We’re taking part again this year in #Archive30 a social media campaign organised by the Archives and Records Association Scotland and taken up by archives and special collections around the world.
There is a daily theme for each day in April, highlighting various aspects of our wonderful collections.
You can follow on Twitter using the hashtag #Archive30 and our Twitter feed is @BrunelSpecColl, Brunel University Archives is @BrunelUniArch
A blog post by Chris Holden, MPhil/PhD candidate (Oxford Brookes University)
‘My heart failed within me, and I wept at the thought of being sent adrift in a far-off country.’
John Castle BURN 1:134
These are the words of the working-class autobiographer, John Castle, writing about his feelings and tears, aged 17, on being kicked out of the workhouse in 1837 for speaking up on his brother’s behalf to the Board of Guardians. He was unemployed, near penniless and sixty miles from the family home. His sense of isolation and helplessness bleed from his words, he is ‘sent adrift’, another word for a castaway. He is at that moment undoubtedly feeling lonely and yet he does not use the word. Seven or eight years later, in his famous poem ‘I Am’, the peasant poet John Clare, at the time confined to an asylum and desperately lonely similarly writes of ‘the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems’.
At the time loneliness was a term most often reserved for describing the remoteness of a place, or simply being alone. It was rarely used in common currency to describe the condition that we recognise today as a lack of close, emotionally fulfilling, attachment to at least one other person. It is therefore difficult to apprehend how prevalent loneliness and how it was manifest in past centuries, particularly amongst the lower classes. I am especially interested in the lives of rural labouring people, those from an oral tradition who left few textual sources behind describing their emotional lives.
Nostalgic representations of rural communities of old would have us believe that people were surrounded by friends and family always there in times of trouble to talk to and extend a helping hand. Many of these accounts, be it biographical or fictional, come from a distinctly middle-class perspective where childhoods were long and secure. My research seeks to assess to what extent concepts fundamental to most human beings’ wellbeing, such as family, community and belonging existed during the socially and economically transformative years of the long nineteenth-century (c.1780-1914).
Did the hardship of life, where hunger, illness and death in the family were far more commonplace than now generally inure people to the worst pain of loneliness? Equally was there something about the cohesiveness of village life and perhaps greater religious commitment (which certainly was a sustaining factor in John Castle’s life story) that acted as a palliative and if so, what lessons might we be able to take from the past that will help build a society capable of reversing the so-called ‘epidemic of loneliness’?
Professor Burnett’s two books on working class autobiography Useful Toil and Destiny Obscure provided tantalizing glimpses of the sort of life stories I was interested in; lives replete with abject poverty, violence, separation and loss (parents, siblings and homes). What is amazing is how matter-of-fact so many of these accounts of privation and hopelessness and how little mention of the words directly synonymous with ‘loneliness’ appear in the texts. A cultural historian of the emotions though is encouraged to look at the clusters of feelings expressed and overlaying an autobiography, the ‘silences’, the rhetorical language and the metaphors used by the authors and then so much more of their emotional lives is brought into the light.
Therefore, I was delighted to discover that the Burnett Archive filled with so many more unpublished autobiographical accounts, including the aforementioned John Castle, although understandably closed to visitors during the pandemic, remains available digitally to researchers and I have been able to thus far gain remote access to many more of the treasures that Professor Burnett’s scholarship and persistence had unearthed.
I highly recommend anybody interested in any aspect of British cultural and social history of the last 250 or so years to have a look at this exceptional archive. The lives of those now long dead were remarkable for their fortitude in the face of so much distress and suffering and I hope that others will look at ways of revealing other aspects of their stories.
As we mark Black History Month we’re highlighting historical material from Special Collections. This time the spotlight is on Dennis Brutus.
Dennis Brutus (1924-2009) was a poet and human rights activist who grew up in South Africa. He taught in a high school until he was dismissed for activism against apartheid, and he became instrumental in the movement against racism in sport. He was imprisoned and, on release, forbidden from teaching, publishing his writings, continuing to study law, and attending political meetings.
His poems reflect his frustrations and sadness at the political environment, and are frequently concerned with the sufferings of fellow black or mixed-race people.
One poignant set of poems on this topic is In Memoriam: Solomon Mahlangu, published in 1979. Solomon Mahlangu was a South African who was hanged by the apartheid South African government in 1979 after a controversial verdict finding him guilty of murder, and despite the intervention of the UN. The deaths were caused by another man, who was not considered fit to stand trial, and Mahlangu was found guilty on the understanding that he had had a “common intent” with the other man. The booklet begins, and ends,
“Singing
he went to war
and singing
he went to his death”.
The copy of this collection held at Brunel has a handwritten dedication to Brutus’ wife and children.
Another published booklet of poems held in the Dennis Brutus Collection is Thoughts Abroad, by Dennis Brutus but published under the pseudonym John Bruin in order that it could be published in South Africa, where Brutus’ work was banned. This copy has been updated to attribute the work correctly and explain more about Brutus and his work.
There also handwritten poems and drafts by Dennis Brutus, and various works by other poets. The copy of Restless Leaves, a booklet of poems by Mark Espin, is dedicated to Dennis Brutus in thanks for the inspiration he provided.
On 15 June 1945 the Family Allowances Act was enacted. This was an important step in the fight for economic independence for women. The original campaign, led by Eleanor Rathbone, said it was of “immense importance” that the allowance be paid to mothers, but when, in February 1945, the Family Allowances Bill was published, it stated that the money would belong to the father. This led to a cross-party rebellion, and the bill was amended to pay the money to mothers. You can see the Act on the Parliamentary Archives website and find out more about Eleanor Rathbone.
The Act came into operation the following year, on 6 August 1946, and was the first time child benefit was provided in the UK. An allowance of five shillings a week was paid for each child in a family, other than the eldest. It was payable whilst the child was of school age, up to the age of eighteen, if apprenticed or in full-time school education.
Our Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography includes some accounts that mention Family Allowance, although some of these are more negative. The collection as it was originally brought together has content up to 1945, so many of the writers experienced growing up before family allowances and have the attitude that their parents coped without it.
For example, Dora Hannan, looking back from the 1980s on her early life, when her father was at sea with the Royal Navy for years at a time, writes:
“People who are now able to claim for this and that allowance … have no idea how the wives and mothers managed to bring up large families singlehanded”
BURN 2:357 Hannan, p. 1
In 1919, long before Family Allowance, Stanley Rice wanted to take on an unpaid apprenticeship but was unable to, as his parents couldn’t afford to support him without a wage:
“It was not a question of my parents being unkind, they knew only too well how much it would help to have a few extra shillings coming in weekly. No special allowances and suchlike in those days. Parents had to face the hard facts and find their own solutions to problems“
BURN 2:661 Rice p. 10
And in 1950 Margaret Perry comments on her “very battered copy” of the Labour Party manifesto:
“In five years of Labour Government we have: Built 556,000 houses. A new house every 3minutes. Secured a prosperous and thriving peacetime agriculture. Our new National Health Service is the best in the world. Infant mortality the lowest on record. School meals and milk, family allowances. Full employment. Decent wages. Guaranteed prices. Democratic self-government in the Colonies“
BURN 2:606 Perry p. 34
Over the years the terms of the Family Allowance were changed, including in 1952 an increase of three shillings a week to combat poor nutrition and extended to all schoolchildren in 1956 in an attempt to keep children in education. In 1977, child benefit was phased in, which still exists today.
One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.
Some individuals may find the topic covered in this blog post distressing. Should you require support please contact:
Brunel Students: Student support and welfare team
Non-Emergency NHS Helpline: 111
Samaritans: 116 123 (open 24 hours)
It’s getting faster, moving faster now, it’s getting out of hand. On the tenth floor, down the back stairs, it’s a no man’s land. Lights are flashing, cars are crashing, getting frequent now, I’ve got the spirit, lose the feeling, let it out somehow.
‘Disorder’, Joy Division, Closer. Factory Records, 1979 (lyrics Ian Curtis)
Such lyrics are electrifying and vivid, I am a rather electrifying and vivid person myself, so is my fellow epileptic bredrin, Ian Curtis of Joy Division. Divided between joy and sympathy, I’m unsure whether this character flaw is well and truly beneficial. I enjoy the freedom pass which allows me to journey through London without any incurred costs, but I cannot pass through true freedom (whatever that is). My brain is chained to this neurological defect, it infects my whole life. I enjoy the sympathy I get from women, but I know they don’t like me for me. I am their baby; I am not their baby. Why would they like the things I am called every day: a retard, a mong and a windowlicker? Why would anyone? Male or female. Who would? I don’t want to ruin anyone’s reputation, but I do because I’m me. Why is that? Oh wait, it’s because I have epilepsy. Most of the people in my life know nothing about it and seem to think my trigger is flashing lights. How cliched. What makes you think I can’t play videogames and go to concerts? What makes you think I can’t get drunk? What makes you think I’ll have a seizure straightaway whenever you repeatedly flash your iPhone torch in my eye? People are inconsiderate morons.
I want to be accepted, but I have to constantly justify myself. I have to prove myself, but I’m not sure how to improve when I have this condition. Although my father has good intentions, I am jailed and cannot move out in case it worsens. Maybe I’m jailed because of my epilepsy, maybe I am not, although it certainly feels like it. I am certain I can still drink, smoke, lift and run, but each one is dangerous. I just drink because…I just do. No that’s not it. It’s because I need acceptance from my friends and to seem more ‘adult’ to others. Mine is a Heineken, thank you. I smoke to help me concentrate, yes, I am aware it could kill me, however I would rather addiction kill me than the epilepsy, it means I can assume control. There is a 1 in 1000 chance of dying whenever I have a seizure, even if I take my lamotrigine, I am aware of it. If I have a seizure and don’t take my lamotrigine, the chance of death taking me by the hand increases to 1 in 150. I no longer lift despite how much stronger it made me; I don’t feel any stronger. I am strong physically, I can lift heavily to some extent, but I’m not strong enough to ask for someone to spot me, it would be far too awkward. I wouldn’t feel like I’m in control. Besides, who would want to help someone who isn’t ‘that disabled’ anyway? If a heavy weight fell on me, I would no longer have any sort of control left, I would be known as ‘that disabled guy.’ It became catch-22 ever since epilepsy caught me at age 22. I can still run, I guess. I used to run 5ks with ease, but I was always scared of having a seizure. Isolated from everyone else, left to foam at the mouth and have blood crawl down from my head to my lips, I can no longer take the risk. I am well and truly out of control.
Hmmm. Maybe I’m not as limited as I say I am. Am I just lazy? Have I become too complacent because of the epilepsy? Well, what feels like my brain is being electrocuted and constantly fried seems to force me into laziness and craziness. The gargling people hear whenever I have a seizure sounds like mouthwash keep continually swirling around and around in my mouth. I once had a seizure when I was partway through a sentence when talking to my friends on Discord. One of the women in the group chat told me to ‘shut the f*** up,’ although we were both oblivious to what happened. I was surprised she begged for my forgiveness, but I forgave her despite being unsure of what I was forgiving her for. I’d had no idea a seizure had occurred. How embarrassing.
I don’t want to keep on taking these pills, but I have to. I don’t want keep on having these existential crises, but I have to. I don’t wish to keep talking about my epilepsy because of how stigmatised it is, but I have to. Why do I have to talk about it? Well, people are going to have to be aware of what it is and aware of what to do when a seizure occurs. Why do I have to keep on talking about it? Well, I want to make my mark on public consciousness, specifically through writing. I have no other choice. Epilepsy is a contradictory disability, it can control you, but you can also control it. I will control it; I will beat any and all expectations expected of such a life altering disability. Maybe I shouldn’t call it epilepsy and instead call it pepilepsy for I must ensure I’m lively . . . You must be mad if you think I am a retard, maybe you are a retard yourself. We shall wait and see who prevails.
© Mark Jobanputra, 2020. All rights reserved.
‘Pepilepsy’ was inspired by ‘Fit For Anything’ by Wally Ward (2:798), in the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.
Author’s Note:
I decided to write Pepilepsy with the intention of highlighting the way(s) epilepsy, a frankly niche and misunderstood condition, has the ability to shape one’s life in a most negative manner. I am writing from my own personal experience having been diagnosed with epilepsy at age 22 (I am 26 as of writing this piece). I wouldn’t wish such a cursed condition on anyone, yes, even you. Although I personally feel cynical about this condition leaving me someday, Wally Ward’s memoir ‘Fit for Anything’ was the driving force in exploring epilepsy and the potential for ‘overcoming’ in this piece of writing about said neurological condition.
Mark Jobanputra is currently studying for an MA Creative Writing at Brunel University London. He tweets at @madstillainy
One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.
I remember the lady who lives opposite, on my street, at number thirty-eight, she is afraid and never comes out. I remember the faces of the people I once knew. Death has taken them all. The living room is a souvenir of pictures. The vase of plastic pansies makes me smile. I wait in bed for the nice lady who helps to dress me. Often, I pretend I am sleeping so she can wake me and make a fuss. I act out the drama of pretending to be tired and she rewards me with a heap of attention.
‘Mrs Pullman, Mrs Pullman,’ she says.
I open my eyes and see her face, she is like a nurse, although she denies this. I think her name is really Betty. The door of thirtyeight is quiet, the only disturbance is the dustcart. Betty hands me the mirror and I look at the frail person staring back, in an eightfive year old skin. I am Mavis Pullman. Since my Samuel died five years ago. I have been alone, he was a loving gentleman, who daily brought me flowers. The living room is my home as my feet will not allow me to walk far. The metal contraption at the side of my bed stands waiting. I call it my second pair of legs, aiding me when my balance goes. I wish to visit upstairs again and look inside my ottoman, where my life is stored and treasures from my house grow weary. It holds the crockery, beautiful towels from my wedding, Samuels box of trophy ties, with one missing, embroidered sheets for the beds, lavender leaves and bars of soap, boxes of pantyhose and thermal stitched longjohns, a few knitted cardigans, books and a box of brand new mittens, for special occasions. There is the newspaper.
Betty is not the only visitor, there is another lady called Audrey who also occasionally attends to me. They look first at my ageing frame, combing, buttoning, wiping, and then sit me near the window in the armchair scented of mothballs, with its crocheted cushions. I clasp Samuels handkerchief, and keep it always in my hands. I watch the outside, through net curtains, dressed in my light blue cardigan, cotton white shirt and a pair of grey elasticated waist trousers, white pearls hang round my neck, a gift and dark red slippers adorn my feet.
In the centre of the room is the fireplace, above is the mantelpiece with my photographs of the children. I am blessed with two and fifty years of teaching, a dead husband, and a house now a home. I recently heard the sound of siren opposite where the lady with a swollen stomach was supported out. She is smaller now and we are both alone. People say she has jars filled with the remains of the balls, tumours, which caused the swelling. I know she wanted children. I do not listen to idle talk.
Mrs Pullman is the lady I visit some mornings, who lives on a street where there are terraced houses. I am called Betty and look after her in the mornings. She thinks I am a nurse. Mrs Pullman is a funny lady but nice, she likes pansies and looking out her window. Her house smells old as if the doors never open. I like her as she is always talking about her ottoman. I get her ready in the morning, often she struggles to get up, I gently coerce her, until finally she is awake. Mrs Pullman always mentions Samuel her husband, I think they must have been terribly in love, she likes to wear the old pearls. I went upstairs one day to collect some clean sheets as she sleeps downstairs, I saw her ottoman, it holds many things. There is a newspaper inside with a picture of her husband. I felt it was too precious to read so I left it.
I am Audrey, I have visited Mrs Pullman many times, caring for her. She sits at the window and holds on to her handkerchief. The house is full of portraits of young faces laughing, women in frilly dresses and men with clean faces in tight fitted jackets. She often tells me about the chest upstairs and the contents of her life inside, there are many books and letters. There is a newspaper with a man on the front page, her husband. It says,
Long service, Samuel Pullman, worked all his life
for the railway and has been rewarded, now dead.
He proudly wears the work tie.
Occasionally she will murmur then laugh as if the house has whispered in her ear, other times she cries, then smiles
© Claudette Dunkley, 2020. All rights reserved.
A box of the Treasures inspired by Hilton Foord, The Survivor (2-398), and Louise Shore, Pure Running: a Life Story (2:707) in the Burnett Archive of Working Class autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.
Author’s Note:
Both articles I looked at were quite different, however, I was drawn to the idea of collection and objects of memory, tangible items valued and kept safe. I was looking at things held scared of importance. This was the ‘Punckton.’ In Survivor the black box keeps the object safe. I started to think about how we grow old and time moves on, how dementia slowly robs away memories. The woman’s character was slowly materialised as I also drew on personal experiences in my own life, I work with elderly people where some have early onset of dementia, I have elderly parents and their memories of past can be seen from the treasures in their home and great importance is placed on their value. This piece touches on my interest in oral history, I think about the past generation having read Colin Grant’s book, ‘Homecoming.’ where Derek Walcott says, ‘There are homecomings without the home.’ I am encouraged to think about the space we occupy how we make it ours and in it we place everything that has meaning to our lives.
Claudette Dunkley is a British female writer and artist. Born in 1966 of West Indian parentage, she is a graduate of Bradford College, with a degree in Art & Design. She has published artwork with Leeds postcard and is featured in the illustrated Leeds Postcard Hardback, published by Four Corners, 2018. Her artwork has also been exhibited at the Royal College of Art, London and various galleries in the North and South of England. She is currently pursuing an MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University, London, with an interest in short stories, novel writing, poetry and screenwriting. Her short story, ‘Home’ was published in Our Voice the Guinness South Magazine 2011. Claudette divides her time between being a mother, writing, working and living in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire.
One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.
Some individuals may find the topic covered in this blog post distressing. Should you require support please contact:
Brunel Students: Student support and welfare team
Non-Emergency NHS Helpline: 111
Samaritans: 116 123 (open 24 hours)
‘Red sky at night,’ chants my brother.
‘Shepherd’s delight!’ I call out in response. The chapel wall is cold but we sit there, defiant despite our mother’s threat of piles. She will call us in for tea any minute now but until then I gaze at the wonder of a sky ablaze. I have never seen such bright colours as those in the sunsets at the end of our street. Vermillion, violet and vivid orange soften above our heads to gentle apricot, delicate pink, and serene lavender; portents of the calm night to come.
The smog of last week has, unbeknownst to me, created this heavenly glory, filling the air with smoke and coal dust and killing my friend Ada’s baby brother. Asthma, the grown-ups said, but one less mouth to feed. I don’t know how Ada stands having so many brothers and sisters. I love Jack but the twins vex me.
‘Jack! May! Get in here!’ We spring down from the wall in response to my mother’s call, run up the Kings Road and away from the sleepy sun to the brick house at the corner. I think of the colours in the sky as I eat my bread and dripping and wonder if they can ever be captured and kept because I should like to look at them forever.
Tucked up next to Jack, with Ethel’s feet in my face, I wake at the sound of thunder. Jack sleeps on but Ethel stirs and kicks me. Anger flares and I ram an elbow into the soft flesh of her calf. Before she can thump me back, the bedroom door opens and my mother shakes Jack awake. ‘Come now,’ she whispers unsteadily, ‘We must away to the cellar quick as can be.’
The sky flashes blue and fills the room with a spectral light. My mother flinches and a small squeal escapes her lips, for she cannot bear a storm and is convinced we shall all be struck by lightning and killed dead. It is cold but there is no time to dress as my mother ushers us out of the warm bed and into the dank cellar below.
Jack puts his arms around me and I let myself be warmed by my darling big brother. Ethel and Edna, my twin sisters, follow my mother with doleful eyes as she paces up and down the cellar, fretting about the storm come to kill us all. There is only one chair down here, a rickety old kitchen chair with the seat worn through, and my mother sits on it heavily, her face a mask of panic, and beckons us little ones to gather round her skirts. She is wearing a long, black silk apron and lifts it now to cover our heads, sheltering us from the heavens. I am not afraid of the storm, but my mother’s nerves scare me, I must confess. Jack squeezes my hand as mother starts to pray. I am so very tired and wish I could sleep but we must stand here in the cellar under mother’s apron until the storm passes and we are delivered from peril by God’s grace.
I can hardly hear the thunder in the cellar and I cannot hear the rain or see the lightning but I do hear the heavy tread of my father’s boots on the cellar steps. He is drunk again, the smell of ale conquering the earthy air of the cellar. My mother stops reciting the Lord’s Prayer and falls silent. Now I am properly afraid and want more than anything to leave the cellar but father blocks the doorway, his breathing heavied by alcohol. He is a giant to me, a shadowy figure who rarely bothers himself with his children, except to mete out punishment.
‘Go to bed!’ bellows father. Jack pulls me up the stairs and out of range of father’s fists. The twins clatter up the staircase behind us and we dive into bed, blankets pulled over our heads, this time willingly sacrificing our senses to avoid our father’s rage.
The storm continues but it is no match for the curses and sobs in the cellar, father’s patience worn thin by his highly-strung wife’s peculiarities. I think of the sunset, I think of the baker, Mr Marx and his kind face and vow to buy Jack a penny of stale cake after school tomorrow. I remember that tomorrow is Friday and that means fish and chips for tea. I will let Jack have all the crisp chips too because he loves me and keeps me safe.
Mother doesn’t wake us in the morning. I knock on the door of the other bedroom and father opens it. Behind him, I see mother’s dainty white hand upon the coverlet. It does not move. ‘Get to school!’ father shouts. And we do, pulling on our clothes and running down the road with empty stomachs. The street looks washed clean by the storm, the morning sunshine gilding the cobbles under our scuffed boots.
We come home for lunch to find mother at the kitchen table. Her hands are shaking and her face is bruised. She recites the Lord’s Prayer as Ethel cuts the loaf and Edna spreads jam on the slices. We eat quickly. ‘Mama?’ I say, but the praying doesn’t stop. Jack takes my sticky hand and leads me back to school as the sun hides behind a wall of light grey clouds.
We don’t sit on the chapel wall after school. Jack says we have to go straight home because mother needs us. There is a strange carriage outside the house and inside, father is talking to another man. Jack leads me upstairs and we sit on the landing to listen. ‘Where is mother?’ I ask Jack, but he shushes me. I get up and open the door to mother and father’s bedroom and see the same dainty hand on the coverlet. Mother is sleeping, the bruises on her face livid, their purple darker than that of the sunset sky. Footsteps on the stairs warn of father’s arrival. I crawl under the bed, hold my breath and squeeze shut my eyes to make me invisible. He is not alone. I open my eyes to see four pairs of boots. Two pairs approach the bed and pick mother up. She doesn’t wake up as they carry her out of the room, limp as my ragdoll Betty. The man father was speaking to asks him to sign something and he leaves the room as well. Father opens a drawer and then another, gathering mother’s things into a small carpet bag before heading down the stairs.
I run to the window and see the men putting mother into the carriage. It drives away. The sky is a darker grey now; there will be no sunset tonight. Father calls us down. ‘Mother is poorly and has gone to a hospital.’ he says.
‘Where?’ asks Ethel.
‘Can we visit her?’ asks Edna.
Father doesn’t answer. He gives Jack ninepence and tells him to go and get tea.
I follow Jack to the fish and chip shop. ‘He’s given us too much,’ I say, ‘It’s a penny for fish and a halfpenny for chips, that’s seven and half pence, not nine anymore. What shall we do with the extra? Shall we keep it? Do you think father will notice?’ Jack doesn’t answer me. His cheeks are wet. I remember my promise to buy him stale cake and smile. You can get a lot of cake for a penny and a half.
© Emma Mitchell, 2020. All rights reserved.
Come What May was inspired by May Owen, Autobiographical Letter (2:576) in the Burnett Archive of Working-Class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.
Author’s Note:
I approached the archive looking specifically for female experiences of marginalisation. I was struck by the richness and authenticity of the voices in the autobiographies, expressed through a personal vernacular. May Owen’s letter was full of evocative details from her childhood. Large events were glossed over, but the sunsets, the cleanliness of the baker’s shop and the price of fish and chips in the early years of the twentieth century had stayed vivid in her memory. I took these images, as well as her vocabulary, and used an incident she described as amusing – that of her mother covering her children’s heads with an apron during a storm – as the impetus for the narrative. Some of the other letters I read described children’s homes and asylums with a matter-of-factness that seems cold and strange to a modern reader, but I used this technique to create pathos in the story. I always strive for concision and economy in prose, creating space for active reading, and aim to create credible voices and emotional realism in my work.
Emma Mitchell is a writer and comedian whose work centres on the body, especially the female body, and its relationship to culture and identity. An ex-school teacher and Advertising strategist, she has performed worldwide since 2008 as a comedian, burlesque artist, pole dancer and trapeze artist. Following serious injury in 2011 she had to re-evaluate her relationship with her body, and became increasingly frustrated by contemporary discourse on beauty, body image, and our relationship with our physical selves. She wrote and performed her first one-woman show, The Naked Stand Up, in 2014, is the producer of Naked Girls Reading, London, and has appeared on Radio 4’s Late Night Woman’s Hour discussing nudity and her work. Her new show, Aunty Glory’s Porny Story Hour, a parodic romp through the classics of erotic fiction, will appear at Brighton Fringe this autumn, lockdown permitting. She is currently studying an MA Creative Writing at Brunel University London.
One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.
Some individuals may find the topic covered in this blog post distressing. Should you require support please contact:
Brunel Students: Student support and welfare team
Non-Emergency NHS Helpline: 111
Samaritans: 116 123 (open 24 hours)
Cigarette cartons, cards, and puke sloshed around the narrow corridor of the submarine as it crashed over waves, making even the gambling man sick. The mess boy never saw the gambler throw-up, but at least he knew that someone ate the grub that he made for breakfast.
Everyday he stood in the kitchenette that served the entire crew. They sat in the narrow metal space as best as they could make. Each of the ten or so submariners lined up for lunch and stood silent as the broth dropped down into their trays. Without even looking they turned around and took their place on the bench; put the warm trays down on worn knees that were as tired as the gears grinding in the engine deck bellow, and, without looking down, started eating.
‘What you serving today?’
Without taking his eyes off the ladle the boy replied, ‘Same as always’, and watched the mariner’s eyes fade as he walked back and sat with the others, their backs resting against the metal walls.
It wasn’t the work or the measly wage that wasn’t worth a breath that got to you eventually. No, it wasn’t how or why you ended up down here, in this lifeless vessel that breathed diesel and sweat. None of that mattered, and the boy knew better than the mariners. You were in the bowels of the Colossus not because of punishment, but because, in one way or another, you feared the bullet that wouldn’t kill you, just pierce your flesh and fill your lungs with blood and drown you slowly as you lay in a rotten trench.
He finished serving and joined the rest of the crew. The boy didn’t want any of the broth because he knew where it came from. Besides, he was the one who held the key to the dry-store and could always get his hands on something to eat. He watched them pick at the broth and was about to ask if it’s any good, but stopped himself because he would get the all too familiar answer, ‘Same as always’.
Through the thick glass of porthole you could see the sun. You couldn’t tell if it was rising over the ocean, or sinking with them because of the algae and sand that covered the glass. But you were happy because it was day and losing track of time down here was easy. What you knew too is that it was shallow waters and the only reason you would be in shallow waters is if you’re going to the surface.
The boy got up and made his way to the sleeping quarters. The chains that held the thin cloth the mariners slept in creaked under his weight as he climbed the bunk. He liked his new bunk because it was facing the only clean porthole on the whole submarine. He rocked in the hammock and thought about reading the bundle of letters in his pillowcase, but a momentary shadow caught his eyes. The submarine darted downwards and the bangs in the engine room grew louder. A black ooze splashed-over the porthole and everything went dark.
The whole room shook and the boy fell from his bunk. The howls in the engine room were relentless, but as he stepped into the corridor he could feel the cold water in his boots. He rushed over to the mess hall where the sound of metal tearing made his ears bleed. The hull’s had been breached and the cold ocean water poured through the gaping hole. It was quick and merciless, no matter how many buckets the crew threw at it, they were all spat back. The boy joined in the effort, but the spray was stronger and pinned him against the wall. A sharp pain seared through his spine and he screamed. For a moment he couldn’t feel his legs. There was no point in the madness and he was the first one to realize it as he watched the waters toy with his crew-mates. So that’s how it’s going to end, the boy thought, the ocean didn’t want us and we’ll all be buried here.
The crew had given up. There was no way to reach the surface. The men turned to prayer, some were crying over their skin torn to the bone because they tried to claw their way through the steel walls. The engine had died and everyone else with it.
Once the boy got back on his feet, the water already rose to his knees. He limped back to the sleeping quarters and found his overturned bench still dry as it rested against the wall. With a quick push he steadied it back on its legs and climbed back onto his bench. The bundle of letters in his pillow was damp, but he found what he was looking for. It was a picture of him and the gambler standing in front of the Colossus just a week ago when he was relieved of duty. He remembered watching how freely the gambler waved as he walked away and got lost in the crowd.
The bottom bunk was already underwater and most shouts had already died down. The boy laid down on the top bunk and took off his shoes. His back still ached, but it also felt nice to be out of his boots. As the water rose he felt tired and there was no better time to rest than now. He let go of the picture and watched it float around the room. It never left through the open hatch and instead circled the room as if caught in some rogue current. Eventually the porthole gave in too and pieces of glass scattered over his eyes. Just then, in the blank night before the water took the last of his senses, he remembered the last thing that the gambler said to him. It was better to be blown up here and be unknown than be a rotten body at your mother’s doorstep.
© Kasparas Pakalnis, 2020. All rights reserved
The Colossus was inspired by J.T. Haskins, Diary of leading stoker J.T. Haskins – aboard HM submarine “E14” Dardenells – 26th March – 19th May, 1915, in the Burnett archive of working class autobiography, special collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University London.
Author’s Note:
When I initially looked through the materials given to us at the Burnett archive, I couldn’t help but feel an outsider. After all, it is the working class autobiography of the UK. It’s hard then, for me to explain how and why I chose the diary entries of J.T. Haskins as source material for my story. Probably because it was about something slightly outside of the working class, not a coal-miner’s poem, or a short story about a teacher. But it wasn’t Haskins’ story that interested me, it was the space that it occupied, a submarine. I found it very isolated, confined from the outside world. It was interesting for me to see, and challenge myself, what kind of story could unfold down there. I started with writing the first sentence while still at the Burnett archive. I let the words sit for about a week until I was sure what I wanted to write. After I finished writing the story I read Magic Dust That Lasts, an Arts Council England report about creative writing in schools. It got me thinking about writers brought into different spaces, groups, and demographics not only to develop creative writing, but also for therapeutic reasons. What if writers went to army barracks to talk to young conscripts, or held workshops with veterans? It would be beneficial and interesting, and it wouldn’t be the first time soldiers wrote about their experiences. Poems of soldiers in the First World War come to mind, as well as some of the Lost Generation’s writing. At the end I just thought to myself – What if J.T. Haskins had attended a workshop like that?
Kasparas Pakalnis was in born in Vilnius in 1997, and has lived in Warsaw, St. Petersburg, and London, where he currently resides. He is currently working on a novel, as well as poetry. Kasparas has a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing from Brunel University London, where he is now studying for a Masters in Creative Writing. His literary interests include psychogeography, travel literature, and experimental poetry. Kasparas’ early short stories and poetry have been published in local university and borough anthologies, Pendulum and We Are Here. His blog is https://iswearihadmore.wordpress.com
One of a series of blog posts written by Brunel’s creative writing students, inspired by the Burnett Archive of Working Class Autobiographies.
Dear Sir,
You are officially invited to The Osea Island Colony for The Afflicted. Your invitation has come by recommendation and is based on your status as unemployed inebriate.
This programme will focus on ensuring your sobriety going forward and will consist of various forms of manual labour on the Osea Island. The pay for said labour will be sent home to your family to ensure their ongoing health.
There are three rules:
1) Prompt obedience to all orders
2) Complete sobriety
3) Observance of appointed hours
We remind you that you are lucky to have been selected for such a programme and we ask that you bear this in mind when it comes to adhering to the rules.
We look forward to welcoming you on 20th October 1904.
Our best,
The Osea Island Colony For The Afflicted
‘Fred, half of them look like they’re about to drop dead. What on earth makes you think they’re going to be capable of any kind of manual labour?’ Elsie looked up at her husband through what had been a painstakingly delicate coiffed hairstyle and was now a mess of auburn curls, worry etched on her porcelain features. She could see the concern behind his dark eyes, the slight tension in his thick eyebrows as he stared straight ahead at the group, but knew he would never admit to it. ‘We’re here to help them Elsie. The manual labour was just a way for me to get them here, You know that.’ Before she could say anything else, he had begun a confident stride towards the diffident group and she hobbled across the sand, her heels and heart sinking at every step.
The men would be sleeping four to a hut, each with a single wrought iron bed and modest trunk for any personal belongings. Each man had been instructed to bring one change of clothes and these were to be placed atop the trunks, along with a pair of steel toe capped boots, loaned to them for work use only. In Hut 3, William sat on the edge of his bed, a picture of his wife and two daughters tight in his hand, his face expressionless. Next to him, Ernest, significantly older than the men he shared a hut with, sat hunched with a newspaper, sighing any time any of the men dared to make a noise.
At the very edge of the room, Lawrence was unpacking his bag slowly and deliberately, folding each piece of clothing with utmost care before placing it carefully in his trunk. Meanwhile, Charlie threw himself onto the bed, the springs creaking vociferously as he landed. ‘Not much room for subtlety here lads. I’ll be sure to let you know in advance of any visitors of the female persuasion! What the wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her . . . and it sure as hell won’t hurt me either!’ His pale freckled face seemed to split in half as his laugh echoed around the meagre space, eliciting no response spare another sigh from Ernest. Instead of giving up however, Charlie rose from his bed and moved to extend an oversized hand towards William. ‘Charlie.’
William blinked as if caught unaware, placing the picture face down on the bed before extending a smaller, stockier hand. ‘Er. William. Pleasure.’
Charlie continued around the room, earning a softly spoken greeting from Lawrence and a predictably gruff, short tempered one from Ernest. Greetings extended, the men settled down to sleep for their 5am breakfast call. Tomorrow would be their first day on the job.
The sky was blackened, clouds hanging low in threat as Frederik watched the silhouettes of 30 beaten down men make their way towards the largest hut. Inside, Elsie had prepared enough porridge to feed every man, and lined up 30 glasses so they could each drink some milk. As they entered, most took a bowl without hesitation but she noticed and pointed out to Frederik that around three merely took a glass of milk and sat nursing it, empty eyes staring straight ahead as if they had no soul left at all. ‘Withdrawal Elsie. Many will go through it at some point here. It won’t be easy but we just have to let them go through it or else they likely won’t ever come out the other side.’ Years working for his father’s brewery had instilled a deep understanding of inebriates in Frederik, and a deep loathing for the poison that caused such disease. His decision to finally sell his shares had come when Elsie had been punched by one such inebriate; the move to buy Osea Island and create the colony, after he had looked into the eyes of said man and seen the hopelessness that lay beneath. The men of Hut 3 sat together merely to avoid any new meetings. The talk was more of a running monologue from Charlie, with Lawrence and William responding only as distraction from the man breaking down at the adjacent table. ‘-like I say, porridge reminds me of my Ma. Used to make it every morning with piles of brown sugar on top. Nothing like it. Course there’s not brown sugar on this but then what can we really expect. I mean, we’re here to work right?’ The men nodded. ‘How’re you all feeling about the day’s work?’
‘It’ll be hard no doubt.’ replied William, ‘But like you say, we’re here to work. Sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over and we’ll all be home to our families.’ Lawrence nodded in agreement, taking another spoonful of porridge in an effort to avoid talking. Meanwhile, Ernest made no such effort, staring ahead with a look so vehement that none of the men dared question his silence.
‘Hut 3. You’ll be building a new sea wall down on the shore. Instructions are here. You’re to work straight through till six when we’ll meet again for dinner. There is to be no leaving the island. There is to be no recreational time. Understood?’
The men nodded, William taking the paper from Frederik’s outstretched hand and leading the men down the beach and towards their spot. The threat of the clouds loomed ever closer until finally, just as the men reached the shore, the sky seemed to tear in half and a torrent of rain soaked them almost instantly. ‘Fucking cock-sucker!’ It was the first thing Ernest had said, or rather shouted, since they had met him and the men turned in shock at the obscenity.
‘Oh you can bugger off an’ all, lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of animal!’
They turned back in haste as William tried desperately to read the now sodden instructions to dispel the tension. ‘It says er . . . oh fuck I’ve no idea. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put men with fucking drinking problems in stressful situations they have no control over. Fuck!’
William kicked a nearby pile of rocks and stalked off across the beach to calm down, Charlie following close behind. Lawrence meanwhile, walked towards the assembled pile of materials and began to painstakingly inspect its contents, muttering under his breath as he did so. Eventually, he stood and walked towards Ernest. ‘It seems we ought to be using the larger rocks to build a sort of foundation. I’d imagine we’re then to use those pieces of scaffolding to assemble a frame which we can build the rest of the materials around.’
His voice was so soft it could have easily been lost to the wind and for a moment, as Ernest continued to stare out to sea, it seemed as though it had. Then, without averting his eyes from the waves, Ernest replied. ‘Better get started then. You sort the bigger rocks and I’ll get the others.’ And he might have been mistaken, could have imagined it or misheard a whistle in the wind, but
Lawrence could have sworn he heard from the older man. ‘Good job.’.
Slowly as the days went on and the storms came and went, the men found a kind of order to their work. Lawrence led quietly whilst William relayed the orders to the men in a way they could hear over the roaring winds. Ernest remained silent and angry, whilst Charlie remained brash and crude, but the work was done to target each day. The days were long, exhausting and all suffered with different forms of withdrawal from what had been their vice, but all remained strong willed and determined to finish the job.
The room was dark as William sat cross legged, small on the floor. ‘He’s coming back. He’s coming back/’ He whispered it so quietly under his breath that he could barely hear himself and the room only got darker and darker until finally he curled up where he was, face towards the door so he was ready when it finally opened. When a crack of light finally illuminated the room, William stayed curled, eyes squeezed shut, knowing better than to show he was awake at this time. His father’s voice interspersed with a woman’s, nonsensical mutterings merging with moans and the sound of their stumbling feet as they moved through the room. A sharp pain in William’s ribs. Heels scratching his face as the woman and his father tripped over him and onto the carpet just metres from where he lay curled miniscule. So miniscule that he was no more than a trip hazard resulting in a tumble into drunken giggles. No more than an excuse to begin what they had come here to do before even having reached the bedroom. The moans and animalistic noises he had only ever heard from his bedroom were much more alarming so close. Eyes squeezed so tightly they began to hurt, he folded himself even harder into a ball, hoping he might just disappear if he wished hard enough.
William woke in a sweat. Used now to waking in the dark, he was unsure whether it was night or morning. He knew this would be hard. Knew that the withdrawal would be painful, emotional, but nothing had prepared him for the dreams. Still, he was doing this for his family. He would not, could not allow his children to suffer because of his own problems. Best not to sleep now, he thought. Best to wait it out till morning where the dreams could not find him. Unbeknownst to him, Charlie lay awake in the next bed. He had not slept properly for weeks. Could not shift the memories long enough to find real rest.
She was dainty, elegant, well dressed. She moved through the crowd with incomparable grace and though she stood a couple of inches below most of the other women in the room, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. Somehow, inexplicably and for the first time ever, Charlie found himself stunned to silence. When he eventually found himself in front of her, the words which were usually so ready to tumble from his lips without thought, found themselves halted by nerves. And when he finally found his voice, her smile stretched so widely across her exquisite face in response, that he almost lost it again. When he finally found sleep again, it was with a smile etched across his whitened face.
‘Apparently there’s women coming to visit later today lads! No drink of course, though I heard some of the men in Hut 5 managed to sneak down to the next town and get themselves some . . . Wouldn’t risk it myself. Need the money sent home don’t I. Anyway, I’d imagine the women will be welcome relief for some of the men here! Been far too long for me, while the cat’s away and all!’ His over exaggerated wink was lost to the men who were too busy shifting stones to look at him. William looked up shortly after though, speaking up over the wind so all the men could hear. ‘I heard one of the men who snuck out got caught. He’s being sent home today. I know it’s not easy but you’d think with the money being sent home and all that no one would be that stupid . . . this is the only chance for most of us . . .’
William and Lawrence spoke in hushed tones out of earshot from the rest of the halfway party. ‘I’m not sure what his problem is to be honest. I know we’ve all got our own reasons for being here but he just seems so… high spirited. Seems to have a great wife, loves the ladies. I feel guilty for thinking about it but I often wonder whether he really deserves such an opportunity.’ William really did feel guilty. He had grown fond of Charlie over the last couple of months, even felt he might miss him when this was all over, but he just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that while the rest of them seemed to be suffering through so much, he seemed to be coasting through the thing like a holiday camp. Lawrence nodded. ‘I see what you mean. Though we all have our secrets I’m sure. He seems happy but, well we don’t know what he might have been through. We can’t ever know what any other person has truly been through.’
William nodded and both men looked out at the high spirited group who were finally beginning to look unrecognisable from the men who had arrived months ago.
‘It’s a girl.’
Charlie had been totally overwhelmed at the sight of her. She was dainty, exquisite already, just like her mother. ‘Can I hold her?’
‘Of course Sir. In good time. But I do need you to sit down first I’m afraid . . . It’s your wife. It was a tough birth you see and well . . . I’m afraid she didn’t make it. I’m sure you were made aware of the complications often associated with childbirth. It really is very tough on the mother and well, many don’t make it. Anyway, I’ll give you some time with your daughter and if you need to talk any further, I’ll be just through here.’ The pain had been breathtaking, all encompassing and impossible to ignore.
‘You ok Charlie?’ William had heard him awaken, could hear his hurried breathing and gasping tears.
‘Fine thanks William. Just a bad dream.’ Rough nights were not rare in Hut 3. They had all awoken in tears at one time or another.
Lawrence stood whisky in hand, purposely lost in a crowd of identical men. The noise of post work drinkers was deafening but by his third glass, the noise had become a comforting blur. Finally, at closing time, the hordes were kicked out, stumbling in various directions towards their respective homes and waiting wives. Lawrence walked slower, not yet ready for the crossed arms and raised eyebrows that he knew would greet him at home. The darkness of the alleyway seemed to envelop him as he walked deeper. He knew it was not safe, knew the stories about this area, yet still he pushed onwards. Then out of nowhere, rough hands grabbed from behind. Arms grappled and pushed body against body against wall. The moment became a disjointed jumble of terror, pain and hot tears as he realised what was happening and what his choosing to walk down this alley must mean.
An empty bed where Lawrence should have been. The men looked at eachother, unsure of their next move. None had seen him leave and the storm outside told them wherever he had gone, the decision had not been taken lightly. Mercifully the storm meant his absence was disguised for the entire working day but when the day finally reached its end, the workload noticeably harder without the fourth worker, the men’s concerns had reached fever pitch. Sitting in Hut 3, Ernest was the first to speak. ‘We need to find him. The only place he could be is the town. It’s dark already so I suggest we head in now.’ Charlie and William turned in disbelief. ‘He’s the best of us all and you both know it. Now I’m not sticking around for a debate. Either you’re coming or you’re not.’ He began to pull his still soaked jacket on and just as he reached the door, the men snapped to attention, hurriedly putting their own coats on and joining him.
The journey was by no means easy but the image of slight, careful, softly spoken Lawrence trying to negotiate such a storm, fuelled the group onwards until they finally reached a small town consisting only of a pub, post office and small shop. Without discussion, they headed towards the pub, faces turned towards the ground in an act which seemed to protect from the storm but did more to prepare them for what was inside. The smell of alcohol hit them like a wall, the crowds of people, the familiar sounds, all drawing them in whilst at the same time pushing them back. They stood, breathing unsteadily, completely knocked for six and paralyzed to the spot, until they saw a familiar figure slumped across a table in the very back of the room. As they approached, they could see immediately that it was much worse than they could have imagined. Lawrence’s face was covered in his own blood. Across his neck, blue marks seemed to suggest some kind of strangling and the marks continued across his entire body to varying degrees of seriousness. In his shaking hand was a glass of whisky. ‘I . . . They . . . I wanted to . . . I needed to . . . and they, they— Before I came here I . . . I just needed to know . . . to know if . . . ’ William pulled him gently to his feet. Charlie put an arm around him. Ernest placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We don’t need to know lad. Let’s just get you home.’
And they journeyed back through the storm, four men, broken, battered, to finish building a sea wall.
© Simone Ayling Moores, 2020. All rights reserved.
‘The Osea Island Colony for The Afflicted’ was inspired by May Owen, Autobiographical Letter (2-576), in the Burnett Archive of Working class Autobiography, Special Collections, Brunel Library, Brunel University of London.
Author’s note:
I was initially drawn to this particular archive because I was drawn to the idea of the writer’s alcoholic father being sent to build a sea wall to help his addiction. Mostly I was amazed to discover that there were such progressive ways of handling addiction in this period of history but something about the idea of men being sent to build a sea wall also got my imagination running wild and, though there were only a couple of sentences referencing it, I found myself wanting to know more about the men’s stories. Initially I read the whole archive as I was concerned that the part I was interested in was too brief but I found I couldn’t stop thinking about it and was building characters in my head before I even sat down to write. I decided that telling the story of five very different men in such an unusual situation would allow the opportunity to explore five unique stories of addiction and to underline what a nuanced illness it can be in the process. Although I was not directly inspired by any particular works, my writing style is inspired by authors such as Mark Haddon, Nick Hornby, and Oyinkan Braithwate.
Simone is a writer, musician and primary school teacher living and studying in West London. She received a PGCE and a first class degree in Music from University of Chichester and is currently studying for a Masters in Creative Writing at Brunel University, London. She is currently working on a speculative fiction novel about a new drug which cures death and has just finished the challenge of writing and recording an album in a week called ‘Escapism‘ with her husband. You can find Simone on Facebook and Instagram where she is always keen to chat about new ideas.
By Antonia Fernandes and Zoe Farace (special collections volunteers)
Victory in Europe Day, also known as VE Day was celebrated 8th May 1945 to mark the end of World War Two and the success of the Allies in Europe. The war continued in other parts of the world such as the Pacific, and so therefore the day was specifically celebrated as a European victory.
VE Day naturally prompted much excitement throughout Europe, and celebrations had begun the night before, with a wireless announcement from Churchill that victory was to be celebrated the following day and that
“Everyone, man or woman, has done their best”
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/timeline/factfiles/nonflash/a1057448.shtml
Celebrations included street parties, Churchill gave a speech to the crowds from 10 Downing Street and the Royal Family waved to the British public from the balcony at Buckingham Palace, and called to
“remember the men in all the services, and the women in all the services, who have laid down their lives”.
https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/what-you-need-to-know-about-ve-day
In her memoirs, which are archived as part of the Burnett Archive of Working-Class Autobiographies, Ellyse Finnie remembers VE Day as a joyous occasion. She describes how the nation was on edge days before the announcement, knowing that peace was soon to be declared as
“radios were kept switched on”
BURN 4 Finnie p. 99
and that
“there had been more than usual amount of free time for the men stationed at Park Hall Military Camp”.
BURN 4 Finnie p. 99
It was a momentous day of joy and good deeds, and created an even stronger sense of unity within the country. Finnie recounts how the day
“was something so special that Susanne was allowed to stay up for it”,
BURN 4 Finnie p. 99
and the military boys helped out in the local community. There was also however a sense of an ending, in that for many stationed away from home in various parts of the country VE Day
“might be the last time we should be together but we were full of hope for the future”.
BURN 4 Finnie p. 99
VE Day was long awaited. You can find more of our archival resources relating to the Second World War in our topic guide.
Brunel Special Collections 