Secrets of the Singer Girls (3 page)

‘Listen, love,’ Mr Gladstone went on. ‘I know what you’re probably thinking.’

‘You do?’ asked Poppy, wide-eyed.

‘Yeah – where the hell have I washed up?’ He winked. ‘But mark my words, Poppy Percival, the women who work here are the backbone of their families and the heartbeat of
their communities. They’re grafters, each and every one of ‘em. They fell out the cradle as machinists. Seventy-hour working weeks we clock up here, week in, week out, even through the
Blitz. Not forgetting the girls on the night shift. When this war’s over, it’s my girls who should be handed the medals.’ Pausing to check his words were sinking in, he looked
directly into Poppy’s eyes.

‘I work the girls hard, but I look after ‘em too, don’t I, Vera?’

‘That you do, Mr Gladstone,’ Vera agreed. ‘Paid us an extra four shillings a week to work through the raids, so he did.’

‘What will I be sewing, sir?’ Poppy asked.

Mr Gladstone sighed and curled his stubby fingers round his tea mug. ‘We used to make the most beautiful girls’ dresses.’ He tutted. ‘Before the war broke out, that is.
Nowadays we sew surgical field bandages and uniforms for our boys abroad, both new uniforms and repairs. Some of the uniforms that’ll land on your workbench will have bullet holes and damage.
It’ll be your job to patch ‘em up so we can send ‘em back to the front. Essential war work it is and we’re proud to do it. We clothe our boys in the best uniform known to
mankind: that of the serving British soldier. It may not be cut quite as extravagantly as the Americans’ uniform, but it damn well serves its purpose.’

Vera nodded stiffly and stared up at the Union Jack poster tacked to the wall behind Mr Gladstone’s head. ‘And we’ll keep doing it until life goes back to normal. Or as normal
as can be round these parts.’

‘You’ve got three weeks to learn the ropes or you’re out and I’ll have to send you back to the sticks, conscription or no conscription. The East End has dozens of
clothing factories, so if you don’t like it, you can always hotfoot it over to one of them.’

‘I’m not afraid of hard work, Mr Gladstone,’ Poppy replied, her cheeks flushing pink.

‘I dare say.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘There’s the door. Shift’s nearly over. Tomorrow’s a new day.’

Poppy stumbled to the door, rubbing at her head where it had hit the floor, and Vera followed.

‘A quick word if I may, Vera,’ Mr Gladstone called from behind his desk.

Vera paused at the door.

Mr Gladstone glanced over at Poppy. ‘Go on, then, gal. Don’t dilly-dally.’

‘So sorry. Of course,’ blustered Poppy, nearly tripping over herself in her haste to get out of his office. ‘I’ll wait outside, Mrs Shadwell.’

Outside, she tried her hardest not to look through the crack in the partially open door. But something about the way Mr Gladstone was looking at Vera, the deep tenderness that shone out from his
gruff little face, meant she couldn’t quite tear her eyes away from the scene. She watched as he rose to his feet and gripped the desk for courage.

‘
The Big Blockade
is on at the picture house. It’s got that fella in it. You know, what’s-his-face, John Mills,’ he mumbled. ‘I’d be honoured if
you’d accompany me.’

Mr Gladstone was hardly a suave star of the silver screen himself, Poppy thought. Squat, balding, with a broken nose that seemed to spread halfway across his pockmarked face like a puddle, he
looked more like a bulldog than a film star, but when faced with Vera, his face radiated a gentle warmth.

‘Maybe a drink after?’ he added.

Vera shook her head. ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, Mr Gladstone, do you?’

And with that she turned on her heel and exited his office, leaving a small man to nurse his crushed hopes.

‘Women,’ Mr Gladstone muttered. ‘Next to the wound, what women make best is the bandage.’

From her vantage point on the other side of the door, Poppy heard his words and felt every ounce of his pain as if it were her own. Mr Gladstone may have been a little shopworn, and he was
certainly no John Mills, but even Poppy could see he was as decent and honest as the day was long. As for Vera, Poppy had never come across anyone so frank and direct in all her sixteen years.
There was something else about her, too, that Poppy couldn’t quite put her finger on: an air of sadness that coated her like a fine layer of dust.

Poppy’s soul ached for the familiarity of her old life. But then she reminded herself that however intimidating Bethnal Green seemed, it was a hundred miles away from Framshalton Hall, and
for that she had to be thankful.

Just then Vera’s voice rang out across the factory floor like a siren. ‘Poppy,’ she hollered, ‘don’t just stand there gawping. Follow me.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Shadwell. Coming,’ Poppy said, hurrying after the forelady as she marched off.

Back out on the factory floor, Poppy was stunned to see the women were in full swing again. But this time their battle cries had been replaced with a rousing chorus of ‘Bless ‘Em
All’ as
Workers’ Playtime
rang out from the wireless. They sang as one, gently pumping the sewing-machine treadles with their feet and nodding their heads in time to the music,
never allowing their gazes to slip from their workbenches.

Poppy’s eyes could scarcely keep up with the seamless activity. Their fingers were a blur of motion, snipping, sewing, feeding long stretches of material through the sewing machines, as
their voices soared and bounced off the high vaulted ceilings. The penny dropped. So that was why they were nicknamed the Singer Girls! Seated behind their Singer sewing machines, sewing and
singing in flawless harmony, never had a moniker seemed so apt. It was extraordinary to Poppy. The same cockney voices that had sounded like a gaggle of mating geese just minutes earlier now
sounded so gentle, full of warmth and tenderness.

Vera paused at a bank of tables. ‘These are some of our long-termers,’ she said, with a touch of deference. ‘Ivy and Doris. Sixty years’ experience at Trout’s
between them. They can edge-stitch with their eyes shut.’

More names and faces passed in front of Poppy as Vera rattled off further introductions.

Suddenly, the forelady was off again, marching in the other direction. As Poppy followed behind her, she noticed the rain had cleared and the spring evening was giving way to dusk. What little
light the tall Victorian warehouse was afforded was already fast fading and soon the area would be plunged into darkness.

A prickle of fear ran up Poppy’s spine as she realized she didn’t have the faintest clue where her lodgings were or how to get to them. She wasn’t scared of the dark. With no
street lamps and not even a solitary light from the village twinkling over the fields, Framshalton Hall was always engulfed in a heavy blanket of velvety black by night. But here in London, things
were different. Strange men populated this unfamiliar city. She had read about the terrifying Jack the Ripper, who had once prowled the very streets outside the factory. She didn’t fancy
walking down those dark, foggy alleys by herself.

As they passed the windows, two women were already standing on high wooden ladders fixing the heavy regulation blackout blinds to the narrow frames. Tears of mirth streamed down their faces, and
one screeched with laughter, her body shaking so hard Poppy feared she may topple right off the ladder. It was then she realized that it was Sal Fowler and Pat Doggan. The very same women who had
been locked in a vicious fight just an hour earlier. Did that fight mean nothing? What a very strange place this was: full of women who seemed to want to kill each other one moment and hug the
next.

As they walked, Vera gave Poppy a rundown of the rules.

‘No smoking on the factory floor. You work through air raids, unless I say otherwise. Course, we don’t get as many as we used to since the Blitz ended. Fighting, swearing and wearing
make-up are expressly forbidden. Keep your head down and your wits about you.’

Poppy nodded furiously. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘In service, we never wore make-up. Her Ladyship wouldn’t allow it.’ Poppy hadn’t meant anything
by that comment other than a desire to assure Vera that she would obey the rules, but at the end of a bank of machines, Vera paused and her green eyes glowed with a fierce intensity.

‘You may look down on factory workers,’ she replied defensively, ‘but it’s an honest and decent profession, a damn sight better than charring. I fought to bring in
piecework and an extra four shillings to work through raids so these lot here can earn more money than any other factory girl on Commercial Street. The East End has been built on garment factories
for centuries, and you’re standing in the best of the lot.’

Poppy couldn’t help but notice that the more agitated Vera grew, the more she played with her gold necklace. It was half a heart, and its jagged centre ran straight through the middle. It
seemed to Poppy an unusual thing to wear. It was also unfortunate, as it drew her attention to a patchwork of yellowed scars on Vera’s chest. Poppy guessed the scars were old. They looked
stretched and polished by time, snaking off in all directions over her chest.

‘I mean, we ain’t the high and mighty lot you’re used to working for, but get any fanciful notions out your head, my girl.’

Her voice grew louder as she warmed to her theme. Innocent young Poppy hung on to her every word.

‘Our boys abroad are depending on us. We women are enduring the bombs, supplying the troops and keeping the home fires burning, but will they be giving us medals when this thing’s
over? Will they hell.’

‘Oh, give it a break, Vera,’ sang a voice from the workbench behind. ‘We’ve had a gutful of your old flannel. Can’t you see the poor girl’s bored out of her
skull?’

Rising from behind her station and extending a slim hand was quite the most beautiful girl Poppy had ever seen. The fingers held in Poppy’s hand were long, cool and slender, each nail
topped with a slash of crimson varnish. They belonged to a creature so stunning Poppy’s mouth fell open.

‘I’m Daisy, darling.’ The vision smiled, revealing a dazzling bright smile, made all the whiter by a slick of vibrant pillar box-red lipstick.

Poppy’s eyes were drawn from her face to the gold necklace sitting round her elegant neck. It was a half-heart pendant . . . the missing half to Vera’s.

‘I’m Vera’s sister,’ Daisy purred. How on earth could she be related to Vera? Poppy marvelled secretly. Vera had greying hair and tightly pursed lips. This girl was
exquisite and delicate. Only their eyes revealed them to be related: emerald green and crackling with a strange intensity.

‘Don’t mind her – her bark’s worse than her bite,’ Daisy went on. ‘She got the brains; I got the beauty. I know what you’re thinking: how is she related
to Vera?’

‘Not at all,’ lied Poppy, acutely aware of Vera’s bristling presence beside her.

‘Vera’s quite a bit older than me, aincha Vera? Our late mother didn’t think she could have any more,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Then along I came.
“Miracle baby”, they called me, but I assure you I’m real all right,’ she beamed, extending a long, slender arm. ‘Go on, pinch me.’

Poppy giggled in spite of herself. In all her years she had never seen anyone who oozed such confidence, apart from the odd Hollywood star in Cook’s old
Home Companion
magazine.

Daisy’s lustrous hair was so black it was almost purple in places, and she had styled it into elegant victory rolls, which framed a face that looked like it had been carved from marble.
Her bright green feline eyes sparkled mischievously from over the highest cheekbones Poppy had ever seen. Instinctively, her eyes ran over Daisy’s hourglass curves and she gulped. Months of
Cook’s excellent puddings and pies had left her own small frame comfortably padded, but Daisy’s body went in and out under the cherry-red figure-hugging dress she was wearing. Poppy
would need two hot spoons to ease herself into a garment that tight, she thought to herself.

Daisy giggled as she noticed Poppy’s gaze travel down to her shapely legs. ‘Admiring my nylons, are you?’ she winked. She leaned closer to Poppy and whispered in a soft voice,
‘Shall I let you in on a secret?’

Poppy nodded wordlessly. She was so enthralled by Daisy she almost felt hypnotized. The clouds of Evening in Paris that were engulfing her only added to the stupefying effect.

‘They’re not real. I paint my legs in gravy browning and get Sal to draw the seams in with an eyebrow pencil. They look like the real thing, though, don’t they, Poppy?’
she smiled, arching one leg and stretching it out brazenly in front of her.

Poppy swallowed hard and looked away. There was more flesh on show than she had ever been exposed to in her whole life.

‘Oh, put it away, Daisy, for goodness’ sake,’ snapped Vera. ‘Can’t you see you’re embarrassing the poor girl? You’re behaving like a cheap trollop, and
take that muck off your face while you’re at it. How many times have I told you about wearing make-up at work?’

Despite the dressing-down from her sister, Daisy didn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable. In fact, she completely ignored Vera as she smoothed down her dress and turned her attentions
back to Poppy. She spoke with just a touch of laughter in her voice.

‘You stick with me, and don’t listen to my sister. We’ll have much more fun, won’t we, Poppy?’

‘Will we?’ Poppy replied.

‘Oh yes,’ she oozed. ‘I know all the best dances. You know,’ she smiled, as she looked Poppy up and down, ‘you’re awful pretty. If you’d let me do you
up a bit, shorten that skirt, touch of rouge . . . you’d scrub up a treat. Just you leave it to me. Not that I’m going to be here for long, mind you. I’m going to marry an officer
and move to corned-beef city.’

‘There’s a city named after corned beef?’ Poppy asked, astonished.

Daisy threw her head back and laughed throatily. It was a wonderful laugh, rich and contagious. Soon Poppy was helpless with giggles.

‘No, sweetheart. Dagenham, I mean,’ replied Daisy. ‘I’m going to get married and move into one of those lovely semis in the suburbs. I’m going to have beautiful
children and be the perfect wife.’