tell my fortune?’ Gladys asked mournfully.
‘Don’t be silly, you little cow,’ Aunt Harriet said. ‘That’s for daft girls with more money than sense.’
Gladys couldn’t help giggling. ‘No tall dark stranger for me, then?’
‘How on earth should I know!’ said Aunt Harriet, lighting up a fag.
10
Ethel
Ethel was determined to prove herself worthy of having been made the factory’s youngest ever charge-hand. At 20, she was only a few years older than most of the girls she was supervising, and considerably younger than a few of the veterans who had been packing sugar since long before the war. Most of them knew her and had seen her wobbly asc
ent to the top, the string of promotions and demotions that had led to her finally donning the coveted white coat. It was important, therefore, to establish her authority.
She decided that the best approach would be to spend as much time as possible on the factory floor itself, rather than hidden away in the department office. The sight of Ethel pacing around the Hesser Floor, hands clasped tightly behind her back, quickly became a familiar one to the girls, who saw her as a rather bossy, if fair, supervisor who knew the factory rulebook inside out.
Smoking was certainly against the rules, and now when the girls in the toilets heard Ethel’s footsteps coming up the corridor they would hastily stub out their cigarettes. Two sugar girls, Betty Foster and Jeanie Pearse, were smoking in the Ladies one day, when they heard the distinctive click-clack getting louder.
‘Quick, Ethel’s coming!’ Betty shouted suddenly.
Jeanie panicked and threw her cigarette away from her, frantically wafting the door of a nearby cubicle in an attempt to dissipate the smoke. But the fag end remained lit as it flew through the air, and just as Ethel poked her head into the room it landed in Betty’s front dungaree pocket. Feeling the burning fag scorching a hole through the fabric and beginning to warm her flesh, Betty tried subtly to pat it out. When that didn’t work she began furiously beating herself in a desperate attempt to extinguish it, causing both girls to collapse in a fit of giggles.
‘What are you two doing?’ Ethel asked, bewildered.
‘Nothing, Ethel,’ they said in unison, before rushing back to the factory floor.
On another occasion the same two girls were drinking tea in the cloakroom – also a prohibited act. Jeanie had just filled their cups from her thermos flask when they heard footsteps approaching at speed. Betty quickly gulped hers down and hid the cup in her pocket, but poor Jeanie panicked at the thought of Ethel’s imminent arrival. Spotting a spare pair of boots in an open locker, she poured the steaming contents into one of them and slammed the locker shut.
The Sugar Girls Page 13