by Abrams, Fran
Songs of Innocence
First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2012 by Atlantic Books an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Fran Abrams, 2012
The moral right of Fran Abrams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-84354-896-6
E-book ISBN: 978-1-78239-040-4
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Contents
Introduction
1 Victoria’s Children
2 Cosseted Edwardians
3 Scout’s Honour
4 Between the Wars
5 War Babies
6 Born in the Ruins
7 Children of the Social Revolution
8 Eighties to ASBOs
Conclusion
Epilogue
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Introduction
Alice Foley was a bright, lively child, born into a fractious, political, overcrowded, poor household in Lancashire towards the end of the nineteenth century. Her parents’ religious beliefs were not fervent, by any means, yet the little girl often found herself conflicted and concerned about the state of her soul. She could picture it, shaped like a shoulder of lamb and tucked neatly under her rib cage. But it was not, in her mind’s eye, as glistening white as it should be: ‘Mortal and venial sins showed up like dark and light pencil marks on its virgin surface. These unseemly blotches caused untold anxiety and I wondered curiously why this small fraction of my anatomy should be so troublesome.’1
In those days, original sin still loomed large in the life of a child like Alice, not least because the elementary school she attended was run by nuns. Nor was her state of mind helped by the fact that day after day she scratched her slate beneath a picture of the Sacred Heart: ‘Worst of all, below the breast the robe was pulled aside, revealing a pierced heart . . . with blood streaming down. This picture fascinated even whilst it sickened me with its gory details. I yearned so intensely for happiness and security, yet here was this daily reminder of sin, cruelty and man’s betrayal.’
Alice didn’t know it at the time, of course, but her childish worries went to the core of a battle of ideas about childhood which by then had raged for centuries. What is a child? The arguments go back to the Enlightenment. Is a newborn infant, as Alice tended to feel, a marked and sinful thing, born out of man’s depravity and in desperate need of redemption? Until 1693, when John Locke’s treatise, Some Thoughts Concerning Education, was published, this notion of childhood had been the accepted wisdom. Yet Locke had turned this around: had Alice consulted him on the state of her soul, he would probably have told her to erase those pencil scratches from her mental vision. A child’s soul was indeed pure white, he argued – at least on the day he was born. It was, Locke said, a tabula rasa, a blank slate upon which man would make his own marks – for good or for evil – as the child grew.
Locke’s notion of childhood would be controversial even today. Influenced by Dutch child-rearing practices, which were more benign than those common in Britain at the time, he thought children should be treated as individuals – that is, that parents should attempt to influence through reasoned argument rather than by diktat: ‘Slavish discipline makes a slavish temper.’
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, entering the debate seventy years later with Émile, Ou de l’éducation, scandalized Europe by positing the notion that a child was, in fact, neither inherently sinful nor a blank sheet on which man would write. Children were born pure, he said, but were inevitably corrupted as they grew: ‘Everything is good coming from the Creator, everything degenerates in the hands of men.’ The book was considered so blasphemous that it was actually burned on the streets of Paris.
As Alice Foley would learn 100 years later, the landscape of childhood would continue to be shaped and fought over by these two opposing schools of thought. Indeed, it would be easy to characterize the story of childhood throughout the ages as the story of the epic struggle between the desire to see children as inherently flawed, even dangerous, and the desire to shape them as perfected, purified versions of our own adult selves.
Childhood, of course, inspires strong emotions. And so society’s deepest, most persistent myths and tropes, its most potent fears and longings, find themselves imprinted upon its surface. If the adult world fears change, and feels uncertain about the future, then it looks askance at its children. What horrors are in store? Can they be trusted to carry the baton safely through the next generation? Or are things – as one of those persistent tropes would constantly have us believe – somehow degenerating, falling apart?
‘We are born with evil in us and cruelty is part of this,’ wrote William Golding after the murder of two-year-old James Bulger in 1993.2 ‘If there is no one around to guide children then they go wrong . . . And when children go wrong they can often go wrong with a vengeance. There is such energy in a child, they are more powerful than any bomb.’
Yet, conversely, if the adult world feels ready to embrace hope, and optimism, then the young are venerated and cherished:
Sweet babe in thy face
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee
Thy maker lay and wept for me,
wrote William Blake in the early nineteenth century.
If the writing of the story of childhood were left to the philosophers and the poets, it might look like this. It might chart the battleground between these two children: the child of Blake, innocent, vulnerable, in constant need of protection and emotional nourishment; and the child of Golding, inherently wicked and in need of adult help to drive Satan from its blemished soul. Indeed, in many respects, this book will ‘set out to chart the sallies and the retreats in this particular war during the twentieth century. So fundamental is this moral debate to the way in which the adult world has viewed the child through the ages that it would be impossible for an account of childhood not to touch on it in some way, even if only in a peripheral, implicit manner.
So, where did the twentieth century take the child? Did the growing notion of the child as an individual, with individual rights, bring widespread joy? Or did the loss of the old certainty – that parents were in control; that so long as they did their job adequately all would be well – simply bring with it added anxiety, added grief? Did children’s gradual journey from the labour market into education empower them, or did it lead them into narrower, more restricted lives? Did girls, still destined, as ever, at the end of the nineteenth century for lives of childbearing and subservience, use their new freedoms to real advantage, or did they still struggle to throw off that yoke?
The story of childhood during the twentieth century is a story that could be sliced and told in so many different ways. It could be a story of steady – or even unsteady – progress for the child: be
tter housing, better health services, a better understanding of diet. While the social evils identified by Joseph Rowntree in 1904 – poverty, intemperance, ‘impurity’ and drugs, to name a few – would certainly continue to impact on the child, the absolute poverty of the Victorian inner city, with its child workers and street urchins, its relentless diet of tea and bread, and its life-shatteringly high death rate, would become a thing of the past. The twentieth century, of course, was the century in which infant mortality dropped from around 140 early deaths per 1,000 births to around six per 1,000. And so, seen from the viewpoint of the social reformer, the century could be read as a good one.
And as the child moved, over the course of a century and more, from the workplace into the schoolroom, as families grew smaller and as children’s chances of survival grew greater, the child’s place in society would undergo a slow, inexorable and largely positive change. This role, of course, was one that always had contradiction and paradox at its heart: a strange mix of sentimentality and fear, of love and irritation. Perhaps the adult world was never quite sure whether to cleave its children to its breast or simply, for the most part, to ignore them. At the height of the Edwardian era – a time during which children were idolized and idealized in works such as J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan – Emmeline Pankhurst set sail for an American lecture tour while her son lay critically ill. She returned just before he died – and days later she was off again to a public meeting in Bradford: ‘If you can arrange it I would be grateful if Bradford friends would just behave to me as if no great sorrow had come just now,’ she wrote to the organizer. ‘Although I am very grateful for the sympathy, I want to get through my work.’ Why? Was she so broken by the death that she could not bear to speak of it? Or so driven by her adult concerns that she could not quite find the right way to handle it and them at the same time? The paradox would remain strong as the twentieth century wore on, with the adult world unsure whether to speak of the child as vulnerable, fragile, in need of protection; or dangerous, out-of-control, in need of discipline. Yet as the child’s economic position in the family changed – for most children worked and contributed to the family purse in some way in Victorian times – other things surely were bound to change too. Adults would begin to befriend their children, to listen to them, to ‘respect’ them and to accord them ‘rights’. In short, as children’s value as economic assets declined, their value as emotional assets would begin to grow. ‘We teach with emotional intelligence, in that we are role models and our interactions are central to our ethos of empathy, motivation and praise,’ ran the blurb for a private girls’ school on the south coast.3 A Children’s Commissioner for England would be charged with the responsibility of talking to the nation’s children: ‘We will use our powers and independence to ensure that the views of children and young people are routinely asked for, listened to, and acted upon,’ its website remarked.4
Indeed, the twentieth century was the century in which the child took on its own identity; the century in which childhood became not just a prelude to adulthood, but a crucial, formative period during which one wrong parental move could be catastrophic. The twentieth century began with Freudian insights into the psyche of the child and into the importance of childhood experience for the formation of character; it continued with a growing awareness in schools and elsewhere of the child as an individual, and it ended with the ‘rights’ of the child as a citizen and as a social participant enshrined in international treaty under the United Convention on the Rights of the Child.
The family, certainly, ceded power into the hands of the state in a major way during the century. Governments took on new responsibility after new responsibility with regard to children and childhood. This was the century in which the state would take a role in every aspect of children’s education and health; in which it would regulate their work and demand to know whether their play leaders were suitable or not. This was the century in which the state would extend its fingers ever further inside family homes; and the century in which the state would decide, increasingly often, to remove children from those homes to places it believed to be safer.
And yet despite this increasing regulation the story of the child in the twentieth century has often been read as the story of a terrifying downhill slide, a descent from Victorian familial decency and rigour to a dystopian, morally lax place in which the child has been left adrift on a sea of sins and dangers. Joseph Rowntree’s social evils are among them, of course, but during the century they have been joined by a host of other unwelcome companions to childhood – sloth, obesity, anxiety, a sense of alienation.
There is, of course, a rich brew of myth and reality in all this, and it is virtually impossible to dig deep enough to expose the roots of the repetitive scare stories about childhood with which all of us keep constant company. During the century, some have been so persistent that it would seem they must be true – if it were not for the fact that every time they surface, the spinners of the tales hark back to a golden age, thirty or fifty years earlier, when no such evils existed. Popular culture has been destroying the child’s intellect, for instance, since the time of the ‘penny dreadful’ novel and probably before. It was doing so when the cinema and the children’s comic were invented in the early years of the twentieth century, and it was doing so when television made its way into the nation’s living rooms after World War Two. It was doing so still when video gave children access to the ‘nasty’, and when computer games brought Grand Theft Auto into the home. Similarly, the youth gang has been haunting the streets of Britain’s inner cities since the mid-nineteenth century, if not longer. From the Scuttlers and Hooligans of the 1890s to the Teddy Boys of the 1950s, from the Skinheads of the 1960s to the postcode gangs of the new millennium, the story has been the same: the offspring of the poor have gone bad; their antics are undermining the foundations of respectable society. What will become of us next?
And that, perhaps, is the nub of it. What, indeed, will become of us? Children are, always have been and always will be – to borrow a cliché – the future. And that fact brings with it the constant uplift of hope, along with the nagging dread of uncertainty. There is always, where children are concerned, both the intrigue and the glory of infinite possibility – what might these new lives bring to the world? Who might they become? – and yet also a concurrent fear of the unknown, a horrible sense that the new generation might fail and that all we have built might fall apart. The story of childhood can never be a simple tale, because it will always be beset by this contradiction.
A conventional question at the start of a work of modern history might be: ‘How did we get to here, from there?’ But the story of childhood over the past century – or indeed, over any century – does not lend itself to such simple formulae. Because we are never quite sure where ‘there’ was; still less where ‘here’ is. The story of childhood will always be the story of that central contradiction, that complex, discomforting mix of emotions. So, the questions here are different, and less simple: What have we made of our children in the past century? Who, on each step of our recent journey, has been the perfect child for our times? What do our ideals – from the sweet, innocent babe of Blake to the impish sprite of Barrie; from the solid manifestation of post-war family-building to the aspirational, over-educated, hothoused superchild of the twenty-first century – tell us about ourselves? What after all, was – and is – a child for? And what, then, will become of us all?
1 Victoria’s Children
The Children’s Charter
August 26, 1889 is not a date writ particularly large in the annals of British social history. Yet on that day an event took place which continues to have the most profound effect on the life of every child born in Britain today, as well as on countless others around the world. On that day the Prevention of Cruelty to, and Protection of, Children Act 1889 – popularly known as the Children’s Charter – enshrined clearly in law for the first time the right of the state to pass through the front door of the f
amily home and to intervene in the relationships of parents with their children.
In effect, it was an Act that recognized the child as an individual, with an existence not entirely dictated by the wishes – or whims – of his or her mother and father. Even today, this is one of the knottier terrains over which public policy has to travel repeatedly as the debate over the best way to bring up a child continues. And the Act started a process which has continued: the process by which the state gradually took over the private lives of British children, taking them to its breast as their ultimate protector.
The Children’s Charter – an Act borne out of the Romantic view of the child, if ever there was one – had its roots in a series of events which had begun a quarter of a century earlier on the other side of the Atlantic. When Mary Ellen Wilson was born in Hell’s Kitchen, New York, no one could have predicted that her childhood story would become one of the most notorious of its age, let alone that it would spur the launch of at least two major national charities, which still exist today, along with a raft of legislation.
In truth, the story of Mary Ellen’s childhood was grimly familiar. She was born into poverty and her father, Thomas Wilson, died soon afterwards. Forced to work, her mother, Francis, boarded her out with a foster-mother – a common practice at the time. When her visits to her infant daughter – and also her payments – dwindled and stopped, the child was delivered into the care of the New York City Department of Charities. A family called the McCormacks agreed to take her in, but there was to be no stability in Mary Ellen’s short childhood. Her new ‘father’, Thomas, soon died and his wife, Mary, married again. It was a chain of events – a series of broken homes, a child no one seemed to want – which could have featured in an abuse case a hundred years later – save for the fact that the homes were broken not by divorce or separation but by death. Indeed, there was even the suggestion that Mary Ellen was in fact the product of an affair between Francis Wilson and Thomas McCormack, and that this was the reason why he had approached the charities department offering to foster her. Small wonder, then, that with Thomas gone and with a new ‘father’, Francis Connolly, installed in the family home, Mary Ellen found she was no longer welcome.1