Secrets of the Toffee Factory Girls

Book 0: The Toffee Factory Trilogy

by Glenda Young

Genres: Sagas; Romance; Family Life; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

'Real sagas with female characters right at the heart' Woman's Hour

'Glenda Young brings a new freshness to the genre' My Weekly magazine

'Saga fiction at its best . . . I enjoyed it immensely' VICKI BEEBY

'A lovely read, full of highs, lows, friendship and foes' JOHANNA BELL

Discover the engaging new trilogy from the author of The Sixpenny Orphan, about three women working in a toffee factory in the North-East of England during World War One.

As the Great War rages, Jack's toffee factory in the market town of Chester-le-Street, Durham, is threatened with closure when sugar rations begin.

Anne, who works for the owner Mr Jack, must choose between her heart and her head when Mr Jack declares his love for her. Not only might he have to sell the toffee factory if he breaks off his previous engagement, but he can never know the secret that Anne carries.

Elsie is forced to keep a secret when she risks her safety as well as her reputation in order to make ends meet.
And, for Hetty, a long-hidden family secret surfaces, threatening to tear Hetty's family apart. Her future with Dirk feels more fragile than ever.

Together the three toffee factory girls share laughter, sorrow and secrets, and support one another through the challenges ahead.

Secrets of The Toffee Factory Girls is the second mesmerising novel in a trilogy that began with The Toffee Factory Girls from hugely popular author Glenda Young - 'such a good writer, she's fantastic!' Woman's Hour

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Praise for Glenda Young:

'A gripping saga' People's Friend

'Using her local knowledge and her eye for human frailty, Young creates a believable and richly detailed world in this emotive story full of hardship, kinship and resilience, and with a memorable cast of beautifully drawn characters' Lancashire Evening Post

'Will resonate with saga readers everywhere . . . a wonderful, uplifting story' Nancy Revell

'I really enjoyed . . . It's well researched and well written and I found myself caring about her characters' Rosie Goodwin

'All the ingredients for a perfect saga' Emma Hornby

'Glenda has an exceptionally keen eye for domestic detail which brings this local community to vivid, colourful life' Jenny Holmes

'The feel of the story is totally authentic . . . Her heroine in the grand Cookson tradition . . . Inspirationally delightful' Peterborough Evening Telegraph

What readers are saying about Glenda's heartwrenching sagas:

'Definitely an author not to be missed when it comes to family sagas' The Book Magnet

'Writes superb historical fiction that bring the era alive. Her books are unbeatable and unputdownable' Ginger Book Geek

'The perfectly imperfect, human nature of Glenda Young's characters are what keeps her readership hooked' Clyde's Corner

'Gritty, compelling and full of heart . . an exceptional saga' Bookish Jottings

'Better than a Catherine Cookson' 5* reader review

'Wonderful read, full of rich characters, evocative description and a touch of romance' 5* reader review

'Just wanted it to go on forever and read more about the characters and their lives' 5* reader review

Love Glenda's sagas? Don't miss her cosy crime mystery series starring Helen Dexter and her trusty greyhound, Suki, starting with Murder at the Seaview Hotel, Curtain Call at the Seaview Hotel and Foul Play at the Seaview Hotel, out now!

Release date: February 13, 2025

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

January 1916

Anne Wright rented a cramped room on the top floor of a terraced house on Victor Street. Her landlady, Mrs Fortune, had an annoying habit of entering her room without warning. However, this time when she tried to open the door, she was thwarted. Anne allowed herself a smile as she glanced at the bolt. There was a knock, loud and insistent.

‘Miss Wright!’ Mrs Fortune yelled from the landing. ‘Is there something wrong with your door? It won’t open.’

There was more rattling of the handle before Anne slid open the lock. Mrs Fortune, red in the face with frustration, almost fell into Anne’s arms when the door finally opened.

Anne, standing tall and straight, smiled serenely. ‘Mrs Fortune, how nice to see you this Saturday morning. Was there something you wanted?’ She knew she’d have to play it carefully with her landlady, for she didn’t want to risk being thrown out. Her little room wasn’t plush, but it was the only home she had. However, she was fed up to the back teeth of her landlady barging in. Finally she’d taken steps to ensure it didn’t happen again.

Mrs Fortune breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, and narrowed her eyes. ‘What happened to your door? Why was it stuck?’ she demanded. She looked around the room. ‘I hope you’re not hiding something in here.’

Anne’s shoulders dropped. She’d been living with Mrs Fortune for over a year and was disappointed that her landlady still didn’t trust her.

‘Mrs Fortune, I am not hiding anything, or anyone. I know you well enough by now to know you’re intimating, yet again, that I have sneaked a gentleman in here. I have told you many times that I’m not that kind of girl. You know I’d never break any of your house rules,’ she said firmly.

Mrs Fortune’s beady eyes landed on Anne’s pristine eiderdown. Anne could have sworn at that moment that the landlady looked disappointed not to have found evidence of wrongdoing.

Mrs Fortune was a peculiar woman, she thought. She was short, with grey hair tucked under a small black hat that she wore from first thing each morning to last thing at night. Anne had never seen her without it. ‘Mrs Fortune, do you remember our conversations . . .’ she began, then paused, thinking of how best to explain why she had installed the lock on her door without permission. ‘Our many conversations about you, as my landlady, respecting my privacy as your lodger?’

Mrs Fortune put her hands on her stout hips and looked from Anne to the door, where the shiny new bolt finally caught her eye.

‘What on earth is that?’ she yelled.

‘I think you know what it is, Mrs Fortune.’

‘You’ve damaged the door,’ Mrs Fortune said, running her fingers across the bolt.

Anne crossed her arms. ‘I’ve done no such thing. As you can see. I’ve installed a lock, carefully and neatly.’

Mrs Fortune stepped forward and looked into Anne’s clear, bright eyes. Anne stood her ground and pressed her sensible flat shoes against the bare floor to steady herself. She knew she should have asked permission, but had she done so, she feared Mrs Fortune would have said no.

‘If I’d asked you about installing a lock, you would have refused me,’ she began, pre-empting complaints.

Mrs Fortune shook her head. ‘You don’t need a lock on your door. You don’t require privacy in my home . . . unless you’ve got something to hide,’ she said darkly.

Anne dismissed her comment with a wave of her hand. ‘I do need privacy, Mrs Fortune. Everyone is entitled to it. I don’t barge into your rooms downstairs, do I? And although I’ve asked you many times not to enter my room without permission, you’ve repeatedly ignored my requests. I’m a grown woman, not a child. While I’ve lived under your roof I’ve been a model tenant. I always pay my rent on time, I keep my room clean, and I never . . .’ she tilted her chin, ‘I never bring back gentleman callers. And don’t I give you free toffee each week from my work at Jack’s factory too?’

Mrs Fortune’s right eye twitched. Anne had expected more resistance from the feisty woman. She’d even put money aside from her wages in case the landlady demanded compensation. However, she was both surprised and relieved when Mrs Fortune dropped her gaze. For the first time since she’d moved into Victor Street, Anne felt she’d won a small victory.

Mrs Fortune turned away and carefully inspected the lock. ‘You installed this yourself?’ she asked more gently now, sounding impressed.

‘Yes, I bought it from the Co-op in town, along with a screwdriver and all the fixings,’ Anne replied.

Mrs Fortune spun around and her eyebrows shot up into the rim of her black hat. ‘You know how to operate a screwdriver?’ she said, astonished.

Anne nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I’m a woman of many talents, Mrs Fortune. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

Mrs Fortune gave a wry smile. ‘There are many things we don’t know about each other,’ she replied.

Anne immediately wished she could take back her words. Because if Mrs Fortune found out everything about her, she knew she’d be thrown out onto the street. She’d shared her deepest secret with only Hetty and Elsie, her close friends at the toffee factory. They knew about the baby son she’d parted with to be raised by Mr and Mrs Matthews, a well-to-do couple in Durham. That was where she was planning to head this morning. All she wanted to do was take a peek at her boy, just a glimpse over the fence. Some days the heartache of giving up her child wouldn’t leave her and compelled her to seek him out, hoping for a glimpse of him through a window of the couple’s large, impressive home.

Anne kept other secrets too, things she hadn’t even shared with Hetty and Elsie. Things she couldn’t share with anyone. The truth was that she’d fallen for the factory owner, Mr Jack, who she worked closely with. However, he was promised to a society lady by the name of Lucinda Dalton and they were to be wed. To complicate matters further, Mr Jack had recently told Anne he loved her, not Lucinda. He’d even presented her with a Christmas gift, a silver brooch with precious stones in the exact shade of blue to match the toffee factory logo.

So far, she hadn’t dared allow herself to be swept up in the romance of Mr Jack’s heartfelt words. If she did, his marriage to Lucinda might not go ahead, and Mr Dalton’s promised investment in the factory wouldn’t happen, meaning there was every chance the factory would have to close, particularly if the rumours of sugar rationing were true. All the sugar boilers, chocolate enrobers, wrappers and packers, delivery men and stable men would then be out of work. Anne would lose her much-loved role as secretary to Mr Jack, and every toffee factory girl, including her friends Elsie and Hetty, would lose their jobs too. No, there was no need for Mrs Fortune to know everything.

Anne bit her tongue as Mrs Fortune looked her all the way up from her sensible shoes and her black linen skirt to her cream blouse with its patterned-lace collar and her brown hair elegantly styled in a bun. Aware she was being scrutinised, she felt herself blush and she pushed her small wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. Mrs Fortune crossed her arms.

‘I won’t have you damaging any more of my doors, Miss Wright,’ she said. ‘Or floors, or windows, or any part of my home. Do you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Mrs Fortune,’ Anne replied. ‘Now, was there a reason for your visit this morning? I was about to go out.’

Mrs Fortune nodded quickly, then closed the door. She indicated the bed. ‘You may wish to sit down, Miss Wright.’

Anne shook her head. ‘Whatever it is, Mrs Fortune, I’m sure I can remain standing.’

The landlady began pacing. The room was so small that it only took her three steps to reach the window and three steps to return. Anne wondered what was on her mind. She glanced at her wristwatch. The bus to Durham was due soon and she didn’t want to miss it. She hoped her landlady would be quick. However, the clouded look on the woman’s face suggested otherwise.

‘Times are hard, Miss Wright,’ Mrs Fortune began, still pacing. ‘This dreadful war shows no end and food prices have shot through the roof.’

Anne braced herself. Because of her privileged position at the toffee factory, she knew exactly how much of an increase there’d been in food prices nationwide.

‘I understand, Mrs Fortune,’ she said.

Mrs Fortune stopped pacing. She looked at Anne. ‘Of course you do, you’re an intelligent girl. You wouldn’t have been taken on at Jack’s factory in such a senior role if you weren’t.’

‘How much more rent do you want?’ Anne offered.

A smile came to Mrs Fortune’s lips, then she delved into the front pocket of the apron that covered her skirt and blouse. She pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Anne.

‘The new terms are in my letter. Please read this and sign it to say you agree, then leave it with me on your way out.’

Anne took the envelope and placed it carefully on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ll read it when I return, Mrs Fortune. I really should go. I don’t want to be late.’

She picked up her handbag and gathered her coat, hat and scarf. It was blustery outside with a strong January wind and she needed to wrap up warmly.

‘There’s something else I need to tell you,’ Mrs Fortune added.

Anne didn’t stop in her preparations to leave, hoping the landlady would pick up on the hint. ‘Oh?’ she said, thrusting her arms into her winter coat.

‘I’m taking in another lodger,’ Mrs Fortune announced.

This made Anne stop in her tracks. She blinked hard. ‘But where will they . . .?’ There were no more rooms in Mrs Fortune’s house, so where would another lodger live?

‘Pearl will live downstairs in my front parlour,’ Mrs Fortune said.

Anne was stunned. Not only was Mrs Fortune giving up one of her private rooms, but she’d called the new lodger by her first name. All the time Anne had lived here, she’d been addressed as Miss Wright.

‘Pearl?’ she said, hoping Mrs Fortune would share some more details about the new girl. However, the landlady merely pursed her lips and headed to the door. She paused there, holding the handle. Anne followed, knowing that she’d have to run to Front Street if she was to catch the Durham bus.

‘One more thing, Miss Wright.’

‘What is it now?’ Anne asked impatiently.

‘There’s a gentleman to see you. I haven’t invited him in, as the neighbours will gossip and I won’t have that. He’s waiting outside on the street.’

Anne’s heart skipped a beat. ‘A gentleman? Who is it?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t ask his name as I have no time for such callers. You know my house rules,’ Mrs Fortune said sternly. Then she walked from the room and away down the stairs.

Anne was confused. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The only men she knew in Chester-le-Street were those she worked with at the factory. Why on earth would one of them come to her home? She racked her brains. Only one person knew where she lived, and that was Mr Jack himself, but surely it wouldn’t be him? He wouldn’t be so indiscreet as to visit her lodgings. In any case, Mrs Fortune would have recognised him. As the owner of the toffee factory, which employed many in the small market town of Chester-le-Street, he was a familiar face to everyone.

She listened to Mrs Fortune’s footsteps disappear downstairs, then heard the door to the parlour open. ‘Pearl, my dear!’ she heard the landlady exclaim before the door closed.

Her head spun. She couldn’t think straight. Another lodger in the small house, especially one so well known to Mrs Fortune, was one thing. And now a gentleman coming to call, well, that was another matter entirely. She took a moment to gather herself and calm her racing heart. She glanced at her watch again, realising she was too late to catch the bus and there wasn’t another due for an hour. There was only one thing for it. She headed downstairs to discover who was waiting outside.

In a terraced house on Elm Street, Hetty Lawson was arguing with her mum, Hilda, again. Their relationship had never been easy, with Hilda favouring Hetty’s brother, Dan, who was away fighting in the war. In Hilda’s eyes Dan could never do wrong, whereas Hetty, it seemed, could never do anything right. Their already difficult relationship had recently worsened after Hetty had brought her boyfriend, Dirk, home for the first time a few weeks earlier, on Christmas Eve. Christmas was now a fading memory as the harsh, icy winds of the new year blew in, but Hetty and Hilda’s argument showed no sign of blowing out.

The women were huddled in front of the coal fire in their kitchen. Lazing by the fire was Hetty’s small black dog, which Dirk had given to her; it was how they’d first met. He had found the animal on the street one day, assumed it was Hetty’s and handed it to her before walking off. Hetty’s heart had melted at the sight of the little stray and she’d brought it home. It was only meant to be a temporary stay, until its owner claimed it. Now, months later, the dog was still living with her, although she hadn’t given it a name yet. Well, she’d never thought she’d be keeping it. Now it had settled in as part of the family. To distract herself from her argument with Hilda, she mulled over names in her mind. Tiny? Shorty? Neither of those seemed right, although they did accurately describe the dog. His coat was jet black, the colour of midnight. She wondered how he would respond to a short name like Jet; it seemed a fitting choice.

As the animal snoozed, Hetty and Hilda were busy with their hands. Hetty was darning a tear in her favourite blue skirt while Hilda held a pencil and notepad, writing a letter to Dan.

‘You’re selfish, Hetty,’ she huffed, without looking up.

Hetty laid down her sewing and looked at her mum’s lined face. Hilda had aged quickly since Dan had signed up. Hetty glanced at his most recent letter, which lay on the table, and her stomach twisted. It had been a gruelling read, with none of Dan’s usual cheery tone. In its place were words that had torn at her heart. It had begun simply: Dear Mother and Hetty, I do not much care for the trenches. And in that opening line, Hetty understood how much Dan was suffering.

His letters so far had never contained any complaint, not wanting Hilda to know how desperate his new life was. The one that had arrived today was the first hint that war wasn’t the adventure he’d been promised. He’d been signed up by an overeager recruiting sergeant, who’d turned a blind eye to the fact that Dan was only fifteen years old. Just a boy. He was one of the thousands of young men known as ‘teenage Tommies’ who’d been recruited in the mad dash to enlist as many troops as possible to fight overseas.

Hetty softened a little as she took in her mum’s downturned mouth and sad expression. Hilda was a small woman, thin, all skin and bones. Her sunken cheeks made her look worn and ill. Despite the fact that she was only middle-aged, her shoulder-length hair had already turned grey. Her body was stooped, her shoulders round as she sat forward in her chair, her pencil poised. Hetty knew her mum missed Dan with all her heart. He was all she ever talked about, and she wrote to him each day.

‘Selfish, that’s what you are,’ Hilda went on. ‘You’ve already got a fella, what do you want another one for? You’ll get yourself a reputation like your friend Elsie Cooper. Oh, you should hear the gossip from the market about her and her aunt Jean.’

Any compassion that Hetty had begun to feel dissolved at the mention of Elsie’s name. Her best friend had been through a dreadful time at the hands of her abusive husband, Frankie. He’d beaten her so hard on their wedding night that their baby had died inside her. It had been a harrowing time, from which Elsie was still not recovered.

‘Leave Elsie out of this, Mum. What she does is none of your business.’

Hilda tutted and carried on scribbling on her notepaper.

‘I don’t want two fellas. I’ve got Dirk and we’re happy,’ Hetty said, keeping as calm as she could. She’d been over this many times with her mum, who seemed not to want to hear the truth. ‘You know I’ve written to Bob to break things off with him.’

Hilda tutted out loud. ‘And yet he still writes to you.’

‘He sends me cards that the army give him,’ Hetty said sternly. ‘All he does is cross out those parts that aren’t relevant. He doesn’t write anything else. There’s never been any romance in anything he sends me.’

She sighed. There had never been any romance in Bob, never mind his cards, although she was surprised he kept sending them after she’d written to end their relationship.

‘Dirk is the only man in my life,’ she continued. ‘I wish you’d accept it. Why can’t you support me? Why must you make things so hard? Life’s difficult enough with the war. Plus there are rumours going around that the toffee factory might be on its last legs once sugar rationing hits. There’s even talk about it closing down until the war’s over. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Mum, and the last thing I need is for you to ban Dirk from our house.’

‘It’s my house,’ Hilda said firmly, keeping her gaze on her letter to Dan. ‘And while you’re under my roof, you’ll live by my rules. One of those rules is that I won’t let you bring anyone here that I don’t approve of.’

Hetty crossed her arms. ‘You mean because Dirk’s Belgian.’

‘He’s different, Hetty,’ Hilda said.

‘He’s a man, isn’t he? What’s so different about that? He’s got two arms, two legs, and all the right equipment in all the right places.’

Hilda’s face turned to thunder. ‘There’s no need to be crude,’ she hissed.

But Hetty’s dander was up and she wouldn’t be stopped.

‘He’s a human being. He’s a wonderful person. He’s kind and sweet and he makes me laugh. He treats me well, takes me to the cinema, to dances, and he’s never forced himself on me, not like some men try to do.’

She reached a hand out to gently touch her mum’s arm.

‘I love him, Mum, can’t you see?’ she implored, but Hilda sharply pulled her arm back and Hetty’s hand fell. She knew her mum wouldn’t be moved.

‘He’s one of the Belgians, Hetty. Now, I gave him a chance when he came here for tea. That’s as much as I promised I’d do.’

‘But what did he do that was wrong? Why have you taken against him? He was perfectly polite. He even brought you an iced bun from the baker on Front Street. And yet you treated him like he was dirt. You couldn’t even be nice to him for my sake, could you? You didn’t even try. Why not let him come again, Mum? You’ll soon see how lovely he is.’

‘He spoke funny,’ Hilda muttered.

‘Of course he did, he’s foreign, he’s got an accent,’ Hetty cried, exasperated. ‘But he speaks perfectly good English. He’s got an important job, he’s a teacher. Why won’t you let him visit again?’

Hilda jabbed her pencil in Hetty’s direction. ‘I should stop you from seeing him altogether. If your father was still alive, he’d have words to say about it. He wouldn’t have accepted a foreigner in this house.’

At the mention of her late father, tears pricked Hetty’s eyes. She missed him every day.

‘Dad was kind and considerate, he would have accepted Dirk, but you’re narrow-minded. You can’t see past the end of your nose when it comes to him. I know the real reason you don’t want him back. It’s because of the neighbours, isn’t it? You’re frightened of what they’ll say, what they’ll think about your daughter courting a fella who’s not a local lad. You’d deny me happiness and love because you’re afraid of being gossiped about.’

Hilda reached under her chair and pulled out a rolled-up copy of the local newspaper. She held it up in front of Hetty’s face and brandished it like a weapon.

‘Do you know what they’re saying in here about the Belgians?’

Hetty knew only too well about the angry, bitter letters printed in the local paper about the Belgian community who lived in the nearby village of Elisabethville. Thousands of Belgians had been brought to England by the British government after the war began, to work in the munitions factories. They’d built their own village and named it after the Belgian queen. Elisabethville was run under Belgian law, as a military base. It had its own school, hospital and church. It had a dance hall and community centre, blocks of accommodation for the single men, where Dirk lived, and rows of wooden huts for families. These huts were the real reason that the letters to the newspaper were full of anger and spite, because locals were jealous. Not only did the wooden huts have electricity inside – no oil lamps for them – but they also had running water with the luxury of an indoor bathroom. These were things that none of the older houses in the town had. The petty jealousies had made some locals, including Hilda, suspicious and hostile over anything related to the new community. There were even rumours that real bacon was offered for sale in their village shop. This further stoked tensions among some Chester-le-Street residents.

‘You’re desperate to believe anything other people say that backs up your horrible mistaken ideas!’ Hetty yelled.

Hilda gasped at Hetty’s outburst, then turned her head away. Hetty knew she’d hit on the truth. How she hated arguing with her mum, though. She was frightened she might say too much, something that might force Hilda to throw her out. It wouldn’t be the first time her mum had threatened such a thing. There was only one thing for it: she had to calm down, before she said something she’d regret. Her mum was aching over Dan fighting in the war and Hetty knew how much she worried, how little she slept for fear of something happening to him. She had no wish to make things worse.

She picked up her darning and attacked the skirt with the needle, making uneven stitches. There was silence between the women, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock. Finally Hetty could take it no more. She threw down her sewing and leapt to her feet.

‘I’m going out!’ she said, glancing nervously at the window, where tree branches bent in a gusty wind.

Hilda looked up, alarmed. ‘Going out in this weather? Don’t be daft, lass.’

‘I’ll get wrapped up,’ Hetty said, as she walked from the kitchen into the hall. The dog stood and followed her, looking at her with pleading eyes. She softened and bent down to him.

‘Do you want to come outside too?’ she said. His tail wagged furiously. ‘All right then. But you’re going to have to get used to your new name. I’m going to call you Jet.’

He cocked his head to one side.

‘Jet!’ Hetty said, louder.

This time the dog responded to her voice and sat obediently as she tied a string leash around his neck. She rewarded him with a stroke and decided to keep on rewarding him each time he responded to his new name. She took down her dad’s coat from the peg behind the door, breathing in the smell of it, always hoping for a reminder of him. But she was always disappointed; it just smelled of damp. She wrapped a knitted scarf around her neck and pulled on an old woollen hat.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ she called before she stormed from the house with the dog, letting the front door slam; she was in no mood to close it quietly.

She headed along Elm Street, intending to walk to the river to help clear her mind. When she reached the Co-op on Front Street, she stopped and waited for a cart to go by. And that was when she saw her friend Anne, walking arm-in-arm with a man she immediately recognised from the toffee factory. Hetty did a double-take; she couldn’t believe her eyes. The two of them looked cosy, chatting amiably as they walked, heads close together. She was confused. Well, Anne was a dark horse, she thought. She hadn’t once mentioned she was stepping out with someone, especially not him. Mind you, she didn’t think he would have been . . .