The Toffee Factory Girls

Book 0: The Toffee Factory Trilogy

by Glenda Young

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

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

Discover the engaging new trilogy from the author of THE SIXPENNY ORPHAN, about three women working in a WWI toffee factory in the North-East!

In 1915 three women start work at a toffee factory in the market town of Chester-le-Street, Durham.

Anne works for the enigmatic owner Mr Jack. She is highly efficient and whips Mr Jack's disorganised office - and Mr Jack himself - into shape. However, behind her business-like façade, Anne hides a heart-breaking secret.

Elsie is feisty, fun and enjoys a good time. However, her gadabout ways get her into trouble when she falls for the wrong man in the sugar-boiling room.

And there's dependable Hetty, who's set to marry her boyfriend when he returns from the war. But when Hetty is sent on an errand by the toffee factory boss, her life changes in ways she could never imagine and a whole new world opens up.

The toffee factory girls begin as strangers before forging a close bond of friendship and trust. And, as the war rages on, they help each other cope through the difficult times ahead.

The Toffee Factory Girls is a heart-warming novel about love, friendship, secrets, war . . . and toffee! It is the first in a trilogy from hugely popular author Glenda Young - 'such a good writer, she's fantastic!' Woman's Hour

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

'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 staring Helen Dexter and her trusty greyhound, Suki, starting with Murder at the Seaview Hotel and Curtain Call at the Seaview Hotel, out now!

Release date: February 15, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

In a cramped upstairs room in a terraced house, eighteen-year-old Anne Wright rolled her brown hair into a bun, then pinned it neatly in place. She stood in front of the mirror, squinting at her reflection, before reaching for her glasses from the bedside table. Putting them on, she stepped back from the mirror, turning her head this way and that. She wanted to make sure there were no stray locks of hair. She had an important interview and needed to look her best. Her face was clear and well scrubbed, her cheeks pink and eyes bright.

‘Miss Wright!’ a voice called.

Anne’s heart sank. It was Mrs Fortune, her landlady. What on earth did she want this time? Mrs Fortune was a stout woman who wore her grey hair tucked under a small black hat, no matter what time of day. Anne had often wondered if she wore it while she slept. Before she had a chance to reply or open the door, Mrs Fortune entered the room.

‘Please, Mrs Fortune. How many times have I asked you to respect my privacy?’ Anne said, alarmed. ‘You should’ve knocked. I might have been undressed.’

The landlady bustled across the room with two folded towels in her arms. She laid them on a chair by Anne’s bed.

‘I’ve brought you clean towels, Miss Wright.’

‘That doesn’t excuse you bursting into my room,’ Anne said. She tried to keep her tone light against the anger she felt. It wasn’t the first time her landlady had entered without knocking. She made a mental note to find a locksmith who could provide something she might affix to the door to give her privacy against Mrs Fortune’s prying eyes. Because she was in no doubt that prying was exactly what Mrs Fortune intended. She saw the woman’s eyes dart around the room, then land on the perfectly made bed. The pillow was plumped and the eiderdown straight. Mrs Fortune’s face dropped; she looked disappointed that she hadn’t found what she’d hoped.

‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.

Anne knew her landlady well enough by now. She knew that Mrs Fortune really wanted to know if Anne had broken her house rule and had a man to stay overnight. The very thought of it made Anne despair. One man had brought enough trouble to her life. She had no intention of getting involved with another. She crossed her arms and stared into the older woman’s eyes.

‘I slept well, as always. Now, if you have any more business with me as your tenant, please state what it is. Otherwise, I’ve a very busy morning ahead and I need to prepare.’

Mrs Fortune eyed Anne all the way up from her smart brown shoes, sheer stockings and brown skirt to her best cream blouse with a lace collar.

‘A busy morning, you say?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ Anne snapped. She stopped herself saying more. Oh, how she hated living in this tiny room in Mrs Fortune’s house. But she had no choice; it was all she could afford.

‘I have an interview, if you must know,’ she said, more gently now, aware that if she upset Mrs Fortune, she might end up on the streets looking for another place to live.

Mrs Fortune raised her eyebrows. ‘Where?’

‘Jack’s toffee factory.’

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘You? A toffee factory girl?’ she said sarcastically.

Anne stuck her chin out. ‘What’s wrong with that? I’m up to the job. I can do it.’

Mrs Fortune composed herself. ‘I’m sorry, lass, but I can’t see someone as slight and delicate as you, with all your airs and graces, lasting five minutes in the packing room, or the slab room. The girls there will rip you to shreds. They’re tough lasses, it’s hard work.’

Anne slowly removed her glasses, then took a linen handkerchief from her bag to wipe the lenses. She replaced the wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose.

‘If I pass my interview today, I won’t be working in any of those rooms. I’ll be working for Mr Jack himself. I’ve applied for the position of his secretary. Look.’

She held out a folded copy of the local newspaper, the Chester-le-Street Chronicle and District Advertiser. She handed it to Mrs Fortune and watched as the landlady read. When she had finished, her hand flew to her heart.

‘Oh my word, lass. You’ll do well if you get that job. It’d make me very proud to tell my friends that my lodger works for Mr Jack himself. Why, his toffee factory is the beating heart of our town.’ But then her face clouded over. ‘Although there are rumours about him, which I’m sure you’ll have heard.’

Anne hadn’t heard anything and was curious to know more. However, she didn’t want to appear as if she was interested in hearing gossip, as she considered that common. Fortunately, she didn’t have to say a word as Mrs Fortune carried straight on.

‘Oh yes, the things they say about William Jack will make your hair curl. He’s an odd one, all right. A maverick, they say, though I call him eccentric. Why else would he have left the comforts of his family estate in Lumley to live in the old Deanery, alone? I know I wouldn’t live here in Chester-le-Street if I could afford to live in Lumley. And I hear he’s built a garden at the factory for his workers to parade in at lunchtimes. He allows them an hour-long break each day, you know. A whole hour! Mind you, the toffees they make are beautiful. The best in the country, that’s what everyone says.’

She made to leave, but suddenly turned and nodded at the newspaper. ‘It says in that job advertisement that applicants must be able to type.’

‘I can,’ Anne said, although she hadn’t used a typewriting machine in months. However, how hard could it be to pick up her old skills?

Mrs Fortune arched an eyebrow. ‘And you’ll have to use the telephone. Not many people know how to do that,’ she added.

‘I have experience there too,’ Anne added. She had used the telephone before, but she kept quiet about where and when. It was no one’s business but hers.

Mrs Fortune nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on Anne. ‘Well, Miss Wright, you are a dark horse. There’s more to you than meets the eye.’

Anne stepped forward to usher the landlady out. ‘Again, I’d like to ask for my privacy, Mrs Fortune. I always pay my rent on time, don’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’ Mrs Fortune began.

Anne cut her short. ‘And my room is always clean.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Fortune added reluctantly.

‘And I cook my own meals and clean your kitchen afterwards. All of that should allow me to keep my room here as my own. I’d be very grateful if you’d knock the next time you wish to come in, whether it’s to deliver clean towels or . . .’ Anne paused, intending her next words to hit the spot, ‘whatever it was you were hoping to find. Some of your previous lodgers might have broken your house rules, but not me, Mrs Fortune. I am a woman of my word.’

Mrs Fortune’s cheeks coloured, then she nodded quickly and left.

Once she’d gone, Anne sat on her bed. She tore the advertisement from the newspaper, folded it precisely and placed it in her handbag. She took her coat from the peg behind the door, then checked her reflection again. She felt confident that she looked as smart as she could. There was a nervous flutter in her stomach at the thought of the interview. She’d have to tell a few white lies, exaggerate her experience, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. That was what her mum used to say. And the worst that could happen was that she’d end up working in one of the rooms at the factory Mrs Fortune had mentioned instead of in Mr Jack’s office. She’d heard there were jobs aplenty there for girls now that men were leaving to go to war.

She was about to leave her room when she paused. Reaching her hand to her dressing table, she pulled open the middle drawer and rifled through her silk petticoats, pushing aside handkerchiefs and scarves, until she found a tiny square of a picture. A photograph in black and white of a baby boy. She kissed it, and a lump came unbidden to her throat. Her eyes pricked with tears. No, she couldn’t cry today. She had an interview to attend. She had to be on her mettle. As she hid the picture away at the back of the drawer, she felt tears threaten again, so she shook her head, straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror.

‘Pull yourself together, Anne,’ she commanded her reflection.

Then she headed outside to walk to the toffee factory.

At Chester-le-Street railway station, Hetty was being shoved around the crowded platform. She was surrounded by a bustle of activity as young men, little older than boys, boarded the train. Steam billowed about them. An older man was calling names, and men in the uniform of the Durham Light Infantry replied, ‘Here, sir!’ before stepping into the train. She knew that Bob’s name would be called at any moment. She looked into his steel-grey eyes.

‘Chin up, Hetty. I won’t be away long. I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Hetty longed for a farewell hug or a kiss, but Bob stood straight, keeping a polite distance from her. She’d known him long enough to know he kept his feelings bottled up. Long enough to know how irritated this made her feel. She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

‘I’d best not let myself be sidetracked by that kind of thing,’ he said formally. ‘Remember, when I come back, we’ll get married like we planned. Our wedding might just be the thing to cheer your mum up.’

Hetty doubted that even her wedding would please her mum, Hilda. No matter what she did, nothing was ever good enough. Not like her brother, Dan, who could do no wrong in their mother’s eyes.

Another name was called.

‘Grayson?’

Hetty gasped. This was it.

‘Promise you’ll wait for me,’ Bob said.

‘I promise,’ she replied. ‘And you, Bob?’

‘I’d never go back on a promise, you know that.’

‘Promise you’ll write to me?’

‘Of course . . . if I can.’

She yearned for him to take her face in his hands and bring her lips to his, but the moment was lost when his name was called again.

‘Grayson!’

‘I have to go,’ he said sharply. ‘Remember me always, Hetty.’

He stepped away, straightened his back and snapped his heels together.

‘Here, sir!’ he yelled, and climbed up into the train.

Hetty’s legs felt weak as he turned his back on her. She’d thought about this moment many times since he’d signed up. She’d known she’d have to say goodbye. But now it was real. Bob was on his way out of her life and she struggled to comprehend the enormity of it. Pushing herself forward to the train window, she peered inside, desperately searching for one last glimpse. The doors slammed shut, then she heard a whistle.

‘Bob!’ she yelled. She banged on the window but there was no sign of him. Steam drifted along the platform. ‘Bob!’ she called again as the train began to move. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

Then a window opened, a head popped out and he was there. As Hetty forced her way along the platform, he held out his hand.

‘Take care, Hetty,’ he said.

She reached for him, but the train picked up speed and their fingertips only briefly touched. Then he waved, ducked inside and was gone.

Hetty stood rigid, watching the train snake away.

‘He’ll write to you, love, you’ll see. My son’s promised to write every day.’

Hetty turned to see a woman with a child in her arms. She wanted to thank her for her kind words, but found she couldn’t speak. Around her, other women were crying, some sniffing back tears, others wailing. Some women held hands or had their arms around each other offering friendship and support. One had collapsed on a wooden bench and was being attended to by the guard.

A small black dog appeared and walked behind Hetty, trailing a tatty piece of string tied around its neck. Hetty was too upset to take any notice of it as she joined the crowd of women leaving the station. She was trying hard to hold back her tears, because she knew Bob would expect it, but now that he’d gone, she had no one to tell her to keep her chin up or be strong and brave.

Tears trickled down her face and she scrunched her eyes shut. What would her life be like without him? She felt strange inside; not lonely exactly, but lost. Despite this, however, she didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Her mum would want to talk about Bob, how he’d looked when he left, what he’d said. Hetty didn’t want to share their last words with anyone; she wanted to keep them to herself. She needed time to process what had happened. Bob had gone off to war without so much as giving her a peck on her cheek. His formal manner often infuriated her, but this time it made her feel unwanted and unloved. Plus, if she went home now, she knew her mum would have jobs waiting for her: cleaning the hearth, bringing in coal and water, sweeping the yard. The list went on. There was always work to do. Dan was never tasked with such chores. He was her mum’s pride and joy, and while Hetty toiled in the house, he was allowed to roam the streets with his pals.

‘If he’s not careful, he’ll end up in trouble with the police,’ Hetty often warned, but Hilda always dismissed her concerns.

‘He’s full of youthful energy, that’s all. He knows what he’s doing,’ she’d reply.

Hetty wasn’t so sure. She’d heard that Dan had been caught stealing coal from the pit at the edge of town. But when he’d presented their mum with a barrowload of coal, telling her he’d been given it in exchange for work with a rag-and-bone man, Hilda was overjoyed.

‘Such a lovely lad, so kind,’ was all she’d said, while Hetty had rolled her eyes.

No, she couldn’t face going home yet.

She left the station and headed into town. But with each step she took, her legs felt heavy, and she had to force herself forward. She didn’t notice what was going on around her. She didn’t feel the August sun on her face or hear the birds in the trees. She was lost in thoughts about Bob and fears about the war. As she neared the town centre, she didn’t pay much attention to the busy stalls and noisy traders in the market square. She didn’t even notice three girls from Jack’s toffee factory, walking towards her in their khaki and red overalls.

‘Watch out!’ one of them called as Hetty bumped into her.

Hetty spun around to apologise, but the girls had moved on, laughing and chatting, taking up the width of the pavement as they walked arm in arm. She watched them go. They looked around the same age as her, but they seemed so grown up, full of life and swagger. She felt a million miles away from them. All she could think of was her life without Bob.

She reached the Lambton Arms pub and sank onto a stone wall. The pub was large; a three-storey building wrapped around the corner of Front Street. The top two floors were the living accommodation for pub landlord Jim Ireland, his wife, Cathy, and their three young boys. Her legs began to shake as the shock of Bob’s departure really hit her, and she decided to sit for a while.

‘Hetty Lawson! I want a word with you!’

Hetty didn’t need to turn around to know who was calling. Her body tensed and she took a deep breath. The last thing she needed was a run-in with Jim Ireland, but it looked like she had no choice. She stood, pushed a lock of hair behind her ears, wiped her hands across her eyes and braced herself.

Jim was a small, stocky man with a round belly from too much beer. When he walked, he rocked from side to side. He was completely bald and his round face was pink. He wore a pair of black trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a black waistcoat on top. He wobbled his way towards her.

‘Where’s this week’s money?’ he demanded.

She saw a flash of anger in his eyes. The danger of the situation forced Bob from her mind.

‘Mum hasn’t paid you?’ she said, shocked.

‘Would I be here in the middle of Front Street asking you about it if she had?’

‘Mum’s not well,’ Hetty said, thinking quickly. Her heart began to hammer. How she hated using her mum’s illness as an excuse. ‘She’s not been out of the house, as she’s in a bad way.’

Jim glared at her. ‘Bring me my money tonight.’

‘I can’t promise—’ Hetty began, but he held up his hand.

‘I want the money I’m owed. The money your good-for-nothing father racked up in debts in my pub before he drank himself to death.’

‘But Jim—’ Hetty tried again.

‘Just bring the money, lass. And if you’re late paying me again, it won’t be me you’ll have to deal with next time. I’ll pass on the debt to my brother Frankie, and believe me, you don’t want to mess with him. I’ve been patient with your mum since your dad died, but let’s be clear about this: I want what I’m owed.’

Hetty knew all about Jim’s brother Frankie. Most of the folk who lived in Chester-le-Street were aware of his fierce reputation as a drinker and a fighter. She knew that if Jim was threatening to escalate her dad’s debt, she had no choice but to find the money – and quick.

‘I’ll sort it out with Mum,’ she said, edging away.

‘Aye, see that you do,’ Jim replied.

Hetty was confused. Why hadn’t her mum paid this week’s instalment? What had she done with the money?

‘Please, miss. Your dog.’

She didn’t turn to acknowledge the man behind her. She didn’t have a dog, so he couldn’t be speaking to her. But then she felt a tap on her shoulder, and spun around to find herself looking into a pair of piercing blue eyes. His face was smooth, his hair brown. He was slim, and wore a smart black suit with an unusually wide collar. She’d never seen any of the local boys wearing such a fancy suit.

‘Your dog,’ he said again, offering her a piece of string. On the end of the string was the small black dog that had followed her from the station. It was sitting patiently on the pavement, its head cocked to one side.

There was an accent to the man’s voice that Hetty knew meant he wasn’t from Chester-le-Street. In fact, he didn’t even sound English, and she wondered if he was one of the Belgians who worked at the munitions factories in the nearby town of Birtley. Her mum had warned her to stay away from the Belgians. She said they were trouble, but this man looked harmless and gentle.

‘It’s not mine,’ she heard herself say, but he had already passed the string to her and she was too polite to refuse. Now she was holding it in her hand. ‘It’s not mine,’ she said again, but the man was walking away.

She looked down at the dog. ‘What am I to do with you?’

Hetty glanced around desperately, hoping someone would claim the dog. She searched people’s faces, but no one seemed interested. Women with shopping baskets strode past on their way to the market. Soldiers in uniform scurried up Front Street towards the railway station, more recruits on their way to war. No one was looking for a dog. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked for the man with the strange accent, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She looked again at the little black dog. Its hair was short and its ears erect. It had a tiny pink nose and beady black eyes. She spotted a lamp post and thought about tying the string there. Maybe someone would walk by and rescue it. Maybe the owner would come looking for it. But in her heart, she knew she could never leave a dumb animal to fend for itself. What if it escaped and ran into the road, to be trampled under horses’ hooves or the wheels of the Co-op van? She shook her head and sighed.

‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

The dog looked up.

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ she chided. ‘I’m not saying I’m going to keep you. You can stay until I find out who you belong to. Do you hear me?’

The animal whined in reply. Hetty tugged the string, then set off towards the riverside. As she walked, she thought of Bob and wondered where his train would be now. She had to be brave, like so many other women. If they could get through this without a man by their side, then so could she.

The dog trotted obediently at her side. She tried to figure out what she’d need to say to her mum when she returned home with it. She knew Hilda wouldn’t be pleased; she’d complain it was another mouth to feed with money they didn’t have. She’d call it a filthy animal and make it live in the yard – that was if she even agreed to keep it.

Hetty thought again about Jim Ireland’s words about this week’s instalment of her dad’s debt. What had her mum done with it? Hetty worked hard each week to get the money together. She worked as a skivvy, cleaning for the town’s doctor, sluicing out the waiting room and keeping his accommodation clean. It was hard, tiring work, as the doctor’s house was big, over three storeys high.

Hetty’s dad had died months ago. Since then, she and her mum had made a pact to pay back all their dad owed, after Jim had threatened them. Hetty decided she would speak to Hilda about the missing money the minute she walked through the door.

When she rounded the corner into Elm Street, she crouched down and ran her hands over the dog’s small head.

‘Now, listen to me, dog. I’m taking you in out of pity because you’ve been abandoned, like me. My Bob’s gone to war and you’ve been left on the streets. I reckon we might help each other cope. But I need you to be quiet and well behaved or my mum might turn against you. She’s a tricky woman. When you meet her, you’ll understand. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, all right?’

She walked on and stopped in front of a battered wooden door. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed her feet forward in her boots. She was ready for whatever Hilda said about the dog, because she had plenty to say in return. Her mum had some explaining to do about why Jim Ireland hadn’t been paid.

‘Come on, dog,’ she said, as she pushed the door open and stepped into the house.

Jack’s toffee factory, in the centre of Chester-le-Street, employed the largest number of women in the town. The girls who worked there were considered the lucky ones, as they were paid a decent wage. However, it wasn’t easy work. It was demanding and repetitive, and they had to be quick and efficient to ensure that production never stopped. In the picking room, individual toffees were picked from the slab once cut. Then every single toffee had to be precisely wrapped to display the Jack’s name in blue letters, and each wrapper had to be straight and exact. This was something new girl Elsie Cooper struggled with.

With her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin, Elsie’s looks brought her a lot of attention. She’d already caught the eye of one of the men in the sugar boiling room when she’d gone on a tour of the factory with Mrs Perkins, the supervisor. She’d liked the look of the man, with his strong bare arms, and they’d exchanged a smile as she’d followed Mrs Perkins through the room.

Elsie was eighteen years old and already bored in her new job. She also hated the overall she was forced to wear. It was an unflattering khaki, with red stripes around the collar. The stripes also ran around each cuff and down the seam in the middle of the overall. Here, big round buttons closed the garment over Elsie’s ample chest and hips. At the end of her first day, she’d stuffed her overall in her bag and taken it home. Tha. . .