Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys (59 page)

They walked the entire length of the street.

‘I think it was here,’ Bill said finally.

‘But wasn’t there a pub next door? And I’m sure there was a warehouse the other side?’

‘Both gone,’ Bill said, taking her hand.

The only memorial to their encounter would be the memory they carried with them. There was certainly nothing left in the physical world to remind them.

‘Just think, if we’d never rescued Jack, we might never have found each other again,’ May said.

Bill drew her in close. ‘You’re right, Harry wouldn’t have had my address to give to Peggy!’ he said, as they retraced the route of their first walk, up on to Tower Bridge. They stood on the very centre of the bridge, looking towards Surrey Docks, which had been burning the last time they were here together. May stood with feet either side of the gap between the bascules, and, haltingly, she confessed to Bill her true feelings on that day.

‘I felt that somehow I had one foot in the past, and one in the future. And I can remember thinking I didn’t have a clue if my life was going to work out. It just seemed like I was walking forward into the dark.’

‘But we stole a march on the future, didn’t we, May?’ he said, almost like a fellow conspirator. ‘Reunited, married, honeymooned, all before we set foot back in England! We’ve spent so long dreaming about “tomorrow”, though, I wonder what the future will hold for us?’

‘Oh, I’ve given up trying to predict the future,’ May said. ‘I’m leaving that to Granny Byron!’

For as she held Bill’s hand and gazed downriver towards her Bermondsey home, May understood that the war, full of predictable tragedies and unexpected miracles, had taught her that the only true guide to the future was love.

~

We hope you enjoyed this book.

For an exclusive preview of the best-selling
Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts,
read on or click the image.

Or for more information, click one of the links below:

Acknowledgements

About Mary Gibson

About The Factory Girls series

An invitation from the publisher

Read on for a preview of

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.

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.

‘Mag, he’s coming back, ask him for a toilet break, quick!’

Maggie smoothed her worried features into a placating smile and looked over her shoulder, catching Albert’s attention with her raised hand.

‘I need to go to the lav, Albert,’ she whispered.

‘Can’t you wait?’ Albert said irritably. ‘There’s only ten minutes to go!’

Maggie crossed her legs and made a face. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have an accident…’

‘Oh, go on then.’

Maggie scuttled off towards the double doors.

‘You women drink too much tea, that’s your trouble!’ he called after her as Ethel Brown waved two fingers behind his back, which set Lily and Nellie giggling.

Soon the sounds of the baby’s cries faded away as Maggie fed him at the factory gates, and not long after the scream of the factory hooter sounded their release.

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!’

More whistles followed and some called out girls’ names. Nellie peered over the heads of the crowd as she heard someone call hers. Sam, one of the delivery boys, was seated up on a cart, holding the horse’s reins steady.

She pretended not to hear him. Every day he offered to give her a lift on the cart back to her home in Vauban Street, next door to the carter’s stables, where he worked with her father.

‘He’s not bad-looking,’ whispered her friend Lily, ‘
and
he’s here, regular as clockwork.’

Nellie shook her head and shushed her friend.

‘Leave off, Lily, I’m not getting up on that cart! Anyway, he’s such a soppy ’apporth, I’m not givin’ him the time of day.’

Nellie, at sixteen, was a fresh-faced girl with bright blue eyes and a sweep of chestnut hair, which she attempted in vain to keep contained in a loose roll, framing her face. She couldn’t say why his attentions irritated her so much, but they did.

You’re not for me, Sam Gilbie
, she thought, as they swept on past the young man with his carefully brushed, wavy dark hair. Undeterred, he jumped down and called after them.

‘I was wondering, Nellie—’

‘Not interested!’ Lily called back as the two girls leaned into one another, their wide flat caps touching, to form a shield against the young man’s advances. But after they had passed, another young man detached himself from the crowd and ran to catch up with Lily and Nellie.

‘Hang on, girls!’

At the sound of his voice, Nellie tightened her grip on her friend’s arm. He was a tall, lithe fellow of about twenty, and as he caught up with them he joined his palms, swimming between them, like a sinuous eel. They parted to allow him in, and he draped an arm over each of their shoulders.

‘All set for tonight, you two?’ He kissed Lily on the cheek and attempted to do the same to Nellie.

‘Get off, you saucy sod.’ She jerked her head back, but blushed all the same. Nellie had spotted Lily’s brother, Ted, in the crowd and now found herself angry at the rising blush, which she was unable to disguise. He was a head taller than the two girls and wore a flat cap and a white choker, tied around his neck. His clothes, though obviously a docker’s, always looked dashing on his long-limbed figure and Nellie found herself noticing the jaunty angle of his cap.

‘I told you, we’ll be there,’ said Lily. ‘Don’t keep on about it.’

‘I’m not sure I can come,’ Nellie said. ‘My dad’s not too keen on me going out on my own at night.’

‘Well, tell him you’re going to me mum’s house.’ Ted smiled down at her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘It’s true enough, it’s where I’m meeting you, so you are going there…
first
!’

He broke away, laughing, calling over his shoulder, ‘Make sure you come, I want you to meet someone special!’

Nellie’s father, George Clark, was a large barrel-chested man with a drooping moustache and a stern manner. He worked as a carman for Wicks, the carter whose stables were next door, delivering grain, foodstuffs or timber to and from the nearby docks. Years of driving a horse and cart, in all weathers, had given him a ruddy, lined complexion and a powerful physique. A man of few words, when he did speak his children made sure they took notice. Nellie tried not to defy him. Growing up, she and her two brothers and sister had learned to fear his anger and, even more, the leather belt he produced when family discipline demanded it. Tonight, he was sitting in his favourite chair as usual, pipe in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up and braces undone.

Nellie thought now would be as good a time as any. Her father was always most amenable after a good dinner and she had obliged by cooking his favourite: boiled bacon and pease pudding. When her mother died two years earlier, she’d found herself the surrogate mother of the whole family. With the help of her younger sister, Alice, she cooked and cleaned and took care of her two little brothers, Bobby and Freddie. Bobby, who’d been six when their mother died, had needed her constant care. For a year he’d clung to Nellie’s skirts, burrowing in like some little lost animal. She often felt she was missing out on her own youth, leaping from childhood to motherhood with no preparation, but one look at Bobby’s mournful little face, peering up from the folds of her skirt, told her she had no choice. Sometimes an unaccountable sadness would overtake her and for a long time she thought she was simply missing her mother, but lately, as she saw other girls her age launching forward into independence and even the promise of romance, she realized she had been mourning her lost girlhood.