It’s strange to think it’s a year since I last wrote a blog post – it feels like the time has gone in the blink of an eye. I didn’t mean to disappear for so long, but somehow, I felt like I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say. Studying seems to have that effect on me – the more I learn and the more I am immersed in other people’s words, the less I feel I have to contribute.
I’ve spent the past year writing and creating works for performance, hanging out with people mostly a decade younger than me, and generally living a life that is about as far away from my old one as possible. Walking away from the path of ‘supposed to’ has been incredibly freeing, exciting and not a little bit unsettling. My peers all have big and important jobs, and impressive salaries. They’re all moving out of London, buying houses, getting married, having babies. We’re in our late thirties now – the time for experimentation is supposed to be over. While I’ve chucked in my secure job and gone down a path of uncertainty and precarity, everyone else I know is settling into security. It’s been hard, sometimes, to be so out of step with everyone else. Going against the grain isn’t easy. But I can’t deny it’s also a lot of fun!
So here I am, embracing the artistic life, and totally uncertain about what the next year will bring. But one thing I do know – I’ll be back in this space, documenting my thoughts, discoveries and adventures – and I’m looking forward to sharing them all with you. Thank you for waiting for me.
I am sitting down to write this whilst looking out at blue skies and hearing the usual hubbub of a London summer on the street below my flat. Several groups of friends are sitting outside the pub at the end of the road, watching the Olympics in the sunshine. Kids are playing football. Dog walkers are stopping for a chat. People laden with shopping are meandering their way home from the supermarket. It’s been a long year and a half, but it feels like things are finally almost back to how they used to be.
But going back to how things were is not always something that’s possible, or desirable, after a period of change. For me, the pandemic has permanently altered my relationship with myself and the world around me, and I’m no longer the same person I was a year and a half ago. I don’t want to go back to who I was or what I was doing before. Seeing the world fall apart around me made me realise that nothing is certain and that nothing can be taken for granted. I had my eyes opened to the fact that I had been coasting along for years, putting off pursuing many of my dreams and desires until a later date, waiting for this, or that, before I would give myself permission to disrupt my life. When the pandemic came and disrupted it instead, I gradually came to see this as an opportunity rather than a disaster; the impetus to start treading a different path.
I’d been struggling with ennui for a long time before coronavirus hit, but I wasn’t unhappy enough to really change anything. I had no real reason to complain; I know that I’m enormously privileged. I have wonderful friends and family, a lovely home, a good job, plenty of hobbies and more than enough money to meet my needs. I also live in one of the most exciting and dynamic cities in the world. But still, deep down, I wasn’t happy. My work no longer satisfied me; with more responsibility came less time in the classroom, and with my mind always full of school related problems, headspace for anything else was frustratingly limited. I felt that my work was creeping into every area of my life, leaving me with no space for myself and no outlet for any kind of creativity. I was always tired, always grumpy, always waiting for the next holiday when I’d finally have time to read a book, or catch up with a friend, or leave London for the weekend. I kept going, partly because I loved my students so much that I couldn’t bear to leave them, but also because I didn’t know what else I could do. The question haunted me constantly. Teaching had become so central to my identity, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything else. I felt utterly trapped.
While teaching from home last year, however, my thinking started to shift. Not being in a school building all day helped me to start seeing myself as separate from my work. Rather than being tired all the time due to the non stop nature of the school day, I was invigorated by having time to work in peace and quiet, time to read and reflect, and time to be creative. I went back to writing regularly; something I had given up years ago. I began reading more widely and experimentally. I walked the streets of London for hours, really paying attention to what I was looking at, and being amazed at how much I’ve been missing. I engaged with political causes I’d long been passionate about, but not had time to properly research or pursue. I realised that there was so much more to me, and so much more to my life, than teaching.
Going back to work in September was initially exciting, after so long away, but soon the ennui crept back in. Coupled with everything the pandemic was throwing at us inside and outside of school, I felt myself slipping away. Every morning it became more difficult to drag myself out of bed. I was utterly exhausted from putting on a cheerful, enthusiastic persona for the children and my colleagues all day, desperate for them not to see how unhappy I was. As soon as I got home, I crumbled. I could barely muster the energy to cook dinner. When we locked down again in January, I cried with relief at being able to stay at home for another few weeks. It was at that moment that I truly acknowledged that teaching – the career I had always seen as my labour of love – was destroying me.
So, three weeks ago, after nine years of teaching, I said goodbye to my beloved pupils and closed the door of my classroom for the last time. Mingled with the sadness – and there was plenty of that, and plenty of tears, too – was also profound relief at being free to tread a new path.
I’m going back to university full time in September, to do an MA in Playwriting. I don’t know where it will lead me, or even if I’ll be any good at it, but I don’t care; I’m doing it because it’s what I love doing, and I want to spend all my time doing it. I’m giving myself permission to just enjoy myself, experimenting and learning and being creative for a year, and to be open to whatever opportunities and possibilities come my way. It’s what I need, at this point in my life; I am giving myself the gift of time and space to write, because without that, I now understand that I can’t be happy.
I know the pandemic is far from over. But today, at least, the sun is shining, there is music playing in a distant garden, I can smell the sweet smoke from next door’s BBQ, and there’s a new book waiting for me to curl up and read. For the first time in a long time, life feels good again.
If you believe the above maxim, as I do, then I hope you may be interested in volunteering some of your time to contribute to a research project that I’m a part of. A group of other professionals and I have got together to research the curriculum content of what children are taught to see how gender stereotypes play out in the classroom. We are starting with finding out what novels and plays children are taught in secondary school English lessons in the UK, to see what balance of male and female voices are being taught. We suspected that there would be an imbalance, but from the research carried out so far, the results have been pretty shocking (you can see the results so far here). In some schools, between the ages of 11 and 16, children don’t read any whole text written by a woman. Out of the 70 or so schools we’ve researched, we haven’t found a single female playwright being taught in any year group. A lack of female voices, a lack of female perspectives, and a lack of female characters, all contribute to the perpetuation of the message that women are less important, their stories and experiences not worth hearing, and their talent less valued. Our curriculum in the UK is flexible, and many texts can be freely chosen by individual schools. The fact that most still choose to follow a narrow curriculum of largely white male authors suggests that there is a lot of work to do. But without the evidence, we can’t prove this is happening, and without being able to prove it’s happening, we can’t do anything about it.
There is a lot of talk at the moment about sexual harassment in schools and the need to tackle this through better sex and relationships education. But sexual harassment isn’t going to be solved by a few lessons on consent; sexual harassment is the symptom of a much deeper disease of misogyny and patriarchy that is deeply rooted in our societies. We can only begin to unpick and reconstruct attitudes towards gender if we rebuild what we learn about gender in the first place. Our eventual aim is to research every subject taught in schools, gather a group of subject specialists to look at redressing the gender balance in each subject area, and create new curriculum materials to enable a radical shakeup of the way in which children learn about men and women and their roles in the world around them.
But for now, we’re starting small, with English, as it’s much more measurable than other types of data and changing the texts being taught in the classroom is a quicker fix than changing the content of other subjects. In order to gather enough data for us to be able to prove (or indeed disprove!) our thesis, however, we need volunteers, and lots of them. There are over 3000 secondary schools in England, and we’d like to try and research the English curriculum in at least one third of them so that we have a statistically relevant sample. Researching a school only takes about ten minutes, so you don’t need to dedicate lots of time. If you believe that women’s voices need to be heard more prominently in schools, and that we need to break away from teaching the same old narrow field of male texts that perpetuate stereotypical patriarchal attitudes, then please do sign up to help us with our project. The website is here, where you can find out more and sign up. I’d be so grateful for your support!
The premise of this wonderful, and inexplicably out of print, mid century novel is so far up my street I can’t believe I hadn’t come across it before last week. Set in the 1950s, it tells the story of one day in the life of the Hornbeam family, as they prepare their minor stately home, Fountains Court, for the final open day of the summer, when locals and tourists are invited to take a tour of the state rooms for the price of half a crown.
Henrietta Hornbeam, 29, is the current family member with the responsibility of keeping the dilapidated house going, with precious little money or resource to do so. Despite being orphaned young, she and her beloved twin brother Harry (yes, twins called Henry and Henrietta – horrific!) spent an idyllic childhood in the house they both adored, but Harry’s death in WWII has knocked the life out of Henrietta and given her precious little enjoyment of anything. All that keeps her going is her responsibility to the house, but the strain of trying to maintain it is becoming almost too much to bear. The strain is eased somewhat by the emotional support of her distant cousin Charlie, who lives in the stable block and uses the grounds as a market garden, bringing in some much needed income. Having lost an arm and an eye in the war, and his wife and child to the Blitz, Charlie has gravitated back to the family home ostensibly to support Henrietta, but also to heal.
While Henrietta and Charlie are doing their best to keep things ticking over, Henrietta’s grandmother, old Lady Hornbeam, is upstairs in her bedroom, criticising everything they do. Spending most of her time reliving her glory days as a society beauty and reported mistress of Edward VII, she feels no guilt whatsoever at having been the one who frittered away most of the family money due to her lavish expenditure at the end of the nineteenth century. She is keen for Henrietta to marry the rich American who she bumped into in the local church at the beginning of the summer, and who is arriving on this final day of the season to potentially buy a valuable painting for a sum of money that would help the family enormously – but also, everyone suspects, propose to Henrietta. His money would solve a lot of problems, but can Henrietta leave Fountains Court, and does she really want to marry ‘her American’?
To add further complications, the last day of the season is also the day Harry’s posthumous child, nine year old Lord Victor, is coming to live at Fountains Court for the first time. His mother, a shop girl that Harry hastily married while on leave after getting her pregnant, has never been accepted into the family, and now she has remarried, Victor has been sent for to take up his inheritance. Henrietta must therefore manage an anxious child, her querulous grandmother, her American, and her own conflicting feelings for Charlie, all while appearing to be the graceful chatelaine for her visitors. However, an unexpected revelation from old Lady Hornbeam before the doors open for the day throws everything into chaos, and soon nothing will be the same for anyone again…
I loved everything about this novel. The history of the house is told through the interwoven stories of present and past Hornbeam family members, and the evocative descriptions of the architecture, decoration and objects that make up Fountains Court and its gardens are so beautifully written and well observed that I felt I was walking through the rooms as I read. I’ve not read a huge amount of immediately post-war novels, and I found it so poignant how Ashton draws with such an unsentimental and realistic pen the legacy of the war in so many ways; not just through the grief of losing loved ones, but also the resulting financial, social and lifestyle changes. The lure of America, largely untouched by the privations of war, looms large; there is an American air base almost on the doorstep of Fountains Court, and the wives posted there can’t stop complaining about how backward English homes are. The descriptions of a shining, modern America with its appliance-filled, centrally heated homes certainly throws into sharp relief the dilapidation of Fountains Court. And the visitors who turn up to pay their half crown don’t mince their words when they suggest that Fountains Court should be pulled down to make way for modern housing to benefit many more people than just one family – there is no longer a feeling that this kind of heritage should be respected and preserved, but more that there should no longer be a place for such extravagance in a post-war world.
The social critique embedded within the novel reminded me very much of Marghanita Laski’s The Village, which also looks at post-war life and the enormous societal changes that took place. Its a fascinating glimpse into so many facets of the period, but ultimately, it’s the depiction of the house and its evolution over time that is the star of the show. Helen Ashton has such a good eye for detail when it comes to the built environment – she also wrote the marvellous Bricks and Mortar, republished by Persephone Books, which is about an architect’s life, so she clearly had an affinity for the subject. I really can’t recommend The Half-Crown House highly enough. Second hand copies are readily available for not too much money – mine cost me £5. And it has the most stunning dustjacket – worth buying the novel for alone! Though I’m hoping soon someone will reprint it, as it very much deserves to reach a wider audience!
Amelia Edwards (1831-1892) was a remarkable woman with a great deal of energy, curiosity and a pioneering spirit. A true polymath, she began writing from a very young age, but she also showed great promise as an artist and musician. Writing, however, was where she largely focused her energies in the first decades of her life, with a range of prose and poetry being regularly published in the popular periodicals of the day, as well as several novels, which saw considerable success.
However, when she was orphaned at the age of 30, Amelia found herself freed from the responsibility of caring for her elderly parents and having to churn out a huge volume of writing in order to financially support them, and so was able to at last please herself. She had always dreamed of travelling, and in the early 1870s, she visited Italy and France with a female friend, publishing the well-received A Midsummer Ramble in the Dolomites (1873) upon her return. However, her real desire was to visit Egypt, and in 1873, she and her friend Lucy made their first trip to the country that was to go on to obsess Amelia for the rest of her life.
Amelia fell in love with Egypt’s beauty, but more than anything, she became fascinated by its history and the rich archaeology that was just beginning to be discovered. Witnessing the terrible desecration of many graves, the looting and destruction of artefacts and the illegal trade of grave goods by unscrupulous dealers made her determined to do something to ensure that Egypt’s archaeological history was protected from those who wished to use it merely to make money. Also, in an age of increasing development and tourism, Edwards saw that it was going to be necessary to take prompt action to ensure that Egypt’s precious monuments would be safely preserved for future generations to enjoy.
As such, Amelia founded the Egypt Exploration Fund in 1882, in partnership with curators at the British Museum. Abandoning her other writing to devote herself entirely to the cause, she travelled far and wide to give talks, and wrote numerous articles and books to raise awareness of new archaeological finds and promote the need for the study and preservation of artefacts. Her efforts raised much of the money required for the Fund’s work, and it was thanks to her that a new generation of archaeologists were trained and supported to become the trailblazers of modern day Egyptology. Sadly Amelia found herself pushed out of the Egypt Exploration Fund towards the end of her life, with the growing professionalisation of archaeology making her female and amateur status considered unworthy of respect. Decisions were increasingly made without her, despite her campaigning work paying for much of the Fund’s activities, and though she continued to be actively involved, she no longer enjoyed the central role she had once held.
A broken arm during a lecture tour of America in 1890 weakened her health, and when her partner of thirty years, Ellen Drew Braysher, died in January 1892, Edwards was devastated. Just three months later she too died, of severe influenza, and was buried by the side of the woman she had shared most of her adult life with; their grave is now listed with English Heritage as a landmark in British LGBT history.
Though Edwards may have suffered from a lack of appreciation towards the end of her life, today she is very much recognised as being the ‘Godmother of Egyptology’. Her legacy lives on in the continued existence of the Egypt Exploration Fund (now known as the Egypt Exploration Society) and the Edwards Chair of Egyptology at University College London, the first paid academic position for the study of Egyptology in the UK, which she bequeathed the money for in her will. She launched the careers of many early Egyptologists, such as her dear friend Flinders Petrie (first Edwards Chair of Egyptology) and Howard Carter (of Tutankhamun fame), and ensured that, at a time when much irreparable damage could have been done to Egypt’s archaeological history, as much as possible was preserved for us to still marvel at today.
Amelia Edwards was a real trailblazer in so many aspects of her life, and yet she started out living in a dinky Georgian terrace just around the corner from my own flat. This is where her blue plaque now sits, on one of (in my opinion!) the loveliest streets in London, Wharton Street, which has the most spectacular cherry blossom trees that make it a real sight to see in the spring. Close to the hustle and bustle of King’s Cross and Bloomsbury, but tucked away amidst the Georgian squares of Clerkenwell, it’s just as tranquil now as it probably was in Edwards’ childhood, and every time I walk past, I like to imagine her sitting in the window, scribbling away, dreaming of Egypt.