HIDDEN WOMEN PROGRAMME - FERALPRODUCTIONS.ORG | - Black Country Living Museum
←
→
Page content transcription
If your browser does not render page correctly, please read the page content below
HUSH NOW
HIDDEN WOMEN
PROGRAMME
FERALPRODUCTIONS.ORG | INFO@FERALPRODUCTIONS.ORG
Estelle van Warmelo “When you succeed in creating
something different out of real reality,
real experience, you also achieve the
ARTISTIC DIRECTOR possibility of communicating something
that was not evident before that novel
FERAL PRODUCTIONS or poem or play existed”
Mario Vargas Llosa, A Writer’s Reality)
Until 2018 I was not alone in thinking that When I embarked on the project Hush Now
Magdalene Homes, the notorious institutions for with Feral Productions, I wasn’t sure where
‘fallen women’ were not a feature of England’s green it would lead me.
and pleasant land. A passing conversation brought
to light the fact that they were. Extensively. I was ignorant of the history of maternity
provision for unmarried mothers in
As a site-inspired theatre-maker I had recently been Herefordshire and beyond. I didn’t know
drawn to a building near my home in Hereford that what institutions were in place to help
simply felt different. Discreet NHS signs gave no or hide girls and women deemed to have
indication as to its past purpose. Theatre-making “fallen”. I wasn’t aware of how far the
is often fuelled by synchronous events and I wasn’t stigma cut deep into women’s experience in
surprised to hear that this building was once a this country.
Home that received “friendless girls” at the turn of
the last century... The project was, and continues to be
a revelation.
These “girls” had one thing in common: pregnant,
they were unmarried. For over Stories were picked from archives and
a hundred years, they were bustled swiftly out adapted to show different circumstances and
of sight, hidden from society’s eyes and ears. the subsequent treatment that nine women
Sometimes this was to spare family reputation or encountered from the 1880s through to the
to safeguard the name of the father and sometimes 1960s.
due to economic need. Often it was considered
necessary for the women to be ‘reformed’; often From the moment I began writing the script,
their babies were adopted; often they were plucked I knew that each of the women in these
from their familiar worlds never to return. poems would be named after a wild flower.
It had something to do with resilience,
It turned out that Hereford was no exception. strength, beauty and the spirit to persist.
Thousands of women passed through Homes across I saw them as a natural and authentic
England over a history that spans a hundred years, bouquet, to be held in your head and hand.
their lives, stories and identities locked away, their
voices silenced. Now, since their closure, many These poems are intended to communicate
buildings stand with fresh purpose while others something more – redemption, honour,
have been demolished… lush gardens and luxurious dignity – lying behind and beneath the bare,
apartments stand in their place, their morally archival sentences telling the facts of the
destitute residents long gone, long forgotten. women’s lives.
The last Magdalene Home in the UK closed in 1996. As a writer, I looked at these facts through
the prism of imagination – opening a
Feral seeks to give voice and visibility to the resilient spectrum of human intentions, emotions,
women who survived the Homes and went on to nuances and beliefs, and letting their
live full and vibrant lives. colours bloom.
Sara-Jane Arbury
This production is for them.
WRITER
Daisy 1880
My story is one of give and take. live evil live evil live evil
Plain and simple. Like me. Everlasting, reflected in me.
I am a servant. I give. Day after day penitence.
My life, my time, Spent prayer,
My labour, my mind. Coppers and dolly mops,
Day after day repetition. Scorch of red-hot linen.
Common. The poet’s darling Pressed sheets,
Sir said when he properly saw me. Soap, stitches, starch,
My petite white face. My fingers harsh, skin-raw.
Cheeks pink as petal tips. Pins and needles
I felt the Virgin’s blood Of scrubbed bone.
Stain me as it did I will live to battle again.
Those first sacred daisies, We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Picked from thorns for her Son.
Tinted for life. I’m told I have a new situation
When I am unburdened.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, Very carefully chosen.
Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.
The petals drop. I was born to be taken. We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Sir breaks into me. Yanks me up A purer atmosphere
By the roots. Splits my stalk So a girl like me may disappear
With a nail-blade slit. Into honest hard work.
Rips me. Again. Again. We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Sir makes a chain of me.
My sap sticks. Sir’s child is born without grace.
Sister Sabina wiped her away.
He filches me in tight spaces. Forever and ever. Amen.
Lit by incisions where curtains
Don’t quite meet. I’m his hidey-hole. ***
The months follow. Spring, My story is one of give and take.
Summer, autumn. He loves me. Plain and simple. Like me.
He loves me not. Petals fall. I am a servant. I give.
***
I bear my shame in a faraway Home.
I’m told the sin is all mine.
My colours tempted.
Bryony 1900 Black Country, our flesh and blood, I’m friendless in the Home, Ashes and dust, ashes and dust Washing, spiritual training Birthed and buried in black earth, A weeping tree in the garden, Father, brother, uncle Mothers and babies play, Daughter, sister, niece I watch them and wince, Forked roots My brother’s bastard scratches We sleep together, He wants to be let out, My brother and I, White skin, green veins, Same bed, twisted, Stretched, warped, My legs each side of him, I know it’s a boy, His hands behind, beneath Male from female Ssshhh, our secret Unnatural Dizziness, vomit, cramps, Mud sticks, feeble-minded I thought he’d poisoned me, A small self, alone under leaves, Father sees my condition, Listen without judgement, A knot in a piece of string, Rest me when I am dead His girl, come to grief Ashes and dust, ashes and dust We will not speak of it I wait for a bough to fall Sit on a stick and be rid Bruises purple on my belly, My brother whittles wood, I hit myself, don’t tell the sisters A stiff spike like him When I can, I run, I run, Ashes and dust, ashes and dust The babby is born in an alley, I am salvaged, a Rescue Worker, I wrap him in newspaper, Sent to the city of sisters We are destined for hell The Home for Friendless Girls, Disconnected, not real feelings An inmate, my own bed, Ashes and dust, ashes and dust One of the devil’s cherries, The workhouse, Bilston Road Undeveloped, distorted, Corridors, keep out of sight, A victim, inherited guilt Fingers lock tight, I don’t know, The truth about me is told What to do, with my hands I am changing, child to woman, They find me in the Stone Yard, Body shared with someone else I have done my living Ashes and dust, ashes and dust Ashes and dust, ashes and dust I feed it when I feed myself, Weakness, sudden strength, Feel it when I feel myself, Ghosts and dancing angels, Nothing I can do about it I’m coffined in elm, unmarked ***
Love-In-A-Mist 1918 There’s a story linked to the first, I was cleared out like a casualty, But I couldn’t be without him, From Dudley to Wolverhampton, And I wouldn’t change a thing, 12/6 weekly for half a year, My son, brother to my daughter The Home held us girls close Lady-in-the-green Lady-in-the-green Love-in-a-puzzle Love-in-a-puzzle Devil-in-a-bush Devil-in-a-bush I fell into my man at the Helter Skelter, My man cried, cradled our son, Last day of the summer May Fair, Kissed him a christening, Skirt ridden up, tights laddered, We whisper his name, Jack He noticed my knees, he said Trust and family entangle Lady-in-the-green Lady-in-the-green Love-in-a-puzzle Love-in-a-puzzle Devil-in-a-bush Devil-in-a-bush I was a Dudley munitionette, A foster-mother, then us, assessed, Brownish hair, yellow skin, Marriage consents, grandparents, Toxic from the outside in, Tests of decency, respectability, Riding my merry-go-round We are young, we will rise above Lady-in-the-green Lady-in-the-green Love-in-a-puzzle Love-in-a-puzzle Devil-in-a-bush Devil-in-a-bush Kiss me twice before I rise, Like a river, the mist, my lover, Kiss me twice before I rise, Circle the centre of my flower Lady-in-the-green Love-in-a-puzzle Devil-in-a-bush Doctor packed up my powder job, Sent me to off to 89 North Road, Mrs Legge’s Memorial Home, Another munitions factory case Lady-in-the-green Love-in-a-puzzle Devil-in-a-bush
Cowslip 1930 I love the ladies at the end of the day. I know I will live here forever, They stand together in a row, Until I am the old woman in my dreams Droopy and creamy and pregnant, Clawing the ground, fingers bleed, The swell of their full stomachs Howling like a cow to the bony trees Fat with calves. I rest my hand My baby is down there! On my own belly, stroke its slope, I carry Our Lady’s bunch of keys, And wonder what made this happen. My rosary beads, Hail Mary, The cows move their heads up and down, Reverend Mother gave me leave. Tug wisps of straw, grind their teeth, I’m at risk of kisses where I came from, Settle in thick breath of dust and dung. Here, I am the slow one. I can be trusted. This is female time, our rhythm, My home, my byre, not seen, not heard. We stare at something or nothing Content to lumber, I won’t run away, With glazed, far-away eyes. I love the ladies at the end of the day. I am slow, they say, no better than a cow, I sob from my body when the herd heaves pain, Their babies taken before they smell grass. I milk the no-more mothers in the morning, Pull their teats with wet-mouth hands, You too they say. I don’t understand. I am being sent away to a convent, The class of Mary Magdalene, Sounds like school, read and write, Not the place for a farm girl like me. Peter says it was because we did sex, But I don’t believe him. He can’t be right – There wasn’t a hole in my tights. *** My name is Anne. I’m told it suits me. Patron saint of unmarried women, Mothers, grandmothers, the expectant. I lost my child. She came out wrong. Too small, too scrawny, too much of a runt. I was not mother enough to carry her. The nuns take me under their black wing. It was God’s will. She was not meant to be. We pray for her day-old soul, Drop her in a hole in the ground, Topped off with a little wooden cross. I move away from the press of heavy laundry. Slip out to see the ladies in the convent dairy.
Forget-Me-Not 1944 I wanted to stand on my own two feet And then the dancing stopped. And not fall over, so it was a major step His troop called away to a world away The first time I went to the dance hall. Leaving America unmapped, We were Land Girls, no uniforms, I heard a different tune, unplanned, We dressed in our Sunday best! A sickening, thickening, kicking, My favourite outfit, yellow blouse, Jitterbug jive, throwing me about, Sky-blue skirt, I made it myself, Turning me out from family house It floated out like blossom, blossom To unknown Home, a new-born hostility I used to dance with lots of men, I soldier on, one of the fallen, Never the same partner twice, But there’s no memorial to me, The band played only for us, for us I am dealt with, my depravity And the American soldiers Drummed out, shameless character They’d come up for the ride Strengthened, the sternest warfare And grab hold of you Against evil: our foe armed with skill, And swing you round Cunning, taking advantage And turn you inside out Of every mistake and chance And you couldn’t do it properly Steam supplants harvest air, And you had two left feet Machinery, pregnant muscle And you pretended you loved it Operating rollers, pressing irons, And then you did love it – love it – love it The gasp of stretch and sweat, It was electric, Hollywood magical! Hands-on funds for the righteous fight. And there was one, he buttonholed me, Sisters, forces in the field, unpick Wore me on his lapel like a medal, My knowledge of wickedness; I lived for dancing with him, him Self-abnegation, atone for sin, sin My father didn’t approve, must not, must not My base-born boy, he slips from me But I could’ve danced on the outhouse roof Almost unnoticed. A shared scream When I heard the music in my head Mama! America! I breathe your birth, my son. And tasted peanut butter and jelly I name him after him but that’s my secret. And heard him whisper baby, my baby, He’s one of the lucky ones. I’ve done I won’t forget you, whirling, unfurling, The right thing. Breath A fresh identity. O, America filled me up, wide open spaces, Breath Clean parents. Breath Adopted of God. Larger than my life, my would-be husband Forget. Forget me. Say it – forget me not – ***
Clock Flower 1951
s e c o n d s m i n u t e s
h o u r s
y e a r s
d a y s
m o n t h s
w e e k s
Blow away time, child Seven
Blow away time We’re only allowed out on certain afternoons.
That’s where you’ll go if you’re a naughty girl
Leave me bare Mothers say to their young children, and me.
I walk past, my coat filled out with family.
One
I know my mother, not my father, Eight
She never talks about him Hush-a-bye baby, on the treetops,
But sees him when I laugh, When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
I was born an apology, a bastard girl, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
Another cup of water in the gruel And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Two Nine
I walk in my mother’s muted footsteps Visitors bring in extra food
No one mentions something called sex For girls like us in hospital.
He and She, together, sounds infectious I am given apples, sisterhood.
Can you catch it from a kiss? My baby is my Adam. I cannot feed him.
My breasts are wrapped with bandages.
Three I leak white sap. It dries as bruises.
My young man was the son of a postmaster, He drags his milk from a bottle.
We went to a dance, and then to the flicks, In weeks he may be gone from me.
For Christmas, he gave me a handbag, I wet the bed at the thought.
His best friend gave me a baby
Ten
Four No foolproof paternity in my case.
Four o’clock today is the beginning No Affiliation Order obtained.
Of the rest of your life, Matron said. I am left holding the baby,
The time my baby was adopted, Screaming
On Thursday, half day closing.
Shops shut. Doors shut. Eyes shut Eleven
Drift come back come back I understand what adoption means
The decision is mine
Five
Like mother, like daughter Twelve
Winks the whisper Baby is dressed beautiful, my knitted shawl
Matron carries him to the couple, very nice, a car
No chance to learn honourable behaviour We wait for the thumbs up– yes, they want him
Hints the rumour They leave a donation to the Home
Float away in a gust of breath
Intimacy First Took Place In A Float away to bigger air
Storage Shed
Prints the newspaper Blow away time, child
Blow away time
Six
Mother remarks to my gran Leave me bare
One man is bad enough, but two –
I do not know what I shall do!
Bellbind 1955 We sit mending, and I tell my story, My story runs on, counter-clockwise, Threads draw through, in and out, How I will cling to society’s respect, Back and forth, up and under, How I will keep my baby with me, Winding, entwining, pulling, How the husband will pay all my fees, Loop, tie the knot tight. How the wife is quite happy. Three strands, coiled to cord, Nurse coughs – forgot to tie the knot – Umbilical, we supply The wife and her husband Each other with a life. Will be “aunt” and “uncle” He is a bank manager, He has his child, she has her figure, She is his wife, and me? We all have the miracle of a daughter, I’m his Personal Assistant, Born with my cord swaddling her neck, His flutter, his gamble, Stranglehold, air smothered before The mother of his child. In and out, in and out, I must feed her. Nurse doesn’t blink, Nurse leans over, pats my hand, Eye open as a needle, Kindliness, no dirty laundry here, I unravel more from the reel. Personal assistants, prostitutes, girls, The wife knows about me, I will be gone soon, another story I am wound around her head, Will curl up in my place, quiet threads My prettiness, my fragrance, Binding women with women, I am enough to choke her to death. Binding women with men. She’s ornamental, infertile, I pull her down, scramble over, My tips reach for him, her husband, Spread as a bell, up and under, in and Ouch – the point pricks, A pip of blood on material. Nurse smiles small, says nought, Back and forth, back and forth,
Cuckoo Flower 1958 He said I had a voice like a flute, The police hand me back, too visible Sweet as the first cuckoo woos Spring, In my smock, I’m not a lady to escort, Virgin notes to coax buds open, The baby kicks, I fall into place, Stretch and spread their bloom, Restless, a night-time lullaby He turned my breath to song Sung to an unborn child And all along I had no idea What will happen? I ask my friend, When he took me home in his car Sally’s on her third, she should know, From choir practice, and took me Is a zip put in? She shakes off a laugh, On the back seat, leather the colour No, no zip! She thinks I’m daft, Of meadows, sharp and strong How does it come out then? Pale pink to violet, I had no clue Same way it went in! Sally chirrups, We had upset the nest of another, I shift in my chair, But it can’t! My mother, who squalled her fury, Legs, body, the head, It’s only a little hole! Pulled my curly hair straight, Queasy, froth in my mouth, I wiped her spit from my face It’ll get bigger, don’t worry! she says My mother, the other piece of skirt My cuckoo mother will pay the fees In this fairy tale, Leave well alone If I’m ousted from our home county, One of those invisible people in a parish She’s desperate, I’m a breed apart, Who make things happen, she’d been Packed, strapped, flung off to London, With the choirmaster for months Confinement in the capital of cities Too late. I brought bad luck indoors, My daughter fought her way out of me, Belly like an egg, laid in bad blood, I rock her in the nest of a foster-mother, She pushed me out to Merridale Road, She likes to sing, her voice is sweet Left me there with other bad girls, I will take her back home some day, I’m not her problem, she said, or his She’ll hear the first cuckoo, one day Birds lean out of windows and sing, Neighbours watch but don’t listen, We’re tainted, here to be trained, Cooking, knitting, dressmaking, I join the singing class each week Soon I’m done with so much doing, Fly off to roost with my choirmaster, He strips my wings, clips my feathers, He’s a putative father, won’t admit, I’m netted, returned, run away, repeat
Foxglove 1962 West Park, All Saints, Horseley Fields too, I’m the mother I’ll never be to the younger girls, I know my way around the city, the men, the life, Make sure blokes keep their tool in their trousers! I’m the hidden service that keeps the heart pumping, I fret like a parent, Keep your hand on your ha’penny! Money flowing, the body politic breathing. Wear passion-killers, girls, if you have to! My dad knew the value of a daughter, My best friend, Betty, looks after my clients Put me on the streets when he saw my breasts When I’m in the family way. There’s irony. Under my vest. He drank my profit down No affection, no responsibility. It’s business. To the last drop. Death rattled in the bottle. Car parks to hotel rooms, johns to aldermen. I worked in munitions at Bilston by day, I am pregnant with stories but I know Us girls churning out shells to kill Hitler, When to keep quiet. My men pay for that. So many weapons for one man. My men They like the experience, never use rubbers, Swarm, I stood my ground and hooked them. Children that come are not theirs, or mine. I saved my money, my immoral earnings, But I am privileged. I’m on The Pill. Left my digs, bought a nice little house, Few girls of my trade in the county. Two-bedrooms, semi-detached, a garden, The men on the panel of our Moral Welfare, Space enough for me, and my life, my own. Husbands of wives, red-faced, acquiesced. I wear good clothes, more style than a wife, I am old for my age but I’ve still got my looks, I can afford nylon stockings, my glamour, I haven’t been put through the wringer Beautiful underwear from Birmingham, In a laundry house of nuns, with their spit Sex is like selling a Cartier ring. And their spite, Drop your drawers here, ladies! I’ve had five babbies, an occupational hazard, You’re never far from a spire in our city centre; Born under the care of my holiday Homes! I tell the Home girls they were pushed, not fallen. The staff expect me, again is my surname, Conditions from time immemorial. Just look at Eve. I greet the novice with Oh, you’re new! And Mary, the Virgin. Her son changed the world!
The women behind the doors... Daisy Daisy was a servant in the early 1880s. She was repeatedly raped by the master of the house and became pregnant. She initially came under the care of Mrs Mary Hay, a Wolverhampton woman known for her tireless labours on behalf of “Friendless Girls”. Daisy was later sent to a convent outside of the county to work in the laundry. It is not known what happened to her baby. Daisy eventually went back into service. Bryony In 1900, Bryony became pregnant with her brother’s child. She was sent to The Mrs Hay Memorial Home for Friendless Girls at Merridale Road, established following the death of Mrs Hay. Bryony experienced severe depression after the birth of her baby and was sent, as an ‘exceptional’ case, to the Wolverhampton Union workhouse on Bilston Road, where she died. Love-In-A-Mist Love-In-A-Mist worked at the National Projectile Munitions Factory, Hall Street, Dudley in the First World War. Female employees were known as munitionettes. When she became pregnant, she was sent to The Mrs Legge Memorial Home, 89 North Road, Wolverhampton, an establishment for “young unmarried mothers of previously good character”. Love-In-A-Mist and the baby’s father eventually married and kept their child following a short period in foster care. Cowslip When she became pregnant in 1930, Cowslip (or Anne) was sent to Cleveland House, Vicarage Road, Wolverhampton and then to Bartestree Convent, Herefordshire. Her baby died shortly after birth and was buried there. Cowslip remained at Bartestree for the rest of her life. Many women with learning difficulties never came out of Homes or Convents after the birth of their children.
Forget-Me-Not Forget-Me-Not was in the Land Army during the Second World War. She became pregnant by an American soldier stationed nearby and was sent to a Home in Shropshire. It was not uncommon for Black Country women to be sent to Homes outside of the area. It was impossible to trace the father’s whereabouts after the end of the war and the baby was subsequently adopted. Clockflower Clockflower was sent to The Mrs Hay Memorial Home, Wolverhampton in 1951. She sought an Affiliation Order (the manner by which an unmarried mother could compel a putative or alleged father of a child to pay support) but was unsuccessful. Her baby was adopted. Bellbind Bellbind became pregnant in 1955 as the result of a relationship with a married bank manager. All parties concerned agreed to participate in the child’s upbringing. Bellbind went to The Mrs Legge Memorial Home, Wolverhampton. There was no age limit for girls to be admitted. Her story illustrates the various occupations of unmarried mothers in Homes. Cuckooflower Cuckooflower was 14 years old when she became pregnant by the local choirmaster. Her mother (who was also in a relationship with him) sent her to The Mrs Hay Memorial Home, Wolverhampton. It was common for girls in Homes to be taught cookery, housework and dressmaking to prepare them for their future lives. After absconding twice, Cuckooflower was eventually sent to a Mother and Baby Home in London. Foxglove During the Second World War, Foxglove worked at Sankeys metalwork factory in Bilston, producing ammunition and other products for the war effort, and as a prostitute in Wolverhampton by night. She had five illegitimate babies which she described as ‘an occupational hazard’. During the 1960s, the wider availability of The Pill, along with the Abortion Act in 1967 and slow changes in social attitudes, together greatly reduced the need for Residential Homes for unmarried mothers, resulting in the closure of five Homes in the Lichfield Diocese.
CastAlison Allan
Creative
Team
Estelle van Warmelo
Bellbind Artistic Director
Love In A Mist
Rebecca Meltzer
Director
Sara-Jane Arbury
Writer
Jenny-May While
Olivia Preye
Cowslip Composer
Clockflower
Daisy Carl Davies
Design
Adam Bottomley
Lighting Designer
Madeleine McMahon Josh Moore
Bryony Film Maker
Forget-Me-Not
Kie Cummings
Foxglove Cowslip Cinematographer
Becky Brown
Production Manager
Olivia Preye Richard Loveridge
Caretaker Technical Manager
Mina Nakamura
Stage Manager
Special
The Courtyard, Newhampton Arts Centre,
Black Country Living Museum,
Black Country Touring,
Thanks
Gabriella Karney, Shirley Preston,
Elizabeth Semper O’Keefe, Jim Barrow,
Gill Parsons, Gail Donovan,
Judith Glover, Doreen Ward, Ann Stoakes
Cara Tivey, Phil Glenny, Louis Parker-Evans,
Kate Powell & Family, The Tan House Farm,
2Faced Dance, Open Sky Theatre.You can also read
