History where there isn't by Sheena Wilkinson

March 5, 2019, 8:30 pm

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There’s not much history in my immediate area. No, of course there is – I live in Northern Ireland; the place teems with history, most of it profoundly distressing. 

What I really mean is, you need to look hard for it, at least where architecture is concerned.  I live in the country, in an area of outstanding natural beauty, and I walk every morning. Few of the houses I pass on my daily walks are younger than I am. I’m always struck, when I’m in England, by how many more old houses there are, still lived in and living and beautiful, if only in their enduring.  Though we cling stubbornly to the past in many ways in NI, that hasn’t always extended to preserving our built heritage. 

Most of the houses I pass are fairly new, many of them replacement dwellings. These houses don’t interest me much: what intrigues me is seeking out what they replaced – the tiny cottages where families of ten were reared, the farmhouses turned into cowsheds or fallen into heaps of stones. 

I'm a blow in. I don't know anything about the families who once lived in these places. I imagine their children setting off for school or mass, (other forms of worship were available, but not in the immediate vicinity, which in itself tells us something), walking the roads I walk now. They would have looked in the fields as I do every morning, and seen the sheep and cattle and their young -- different breeds, perhaps, from the ones who thrive on these hills today. They would have seen some of these houses being built and would not have thought of a time -- not so very far in the future really -- when they would have been left to tumble down. When only a passing writer, obsessed with the past and seeking inspiration for a monthly historical blog post, would stop and pay attention.

All these pictures were taken yesterday morning on a five mile walk. I hope you like them. 

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THE BEAUTIFUL STITCH by Adèle Geras

March 6, 2019, 5:30 pm

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There's an irony in the fact that I'm so enamoured of anything to do with embroidery. I am quite, quite useless at it. I know this because for the first few years of my time at boarding school we used to spend an hour every evening in our Housemistress's drawing room. She would read to us from wonderful books like Brother Dusty Feet by Rosemary Sutcliffe, and we would embroider tray cloths (yes!) printed with patterns of lupins and roses in silks bought from Liberty or perhaps Debenham and Freebody's. Now I have a thing about flowers and gardens, in life as in embroidery. I love them. I know in my head exactly what they should look like, but I find myself incapable  of doing anything practical to achieve my ideal. I have never gardened, and my satin stitch and cross stitch were likewise woeful and my tray cloth sadly grubby and untidy by the end of term and always unfinished. 

But I am fascinated by those who do it beautifully, so I was happy to go to Ely last month to see the exhibition by the Embroiderers' Guild.

Any display in Ely Cathedral has to compete with the surrounding space. The stone embroideries above my head while I walked around were almost enough to eclipse the work in the room below but that too was very impressive and often amusing.

Consider this figure of the Queen of Hearts. She's called Roxane in this panel by  Captain Geoffrey Edwards made in 1946. I'm not sure whether you can read the caption below but it says that Captain Edwards hated satin stitch because of the amount of thread it used up and this panel and another that was on display was made mainly from recycled materials.  I imagine Captain Edwards like Mr Mainwaring from Dad's Army and I realise that he might not have been like that at all, but it's an irresistible picture in my mind.

Below is a detail from a bigger embroidered panel displayed underneath.  I hope that readers can somehow enlarge the detail to see how intricate and careful it is. A real wonder. And the whole is enormous...fitting into the niche it's in most beautifully.

Below is a darning sampler. I knew that children learned to sew with samplers, trying out different stitches from a ridiculously young age. What I didn't know was, there were samplers of stitches particularly useful in darning. No one darns any more but I remember owning a mushroom shaped object and putting my socks over it and trying to darn. If I'm honest, I enjoyed it when I was a girl. You didn't, I thought, have to make the darn beautiful and that freed me up to make really quite reasonable efforts. But the stitches made in the 18th century and shown below are different.  They make up a truly beautiful composition. 

The deckchair shown below is amazing and I've included it because it's so tiny. You can't see the scale of the thing from the photograph but it's about the size of a normal paperback book.  Again, I hope readers can somehow enlarge my photograph to see the intricacy of the working.

We are, it seems, in a time when the work of people's (mostly women's) hands is being taken seriously again. I am looking forward to reading this book about emboidery, patchwork and tapestry by Clare Hunter, which has been widely reviewed. The papers are full of articles suddenly exhorting us to MEND our clothes instead of buying more disposable garments and sending them to the rubbish bins and the landfill sites.  This exhibition was full of examples of work from all over the world: elaborate Japanese kimonos, African headdresses encrusted with beads, and work from designers like William Morris, whose daughter May was an embroidering superstar. 

I like this quotation from the back of Clare Hunter's book. I'm not going to be taking up my embroidery needle again...heaven forfend... but I am thrilled that this art, (which is an art, in my opinion and not often recognised as one), is back in the public eye.

'The Powder Monkey and the Phycologist' by Karen Maitland

March 7, 2019, 4:30 pm

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Anne Perriam

There will be many famous women celebrated today, on International Women’s Day, who achieved amazing things in the arts, sciences, sports, medicine and politics, and we owe a great debt to them. But in thinking about these women, what fascinates me is the great diversity of their lives, even between those living in the same time and place. Take two Georgian women, Anne and Amelia, who were born within a year of each other, lived just a few miles apart along the Devon coast, whose lives both became bound up with sea, but who achieved fame in such strikingly different ways.

HMS Orion 1787.

Anne (Nancy) Perriam was born in 1769 and joined her first husband, Edward Hopping, in the Navy, working as a seamstress on board HMS Crescent. But when the couple enlisted on HMS Orion, Anne volunteered to also serve as a ‘powder monkey’ during the sea-battles. Her job was to carry gunpowder from the powder magazine in the ship’s hold to the artillery guns, either loose in pots or as cartridges, to minimize the risk of fires and explosions. At the height of battle, the powder monkeys had to scuttle through dark, cramped spaces between decks on a ship that was rolling in heavy seas and juddering under the noise and impact of explosions from their own guns, while enemy shot smashed into its hull.

Firing of 18 pound gun, with a 'powder monkey' on left. Artist: Louis-Phillippe Crepin (1772-1851)

Anne fought in several sea-battles including Battle of L’Orient in 1795, Cape St. Vincent in 1797 and the Battle of the Nile in 1798 with Nelson’s fleet. Whenever there was a lull in the fighting, instead of resting, Anne assisted the surgeons with operations and amputations.

She gave birth to two daughters. After five years on HMS Orion, the government granted her a small annual pension of £10 in recognition of her services. She was one of only four women serving on the naval ships during the Napoleonic Wars to be given a pension. She returned home to Exmouth. Her first husband drowned in 1802, and she subsequently married a ship's pilot, John Perriam, who died in 1812. For the rest of her life until she was in her 80’s, she sold fish on the streets of Exmouth, only giving up when she became too ill to continue. She sadly died in poverty her late nineties, but by then was so famous that the press of the day dubbed her the ‘warrior woman.’ There is a memorial to her at the Powder Monkey pub, named in her honour, in Exmouth, Devon.

Battle of the Nile. Artist George Arnald (1763-1841) National Maritime Museum, UK

Amelia Griffiths (nee Rogers) was to have a very different life from Anne. though she’d been born just a year earlier in 1768 in Pilton, near Barnstable also in Devon. She married Revd. William Griffiths, who died only six years later leaving her to raise five children alone. Amelia eventually settled in Torquay, Devon where she was ideally placed to develop a passion which was to make her famous. She collected and classified seaweeds, in the process helping to popularise the ‘seaside holiday’. She corresponded with the most important phycology experts of her time and she became so well-respected in her field that Carl Agardh, a leading Swedish botanist named a genus of red seaweeds, Griffithsia, after her.

Torquay in 1811 Torre Abbey Museum

Her daughter, Amelia Elizabeth, become an expert in mosses, but Amelia Griffith’s great companion was a former family servant, Mary Wyatt who ran a pressed plant shop in Torquay. Pressed plants were much in demand by ladies who used them to decorate boxes, screens and create ornate friezes on drawing room walls. Together Amelia and Mary produced four volumes of pressed and named seaweeds entitled ‘Algae Danmoniensis’. The first two volumes alone, published in 1833, contained 100 different species. Like ‘powder monkey’ Anne, Amelia lived a long life, passing away just before her 90th birthday.

Griffithsia rhizophora Photographer: Phillippe Bourjon

In 1854, the author Charles Kingsley visited Torquay and later wrote of Amelia,

‘Mrs Griffiths to whose extraordinary powers of research English marine biology almost owes its existence and who survived to an age, long beyond the natural term of man to see, in her cheerful and honoured old age, that knowledge become popular and general which she pursued for many a year unassisted and alone.’

Anne and Amelia, I salute you both!

Socrates in Love

March 8, 2019, 4:30 pm

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Armand D’Angour, Oxford professor of Classical languages and expert in ancient music, has just published a book called Socrates in Love. I, Caroline Lawrence, have just finished the first draft of a kids’ book about the last days of Socrates. Therefore, I was thrilled to discover that Professor D’Angour had written about a completely different period of the philosopher’s life, one I don't believe any other authors have ever addressed: a young Socrates in love! 


Professor D’Angour kindly agreed to answer some of my questions for an interview. 

Boris Johnson reads Armand d'Angour's Olympic Ode in 2012

Caroline Lawrence: I first met you in 2012 when Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London at that time, read a new Olympic ode which you had composed in the style of Pindar. Ancient Greek is a challenging language to translate, but to actually compose an ode – and one in the style of Pindar – is mind-boggling. I am in awe of your achievements. Having come to Classical Greek fairly late, at the age of 19, I don’t think I’ll ever master it. How old were you when you began studying the language and did it immediately captivate you? 

Armand D’Angour: No one can ever fully master ancient Greek! I was lucky to start at the age of 9, having learned Latin from 7. This was in the 1960s, and though Latin only was taught at my junior school, my Latin teacher John Evans realised I had a penchant for languages and decided to teach me Greek as well on a one-to-one basis. Mr Evans was a brilliant draughtsman, and personally drew a textbook for me, the memory of which I cherish to this day. For instance, to illustrate ‘comparatives and superlatives’, he drew three chubby comic men wearing togas and holding bags of cash of different sizes, marking them with the Greek words for ‘rich’, ‘richer’, ‘richest’. I was immediately captivated both by his drawings and by the lovely Greek script.

Caroline: I’m currently trying to revive my Greek by doing a class at London’s City Lit. We’re reading Plato’s Apology and it does my head in! Are you able to open up one of Plato’s dialogues and just read it, or do you need a dictionary and commentary? 

Armand: Plato’s Greek is relatively straightforward and I can read much of it fluently, but there will always be bits that need going over slowly and with a commentary to work out the meaning and implications. Early dialogues such as Apology are far easier to read and understand than more concentrated and theoretical later works. The main texts that I can read entirely without aids and purely for pleasure in Greek are Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, because I learned them from the age of 12.

Caroline: What sparked your desire to explore the idea of a young Socrates in love? 

Armand: The idea came to me when I was teaching Aristophanes’ comic play Clouds many years ago. The figure of Socrates is a central character, and he comes on stage sitting in a basket that is swung from a crane. I thought that might make a good start to a film about his life, and wrote a screenplay ending with his trial and death. But Socrates was already 46 at the date of Clouds; when I started to investigate what was known about his earlier life, I uncovered evidence that he was from a relatively wealthy and educated background and milieu. Initially I thought of writing a book called ‘Young Socrates’, but I needed to know what spurred him to become a philosopher rather than, say, a soldier or politician. It seemed to me that it must have involved a formative personal experience, perhaps involving a love affair. In Plato’s Symposium, Socrates says he learned the truth about love from a ‘clever woman’. After scrutinising the text closely I realised that Plato had left undoubted clues about who that woman was – a contemporary of his whom he knew as a young man. I imagined that Socrates’ trajectory might be explained if he had fallen in love with her, learned from her, and perhaps even suffered rejection at her hands.

Caroline: Socrates is described by three famous contemporaries, Plato, Xenophon and Aristophanes. How useful were these three sources and what other sources did you draw on?  

Armand: Plato and Xenophon are the crucial biographical sources, but both those authors were born when Socrates was already in his 40s so would only have known him in his 50s and later. They give a very admiring portrait of him as a thinker and moral exemplar, and say he was deeply lovable despite being ugly and fat. Aristophanes portrays a comic version of Socrates in Clouds when he was aged 46, and says nothing about his being ugly and fat, which seems an important indication that he wasn’t known for those attributes until later in life. Regarding other sources, Plato’s pupil Aristotle contradicts Plato in over a dozen details, which is important because he is only likely to have done so if he had known otherwise from what Plato says. For instance, Plato only tells us about one woman, Xanthippe, whom Socrates was with in his 60s, while Aristotle says he married Myrto and had his two older sons with her. There are numerous other minor sources, and I was particularly struck by authors who indicate that Socrates was a real, earthy, man and not a ‘secular saint’. They tell us, for instance, that he inherited rental properties from his father, and that he was lustfully bisexual from his teens onward. I see no reason to doubt their testimonies.

Caroline: You are a classical musician and also one of the pioneers in exploring what ancient Greek music would have sounded like. Do you think music was important to Socrates?

Armand: Socrates would have been surrounded by music all his life. His early instruction on the lyre was by a famous teacher called Lampros, and in his 40s he took it up again under a teacher called Konnos to try and learn something of the latest style. We know something about that style from writings and from a piece of music that survives from a play by Euripides, which I reconstructed for my earlier project on Greek music. Socrates was clearly a knowledgeable but not expert musician – one of his sayings was that the search for truth is the ‘supreme music’, and I think that metaphor tells us that he cared about music but even more about philosophy.

Caroline: Did you have any revelations while you were writing Socrates in Love, either about the man himself or fifth century Athens?   

Armand: The biggest revelation was that when Socrates in Plato’s Symposium attributes a key element of his thought to a clever woman, he is telling the truth. That woman is given a false name, Diotima, by Plato, so it has often been assumed that the claim cannot to be taken seriously. Once the woman is identified – she turns out to be Aspasia (partner of Pericles), an important intellectual figure of her day – we need to imagine a different picture. This led me to view fifth-century Athens in rather a different light from the rather static, male citizen-oriented picture we normally assume. It was abuzz with influential foreigners, women of varying status, slaves who in some cases became free and wealthy, and playful and precocious children. Those groups would have been far more important contributors to the life of the city than our written sources generally indicate.

Caroline: If a time-traveller went back to Socrates’ Athens, what would most surprise them? 

Armand: I think it would be a shock to see the illiterate agrarian peasants driving their oxen and haggling in fishmarkets juxtaposed with magnificent colourful temples and porticoes, busy lawcourts and political assemblies, platoons of hoplites on the march, and noisy dockyards loading goods and assembling superbly constructed triremes for war. Socrates’ Athens was both a big village and the centre of a sophisticated maritime empire.

figurine showing the older Socrates

Caroline: In our Greek class we just read the bit of Apology where Socrates likens himself to a gadfly, stinging Athenians into just behaviour. My classmates and I had a lively discussion about whether we would have wanted to sit next to Socrates or not. Would you have actually liked the 45-year-old Socrates or found him utterly insufferable? 

Armand: I’ve always rather got on with nerdy, intense types, so I think I might even have been an admirer of Socrates aged 45. Though I can see why others might have found him a pain.

Caroline: A friend of mine who teaches Classics at secondary school says she and her class have cast middle-aged Charles Dance as a middle-aged Socrates. If they ever made a movie of Socrates in Love, who would be your dream actor to play the role? 

Adrian Grenier (Wikimedia Commons)

Armand: I’m actually in discussions to have a movie made, but since the young Socrates and Aspasia are their 20s I’m out of touch with the field. A friend of mine suggested Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga! Why not…But when I was trying to find someone who looked like I think the fit younger Socrates did - wide face, eyes and nose, thick lips, tousled curly hair - I came up with Adrian Grenier... What do you think?

Rami Malek (Wikimedia Commons)

Caroline: I think Adrian Grenier would be a great choice! I also think Rami Malek, this year’s Oscar-winner for Bohemian Rhapsody, might make a charismatic Socrates in Love. Thank you for answering my questions, Armand D’Angour. I can’t wait to read your book! 


Socrates in Love is out in hardback, Kindle and audio format. 

Venice in the night – Michelle Lovric

March 9, 2019, 4:30 pm

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All my best moments in Venice have been in the dark, on the water.

I can never get enough of those journeys down back canals in small boats by night, when the city offers her most intimate, most secret and magical hours.

My nights afloat on Venice’s liquid streets always find their way into my novels. They graft themselves to plot-lines, be they scenes of adventure in a children’s book or consummations of passion in novels for adults: sometimes, it seems to me as if Venice has two nights – one for terror and one for love.

Apart from the personal pleasure these journeys give me, I know that they are catnip for my writing. That’s because everything is intensified at night in Venice. For a start, there are fewer packs of tourists to clutter up and dilute the lines of the architecture.

By night, fewer rattling suitcases drown out the tentative and delicate sounds of the water. The tiny real noises of Venice start to make themselves heard … cicadas obsessing in hidden gardens, a rat tugging a lettuce leaf across paving stones, a lone violinist dragging his bow across his instrument at an unseen window. The palaces seem to bend down solicitously, offering their ornaments to view. Architectural patterns, softly illuminated, are suddenly picked out in lyrical clarity.

It’s also at night that Venice’s beauty can most easily become a metaphor for all kinds of things, including interior ugliness, corruption and a looming kind of fear.

In my forthcoming children’s novel, The Wishing Bones, four young people make a journey that combines the two: an after-midnight boat trip through a silent city, drained of colour, during which a young Casanova plays a violin strung with mermaid hair, while gazing into the eyes of the saddest girl I’ve ever written, Sorrowful Lily.

I’ve recently had the pleasure of meeting David Winston, a photographer who makes the night in Venice emotionally legible in almost the same way that I, as a writer, attempt to do. I have walked around Venice with David in brilliant sun and impenetrable mist, shadowing his photography with my notebook, and I’ve loved seeing how he thinks. It soon became clear to me that what I render in words, he renders on paper with chemicals and an artist’s eye. This post is illustrated with pictures from his Nocturnes series.

I showed David’s Nocturnes to a Venetian friend who teaches photography. More than that, this is the same friend who has lately given me the pleasure of night trips around the small canals late at night. He agreed that David’s pictures truly capture that otherworldly experience of the city. ‘Emerge una sensibilità sapiente,’ he said. ‘What comes through is a knowing sensitivity’.

David has kindly allowed me to ask him some questions about how he came to create his Nocturnes.

First of all, you have a completely separate career as a restorer of antique pianos. So how is that you came to spend so much time in Venice?

Just over two years ago I had been through some very big changes in my life. I had been to Venice for Carnevale the previous year, but then I was not alone, so didn’t take the time to get to the heart of the place. When I did go back, through a bit of serendipity, I stayed in the Hotel Ca’ Pisani, near Zattere. I noticed that they had an exhibition in the upstairs foyer. I got into conversation with the owner, Marianna, and asked if she would be interested in exhibiting some of my photographs. She said she’d take a look at my site. After a very short time she came back with a very positive ‘Si’. In preparation for the exhibition, I kept returning to Venice and each time it drew me in a bit more. Eventually it just made sense to rent someplace. Now I spend just under half my time here.

So this change in your circumstances left you free to ask the question, ‘What do I actually want to do now?’ instead of the usual ‘What do I have to next?’ The answer turned out to be, it seems, ‘creating painterly photographs of Venice’?

Yes, I try to come up with an answer to what draws those of us to Venice who want to make it a home. I think, hopefully without sounding too ‘pseudo’, that it is the pursuit of beauty. For me, beauty is somehow evidence of the divine and that is a very human pursuit.

What is it about the night in Venice that draws you?

Venice is a city of mystery – and mystery may choose to hide behind a veil, whether it is a veil of darkness or a veil of mist. When that veil becomes permeable – that’s when the essential character of the place reveals itself. Walking the canals at night you can literally hear the city breathing as the water flows through the veins of the city. You start to understand things …

Venice is a wily mistress. During the day, when the city is overrun by the selfie-taking admirers who trample through her beauty without really asking, she pulls into herself. So it is hard to keep her in your sights unless you can keep the memory of her nights in your head.

I notice that you observe the courtesy of personifying Venice as a woman …

Yes. And if you want to take a picture of a beautiful woman, you do her the courtesy of engaging her in conversation. You have the humility to learn something about her. And you don’t insult her by taking her photo where she is only the backdrop. This mistress knows her beauty. As the sun goes down, she breathes a sigh of relief and you literally feel the city reveal and become herself again as the night draws in. You wrote in one of your books how in the fog ‘Venice deconstructs herself’. That really made me sit up, because it so captured my own feeling about the place. What happens is that, through this deconstruction, you see again the essential elements.

I think that was The Floating Book, which opens in fog and disarray. Venice is notably more ‘of the night’ than most modern cities, isn’t she? Her lighting is dimmer and her darkness is therefore blacker? And her mysteries more profound – and intriguing?

A wonderful thing about Venice is how the lighting is not an all-purpose flooding of the shadows. Instead, everywhere you see a single light over a door, not there to generously light the way of passers-by, but simply to light the doorway for the inhabitants. Late at night, I wander the calle in search of shadowy doorways and colonnades that are full of mystery, revealing little of what is behind them—not only who lives there now, but who lived there before.

Where does that colonnade lead? Do the colonnades invite us to explore further, or do they instil fear of what lurks there? I suppose that, in a way, with my nocturnes what I’m trying to do is also deconstruct and to reveal simply a mood that then must engage our imagination. As a musician, I have always been drawn to the musical form of the nocturne, which is after all much the same idea – music that’s just a suggestion, infused with only sufficient light to reveal its form. Then our imagination has to fill in the rest.

What kinds of stories are you trying to tell?

I want to show my very personal admiration for the dark beauty of this improbable city. I go hunting at night for my images. It is a very emotional process. For me it is a city of full of ghosts and with my Nocturnes I am trying to show where they emerge from the darkness.   

How do you ‘paint the light’ into the raw photographs? Your use of light seems positively editorial.

I actually try to start with a raw image where the light seems to be changing – on the way from light to darkness. So, rather than a static, frozen moment in time, it is capturing the sense of change.

Your photographs rarely remain untouched after they’ve been taken. Because capturing the image is only half of the story, isn’t it? Back in the darkroom, you transform your photographs using the techniques of Gum Bichromate, Cyanotype, Platinum/Palladium, Chlorophyll Print. Why do you use such old-fashioned techniques to re-render them?

Modern photo processes are too exact and do not leave enough to the imagination. Photographs are more often than not simply just used to say ‘I wuz 'ere’… rather than as an expression of emotion. Current processes are more adapted to this simple need. The unpredictability, the happy accidents of the early processes produce a more human, personal result.

I use many different processes in producing my final images. The camera can be an indifferent, objective observer and our brain plays tricks. How often have you taken a photo, only to see later that it was ruined by something in the corner of the picture that you did not notice when you took it? That is because the camera does not have the human filter, which is really the essence of artistic expression. Photography has become more and more sophisticated and at the same time, to me, a disturbingly undervalued form. It can be too easy and the magic is lost. I was looking for a way to produce a photograph which shows what I see - where the machine of the camera is less dominant. I can intervene in the process and produce an image that shows more accurately what I see in my head when I press the shutter.

Most of the processes I use go back to the earliest days of photography in the mid-19th century, although some are also modern techniques I’ve developed along the way. So it can be very bewildering to people when I try to explain what is involved. Essentially, one must start with a blank sheet of watercolour paper and apply various photosensitive chemicals to the paper with a brush. Everything matters and changes the result: how you brush on the chemicals, what kind of brush you use, what type of paper, humidity and of course which chemicals.

I get so excited about all the different possibilities…. in a modern take on the Renaissance use of gold leaf in painting, I have also experimented a lot with printing on thin tissue and then adding gold and silver leaf to the back of an image.

I am happy to use digital techniques where they add to the palette, but again, never in a conventional way. I find that so much digitally-produced photographic work can appear overworked and be totally soulless, so I must leave something to chance in the way I use it. Recently I have been working a lot with multiple exposures created in camera, layering one image over the other. One can get some startling surprises and juxtapositions. I’ve been producing a whole series called ‘Venice Multiplied’. Interestingly, by layering one essential aspect of the Venetian landscape over another, this technique effectively ‘deconstructs’ the city and emphasises a single element in an often fantastical dream world, which is of course what the place is.

Of all the different processes, which are best adapted for telling Venetian stories?

I would say probably the Gum Bichromate process. There are so many ways to build up layers using different pigments and density. It really is a cross between photography and painting. I want my photographs to be stories and stories are, after all, made up of layers.

In this process, watercolour pigments are mixed with light sensitive chemicals and the image is built up in many stages: you must have a different negative for each colour value: red, blue and yellow. The density of the image slowly comes together after as much as 25 different exposures, one over the other. There is a tremendous opportunity to change the final image depending on which pigments you use, obviously.

Then, there is the opportunity to combine different processes, which multiplies the available palette ten-fold. I especially like starting with an image printed in the Prussian Blue of the cyanotype process, then overlaying with several passes of Indigo or Lampblack, which adds wonderful depth to the shadows and renders a beautiful translucent lapis lazuli colour.

Can you give examples of picture with each process?

Of course!

Chlorophyll print

Multiple Exposure

Platinum/Palladium

Cyanotype

Gum Bichromate over Cyanotype

Print on tissue backed with gold and silver leaf

Usually you go out alone foraging for stories, as I do. Are you ever frightened in Venice at night? (I admit that I am)

Every once in a while, I think I should be, but I never really ever am …

Are you exhibiting in the UK any time soon? Where?

Yes, I am. From 4-7 April I will be exhibiting my work at Roy’s People Art Fair, at Bargehouse in London, which is near the OXO Tower. It is a really interesting artist-led show with a wide mix of artists.

Thank you, David, for your time and your patience.  

David Winston’s website
Michelle Lovric’s website
The Wishing Bones is published on July 25th, 2019
Michelle is teaching a pair of Masterclasses called FLOW in London in March and April with Lucy Coats. For more details see here

Lucy Osburn: Yorkshire lass and nightingale nurse

March 10, 2019, 6:27 pm

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Lucy Osburn

LUCY OSBURN – YORKSHIRE LASS AND NIGHTINGALE NURSE

Lucy Osburn was a Yorkshire lass, a well-educated and cultured woman, who was to revolutionise nursing in Australia.

She was born in Leeds in 1837, the younger daughter of the Oriental scholar, William Osburn. When she was twenty years of age Lucy travelled in the Middle East, and in one of her letters she mentions helping to ‘break in’ horses on Syrian plains. She added that this experience taught her that in order to control it was necessary to keep a firm but not too tight a hold on the reins. The lesson was to serve her well in later life.

In 1866 (against the wishes of her family) she joined to the Nightingale Training School at St. Thomas’s Hospital as a paying or ‘Special’ Probationer. As such, she was contracted to work for the Nightingale Fund for three years after her training. Nightingale taught a two-tier system, whereby nurses from the working class entered as ordinary Probationers and were expected to remain Nurses for the rest of their careers. Special Probationers such as Lucy were middle-class women who were groomed for leadership roles as Sisters (or ward managers) and eventually Lady Superintendents or Matrons.

Florence Nightingale

Lucy's career began well, as within a month of her commencing training the manageress of the Nightingale School, Mrs Wardroper, wrote to Miss Nightingale:

‘I think extremely well of her. She appears to be a woman of great good sense and practical with sound church principles, and I am inclined to think would make a good superintendent.’

An important feature of the Nightingale system was the role of the matron or lady superintendent. Before Nightingale’s reforms, the matron had played a minor role in the provision of nursing care in hospitals, and had been more a housekeeper. Nightingale saw her role as a much more important and pivotal one. In fact, Nightingale's aim was to take control of hospital nursing out of the hands of the male doctors and give it to a highly skilled nurse, who would be responsible for all facets of the internal management of the hospital.

Not long after Lucy began her training, Nightingale received a request from the Colony of New South Wales, begging her to send a team of nurses to the colony:

"The Government of this Colony is desirous of engaging the services of four ladies who have received an efficient training as nurses in some well-managed English hospital. These trained nurses are required for the Sydney Infirmary where proper apartments will be provided for them by the time of their arrival in the Colony, but it is desired that in the performance of their duties in this Institution they shall become the hospital instructors of such other female attendants as might from time to time be placed under their superintendence. "

The colony was desperate. As early as 1857 the medical staff at the Sydney Infirmary and Dispensary had petitioned the Hospital Board to adopt a more efficient system of nursing, and in 1864 they reported that the inefficiency of the sick attendants was the greatest obstacle against which they had to contend. In the 1860s the number of complaints about the standard of nursing at the Sydney Infirmary had increased to an embarrassing extent. The accepted authority on nursing in the world was Florence Nightingale. Who better to approach for help with this problem?

Nightingale agreed to send five nurses, but insisted that they be under the control of a Lady Superintendent. Lucy was one of the few Lady Probationers in training and when approached, declared herself willing, for health reasons, to migrate to New South Wales.

Although she had missed three months of her year’s training due to illness (her time in the Middle East had left her with a tendency to attacks of ague and dysentery), there was no one else and Lucy was selected to head the team of nurses to go to Sydney.

Nightingale sent the nurses to Sydney on the basis that Osburn, as Lady Superintendent, would have the entire responsibility of the internal management of the wards at the Infirmary and for the conduct, discipline and duties of the nurses. She would have ultimate responsibility for the care of the linen and bedding, the cleanliness, proper ventilation and warming of the wards, the care and cleanliness of the sick, the administration of diets, medicines and enemas ordered by the medical staff, the performance of minor dressings, and generally to ensure that all orders of the medical staff were complied with.
Lucy left for New South Wales in December 1867.  She was 30 years of age, had barely a year’s training behind her and no experience at all in superintending a hospital.

Sydney Infirmary

On 5 March 1868 the Nightingale sisters arrived at the Sydney Infirmary.The first night Lucy spent at the Sydney Infirmary set the tone for the battles she would face over the next decade. As soon as she extinguished her lamp it was clear that she shared her room with hordes of bedbugs. One wall, newly papered, was literally moving. She spent a sleepless night and the next day she demanded new quarters for herself and her nurses. That battle she won, but others proved more difficult.


A week later Lucy and her nurses were nursing Prince Albert, the Duke of Edinburgh. He was on a good-will tour of Australia and had been shot while picnicking at Clontarf. The injured prince was taken to the Sydney Infirmary. The Nightingale nurses received very good publicity, from local newspapers. It was not to last.

Criticism and complaints dogged Lucy from the moment she arrived in Sydney. It was claimed that she was too High Church and a crypto-Catholic, that her friends were in the upper echelon of society and she spent too much time with them, that she was dictatorial and autocratic. There was even an allegation made that she abused her office by making a profit on the sale of clothing to her nurses.

Lucy was charming and made influential friends in the colony, but she also had to deal with petty slights and jealous behaviour from the medical men of the hospital who were aggrieved at a woman being in a position of such influence. The new nursing regime she wished to introduce was too innovative for conservative Sydney and was opposed by many in the hospital hierarchy. Although a number of influential doctors at the Infirmary had lobbied for trained nurses to be introduced, they wanted the nurses to be under the complete authority of the doctors

One resident doctor made a point of locking the main gate on every evening that Lucy dined at Government House, which meant that she had to enter the hospital grounds at a side gate and scurry across the dark yard to her rooms, often in the rain.

The Nightingale wing of the Infirmary was built  especially for the Nightingale nurses

In February 1869 Lucy wrote to Nightingale, saying that she had two evils to contend with at the Sydney Infirmary: rats and loneliness.

Rats were indeed a major concern at the hospital, as they ran through wards at night and even found their way into the mortuary to mutilate the bodies. Lucy wrote that she decided upon a course of action that she thought would deal with both problems at once:

"So I got a beautiful well-bred black & tan English terrier not so big as a rat himself when I got him but he was quite a puppy & grew to be quite able to master the biggest rat & with my careful training was so clever we never saw a rat in the house for months . . . He used to watch for me until I locked up the office in an even(in)g & went upstairs when his delight knew no bounds, so I always felt I had some love to go to when the day was over. The Committee I suppose thought this a luxury not to be allowed to a nurse so I was requested to part with him. & now we have all the rats back again. "
(Letter Osburn to Nightingale 26 February 1869)

She concluded her letter by writing that she supposed the House Committee ‘could not picture what solitude is’.

In 1870 she was forced to appear before a Hospital Board of Inquiry into allegations made by the Protestant Standard newspaper that she was anti-Protestant and favoured Catholics. She was entirely vindicated. The Commissioners found that nursing was the only department of the hospital that was not deficient. By then it was generally acknowledged, even by the doctors, that the new system was a vast improvement on the old.


Despite this, Lucy continued to face criticism well into the 1880s, and every one of the numerous complaints against her was gleefully reported in the Sydney newspapers.

In November 1884, during one of her many bouts of illness and after yet more hostile newspaper reports, Lucy resigned. She cited health reasons for her departure, and returned to England in 1885.

In her sixteen years at the Infirmary (by then called Sydney Hospital) she had supervised the training of approximately 153 nurses, many of whom who had gone on to leading hospital and institutional positions across Australia, and also internationally. It was these women who were the nucleus of the modern nursing profession in Australia.

On Lucy’s return to London in 1885 she retrained with the Metropolitan and National Nursing Association, which nursed the poor in their own homes. In a short time she had been appointed Superintendent of the Newington and Walworth District, which was located in the slums of London’s East End. She served there until 1891, when her health deteriorated. She died on 22 December 1891, at the age of fifty-six.

 There is a memorial tablet on the wall of the Sydney Hospital Chapel in her memory and the Lucy Osburn-Nightingale Museum at Sydney Hospital is in her old rooms in the Nightingale Wing.



(The above is taken from my book, Nurses of Australia: The Illustrated Story (2018: National Library of Australia Publishing Division).

Five years later:

March 11, 2019, 11:00 pm

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by Antonia Senior

In three weeks time, I will file my April round-up of historical fiction books for The Times. It will be five years exactly since my very first round-up appeared. In that time, I have reviewed some 300 works of historical fiction.

I have been a judge for the Historical Writers Association twice, adding at least 50 books to that running total. (We tend to get 80 odd entries; of which I have read some, but not all.)

My background is in financial journalism. A chance encounter with a job advert when I was a broke graduate led me to Pensions World, a magazine for the pensions industry. Fun times. From there to The Times, where I covered pensions and insurance companies, before eventually becoming deputy business editor.

I did other jobs at The Times, including becoming editor of the Science magazine. But five years ago, after I had left the paper to concentrate on writing books and raising children, I got the historical fiction gig. I got it because the literary editor knew that historical fiction was my utter passion. As a reader, as a writer, as a human: the books that have been making my heart sing for thirty-five years have been historical. Blame Rosemary Sutcliffe.

On the five year anniversary of my first column, I thought I would indulge myself with an unscientific round-up of some of my favourites.

The ones that made me sob:

The Book of Aron, Jim Shepard. Aron, a nine year old Jewish boy, lives in the Warsaw ghetto. Lice, typhus, brutality and hunger rule the streets. Aron works as a smuggler of black market goods. He finds himself under the wing of Dr Korczak, the director of an embattled orphanage, and a true-life hero of the ghetto. Told through Aron's eyes, this is a masterful depiction of ghetto life and the demands of heroism. The conclusion, although inevitable, is devastating.

The Constant Soldier, William Ryan. Ryan's inspiration for this powerful, nuanced book was a collection of photographs showing a rest hut for the SS officers who worked at Auschwitz. This was where perpetrators of genocide spent their downtime, drinking and relaxing. In Ryan's version, a German soldier goes to work at the hut, after recognising one of the prisoners who act as servants. Her name is Judith, a woman he loved when they were both involved in the domestic resistance against Hitler. The Russians are advancing, and the Germans know that the game is nearly up. Taut as a thriller, and utterly compelling.

The ones I wish I'd written:

The North Water, Ian McGuire. In 2017 I was chair of the HWA Gold Crown awards. The top prize went to The North Water, McGuire's dark tale about murder aboard a nineteenth century whaling voyage. Patrick Sumner, a disgraced doctor, signs on to the ship and becomes a reluctant detective when a young boy is found murdered. Murderer Henry Drax is a force of nature: evil and unrepentant. This book is brutal, unsettling and brilliant.

Blood and Beauty and In the Name of the Family, by Sarah Dunant. These two books about the Borgia family are extraordinarily good. The first covers Rodrigo Borgia's elevation to the papacy in 1492, and the first decade of his time as pope. The second follows the Pope and his family until his death. Dunant succeeds in bringing Rodrigo and his children, Cesare and Luzrezia, brilliantly to life. Dunant has a storyteller's instinct for both the broad sweep of history and the telling detail, all written in glorious, muscular prose.

The best one in translation

All for Nothing, Walter Kempowski Translated for the first time from German, this modern classic follows the fortunes of a Prussian family at the end of World War 2. The Soviets mass on the border, the Third Reich is crumbling, and members of an old aristocratic family attempt to carry on as usual. Migrants fleeing the Soviets pass through their loves. When do they abandon all they have and join the exodus? A superb exploration of complicity with evil.

The one I can't believe is a debut:

The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock by Imogen Hermes Gowar. Original and dazzlingly good, this debut is set in a vivid eighteenth Century London. A sea-captain returns home from a voyage with a mermaid, much to the dismay of the owner of his ship, Mr Hancock. But the mermaid proves wildly popular with the fashionable set, bringing staid Hancock into the orbit of celebrated courtesan, Angelica Neal. Compelling to the last perfect sentence.

The one I missed first time round:

His Bloody Project, by Graeme Macrae Burnet. I missed this one when if first came out, and read it when it was included on the Man Booker Prize shortlist in 2016. Set in 1869, this purports to be a collection of documents relating to a brutal triple murder in a remote Highland community. The main narrative strand is written by the boy accused of the murder Roderick Macrae. He is plausible and articulate; and his tale of his dysfunctional family's suffering at the hands of a local tyrant is miserable. But is he telling the truth? Unsettling and unforgettable.

The best ones with swords.

I adore so-called swords 'n sandals fiction. Eat it up. Read it by torchlight in the dark, under the duvet. There are a number of people currently writing sword heavy fiction whose work I really, really love - notably, Robyn Young, Harry Sidebottom, Ben Kane, Justin Hill, Robert Low, Christian Cameron, Angus Donald and, of course, Bernard Cornwell. But the series I have loved best in the past five years has been Giles Kristian's trilogy, Sigurd's Saga. A story of Vikings, revenge, treasure and death - which ends with the best battle scene you could ever wish to read. Glorious.

The best one with a love story

I tend to prefer ones about swords and death to ones about love. Let's not dwell. But I adored This Black Earth by Philip Kazan. In 1922, a young Greek girl fleeing the Turkish occupation of Smyrna has a chance encounter with a young English boy. Years later, Zoe Haggitiris and Tom Collyer meet again in Athens amid the horrors of World War 2. They fall in love and are then torn apart. Zoe struggles with the fallout from the Nazi occupation, while Tom is forced to fight his way across Europe. Will they meet again? I'm not telling, just read it. (Incidentally, I bang on about Philip Kazan's books so often that someone at a literary event called me out on it. So for the record, no, I've never met him. And no, he's not bribing me, not even with baclava. I just bloody love his books.)

The ones I couldn't review

I am, however, good friends with the lovely, brilliant and talented Anna Mazzola. So I don't review her books in the paper - a sadly high price for being friends with me. If I didn't know her, I would still love her books - particularly the latest. The Storykeeper is based on the Island of Skye, a place I know well and love deeply. Audrey Hart is there to collect folktales. But, in the wake of devastating clearances, the locals are suspicious and hostile. Then young girls start to go missing. Is there something supernatural at play? This book is utterly transporting and oozes with atmosphere.

If you are wondering about the absence of Hilary Mantel, it is only because I have never reviewed her. The Mirror and the Light, the conclusion of the Cromwell trilogy, is due out later this year. I will clear my diary, and stop the clocks and ship the children to their Grandparents.

It is an incredible privilege to review these books, and there are many more in the 350 that I have loved and recommended to friends, and kept copies of in my ever expanding bookshelves. Keep them coming, History Girls.....

A Cumbrian Castle with hidden Jacobite history

March 13, 2019, 2:57 am

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by Deborah Swift

I'm really lucky in that I live close to many old houses and castles. One very close to my house is Sizergh Castle which has a fabulous tea room and lovely gardens.

The name Sizergh dates from the 9th century and was originally spelled sigaritherge, meaning Sigarith's pasture (sigarith is a female name.)

The castle has been home to the Strickland family for nearly 800 years, beginning in the 12th century, and is still lived in by them today. So well-connected were the family, that a Strickland was chosen to carry the English banner at Agincourt. During the Wars of the Roses the family were Yorkists, and in the succeeding generation were linked with the Parres of Kendal - the family of Catherine Parr, wife of Henry VIII.

The original medieval Great Chamber, now the dining room, contains portraits from when Lady Strickland acted as governess to James Stuart, 'The Old Pretender' in exile in Paris. There is one of the young James, and also a bust of Bonnie Prince Charlie (his son). For the first time this weekend a relic of this time, the glorious bedspread of James II will be on show at Sizergh. The bedspread, made in Goa India, is sumptuously embroidered with gold thread and portrays mythical birds and beasts, and was given to Strickland family by the King as a thank you for their loyalty. If you visit Sizergh in the next few weeks you can see it on display, and also hear the conservator talk about the conservation of rare textiles.
Read more here

But the Strickland family's support for the Jacobite cause led to a decline in their fortunes, and the castle could no longer be updated to current fashions.  Because of this, its core remains largely untouched, and we are able to stretch back in history all those years to see the original Elizabethan Manor House flanking the 14th Century hall and pele tower.


The photo below is from an article on the castle by Matthew Penmott, and I can heartily recommend his site on the Castles of Cumbria.

The Strickland Arms in the Parish Church, Kendal

The original Pele tower gave protection against scottish raiders. On the courtyard front is the Strickland Coat of Arms. The main entrance leads today into a Tudor Great Hall, which has since been adapted by different generations of the family into a series of smaller rooms. An Elizabethan corner block and wings enclose a courtyard, and on three sides of the castle the remains of a moat is visible even today.

Hard Times
In 1891 the ornate panelling from the Inlaid Chamber, along with various furnishings, was sold to the V& A for a thousand pounds, to raise cash to keep the house maintained. What a decision to make!

But now, after more than a century, and thanks to the Victorian and Albert Museum, the original panelling and stained glass which was tailor-made for the room at Sizergh, has now been returned home to the castle on permanent loan. (Pictures from The Guardian) The beautifully wrought panels were inlaid with English Poplar and “Bog” Oak to create a three dimensional effect of geometric and strapwork motifs.

Ghost of the Starved Lady
In the Pele tower, ghostly sobs denote the presence of a lady whose husband, before a raid by the Scots, was locked away in a room with an impregnable door - presumably to keep her safe. But her husband died and the terrified servants abandoned the place. The poor wife starved, and as she tried to claw her way out she went slowly mad. Her screams supposedly still haunt Sizergh on dark and spooky nights......

Apart from the attraction of the ghost, Sizergh Castle is managed by the National Trust and is well worth a visit - beautiful grounds and gardens too, along with more than a thousand years of history! If you go along in the next few weeks you will also be able to view some 17th Century Flemish tapestries, rare examples featuring stories from Plutarch, including the tale of Anthony and Cleopatra.

As many of you know, I have a keen interest in the 17th Century, and you can find my novels set in this era here, or on my website www.deborahswift.com

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Trouble at t'Palace - by Lesley Downer

March 13, 2019, 5:30 pm

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There’s a fable that every Japanese schoolchild knows. Three men are watching a nightingale, waiting to hear its beautiful song. But the nightingale stubbornly refuses to sing. What are they going to do about it? 

‘Kill it,’ says Nobunaga.

‘Make it want to sing,’ says Hideyoshi.

‘Wait,’ says Ieyasu. ‘Wait till it sings of its own accord.’

Lady No - portrait in Gifu Castle

Nobunaga, lord of the Oda clan, Hideyoshi of the Toyotomi and Ieyasu of the Tokugawa were three rival warlords who sought to unify Japan in the second half of the sixteenth century, when the country was torn apart with endless civil wars. They all lived at the same time and all knew each other.

They were all brilliant generals. Nobunaga was dashing, fearless and brutal; Hideyoshi wily, brilliant and able to argue himself out of any situation, no matter how desperate; and Ieyasu stolid, calculating and very very patient. You can guess which one won in the end.

Each of them had a formidable woman behind him - whether on his side or against him.

In those days young people of high rank were invariably married off in political marriages, either to an ally to cement an alliance or to an enemy warlord to make peace. If it was the latter, there might be a lethal shifting of alliances and you’d have to choose between your father or your husband.

Oda Nobunaga, depicted by the Jesuit missionary Giovanni Nicolao. Portrait commissioned  and approved by Nobunaga

Wives of the Warlords, Part I

Lady No, the Princess of Mino

It’s probably never a good idea to marry your enemy’s daughter, especially if that enemy is the Viper of Mino. But that’s what happened to Nobunaga. In 1549 his father married him off to Kicho, Lady No’s name as a girl, when he was 14 and she was 13. The idea was to broker a shaky peace with Dosan of the Saito clan. Dosan had started life as an oil merchant, then murdered the daimyo of his province, Mino, and taken over his lands, mountaintop fortress and wife, which was why he was known as the Viper.

On their wedding day 14 year old Nobunaga declared that his bride had ‘the mind of a genius and the appearance of a goddess’. She was reputedly a prodigy in swordsmanship and the martial arts. You had to be able to take care of yourself in those days. She was basically a ‘hostage wife’ in that she lived in the Odas’ castle and could be disposed of if there was trouble.

Nobunaga dancing

The Oda clan were the lords of Owari, directly north of Mino, so naturally the two clans were deadly enemies and spent a lot of their time setting each others’ villages afire, seizing land from each other and having pitched battles. There were suspicions that Kicho, the Princess of Mino, had been planted not just in the family but in Nobunaga’s bed so that she could plot against him, spy on him or murder him, depending.

The Idiot Lord
The following year Nobunaga’s father died and he became lord. Nobunaga was known as the Idiot Lord because of his propensity to play the fool.

Lady No’s father, Saito Dosan, famously arranged a meeting with Nobunaga to size him up. He then hid in a peasant’s hut and spied on him as he was approaching the meeting place in the middle of a huge entourage. Nobunaga looked like a slovenly fool, lolling on his horse with a messy topknot, with amulets dangling from his belt and leopard and tiger skins tossed over his saddle. Dosan must have smirked to himself. There’d be no problems with this one. He was clearly an idiot.

But before the formal meeting Nobunaga said he needed time to change. When he reappeared he was transformed from a carefree youth into a stern-faced daimyo, with a perfectly oiled topknot and crisp hakama skirts.

Official portrait of Oda Nobunaga

Dosan realised that Nobunaga had decided it was to his advantage to play the fool. Given that his daughter was a hostage in Nobunaga’s castle, it’s said that from this point on he gave up all thought of invading Owari.

Daughter of the Viper

Lady No being the ‘daughter of the viper’, there were ongoing suspicions that she was at the very least passing information to her father. Once he became lord Nobunaga took to creeping out of their bedchamber in the middle of night and staying away till dawn. Eventually Lady No asked him what he was doing. Was he seeing another woman?

After much persuasion he confessed that he was in touch with two of her father’s closest retainers. They had said they would kill her father, then light a signal for him so that he could invade with a huge army and take over Mino province. He was up every night till dawn watching out for the signal.

Having confessed he swore her to secrecy but naturally she found a way to get a message to her father - proof that she was indeed in communication with him. Her father, hearing the news, had his faithful elders executed. Nobunaga’s story was of course all lies. Having lost his faithful retainers her father was much weakened.

The Saito family castle in Mino that Oda Nobunaga  took over and renamed Gifu Castle

The Leper Lord 

The other kink in Kicho’s family was that her father and brother hated each other. Her father, possibly suffering from a guilty conscience, suspected that her brother was not his but the son of the murdered late daimyo, whose wife Dosan had married.

In the end there was a huge battle between them and Lady No’s father, Dosan, was killed. The son, Yoshitatsu, was struck down by leprosy shortly afterwards, obviously in judgement for the unnatural act of killing his own father, and was thenceforth known as the Leper Lord.

The Concubine

All of which gave Nobunaga an excellent excuse to invade, avenge his father-in-law and ‘liberate’ the land of Mino, which he did in 1567.

As for progeny, Lady No never had a child. Eight years after their marriage, Nobunaga met and fell in love with a lady called Kitsuno of the Ikoma family. He took her as his concubine and they had two sons and a daughter but then she died at the age of 29. It’s said that Nobunaga mourned her through the night and had her status upgraded to a second wife so that her children could be his heirs. His son Nobutada was given to Lady No to be raised. 

Nobunaga trying to fend off his attackers at Honnoji Temple, Kyoto

The Traitor

In 1582, when Nobunaga was 48, he was attacked by one of his own generals turned traitor. He and his son were killed and the temple where they were staying in Kyoto burnt to the ground. 

Shortly afterwards a veiled lady slipped away from Nobunaga’s castle, Azuchi Castle, in the middle of the night. Lady No was never seen again. It was said that she stayed in hiding as wars raged and died in 1612.

All this presaged a new period in Japan’s epic history - which revolves around central Japan and the very city where I used to live, Gifu! Stay tuned for more.

Lesley Downer’s latest novel, The Shogun's Queen, is an epic tale set in nineteenth century Japan and is out now in paperback. For more see www.lesleydowner.com.

All pictures courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. 

Book Review: Susan Major, Female Railway Workers in World War II - by Fay Bound Alberti

March 14, 2019, 5:00 pm

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In last month's blog I interviewed Susan Major, the author of the book I am reviewing today: Female Railway Workers in World War II. Readers also had a chance to win that book, by answering what two jobs were banned to women on the railways. The answer was engine drivers and firemen - the latter being responsible for stoking the engine.

Women's exclusion from those roles brings us to the heart of the story of Susan's book: women were required to work traditional men's role during the war, just as in other sectors, but ideas about gender and femininity held sway.

On 9 March 1941, the Minister of Labour Ernest Bevin appealed for 100,000 women to enrol for war work in Britain, in fields, factories and railways - to replace the men who had been sent off to war. In 1940, the railway companies and the National Union of Railwaymen had already agreed to employ women, albeit at 4 shillings less per week for the same jobs. Support for childcare was available, with government contributions to allow women to work outside the home as well as keep the home fires burning; the presumption was that two women would be needed for every one man. By the end of the war the reality was almost reversed.

This wasn't the first time women worked the railways, Susan points out - there were female railway labourers recorded in the 1851 census; others policed turnpike gates. But the roles that women took on during World War I had been mainly public roles: goods and passenger porters, parcel porters, ticket collectors, carriage cleaners and clerks. Cleaning carriages had traditionally been viewed as men's work, even though cleaning was gendered; interestingly another reason women were not employed as carriage cleaners was that the role was usually 'the first step on the ladder to be an engine driver' (p.3), a carefully guarded male role.

Gang of plate layers at Bristol West 1943 (from University of Leicester special collections)

By the time World War I ended, there were nearly 70,000 women in the railway workforce and some came back during World War 2. In 1942 the number of women on the railways was over 80,000.

Susan's book weaves together some wonderful anecdotes about women on the railways - taken from the National Archive of Railway Oral History - with media reports of the time to explore the tensions between perceptions of femininity, economic necessity and war time need. Whether women could carry heavy loads for instance, was discussed in the Nottingham Evening Post (1942), when a local fishmonger complained his kippers were about to be condemned by the government inspector. Though they had been cured in the north of Scotland, transport delays had led to their deterioration - he said it was because women worked as porters yet couldn't manage heavy loads.

In December 1940 the London Midland and Scottish Railway (LMS) reproduced a poem by Robbins Millar that used the term that 'porteress' to marvel, rather patronisingly, at the new phenomenon of women carting suitcases:

The Porteress

She'll be spry as a sparrow

At hurling a barrow

An absolute ace

At yanking a case

You'll never get waxy [bad-tempered]

She'll find you a taxi 

Respond to your yell

Like a dashing gazelle;

And charge no extortions

For chipping large portions 

In lumps and in chunks 

Of your holiday trunks. 

Women porters loading parcels onto a train, 27 February 1941 (Daily Herald Archive/Science & Society Picture Library)

These observed accounts are set against lengthy extracts from women's own stories in Female Railway Workers, under chapter headings that track the women's own journeys: Getting in; Learning the Job; working with Men; Doing a Man's Job to 'Surviving Air Raids', 'Tricky Situations' and - of course - 'And then the Men came Back'. Nellie Nelson, for instance, a London and North Eastern Railway (LNER) porter at York, told the story of an 'awful parcel foreman:

He was a bit of a nuisance, so we cured him one day. you know, laxative chocolate you can buy in Boots? Well, we bought him some of that. we was all on number nine platform and we asked, 'Give you a bit of chocolate Tommy?''Aye' and he got some of this and said, 'You're a nuisance you lot I'm having no more chocolate off you lot'. 

Women talk about their love lives, the lack of toilets, their friendships, the dangers they encountered, and the families they lived with. Women working on the railways were subject to the same hard work as men, alongside juggling life on the domestic front, and challenges specific to their sex and the inequalities of the time: sexual harassment, unequal pay, media sensationalism and precarious employment. There were positive things too: a sense of camaraderie with other women, interesting and diverse work, control - to some extent - over their rhythm of work (at least compared to women in munitions factories) and the acquisition of a wide range of skills.

The idea of the 'railway family' also created a paternalistic sense of belonging, and of commitment and obligation to its fellow members. Many went on to marry railway men, continuing their association with the 'railway family' even after they had left their roles.

There had been local union resistance to the idea of female labour in the early part of the war, with concerns about the role of men and the nature of the hierarchy that was in place. But the Restoration of Pre-War Practices Act 1942 laid down that women would be required to give up 'men's jobs' in order to accommodate returning soldiers.

Hard physical labour in 1941 for Southern Railway (Planet Pix Ltd - Planet News/Science & Society Picture Library)

Susan's book brings us the voices of women in an industry previously overlooked by most historians. Women working on the railways challenged myths of femininity and weakness and demonstrated their ability to learn new skills, work together,  undertake hard physical labour and endure difficult, often dangerous conditions.

This book is an important addition to the history of women in wartime and beyond.

Female Railway workers in World War II is available at Waterstones and all good book shops.

New exhibition at the Mary Rose

March 15, 2019, 8:30 pm

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I have just been reading about a new exhibition at the Mary Rose. It sounds fascinating stuff: researchers have used new techniques such as isotope analysis to find out an astonishing amount  about the crew of Henry VIII's flagship which was wrecked in the Solent, and they've discovered that the crew's origins were far more diverse than anyone might have imagined. For more information about this, see the Mary Rose website, here. 

For a more general introduction to the Mary Rose, see my post from a few months ago, below.

So - you've spent years in search of the wreck of Henry VIII's flagship, the Mary Rose, which you know has lain under fourteen metres of water in Portsmouth Harbour since 1545 - somewhere. In 1971, after three years, you find four timbers: the frames of the port side of the ship. So far so good - but it's buried under four centuries of silt.

For the next eleven years, teams of divers, archaeologists and engineers work on releasing the ship from its muddy shroud - remembering always that this is the grave not just of a ship, but of the 500 men who went down with her. The enterprise is not financed by the government: it has to be paid for. So there's all that side of it to consider too. It probably helps that you acquire an influential backer in the form of Prince Charles, who dives down to see the ship for himself, and to lend a hand.

Eventually, in October 1982, the great moment arrives. 60 million people all over the world watch the longest outside broadcast yet undertaken, as an enormous floating crane, the Tog Mor, slowly raises a steel cradle in which nestle the remains of Henry's once-proud ship. Klaxons sound from all the vessels gathered to watch: a gun salute comes from Southsea Castle, where two years before his own death, Henry watched as his ship sank during an engagement with a French invasion fleet. It's a moment of high drama, a story of achievement against huge odds. Everyone holds their breath: something could still go wrong.

The raising of the Mary Rose, from Visit Hampshire

But it doesn't. The ship arrives safely at its new home, a dry dock in Portsmouth Harbour, next to that relative youngster, Nelson's Victory.

But then what?

What you have is historic and romantic and a tangible link with the world of the Tudors - but it is basically half a ship, and it's incredibly fragile. Its timbers have been preserved under the silt which excluded oxygen and all the organisms which happily munched on the half that wasn't covered up - but as soon as the wood is exposed to the air, it is at risk.

Clever scientists work out what to do about the wood. From the moment she emerges from the sea, pumps attached to the lifting frame begin to spray her with water, and this will continue for many years - except for a few hours a day, when the archaeologists can do their work. A shelter is built above her. The water washes the salts out of the ancient timbers, and she is sprayed with ployethylene glycol to stregthen them. Then, in 2013, the sprays are turned off, and large air ducts take on the job of removing the water from the timbers, now that they have been stabilised.

So that's the preservation side taken care of. But part of your remit is to establish a museum to house the Mary Rose and all the artefacts which were found inside her - and how do you do that? The SS Great Britain, Brunel's beautiful ship, which I've written about here before, was also battered by the elements and by the years - but it was possible to restore her to the extent that you can see her now almost as she was when she was a 'living' ship. That was never going to be feasible with the Mary Rose. So how was she to be displayed?

The solution the architects (Wilkinson Eyre and Pringle Brandon)found is breathtakingly clever. The museum is on three levels, corresponding to the lower decks, main decks, and upper decks. On each gallery, you walk along a passageway with glass partitions on either side. On the right is the cross-section which is what remains of the ship itself. You can see the cabins, the gunports - the whole structure of the ship. On the left, you can see the objects which were found on the deck you can see on your right. And what a wealth of objects there are: weapons, of course, as this was a warship - but also the personal possessions of the men on board, and the tools of their trades.

The Mary Rose - picture by Rosie Smith

There are also moving tableaux on board the ship, showing groups of sailors about their tasks - holograms, perhaps? I don't know, but whatever they are, they're very realistic. The passageway you walk along dips, and somehow you have the impression that you're on a moving ship - I don't know how they manage this, but they do. It's all very clever.

Then when you leave the viewing gallery, there's a section with displays of the artefacts and explanations of what they have learnt from them. So for instance, you are shown what was found in the surgeon's cabin, and given notes on each object - what they were used for, what they tell us. And they have reconstructed from some of the skeletons what the living men may have looked like, and have made videos using actors who look similar to show them using the objects found - so the surgeon wears the hat which was found, and the leather shoes, and demonstrates some of his intruments.

I'm fascinated by the ways that museums and art galleries have found in the last twenty or so years to display their artefacts. There are some beautiful extensions and remodellings, such as in the Ashmolean and the British Museum and the Rijksmuseum, and such clever uses of technology, as in the Museum of European History in Brussels, the Flanders Fields Museum in Ypres, and this Mary Rose Museum. Sometimes, it seems that when you look out at the world, you see so much horror. It's as if civilisation is going backwards, not forwards, and as if nothing has been learnt from history. But in this area, the reverse is true. So much has been and is being learnt, both of history, and of how to display it and make it meaningful. Thank heavens for museums!

LINCOLN CASTLE AND A GREAT ESCAPE by Penny Dolan

March 16, 2019, 11:00 pm

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The prisoners walked into the city, away from the jail, and quickly mingledwith the crowds. They carried onup Lindum Hill and intothe Adam and Eve pub, right beside Lincoln’s great cathedral.

This is Lincoln Jail. The castellated walls and gateway create an image of state authority but once theyproved powerless.

But where does one begin the story: with the candles or the cakes or the audacity of the plot? 

Or just the persistence of those involved?

The year was 1919. The prisoner, a revolutionary, was a devout Catholic. Heattended Mass eachSunday, and actedas a server. He lit the candles on the altar, helped the priest into his vestments, assisted with the familiar rituals and joined in the Latin responses.

The prisoner also noticed that, when the priest arrived to prepare for Mass, heleft some items, including the key to rear gate, onthe same place on a desk, collectingthem up afterwards.

From then on, drop by drop, scrap by scrap, the man collected up melted candle-wax until he had enough gathered to form intoa small block. When he got the chance, he secretly tookthe prison key, pressedit quickly and firmly into the soft wax block he hadkept warm against his body, and then returnedit to its usual place.

As the Mass ended, the priest gathered up the items and key, put them back in his pocket and left. The devout server returnedto his cell, taking the image of the key to the rear gate with him.

The prisonerstudied the mould and measured the key’s imprint carefully. Then, even though the prison staff examined all outgoing and incoming mail, he sent the information out to his contactsin almost clear view. On one postcard, he drew a jokey, cartoon showing a drunken man fumbling with an enormous key and, as if in a speech bubble, the words“I can’t get in!”That comically largekey had beendrawn to show the exact dimensions and pattern marked inthe mould.

Before long, a cake arrived at Lincoln Jail, addressed to the prisoner, with a duplicate key hidden away inside. The guards did not detect the key but theattempt failed. The prisoner soon discovered why. As the block cooled and hardened, the candle-wax hadshrunk and distorted. The measurements for the replica key were not quite accurate enough. The prisoner studied his original drawings, allowed for the warping, and sent out another postcard.

This one wasadrawingof a prisoner and“The Key To Freedom”, a large,ornate key of Celtic design which secretly replicated the key to the prison back-gate. Written across the card were the words “I can’t get out”.After a while, a secondcake was delivered,concealinganother key. This, too, was faulty.

After a while, anotherparcel arrived, containing a slab of fruit cake, togetherwith a layer of white plaster, as was often used to replicate wedding-cake icing during the sugar-rationing then in force.The guards poked the slabwith a skewer, but the essential ingredientswere not detected.

This time, when the prisoner opened up the cake, he found no key. The plan had moved on. This time the cake held a suitably-sized iron bar - an uncut key - and a small metal file: materials and tools to make an exact key there within Lincoln Jail itself, with the help ofa fellow-prisoner trained as a master-locksmith.

Meanwhile, guards and prisoners heard the sounds of singingfrom outside, where men worked the allotments on the open ground then around Lincoln Jail. They might have noticed thesongs were often in someforeign tongue. Within, the prisoner and his two friends had noticed and were listening carefully. The songs were inGaelic, and the words brought themdetails of the escape plans.

Finally, on February 3^rd1919, at an arranged hour, the prisoner unlocked the back gate of Lincoln Jail with the replica key and escaped with his two friends. Once outside, the man shut the gate, slid thekey back into the lock andturned it. Then he snapped the key off inside the lock, fixingthe gate shut.

The three men walked across the rough open groundand met up with three others. On the way, theystrolled past some soldiers stationed there on sentry duty. The soldiers, drinking and enjoying the company ofa group of friendlyIrish girls, ignored their passing. They entered the city and mingled with the crowds as they made  their way up Lindum Hill to the Adam and Eve pub, close by Lincoln's great cathedral.

 

From there, the prisoner escaped in a series of cars, travelling from Lincoln to Worksop, on to Sheffield andnorth to Manchester, arriving atLiverpool. From there, dressed as a priest, the man sailed back to Ireland and the cause he believed in.

The prisoner’sname was Eamon de Valera. Eventually hebecame The Taoiseach - the Irish Prime Minister - and then the President of the Republic of Ireland.

 

A quick timeline:

In 1882, de Valera was born in New York to an Irish mother and Cuban father, giving him American nationality.

In 1885, aged two,his mother brought him to Ireland after his father’s death.

In 1916, he wasone of the leadersin the failed anti-British Easter Rising in Dublin. Arrested, hisdeath sentence was commuted to life imprisonment because of his nationality. He was laterreleased under a generalamnesty.

In 1917, he won an election, becoming MP for East Clare on a single ticket “One Ireland”, in defiance of Asquith’s Home Rule amendment on behalf of the Protestant counties in the north. He was also elected president of the revolutionary Sinn Fein party.

In 1918, during the post-Armistice General Election, his party won a large majority of the parliamentary seats in Ireland. The country was still ruled from Westminster by the Westminster parliamentarians, who often acted as if Ireland was a colony of little importance.

In 1918, on a trip to England, he was accused of a “German” plot, and imprisoned on a Defence of the Realm charge withinLincoln Jail.

In 1919, Eamon de Valera, along with McGilroy and McGarry, escaped. Outside to meet them wasMichael Collins, the revolutionary strategist. . . .

And so it was that in 1919, Ireland convened its first Parliament: the Dail Eireann.

This revolutionary, one-chamber parliament was created by the 73 Sinn Fein MP’s who refused to recognise the British Parliament inWestminster and demanded independence for Ireland.

The response,between 1919 and 1921, was war - the War of Irish Independence - during which the British Army combined withthe Royal Irish Constabulary and its paramilitary forces: the Auxiliaries and Ulster Special Constabulary against the Irish Republican Army. In 1921, the first Parliament failed, and a border was established between the North and South: the Irish Partition.

Thereare two Irish centenaries in the air, one now and one soon to come.

 

During this year, 2019, Ireland is celebrating thatfirst Parliament. Thenin 1921, in two years time, will come the centenary of the Partition.

Right now, independence is still a very living issue, and it is certainly a time whenpeople in power should know – or be better informed - about the long shadow of history.

To end this post, I’ll add that, in 1950 - thirty years after his escape - Eamon de Valera returned to Lincoln Jail as a guest, to speak ata campaign to re-unify Ireland by peaceful, democratic means.

The abolition of the Irish Partition would, he said, “combine good principles and good business.” A point of view rather relevant at the moment, I fear.

Have a good Saint Patrick’s Day!

Penny Dolan

nb. This story came from various easy-to-discover sources, but I would like to mentionthe author Jane Stanford for herarticle, which I discovered in theIrish Post of 20^thAugust 2013. Thank you!

RESERVE- When History meet Hollywood by Sarah Gristwood

March 17, 2019, 5:01 pm

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There’s been a bit of a boom in historical films recently - and I was lucky enough to get a preview of several at a film festival. Not, however, the one that’s attracted all the controversy: the new Mary Queen of Scots film which has been criticised so freely – it shows a meeting between Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor which absolutely never happened. Though actually, every single drama about them has imagined that meeting, from Schiller back in 1800 to the old Vanessa Redgrave/Glenda Jackson movie. 

There is no such thing as a fully historically accurate movie – hasn’t been, since The Birth of a Nation in 1915 painted the Ku Klux Klan so favourably. How could there be, when there is no one single fully authentic version of history? But each generation (maybe even each person) makes their own demands as to the kind of accuracies they do and do not need- what Simon Schama called selective fastidiousness -  and that can change quite dramatically.

Each generation giving a take on history reflects its own preoccupations; so that Laurence Olivier’s Henry V tells us first about the England of World War 2 - then, about Shakespeare’s England – and by the time we get round to its version of Agincourt, we’re hardly talking history.

So, what is a historical film? The great ancient world epics beloved of old Hollywood? The heroics of Errol Flynn? Or the kind of costume dramas once made by our own Gainsborough Studios – what one film historian called ‘trash history’?. Arthur Schlesinger reckoned that to count as a historical film, a picture has to turn on public events as well as private ones, and I think that’s fair. 

War and Peace film 1956

So you’ve got all war films – and some, but not all Westerns – and War and Peace but not Anna Karenina; and Gone With the Wind is certainly a history movie. Spartacus, and Lawrence of Arabia, Gandhiand Gallipoli, and Charlie Chaplin’s Gold Rush, actually. We like to pride ourselves today on having got past the cliched kind of movie history, and certainly it’s easy to sneer now at the obvious falsity of the old`costume dramas. A Margaret Lockwood lookalike making riding motions, while the scenery scrolled along behind her . . . But there is nothing new under the sun. We today don’t have the franchise on attempted accuracy. Yes, a charioteer in Ben Hur was wearing a wristwatch; and no, that probably wouldn’t happen today. But the costumes for Gone With the Wind were made from fabrics specially woven from museum samples, and on Errol Flynn’s Charge of the Light Brigade, replica Victorian stamps were used on inter-office correspondence to set up an on-set mood of authenticity.

But all that attention to that kind of detail takes us so far and no further. There are some territories on which history and Hollywood must always disagree. I once attended a talk where one of the panellists was a playwright commissioned to write a biopic of Bonnie Prince Charlie and not finding it easy. The problem was all those drunken years in foreign courts with which the real Charles Stuart’s life petered out, ineffectually and inconveniently. A film story needs a definite ark. If only the Prince had the decency to die at Culloden, then they might have had a movie . . .

At that same talk, I heard the man who wrote the film Elizabeth praise the importance of research. You read it all, he said, then you write it all down. He recommended a roll of wallpaper lining, to fit in the exact chronology. And then – he said -  you take all that research, and you throw it away. Because film has its own agenda. The language of film is emotion, as I once heard Harrison Ford say. Or to quote an earlier producer: if you can cheer the hero and boo the villain, if the action is also fast and plentiful, then go into production straight away.

 Action isn’t necessarily a problem with historical subjects – but heroes and villains? Real, past people are never going to slot themselves easily into those categories. Take one of those two films I saw just recently, the wonderful The Favourite with Olivia Colman as Queen Anne, Rachel Weisz as Sarah Churchill, Emma Stone as Abigail Masham and a colourful line in dialogue. Him: ‘I should have you stripped and whipped.’ Her: ‘I’m waiting.’ Think Fifty Shades of Eighteenth Century - but, the emotional dynamics of the tale reflect a real truth, while making a cracker of a movie. Mike Leigh’s Peterloo, on the other hand - the important story of the 1819 cavalry charge that slayed British citizens on British soil -  suffers from treating the historical facts a bit too respectfully. Know what? I can forgive Mary Queen of Scots, and that ahistorical meeting. And I say that as a historian of the sixteenth century.

That said, historical movies matter. The sequence of events shown in the groundbreaking Soviet film Battleship Potemkin has, in the 80 years since, been co-opted as the official version of the story; nor does it matter (said one of the director, Eisenstein’s, colleagues) since ‘the film is more historical than history’. Gore Vidal suggested we all`accept movies as the only source from which people will soon take their history.

I worry that the makers of historical films have a responsibility they don’t – or can’t afford to – acknowledge . . That each age get the historical films it deserves; and our school report would be ‘tries hard, could do better’, basically. Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor featured hugely in each other’s lives and each other’s imaginations. The movie meeting, in a sense, only dramatises one, emotional, kind of reality.

But I do believe that if film makers are going to blend fiction and fact, they have a responsibility at least to aim for the best version they can, of the great movements of the past, as their own age most carefully understands them. Not just to grab a convincing splash of historical colour for another kiss kiss bang bang story.

(Celia Rees is laid low with the flu and will be back next month. We are grateful to Sarah Gristwood for filling in for her)

The Terminators Part Two By L.J. Trafford

March 18, 2019, 5:00 pm

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Last month I looked at the assassinations of three Romans: Julius Caesar, Caligula and Domitian. I examined the How, the Who and the Why of those murders and in doing so uncovered high principles, self preservation and wholesale revenge.
This month I'm examining three more assassinations and seeing if there are any linking themes.

1) Commodus 

© José Luiz Bernardes Ribeiro / CC BY-SA 4.0

Prior to Commodus there had been a run of, what Edward Gibbon in the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire likes to call, The Five Good Emperors. These were Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antonius Pius and Marcus Aurelius. This is what Gibbon sees as the height of Roman power and good governance. Commodus succeeded his father Marcus Aurelius in the year 180 AD at the age of 18 to a system that had been run extremely well for over 70 years.

The big question here, and I know you’re all thinking it: how did he cock it all up?
We shall see.... but before that let’s skip ahead for a look at Commodus’ final moment.


The How
If you’ve seen Gladiator and are now yelling “I know this! In the arena by that Australian dude!”, you are in for a rude awakening. For history has a very different tale.
Firstly Commodus’ wife Marcia served him up a dish of poisoned beef. However, the Emperor vomited the beef and the poison up. As Commodus recuperated in a nice restorative hot bath, a wrestler named Narcissus was sent into the bathroom. Narcissus proceeded to strangle the Emperor.

The Who
Well two are named above. His wife and the wonderfully named wrestler Narcissus. But there were more involved. Cassius Dio names Laetus and Eclectus. Laetus was the Praetorian Prefect. Which is interesting given Laetus had a whole guard at his command to undertake the assassination, which he didn’t use.

The Why
Commodus had reigned 12 years when he was assassinated. We are extremely lucky in that we have an actual eye witness, in the shape of Cassius Dio, as to what living under Commodus was actually like. I make no apologies for posting this long extract. Because it is so worth it and gives you an insight into what those 12 years of Commodus' rule had been like:

And here is another thing that he did to us senators which gave us every reason to look for our death. Having killed an ostrich and cut off his head, he came up to where we were sitting, holding the head in his left hand and in   his right hand raising aloft his bloody sword; and though he spoke not a word, yet he wagged his head with a grin, indicating that he would treat us in the same way. And many would indeed have perished by the sword on the spot, for laughing at him (for it was laughter rather than indignation that overcame us), if I had not chewed some laurel leaves, which I got from my garland, myself, and persuaded the others who were sitting near me to do the same, so that in the steady movement of our armies we might conceal the fact that we were laughing. 

Commodus was very fond of playing in the arena, as again Cassius Dio, who was actually there informs us:

On the first day, then, the events that I have described took place. On the other days he descended to the arena from his place above and cut down all the domestic animals that approached him and some also that were led up to him or were brought before him in nets. He also killed a tiger, a hippopotamus, and an elephant. Having performed these exploits, he would retire, but later, after luncheon, would fight as a gladiator. 

Obviously performing as a Gladiator and as a wild beast hunter is very un-emperory. Even when you are extremely good at it: 

Such was his prowess in the slaying of wild beasts, that he once transfixed an elephant with a pole, pierced a gazelle's horn with a spear, and on a thousand occasions dispatched a mighty beast with a single blow 

Historia Augusta 

A young Commodus

And forcing the Senate and the people to watch it is a bit annoying, especially if they had a much better event to go to. But is it justification for murder? Probably not. However, we do have a long list of Commodus' other offences:

• Letting unpopular favourites such as Praetorian Prefect, Cleander run Rome whilst he ran around shooting ostriches and head waggling intimidation of Senators.
• Full scale eye popping debauchery. Which included collecting 300 beautiful concubines for his pleasure from across the Empire, whether they wanted to be collected or not.
• Megalomania on an epic scale. Which involved renaming Rome, Commodiana after himself. He also renamed the months of the year to  Amazonius, Invictus, Felix, Pius,Lucius, Aelius, Aurelius, Commodus, Augustus, Herculeus, Romanus, Exsuperatorius. And he even renamed himself to this far from catchy title: The Emperor Caesar Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus Augustus Pius Felix Sarmaticus Germanicus Maximus Britannicus, Pacifier of the Whole Earth, Invincible, the Roman Hercules, Pontifex Maximus, Holder of the Tribunician Authority for the eighteenth time, Imperator for the eighth time, Consul for the seventh time, Father of his Country.
• Horrific cruelty, including: "One corpulent person he cut open down the middle of his belly, so that his intestines gushed forth.  Other men he dubbed one-eyed or one-footed, after he himself had plucked out one of their eyes or cut off one of their feet." Historia Augusta. 
• And err this: "It is claimed that he often mixed human excrement with the most expensive foods, and he did not refrain from tasting them, mocking the rest of the company, as he thought." Historia Augustua

All in all I think the question we need to ask regarding the assassination of Commodus is not Why? But rather, why not?

The Aftermath
Our friend Cassius Dio sums the aftermath up nicely “After this there occurred most violent wars and civil strife.”
Indeed there was. The year following Commodus’ assassination is known as the year of the 5 emperors. So you can imagine what a bloody mess that was.

Was it a success?
As with last month’s look we have to look at the key aims before we can evaluate the success rate. Despite our eye witness of the times, Cassius, the detailed motives of Laetus and Eclectus are kind of vague. Which actually makes sense, there was no cataclysmic one thing that pushed them over the edge rather 12 whole, long years of Commodus’ erratic and strange behaviour.
It was successful therefore in the fact that the Senators who’d been worn down from this behaviour were freed from the tiring, depravity of it all.
So yes. We’ll call it a success despite a civil war later breaking out.

Aurelian. Originally produced in the Nordisk familjebok.

2) Aurelian

Aurelian ruled for only 5 years from 270-275 AD. Which might not sound like much but it’s worth bearing in mind this was during the 3rd Century Crisis. A hundred years of turmoil that saw Emperors come and Emperors before they had a chance to get the posh purple clothing on. A century in which you had a whopping 82% chance of an unnatural death as Emperor. The average reign was only 3.6 years. So Aurelian was punching well above his weight to rule a whole 5 years and he packed a surprising amount into that half decade:

• He expelled the Vandals, the Juthungi and the Sarmatians from Roman territory. 
• He defeated the Goths. 
• He defeated the Palmyrene Empire. 
• He defeated the Gallic Empire.
• He had a bit of a breather. Then reformed the monetary system, built some massive walls and generally made things better.

For this he declared himself Restorer of the World. Then somebody assassinated him.

The How
In 275AD Aurelian had decided that he just didn’t have enough victories to his name and started eyeing up the Persians. It was whilst he was in Thrace preparing for this campaign that it happened.
Compared to other assassinations the description we have is disappointingly brief.

Observing Aurelian to go out of the city with a small retinue, they ran out upon him and murdered him. 

Zosimus

OK. That’s the how dealt with. Given this is an era without firearms we’ll assume swords were involved. Perhaps daggers. Maybe a spoon.
Let us move on.

The Who
The Who in this case were his own Guards. But they had been egged on by a man named Eros or alternatively Mnestheus. Whatever his name was, he worked for Aurelian. Zosimus says he carried messages for the Emperor.


The Why
In a nut shell: Eros/Mnestheus had screwed up. We know not at what. But it was something big enough for him to fear Aurelian’s wrath. Though I guess this depends on how nervy Eros/Mnestheus was and how exacting Aurelian was. Possibly it was a slight misfiling of letters. Possibly he’d been nicking money on the side. Possibly he’d given the wrong message to the wrong person and that’s why they were going to war against the Persians. We shall never know. Which is bloody annoying.
Anyhow Eros/Mnestheus had screwed up in a way that apparently could only be resolved by killing the sole man who’d managed to restore the Empire, defeat all it’s enemies and bring stability to the region.
Rather than doing the deed himself Eros/Mnestheus went to the Guards and told them a:

Plausible story, and showed them a letter of his own writing, in the character of the emperor (which he had long before learned to counterfeit), and persuading them first that they themselves were to be put to death, which was the meaning expressed by the letter, he endeavored to prevail on them to murder the emperor. 

Zosimus

Firstly, being able to counterfeit the Emperor’s handwriting is quite a suspicious talent and one that makes you wonder whether that is at the bottom of Eros/Mnestheus’ screw up.
Secondly, let’s be impressed not only by Eros/Mnestheus’ counterfeiting skills but also by his ability to spin a yarn to the Guards. Because they swallowed this whole. Which suggests three possibilities:

1) The Praetorian Guard were a particularly gullible lot who unfortunately had been allocated swords.
2) Aurelian was the sort of boss that you could most easily would order your death on a whim. Or as the Historia Augusta puts it “Aurelian — it cannot be denied — was a stern, a savage, and a blood-thirsty prince.”
3) The Guard were somehow involved/implicit in Eros/Mnestheus’ screw up/possible corruption/maybe counterfeiting ring.

The speed at which the conspiracy formed and was executed suggests that it was deemed very necessary. As does the fact that the Guards had no successor in mind. Which is highly unusual in an era where rival legions propelled forward their own candidates for Emperor.

The Aftermath
It went as well as can be imagined when a hasty conspiracy murders an extremely capable emperor who had only just restored stability after decades of bloody instability.
Surprisingly as mentioned above, the Guards did not appoint a successor. They handed that honour over to the Senate. There even seems to have been a bit of regret at their hasty actions.

After he was slain and the facts became known, those very men who had killed him gave him a mighty tomb and a temple. 

Historia Augusta

The Senate gave it eight months thought and came up with Marcus Claudius Tacitus as the new emperor. He lasted 8 months.
His successor Florian didn’t even last that long.
And so the crisis of the 3rd century continued.

The big walls of Rome that Aurelian built at Porta Asinaria Photo by MrPanyGoff

Was it a Success?
Given the original motivation was to prevent Aurelian finding out about whatever it was that Eros/Mnestheus had screwed up, well yes it was a success. Aurelian never did find out about the cock up.
But this was his fate:

Mnestheus, however, was afterward hauled away to a stake and exposed to wild beasts. 

Historia Augusta 

Eeek. One can’t help feel that Eros/Mnestheus might have been able to use those magnificent counterfeiting and smooth oratory skills on more usefully escaping Aurelian’s wrath.



3) Valentinian III

Possible diptych of Aetius. Historian Ian Hughes in his book Aetius: Attila's Nemesis suggests that this may very well be Aetius.Photo credit Tatarrn

Valentinian III became Emperor of the Western Roman Empire at the age of only 6 after showing prodigious talent in drawing, colouring and ruining furniture by jumping on it.
Just kidding. He, of course, inherited the title. An early start meant he ruled for 30 years. Or rather other people ruled on his behalf. First up his mother Gallia Placidia, followed by the top general Aetius.

During this period the Western Empire was continually menaced by troublesome and fearsome sounding tribes like the Visigoths and the Vandals and *cue dramatic music* Attila and his horrifying Huns.

Luckily for Valentinian he had a trusty and talented general in the shape of Flavius Aetius. Aetius was happily fighting off the Franks, the Burgundians and the Bagaudae, in addition to everyone else in this fighty happy period.


The How

Valentinian decided to go riding on the Campus Martius with a few guardsmen and the followers of Optila and Thraustila (Huns loyal to Aetius). When he dismounted from his horse and was walking off to practice archery, Optilla and his followers mad for him and, drawing the swords at their sides, attacked him. Optila struck Valentinian across the side of his head and, when he turned to see who struck him, felled him with a second blow to the face 
John of Antioch.

Ouchy. And clearly unexpected:

Whether those present were stunned by the surprise of the attempt or frightened by the warlike reputation of the men, their attack brought no retaliation. 
John of Antioch

The Who
We have the two names above. Optila and Thraustila. We also have one other bit of key information “Loyal to Aetius”.
To get to the why let us us rewind 6 months to September 21st 454 AD.


The Why

Attila the Hun, one of Rome's many enemies at the time. Illustrations from the Nuremberg Chronicle, by Hartmann Schedel (1440-1514) {{PD-US}}

As we’ve seen above Flavius Aetius was the Western Empire’s greatest general at a time when they really needed great generals.
In 454 Aetius was at the height of his fighty-ness and success. His son was even betrothed to the Emperor’s daughter. He was basking in Imperial favour and general respect by all.
Then on the 21st September 454 Aetius was invited to a planning meeting with the Emperor. As Aetius went through the boring details of tax revenues and finances and budgets, the emperor suddenly jumped up from his throne and started yelling accusations at him.
The key accusation being that Aetius was a treacherous so and so (insert your own favourite term of abuse here) and was plotting to replace him as Emperor.
The historian Priscus picks up the story:

While Aetius was stunned by this unexpected rage and was attempting to calm his irrational outburst, Valentinian drew his sword from his scabbard, and together with Heraclius, who was carrying a cleaver under his cloak…for he was head chamberlain, fell upon him. They both rained down blows on his head and killed him, a man who had performed so many brave actions against enemies both internal and external. 

Yes, really. Valentinian jumped up and stabbed to death his employee during a particularly dull meeting. I mean clearly we’ve all been in meetings like that and possibly we’ve all imagined killing our colleagues just to end those types of meetings. But it’s still quite shocking is it not? The Emperor of the West jumping up and stabbing to death his most favoured general to death during a meeting on tax revenues, of all things.
So why did he do it? Was Aetius really plotting to take over? He had the popularity, the army, the capability to do so. But then his son had just got betrothed to Valentinian’s son. His grandchildren would be of Imperial birth. He had no need to push Valentinian out the way.

Valentinian clearly believed Aetius was planning to usurp him and we are told why:

Maximus, a powerful noble, who had been twice consul, was hostile to Aetius, the general of the forces of Italy. Since he knew that Heraclius, a eunuch who carried very great weight with the Emperor (Valentinian III), was extremely hostile against Aetius for the same reason….since they both wished to replace his sway with their own. The made an arrangement and they persuaded the emperor that if he did not act first and kill Aetius, Aetius would kill him.

John of Antioch

Back to Valentinian's murderers, Optila and Thraustila. Post bloody emperor murdering, we are told this:

Both of them took of the Emperor’s diadem and horse and rode off to Maximus. 

Priscus

Yes the exact same Maximus who had persuaded Valentinian to murder Aetius. Funny that. Even funnier, guess who succeeded Valentinian as Emperor?
Maximus.

The Aftermath
What a magnificent piece of treachery that was!  We are expecting high things of Maximus as Emperor now, aren’t we? After all he successfully played on the paranoia of Valentinian to remove the top general in all of the West, and then plied up feelings of revenge in the breasts of assassins Optila and Thraustila to remove Valentinian.
He probably ruled for decades playing off everyone against each other in a thoroughly schemey reign.
Err no.

His reign lasted only two months. Mostly because one of his earliest actions was to cancel the intended marriage of Valentinian’s daughter to the son of the Vandal King, Geiseric.
Geiseric did not take this well and launched an invasion into Italy. Given there was no highly successful Vandal repelling Aetius to sort out Geiseric, the civilians of Italy hit panic mode. As did Maximus, who sensing his scheming powers were of little use against the invading Vandals, legged it. Whilst fleeing he was set upon by an angry mob and killed. Meanwhile the thwarted Geiseric took out his frustrations on Rome, spending two weeks sacking the city.


Was it Successful?
By the Gods above it was. Maximus successfully murdered his way to becoming Emperor without getting his own hands bloody. It was inspired. It was just unfortunate that he wasn’t actually much good at being Emperor and had orchestrated the murder of the only man who could have saved his reign.


Conclusion
Having examined the assassinations of six ancient Romans can we find any common themes/links/similarities?

They all involved conspiracies of more than one person. Whether it be Brutus and his high minded gang, Caligula's staff turning their heads as Cassius plotted, or Laetus and Eclectus frantically improvising when their original plan to kill Commodus failed.
We also have some criminal masterminds who managed not to get their own hands bloody in the shape of Domitian's chamberlain Parthienus, Aurelian's nervy assistant Eros and of course the mega scheming Maximus.
Motivations wise we've had revenge (Caligula). We've had self preservation (Domitian, Aurelian and probably Commodus). We've had ambition (Valentinian). And we've had high minded principles (Julius Caesar).

All in all the key thing we've learnt is most definitely: Watch those closest to you.
Whether they be your own Guards (Aurelian, Caligula, Commodus), your wife (Commodus), your secretaries (Aurelian, Domitian) or your friends (Julius Caesar, Valentinian).

L.J. Trafford is the author of The Four Emperors Series of Books, which cover a whole series of bloody Emperor deaths that all took place in a single year. And available on Amazon

Inspirational homes (1) by Carolyn Hughes

March 19, 2019, 5:30 pm

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“Inspirational homes” might put you in mind of a strapline blazoned across the front of a glossy interior décor magazine, but that’s not the sort of inspiration I’m going to talk about. In this post, and my next two, I thought I’d reveal a little about the real-life buildings that “inspire” me as I write about the homes in which my characters spend their lives.

In my novels, set in 14th century southern England, my characters are peasants, artisans of various sorts, and the gentry. The peasants might be poor or wealthy, and free or unfree, so some are on the lowest rung of village society, whereas others, even if they owe service to their lord, are well off enough to be the equivalent of a middle class.

Depending on their station in life, these people would have lived in:

• One-roomed cottages, barely better than hovels, in which every part of life for a family was spent in the same space;
• Bigger two- or three-roomed cottages, perhaps with a platform for sleeping and possibly small storage spaces;
• Houses with two storeys, a hall downstairs, and a solar upstairs for sleeping accessed by a narrow staircase;
• Large manor houses with several rooms, but still centred on a main great hall, and with a solar perhaps divided into chambers. Some manor houses might be fortified. 

Above and beyond the manor houses there were of course great castles, but I have none of those kind of aristocratic folk in my novels, so I need no castles to inspire me!

To get some idea of what 14th century homes might look – and indeed feel – like, I am very fortunate to have quite close by, in West Sussex, the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum, a living museum, whose mission is to rescue and conserve historic buildings from across the south of England. Buildings are saved from being demolished, or from simply falling down, by being carefully dismantled and rebuilt on the museum’s site. The museum has more than fifty buildings, spanning nine centuries. Most are open for you to go inside, so that you can get a real feel for what it was like to live and work in them. The museum is a wonderful resource.

As also is English Heritage, which manages over 400 historic monuments, buildings and other places of historical interest, including both some modest homes and wonderful castles.

The buildings I am going to discuss in these posts can be visited either at the Weald and Downland Museum or at an English Heritage site.

Today I am going to discuss the homes at the bottom end of the scale, peasants’ cottages. Because they were the homes of the poor, and were often built of materials that were given to decay – timber, wattle and daub, thatch – few such buildings survive to the present day. Of course some houses with origins in the Middle Ages are still standing, but they were likely to have been constructed of stone, and presumably will have been maintained and refurbished over the centuries to keep them structurally sound.

Two of the five mediaeval houses re-erected at the Weald and Downland Museum are the 13th century cottage from Hangleton in Sussex and a house from Boarhunt in Hampshire that dates from the 14th century. These are both small peasant houses.

Some peasant houses might have been designed to accommodate animals in one end of the building, but that is not the case with either of these. It must be presumed that animals would have been kept in a separate byre or barn.

The two-room cottage from Hangleton is a flint cottage reconstructed using archaeological evidence from excavation of the mediaeval village. The cottage was probably built in the 13th century and abandoned in the 14th. Hangleton itself, which is about 4 miles (6.5 km) north-west of Brighton, seems to have been already in decline by the middle of the 14th century as a result of the climatic and economic upheavals of the early part of the century. The arrival of what we call the Black Death in 1348-1350 might have been the last straw.

Oast House Archive/Mediaeval Cottage at Weald & Downland Museum, Singleton, West Sussex/CC BY-SA 2.0

Although this is an entirely flint-built cottage, other cottages from the area were built with a framework of wooden posts, and the spaces between filled with wattle and daub, though later this was replaced with flint. The walls of this cottage are about three or four feet (one to one and a half metres) high. Above the eaves is the timber framework of the roof, which is covered in thick straw thatch, although apparently the roof could have been wooden shingles or turf, some other type of thatch, or possibly even clay tiles.

The cottage has two rooms. The main room is where the family – on average five people – would have lived their entire lives: cooking their food, eating it, sleeping and carrying out all the essential tasks of everyday life. It must have been very cramped! I don’t have the exact dimensions, but I don’t think it can be much more than 15 feet (3 metres) square.

The second room has an oven, which is not usual for an ordinary cottage at a time when villagers were expected to have their bread baked in the lord’s oven, but perhaps the occupier of this house was a baker...

Most of the homes at this time (even relatively wealthy ones) would have had a hearth in the middle of the floor of the main (or only) room, and this is true of the main room here. A circular stone hearth has been laid on the floor, not quite in the middle but somewhat to one side. The room is open to the rafters, and the smoke from the fire would have risen and found its way out through the thatch. Most people assume that there would have been a hole of some sort in the roof’s ridge through which the smoke escaped, but I have read that the gaps in the thatch would have provided sufficient egress. It is also said that the smoke was good for keeping the thatch insect free, though I daresay creepy-crawlies were pretty abundant in mediaeval cottages.

The museum has dressed the room with a couple of small tables, a bench and a few stools, a fairly strong-looking chest, perhaps for storing linen, clothes and any valuables, and an array of baskets, tubs and cooking and eating utensils. Tools and other items are shown hanging from the rafters, or stored on the top of the wall, but there is clearly little space for much in the way of furniture or possessions. No bed is shown here, so we must assume that the family would lay down their pallets when they were ready for bed, at a suitable distance from the open hearth.

There is just one small window and, of course, it is not glazed. It has vertical struts offering a measure of security, and a sort of blind – oiled cloth perhaps – has been installed to keep out the weather. I suppose that a shutter might have been added for greater protection, but one isn’t shown here. It must have been very dark indoors, even with the blind open, and exceedingly gloomy with it closed. Given that these poor folk’s only source of light after sundown was the fire and smelly tallow candles or feeble rushlights, one presumes that, as soon as evening came there was no point trying do anything other than rolling out their straw pallets and seeking sleep!

I have spent a day (well, more like a few hours) in this little cottage, dressed in medieval clothes, learning how to spin, crouching round that central hearth, making soup (“sowpys dorry”) and cheese pottage. I discovered how very hot and smoky it was inside, and thought that maybe I wouldn’t have much enjoyed being a 14th century peasant...

The author, enjoying being "mediaeval" for the day

The “hall house” from Boarhunt, 7 miles (11 km) north of Portsmouth, in Hampshire, dates from the late 14th century (1355–1390). It is a bit larger than the Hangleton cottage, having three bays, and is built with a cruck frame over the middle of the central hall. In the museum’s view, this building was particularly well constructed for its size.

Keith Edkins / Boarhunt Hall / CC BY-SA 2.0

The central bay is the main living room – the “hall” – again with the hearth in the middle of the floor. The hearth is shown as a rectangle, taking up a surprisingly large portion of the space available. The roof timbers in this central hall show the blackening effects of smoke from the open fire. Although this is a somewhat larger house than Hangleton, the main living area is still quite small, say 20 feet (just over 6 metres) square. The furniture used to dress the hall is much the same as for Hangleton, and again there is no sign of a bed.

It is thought that the bay to the right of the main entrance was probably a service or storage room, while the third room accessed by a door to the left of the hall is thought to be a “solar”, a private room. This inner room has no windows, so perhaps it was simply used for sleeping. It was also completely sealed off from the smoke-filled hall, whereas the service room was only separated from the hall by a screen below cross-beam level.

I have spent time in both these buildings so, when I am writing about peasant cottages in my novels, I can recall what it felt like to be inside them and I try to replicate that feeling in my descriptions of domestic life. Some of my peasant characters do live in one- or two-room cottages, while others' houses might be a little larger. I have seen it conjectured that some people might have constructed sleeping platforms under the rafters and, liking that idea, I have given one or two of my families that arrangement. It would seem to me to be a safer place to sleep than clustered around the hearth, though it would presumably be quite unpleasantly smoky up there!

I think it would be true to say that, for mediaeval peasants, their homes would mostly be cramped from lack of space, dark from a lack of windows, smoky from the central hearth and, in bad weather, cold, draughty and damp. But I suppose that, if you know no different, you would accept that level of discomfort as simply normal, and be grateful that at least you had a place of your own in which to eat and sleep and spend time with your family.

Next time, I will discuss homes of a somewhat higher standing: one belonging to a wealthy farmer and another built by a Souhampton wine merchant.

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HNSA Conference 2019 - making a noise about historical fiction

March 20, 2019, 5:30 pm

≫ Next: Stories From the City of the Dead by Catherine Hokin

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Back in 2017, Gillian Polack interviewed me about my role as program director of the 2017 Historical Novel Society Australasia conference in Melbourne. Hard to believe that 2 years has passed. I'm excited to say we've now launched the program for our 3rd biennial conference in Sydney on 25-27 October, 2019  in partnership with Western Sydney University. Writing historical fiction is my passion, and making a noise about the genre through programming  is a very rewarding labour of love.

As Chair and program director of HNSA, here’s an overview of what's on offer at the conference instead of my regular monthly history post. Forgive me, I've been a little preoccupied of late:) And if you're keen to learn more about Australian historical fiction in general, you can read my state of play for the Historical Novel Review: Indigenous Origins, Colonialism and Diaspora.

What’s on offer at HNSA 2019

The HNSA committee  never thought we’d get this far - our 3rd biennial conference. We hope fans of the genre, both readers and writers alike, will gather as a community again –this time at historic Parramatta (the second oldest town in Australasia). There is a lot to celebrate at HNSA 2019!

Guest of Honour, Jackie French

HNSA 2019 Guest of Honour and Keynote Speaker

Jackie Frenchis our Guest of Honour. Historian, ecologist, literacy advocate, and author of over 140 books for all age groups, she holds more than 60 awards in Australia and overseas. Our keynote speaker, New Zealand author and academic, Dr Paula Morris, will address our theme of History Repeats to explore whether historical fiction can engage readers who might not see the parallels between past and present. Our HNSA patron, Kate Forsyth will warmly open the conference.  Our theme will be explored further in a panel that ponders subtexts in historical novels with Winton Higgins, Michelle Aung Thin and Lucy Treloar (Learning from History). We also look forward to Marie Munkara talking about recovering the 'erased' history of First Nations people (Dispossession & Betrayal) due to shameful government policies and law that saw Indigenous children stolen from their parents. 

A treat for readers and writers

Our general stream is aimed at both readers and writers. We have over 60 esteemed authors discussing their books, inspiration, favourite history, personal journeys and thorny topics. On Saturday 26 October enjoy the insights of adaptable writers, Sophie Masson and Kelly Gardiner (The Versatile Writer); hear why Jane Caro and Ali Alizadeh are drawn to write about famous characters like Elizabeth I and Joan D'Arc (We Need to Talk about Bette and Joan); and explore the innocence, guilt and psychopathy of criminal protagonists with Janet Lee, Pip Smith and Catherine Jinks (The Criminal Mind).

On Sunday 27, October Nicole Alexander and Ella Carey explain the attraction of drawing on family legends (Personal Histories); and Kate Forsyth and Nastasha Lester travel back into France’s history (A French Affair). Alison Goodman, Anne Gracie and Anna Campbell will inspire us with Regency madness (George & Georgette) while Jock Serong, Rachel Leary and Stephanie Parkyn take us into the mind of characters who battle both internal fears and their environment (Survival of the Fittest). Meg Keneally and Gay Hendriksen will discuss the benefits of historical novelists and historians actively collaborating together (Walking Side by Side.) 

Kate Forsyth & Paula Morris

Honing your craft

Running parallel with our general stream is our second dealing with the craft and business of writing. On Saturday 26 October we kick off by delving into how to keep the sizzle factor in your historical romance series (Stoking the Flame) with Lizzi Tremayne, Renee Dahlia and Elizabeth Ellen Carter; and discover the hard work required to market your novel after your ‘book baby’ is born with author Lucinda Brant, publicist Debbie McInnes, and Berkelouws Books' Melanie Prosser (Connecting with Readers). Paula Morris, Isobel Blackthorn and Greg Johnston explain the challenges of imagining a dead person’s life (Respectful Research); while Jesse Blackadder, Rachel le Rossignol and Majella Cullinane discuss the value of writing degrees (It’s Academic).

On Sunday 27 October, Robert Gott returns with Katherine Kovacic and Tessa Lunney to divulge how to weave a web of truth and lies in detective fiction (History & Mystery); Gillian Polack, Ilke Tampke and Pamela Hart ponder the individual challenges of researching different eras (The Things We Don’t Know); Belinda Castles, Robyn Cadwallader and Julian Leatherdale explore the nuances of point of view (I am a Camera); and  Tea Cooper, Emily Madden and Carla Caruso describe the mystery element in parallel narratives (Intertwining Lives Revealed). The skills required to create a strong and plausible female protagonist is revealed by Lauren Chater, Kirsty Murray and Elizabeth Jane Corbett (The Feminine Mystique); while Jesse Blackadder and Mira Robertson discuss the secret to scriptwriting (The Silver Screen). 

Finally, to round off the conference we decided to leave the bedroom door closed and summon some black magic. I'm looking forward to joining  Kate Forsyth and Kim Wilkins to conjure weird and wonderful superstitions and concoctions to keep readers spellbound in Love Potions and Witchcraft.

A fresh approach – Friday Craft & Publishing Program

At HNSA 2017, we held short workshops concurrently with the main program. Attendees were frustrated they were missing out on panels on the main program to attend these - spoiled for choice! As a result, the committee has decided to take a fresh approach in 2019. Instead of holding a round table at a Friday Opening Reception, we're conducting a Craft & Publishing program on Friday 25 October with practical workshops for writers, masterclasses, and manuscript assessments.

There’ll be a suite of 9 two hour workshops by top rate tutors offering insights and practical tips on various aspects of the writing craft, research, and sub-genres. Our wonderful team includes Kate Forsyth (Spice & Swashbuckle – Writing Romantic Historical Fiction), Sophie Masson (Writing Historical Fiction for Children and Young Adults), Alison Goodman (Writing Historical Fantasy), Robert Gott (Writing Crime Fiction), Pamela Hart (Making Research Work for You), Kelly Gardiner (Scrivener for Beginners), Rachel Franks (Trove for the Historical Novelist ), Paula Morris (Writing Family History) and Evan Shapiro (Self-Publishing Essentials).

Our popular 1:1 manuscripts assessments will also happen on the Friday – this year with Scholastic publisher Clare Hallifax, and agent Irina Dunn. And Gillian Polack is offering 1:1 masterclasses on writing and research instead of teaching small groups. 

Munkara, Masson, Serong, Alexander, Gott & Jinks

And the winner is….

Our signature First Pages Pitch Contest will be held on Saturday 26 October. This year we’re offering $200 in prize money.  So polish up your pitch and the first few paragraphs of your work-in-progress. Rachel Nightingale returns as our narrator with Clare Hallifax (Scholastic Australia), agent Margaret Connolly, and Michelle Lovi (Odyssey Press), acting as our judges. Every writer in the audience can benefit from hearing the critiques of experts on which words first attract a publisher’s attention. It’s entertaining for everyone else too. 

The ARA HNSA Short Story Contest also returns thanks to our generous sponsor, ARA, which  is donating $500 prize money. Our HNSA Conference patron, Sophie Masson, is our judge. 

An evening by the river

Our conference dinner on 26 October will be held at Sahra by the River, a restaurant nestled on the banks of the Parramatta River. Historical Romance author, Anna Campbell, will regale us with stories after Sophie Masson announces the winner of the ARA HNSA Short Story Contest.

En garde!

Fancy some sword play? Or curious to know how to wear armour or hold a longbow? Richard Halcomb from the Medieval Archery Society is joining us this year to provide hands-on advice on Medieval Arms and Armouring while Richard Cullinan from Stoccata School of Defence will give an Introduction to Historical Fencing. So indulge your inner Robin Hood or Arya Stark at our Historical Reenactments and Weapons demonstrations.

Challenging the genre

In our extended Academic stream on Sunday 27 October, we’ll bring together postgraduates, academics, and other interested scholars to consider the complexities of the genre of historical fiction and its readership. This will also be open to general admission for conference delegates. A Call for Papers is currently been made. 

Say hello

Thanks for letting me share my news. I know many of you live in the northern hemisphere, but I hope you might travel Downunder later this year. If you do, please say hello!

For more information about HNSA 2019, you can visit our 2019 Conference page and go from there. And if you're keen, you can buy tickets here.

Elisabeth Storrs is the author of the Tales of Ancient Rome, and co-founder of HNS Australasia. Learn more at her website.

Stories From the City of the Dead by Catherine Hokin

March 21, 2019, 11:30 pm

≫ Next: King’s Residence or Riot Control? - by Judith Allnatt

≪ Previous: HNSA Conference 2019 - making a noise about historical fiction

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Going out-out - the big night out that demands special clothes and a day off to recover - is one of those phrases I would never willingly use (along with party as a verb). I am, however, now tempted to declare that I've just been on a holiday-holiday. I've spent the last year working on a WWII story set partly in Buenos Aires (it's out on submission, send kindness) not knowing that, while I was in the thick of researching it, my OH was planning a surprise trip. Yes, he's a keeper. I've just returned and would go back in a heartbeat. Buenos Aires is an astonishing city bursting with contradictions. It is part of a once-colonised country with a love of all things European; its public history is both extravagantly told and tightly controlled, masking a troubled, hidden past; it harbours real poverty against architecture that will make your jaw drop. It could spawn a thousand blogs (if that book makes it, it will) but I'm going to focus here on the famous Recoleta Cemetery where we went for a couple of hours and lost a day.

The cemetery covers over 13 acres and, although the surrounding land was once orchards and fields, it is now situated in the middle of one of the city's priciest neighbourhoods. The cemetery takes its name from the monks of the Order of the Recoletos and is built around their convent and a church (which can both be visited) dating from the 1730s. The cemetery itself opened in November 1822, after the monks had been expelled, and was opened to all religions after 1863. Inside its high walls there are over 6,400 statues, coffins and crypts, and some 30,000 inhabitants. It is laid out in blocks, with narrow sidewalks branching out from wide walkways. The mausoleums are built from marble in a variety of styles including art deco, art nouveau, baroque and neo-gothic, each style grouped together and adding to the sense that you are wandering through a city's neighbourhoods - some of which are more up-and-coming than others. Many of the buildings have glass fronts and coffins above ground as well as below and the state they are in varies considerably. A grave in Recoleta is bought for eternity: even if the annual fee for maintenance isn't paid, it won't be cleared. Several of the older tombs have been shored up but are crumbling and the coffins that are visible lie under thick layers of dust. Some, however, are still used and gleam with polished glass and starched cloths. 

The cemetery is, of course, full of stories which run the full gamut from the personal to the political. There are generals on every street, surrounded by plaques commemorating their long-forgotten victories. It has a resident ghost - a grave-digger who worked for 30 years saving money for his own plot and statue and killed himself once the architect finished the work, walks round at dawn jangling his keys and unable to leave. There is also a great statue of a couple who fought so much in life their effigies are now placed back-to-back.

Rufina Cambacere

However, as befits a place where you feel quite certain Edgar Allen Poe would have thrived, the most tragic (and popular) stories centre round beautiful young women. The story of Rufina Cambacere is actually the stuff of nightmares. Having been taken ill at her 19th birthday party, either with a heart problem/an epileptic fit/because she found out her mother was having an affair with her boyfriend (the stories all have stories) Rufina was buried in a beautiful marble tomb. Unfortunately the poor girl wasn't dead. Screams were heard on the night of the burial and, when the groundsmen plucked up the courage to investigate the next morning, the coffin had moved and poor, now dead, Ruffina was all covered in scratches where she had clawed at her face and throat. This incident is credited with leading to an Argentinean law stating that a body cannot be buried any earlier than twelve hours after the death certificate has been signed. Why it prompted her parents to add a statue of the poor girl emerging alive out of the tomb is anyone's guess. 

Another cemetery favourite is the tomb of Liliana Crociati. Although the bronze statue looks far older, this mausoleum in fact dates from the early 1970s. 

Liliana Crociati de Szaszak

The young Liliana met her end on her honeymoon aged 26 when an avalanche swept over her hotel in Innsbruck, Austria and she died of suffocation. Rumour has it that she and her dog Sabú were so attached to each other that he died in Buenos Aires at the same time. The tomb, none of which is visible at ground level, is apparently a reconstruction of Liliana's childhood bedroom. That and the statue of her in her wedding dress patting Sabú was paid for by her grief-stricken parents. Interestingly there is no mention anywhere of the widowed groom. As you might be able to tell from the photograph (apologies for the quality, it was a very bright day), the green patina has been completely worn off Sabú's nose because visitors nowadays rub it for luck. 

In Buenos Aires, Recoleta Cemetery also goes by the names the City of the Dead, the City of Cats and the City of Angels. Although it was the only place in the city where we actually saw a cat, Angels are really the place's emblem. They are everywhere although you need to crane up to see most of them. Some represent the Angel of Death and carry an hourglass, many carry trumpets or baskets of flowers; without exception they are beautiful and every face looks different. Which accounts for why we lost a day there.

Recoleta angel

There is one grave I haven't mentioned although many visitors flock to it clutching their flowers to poke through the gates and that is the one belonging to Eva Duarte Peron. Although Eva died from cancer in 1952, her body only arrived in the cemetery in the 1970s and the story of what happened to her body in the intervening years is as shrouded in myth as her life. A great mausoleum was planned following her death but the overthrow of her husband, President Juan Peron, in 1955 led to all references to Peronism in Argentina being erased. Eva's embalmed body disappeared - its alleged hiding places including a storage container labeled radio parts at a Buenos Aires military intelligence office and a graveyard in Milan - until Peron was restored in 1971 and brought the body back to Madrid. According to the (many and lurid) stories, he then stored the coffin in the dining room of the house he shared with his third wife, frequently opening it to look at Eva's preserved face. After Peron's death in 1973, it was left to his wife Isabel (who was now President) to take over control of the body. She had it interred in the presidential place, most likely to shore up support for her own power grab as Eva's name was now in the ascendant again. When Isabel herself was overthrown in 1976, Eva's body was turned over to the Duartes who were, by then, keen to acknowledge their illegitimate family member. Eva's mother was the mistress not the wife and she was turned away from all claims on the family estate when the wealthy Juan Duarte died. Its interesting to speculate what might have happened to Eva if the Duartes had been a little more welcoming in the 1920s - presumably not the harsh choices grinding poverty left her with. Eva is now interred in their crypt at Recoleta where her body is buried 5m below ground under two trapdoors and three plates of steel to prevent any further threat to it - Eva continues to be a controversial figure in Argentina, both despised for her brand of politics and worshipped to the point of a cult. Being in the former group, we gave that particular tomb a swerve and went back to the maze of mausoleums and angels we could more comfortably admire.

My advice if you visit - don't take a tour, do what we did and get lost. And then go to the barking mad cafe over the road and sit at a table with a frighteningly realistic Borges. They don't let go of their dead in Buenos Aires.

King’s Residence or Riot Control? - by Judith Allnatt

March 22, 2019, 5:01 pm

≫ Next: STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS: How tall were the people of Medieval England? by Elizabeth Chadwick

≪ Previous: Stories From the City of the Dead by Catherine Hokin

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In the Northamptonshire village of Weedon, where I live, there stands an imposing garrison that shipped out arms to Wellington’s forces in the Napoleonic wars. As well as the massive storehouses still in existence for canon, muskets and gunpowder, there were once barracks, hospital, chapel, and three spacious white brick buildings known as the ‘Pavilion’, which are said to have been built as a retreat for George III, should Old Boney invade.

Other Ordnance Establishments nearer the coast, such as the Tower of London or Faversham Powder Mills, risked being destroyed or captured, whereas Weedon is pretty much in the centre of England and is about as far away from the sea as one could possibly get. Therefore, it seems plausible that the decision to build here could have been influenced by a need to spirit the king away to the safer Midlands.

He would have been well defended. Five hundred soldiers manned the place (suddenly the village had thirty pubs!) and vast quantities of firearms and ammunition were constantly being shipped in and out by canal (barges being smoother carriers of barrels of gunpowder than carts).

On the other side of the case, it has been mooted that the King’s retreat theory is just a Royal Rumour, suggested by the palatial appearance of the white buildings on the hill, which were only ever intended for the Governor and his Principal Officers.


Adherents to this argument point out that a site where every second ‘blast house’ was filled with earth in case an explosion should occur and bring them all down like dominoes seems an unlikely haven. In government plans outlined by the prime minister on Christmas Day 1803, it was stated that, in the event of an invasion, the king would lead his army and move to Chelmsford if the enemy landed in Essex, or to Dartford, if they arrived in Kent.

When researching for my novel, The Silk Factory, I became fascinated by the question of why the massive garrison had been built here, in Weedon. If it was not for the purpose of putting distance between the King and Bonaparte’s invading armies, why choose the Midlands? It didn’t seem practical that Arms stored here would have to travel long distances to port in order to reach their destinations abroad. I started to look at what was going on in the area at the time and to form a new and somewhat more sinister theory of my own.

At that time, there was terrible poverty and government fears of revolution were sharpened by events in France. Textile workers in the Midlands were dreadfully exploited: children started work as young as six, and men and women laboured long hours for starvation wages. On top of that, employers were bringing in new machines that were putting men out of work, some of which produced inferior quality goods. (The word ‘shoddy’ originally meant the thin, low-grade silk stockings that wide frame machines produced). In desperation, textile workers broke into premises and smashed the looms.

The Frame Breaking Act of 1812 made it a hanging offence to damage an employer’s looms, yet poverty was so extreme that the crime was almost commonplace. Lord Byron, prompted by pity for the weavers, spoke in parliament against the bill, saying: ‘Can you commit a whole country to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field and hang up men like scarecrows?’

In the centre of the Midlands, an area where textile workers were starving and turning to violence and rebellion, the fact that 500 men and a reserve stock of 1,000 small arms were always kept at the garrison at Weedon is unlikely to be coincidental. Its force was well placed to crush any riot or insurrection and, sure enough, it was reported in 1816 that the cavalry rode out from Weedon to quell an ‘uprising of ribbon weavers in Coventry.’

The walled garrison on its hill overlooking the village and silk factory must have seemed horribly intimidating to the inhabitants and impoverished weavers below. Perhaps the rumour that the garrison was to act as a royal retreat was started even at this early point, as propaganda to make the building of the massive military complex seem more palatable. Writing on location, literally in the shadow of the huge buildings, helped me to channel the sense of might and authority of the Establishment over the populace.

Find out more at  The Depot Visitors Centre  A leaflet giving a guided 'Silk Factory Walk' is also available on site.

STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS: How tall were the people of Medieval England? by Elizabeth Chadwick

March 23, 2019, 5:30 pm

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Medieval people were small and weedy right?

Here's a list from the London and Middlesex Archaeology Society's publication The Cemetery of St Nicholas Shambles.  The cemetery, now occupied by the British Telecom Centre in Newgate Street, London, was excavated between 1975 and 1979 and consisted of 234 skeletons dating from the 11th and 12th centuries and comprised the first large group of human burials to be reported from the city of London.  The book discusses the remains in detail, but what I find particularly interesting is that it gives details from other cemetery excavations and lists the average heights of the males and females buried.  It's something of an eye opener.  So often when the matter of the height of medieval people is discussed on online forums, there is a notion that they were stunted and small.

From the archaeological evidence this is far from the truth. Yes they had food insecurity due to periods of famine caused by weather and war and animal sickness, but when all was going well, the men and women of medieval England were of the same height more or less as the people of the early and mid 20th century.

At the cemetery of St. Nicholas Shambles itself, the average height of the men came out at 5ft 8inches with a range from 5ft ins to 6ft 2 ins.  For the women the average was 5ft ins (my own height) and a range of 4ft 11ins to 5ft 8ins.

However, don't just take the one cemetery as an example.  The book posts samples from another 16 excavations.

Bideford on Avon. Dateline Saxon: Men 5ft 7.5ins.  Women 5ft 1.5 ins large sample
North Elmham Norfolk. Dateline Saxon. Men 5ft 7 3/4 ins.  Women 5ft 2ins.  20 people
Porchester Castle. Saxon.   Men 5ft 91/4 ins.  Women 5ft 5ins.  15 people
St. Helen Aldwark, York. 10th-16thc. Men 5ft 6.5 ins. Women 5ft 2ins.  Large sample.
Durham Cathedral. 12th c. 5ft 7.5  No women. 20 people.
Pontefract Priory. 12th-14th century. Men 5ft 7.5.  No women 34 people
Wharram Percy. Medieval. Men 5ft 6ins.  No women. Large sample
Greyfriars Chester. Medieval.  Men 5ft 6.5 ins.  Women 5ft 3ins 20 people
Austin Friars Leicester. Medieval. Men 5ft 10 ins. Women 5ft 3ins. 13 people
Bordesely Abbey. Medieval.  Men 5ft 8ins.  No women. 19 people
Rothwell Charnel House.  Medieval. Men 5ft 5in.  Women 5ft 2ins.  Large sample.
Dominican Priory Chelmsford.  Medieval. Men 5ft 7ins. Women 5ft 1.5 25 people
Guildford Friary Surrey.  Medieval.  Men 5ft 8ins.  Women 5ft 3ins 56 people
St Mary's Priory Thetford. Men 12th-13thc. 5ft 9 3/4 ins.  No women. 5 people.
South Acre Norfolk. 12th-14th century.  Men 5ft 6ins.  Women 5ft 1.5ins. 5 people

St Leonard's, Hythe, Kent. 14th-15thc.  Men 5ft  8 ins.  Women 5ft 2 ins.  Large sample.

The average height of a British male in 2010 was slightly taller at 5ft 9ins but it's not a vast difference. The average height of a British female was 5ft 3ins, so virtually no change.  Aft 5ft 2 ins myself I'd fit into the Medieval world perfectly!
As an incidental, chronicler Gerald of Wales tells us that King John was somewhat under average height. When his tomb was opened and his body measured, he proved to be 5ft 6.5ins tall, which would accord with general data. Apparently his brother Geoffrey was on the short size of average too.  Their father Henry II was average and the other two sons, Henry the Young King and Richard (the Lionheart) were of above average height.

information plaque I photographed at the Museum of London a few years ago. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Elizabeth Chadwick is an award-winning bestselling author of historical fiction.  Her most recent novel Templar Silks was recently published in paperback by Sphere, and will be available from Sourcebooks in the USA from June 2019.

Strawberry Hill by Miranda Miller

March 24, 2019, 6:00 pm

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   Last month I was lucky enough to catch the last day of an exhibition called Lost Treasures of Strawberry Hill.  Horace Walpole was a great original, the son of Robert Walpole, a powerful, corrupt statesman and de facto first prime minister.  Horace had exquisite, if camp, taste and inherited enough money to indulge it. Walpole has been called the father of British art history as well as the inventor of gothic and he was also, as the  author of The Castle of Otranto, the founder of gothic fiction. In this portrait by  Rosalba Carriera we see Horace as a rich young aristocrat in Venice on his Grand Tour, looking fey and delicate with  his powdered face.

   He never married or had any illegitimate children and is generally assumed to  have been gay.  At the age of twenty-three his father pulled strings to get him elected as Whig MP for Callington in Cornwall, a seat he held for thirteen years without ever visiting it. When he was about thirty he bought a small villa in Twickenham, originally called "Chopped Straw Hall", which was not nearly elegant enough for the fastidious Walpole. He He called it “my little plaything” and spent the rest of his life transforming it, filling it with his wonderful art collection.  This was not just a private collection; he used to charge a guinea for a tour by his housekeeper. although he insisted that no children were to be admitted. "The highest personages of the realm," including the royal family, came to visit his creation. In a letter to a friend he complained: "I have but a minute's time in answering your letter, my house is full of people, and has been so from the instant I breakfasted, and more are coming- in short, I keep an inn; the sign, the Gothic Castle...my whole time is passed in giving tickets for seeing it, and hiding myself when it is seen- take my advice, never build a charming house for yourself between London and Hampton Court, everybody will live in it but you. " He loved jokes and once wrote,“The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.”  He used to receive guests wearing this wooden trompe l'ceil cravat carved by Grinling Gibbons. 

   After his death in 1797 the house and contents were inherited by a cousin.  After  a famous  sale in 1842 that lasted for twenty-four days all four thousand objects in his collection -  paintings, miniatures, furniture, coins  - disappeared into private collections around the world. Luckily Horace kept meticulous records of everything he collected and wrote to a friend: “How merry my ghost will be, and shake its ears to hear to hear itself quoted as a person of consummate prudence!” 

   A brilliant art detective, Silvia Davoli, spent years tracing his collection and,for a few months,  a hundred and fifty works  from fifty-five lenders brought this unique house back to life. Walpole  coined the word  "gloomth" to describe the mixture of warmth and gloom he wanted to create in his fake ancestral castle, which was complete with an armoury and battlements. The lavish use of deep red, as in the gallery you can see below, creates a sympathetic atmosphere.  He wrote of it, rather disingenuously, “Well! But I begin to be ashamed of my magnificence.  Strawberry is growing sumptuous in its latter day...in truth my collection was too great already to be lodged humbly.”

   He loved objects that told a story, the more macabre the better. For example:  a clock Henry V111 gave Anne Boleyn on the morning of their marriage; Mary Tudor’s hair;  an Aztec mirror which Queen Elizabeth’s necromancer, Dr John Dee, is supposed to have used in his supernatural research. Hogarth, one of his favourite artists, visited the the convicted triple murderer Sarah Malcolm in her cell and painted a sympathetic record of her. Another exhibit was Hogarth’s painting of a production of John Gay’s The Beggars’ Opera, which satirized the corruption of Hioace’s father Robert .

   This  portrait of Horace aged about forty by Joshua Reynolds suggests complexity, wit and subtlety.  He holds a print of an imperial Roman  marble eagle.  He loved anuimals and once wrote, “ I know that I have had friends who would never have vexed or betrayed me, if they had walked on all fours. His beloved  cat was also resurrected in this remarkable exhibition;  when his pet tabby fell into a tub while trying to catch goldfish and drowned, Walpole commissioned his old schoolfriend Thomas Gray to write a poem in its memory,  Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes:

on a lofty vase’s side,

Where China’s gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow.

  The blue and white Chinese porcelain  vase refersred to in this poem could be seen in the hall of the house. This famous poem was first published by the Strawberry Hill press, which Walpole set up in 1757 in the grounds. Here he printed his own works and also designed his own typeface,   His four volume Anecdotes of Painting in England is still admired by art historians and his poshumously published memoirs are very entertaining and shrewd about politics.

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   Other exhibits were a portrait of the Percy sisters by Van Dyck; a formidable portrait of Catherine de Medici and her children; a double portrait of Henry VIII and Francis I and a cabinet full of Walpole's miniature collection, which was  considered one of the best in Europe. He also supported many female artists,  including Anne Damer and Diana Beauclerc. Like the Royal Pavilion in Brighton and John Soane’s museum in Lincoln Inn Fields, Strawberry Hill is imbued with the eccentric personality of one man.

                                                                      A boy as a Shepherd by Peter Lely