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Irish factory.’

      A young man in an over-starched collar who was taking notes for the factory’s Chief Accountant, piped up, ‘But what does that have to do with us? That’s the Irish factory manager’s problem, not ours.’

      ‘It is our problem; they were making almost a third of our Quality Street.’ Mr Hitchens’ words silenced the room.

      Major Fergusson looked very grave indeed and smoothed down his moustache with thumb and forefinger, before saying, not unkindly, ‘I’m sure it can’t have escaped your notice that Great Britain is in the midst of a trade war with the Irish Free state and has been for nearly five years. It has been mentioned in the newspapers. After the Easter Rising in 1916 and the Great War, there was so much anti-English feeling in Ireland that any English produce, including Mackintosh’s toffee, would be seized by the general public, taken out into the street, and burned with the aid of paraffin. How could they possibly have made our Quality Street without drawing attention to themselves?’

      Laurence Johns explained. ‘Mr Sinclair, a Mackintosh cousin from America, is managing the exports of the toffees made at the Irish factory and masking the fact that the factory is under the ownership of English proprietors. Mr Sinclair has been very good at maintaining supply without revealing where the produce is going. The reason we asked you all to this extraordinary meeting is because we have been sent photographs this morning by the Irish factory manager by special courier.’

      Laurence took the file of photographs from the secretary sitting beside him and tossed them carelessly across the table. The photographs had been enlarged to give as much detail as possible and showed the exterior of Mackintosh’s principle factory in Ireland. On the walls, painted in huge letters, were the words ‘Burn everything English except their coal’.

      Amy Wilkes was a shrewd bird and could see the direction their problem was taking. ‘So local people know the factory is secretly owned by Englishmen and the American manager is just a front?’

      Johns took a sip of water and wished that he could have explained this in a written memo without having to face his colleagues. ‘After the accident here at the plant we had to take desperate measures to ensure supply which is why we chose to have a Quality Street line set up in Ireland. We did the same in Ireland as in Halifax: we lifted the marriage bar and brought back skilled married women to work on a temporary line. They’ve made enormous sacrifices to save Quality Street – and we’ve put them in danger.’

      The starched collar was not following as quickly as Amy Wilkes. ‘Why would this risk the safety of the workers in Dublin? What’s so dangerous about toffee making?’

      ‘Because if Mackintosh’s toffees can be seized from shops and burned in protest, what’s to stop a raid on the factory itself?’ Major Fergusson waved the picture of the Inchicore factory. ‘Look at the photograph, man. It’s a direct threat!’

      Johns nodded. ‘We had to stop production yesterday. Word got out that the product they were making was by appointment to the royal household and we couldn’t allow the risk any longer, so we need additional girls to work at toffee making here in Halifax now that the Inchicore factory has had to return to normal production levels.’

      Amy Wilkes narrowed her eyes. ‘Just how many extra girls do you need us to find?’

      ‘Five hundred and ninety.’

      Amy could not respond at first – the number was too great to comprehend. If he’d said twenty she’d have told him he was expecting too much, but this many was impossible. They were already employing married women who they’d taken out of retirement as an emergency measure, and although there were plenty of unemployed labouring men in Jarrow and Clydeside, they weren’t trained confectioners, and they weren’t moving to Halifax in the morning to work for something as paltry as a woman’s wage. Amy Wilkes shook her head. ‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid. We’ll need time to recruit and train them up and even then we’ve taken on every girl we can get in Halifax.’

      ‘What about the married women? I heard that they were being let go—’

      ‘I don’t know where you heard that.’

      ‘News travels fast in the factory. You’re making an announcement to them after the late shift tonight.’

      ‘That’s not what we’re announcing. We have a bigger problem than you thought.’

      ‘I don’t mind that you got blotto with m’ dad, that’s not the problem – it’s what you said when you were blotto.’ Reenie was brushing down her horse in the factory stable and looking over his withers at Peter McKenzie who was sitting on a hay bale in a shady corner.

      Peter was looking uncharacteristically sorry for himself and somewhat confused. ‘But I’d never say anything bad to you—’

      ‘You hardly said two words to me at all, but you said an awful lot to m’ dad.’

      ‘I don’t really remember what I said to your dad. I know I only said good things about you, Reenie, I definitely sang your praises.’

      ‘And?’ Reenie folded her arms and raised her eyebrows to indicate that there was another matter which he really ought to remember.

      ‘And I think I drank your health?’ Peter looked worried; he rarely drank, and although he vaguely remembered spending a happy evening with Reenie’s father, he was worried about what kind of a fool he might have made of himself, if only because he hoped he hadn’t brought embarrassment to Reenie.

      ‘And you asked m’ dad for permission to take my hand in matrimony. Not only did you ask my dad’s permission, but you asked everyone else in the pub what they thought. I’m getting a lot of comments on the factory floor and I am not best pleased.’

      Peter’s face blushed red. ‘Oh, I … I didn’t—’

      Reenie interrupted his surprised and embarrassed stammering ‘Do I need to remind you, Peter McKenzie, that I’m not seventeen until October, you’re not twenty until August, we’ve not been walking out five months – and I’m not leaving my job at Mack’s willy-nilly for a goose’s bridle!’

      ‘But we could have a long engagement?’

      Reenie pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Why are you in such a hurry? Is this because you think I’ll go to Blackpool with you if we’re engaged? Because I’ve told you that I’m not having any hanky-panky until we’re married!’

      ‘No, no, I never thought that. When I said we should go to Blackpool I was never thinking of suggesting that – I just thought you’d like Blackpool. You could bring a friend as a chaperone, I wasn’t suggesting—’

      ‘Then why are you in such a hurry to be engaged if you’re willing to have a long engagement?’

      Peter was earnest. ‘I just want everyone to know that I think you’re wonderful.’

      Reenie’s shoulders relaxed a little and she felt a wave of affection for her young man. She softened her tone and said, ‘Peter, that’s not what you’ve made everyone in the Old Cock and Oak think; you’ve made them all think I’m in the family way, and now I’ve got to explain to everyone I see that I don’t have a bun in the oven, I’ve just got a very healthy appetite.’

      Peter’s face went from pink to white as the blood drained from it in embarrassment when he realized what he’d done. ‘I’m sorry, Reenie. I didn’t mean to—’

      Reenie waved her hand to indicate it was forgiven and forgotten so long as he realized what he’d done. ‘How’s your head?’

      ‘Awful. I only meant to have one, but they wanted me to try a bit of all of them.’

      ‘That’s the Ale Tasters’ do, all right. You get down to the canteen and get a good rasher of bacon down you.’

      ‘I don’t think I could ever eat again.’

      ‘Nonsense, you’re just

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