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Men's Clothing in the Early 1700s

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by Marie-Louise Jensen

Has there ever been a time when dress for men was more colourful, extravagant and downright splendid than the first half of the eighteenth century? I'm speaking of the wealthy, of course, who were always the privileged few who could enjoy the extravagances of fashion.
I've always found the ruffs and hose of the Tudor and Elizabethan era faintly ridiculous. And I'm not alone in that, it seems, as the series The Tudors opted for historically incorrect trousers, fearing the modern viewer might just not find the clinging hose sexy enough.
And however worthy it might have been, the severity and plainness of the Puritan era wasn't precisely eye-catching. But as we moved into the Restoration and the early Georgian era, men tricked themselves out, for a while, as gorgeous as butterflies.

Breeches generally buttoned just below the knee and were buttoned by various designs at the waist, sometimes with a large flap that pulled between the legs. For formal wear they could be made of satin. The effect was very elegant. Beneath the breeches, silk stockings would be tied with a garter above the knee. These cost quite a few shillings - extravagant indeed - and were often clocked (embroidered with a pattern). Shoes often sported a heel and a buckle. Shirts were of linen, open at the neck and with a stand up collar. Varying amounts of lace could be added on in the form of a necktie and in ruffs at the wrists. Waistcoats were often elaborately hand embroidered at stupendous cost and generally much longer than today's waistcoats. A coat would be worn too, also fabulously embellished with trim and buttons, quite possibly made of brocade silk of a quality that is (I am assured) simply no longer available today because it would cost too much. And then the wig - ah that exquisitely expensive creation! There were a number of different types at different times and for different pursuits. My favourite is the formal long-bottomed wig, popular early in the 1700s. Long loose curls were thickly powdered with hair powder and tumbled down over the shoulders. I wonder if they got powder on the coat? Powder later went out of fashion when the government was unwise enough to tax it.
A gentlemen could not be considered completely dressed without his small-sword at his side, of course, and vents were especially included in the pleats of the coat's skirts to accommodate one. Scarcely a wise addition to the costume in those days of heavy drinking and gaming. Lives were frequently lost.
File:Troost-Jeronimus.jpg
(This picture a little later than the era I'm describing. I had trouble finding an image without copyright.) When describing my characters dressed thus, I often sigh for a glimpse into a ball or gathering in the past. A few aspects of the dress may strike us as less attractive however. Under the wig (were they horribly sweaty to wear, I wonder?) the head was close shaven. Men's shoes often had heels as high as the ladies, which might seem odd to us. And I wonder how they got on washing all that brocade silk and satin? Not all that often, I shouldn't think. But don't worry. They were pretty lavish with the scent.

Detecting the Dark Ages, by Sue Purkiss

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At one point when I was researching Warrior King, my book about Alfred the Great, I was trying to nail down his brothers. Not literally, you understand: the Vikings may have gone in for that sort of behaviour, but not me - and anyway they lived (approximately - very approximately) eleven hundred years ago.

Alfred the Great
I was trying to pinpoint how old Alfred was when a particular incident was said to have occurred. Alfred had four older brothers. Their mother had promised a book to the first one of them who could learn how to read it. Alfred couldn't read at all, but he wanted that book: so he persuaded a monk to help him to learn it off by heart - and he got it  The story is told to indicate his determination, a certain degree of cunning, and his love of learning.

But there are all sorts of problems with it. Alfred was born in 849. In 851, his second oldest brother, Aethelbald, (he had four older brothers altogether) was fighting a battle against the Vikings alongside his father. Is it feasible that his mother would have issued such a challenge to a toddler and to grown men - fighting men? Just how old were all these brothers? How did they die? The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is vague about such details. For that matter, when did Alfred's mother die? In 855, when Alfred was six, his father, Aethelwulf, married Judith Martell, a Frankish princess, but the chronicle doesn't tell us when he lost his first wife.

This all seemed rather untidy, and so I got in touch with an academic historian who knew a good deal about Alfred - up until I'd begun researching this book, I had known virtually nothing about him. Alfred's brothers were giving me the runaround, I told her. Could she tell me when, precisely, they were born? No, she couldn't, she said cheerily. My guess was as good as hers. But, she pointed out, as a novelist, that gave me a good deal of freedom. Facts were few and far between, so what could I do but make the rest up?

Just recently I've returned to the Anglo-Saxon world. In Warrior King, Alfred's daughter, Aethelflaed (I called her Fleda for short, and to have one less Aethel-whatnot cluttering up the place) was the viewpoint character for two thirds of the book. It ended with Alfred defeating the Danes, but I knew that in later life, Aethelflaed had married the Lord of the Mercians, and after he died, was chosen by her people to be their leader - in battle as well as at home. She was named Lady of the Mercians, and, with her brother Edward, Alfred's successor as King of Wessex, she carried on Alfred's work; she was clearly a remarkable woman.

Now, I've come back to this part of her life. There's very little about her in the Chronicle, although she's mentioned in the Annals of Ulster as a great and revered queen. After all, she was only a woman - presumably the monks who wrote up the Chronicle weren't very interested in women.

But now I've got hooked on the mystery surrounding the fate of another woman. In the summer of 919, Aethelflaed died. Her daughter, Aelfwynn, succeeded her - but only for a few months. Just before Christmas, the Abingdon version of the Chronicle tells us: ...the daughter of Aethelred, lord of the Mercians, was deprived of all control in Mercia, and was led into Wessex... And that's it. Aelfwynn disappears into the mists of history. The best guess seems to be that she spent the rest of her life in a nunnery.

Aethelfled and Aethelstan
But why? Did her uncle, Edward, think that she wasn't strong enough to hold Mercia against the Danes? Or id she defy him - had she 'gone native', become too Mercian, refused to remain a junior partner to Wessex?

And then again - Edward had sent his oldest (though possibly illegitimate) son, Aethelstan, to Mercia to be brought up at Aethelflaed's court - presumably to bind the two kingdoms even more closely together. So why not marry Aethelstan to Aelfwynne, thus making the bond pretty well indissoluble?

So much room to speculate. And in the end, I suspect that the real reasons for what happened must lie in the characters of the participants in this drama. History books research meticulously a network of cause and effect. What novelists can do is to fill in the vast empty spaces between.

Snow, Snow and even more Snow. Penny Dolan

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The weather forecasts are full of snow, especially snow that matters in the South. It’s a time for watching the hungry birds snatch scraps from the bird table and appreciating the pleasures of working from home.

For a start, I can walk to the shops so, assuming deliveries continue, I am not going to go hungry.  Besides, it’s a quiet season for author visits so nobody will feel disappointed if I don’t appear and I can just enjoy being here at my desk. What a blessedly easy life!

  
Snow is almost timeless. I recall mornings when ice coated the inside of window-panes and milk rose in frozen columns from milk bottles; days when the soft silence outside was broken by spades scraping harshly across paving stones as pathways were cut through the snow.

Indoors was a den devoted to drying-out: from the wet clothes on the clothes horse to the oozing shoes and boots by the scullery door. The boredom was interspersed by interesting domestic moments: the newspaper catching fire when held across the fireplace to blaze up the flames; the ominous drip from burst pipes, the flickering pattern on the ceiling painted by the light from the paraffin stove which was a sign that one was allowed to feel ill.

The warm, fusty smell of winter clothes led to “Go out and play!”, with the remembering of gloves and scarves and hats as well as grizzles over ear-aches, chilblains and dead fingers mostly ignored by grown-ups who had sat frozen in airplanes or endured bitter winters on battlefields or whose thoughts were of stretching the rations.

More widely, there were wondrous tales of snow higher than cottage roofs and snow-drifts lasting until Easter and stories about farmers and fishermen and such heroic people, braving the freezing weather to struggle on with their daily work, as they always have done. 

At the back of the mind, snow brings images from history: great glacier sheets that ground across Britain; those year-long winters when crops failed and social order struggled or the rowdy cheerful frost fairs on the Thames. 


 There’s also the strange heroism of explorers who braved ice and snow not because they had to do so to make a living but because they chose to do so: people such as Captain Scott with his Terra Nova expedition, who reached the South Pole on this day in 1912.
  
Brrrr! I’m off now to fill up a hot water bottle - from a kettle, not warmed in a microwave. One of winter’s treats. Then , all cosy in bed, I’ll dream up a wintry scene or two for writing when I get back to work.

I do know that, whether I’m under the duvet, struggling along icy paths or hacking vegetables for a large pan of soup, certain lines always capture the feel of winter, no matter what the year.

Thank  you, Mr Shakespeare.

When icicles hang by the wall,
    And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
    And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
                Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
 
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
    And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
    And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
                Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 Keep warm, History Girls!

 
Penny Dolan
www.pennydolan.com


1940's Knickers and Ruby Slippers - Celia Rees

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I recently visited the Hollywood Costume Exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum*.  It was very popular. I went with my daughter and we were reduced to a shuffle as we wound round the different areas of the exhibition but that didn't matter. The slow progress gave us more time to look. I have to admit to being as star struck as anyone and standing in awe in front of the most iconic outfits: Scarlett  O'Hara's dress made from curtains, Marlene Dietrich's top hat and tails and Audrey Hepburn's Breakfast at Tiffany's Little Black Dress.


'Look!' We whispered to each other. 'That's it. The real one!' 

It put one back in touch with favourite stars, favourite films, favourite film scenes. It was also sobering to think that many of the stars who wore these costumes were dead while the clothes they wore lived on.  

For me (once I'd got past the boggling stage) the most interesting aspect of the whole exhibition was the research process that the designers went through to create these costumes, their painstaking attention to detail. The History Girls routinely post about costume. Marie Louise Jensen did a piece about Men's Clothing in the 1700's just this week. When you are writing historical fiction, it is important to know what your characters would be wearing. Finding out is often uppermost in our minds, that is why we blog about it. We look at different sources, just as the film designers do. Museums, like the V & A, with specialist departments can be very helpful, and then there are books on costume. There is also, of course, the internet. Sometimes helpful. Sometimes not. An internet search for '1940's knickers', for example, can take you to some very strange places. The garments featured under 'retro' bear little resemblance to my granny's pink bloomers or to the rubber roll ons I remember women struggling into in the Fifties. But one has to persist. it is important to know what one's character would be wearing, right down to their underwear.

As I shuffled round the exhibition, I realised that there was another dimension to this. It is not just important to know what a man or woman would be wearing in 1789, for example, but it is important to know what your character would be wearing. We have to know who our character is before we can decide what clothes he or she would put on in the morning. It is important to get the period right but clothes tell us a great deal about personality as well as position and status in life. I'd always instinctively known this, but here it was spelt out for me. One whole area was devoted to just this: Deconstruction.

'On every film, the clothes are half the battle in creating the character. I have a great deal of opinion about how my people are presented. We show a great deal by what we put on our bodies' 

Meryl Streep

One is always attracted to areas of special interest and one of mine just happens to be pirates. When I first saw Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean, I immediately thought of Blackbeard. The pigtails and plaited beard, the stance. But the designers also channeled Keith Richards for both his 'look' and his personality. That was interesting. With care, one can improvise. An insight like that can make a character a whole lot more than a historical clothes horse. 




I was also halted at another point on my shuffle round. In front of the costumes for Shakespeare in Love, there was a quotation from Joseph Fiennes who played Shakespeare. When contemplating the part he looked for:

'[The] human element - all things [one] wouldn't associate with being a genius... I put aside all reverence and adopted the attitude that as soon as I put on those tights I was Will Shakespeare.'



Even though I had no idea that was how Joseph Fiennes found his way into the part, I immediately identified. When I was writing The Fool's Girl, I had to discover my own way round Shakespeare the genius. I did so by finding my Will Shakespeare in Mr Fiennes. When you see something like that, it is a good feeling, as though your insight is vindicated.

I found much to think about as I went round this exhibition. Just as it is on the screen, so it should be on the page.  Nothing is accidental. Everything is there by design and clothing should suit the character, not just by being right for the period but right for the person. 

Once in a while, costume and clothing can do something more.  One of the last exhibits is Judy Garland's costume from The Wizard of Oz. It is worth the long, slow shuffle. The power and magic of L. Frank Baum's fantasy is eloquently expressed in the contrast between Dorothy's faded, dusty blue gingham dress and the dazzling brilliance of the ruby slippers. It is all there in the costume. 



Celia Rees

www.celiarees.com

*The Exhibition is on until 27th January, so you still have time to catch it if you are quick.

Loch Leven Castle & Mary Queen of Scots: by Theresa Breslin

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Sometimes in our minds historical figures are inextricably linked to particular places. In the case of Mary, Queen of Scots, among the many castles connected with her name Loch Leven is remembered as the place of her first imprisonment and subsequent exciting escape. Not long after her third, final, and disastrous marriage, Mary surrendered at Carberry Hill in June 1567 to the Scots Lords who had risen in rebellion against her rule. Despite being promised safe conduct to visit her infant son, she was taken at night to be imprisoned within the castle on Loch Leven, near Kinross. Her jailors were the dastardly Douglas family, implacable enemies of Mary’s current husband, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell

Mary had associations with Loch Leven earlier in her short reign as Queen of Scotland. One of her favourite pastimes was hawking and Loch Leven is a perennial stopover for migrating species of birds. She stayed there on several occasions with her second husband, Lord Henry Darnley, to take advantage of the hunting opportunities.

Located in modern day Perthshire, Loch Leven is a designated National Nature Reserve, one of the major sites in Europe for migratory birds. As the year ends, thousands upon thousands of birds, travelling from the Arctic Circle and northern Europe, paused to feed from the waters of the loch and the surrounding wetlands and fields. It’s a wonderful experience to see these enormous flocks of birds coming in to land, outlined against the glorious glow of a winter-red setting sun. It’s a cycle older than recorded history and when visiting the castle to research Spy for the Queen of Scots it struck me that this was a happening unchanged with the passage of time. I felt that I could block out the faint burr of the ferry boat engine and the chatter of picnicking families to see almost exactly what Mary and her companions would have seen centuries ago.  I could write a genuine witness account in as told by the main character, Jenny:

Suddenly there was a noise like the rustle of a thousand silken petticoats at a fabulous ball. Swinging and soaring above us, borne on the evening air, we heard the chittering of wild fowl as birds in their thousands came sweeping in.
‘Oh!’ I gasped in wonder.
Duncan too was gazing skyward. ‘At my home in Knoydart,’ he said, ‘there is a similar sight worth seeing in spring and late autumn. It is a stopping place for the wild geese as they travel their migration routes.’
All about us the birds came in to land on the river banks as the sun set.
‘It is quite wonderful,’ I breathed. Fiery red rays of light were slanting through the mountains. It was as though some untutored painter had released his palette upon the sky, as if God himself had dispersed a rainbow among the snow-crowned hilltops.

Another, less well known visit to the island by Mary was arranged so that she could debate with the Protestant preacher, John Knox, on the subject of whether those of a different religious persuasion, particularly Roman Catholics, should be allowed any type of religious freedom or civil rights.
Paintings of this show a timid Mary cowering away from Knox, whereas accounts from the time say that she gave him sound and strong arguments for religious tolerance. They can’t have parted on such bad terms for immediately afterwards Mary sought his advice on the marital problems of her illegitimate half-sister, Jean, and asked him to try to effect peace between her and her estranged husband.

But for the many tourists who visit the island it’s Queen Mary’s daring escape after almost a year of imprisonment that attracts them. What adds to the romance of the situation is that although the rebel Lord of the Castle was her willing jailor, some of the other males in the extensive Douglas family were won over to Mary’s cause and (as they saw it) the plight of a beautiful woman being treated unjustly. The most notable sympathiser was the young lad, Willie Douglas. On a pre-arranged evening Willie, while serving his uncle his dinner, dropped a napkin onto the castle keys which lay discarded on a table. When leaving the room the boy took away the serving dishes, and also the keys concealed inside the napkin. Beckoning to the Queen who was awaiting his signal at her window in the round tower he hurried across the courtyard and unlocked the main gate. Mary crouched in the bottom of the one boat Willie had left unchained and he rowed her across the loch to where the rest of her rescue party waited with horses.

When I visited the castle I had with me a young woman, scarcely out of her teens. As we left the castle jetty I thought of Mary, not much older than this girl, separated from her baby boy, recently miscarried of twins, making the same journey, shivering and in terror of life. I shivered too as the reality of historical events came sweeping over me like the shadow of the geese passing overhead.  
 
Twitter: @theresabreslin1 
Spy for the Queen of Scotsis nominated for the Carnegie Medal and an Illustrated Treasury of Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales illustrated by Kate Leiper is nominated for the Greenaway Medal.
In conjunction with the Citizens Theatre and South Lanarkshire schools the Divided City musical will be produced at Hamilton Town House Theatre in February 2013 and in the Millennium Theatre in the City of Derry-Londonderry in March 2013     

'Writing to Music' by A L Berridge

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There are really only two types of writers: those who need music when they write, and those who don’t. I’m the wishy-washy type who sometimes does and sometimes doesn’t, but if I don’t find the right kind of music somewhere in the process then the novel I’m writing is just never going to fly.

That’s a personal choice, of course, but I’m inflicting it on you today because I’d like to try and understand it better. I’m hoping if I come clean about my own weakness, then other writers might come forward and say why it’s helpful to them too.

Dot and Jim in 'EastEnders'
There’s one obvious reason why writers of historical fiction use music, and that’s as a way of ‘getting inside’ their period. The first time I heard of this was when EastEnders writer Tony Jordan was tackling a set of episodes about the marriage of the two oldest characters, Dot and Jim Branning, and told me he played a constant loop of 1940’s music all the time he was writing. This would have been the music of his characters’ youth, it defined their hopes and dreams, and while he was in their world it needed to define him too.

As a Seventies teen who’d rather not be defined by Little Jimmy Osmond singing ‘I’ll Be Your Long-Haired Lover from Liverpool’, I found this idea at first repugnant. Yet while no-one likes every piece of music from their era, it’s true that their worldview is still shaped by the canon – just as the music itself sprung from something in the zeitgeist that made it popular. 

As writers I think we’d be daft not to use that. If we’re writing about the Sixties, what better way of soaking up the period than listening to its music? Some of our characters may favour the Stones over the Beatles, others (like me) become unaccountably soppy at ‘Waterloo Sunset’ or uplifted by ‘Downtown’, but somewhere in there are ‘their’ songs, and if we listen long enough we’ll find them. 

Which is all well and good if we’re writing about a period after the invention of the gramophone record, but what about those of us working in earlier centuries? It’s true there are wax cylinder recordings, but the crackle and bumping make it no more than a ghost of the music our characters would have made or heard themselves.

1860's organ grinder
If we want to get closer than that, the only solution is to recreate it. My current novel is set in 1855, and I use recordings of Victorian barrel organs to get the feel of the London my characters would have known. Some of the earliest organs still survive (you can see one from 1830 being played here), but even modern ones still give the unmistakeable sound of a world long gone by. So do songs of the Victorian Music Hall, even if the recordings are modern, and for the character of Woodall in ‘Into the Valley of Death’ I spent a good many hours listening to music that sounded like this. I sometimes think my long-suffering husband would have preferred ‘I’ll Be Your Long-Haired Lover From Liverpool’

But London isn’t the Crimea, and for the music my characters would have heard around them every day I’ve played endless hours of military bands. Every regiment had one, they played on the march and in the camps, and if I sometimes found the music infuriatingly jolly when trying to write the tragedy of war – then I think some of my characters felt the same. The Russian music was interestingly different, depending far more on marching songs than instrumentals, and there’s something in the grim heroism of those determined bass voices that really gave me a sense of both the clashing cultures and the reality of what my own characters were up against. The 20th century ‘Legendary Sevastopol’ sounds very similar in style if you want to get the general idea.

Russian military band on Sevastopol Day 2011
But the further we go back in time, the less useful contemporary music becomes. Classical 17th century French music wouldn’t have helped me write ‘Honour and the Sword’– which is perhaps just as well, since it’s mostly ghastly. Formal court music meant nothing to people who couldn’t afford concerts, and while music specialists may define a period by Haydn or Vivaldi, most ordinary people would disagree. Folk songs, military marches, sometimes church music, these and the sound of bells are about all we can be sure most of our characters knew. 

It’s still a start. The pieces I used most in ‘Honour and the Sword’ were all from the previous century – a folk song (‘La Pernette’), a military song, (‘En Passant par la Lorraine’), and a popular polka which lent itself to Pierre Gilbert’s whistling (‘Bransle des Chevaux’). You can listen to them from the links here, and they’re all good pieces – but I have to be honest and say I never put them on a loop and listened to them as a pleasant background to my writing. Well – would you?

To be honest, I’d struggle with a lot of it. The reason different periods have different music is because tastes change, and if the price of writing a novel in Tudor times is an endless loop of bloody ‘Greensleeves’ then I’d almost be tempted to reach for Little Jimmy Osmond instead. But that, of course, is where my thesis breaks down with a horrible clunk. If I’m not using music as a research tool, then why do I need it at all? Why don’t I just work (as many better writers do) in sober, academic silence?

Well, why should I? Historical novelists aren’t the only writers who use music, and there are lots of ways in which it helps us tap into less familiar aspects of our work. ‘Place’ is one of them, and when I wrote about France in the Chevalier novels it was music that helped most. I didn’t do it consciously, but when I look back at the music I played when writing ‘Honour and the Sword’, it's every bit of it French. Saint-Saëns, Gounod, Massenet – and when I started ‘In the Name of the King’ I became hooked on French Café music as well. There’s nothing 17th century about Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier, Charles Trénet, Jean Sablon, or Fernandel, but when I wrote to them I was surrounded by French voices, French words, French syntax, French attitudes and French style. 

Those things matter, and I was constantly afraid of imbuing my French characters with inappropriate Englishness. Obviously there’s no such thing as a typical ‘Frenchwoman’ any more than there’s a typical 'Englishwoman', but there are still little differences that mean a lot. For me, the hardest to capture was that almost uniquely French quality of being comfortable not only in one’s own skin but also with one’s own sexuality. That’s important in a time when a poor woman’s body might be the only currency she had, and my English prudishness really struggled to master the correctly pragmatic shrug that would have been my character’s reaction to her situation. The music did it for me. Somewhere between Mistinguett’s cynical ‘Je cherche un millionaire’and her heartbreaking ‘Mon Homme’ I found the character of 'Bernadette' and knew I was home.

And that’s another use for music – as a shorthand to take us inside a particular character. Opera and musical composers have always used the technique of giving characters their own ‘theme’, and so do those who write scores for the cinema. It sounds ridiculous to need one for one’s own created characters, but I write multiple point-of-view, and after a long section in the voice of one character I find it really helps to have a quick way back ‘in’ to the voice of another.
They can change too. In ‘Honour and the Sword’ Anne begins as a pre-pubescent girl, but as I progressed to‘In the Name of the King’ her theme tune began to shift from Massenet’s ‘Le Dernier Sommeil de la Vierge’ to rampant Edith Piaf. Even now if I listen to the haunting start of ‘Mon Légionnaire’, I find myself at once inside Anne’s head and thinking with her voice.

If we can ignore the borderline lunacy of this, then it’s a genuinely practical tool. Whether it’s period, place, or character, I use music to ‘get me in the mood’, and that’s incredibly useful when you write to deadline. I can’t afford to sit around wistfully waiting for the Muse to show up; I need a genie’s lamp to make him appear to order. Every novel I’ve written has gradually found its own ‘signature tune’, and a quick blast of it is often all I need to rush to the computer to write. I still have to be disciplined and never allow myself to play it at any other time: that music has to be the bell to my Pavlov’s dogs, and I daren’t risk diluting its potency.

The odd thing is that it doesn’t even have to be obviously relevant. ‘Honour and the Sword’ worked legitimately to the first part of Saint-Saëns’ Symphony Number 3 (the Organ), but ‘Into the Valley of Death’worked with astonishing improbability to ‘Farewell to Arms’ by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. That’s a ballad to peace, for heaven’s sake, but I used it constantly when I was writing the Battle of the Alma. I can justify it now by saying both are about the tragedy of war; that the steady build echoes the inexorable and heroic advance of the British troops in the full face of the Russian cannon; and that the synthesiser even echoes the sound of the Highlander’s pipes as they marched across the Heights to victory, but I’m not sure if that’s really why I chose it. It was just the piece I happened to be listening to when I first began to ‘get’ the Alma, and the pictures began to form in my head. Maybe the music inspired the words, or maybe the words coloured the music, but after that it’s only a matter of association.

Battle of the Alma: 'Forward, 42nd!' by Robert Gibb

That’s a depressing thought, really, and a salutary warning to avoid really naff music. What if my next good idea happens when someone’s playing ‘The Birdie Song’? Or Little Jimmy Osmond, come to that? Maybe this whole ‘music and words thing’ is a thoroughly bad idea.

But maybe it isn’t. I’ve written this whole turgid post as an excuse to ask other writers if they use it, how they do it, and if it works. I’ve especially wondered about those who write Ancient History, and how they manage in an absence of ‘Rome’s All-Time Greatest Hits’. Do they try militaristic songs from Napoleon’s France or Hitler’s Germany? Do they use anything? Does anyone?

Please. Just tell me it’s not just me.

***
A L Berridge's website

Going to Church, Going to School - by Imogen Robertson

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Clare Parish Church

My New Year’s resolution is to spend more time in church. To be more precise, it is to spend more time in churches. I haven’t become religious, though I sometimes think every writer’s career involves a great deal of praying for divine favour, but for anyone who is fascinated by English history churches are temples not just of God, but of time. 

St Agatha's Church -Richmond
I am a big museum fan. Love ‘em. Show me a museum from the Ashmolean to those tiny local museums that consist of three display boards and an axe head and I’m there, but there is something different about being in a church. In museums you are being presented with the past as past. There are things in glass cases carefully labelled and, separated from human hands and minds, I fear they often become dead objects. In churches objects are still being used for the same thing they’ve been used for for several centuries. The font is the font first, an example of 15th century carving second. The pews maybe remarkable for their poppy-head carving or the humour of their 14th century grotesques, but they are primarily there for people to sit in, just as they always have been. I think the continual use of a place or an object for a certain purpose over many years gives it an atmosphere or energy which lets us get as near to time travel as it is possible to get. When I see medieval wall paintings showing the cycle of the seasons, a man sewing seed for example, I don’t see a historical artefact, I see another human being getting through his year, just like me. 

The Ancient House
I’ve felt like that about churches for a while, the resolution to learn how to read churches was inspired by spending a week in the Suffolk village of Clare. We were staying in The Ancient House which is rented out to holiday makers like ourselves by the Landmark Trust. The bookcase was full of treasure, but the book I spent most of my time with was the Popular Guide to Suffolk Churches by D. P. Mortlock. It had a long entry on the church opposite the Ancient House - dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul - but even better it had at the back a glossary of terms which I wish I could have memorised wholesale. I contented myself with writing half of it down in my notebook. Now I want to spend more time in churches so I can learn to use some of these terms frequently and confidently, really savour them with the pleasure that comes from understanding: trefoil, crocketting, clerestory and squint; hatchment, reredos and pier. With understanding I expect a deepening of that feeling of connection with the people who built, rebuilt, altered and decorated these buildings. Learning to read a church, I believe, gives you a chance to see something of their stories unfurl in the air around you. 


Clare Parish Church
Take Clare Parish Church as an example. On the porch is not only a green man, but a green woman carved in the 14th century, then partially obscured in the 15th. Think of the people that have passed under her eyes on their way into church for baptisms, weddings and funerals as well as their weekly encounters with the saints and angels inside. I love churches with a touch of the pagan. It reminds you of the times when older beliefs were folded into Christianity. Or the lectern. I’ve walked past a fair few brass lecterns in my time, but I never for a moment realised that some of them were hundreds of years old. I’m afraid I’ve always thought brass equalled Victorian, but the one in Clare Parish Church dates from somewhere round the end of the 15th century. Knowing that I couldn’t help thinking of how many generations of parishioners had been keeping it so beautifully polished. It would have been there when William Dowsing, Parliamentary visitor for demolishing superstitious ornaments, came smashing through in 1643, tearing down the apostles from the roof and smashing the stained glass. Some of the later survives in the East window, a sun and a moon, enduring that and whatever else time could throw at them. The church has a range of leaflets about the church and some of the particular items within it. They are excellent. I’ll be looking out for those more and more and working my way through the beautiful new edition of Betjeman’s Best British Churches murmuring parvise, ballflower, cartouche - my own form of prayer, but a sincere one. 

Clare Parish Church

THE PAST AS LUCKY DIP, by Jane Borodale

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Bran tub, 1922 (Berkshire Newspapers)

Something that historical novelists are supposed to do is to 'capture the spirit of the age' in which their book is set. Books are very often judged according to how successfully they might (or might not) have caught this elusive thing. But what is it, exactly, and at what point does it get fixed and generally agreed upon to be so? It is far too slippery to pin down in the context of the present; it only begins in the past. It’s something that only seems to manifest behind us, when we’re not looking – we have to turn back to it to see it for what it is. So how much time needs to elapse before the spirit of it can be felt – a decade? Fifteen years? Is it the distance from ourselves that makes it graspable as that complex texture of things (objects, attitudes, occurrences) that we sense as the spirit of an age. Or is it simply that by the time it’s clearly in view, a kind of consensus has settled on what was significant or widespread about an era – the official or generally accepted/ selected accumulation of facts, versions and bits of evidence. And if so, should we be wary of such a construct?

I’ve been turning this over (having spent all day shovelling thick pieces of ice like giant’s Kendal mint cake – there was a lot of time to think!) as last week I glimpsed a vivid reminder of how so many ages co-exist within any age, at any one time. This was a small-town scene from someone else’s era altogether - an elderly lady sweeping her front step with a very old dustpan and brush with proper bristles. She wore a housecoat, sensible russet brown shoes, tights and headscarf; and she was talking to an elderly man leaning against the porch in a dark waistcoat and jacket with string tied around his middle, smoking a pipe. (I think there was a cat and a washing line with pegs but I might have made that bit up.) It could have been the 1950s, if not earlier, and certainly looked that way. And I really liked the unexpected jolt of this slippage in the neat chronology of my nearest town, the reminder of how untidy the passing of time actually is, the raggedy-endedness of it, whichever way you look, how very composite and layered and in flux the whole thing is. When I look at photos of my parents’ wedding, the older relatives look already like ghosts from a previous decade.

So my perturbation is (today at least, whilst I shovel) just how, as a novelist, one can really set out to pick out the right parts of an age to be definitive, particularly when selecting primary sources and first-hand accounts in order to get an idea of what the age is. No… Strictly speaking, I suppose I should be asking not what the spirit of the age is, but more precisely – spirit of whose age, exactly? Which does make me feel better – to cut a long story short it must all surely (don't you think?) be rooted in character... Phew. (Thanks for listening to me laboriously work that one out!)


www.janeborodale.com


ELSE URY, MY MOTHER'S FAVOURITE CHILDREN'S AUTHOR, by Leslie Wilson

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Among the few things I have that stem from my mother's girlhood is a collection of five books for children and young girls dating from the twenties and thirties; in gothic script, with illustrations that I used to enjoy looking at before I actually read the books, because most of them were so glamorous (but more of that later). These are the 'Nesthäkchen' books, a concept rather difficult to translate. The 'Nesthäkchen' in a family is the littlest chick in the nest, the one who holds on when all the rest have left. 'Benjamina' is the closest equivalent, I suppose.









These books are set in the period just before World War 1, during the war, and in the Twenties. The last was published in 1925, the year my mother was born. The first one I read, when I was about ten, told the story of the heroine, Annemarie, when she gets scarlet fever and has to spend a year in a convalescent home to recover. My mother got that book in 1933. I wanted to know what happened next, so I read the one set in the First World War, somewhat upset by the anti-English feeling, but continued to the later stories. A couple of the intervening books were missing, and my grandfather sent me modern editions of them; published in the '60s, the illustrations showed the characters wearing '50s clothing.
The older books I have were almost all illustrated by Robert Sedlacek, a Viennese professor of applied art, and a successful advertising artist. He created graphics for Persil and for Eau de Cologne advertisements. Sometimes the advertising lineage shows; as in the scene where Annemarie's cousin proposes to her best friend while she's feeding the pigs on his farm . Though the text states that she always wore casual clothes on the farm, the clothes she and Peter wear in this picture are hilariously inappropriate (or maybe the picture is only meant to illustrate her state of mind?). There are a few more like this (girl wears high-heeled shoes to go climbing in the Bavarian Alps, for example).



















On the other hand, the one of the girls in the rain was one of my childhood favourites, from 'Nesthäkchen in the World War.' But aren't the young girls (aged 13) killingly elegant?

Annemarie is a cheerful, sometimes scatter-brained, lively and loving girl from the educated and better-off layer of German society (her father is a doctor and the family have a cook and a maidservant, as well as a nanny for her), who has adventures, gets into trouble - but never terribly bad trouble - and speaks her mind. The stories are told in the voice of an appreciative, understanding aunt, and if they don't have the quality of 'Emil and the Detectives' they are deeply satisfying, page-turning story-telling. In addition, the one that tells about Annemarie's teen years contains stories of strikes, coal shortages, and many of the stresses of the Weimar Republic, so to a history-obsessed teenager it was deeply interesting, though it's not till recently, when I got hold of a pre-war copy via the Internet, that I noticed some of the things that had been edited out, like the mention of the concierge of Annemarie's apartment block being a Spartacist. I knew Annemarie's farmer cousins had been relocated, in newer editions, to Bavaria, because in the World War she went to stay with them in Upper Silesia. Why this was so, I don't know, given that the novel was set in the '20s.

Annemarie's life continues through a timescale that is curiously elastic; in the later books, when Annemarie is already a grandmother, (which by my reckoning) would have been the '60s, the dreadful inflation period is mentioned as in the early lifetime of her granddaughter. The World War (the First) is always just a few years back, and Hitler never comes. They always painted for me a picture of Germany as it might have been if it had not been for the catastrophe of Nazism, a normal country just like any other. No war, no bombing. The author is very German, but not (except in 'Nesthäkchen in the World War') in any way jingoistic, just proud of German culture and civilisation.
I have to say that I drew on Annemarie's family and her surroundings when I wrote 'Saving Rafael': curiously, when I recently re-read all the books, I realised that her family even lived in Knesebeckstrasse, which is where I have always thought Jenny and Rafael's family lived. I've stayed in hotels in these old apartment houses in Charlottenburg, and can imagine them in their old incarnation as dwellings. Hanna the cook in Annemarie's family isn't quite dissimilar from Kattrin the maid in Jenny's family - though Jenny's family weren't so prosperous, and I did take care to give Kattrin a different personality.


Anyway, shortly before she died, my mother told me that she thought Else Ury, the author, was Jewish. 'There was something..' she said and then stopped. And a few years after that, I was in a Berlin bookshop and saw a book that was called: 'Nesthäkchen goes to concentration camp.'







It was like reading 'Winnie the Pooh goes to concentration camp.' I felt as if I'd been thwacked in the face. I picked it up and discovered that yes, Else Ury was Jewish, and she was deported and immediately murdered in Auschwitz in January 1943. She was an old lady, and would have been regarded as useless. But I do wonder whether one of the women who forced her to undress and pushed her into the gas chamber had read and adored her books when she was a child. She must have lost her pride in German civilisation a good while before that.


For she was hugely successful in Germany. Her books sold in the hundreds of thousands; 'Nesthäkchen in the Convalescent Home', which my mother got in 1933, has on the title page '229-233 thousand.'

In fact, Ury's books (there were several other series as well as one-offs) have sold almost seven million copies over the years. My mother told me that she always got a Nesthäkchen book for Christmas; since she had five, that means that she got one every year at least till 1937, and if you feed in the three missing ones, that would take you up to the first year of the war. I certainly have the penultimate one in the collection. But Ury, as a Jew, was forbidden to write, and I do wonder if my grandparents bought the books in advance in 1936 when this edict went out and the Gestapo pruned 'bad books' out of the shops.


I wasn't, of course, the only person to be deeply shocked to discover that she was murdered. My response was typical, it seems. But the book (which I bought) wasn't actually a very good one, or based on any very close reading of Ury's work. Marianne Brentzel, who wrote it, claims that Annemarie becomes a contented housewife, something which no-one who reads the books can believe. A much better book 'Wiedersehen mit Nesthäkchen,' (Reunion with Nesthäkchen' was published by the Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf museum in 2007, to accompany an exhibition. Scholarly, but approachable, it is deeply interesting, though unfortunately only available in German.


Its various authors make it clear, from an extensive reading of Ury's published work that she - who never herself married - was well aware of married women's aspirations to work and be independent of their husbands. Several of Annemarie's friends go into marriages where they work alongside their husbands - one is a pharmacist - and Annemarie herself may give up her medical studies to marry, but she works as her husband's assistant, helping him with x-rays and tests and many technical procedures that in those days doctors did in their own premises. All the same, in 'Nesthäkchen and her babies' she bursts out to her best friend: 'You can't believe how hard it is to have to come to one's husband for every bit of money you need to spend.. Women nowadays have a certain independence of spirit, and we want an economic self-sufficiency that our mothers and grandmothers never knew.' (my translation). However much Annemarie adores her children and loves being married, this frustration remains with her.

Ury was also well aware of the crass gulf between well-off and poor in Weimar Germany. However tough it is for Annemarie and her family, she knows about the misery of those who, though hard-working, were trapped in really desperate poverty. Annemarie's daughter and two of her granddaughters become social workers, and the younger of these even postpones her wedding till she's qualified, and will definitely work after her marriage. In fact, there's a book by Ury that I have only read about because they're so rare, in which a businessman's daughter upsets her family (destroying their Sunday afternoon peace) by protesting about the conditions her father's workers endure, and demanding that he does something about it.

My own mother, as a young bride in England after the war, determinedly got herself a job (much to my father's dismay at first) and worked for almost her whole life as a teacher, studying at night to get the degree and Masters that she wanted. Perhaps Ury's stories encouraged her. Re-reading the books, I feel that my mother learned from the humane attitudes towards children and young people that permeate Ury's work - and frequently put them into practice (no parent is perfect!). My mother certainly didn't learn them from my grandfather, who was a harsh-tongued, disciplinarian parent (and grandparent), whereas my grandmother was so psychologically fragile that my mother spent most of her childhood as a carer. She must have envied Annemarie her secure family, and determined that when she was a parent, she would be like the people in the books. So I think I have cause to be deeply grateful to Else Ury.


Nowadays, an alleyway just beside Savignyplatz station in Berlin (close to her childhood home) is named after her, and there is a growing interest in her work.
Plaque marking one of the houses Ury lived in, in Berlin.
Wikimedia Commons.



Else-Ury Bogen, Charlottenburg

Berlin. Photo; David Wilson


Nothing can change the bitter tragedy of her death; but future generations, as well as the thousands of German girls who adored her books during her lifetime, continued to love her work. Like so many other of Germany's Jews, she was a vital part of German culture, and not the worst efforts of the Nazis could root that out.

(Jacket images and illustrations come from my own collection of books.)






HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN AND THE LITTLE MERMAID

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BY ESSIE FOX


Dulac's illustration to show the little mermaid meeting the prince.


Hans Christian Andersen was the Danish author of many classic fairy tales such as The Snow Queen, ThumbelinaThe Little Match GirlThe Ugly Duckling and The Little Mermaid.

Hans Christian Andersen 1805-1875

As the child of a washerwoman and shoe maker, Andersen’s childhood in Odense was one of poverty. His grandfather was said to be mad. His grandmother worked in a lunatic asylum. An aunt ran a brothel, and a half-sister was a prostitute who, in later life, attempted to blackmail her brother. His father  also used to claim that his son was in some unspoken way related to Danish royalty, though no proof of this connection has ever been found.

When Andersen’s father died, the somewhat prudish and self-obsessed son who used to play with dolls in the street while singing in a high tenor voice, left his home town for Copenhagen where he studied at the university and hoped to pursue a career on the stage. However, that dream failed to materialise, so he worked on his writing skills instead – producing novels, travelogues and poetry – and, in due course, creating the fairy tales that would lead to the fame he always craved –


‘My name is gradually beginning to shine, and that is the only thing I live for...I covet honour in the same way a miser covets gold.’

A recent Danish stamp in honour of Hans Christian Andersen

By the end of his life, the Danish government proclaimed him a national treasure with designs for a statue being made long before his actual death. He was feted by such luminaries as Balzac, Robert and Elizabeth Browning, Dumas, Victor Hugo, Ibsen, Wagner and Liszt. Charles Dickens welcomed him into his home for a visit that lasted as long as five weeks, though such a duration became a great strain. Kate Dickens called him a ‘bony bore’ and when Andersen finally left the house her husband pinned a note to the wall in the room where Andersen had slept which said: ‘Hans Anderson slept in this room for five weeks – which seemed to the family AGES.’

When it came to his love life, the lanky, gauche and effeminate writer had very little luck. He felt himself to be an outsider, and his grief for the lack of a sexual ‘companion’ is shown in this diary entry –


‘Almighty God, thee only have I; thou steerest my fate, I must give myself up to thee! Give me a livelihood! Give me a bride! My blood wants love, as my heart does!’


What he desired remained unrequited, for Andersen cultured strange ‘love triangles’ where his wooing of a sister often hid the lust for the brother. Such was the case with Riborg Voigt – a letter from whom was found in a pouch that hung around Andersen’s chest when he died. 

Jenny Lind in 1850

A courtship of the singer Jenny Lind for whom he wrote The Nightingale led on to her being nicknamed the Swedish nightingale. But again, the ‘affair’ was unconsummated, and while the two ‘friends’ were residing in Weimer as guests of the Duke, Carl Alexander, Anderson proved to be more entranced with their host. The two men were often seen holding hands, sobbing over their mutual adoration of the singer, and eventually such passion led to Andersen's confession that the duke - 

‘... told me he loved me and pressed his cheek to mine...received me in his shirt with only a gown around...pressed me to his breast, we kissed...’  

However, it was Andersen’s life-long love for a man called Edvard Collins (whose sister he also courted) that inspired many intimate letters and the tale of The Little Mermaid – a story of obsessive longing and pain, and the desire to be ‘transformed’, as expressed in another letter –

‘I languish for you as for a pretty Calabrian wench...my sentiments for you are those of a woman. The femininity of my nature and our friendship must remain a mystery.

That mystery led to great yearning. It also led to the creation of a beautiful and tragic tale - a story far darker and twisted than the Disney film version dares to show. And now that story has gone on to inspire my own imagination, with themes from The Little Mermaid occurring in my Victorian gothic novel, which is called Elijah's Mermaid



THE KING IS DEAD! Killer facts from the 1970s - by Eleanor Updale

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I flicked on the telly the other morning and saw Simon Schama giving his all, yet again, in a rerun of his series on the History of Britain. 

He was doing the Norman Conquest and, as you might expect, there were several references to 'The Chroniclers' - the men (mainly monks) on both sides of the Channel, who have told us almost all we know (or think we know) about what happened in the mid-11th century.

I'm well aware that Simon Schama exercises appropriate caution when faced with a 'source'.  How does the writer know these 'facts'? Who is he writing for? Why is he writing? etc, etc.  Still, in the flurry of a TV script, there was no time to labour the point that the reality might not have been exactly as depicted in the surviving accounts. 
Anyone who has ever done historical research knows the fatal lure of the single, uncorroborated document: hard to disbelieve because it’s all we have to go on, and valued (perhaps over-valued) precisely because of its uniqueness.  It’s the historian’s equivalent of the penchant journalists and politicians have for ‘secret’ intelligence - their automatic assumption being that information is more likely to be true if it isn’t public, when the opposite is more likely to be the case.
WMD anyone?

The chances are that a lot of the things we accept as historical fact are only faintly related to what really happened.  Perhaps that doesn’t matter.  If the story is embedded in the national consciousness, maybe there’s a case for leaving it undisturbed. After all, we can’t understand the literature, songs, or even the politics of the past unless we know the old tales. 
Although the academic historical game is all about questioning and rewriting familiar stories, in practice, if people think that Alfred burnt the cakes or Robert the Bruce was inspired by a spider, it may not do any harm to let that notion lie.

In my time, I've had experience of helping the 'facts' to acquire a settled shape.  In the 1970s and 80s, I worked in BBC news and current affairs.  I suppose that era qualifies as 'history' now, so I'll take the chance to tell you a couple of anecdotes. 

On the night of August 16/17 1977, I was a very junior sub-editor in Radio News.  In those days, before computers, mobile phones, and with even the now-defunct CEEFAX in its infancy, we relied for our information on stringers phoning up, and agency reports coming in by teleprinter.    

The machine looked something like this

One of the jobs on the night shift was monitoring this stuff as arrived.  If anything significant or urgent turned up, and you were reasonably sure it was true, you pressed a button on a microphone on the desk, and your voice rang round BBC newsrooms and offices, alerting the staff to the breaking story.  It was unusual for much to merit announcement on the blower during the night: there were no bulletins on any radio outlets till the morning, and no morning TV at all.  In any case, most overnight news came from far-away lands that rarely made it into our summaries - places where our night was their day.

On that August night, a flash came through from one of the American news agencies, saying that Elvis Presley had died.  I pondered for a moment whether to announce this.  You'd hardly believe it now, but in 1977, Elvis wasn't such a big deal.  For my generation, born too late for his heyday, he represented a past age, eclipsed by our home-grown talent. 

Oh dear

We knew him only as a flabby has-been, or the star of some rather embarrassing flims in livid technicolour 

(this is a view I have since revised thanks to the post-mortem rediscovery of his early career!). 

Anyway. I studied the flimsy piece of paper, and decided that I would go ahead.



So it was that I broke the news of Elvis's death to the people who would relay it to the nation hours later. 

I was completely unprepared for what followed.  Telephonists from the switchboard rang the newsroom in tears to check.  Serious journalists I regarded as geriatric (they were probably in their 40s) started arguing about how to cover the story in the morning bulletins.  The genie was out of the bottle when another piece of copy arrived, from the same agency and, lo and behold, it seemed that Elvis was still alive. This new account had him in hospital, but recovering.  I felt a complete idiot, imagining dismissal, or at best a savage bollocking in front of the rest of the staff.  A kind colleague suggested I should wait till more information came in before returning to the squawk box to retract my rash announcement and, sure enough, other agencies soon piled in with confirmation of the death.  I must have been the only woman in the world who was relieved by that news.  It turned out that the ‘alive’ report had been bumped down the priority list of the American telex operator when news of the death came through, and mistakenly left in the queue for transmission.

That didn’t matter in the UK.  There was no output overnight, and the ‘Elvis alive’ story was never broadcast.  Few of my colleagues even knew it had existed.  But in America, were the news programmes were live on air, that little blip became one of the foundations of the conspiracy theories that led to the regular stream of Elvis ‘sightings’ which continue even today (when he would be 78 years old).  For many people, it’s a ‘fact’ that the death of ‘The King’ is a fiction.

By the way, back in our radio newsroom, that night continued with a spectacular fight about which Elvis track to play on the morning news. The home news editor was insisting on 'Blue Suede Shoes'; the Foreign Editor (a venerable and cultured man, normally known for his calm dignity) was almost apoplectic in his support for Hound Dog " For God's sake! Hound Dog was the very essence of the man!" I seem to recollect things being thrown, grown men stomping around, and some world-championship sulking in the small hours.  I don't think I ever again witnessed such passion over a news story in all my years at the BBC.  As far as I can remember, the solution was to play one track at 7am, and the other at 8 - quite a daring manoeuvre in those days.

My other story comes from the year before, when, as a News Trainee, I was temporarily posted to the newsroom at BBC Norwich.  It wasn't exactly the Washington Post.   
You may remember that the summer of 1976 was unusually hot.  


I don't think we would find those temperatures (in the high 70s Fahrenheit) particularly extreme these days, but back then the astonishing weather was our main story every night. The chocolate in a local sweet factory would not set, and the whole city smelled of cocoa; you could fry an egg on the bonnet of a car; there was botulism in the Norfolk Broads. And because of the heat, not much else was happening.

After a few of weeks of the heatwave, we were getting stuck for new things to say.  Talking in the bar one lunchtime (those were the days), someone suggested that when the rain eventually came, all the oil and rubber that had collected on the roads during the drought was likely to get mixed into a slippery mess.  It might be dangerous.  That afternoon, I wrote a story along those lines.  I may have managed to get some authority (such as a policeman or a representative of a motorists' organization) to endorse the idea. I probably made it sound as if the warning had originated with them, but essentially the item – though plausible - was a complete invention.


The next day I took my driving test.  There was no written exam then.  Instead, the practical drive ended with a few technical questions from the examiner.  After some general Highway Code stuff, he said, "Now, what will we have to look out for on the roads when it starts to rain?" I'm not sure whether he was expecting the authoritative answer he got, but it was enough to counterbalance my rather daring right-turn across a dual carriageway. He must have been a Look East viewer.  As far as he was concerned, the 'Killer Sludge' risk was fact.  I passed my test.

This business of how 'truths' are established is one of the subjects dealt with in my new book, The Last Minute.  It is based in the present day, but the message about the unreliability of evidence is the same as that propounded on all good History courses.


The Last Minute covers the sixty seconds before a big disaster, and the reader is privy to bits of evidence about the causes of the catastrophe which cannot be available to reporters and investigators trying afterwards to determine what went wrong .  When they have finished the book, readers can go online [to www.eleanorupdale.com/minute] to read the results of the official, and press, investigations. 

This is the sort of thing you'll see there.  There's much more
The reality and those reports don't match exactly, but it's the post-event confection which, in the real world, would go on to become established 'fact'.
There's no suggestion in The Last Minute that the distorted accounts are malicious, or deliberately designed to mislead.  The syrupy tributes to victims we know to have been flawed are more the product of human nature and lazy reporting than conscious mendaciousness.  But what I hope I am doing is drawing attention to the need for appropriate skepticism about 'evidence', even when it comes from a source very close to an event.

I'll round off with another tale from the 1970s, which is loosely connected with what I've been on about today.  I'm not suggesting that it's true, of course!


President Nixon woke up on a winter's morning and looked out of his bedroom window to see 'Richard Nixon is a %*$!' written in urine in the snow.  He commanded his security team to analyse the urine to see who had written the message.  The news came back that it was a senior member of the administration. "Sack him!" cried Nixon, "and make sure the press hear what a *!!!** he is". 
"You might not want to do that, sir," said the aide holding the security file. "You see, its X' s pee, but it's Mrs Nixon's handwriting."



And the moral, for the historian, is ...
when evaluating evidence, always ask yourself whose 'handwriting' it’s in, and why.
www.eleanorupdale.com  

PS Here's something for students of body language:
The President meets the King.  Elvis and Nixon, 1970

SLEEPWALKING IN ODESSA – Dianne Hofmeyr

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I arrive in Odessa in a trance. The Black Sea crossing had been turbulent. All through the night, the prow of the boat had plunged through gigantic rollers. In sharp sunlight, the wide shady boulevards and gracious classical buildings with their traceries of wrought iron balconies, seem almost hypnotic. Walking through old Odessa, I’ve forgotten that this is the town that Charles Ephrussi grew up in. The Hare with Amber Eyes is ludicrously far from my thoughts. 


I start at the mansion of Mikhail Tolstoy, cousin of Leo. In his gracious house with its oval front room I stare down between the trees into the garden and I’m moved by the grace of it all… the long windows, the light, the chandeliers, the marquetry floor, the fact that he married his maid – unheard of for a person of his standing in society. Apart from being patrons of the arts and building a separate art gallery next to the house for their collection, he and his wife also instigated the first emergency medical service in Russia. In retrospect I’ve worked out he must have lived in Odessa at the same time as the Ephrussi family. 




The Ephrussi Palace is on the promenade of the Primorsky Boulevard. I walk down to the promenade passing a music academy where a student is practicing the violin. She smiles down at me as if she knows this city populated by Russians and Greeks and Italians and Turks with streets named after them, is holding me in its grip, mesmerizing me.


 I pass the Potemkin Steps where Charles must have stood looking out over the masts of ships that transported the wheat his family acquired from all over Russia and watched stevedores and sailors, where he might've caught the whiff of adventure wafting off the Black Sea. 

In the late 1800’s, the steps must have been a stopping place for wealthy families living along the promenade taking their afternoon passeggiatta along the avenue of horse chestnut and linden trees. Now the steps are mostly occupied by gypsies trying to persuade tourists to part with money, by having photographs taken with eagles they have tied to their wrists by short ropes. The birds strain at the cords. I stare at the tourists hoping to shame them into not posing, as an eagle flaps and desperately tries to fly.

I don’t see the double E’s in the wrought iron of the Ephrussi Palace or the ears of wheat in the balustrades, because I’m not looking for them, but I do stop to take a photograph of the Londonskaya Hotel, which is almost next door, without remembering that this is where Edmund de Waal stayed when he visited Odessa. It’s a magnificent brown, baroque, Belle Époque edifice designed by the architect Boffi who also built the Tolstoy Palace, and has hosted famous people including Robert Louis Stevenson. 


I take a photograph of Pushkin as well. Today a dove is sitting on his head and beneath him in the open square mothers have gathered with their children under the trees in what seems like an informal forum for discussing toddlers’ problems. The children are slung across their mothers’ backs in the same way they are slung by mamas in Africa. 




I cross the dusty square that Charles must have played in and stroll to the grand Opera House and then on to a music recital at the Museum for Literature. Outside the Archaeological Museum, I take a photograph of Laocoön fighting the sea serpent. I don’t remember that Charles has drawn this, his favourite statue, countless times, making the coils tighter and tighter.


 Later I visit the Fine Arts Museum where students are sitting on the steps, drawing. The rooms inside are nothing like the galleries I know in London. The lighting is poor and the paintings are crowded but reflect beautiful Russian women sumptuously dressed, staring straight out at me. Any one of them could have been an Ephrussi woman. 

Then three months later I pick up The Hare with Amber Eyes from my shelves and I start reading it a second time and am startled by how much I’ve forgotten of the first reading. That whole swathe written on Odessa, the entire history of it, had been wiped from my memory. Now I want to go back to Odessa and see it properly. The Ephrussi Palais in the rue de Monceau in the 8th arrondissement in Paris is easy to reach… but the Ephrussi Palace in Odessa is far. When will I ever cross the Black Sea again? Instead I look at my photographs and think on Edmund de Waal’s words: ‘It is not just things that carry stories with them. Stories are a kind of a thing too. Stories and objects share something, a patina… … perhaps patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed.’ 


 
Does it matter that I saw Odessa not through the eyes of the wealthy Ephrussi family living on the western border of imperial Russia in 1860, but through my own eyes? – a beautiful city of leafy boulevards, rich with art, literature and music – students playing, people drinking coffee and a bride taking time out on her mobile. In the words of Edmund de Waal: ‘This is not a city around a cathedral or fortress. It is a Hellenic city of merchants and poets…’ 


The photographs are the copyright of Dianne Hofmeyr. Please don't use without permission.

Memorial Day, going back a while.

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This time a year ago the History Girls rallied round me. I lost my true love: they let me off blogging duties for months, sent exceptionally kind messages, and had a whip-round to send me rosemary, for remembrance. Thank you -

So now, as this post goes out on the day of his memorial concert - he was a composer - I'm going to remember him. And I'm going to do it in a historical way - in my usual historical way, actually. I'm going to report on the ancestors.

When I was little there was a small typed piece of paper stuck up the bath, which, steam-stained and ancient, read thus: 'This family is directly descended in two lines from Robert the Bruce, therefore we should rescue spiders from a dreary end in the bath'. My grandfather (he died in 1960) had put it up, and I spent much of my childhood rescuing spiders from a dreary end in the bath. At one stage, knowing that Marat had met such an end, I believed him to be spider. Such is the confusion of small knowledge on small people. But I digress.



 - or, more realistically - 




When I wrote my Book of the Heart, in the last years of the last century, I discovered that Robert the Bruce wanted, when he died, his heart to be taken to Jerusalem. It was accordingly taken south, via Spain, by one Sir James Douglas, in 'ane case of silver fyn, enamilit throu subtilite', which he wore around his neck. With 'Good Sir James', 'the Black Douglas', rode Sir Symon Locard of Lee who, having distinguished himself fighting the English, was given the honour of carrying the key to the precious case.

Sir James and his party got caught up in a battle between the King of Castile and the Saracen King of Granada. In the course of it, surrounded by enemies and seeing that all was lost, Sir James took his precious necklace and flung in front of him into the heat of the fight, crying: 'Onward as thou wert wont, I will follow or die!'

He died . . .

The heart in its locket was discovered, after the battle, under Sir James's corpse. It was taken up, and Sir Symon and Sir William Keith carried it back to Melrose Abbey in Scotland. (There, after being lost, and the subject of much dispute, it was finally reburied in a new box in 1998. Yes, 1998.)

After his return, Sir Symon Locard changed his family name  to Lockheart, later Lockhart. He added to the family coat of arms a heart in a fetterlock, and the motto Cordo serata pando: I open locked hearts.




So. My beloved was called Robert Lockhart. Did his many-times grandfather carry the key to my many-times grandfather's heart, or the heart itself, back in the fourteenth century? It gave us pleasure to imagine so. 

At my father's funeral I read this poem: 
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)




Robert set it to music for me. Before he lost his voice to throat cancer, he recorded himself reading it, over the beautiful piano and violin setting he had written. Susan Bullock is going to sing it on Sunday - today, when you read this. 

Looking it up today, I came across this: 

http://www.contrariwise.org/tag/ee-cummings/ - scroll down, and you will find the heart-carrying section. Yes, it gives me ideas. 


Raise a glass to him today. He had the key to mine. 



  




the bletherin

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The Burns Supper season is upon us, that moment in dreary January when Scots all over the world dust down their Scottishness, their bagpipes and The Complete Burns; when men hunt for haggis and women mash the neeps.   It's a tradition dating back to 1801, so the official version tells us, when

'on the fifth anniversary of the death of Robert Burns, nine men who knew him met for dinner in Burns Cottage in Alloway to celebrate his life and works.  The Master of Ceremonies was a local minister, a liberal theologian and an equally liberal host.  Hamilton Paul and his guests shared Masonic brotherhood with Rabbie and Paul devised an evening which look a bit like a lodge ceremonial, centred on a fine fat haggis; with recitation and singing of Burns's works and a toast (in verse) to the memory of their friend and hero.

It was such a jolly evening, all agreed to meet again the following January for a Birthday Dinner for the bard, little knowing that they had invented a global phenomenon that we know as the Burns Supper which still broadley follows the Reverend's original plan.'

It's an honour, in Scotland, for an English person to be asked to speak at a Burns Supper.  It's also faintly alarming.  First, even if you can recite yards of Burns with ease, unless you are a superb actor, English people speaking Scots sound like deflating bagpipes: more than a little off key.  Second, you must gird your loins to eat like a Clan Chieftan stocking up for a famine.

I girded my loins last Saturday.  I was to speak on 'My Scotland' but before any speeches, there was the Bill o' Fare:

Guid lentil soup made wi' a shank o' ham
...
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race wi' bashed keeps an' champit tat ties
...
Guid Carrick beef pie wi' roastit an bilet tatties an' some rumbledethumps
...
Guid Scotch trifle wi' trimlin tan
...
Ait cakes on a whang o'mighty kebbuck
...
A tassie o'coffee wi' tablet
...
To drink:  whisky, wine and guid Scotch water

It would have floored many trenchermen but, as Burns asked, who in his right mind 'looks down wi sneering, scornfu view/On sic a dinner?'   No 'sneering' or 'scornfu' view from me, only a faint sense of panic. As the haggis was addressed, I adjusted my sash (my husband's a Scot which makes me a sash by marriage) and prayed for a good digestion.  Reader, I did England proud.  I didn't manage every morsel, but I made a decent dent.    

Then we had The Bletherin.  I was to speak in the second half.  Yes, the second half.  A Burns blether is a mighty old thing, not for fearties.

Toast to the Queen
...
Song 'There was a lad'
...
The Immortal Memory (an erudite and witty canter round, under and over Burns - roughly 30 minutes)
...
Song 'Green Grow the Rashes'
...
Toast to the Lassies (15 minutes)
...
Reply from the Lassies (15 minutes)
...
Interval
...
Burns Recitation
...
My Scotland (that was my bit - 15 minutes)
...
Burns Song Medley
...
The Jolly Beggars (15 minutes)
...
Burns Recitation
...
Burns Song Medley
...
Concluding Remarks
...
Auld Lang Syne

There are three Immortal Memories celebrated in Britain: two Scots, James Watt and Robert Burns; and one English, Lord Nelson.  I've no idea what they eat at a Watt Supper or a Nelson Supper - lightbulbs and ships biscuits? - but I doubt the Bill of Fare can match the Burns.  Burns, voted by Scots the greatest Scot of all time, died in 1796 of an infection following a tooth extraction.  It wasn't a romantic way to go, but my goodness, despite the weight of haggis and beef pie, he left some romance behind him.   

Pepys, Egyptian Mummies and Wool Smuggling. by Deborah White

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Our guest this month is children's writer Deborah White. Welcome Deborah! (If you read to the end you will discover how seriously she takes her guesting responsibilities).

Deborah White was born in Devon, but lived in an 18ft caravan on a farm in Buckinghamshire until she was three. She loved to read and write stories on her 1914 portable Corona typewriter and secretly dreamed of being an actress. She was inspired to write Wickedness after reading that Samuel Pepys went to see a preserved mummy at Egyptian exhibition in London in 1668.


I am not a historian and I never thought I would write anything even remotely historical, but a serendipitous discovery changed all that. Reading Pepys Diary one summer (as you do!) I came across an entry that referred to an Ancient Egyptian mummy (May 12th 1668. ‘And so parted, I having there seen a mummy in a merchant’s warehouse…all the middle of the woman’s body black and hard’). That little throwaway comment piqued my interest and the more I found out about knowledge of Ancient Egypt in the 17th century, the more fascinated I became. And once I had decided to set part of Wickedness and its sequel Deceit in the 17th century, of course I had to do research. Lots. I ended up with pages and pages of stuff. And I collected little snippets of information I thought I would never find a use for. (Rose Tremain was right when she said you have to do the research and then forget it or it will swamp your narrative. My first drafts were definitely swampy in places.) But one of those little snippets came in unexpectedly useful: wool smuggling. I remember being brought up short when I first read about it. Wool smuggling. Why on earth would anyone want to smuggle wool? But of course like anything, if there is an imbalance between production and need there will always be people profiting from that. (Currently one of Europe’s more bizarre smuggling rackets is the illegal importation of Chinese garlic into the EU.)

The thing was I had to get two of my characters, Margrat and Christophe (neither of whom had ‘safe conduct’ documents) from England across to France ‘under the radar’. Who was already crossing the Channel regularly and in secret? Smugglers. And when I began researching the sort of smuggling that was going on along the Kent/East Sussex coast in the 1660s, I discovered it was largely wool. Apparently by the 17th century it had reached epidemic proportions because English wool was in such high demand in France and the English textile trade was in a poor state. In 1660 it was forbidden to export wool. In 1662 the death penalty was introduced for anyone caught smuggling it. Smugglers then armed both themselves and their ships. Any attempt at arrest was very violently resisted. Why not use guns when, if you were caught, you’d be hanged anyway? (‘As good be hanged for an old sheep as a young lamb.’ This proverb from John Ray’s 1670 collection seems appropriate!) By the 1670s, 20,000 packs of wool (Say 20 fleeces per pack/bale) were being smuggled to Calais annually. That’s 400,000 fleeces a year. (The population of London was approximately 500,000 in 1666.)


The other development that made smuggling much easier, first appeared in Europe in the 15th century. This was a change to how ships were rigged. The introduction of fore and aft rigging made tacking into the wind possible. No more having to wait until the wind was in the right direction. Brilliant! The old square rigged ships could only sail when the wind direction was favourable and so were forced into using proper ports where the ships could stay safely moored up until the wind changed. But smugglers using small fore and aft rigged boats could sail into little hidden bays or even berth straight up onto a beach (as I had my smuggler’s boat do in Deceit.) Obviously this is a huge advantage when you are doing something illegal! And using prominent landmarks to navigate by (The spires of Reculver church for instance were very easy to spot from the sea…so the beach below became a popular landing spot for smugglers.)



A postcard from 1913 showing the spires of the church at Reculver





I also found out that smugglers from around the Romney Marsh area were known locally as owlers. (According to the OED, it was first recorded as a noun in 1690. Although my second novel Deceit is set very slightly earlier, I refer to my smugglers as owlers.)





Maybe they were called owlers because they worked at night. Or because the owl call could easily be used for communication between smugglers…just as the little pewter owl token, passed from one hand to another was a sign of trust. But what a nice little bit of period detail. And dear reader…I used it! Now all I need to do is find a use for all that research into 17th century French theatre design…



Debbie (on left) takes blogging for the History Girls very seriously. Dressed up in a toga (sheet), she is about to sail (fore and aft rigged sailing vessel of course) through the Corinth Canal with her friend Sheila.

You can read more about Deborah and her books at www.deborahwhiteauthor.com 












THE HISTORICAL OBJECTS I'D MOST LIKE TO OWN, by Leslie Wilson

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Photograph: David Wilson

These dogs live in the Zwinger porcelain museum in Dresden, where I saw them three years ago. They are not Dresden china, however, but Japanese, from the late seventeenth century. August the Strong, Elector of Saxony and later King of Poland, acquired them in the early eighteenth century. They were catalogued as 'two seated brightly-coloured small dogs with red collars and bells.' Apparently Japanese ladies used to like keeping these little spotted dogs and one can see them on ukiyo-e woodblock prints.

Actually, the Zwinger is full of objects I'd love to own; exquisite Chinese and Japanese porcelain, equally exquisite Meissen porcelain - but I adore the amused and affectionate way these little dogs have been observed and made. I have seen my own dogs lift their noses in exactly that way, many a time, sniffing some delicious smell coming from the kitchen, and perhaps, since they are pet dogs, their kimonoed mistress, sitting on the tatami matting, will pick a morsel from the low table, bend down and offer it to them, at the end of her chopsticks - and then - following canine blandishments, another. I think, in fact, that it is beef, perhaps sukiyaki - I can almost smell it myself!

I would put them on the mantelpiece, I think, and when my grandsons came to stay they would have to be put away in the glass-fronted cupboard to be safe from the toddling, grabbing twins; but they'd get lifted up to see the dogs, and would exclaim with delight. But there's the rub. They're far too valuable, and the insurance would be impossible. I have the photograph, though, and can enjoy seeing them whenever I like, without fear of theft or breakages.

January Competition

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We have five copies of Deborah White's book, Deceit, which she wrote about here to give away to the best answers to this question:

"If you were a seventeenth century smuggler, bringing something in or out of the country, what contraband would appeal to you?"

We regret that all our competitions are open to UK residents only.

Closing date 7th February; please put suggestions in the Comments below.

Hidden Saints by Mary Hoffman

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They are everywhere around us, the hidden saints, if you know where to look. This one is Saint Hilary of Poitiers and I was alerted to him by an article in the Oxford Times. If you have any knowledge of Oxford University, you might be aware that the three academic terms of the year are called Michaelmas, Hilary and Trinity (as opposed to Cambridge, where they are Michaelmas, Lent and Easter).

St Hilary was the Bishop of Poitiers in about 350 AD - the picture shows his ordination - and he was a great opposer of the doctrine of Arianism (the belief that God had only one form). So, pro-Trinity then, but that's not why he gives his name to the term we are currently in at Oxford and some Inns of Court. His feast day is 13th or 14th January and he's the biggest saint around to grace that month in which Hilary Term begins.

There are not many male Hilaries these days; I can think only of Hilary Benn. As I've written about before, once a name becomes unisex - Evelyn, Vivian, Shirley - it is soon dropped like a hot coal  by the boys. Only Julian has gone the other way - perhaps because Gillian became a separate female form.

Michaelmas of course refers to Saint Michael, the Archangel, whose feast day falls on 29th September.

This is Jacob Epstein's version of St Michael slaying the dragon on the front of Coventry Cathedral, though the "dragon" is here a very human-shaped Devil. Michael is the one with the flaming sword who prevents Adam and Eve from returning to the Garden of Eden. He also has two island mountains on either side of the Channel - St Michael's Mount and Mont Saint-Michel, as well as giving his name to my favourite sculptor Signor Buonarotti.

Less gloriously, Marks and Spencer's underwear bore the name St Michael until 2000, when it was dropped. A very hidden saint indeed.

A popular saint, St. Michael, who name is still given to boy children today, like Saints Patrick, George, John, Matthew, Luke, Mark, David, James, Thomas and Andrew. Mary, T(h)eresa, Anne, Cla(i)re and Elizabeth are all still popular girls' names from the company of Saints.

But what about the less well-known ones? My all-time favourite is Sexburga, though it would be cruel to name a girl child after her now. Sexburga died in 699 AD, was married to King Econbert of Kent and had four children, two of whom are also saints, though fairly hidden ones. So she is much more respectable than she sounds.

She founded an abbey, as did her sister Saint Etheldreda - what a pious family! But in my imagination I want to put her together with Saint Frigidian, who sounds as if he needs to learn how to have a good time. In fact this Ulster saint transferred to Italy, where he is known as San Frediano and has this lovely church dedicated to him in Lucca:
Even stranger than the names of some saints is what they are considered to be patrons of. We are all familiar with Cecilia, the Patron Saint of music or Anthony, the Patron Saint of lost things, but until I found this site, I did not know about the Patron Saints of the Internet, Alcoholics or the fear of mice (Isidore, Monica and Gertrude).



Then there are the saints who are well-known on the continent and hardly mentioned in the UK - Rocco or Roche (born in Montpelier and, incidentally the Patron Saint of Plaques - who knew?), Gimignano (born in Modena, but virtually nothing known of his life), Denis (though he must have been better-known here at one time, going by all the Den(n)ises of an earlier generation.


The name derives from Dionysius and Saint Denis was martyred by being beheaded. He did not let a little thing like that stop him from delivering his current sermon, picking up his head and continuing to speak.


Why did Kevin catch on as a boy's name and not Ninian or Nectan? And how many of us know that Saint Kevin was reported to be such an ascetic that he drowned a woman who tried to seduce him?

Santa Fina has a chapel dedicated to her in San Gimignano but her name hasn't made much impression on the baby names lists. She was only fifteen when she died, having suffered a debilitating illness (possibly osteomyelitis) and her flesh having grown into the wooden pallet on which she lay. Nevertheless white violets grew from the wooden board after her death, which is a nicer version than that her flesh was eaten by maggots and rats while she lived.

Who is your favourite little-known saint?



Emma and Nelson and the Birth of Modern Celebrity - Lucy Inglis

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What is a celebrity? The term comes from Middle English and Old French and literally means ‘celebrated’ or ‘famous’. Both the reality and the concept of fame have been at the centre of British consciousness for over a thousand years. Beowulf was the original celebrity of Anglo-Saxon literature: cool and unspeakably heroic. Other, anonymous Anglo-Saxon warriors such as The Wanderer, and The Seafarer, create poetry from the anguish of exile from their fellow man. For them, to be isolated from the warmth of the mead-hall chills their bones. At the centre of this hall, in all Anglo-Saxon epic poetry, is the king, prince or chief who lights the fire of camaraderie that literally warms all those within.

This mindset continued into the medieval period, where the peculiar combination of Norman aristocracy dominating an Anglo-Saxon society retained the ‘celebrity’ effect, culminating in the first real ‘modern’ celebrity: Elizabeth Tudor. Elizabeth made conscious decisions, as with other solitary queens before her, to aspire to, and create the illusion of a female warrior-prince. It was a construct, along with The Virgin Queen, that would win the heart of the English people. Elizabeth represents the first true division of the ‘celebrity’ personality from the person behind the image.

Celebrity took a back seat for the early part of the eighteenth century. Neither Charles I nor James were able to impact on Elizabeth’s glittering and almost super-human legacy but Charles II was a man raised to be king, with all the education, style and personal qualities to be a success in the role. Upon his return to the English throne, his decision to rule kindly and well transmitted itself to his Royal persona, which was irreverent and fun. No sooner was Charles back on the throne than theatres sprang up throughout London, with endless new and often very short-lived works being performed. It is a mark of the social mobility of the post-Interregnum period that both Charles would choose mistresses from the theatre, most notably orange seller and actress Nell Gwynne; the duality of famous people being at once apart, and at once, ‘just like us’, was seen in both Charles and Nell. Foreign visitors and Londoners alike noted on how Charles walked in the parks and was a familiar sight around Town. He might often be found standing on the path behind the Pall Mall house he had granted to Nell Gwynne, whilst she leant over her garden wall to speak to him. Nell’s rise to both fame and popularity was meteoric in the way we have become accustomed to now with television programs such as The X-Factor, or reality series.

As the eighteenth century accelerated, so did the nature of London life and more celebrities, and celebrity types emerged to fill the city’s lively social scene. News took on a sense of immediacy, thanks to cheaper printing techniques and changes to licensing laws. In Soho, the artisan quarter of London, a lively and often heated debate on art and its meaning was played out by a set of characters who would go on to become some of the greatest celebrities of the eighteenth century. In 1753, William Hogarth published The Analysis of Beauty. Its publication also kicked off a massive and very public squabble in the art world that was played out in coffee-houses and societies around the Town. But Hogarth had a point and he also created enduring beauty. The cult of the beautiful had been growing since Burlington and his peers began to import ancient Greek and Roman standards of perfection into London. Insidiously, but then very rapidly towards the middle of the century, it was not enough to be witty and charming and to conform to a set of regular features reflecting the standards of the day - it was necessary to be beautiful. And Hogarth, with his portrait The Shrimp Girl, shows clearly that beauty can be found anywhere.

Hogarth’s contemporary Joshua Reynolds knew his worth as a portrait painter, and flatters his subjects whilst still managing to bridge the gap between viewer and sitter, the celebrity and the admirer. This ability made him popular with London’s famous names, both in the theatre sets, but also in the aristocracy, where the men suddenly looked more louche, and the woman’s necklines fell along with their posture into something slightly racier. Reynolds introduced a note of intimacy with his subjects which became desirable, and the ideal: at once both intimate, yet completely out of reach. One of his finest portraits of a theatre beauty is that of Francis Abington. She was a true celebrity, a star both on the stage and off it, and crowds followed her when she went shopping to see what colour ribbons she would buy, or which fan-maker she went to. On the stage, she was celebrated, and her benefit nights were always sold out. Reynolds paid for forty seats at her benefit in 1775 (benefits were the night when the actress herself received the takings from the door, so all her friends and admirers would be sure to turn up that day in order to line her pockets). Samuel Johnson went along and could see or hear nothing for the crush and the din. When James Boswell, his great friend and biographer asked him why then, had he gone? Johnson replied:

‘Because Sir, she is a favourite of the publick; and when the publick cares the thousandth part for you that it does for her, I will go to your benefit too.’

One of Reynolds’s most famous, and probably most beautiful subjects was Emma Hamilton. Hamilton is perhaps the greatest female celebrity of the Regency period. Her lover Charles Greville would instigate one of the greatest celebrations of beauty the eighteenth century was to see, when he commissioned George Romney to paint his mistress. Romney’s work was popular already, and his renderings of Emma’s beauty rapidly elevated her in society in the way Mario Testino’s photographs of Kate Moss cemented her celebrity status. Emma would go on to marry Greville’s uncle, Sir William Hamilton and take up residence in Naples. In a bizarrely Jordanesque/Katie Price moment, she used her birth name of Amy Lyons when she married. The Hamiltons carried on happily until autumn 1798, when Nelson arrived. They were possibly the two most famous people on the planet, and when they met, Emma fainted. Nelson wrote home to his wife of having met Emma, and soon, he and Lady Hamilton were involved in a passionate, if unlikely love affair. Sir William tolerated the affair - the three even lived together. He was ageing by then, idolized Nelson, and loved his wife. All three returned to London. It was an adequate, if not altogether satisfactory situation, especially when Emma gave birth to Nelson’s daughter Horatia in Sir William’s home in Clarges Street. The scurrilous press commentated on their every move from home, and even went through their rubbish so they could see what they ate. Emma became even more overweight and Nelson, shy and awkward, unable to contemplate the social life she craved. Their bizarre life was the stuff dreams are made of for the tabloids.

With Emma Hamilton and Nelson, the worship of both the famous, and fame itself became a reality in Georgian London. Their lives held heroism, beauty, love, and scandal. The celebrity bar that had been set high at the beginning of the century, was now raised even higher. A cheap gutter-press filled with daily news-sheets was a hungry maw waiting for any triumph, but also any slip. The appetite for celebrity would continue to grow, creating mega-stars out of military heroes, actresses and the mistresses of great men but the illusion was to grow ever greater. From the talented stars of Victorian popular opera, to the beautiful muse-mistresses of the pre-Raphaelites, to the elegant stars of silent film, the beautiful comediennes of the 1940s, the essence of star quality remained essentially unchanged. It was war which increased the British appetite for frivolity and by the 1960s, it was enough simply to be handsome or beautiful. The veneer became the reality.

It is a curious semantic shift that the word célébrité, in use for centuries and meaning ‘the state of being celebrated’ for a personal quality or singular achievement, has become celebrity, a state of being.

The Joys of Time Travel by Eve Edwards

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I have a question for you.  If I had a time machine at my disposal, where would you like me to take you?  Ancient Rome? The Boston Tea Party? The Court of Ming Chengzu?  Fully inoculated against the diseases swishing about the world at the time and with your dentistry up to date, you could have a very interesting time if you were brave enough to come with me.  But just like major airlines, I have to say please just don't travel with me in the late stage of pregnancy as I'm not sure I'd want to expose you to the child birth odds of the past.

A fun thought experiment, but I would guess that most - if not all - of us novelists on this blog feel as if we get in our tardis each day as we sit down to write. It is probably the simplest explanation of why we write in this genre: we are curious folk - in both senses of that phrase!  Part of understanding ourselves and our present moment is to grasp where we have come from and books are arguably one of the best means of doing so.  Films may do a good job of recreating the exterior world of the protagonists but books give you that direct living-behind-the-eyes of the character.

Dipping in to another genre - fantasy - and you can find the same time travelling impulse beats strongly.  Thinking about this theme for this blog entry, I came across an excellent article on Wiki about the history of time travel in literature which takes it back far earlier than I expected.  It also mentions some of my favourites - A Christmas Carol, The Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, and of course The Time Machine.  I suppose what these books have in common is that the past acts as a light shining on our present, equally revealing about the person that travels as about the place to which they go.

As some of you know, when writing for younger readers I don my Julia Golding hat.  In April I am beginning a trilogy called Young Knights.  It draws on three folklore traditions: Arthurian legend, the Thomas the Rhymer missing-in-fairyland-for-a-hundred-years story, and changelings.  Putting these together I asked myself what happened to the human children swapped for fey changelings in the old tales?  If they were taken to fairyland where one year is worth a hundred here, they wouldn't be that old, would they?  My main character is an Anglo-Saxon boy taken in the 700s so now thirteen.  When sent back by the Fey to the present day, Elfric (Rick) time travels to his future.  What would a Saxon make of modern schools, roads, buses, cook books, litter bins, coke cans?  Our world becomes frightening and not a bit ridiculous when seen through his eyes.  As you'll see in the trailer below, the biggest challenge is not his mission, but passing himself off as an ordinary teenager.



What did I learn putting myself in the shoes of an Anglo-Saxon boy?  Some of the headlines were our amazing longevity, the fact that doctors can actually cure illnesses, the speed of travel, the breadth of knowledge about the rest of the world that ordinary people now have. Then there were the silly things: that fashion is always incomprehensible outside the bubble of the fashionistas, that we eat weird combinations of things, humans don't change too much in their reactions to the odd or the alien, that letting someone into your house to read a meter is downright bizarre and that school dinner ladies are very scary (but I might be projecting here memories of my 1970s primary school).  There were lots more intriguing things about our world to rediscover and I found it a creative and fun thought experiment.

If you have a reader in the house of about ten and upwards who likes action packed fantasy with a sprinkling of historical details, then maybe they'd like this series.  But warning: contains dragons...

To find out more about Young Knights, please follow this link to my website.
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