Creative Writing at the Museum of London

A collection of learners’ work from the WEA Writing London course

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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.

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

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Fragments of Blue and White by Wendy Le Ber ............................................26

Hunter Gatherers in the 1940s by Marilyn Hawes..........................................32

Risks with heart (excerpt) by Sozen Ismail ....................................................33

The Visitation - Act I Scene 1 by KG Lester...................................................34

War and Peace in Berkshire by Caroline Ffrench Blake ................................37

A Story by Wendy Le Ber...............................................................................40

The Craftsman’s Tale by Patricia Gibson.......................................................42

Inheritance Tracks by Caroline French-Blake ................................................43

Margaret Waters by Musaret Siddiqi..............................................................44

Poetry ............................................................................................................45

‘Fish Trap’ by Musaret Siddiqi........................................................................45

Lusala’s Lament by KG Lester.......................................................................45

Loneliness by Caroline Ffrench Blake............................................................46

Motherhood by Musaret Siddiqi .....................................................................46

My Dancing Partner by Musaret Siddiqi.........................................................47

Magic Lantern by Maxine Garcia ...................................................................47

Wild moon dancing by Wendy Le Ber ............................................................48

Bleached by Barbara Gilmore........................................................................48

Courage by Caroline Ffrench Blake...............................................................49

Shepperton Woman by Marilyn Hawes..........................................................49

Sadness by KG Lester ...................................................................................49

Adult male skull by Maxine Garcia .................................................................50

Fear by Barbara Gilmore ...............................................................................50

Teeth in skulls by Sozen Ismail......................................................................50

The Hijab by Musaret Siddiqi .........................................................................51

The Music of Time by Wendy Le Ber .............................................................52

Flaming Heck, London’s A Wreck by KG Lester ............................................53

The Writers ....................................................................................................55

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© 2012 Copyright Information The work contained in this collection may not be copied, distributed, modified or reproduced in any way without the express permission of the original authors.

   

  

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.

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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).

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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.

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‘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.

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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).

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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

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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.’

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‘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

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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

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

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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).

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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!

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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.

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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).

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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.

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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).

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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.

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“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 

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face and muttered something about the Old Bill always being ready to take a backhander if the price was right. She violently resisted arrest and hit me full in the face with her truncheon. Then she ran on, determined to escape. I followed and she tripped on an uneven kerbstone and took a nasty fall which cut her mouth and bruised her face.  ‘I have her,’ I thought, but she still resisted and tried to bite my hand as I put handcuffs on her.  At the station she verbally abused my colleagues, who had quickly summoned the doctor to her. She was ungrateful and insulted the doctor too, calling him a ponse.  ‘You are all bastards!’ she cried. We were glad when we got her safely locked up in a cell. Inspired by the photograph of Emmeline Pankhurst’s arrest (People’s City: suffragettes).

Batch by KG Lester As I stand here in this polluted house of detention, the heavy stench of deatpermeates the stale, musty air. I was led in with four other men; broken, dishevelled, bruised and disoriented. The pungent smell of the other men attacked my sensitive nostrils without mercy. Stale sweat and bad breath, the devil himself would have disowned it.

The odour of urine and faeces wafts every time the men part their legs to walk. The smell sticks in my throat like a vice. What fresh new hell is this? I am shackled from the waist down and my movements are limited. Rusty, cold, wet, thick iron restraints have already made me a prisoner. A bird caught in flight. My waist is bloodied and tender. My hands and ankles bear the wounds of a war lost to hard metal. Release the restraints and let me stretch one last blessed time I beg thee in my mind. I dare not speak it! We are the new batch of soon- to-be ghosts, a parade of prisoners soon to suffer the same deadly fate as our predecessors. In this city of devils they want to purge her from the pitiful parasites of the poor. But I am peerless and my life is already predestined. As the other men huddle together, comforting and reassuring in false hope, I begin to peruse my new solemn surroundings and immediately feel grim. The other men beckon me to join them, but I shake my head deliberately and remain on the periphery. As more men shuffle their

way into this tiny wooden box of fear, my ears are suddenly assaulted with the demented screams and yells from the weak and vulnerable. The moans, the gasps and the constant crying leave me feeling bitter and cold. A twisted, dark, cursed cacophony seeps through the walls, the cracks and the holes until this entire space is filled with menacing music. I detest the noise from this opprobrious orchestra. I have no empathy for this symphony. What fresh new hell is this? I see names etched out on the wooden walls: Edward Burk, Edward Ray. Should I follow in their final footsteps and make this my lasting legacy too? The walls to the cell are thick and unforgiving; they have witnessed pain and death so great that even the devil would deny it. A faceless prison worker with what looks like a painful limp brings in the broth much to the other men’s delight. I turn away in disgust and wrestle with my conscience and my hunger. I must eat or I fear I will pass out. Even my last meal has been cursed. The soup is thin with a few suspicious looking strips of blackened hairy meat and raw unwashed pieces of vegetables. Dead bugs and flies float around and form their own circular skin on the surface. It is cold and watery, but I am hungry and must swallow something. As I pick out the flies along with the bugs and toss them to the ground, two men start to vomit after having guzzled their bowls of broth. The action, the sound, the terrible smell and the sight of their regurgitated food mixed with blood makes me retch violently. I place my unfinished bowl on the ground and within seconds a group of greedy men grab it and start fighting over the remains like wild rats. If there is to be no penal servitude for me in this godforsaken place then I am willing to meet my maker and I am ready to die. And what of penance, surely I should receive it? My name is called out from a list; I look around these sombre, foreboding walls and its wretched occupants pejoratively with a slow sinking feeling of pessimism. What fresh new hell is this I must now face? Yes, I am ready to die, sweet peace. Die and stay dead. Long dead!

Inspired by the Wellclose prison cell in Expanding City: life chances. ©KG Lester 2012 

          

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Dionysus (excerpt) by Musaret Siddiqi

e hesitated for a moment, as

rry making will soon begin. Let’s be on

nysus shook his head. ‘Nay,’

too many

look, g ‘You

ly

an hers.’

Inspired by the marble statue of Dionysus from the Temple of Mithra in the Roman gallery.

Hthough his steps failed him. He eased himself onto the trunk of afallen tree and shut his eyes. He could clearly hear his cousin Apollo’s voice, taunting him.

‘Why so blue? The me

our way.’ Diohe said. He smiled

apologetically. ‘There are things on my mind. You carry on.’

Apollo, seeing his troubled ently laid his hand on

Dionysus’ shoulder and said,know we don’t have any secrets. Tell me what ails you. Maybe I canhelp.’

‘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 realmean it. Your father hasalways loved you and protected you, more th

all the ot ‘My father Zeus, the Almighty God, who also happens to be my second mother! As he stitched me to the inside of his thigh upon my Mother’s death, before I was even born.’ Dionysus shouted as he paced around wildly. ‘He is the one who sent me faraway to grow up in a mountainous cave. In the care of his cousins, away from his wife, Hera’s, wrath.’

‘Well,’ said Apollo, placatingly, ‘what more could you wish for?’

Dionysus faced him squarely.

‘I want my mother,’ he said.

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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

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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.

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“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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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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“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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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 tthe Winter Fair with him. Tom wanted to share the magic of the Fair with her and mayb

o

e if they were lucky they could take the magic of the

Inspired by found pieces of china displayed in London: Empire

fair with them.

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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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t the

ed,

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 athe entrance to the admissions department of 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-shapwell-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.

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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curls aren’t as taut. Do you people wash your hair? Forgive me for staring but on closer inspection you’re really not that different from me. I mean … apart from the colouring that is. I’m curious; I’ve always wanted to ask one of your kind … do you feel cursed being a Negro? I mean (pause) do you wish God had made you white? We are after all the superior race and far more civilised, I’m sure you’ll agree! No? I fear that if I asked you to take the hot seat, so to speak, I’d lose all my regulars and my business would be disgraced. I’d have to sell up and leave. I’d be very severely ostracized by my own and we can’t be having that!

I will talk with you for a short while as I’m never really busy on Tuesdays. Please would you mind stepping into the backroom? I’m going to have to ask you to walk around the back entrance.

Dr King hesitates and considers his actions before he graciously complies with Alfred’s request. Dr King walks around until he comes to the back entrance; it is not better looking than the front. Alfred tries to justify his request as he steps back into his shop and unlatches the bolt on the back door, allowing Dr King to enter. Alfred bows his head slightly as if welcoming royalty into his establishment. Dr King glides through majestically. I cannot allow you to use the same entrance as normal people, which would be an outrage and could potentially cause me a lot of trouble if anybody were to see you. I’m sure you understand …

Do you have any form of education? Are you wild? If you start acting tribal, I’ll not hesitate in calling the authorities to have you arrested, mind! You’re a what? A doctor!! (Laughs) What kind of doctor? An African witch doctor, I suspect. I think perhaps you’ve been drinking and you’re losing your senses. What is your name, fellow? Doctor Martin Luther King Junior? You’re an ordained Baptist minister and a leader of the Civil Rights movement. You’re also a Yankee! My goodness, a Negro and a well spoken Yankee too! Good God!! You’re happily married and an advocate for non-violent protests and you’re fighting the struggle for racial justice!! Heavens above, whatever next? Why do you think your people deserve rights? I’ve never heard such codswallop!

Me? Well, I am Alfred J Woodstock. The J stands for Jeremiah. The Woodstocks are a very proud clan. I’m seventy eight years young, also married, to a fine English woman called Betty-May. No children. I detest them! This fine looking barber shop belonged to my great grandfather, Charles then to my grandfather, Edward, and my father,

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Cleveland. Sadly they’re all dead now, and may their souls rest in heavenly peace. Do they use strops in barber shops in America? My great grandfather designed the razor strop. Yes he did! We call it the Woodstock strop. He was a pioneer in his time and we’re a very proud family, indeed we are. The Woodstocks are also experts at hair singeing. Have you had this treatment before? I am the best at it in this area, I’ll have you know.

You say you like the smell of the shop? Well, that’ll be the aftershave I use for the customers. It’s musk. The smell is very inviting. I’ve had people walk past and pop their heads in to comment on the sweet, manly smell this place gives off. The soaps are very good too! My favourites are the musk and cedar wood. Those are the most popular ones with my customers!

You really do seem like a very gentle fellow! I’ll let you into a secret that only barbers will know. Well, English barbers at least. Did you know that dry hair is tougher to cut compared to wet hair? I bet you didn’t know that? I’ll tell you something else; shaving brushes come with three sources of hair; badger, boar bristle and synthetic. I bet you didn’t know that either? Would you like a cigarette? Oh, you don’t. Perhaps you’ve come for some blood-letting? Feeling poorly? I’m very skilled at that too; it’s a painless procedure I assure you. (Pause) Isn’t this odd, I feel I’ve known you for many years gone. Well Doctor Martin Luther King Junior, I’ve done a lot of talking. Tell me more about you. What time do you belong to? Alfred sits back; takes out his pipe and tobacco and watches Martin Luther King very closely. He is struck at the sight of Dr King’s gentlemanly good manners and conduct. Alfred imagines this to be a dream and blames his age at playing tricks with his mind. Inspired by the Barber’s shop in the Victorian Walk. ©KG Lester 2012              

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War and Peace in Berkshire by Caroline Ffrench Blake Colonel Joe Carluccio, commander of the transportation squadron at Greenham Common, mused for a moment over the uncontrollability of life. He went to his PA’s office nextdoor to get the first of many cups of coffee from the machine. Jean was not there yet. Would she be drunk as well as late? he wondered. He sighed. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything to her about flouting rules, partly because of her English accent, and partly because there was nothing for her to do anyway, apart from sit in her office and try to look occupied. And she was liked by the staff, adding a touch of glamour to the office, with her unpredictable behaviour, high heels and dramatic make up caking her deeply etched lines.

He considered for a moment how tedious it must be for her - she couldn’t even go into his office, due to the files marked Top Secret and his computer, which only he had access to, being directly linked to the Pentagon. All staff had typewriters. His mysteriously connected computer was something that marked him out as being on an altogether different plane to more ordinary mortals.

Joe’s other support staff were from the US Airforce. He could hear Sergeant Samoza in conversation with Lieutenant Balashov. ‘I had two slices of apple pie last night,’ he was saying. ‘I must be depressed.’

‘Gee, too bad’ said Balashov. ‘I guess you will have to do an extra lap today.’ Samoza was small, neat and highly disciplined. He hurried over to Joe just as he started responding to his first report from the Pentagon.

‘I’ve run five miles this morning. I got up at 5.30 today! Not bad, is it?’ said Samoza triumphantly. Joe tried to strike the right note of discouraging unwanted interruption while not alienating Samoza.

‘That’s really great. Fine,’ he said, hammering at the keyboard without pause. Samoza continued remorselessly. ‘I had 45 minutes in the gym as well, and only three

ounces of grape nuts for breakfast!’ Joe typed on regardless. This was his only defence. His other aide was Lieutenant Balashov who, slightly disturbingly, had been banned by

the military psychiatrist from ever having access to arms. But, with his mild manner, he usually seemed pleasant enough to have around. He had a budgerigar who danced to Michael Jackson tapes. Like Jean, neither had any obviously discernible duties. Desert Storm, the first Gulf War, had been announced, and was becoming a reality. The ground-launched cruise missiles had been recently removed to some unspecified destination, and open days were held to display empty bunkers to whoever might be interested and could get permission to enter the airbase . This precluded the Greenham Common peace camp women, who couldn’t be trusted inside.

‘The women are no problem,’ Lieutenant Balashov explained kindly to Jean in a soft voice. ‘Sometimes they like to try to break in. It really doesn’t matter.’

‘God help us’ said an unconvinced Jean, who ran the gauntlet of the peace women every day, jeering at her as she drove erratically into the base. But she didn’t hold a grudge

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against them, and sometimes, at weekends, unseen by Joe, she would strike a blow for peace and contribute a small load of logs for the women’s camp fires.

At six, Joe closed down his computer at last, with a sigh. All the staff had already left and the offices were silent and immaculately tidy. He walked home across the base in the sunshine that he had hardly noticed all day. Young airmen in sports gear hurried past him to or from the gym.Joe lived with his family inside the base. He thought Lynne was a terrific mother, and usually he was glad to go home, but in recent months teenage hormones were casting a pall over the family. ‘Dad, purlease will you talk to Mom? I’m just not going to dress up like a Barbie doll for the prom.’ A shrill voice met him as soon as he walked in through the door. Angie was an all American blonde 16 year old, who hardly ever left the confines of the base and the American school, but somehow an Old World contrariness had seeped into her, despite Lynne’s efforts to maintain a sealed and wholesome environment.

‘Darling, please try to make an effort. You will look so lovely,’ pleaded Lynne. ‘And it’s nothing to do with Dad.’ As a Colonel’s wife in the goldfish bowl of an airbase, Lynne had a vested interest in being able to demonstrate her perfect family to the community. And a daughter in ragged jeans, Doc Martens and spiked hair at the school prom was too imperfect to bear. ‘Thanks, I’m glad to hear that,’ said Joe, with his face crumpled out of its usual smile. ‘But seriously, what’s the problem? Aren’t all the girls going to dress up?’

‘It’s so gross. Pink silk just isn’t my style,’ said Angie. ‘And I cant stand those pink slipper shoes. It’s all so … girl’s blouse.’

The arguments circled throughout the evening. The prom was the next day, but no resolution had been reached by the time they all went to bed, exhausted. Joe actually didn’t mind what Angie wore, she always looked superb to him, and he had a nagging sense of responsibility, due to the fact that the Doc Martens had actually been a birthday present from him. The next morning Jean detected tension when she arrived. A guard shouted ‘Good morning, MA’AM!’ and stood to salute. This was unusually formal. It transpired that during the night the peace women had broken in and, before being violently repelled, had thrown pink and purple paint on the desert camouflaged jeeps all ready to be flown to do battle in Kuwait. They’d had to go regardless. The consignment was expected and needed.

The staff were strained and the office banter, heard through Joe’s half open door, half-hearted. Balashov had a black eye and no one asked him what had happened. Joe stayed in his office all day, furiously pounding on the keys of his computer. A trip to the coffee machine had given him a jolt. He had caught sight of Jean’s paper, screaming its headlines at him. Greenham Women breach lax high security American Airbase.

At lunchtime he realised he needed to warn Jean about plans for the General’s visit to his office the next day. He took a break for a few minutes and followed her to the canteen. She sat in the far corner, taking a quiet swig from the small vodka bottle she’d taken from her handbag, no doubt to help down the sweet bread roll and bland meatloaf. Damn! And what about tomorrow? What state would she be in when the General came?’ He didn’t join her. Everybody sat alone that day, silent and brooding in the muffled, womblike space, which was encased in dark red carpet from floor to wall.

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When Joe got home that evening, he could see that her mother’s anguish and the thought of him taking the blame for something he had no control over, had touched Angie and she was in the mood to compromise. Tall and slender, she wore the pink ball gown that had been such a source of contention, but kept on the Doc Martens. Her spiked pink and green hair was striking, and the overall effect was dramatic and pleasing. 'You look absolutely great,’ he said quite honestly, feeling as though he had his daughter back after a long time away. 'I guess I can just about live those boots down' Lynne muttered to Joe, out of Angie's hearing. There was peace in one house on the base that night, but what would tomorrow bring? Inspired by the Dr Marten boot in Modern London: 1950s –today.

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A Story by Wendy Le Ber

I’d been sitting hidden behind one of the dark wooden settles in the bar for what seemed like days. Although it had only been two hours thirty three minutes and five seconds according to the T.P.I. It had better be accurate I thought, it cost enough of the department’s budget, being much more than a pocket watch. Only the best titanium tested on five planets, it had said on the Time Place Index box.   It ticked me off that it had been my turn to watch the Mappa Terra VF 1878 for another twenty four hours; I’d planned a quiet evening in with my research into a wholly different subject. But I’d owed four hours to the department of Liminal Activity and I’d been keen to clear my account for another trip I’d planned.  Normally the Mermaids bar and Tap room in Victorian England 1878 was pretty quiet, I’d go there for a few hours of what was really an easy assignment. But tonight the murders in Whitechapel a stone’s throw away seemed to have everyone on edge. Even the ladies of the night were subdued, plying their trade half‐heartedly and turning their heads quickly as the old wooden door to the bar opened noisily to let the damp cold in.  Lizzie,( Lizzie Draper that is, long standing barmaid )hurried about with a pinched look to her face, her normal smile uneasy as she passed pitchers and tankards to the usual crew.  Sometimes I’d passed the time of day by imagining myself as Lizzie; I admired her quick wit and well rehearsed put downs to any of the men, drunk on cheap ale, who sort to take advantage of her other wares. But I couldn’t raise the interest tonight. All this unease was catching. I nursed a London Gin, in a thick green glass its base filled with swirling air bubbles.  Occasionally we ‘brought back’ smuggled I suppose, souvenirs from our assignments. I’d thought about these glasses before but their weight and the air bubbles that made them such an attractive souvenir to me, would probably have meant their integrity would have been compromised in transit. I smiled to myself picturing the explanation I could give to the Transit Baggage Officer for all the shredded notes and fine green sand in my luggage.  A small bleep alerted me to the LSM, Life Signs Monitor strapped to my arm. I scanned it’s report, a list of all the ingredients and chemical properties of my glass of gin and it’s possible effects. Apparently two glasses of this finest gin would take my liver function down twenty five percent tonight and then it would take thirty six hours to normalize. Or so it said on the slow blinking screen with its amber code warning. Give me a break I thought I’ve got to fit in here haven’t I?  And two glasses is about the minimum I could have got away with.  A sudden gust of cold air filled with the smell of smoke and damp, brought my attention back to the door, the frosted glass shaking in the wind for a moment. A man walked into the bar, tall, broad shouldered in a heavy coat. Something about him caught my eye. I’d seen him before I 

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was sure, and Lizzie’s smile of welcome confirmed it, but I’d never paid him much attention before.  I watched him carefully as he pulled off his hat and gloves and placed them carefully on one of the cast iron tables near the fire. The gloves I saw were of a fine tooled leather, not something you usually find in the streets round here and now that I was really paying attention, his coat also looked too well cut for a local, even one of the lowly merchants we had around the public house.  I must be slipping I thought uneasily, not to have taken more notice of him before. I hadn’t even got his name on my reports. My thoughts were interrupted by Edward,( Eddie to his friends )and a couple of dock hands, new to the Mermaid who tipped their hats in his direction. My mystery man glanced over to where they sat with their card game lying on the table, he seemed agitated. I quickly turned my head back to the bar before he noticed my staring. I needed to be more careful with this one I thought.  Could I get closer I wondered? Nobody paid much attention to me usually; I was good at blending in on Mappa Terra and had even given classes at the Academy on costume details. I was a regular here, a quiet middle aged woman, a bit down at heel wrapped in heavy checked woollens to keep off the chill. A pattern cutter they thought, probably a widow who hasn’t the money for a bit of coal at home and enjoys the warmth and company of the Mermaid for a few hours a day.  All those folds of woollen cloth actually provided the places for all the kit we had to carry on these assignments, what with personal protection armaments, life monitors, transit instruments and translation tablets, to mention just the largest items I’m surprised I fit into them.  “Strictly observe and report”, the opening lines to every one of the sixty five editions of the Mappatron Manual that we learnt before we were allowed even the sniff of an assignment. I’d followed that instruction for five years. I’d  gained experience in eight different centuries and published articles in the  SMPJ, Science Mapping Project Journal. I was known for my careful observations. Nothing normally escaped my attention. I could tell you the names of all the twenty two types of beer and ale, gin, whisky and assorted cheap wine sold in the Mermaid, where they were brewed and what was actually in them, and which of the patrons drank each brand.  I knew the names of all the regulars and those of the newcomers within a day or two. I knew where they lived and worked and probably more about their wives and families than they did.  I knew the landlord liked Eleanor the baker’s daughter and his wife hated him and was putting aside five coppers every night from the till into the linen basket.  I learnt all of this without anyone suspecting I was paying attention at all.   But this man was a mystery. And I didn’t like mysteries. 

 Inspired by the Pub in the Victorian Walk

 

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The Craftsman’s Tale by Patricia Gibson You have read and reread the letter. The letters are already smudged by your dear wife’s tears and now there are grey marks where your toil-worn fingers have held the parchment once again to the candlelight. The room is always shaded, except where your workbench sits in the window. Here, even in the brightest daylight you have set extra tallow candles on tall pewter stands. Your work is so intricate and precise that the slightest slip can ruin a piece in an instant and you will have to begin all over again. It is your constant nightmare that one day you will be too old to carry out this work. Perhaps your hands, like your dear father’s, will shake too much. As it is, you dare not have wine for supper, except on Saturday evenings when you may tremble a little the next morning because you close your workshop for the Sabbath next day like a good Huguenot should. Not that you drink more than two glasses. You miss the fine Burgundian wines from your father’s cellar and which were so much a ritual at Saturday’s family suppers. Sunday is the day that you and Amy go to La Patente, the church in the City. Here you and she meet friends who fled, like you from from Poitou in France in the 1660s, when Protestants were no longer welcomed by his majesty King Louis XIV. He had revoked the Edict of Nantes granted to you and your fellow believers by Henry IV in 1598. That king was, himself, of your religious persuasion. But when Louis attempted to forcibly convert you, you and Amy were two of 40,000 Huguenots who fled to Britain, bringing your great skills in silk weaving, watch and furniture making and goldsmithing. The great actor David Garrick and your family friend and weaver Samuel Courtauld were among them. You French Protestants are proud of your artistic heritage and the fact that you have kept the faith against such terrible odds. The Massacre of St.. Bartholomew in 1572, when so many Huguenots died under Henry II’s cruel reign, has never been forgotten in your and Amy’s prayers. But today is a happy day. Not only has your landlord agreed to extend the lease on your attic workshop in Soho for another year to Lady Day, but without raising your rent! You and Amy are his favourites, because he has no children of his own and he appreciates young folk who work so hard at their craft. He is a furniture-maker who has his workshop on the lower floors of the house in Dean Street and often grumbles that life is hard for those who work with their hands. Now Amy can have a new gown, too, because the letter arrived this afternoon. She urged you to open it as soon as she saw the great red wax seal impressed with a leopard rampant. With trembling hands you did so and as she saw the smile which lit your tired face, she clapped her hands and asked you to make haste to read out the contents. You called in Will, your apprentice to share the good news. You could hardly believe your eyes. Only last week a smart carriage and four stopped outside the house and a footman jumped down to ring the bell. You clattered down the stairs in case the man should be too impatient and tell his master there was no-one at home. When you answered the door, the carriage door also opened and out stepped a man you had never seen before. You did notice the gilded leopard painted on the carriage door. You also saw how beautifully the man was dressed.: in britches, coat and waistcoat of finest Spitalfields silk. You ushered him inside, apologising that your workshop was at the top of the house, but he gave a little nod and signalled you to lead the way. When you entered the room, you turned and saw him immediately walk over to your sample display. He smiled and nodded and you got out several watches to show him. He seemed pleased by what he saw and said that he would send you a letter. Now it had come. You, Simon de Charmes were to make the Duke of Northampton the finest gold pocket watch chased with one of your own unique designs. It was to be an 18th birthday present for his son in two months’time. Could you make it in so few weeks? You were to tell the footman who delivered the letter if that were not possible. You took up your quill and bade Will rush downstairs with a note for the footman. Of course you could oblige his Grace. You were honoured by the commission. It would be ready in two months’ time. You kept the price he had agreed to pay a secret so that you could buy Amy her dress as a surprise for her 20th birthday. For once, you told yourself, we all deserve a little treat. Yours would be in his Grace’s delight with the fine watch and perhaps he would spread the news of your craftsmanship to his friends? Inspired by Simon de Chaumes gold watch in the Museum.

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Inheritance Tracks by Caroline French-Blake

My earliest memory of being caught by a song, was a single 45, called the Little Drummer Boy, possibly sung by the Von Trapp singers .  My parent’s record player was in the drawing room, on the floor shielded from children by a bookcase and the wall on one side, and an armchair on the other.  By leaning over the arm of the chair, balanced on my stomach with legs in the air, I could reach down precariously to put the record on, and carefully apply the needle to it.    I’m sure this wasn’t permitted, as we children had a wind up record player and a large pile of scratched  and chipped Bakelite 78s in our sparsely furnished playroom, but I can remember playing it over and over again, endlessly.   It was far more appealing than the strange songs I had legitimate access to – one being  inexplicably about  loving a little brown jug,  and another sung patronisingly with a speech impediment, complaining ‘I taught I taw a puddy tat’.  But the Little Drummer Boy had blurry hypnotic tones and a muffled beat that were magical and entrancing.  And I am convinced that my mother would have bought the record, her only one ever as far as I knew, as it captured her brand of mystical christianity.  She would have recognised the story’s affinity with Anatole France’s Le Jongleur de Notre Dame – in which a monk, a former juggler, has nothing to offer the statue of Mother and Child except his gift for juggling – and despite this being scorned by the priests,  the statue comes to life and blesses him.  In the song, the little drummer boy offers his drumming to the newborn Jesus, who smiles at him.     At about this time, my mother took me to see a film,  called Marcellino.  A small boy in rags takes refuge in a church for some urgent reason.  In the middle of the night, Christ leans down from the cross and gives the starving child some bread, which he calmly accepts.  There were not many miracles to be found in the grey London of the 50s, and this made quite an impression on me, and was consistent with the Little Drummer Boy.  Later, I remember waking in shadowy darkness, and by the blue light of a paraffin heater, seeing a large cross at the foot of my bed.    I watched fascinated and paralysed as first Christ’s arm came slowly down from the cross, followed by the rest of his tortured body.    Just about 10 years later, amongst all the wonderful songs of the 1960s,  the most evocative is Procul Harum’s a Whiter Shade of Pale.  I was staying at my Aunt’s house in France, and the record player had a repeat function, it would start again as soon as the record finished.  I and my cousins climbed out of a window and perched on a roof for most of a glorious warm Provencale summer night, listening to just this one song repeated continuously, the sound echoing mournfully over the olive groves in the most brilliant moonlight I have ever seen, before or since.  

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Margaret Waters by Musaret Siddiqi ‘Damn you, woman. Can’t you ever let a man be?’ He shouted at her as he flung the half empty beer bottle across the room. It crashed against the wall, close enough to nearly hit her and she cowered. The floor around her was a mess of broken glass and spilt liquid. With eyes full of tears, she looked at him beseechingly.

‘Oh Tommy, Tommy, please don’t do that. I could have been hurt.’ Unsteadily, he got off the chair to stagger across to her.

‘Margaret, you fool, how many times have I told you not to disturb me in the eve? But no, you must lay your petty burdens at my door, just when I set down,’ he said. He wildly kicked the broken glass out of the way, so to seize her by the shoulders and shake her vigorously.

‘Oh, no,’ she cried, trying to be free of his steely grip. ‘Tommy, you are not yourself tonight. Take to bed now. We will talk tomorrow.’

‘What is there to talk about but your nonsensical womanish gibberish? Get rid of the mess you have got into. How do I know it’s even mine?’ He slurred viciously.

Now, free of his grasp, she dashed across the room, shouting defiantly. ‘You know it only too well; it’s your baby I am pregnant with. Lord, I thought you’d be happy at the news.’

‘Good God woman,’ he screamed, as he came after her. ‘You are crazy. Isn’t it enough I have to work to feed you and now on tops, feed another? I say, be done with it. Understand?’ He was beside her again now, looking with menacing eyes. Rubbing her hands together, she looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please, Tommy, I beg of you, I have always wanted a baby of my own. I promise there will be no more, just let me keep this one. I promise to find some work. Please.’

‘Such stubbornness in my woman,’ he retorted angrily. ‘Why, it’s the devil himself. You deserve a good thrashing to be cured of yourself.’ He flung himself at her, pinning her to the wall as he took hold of both her hands and madly started beating her.

Margaret screamed under the onslaught. ‘Don’t, don’t. You will hurt the baby.’ At this, he pushed her roughly as she fell sideways, the victim of his brutal kicks.

She opened her eyes to look into the kindly face of her sister, but quickly squeezed them shut again.

‘How long have you been here, dear Sarah?’ she murmured. ‘Long enough,’ answered Sarah. ‘Oh sister, praise to God, you are coming around.’ Margaret’s whole body wreaked of unbearable pain and she let out a loud cry. Sarah too

cried as she lovingly took hold of both Margaret’s hands. Margaret clung to her and with all the strength she could muster, asked tremulously, ‘What about my baby?’ Sarah gently put her hand on her sister’s forehead. She looked into the sorrowfully questioning eyes of her sister and let her own tears flow.

The faint gleam in Margaret’s eyes dimmed till the eyes that looked at Sarah’s tears, were no more than two dark holes.

Inspired by ‘The execution of Margaret Waters’ in People’s City: making ends meet.

Note to accompany Musaret Siddiqi’s work. Unfortunately, we are unable to reproduce the exhibit that inspired Musaret to write this piece. It is a page from a criminal broadsheet that gives an account of Margaret Waters’ crimes and her execution, with a drawing of a woman’s body hanging above the article. Margaret Waters was a baby farmer, one of the foster carers who charged a fee to take a baby’s care over from its mother. It was not always in the baby farmer’s interest, financially, for the children to survive and Margaret and her sister were arrested when police found nine babies in their lodgings, five of them dying from malnutrition and opium poisoning.

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Poetry

‘Fish Trap’ by Musaret Siddiqi

What  is it about the water that lulls me to sleep.? I become an ocean unto myself , unmindful of the surroundings. The waves gently toss and turn me, but I dare not give way to their teasing. I play with them and send them back. They will never get me. But all else I seem to attract the more, for they come into my fold. Those delightful creatures that inhabit the waters are more difficult to play with. They get too attached. I toss and turn but they wriggle their way to me. In me they find traces Of their faraway homes, beckoning them to come hither. They embrace me much as I try to repulse them. They weave their way inside my womb and are exhilarated. Oh my beauties of the water, what do you know of me. You seek me in pleasure , not knowing such pleasures are short lived. I would never have conned you, but alas I am only a tool in other powerful Hands.   Inspired by the fish trap in the Medieval gallery

Lusala’s Lament by KG Lester  Back breaking, soul destroying and unforgiving toil  I work from sun up just ploughing the soil  I’m out in the fields all day without rest  while you boast to your peers that this slave is your best  I once was a man with strength in his pride   now I’m left with dark thoughts of suicide  Sold to you for a handsome price  My sons were beaten and you raped my wife  The family I love I cannot protect  This pain and brutality I’ll never forget  I know that my God will see me through  And you’ll soon be judged by all that you do   Inspired by 'The Negro's Complaint' in the Expanding City Gallery. © KG Lester 2012 

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Loneliness by Caroline Ffrench Blake A solid dark oak box gives space for one person to sit on the bench at the back. In front there is a small shelf for writing on, and behind, a high slanted shelf to store paper in. You can look out of one large window straight ahead - as well as two smaller ones on either side. There are bolts on the inside, so you can lock yourself in and try to keep warm. Inspired by the Furnival’s Inn watchman’s box in the Charles Dickens exhibition. Motherhood by Musaret Siddiqi Your each little kick, I lovingly embraced. Oh, what joy it was, To have you play. Delightfully, I cradled you, Catering to all your whims. Alone no more, Fulfilled at last, I could have carried on through dawn. But all too soon you burst aforth, Like a thousand twinkling stars Shy was I, of you at first, A pure moonshine all aglow, But as you clung to my bosom I knew the heavens had opened apart. No more in me, but by me, You were my eternal sunshine The golden flicker of your eyes, The oh so, slight twitch of mouth A china doll you were to me. No nightingale was ever sweeter, No bud of rose ever fairer Oh pray to thee, I cry to thee, Do not but take my child away. Inspired by the execution of Margaret Waters in Making Ends Meet.

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My Dancing Partner by Musaret Siddiqi I could have danced all night - So sang my shoes. So happy did they sound That, in their souls, I dug in deeper. Only to be lifted, once again, with a bound. I leapt, I twirled, I twisted and turned, but not a murmur did they make. Only sparkled and glowed in the disco light. Their razzle and dazzle caught the swirling lights And playfully sent them back in delight. We were a pair. I knew we could do it. Together we could make the night. Inspired by the orange Mary Jane shoes in World City: 1950s to today. Magic Lantern by Maxine Garcia  The drizzle distorts the restless illuminations  On the dark and brooding cleft through the city,  I accompany the spectres of the sleeping living  Across the bridge to the empty metropolis.   The night is my day,  Where my nocturnal perambulations  Disturb the armies of insomniac screens. Non‐native to this place, I patrol the internal sprawl as church bells lacerate the still space.   From behind the flickering neon, my panoramic sunrise,  I view the magic lantern with my clutching eyes.   Inspired by The Houseless Shadow, a film by William Raban, part of the Dickens and London exhibition 

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Wild moon dancing by Wendy Le Ber Snow moon Wolf moon Blue moon dreaming  Plough moon Bee moon Full moon dancing  Rose  moon Birch moon New moon flowering  Berry moon Harvest moon Sickle moon slicing  Thunder moon Crow moon Crescent moon flying  Ice moon Bear moon Dark moon dying   

Bleached by Barbara Gilmore Brassy, blousy, blonde.  Lipsticked mouth  And painted face,  Hoping for the best.  Empty, foolish mind,  Empty, foolish talk.  Drank, drank, drank,  Cans of lager.  An acrostic poem, inspired by Harper Road woman, in the London before London gallery.

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Courage by Caroline Ffrench Blake Cracking roasted marrowbones by the fire Orox raging in revenge Under the stone skies Roaring terror day and night Across the unyielding tundra Give me your hand and heart Each day is an achievement Inspired by exhibits in the London before London gallery. Shepperton Woman by Marilyn Hawes Skeleton of a woman skilled at cookery and weaving, Knick knacks and cooking pots lie with her as evidence. Undernourished as a child, did she flee famine in her native Mendips, Limping on ricket-bowed legs to find refuge in this community? Lovingly arranged in Death. Here she found acknowledgement of her worth. An acrostic poem inspired by bones in the London before London gallery. Sadness by KG Lester

Sorrow comes to me in my reverie.

Another night of nothingness.

Dead to the world. Am I dead to me?

New sun, old moon, the days fade

Echoed by my mother’s wail.

She cried for the loss of her second child

So she didn’t even think of me.

An acrostic poem inspired by exhibits in the London before London gallery. © KG Lester 2012

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Adult male skull by Maxine Garcia Smooth and empty without a brain, Kept separate from the rest of me. Unknown for who I was, Lost identity in the midst of time, Labelled only as 'adult male skull'. Inspired by exhibits in the London before London gallery. Fear by Barbara Gilmore Has a devilish expression Was painted a deadly black A malignantly ugly face Feels cold and hostile to the touch Startles any unsuspecting visitor Alerts the occupants of the house with its loud frightening knock.  Inspired by the doorknocker in the Charles Dickens exhibition.

Teeth in skulls by Sozen Ismail Tightly packed still 

Each in the  

Exact socket 

‘t meant for, though millennia have passed. 

‘How?’ you may ask and 

I wish I knew: my ones 

Need ample persuasion which almost always falls short. Their owners  

Killed or died in their prime. 

Unlike me, who is yet to reach mine 

In this new millennium that is already more than a decade old. But I take de‐ 

Light in stating the important fact that the other sockets in my skull are 

Lovely and packed: My con 

Solation: like shoe‐laces done up. 

Acrostic poem inspired by skulls and other bones in the London before London gallery.

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The Hijab by Musaret Siddiqi What am I? I wonder why. Oh when and where do I belong? I searched in vain, and far I went, I trudged along the weary road, To distant lands and faraway shores. The dreams came crashing, one by one, I had lived but all alone, In my fool’s paradise. What destitution be it. And in a land of plenty, Where all are hungry, To no miser wealth is born. I shuddered, I trembled, I looked all around. No glaring eyes, no searching ways, Oh, no not I, not ever I, Be it to bloom, my summer harvest away. This evergreen, this mighty land, With rosy cheeks and dewy eyes, I can endure no more. Hark, the sound, the distant bell, It rings for me, and I must go It was bleak, and it was dark. It all but took my breath away. A shield no less, to my innermost demons. Ha! you say, it is protective. It is secure. Secure am I, or are you secure, By shrouding me in a veil of night? Inspired by the hijab in Londoners: 70s – 2000  

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The Music of Time by Wendy Le Ber Standing tall in wood and gilt

Pyke’s masterpiece of time.

White sails bob on painted tides,

Land locked seas between pillars either side.

In timeless round a dog swims

after ducks who never stop,

Their movements echo tick and tock.

Workman’s days are never done,

While nymphs lie still beneath the moving hands.

And lacquered water turns the wheel

As clouds pass by a gilt wood sun.

And yet upon the quarter, half and hour,

Pyke’s pipes sound forth a melody so sweet

Its notes bespell the ear.

Entranced by more than a clockwork chime,

The world it seemed to disappear,

And more than paper wood and gilt

Danced to the music of time.

Inspired by the organ clock in Empire: London’s manufactures.

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Flaming Heck, London’s A Wreck by KG Lester

I’ll never forget that dreadful sight.

It haunts to this day and it gives me a fright.

The bridge was on fire, everyone screamed.

Is this really happening or just a cruel dream?

I stood there agog and watched in a trance.

The flames were so sensual, I jumped as they

danced. They burned and they bounced, they

tore and they seared. 1666 was a terrible year!

People were traumatised, panic ensued.

Sir Thomas Bloodworth was in the blackest

of moods. The police woke him up in the

midst of night. The Lord Mayor’s sleep

disturbed he moaned “How impolite!”

He argued the great fire was merely a spark

As he turned in his bed - what a thoughtless

remark! “Pish!” He said. “A woman might

piss it out.” With that he sneered with a

menacing pout.

His procrastination caused a deadly conflagration.

What an awful situation caused by Bloodworth’s

hesitation. There will be recrimination from the wider

population for his insubordination they’ll demand his

resignation!

They say the fire started at Pudding Lane

on Sunday September 2nd, Thomas Farynor

is to blame. A woeful period in British history

tis such a crying shame!

All this fell on the shoulders of the wretched

Royal Baker, but the French and Dutch

foreigners were called the troublemakers.

There was fighting, lynching and death on

London’s streets. The mood of the Monarchy

was very downbeat. King Charles II feared for

his royal position, riots and a rebellion prompted

nightmare premonitions.

St Paul’s Cathedral went up in a blaze!

Londoners were trapped in a smog of malaise.

Buildings were burning, so much black smoke,

if you stood too near you’d gasp and you’d choke!

Boats were used to ferry passengers and their goods

with precious cargo and for some their livelihoods.

So much damage was done by the fire, I felt entangled

and strangled in the mire.

It swept through London; four nights and four days

lasting so long I was caught in a maze. Almost a full

week and reaching its peak, with death and destruction

London was bleak.

Even Samuel Pepys viewed the damage and wept.

The disaster it caused was too much to accept.

The fire burned out by Wednesday September 5th

I tell you no lie, this isn’t a myth!

How many died is not very clear but those

concerned felt sorrow and fear. So there

you have it a few simple facts about

‘The Great Fire’ and the awful impact this

event had on London at that time. I hope

a lesson is learned from my historical rhyme.

Inspired by paintings in War, Plague and fire. © KG Lester 2012

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The Writers The Writers

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Clockwise, left to right: Musaret Siddiqi, Barbara Gilmore, KG Lester, Caroline Ffrench Blake, Wendy Le Ber, Sozen Ismail, Patricia Gibson, Marilyn Hawes, and Maxine Garcia (not pictured).

The Workers’ Educational Association is a charity registered in England and Wales, number 1112775, and in Scotland, number SC039239, and a company limited by guarantee registered in England and Wales, number 2806910. Copyright © Workers' Educational Association 20112

Writing London learners at the Museum of London