1. Creative Writing at the Museum of London
A collection of learners’ work from the WEA Writing London course
2. Preface
WEA Tutor
Elizabeth
Sarkany
One of the learners on the Writing London course noticed very early on that
there were always excited groups of schoolchildren in the galleries at the
museum. She liked this, she said, because it made things feel so alive. To do
with now and the future as well as with the past. It’s this energy, running
through the place like a heartbeat, that makes the Museum of London such a
unique setting for creativity.
We worked together in various ways: sometimes, our group of nine
allowed their imaginations to take flight in direct response to the exhibits. They
very quickly began to make stories out of, say, the poignancy of a shoe lost
during the scuffle of an arrest, a chilling newspaper account of an execution,
or the possibilities represented by the bag of a wartime bus conductress.
Objects could be the starting point for linking in to personal experience
too: an immigrant’s suitcase the focus for a powerful description of traumatic
dislocation, wartime tins of food for a quirky account of life under rationing.
And sometimes we used the exhibits to facilitate the seeing of the
world in a new way, as a writer sometimes does: a watchman’s box, for
example, becoming a beautifully drawn metaphor for loneliness.
Inspiration was often to be found in surprising places: overheard
conversations in the café, a chance meeting in a lift, found fragments of willow
pattern china under glass in the floor beneath our feet.
Nine adults from completely different places experience the same thing
in nine completely different ways. That’s the other thing that gave this course
its special texture. The generosity and curiosity within our increasingly
cohesive group allowed nine very distinctive voices to emerge. These can be
heard in the following pages.
2
3. Introduction
Writing London is a Workers’ Educational Association (WEA) creative
writing course held at the Museum of London in partnership with the
Museum.
This collection of writing represents work done by the first ever group of
participants on this excellent course.
Registration for the 2012/2013 course opens on the website on 1st July 2012.
The WEA is the UK’s largest voluntary-sector provider of adult education.
E-mail london@wea.org.uk website: www.london.wea.org.uk
Museum of London website: http://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/
Contents
Preface ............................................................................................................2
Introduction ......................................................................................................3
Contents ..........................................................................................................3
Prologue: A wet day at the Museum ................................................................5
Aldgate Pump by Patricia Gibson ....................................................................6
Vacant Overalls by Maxine Garcia...................................................................7
Fares, please! by Patricia Gibson ....................................................................9
Tea with Skeletons by Maxine Garcia............................................................10
The Horn dance by Wendy Le Ber.................................................................13
The missing bit of the jigsaw by Sozen Ismail................................................14
Maudie, the Regular by Patricia Gibson.........................................................16
Night of the incendiaries by Barbara Gilmore ................................................18
Ribbons of Hope by Maxine Garcia ...............................................................19
My silver shoes by Barbara Gilmore ..............................................................20
Incendiaries by Marilyn Hawes ......................................................................21
“Arrested 15th November, 1911.” by Barbara Gilmore....................................22
Batch by KG Lester........................................................................................23
Dionysus (excerpt) by Musaret Siddiqi...........................................................25
3
5.
Prologue: A wet day at the Museum
Group poem by the members of Writing London
Dreary, dreary, dreary falls the rain.
Squirrel-coloured ostrich feathers,
A flying horse
Amid the maddening rush of traffic below.
Hordes of children suddenly appear – noisy, excited chatter.
The cheerful sound of bubbling children.
The hissing of car tyres on the wet road.
I hear rain beating, beating, beating on the ground.
Little girls in pink wellingtons.
Cars driving through the relentless rain.
The warmth removed by a cold chill.
Toasty coffee smell, calm space,
refugees from the rain filter in.
A pile of chocolate muffins sprinkled with nuts.
Children lining up, talking excitedly.
Mystical music in an enchanting world.
Silhouettes of passing figures on the wall.
Dizzyingly ringed by Bloomberg time
and random London information.
Pictures of: large pots, geometric designs, antlered deer.
Wet traffic hisses outside.
5
6. Aldgate Pump by Patricia Gibson
There has been one of us standing on this spot in
London’s East End since medieval times.
‘Meet you by the Aldgate Pump, people say.
That’s how important we are as working landmarks.
I’m made of cast iron and date from 1880. I don’t
supply the whole neighbourhood with their only source
of water anymore, because some people have got their
own tap now, which brings it from the mains. But old
habits die hard, so the locals still gather round me for a
chat and a gossip just as they’ve done for centuries. You
wouldn’t believe the things I hear!
Once there were dozens of us pumps all over London. The water came from one of
the many streams which flow under the city and out to the Thames. Engineers just bored a
hole in the ground and up came the water by hydraulics. Magic!
Unfortunately, it wasn’t just liquid that came out of the spout in the old days. I’ve
heard that everything from eels to crabs plopped into women’s buckets. And the colour of the
water! Thick with that claggy, grey mud that London’s built on and smelling like old shoes,
rotten cabbage and rat droppings. As well as lugging the heavy buckets back home,
housewives had to boil it up before it was fit for use. Even then it was pretty disgusting.
For those of us nearer the Thames, the river used to overflow at the equinox - Spring
and Autumn. Londoners would be wading knee deep in the same awful greasy, muddy scum
that we pumped out, as well as all the household waste that ended up in the Thames.
That doesn’t happen very often now because a civil engineer called Joseph
Bazalgette designed a revolutionary sewer system and by 1865 the nasty bits were flowing
away into special drains. He also built the Victoria Embankment between 1864 and 1870
to hold the flood waters back. That meant that there were no nasty smells near the Houses of
Parliament – the members had complained about The Great Stink – but still left other parts of
the city unprotected.
So why did many of us lose our pumping arms? It’s all due to Dr.John Snow, who
was Queen Victoria’s obstetrician. There was an outbreak of cholera – which gives you a
rash and the most awful trots and mostly kills you – in Soho in the West End of London.
Around 500 people died and doctors said that it was because cholera was airborne and what
could you do? London air was pretty unhealthy, what with all those chimneys belching out
smoke from people’s fires and the mucky streets full of mud and horse droppings, never
mind the rats which everyone knows carry the plague. The medical men recommended
burning chloride of lime in any area which had cases of the disease. All that did was produce
choking – and useless – smoke.
Dr. Snow didn’t believe any of that. He was convinced that it was because the filthy
water supply carried the cholera germ. To prove it, in 1854, he removed the handle of the
Broadwick Street Pump and, would you believe it, there were no more cases of cholera! I
hope someone put a plaque up to him. He saved hundreds of lives.
It wasn’t until 1899 that all the London doctors admitted that he was right and pump
handles were removed. So I still had one when they made me, the Aldgate Pump, in 1880.
But you can be certain that there were no nasties in my water by then or the City Fathers
wouldn’t have let me work. And I do have my pride.’
Inspired by the Aldgate pump (People’s City: health and water).
6
7. Vacant Overalls by Maxine Garcia
It rolls from my temple, down the side of my face and along my jaw to my chin. It pauses
before dropping its corrosive saltiness into the engine. I wish I was dead.
‘This is madness, Reg,’ I say.
‘What now?’
I take off the makeshift headband and squeeze until it’s less damp. It deposits a
puddle on the floor, replacing the one I made ten minutes earlier.
‘I can’t even grip the spanner.’
‘Look, Neil, everyone’s in the same boat.’
‘I know. I was just saying.’
‘Well, you can stop saying and do some bloody work for a change. A big strong lad
like you moaning like a …’
As he rants I hear the agitated rustle of the pages of the Daily Mirror.
‘…don’t know you’ve been born, you lot…’
I look over my shoulder and see the thick rubber soles of a clean pair of small black
boots. They’re elevated on a chair and pointing straight at me, crossed at the ankle.
‘…in the war. If it wasn’t for people like me…’
From the bottom of the newspaper protrudes a naked ten-month pregnant lump with
dewy beads emerging from the open pores. The arms of Reg’s overalls hang vacant either
side of him. He shifts his weight to the other buttock as per his half-hourly routine. Metal hits
the concrete and skids across the floor.
‘Oi! What’re you doing?’ Reg shouts.
‘It slipped. Sorry.’
‘Just watch it, you. Anything broken comes out of your wages. In the war…’
At the end of the day I take my overall to give it a rinse at home. Reg says that I can’t
have another one. He says I should consider myself lucky having an overall at all because
they didn’t have them in the war. Every day he arrives wearing the sweet smell of fresh
laundry. I walk at a pace that conserves what little energy I have and stop off at the pub.
‘That Reg Bailey get off his fat arse and do some work today?’ says Darren.
‘No, Dar.’
‘Tell him you didn’t go there to slave for him.’
‘You know what he’s like. He says he’ll get rid of me if I make a fuss.’
‘You need to stand up to him. Stick up for yourself, mate.’
‘He said he fought in the war so that I could have this job.’
‘Don’t forget to tell your Mum.’
When I get home Mum says that Reg never fought any war; he’s never even been in a
fight in the pub. They wouldn’t have him in the army because of his bad eyes and bad feet.
She says that he spent the war hiding in an Anderson shelter in his sister’s garden and she
doesn’t know why she married him, but he took us in after Dad left and it was the best she
could do at the time. I’ve heard it all before.
Reg found my application to Art College. He brought it to the garage, chucked it in a
metal bin and set fire to it. Every day he watches me work and tells me about how he won the
war. Every evening I watch him argue with Mum. By December I know that this is the
pattern for the rest of my life. There’s no future in this.
After tea, Mum wants to watch that Today show. She likes Bill Grundy’s ‘turn of
phrase’. He always looks half-cut to me. Mum and Reg sit at opposite sides of the room
facing the black and white telly we inherited from Granddad. Mum said his death was well
timed as we’ll have the telly for the Jubilee. I walk in the room and see a group of rascals on
the screen.
7
8. ‘Who’s that, Mum?’
She stares at the television.
‘Mum, who’s that?’
‘Mr Grundy said something like the, the, the Pistols.’
‘The Sex Pistols? I’ve heard of them…’
‘Oi! Mind your language in this house,’ Reg says, and gets up and switches off the
set.
The next day after work I meet some mates in the pub. They’ve already had a few
beers when I arrive.
‘And then he said, ‘What a fucking rotter’.’
‘My old man went berserk.’
‘Mine too.’
‘Said he’d rather chuck the telly out the window than listen to that filth.’
‘Very rock’n’roll.’
Everyone’s laughing and there’s a real buzz of excitement that I’ve never felt before.
Darren hands me a copy of the Daily Mirror. They’re talking about the band that was on last
night. They were swearing. Can you believe that? On TV!
‘We’re starting a band,’ Darren says, ‘and you’re in it.’
‘Am I? I can’t play anything,’ I say.
‘None of us can, can we lads? Find yourself an instrument and wait for us at the
garage tomorrow.’
‘The garage?’
‘Yeah. We’re going to rehearse there.’
‘But Reg’ll go mental.’
‘Reg doesn’t need to know.’
I squeeze through the crowd to get to the front where the equipment is. We only sold
fifteen tickets, but there are at least a hundred people here. Someone elbows me in the face as
he hurtles back to earth from pogoing.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he says and continues bouncing. It’s the only way you get to see the
band here.
As I work my way slowly towards the stage I see fists flying. A girl joins in and soon
there’s a bit of a bundle. We asked them to do that so no one listens to the music.
‘Where’ve you been,’ Darren asks.
‘Couldn’t get in; no room.’
‘Brilliant isn’t it.’
A layer of steam rises from the tightly packed audience. My bass guitar is barely
audible over the shouts of the crowd. A chair flies through the air hitting Darren who’s
yelling himself hoarse at the microphone. He rolls around on the floor, still yelling, then
picks himself up and kicks the chair to pieces. There’s a ferocious hail of glass as a bottle
smashes into the side of my face. From the raw wound I feel a drop rolling from my temple,
down the side of my face and along my jaw to my chin. It pauses before dropping its
incarnadine wetness on my torn overalls emblazoned with the message of our generation:
‘Destroy’. Finally, I feel alive.
Inspired by the ‘Pretty Vacant’ single, 1977.
8
9. Fares, please! by Patricia Gibson
It’s terrible to think that this dreadful war against the Germans could bring me the one thing
I really wanted: the chance to earn my own living. But with so many men under 40 gone to
France now, employers don’t have any option but to take on us girls.
I did hear that the National Provincial and Union Bank employed a woman teller in
September 1914. Imagine that! Perhaps they could see which way the wind was blowing and
that the war wasn’t going to be “over by Christmas”, like the politicians and the papers said.
I’d seen advertisements in The Islington Globe for lady clerks and typists but I didn’t
want to be in some stuffy old office or, worse, in a factory. I know the pay would have been
good, but I wanted something more interesting, where I’d meet people, but still be doing my
bit. So I said to myself: “Liza Petty, you can do better than that.” And I have. As from
today, July 8 1916, I’ve done my training and I’m a bus conductress on the number 38 from
Stoke Newington to Piccadilly and Victoria station.
Mother and Pa are quite pleased and I hope George – he’s my young man – will be,
too. Eventually. He doesn’t like the idea of women going out to work. Thinks the man
should provide. But that’s going to have to change, especially after what’s happened to him
and thousands of others in France. But I’ll tell you about that later.
You’ve only got to look at the awful casualty Lists from France and Belgium to see
that if they don’t employ us girls, firms will go bust. There won’t be enough staff otherwise.
So, when I saw in February that the London General Omnibus Company would be
looking for 21 year old girls who were presentable, healthy and good at maths, I was first in
the queue at Islington bus garage. They only took 100 of us to begin with in the whole of
London, so I was really lucky.
Pa’s always wanted his girls to have a good education. I didn’t leave school until I
was 16, which is very unusual in this street. And when Mother doesn’t need me to help with
Josie and Elena, my twin sisters, who are ten years younger than me, I’ve got my head stuck
in a book.
I’m quite tall – five foot seven without heels – have dark blonde curly hair, like all
Pa’s side of the family, and Mother’s brown eyes. I had to cut my plait off, which I used to
wear in a bun at the back, for the job. George won’t like that. He loves my long hair, not that
he’s seen it down. All my friends are cutting their hair now. Shampoo is getting difficult to
find.
Pa says I can look quite stern – which might be useful if there are difficult passengers,
I suppose. But I like to think I’m going to be one of those helpful “clippies”. The public call
us that because that’s what we do to the tickets.
It works like this: They pay for however far they’re going on the route and then I get
out my special metal clippers (a bit like Pa’s pliers, but with a knob on one blade to make the
hole through the thick paper to show they’ve paid). The tickets are all kinds of pretty colours:
pink, blue, green, orange, depending on the fare, with a number in the right hand corner. The
inspector made us learn the route, so we can call out the stops and passengers will know when
to get off. I do like ringing the bell!
The uniform is awfully dreary and it’s hot for the summer. It’s made of dark blue
wool serge. There’s a long jacket with two white stripes down the back, a stripe on each cuff
and calf-length fluted skirt. We wear low heeled boots because the curved outside stairs to the
top deck are steep and you have to cling on like billy-ho if the bus is going round a corner.
The hat is horrible! A blue pudding basin with a white, ribbon- edged brim and thick
leather chin strap, like you see on coppers’ helmets. The drivers told me that the bus is
freezing in winter, because the back and top deck are open and I’ll be grateful for the woollen
uniform then. Some of the old drivers are a bit short with us. They don’t think conductressing
is a nice job for a woman. But they can’t drive and sell tickets can they?
Inspired by the bus conductress's bag (People's City War).
9
10. Tea with Skeletons by Maxine Garcia
That skirt’s too tight. I can see the bulges around her hips. The fabric’s nice, though.
It has that sturdy texture of wool. Her heels are too high and too red and too shiny. She’s
striding percussively across the oak flooring that she made us get. The house has been chilly
since we lost the carpets.
‘What are we today?’ I ask.
‘Eighteenth? Hang on. Yes, eighteenth,’ she says.
‘It’s one of those ink ones.’
‘I don’t know where that came from. I think it’s one you gave me years ago.’
I used to buy her a new one every month when she was at school. She was
always breaking the nibs. When I was at school we had inkwells in the desk.
‘It’s an ink,’ I say.
‘Oh, look Mum, you’re getting it all over your fingers. I’ve probably got
another one.’
She’s wearing that harassed look that she fashions at work. She digs around in
her bag, moving things this way and that. Why are handbags so big these days? It’s a
nice one, though. Chocolate coloured leather, like the one she bought for my birthday. I never
use it.
‘Biro?’ I ask.
‘Here you go. Mind you don’t get that ink on the tablecloth. You’re the only
one I know who still has those. That’s a perfectly good table, you shouldn’t hide it
with that.’
She waves her hand in the direction of the tablecloth. It’s nice one. Cotton,
white with red flowers embroidered around the edge. I think it’s pretty.
‘Jeff likes it.’
‘Since when did Dad know anything about interior design?’
‘It’s only a tablecloth, love.’
She was annoyed at me last week because I got the wrong kind of tea. But I
can’t keep up with all her ginsengs and what have you.
‘‘Do you stay at another address for more than 30 days a year?’ No. ‘Are you
a schoolchild or student in full-time education?’ No. This is easy. You just tick the
boxes.’
‘That’s what I said on the phone. You don’t need me to help you.’
‘It’s nice that you’re here, though, love.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea? I might as well make myself useful while you’re finishing
that.’
‘Thanks, love.’
I lean back and listen to the symphony of the slamming of cupboard doors.
She’ll break one of those cups if she’s not careful.
‘Here you go,’ she says.
‘Thanks, love.’
I look through the caramel coloured water straight to the bottom of the cup. I
wanted a proper cup of tea. I take a sip of the insipid liquid then put it down. The cup tips
over, but I catch it just in time and look sideways. She’s flicking through the copy of Books
Do Furnish a Room that she bought us for Christmas. It’s one of those coffee table books that
no one ever reads, but it looks nice. She’s holding her tea close to her mouth as she stares
towards the pages on her lap without seeing them.
‘Are you all right?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I heard the cup.’
‘I’m fine. How are you, love?
She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling, sighs and shakes her head.
‘You asked me that earlier. Are you sure you’re all right? You seem, I don’t
10
11. know, distracted.’
Now. I’ll do it now.
‘Of course I’m all right. This is nice, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘What? Filling in forms?’
‘No, us, like this, having a chat.’
Her jaw is tightening. She starts to speak through clenched teeth.
‘We chat all the time, Mum.’
‘Not like this. You know, just us, here, together.’
‘Mum, what are you going on about. See, your hands are shaking.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘The cup’s rattling against the saucer.’
I don’t remember picking them up. I try to put them down, but my finger stays
hooked around cold bone china.
‘What’s wrong, Mum? You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Course not.’
This isn’t what I meant to happen. She’s leaning towards me from the sofa.
She’s pulling her eyebrows together and creating a furrow across her brow that makes
her look so much older.
‘You’d tell me wouldn’t you. If there was something wrong,’ she says.
‘I’m fine. Jeff’s fine. The cats are fine. Filling this in has reminded me of
something. How’s the family search going?’
There. It’s done.
‘Don’t change the subject, Mum.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Like I said before,’ she says, ‘I can’t do much without the certificates. It’s
been ages since you said you’d find them. They’re not lost are they?’
I tried to lose them, but Jeff said she’d be able to get copies and all this stuff’s
online now anyway; I wouldn’t know. I tell her that I misplaced them after the loft
extension she arranged; that I found them in a box.
‘All of them? Mine, yours and Dad’s? Where are they?’
‘There, but I…’
In one stride she’s off the sofa, her cup is placed on the table and the matt
black display folder is in her hands. She looks at me in the way that she used to before
opening a present decorated in ribbons and bows. She rubs her fingers over the cover
before flicking it over.
‘Millicent Cooper. I always loved your name.’
She’s seen it.
‘It’s blank.’
She looks down at me then back at the yellowing page that’s starting to tear
along the folds.
‘‘Name and surname of father’. It’s blank.’
‘Jeff’s name isn’t on your birth certificate.’ I’ve said it just as I’ve practised it
day after day.
‘I can see that,’ she says.
The heavy dining chair scrapes along the floor. As her legs buckle she slumps down
into the seat, dropping the folder on her cup. The tea spreads in an arc across the tablecloth
and the papers fall to the floor, scattering in all directions. I didn’t think I’d ever need to tell
her. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. I’ve carried it around her whole life. I’ve
been so ashamed. After all these years no one thinks about it. No one remembers. She’s
looking at me with that face that she often had as a child. The one that said that her whole
world had been destroyed.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks.
Tears are forming in the inner corners of her eyes.
‘Dad’s not my dad.’
11
12. ‘Don’t be silly, love. Of course your Dad’s your dad.’
‘But his name… It’s blank.’
‘That’s what I need to tell you.’
I walk over to her side of the table, pick up the papers and find my marriage
certificate. A small whine emerges as the tears begin to flow. Her body is convulsing.
‘You’re married. So what?’
I point to the date. 5 September 1954. I wait until she realises: it was four
months after she was born. I explain to her that it was her dad’s fault. I didn’t want everyone
to think I was getting married just because of the baby. I went to stay with my aunt in
Brighton and I couldn’t put Jeff as the father because we weren’t married. I tell her that she
was at the wedding and I held her the whole time, except when I made the vows and when the
pictures were taken. I tell her that I wanted her in the pictures, but her gran didn’t think it was
appropriate. Neither did the registrar. I tell her that we were going to do something to fix her
birth certificate, but we never got round to it. No matter how hard I try I always make her cry.
I squeeze her shoulders. They are shaking, but there’s the sound of laughter. As she turns to
look up at me I’m rewarded with the rare sight of her beautiful smile.
‘So, you and Dad weren’t married when I was born. Is that all?’
She jumps up and throws her arms around me. I breathe in the subtle fragrance
of vanilla in the scent that I made for her in one of my evening classes.
‘Any more skeletons in the family cupboard?’ she says.
There. It’s done.
Inspired by overheard dialogue in the Museum of London
12
13. The Horn dance by Wendy Le Ber
From St Michael’s repository, hung on
firm brass hooks, ancient horn of
twelve point, ten and nine.
Guarded by the cross and book.
Least elder spirit freed too soon,
Brings more than pale shadows of a former time.
The great door opens. Dancers move,
feet guided by familial bonds,
with ribbons, sticks and bells.
Released from church’s clutch, the great horns
sound a silent cry
of forests, tracks and midnight sky
To urban streets of concrete, steel and glass.
With horned heads and garbed in coloured cloth
drum beats, heart beats, figured steps process
on this appointed day.
A pale reminder joined with
taxis, cars and bus.
But in a quieter moment, as the traffic’s roar
fades by Starbuck’s great glass door,
A young girl sees reflected more
than Topshop’s glitz.
Glammoured by a pagan horn,
a former majick’s dangerous call.
Inspired by the bison skeleton in London before London
13
14. The missing bit of the jigsaw by Sozen Ismail
He opened it to reveal a multi-coloured, multi-textured, multi-dimensional jigsaw
puzzle. A couple of woollens, hurriedly knitted to provide home warmth for alien
winters, showered him with their bright greens and cheerful yellows, yet still lifeless,
folded tightly and tucked neatly in in-between spaces. His interview shoes stared back
at him out of empty sockets. A few photographs, especially taken to brand his new
life-in-the-making peeped out of a folder whose spine was challenged by the sheer
multitude of a short life’s academic achievements. A used-up bullet, dull greyish-
bronze, reminding him of the transiency and vulnerability of life, had no intention of
being overlooked. He unwittingly touched the dent in his shoulder that the bullet had
been taken out of, but he did not remember to feel lucky.
He did not notice the small window.
The smell of mothballs mingled with that of herbs, picked by the hands of
those who had let him go, from the mountain tops, where the sun gave chase. The
herbs were in a transparent bag like people with no need to hide and nothing to fear.
He looked at the many different coloured plastic shopping bags bulging into as many
different shapes. His mouth started waking up in anticipation and his nose was game.
He could smell the tempting smells of the kitchen, where he had spent much of his
spare time. He had sat on the divan, made of a child’s mattress on three wooden citrus
crates and covered with re-used cotton embroidered proudly, elegantly, by his sisters.
He moved his hands across, touching this and that, hoping there had been no
leakage. But there would not have been. His suitcase had been packed by expert
hands. His own hands stopped over a blue carrier bag, one of its corners stretched out
towards him like a pair of joined arms. He tried to remember what was inside. Had he
been there when this was prepared, stuffed full and knotted together? He picked it up
and heard water gushing out of an open tap. Was the noise made by plastic bags
packed into one another a few times over? Or was it coming from the nearby
bathroom? The package felt hard in its centre and teasingly bouncy on the outside. He
squeezed it a little, trying to guess its contents. He could feel irregular rectangles with
bulging insides: Boreks! He remembered them being fried in that kitchen, in a sac, a
frying-pan like a wok. The pastry filled with hellim, onions and mint or minced meat,
parsley and onions, even perhaps with sweet nor, a soft cheese. He would indulge
later, making them last. After all, once these were finished he did not know when he
would have them again. As he placed the plump parcel on the table he felt the
yearning in his mouth travel to his heart.
The next parcel was rounded and big, like a mis-shapen football. It reminded
him of his last friendly match in the toasted fields of Gonyeli. He could almost feel his
feet pounding the hard ground and sweat pouring out of him. He chuckled and felt the
package. This one had less plastic padding. Inside the large bag he could feel a few
separate bags, all filled with differently shaped roundnesses. He knew straight away
that they were cerez: almonds, hazlenuts, walnuts; pumpkin seeds (basadembo) and
roasted chickpeas (leblebi). He knew that there would be white, hard leblebi, hinting
at saltiness, as well as yellow mesleki ones. (Mezleki is a tree resin, used as chewing
gum and flavouring, also in natural medicine to treat stomach ulcers).
He shivered.
He was so wrapped up in putting the package on the table that he did not hear
the wind shaking the window panes.
He saw the large cubical shape next, also wrapped in layers of plastic bags.
The outermost layer was semi-transparent white with the baker’s name, Minnosun
14
15. Firini, written in black. Underneath that one was a green and white bag. He picked it
up but didn’t need to open it to know that inside was kolakas. Of course, he didn’t
know yet that, many years later, he would have a daughter who would call it ‘melt in
your mouth potatoes’. For now, he knew that it had to be cut in a special way for the
best cooking results and that he was very partial to it himself. He could already feel
the melt-in-your-mouth, slightly slippery texture on his tongue. He could savour the
celery, onion and tomato sauce it had been cooked in. Kolokas was put onto the table,
next to the others.
He did not see the water seeping in through the window.
He looked at the large pillowcase that he had brought alongside his suitcase. It
was full to bursting with dried molohiya: the wrinkled mint-like leaves, although
fragile with their dryness, pushed their outline onto the creamy white muslin. He
could smell their unmistakeable aroma. He wondered how others, in this strange, new
land, would take to their even richer aroma when he cooked them. ‘What if they don’t
like it and complain about the smell?’ he suddenly worried, mumbling to himself.
‘What if …?’
He looked out of the bare window into a maddened sky and felt very cold.
He remembered the shimmering cockerel that waited for his return from
school, each afternoon by the garden gates. The majestic bird had bestowed on him an
unlikely friendship that never faltered. Like the screaming aggression that he poured
onto anyone outside the immediate family who dared to open the same gates.
In his mind’s eye he saw basins and basins of fried chicken pieces in that other
kitchen he’d left behind long before. Pieces of animals slaughtered in a hurry to take
with them at least, for a while, to delay hunger during the forced, clandestine
pilgrimage to safer places, under the protective eiderdown of a moonless night.
Through a landscape so familiar and so achingly loved that it felt like an
amalgamation of their own bodies. Refugees who scattered their own pieces along the
way. Who could not even rely on the present, let alone predict the future. Who could
only be sure of the inevitability of loss.
He smelled burning human flesh, like the most delicious of kebabs.
He looked out of the window but saw nothing. He retched.
Inspired by Yasar Ismailoglu’s suitcase (Londoners 1950s-1970s).
15
16. Maudie, the Regular by Patricia Gibson
Ted had only just opened up
when I strolled into The Prince of
Wales in Camden High Street.
I’d got my best black coat on and
that felt pot hat with the red
feather. The coat’s a bit frayed
now, but if I pull my black cardie
sleeves over the cuffs, it doesn’t
show.
‘By ’eck, Maudie,’ he roared.
‘It’s a bit early, even for you!’
‘Ai beg your pudden,’ I said in
my posh voice. ‘Can’t a lady
have a little drinkie on her
birthday without someone
casting nasturtiums?’
He poured me my ‘usual’ – Dutch gin with a splash- and put it on the bar. His
eyebrows shot right up when he saw the ten bob note I was holding out.
‘It was a present,’ I said. I wasn’t going to tell him that I’d found it at the bus
stop. A City gent in a bowler dropped it as he was running for the number 24. I could
have called out, but my need…etcetera.
Ted pushed it away.
‘Happy birthday, chuck,’ he said. He comes from Leeds and used to be a boxer.
You can tell by his crumply ears! He pointed a knobbly finger at his cheek. ‘Give us
a kiss then.’
I obliged. He was a bit raspy. Then I took the gin over to my favourite corner
and sat on the wooden bench by the window. It’s a bit hard on the bum after a while,
but I can see who’s coming in and out and I like looking at the fancy glass with the
foreign birds on it behind the bar. When Ted rings up on the big brass till, a notice
pops up saying This Registers the Amount to Your Purchase. I like that. It sounds
honest.
Not that Ted would cheat anyone. He’s cheeky, but he’s got a good heart. He’s
often
slipped me a port and lemon when I haven’t had a job. Now that Charlie, my old
man’s gone, I’m a bit short by the end of the month. He was a lovely man. A
gardener. We never had two halfpennies to rub together, but laugh. He was kind, too.
Always a bunch of flowers on a Friday. I miss that.
Where was I? Oh yes. Ted gets down one of the Codd’s Patent Lemonade bottles
from the shelf for the port. They’ve got little glass balls inside instead of stoppers. I
still can’t work out why the lemonade comes out when you tip them up but the balls
don’t. Clever.
What do I do for a crust? I’m an artists’ model, mostly at the Slade School of
Art in Gower Street. My Mum got me my first job there. I was only 14, but I have
these high cheekbones. Artists like them. ‘Good planes,’ they call them. Yes, I have
sat in the nuddy, but it’s jolly cold in winter and the Slade doesn’t believe in radiators.
Says they make the students sleepy. I suppose they’ve got to get used to freezing
cold studios. Not many of them are going to make enough to feed the gas meter!
16
17. Famous ones? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t remember names when I’m working.
Mum did sit for Walter Sickert when he was in his Camden Town period. She
always said that she was his inspiration for that painting of the bored couple, but I
don’t know if that was true. The woman doesn’t look much like Mum. But she also
said that his wife and his mistress lived two doors away from each other in
Mornington Crescent and that was true! Saucy ha’porth.
Anyway, to get back to my birthday. Ted and I were sitting playing dominoes.
He keeps a set behind the bar for when business is slow. When the door crashed open
and this funny looking bloke came in. Ted stood up, all aggressive, but the bloke
came over with his hand held out. He was wearing a black beret, striped blue and
white jersey, black trousers with bicycle clips and old worn plimsolls.
He wasn’t bad looking, either. Sunburnt. Lots of black curly hair, big brown
eyes. Sexy?
I’ll say! Anyhow, he grabs hold of Ted’s hand and starts gabbling away in what I
thought sounded like French. There was a lot of Bonjouring about.
Ted pumps his hand up and down and laughs and blow me, replies in Frog. He’s
a dark horse. He must have asked what he’d have to drink and the French bloke,
who’s name was Johnee said “a whisky pleeze’.
Then he noticed me goggling at him. “And something for the jolee madame,”
he said,
giving me a wink.
“I’ll have a small port and lemon, kind sir,” I said. I think I blushed!
Ted put it down on my table and suddenly this Johnee went out side the pub and
came back with a long string of onions. He knelt down at the side of me and took my
hand. Then he kissed it and gave me the onions.
“Blimey,” I said. “It’s Charles Boyer on a bike!”
Then we all fell about laughing.
You know, it was the best birthday I’ve had since my Charlie went. And I’ve
got enough onions to last me till Christmas!
Inspired by the Victorian pub in the Victorian Walk.
17
18. Night of the incendiaries by Barbara Gilmore
We were woken late one night by the
awful whining of the air raid siren and we
rose from our beds, half asleep, and put on
our heavy winter coats and shoes. Going
out into the cold, frosty air, we looked up
into the dark sky. A brilliant moon shone
eerily and hundreds of stars sparkled like
crystals. We quickly made our way to the
shelter, a big hole dug in the damp earth
covered with a half-circle of corrugated
iron. We jumped in and huddled together,
shivering.
Suddenly, we heard the ominous sound of hundreds of aircraft overhead and the
bombing started. The ground all around us was pounded. It shook and quivered. The
door to the shelter was closed but we could hear the crash of falling masonry and we
smelled the smoke which seemed to envelope us. The bombing was the worst we’d
experienced. It sounded as if a hundred volcanoes were erupting at the same time.
Mother was praying. Father said they must be bombing the docks.
‘Are we going to die?’ my sister asked.
At about four o’clock came a lull and Father and I nervously ventured outside. Above
was an awesome red glow. Smoke rose and blinded us: it came from all directions and
got into our throats, making us cough. Flames were everywhere, crackling and
spluttering and vomiting showers of sparks. We stood confused, as if rooted to the
spot and surveyed the ruins of our neighbours’ houses. Out of nowhere came the
planes again and we dashed for cover.
Next morning, all was still and calm and once it was light we emerged from our
cocoon. Father and I walked towards the river, but we couldn’t get there for the streets
were full of rubble. We were told that hundreds of warehouses had been destroyed.
They were still burning. Shops and offices were no longer shops and offices but
smouldering heaps of masonry. They looked as though they had been picked up by a
giant hand and thrown down again. Dogs whined and barked and we could hear the
cries of people that we couldn’t see. Ambulance men hurried past us, carrying people
on stretchers. One woman was badly burned, her hair smoking and her face blackened
and she uttered strange moaning sounds. Beside her was the small corpse of a child,
still clutching a teddy bear. Firemen were dousing down flames. Dazed-looking
people staggered about, their clothes covered in dust, their faces grimy. There was an
awful fetid smell and the blinding black smoke almost choking us.
‘Twenty three years ago Harry and Alfred died in another terrible war,’ said Father.
‘You never even knew your own father’s brothers.’ He raised his arms and let them
drop again to his sides. ‘And now this.’ He bowed his head and shook it and two tears
silently fell into the dust.
Inspired by the incendiary bombs (People’s City).
18
19. Ribbons of Hope by Maxine Garcia
‘She must never have hope,’ I said, ‘for it is hope that destroyed me. The wax seal on this
ribbon will remain unbroken. She must know that no one will come for her.’
After that, I did not speak another word.
There was a woman who loved the child. Between that woman and me laid the still hearts of twelve
heaven-abiding siblings. That woman, that – sister – rained her fists upon me each day to avenge the
angel that I killed as she bore me. Like a fierce cloud, Martha threw a shadow over me as I grew into
a cordial beauty.
My much longed for liberation was secured by John Potero, but not in the way that I had
hoped. John’s famed devotion to me was easily undone by money. The dowry allowed him to pursue
his dream of setting up a solicitor’s practice in Chancery Lane. Father said that good men were more
loyal to the wishes of their patrons than to those of their ladies. After Martha and John’s wedding, I
lay on the cold, wet stones in the courtyard, willing my mortal body to join my dead soul. Three days
later, Father bade the housekeeper to drag me to my room.
As the years passed, I observed Martha and John’s childlessness and hastened Father to his
grave; God have mercy on his thoughtless soul. John made swift work of executing Father’s will.
Father decreed that should I remain unmarried at his death, I be sent to live with Martha and John.
Martha assigned me to a windowless cell, further than a scream’s distance from the rest of
the household. The cell was a hand’s width broader than the bed. Once a day I would hear the
rattling of a heavy key and the door would swing violently into the passageway. From the darkness
Martha would toss in a bowl of assorted remains from the dinner table. John visited me frequently in
the early morning or at the dead of night.
Martha noticed it first. She filled a pillowcase with flock and bound it around her middle. She
increased the contents as each month passed. Martha was the only midwife present when Mary Ann
entered the world. She said that she had made sure that I would have no more babes.
Martha appeared at intervals throughout the day and night. She would wait in the doorway
with tightly folded arms and would remove the child from my sight immediately after nursing. One
night, when Mary Ann was three weeks old, Martha said that she would not return until the morning.
She and John wanted to sleep peacefully. They stood side-by-side, John’s hand on Martha’s
shoulder. They smiled as they left. In all my life I had never seen my sister smile. Martha left the
door open so that Mary Ann could benefit from the movement of the air.
I tried to remember how the items of clothing were ordered as I removed the soiled clout. I
fumbled with the pitch and roller. Satisfied that all was still in the house, I donned my cape, not
unlike that of a poor girl, and crossed the city to Bloomsbury Fields where I waited at the gates of
the Foundling Hospital. By the time the gates were opened thirty girls had gathered with their
bundles. I drew a rough white ball from a bag. Mary Ann was admitted.
Martha’s primeval scream was deeper and darker than I had hoped. As she tore at my hair and
scratched my face, I did not defend myself. John watched from the doorway with red-rimmed eyes.
He chanted, ‘she belonged to me’. My spark of hope faded as I realised that he was referring to the
child. Martha ran from the house with her clothes in disarray. The vicar brought her home some
hours later. She had been found kneeling in the street cradling a dead baby. The mother of that child
was screaming that a mad woman had stolen her lifeless boy.
Martha took to her bed and remained there for the rest of her long life. John visited me in my
unlocked cell, more frequently than before. He did not know that there would be no more babes.
Inspired by the Foundling Hospital admission form, 1756.
19
20. My silver shoes by Barbara Gilmore
On top of my wardrobe, standing on an
embroidered piece of soft felt, stands a
pair of high-heeled silver sandals.
They have stood there for thirty-five
years. Sometimes, when I sit on my
bed and look at them, I think again
about the sunlit summer of 1973, when
my husband and I won the gold trophy
for dancing at the Lyceum ballroom.
I was wearing a white chiffon dress
with a flared skirt and, as we danced
and whirled round and round and
round, I felt like a ballerina that dances
on top of a musical box when you
open the lid.
Suddenly, my bedroom fills with
music, my heart misses a beat. I see again the dresses of the other dancers and hear the clamorous
applause of a happy audience.
My handsome husband has left me now and gone to what I hope is a happier place, but perhaps we
will dance again one day under a starlit sky, while a heavenly orchestra plays and a heavenly audience
watches.
Meanwhile, I have my silver shoes and my memories.
Inspired by the gold leather evening shoes made in 1925 (People’s City).
20
21. Incendiaries by Marilyn Hawes
Ann is putting her doll to bed. The bed has been made by her mum from an old shoe box
covered in a pink, flowered piece of material left over from making her summer dress. Other
wool and cotton scraps make the bedclothes. She sings a lullaby, “Rockabye baby,” the way
her mum sings to her baby brother, David.
Her mum comes in to read a bedtime story. Little Red Riding Hood is a favourite with Ann
and she likes to join in when the big bad wolf, disguised as Grandma, answers, “All the better
to eat you with.”
At the deafening sound of the air raid siren Ann jumps out of bed into her sandals and grabs
her coat and doll whilst her mum picks up David and they both race down to the cupboard
under the stairs.
This is the safest place to be during an air-raid. When dad comes home next on leave he is
going to finish making the Anderson shelter in the garden. This will give them more protection
against bomb blasts.
Usually bombs make a tremendous crash when they land, but tonight the crashes are followed
by a roaring sound. David doesn’t like it and begins to cry. His screams of fear can be heard
over this growling roar.
Ann hates this. “I can’t hear you ,” she shouts in her mum’s ear, as Mum tries to finish the
story.
“I feel so hot, mum. Can I take my coat off?”
“Keep it on for now while we go further down into the coal cellar. Hold onto my skirt, we
mustn’t put any light on during a raid. It is suffocatingly hot. I’m glad I put a bottle of tea and
a bottle for David down here earlier. I think we could all do with a cold drink.” Comforted,
Ann falls asleep, leaning against her mother.
The sound of the All Clear wakes them. Stiffness makes the climb up the cellar steps slow
and painful. Mum opens the front door to get some fresh air and looks bewildered.
“Where are we, Mum? The houses opposite us have gone. They’ve all fallen into the street.”
Columns of smoke, black and thick, dry their throats and sting their eyes.”
“They must have been using incendiaries. They cause fires to burn down buildings. That’s why
we felt so hot.”
They start to walk along the road but the cobbles are hot and they can smell the rubber on
the bottom of their sandals burning. They try the pavement but that is hot and sticky.
“I’m frightened, Mum, of getting stuck. My feet hurt so much.” Tears run down Ann’s cheeks,
making clean trickles through the coal dust.
Inspired by the incendiaries in People’s City: war.
21
22. “Arrested 15th November, 1911.” by Barbara Gilmore
Polly Parsons’ statement.
I am a suffragette and today I have been arrested for the first time. My name is Polly
Parsons and I come from Mile End, in the East End of London. I am one of six children and,
although my father is a very hardworking man, we have a very hard life. I have seen my
father working on the roads up to his knees in filthy, muddy water and my mother is old
beyond her years, her face pinched with poverty. Although she goes out scrubbing floors,
my brothers and sisters are almost in rags with no shoes on their feet and sometimes I
seethe with anger at the plight of my family. When I heard Silvia Pankhurst speak I
understood that she knew about these injustices and that is why I joined the cause.
I break the windows of banks and large department stores for the cause and I set fire to
pillar boxes in the City of London so as to delay and disrupt the correspondence of city
companies. This morning I picked up a big stone and smashed the large window of the
Globe Insurance company. I was running away, my truncheon in my hand, when a large ugly
brute of a policeman barred my way.
‘Excuse me,’ I said politely, but he grabbed me viciously and twisted my arm.
‘You bitch!’ he cried and pushed me up against the railings. I was almost sick and gasped for
air.
‘So this is how you treat a lady!’ I cried.
‘I don’t see no lady anywhere. You’re arrested in the name of the law. I saw you break that
window. That’s wilful damage.’
He pulled me by the hair and tried to drag me along the street but I resisted. I hit him with
my truncheon.
‘You mangy bitch!’ he cried. His eyes blazed with eveil intent as he punched me right in the
mouth and broke one of my teeth. I was stunned and hurt and my mouth was bleeding.
That was why he was able to overpower me and take me away.
PC John O’Brien’s statement.
I am City of London policeman number 704, John O’Brien. Today I arrested one of the most
troublesome and vulgar women it has been my misfortune to meet. I caught her red‐
handed throwing a brick through the window of the Globe Insurance company in King
William Street. Not content with that she was pounding on the broken pane with her
truncheon to make the damage worse.
‘Stop that, Madame!’ I cried.
I never before heard anything like the foul language that came out of her mouth. She began
running. I went after her and tried to grab her arm to put on handcuffs but she spat in my
22
25. Dionysus (excerpt) by Musaret Siddiqi
‘You? How can you
know what it is like to be
born of two mothers, yet
grow up motherless?’
Dionysus wrung his hands
in anguish.
Apollo was taken
aback at this and said in
an appeasing tone,
‘Dionysus, you don’t really
mean it. Your father has
always loved you and
protected you, more than
all the others.’
He hesitated for a moment, as ‘My father Zeus, the
though his steps failed him. He Almighty God, who also happens to
eased himself onto the trunk of a be my second mother! As he
fallen tree and shut his eyes. He stitched me to the inside of his
could clearly hear his cousin thigh upon my Mother’s death,
Apollo’s voice, taunting him. before I was even born.’ Dionysus
‘Why so blue? The merry shouted as he paced around wildly.
making will soon begin. Let’s be on ‘He is the one who sent me
our way.’ faraway to grow up in a
Dionysus shook his head. mountainous cave. In the care of
‘Nay,’ he said. He smiled his cousins, away from his wife,
apologetically. ‘There are too many Hera’s, wrath.’
things on my mind. You carry on.’ ‘Well,’ said Apollo,
Apollo, seeing his troubled placatingly, ‘what more could you
look, gently laid his hand on wish for?’
Dionysus’ shoulder and said, ‘You Dionysus faced him
know we don’t have any secrets. squarely.
Tell me what ails you. Maybe I can ‘I want my mother,’ he said.
help.’
Inspired by the marble statue of Dionysus from the Temple of Mithra in the Roman gallery.
25
26. Fragments of Blue and White by Wendy Le Ber
Rose’s slender fingers delicately held the squirrel hair
brush, her head bent. The old stains on the wooden
bench matched the stains on her drab factory clothes
.Her mouth tightened in concentration and her eyes
squinted in the gloom. The winter light was dim but
there would be no gas light switched on yet. The
foreman prided himself on cutting costs; painters
were cheaper than gas she’d heard him say one day.
That was why it was so cold in the workshop too.
Rose gazed at the bottle kilns out of the windows,
they were only a stone’s throw away but their heat
only spilled out into the sky along with the smoke
from a thousand chimneys in the city. Rose turned
back to her willow patterned dish and began to trace
the blue underpainting again.
Chang’s fingers closed around the dragon seal of the Fourth Emperor, symbol of the Mandarin’s
authority in the Fourth Precinct. He lifted the heavy gold seal by its carved handle, the sleeves of
his silk robe falling softly and pressed the design into the cooling wax on the parchment.
The sound of laughter drew his gaze to the window, opened to let the winter sunshine into the state
office. As if drawn by invisible cords, Chang felt his eyes searching for the owner of the laughter
he knew so well. Koon-se a graceful figure clothed in a jade green kimono stood near the old
willow tree at the edge of the palace gardens. Two of her younger cousins carrying woven balls
and bird whistles were running around her in circles.
As the sun slid behind the tops of the factories Bowen the foreman finally lit the gas lights,
grumbling loudly. The soft hiss of the gas could be heard in the silence, nobody spoke when
Bowen walked round. He was not above knocking a piece of china to the floor if you’d annoyed
him,’ little accidents’ he called them, No one could afford that dock in pay. It was going to be a
late night Rose thought, the factory had won a large order to supply Waterman’s hotels and Bowen
had a tight schedule running. Everyone wanted their blue and white china it seemed.
Rose sighed as she tried to stretch her back without catching Bowen’s attention. I expect Tom is
working late too she thought, a small smile catching her lips as she thought of him.
She’d yet to tell her parents about Tom, they’d only been speaking for a few weeks, catching a few
words as his shift changed with the firing of the kilns. Tom was part of the crew making the
saggers from fire clay in another workshop nearby. The saggers held the china and protected it
from the flames and gases in the kilns. Tom had told her they stacked them up dozens high
enabling the kilns to fire thousands of plates. Rose was more worried about the accidents she’d
heard about. When the company had a rush on they kept the kilns burning continually and still sent
the workmen into the kilns to load and unload. It was easy to be overcome in the heat or catch too
many lungfulls of the poisonous fumes.
Chang sighed deeply, the Mandarin’s daughter had been promised to Ta-jin, a warrior and
wealthy duke, since her birth. He picked up the small piece of parchment decorated with peach
blossom on the sandalwood desk and wondered how many of his poems Koon-se had found or
read. He had left them in the garden, in her favourite spot by the lotus pool. Had her shy smiles
26
27. been for him when she had dropped by the office to bring messages for her distant relatives? How
much time did he have?
Five hundred invitations had been sent out by the time Chang had finished for the day. His back
ached and his fingers were cramping from holding the brush so tightly. It had been that or risk
blotting the finely decorated invitations. Chang knew better than to risk the wrath of the Over
Secretary. He dipped the brush in clean water watching the ink dissolve in fine swirls and then
carefully cleaned the porcelain mixing dish and stone grinder. Despair touched his soft grey eyes,
presents had already been exchanged. A casket of fine Emperor Jade with pearls and rubies had
arrived only yesterday and had been sent to Koon-se’s rooms for her personal use.
A bell sounded in the workshop; finally Rose thought as twenty other tired eyes looked up from
the benches. Shaking her fingers to relieve the cramps, Rose sucked on the end of her fine brushes,
cobalt blue staining her mouth. Rose knew it was important to keep the fine tip on the brushes and
to protect them well. She wrapped them carefully in fine calico before putting them away in the
deep pockets of her skirt. Taking down her coat and scarf Rose glanced at the tall stack of bowls
next to her bench noticing more details in the blue pattern again. When she worked the close
details on the china it was with attention to tracing and filling in the transferred shapes and lines.
The overall design was attractive she thought. There were trees, water, figures on a bridge, strange
buildings and the two birds in the sky. Some sort of Chinese landscape, she thought, thinking back
to one or two of Bowen’s comments when the order first came in. She’d been painting this design
for months but never thought what it meant, if it meant anything at all.
The only water near the pottery was the canal, where the barges were unloaded exchanging things
like bone ash, kaolin and Cornish stone for fine china teapots and porcelain bowls. Rose liked the
busyness of the waterways and the painted barges where some of the watermen lived with their
wives and children. Once she’d exchanged a couple of plates for one of their painted kettles,
knowing her mother needed a new kettle and would love the pattern of stylized roses. They’d been
in the crushing pile, but stealing waste was still a criminal offence she knew. She bit her lip still
surprised by her actions back then. But poverty could do that sometimes she thought, bring out the
best and worst in people.
A bit like love too she thought, remembering the jealous rages of their neighbour, easy to hear
through the thin walls of the cottages.
The sky had turned to crimson and gold as Chang walked down the stone steps into the cool of the
garden. His last poem tied with green ribbon clasped in his hands. Birds called from the willow
trees in the approaching twilight and fireflies were beginning their dance under the gloom of the
trees.
Chang shivered from more than the winter breeze as he turned towards the lotus pool. As he
reached the marble balustrade he could hear footsteps behind him. Begging the gods not to let
him be discovered, Chang started to run.
“Wait Chang” Koon-se called “Please wait”. Chang turned surprise and hope flaring in his eyes
when he saw Koon-se taking out a bundle of poems from her wide kimono sleeves.
Holding her close and taking in the delicate perfumed of her hair, Chang hardly daring to believe
in his good fortune, he silently vowed that he would find a way for them to be together. As the
winter sickle moon rose above the palace they walked back towards the servant’s door. Stopping
at the garden shrine they lit cones of incense declaring their own betrothal before the ancestors
and ancient gods.
27
28. “Rose?” Tom called from the buildings dark shadow startling her from her memories. Rose’s face
lit with a smile as Tom walked towards her his hands behind her back. “ We shouldn’t be meeting
like this” she whispered But seeing Tom’s bright smile she glanced at his hands “What have you
got there?” she said as he held a closed fist in front of him. Tom glanced at her shyly and slowly
uncurled his fingers. Inside lay a china rose dark pink blushing its petals. Its lovely Rose said as
Tom placed it in her hands. She didn’t ask him where it had come from. A rose for my Rose Tom
said questioningly. Rose was still admiring the rose though and didn’t seem to hear him, in her
mind already placing it by her bedside. Do you think we can go to the Winter Fair together he
said?
“I haven’t spoken to Ma and Pa yet” she said sadly.” Ma will love you I’m sure” she added
hurriedly “But Pa” her voice trailed off as she remembered some of her father’s recent words. “Just
because you’re a painter now you think you have the right to question me under my roof. Let me
tell you my girl, You obey me still or you’ll be out on the streets with no family”. She’d only
wanted to go out with some of the girls from the painting workshop; they’d been planning a day
trip to the city centre. What he’d think about a trip with a boy she hardly dared think. “We’ve got
a few more days before the fair” she said not hopeful at all.” I ‘m sure I’ll get chance to catch Pa in
a good mood”. Tom squeezed her hand reassuringly; he longed to kiss her but held back, he didn’t
want to scare her away.
The Mandarin’s eyes were cold and empty as he ordered the guards to remove Chang from the
office. Chang waited for the executioner to be called, already feeling the cold kiss of the sword on
his neck, or maybe the Mandarin would think beheading too quick a death for him he thought
wildly.” Escort him from the palace” the Mandarin continued, “he is to be stripped of his rank
and letters” “You are to be banished from the Fourth Precinct “The Mandarin continued looking
at Chang his face full of menace.”If you are ever seen here again you will be flogged within an
inch of your life and your four limbs will be tied to four horses your head to a fifth and each horse
will be ridden in opposite directions” The deadly intent in the Mandarins quiet voice turned
Chang’s blood to ice and his face as white as snow as he listened to the ancient form of death the
Mandarin described. But some small part of his mind flared with hope. The Mandarin must only be
suspicious he thought, he doesn’t have any proof.
Clutching that fragile hope as if it were as delicate as a swallow’s egg, Chang turned to gaze one
last time at the palace as the guards dragged him roughly to the gates. His last view was of a high
fence being constructed around the grounds right down to the water’s edge.
Rose left Tom’s side when they reached the tow bridge over the canal, her home was in sight. Tom
watched her walk down the path towards the line of small cottages, their chimneys smoking in the
chill air. He felt a tug on his heart as she vanished from sight. Does she feel the same about me he
wondered, could he tell her how he felt?
The Winter Fair marked the high point of the year for Tom; he’d been taken there since a young
boy. He remembered his excitement at seeing all the striped tents on the field, the smell of roasting
meat and chestnuts and the penny skittle games. Taking Rose would mark the high point of his life
so far he thought. Smiling a little sadly now he turned round to walk back along the canal to his
own home.
Rose took off her coat and scarf and hung them on the hooks by the back door. Her mother called
out from the kitchen, “Is that you Rose?” “Who else?” Rose replied “Are we expecting anyone?”
Her mother was smiling as she came out of the kitchen carrying an enamel dish which she placed
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29. on the old wooden table. “Can you get the bread dear?” she said “your father will be home shortly”
Rose walked over to the pantry and fetched the loaf bringing a pat of butter at the same time.
While they waited for her father Rose plucked up her courage. “Ma” she said “how old were you
when you met my Pa?” “Well now”, her mother said “I’d be a smidgen younger than you are now,
I was fifteen that March” her mother smiled raising an eyebrow and Rose blushed under her
scrutiny.
“Do you think you could talk to Pa about .......my growing up?” she asked hesitatingly. Her mother
drew a deep breath. “Your father really cares for you Rose, he’s only trying to protect you “.
“Protect me from life and love” she added quietly, surprising herself with her sudden depth of
feeling for Tom.
The sounds of raucous voices, drunken laughter and music died away as Koon-se escaped to her
rooms not altogether lying about her headache. She wouldn’t be missed by Ta-jin for a while; he
had been entranced by the Geishas specially selected by her father for his pleasure. They would be
leaving at sunset for a tour of his estates and more ceremonies. She stood pale and pensive in
heavy outer robes embroidered with peonies and pomegranates symbols her of her beauty and
rank. Her kimono was encrusted with a thousand crystals shining brilliantly in the winter light.
Her heart though was as cold as the east wind blowing waves on the sea outside.
With a quiet knock her door opened and a servant slid inside quickly closing the door behind him.
“Is it time to leave already?” Koon-se whispered. “It is time for us to leave” came the soft reply.
Koon-se spun clutching her hand to her mouth to stifle her cry of delight at seeing Chang again.
Moments later clad in thick woollen cloaks and carrying the jade casket, Chang and Koon-se
slipped through the kitchens towards the servant’s staircase and the outer doors. Serving staff
drunk on peach brandy sang bawdy folk songs, the sound mingling with the loud conversations
and clapping from the reception as they finally cleared the stairs and ran for the West Bridge.
A quiet rebellion was growing in Rose’s heart as she cleared up
after another gruelling day in the workshop. Two of her friends
had been ill and the Bowen’s schedule was slipping. He’d
demanded an extra unpaid hour from them all and there had been
several of his ‘little accidents’ that day. Rose had nearly
answered him back when he pointed to an imaginary mistake on
her plates. Catching herself last minute she bit back her words. I
need this job she thought angrily.
The Winter Fair was the next evening and Tom had stopped asking her about going. Her heart had
felt torn as he looked sadly over the field where the tents had been going up for the last few days.
She wanted to take away his sad expression and see that bright smile on his face again. She wanted
to be with him she realized, not just to go to the fair with him. The thought startled her at first, did
Tom feel the same way she wondered. What could they do if he did?
Seeing Tom leaning into the warmth of the kiln’s brick walls, one of his favourite spots at the end
of the day, a quiet determination stole into her mind, “I can go the Fair with you” she said “ if you
still want to go with me that is?” Tom’s expression of delight answered her question. “We can
meet after the shift ends” she said. “We finish early tomorrow remember” Tom answered “I can
meet you at four”
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30. “You can do what?” came an angry voice from behind Rose. She turned in horror as her father’s
figure came into view. “Pa” she begged as she saw him bunch his fists “Please don’t hurt him!”
“What, you know this boy?” he cried his face turning red with anger. “It’s not like that, Pa “Rose
shouted desperately. “We’re only talking”. “Well I’ll put a stop to that right here” he growled,
taking a few steps closer to Tom. “If I ever catch you so much as looking at my daughter again”
he threatened,” I’ll make sure it’s more than your job you’ll lose!” Grabbing Rose roughly by her
arm he dragged her away from the kilns, she turned to catch a last glimpse of Tom, who looked
shaken but determined.
“Don’t think your too old for a thrashing either” her father said grimly. “Getting familiar with an
unskilled sagger maker, I didn’t bring you up to talk to the likes of him”. He headed in the
direction of the canal path “You’re coming home right now where you belong young lady”
In her bedroom Rose rubbed her arms where her father had held her all the way home; there would
be a set of bruises there tomorrow she thought. Despair clouded her mind and she sank down on
her bed. She could hear her parents arguing downstairs. “Be reasonable” her mother was saying,
“she has to go back to work tomorrow, they have to finish the order” “I don’t care” her father
shouted. “She won’t get the bonus John” her mother replied. That seemed to make him pause.
Rose closed her eyes, her heart and mind in turmoil. She’d get no supper tonight but that was a
small price to pay not to be the target of her father’s anger.
Caught in their own world Koon-se and Chang failed to notice the figure leaving the main gates
close behind them. Breathing hard Chang glanced at Koon-se her dark hair flying in the wind. His
eyes shone with hope. Koon-se slowed to catch her breath at the top of the bridge and as she
turned slightly she gasped in horror. Her father was on the bridge brandishing his whip. Behind
him running across the gardens a troop of guards was following. Seeing the cold fury in the
Mandarin’s face, Chang grabbed Koon-se’s arm and urged her forward down the steps of the
bridge. At the water’s edge one of the Mandarin’s boats was moored waiting for its guests to
return. Fear lending wings to their flight Chang and Koon-se leapt for the boat and cast off, the
wild cries of her father echoing in their ears.
Rose waited until her father had left for work the next morning before she came downstairs. Her
mother gave her a sympathetic smile before she left on some errands. Alone in the house Rose
gazed at the old fireplace with the cracked terracotta tiles, the wooden table and chairs her
grandfather had made and her mother’s rag rug on the floor. It all seemed too familiar now. The
seeds of rebellion planted a few days ago were growing into a new sense of purpose. She would be
with Tom she thought and her father would not stop her.
Packing a small battered case Rose put on her best coat and scarf, they’d all think she was dressing
for the fair she thought nothing unusual in that. She didn’t see Tom as she made her way to the
workshop; the talk was all about the fair.” There’s a steam roundabout” someone was saying “and
a fortune teller called Rose”. “Is that you Rose? “ Jenny asked catching sight of her. “Can you tell
our fortunes?” “I wish I knew mine” Rose said quietly to herself, but she gave Jenny a weak
smile.
The day went quickly as Rose finished the last of her bowls; she hardly looked at them, her fingers
and brush tracing the now familiar patterns. She slipped one of small willow pattern dishes into her
bag as she passed the stacks near the doorway.
Tom was waiting for her as she left the workshop; the kilns had stopped firing after the last of the
large order of willow pattern. That left the sagger makers with a couple of days of free time. He
was anxious he wasn’t sure if Rose would even stop for him as she left. But when he caught sight
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31. of among the crowd of painters, she turned and her smile took all his fears away. Then he noticed
her case. She put her fingers to her lips, “Not now” she mouthed, and Tom walked out of the gates
down towards the canal.
Catching him up out of sight of the workshops, Rose ran and threw her arms around him, delighted
Tom hugged her close, hardly daring to think what this could mean. “Would you come away with
me if I asked?” said Rose her heart in her mouth. “ In a flash” Tom replied, “Oh Rose you don’t
know how I have been worrying, I thought I’d never see you again” Rose glanced at her case,
“I’ll get a few things” Tom said “I’ve got some savings Rose we won’t starve” “I’ve got my
grandma’s necklace” Rose said it’s gold and pretty heavy. There’s plenty of potteries in the next
few towns they’ll need painters and sagger makers” she added.
The island lay perfect in the chill spring air. Pine trees clad the upper slopes, willows lined the
water’s edge and the early peach trees were beginning to bloom. There were many islands in this
part of the sea, a few inhabited only by turtles and birds. Chang was glad of their isolation, the
silence lending itself to his poetry, Koon-se to his inspiration. Chang laid a few of the delicate
peach blossoms on the garden shrine; the others in his hand were for Koon-se. He smiled
anticipating her pleasure at his gift a symbol of intense love.
Walking slowly back to the small wooden house they shared, Chang heard harsh voices coming
from the water’s edge. His heart beating wildly Chang was torn between quietly making his way
toward the water or running for the house. Hearing a cry from the house Chang raced towards the
door. “Koon-se” he cried desperation cracking his voice.
Black feathered arrows flew in perfect formation as Koon-se appeared
in the doorway. They both fell as the peach petals flew from Chang’s
fingers.
The guards stopped in amazement as their bodies burned with blinding
golden light. Eyes closed in agony they failed to see the black feathered
arrows turn into the wings of two blue swallows flying up above the
island, joined forever in the freedom of the sky as the gods looked
down.
Wrapped in Tom’s thicker scarf and gloves and holding his arm tightly
Rose turned to look at the pottery one last time before heading down to
the Winter Fair with him. Tom wanted to share the magic of the Fair
with her and maybe if they were lucky they could take the magic of the
fair with them.
Inspired by found pieces of china displayed in London: Empire
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32. Hunter Gatherers in the 1940s by Marilyn Hawes
The tins of dried milk and egg and whale steaks in the Museum of London display brought
back many memories of what it was like for housewives trying to obtain enough food
during the war years. My father ran a grocery shop and I used to help him sort the food
coupons cut from customers’ ration books.
Everybody was issued with a ration book entitling them to small weekly amounts of butter ,
margarine , cheese , lard , tea and sugar. I remember one old lady collecting her rations,
which cost one shilling and eleven pence, and that included a small bottle of Camp coffee,
greatly prized because it was sweet. It was considered polite in those days to say you didn’t
take sugar or only a small spoonful. Sugar spoons shrank to accommodate the small rations.
Apples were plentiful in Somerset, but oranges only appeared at Christmas. The Merchant Navy
had to transport the wooden crates, holding the oranges, across the Atlantic Ocean, braving
ferocious winter storms and equally ferocious attacks from U‐Boats and German planes. One year,
only three oranges were fit to eat. Sea water had drenched the fruit, turning it green, with the
smell of the salt sea water still clinging to the tissue paper wrappings.
There were also coupons for tins of pork luncheon meat, or Spam, which we children loved
as there were no lumps of fat or gristle, large lumps of which always seemed to be present
in the weekly joint. Acquiring cuts of meat previously not so popular such as pigs’ trotters
and chitterlings (small intestines), bones and a pig’s head to make brawn could lead to
fierce arguments if it was felt the butcher was showing favouritism. Queuing became a way
of life for housewives and so there was always a large audience to see who was having
what and, equally important , how much.
Exchanging goods was a useful way of enjoying some variety. One of the customers was a
vegetarian but had no qualms about shooting rabbits. We swopped our cheese ration (1oz
per person per week) for a rabbit. Judging by the amount of shot we had to remove from
the rabbit, death had come quickly. Rabbit stew became our favourite dinner especially as
there was no fat . I enjoyed it so much I learnt how to skin and joint one ready for the
pot.
Exact records of the number of animals were supposed to be kept for tax purposes. I
remember being taken to see this small calf as a treat but threatened with terrible
consequences if I spoke about it to anyone else. By not declaring it, our friends could use
the milk themselves or barter it for something they did need. Free range chickens frolicked
in many people’s gardens, especially when the egg ration was one egg a fortnight.
Everything was recycled: the butter came from New Zealand in wooden boxes, and my
mother made me my first dressing table using two boxes placed upright with half of a
bagatelle polished top laid across them. A mirror hung from the gas light wall fitting
completed the practical, if not elegant, effect.
Sometimes the wood was used for kindling . Anything to help the awful nutty slack catch
alight. There were always groups of people of all ages searching the woods and countryside
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33. for firewood , wild blackberries, nuts and mushrooms. Farmers needed to keep careful
lookout for sheep rustlers and any kind of poultry thief.
Nowadays, the main problem seems to be boredom. Plenty of everything and plenty for all.
No hiding the evidence of the grocer’s generosity, such as when my great aunt Eliza found
a banana skin in my uncle’s dustbin and she hadn’t had one. Even my father quailed
beneath her fury.
Inspired by tins of food in People’s City: war.
Risks with heart (excerpt) by Sozen Ismail
The nineteen year old blonde with metallic blue
eyes that danced, was doing a one-woman sit-in at
the entrance to the admissions department of the
Medical Faculty at Bristol University. She smelt
strongly of Chanel number five.
She wore a flimsy, sleeveless, knee-length,
psychedelic dress with concentric circles of yellow,
lime-green and orange. Her arms were toned and
her fingers long and delicate with perfectly-shaped,
well-manicured, short, clean, pink nails. On one
wrist, she sported a red and blue tartan watch strap
without the watch, which was pinned onto her dress, over her left breast. She was wearing yellow
knee-high socks with lime-green polka dots and a pair of Doc Martens, whose bulkiness, at the end
of her very long legs, made one think of pendulums. She was lanky with flowing movements
complemented by her long, loose hair and she had an unusually wide smile, looking for the slightest
opportunity to display her perfect teeth. No necklace or earrings but a small pink stone winked from
her right nostril. She looked clean. Polished. With freckles that would have put Pippi Longstocking
to shame.
She was holding a placard that she had made herself the night before. It was a detailed painting
of a human heart, with blood pouring out of the adjoining aorta. At the top she had written, in red,
‘LET ME IN.’ Underneath the heart, tiny pictures of girls in different coloured inks were stretching
their arms, like sticks, towards the heart. To the right of it, a patient in a hospital bed looked
desperate, connected to machines and struggling underneath the blood that came from the aorta.
She was protesting that the higher-prestige branches of medicine, such as cardiology, seemed to
have been reserved for male doctors. She and her female colleagues, she was suggesting, had to
make do with the less lucrative specialities, that may not have been their first choice or their real
talent…
Inspired by Dr Marten boot in Modern London: 1950s-today.
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34. The Visitation - Act I Scene 1 by KG Lester
Alfred’s monologue:
During his time travels,
Doctor Martin Luther King
Jnr stumbles upon an old
barber shop set back in
London in the early
1900’s. The shop is the
last building on the high
road, next to the handsome
chemist and opposite the
bank. The crumbling,
weather-worn exterior of
the barber shop looks out
of place near the chemist with its fresh new lick of blue
and white paint. Above the barber shop sign is a dirty white
pole and attached is the British flag. The colours are now a
faded grey, tattered and torn, held with a halyard and sadly
billowing in the breeze at half mast.
Next to the shop is a stool-high stubborn old wooden tree
stump, the top grooved by years of being used as a seat,
rooted underneath the cracked dirty pavement, refusing to
move.
Dr King steps out of his time machine cautiously and peers
into the barber shop gingerly from a safe distance. The road
is suddenly quiet, no people, no movement apart from Dr King
and the shop’s proprietor. Alfred Jeremiah Woodstock walks
slowly as if in a trance towards Dr King and his strange
looking travelling contraption. Both men are frozen only a
few feet away from each other.
ALFRED
(Visibly shaken)
Well, this is very odd. Very odd indeed! (Pause) Who are
you? Excuse me if that sounds like a very odd question, but
your presence, your clothes and your demeanour suggest …
Excuse me but I must sit down.
Alfred blindly stumbles onto the wooden tree stump and
catches his breath.
I’m slightly overcome by it all! I have never had a …
coloured gentleman dare enter my establishment before. EVER!
They’re usually seen by their own. I mean I’ve never trimmed
or shaved one of your kind before. I know the texture,
growth and style of Negro hair is far less superior to an
Englishman’s hair. Our hair doesn’t spring back and the
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