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An Addictive Resource - Joan Lennon

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All I wanted to do was have a quick look at the National Library of Scotland's online resource of Chapbooks Printed in Scotland, just to see if I thought it would be of interest to History Girl readers.  And it is.  Fascinating historical chapbooks, printed in the 18th and 19th centuries, in 42 categories (from Accidents and Apparitions to War and Wit and Humour) are reproduced page for page.  But then I made a terrible mistake - I clicked on Diseases, and then on Tayler's Ready Doctor (published 1776) - and time passed ...



For a Greedy Appetite
Pottage of Wheat and a little Whale Oil boiled therewith; repeat this once a day for three days; or, apply Gum Arabic to the Belly.  If none of these will cure, the Patient's Case must be desperate indeed.

For Beardiness
... if you want to be free of a Beard altogether, the Blood of a Batt, once applied, will do the turn.

For Grief
Drink heartily of Balm and Mint Juice ...

For the Hickup
... Stop both your fingers in your ears, until you count to Fifty and Five regularly ...

Do you have an addictive nature?  Then perhaps you had better stay away from this site.  Think you're hard core enough to handle it?  Good luck and see you later.  Much, much later ...



Joan Lennon's website.
Joan Lennon's blog.
Silver Skin.

'No more Hiroshimas' by Lydia Syson

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Thirty years ago a new university friend invited me to come and spend Christmas with her family in Hiroshima.  Until I met her, Hiroshima was a word on a banner - an idea, a symbol of something so huge and terrifying and unimaginable that in my nineteen-year-old mind I think it was still a wasteland.  How could the city possibly have been rebuilt? Hiroshima was the cherry tree in Tavistock Square – a ‘never again’ reminder of the worst inhumanity I could conceive and most importantly, a memorial to its victims.  A Cold War child in a left-wing North London household, I had spent my youth marching for CND, passing round petitions, and organising film shows and discussions at school. ‘Enola Gay’ was on the radio and nuclear holocaust at the back of our minds and in our dreams, but we tended to think about dying, not surviving.

Tavistock Square, London
My grandmother, Moira Gaster, helped organise the planting of this tree in 1967
from the seeds of a Hiroshima cherry tree.
The memorial benches opposite are for both my peace activist grandparents.
‘Hiroshima’ seemed untranslatable into bricks and mortar…or as it turned out, concrete and cabbages. In the mid-1980s decorative brassicas were very much in fashion in the window boxes of one of the most modern city I’d ever visited. On my arrival, after a long and memorable Aeroflot flight via Moscow and a journey on a bullet-train, the first thing that struck me was my poor choice of footwear: I’d had no idea I’d have to remove it so often. My winter shoes - slightly Edwardian lace-up boots - took forever to get on and off, and I was shamed by the holes in the heels of nearly every pair of black tights I owned. In those days all the minutiae of everyday Japanese life were thrillingly unfamiliar – the very hot, deep bath, refilled once a week; heated tables and loo seats; wearable duvets; bento boxes, pachinko parlours and meals from slot machines. Meanwhile, although the knowledge of what had happened in Hiroshima hung over me, the city itself at first seemed bland and unexceptional. It was almost disconcerting.

Until my friend took me to the Peace Memorial Park, the open space which had once been the heart of Hiroshima.  Commemorations will be taking place there today as they do every year on the anniversary of the first atomic bomb to be used in warfare, remembering more than 80,000 people killed on the day of the attack, and 140,000-150,000 more who died from radiation poisoning in the years that followed. I saw the skeleton dome of one of the only buildings left standing, still preserved as a ruin. I learned of Sadako and her paper cranes. And I was overwhelmed in the museum, which was smaller then than it is today and offered less context to the whole ghastly war, its ending, and its aftermath. All these years later, it’s hard to write about what I saw and felt there. It seemed, and still seems, unspeakable.

The Genbaku Dome - also known as the 'A' dome -
amidst the devastation in October 1945. Photograph by 
Shigeo Hayashi
Yet somehow - remarkably - Kathleen Burkinshaw, author of The Last Cherry Blossom, published this week in the US by Sky Pony Press, has managed to put into words the experience of growing up in Hiroshima during the Second World War.



From her mother’s memories, and her own careful research, Kathleen has created an original and compelling novel about a twelve-year-old girl trying to make sense of the gaps between newspaper reports, government propaganda and what she gradually discovers for herself: neighbours going to fight who never come home, the pressures of ritual suicide, what it really means to serve your country.   Meanwhile, as her own household changes, with new marriages for both her aunt and her father, Yuriko also finds disturbing holes in her own family narrative. She is forced to rethink her identity at every level.
Kathleen's mother, Toshiko Ishikawa (1932-2015),
with her Papa, Hisao Ishikawa (1883-1945)
 in her most treasured photograph.

It’s a completely absorbing world. All the details of family relationships, school friendships, everyday life, customs, stories, and ideas about honour and shame are woven in beautifully. When pika don hits – the literal translation is ‘flash boom’ – we understand exactly what it has destroyed. Burkinshaw handles the moment and its aftermath with great sensitivity. The Last Cherry Blossom takes its title from a favourite saying of Yuriko’s Papa, and also evokes the spirit of endurance in Hiroshima, manifested in the blooming of cherry trees in Spring 1946 in soil where scientists had predicted nothing would grow for years. There are some books you read as a child which open your eyes, get under your skin, and stay with you forever. When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit had that effect on me. I think The Last Cherry Blossom will prove an enduring novel. I also believe that its young readers will grow up asking more questions about where we are now in terms of nuclear warfare, whether we have learned anything from the tragedies of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and asking themselves how they feel about that.



Kathleen with her mother in 2013 (above)
and with her daughter Sara in Hiroshima (below)






www.lydiasyson.com




Matisse's Chapel: La Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence by Adèle Geras

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This is the long, long hill leading  from the centre of Vence,  in the South of France up to the Chapelle du Rosaire which Matisse worked on very near the end of his life, between 1949 and 1951. It was built for Dominican nuns and is considered one of the world's great religious buildings.  There are easier ways to reach the Chapel, and indeed on our way back, the walk had almost no slopes at all. But from where we were in the town we could see it, up on the hill opposite which didn't look a long way at all. 

Those who know me know that I am no athlete. I am also not young. Still, I walked up that hill and felt at the end as if I'd achieved something to be proud of. I was then forbidden by my daughter from ever attempting such a climb again....I must have been very red in the face and she must have feared I'd keel right over. But I didn't....I was simply a bit out of breath for a minute or two.







 I did a quiz once where the question was: Matisse or Picasso? I've never had any hesitation in choosing Matisse and if there were only one artist allowed to me, I'd choose him, for many reasons. I love his colours. I love his subjects. I love his versatility. I love the way that when he couldn't do one kind of art, he did another. I love his longevity. Above all, I love the fact that looking at Matisse ALWAYS makes you feel happy.  And towards the end of his life, he made the Chapelle du Rosaire which is an extraordinary place. 





No one is allowed to take photos within the Chapel. I bought postcards which I've photographed to give some idea, but really, they are woefully inadequate. I have no religious faith whatsoever but readers of this blog will know that even though I'm Jewish, I am very fond indeed of cathedrals, chapels and the like. I've often wondered about this, and come to the conclusion that it's because those who do believe made these places for everyone to be calm in; to think in; to express their deepest wishes in; to mourn in; to rejoice in and for that reason they devoted to them the very best that their handiwork could devise.  And buildings on which time and care and talent have been lavished retain the resulting beauty forever. 

The work on the Chapel wasn't easy. From the guidebook I bought, I learned that someone called Father Couturier writes :"the hundreds of preparatory drawings, the endless new restarts, the anguish of sleepless nights."




There is no hint of the sleepless nights, nor of the anguish when you walk into the Chapel. It's the very embodiment of serenity. The enormous blue and yellow stained glass windows spill light on to the white floor.  The guide book says: "Each of the windows is in the form of a curtain drawn across a yellow background. On the two southern windows, the layout of the yellow and blue leaves on a green background gives a surface proportionate to the rays of light." 
Just sitting in the Chapel for a short time is restorative and truly lifts the spirits. The simplicity is striking. Everything is the opposite of ornate. There is nothing dark anywhere to be seen. The silence is healing, until another band of tourists appears and about a dozen people take their places in the pews, but even then, even with the modern phenomenon of more and more people getting to more and more places, peace and harmony  conquer all. The beauty is so present everywhere that it makes no difference whether there are crowds of tourists there or not. Tranquillity like this is undisturbable.




The black and white murals on the walls are painted on tiles measuring a foot across. You can see their vague outlines in the postcard. Matisse was too ill by that time to do the actual painting on the high walls himself, but he had a team of skilled workers who transferred his painted drawings on paper to the tiles on the wall.





The nuns were a little disconcerted at first about the depiction of Our Lady's naked breast, but in the end, they came to love  this mural too.  Those clouds, or flowers around the figures look like the sort of thing a child might easily draw and they give the mural a  quality of innocence and joy that a more detailed (or grown-up) image would never capture. 



I wish I could have photographed the door to the confessional....it's made of pinkish stone in a kind of fretwork or lace and is supremely beautiful, but there was no postcard in the shop. On the way to the shop, along a small corridor, you pass this basin attached to the wall. Matisse has decorated the wall behind it and it's a lovely thing to behold. There is a card of that, and that's why I've been able to reproduce it here. 

If you are in the area over the summer, or ever, I can only urge you to visit this place. You won't forget it.




When we came out of the Chapel, determined to find a flatter and easier way back into Vence, we turned left and saw immediately next to the Chapel, this building which is where the Dominican nuns live. It struck me what fun they must have had choosing those turquoise pots, and picking the pinkest of geraniums to go with them.  If you spend your life here, you will love and long for colour and here's a perfect way of achieving it. Those pots made me smile.  



We made it back to Vence quite easily and without any puffing and blowing on my part. Here's my favourite photo of the trip: more kinds of tomato than you can shake a stick at. I enjoy thinking of Monsieur Matisse's housekeeper bringing him a salad of some of these while he worked on the Chapelle du Rosaire. Dressed with  Provençal olive oil, a little garlic and the juice of these lemons...



The Lynx of Happiness by Karen Maitland

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 As you may have read in the papers, we had some excitement in Devon recently when Flaviu the lynx, newly arrived at Dartmoor Zoo, escaped and ran wild for a few weeks. Farmers with lambs and householders with small pets were naturally anxious, but many people were quietly hoping lonely little Flaviu would stay free and even find a mate among the other big cats rumoured to live wild on Dartmoor.

In the Middle Ages, lynx were known as lincis, and thought to be akin to a wolf. The name comes from leuk meaning light, and it possible that the lynx was named for its eyes which, like most night-hunters, shine if caught by a light in the dark. Lynx eyes were thought to have magical powers. They could see through solid objects and deep into the earth to discover whatever might be hidden down there. They were also supposed to be to discover hidden truths and see into the future. Perhaps that’s why they unnerved man so much.


Legend had it that when they urinated, the liquid hardened into a precious stone after seven days, called Ligurius or lungurium, resembling a carbuncle gem. The lynx was said to hate people and having a ‘constitutional meanness’ would bury their urine as deep as they could, to stop humans taking the stone and using it a jewellery.

If the lynx hated people it was probably with good reason. for medieval farmers killed it whenever they could. The French called the lynx loup cervier, usually translated as deer-wolf, or chat loup meaning cat-wolf. Along with the wild cat they were disliked by the hunter, because they would quickly take to the trees when pursued, depriving the huntsmen of the long chase with hounds that boars and deer provided. There was little sport to be found in a treed-cat that could only be brought down by the skill of the bowman.

 But as for poor Flaviu, he has been recaptured and was apparently most annoyed about it. They are currently trying to find him a mate, so let’s hope he soon finds happiness.

And talking of happiness, did you know that today (8th August) is apparently Happiness Happens Day. It was instituted in 1999 by the little known Secret Society of Happy People who aim is to spread joy. Back in the Middle Ages, people certainly had occasions to be jolly – Christmas feasts, fairs, and what in Devon is known as ‘Crying the neck’ – an evening of drinking, feasting and dancing when the grain harvest was brought in. The neck was a specially bound sheaf of the best ears of wheat from the harvest which was honoured by being held in the centre of circle of farmhands, then lowered and raised three times, as those around bowed low and rose up with the neck.
Melancholy Thistle. Photo by Paul Chapman

 But what you could do if you were feeling a little blue the rest of the year, and with famine, pestilence, war there were certainly plenty of times when medieval folk needed cheering up. A 16th century proverb gave good advice –
He who would be happy for the day let him go to the barber; for a week, marry a wife; for a month, buy a new horse, for a year, build him a new house and for a lifetime, be an honest man.’
 But if you couldn’t afford a new house, those suffering from melancholia were advised to drink decoctions of one of several herbs in strong wine – Melancholy Thistle, Viper’s Bugloss, Motherwort, Burnet, or Dodder which had climbed up a Thyme plant. These were said to make you as ‘merry as cricket’, but of course, that might have been due to the wine.
Viper's Bugloss. Photo: Roger Griffith

Curiously, one of the medieval symbols of happiness was the mandrake, a hallucinogenic plant used by sorcerers which was believed to spring up from the sperm of hanged men at the foot of the gallows. Its scream, when dragged from the earth, was said to kill or drive men mad. So dogs were often tied to the plant and then thrown some meat, so they would run after it and tear the plant up.

Why would such a wicked little plant be the symbol of happiness? The reason is that if you could get hold of a genuine one it could bring you boundless wealth and grant you all your heart desired. And in a way it did for some people. Medieval forgers made a good living faking mandrakes out the bryony roots which they carved to look like manikins and buried in the ground with a few grains of wheat on top to resemble mandrake leaves and when the ‘leaves’ sprouted, they sold them for a fat purse to those who’d never seen the real thing.
But however you find your happiness today, don’t forget to pass it on – happiness is contagious.

A dog about to pull the screaming mandrake
from the earth.








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Leeches, Lepers & Anal Surgery by Caroline Lawrence

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You wait for ages for an exhibition on Ancient Medicine and then two come along at once, both in Chester, no less. It started when I decided to make a flash visit to Chester, AKA Roman Deva, site of some scenes in Death in the Arena, the latest in my Roman Quests series of books for kids set in Roman Britain.  


I tweeted about my planned visit and a Chester historian named Emma Stringfellow tweeted back, offering to be my guide for the day so that she could show me her town. Why such generosity towards an author she has never met? Because Emma loves history, archaeology and Chester. She even coaxed the usually manically busy Dean Paton into giving up a few hours of his precious Saturday morning to show me In Good Humour, a Roman medicine exhibition mounted by his organisation Big Heritage, as well as his exhibition of Medieval Medicine called Sick to Death


Emma was waiting for me bright and early at Chester Rail staton at 8.45. We walked into town, and she helped me find my bearings, pointing out Wales to the west and the road towards Northwich that my characters would be taking on their road trip. On my request we stopped at the amphitheatre with its modern mural and replica of an ancient tethering block for criminals or beasts. Perfect for a book called Death in the Arena


As we walked, Emma gave me an idea of the layout of the town and the three-dimensionality, something you can only get from being there. She showed me the (modern) Roman garden and took me up onto the ramparts of the Saxon Wall. Chester, known as Deva in Roman times, boasted one of the three big legionary fortresses in Roman Britain. Built on a sandstone plateau, the fortress and area behind the amphitheatre would have overlooked the river Dee, which Emma said was carved out by glacial ice-melt. I was impressed by her knowledge of Chester. 


After a walk along the ramparts to get a feel for the shape of the fortress – the city streets still reflect its basic layout – we met Dean Paton at the Watergate Deli. He generously bought me tea and a croissant and told me about himself. Dean is the director of a company called Big Heritage which gets grants from organisations like the Wellcome Institute to put on historical and educational exhibits.  A man after my own heart, he wants to get families interested in history and does this by making exhibitions that are informative and fun.


Refreshed and briefed, I followed them to the Grosvenor Museum for its permanent Roman exhibition including one of the biggest collection of Roman tombstones, all recovered by the Victorians while repairing a later Medieval wall. One tombstone of a centurion Marcus Aurelius Nepos, was erected by his wife, but her own epitaph is missing. Its a mystery! 


Big Heritage’s Roman medicine exhibition – In Good Humour– strongly references the four humours, the most important aspect of Graeco-Roman Medicine and one that is ignored by almost all authors of historical fiction. I love that the introduction to the exhibit shows the four humours (Latin for ‘liquids’) that each manifest qualities of the four elements. The coloured tubes represent red blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm (mucus). 


The ancients believed that everyone had one (or two) dominant elements and that these determined a persons temperament. E.g. Someone with too much yellow bile is ‘choleric’ HOT & DRY. They might be hot tempered but decisive and often need cooling foods and environments. A doctor aimed to help his patients find a balance of the humours. At the simplest level you could treat a fever by prescribing cool cucumber and cure a cold with hot peppers. 


I have blogged elsewhere about the humours and cupping and I’ve even posted a test for kids – Which Temperament Are You – so I was thrilled to see not only a mention of cupping vessels, but some live leeches. Dean put his hand on a wire grill above a tank of water and within moments skinny black leeches sensed the heat and began to curl up to the surface in the hopes of gorging on warm, sweet blood. They offered an alternative to wet cupping which involved cutting the arm (in the crook of the elbow) or hand (between the fingers) and letting blood flow into the cup. 


The exhibition boasts some marvellous skeletons showing examples of Schmorl’s node. This is a growth on the spine of someone who has been working too hard, probably – but not necessarily – a slave. More bones offered clues: a badly broken leg, an amputated arm bone and a skull with a hole in it from trepanning, some of which showed signs of healing and therefore indicated that the patients survived.  


There was a wooden toilet seat (Oh joy!) which reminded me that another method of balancing the humours was the clyster (enema). This might possibly be the oldest Roman loo seat from Britannia. Dean and I posed on replica toilets nearby. Just the sort of thing to grab the interest of a child. Some other notable items in the exhibition were amulets to keep away evil, various herbs to be smelled and a fine inscription in Greek by a doctor from Asia Minor to Asclepius, the god of healing.


Emma and Dean then took me along the ramparts of the upper walls to Big Heritage’s second exhibition on ancient medicine. Still in preparation the day I went, Sick to Death is now open. As you enter the spooky 14th century Water Tower, you pass the lifelike model of a medieval dysentery sufferer sitting on the loo and suffering a bad case of ‘the runs. Just the sort of thing to delight children and make their parents go Ewww! 


But what’s inside is even more gruesome: a realistic leper begging for alms, a partly dissected criminal with his organs in bowls below him, and a life-sized placard of The Wound Man. A creepy plague doctor with his beak-like nose to be filled with aromatic herbs looks like something out of Star Wars. The exhibition is interactive so you can smell bowls of herbs and touch replica skulls showing the pockmarks of syphilis or the hole made by an arrow. 



More serendipity: a roving Roman doctor arrived when I was there. He showed me his bag of Roman instruments, so beautifully made that it would be hard for an expert to tell them from the real thing. Dean pulled out a Roman doctor’s probe and told me how the second century doctor Galen could tell by tapping what was going on under the skin. 


Surgery was a tricky proposition back in Roman times, and only used as a last resort. So I hesitated when the doctor invited me to try out a little anal surgery. In the end I agreed. He handed me a finely balanced replica scalpel and watched as I bent over a man’s (thankfully) replica backside and excised a bright red fistula (Latin for ‘ulcer’). The fistula looked a lot like one of those maraschino cherries they put in cocktails. I won’t be drinking one of those for a while. 



At the end of a satisfyingly squirmy morning I offered to treat Emma and Dean to lunch. To my surprise, Dean suggested Spud-U-Like at 39 Bridge St. He wasn’t just being considerate of my wallet; he knew that in their basement dining room you can sit next to sandstone hypocausts from the huge Roman bathhouse in the 2nd century fortress. After our jacket potatoes Dean said goodbye but Emma took me to the Dewa Roman Experience and then dropped me at the Chester Tourist Centre so I could buy a copy of Roman Chester, the book she had been brandishing like a talisman all day. As I travelled home from Chester, my mind was buzzing with ideas and my heart was full of gratitude, thanks to the generosity of two of its most passionate resident historians.

Thank you, Emma and Dean! 


In Good Humour at the Grosvenor Museum is on until 6 November 2016. 
Sick to Death at The Water Tower, Chester Walls, is on open every day in August 2016 from 10.30 to 4.30pm



Death in the Arena, book 3 of the Roman Quests, will be published in 2017. Escape from Rome, book 1, is out now. 

Brokeheart Fountain - Michelle Lovric

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 In recent posts I’ve been exploring ideas that occupied me when I was a ‘packager’ – a shadowy job that entails conceiving, researching, writing, designing and producing books that then come out under a trade publisher’s imprint.

Here’s another idea that never made it to the shop. Brokeheart Fountain was an anthology of bluesy Country song titles and lyrics dating back to Victorian times. The TV series Nashville has rekindled interest in Country music and reminded me of the initial work done on this anthology to prepare it to present to publishers.

The way an anthology works is this: you research a subject that interests you. Based on what you’ve discovered, you write a storyline. Then sequence your quotes along the line, like hanging decorations on a Christmas tree. Then you rub out the story, and the quotes hang together as if by magic. Only anthologists – and now you – know how this works.

I’ve always loved a good moan, whether in poetry or on a record player. The devil may have the best tunes, but misery has the greatest vocabulary. But the tunes and the words together - you’ll discover great beauty in bathos. No one knows, it seems, knew how to moan like an old-fashioned cowboy. No one was less ashamed of a filthy pun.

Annie Proulx’s wonderful novella was in the news and on the cinema screens at that time. So I came up with a title and subtitle: Broke-Heart Fountain, The Most Miserable Country & Blues Songs

Music industry permissions fees can be ruinous, even for a few lines of a song. But there’s no copyright in titles. So my way was clear. I soon had an amazing list of song titles. Next job was to sequence them. The storyline I came up with simply mimicked the progress of any love affair.


 
For the pictures I sourced clip art and out-of-copyright images from old postcards and Victorian chromolithographs that would give an attractively vintage look to the package. The main font, I decided, would be old-fashioned American Typewriter, which has a 1940s feeling about it.

Then I had to come up with a cover idea and a format that would appeal to my current publishers. Back then I was doing a lot of work for a company known as Past Times. I was also making books for Barnes & Noble in the USA. So here is my cover suggestion, with the front flap. I decided to make a visual pun based on the old cowboy icon of a cactus.


back cover and flap looked like this:


 Then I prepared some sample spreads, to give a feel of the book. Of course, this book was all about being blue, so most of the sample spreads were sad.

Even the onset of love is aggressive in cowboy country ...


and all the best relationships soon go to hell ...

And then there's the fighting


and rejection

 
 
followed by despair ...

and then revenge ...

I could moan about why this little book never came to pass. Most of the reasons were my own fault – a format too dinky to support the necessary price, a misjudgement about what the market was looking for in terms of gift books at the time.

But I prefer not to moan. I had such a good time making those mistakes.






Michelle Lovric’s website

Brokeheart Fountain was designed with the help of Lisa Pentreath.

 Many thanks to Anne Rooney for turning the old acrobat files into Jpegs.

Oliver Cromwell's Ely by Katherine Clements

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Writing historical fiction involves a lot of research and time spent in libraries, museums and archives. It’s part of the job that I love. But when I’m working on a book, creating a sense of place is an important part of the process. Readers often ask how I research locations, how I find out what real places would have been like at a specific point in history.

My first novel, The Crimson Ribbon, is set mostly in London and Abingdon, but it begins in Ely, in the home of one of the town’s most famous residents, Oliver Cromwell. It was during my first research trip there that I learned the importance of visiting real settings, wherever possible.

The book is set during the years of the English Civil Wars when Cromwell was a man of influence in the town. He moved there in 1636, became Governor in 1643 and relocated his family to London towards the end of 1646.

Oliver Cromwell's House

Luckily, the family house still stands and is now a museum. I’d spent a lot of time learning about the man himself and walking around the house was quite emotive. On a practical level, it allowed me to understand the layout of the rooms and the positioning of the house both geographically and socially. Some of the interiors still have their original paneling and the inclusion of seventeenth century furniture gives it atmosphere, despite this somewhat creepy addition of an Oliver waxwork!


As soon as I decided to open the book in Ely, I knew the cathedral would feature in some way. It’s a spectacular building, made more so by the surrounding landscape. Ely isn’t a built up town even today, so it’s easy to imagine how impressive the cathedral would have been when Ely was just a village, and what a presence it must have been in people’s lives.

By the seventeenth century, many of the old medieval cathedrals had fallen into disuse and were beginning to crumble to ruin. They were used as meeting places, or markets and in some cases, such as St Paul’s in London, became hotbeds of sedition and debauchery. But Ely remained partly in use throughout. The structure overshadows Cromwell’s house and St Mary’s church where the Cromwell family worshipped; as a strict Puritan, Cromwell would not have welcomed this ever-present symbol of the old faith and all its associations.


The reputation of Cromwell as an iconoclast is well known but there’s no evidence that he was personally responsible for any damage to Ely Cathedral. It’s been claimed that he oversaw the demolition of the fallen tower and transept but in fact, this fell in the fourteenth century and most of the damage we see today was a result of Reformation zeal a hundred years before. A later Parliamentary campaign to demolish such buildings, never came to fruition.

Climbing the cathedral tower is a memorable experience. The fenland landscape falls away and a huge cloud-filled sky stretches out above. It gives a real sense of scale, quite different from on the ground. I couldn’t help wonder about the atmosphere of awe and superstition that might have surrounded these buildings and what it would have meant to the ordinary people that lived in the cathedral’s shadow during those tumultuous years.



The landscape surrounding Ely would have been quite different then too. By the mid-seventeenth century the Fens were being drained but the Isle of Ely was still surrounded by floodwaters at certain times of year. These days, there’s virtually nothing of the old fenland landscape left, but a visit to Wicken Fen gave me a good idea of how it might have looked. This National Trust nature reserve is doing great conservation work and is very evocative.


And what of the town itself? I began by studying old maps and images, plotting seventeenth century streets onto modern plans, to get a sense of layout and distances. Google maps can be a great help here, but nothing beats an actual visit. Ely is packed with history and walking the streets it’s not difficult to trace the old town seen in this 1610 map.

John Speed's map of Ely, 1610

I’ve also found that local museums, visitor centres and tourist information offices can house a wealth of information. I’ve discovered pamphlets and books written by local historians that give the kind of detail you can’t find elsewhere and lend a bit of colour – great for things like local myths and legends (and, significantly, the names of seventeenth century taverns!).

Turns out Oliver Cromwell’s Ely can still be found, just beneath the modern veneer. All that’s missing is the stink and clamour of seventeenth century England, and for that, we have imagination.


For more about Ely and its history, see these posts by fellow History Girls Adele Geras and Karen Maitland.


Oliver Cromwell's House

Ely Cathedral

Toppings Bookshop (for local history books and much more)


www.katherineclements.co.uk

Elizabeth Buchan's THE NEW MRS CLIFTON reviewed by Elizabeth Fremantle

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Elizabeth Buchan’s latest novel, The New Mrs Clifton, depicts London in 1945 in the aftermath of war. The fractured city, its buildings blasted open, symbolises the psychological scarring and fragmentation of her characters. Everyone is in some way bereaved and seeking something, anything, to dampen the pain.

But when Gus Clifton returns from Berlin to the family house with a German bride on his arm his sisters, the widowed Julia and the wild Tilly, must hide their shock and hostility. Unbeknownst to Gus’s new bride he had left for the war engaged to his childhood sweetheart, the beautiful, loyal Nella and this betrayal is the catalyst for the two families, once happily interwoven, to unravel painfully with devastating effects.

It soon becomes clear that the German Krista, with her skeletal body and haunted looks, who flinches when touched, is more damaged by far than any of the women she encounters in London. But the enmity she faces in London is nothing compared to her experiences in Berlin at the hands of the Russian occupiers. Though we soon learn that extreme hardship and the brutality she has encountered have made her stronger than she appears and she has many secrets, which are slowly revealed as the narrative progresses.

The novel is shot through with mystery: why did Gus marry his strange, cold wife who is neither pregnant, nor apparently in love with him; what happened in Berlin; and who was the woman discovered thirty years later enmeshed within the roots of a large sycamore tree in the adjacent garden? The latter hangs darkly over the narrative like the tolling of a death knell.

The writing is beautifully fluent, moving from scene to scene, peeling away the layers of English formality in a way that demonstrates a deft and invisible authorial control. Buchan has a gift for understanding the complexity and ambiguity of human emotions and also for creating a quiet and sinister tension, which gives the sense, as the narrative passes through the heads of its damaged
characters, that everything is slipping inevitably towards catastrophe.

The New Mrs Clifton is a captivating and gripping read that seduces utterly, until its final page, leaving a deep imprint on the imagination long after. 

The New Mrs Clifton is published in hardback by Michael Joseph

INTERVIEW WITH ELIZABETH BUCHAN


EF: There is a very strong sense of place in the novel. Did you have a particular house in mind when you were writing and is there a significance to the part of London in which it is set?

EB: I have been lucky enough to have brought up my family near Clapham Common and I love it – particularly in the summer when everyone surges onto it to picnic, play games, lunge the children and exercise. The Common has a long and honourable history, not least as a centre for William Wilberforce and the Clapham Sect while they fighting to abolish slavery – so it has a whiff of dissent about it. While researching The New Mrs Clifton, I got hold of the bomb maps published by the GLC which, area by area, showed the individual houses and buildings that had been damaged during the war and how badly. Since I walk past some of those sites every day, I was able to imagine the houses as they might have been without too much difficulty.

EF: One of the great strengths of your writing is in articulating complex family relationships. In both I Can’t Begin to Tell You and The New Mrs Clifton you have created central female characters who are outsiders. What is it about the outsider that most interests you?

EB: As an eight-year-old, I was sent off to boarding school because my parents had been posted abroad. I did not see them, or my two sisters, for a year. We took a bit of getting to know each other again when we did meet! I hasten to say that my parents were very loving ones and I was not the only child in that position but I have never forgotten the bewilderment and the loneliness which I felt and I know I call on that profound conviction of being an exile and apart when I am writing. How a man or a woman, or a child, negotiates their way out of their perceived isolation fascinates me because I remember it so well but, each time I write about it, I find a different aspect to it. For obvious reasons, war offers a very good theatre in which to fictionalize situations where a character is one side of the fence or the other.

EF: One of the messages of the novel is that war creates complicated moral situations that defy straightforward moral explanations. Can you explain how you confronted some of the darker elements of your story?

EB: I was thinking about endurance and compassion when I was writing this novel – and of finding the energy and faith to carry on after something so catastrophic as a war. Everything I had read in doing the research pointed to truly black things that were done during those years, sometimes by ordinary people who felt they had no option. Again and again, I was reminded that we have to remember the lessons from the past, otherwise we will repeat the wrongs. Of course, in peacetime, it is much easier to adopt straightforward moral positions. In war, and when faced with violence, deprivation and disease, it is almost impossible. Like Krista, you can still strive to feel love over hate, forgiveness over blame and compassion over brutality and still find yourself agreeing to do things which are morally questionable.


EF: You write vividly on the societal changes brought about by war. Do you intend to write another novel set in this specific period or are you moving to different pastures?

EB: I am not sure yet. I am still waiting for the light bulb to light up in the chest moment to find out what I am going to write about next. Mind you, I have just read a fascinating account of marriage bureau that was set up in 1939 and flourished during the war. It occurred to me that it just might have been a convincing cover for something else going on behind the scenes….

Who knows? 

Elizabeth Fremantle's latest novel The Girl in the Glass Tower is published by Penguin

Find out about Elizabeth Buchan's work on her website: elizabethbuchan.com

Sanditon - Jane Austen's Psychic Spin on St Leonards on Sea? Catherine Johnson

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Sanditon anyone?  I am not an Austenophile but this summer I read the unfinished novel begun by Jane Austen just before her death in 1817.

Sanditon is Austen's usual - if a little darker - confection of hearts broken and pomposity skewered. Of dangerous men and young women who would like to hope for something more out of life than a decent match.

But it's also about property speculation - one character is staking his family's fortune on building Sanditon into a select seaside resort - and the craze for the health reviving salt sea and air.

This isn't a review. The novel stops abruptly at Chapter 12, and there's a definite first draft feel to it. I am not sure if Jane Austen would have liked her work to go out into the world unfinished.

But what recommends it to me, apart from Jane Austen's first mixed race character heiress Miss Lambe from Antigua a 'half mulatto', is the setting.

It's set in a fictional seaside village on the south coast 'between Hastings and Eastbourne', and since Bexhill is a late nineteenth century town, that rather pointed me towards St Leonards on Sea, the lovelier, grander, sister to my current hometown, Hastings.
St Leonards on Sea, the original terraces, hotel and assembly rooms.


  
 St Leonards on Sea was a brand new town built and designed by super star London architect and planners James Burton and his son prodigiously talented son Decimus. Fresh from building Nash's lovely terraces around Regents Park and designing large swathes of Bloomsbury James Burton purchased a parcel of land with the intention of developing an elite seaside resort. One with upmarket terraces, a hotel and assembly rooms, picturesque gardens, and some suitably romantic cliffs, catering for a very select clientele.
One Cornwall Terrace  London by Decimus Burton (age 20!)
Carlton Terrace London - Decimus Burton and John Nash 1827-33
A house on West Ascent, part of the original Burton St Leonards 1828-33.

I googled and found  'Jane Austen's Worthing: The Real Sanditon' by Antony Edmonds, I haven't read it yet, and anyway Sanditon was a complete new town, a blank canvas so it couldn't be Worthing. But of course the one glaring flaw in my thesis is that work did not begin on St Leonards until 1826 almost ten years after Jane Austen's death. But it's not inconceivable that the plans were widely known is it?  Of course it doesn't matter a jot. But it does help, walking about the streets today, thinking about the sort of things the town has seen. And there's an awful lot of James and Decimus Burton's original town that remains.

Truth is always very very slippery. I think this is mine.

Catherine Johnson
My latest book The Curious Tale of The Lady Caraboo is set in 1819

Loss and tragedy in Northern France

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by Marie-Louise Jensen

Wherever you go in Northern France, there are memories of the first and second world wars. Even away from the main battlegrounds and cemeteries of the Somme, Verdun and Etaples, one still stumbles across scenes of battles and memorials. These are less infamous, but for those who fought and died, for the countless families that lost sons, brothers, fathers, they were significant tragedies.

My sons and I like to visit Dieppe; a charming little fishing port, easily reachable with the ferry from Newhaven. But this spot and neighbouring Pourville has seen its share of death in battle.
On August 19th , 1942, almost exactly 74 years ago, if I can trust my arithmetic, 4,963 brave Canadian soldiers set out for France. The allied forces looked forward to liberating France swiftly, but had miscalculated the German defences grievously, to the heavy cost of Canada. In a short battle, 807 Canadians perished and nearly 2,000 were taken prisoner. I can't even imagine the despair of those that survived, to have lost so many.
The map below shows the three points of attack at Dieppe, Pourville and Puys:



There are numerous plaques and testimonies to the fallen for those who take the time to linger on that beautiful coast and remember it was once the scene of dreadful slaughter and loss.





There is also a beautiful memorial garden for the Canadians who were lost, tucked just behind the sea front and below the chateau: 



I imagine many Canadian families came to visit in the aftermath of the Second World War which ran on for another three tragic years after this battle.



Today, aside from the memorials, the sea front is a happy, peaceful place, bustling with holiday makers, children, families and anyone else who enjoys a stroll along the promenades. We spent much of our own holiday at the beach at Pourville, which we love, and even experienced our own small loss and grief when the result of the EU referendum reached us. We were deeply touched that day to know that there were those in Pourville who were also grieving: enough to take down the French and Canadian flags that normally fly alongside the British flag and to lower ours to half mast:


The man who painted women in gold

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This will be the last of the posts I've written as a result of visiting Vienna in June. We visited several museums and art galleries while we were there, and in every one, there were pictures by Gustav Klimt.

His paintings are famous, particularly his portraits of women, and they're very distinctive. The women are mostly dark-haired with skin like porcelain, and the pictures are usually intricately decorated, often with gold, but also with bronze, platinum and silver. (No wonder that, although they commanded high prices, he didn't save much money - though there were other reasons for that too, as we shall see...) For instance, there's this one of Adele Bloch Bauer, which was the the subject of The Woman in Gold, a recent film starring Helen Mirren.



So I was familiar with the paintings, but I didn't know anything about the man. (Well, I was familiar with reproductions of the paintings. As with exhibitions of Chagall and Van Gogh I've been to recently, the reproductions didn't prepare me for the sheer exuberance and vividness of the colours.)

I bought a book about Klimt from the Belvedere gallery, and before re-reading it in order to write this piece, I sat and looked at his photo on the cover, and jotted down my impressions of the man.



He has warmth, humour, charm. As he looks out at you, he invites you to join in and enjoy life with him. He has dark blue eyes (though they are described by a contemporary as grey - I puzzled over this, till I realised that this photo, from 1911, must originally have been in black and white, and been tinted since), curly brown hair and a beard, and is wearing a blue caftan - an unconventional garment for the early 20th century. He's holding a cat, which suggests he's tactile. He would give big bear-hugs, this man. And his gaze is very direct - his attention would be fixed on whoever he was with; you would feel he was interested in you, that he's waiting to hear what you have to say.

And his charm certainly worked on a great many women. A particularly complicated year was 1899, when he had two sons by different women almost at the same time - while also entering into an affair with his sister-in-law Helene, the widow of his brother Ernst. You wonder really how he found time to paint. Not surprisingly, he found it all a bit much - he wrote to one of the mothers, Marie Zimmermann '... the misery is accompanied by the guilt...I am more desperate than anybody could ever know.' But, he assured her: 'In one direction at least I will keep you carefree, and take care of your future...'

He had to take care of the futures of several other children too - so it was a good job he was so successful as an artist. His sense of guilt certainly didn't keep him on the straight and narrow - there was Maria, there was Camilla, there was very nearly Alma, there were probably Sonja and Adele - and heaven knows how many others.

But there was one woman who was a constant - one who 'loved the pilgrim soul in him', to paraphrase Yeats. This was Emilie Floege, the sister of his brother's widow (keeping up?) the woman he fled to after everything got so frenetic in 1899. They never lived together, but they were close friends and lovers, and remained so till Klimt's death. She was an independent woman, a fashion designer - and she didn't design conventional clothes, but clothes which would set woman free: clothes that were loose and comfortable, not restrictive and tight. She was certainly beautiful. Here is one of Klimt's portraits of her. (I LOVE her dress. Those colours!)

But she wasn't just beautiful. I don't know much about her - I'd like to find out more - but it's easy to see from photographs that she had an impish sense of fun, and that like Klimt, she knew how to enjoy life. The two of them together look absolutely like partners in crime - she's smiling in every picture I've seen. Here, for instance:


 And here the two of them are messing about on Lake Attersee, where they spent almost every summer together:


And here, I'm sure they're on the verge of giggling irrepressibly:


When he was stricken with the stroke that killed him, on 11 January 1918, it was Emilie he called for: 'Tell Emilie to come.' And of course, she came.

If he hadn't been the artist he was, what would we say about him - a man who is said to have fathered up to fourteen children, without marrying any of the mothers? I don't know. But the impression I get from what I've read is that he not only loved, but he was very much loved. I'd like to find out more about him, too.

He was generous in his support of other artists. He was a father figure to Egon Schiele, whom I wrote about last month, and played a significant part in furthering the younger man's career. Egon - who sadly died later that same year, of Spanish flu - wrote in his obituary of his friend: 'Gustav Klimt. An artist of unbelievable accomplishment. A person of rare depth. His oeuvre a shrine.'

And finally - he didn't only paint portraits. Particularly during those summers at Lake Attersee, he painted the most beautiful landscapes, using a card with a square viewfinder to select a view apparently at random. Here's one, but there are so many more: the birch trees are as slender and graceful as the women.


NB All quotes are from Gustav Klimt: Life and Work, published by Jovis Books for the Belvedere, and written by Stefanie Penck and Alfred Weidinger.

"Blah, Blah, Blah . . ." or Points about Writing Life learnt from Shakespeare. By Penny Dolan

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(As August is the silly season and History Girls are surely in a holiday mood, today’s post is a non-academic diversion plus a few thoughts that mumbled into my mind. A more sensible HG post should arrive in time for 17th September.)




“Blah, blah, blah!” – exact context later– is how this post starts, and it is partly about some writing points learned from Shakespeare or, more accurately, whilst watching BILL, a fictional comedy about Shakespeare’s lost early life.

Created by the Horrible Histories team, BILL echoes the “historical” style of Python or Blackadder, with members of the company playing several roles. The film is light-hearted fun although one can also play the slightly smug-faced game of spotting the Bard quotes and historical references.

The plot is simple: young Bill - full of dreams, vanity and confidence - sets off to make his artistic name in London, leaving his wife and children behind in rural Stratford-on-Avon. Meanwhile, King Philip of Spain is hatching a dastardly Catholic plot against Protestant Elizabeth and arrives with his men on a disguised diplomatic visit. What better way could there be to get close to the Queen than to stage a play in her honour and invite along? Surely nothing can . . .

The enticing play, of course, first has to be written, and at the end of a series of errors, entanglements and revelations, young Bill unexpectedly gains the favour of Queen Elizabeth I, a little financial security, and the “William Shakespeare” of that image is born.

Some of the best Horrible History moments included:
-         Bill the dreamer, losing his bundle-on-a-stick of belongings as he enters the filthy, crowded and violent city.
-         the man in an iron gibbet who chats to all passers-by
-         the over-eager plague-wagon pushers
-         the leather-clad King Philip of Spain - a man of many moustaches – practising his sword-skills. 
-        the sudden appearances - and disappearances - of  cunning Spymaster Walsingham.
-         the hidden war-room of the Catholic insurgents.
And additionally
-  Queen Elizabeth, played by Helen McCrory, displaying Big Royal Attitude as well as ghastly teeth and make-up, who alone is worth a mention on the History Girls blog.


As well as  Occasional interior images of the Globe Theatre.

I admit that BILL was neither deep nor soul-changing, but the film felt right for some cheering-up on a grey afternoon. The film made good holiday viewing with older children a second time around too. Besides – and the point of my HG post – is that all the way through the script, Bill is learning useful things about the work of being a writer. 

And here are some of Bill’s useful life-lessons.
*Bill, unwilling to conform to the lute style of the local music group Mortal Coil, leaves Stratford and sets off to find fame. Moral: Sometimes you have to believe in your own talent and set off in other, more solitary directions – and sometimes it’s best not to upset everyone at home when you do.

*Bill, starry eyed, arrives in London, trying to find where it’s all happening. Moral: Try to find out about the networks and structures of one’s craft but be wary: not every offer that comes along will be beneficial.

*Meanwhile, Lord Crawley, who plans to win Queen Elizabeth’s favour by writing a play, decides it will be easy. “It’s just talking written down,”he declares. Too soon, and under pressure, he discovers Blah, blah, blah . . .  (followed by a big, angry sigh of exasperation)God, writing is HARD!Moral: Writing is not as easy as some people think it is, nor done at all as quickly as one might expect.

*Bill, in an enthusiastic frenzy, writes an over-blown script crammed with every “Shakespeare” plotline we recognise. Moral: Bill’s crazy first draft isn’t perfect. He has to shape it into something that makes sense to his audience, but those discarded ideas can be used for another story or another genre.
 
*“You’re a writer. I’m a writer too!” young Bill declares, sitting closer to Christopher Marlowe. Despite Marlowe’s own troubles, he spends time helping Bill to structure his play, “modelling” how to work hard on a project. Moral: A good mentor is invaluable to a young writer, especially when they demonstrate how to work like a professional.

*Unfortunately, Christopher Marlowe, although a “successful playwright”, is already fatally troubled by debts. He tells young Bill. “There’s no money in it. I can’t even buy a house without borrowing money I can’t pay back.” Moral: Writing doesn’t often bring a cosy, profitable life. Nor, for Marlowe, does Spying.

*Bill’s early “acting career” (within this film) shows him dressed as a tomato in the market, handing out leaflets promoting the eating of vegetables. Marlowe, alongside, appears dressed as a cucumber. Moral: Bill has big dreams but he has to do less noble work before he hits the big time, even if his family are horrified.


*Bill, struggling to write a new play, despairs and feels he doesn’t know what or how to write. Moral: Bill learns to “write what you know”, drawing on his own knowledge and emotions, even though his plot might be set in an enchanted wood.

Finally, Bill learns to be alert to other people’s agendas too, especially when they involve barrels of gunpowder and plots against the Queen.  

Moral: Make sure you have good ending!

Released to celebrate Shakespeare’s 2015 anniversary, the BILL DVD brought some enjoyable “holiday” moments this summer, including the glimpse into the scriptwriters thoughts on the world of writing.
  

Now that the visitors have left, I’ve peeped back into the world of “Bill” again, as I am reading SHAKESPEARE’S RESTLESS WORLD: AN UNEXPECTED HISTORY IN TWENTY OBJECTS BY DR NEIL MACGREGOR. An interesting collection, only just begun – and I had never quite realised the precise importance of calling one’s theatre “The Globe” at that moment in time.

And, yes, the Mortal Coil do “shuffle off” and John Gerard’s Herbal, written in 1587, dismissed tomatoes as “poisonous and of rank and stinking savour”, so this would have been a very trying task for a young and hopeful actor.

Penny Dolan

The Way We Lived Then - Celia Rees

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Compton Verney is currently hosting the Exhibition, Britain in the Fifties - Design and Aspiration, looking back to the time when Harold Macmillan announced that 'most of our people had never had it so good'. A time when everything was new. Modern. The exhibition starts with the Festival of Britain and follows through to 1959, the end of the decade and the dawn of the Sixties and Withnail's 'greatest decade in the history of mankind.'



The emphasis is on design, everything from fabric to furniture and household goods. The exhibition allows us to look with new eyes at everyday items easily overlooked or dismissed as 'ordinary'. We are invited to see that things that we might unthinkingly assess as unexceptional, dull, even ugly, were actually different from anything that had gone before. It was the decade when everything was new. Not new exactly, but the design movements of previous decades in furniture, ceramics, fabrics, architecture were no longer exclusive, they were being made available to Macmillan's newly prosperous, aspirational middle classes. 


New, bright, boldly patterned designer materials might be available but women still routinely made their own clothes. Shop bought 'gowns' were for the rich, or for special occasions. Few households were without a sewing machine as this spanking electric machine, array of dress patterns and impressively stocked sewing box illustrates.




New materials, like formica, and a host of mechanical gadgets and appliances from fridges, to washing machines, electric cookers, electric mixers and teasmades were set to make women's lives much easier. 





The display shelves themselves are an example of the new design. The appliances arrayed show what housewives aspired to, or desired: a Kenwood Chef, a teasmade, a portable radio, stainless steel toast rack, an electric kettle. The styling was American or Scandinavian. The aptly named 'Maidsaver' with it's multiple cupboards and counter, replaced the larder, scullery and notional 'maid'. 



The introduction of a television into more and more living rooms was poised to transform everybody's life. The advent of ITV, launched in 1955, and the 'commercial break' were about to make people want the above illustrated innovations and all the household products that went with them: Persil, Flash, Fairy Liquid. Their slogans and jingles would become part of our consciousness and culture.




All this innovation is neatly illustrated in a series of artfully created rooms,  deceptively simple but carefully curated. Meticulous in every detail, each one re-pays close attention.  The television, showing the Coronation on a loop, is twinned with a large radio standing rather forlornly in the opposite corner. The previous source of all home entertainment was about to be eclipsed. 

The exhibition certainly sparks much memory and reflection. The rooms murmur with the chatter of re-discovery. I've visited the exhibition twice now. Once with friend and fellow author Linda Newbery and once on my own. At every turn, we were exclaiming over one thing or another, adding our voices to those around us recalling:

"We had one of those..."
"My mum made me a dress in that material."
'I had one just like that!"
"I remember..."

'I remember' is repeated over and over again, sometimes as an  exclamation of recognition, sometimes prefacing a deeper memory, a longer anecdote. The display of bathing suits (stout to our eyes, frilled and ruched) seems particularly redolent, sparking memories of trips to the lido, the seaside, family holidays with sisters and brothers, mum and dad. 

The lifestyle depicted  is neatly summed up by a series of panels from Ladybird books in their pre-ironic incarnation. 


Mother is dressed to go shopping in a hat, heels and costume, the little boy is in his school uniform, the little girl in a smart red coat and beret. She carries a basket, a miniature of the one her mother carries. They visit different shops to make purchases. I remember such trips with my mother going from shop to shop, to George Mason's (grocer), Dewhurst (butcher), Simpson's (fishmonger), Warden's (draper & haberdasher), Timothy White and Taylor (chemist), Midland Educational and Twig's Toy Shop. This was how my mother shopped. There were no supermarkets in our town until the 1960s. 

My mother went 'up the village' most days, buying little and often. She had to shop like this because we didn't have a fridge. Or most of the shiny gadgets and appliances on display. We were a middle class household but we didn't have a washing machine. My mother made do with a wringer then a spin dryer. An odd fact of British consumerism is that the front loading washing machine, the Bendix as it was known from its manufacturer, was eschewed for the twin tub top loader. Front loading made washing too easy.  As it says in the accompanying notes to the exhibition, 'in practice many of these new, much trumpeted machines failed to liberate women from the kitchen, but instead tended to re-enforce gender stereotypes - resulting in more rigid gendering of domestic spaces.' In some ways they made more work, not less. Ease of cleaning and washing meant these chores were performed more often.

 This exhibition offers a snapshot of a certain kind of life style. It shows a revolution in design that  has one way or another influenced all our lives. The title is Design and Aspiration and, by default, the lifestyle shown is middle class, even upper middle class. Most households, even middle class ones like mine, didn't have all the 'mod cons' on display here and some had nothing at all. The new council houses, much of the design a bargain basement version of what we see here, were not available to all. Slum and back to back housing was still very much with us. Not everybody could aspire to live like this. 


As historical novelists, we are always interested in visiting exhibitions that re-create a particular era and this one does it very well. It is important, however, to remember what is not shown here. I lived through the Fifties, so I could fill in some of the gaps. Remember things that no exhibition can show. The cold in winter when few people had central heating. Coal grates, gas fires and single bar electric heaters didn't heat much of the house. Frost on the inside of the windows as well as the out. 



And smells. Smoke from those coal fires and steam trains, people smoking indoors. I don't specifically remember, but its not hard to imagine the body odour. Baths rather than showers. Some houses still without bathrooms. Talcum powder at best, the use of deodorants was not widespread. Sounds that are lost, like the early morning rattle and whine of the milk float. The noise, or lack of it, in a world with far less traffic, fewer aircraft, ubiquitous machines in cafes, musak in every shop. If we can remember the era, we have to remember hard. If not, we have to imagine if we are to re-create how people really lived then. 

Celia Rees

www.celiarees.com

A Great Olympian by Katherine Webb

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I hope you'll forgive a somewhat truncated post from me this month - it is holiday season, and by the time this goes live I shall be sunning myself (and reading voraciously) on a beach many miles away - hurrah! The only thing bothering me slightly about this holiday is that its dates coincide exactly with the Olympics in Rio.

I love the Olympics. It's the only sporting event I watch even more assiduously than I watch Wimbledon fortnight, and that's normally not a problem - the British weather being what it is, I don't generally feel bad for skulking around the TV instead of being out in the world. I can't do that on holiday, though... Well, maybe just the highlights show. So my blog this month is the review - or rather, the recommendation - of a book about a truly remarkable Olympian, Louis Zamperini.

Louis Zamperini in 1938

Laura Hillenbrand's 2014 book, Unbroken, tells the life story of this remarkable man, born to Italian parents in the USA in 1917, and a resident of California. From a childhood on the wrong side of the tracks, Louis became a college track superstar, setting a new intercollegiate record for the mile at a smidgen over 4 minutes 21 seconds. He qualified to represent the USA in the 5000m at the 1936 Olympics, and though he didn't finish in the medals, his final lap was so fast - just 56 seconds - that the Führer asked to meet him, and so Louis Zamperini met Adolf Hitler in person.

World War II broke out, and in 1941 Zamperini joined the US Army Air Corps. In 1943, he was on a B24 bomber called The Green Hornet, and known to be faulty, when it crashed into the Pacific Ocean some 850 miles south of Hawaii. Louis and two other crew members left alive after the crash managed to survive 47 days adrift at sea in an inflatable life raft, only to arrive at the Marshall Islands and be taken into captivity by Japanese soldiers, where they would remain until the end of the war. Zamperini's account of the treatment he and other POWs received at the hands of the Japanese guards, and in particular a man called Mutsuhiro Watanabe, is painful but important reading.

Mutsuhiro Watanabe during the war. He was notoriously brutal; feared and loathed by the prisoners under his jurisdiction.

Laura Hillenbrand, who also wrote the bestseller Seabiscuit, has turned this man's incredible life into an accessible, compulsively readable story of survival and triumph against all odds. I read it in conjunction with Richard Flanagan's Booker-winning novel The Narrow Road to the Deep North, about the plight of POWS forced by the Japanese to build a railway across Burma during WWII - commonly known as the Death Railway. Both books are shocking, compelling, and heart-breaking; beautifully written in their very different ways, and give a valuable insight into the depth to which war can plunge men. But in this Olympic month, it's Louis Zamperini, who died in 2014 at the age of 97, who gets my loudest cheer.




Managing a Medieval Nunnery - by Ann Swinfen

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I’ve long had a vague feeling, at the back of my mind, that the women’s colleges of Oxfordand Cambridge, as created in the nineteenth century, shared many characteristics with medieval nunneries.
 
Somerville College, Oxford
Vague, that is, until my recent immersion in research for my work-in-progress, The Novice’s Tale, set in the 14th century and partly in Godstow Abbey, near Oxford. This has confirmed that feeling in a number of interesting ways.

I am not saying that those who ran those women’s colleges devoted their lives to worship, like their medieval forebears, but that the way they organised their institutions was remarkably similar. There were other points of similarity, too. When I was a student at an Oxford college, it was still all-female, and was one of the last to admit both sexes. We were, I now realise, at a transitional stage. All of the older dons were unmarried and lived in college, in ‘sets’, consisting of a sitting room cum study, in which they conducted tutorials, plus bedroom, bathroom, and small kitchen. Their rooms were cared for by college servants (‘scouts’), they ate most of their meals in the college Hall, and they foregathered with their colleagues in the Senior Common Room. It was the form of female college life as portrayed in Dorothy Sayers’s Gaudy Night (without the crime!). She had attended my own college during World War I, and some aspects of that earlier life still remained in my time there.


However, things were changing.

A number of the younger dons were married, and although they still had rooms in college, they had homes outside, inhabited by husbands and children. Some of the very youngest were not yet married, and did live in college, but drove fast cars, instead of riding the ancient upright bicycles, and were sometimes quite glamorous.

It is in the older form of this collegiate life that we can see parallels with medieval nunneries.

When the women’s colleges were set up, they were, naturally, modelled on the men’s colleges. These in turn had begun life in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries as ecclesiastical institutions, intended to educate men for the church and other professions, men who had taken at least minor orders. They therefore closely resembled monasteries and nunneries in their organisation, so it is not too fanciful to see a direct line of descent to the nineteenth and early twentieth century women’s colleges.

There were even some correspondences in the buildings. The central Hall of a college (like those in the Inns of Court) harks back to the hall of a medieval manor, with a dais at one end for the high table. In the frater or refectory of a nunnery the senior nuns would sit here, as the fellows of a college do now, while the junior nuns and novices, like the students, dined at lower tables. A comfortable Senior Common Room has replaced the hard stone seats of the chapter house, but like the chapter house it is used for meetings.
 
Laycock Abbey, converted into a manor house
Traditional colleges are enclosed within walls and built around a series of quadrangles, sometimes with cloistered walks, again retaining the layout of medieval monasteries and nunneries. There is a gatehouse, generally with a wicket set into a larger gate, which is presided over by a porter, again on the medieval model. At night, the gate is closed and locked.

All the traditional colleges, including the women’s colleges, have a chapel, like the chapel or church or abbey which was an intrinsic part of a medieval nunnery or monastery.

The wealthiest colleges – primarily the older men’s colleges – are supported by the endowment of property from benefactors through the ages, as the monasteries and nunneries were. The nineteenth century women’s colleges were less fortunate.

When we look at the occupations of the nuns in a medieval nunnery, we can see further parallels to a woman’s college. A nunnery of medium or large extent was a major institution, involving not only the professed nuns but also novices and often schoolchildren (including young boys), lay sisters, male and female servants, some senior male staff, and a home farm with a full complement of agricultural workers. To manage such a large institution, the senior nuns were required to take on managerial roles which would not seem out of place in any similar modern institution, including women’s colleges.


At the top of the hierarchy, if the nunnery had the rank of abbey, was the abbess. In the smaller nunneries she was a prioress. Under the abbess was the prioress, and there might also be a subprioress. The abbess was the overall head of the institution, supervising her ‘obedientiaries’ or senior nuns, chairing meetings of Chapter, dealing with senior figures outside the nunnery, and corresponding with the bishop and other important men. Abbesses also had the right to sit in the House of Lords, the only women to sit in Parliament until the twentieth century.

Reporting to the abbess, a group of obedientiaries had defined roles in the organisation. One of the most important was the treasuress, who handled all income and expenditure. Her role corresponded closely to that of the bursar of a college. Agreement would be reached amongst the ‘managing committee’ of senior nuns as to what proportion of the budget should be allocated to the various spending departments, for example to purchase food or clothing. Some of the endowments granted to the nunnery would have been ear-marked for specific purposes, and these would be taken into account in the planning. A modern parallel might be scholarships restricted to students from a particular county or to the offspring of indigent clergymen.


My college had both a treasurer and a bursar, the bursar and her assistant having taken over a number of the roles below, including those of fratress and cellaress. A housekeeper in charge of the scouts (who replaced the lay servants of the past) took the place of the kitcheness and had some of the duties of the cellaress.

The care of the church in the medieval nunnery was in the hands of the sacrist. This meant not only being responsible for the fabric of the church and arranging for repairs when necessary, but also caring for the valuable church plate, altar clothes and vestments, and providing the candles for both the church and the nunnery generally. She would purchase wax and tallow and arrange for candle-making at least once a year, either by a local candle-maker, or by one of the itinerant makers, who would come to the nunnery for the number of days needed to make the supply.

The precentrix or chantress was in charge of all the music and the church services. She would train the novices in the complex singing of the services, arrange for the copying of music, and usually also served as the librarian in charge of the institution’s books. If the nunnery had a scriptorium for the copying of texts, this would come under her care.


The chapel in a modern college clearly does not play anything like so important a part in the lives of the members as it did in the medieval period. The chapel and choir in my college was a personal interest of one of the dons. In some of the men’s colleges nowadays, of course, especially those with famous choirs, there will usually be one or more organ scholars, a chaplain, and a choirmaster, as well as teachers in the choir school. Now that colleges have much larger collections of books than a medieval nunnery, the role of librarian has assumed a correspondingly greater importance.

The frater or refectory was run by the fratress. This involved responsibility for all the tables and chairs, the dishes and table linen, the cleaning of the frater and the lavatorium where the nuns washed before eating. She would supervise the laying and clearing of meals by the servants, but was not responsible for the food itself.

The cellaress carried a particularly heavy burden. It was she who was responsible for seeing that the nunnery always had sufficient stores of food and drink, no simple task in the days before refrigeration. She arranged for supplies from the home farm and bought in anything which it could not supply, and as a result also supervised the home farm. She was in charge of hiring and firing servants, allocating their duties and overseeing their behaviour. As a result, she carried out most of the duties undertaken in a country manor by the steward, housekeeper, and butler.

The actual preparation of the food fell to the kitcheness, although she probably did not do much of the cooking herself, but managed the kitchen staff, mainly seculars, who could be male or female. She reported to the cellaress, and must have worked closely with her.

The chambress was responsible for all the clothes and bedding of the nuns and the servants, which involved buying cloth, employing seamstresses to make it up into garments, sheets, and blankets, in some cases overseeing full cloth production – preparation of the raw wool, spinning, weaving, fulling and dyeing. It should be remembered that in many cases the religious institutions, like the great estates, tried as much as possible to be self-sufficient, so they would have had a supply of wool from their own sheep.


The duties of the chambress have lapsed in the modern world, when students provide their own clothes, and – as far as I know – none of the women’s colleges has ever had its own flock of sheep!

If the nuns fell ill, they were cared for by the infirmaress who would need to combine the skills of an apothecary and a physician. The infirmary was generally a separate building, to avoid spreading infection, and she would prepare her medicines in a still room.

Nowadays this is not a duty undertaken by one of the dons. Members of the college with minor illnesses are treated by the college nurse. Anything more serious falls to the NHS.

The poor who came to the nunnery for help would receive money, clothes, and food from the almoness, while guests of the nunnery (travellers or secular women who retired there), would be in the care of the hospitalless.

Colleges still support charities, and welcome (paying) guests when rooms are available.


Last, but by no means least, of the major officials in a medieval nunnery, was the mistress of the novices. She was responsible for teaching and training the novices, and also supervised their behaviour. Some girls were given to the nunnery as oblates (‘gifts to God’) at a very young age, others joined later, either because they had no marriage prospects, their families wanted to dispose of them, or they had a genuine vocation. If the nunnery had a school, the mistress of the novices was usually in charge of this as well.

Clearly all the dons in a college, apart from those with a pure research appointment, fulfil the functions of the mistress of the novices, teaching the students, while some have a particular responsibility for behaviour and discipline, generally the dean.


A medieval nunnery also employed a great many other people. The steward tended to be an honorary position, often held by a nobleman, more like a patron than the usual idea of a medieval steward. Colleges now often have a ‘visitor’, a similar honorary position, held by some distinguished individual.

Nuns could conduct services, but could neither hear confession nor administer the sacraments, therefore they had a chaplain, generally with his own lodgings within the enclave but outside the nuns’ quarters.


The most important lay officer was the bailiff, who rode around the many properties of the nunnery (which might be scattered) collecting the rents. He might also be in charge of fetching supplies, if these needed to be purchased some distance away.



As well as household maids, and personal maids for some of the senior nuns, there would be a large domestic staff, both men and women: cook and kitchen servants, brewer, maltster, baker, laundress, dairy woman (to milk the cows and make butter and cheese) and grooms to look after the stable. The home farm employed the usual workers: ploughmen, cowherd, oxherd, swineherd, shepherd, carters, farm labourers, and (at harvest and other busy times) casual labourers.


Certain essential craftsmen might also be employed or hired from the nearest village – blacksmith, wheelwright, thatcher, carpenter, mason, and others.


The modern college is spared the need for many of these people, but will still buy in the services of those like builders as the need arises, just as the medieval nunnery did.

What I find most striking is the skill and competence of the nuns who managed a medieval nunnery. These were complex organisations. The nuns needed to be able to read and write and keep accounts. The money management alone was demanding, especially when the income from rents or the produce of the home farm could fluctuate alarmingly. A number of obedientiaries have left behind comprehensive manuals of instruction for their successors on how to carry out their responsibilities.



I suppose the usual general idea we may have of a medieval nunnery is that it was a group of unworldly women, shut away from secular life and contact with the outside world, their lives devoted entirely to prayer. The truth could hardly be more different, although prayer was certainly important. As an alternative to being married off to some distasteful husband and forced to bear child after child, with all the desperate risks of death in childbirth, these women could lead a fulfilling life where they had real careers and responsibilities, beyond anything most of them would have experienced in the secular world. Those early dons in the women’s colleges, fighting for women’s rights to an education and a more fulfilling life, were – in a curious and ironic way – carrying on the work of those celibate and enclosed sisters in the medieval nunnery.



Fire! Fire! by Imogen Robertson

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I’ve always felt a bit sorry for people who were actually born in London because they’ll never have the pleasure of a first visit to the capital. I remember mine. I told the patient Beefeaters all about the Crown Jewel, got a tour of Broadcasting House from a cousin who worked there (and a BBC pen which I treasured for years), fed the pigeons and had my first visit to the Museum of London. The memory of the flickering diorama of the Great Fire stayed with me long after the pen had run out. No surprise then that I’m delighted to have been asked to chair a discussion at the museum on the Great Fire, Fact and Fiction next month. 

It’s part of a series of talks the museum is running alongside their excellent new exhibition commemorating the 350th anniversary of the fire, and the panel consists of Hazel Forsyth, Alex Larman and Andrew Taylor. I do hope some of our History Girls readers can come along. It should be a great discussion with Hazel talking about the material culture of the period and what the wreckage left by the fire teaches us, Alex setting the fire in the context of the political turmoil of post-Restoration, post-Plague London, and Andrew discussing how it has inspired his new novel Ashes of London, an explosive beginning to a new series of historical thrillers. You should buy all three books, of course, particularly because they form a matching set.




To make sure I ask them the right questions, I went along to the museum to see the exhibition last week and can thoroughly recommend it. The visual design is gorgeous, based on contemporary woodcuts and it makes great imaginative use of shadows and silhouettes. Vignettes of a spark from Thomas Farriner’s oven landing on a pile of dry wood, figures waking up in the smoke and clambering out of windows, a brilliant map of the spreading flames, and wonderful use of sound all fascinated the children who were visiting with me, and I suspect their memories of the flaming houses will be just as long lasting as mine were. You can handle burnt tiles and bricks as well as hearing extracts of letters, and peer at the first newspaper report of the fire and knowing the press which printed them was consumed the same day. 


There is also an excellent final section the the exhibition which looks at the aftermath of the fire, both the rebuilding and the rumours which circulated even before the fires were put out. I did not know for example about scapegoating of Robert Hubert who confessed to starting the fire as part of a Papist plot. On display is the cracked marble plaque proclaiming his guilt which was not permanently removed from the Monument of London until the nineteenth century. There is plenty of food for thought about the politics of blame as well as a chance to sit and listen to the stories of the refugees in the mock-up of one of the camps set up to shelter the thousands of Londoners who had last everything in the conflagration. 


It's all gorgeous and thoughtful. Well, I know what I’m aiming for as chair now. 

Scotland's Pictish Stones and The Lost Story of Guinevere by Catherine Hokin

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I have been time-travelling this month in the name of research. Now that book two (fourteenth-century) has been delivered to my agent, I have been delving into the twelfth century for book three and, rather more challengingly, the sixth century in search of the Picts. This will either make sense when the idea finally gets out of my head and onto the frighteningly blank screen or it will have been  a wonderful diversion, either way the literal journey is proving fascinating.

  
 Scotland's Kingdoms 600 AD
The Picts were a confederation of tribes who lived primarily in northern and eastern Scotland during the late Iron Age and early medieval periods, their kingdom being destroyed around 840  AD.

As with so much of the discussion around this period, there is no agreed definition
of the name Pict. It may refer to 'painted people' (they loved a tattoo even more than a modern-day hipster Glaswegian) or derive from the Roman blanket term for the, diverse, tribes of northern Scotland or it may be a mis-hearing of the Old Norse name which was Pecht/Pettir. Whatever the origin, they live on in tales of a savage warlike people, covered in woad and in some Scottish place names such as aber (a river mouth) in Aberdeen, pert (a copse or woodland) in Perth and the use of pit (a share of land) in Pitlochry. They also live on in the wonderful, intricately carved standing stones which have been found throughout Scotland - stones which tell of a far-more sophisticated people than perhaps popular imagination gives these early tribes credit for.

 The Pictish Beast
Several hundred stones have now been found and these often combine Christian crosses with uniquely Pictish symbols, depicting a world on the cusp between the old religions and the new.

The stones are largely sandstone and many have been carved over or simply weathered by time but archaelogists have been able to identify three symbol types: recurrent and consistent abstract or geometric designs; real and mythical creatures including the Pictish beast which is like a dolphin/legless elephant hybrid and the manticore which has a human head, a lion's body and wings; real-life objects in pairs, such as a comb and mirror or an anvil and hammer.

 Some Pictish stone symbols
Like the origins of their name, 'reading' the stone symbols leads to a multiplicity of interpretations and there is considerable discussion over whether the symbols are 'heraldic' or linked to the distinct language we know the Picts spoke. It has been suggested that some of the symbols (eg. the crescent and v-rod) could hark back to the Roman cult of Mithras or could be associated with sun-worship. It is also possible that they are tribal badges and the animal depictions are land markers or have associations with Celtic mythology, the serpent, for example, being linked to kingship and status.  The comb and mirror have been suggested as indicators of female power or wealth, particularly if they are associated, as they commonly are, with the mermaid symbol. Whatever their meaning, they are complex and beautiful and suggestive of a culture far more multi-layered than woad-wearing and creating mayhem.

I am lucky enough to live in Scotland so, last weekend, we went on a stone-hunting journey to the little village of Meigle where the Scottish Pictish Stones Museum is located. The collection there is large but we were on the trail of one particular stone: Guinevere's burial marker. Yes, Guinevere, of King Arthur fame, Keira Knightley's pout and far too many romantic-myths.

 Vannora's Mound
It was the series of books by the late Norma Lorre Goodrich that spurred the visit: she locates Arthur very much in Scotland and Guinevere as a warrior queen/priestess rather than the adulterous 'heroine' of the Arthur myths, a trend that began in the later medieval period with the chivalric poets. In her reading, Guinevere was the daughter of a Stirling-based King and may have ended her days close to Meigle at Mordred's Castle on nearby Barry Hill. In the mid 1990s Goodrich went to Meigle and there was not only the stone but also a burial mound in the churchyard known as Queen Vannora's (Guinevere's) mound. The stone itself is stunning: on the plinth it stands over 10 feet tall and its red sandstone is intricately carved on both sides - my picture really doesn't do it justice!

 The Guinevere Stone
There is a wonderful description of it in the Goodrich book which positions Guinevere as the angel on the top with Arthur next to him - like everything, Goodrich's reading of the myths and the stone is a theory not a fact but it's a really interesting one. And this is where the rant came in - my husband had already stepped back, expecting it, he's used to me. The plaque below the stone continues the hackneyed tale of an adulterous queen pulled to death by four horses - you have to search for the Goodrich (and any other theories) in the dusty information folders at the back. Not only that (husband has gone for a coffee and a lie down by now) but the guide informed us that the stone was saved by the a local (male) vicar who brought it inside out of the weather to preserve it after centuries of exposure to the elements. Except Goodrich was very clear (and I've checked this in the local press cuttings since, I like my rants to have meaning) that the stone was saved by the local women of the village who used their own savings to pay for the first museum which was known locally as a women's museum. They did this to honour the memory of a woman of legend from their area. No mention of this, anywhere. The guide also chose not to re-tell the colourful local legend that girls should not step on the burial mound as it would make them barren, like Guinevere herself, on the grounds that it was 'tasteless history'. Also known as the best bits.

 Norma Lorre Goodrich
Now let's be honest here, I have no desire to be the mad woman in the museum: I asked questions politely and did the ranting primarily to myself and my lying down husband before writing a strongly worded email to Historic Scotland which they ignored. If you get a chance to visit Meigle do: all the stones in the museum are beautiful and it is humbling to see them. However, it strikes me as very sad that a story that spans centuries, that carries a legend from women to women and whose symbols can still call so eloquently has become as lost as the Picts it stemmed from in less than 50 years. I think I'm going to go back and rant a little louder.

August 1914: The Enemy Within? by Leslie Wilson

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'Two Germans entered the tube at Belsize Park. While the train was in motion they conversed in German, but during the short periods of silence at the stations they relapsed into bad, gutteral French. Two young men, hearing a reference to carrier pigeons, broke their journey at Leicester-Square and followed the Germans through Coventry-Street to a café. '

I was given this brown scrap of newspaper by another Quaker; it comes from the archive of Edward H. Milligan, once archivist at Friends House, a man who has been a valued resource for anyone working on Quaker history for many years. He has recently moved from a house to a flat, and has had to pass on many of his impressive collection of books and documents, quite a few of which I have been lucky enough to acquire.

The zealous young men were hugely excited at the opportunity of catching German spies and fifth-columnists. Did they really hear the words 'carrier pigeons' (Brieftaube), or was the wish father to the thought? They might have been complaining about dust (Staub) for example, or mentioning that someone was deaf (taub). Or the word might have been used figuratively. (Note that the French had to be 'gutteral', a term of abuse against foreign languages that I don't get, since gutterals are just gs, ks, chs, js, etc, and English has plenty of them). One young man sat down to keep the villains under observation, while the other one rushed off to Vine Street police station to tell them what they'd discovered. He then returned, to find that the Germans were departing. The amateur detectives trailed them to Leicester Square, hemmed them in, and told them they were being watched. The Germans 'hurried on, hoping to get rid of us,' and when they saw police, tried to make their escape. Or so the young men told the police. The amateur sleuths 'marked the house which they entered, and informed the local police, who have the matter in hand.'

And all for the crime of talking German between themselves, and talking bad French at the stations.


WHOLESALE ARRESTS, proclaims another column. Two 'alleged Germans' who said they were Russians, were overheard by a teacher of German, 'talking suspiciously' in Conway, and were arrested. (They might well have been Russians of German ethnicity). In London, a German was arrested as a spy and the police seized 'several large deed-boxes' full of documents. The man was held, pending enquiries, at Moor Lane police station. The documents were maybe his business papers. Three supposed German spies were captured on the railway line at Maidstone.

German reservists were being 'arrested wholesale.' I wonder if they were really reservists, since the German reserve had already been mobilised by then, so why would 'a hundred and thirty Germans and Austrians' arrive on boats in the Mersey? Maybe the captains were staggeringly bad at navigation? Apparently many Germans were employed in the lace trade in Nottingham, and they too are described as reservists, and were being arrested 'wholesale.' I do wonder if any young men of military age were considered to be reservists.

Maybe someone has some information that could elucidate this for me?

What the last snippet does reflect is the number of Germans who had lived cheerfully and inoffensively in this country for hundreds of years up till the beginning of the war.The German Lutheran church, in London, pictured below, was founded in 1762.
German Lutheran Church, London, secretlondon 123

Like Friedrich Wilhelm Singer, pastor of the German seamen's mission at Shields, who was remanded on bail, charged with spying.

The language employed is interesting. TELL THE POLICE! urges a headline, describing how more enthusiastic citizens were informing the police about the whereabouts of German residents, who were required to register immediately, or pay a fine of £100 or be imprisoned for six months. The registration offices were the police stations, and the paper says that since the early morning they had been 'invaded' by foreigners making enquiries. So it was an annoyance (to the Evening News, at least) that the Germans and other foreign nationals were following instructions. The paper also seems to regard it as outrageous that many of the Germans were prosperous, and arrived in carriages and taxi-cabs (the implication being that they'd grown rich on payments from the Imperial intelligence agency?).

Spy fever was running high: telegraph wires were reported as being 'tampered with' by Germans, and also soldiers and sailors were said to have been accosted by Germans, eager to pump them for information about troop movements, warships and stores. There was a German who 'left England recently for Germany, who for some time served in a British regiment and obtained the rank of sergeant.' One wonders how much information he'd have gleaned, if he was a spy, serving in such a modest capacity.

There were also, apparently, armies of spies masquerading as commercial travellers. Clearly, there were German spies working in Britain at the time, but surely they'd  have had to be pretty stupid to employ such very visible agents.

In an incident that has spooky resonances of poor Jean Charles de Menezes's murder by the British police, a man 'of foreign appearance' was seen carrying an attaché case near the high level bridge over the Tyne in Newcastle. A patrol challenged him, but instead of stopping he began to run, got into a boat and pushed off. The patrol got another boat and gave chase, but 'as he still declined to stop' he was fired on and wounded. He was said to have thrown the attaché case into the river (or maybe it just fell in?) He died soon after he'd been captured. 'The authorities are very reticent', the paper says.

This story has come through two filters, that of the patrol and that of the newspaper. There are plenty of instances of modern shootings where the police account has been edited, shall we say? One wonders what was really going on there. Of course, the man could have been a quite ordinary thief.

At the same time, shopkeepers were jacking up the price of stores, and there were demonstrations against grocers and bakers in Hitchin; people were panic-buying provisions, though expressly told not to, since, for example 'mild-cured bacon does not pretend to keep like the old farmhouse kind'. People were buying a year's supply of potatoes, and also laying in butter; the paper advises against this, since 'the old-fashioned method of salting fresh butter and keeping it in jars is no longer followed. That last snippet demonstrates the usefulness for the nerdishly inclined historical novelist of reading old newspapers. So people were eating what my mother-in-law called 'sweet butter' at the time, rather than salted, which I grew up with and always supposed to be traditionally British. And anyone writing about the 19th century might like to know that salted butter was sold in jars. I wonder at what period specifically?Anyway, the uncertainty about food probably contributed to the general atmosphere of paranoia.

German missionaries interned at Alexandra Palace, Imperial War Museum
There were in fact around 50,000 Germans or Britons of German origin living in the country in 1914. German shopkeepers (even naturalised Britons) had their windows smashed in; Germans married to British women were marched off to internment camps, which were described by their inmates as 'veritable hell.'

People with German names changed them pretty quickly in order to avoid xenophobic abuse and violence; among them, of course, the Royal Family, who became Windsors instead of Saxe-Coburgs. Given that George V was the first cousin once removed of Kaiser Wilhelm, they might easily have fallen under suspicion.

What struck me, reading these ancient and fragile cuttings, was a resonance between the xenophobia and the outbreaks of racial and xenophobic abuse following the referendum result on June 23rd this year: sheer tribalism. One can only imagine the distress of all those people who had settled here and regarded these islands as their home, at what had occurred, and (because I am half German) I can imagine that many of them must have felt torn in half that their birth country and their adopted country were now at war and their neighbours suddenly hated them.



(The Evening News was part of Associated Newspapers by then, and was thus a sister paper to the Daily Mail.)


The painting of the German missionaries is the work of  George Kenner.

ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE: Going the Distance by Elizabeth Chadwick

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It is now four and a half years since I was contracted to write three novels about the life of Eleanor of Aquitaine - THE SUMMER QUEEN, THE WINTER CROWN and THE AUTUMN THRONE. I chose to write about Eleanor in the same way that I choose to write about all my subjects. I  become interested in them, and that interest will sometimes develop into a full blown curiosity that only a more in depth exploration will satisfy. 'Who were you really?' I ask myself, and then I set out on a voyage of discovery.

With Eleanor there were already many biographies and novels in circulation and I had enjoyed reading several of them especially Sharon Kay Penman's marvelous fiction series of books about Henry II and the rise of the Angevin 'Empire.'
Eleanor had also appeared in secondary and cameo roles in many of my own novels and as a result I had conducted a certain amount of surface research into her background, which had contributed to my deepening curiosity.

Articles online tend to stress what a 'kick-ass' feminist she was, way ahead of her time in all she did. Leading her first husband a merry dance and meddling in French politics for example.  Galloping off on crusade dressed as an Amazon and sleeping with her own uncle. Holding courts of love in Poitiers.  Scandalously marrying the young Duke of Normandy after having slept with his father and then being imprisoned by him for encouraging her sons to turn on him when she became insanely jealous of his mistress Rosamund de Clifford.

Eleanor's popular biographers have encouraged many of these dubious points of view.  However, when I began digging, I came across other opinions from historians working more sedately in the background of academia, suggesting that the majority of these notions were anachronistic and at best on shaky ground.  The most forward thinking academics were also of the opinion that Eleanor was a woman firmly grounded in the 12th century culture of her own lifetime, and while formidable and intelligent she was in no way exceptional when set against other high-ranking ruling women of her period, and in some cases had less authority.  The Empress Matilda, for example, or Melisande of Jerusalem or Adela of Blois.  However, the voices of reason were being drowned out by the brash clamour of colourful scandal tales and by the desire people have to always choose the juicy story over the sometimes more prosaic reality.

As a writer of fiction I knew I had to pick my way carefully.  I had to find my Eleanor and make her as real as possible for me and for my readers.  I needed the spotlight I shone on her to contain both the drama and story telling that is the essential lifeblood of historical fiction.  I wanted to illuminate Eleanor's life from a different angle while maintaining integrity toward her and doing her justice.

As I read my way through various reference works on Eleanor, it became clear that what was known about her was actually not very much and that conjecture and imagination had so often superseded fact that it had become fact itself - until one began digging.  I found her variously described by her biographers as a saucy hot-blooded blond who needed her sexuality keeping in check (no evidence), a curvaceous black-eyed brunette whose figure never ran to fat in old age (no evidence) and a good-humoured green-eyed redhead (no evidence). An oft-cited portrait of her at Chinon turned out to be highly likely a man, very possibly her son, Henry, the Young King. She was also frequently misrepresented in books and online articles by images from a 14th century German work, the Codex Manesse, which has nothing to do with her. 
A queen from the German 14th century
Codex Manesse - often falsely  portrayed
as Eleanor
 Biographer Amy Kelly, coming from a literature rather than history background, among other dubious notions, had promulgated the whole courts of love theory which has now been discredited, although the idea remains dear to the hearts of popular history. Victorian biographer Elizabeth Strickland is responsible for Eleanor's reputation for gadding about on the Second Crusade dressed as an Amazon.  Her source for this scandalous happening goes no further back than 1739. There is no evidence for this story before that date, but it has come to be accepted by many as the truth. (See Inventing Eleanor: The Medieval and Post Medieval image of Eleanor of Aquitaine by Michael Evans).
There is the matter of the scandal of her supposed affair with her uncle Raymond of Poitiers en route to the second Crusade when Eleanor demanded an annulment of her marriage from Louis VII.  I discuss the unlikeliness of this one on my own blog Living The History. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Raymond of Poitiers and the Incident at Antioch  She is also supposed to have slept with her second husband's father Geoffrey le Bel, but since the chroniclers concerned were hell bent on bringing the Angevin monarchy into disrepute and were notorious gossips, it would seem prudent to err on the side of caution in that assessment. Geoffrey is supposed to have warned his son off marrying Eleanor, but since Geoffrey and his father had been desperate for years to get their hands on Aquitaine, I somehow doubt that warning would have taken place.  Indeed, I suspect that Geoffrey would have been keen to see his son marry Eleanor the moment the annulment with Louis VII was announced.

Many of the biographies and online articles (especially the latter) tell us that Eleanor incited her sons to rebel against Henry II because she was enraged that he had taken a young mistress, Rosamund de Clifford, and was treating her like a queen.  Serioulsy?  Eleanor would raise an empire-wide rebellion, dragging her sons into a war with their father because she was jealous of Henry's philandering with a baronial nobody?   It's a bit insulting to promote the idea that a savvy, intelligent woman such as Eleanor was some sort of emotional harpy who would throw over an entire kingdom because her husband, already known for sleeping around, was carrying on with another woman. Would the same be said if she was male?  What about the political machinations that were happening at the time as Henry undermined Eleanor's  authority as ruler of Aquitaine and held their sons firmly under the thumb?  Might that not just have been more pertinent to the situation than a supposed jealous snit over a mistress?

The outcome of the rebellion was that Eleanor was kept under sometimes harsh house arrest for the next fifteen years before her release on the death of Henry II.  I suppose this is the point where she becomes her most 'kick-ass' as a widow with the powers of adviser, mother and co-ruler of Richard I's domains while he was absent on the third crusade.  Here there is not so much digression between the narratives of popular and academic - perhaps because Henry II is now out of the picture and Eleanor is no longer the young and beautiful heroine, prime territory for sex and scandal,  but an older lady with iron in her soul. The sex and scandal mongers now turn their gaze on her eldest son and begin the dance of whether or not he was homosexual (cue eye-roll).

One of the things that fascinated me about Eleanor and one in which she truly was ahead of our time, even if not her own, was the amount of energy she had and how indefatigable she was right up until her last days.  She died at the age of 80, which was a marvelous span in a period without life-saving operations and medication. Most octagenarians, even the robust ones, these days are swallowing a raft of tablets to keep them up to scratch.

Like many of the medieval aristocracy  Eleanor had a peripatetic lifestyle.  As a girl she would have been constantly on the move throughout Aquitaine with her parents. At 13 she married the soon to be Louis VII and shortly after their wedding in Bordeaux, travelled up to Paris. Then it was back to Poitiers and then a return to France where again, the court was constantly on the move. Around the age of 23, she set off for Jerusalem with her husband on the Second Crusade. This took them down through Germany, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria to Constantinople (modern day Istanbul) across the Bospherous, across Anatolia under constant attack, eventually to Antioch and then down the coastal strip to Jerusalem.  Eleanor and Louis returned home 4 years later via Sicily and Rome on what must have been one of the 12th century's most extreme military come sight-seeing expeditions. (Louis just loved his shrines).

Information board from Old Sarum. Click to enlarge.
Having divorced Louis and returned to Poitiers, Eleanor then married the young Duke of Normandy and future Henry II of England, 9 years her junior - and he had to be in order to keep up!  When he became King of England, Eleanor crossed the Channel with him and added that country to her map of lands where she had set foot.  During Henry's reign she was constantly on the move across the vast Angevin dominions that stretched from the Scottish borders to the Pyrenees - or at least until she was caught up in a rebellion with her sons and Henry imprisoned her for the next 15 years.  That slightly curtailed her globe trotting, although later on in her house arrest she did journey between England and Normandy.  Perhaps her incarceration was a rest for her and gave her time to gather her strength and fortitude.

 When Henry died, Eleanor was released from imprisonment and was immediately back on the road, holding England safe until Richard arrived.  Appointed 'chairman of the board' during Richard's absence, she was herself absent for a time. She accompanied Richard to France to see him on his way, and then set out to Navarre to collect Richard's bride Berenguela, and bring her to his winter quarters in Sicily.   After a brief stopover in Pamplona, Eleanor and Berenguela crossed the Alps in midwinter on a horseback and on foot, with Eleanor now around the age of 65.  They would have spent Christmas Day in transit on mountain roads. Once over the Alps in the winter ice and snow, it was down to Rome and then across the straits of Messina to Sicily.

Barely had Eleanor arrived when she learned that her son John was making trouble back in England and Normandy and she had to turn straight round and head home.  Her respite was just 3 days.  Travelling between England and Normandy she kept an eye on matters, until the news arrived that Richard had been captured and held to ransom by the Emperor of Germany. Following a frantic flurry of money gathering to raise the ransom, she crossed the Channel again and headed to Germany, to Speyr to bring the ransom and fetch her son from captivity. By this time she was approaching seventy.  After this she tried to retire to a quieter life at the Abbey of Fontevraud which lay on the borders of Anjou and Poitou.  But the gentler times were not to last.  Richard died in 1199 and Eleanor, now 75, rushed down to Chalus in the Limousin to hold him in her arms as he died.  She then returned to Fontevraud to bury his body beside that of his father.

Her final son John came to the throne and she was requested to go to Aquitaine and take the homage of all of her vassals, which entailed travelling the region to do so. And then she was sent on a diplomatic mission to Castile to bring back one of her grand daughters who would then marry Louis, dauphin of France and hopefully cement an alliance/truce between the houses of Capet and Anjou.  So once more, she found herself, now 76, crossing mountains in winter, this time the Pyrenees, to bring back young Blanche of Castile to her marriage.  Eleanor did not go to Paris with her, but returned to Fontevraud, where soon after she suffered from a bout of ill health - which could well have been brought on by a mixture of grief and exhaustion.

There was one final journey. In 1202, threatened by warfare close to Fontevraud, she evacuated the convent and started down toward Poitiers.  However, when she stopped at the small castle of Mirebeau along the way, she found herself besieged by her teenage nephew Arthur, rival claimant to the Angevin throne.  Eleanor sent desperate word to John, who dropped his own campaign and rode like the wind to rescue her, arriving in the nick of time as Arthur's army were breakfasting on roast pigeon while Eleanor was barricaded in the keep.  Arthur was captured and the 78 year old Eleanor set free from her peril.  This was to be her final journey and adventure and she returned to Fontevraud and died there in April 1204.  It is thought that she had a say in the design of her own effigy and those of Henry II and Richard I, as well as the now lost effigy of her daughter Joanna.  If so, then she has portrayed herself reading a book - very likely intended to be of a religious nature, so even in death she is active, while her husband and son, lie  in state.  Since reading was often a communal affair and books read aloud, then perhaps Henry and Richard now have to listen to her for eternity! 

The majority of us will never pack in that much travelling or drama in our lives, and perhaps would not want to!  I am amazed at how much strength and fortitude Eleanor possessed. Her indomitable will is what I see as her true strength, right through to the core.  Yes, in the end a 'kick-ass' woman, but one of her own time and making and for whom I have the deepest admiration and respect.

The Autumn Throne is published in the UK by Sphere on September 1st and by Sourcebooks in the USA on October 1st.


The Royal Free Hospital by Miranda Miller

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   This hideous 1970s concrete building has loomed over Hampstead Heath for as long as I can remember. Last month I spent a lot of time in it, visiting my daughter and her new babies, and started to wonder about its curious name.

   In 1828 William Marsden, a young surgeon from Yorkshire, found an 18-year-old girl dying on the steps of St Andrew's church Holborn because she couldn’t afford admission to a hospital. The only way for the poor to obtain free treatment was to be personally recommended by someone who subscribed to that hospital. She had been refused admission to three hospitals because she had no subscriber's letter, so Marsden cared for her himself until she died two days later.

   This experience touched Marsden so deeply that he decided to open a hospital that would be free to all: “no ticket or recommendation from a subscriber is necessary to be provided …poverty and disease alone are the wretched qualifications.” He set up a small dispensary, which soon expanded and provided thirty beds, at 16 Greville Street, Hatton Garden. At first it was called the London General Institution for the Gratuitous Cure of Malignant Diseases but the name was soon changed to the London Free Hospital.









   In 1832 "King Cholera" arrived in England for the first time and killed about 6,500 people in London. It was thought to be spread by a "miasma” or bad smell in the atmosphere, a theory supported by leading figures in public health, including Edwin Chadwick and Florence Nightingale. “Thus did the fatal disease rise like a demon bent on destruction; it took its course, not heeding mountain, sea nor clime; death was its object, man its victim, and the uttermost ends of the world its destination; wherever its cold hand was extended - the people died .... Death struggled with time itself, and gnawed the moments that separated him from his victim. “   



   The London Free Hospital was the only London hospital to treat victims of the cholera epidemic, as other voluntary hospitals in London refused to admit patients with infectious diseases. Five years later, when the new young Queen Victoria became patron of the hospital, she changed its name to the Royal Free Hospital in recognition of this courageous policy. A few years later the hospital moved to larger premises, the former barracks of the Light Horse Volunteers in Gray’s Inn Road.

   Marsden’s beloved wife, Betsy-Ann, died of cancer and Marsden resolved to research the causes of cancer, classify tumours and find new treatments. In 1851 he set up another small establishment in Cannon Row, Westminster. At first this consisted only of a dispensary where palliative drugs were prescribed but it gave Marsden the opportunity to study and research the disease. It grew into the Brompton Cancer Hospital, now the Royal Marsden Hospital, on the Fulham Road. It was remarkable because it was the first purely cancer hospital in the world and because patients were treated for free.

Marsden campaigned passionately to change medicine and the medical establishment resented him. He attacked quack doctors and said many patients had “fallen into the hands of ignorant and needy empirics who drug them with pugnacious medicines so long as their money will hold out and then discard them, often in a worse state then at the start”. His enemies were delighted when it turned out that his apothecary and one of his surgeons at the Royal Free Hospital were selling Frank’s Specific Solutions, a quack remedy for VD. Both were sacked but there was an embarrassing scandal.

   In the 1870s the Royal Free became a teaching hospital. The School of Nursing was started and in 1895 it became the first hospital to appoint a female almoner, forerunner of the modern social worker, whose job it was to care for the non-clinical needs of patients. Female medical students had access to clinical practice on its wards. Astonishingly, the Royal Free was the only hospital ( apart from a short period during the First World War ) to accept female medical students before 1947.  The Royal Free also became the first hospital in England to have an obstetrics and gynaecology unit and by 1934 the mortality rate in the maternity wards was 2.8 per 1,000, the lowest in London.

    During the Second World War the hospital was bombed. In 1942 William Beveridge’s report recommended that “Medical treatment covering all requirements will be provided for all citizens by a national health service.” On the inception of the National Health Service in 1948, the Royal Free joined with several smaller hospitals including the Children's Hospital Hampstead, the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital, the North-Western Hospital, Hampstead General Hospital and the London Fever Hospital in Liverpool Road to form the Royal Free Group.


   The Gray’s Inn Road site was too cramped and it was decided that there were too many teaching hospitals in central London. Plans to replace the Royal Free Hospital with a new building on the site of the Hampstead Fever Hospital in Lawn Road were drawn up and the present incarnation of the Royal Free Hospital was officially opened by the Queen in 1978, a hundred and fifty years after Marsden found that girl dying in a doorway.

We all love our NHS, perhaps even more so now that it is menaced by politicians who don’t think anything ought to be free.

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