Don’t You Know about the Match Girls?
Aunt Lucy comes into the kitchen, nursing a teacup,
tight blue curls under a hair net, faded pinny. I’m chewing
a match stick.
-Children shouldn’t play with matches, she scolds,
snatching it away -and you never
put them in your mouth!
Don’t you norr ‘bout the match girls? Lickle girls
they wor, no’ much bigga ‘an you, marched up to Fleet Street
they did. Y’noor, where they make the paypers…
– Why?
-To make tuppence inta tuppence ‘apney,
in old money mind. See this?
She holds up a three pence coin.
-Earnt less than this they did, and that’s when
they weren’t dropping down dead.
As she speaks I see the firefly in The Lady and
The Tramp. I see a pale girl in a black bonnet, another
with a with a burning jaw. I hear new words;
lockjaw, lockout, phosphorus.
-They did it for us, so think yourself lucky!
They’re always saying that to me, I’ll be lucky
if she gives me that thrupenny bit.
Aunty sees the plea, says -‘Ere you are then.
I clasp it in my palm until it leaves a mark.
In the garden the sky is a clear blue pool. I skip
in circles picking daises, reciting
– girls’ strike, strike a match, match girls,
girls’ strike, strike a match, match girls.
Aunt Lucy pulls an apple from the tree, gives it to me.
Tells me not to swallow the pips or a tree will grow inside.
-Eve ate the apple, she says frowning,
-and now look!
I ask mum about Eve later. -Don’t fret, she says, -your Aunt Luce
can be a bit funny at times. Mum’s trying to light the fire,
turns her head, stares toward the kitchen, holding
a sheet of newspaper up at the hearth. -Find me that box
of Swan Vesta and bring it ‘ere. Puts the red tipped match
between her teeth, purses her lips, lifts the yellow box
-Mum don’t!
She shoots a looks that says, this
better be good! Slowly I begin,
-Don’t you know about the match girls?
As I speak I see the firefly in The Lady and
The Tramp. I see a pale girl in a black bonnet, another
with a with a burning jaw, the words tumble out;
lockjaw, lockout, phosfrus.
-They did it for us! To make tuppence
into tuppence ‘apney.
-Ai ‘appen they did, she replies, balling up the newspaper
flinging it on the fire. I’m afta ‘aving a word with our Luce
‘bout puttin’ the fear o’ God into you.
-No not God Mum. Just phosfrus. God is Love, she said.
A version of this poem was published on The Matchgirls Memorial website. This campaign aims to get a statue to commemorate the important role the Matchgirls played in working class, indeed British history.
In 1888 at the Bryant and May factory in East London 1400 girls and young women walked out on strike against appalling pay and conditions, their victory was swift and laid the foundations for the modern trade union movement.
I first heard the story of the Match Girls strike from an elderly aunt. I feel in hindsight that I was the depository for the stories and secrets, from the women in my family including my mother and grandmothers, a form of oral history. That said I often couldn’t make much sense of it at the time, I wrote this poem to reflect the way I heard the story.
Last month the Matchgirls Memorial Campaign held its #StartsWithASpark socially distanced action on Twitter and Instagram
Find more Matchgirls themed poetry and flash fiction, including Spark Catchers by Lemn Sissay, and more information on how to support the Matchgirls Memorial Campaign here https://www.matchgirls1888.org/
A blog post by Anne Enith Cooper
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