Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts (21 page)

Lily nodded and then concentrated on buttoning her coat. ‘We did get a letter.’

‘You don’t have to pussyfoot around me, Lil. I’m not under any illusions where Ted’s concerned, not any more.’

‘He told Mum not to worry, then went into one of his rants, says there’s work to be done out there, and I don’t think he was talking about the sort that brings in any money. He’s staying with friends, Bolshies by the sound of it, and...’ She paused, then went on. ‘Well, you might as well hear it from me, he’s taken up with some Russian tart called Tatyana or something, so I don’t think he’ll be coming home soon, love.’

Nellie shrugged. ‘I feel sorry for your mum,’ was all she said, but in her mind she heard the click of a door quietly shutting. When Lily was gone she turned off the gas lamp and wearily climbed the stairs to bed. Her sums could wait till morning; all she wanted now was a night of dreamless sleep.

Old Wicks was a wiry, weasel-faced man in his late sixties. He had a receding chin and a protruding forehead, and squashed between the two was a face permanently screwed into suspicious defensiveness. Her father had always said Wicks feared being cheated more than anything in the world. ‘And that’s only because he’s such a bloody cheat himself!’ Her father complained how Wicks would dock them half a day’s pay if they were even a few minutes late in the morning.

‘By
his
watch, though!’ Her father would tap his own watch vigorously to illustrate the point. ‘Mine is always on time, but he keeps his running five minutes fast, just to trip us up, thinks we’re all bloody idiots.’

The run-ins between her father and Wicks were explosive, but George was his most experienced carter and there was no one, apart from Sam, who was half so good with the horses. Wicks was a man of means and property: he owned not only the stable yard but the houses either side, one of which had always been Nellie’s home. She knew Wicks would like nothing more than for her to fall into rent arrears, now her father was gone: he could get more if he rented the place out to two families. They’d been lucky to have the whole house to themselves – it wasn’t uncommon to have a family of four occupy one bedroom, sharing the kitchen or scullery with another family living in the other bedroom. Wicks could almost double his rent at a stroke.

There he stood, as he did each Monday evening, hand held out. Nellie carefully counted out the eight shillings and then he counted it again, keeping her waiting on the doorstep, a bitter wind catching at her skirt and leeching all the precious heat out of the house. The few sparse strands of sandy hair on his balding head lifted and flicked like little whips and she hated the sight of his cherry-red lips, moving silently as he counted the last farthing. He nodded and she loathed his nodding head with its liver spots and scabs.

He had offered not a word of sympathy since the death of her father and had only alluded to it once. That was on the day of the funeral, when George’s fellow drivers lined up at the yard gate to see him off. Sam Gilbie and the other men had stood with caps in hands, while the neighbours came to their doors in respectful silence. Nellie saw Wicks pushing his way through them to where she and the children were standing in their mourning black. They were about to set off, walking behind the hearse, but she stopped and turned, meaning to thank Wicks for coming. She had been hoping he would turn up with her father’s last pay packet, for he was owed a week’s money.

Instead Wicks nodded curtly and launched into a complaint. ‘Your father had no right using that cart on his own time. Do you know how much it’s costing to put the thing back on the road? I’m docking his last pay for it, so don’t expect anything from me.’

With that he turned abruptly away, ignoring the looks of disgust from his drivers and the disapproving mutterings of the neighbours. Nellie was too shocked to reply, but Sam was at her side.

‘Don’t worry about that heartless bastard, Nellie.’ She had never heard him swear before, but she could see now his face was red with suppressed rage, his knuckles white, as he clenched his fists. He was holding an envelope, which he handed to her. ‘Here, take this, me and the boys had a whip-round.’

The tears, which she’d held back successfully so far, now brimmed over, staining the black silk dress with round damp splotches.

‘Thanks, Sam, I’m so grateful. Thank the other men for me, will you?’

He nodded and put a hand on her arm. ‘If you need anything, let me know. Don’t try doing it all on your own, will you?’

She covered his hand with her own and swallowed her tears. How well he knew her.

‘Come on, Dolly Daydream, you’re holding up the line. You’ve filled one packet in ten minutes!’

Nellie, startled out of her musings, dropped the packet, spilling custard powder all over her shoes. ‘Bugger!’ She hopped back. It was bad enough trying to get the yellow dust out of her hair each evening, without filling her boots with it. Lily, who’d been waiting patiently for the packet for pasting, gave Nellie a sympathetic look. None of them liked attracting the attention of the foreman. A martinet who rarely gave the girls an inch, Albert was proud of the custard tarts’ output and if they were behind quota would often refuse them toilet breaks with a smirking instruction to ‘Cross your legs!’. How long he’d been standing behind her, she hadn’t a clue. She wanted to yell into his round, stupid face that it was his fault, but she must do nothing to jeopardize this job, and, anyway, today she had to ask him a favour, so instead she speeded up and tried hard to focus on the monotonous task before her.

As Albert walked away, Maggie Tyrell caught Nellie’s eye and mouthed, ‘Tin soldier! Take no notice.’

Nellie smiled. Her friends at Duff’s had helped get her through the awful Christmas and New Year. Maggie had organized a collection and those that had no money to spare turned up at her door with rice puddings and egg custards, or a loaf of bread. Some sent bits of clothing for the boys, anything to let her know she was not alone. But what they could not do was to take the worry away – it ate at her night and day. The penny policy money was gone and next week the rent and food would be coming out of her and Alice’s wages. She had to find extra money from somewhere.

When the time came for their team’s ten-minute morning break she told Lily to go on without her and nervously approached Albert, who was inspecting a machine that had clogged up. He was lying on his back with his nose virtually stuck up a delivery chute.

‘Get us a spanner!’ For a moment she thought he’d addressed her. She looked around for the spanner, at a loss, but just then one of the young boys who ran errands jumped up from behind the machine and ran off in search of the spanner.

Nellie coughed. ‘Albert, could I have a word, please?’ she asked, hating the fact that he’d ignored her presence. He might be under the machine, but he could bloody well see her legs. She resisted the urge to put the toe of her boot into the paunch poking out from his waistcoat and instead waited patiently for a response.

‘Not the best time.’ Albert wriggled further under.

‘It’s me break.’ She hunkered down and looked under the machine. He was red-faced and trying to pry off a plate. ‘I was just wondering, Albert, if I could have a couple of hours’ overtime?’

Just then the boy returned with the spanner.

‘No, you dozy little sod, this is a socket wrench. I want an open spanner!’ Albert flung the wrench at the little boy’s ankles, Leaping out of the way, he dashed off again without a word.

‘I could really do with a couple of hours’ evening shift, if there’s any, Albert,’ Nellie persisted.

Now he deigned to pull himself out from under the machine.

‘You’ve got the kids now, haven’t you?’ he asked, wiping off his greasy hands with a cloth.

She nodded.

‘You women with kids are always letting us down on the evening shifts,’ he mumbled, almost to himself. ‘Any rate, I’ve got no overtime, Nell. All the shifts are full. Where’s that lazy little sod with the spanner?’ He could barely look at her. She knew very well that there were spaces on the evening shift, but Albert was notorious for giving any spare overtime to his favourites.

‘Well, I’d be very grateful if anything did come up.’ Still she had to be polite, deferential, pretend not to know the way the system worked, but she would get nowhere with Albert.

Nellie returned disconsolately to her bench just as the girls were coming back from their break. Before she started up the machine again she leaned over to Maggie. ‘I’ve got to get some more money coming in, Mag.’

‘Is that what you’ve been worrying about all morning?’

Nellie nodded. ‘Albert says I can’t have any more hours.’

Maggie raised her eyes. ‘Make you beg, did he?’

Nellie pulled a face, trying to replace the humiliation she felt with an appearance of defiance.

‘What about home work?’ Maggie asked. ‘Me and the kids get a bit extra making matchboxes – your boys could help you.’

It was a possibility that had occurred to her, but she’d dismissed it, mainly because her father had always looked down on families that took in home work. But could she afford to carry the burden of her dead father’s pride? She could also hear the echo of Madam Mecklenburgh’s voice, attacking those who took advantage of women and children forced to do ‘sweated work’. ‘White slavers’, she’d called them. She had worked with the Anti Sweated Labour League and had even urged the factory women to boycott any home work they were doing on the side. But to Nellie all that seemed a long time ago and the temptation to find at least some of those missing six shillings in a pile of matchboxes was too great.

‘How much do they pay?’ she asked Maggie.

‘Tuppence ’apenny the gross.’

‘Is that all! What’s that? Twelve dozen matchboxes? And how long does that take you?’

‘Well, you might do six dozen an hour, but if the kids are working with you, you could treble that. I’ll take you down the depot, if you want.’

Nellie said she would think about it. Eliza James had been right, though, they would certainly be slaving away. As she stood packing the custard powder, she did the sums in her head. If the four of them worked every evening for three hours, they might make three shillings a week. Still three bob short of what she needed, but it would be better than nothing. As they left the factory that evening, she ran to catch up with Maggie, who had her arms full of screaming baby. Maggie’s youngest daughter, Amy, had brought little Lenny to the factory gates, glad to hand over her burden.

Maggie looked up apologetically, indicating the infant. ‘This one’s teething. Poor Amy’s had a day of it, haven’t you, love?’

Nellie spared a smile for Amy. The ten-year-old’s dirty face was framed with a tangle of fair hair and her short pinafore hung well above what looked like a pair of her brother’s cast-off boots. Nellie remembered how, at that age, she’d been in charge of the babies. School wasn’t considered a priority when there was childminding to be done.

‘You’re a good helper for your mum, aren’t you?’ The child nodded vigorously.

‘Maggie, I’ve decided to do the home work. When are you going to the Bryant & May depot?’

‘Tonight, after this one’s fed. I’ll come and knock you up, all right, love?’ And she was off at a near run, rushing home to get the tea and settle the youngest of her six children before work started for the evening.

Now all Nellie had to do was convince the boys to join in this new game, what Eliza James would certainly call the ‘child slave’ game.

But it wasn’t easy. Alice was doubtful. ‘Dad wouldn’t have liked it.’ She looked exhausted; an eleven-hour day at Duff’s had come as a shock to her. She was much frailer than Nellie, who had inherited George Clark’s strong bones, and since their father’s death she and Nellie had tacitly agreed to eat less, so the boys would not go hungry. Nellie hated to put more work on her young shoulders. She handed Alice another plate to wash up.

‘Listen, Al, I don’t want to frighten you, love, but it’s either this or the streets, and it’s still not enough.’ The tremor in her voice seemed to steel Alice. Carefully sliding the last of the plates into the rack above the wooden draining board, she pulled the plug from the stone sink and turned a determined face to Nellie.

‘Well, it won’t be too bad. What else we going to do with our time, eh?’

‘Good girl!’

Together the sisters finished drying the blue and white crockery, Alice stacked it away in the scullery cupboard, while Nellie explained her plan. ‘I’m going with Maggie tonight, to get the stuff. Will you be all right with the boys till I get back?’

Alice nodded, a smile lighting her pale face as she turned towards the broom cupboard. ‘’Course I will, you go and get yourself ready.’ Nellie looked on doubtfully as her sister began vigorously sweeping the red-tiled scullery floor, all traces of her earlier weariness banished in her eagerness to support the new venture. ‘Go on!’ Alice urged. ‘Maggie’ll be here soon. I’ll be fine!’

When Maggie knocked, Nellie was surprised that she had four of her six children with her.

‘These are me little donkeys!’ Maggie explained. ‘They help me lug all the sides and the glue back.’ They were soon ready and set off like a small tribe on a foraging trip, up to the matchbox depot at London Bridge to collect the raw materials for the boxes. Nellie almost threw the glue pot at the warehouseman when he told her she had to purchase it herself. She was given the rudimentary instructions to assemble the matchbox and paste on the label, and then hefted the material in a hessian sack on to her back. There was a strap of leather designed to go over her head and she supported the weight of it by cupping her hands behind her back.

It was a long, neck-wrenching, back-aching walk back to Spa Road. She ignored the looks of passers-by. Maggie’s bravado enrobed them all in a brash cloak of protection. ‘Had your penn’orth?’ she would fling at anyone who stared too hard.

‘Only trying to make a living, so what’s it to you?’

Her little ones joined in, capering and laughing, shouting: ‘Made yer look, made yer stare, made the barber cut yer ’air!’ at the gawpers, till they were forced to retreat. By the time Nellie arrived home, exhausted, Alice had put the boys to bed. Nellie dumped the sack in the kitchen.