Changing Fashions In Underclothing .....

 

I wonder what it was that made our mothers, as one, insist that money spent on Decent underclothes was money well spent because of being unexpectedly run over by a bus.   Was it that more women were mown down without warning back in the days of their own youth?  And were buses actually to blame?  And more to the point did hospital staff really and truly gasp with horror when a bus injured patient’s undergarments were revealed and shown to be somewhat past their use by date?   Were they actually heartless enough to point it out to each other whilst drinking tea later in the canteen?   Did you notice the state of her Stays?   I rather doubt this scenario but according to my mother, and maybe yours, this was what I could expect if I ended up in the Accident & Emergency Department wearing anything but a dazzlingly enviable matching set of undies of pastel shade preferably recently purchased from Marks & Spencer’s.

 Although she did specifically nominate M&S when speaking to me,  secretly British Home Stores would have done equally well and this wasn’t entirely because they were a bit cheaper.   It also had to do with the fact that they had at some stage in Gravesend’s commercial past taken over the site previously occupied by Missings.   That particular stalwart of the Edwardian undergarment business in Gravesend was said to have provided everything the Modern Woman could possibly need in the way of Corsetry, with the most up-to-date models to choose from at exceptionally keen prices!   To some extent this must have been true because my Grandmother and various Aunts routinely took the 480 from outside The Jolly Farmers in Crayford to inspect their wares.   These journeys did not simply have undergarments in mind because Missings also ran an enviable line in Drapery and at one time Millinery as well.   My Grandmother was known to say that their window display was a Sight for Sore Eyes. 

Missings was long gone by the time I was old enough to buy my own clothing and already realise that I was destined never to have an entirely happy relationship with undergarments.   As a small child this was largely because during winter months I seemed to have to wear far too much of it - apart from an unbearably itchy vest and rather unnecessary petticoat the hideous Liberty Bodice loomed large to torture me for many years.   I’ve commented on this garment previously I know but anyone who has ever worn one will understand perfectly why it needs a revisit!     

Gentle Google research has revealed an astonishing I Love My Liberty Bodice exhibition that in early 2020 could be visited at Harborough Museum and tells the fascinating story of Leicestershire corsetry manufacturer Symington & Co who developed the new and much reviled garment for the next three generations from the beginning of the 20^th century.  Production only ceased in the mid nineteen sixties!   Apparently a particularly inventive and determined marketing campaign secured its position in the lives of British children although it seems that the idea for the garment originated in America.   Who were the museum-goers flocking to this event I ask myself and I even wonder if it was postponed or possibly even cancelled on account of Covid. 

As time passes it becomes more and more pertinent to critically examine why some garments were ever thought rational and the Liberty Bodice has to be one of them particularly as some clothing historians seem to see it as a precursor and training for the equally dreaded Corset.   I’ve never really understood the difference between Corsets and Stays and my mother, together with her sisters referred to the tightly laced pale pink piece of underclothing as either.   Versions of them seem to have been worn from at least the eighteenth century when visitors to England consistently commented on how even the peasants wore stays.   I wonder how they knew?     In France it appears that in general the lower classes seem to have gone without and even the middle classes might go stay-less for medical reasons.   However, in England they were a literal symbol of a woman’s uprightness and virtue whatever her background.   So tightly were women laced into them that it does seem to have contributed to the irritating habit of the Victorian woman to faint at the drop of a hat. 

My grandmother clearly thought that a loose corset was the sign of a loose woman and always commented in a derogatory manner as to the decency and degree of her acquaintances and neighbours stay-lacing.   That Dolly Flanagan is a trollop if ever I seed one, up at the Co-op and in the queue if you don’t mind bold as brass without her stays laced proper!    Even as she spoke I was on the side of Dolly, having witnessed my own mother’s agony with the tightness of her stays. Though she would have never been likely to venture from the house without them laced in the proper manner.

Old Nan could be quite didactic at times, surprising us with high minded ideas that did not sit easily alongside what we knew of her.   My mother called her Strait-Laced, but never directly to her face of course.    Aunt Maud said she well remembered the time years ago when Old Nan had taken four or five of her girls into Gravesend to Missings to buy a new hat for herself and for each of them a pair of the very latest in Stays though by then they were being described as Corsets.   It had been after a win at the races and she was feeling very flush.   They could choose between pink, peach or even white and afterwards they went for a fish tea in the High Street and had a walk along the prom.   I wondered why the Stays were referred to as a Pair like shoes and nearly asked but they’d started talking about those men who regularly stood outside inspecting the window display as if they were about to buy a piece of intimate apparel for their wives yet never did.   And no matter how many euphemisms they used my cousin Pat and I exchanged glances and rolled our eyes at each other to indicate how very mature and knowing we were.

I don’t recall when my mother gave up her Stays/Corsets and there was certainly no pressure on me to launch into the experience but she did suggest once I started work that I should buy a Proper Girdle as I had put on a few pounds.  Back in the 1950s unless you were being Professionally Fitted for such garments you really had to hazard a guess as to your size and invariably the size finally purchased became something of an issue and never fitted properly.  I didn’t know about Professional Fitting at the time and even if I had been fully informed I cannot imagine I would have engaged in it as I was far too embarrassed about my shape being less than perfect.    Consequently for several decades I was destined to never own comfortable underclothing and quite the worst offenders were Bras.

My first bra had originally been owned by my mother before her marriage.  I’m unsure if she ever felt at ease in it herself but by the time I inherited it at the age of fourteen it proved itself to be anything but comfortable and it was clear my needs were greater than a size 32A.   Nevertheless I was not to own the much coveted 36C for a year and a half which is a long time to cope with the discomfort.   I would have been dissatisfied before too long in any case because the latest In Thing at school were bras like those worn by such icons as Lana Turner and Jayne Mansfield, underwired and conical and variously known as the Bullet Bra.   It had to be worn under a tight sweater and then you could call yourself a Sweater Girl.

It wasn’t long before something called The Wonderbra began to grow to more than the germ of an idea in the mind of its creator.   A whole host of us flocked towards it, discarding those other old-fashioned items – stockings and suspender belts, as we did so.   Pantihose had arrived with a vengeance and although the men in our lives maintained a growing chorus with regard to what they saw as ideal female underclothing, we were in no way eager to pay much attention, especially if we had already burned our bras.   Following in the footsteps of Germaine Greer we had a hankering to become feminists especially once we realised that there was no actual need to be Australian to do so.  You could say that after years of upper body restriction a kind of hysteria was taking over. 

I did not actually go to the extent of bra-burning, preferring simply to hide the most  offensive garments in the very back of the underwear drawer, and my best friend and then flatmate Stella did likewise.   We agreed that had we had the minimalistic bosom area we both admired we may well have made a different choice.  Instead we invested in the very latest Wonderbras because they had a delightful push-up effect exposing the body to its best advantage or so we thought.   We did throw away our Playform Girdles though and frequently advised each other how sensible we were to totally ignore the sexist appeals voiced by toxic males regarding suspender belts.   However, despite our best intentions and although it had little to do with the progress in underwear design, in the final analysis we did not make ideal feminists.

A Most Effective Way to Learn a Language

Way back in 1972 as a very new and cautious New Zealand resident I was expecting my new country to be much the same as the one I had left, not quite as lively as London perhaps but maybe very nearly.   After all they spoke English so it couldn’t be too different could it?  The first thing I was unprepared for was  that the English spoken was quite different from the English I had left.  The second surprise was the dearth of ordinary run-of-the-mill cafes and restaurants together with the preponderance of fish and chips and indifferent Chinese takeaways.  The astonishing competence of the average housewife to turn out gourmet meals for eight to ten at the drop of a hat was intimidating and I was genuinely appalled at the level of alcohol regularly consumed.  Very soon spoken English really didn’t come into the equation.

Quite early on I began to hate the way the men looked because they loved to wear shorts, denim and linen for weekends and horrific garments called Work Shorts for the working week, the latter worn with neckties, long socks and highly polished shoes.   I shriveled with embarrassment for the then Mayor of Auckland, Sir Dove Myer Robinson as he was interviewed by the BBC on some subject of great moment simply because he was wearing the obligatory Work Shorts, blue serge from memory.  Well it was mid-week but my feeling was that he honestly should have known better having originated in the North of England, he was British for God’s sake.  Sheffield would never have tolerated such attire and that’s a fact.   When I tentatively mentioned my discomfiture to a new Good Friend she looked at me with wide eyed bewilderment and said she thought he looked very smart.  

There were things I admired about the country of course like the way children happily went to school shoeless and there were no such things as School Lunches for them to complain about and they routinely played a game called Bullrush that excited, injured and definitely tired them out and was soon to be banned.    I wasn’t nearly as keen on Lolly Scrambles that revolved around adults hurling buckets of toffees and wine gums into the air and all nearby under twelves launching themselves towards them to gather as many as possible.  Such odd activities seemed to go directly against the values that had been so lovingly instilled by the London pre-school my son had attended. Strange new customs, whether I liked them or loathed them proved to have nothing to do with the reassuring English the locals were said to speak and very nearly did.

Once I became a New Zealand mother of locally born pre-school children and had semi-adjusted I ventured towards an organisation called Playcentre where I met a range of new Good Friends, Geraldine in particular who coming from Hungary via Melbourne was definitely not local and with whom therefore I felt quite comfortable.   Unlike London pre-schools where the idea was that mothers deposit their children to play whilst they go off to shop or drink coffee together, Playcentre, founded in 1941 with branches throughout the country was a totally different kettle of fish and definitely much more of a commitment.    It demanded to be taken seriously and if you proved your mettle you might even find yourself being invited onto the Committee. New Zealanders seemed to really love Committees.   To be fair none of this was completely obvious at first but it was rapidly realised that those taking part were under an obligation to grow with their children and perhaps even gain a Certificate in Early Childhood Education as they did so because another thing that loomed large in those days was Certificates.  Well one of the reasons was that mothers did not work outside of the home.

Although much of what New Zealand offered at that stage seemed to have come from an earlier time and was not to every new immigrant’s taste, and there was still no sign of an Indian or Thai restaurant in either Auckland or Wellington, we outsiders were surprisingly in accord when it came to the indigenous culture of the country.   We found it as exotic as the Early Settlers undoubtedly did and in the latter part of the 1970s it was Geraldine who suggested we should make an attempt to learn the Maori language.   The particular Playcentre we were now members of had close connections to the local Marae which had further stimulated our interest of course and we had by this time become totally involved in and absorbed by the philosophy of the Playcentre organisation.   My London cohorts would not have recognised me at this point.

   At that time the first language of the local Maori people seemed to be English though my GP husband claimed to have several elderly patients who only spoke Maori.   However, a certain amount of the language had already been absorbed by osmosis as a large number of words and phrases were already frequently heard within New Zealand English. We embarked upon the venture with great enthusiasm which sadly waned within a month or two as it became clear that a formal approach did not suit our particular learning needs.  Geraldine even said she thought we might be Slow Learners in the old-fashioned sense but whatever the reason we switched our fervour in the direction of a course of lectures called something like The New Zealand Child in Home and Family.

Now, forty years on, with Maori language much more to the forefront it seems pertinent to wonder how much we might have learned had we stuck to the original task rather than gratefully dropping out at the first hurdle.    Or would we in fact have been better supported to be daily exposed  to words, phrases and casual bits and pieces of conversation in all aspects of modern media as we are today whether we like it or not – and some of us certainly do not.   Jessica even says that it’s language learning by stealth and is forced upon us like it or not.   But quite honestly if only French could have been presented similarly back in the Wombwell Hall days when I was really struggling with it my life could have been made much less stressful. 

  Though I defend it I can’t honestly recall when this current partial immersion and envelopment of New Zealand society in the language actually began and it’s very clear that I paid no heed to any of the prior discussion as I would certainly have done all those years ago.   Whenever the significant decision to plunge us all into language learning was made though, it does seem to have happened quite precipitously and coincided neatly and fortuitously with the Covid pandemic which anyone with any sense would have foreseen was going to keep us at home with half an eye on the tv at all times.

  Though that can’t be totally accurate because more than a few years ago I already knew I lived in Aotearoa and my family could be described as my Whanau.  But it wasn’t until the Virus was all around us that I learned my city of residence was Tamaki Makaurau, however, when there was a break-out from a quarantine hotel and the escapees were said to be prowling the streets of that unfamiliar sounding place.   I wondered where on earth it was – and how I could have lived here for 49 years and had never heard of it previously.

I’ve come a long way in the last couple of years and now know that my children were at one time my tamariki and should I ever have a grandchild it will be my mokopuna together with a range of vocabulary I would have been proud of back in 1978 despite the lack of an accompanying certificate.     Like it or not you have to admit this present language learning strategy is definitely working!   

An Odd Aversion to Weekends Especially Sundays

 

I’ve never really liked weekends even as long ago as when I was five or six years old, my father was back from the war and we functioned as a proper family once again.  I had infinitely preferred the lazy hazy days of Doodlebugs and V2s despite the obvious hazards.   In those latter days of the1940s conflict it seemed to me that we had all become accustomed to the idea of instant annihilation and in any case as a pre-schooler I had little appreciation of the permanence of obliteration.   The important thing to me was that I had my mother’s entire attention most of the time and although the adults around me complained about shortages, as far as I was concerned nylon stockings were totally uninteresting and I was never hungry because there always seemed to be delicious things to eat like cheese on toast and jacket potatoes.   My growing dislike of weekends began when we had progressed to the post-war stage and were looking forward to free doctor’s visits and National Health orange juice.  Even more excitingly we were told that soon there would be ice cream to buy and toys in the shops.   I knew little about ice cream but I did know what toys were and like all other children of similar age I definitely looked forward to them. 

Like so many children I found my father’s return to civilian life a trial and although he did his very best to bond with me I was not altogether keen on the idea.   I couldn’t understand why it was necessary for him to plonk himself in the very middle of our lives and take up so much of my mother’s time and focus.  These first days were of course before he embarked on his life as a Philanderer and he and my mother seemed over attentive towards each other, hugging and kissing and laughing at each other’s jokes.   I wasn’t impressed and wanted him to go back to being the photograph on the wall that I blew a kiss to every night on my way to bed.    But no matter how much I wanted to dismiss him he stayed with determination and persistence though at least he was at work a great deal of the time.   Sundays were the days when he was most likely to be at home all day, putting up shelves at my mother’s instruction or planting primroses stolen from Lord Darnley’s woods behind the now obsolete Anderson Shelter.   I certainly did not like Sundays and my earliest experience of what I later knew was called Being Depressed was when I realised one was looming up again.

Meanwhile my mother would be happily engaged in preparing the Roast Dinners I was determined not to become acclimatised to.  It wasn’t that I was completely unfamiliar with these basics of British cooking and needed to become accustomed to them.   Aunt Mag whose Harold had according to my mother cleverly evaded going to war, produced them frequently and at times triumphantly but they had never been a fixture at our house where there had for years been a dearth of male appetites.   I became a picky eater, and yearned for the spam and jacket potatoes of what was fast becoming an idyllic era.    Well I was very young and not terribly well versed in the ways of the world, adjusting only slowly to the fact that The War, always there sitting comfortingly in the background of life, was now firmly a thing of the past.  The idea of The War being Over seemed alarming to me.

Once we were established as a York Road Family I was taken to Mass on Sunday mornings by my father which came as a shock, was boring in the extreme and did little to establish good relationships.    As I’ve described more than once that my mother was eclectic in her attitude to religion and therefore insisted on also sending me to a Chapel organised Sunday School on Sunday afternoons which was less boring but nevertheless left me feeling that I was being regularly ousted from the family group and thrust into one religious experience after another.   It did not make Sundays much more bearable.

Meanwhile my poor father worked hard to make me love him and I would be lying if I said that this never happened because he was, overall, a lovable person and good at making decisions that enhanced my life, like insisting I join the library and writing poetry for me, but there was always to be a vast emotional gap between us.  As time went on and he settled into regular shifts at Bevan’s Cement Works my heart would sink not only on Sundays but on Saturdays also when his roster at times allocated precious time off.   These were the times when we piled onto and into the motorbike and sidecar and set out for Cobham Woods to denude them of primroses and have picnics.   By now my brother was born and I was given less attention than ever, both my parents investing a great deal of hope into him.   Sadly it was to be a long time before he managed to fulfil any of the expectations they might have had of him.  In fact neither of us were to be the kind of children a parent could be proud of and that was nothing to do with Saturdays or Sundays.

I now believe that my antipathy towards weekends began to solidify once my parents’ marriage became more troubled and they spent more of those precious leisure hours quarrelling, my mother crying a great deal.   I was totally mystified as to the reasons for this but enraged by her obvious distress, angry at a situation I clearly had no control over I often cried too and told my long suffering father that  I hated him and wished he would go away.   A sudden solution for this unhappy situation came with his unexpected death a few days before Christmas in 1951, from what I was later to learn was called Acute Hepatitis.   He had been dead for several days and I had suspected as much but for some reason was not told, my mother leaving this unpleasant task for a time when she had the support of her mother and sisters around her, exposing my reaction to all.  There was a feeling of  alarm and distress swiftly followed by one of relief.   She told me on a Sunday.

Years later, living in London with my little boy as what was then termed a One Parent Family, I avoided dissolving into a soggy depressive heap at weekends by ensuring I always planned something that he at least would find exciting.   Often the somethings involved violin concerts which he was mesmerised by or Soho lunches at Italian restaurants providing post-lunch film shows for child diners which were equally attractive.   I was always glad when weekends ended no matter how stimulating they had been.

Married and in New Zealand with three children we frequently drove for miles at weekends to beachside motels.   And if not I planned extensive lunches and dinners and as the children grew older insisted they take part in both the planning, cooking and cleaning up. When I embarked upon home schooling I was to barely notice weekends because every moment of my time was occupied.   But if I did from time to time stop to think about it, I knew for certain that my aversion to weekends had not diminished and always Sundays in particular were most disliked.

When our children finally flew the nest and established their own lives, two of them in far flung parts of the globe and the family home was sold, we found ourselves living in what was called a City Fringe Unit.   Once again the dreaded Weekends threatened to re-assert themselves although admittedly Himself seemed oblivious to the problem and happily planned trips into the city to Jason’s Second Hand Bookshop followed by Mezze for lunch with a glass or two of red wine for him and white for me.   There was a limit to how many books we could accommodate, however and so from time to time various title ranges were sold back.  Not a bad way to spend a lazy Saturday and often on Sundays we might drive out to other down-sized couples with time on their hands without their adult children.    Kevin and Shirley famous for their Sunday lunch parties were a popular destination at that time.  

It was a shock when the blood cancer, quiescent for so long suddenly decided to rear up from its hiding place and demonstrate that all those abnormal tests over the years were indeed an inescapable Truth.   How could that be fair?    He had always been strong, well able to take cartons of rubbish downstairs and deposit them in the bins but all of a sudden he couldn’t and once he started the chemotherapy he was unable to even carry bags of groceries in from the car.   I cursed what I had always believed to be the minor arthritis of the wrists and thumbs that prevented me from easily doing so.  Life suddenly became more complicated.   Patrick would come by after violin classes on Saturday and help with the week’s most troublesome tasks.  Sometimes he brought books with him from Unity Book Shop.  Titles he thought Himself would enjoy – and he did enjoy them.   Sunday now stood forth determined and almost radiant as the most dreaded day of the week.

Then came the time when if I had any sense whatsoever, which I appeared to lack completely, I would have known he was dying.   There was a steady stream of visitors to that depressing room at St Andrew’s.   Golfing friend Jack came most days and sat with him, not saying much but a comforting presence nevertheless.    The Barfoots came and on that last Saturday I asked Chris to say some prayers and he did.    I felt liberated by them and drove home to have a shower and change and then stayed home because the rain was so heavy and I dislike driving in the rain.   That telephone call just after five am on Sunday morning and filled every corner of the house.  I knew what it was about, what the message was going to be so I answered in a strangely unhurried way.     I rang Patrick and together we drove along the waterfront, past Rangitoto, past the suburbs where we had lived during all those growing up years of the children, back to St Andrew’s.    We both felt guilty because he had died completely alone.   And although I have never spoken of it, I knew he would die on a Sunday.  It remains still the day of each week I most dread.