Wednesday, 10 August, 2022
My friend Tari helps me with this blog. She has all the tech know-how I don’t. Thanks, Tari. The other day she messaged me, By the way, you had 279 unique visitors to your blog in July. What? If you are one of them, say hello in the comments. I have no idea who you are, where you live (does Tari?) but I’d be richer knowing. I also hope you like what you’re reading and, if not, let me know what I can do better. Blah blah.
We are looking for somewhere to live. I love moving – well, most of it. The part where you’re looking, though – this part – is horrendous, and right now so disheartening. Rents are high, places are often dire, and competition is stiff. Yet it has to happen. I worry all the time about where, when, and even if. As time goes by the what becomes less important, and yet it doesn’t. I know, no matter how desperate I may get, I can’t resign myself to some of the places I’ve seen that are on offer right now. Part of this is because…Hackney. It’s an area that’s being gentrified – everywhere you look there are scaffolds that tell you that someone else is gutting or improving their living spaces. It’s a double-edged sword. While places are improving, rents are screeching higher, and what passes for an open plan living room is really only a medium sized kitchen with a couch, coffee table and television thrown in for good measure. Couches are backed against ovens, no division, and you can only pray for enough counter space to actually prepare a meal. For a couple of foodies and spontaneous chefs like us, it’s not supportable. Where will we land? Stay tuned.
With the prospect of a move ahead, we’ve been determined to do a few things, even if we stayed local. This includes some restaurant visits. I’m getting lazy about reviews. I have a list of places I want to visit and revisit but the Bryant and May Factory (who manufactured matches, or lucifers as some of their publicity reads, in Bow from 1861 to 1979 when it moved to Liverpool) has been on my list for a very long time.
I’d read about the factory and the Matchgirls Strike several years ago. Bear in mind that this factory and the area is well known to me. It sits somewhere between my paternal grandmother, Sophie’s (and therefore my dad’s and my own childhood) home and my maternal grandmother, Charlotte/Lottie’s (and therefore my mum’s childhood) home. Both of these houses were pulled down many years ago now. The factory is still there.
I can’t really remember particularly noticing it when I was a child. I did, of course, but thought nothing of it. Just another factory, even if a massive one. It’s good to see it again as an adult – through older and more appreciative eyes. But what came first was the matchstick girls’ story. I’ll tell it in short form.
From the mid 1850s this was London’s largest factory, making candles, crinolines and rope. William Bryant and Francis May bought it in 1861 when it was in disrepair. In their match factory the workforce, mostly Irish women and girls, worked fourteen-hour days at poor pay and faced excessive fines for things such as going to the toilet without permission. They also faced a far more serious situation. The white phosphorous that the sticks were dipped in caused ‘phossy jaw.’ This was necrosis that destroyed the jaw, leading to other medical problems.
In the summer of 1888, middle-class activist Annie Besant and her friend Herbert Burrows got involved and exposed the factory conditions in their weekly paper. Management weren’t happy and tried to get their workforce to sign a paper saying it was untrue. They refused and one worker was fired, leading to the now-famous strike. 1,400 women and girls refused to work by the end of the first day. Management quickly said that they would take the fired woman back but the damage was done and the women began to demand more, including the withdrawal of the fining policy. Within a short while the whole factory had stopped work and a deputation of women went to see Annie Besant to ask her to help. She apparently advised them not to strike, but the women were determined and took their plight to parliament. Fearful of the publicity, management agreed to concessions, including a fairer grievance procedure and that meals would be taken away from where they could be contaminated by the dangerous phosphorus . The women’s actions led to the establishment of the first British trade union for women. Many feel that it was Annie Besant who was responsible for the success of this campaign, but she was rather the conduit through which these very brave women were able to get their voices and needs heard. They would have had very little power in their day. The Strike Committee: Mrs Mary Naulls, Mrs Mary Cummings, Sarah Chapman, Alice Francis, Kate Sclater, Mary Driscoll, Jane Wakeling, Eliza Martin…
You might enjoy the Matchgirls Memorial site, which includes a short video about the strike by a young American who was captured by the story and stories about the committee members from their descendents.
It wasn’t until 1901, after the Salvation Army opened its own match factory nearby using less toxic red phosphorus and paying better wages, that Bryant and May stopped using white phosphorous.
Some of the first welfare institutions in Britain for industrial workers began on this site and the factory finally closed in 1979, when it still employed 275 people. At its height more than 3,000 women and girls worked here. In 1988 the site was redeveloped, one of east London’s first urban renewal projects. It’s now a gated community of apartments. Most of them are in the former factory and office buildings dating from 1874. The beautiful Victorian cottages near the entrance were originally homes for the company directors. There are now modern buildings inside the gates. All of the buildings have American names: Arlington, Manhattan, Staten…
It was a hot day, hotter than expected. We walked pretty slowly around from the back towards the side of the factory boundary. First we had to go under the railway bridge. It wasn’t very pretty. Underneath, the area was fenced off with signs of construction and new lampposts stacked up ready to be installed. I wondered if there’d be anything else there. Once you got past it and headed up towards the factory site, there were houses that must have been old but I’d never seen them before. They were completely out of old Bow character.
We were on Wrexham Road. The factory was to my right but you couldn’t see anything from this street. We walked up until we got to a low wall. From here I could see one turret from the original building, but also along the wall, some stone plaques. The wall seems to be much newer than the plaques.
I felt pretty excited to see the factory on Fairfield Road, but first we passed Bow Garage. It’s a huge hangar for London transport buses and, since it was daytime, there weren’t too many buses parked in there.
Finally, after going under the railway arch again, the red brick wall and buildings were in full sight. For more photos, you have to click More.
The wall ran a long way along the street and there were old doors along it. At the main gate were two houses – I don’t seem to have captured them very well. In fact, none of my photos have done the place justice – maybe you just can’t – but here they are anyway, since they are all I have. The houses were stunning with more than one bay window. I had the usual feeling of wishing I could move my stuff in and stay forever, despite my penchant for something modern and more space-efficient.
We hoped that somewhere along that long wall would be an opening but every door and gate was firmly locked, except at one point where there was a concierge.
Nothing to lose here…Krish asked the concierge if we could go briefly to take some photos. ‘Listen,’ said the concierge, ‘No one is allowed in. I love my job so I have to say no. Sorry.’ We backed off and I looked wistfully behind the inner gate towards the grounds. Then ‘If you were to go in there and I saw you, hear what I’m saying, I’d have to tell you to come back…if I saw you, or I may lose my job. Do you get me?’ Krish backed off, thanking him and saying we wouldn’t want him to lose his job. I wondered if Krish hadn’t heard the nuance of that statement, so I asked if I could go closer to the gate and that I’d not take photos ‘If you did that and I saw you, then I’d have to tell you to come away,’ said the concierge. Then ‘All right,’ he said. I went closer and took a good luck at that secret land. I went back to the little gatehouse and told the man, ‘Thank you. I grew up around here and I had no idea how lovely it was back then.’ He asked me when that had been and I said I left in the 50s when it might have been derelict (in fact not, but definitely grim and dilapidated). His face changed, ‘Please go in,’ he said (yes!) so I called to Krish to come ahead. We were in. (If 279 or so of you are reading this, please don’t tell. That man loves his job.)
Despite knowing it was OK, I didn’t want to spend too long and endanger anyone’s job, so we spent 15 to 20 minutes looking around. There was a large entrance garden, then the main entrance of the building and an inner courtyard with more garden space. At the first entrance was a billboard with the history of the building – if there is an open house in September, I must go back and hear and see more. The scale was astounding. It was peaceful. There were shrubs, trees, and a fountain. Krish remarked that the noise might make him crazy after a while, and I said I’d always be in the bathroom. A few people wandered in or out, but no one questioned us. In different circumstances I might have explored further or sat on a bench (was there one?) and drunk in all of it. How could this gorgeous building have been the site of so much misery? And were there older neighbours who knew the building 80, 90 years ago who could witness the changes here? It’s been described as a little village and an oasis – yes to both. Don’t even get me started on how beautiful the living spaces are – click the link!
I really hope I have another chance to get in there, but very grateful for this time. We left the factory and I said I didn’t think I wanted to go to Colborn Road (an ancestral spot) after all. The sun was beating down and finding shade wasn’t easy. Then Krish said he thought he saw the way there so we walked down Douro Street, thinking about Portugal, We wandered about a little bit but didn’t find Colborn Road. Ordinarily I’d have looked at my map and found it, but I was tired and hot and there would be other days. Instead we explored a little along the way to the closest bus stop, discussing if we’d head home or towards Mile End for something to eat. We saw mulberry trees, quiet and orderly estates, and some statues, depicting who knows what!
In the end, it was decided for us. There was a bus stop ahead and there was only one bus – the one to Mile End. That bus got busier and busier as it passed through Roman Road market, where all the stalls had been taken down, but we arrived at Krish’s favourite place and had a light Lebanese meal. Our favourites weren’t available so it was a chance to try something new. A green bean dish, some little sausages, some eggplant and a much-needed lemonade before heading home and some cool relief.
