Women in Black

By Josephine R Caldwell

England of the 1950s and 60s, a Catholic Children’s Home, and a four-year-old girl … What is life like, for a child growing up this way? Is it all doom, gloom and discipline?

Free of Welfare control, officially an adult, the Women’s Liberation Movement is riding its Second Wave, ‘sisterho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josephine Robinson
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780646819716

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Copyright Josephine R. Caldwell, 2019.

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The right of Josephine R. Caldwell to be identifies as the author

of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No apart of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or

introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-0-6468197-1-6(e-book)

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in any other form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Cover Art by Clare Colins

https://www.redbubble.com/peole/colinsart/portfolio

Dedicated to Rachael.

Acknowledgements.

To Bridget Brandon of Storyworks, who inspired and encouraged me to make this journey.

To the Dorrigo Writer’s group who supported me along the way. Iris, Carol, Dee, Sidsel, Lorraine and Nell.

To Dorothea Rossellini for guiding me through the labyrinth of printing and publishing.

Preface

I wrote this memoir to gain a deeper understanding of where I came from and how my childhood has shaped my sense of personal identity. It has been a journey of healing, reconciliation and reclamation; of my past, of my family and of my sense of belonging.

I want my children to know my story so that they too, can understand something of their own and of how our stories intertwine. I wished to create a family tapestry, weaving the unique patterns, shapes, textures, and colours into our family heirloom, to heal the sense of loss that runs through my life like an unbroken thread and to mend the threads that are broken, if I can, for my children and for myself.

Our memories and our view of the world are shaped by our emotional responses and senses as much as by the bricks and mortar of actual events, our actions, driven by our beliefs and instincts. Some memories are a mixture of reality and imagination, especially the earliest ones. It doesn’t matter. A child is part of the sensory landscape in which she finds herself. She doesn’t comprehend the forces that impact upon her world. To a small child, fact and fantasy are one.

My child-self lives in the eternal present. To rediscover that sense of the ever present now and the joy to fully live it, has become the underlying quest of my life journey. In growing my story, I want no less than to discover my greatest meaning Jung, to unfold my own myth, Rumi and to know, at the core of my being, that I am the words, I am the music and the dance, I am the story itself, Virginia Woolfe.

Note Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of people who would not wish to be identified. I have also adopted my grandmother’s surname as I feel strong connection to her, though I never knew her. The mending of a broken thread.

CONTENTS

Bethlehem House, Newcastle

Bethlehem House, Liverpool

Druids Cross

Losing Mum

Where Do I Belong?

Eton Lodge

Eighteen

Valentine’s Day

Love Is Not Enough?

The Leaving of Liverpool

Glastonbury

London Calling

Bethlehem House, Newcastle.

May 1955

We stand before an open driveway that sweeps away, out of sight, behind the tall trees of a small woodland carpeted with vibrant Bluebells. Two stone pillars, etched with the name, ‘Sandyford Manor’ and topped by tall black lanterns, guard the wrought iron gates of the sandstone walls, bowl-shaped to accommodate the turning of 18th century coaches. The dark stocky walls of the manor house can just be glimpsed through the trees and shrubbery.

I am entranced by the magic carpet of Bluebells. My small body fills with an exuberance so wild I want to let go of my mother’s hand and run off into the gently sloping dell to find the fairies that must surely be hiding there. But the magic of fairyland is not strong enough to lure me away from my mother’s side. Why have we come here and who lives in that big dark house behind those trees? I sense more changes in the air.

There have been too many of them lately. At four years old I have already discovered that the world is not a safe or predictable place to be; all those unfamiliar houses and strange grown-ups frowning down at me. One night, I had even been left on my own; upstairs in a dark and scary room above a corner shop, put to bed on a cold leather couch by a grim-faced Aunty Lizzie. The sound of angry voices and Mum crying downstairs only made me more frightened.

Then there was that visit to the big posh house with the tall man wearing a long black dress and a stiff white collar round his neck. Why was he wearing a dress? Men don’t wear dresses. Unless they are the ugly sisters in the Pantomime like the one we went to at Christmas time. The man in the black dress had a big shaggy dog too, tall as me, with smelly breath in my face. That dog was much bigger than my Scampy, but I wasn’t a bit scared of him. I like dogs.

I got bored when my mum and the strange man started talking serious grown-up. I wandered off to explore and found a magic bathroom whose toilet sat up on a raised platform like a throne in the Fairy Queen’s palace. The toilet roll holder, the taps on the wash basin and the towel rack were all made of curly gold and there was a window that filled the room with magic colours, like a rainbow. Our toilet at home was in the back yard and I had to use a potty at night like a baby when it was too cold and dark to go out there in winter time.

Now we’ve come to an even bigger house and I just want to go home and play with Scamp in the big wooden tea-chest and dress him up in my cardies and for everything to be just like it was at Daddy and Nanna’s. I wouldn’t even mind the angry words and the shouting.

Phoebe tightens her grip on her daughter’s hand. She hesitates. She doesn’t want to do this. But she’s got to go into the hospital again, and who will look after little Norma while she is in there and for Lord knows how long? She could ignore the priest’s advice to let the nuns take care of Norma and go to Uncle Bill’s instead but then she’d have to face Aunty Gilda’s smug, ‘I told you so,’ disapproval and be in her debt for ever.

As far as Gilda is concerned, Phoebe is a fallen woman, a lost cause. Pregnant at sixteen, it was God’s judgement that the infant was dead before she reached her first birthday. Tragic? Yes, of course it was! You’d not wish the sorrow of losing a child on any mother, married or not, but those were the war years, death and tragedy all around. You never knew if you’d ever see your loved ones again once they’d gone off to fight for King and Country. You’d lie awake at night trying not to imagine the horrors they were going through, or if those silent doodlebug bombs would finally reach Stockton. That damn Hitler! May he rot and burn alive in Hell for all eternity! Evil days they were. Bred promiscuity as well as terror and suffering; a ‘devil may care, live today for tomorrow you die’ attitude that saw caution and morals thrown to the wind and babies born out of wedlock with not enough food to feed them or their deserted mothers! You’d think young Phoebe’d have learnt her lesson after that all that grief, but no, she goes and gets herself pregnant again, this time to a married man no less! Of course, it was never going to last! He has three children already, one only three months older than young Norma, and years before a divorce could come through. Not that I approve of divorce. ‘For better or worse,’ that’s what you promised with the marriage vows whether made at the altar or not. No, I dread to think what will become of the little lass and her mother. That Phoebe had no business getting knocked up again. How is she ever going to support a child with her bad health? She’ll never hold a job down long enough to keep a roof over their heads, let alone food on the table!

I look up curiously at my mother. We have been standing in this driveway for ages and I am getting bored. My mum smiles down at me reassuringly.

‘Come on then, Norma, let’s go meet the nuns, see if they can look after you for a while.’

What are ‘The Nuns’ and why might they look after me? I don’t like the sound of this at all. I pull back, tightening my grip on my mothers’ hand.

‘Let’s go home now Mummy, let’s go home.’

‘It’s all right pet. It will only be for wee while, until Mummy gets better and finds us a new home.’

‘But we’ve got a home, with Daddy and Granny and Scamp!’

But my mother tugs gently on my hand and leads me reluctantly up the winding driveway, past the fairy dell to the big house with me, pulling back; my feet dragging. The dark mansion looms larger, more imposing than ever, squatting over us, solid, sooty and immovable.

My mother rings the bell at the side of a giant wooden door and smiles down at me again. The door is opened by another black robed figure, this one of generous proportions and a round kindly face. This must be The Nun. I have never seen one before. Why is she dressed in all black as well? The Nun invites us into the spacious hallway.

‘Hello. My name is Sister Gonzaga,’ she says. ‘You must be Phoebe and this is your little girl, Norma.’ She smiles down kindly at me. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find in the garden shall we?’ Her eyes twinkle.

‘Sister Gonzaga.’ I have never heard such a funny name before and I am temporarily distracted from my unease. I sneak a peek up at the strange woman. I can tell she is a woman because she is called ‘sister’ and her voice sounds like my auntie’s and her skin is smooth and soft, not scratchy like Uncle Bill’s. But she is not like any lady I have ever seen.

We follow the Sister down a wide wood-panelled corridor to tall, double glass doors that open onto a large, neatly rowed vegetable garden bordered by gravel pathways and colourful spring flowers. We crunch along the pathway behind the Sister. She stops by a large hedge, bends and gingerly plucks a round fruit from among the tangle of thorny branches. She holds it out to me.

‘Do you know what this is?’ she asks me.

She is holding a solid, pale green bead. It looks like a grape only bigger and it’s got hairy prickles all over it. I shake my head. She persuades me to take the proffered fruit.

‘It’s a gooseberry!’ she declares. ‘Go on. Taste it. It is very nice!’

I hesitate, wary of the prickles, then cautiously place the curious fruit into my mouth, rolling it round and round with my tongue. I’m not sure what to make of it. The skin is smooth and hard like a marble and the hairy texture tickles the inside of my mouth.

I summon up my courage and bite decisively into the resistant berry. The seedy pulp bursts forth, sour-sweet and pippy, onto my tongue. I squeal and screw up my face at the sharp acid taste. The grown-ups laugh. I don’t know whether to laugh with them or maintain a dignified grown-up silence.

‘She’s not had one of them before,’ my mum tells the nun. ‘Do you like it, Norma?’

I nod. Yes, I like these funny new fruits called ‘gooseberry.’ I wonder if that’s what Goosy Gander likes to eat too.

We continue down the gravel path, the nun and my mother talking in low tones. I quickly loose interest, reassured that nothing untoward is about to happen yet and run off to find more gooseberries and perhaps, other new delights.

After a while, my mum calls me from the hedgerows. I run to her, eager to go home now. But the nun leads us around to the front of the Manor house instead, which, the Sister tells me, is called Bethlehem House. We enter the building through an ornate glass portico filled with lush green plants, and into a spacious hallway whose terracotta floor is a patterned mosaic of red, ochre, amber and black tiles.

‘Come and see my nursery, Norma’ says Sister Gonzaga.

I don’t want to. I am hesitant and anxious. I want to go home now. But I follow the nun. I am not letting my mother out of my sight. I will go anywhere as long as she is there, where I can see her.

We ascend a wide oak staircase leading off the hallway. Sister Gonzaga leads us along a long passageway and into a large, wood panelled room. The floor is covered with dark green linoleum. The tall, double-sash windows do little to lift the gloom.

In one corner of the room, there’s a large wooden climbing frame. Sister Gonzaga invites me to climb to the top of it. I do so, reassured by my mother’s continued presence and eager to demonstrate skills learnt on the climber at kindergarten. I can survey the whole room from up there and keep an eye on them both. On the wall is an oil painting of a small child dressed in a gown of filmy white gauze. The child in the painting is me. I am quite certain of that.

My mother and Sister Gonzaga sit chatting, working hard to seem casual and relaxed so as not to alarm me, but the air thrums with the tension of my mother’s anxiety over her imminent departure without me. It is the dark overture of separation, disruption, disconnection and abandonment that will shape my childhood and follow me about, as shadows do, for the rest of my life.

An older girl knocks on the nursery door and enters with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sister Gonzaga calls me down from my watchtower and offers jammy dodgers and lemonade. My mother is sad-faced and red-eyed, twisting a damp hanky round her fingers. I run to her, reaching out to hug her. But Sister Gonzaga intervenes and takes me onto her knee. I am really anxious now, panic rising, an uncontrollable tide. Nice as the Sister is, she is not my mother and it is my mum’s knee I want to be sitting on.

‘Your mummy has to go now, Norma,’ the Sister finally whispers softly as she strokes my hair. ‘You will be staying here with me for a while. I will look after you until Mummy comes back,’ she tells me.

I am immediately alarmed by this statement. My survival instincts surge to high alert; fight or flee. I can do neither. My mother is about to leave me in this strange house. She is not going to defend or protect me from hidden dangers like Mothers are supposed to.

I like to imagine that I threw myself to the ground, balled fists pounding, legs flaying and kicking in a loud and lusty tantrum, shaking the walls of that 18th century mansion-come-children’s-home, my screams shattering the leaded mullion windows, roaring, red faced and dangerous, ready to cause damage to any who dared come near me.

But I didn’t. My face fell instead into the helpless disbelief of a child inexplicably abandoned, mouth pouting, eyes accusing, chin trembling to hold back the upsurge of stormy tears; at the school gates, the kindergarten, the hospital, the poor house, with the baby sitter, or on the doorsteps of the convent.

We descend the stairs and cross the hallway to the convent’s double front doors, me, trying to free myself from Sister Gonzaga’s firm grip, she, tightening her hold on my hand.

Before the door is opened, my mother squats down in front of me, her eyes hold mine in a steady anxious gaze, delaying the moment of departure.

‘I’ll come back and fetch you soon as I get better pet. I promise.’

She is tearful as she kisses me. Then she is gone. Out the open door. Without me.

I watch her retreating figure with a sense of panic and fathomless loss; watch helplessly as she walks away down the long driveway. Round the bend. Out of sight. And there is nothing I can do about it.

The sight of a loved one walking away always evokes a deep sense of loss, even if I know that they will soon return. It is a memory older than I am. The image of a lone woman will come unbidden, triggered by a sound, a smell, a picture; sitting on a bus, a train, a park bench, in a waiting room, or in dreams, day or night. The woman is viewed from behind. Her hair and shawl billow out in the wind as she stands, alone, high on a cliff top, a rocky outcrop on the bleak moors, at the water’s edge of a small harbour, a sandy shore, or at the cottage gate. But always, no matter her setting, she is searching the far horizon for the tip of the sail, the prow of the boat, the flicker of the lantern, straining to hear the sound of the oars or the whinny of the horse that will announce the safe return to home or port, of the beloved; the husband, the father, the son, the mother, the daughter. She stares, hopefully, anxiously, longingly, out across a calm or stormy sea, a desolate windswept landscape or towards the sun, as it sets upon hope, across the moors, heralding a night of dark despair. The loved one never appears.

I had been separated from my mum before. There was no single parent pension or sickness benefit to support her in post war England. She’d leave me, in the large, drafty hall of a makeshift kindergarten, to rowdy games, quiet story times and afternoon naps on uncomfortable canvas stretchers that few of us children were tired enough to fall asleep on. The world would be set to right only when my mum appeared at the end of the day, framed in the hall’s tall double doors, arms held wide, inviting me to rush joyfully into her arms.

This is what I expected would happen after the visit to Sister Gonzaga’s secret garden and the gloomy playroom with its climbing watchtower and its picture of me. I was not expecting the shock of my mother leaving me there, in that big dark house. She would surely return, as she always had, to take me home at the end of the day. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was in hospital.

I have a photo of myself taken just after my fourth birthday a few days before Mum took me to Bethlehem House. It shows a chubby faced little girl with her hair carefully cut and combed into an adult’s short-fringed idea of respectability. The floral dress she wears is large enough to accommodate her growing. Its white-collar rucks up around her chin. She is staring at the camera, wary and uncertain, biting her bottom lip.

‘What is in that black box, and how did a picture of me get in there?’

The photo was my mother’s way of keeping me with her even as she left me in the convent and, with a child’s logic, is why I was so certain that the Joshua Reynolds painting in nursery of Bethlehem House was that very same picture.

Ida St

I was born, in the spring of 1951, into a very messy situation. My father, Leonard Preston, was awaiting a divorce from his wife, Hilda; a long, meantime wait designed to encourage reconciliation between warring couples without the death-us-do-part violence.

I imagine a procrastinating Leonard, torn between duty to his wife and their three young children, and his love for my soon-to-be mother, Phoebe; at least, I like to believe he loved her. For my parents, the regulation seven year cool off period merely accelerated their frustration. Not that that was of concern to the authorities, State or Church. My mother was, after all, the ‘other woman.’

At the time of my birth, my parents lived with a relative in Norton, a once medieval village in North East Yorkshire now engulfed by the township of Stockton-on-Tees. I am not sure whose home or what relative this was, though I remember sitting in a high chair, mouth opened wide in eager anticipation of the chookie egg delivered by spoon-plane, piloted by a small, familiar nanna with dark wavy hair. This was not my maternal grandmother, Isabella Caldwell. She had died of TB when my mum was ten years old. My mum was only three years old when her father, Francis Robinson died, also of TB.

My mother finally left the tiny two-up-two-down terrace house of Ida St, after increasingly intense arguments with my father. Though only about three years old at the time, I have a clear picture of a particularly loud altercation between them. My parents are framed in the window of the small living room-cum-dining room overlooking the tiny back yard of Ida St. My mother is shouting at my father. In her hand is a knife, recently used to chop the vegetables for tea. Our terrified dog, Scamp, is crouched beneath the wooden dining table. I want to join him there, under the table, but I’m frozen stiff by sight of the knife. I know knives are very dangerous. They are sharp. They can cut your fingers off and make you bleed and I am always being warned not to touch them.

Years later, when swapping stories with the other convent kids, I will place the knife in my father’s hand, the better to protect my mother’s reputation.

Father

I have few memories of my father. Those I do have are wrapped up in the warm, yeasty fragrance of baking bread. During the war, Leonard was a ships’ cook in the Merchant Navy. When the war was over, he worked as a cook in a hotel. That is, presumably, where he met my mother, a chambermaid and ‘domestic servant.’ By the time I came along, my father was a baker. Mum often took me down the cobblestoned lane to the bakery where my he worked. In my memory, he takes me in his arms and swings me up into the air. I imagine I’d squeal with delight, loving the ‘up in the clouds’ game that filled me with both terror and exhilaration. But I am safe, perched high up on my father’s strong shoulders. He carries me through huge wooden doors into the warm fragrance of the bakehouse and jogs down past the long row of enormous ovens that radiate welcome heat after the chilly lane outside. Da swings me down to show me the inside of an empty oven, pressing down on the big, shiny wooden handle that opens its thick, grey metal doors. It is like a cave in there with wide curved brick walls and metal shelves. I am filled with wonder by this huge oven for giants!

My da always brings me a Milky Bar home after work. I await his return in eager anticipation of the sweet white chocolate treat. And I can sing the Milky Bar jingle too!

‘The Milky Bar Kid is sweet and strong.

The Milky Bar Kid just can’t go wrong.

The Milky Bar Kid always knows what’s right.

Nestles Milky Bar!’

‘By jingo, she’s a little cracker, our Norma!’ my father proudly declares to one and all. ‘Knows all the words and the tune off by heart she does. It’s her as should be singing on yon wireless!’

Every morning, Da lets me have his crispy bacon rinds. Except on Fridays. There’s no delicious bacon rinds to crunch on Fridays. I don’t understand why. No meat allowed on Fridays, only fish. Friday was the day of the Crucifixion. Was my father’s family Catholic?

The Burning Man

Guy Fawkes Night was a big event celebrated every year on the 5th November. Everyone from the neighbourhood gathered round a huge bonfire on the common at the end of our street. Loud, colourful fireworks are set off for all to enjoy. Catherine Wheels spin in golden spirals. Crackerjacks jump erratically along the ground making children and adults alike hop out of the way, squealing in in terror. The glittering blossoms of Sparkler’s fade too soon. Bangers deafen and startle. Sky Rockets whoosh up into the night sky exploding with changing colours, eclipsing the very stars. ‘Ooohs!’ and ‘aahhs!’ resound from mouths wide open in delighted wonder, upturned faces transformed by the sudden bursts of colour into masks of red, green, silver, blue and gold.

I, too, am delighted by the exploding coloured stars but my first experience of Bonfire Night was traumatic. I remember being in my father’s arms alongside my mother and other family members out to join in the fun. We are some distance back from the huge bonfire on top of which is a life-sized figure tied securely to a wooden chair. The straw man is dressed in old clothes and a battered hat like Da’s. There is great excitement and anticipation amongst the crowd gathered round the bonfire. ‘Let the fun begin!’ Fire torches are lit and held to the bonfire with great pomp and ceremony. The flames flicker then suddenly flare, higher and higher. My da is full of enthusiasm, urging me to watch this bewildering spectacle.

‘Look! Look at that, pet. You’ve never seen such a big fire! See how high the flames are!’ He points to the sky. ‘Look, look! See all the sparks flying up into the air like bonny stars!’

The hungry flames reach the chair and the figure sitting on it starts to sway and move in the heat as though trying to escape the fire now licking greedily at his legs. He rises to his burning feet, arms flaying and waving frantically about him as his body catches fire. I am horrified. How can my da be enjoying this terrible thing and everyone laughing out loud in sheer delight?

Finally, the Burning Man pitches forward, toppling over to be engulfed by the flames. I scream in high-pitched terror. No amount of reassurance from my mam and da can quiet me down. They tell me that the man isn’t real. I don’t believe them. I saw him moving. He even stood up! My mam and da reluctantly leave the celebrations to take me home, still sobbing. They are no doubt perplexed and disappointed by my unexpected reaction to such a joyous and exciting occasion.

My mother and father never did marry. When my mother finally left him, we lived in a rooming house for a time. I remember standing up on a wooden chair in front of a big square sink in a gloomy narrow kitchen. It is a cold, dark morning. Mum is trying to wash me ready for kindergarten. I am not cooperating. I keep twisting my face away from the soapy flannel and trying to climb down off the chair.

‘I don’t want to go to Kindy,’ I shout repeatedly in a very loud voice.

It is a battle of wills and I am working myself up into a tantrum. Mum is trying to shush me so as not to wake the neighbours. She is very close to losing her temper. She doesn’t need any more drama. She holds me tight to stop me falling off the chair and banging my head on the enamel sink.

‘Do you want the landlord to throw us out on the street?’ She asks crossly. ‘I have to go to work and you are going to make me late,’ she says in my ear to make herself heard above my yelling.

I don’t want to get Mum into trouble with the grumpy landlord but I don’t want her to leave me in the kindy either. Nor do I want to make her really cross. It is a dilemma too hard for a three-year old to solve; Mum wins the battle and off to Kindy we go.

My mother found work when and where she could, cleaning hotel rooms and private houses. Then she got sick and couldn’t work, so she turned to the priest and the Catholic Church. I was taken into the care of nuns. Adopting me out was not an option. My mother, had lost one child already. She wasn’t going lose another. Family research revealed that my mother, aged 18, gave birth to Teresa in 1943, during the war: my would-have-been elder sister, who died age 11 months; the child referred to by Aunty Greta at the news of my mother’s illegitimate pregnancy with me, and the father; the pilot Uncle John once told me of, shot down over the English Channel.

Stairway to Heaven

On the 28th May 1955, in the convent chapel of Bethlehem House, Newcastle, I was officially saved from eternal damnation through the sacred ritual of baptism. There I am, all dressed up in a fine white muslin dress with a flared sticky-out skirt, little flocked dots in different colours all over it and a soft, navy-blue velvet ribbon tied at the waist. Clean white socks and shiny black patent leather shoes complete the outfit. I feel very special.

‘You are going to become a Catholic through the Sacrament of Baptism so that you don’t go to Hell when you die,’ I was told. ‘Babies who die before they are baptised spend Eternity in Limbo!’

I don’t understand any of that but I don’t want to go to Hell. As for Limbo, it must be a very noisy place filled with screaming infants all wanting to go to Heaven. Anyway, I am not a baby. I have just turned four years old!

Although this is such a special occasion and more than worthy of my Sunday best, I am ushered, incognito, down the back stairs into the chapel Sacristy. It is to be a secret ceremony.

‘We don’t want the other children to know you’re not a Catholic, now do we? And we don’t want to make them jealous of you all dressed up and this not even a feast day.’

Baptism is a bewilderment for me. I don’t know what ‘baptised’ is; only that I can go to Heaven