A Passion for Birth

by Sheila Kitzinger

  Mother’s Day, in March, was a very different kind of ceremony. Every Mothering Sunday people came from far and wide to climb Bunkum Hill, picked primroses and had tea in the inn at the bottom. The climb was steep and there was a thrill of achievement as we reached the top. The inn had an outdoor wooden privy with three holes, each big enough for a bottom to perch on – father, mother and the smallest for a child – and defecate into the bucket beneath. It was very cosy. But I don’t think I shall ever forget the odour.

  Practical lessons about social injustice

  I was taken on regular visits to the Taunton workhouse, bearing comforts for the destitute women locked up in there with their small children. One woman we always met had a baby with a lolling head and tongue hanging out.

  Men were separated from women and marriages and families split up. They were put to work if they were fit enough. Anyone who was ill lay in a narrow, hard bed. This woman was in bed. I think she had had a terrible birth that injured her. She was a single mother, so the baby was illegitimate, and both were stigmatised. In those days a woman who had a baby outside marriage was a ‘fallen woman’. Whenever we visited we took her Devonshire buns that she specially liked – ‘chudleighs’ they were called – and it was my job to go up to the bed and hand them to her. It took some courage to do so because of the rank smell, the drooling baby, the atmosphere of despair and misery, and the way she ate, smacking her lips enthusiastically and, with her mouth open, a half masticated bun being squeezed out onto her chin. It was good discipline for a five-year-old in caring for those who were less fortunate than ourselves. Though I never wanted to eat a chudleigh again!

  Rows of children, about 30 of us, sat at our wooden desks at Station Road Elementary School, listening to our teacher, Miss Mynitt, rant about bad behaviour. I was six. She was always very pleasant with me. But she hated the kids from the back streets who weren’t nicely brought up and didn’t catch on to reading, writing, and arithmetic. One small boy, Peter, was dressed in rags and hand-me-downs. He had blotchy, pasty, pock-marked skin, hair like straw, and legs and arms that were stick-thin. He may have been deaf. Anyway, he didn’t leap to attention when she summoned him or tried to drill information into his head.

  That day she ordered him to the front of the class, told him to stand up straight, and lectured him on his inattention and slovenliness. Taking her long ruler, she hit him repeatedly behind the knees until he collapsed on the floor. I was outraged at the callousness and injustice, and picking on kids who were not from my cosy, middle-class world. It was my first lesson in social injustice and gross discrimination. I can never wipe the picture from behind my eyes. Miss Mynitt taught me, in a powerful way, a lesson she had no intention of teaching. It has remained with me through life.

  War

  In 1936 the Spanish Civil War broke out. Looking back at this time, my mother wrote: ‘Our small girl is horrified at the illustrations in the national papers and journals of bombed buildings and people lying wounded in the road. We are so grateful that our children are safe in our home and decide that we must get some of these unfortunate children from this land of war to stay with us, and so begins a realisation that a desire to mix with other nationalities can be a tremendous education.’

  We began International Friendship work in our home, although up to now we had not thought of giving it a label. No school holidays came without children from our own East End of London and some from countries overseas: a young Russian girl who had never seen Russia but had lived in Paris all her life, a Dutch student full of the most terrible hatred for the Jews – his mother was a German.

  During the Second World War, the sirens went off, wailing in the night, and we trooped down to the cupboard under the stairs. Father was a senior air raid warden and on duty near the station, escorting sometimes panic-stricken people to the underground shelter, reassuring the fearful, and ensuring that no chink of light was visible through the crack of any door and thick curtains were tightly drawn. An elderly lady with violet hair, Miss Urquhart, a refugee from London who lived in the spare room, crouched in the corner of the cupboard. She smelled of patchouli and lavender, cloying and overwhelming in the narrow confines of the cupboard. Tins of biscuits and other emergency rations, and first aid boxes of bandages and iodine, were piled at the shallowest end of the cupboard in case the house collapsed around us. There was a pervading smell of leaking gas – a good thing we never tried to light matches there. David and I played snap, or tried to read, but it was difficult to concentrate. Miss Urquhart talked a lot, usually about past times. She had seen better days, and let everyone know it. Mother tried to do her needlework in the poor light.

  We heard the rumble of bombers flying overhead towards Bristol, and occasionally a thud as, pursued by Spitfires, German pilots dropped their loads on Somerset towns or on the railway line – twice there were direct hits on the station less than a mile away – before turning and speeding back to the continent. Then came the shrill ‘all clear’, and we would go back to bed. Luckily for us, it was all just incredibly boring.

  The year the war in Europe ended Mother arranged a special Christmas service with German prisoners of war from the local camp. She wrote, ‘I approached the officer in command and requested that the POWs should be invited to a Christmas service, carols and a brief address given in German by my young son on the spirit of reconciliation.’ When this service was arranged, she wondered if any of the men would come. ‘But to our joy, thirty-eight men attended and then joined us at our house for supper afterwards. English and German voices united in “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht”. Many of these boys had left school, joined the Hitler Youth organisation, and had never been allowed to develop their brains to think for themselves.’

  Every Sunday a group of four visited us. Mother stretched the food rations to feed them, and gradually more prisoners joined them. Dieter played the violin, Dr von Schindel discussed philosophy. One winter, when snow had fallen thick, we had sledge races down the hill opposite our house. The concerts became an institution, and festivities were joined by the camp Commandant and his German wife, Gerda, who also became close friends.

  It seems ludicrous looking back at it, but Mother was much criticised, and it shocked that small country town. She wrote to the prisoners’ mothers, wives and sweethearts. It must have been about that time that my brother and I bought the Delius Violin Concerto with our pocket money. It expressed for me the turmoil, sorrow and striving that marked the end of the war, and the hope of a new world we were confident we were going to create. I suppose that is a contrast with most adolescents today, who are pretty sure that the world is not going to get any better.

  Leadership came early for me. I was a Brownie – a Sixer of the Pixies as I recall – and much approved of by Brown Owl. But by the time I was supposed to pass on to being a Girl Guide I had decided this authoritarian role, however useful, was not what I wanted. Power corrupts. Even a sense of one’s own worthiness is apt to corrupt – dangerous stuff!

  Heroines

  Evacuees came to stay, and refugees from Nazi Germany and occupied countries. The writer Zoe Oldenburg, who had fled from Communist Russia, shared my room and was an expert story-teller. There was usually an African or Asian university student during the vacs, and the house became an international community in miniature. This social and political education extended what I learnt at school and formed the basis of daily discussions about values and social responsibility.

  I was surrounded with stories of brave heroines and women who challenged and changed society. Mother told me these stories: Grace Darling who took the lifeboat out in heavy seas and rescued everyone in a capsized ship. There was a drawing of her on my bedroom wall – hair flying in the wind, waves crashing against the rocks, the lighthouse where she lived behind her. There was Florence Nightingale, tending sick and dying soldiers at Scutari, Elizabeth Fry, sitting with women and children in prison, and Maria Montessori whose educational methods mother introduced when I could barel
y toddle – I remember sitting in my pram fascinated by the brightly coloured apparatus.

  There were present-day heroines like Vera Brittain (mother of Shirley Williams), novelist and author of a book about her loving relationship with Winifred Holtby – and Dame Sybil Thorndike, from whom I still cherish an encouraging letter. We met them at pacifist rallies.

  Later there were male heroes – above all Ghandi, a little man in a loin cloth who went to meet the rich and powerful to state universal truths and challenge the might of the British Empire through non-violent resistance: ‘You must be the change you wish to see in the world.’

  Many unusual and creative women were in and out of the house as I was growing up. One of mother’s best friends Theresa Hooley, was a poet, and another, Margaret Barr, the only Unitarian missionary. She worked in Assam, had started a girls’ school there, and explored the shared values in all religions. Margaret had a great influence on me. She was an intrepid adventurer, utterly committed to bringing education to the mountains of Assam, full of respect for other religions and seeing that of God in each of them. She had lived in Ghandi’s ashram, appreciated Eastern cultures as a social anthropologist does, seeking out values, meanings, beliefs and ways of behaving, and told fascinating stories about what she had learned. When she stayed with us she spent hours talking to me about the teachings of the Bhagavad Gita and the Upanishads, explaining cultural norms, and describing how patterns of relationships were formed in different societies. She published a book on this subject and commissioned me – I must have been about 15 – to design its cover with strong outlines of different places of worship – mosques, temples and churches. This was the first time I used my pleasure in art for public exhibition.

  Moving Into The Country

  When I was 13 Father had a stroke. I came home from school to find him in bed with one side of his face slipped and unable to speak clearly. Mother nursed him devotedly and he recovered completely. She also made bold decisions: he must retire. They would sell the town house and move into the country.

  Father had never been an urban dweller at heart. He was the tweedy type who smoked a pipe, and though he was a tailor he was happiest out shooting or pampering his pigs. Unusually for men of his generation, he cooked a bit – Scottish recipes handed down in his family, like the delicious potato scones on which we slathered butter when we were given some off-ration from the local farm. Mother hated cooking: ‘We eat to live. We don’t live to eat!’ But she made good drop scones to go with strawberry jam and clotted cream from the farm. The cream formed on top of a great pan of rich scalded milk outside the dairy, and the fat, sleepy cats lolled around waiting to be given a saucer of milk once the cream was skimmed off. Mother made a tasty squab pie too, with onions, meat, vegetables and apples.

  I announced I was a vegetarian when I was nine. So squab pie was out from then on. Mother admired my decision but didn’t know how she could cope with feeding me, so she served chicken, which I liked, and haddock which I adored, soon after the announcement. But the challenge was too soon. My mind was fully made up. I turned both dishes down and, having made that sacrifice, later was not going to succumb to the temptation of carnivorous tit-bits. I have not eaten meat or fish since. I got through late childhood and adolescence mainly on baked beans, apples from the orchard, and cheese when it was available.

  After we moved to Little Thatch, Rumwell, Father took to a new life with relish. He loved birds, rabbits, hedgehogs, and finding the first primroses and mushrooms. He bred pigs and pampered them. When the sows were farrying he studied their diets meticulously and gave them Parrish’s Food which provided supplementary iron.

  Some birds he shot. I remember the rook shoot, with the bark of the trees opposite my window streaked with blood. Others he tended, mending broken wings. He shot rabbits, too. But when he found a limping baby rabbit he brought it home and nursed it to health. There was a disturbing paradox in his actions. Perhaps there is for most countrymen who breed animals and are concerned about the welfare of their animals, but who also kill them.

  Mother revelled in her new home. She had space for students and refugees of many nationalities to come and stay. It offered a beautiful stage for entertaining, having poetry and musical soirees, and the peace to give counselling and succour to people who sought help – women battling with anxiety and depression, difficulties in relationships and sexual problems. There was a garden scented with lavender and roses, and she put stones with messages that had special meaning for her carved into them: ‘Fear knocked at the door. Faith entered. There was no-one there.’ Little Thatch was a place of healing.

  One day David, with a large party taking place in the garden, was helping make the tea. A curious boy of 13, he got bored and chemically experimental. Some mothballs were in the kitchen drawer and as the kettle boiled he melted them down in the steam issuing from the spout. The silver pots of tea were carried out to the guests. I saw their surprised expressions as they sipped it. Was this a weird kind of Lapsang Souchong? Was it some other kind of exotic tea? They drank it politely. Then Mother started on her cup, and all was revealed.

  The Crown Inn was next door and accidents – most of them minor – were frequent as tipsy revellers emerged from its door and were hit by cars speeding down Rumwell hill. One day there was a terrific crash. Some drunk American servicemen had run out of it and one was smashed under a lorry crowded with fellow soldiers. The scene was bedlam. Mother ran with a first aid box and I followed behind. The young soldier was lying in the road apparently dead. She started to work on him and got him breathing. I saw her deftly slip his left eyeball back in its socket. She issued instructions and got co-ordinated action from those who were standing around. She talked to him soothingly and firmly. The ambulance came and we packed up and went in to wash off the blood. At least one life had been saved.

  Father’s mother, Gran, wore gold-rimmed spectacles and her sight was very poor. She was knocked down by a young motorcyclist as she tried to cross the road by the cinema. Mother and Father rushed to the hospital to be with her. I waited at home. At last they came. I said, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea’ – an invariable English response to tragedy. As we drank it Mother told me that her death had been remarkable because of her faith. She was slipping away. Suddenly her face lit up and she exclaimed, ‘Ah! Jesus!’ and died. She was with her Lord.

  Father’s mother, Gran, had poor sight – and died after being knocked down by a motorcycle

  Mother invited the young motorcyclist out to the cottage for tea so that he could talk about his feelings and accept forgiveness for causing Gran’s death. Her sight was bad and it would have been hard for him to avoid her. Mother served home-made scones and had got hold of some contraband cream from the farm on the lane. Gran always loved clotted cream. As we put the meal together her hand drew back. She couldn’t face giving him the cream. He had a bit of butter instead.

  Teenage Years

  Perhaps because we were a close extended family and there was so much going on, school friends were peripheral and I did not depend on them for my social life. In fact, I find it hard to remember individual friends until I was in the senior school. There was Rosemary, who was a Seventh Day Adventist, and I used to go to religious services with her, but she was not allowed to come to the Unitarian Chapel with me. Gillian was more sexually advanced and would meet boys from Taunton School Sixth Form on the other side of our hockey pitch in the lane. We knew when boys were around because you could see the prefects’ sky blue velvet caps with tassels bobbing above the hedge. Pamela was a dear friend and helped run the Chapel services for peace with me. She was very musical and married Dieter, one of the prisoners of war who played the violin.

  But my deepest relationship was with Pat, who was dynamic and highly intellectual. Her father was a diplomat I think, so she lived in a variety of countries and was a polymath. She was a few years older than me and a striking Dr Faustus in the school play in which I had a small part. She shared a passion for poetry
and great drama. Her voice was deep and velvety, she had Hispanic colouring, and I adored her.

  One day, lying in the garden at my cousin Hazel’s house outside Bristol, where we were staying, she very slowly and lightly ran her fingers down the inside of my right arm. I felt a totally unexpected thrill of desire and have never forgotten that moment. It was so unexpected that I could feel like this about another woman! It was a revelation to me. That is as far as it went. But it was a great part of my education about sex and gender.

  Miss Lloyd taught English at Bishop Fox’s Grammar School in Taunton, Somerset. Although I became head girl, I never really enjoyed school. I didn’t enjoy Miss Lloyd either – in fact, I detested her. Only later, when I was at Oxford, did I begin to realise what she had given me. She reinforced the essential stimulation to be a rebel. She’d given me the insight into myself to realise that I need not toe the line, and could dare to be different. She made me question my own values and beliefs.

  She was very different herself. She had fly-away grey hair with pins falling out all over the place, wore shapeless grey cardigans and a long sagging skirt. Today a TV make-over programme would have a great time with her. She and her sister lived in a cottage round the back of the school, where they kept goats. I passed there as I walked to school. The front garden was a mud patch, and they had made a wooden bridge so the goats could go in and out of the sitting room window. There were usually two or three of them in the garden; I don’t know how many more were in the house. She was very fond of animals and told me once that she preferred them to children.

  Even though I disliked her because of her sarcasm and the way she humiliated girls who weren’t clever, her English questions excited me. I remember her bringing advertisements into the class and we deconstructed them. We would look at them to see what they were trying to sell, how they were doing it, and the effect on us. I have since always seen advertisements, or anything people are trying to persuade me about, in the same way.