Songs of Innocence (10 page)

Despite the fact that the open secret of her mother’s affair was spoken of only in whispered asides in her presence, Sonia’s descriptions of daily life gave a
sense that she was aware of much more than she could say. Her description of her nanny’s daily ablutions make eye-opening reading: ‘Surprisingly, under her martial exterior, Nannie had
a snail’s soft body. In the early morning light, under her voluminous nightgown, I could descry the pink folds of it. At one moment I could see the outline of a huge shoulder above the bath,
then its eclipse behind a bath towel, then its emergence again for a tantalising minute, as she put on her bodice and stertorously pulled up her stays. There followed the camouflage of her
petticoat, concealing the pulling on of knickers, more whalebone, more starch, clamping down a vast bosom, the fastening of sharp buckles and a brooch, like the riveting of armour.’

To a growing child, these glimpses of an unseen world seemed entirely natural. Olive Everson, growing up in Suffolk, recalled hearing a story about an elderly couple living in a nearby cottage:
‘How we knew that the wife was one of those who accepted money for services rendered, I have no idea, but I expect brother Leslie had heard it from his mates at school. Her fee was said to be
1/-.’ The children of the village gossiped in this way about several local women, the price of each being general knowledge – two shillings and sixpence for the youngest and most
attractive: ‘On Saturday and bank holiday evenings, when often local fishermen were home from a trip at sea, with pockets full of cash, these ladies would make for the Huntingfield Arms. At
closing time they would take their clients for a walk up a secluded lane nearby,’ Olive recalled.

If the cult of childhood in the Edwardian era was partly precipitated by a reaction to the stresses of urbanization, it was equally a reaction to a sense of a civilization in a different kind of
decline: that of sexual degeneracy. There was a peculiar kind of double-think attached to sex during the period – everyone knew it went on, and
yet a kind of collective
innocence was feigned – sometimes to a startling degree. When J. M. Barrie published
The Little White Bird
– precursor to
Peter Pan
– in 1902,
The Times Literary
Supplement
gave it a glowing review.
²²
It was ‘an exquisite piece of work’, the paper said, and ‘one of the most charming
books ever written’: ‘If a book exists which contains more knowledge and more love of children, we do not know it.’

Yet the book contained passages which would never be published in today’s more knowing world. At one point the author describes spending a night alone with a child: ‘David and I had
a tremendous adventure. It was this – he passed the night with me . . . I took [his boots] off with all the coolness of an old hand, and then I placed him on my knee and removed his blouse.
This was a delightful experience, but I think I remained wonderfully calm until I came somewhat too suddenly to his little braces, which agitated me profoundly . . . I cannot proceed in public with
the disrobing of David.’

Sonia’s experiences in the years before the outbreak of war provided a striking counterpoint to this apparent state of denial. Entering her teens, she became increasingly aware of an
exotic tinge to the artistic life of the capital, and to the performers who could now be seen there: ‘In London, nothing like Nijinsky’s lithe and sensuous dancing had been seen before,
and Karsavina’s interpretation of “Scheherazade” was voted to be equally seductive and disturbing. Many of those who saw their performance were powerfully affected by it, and some
of the most unlikely people suddenly saw themselves as pagan gods and enchantresses,’ she wrote. These influences were even percolating through the ceilings of the Keppels’ home,
through the activities of Sonia’s older sister, Violet. By 1913, Violet had ‘come out’, into society, had put up heavy gold lamé curtains in her bedroom and was mixing with
a racy crowd: ‘She had Persian jackets for her friends to put on when they entered, and a huge feathered turban, along with incense.’ It was this kind of
avant-garde artiness to which Max Nordau had taken grave exception a couple of decades earlier in his influential book,
Degeneration
²³
. But now, as the young contemplated the prospect of war, it seemed to take on a new kind of intensity. At the home of a family with whom the Keppels spent Christmas, the
teenage son had taken over a housemaid’s cupboard as a ‘studio’, within which strange events were staged: ‘Over the fireplace, Pan supplanted the sphinx,’ Sonia
remembered. ‘And panthers and Nubian slaves seemed to be inextricably mixed up on the walls. Through the doorway, alluring strains of Rimsky-Korsakov’s ballet music used to filter,
toned down on the gramophone. Then more prosaically a strong smell of oranges. And then incense. Then someone would begin to read, slowly and sonorously. It did not sound much fun.’ Years
later she asked a shy boy who had been admitted to the broom cupboard to tell her what had occurred within. ‘He had a slight stammer, and indignantly he spluttered out: “It was damned
dull! They t-took off m-most of my clothes. And made me eat fruit!”’
²⁴

Yet when the long-anticipated war finally came, sweeping rich and poor together into the trenches, both were equally ill-prepared. Sonia and her family were on holiday in Holland when war was
declared, and were forced to pack and leave in a hurry as the Germans invaded Belgium: ‘The usual routine had been upset. Ordinarily, our packing was conducted almost invisibly . . . but . .
. it had spilt everywhere and Papa and Mamma had packed as urgently as anyone . . . the meals had been equally disjointed, served by Mr Hillsden and one footman in incomplete livery, looking rather
harassed and without their gloves.’ The family found itself on the last boat back to England, which was besieged by crowds of people trying to board. Fortunately, the purser recognized them,
and allocated them two cabins. ‘Through the porthole of Mamma’s and my cabin, I looked down on to less fortunate passengers jostling each other on the deck. One harassed mother was
trying to cope with two crying children.
Inanely, I asked Mamma: “Where will those children sleep?” And inevitably, purposefully, Mamma replied:
“There’s plenty of room for them to lie down on the lower bunk in here.”’ Back in London, they found the house shuttered and cold, and repaired to the Ritz for
breakfast.
²⁵

Meanwhile, in Salford, Elsie Oman’s father had arrived home on leave from the merchant navy, full of excited anticipation: ‘He had brought plenty of money home . . . he spoke about
Germany, France and Belgium. The men seemed to be enjoying the thought of war . . . they thought it would be a picnic away from this dull life. They would be sure of good food and a uniform and
sixpence a day and their wives and children would get an allowance, so everything in the garden would be lovely. So the men were all clamouring to join up, and it was said that as long as you were
“warm” you were passed A1. They even took little men in and called them “bantams”. The men soon found their mistake. We were no more prepared for war than Soft
Nick.’
²⁶

The fathers go to war

‘One wonderful evening we brought home a Shetland pony in the back of the car; it was four months older than me. The next morning we were brought down early from the
nursery: Our Father was standing in the hall dressed in a tunic with gold buttons, riding breeches and tall, shiny brown boots. He hugged and kissed us, and our mother – and then he drove
away. It was August, 1914.’
²⁷

For Hermione Llewellyn, born into a wealthy mine-owning and brewing family and watched over by nannies, this absence might have made little difference in practical, everyday terms. Yet all over
the country, in all kinds of homes, similar scenes were being played out. Fathers were departing to join up, dashing in their new uniforms
and apparently destined for great
adventures. The departure of so many men from so many homes left a deep impression, and letters home were anxiously awaited.

Hermione’s father was stationed in Norfolk with the South Wales Mounted Brigade, and the family was even able to rent a house nearby for a time. Yet the mood darkened when the men sailed
for Egypt in the autumn of 1915: ‘It was dreadful – we’d never before seen our mother cry.’
²⁸

In the early days of the war, most children were sheltered from the dread their parents must have been feeling, and letters home were usually upbeat. The letters of Private A. F. Uncle, written
from Morn Hill Camp in Winchester to his daughters, Daisy, Ivy and Rosie, in London were typically cheerful: ‘Don’t worry about me, I am with a lot of jolly fellows and get plenty to
eat. You would like to be a soldier – they give you DRIPPING on your bread for breakfast and tea nearly every day.’
²⁹
And then,
slightly more pensively as he departed to take part in the action: ‘You will no doubt have received the parcel of togs and so know that I am now well away. I know you will be wondering what
has become of me. Whatever happens its no use grumbling – here I am and here I must stay, so I shall endeavour to make myself as comfortable as possible.’

Elsie Oman in Salford, now a parentless teenager, for her mother was dead and her father away in the navy, followed developments along with her best friend, Vera, avidly but without any deep
sense of fear: ‘It made life much better for me. Vera and I had a good natter in the playground. Her mother used to buy papers and let Vera read them and her Mam and Dad would let her join in
the conversation, so she had lots to tell me about the situation and it was becoming a new interest in life.’
³⁰
And with the men gone, the
world began to become a more feminine place: ‘People seemed to come alive and as the men disappeared the women took over. They became tram drivers, conductors, postwomen, land army women on
the farms, helped in
the army, air force and navy – wherever there was a man shortage, the women were there, even on munitions,’ Elsie recalled. Aged thirteen,
she was now able to leave school and get a job in a sugar mill earning twelve shillings and sixpence a week. The now largely female workforce took her to its heart: ‘It was wonderful to mix
with young people who were laughing, singing and cracking jokes with one another. Despite being worried to death about their fathers, husbands, sons or brothers in the war, they tried to look on
the bright side.’

Olive Everson, growing up in Suffolk, noticed only minor differences to her daily routine: ‘It didn’t affect our small village to any great extent – at least not the children.
We noticed that some of the young men went away, and that our parents were careful to black out the windows at night because nasty things called Zeppelins dropped bombs from the sky. Ration books
were necessary to take with us when we went to a shop. Flour, to make it go further, was adulterated with other substances and our mother’s home-made bread no longer tasted as before and was
a light brownish colour and sticky in the centre. My father was just too old to be conscripted and in any case he was engaged in work of national importance. He joined the volunteers and wore his
uniform at weekends.’
³¹

Yet for many families, especially in the poorer parts of the big cities, the early months of the war were a time of desperation. Many lost their main breadwinners quite suddenly, and the economy
took months to settle into its wartime routine. Sylvia Pankhurst, who had been running a women’s suffrage campaign in the East End of London, was shocked by the state in which she now found
some of the children she knew in Stepney and Bow: ‘I met little Rose Pengelly, one of our junior Suffragettes. “What are you doing in Ranwell Street?” I asked her, knowing the
chronic poverty of that little alley. “All out of work, all helping each other,” she chirruped gaily, flashing a merry smile to me, from her clear green eyes, her red plaits tossing.
Yet I saw she was pale, and her gait not as buoyant as usual.’
³²

The wife of a ship’s ‘greaser’ told Sylvia the government had commandeered her husband’s ship, and since then she had had no money nor any word as
to his whereabouts. She had six children, and the family had gone four days without food. Sylvia said she saw ‘a wilted look’ growing upon the children: ‘They seemed like fading
flowers.’ A photograph taken at the time by Sylvia’s friend Norah Smyth spells out the appalling hardships faced by some East End families in the early months of the war. In it is a
child of maybe eighteen months, clearly close to starvation, legs stick-thin and hands clutching one another, almost claw-like in their frailty. The child – impossible to tell whether a boy
or a girl – has only tufts of matted hair and its expression is a haunting mixture of curiosity and terror.
³³

Soon, the former Suffragette headquarters in the Old Ford Road had become a feeding centre for babies: ‘Here, and in the passage through the house, the queue of distressed mothers
extended: Already the babies were ill from starving; they could not digest the milk now we had got it for them.’ Later, Sylvia would open a nursery in an old pub, renamed the Mother’s
Arms, along with cost-price restaurants and a toy factory. Yet many of the children were already in too poor a state to be helped: ‘Several times it happened that after a baby had been nursed
patiently to apparent health, and had been sent away to the country to assure its stability, it would return home, catch a chill or some childish ailment, collapse and die, quite suddenly, as
though the physical well-being we had built for the little body had been merely a house of cards.’
³⁴

Sidney Day, born not far away in north London, was six when war broke out. His father spent almost the whole time in France, driving the horses that pulled the infantry guns. Sidney remembered
regularly going without. ‘While me Dad was away, me Mum had to keep the seven of us on rations. I would go round and get food from Buckingham’s shop. Mum would say, “Take the cup
with you and get an haporth of jam, a pennorth of sugar, a bit of tea, a tin of
evaporated milk and a lump of margarine.” We hardly ever seen any meat.’ If Sidney
thrived, it was largely through his own ingenuity: ‘Every day I nicked something from the shops and stalls around Archway, specially the greengrocer’s. If you are hungry you got to
live.’
³⁵