A Passion for Birth

by Sheila Kitzinger

  Mother had high ideals and fought for peace and a society in which there was equality and justice for all. She also had a keen sense of artistic presentation. I remember that Mother and Father were going to the opera. I had been put to bed and she came in to kiss me goodnight. She leant over, delicately made up, and in a cloud of Roger and Gallet perfume. Her full-length dress was ruffled black net sparkling with sequins, layers and layers of frills from the hips down. The picture is still vivid in my mind, the peachy scent, and above all, the glamour. She was the most beautiful mother in the world.

  Healing

  Mother was into natural healing and what we now call alternative medicine. Most of the remedies she used came from country traditions, based on herbs, onions, garlic and seaweed.

  When bad colds were around I had to wear a raw, peeled garlic on a string round my neck. Certainly it kept others from coming too close! She massaged my chest and upper back with goose grease if I had a chest cold. An iodine locket was another preventative and treatment. I remember being dosed with syrup of figs for constipation, too. Every year in the spring we were given doses of ‘spring medicine’, a drink consisting of fresh herbs, lemon juice and a little honey.

  She was ahead of her time in encouraging deep breathing and rhythmic exercise. She took me with her to Health and Beauty movement classes started in South Africa by Prunella Stack. We wore shiny satin white shirts and black shorts and exercised in unison, looking like a third rate chorus girl line up.

  Mother considered creativity very important. I was sent to Greek dancing classes because she was a great admirer of Isadora Duncan, who rebelled against classical ballet, and danced bare-footed and graceful wearing a brief, thin tunic, I was supposed to float along with a scarf, act ‘nature rhythms’ and make myself one with the wind and the waves and flowers dancing in the breeze. But I never succeeded in being thistledown or summer clouds. With me the flowers were more likely to be lashed by a gale. I was a podgy child and not too good at imitating clouds, except angry ones. In fact, I did rather well at creating an exciting nature rhythm which depicted a rising storm, finishing with a black sky, thunder claps and pelting rain.

  The Birth Control Clinic

  My mother worked to establish one of the earliest free birth control clinics in the south west. Aunt Liz was proud of the first one, which she helped create with Dr Margaret Jackson in Barnstable. I used to meet Mother at the Taunton clinic sometimes after school and we’d often go out for ice cream at Maynards or a cream tea at Dellars. I stood by the door of the clinic waiting for her and saw women come out clutching small packages, embarrassed and clearly hoping no-one witnessed the surreptitious activity in which they were engaged. Contraception then was considered a taboo subject and she was very happy to do what she could to provide effective birth control to impoverished and vulnerable women who were sexually exploited by the men in their lives. Controlling their fertility was a vital element in her work to empower women. This was before the NHS existed and made it possible for all women to get contraceptives without having to pay for them.

  Aunts, Uncles, Cousins

  I often had short holidays with members of Mother’s family. Aunt Liz the oldest sister was angular, idealistic, stern and bossy. She was married to Stan, the school-master who was also a conscientious objector, and they had an only son, Alan. He was academically brilliant and into classical music in a big way. When I stayed with them I remember musical performances with a school friend of his at the piano who later became famous as a conductor.

  Aunt Nell, her youngest sister, lived close by in Bridgewater. She was warm and cuddly and I adored her. She hadn’t ‘married well’. Uncle Lionel was a hard-smoking employee at Will’s Cigarette Factory, who died young. I was fond of their only son, Arnold, a bit older than me, who later became a commando, and near the end of the Second World War was the only survivor of a ship sunk in the North Sea. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder – which in those days was called shell shock – was admitted to hospital and was like a different person from then until he died very young. I wonder now if he took his own life.

  When Aunt Emily came to stay she shared my bedroom and was nervous about the gas light and heating. One fateful day she came back to check after I was asleep and switched the gas on again as she tried to turn it off, leaving gas escaping. That was when I started having asthma. I remember painful, gasping times on the hockey field as I wheezed through yet another awful game, stuck in goal because I couldn’t run.

  Emily lived in the middle of gorgeous woods outside Poole in Dorset in a game-keeper’s cottage with her husband who was a chauffeur. Her daughter – my cousin – was 10 years older than me and involved in a passionate relationship. Their love-making was constantly interrupted by me bursting into the bedroom and saying, ‘Boo!’ I thought it was funny. I don’t think they did, and Aunt Emily begged me not to do it.

  The most exciting family for me was the one in Somerton. Uncle Arthur, one of Mother’s brothers, married a vivacious woman whom everyone called ‘Bloss’, short for ‘Blossom’, and they had a large family. Food and drink flowed lavishly. She was a gracious hostess. One Christmas their boys (who were well known for causing mischief) secretly removed all Blossom’s artistically arranged decorations in the dining room and set-up an all white scheme that looked deceptively elegant consisting of lavatory paper rolls. When Arthur had a go at growing mushrooms and became very excited about it, they stuck ping-pong balls in the earth, carefully spaced and at first invisible, and little by little every night they pushed each up a bit. Uncle was thrilled as his mushrooms grew. Only when they eventually popped out of the soil was the subterfuge revealed.

  Their home was a long, rambling Queen Anne house in the centre of the small town. Arthur was a wealthy corn merchant. One of the sons, Jack, studied pharmacy and became the local chemist. The family put on lively parties and seemed to own Somerton.

  The person who was most special to me was Sis, Blossom’s sister, who was an Alexandra nurse. She had a deep, full, luscious voice and performed Victorian tragic poems with dramatic intensity about death, starving widows, orphaned children, courage, desperation and love. I admired her enormously and wanted to be like her when I grew up. She died in the Second World War, nursing wounded troops in the Indian Ocean when the hospital ship was sunk by Japanese torpedoes. Her body was never recovered.

  Harry, Mother’s other brother, had run away underage to join the army during the First World War. The notice of his death arrived the day after Armistice in 1918.

  Aunt Agnes’s husband, Uncle Ernest, a loving and considerate man, was the Bridport baker. I loved staying there because at the end of an alley at the side of the house was the bakery with its exciting action and enticing smells. Making doughnuts was most fun. The balls of dough passed along a moving belt and each came to a halt beneath the jam machine. I was allowed to press the lever that deposited a squelchy blob of red jam right in the middle of the dough, which then moved on to make room for the next. As the dough continued to rise it covered the jam and ended up as a perfect doughnut. I don’t think I have ever had more pleasure in cooking than as I did as a juvenile jam injector.

  My Father’s Family

  I didn’t see much of my father’s family, partly because most of them lived far away. But Gran, my father Alec’s mother, lived in Taunton near Weirfield School. I used to drop in on my way home from school and Gran would give me piano lessons. Aunt Edie, bejewelled, scented and plump, and married to a Birmingham jeweller, used to come regularly and stay with Gran. She was jolly and loved her food. She fancied the special cakes and desserts that Gran used to make for me. There was some competition between us over who should get the last slice or spoonful.

  Jolly aunt Edie and straight-laced gran

  Ruby, Edie’s daughter, stayed with us frequently. She was a journalist and Mother took her under her wing and encouraged her writing. She didn’t seem to fit comfortably into that family. She published articles in
the press about interior decoration and design, and Mother’s design sense inspired her to write glowing rhapsodic pieces about our house – the delicate pink and grey shades of the guest room and the mingled blues of the sitting room for instance.

  Gladys, Gran’s niece, had a daughter Joy, slightly younger than me. I thought she was soppy. When cousin Rose became pregnant before marriage Joy didn’t know how it was possible because she was not married. As all the women whispered in Gran’s sitting room and we were exiled to the staircase I enlightened her and told her in detail how babies were conceived and born. I was never allowed to play with Joy again.

  I revelled in stormy weather and thunder. Gran was always terrified of it and used to hide in the cupboard under the stairs. She wanted me to crouch in there with her in case the house was struck by lightning. I could never understand her fear. But I think that she believed that this is how God might punish us for our sins. While she hid in the cupboard I liked to run out and dance in the rain!

  Enjoying Ourselves

  At Westleigh House in Taunton, my younger brother David and I played in the street, or at any rate, since we were not supposed to, swung on the iron gate at the front of the house, until they came and took the gate and railings away to melt down to make weapons. Opposite the house were thick, tall trees in which squirrels darted. The ice-cream van visited regularly in the summer, its jingle like a pied piper’s flute for the children, and stopped outside our house. The knife grinder rang the door bell and we watched as kitchen knives and garden implements were honed to razor blade sharpness against a huge grindstone.

  At the far end of the street was an exciting forge, where the local blacksmith hammered horseshoes, producing a shower of sparks, and there was an enticing smell of burnt hoof as great cart horses, which pulled the brewery drays, were shod. Out of school hours there was usually a group of children standing admiring the performance. The Salvation Army gathered at the top of the street near the forge, too, wearing their smart navy uniforms with shiny buttons. They played big brass instruments and the young women shook tambourines and went round collecting pennies. When my granddaughter Laura acquired her saxophone at the age of nine and gave us her first performance – a whole scale – and the sound boomed out as we ate maple syrup pancakes for a treat in the kitchen, I suddenly felt I was a child again.

  My brother and I were close as children

  Father acquired an old rail coach and installed it in the middle of an expanse of fern at the top of the Blackdown Hills. He was very clever at woodwork and made beautiful door latches, sets of shelves, cupboards and other things. At weekends we often went to stay in ‘the hut’ and roamed free over the hills.

  A large drain ran under the shingle road outside and it was exciting to climb down into it and wriggle our way through to the other verge. This worked well until one day I was stuck in it, too fat to get through or move backwards. David tried to pull me out, and eventually succeeded. But I never risked entering the drain again.

  My parents enjoyed singing romantic duets at the grand piano: ‘The End of a Perfect Day’, ‘At the Café Continental Where a Lady Dropped Her Glove’, ‘Little Man, You’ve had a Busy Day’ and ‘Love’s Last Sweet Song’. Some of these were the ones I also heard played at Dellars, the café on Taunton bridge, where the orchestra struck up at tea-time and waitresses with frilly white aprons and little caps served fancy cakes, scones and tiny sandwiches on tiered plates. It was a special treat to be taken there, wearing our best clothes and on good behaviour. It all seemed very sophisticated.

  Mr Livesey played these songs, too, as well as classical music with a lot of complicated finger-work. Mother had met him at a pacifist march and, sharing the same social ideals, and learning that he taught the piano, she engaged him to teach me as a private tutor. He was an elegant young man with tight curly hair, a dapper suit, and suave manner. I thumped away while he hovered and smiled encouragingly. When Mother came in I would climb down off the stool and he would demonstrate how it should really be done. Mother joined in, singing. I noticed that she usually wore one of her full-skirted, figure-hugging, lovely silk dresses, and smelt of roses. My lessons became shorter and shorter, the performances longer. Then suddenly Mr Livesey didn’t come any more, and I was rescued from the lessons. I think her conscience had triumphed.

  She was very keen on education. She had to leave school at 14 and start earning, and was determined to give us the opportunities she was denied. She believed in developing her children’s talents. As soon as I could recite a rhyme I was lifted onto the wide sitting room window-sill, my own private stage, to say a poem. Everyone had to be quiet and listen. ‘I met a ‘ittle e’f man once down where the ‘ilies b’ow. I asked him why he was so sma’ and why he didn’t grow.’ Delighted with my audience, at the end of each performance I announced, ‘Aw c’ap’. Mother believed in the value of children developing skills and self-expression by every possible means. I knew the relatives who came to tea and were treated to the performances used to laugh about it afterwards: ‘Clare is spoiling that child!’ I was fiercely loyal to my mother. Subsequently, I was taken to elocution lessons, and started a long series of exams in which I excelled myself. There were certificates, and later medals and silver cups, drama groups, and the Eisteddfod at Bristol. This fitted in well with taking youth services and peace services at the chapel, and being registered as a lay preacher. Meanwhile, my brother David, who had a beautiful voice, sang the spiritual, ‘Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?’

  Florence, the maid, reigned in the kitchen. She was like a maid in a Victorian kitchen, long skirts, starched white apron and cap, and a will of steel. One awful day David and I invaded her territory while she was cleaning upstairs rooms, dragged a damp sheet from the laundry basket and fed it through the huge old-fashioned mangle. I turned the handle and, aged around two, David slid the sheet in. Only I mangled too vigorously and caught and squashed his fingers between the rollers. It was a dreadful thing to do to your baby brother. I still remember the horror. Florence ruled that we should never enter the kitchen again.

  Mother was an expert manager. She organised the household with a deft touch. Every Thursday Mother and Father did the accounts. A green baize cloth was laid over the breakfast table, and piles of coins and notes spread on it. It was a sacrosanct occasion, and I was not allowed in. I wandered around the yard outside, bored and feeling rejected. We had a black and white terrier, and I found refuge in Toby’s kennel, curling up in the straw, and often falling asleep. When Toby became old and ill and obviously in pain, my father told me, tight-lipped, that he had sent him away into the country where he would be happier with other dogs. I knew that Toby had gone forever and that Father was lying to protect me. It was my first experience of death.

  The Chapel

  The Unitarian Chapel in Taunton was beautiful in its simplicity. Uncle Osmond, Mother’s maternal uncle, was an organ builder and we were proud that the splendid Mary Street Chapel organ had been made by him. I loved poetry and was proud that Coleridge had preached there. During the Second World War the congregation shared it with a congregation of Liberal Jews, from London, and that was the beginning of my ecumenical education.

  A hymn we often sang was ‘Gather us in, thou love that fillest all. Gather our rival faiths within thy fold.’ It emphasises the universal – each religion and philosophy seen as one step towards truth, since no creed or sect can encompass the wholeness of God. There is debate in place of dogma, freedom instead of life-denying rules. It is every individual’s right to challenge the established order. Another hymn was, ‘When wilt thou save the people? Oh God of mercy when? Not kings and lords, but nations! Not thrones and crowns but men!’

  For my brother and me when we were five or six, as we sat on narrow benches covered in baize that prickled behind our knees, in the Chapel, and I suspect for Father too, who had a bucketful of religion with his narrow Wesleyan Methodist upbringing, the services seemed long in spite of their stirring emph
asis on freedom, and the idea of Jesus not as the only Son of God, but our brother in the human family. I liked the intricate wood carving on the pulpit. You used to be able to buy milk chocolate covered with darker chocolate in scrolls on the top. The pulpit was like that. When I was very little I used to imagine that I was eating it, bit by bit.

  Rites

  I was taken to a meet for the first – and last – time when I was about four. It seemed that anybody who was anybody was here from the county set, together with farmers and their families. At a meet of the Devonshire and Somerset stag hounds the riders were resplendent in pink, bugles were blowing, and it was a lavish and ceremonial affair. The chased deer was the sacrifice. We followed the hounds in our car from field to field and on foot across wicket gates round the country. Then suddenly, they’d got it! The dogs were excited and the riders victorious. The stag was trapped – and despatched with a shot. It lay bleeding, eyes glazing over, lifeless. It was the time for primitive celebrations. All children for whom it was the first time at a hunt must be ‘blooded’. I watched a baby of about six months carried to the corpse, the huntsman’s finger dipped in the stag’s hot blood and smeared over the baby’s face. Another child was brought up. I cowered, frightened that they would do this to me, too. The people I had believed to be gentle and friendly became monsters, revelling in the death of an animal they had killed and forcing children to share in the glory.