Starting work in Keillor’s factory was like stepping into paradise, especially to anyone who was raised during the sweetie desert of wartime rationing.
It was July 1953 and this was my first job since throwing off the shackles of school two weeks earlier. The last few days at Rockwell School had been slightly bitter-sweet because I knew I was finally leaving childhood behind. On the other hand, I was gaining freedom.
On that last afternoon, we all trod the hallowed stage in the assembly hall to receive our Leaving Certificate, the piece of paper we had all worked so hard to get. However, before that final moment, I had to face a career interview with Miss Kemp, the headmistress. These personal meetings to discuss our future plans and employment were held in her sanctum. She beamed at me over the top of her highly polished desk. Her homely pink face was topped with a crown of snowy white hair, a colouring which I thought at the time resembled pink and white marshmallows. But there was nothing soft and squashy in her expression when I mentioned my forthcoming job at Keillor’s sweet factory.
‘What about the vacancy I mentioned to you for an office junior? Or the pre-nursing course at Seymour Lodge?’ she enquired, quite annoyed that, in her opinion, the three years’ intensive schooling had been a complete waste of time.
I could hardly confess to this pillar of the education system that pre-nursing courses cost money, that the initial expense of books and other miscellaneous items were far out of reach of Mum’s pocket. As for the other job, I didn’t fancy being cooped up in some little office with just one other person, which would have been my lot in that vacancy.
No, I had weighed up the options and, even if it meant taking on a dead-end job which was obviously being frowned upon in this quiet school office, I knew I wanted to meet people and also earn a decent wage. I wanted to burst forth into this new age and be part of the exhilarating atmosphere of a brave new world. In Mum’s eyes, the idea of another wage coming into the house was a happy financial prospect. Regardless of who was right, it was a decision I was never to regret.
Still, as I approached the factory gate on my first morning, I was apprehensive and my stomach was churning. In fact I thought I was going to be sick. The building had the look of being squashed in between two walls, like a stone sandwich. But the narrowness of its entrance deceptively concealed its length, stretching as it did almost to the edge of the High Street.
I passed along a narrow corridor and landed in the women’s cloakroom. It was packed with chattering women, all standing or sitting in their own tight, intimate circles. They had a closeness obviously born out of long friendships formed over a period of time. For me, a nervous newcomer, it was like standing on the fringe of some new civilisation, wondering if the aliens were friendly. On that particular day they were not. They were too busy pulling white caps over curled hair to notice a stranger in their midst.
There was one girl whose face looked familiar. Even before she spoke to the people in her group, I just knew what her voice sounded like. It was such a strange feeling of déjà vu but the more I tried to pin down where I had met her before, the more elusive the memory became. She caught me staring at her and gave a friendly smile before I was whisked off to the Personnel Office for a form-filling episode prior to my entrance into the wide spectrum of the workaday world, or ‘making a bob or twa’, as Grandad often said.
My eventual destination was the Enrobing Department, a room where sweets were made in their entirety. Their origins were in one of the vast vats of bubbling hot chocolate and they ended up on a conveyer belt which terminated in the cold room. As the soft cream fillings trundled under the chocolate tanks, a group of six women waited to stamp each sweet with its distinctive mark using little hand-held metal stampers. Or the women would dip their fingers in tiny pots of chocolate and deftly draw swirls or circles or lines Then like a battalion of soldiers, the sweets would march under the cool air until reaching the cold room where another group of women waited with fat spatulas in their hands and swiftly slotted the sweets into wooden trays.
My first day was spent in the cold room and I was almost speechless by the sight of so many goodies. I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to eat any of these finished products but one of the older workers, a tall, thin woman with a highly strung temperament and protruding eyes that suggested she suffered with goitre, waved this misconception away with a flapping hand.
‘You can eat as much as you like but you can’t take anything out of the building,’ she said, her voice sounding like machine-gun bullets hitting a brick wall.
I was aghast at this remark, especially the suggestion that I would pinch anything. The factory dealt with this problem in its own way, namely a spot search every night as the work force streamed out through the narrow doors. No one knew when they would be picked and I only had one search made during my short time with the factory. I was overjoyed that I could eat as much as I wanted. It was a bit like the later Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. At the time, I was puzzled by this lax attitude, thinking that the firm could hardly make a profit because of all the heavy overhead munching costs, but after a few weeks I soon found out that most of the sweeties lost their appeal due to that initial daily intake.
Still, during that first week or two, I hadn’t reached the sugar saturation point and I sampled everything that arrived before my fat spatula. Mum would laugh when I got home at night. ‘What would you like for your tea?’
Looking quite green and sick, I was unable to face any food. ‘Eh’ll just have tea and toast, Mum,’ I said, not even needing the toast.
The firm allowed the workers to buy a sweet parcel once a month. George liked everything but Mum was partial to chocolate gingers. By now I could barely look a sweetie in the eye and the parcel was divided up between Mum, George, Betty and Mrs Miller. Mrs Miller always ate her sweets with a cup of tea in the afternoon and Keillor’s fame was spreading because she started to buy her own from the confectionery shop beside the Odeon.
‘What’s the name of yon chocolates with the purply centres?’ she asked me. ‘Eh’m going to buy two ounces tomorrow.’ Obviously blackcurrant creams were her favourite.
The factory had a lovely large and airy canteen which served subsidised meals to the workers. It was quite a few weeks before I discovered it. Mainly because of my chocolate-stuffed days, I spent the dinner hour either sitting beside the conveyer belt or on a bench beside the museum gardens. When I decided to pay a visit to it, I immediately ran into the girl who had smiled at me on my first day.
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Eh saw you on your first day here. Do you no remember me?’
I tried hard to think but the fragment of memory was still proving elusive.
She noticed my frown. ‘Eh used to deliver papers in Ann Street and you had a milk round with Sherrit’s Dairy.’
Suddenly it all fell into place, like the missing piece of a jig-saw, and I felt stupid for not remembering. We had passed one another every morning for months until the milk boy, whose ailment I never did discover, returned to reclaim his milk round.
‘That’s right! Eh remember you now. It’s Violet, isn’t it?’ I was relieved to put a name to the face. ‘How long have you worked here?’ I was curious because she seemed to know lots of the women.
‘About a year. Eh’m in the Wrapping Department. You put tinfoil on the sweeties and they get sent to the packing room to be put into fancy boxes. What a pity you hadn’t been sent there to work beside us,’ she said, pointing out three young girls who were at the table.
As I sat down beside this quartet with my threepenny bowl of soup and slice of bread which cost one penny, Violet informed the three girls which part of this huge complex I belonged to. ‘Maureen’s in the Enrobing Room,’ she told them. Then she turned towards me, ‘Do you like it there?’
Alas, that was the crunch! She had hit the nail on the head with her question. As the weeks had progressed, I was certain that the gaffer didn’t like me. The reason for this dislike was obscure, at least to me, because I had hardly spoken more than a dozen words to the man since day one. And I was becoming increasingly disenchanted with my brand new first job.
The majority of the women in this department were older than me and they all had their allocated jobs which they went to every morning. Being a newcomer, and a disliked one at that, I was put in the pool which was a small band of workers who were slotted into whatever job was vacant. There were about five of us and I often wondered if the gaffer disliked us all but no, he always kept his special glare for me.
Either because of absenteeism or perhaps just because an extra pair of hands was needed, we were sent all over the place. The gaffer always left me to the last, which meant I got all the grotty jobs. One day I would be sent to the room where the workers sorted through huge mounds of brazil nuts or hazelnuts into trays prior to them being coated in chocolate. I always referred to this room as the Nuthoose, which didn’t endear me to Mr Gaffer.
Then the next day I would find myself in the ginger boiling room, a place I hated. I could never understand how anyone could work here for long but I suppose the women needed their jobs. The ginger roots were boiled in vats similar to the chocolate vats which, like the latter, were always the domain of men. When cooked, these roots would be howked out with large slotted ladles and left to cool.
We all sat around a big table, a sharp knife in hand, ready to chop these strange shapes into bite-sized pieces. I thought most of these shapes resembled tiny boiled babies, complete with heads and stumpy arms and legs, and I always dreaded handling these ginger root embryos. Of course, this was all in my imagination because no one else seemed to mind this brain-numbing occupation. They sat blithely chopping and slicing bits into gigantic steel basins.
Like the throngs of jute workers who streamed out of the mills, these women had the same problems, dreams and fears in life. They discussed the same topics, namely their families, money, houses and men in that order.
‘Are you going to the pictures tonight, Maria?’ asked one fat woman called Sadie, who was deftly clattering her knife against the surface of the table.
Maria was an attractive girl with a dark-haired, Italian look. She was in her early twenties and was as lazy as she was pretty. She pondered this loaded question while gazing languidly through eyes that were heavily mascaraed but lifeless and bored-looking.
‘Eh expect so. Eh’ve got this new lad now. He works in Briggs on the Ferry Road. He’s taking me out tonight but where we’ll go, Eh don’t know.’ She made it sound like the chore of the week.
‘Och, you’ve had too many lads, Maria. It’s no right to carry on like that,’ said Sadie, shaking her head. ‘How many lads have you had this year?’
The popular Maria thought long and hard, her eyes suddenly taking on a hard calculating look. ‘Eh think it’s ten or eleven up to now.’
Her tone sounded like mine when Mum asked me to do the dishes twice in one day – fed up.
I did a quick mental count. We were now in the middle of October and if she had already gone through ten or maybe eleven boyfriends, she was either fickle or careless – or maybe they were.
Sadie sounded annoyed. ‘Well, Eh only hope my Bert never meets you, “Miss Fickle Annie”. He’s spent three years fighting in Korea but after the armistice at Panmunjom, he’s now home and wanting out of the army. Says he’s seen some awfy sights among the Communists but what Eh’m trying to say is this – thank the Lord he wasn’t writing to somebody like you, Maria.’
The papers and the Pathé News at the cinema had been full of the death and destruction in Korea. Also, a new word had entered our vocabulary: brainwashing. I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but the Chinese government was accused of using this new method of torture on captured prisoners of war.
Maria, who hadn’t taken offence at Sadie’s remarks, was now lamenting. ‘My mother has bought me another jumper, would you believe it? Ever since the clothes have come off the ration she’s aye buying me something to wear. Eh’ve got two drawers in my dressing table that have umpteen jumpers no even out of their bags.’
Although I didn’t say anything, I wished I knew Maria’s mum. She seemed to be a kind-hearted person in contrast to her grasping daughter. Maybe she would throw some of the unused jumpers in my direction.
Sadie shook her head in exasperation while jabbing her knife into another embryo-shaped ginger root. ‘Heaven help poor fellows like my Bert who put their lives on the line for folk like you, Maria. Your mother must think you’re very ungrateful.’
I felt sorry for Sadie and all her worry over her son. It was hard having to adjust back into Civvy Street and I knew Bella’s son, John, was planning the same move as soon as his army service was up. It must have been a horrific war but, like World War II, all conflicts had their share of human misery.
Jean, who sat at the top of the table, turned to look at the clock. ‘Thank heavens it’s finishing time! Eh’ve got my messages to go before Eh get home. If it’s no one thing it’s another,’ she sighed. I had the feeling I was back standing once more at the jute mill gate.
Sadie heaved herself out of her seat and gave me a big wink. ‘What will you be doing the night, young Maureen? Will you be going out with a fella?’
I was furious with myself because I blushed scarlet, feeling the warmth spread from the back of my neck to my hairline. The question had been so unexpected that I didn’t have time to appear cool and sophisticated, like world-weary Maria who now looked at me as if she had only just noticed my presence. She gave me a look as if to say this possibility was far beyond my capabilities. I shook my head. ‘No.’
This statement wasn’t altogether true but Maria had now turned her attention to her little case of mascara which she fished from her overall pocket. She added some spittle to the black oblong block, mixed it with the minuscule brush, and proceeded to add another heavy coat to the already overloaded eyelashes. She wiped away the tiny black specks that fell on to her cheeks. Clearly the eyelashes could hold no more weight and they were shedding the surplus mascara like apples in an autumn windfall.
By the time the bell went for finishing time, we were all ready to go and we made a hurried exit through the door and down the long corridors. I was almost hugging myself with pleasure. I felt a bit sorry that I hadn’t told the Sadie the truth about my plans for the evening but I was afraid that Maria might have poured cold water over my pleasure. Not only was I going out that night but Betty was coming with me. We were heading for Robbie’s Dance Hall in Well Road, just off the Hawkhill.
It had all begun a week ago, one balmy autumn evening when Betty and I had been sitting on the close stairs, listening to the dance music from Mrs Ferrie’s radiogram. She lived up the stairs from us and we often listened to the popular tunes that filtered down to us from her wonderful radiogram. Also, she owned what we thought was a great collection of records.
On that particular night, we decided to have our own private dance club. As we pranced up and down the length of the long close, we didn’t notice John from the next close and his pal. We were dancing to the ‘Golden Tango’ when the two boys appeared beside us.
‘Naw, naw, naw, naw, that’s no the right way to tango!’ said John’s pal, who went by the name of Joe, ‘Here, let us show you.’
With my feet going in different directions, he swept me along the close in a series of twists, turns and jerky movements. The only thing missing was a rose in my teeth. With John dancing with Betty, we spent a hilarious hour doing all the different dances. By now, the original music had stopped but we improvised with a mixture of whistling, singing and humming. In fact, we had such a good laugh that Joe suggested an evening out.
‘Eh aye go to Robbie’s Dance Hall. What about a night out there?’
Betty and I were over the moon and we talked about nothing else for days.
‘What about your mum, Betty? Will she let you go to the dancing?’ I asked, sure that the request would be turned down. But it wasn’t.
‘Mum says Eh can go with you but Eh have to be home early and no stay till the end.’
That was fine by me. The next few days were spent in a frenzy of wondering what to wear and, now that the magic night was here, we still didn’t think our sparse wardrobes would yield anything chic and wonderful. As soon as I had my tea that night, I went through to see Betty.
I had cut off the arms of an old jumper and sewn a colourful floral edging around the armholes. ‘What do think of this, Betty?’ I asked, holding the vandalised garment aloft, ‘Eh thought Eh would wear it with my dirndl skirt. Although it’s two different floral patterns Eh don’t think anybody will notice.’
Betty agreed. ‘Eh’ve got to wear my slacks but Eh’ll change into a skirt when Eh get there. My mum doesn’t know about this so don’t say a word. If Eh give you my skirt now, you can keep it for me because Eh’m sure my mum will be watching as Eh leave the house.’
She went to the wardrobe. ‘Eh’ve got a surprise to show you. Shut your eyes.’
I did as I was told and when ordered to open them, Betty was holding a white, flimsy garment in her hand.
‘What do think of my new bra?’ she asked ‘Eh made it out of two hankies, some ribbon and a bit of elastic.’
I thought it looked lovely and wished that I could have had one as well. Betty’s home-sewn bra would never have given Messrs Gossard and Berlei any sleepless nights but it was functional and well made. Betty, with all the time she had on her hands as well as access to a Singer treadle sewing machine, could easily run things up.
‘Oh, Eh wish you had made one for me!’ I said, quite unhappy that I would be venturing forth to the glamorous Robbie’s Dance Hall in my serviceable cotton vest while Betty was blossoming into exotic underwear.
‘Eh’ll make one another time. After all, my mum has a drawer just stuffed full with hankies.’
For one fleeting moment, Betty’s two elderly aunties who lived on the Hilltown came to my mind and I could well imagine that they would also have well-stuffed hankie drawers.
One bone of contention in my mind was the fact that although I was now four months into my job I was still dressed like a schoolgirl. I would set off for work every morning in my old trench coat and, horror of horrors, my white ankle socks. Betty was the same but it now looked like she had the expertise to break free.
We were meeting John and Joe at the tram stop in Strathmartine Road but we knew this meeting was more of a business arrangement than a romantic date. This was just as well as we discovered John couldn’t make it. No reason was given but we suspected he didn’t have the admission money for the dance. We certainly couldn’t help out because we had the bare minimum of money in our roomy but almost empty handbags.
‘Never mind,’ said Joe, cheerfully. ‘We’ll just go as planned.’
To give him his due, he was very gallant in escorting two giggling youngsters to their very first dance in a proper dancehall. We stood in a queue in Well Road, waiting for the hall to open, shivering in the early evening drizzle but almost bursting with excitement and anticipation. Once inside, we made straight for the cloakroom. Betty wanted to remove her horrible baggy trousers and woollen balaclava, which we added to our coats. The small woman in charge of the cloakroom was almost inundated with a flood of coats but she was obviously an expert in her job as she deftly wrapped each coat into a bundle and shoved it into a boxed contraption behind her.
We then stepped forth into the glamorous unknown and we were not disappointed. It was all we imagined it would be. There was a medium-sized dance floor and a gramophone was playing ‘I Believe’ by Frankie Laine, which, as with Mrs Ferrie, was one of our favourites.
A smaller room led off from the main dance floor and was furnished with a few tables and chairs. Quite a few people were sitting here and Betty and I stood on the fringe of this activity, soaking up the wonderful atmosphere. Perhaps because the room was small it had the appearance of being packed with dancers. The beat of the music, the dim lights and the blue haze from countless cigarettes which spiralled up to the ceiling all added to the magic.
Betty was wearing her bright-pink woollen jumper, the one that her auntie had knitted. It had a wide neckband that emphasised her white slender neck and she had on a floral skirt similar to my own. Meanwhile, I thought I looked like the bee’s knees in my redesigned jumper with the matching trim that didn’t really match. I knew Betty was annoyed that her jumper completely hid her pièce de résistance, namely her bra, and she said so. ‘Eh wish Eh had one of those bonny see-through blouses. You know the ones Eh mean? Yon chiffon models.’
Personally, I was glad to have something to cover up my unlovely vest.
Joe arrived from somewhere and gave us a dance apiece before disappearing for the rest of the night. In fact, we never saw him again. Whether he still came to see John, we never knew or, quite honestly, cared. Betty and I were enchanted with this new dancing world and, even although we had to leave at nine-thirty because of Mrs Miller’s curfew, we talked about nothing else on our way home, chattering animatedly as the tram wound its ponderous way along the dark, narrow streets.
‘Do you think your mum will let you go next week?’ I asked anxiously.
Betty nodded. ‘As long as Eh’m back early.’
Now I was faced with a big, big problem – finance. I gave Mum my wages every week and she gave me some pocket money. This covered my tram fares to work and back as well as my dinner in the canteen. Once back in the house that night, I immediately began to work out ways of saving from this small amount in order to visit Robbie’s every week. I put my savings plan into operation the following morning by ignoring the tramcar and launching myself like a rocket down the Hilltown and onwards to the factory. Savings were also made at dinnertime by eating the minimum of food. Mum would have been annoyed at this but I knew I could always fill up with a chocolate or six during the day. One small cloud settled over me that morning in the shape of Violet and her three chums. They were not as ecstatic as I was when describing my night out.
‘We always go to the Palais de Dance in Tay Street,’ said Violet. ‘You should come with us on a Tuesday night. It’s good fun.’
I made a mental note to mention this to Betty but, as things turned out, my time at Keillor’s was fast running out. At the beginning of 1954, the entire place was abuzz with rumours of a big pay-off. Seemingly, due to the vagaries of the sweet export market, a big order had failed to materialise. I had told Mum about the gaffer and at first she warned me, ‘Eh hope you’re no giving him any cheek.’
When I shook my head, she said, ‘Och well, maybe he doesn’t like young folk working for him.’
Things were becoming worse. Before the rumours, everyone in the pool had been slotted into some sort of job in the complex but, now, quite a few of us were totally redundant every morning. The gaffer got round this by giving us cleaning jobs which I didn’t mind but greatly annoyed the rest of the women.
‘Bloody cheek putting us to mop floors when we were hired to make sweeties!’ complained one irate woman, while the rest of her pals agreed.
Although I knew my days were numbered, I have to admit getting quite a shock when the pay-offs were announced and my name was on the list. Surprise, surprise! The works manager was a lovely, kind man, not like the gaffer. He had dark-brown eyes and a concerned, sympathetic manner which made me feel a bit better at losing my job. It was down to losing some lucrative order, he explained, but if things picked up then I would be asked back to work. I almost said ‘Over my dead body’ but he was so nice that I buttoned my lippy lip, as Mum often called it. I met Sadie as I was leaving that last night and I told her all about the gaffer and how he seemed to hate me.
‘Och, you must have been married to him in a previous life and given him a hard time,’ she said.
I was appalled. Married to that old geezer!
She saw my face and laughed. ‘Eh’m just joking, young Maureen. Cheer up!’
Cheer up? Well, that wasn’t so easy. Mum and I were devastated by this grim news. George had started his first year at secondary school and was growing out of his clothes almost daily. And there was Miss Kemp. I just prayed I would never meet her on my way to the dole office. I couldn’t help thinking how my bright new dawn was fast becoming the dark night.