Chocolate Wars

From Cadbury to Kraft – 200 Years of

Sweet Success and Bitter Rivalry

DEBORAH CADBURY

To Pete and Jo, Martin and Julia, with love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Introduction

Part One

Chapter 1 - A Nation of Shopkeepers

Chapter 2 - Food of the Gods

Chapter 3 - The Root of All Evil

Chapter 4 - They Did Not Show Us Any Mercy

Chapter 5 - Absolutely Pure and Therefore Best

Part Two

Chapter 6 - Chocolate that Melts in the Mouth

Chapter 7 - Machinery Creates Wealth but Destroys Men

Chapter 8 - Money Seems to Disappear Like Magic

Chapter 9 - Chocolate Empires

Chapter 10 - I’ll Stake Everything on Chocolate

Part Three

Chapter 11 - Great Wealth is Not to be Desired

Chapter 12 - A Serpentine and Malevolent Cocoa Magnate

Chapter 13 - The Chocolate Man’s Utopia

Chapter 14 - That Monstrous Trade in Flesh and Blood

Chapter 15 - God Could Have Created Us Sinless

Part Four

Chapter 16 - I Pray for Snickers

Chapter 17 - The Quaker Voice Could Still be Heard

Chapter 18 - They’d Sell for 20p

Chapter 19 - Gone. And it was so Easy

Epilogue

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgements

List of text illustrations

List of plates

About the Author

By The Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

When I was a young child, the knowledge that a branch of my family had built a chocolate factory filled me with wonder. What sort of charmed life did such a possibility offer to my relatives? Each Christmas I had an insight when the most enormous case arrived from my uncle, Michael Cadbury, containing a large supply of mouth-watering chocolates. Even more memorable was the trip I made in the early 1960s to see how the chocolate was made. As I opened the door to the factory at Bournville in Birmingham, the sight that greeted me was magical.

To my child’s eyes it was as though I had entered a cavernous interior that belonged to some benign, orderly and highly productive wizard who had somehow saturated the very air with a chocolate aroma. My uncle and parents raised their voices against the whirr of machinery. But I did not hear them. All I could see was chocolate. It was all around me, in every stage of the manufacturing process. There was molten chocolate bubbling in vats towering above me, vats so huge that they had ladders running up their sides. Chocolate rivers flowed on a number of swiftly-moving conveyers through gaps in the wall to mysterious chambers beyond. Solid chocolate shaped in a myriad of exciting confections travelled in neat, soldierly processions towards the wrapping department. Such a miracle of clockwork precision and sensual extravagance was hard to take in. Even more puzzling to my young mind was the question of how this chocolate feast, which brought the idea of greed to a whole new level, fitted with religion? For even though I did not yet understand the connection, I did know that the chocolate works were, in some inexplicable way, intimately connected with a religious movement known as Quakerism. Was all this the hand of God?

My own father had left the Quakers just before the Second World War. He wanted, as he put it, to ‘join the fight against Hitler’, a stance that was not compatible with Quaker pacifism. I was brought up in the Church of England, and as a child, when I joined my cousins for Quaker meetings, I felt as if I were on the outside looking in on a strange, even mystical tradition. Long silences endured in bare rooms, stripped of anything that might excite the senses, where grownups contemplated the surrounding void, were incomprehensible to me. Equally incomprehensible: how did my rich, chocolate relatives acquire that admirable restraint, that air of wholesome frugality? Even family picnics had a way of turning into long and chilly route marches, raindrops trickling down my back. The wealth and the austerity seemed oddly incongruous. Did the one contribute to the other? Cheerful homilies from my father along the lines of ‘Many a mickle makes a muckle’ and ‘Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves’ did not supply a satisfactory answer. Even a five-year-old knew this was not the key to creating a chocolate factory.

A generation passed before I decided to retrace my steps up Bournville Lane. This time it was personal. I wanted to delve into the Bournville and family archives to uncover the whole story. When I turned the corner in the lane in the autumn of 2007, my heart skipped a beat as I was taken back to that day when my father and uncle, both now much missed, had taken me round the factory. To my surprise, the chocolate works seemed even larger than I remembered. Imposing red-brick blocks stood beside the neatly mowed cricket pitch, with Bournville village and green nestled behind. At this time, Cadbury was the largest confectioner in the world, and the only independent British chocolate enterprise to survive from the nineteenth century. I wanted to understand the journey that took my deeply religious Quaker forebears from peddling tins of cocoa from a pony and trap around Birmingham to this mighty company that reached around the globe.

The story began five generations ago, when the far-sighted Richard Tapper Cadbury, a draper in Birmingham in the early nineteenth century, sent his youngest son, John, to London to study a new tropical commodity that was attracting interest among the colonial brokers of Mincing Lane: cocoa. Was it something to eat or drink? Richard Tapper saw it pre-eminently as a nutritious non-alcoholic drink in a world that relied on gin to wash away its troubles. Never could my abstemiously inclined ancestor have guessed what fortunes would be entwined with the humble cocoa bean, although it seemed full of promise, a touch of the exotic.

His grandsons, George and Richard Cadbury, turned a struggling business into a chocolate empire in one generation. In the process, they found themselves in competition with their Quaker friends and rivals Joseph Rowntree in York, and Francis Fry and his nephew Joseph in Bristol. The Cadbury, Fry and Rowntree dynasties were built on values that form a striking contrast with business ethics today. Their approach to the creation of wealth was governed by a code of practice developed over hundreds of years since the English Civil War by their Quaker elders and set out at yearly meetings and in Quaker books of discipline. This nineteenth-century ‘Quaker capitalism’ was far removed from the excesses of the world’s recent financial crisis, with business leaders apparently seeing no harm in pocketing huge personal profits while their companies collapsed.

For the Quaker capitalists of the nineteenth century, the idea that wealth-creation was for personal gain only would have been offensive. Wealth-creation was for the benefit of the workers, the local community and society at large, as well as for the entrepreneurs themselves. Reckless or irresponsible debt was also seen as shameful. Quaker directives ensured that no man should ‘launch into trading and worldly business beyond what they can manage honourably . . . so that they can keep their words with all men’. Even advertising was dismissed as dishonest, mere ‘puffery’: the quality of the product mattered far more than the message. Men like Joseph Rowntree and George Cadbury built chocolate empires at the same time as writing ground-breaking papers on poverty or studies of the Bible, or campaigning against a multitude of Dickensian human rights abuses. Puritanical hard work and sober austerity, with the senses kept in watchful restraint, were the guiding principles.

While it is easy to dismiss such values as antiquated, Quaker capitalism proved extraordinarily successful, and generated a staggering amount of worldly wealth. In the early nineteenth century, around 4,000 Quaker families in Britain ran seventy-four banks and over two hundred companies. As they came to grips with making money, these austere men of God also helped to shape the course of the Industrial Revolution, and the commercial world today.

The chocolate factories of George and Richard Cadbury and Joseph Rowntree inspired men in America such as Milton Hershey, the ‘King of Caramel’, who took philanthropy to a new, all-American scale with the creation of the utopian town of Hershey in the cornfields of Pennsylvania. But the chocolate wars that followed the growth of global trade, and the emergence in the twentieth century of international rivals – such as Frank and Forrest Mars – unshackled by religious conviction, gradually eroded the values that had shaped Quaker capitalism. Some Quaker firms did not survive the struggle, and those that did had little choice but to abandon their Puritan roots. In the process, ownership of the businesses passed from private Quaker dynasties to public shareholders. Little by little, the results of the transition from Quaker capitalism to shareholder capitalism began to take shape in the form of the huge confectionery conglomerates that straddle the corporate world.

Today the world’s two largest food giants – the Swiss Nestlé and America’s Kraft – operate around the globe, feeding humanity’s sweet tooth. Nestlé, with five hundred factories worldwide, sells a billion products every day, giving annual sales of £72 billion. Kraft operates 168 factories, and has annual sales of £26 billion. While these two behemoths are locked in a race to maintain market share in the developed world, they are also selling their Western confections and other processed foods to emerging markets in the developing world. Somewhere along the way the four-hundred-year-old English Puritanical ideal of self-denial and the Quaker vision of creating wholesome nourishment for a hungry and impoverished workforce have disappeared. Also vanished are a myriad of independent chocolate confectionery firms. In Britain alone, Mackintosh of Halifax and Rowntree of York are now owned by Nestlé, while Terry of York, Fry of Bristol and Cadbury have become a division of Kraft.

The origins of this book lie in my search to explore how this happened. I wanted to unearth the true story of the original Quaker chocolate pioneers and the religious beliefs that shaped their business decisions, and to see how their values differ from those of today’s company leaders. At first sight it can appear that globalisation has been profitable for all. It is hard to dispute economists’ claims that the process has lifted billions of people across the world out of the poverty that was on the doorstep of the cocoa magnates of the nineteenth century. But that has also come at a significant cost.

My last visit to Bournville, on a bitterly cold January day in 2010, formed a stark contrast to the peaceful charm of my earlier visits. Outside the factory, staff members with banners were protesting against Kraft’s recently announced takeover of Cadbury. ‘Kraft go to hell,’ said one. In a symbolic gesture, another protester set fire to a huge Kraft Toblerone bar. Unite, Britain’s biggest trade union, had warned that thousands of jobs could be eliminated under Kraft. ‘Our members feel very angry and very betrayed,’ said Jennie Formby, Unite’s national officer for food and drink industries. Kraft was borrowing £7 billion to fund the takeover, and many feared that Cadbury could become ‘nothing more than a workhorse used to pay off this debt’, its assets stripped and jobs lost. For the Quaker pioneers, the workforce and the local community were key stakeholders in the business, and they aimed to enhance their lives. Now, with their future uncertain, there was a mood of alienation and powerlessness amongst the staff outside Bournville that day.

Quite apart from the effects on employees and communities, there are additional concerns raised by the Kraft takeover of Cadbury that bring the contrast between Quaker business values and shareholder capitalism sharply into focus. For the nineteenth-century Quaker, ownership of a business came with a deep sense of responsibility and accountability to all stakeholders involved. In today’s system of shareholder capitalism the shareholder is divorced from the responsibilities of business ownership.

The spirit of a business – so crucial to the motivation of its staff – is hard to define or measure. It is not to be found in the buildings or the balance sheet, but it is reflected in the myriad of different decisions taken by those at the helm of the business. The Quaker pioneers believed that ‘your own soul lived or perished according to its use of the gift of life’. For them, spiritual wealth rather than the accumulation of possessions was the ‘enlarging force’ that informed business decisions. But gone now, lost in another century, is that omnipotent all-seeing eye in the boardroom, reminding those Quaker patriarchs of the fleeting nature of their power. And what is there to replace it?

The story of the Quaker chocolate pioneers and their rivals is, in a way, a parable of our times, highlighting a bigger transformation in our society. By examining the ‘chocolate wars’ that have shaped the world of confectionery, I hope to shed light on a process of change that affects us all.

Part One

Chapter 1

A Nation of Shopkeepers

In the mid-nineteenth century, Birmingham was growing fast, devouring the surrounding villages, woods and fields. The unstoppable engine of the Industrial Revolution had turned this once modest market town into a great sprawling metropolis in the heart of the Midlands. Country-dwellers hungry for work drove the population from 11,000 in 1720 to more than 200,000 by 1850. In the city they found towering chimneys that turned the skies thunder grey, and taskmasters unbending in their demands. Machines never stopped issuing the unspoken command: more toil to feed the looms, to fire the furnaces and to drive the relentless wheels of commerce and industry far beyond English shores.

Birmingham was renowned across the country for innovation and invention. According to the reporter Walter White, writing about a visit to the city in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal in October 1852, ‘To walk from factory to factory, workshop to workshop and view the extraordinary mechanical contrivances and ingenious adaptations of means to ends produces an impress upon the mind of no common character.’ The town was a beacon of industrial might and muscle. This was where fire forged iron and coke, metal and clay to make miracles.

Birmingham’s foggy streets resounded with hammers and anvils fashioning bronze and iron into buttons, guns, coins, jewellery, buckles and a host of other Victorian artefacts. Walter White marvelled at the ‘huge smoky toyshop’ and the ‘eager spirit of application manifested by the busy population’. But he was evidently less taken with the sprawling town itself, which he considered ‘very ill arranged and ugly’, and dismissed as ‘a spectacle of dismal streets’.

At the heart of these dismal streets, opposite today’s smartly paved Centenary Square, was a road called Bridge Street, which in 1861 was the site of a Victorian novelty: a cocoa works. Approached down a dirt road, past busy stables, coach houses and factories, it was surprisingly well hidden. But wafting through the grimy back-streets was a powerful aroma, redolent of rich living. Guided by this heady perfume the visitor was drawn past the blackened exterior, through a narrow archway into a courtyard with an entrance leading off to the heart of the chocolate factory. It was to this modest retreat that two young Cadbury brothers hurried one day early in 1861.

There was a crisis in the family. Twenty-five-year-old Richard and twenty-one-year-old George Cadbury knew that the wonderful aroma of chocolate disguised a harsher reality. The chocolate factory and its owner, their father, John Cadbury, were in decline. The family faced a turning point. The business could go under completely. John Cadbury turned to his sons for help.

Photographs of the time show George and Richard Cadbury soberly dressed in plain dark Victorian suits with crisp white shirts and bow ties. Richard’s soft features contrast with his younger brother, whose intensity of focus and air of concentration is not relaxed even for the photographer. ‘I fixed my eye on those who had won,’ George admitted later. ‘It was no use studying failure.’ He had, said his friends, ‘boundless ambition’. And he needed it. The family firm was haemorrhaging money.

By chance, Walter White toured the Bridge Street factory, and has left a vivid account of what it was like in 1852. Leaving behind the storehouse crammed with sacks of raw cocoa beans from the Caribbean, he entered a room that blazed with heat and noise: the roasting chamber. With its four vast rotating ovens, ‘the prime mover in this comfortable process of roasting was a 20 horse steam engine’.

After this, ‘with a few turns of the whizzing apparatus’, the husk was removed by the ‘ceaseless blast from a furious fan’ and the cocoa, ‘now with a very tempting appearance’, was taken for more ‘intimate treatment’. This occurred in a room where ‘shafts, wheels and straps kept a number of strange looking machines in busy movement’. Following yet more pressing and pounding, finally a rich, frothing chocolate mixture flowed, ‘leisurely like a stream of half frozen treacle’. This was formed into a rich cocoa cake which was shaved to a coarse powder ready for mixing with liquid for drinking. Upstairs, White found himself in a room where management ‘had put on its pleasantest expression’. The female employees, all dressed in clean white Holland pinafores, were ‘packing as busily as hands could work. No girl is employed,’ he added, ‘who is not of a known good moral character.’ Such a factory, he concluded, was ‘a school of morality and industry’.

Cadbury’s cocoa works at Bridge Street, Birmingham, in the mid-nineteenth century.

But almost ten years had passed since Walter White’s visit, and the ‘school of morality and industry’ had been quietly dying of neglect. George Cadbury was quick to appraise the desperate situation. ‘Only eleven girls were now employed. The consumption of raw cocoa was so small that what we now have on the premises would have lasted about 300 years,’ he wrote. ‘The business was rapidly vanishing.’

During the spring of 1861, George and Richard wrestled with their options. Pacing the length of the roasting room in the evenings, the four giant rotating ovens motionless, the dying embers of the coke fire beneath them faintly glowing, the brothers could see no simple solution. George had harboured hopes of developing a career as a doctor. Should he now join his brother in the battle to save the family chocolate business? Or close the factory? Would they be able to succeed, where their own father had failed?

It was their father, John, who had proudly shown Walter White around the factory in 1852. In the intervening years he had been almost completely broken by the death of his wife, Candia. John had watched her struggle against consumption for several years, her small frame helpless against the onslaught of micro-organisms unknown to Victorian science. Equipped only with prayers and willpower, he took her to the coast hoping the fresh air would revive her, and brought in the best doctors.

But nothing could save her. By 1854, Candia had gratefully succumbed to her bath chair. Eventually she was unable to leave home, and then her room. ‘The last few months she was indeed sweet and precious,’ wrote John helplessly. When the end came in March 1855, ‘Death was robbed of all terror for her,’ he told his children. ‘It was swallowed up in victory and her last moments were sweet repose.’ Yet as the weeks following her death turned into months John failed to recover from his overwhelming loss. He was afflicted by a painful and disabling form of arthritis, and took long trips away from home in search of a cure. After years of diminishing interest in his cocoa business, Cadbury’s products deteriorated, its workforce declined and its reputation suffered.

Richard and George knew their father’s cocoa works was the smallest of some thirty manufacturers that were trying to develop a market in England for the exotic New World commodity. No one had yet uncovered the key to making a fortune from the little bean imported from the New World. There was no concept of mass-produced chocolate confectionery. In the mid-nineteenth century, the cocoa bean was almost invariably consumed as a drink. Since there was no easy way of separating the fatty cocoa oils, which made up to 50 per cent of the bean, from the rest, it was visibly oily, the fats rising to the surface. Indeed, it often seemed that the novelty of purchasing this strange product was more thrilling than drinking it.

John Cadbury, like his rivals, followed the established convention of mixing cocoa with starchy ingredients to absorb the cocoa butter. As his business had declined, the proportion of these cheaper materials had increased. ‘At the time we made a cocoa drink of which we were not very proud,’ recalled George Cadbury. ‘Only one fifth of it was cocoa – the rest was potato flour or sago and treacle: a comforting gruel.’

This ‘gruel’ was sold to the public under names such as Cocoa Paste, Soluble Chocolate Powder, Best Chocolate Powder, Fine Crown, Best Plain, Plain, Rock Cocoa, Penny Chocolate and Penny Soluble Chocolate. Customers did not buy it in the form of a powder but as a fatty paste, made up into a block or cake. To make a drink at home, they chipped or flaked bits off the block into a cup and added hot water, or if they could afford it, milk. It is a measure of how badly the Cadbury cocoa business was faring that three-quarters of the Bridge Street factory’s trade came from tea and coffee sales.

Although promoted as a health drink, cocoa had a mixed reputation. Unscrupulous traders sometimes coloured it with brick dust and added other questionable products not entirely without problems for the digestive system: a pigment called umber, iron filings or even poisons like vermilion and red lead. Such dishonest dealers also found that the expensive cocoa butter could be stretched a little further with the addition of olive or almond oil, or even animal fats such as veal. The unwary customer could find himself purchasing a drink which could not only turn rancid, but was actually harmful.

While the prospects for the family business in 1861 did not look hopeful, the alternatives for Richard and George were limited. Quakers, like all non-conformists, were legally banned from Oxford and Cambridge, the only teaching universities in England at the time. As pacifists, they could not join the armed services. Nor were they permitted to stand as Members of Parliament, and they faced restrictions in other professions such as the law. As a result, many Quakers turned to the world of business, but here too the Society of Friends laid down strict guidelines.

In a Quaker community, a struggling business was a liability. Failing to honour a business agreement or falling into debt was seen as a form of theft, and was punished severely. If the cocoa works went under owing money Richard and George would face the censure of the Quaker movement; at the worst, they could be disowned completely and treated as outcasts. Quite apart from these strict Quaker rules, in Victorian society business failure and bankruptcy could lead to the debtors’ prison or the dreaded workhouse, either of which could lead to an early grave.

Ahead was a battle in which defeat was all too possible. The brothers did not have to dedicate themselves to this struggling enterprise, with its cramped premises in which their offices were scarcely bigger than coffins. ‘It would have been far easier to start a new business, than to pull up a decayed one which had a bad name,’ George said later, looking back on his life. ‘The prospect seemed a hopeless one, but we were young and full of energy.’

George Cadbury in 1861, aged twenty-one, at the time that he took over the failing factory at Bridge Street.

Richard Cadbury in 1861, aged twenty-six.

To the remaining employees of the company, who now had reason to fear for their jobs, ‘Mr Richard’ appeared jovial, relaxed and ‘always smiling’, while ‘Mr George’ was cut from a different cloth, ‘stern but very just’. His unremitting self-discipline and his ability to focus every aspect of his life on one goal became legendary. ‘He was not a man,’ a colleague later observed, ‘but a purpose.’ And what George and Richard decided to do next would become the stuff of family legend.

Richard and George Cadbury were the third generation of Cadbury tradesmen in Birmingham. It was their grandfather, Richard Tapper Cadbury, who had been instrumental in breaking centuries of long association with the West Country and leading the family in a new direction as shopkeepers in the town. At the close of the eighteenth century, as Napoleon prepared for his long march over Europe, the Cadburys, like countless others at the time, exemplified the Britain that the French leader dismissed as a mere ‘nation of shopkeepers’. And just as Napoleon’s scathing remark underestimated his enemy’s real wealth and capacity for war, so it was easy not to see the huge potential emerging from a new generation of shopkeepers whose connections were only just beginning to reach out across the world.

Like many Victorians, the young Richard Cadbury had a fascination with family history, and when travelling he took the opportunity to study ‘the records of his ancestors with thoroughness and affection’. Eventually he compiled a beautifully illustrated Family Book. This shows how his forebears lived as sheep farmers and wool combers in the West Country, their quiet lives marked for centuries by nothing more dramatic than the passing seasons, until 1782 when Richard and George’s grandfather, Richard Tapper Cadbury, set out to learn a trade.

‘Very little is known of his early life,’ writes Richard of his grandfather. ‘He left home in Exeter when he was fourteen on the top of the coach . . . to serve as an apprentice to a draper.’ The young Richard Tapper remembered the morning of his leaving: ‘My father and mother got up early to see me off by the stage . . . and I thought my heart would break.’

Richard Tapper was apprenticed to a draper 150 miles away in Kent who supplied uniforms to troops fighting in the American War of Independence. Within a year the war ended, the troops were demo-bilised and the business went bankrupt. Richard Tapper secured another position as an apprentice in Gloucester, where by the age of nineteen he was proud to receive wages of £20 a year. After ‘scrupulously and conscientiously’ avoiding any ‘unnecessary gratification’, he reassured his parents in Exeter, it was possible for him to pay for his own washing and ‘appear so respectable as to be invited as guest among the first families of Gloucester’. His next move was to London, to work for a linen draper and silk mercer in Gracechurch Street. His wages eventually rose to £40 a year, which not only enabled him to ‘maintain a respectable appearance’ but also to ‘purchase many books’.

After ten long years mastering the trade, Richard Tapper was longing to start a draper’s business of his own. He was dissuaded from his youthful dream of sailing for America by a family friend, who warned him ‘that the country is still far from settled’. Nor could he seek adventures in Europe, with France in the frenzied grip of Robespierre’s Reign of Terror and at war with its neighbours. So in 1794, equipped with much enthusiasm and, through the Quaker network, quite a few references, he took the stage to Birmingham with a friend, Joseph Rutter. They had heard of an opening for a linen draper and silk mercer in the town, and seized their chance.

The draper’s shop at 92 Bull Street was soon successful enough for Richard Tapper to buy out his partner and start a family. He married Elizabeth Head in 1796, and seven children followed over the next seven years. Elizabeth still found time to help in the shop, dressing the windows with fine silks and linens and taking an interest in the changing fashions. One year they were obliged to enlarge their front door to accommodate the fashion for puffed ‘gigot’ sleeves, strengthened with feather pads or whalebone hoops. Records show that Richard Tapper’s business was so successful that in 1816 a second shop at 85 Bull Street was also registered in his name.

The stories that survive in Richard Cadbury’s Family Book provide a vivid glimpse into his grandfather’s life. One of the problems Richard Tapper had to deal with was theft. After repeatedly losing silk that cost up to twelve shillings a yard, he felt he had to take action, but soon came to regret it. He stopped a woman in his shop who had two rolls of silk hidden under her cloak. When he went to court to hear the outcome of her trial, to his alarm the judge sentenced the woman to death. ‘I was appalled,’ Richard Tapper told his children years later, ‘for I never realised what the sentence would be. Without delay I posted to London, saw the Secretary of State and got the woman’s sentence commuted to transportation.’ Given that this was a time when it took almost two days by ‘Flying Coach’ – with fresh horses staged down the line – to reach London from Birmingham, this required considerable commitment.

As a Quaker, Richard Tapper became deeply involved in community affairs, and served on the Board of Street Commissioners for Birmingham, a precursor to the Town Council. He also worked as an Overseer of the Poor, including during the troubled year of 1800, when the harvest failed. According to the St James Chronicle, on 8 October the price of bread rose to nearly two shillings for one loaf. In the Parish of Birmingham the poor were in dread of starvation, ‘the distress in the town was great’, and there was ‘an alarming disorder’ in the workhouse. Richard Tapper was among those who tried to ensure that there was enough food.

Richard Tapper’s business prospered, and his garden at the back of 92 Bull Street became a favourite spot for his growing family, with ‘currants in abundance, flowers and a vine’. The accounts of Richard’s children are of particular personal interest since my own branch of the family can be traced to his oldest son, Benjamin, born in 1798. According to the Birmingham Daily Post, Benjamin had a passion for philanthropy. Among the many benevolent causes he supported were the local Infant Schools, the Bible Society and the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Animals. But like many Quakers, stated the Post, by far his ‘most laborious and anxious labours’ were devoted to the anti-slavery movement, ‘which more or less occupied his time and unwearied attention for upwards of thirty-five years’. When Benjamin turned thirty he inherited his father’s successful draper’s shop on Bull Street, and was happily settled there for many years.

Richard Tapper Cadbury’s second son, Joel, was able to fulfil his father’s own dream of seeking his fortune in America, and set sail in 1815 at the age of sixteen. The stormy Atlantic crossing took eighty days in high winds and rough seas that washed a man overboard and prompted seasoned sailors to say they had never seen such a sea. Joel eventually settled in Philadelphia, and became a cotton goods manufacturer. He had a family of eleven children, and established a large branch of Quakers on the east coast of America.

Richard’s third son, John – the father of Richard and George – born in 1801 above his father’s draper’s shop, was destined to have a very different fate. According to an account handed down through generations, John’s far-sighted father, having passed on his business to his oldest son, Benjamin, asked John to investigate the new colonial market in Mincing Lane, London. He was curious about a new commodity, the cocoa bean, which was arriving from the New World.

Today, among the gleaming black façades of City office blocks, there is little to give away Mincing Lane’s colourful past. The only hint of its nineteenth-century purpose survives in the name of a building halfway down the street: Plantation House. But when John Cadbury visited in the 1820s, it was a teeming market where colonial brokers met to trade in commodities from Britain’s growing empire. There were sale rooms where frenetic auctions were taking place for tea, sugar, coffee, jute, gums, waxes, vegetable oils, spices and cocoa. Prices and details of business were written on a blackboard, and samples of goods from warehouses in the docks along the nearby Thames were on display. They included the cocoa bean, or ‘nib’, from South America, which looked like a huge chocolate-coloured almond, still dusted with the dried pulp that surrounded it in the cocoa pod, and baked by the tropical sun.

At a time when cocoa was purchased primarily to produce a novelty drink for the rich, John’s mission was to ascertain whether there might be a future in this unpromising black bean.

John Cadbury, like his father before him, had set out to learn his trade at a young age as an apprentice. In 1816, aged fifteen and proudly dressed in the best-quality cloth from the family’s draper’s shop, he took the coach journey to Leeds, where he was apprenticed to a Quaker tea dealer. It appears he made a good impression. His aunt, Sarah Cash, who visited the following year, declared, ‘John is grown a fine youth, he possesses a fine open countenance, is vigorous of mind and body and desires to render himself useful.’ Others commented that the plain Quaker boy, soberly dressed in dark colours, stood out next to the rough Yorkshire boys. It seems the owners were soon content to leave the care of their tea business with John when they had to travel, and he was rewarded on his departure after seven years with a fine encyclopaedia.

John went to London to be apprenticed at the teahouse of Sanderson Fox and Company. While in London he went to see the warehouses of the East India Company, and watched the sale of commodities such as coffee and cocoa. He wrote to his father that he was convinced that there was potential in the exotic new bean, although he was not yet clear what that potential was.

In 1824 the twenty-three-year-old John returned to Birmingham and set up a tea and coffee shop of his own on Bull Street, next door to his brother Benjamin’s draper’s shop. His father lent him a small sum of money and said he must ‘sink or swim’, as there were no further funds. John proudly announced the opening of his shop in the local paper, Aris’s Birmingham Gazette, on 1 March. After setting out his considerable experience ‘examining the teas in the East India Company’s warehouses in London’, he drew the public’s attention to something new: a substance ‘affording a most nutritious beverage for breakfast . . . Cocoa Nibs prepared by himself’.

John Cadbury’s tea and cocoa shop in Bull Street, Birmingham, in 1824.

John Cadbury took advantage of the latest ideas to draw business to his shop, starting with the window. While most other shops had green-ribbed windows, John’s had innumerable small squares of plate glass, each set in a mahogany frame, which it was said he polished himself each morning. This alone was such a novelty that people would come to see it from miles around. On peering through the glass, prospective customers would be intrigued to see a touch of the Orient in the heart of smoky Birmingham. The many inviting varieties of tea, coffee and chocolate were displayed amongst handsome blue Chinese vases, Asian figurines and ornamental chests. Weaving his way through all this exotica was a Chinese worker in Oriental dress. Those who ventured inside were greeted by the rich aroma of coffee and chocolate; John ground the cocoa beans himself in the back of the shop with mortar and pestle. Word of John Cadbury’s quality teas and coffees soon spread amongst the wealthiest and best-known families in Birmingham: his customers included the Lloyds, Boultons, Watts, Galtons and others.

Meanwhile, through the Quaker network, John met Candia Barrow of Lancaster. The Barrows and the Cadburys had already developed very close ties through marriage. In 1823 John’s older sister Sarah had married Candia Barrow’s older brother. This was followed in 1829 by the marriage of John’s older brother Benjamin to Candia’s cousin, Candia Wadkin. So in June 1832, when John married Candia Barrow, it was the third marriage in a generation to link the two Quaker families. It proved to be a very happy union.

As John’s shop prospered, he could see for himself the growing demand for cocoa nibs. He took advantage of the large cellars under the shop to experiment with different recipes, and created several successful cocoa powder drinks. So confident was he of the future of this nutritious and wholesome drink that he decided to take a further step: into manufacturing.

In 1831, John rented a four-storey building in Crooked Lane, a winding back street at the bottom of Bull Street, and began to test produce cocoa on a larger scale. The idea of using machines to help process food was in its infancy, but to help him with the roasting and pressing of beans he installed a steam engine, which evidently was a great family novelty. According to his admiring aunt Sarah Cash, everyone in the family ‘had thoroughly seen John’s steam engine’. After ten years he had developed a wide variety of different types of cocoa for his shop: flakes, powders, cakes, and even the roasted and crushed nibs themselves.

Candia at the time of her marriage to John Cadbury.

Meanwhile, Candia and John started a family, and moved to a house with a garden in the rural district of Edgbaston. Their first son, John, suffered intermittently from poor health. Richard Cadbury, their second child, was born on 29 August 1835, and was followed by a sister, Maria, and then George, born on 19 November 1839. The arrival of two more sons, Edward and Henry, would complete the family.

To the boys’ delight their parents placed a strong emphasis on the enjoyment of an outdoor life. Their house had a square lawn, recalled Maria. ‘Our father measured it round, 21 times for a mile, where we used to run, one after another, with our hoops before breakfast, seldom letting them drop before reaching the mile, and sometimes a mile and a half, which Richard generally did.’ Only then were they allowed in for breakfast, ‘basins of milk . . . with delicious cream on top and toast to dip in’. After this early-morning ritual, John set off to work. ‘I can picture his rosy countenance full of vigour,’ says Maria, ‘his Quaker dress very neat with its clean white cravat.’

A memorable delight for the boys was the arrival of the railway in Birmingham. Britain was in the grip of railway fever, and the Grand Junction Railway steamed into Birmingham from Manchester in 1837. Within a year, a line opened that covered the hundred miles between Birmingham and London. The treacherous two-day journey to the capital by horse and coach was reduced to a mere two hours by steam train. The coming of the railway made a deep impression on the growing family. ‘I got a railway train, first second and third class carriages, with an engine and tender,’ seven-year-old Richard wrote enthusiastically to his brother in 1842. For his father, however, it opened up whole new possibilities for trade.

At the age of eight, Richard was sent away to join his older brother John at boarding school. George studied with a local tutor who had a decidedly individualistic view on the best way to deal with boys. He aimed to instil mental and physical fortitude with a diet of classics and combative sports, including occasional games of ‘Attack’ which he devised himself, and which involved arming the boys with sticks. Somehow George came through the experience with a sound knowledge of French and Virgil, and a keen appreciation of home life. He remembered his childhood as ‘severe but happy’, with an emphasis on discipline and a lifestyle that was ‘bare of all self indulgence and luxury’.

Both George and Richard formed vivid impressions of trips to see their mother’s family at Lancaster. Their maternal grandfather, George Barrow, in addition to running a draper’s shop, had created a prosperous shipping business with trade to the West Indies. His grandchildren were allowed to climb the tower he had built in the grounds of his house, from where they had a stunning view of Morecambe Bay and on occasion his returning ships, sometimes banked up three at a time on the quayside beyond. Sea captains came to visit, and would regale the children with tales of wide seas and foreign lands, the wonders of travel and the horrors of the slave trade.

By 1847 John Cadbury’s Crooked Lane warehouse had been demolished to make way for the new Great Western Railway. Undeterred, John expanded his manufacturing into the Bridge Street premises, and was soon joined by his older brother Benjamin. By 1852 the two brothers were in a position to open an office in London, and they later received a royal accolade as cocoa manufacturers to Queen Victoria. It was around this time that they dreamed up a plan to create a model village for their workers, away from the grime of the city; they even designated one of their brands of cocoa ‘The Model Parish Cocoa’.

In 1850, when he was almost fifteen, Richard joined his father and uncle at Bridge Street, and was doubtless aware of their grand ambitions. With his father often away, he threw himself into the trade with ‘energy and devotion’, observed one relative. Richard kept his father informed of day-to-day events: ‘James is very steady at the engine, keeps it at a regular pace and in beautiful order and is careful not to waste any money over it. The girls do their work cheerfully, but want a good deal of looking after . . . ’

The pressures of learning the trade did not stop Richard indulging his love of sport. He and George were passionately fond of skating, and would often rise at 5 a.m. so as to be on the ice before dawn. ‘Only those who have made the effort know the exhilaration of skating in the early morning and watching the light gradually break and the beauty of the sunrise,’ wrote George. One young friend of his sister Maria remembered that Richard ‘used to fairly dazzle us with his skating’. But events were conspiring against such relaxed pursuits.

Cocoa sales had begun to decline during the economic depression of the ‘Hungry Forties’, when a slump in trade, rising unemployment, bad harvests and a potato blight in England and Scotland in 1845 combined to create widespread hardship. Many small businesses struggled, but for the Cadburys the irrevocable blow came in the early 1850s, when Candia was diagnosed with tuberculosis.

These painful years left their mark on Richard and George. They witnessed the inexorable decline first of their mother then of their father, then the neglect of the factory, as though it too was afflicted with a malady for which there was no known cure. John still occasionally walked through the factory in his starched white collar and neat black ribbon tied in a bow, but the enthusiasm that had prompted him to develop the venture over a period of thirty years was gone. He paid scant attention to the piles of cocoa beans accumulating in the stock room. The hard-won accolade as cocoa manufacturer to Queen Victoria no longer excited him. A year after Candia’s death he dissolved the partnership with his brother Benjamin. Gradually his absences became more prolonged as he searched for a cure for his arthritis, and the family firm began to lose its good name.

These were the pressing concerns in young George Cadbury’s mind when in 1857, like his father and grandfather before him, he too was sent away to learn his trade as an apprentice. His sister Maria had taken his mother’s place in the home looking after the younger children. His older brother Richard was taking on more responsibility for his father’s business. George was keen to master the trade by working in a grocery shop in York run by another Quaker, Joseph Rowntree.

Once past York’s famous city walls, the seventeen-year-old George Cadbury found himself in a maze of winding old streets, with irregular gabled houses, the overhang of their upper storeys making the streets narrow and dark. At the bottom of the Shambles, the road opened onto a busy thoroughfare called Pavement. Almost directly opposite, at number 28, stood Rowntree’s shop, a handsome eighteenth-century terraced house, tall and narrow, its walls made crooked by subsidence. There was little in the colourful thoroughfare outside to hint at the austerity and long hours that awaited George inside the shop.

The strict rules of conduct that Joseph Rowntree expected his numerous apprentices to obey were clearly set out in a Memorandum:

The object of the Pavement establishment is business. The young men who enter it as journey men or apprentices are expected to contribute . . . in making it successful . . . It affords . . . a full opportunity for any painstaking, intelligent young man to obtain a good practical acquaintance with the tea and grocery trades . . . The place is not suitable for the indolent and the wayward . . .

The Memorandum specified every detail of the boys’ lives: no more than twenty minutes for a meal break, only one trip home a year, and the exact hours at which they were to return each night: in June and July they were allowed to walk outside in the evenings until ten o’clock; during all other months the curfew was earlier.

Living at the house were Joseph Rowntree’s sons, including twenty-one-year-old Joseph and nineteen-year-old Henry Isaac. Joseph was tall and dark with intense features, the natural severity of his own character complemented by years of Quakerly upbringing. His father had taken him to Ireland on a Quaker Relief Mission in 1850 during the potato famine, and the experience had left a lasting impression on him: Joseph remembered how slow starvation turned the young and comely into walking corpses. Numberless unknown dead lay in open trenches or where they had fallen by the side of the road. For the serious-minded Joseph it had been a shocking lesson in the effects of poverty. His younger brother Henry provided a contrast to Joseph’s austerity. Somehow the full Puritan weight of Quaker training did not sit quite so readily on him; he had a sense of fun, and could be relied upon to lighten the mood.

While working in Rowntree’s grocery shop, George saw at first hand how the family’s cocoa business came into existence. Joseph senior had for many years been close friends with a local businessman, Samuel Tuke, who ran a cocoa factory and shop at Castlegate, not far from the Rowntrees’ Pavement shop. The business had been in the family for three generations, but when Samuel Tuke became ill in 1857, his sons did not want to take on the cocoa factory. The elder Joseph Rowntree offered to help his friend by placing one of his own sons in the business. As Rowntree’s eldest sons were due to take a stake in his grocer’s shop, the opportunity to work for the Tukes fell to his third son, Henry Rowntree. In 1860, Henry duly set out to Castlegate to embark on his own career in cocoa.

Not long after this, George Cadbury returned to Birmingham, although he had barely completed three years as an apprentice. Perhaps he was fired up by seeing Henry Rowntree start his new venture, and was eager to begin making his own way. But it also seems likely that John was well aware of his third son’s ability and dedication, and needed his help.

To the employees at Bridge Street the two young Cadbury brothers were curiously ‘alike and unalike’. Richard was seen as ‘bright and happy with a sunny disposition’. He claimed he would be happy simply to rescue the business and turn it around to make a few hundred pounds a year. George was much more driven. In the words of his biographer, Alfred Gardiner, he had ‘more of an adventurer’s instinct . . . The channel of his mind was narrower and the current swifter.’ Despite his ambition, he could see no simple solution to the business’s problems. As the brothers deliberated during the spring of 1861 in the gloomy Bridge Street factory, the prospect seemed a dismal one. From their cramped office they could see the empty carts banked up in the yard awaiting orders. It was not immediately obvious what they could do that their father and uncle had not already tried.

The great hope, of course, was to come up with a breakthrough product. They did in fact have something in mind that their father had been working on before family difficulties drained his energy. It was a product very much of the moment, with healthful overtones, called Iceland Moss. The manufacturing process involved blending the fatty chocolate bean with an ingredient that was thought to improve health: lichen. It was then fashioned into a bar of cocoa that could be grated to form a nutritious drink. Richard had a flair for design, and could see the possibilities for launching Iceland Moss. It would be eye-catchingly displayed in bright yellow packaging with black letters that boldly proclaimed the addition of lichen, complete with the image of a reindeer to show how different it was from anything else on the market. He and George hoped to promote the health-giving properties of Iceland Moss, but would the untried combination of fluffy-textured lichen and fatty cocoa bean excite the English palate?

Apart from developing new products, the brothers also had to find new customers. Their father had only one salesman, known at the time as a ‘traveller’. His name was Dixon Hadaway, and he covered a vast swathe of the country, from Rugby in the south far up into the Scottish Highlands, visiting grocers’ shops to promote the company’s variety of cocoa wares. He took advantage of the new railway to cover the long distances between towns, but was often obliged to travel by pony and trap or even on foot. Despite the challenges of getting around, Dixon Hadaway was evidently determined to keep up appearances, and was always smartly attired with a tall top hat and dark tweed coat, although it was invariably crumpled from long hours of travelling. It seems he was appreciated by his customers, who claimed that he was so punctual that they could set their clocks by his visits. But punctuality and enthusiasm alone were not enough to win new orders. People could not be expected to buy Cadbury’s goods if they had never heard of them. George was clear: they needed more capital to fund a sales team.

To finance this, the brothers discussed how to manage the business more efficiently. Their solution was to return to their Puritanical roots: ‘work, and again work, and always more work’. George enthusiastically planned to cut all indulgence from his life: games, outings, music, every luxury would go. Every penny he earned would be ploughed back into the business. This was harder for Richard, who was planning to marry in July.

A photograph survives of Richard’s fiancée, Elizabeth Adlington, whose classic good looks are evident in spite of her serious expression and the limited scope permitted for the enhancement of feminine Quaker beauty. Her face appears unadorned, her hair parted down the middle and pulled back severely. She wears a full skirt and crino-line, covered by a long black cloak and dark bonnet – Quaker forefathers deeming this quite sufficient adornment to attract a male. Richard was drawn to her ‘bright and vivacious’ manner. In preparation for bringing home a wife, he had purchased a house on Wheeley’s Road, about two miles from the factory. Spare moments were spent creating a garden, transferring cuttings of his favourite plants from the rockery in his father’s garden. ‘My little home is beginning to look quite charming now it is nearly completed,’ he told his youngest brother Henry. There was just the furniture to buy before the wedding.

During the spring of 1861 the tone of the brothers’ discussion changed. As Quakers, they were accustomed to finding answers in silent prayer. They had a duty to their workforce, and there were family obligations to consider. Since their mother had died, their sister Maria had taken her place, caring for the younger members of the family. Now their father was in urgent need of help. They too must listen to the clear voice of conscience, mindful of their debt to man and God. They too must endeavour to do their best. Whatever their misgivings, they had no real choice. In April the two young brothers took over the running of the factory.

There was one last hope. They had each inherited £4,000 from their mother. Determined to save the family dream of a chocolate factory, they staked their inheritance down to the last penny. If they failed to turn the business around before the capital was gone, they would close the factory.

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