Secrets of the Singer Girls (2 page)

Before Poppy had a chance to ask her why she needed the good fortune, the woman was already striding off down the street, shaking her head as her bedroom slippers slapped on the cobbles.

Mother really does want to punish me, Poppy thought sadly, as she made her way in the direction of the factory. The smell of burning filled the narrow cobbled streets, and even though it was
early May, a thick smog hung over the factories like a blanket. Everything looked as if it were covered in grime, from the faces of passers-by to the buildings. There was no doubt she was relieved
to be away from the eyes of the village gossips, but the dread of being alone in this strange city was causing Poppy’s stomach to spasm into a tight knot of fear.

Just then, a wave of noise blasted out from inside Trout’s factory to the streets below.

‘She’s mugging you off,’ hollered a shrill voice. ‘Lamp her one!’

Gulping, Poppy paused at the factory door. It wasn’t covered in the green baize that indicated the upstairs–downstairs divide Poppy was used to. This door was made of heavy-duty wood and
was blackened with soot. It also left a nasty splinter in her hand as she finally summoned up the courage to push it open.

‘You can do this, Poppy,’ she murmured, wincing as she extracted the sharp splinter. But as she hesitatingly made her way up the narrow staircase to the fifth floor of the garment
factory, her legs suddenly felt as feeble as a newborn lamb’s. As Poppy ascended, the noise she had heard out on the streets intensified, and by the time she reached the top of the stairwell,
it had reached a babbling crescendo. The very floor beneath her feet vibrated under the stampede of hobnailed boots. Wild whoops and catcalls whizzed through the air like bullets.

Suddenly, as she digested the astonishing scene, her own problems were forgotten. The room was filled with banks of tables, with rows of sewing machines lined up like soldiers. Under each
machine lay bundles of cloth. The high windows afforded little light, and the floor was strewn with cotton and waste material. The small tables were covered in scissors, fabric and thread. Though
the room was vast, there was scarcely space to swing a cat. A dank, unwashed smell of bodies hung like a cloud over the room, and through the commotion, Poppy could just make out the distant
crackle and hiss of a wireless.

At the centre of the baying crowd, Poppy caught sight of two indomitable women facing off. Both had their hands planted on their considerable hips and were glaring at each other. There must have
been thirty other women, of all ages, in the room, but all eyes were on the pair of warring females.

‘Who are they?’ Poppy whispered to the woman she was standing next to.

‘Oh, hello, lovey,’ the woman said, grinning. ‘You new? Well, you’re looking at Pat Doggan – she’s the one with the dark hair – and Sal Fowler’s
the other. You couldn’t miss her even in a blackout, could you, not with that red hair. Both fancy themselves as the queen of us Singer Girls.’

‘Singer Girls?’ asked Poppy. ‘That’s what the lady outside said. Why do you call yourselves that?’

‘You’ll see,’ she winked. ‘Ooh, watch it – we’re in for some fun now.’

Poppy gulped. It looked like anything but.

‘You leave my Bill outta this,’ glowered Pat. ‘He’s only exempt ‘cause of the arthritis in his knees.’ Her jowls wobbled indignantly at whatever seemingly
outrageous suggestion Sal Fowler had just levelled at her.

Poppy was stunned at the size of Pat. Food may have been rationed, but Pat Doggan was built like a brick outhouse, with huge, hairy arms shaped like legs of mutton. Her dress, which strained to
contain her heaving chest, was marked with sweat rings.

Suddenly, a lone voice rang out across the factory floor. ‘Didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his knees when I saw ‘im down on them with Sal at the bombsite out back,’
it jeered.

A collective hush fell over the room. The redhead didn’t let her gaze leave her enemy’s face, but the words obviously hit home, as a malevolent grin slowly curled over her handsome
features.

‘Ooh-ee,’ whistled the woman next to Poppy. ‘You watch Sal now. She’s got a right temper on ‘er. Her and Pat are always at each other’s throats. She’ll
go off like a rocket now, you watch.’

Poppy did, in horrified fascination.

Sal had hair as red as fire and a chip in her front left tooth. Her womanly body had more curves than a roller-coaster, and she was easily the tallest woman in the room. Poppy found herself
quite entranced.

‘Don’t listen to mouth-of-the-south over there,’ Sal shot back, quick as a flash. ‘I wouldn’t touch your Bill if he was the last man on earth, but I wouldn’t
blame him if he did go looking elsewhere.’

“Ow dare you!’ shrieked Pat.

The touchpaper had been lit and it took hold. Pat slammed her fist down into her open palm and in a flash she and Sal Fowler were rolling over the concrete floor, a tangle of limbs, stocking
tops and hair.

The spell was broken and suddenly, the crowd rose as one, their voices converging into a shrieking din. ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

‘Should we not try to stop them?’ Poppy ventured, but the deafening roars drowned out her words. Poppy had never before seen women behave this way. They’d have been
horsewhipped if they carried on like this below stairs. All of a sudden, the crowd parted and a small man frantically fought his way through from the back of the factory floor.

‘Watch it!’ yelled the woman next to Poppy. ‘Mr Patch is coming.’

The man was tiny, barely five foot five inches, and the effort of pushing his way through the scrum of women had turned his face a curious shade of red.

‘I don’t know why I work here,’ he muttered as he passed Poppy. ‘It’s a bleedin’ madhouse.’

‘Is that Mr Gladstone?’ Poppy asked.

‘Yeah, and he’s well jibbed,’ the woman next to her said, chuckling.

At that moment, a shoe sailed across the factory floor in a perfect arc, striking Archie Gladstone neatly on the side of his balding head. It was the final straw. Rage turned his craggy features
purple. Mr Gladstone was small, but he was also nimble and in a flash he had hoisted himself up onto a nearby workbench and was looking out over the sea of women and sewing machines.

‘Right, then!’ he bellowed. ‘Calm down. Is it not enough we’re living in a bleedin’ war zone without having to work in one?’

Pat opened her mouth to protest.

‘Pat, keep your trap shut,’ roared Mr Gladstone. ‘One more word from either of you and you’re out. Get back to your work, everyone. Show’s over.’ By the time
he had finished, the only strand of hair on Archie Gladstone’s head, a neatly combed-over sandy lock, had dislodged and was wafting about.

‘See why we call him Mr Patch?’ nudged the woman next to Poppy.

But the factory foreman’s words had the desired effect and slowly the women began to disperse and drift back to their workbenches.

‘New girl, follow me,’ whistled Mr Gladstone, jumping down and motioning to a small office at the far side of the room.

Perhaps it was the heat, the fug of hormones and angst, but suddenly, Poppy felt overcome with exhaustion. Her introduction to Trout’s had been a baptism of fire. With every heavy step she
took through the dark factory, she could feel the simmering tension. How on earth would she ever fit in to a place like this? Poppy wasn’t sure, but at that moment, she felt dreadfully out of
her depth among these feisty women. Her head started to spin as she gazed wide-eyed around the factory floor, and her feet felt too leaden to move.

‘Oi, oi!’ bellowed Mr Gladstone again, his foghorn voice cutting through her thoughts. ‘New girl, don’t stand there like a dozy dory.’

As Poppy went to follow, a strange thing happened. The room slid out of focus, turning and shifting like a kaleidoscope.

‘I feel a bit . . . a bit queer,’ she gasped, reaching out to grab for something to hold on to. But her hands found thin air and the concrete floor rushed up to meet her.

‘She’s going down – grab her,’ echoed a distant voice.

It was too late, though. Poppy fell with a sickening thud.

A few minutes later – or was it hours? – muffled voices filtered into Poppy’s brain. She blinked as she slowly came to and realized she was laid out on the
cold concrete floor on a green stretcher. Humiliation coursed through her. What a fine way to start, Poppy Percival, she scolded herself. Squeezing her eyes shut, Poppy lay motionless, wondering if
she could crawl out of the office without the factory foreman noticing. But Mr Gladstone was too busy talking to an older woman sat opposite.

‘What on earth am I meant to do with her, Vera?’ he sighed. ‘I only took her on as a favour to her mother. She’s my second cousin. You have to help family out, after all,
but she doesn’t look like she’ll last two minutes.’

‘I don’t know, Mr Gladstone,’ replied the woman. ‘Poor little mite, she looked scared out of her wits, and can you blame her? I’ll have a word with Sal and Pat.
Enough’s enough.’ The woman’s voice took on a brittle edge. ‘Those girls need bringing into line. I know Sal’s had some hard knocks, but she’s pushed it too far
this time.’

Poppy groaned at the thought of Sal getting a ticking-off on her account. Hearing her, the woman sprang out of her seat in surprise and crouched down beside her.

‘It breathes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m Vera.’

Poppy struggled to sit up.

‘It’s all right,’ soothed Vera. ‘Just stop there till you start to feel right again. Got you a nice sweet cup of tea on the way. Nothing tea can’t cure, is
there?’

Poppy stared up at the older woman and nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re so kind.’

‘You gave us quite a scare. Didn’t she, Mr Gladstone?’ Vera remarked.

Mr Gladstone rolled his eyes, but managed a weak smile of agreement. ‘So, Poppy,’ he said, ‘this here is my forelady, Vera Shadwell.’

‘Please, sir,’ she said, ‘what’s a “forelady”?’

He wiped a hand despairingly over his thin hair. ‘This is what happens when you take on a scullery maid. You’d better be as much a hard worker as your mother says you are. Vera is
your boss. That’s all you need to know. I promised your mother I’d keep you out of trouble and Vera here will do just that for me, won’t you?’

Vera narrowed her eyes and regarded Poppy as the girl gingerly got to her feet and sat down on a small wooden chair next to her.

‘Indeed I shall, Mr Gladstone. Trouble is something I am fine-tuned to detect. Now, I understand you left your previous position in a hurry.’

Poppy felt herself shifting uncomfortably under the direct line of questioning.

‘M-my mother thought it might do me good to get out of the scullery,’ she stuttered. ‘She, that is to say
I
felt it was high time I did my bit towards the war effort,
and the family was talking of tightening their belts, so this was too good an opportunity to pass up.’

‘Well, you’re certainly right there, Poppy,’ Vera said crisply. ‘No one young and able should be cleaning family heirlooms when they could be doing essential war
work.’

Poppy noted her response seemed to please the forelady and she felt her tension ease.

‘I have references too,’ she added brightly.

‘Well, let me see them, then, child,’ Vera demanded impatiently, holding out her hand as Poppy passed her the sealed brown envelope Cook had given her before she left.

Poppy offered up a silent prayer as Vera scanned the letter: Please don’t let her see through the story.

Whatever the forelady had read seemed to satisfy her, though, as she neatly folded the reference and started to give Poppy a rundown of the factory rules.

‘I speak my mind, and I run a tight ship here. Mr Gladstone and I hold no truck with slackers. Your hours are eight in the morning until eight in the evening – sharp. Forty-five
minutes for dinner and three tea breaks. Six days a week, with your day off on Sunday. Most factories clock off at six. Not us. We’re fighting a war, not running a holiday camp. You get one
week’s holiday a year, unpaid of course. If you’re so much as two minutes late to start or back late from your break, that’s a morning’s pay docked. Your wages are ten
shillings a week, and don’t be blowing it all on stockings down the market like some of them dolly daydreams out there.’

Poppy shook her head eagerly as her brain attempted to keep up with Vera’s rapid-fire speech. ‘Oh no, Mrs Shadwell, I shan’t,’ she promised. ‘My mother’s
packed me plenty of lisle stockings.’

‘Very well. I’m not married, by the way, but you can call me “Mrs” as a courtesy. It’s come to my attention that behind my back most of the women call me
“Kippers and Curtains”, which is a harsh assessment of a hard-working woman, but I see no shame in keeping a clean house and a tidy workspace, and I shall insist you do the same. You
don’t win any popularity contests being a forelady, Poppy. Do I make myself clear?’

Vera folded her hands in her lap and looked at Poppy expectantly. Poppy was saved from answering when the door to Mr Gladstone’s office clattered open with a start. A stout charlady
wheeled in a tea trolley and, without ceremony, set down three mugs on his desk. Hot tea sloshed over the sides of the mugs as she used her trolley like a battering ram to bash open his office door
and march out again.

‘Cheers, sweetheart,’ Mr Gladstone called after her, using his tie to mop up the spillage. ‘I feel just like I’m being served tea at the Ritz.’ He was still
chuckling as he passed Vera and Poppy tea so strong it looked like it had been laced with creosote.

‘Don’t look so scared, Poppy.’ Mr Gladstone grinned. ‘I know we’re a bit rough around the edges, but you never know, you may actually end up liking it
here.’

Gratefully, she gulped at the steaming-hot tea, all the while thinking that it was a distinctly remote possibility that she would ever grow to like Trout’s. She had been here less than an
hour and already she had witnessed a savage fight and found herself unconscious on the factory floor. Closing her eyes, she took another long sip from her tea, the thick brown liquid trickling down
the back of her throat.