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Feb 08
2018
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Helen Whitten
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My goodness what a muddle we seem to be getting into around men and women and what is offensive and what is not. When I heard that Manchester Art Gallery had removed the pre-Raphaelite painting Hylas and the Nymphs by John William Waterhouse in case, in the current climate, modern audiences might find it offensive, I exclaimed, like Victor Meldrew, “I don’t believe it!!” I gather I wasn’t alone and, thankfully, the painting has been put back. See https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2018/jan/31/manchester-art-gallery-removes-waterhouse-naked-nymphs-painting-prompt-conversation
But where are we at, on this centenary of the Suffrage movement? Are we getting distracted up misguided alleyways that potentially do a disservice to the intentions of the suffragettes? Actions like removal of a historical painting diminishes the aim of equality with men. Paintings depict our history, male and female, good and evil. The wonders of humanity and its bestialities. We can’t just wipe it out, however distasteful some people might find it today.
Personally I worry that acts like taking down the painting in the Manchester Art Gallery does little for women’s rights and freedoms. In fact, to remove a painting feels like a worrying step towards some puritanical purge. After all it is dictatorships that ban culture, paintings, music, dance and – often – remove women’s rights. Are we now to remove all paintings that depict nude figures? What about so many mythological paintings – masterpieces depicting rape and kidnap? Do we wipe the myths from our history books? What about Botticelli, Titian, Picasso, to mention just a few? What will be left in our art galleries? Bare walls probably because the thought police can find offence in almost everything if they think hard enough.
At the same time we heard, this week, that the female models who accompany the Formula One drivers on the grid will be replaced with ‘grid kids’. This seems totally pointless when several of the girls who used to be employed to escort the racing drivers were perfectly happy with the way they earned their money. And why shouldn’t they be? Surely these kind of high-handed decisions lead to limiting women rather than empowering them? Surely this creates some prescriptive model of how women should behave, which could take us back a few centuries rather than forward?
But while we get into a predicament about whether to remove nude figures of women from the walls of art galleries and museums there is a serious point to remember. This is that huge numbers of women around the world are less fortunate than we are in the developed countries. That many women still don’t have, or don’t dare use, the vote. That many women are routinely abused by men and the system in which they live. That we still have a long way to go to enable women to be recognised as a valid and equal part of the human race (which of course we are if you are brave enough to challenge religious texts and outdated habits of thought and behaviour).
So when I hear comments such as “feminism has gone too far” and “there’s going to be a backlash against feminism” I disagree, because so many women are nowhere near equality. But I do question whether some of the arguments being used are less pertinent than others and perhaps are being presented in ways that can alienate people, which is unhelpful.
OK, so the painting shows naked nymphs tempting a handsome young man to his doom – but who is powerless in this? Is it really the young nymphs? Surely they are using their power to lure him in? Are the young women really represented as passive decorative creatures or are they actually using their subtle art of seduction for their own benefit?
But this is where the muddle lies and where there are such confused messages. After all, alongside this puritan movement we are also living in an era where celebrity models strut their stuff wearing very little and where we regularly have television dramas that broadcast horrifying scenes of rape and violence against women. Not to mention the porn and sadism of some video games. Surely there’s a balance to be had here as this seems to be in direct contrast to discussions of whether advertisements or paintings are “sexist” or objectify their subject.
But I am wary that what is being done in the name of protecting women is actually removing the freedoms that we have battled so hard to achieve. These freedoms could be removed in the blink of an eye if we were subjected to a dictatorship or religious movement and so we have to be watchful, however well-intentioned a suggestion might appear to be.
The female or male body should be allowed to be displayed, whether on canvas, screen or at a party. As long as it is a choice. As long as no-one has been bullied into doing something that makes them feel uncomfortable.
What will make a difference is education. A World Health Organisation survey revealed that “men are more likely to perpetrate violence if they have low education, a history of child maltreatment, exposure to domestic violence against their mothers, harmful use of alcohol, unequal gender norms including attitudes accepting of violence, and a sense of entitlement over women”.
So we have to teach children to identify the boundaries within which they feel safe and in control. We have to alert them to the dangers of being lured into sexting photos of themselves or being groomed into doing things they don’t want to do through social media or bullying. This requires teaching girls to be more confident and assertive of their rights and to rehearse the words they may need to speak in order to say no. We have to help boys and girls to understand that every one of us has a responsibility to manage ourselves wisely and also a responsibility for our impact on others. I also believe it will help for everyone to learn more about the sexual arousal system and the way that testosterone hijacks rational thought, leading to increased risk behaviours.
But taking a painting off the wall isn’t going to provide those skills. Great art demonstrates the command of observation, creativity and painting, depicting philosophical ideas, social and religious concepts. Namely, it educates us and broadens our minds.
Let’s keep the focus on making sure that women’s voices are heard and taken seriously. If the conversation revolves around concepts of powerlessness and victimhood it taints the reputation of women. Women come in all forms. As the playwright David Hare commented recently when asked if he would have “strong women” in his new television series Collateral , “I have the right to portray all kinds of women without being called misogynistic… I want to be free to portray silly women and weak women and clever women; I want to be able to portray all women. When we can portray all women equally, that will be equality.”
This feels right to me – after all there are silly men, weak men and clever men and we all add to the rich diversity of human life. Let’s make sure that our freedoms of speech and creative expression are not limited by the “I can’t be offended” brigade. We have come a long way and it would be nice to feel that in future education will have brought about further change in many more areas of the world.
Jan 26
2018
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Helen Whitten
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“A fair trial is one in which the rules of evidence are honoured, the accused has competent counsel, and the judge enforces the proper courtroom procedures – a trial in which every assumption can be challenged”. Harry Browne
I have been hesitating to throw my tuppence-halfpenny-worth into the arena on the #MeToo and Harvey Weinstein conversation. I still hesitate but I do feel drawn to write about the subject because I am concerned that the #MeToo and social media movement is in danger of demonising men without giving them a proper legal process to establish who is guilty and who is innocent.
I also don’t like the fact that women seem to be adopting the role of victims, when they are also capable of creating their own victims, as we have seen with recent rape charges where women misled the courts through false accusations.
The events at the Presidents’ Club dinner have raised these issues again and I guess I would like to bring a little perspective, as I see it, into the conversation.
Let me start by making it clear that I am in no way condoning rapists nor those who harass or abuse their position through force or by blackmailing female – or male – employees with bribes regarding their career or financial position in return for sexual gratification. This is wrong. People who abuse, whether they are Catholic priests, Harvey Weinstein or gymnast doctor Larry Nassar need to be penalized.
But trial by digital media is like rule by a lynch mob. Without a due process we can’t tell where innocence or guilt lie. In the meantime men’s careers and reputations are being trashed by accusations made by one or more women. There seems to be no due process of law or investigation to identify those who have truly behaved abusively and those who have just made a crass approach where they needed to be told firmly to stop.
Reaching a verdict of “beyond reasonable doubt” when it is one person’s statement against the other’s is hard enough even when there is a court case. But here no judge or jury are involved, just accusation. In the world of Twitter people are condemned before they have had a chance to open their mouth.
What I am saying is not intended to diminish any person’s experience. Simply to ensure that both accused and victim are adequately protected, as is the practice of democracy and the law in the UK.
There is certainly a broader problem of macho-dominated cultures to be addressed, both here in the UK and worldwide. Men have ruled and governed countries, religious establishments, businesses and their women, for far too long. They have been given messages by philosophers and religious leaders that men are here to command, women to obey. Women still have to opt out of the words ‘to obey’ in marriage services so we are talking recent history – and let’s accept that some women liked this. Also let’s acknowledge that much of this has already changed and is changing but sadly one can’t alter millennia of beliefs, perceptions and behaviours in the space of sixty years or so.
This latest set of scandals provides a wake-up call for both men and women to adjust their behaviours to one another further. We need to ensure that men, young and old, move out of any sense of entitlement of their right to touch a woman’s (or a man’s) body without overt permission or encouragement. At the same time women need to be absolutely clear about their boundaries, what they find acceptable or unacceptable, and speak up immediately to stop abusive actions and also misunderstanding. But communication between men and women is subtle and easily open to misunderstandings. The dance of relationship is a tricky one. Both in romantic and workplace situations things can be taken the wrong way. I don’t envy young people who fancy one another in today’s world – one wrong move and your reputation is ruined.
With the Presidents Club, it seems to me that merely attending a male-only charitable event that raises considerable money for good charities is not in itself an evil or disrespectful thing to do. Women have women-only events and hen parties, some with rowdy behaviour and male stripagrams. Are we saying the male stripagrammer is being abused, in the same way we are saying the female hostesses at the Presidents Club party were? A male undertaking to strip is being paid and knows what he is in for. The female hostesses were also being paid and, although some behaviour got out of hand, some of those hostesses had apparently been to such events before and nonetheless signed up again. They are not slaves, they are adult and have every right not to accept the job and, if they do, to bat off any wandering hand if they don’t like it.
Whether the Presidents’ Club dinner should have been held at all with these themes is dubious. And this isn’t to excuse the behaviours of such men but to put them in perspective. Again, I am not talking about victims of rapists or abusers where force is used, nor where someone is underage. There is a significant difference between a rapist and a man who gets drunk and aroused and touches someone inappropriately. Something women, when drunk, have been known to do too. Let’s not tar all men with the same brush. Some men behave badly, many don’t.
“If you want to be respected by others, the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Something I didn’t understand when I was young was how shy and nervous many young men were, how anxious they were about asking us for a dance, or to go out on a date, because they faced rejection. I believe even recently girls and women have tended to expect the first move to come from the man. I wonder if those women have experienced the rebuffs that can occur when you do make the first move and are rejected by someone you care for or fancy?
It’s easy for women, who tend to be intuitive, to imagine that a man knows when we are upset or understands how far he can go. The reality of life is that he usually needs to be told. He doesn’t guess. He is often, though not always, less intuitive and needs to have boundaries articulated clearly. Otherwise he can imagine that he has the right to make first moves, indeed that a girl or woman expects him to do so. Some men are practised Casanovas and seducers. Others are somewhat incompetent and inept in terms of relating to a woman. I am talking of the muddle that can occur when there is flirtation or a sexual buzz in the air. It’s heady stuff. I think most women have occasionally flirted or responded to a man’s advances and perhaps later regretted it. At other times it can just be fun and one shrugs it off and puts it down to experience.
When adult women feel empowered – and let’s face it there’s never been a time in history where women were as empowered as we are today – they are capable of managing a man’s predatory nature in such circumstances. They can say no firmly, or expose him to the assembled crowd for what he has done. We don’t have to hide behind the label of victim. Indeed if we are suggesting we need protection from men we are on a slippery slope to Puritanism and to the influence of cultures such as the Middle East where women have been kept covered up indoors to keep them safe from other men. Surely we don’t want that. For those of us living in countries where our rights are protected women need to learn to step up and own our power. We are not frail creatures. We earn our own money. We have the vote. We have equal rights. We have found our voice and we need to use it.
We don’t want to make communication between the sexes any more complicated than it already is. Many men respect women and treat them well. Some men push their luck, and others can be downright violent and abusive. We need to be more careful with categorisation of labels and only give punishment where it is due. The arguments and accusations must be fair.
In this current forthright disclosure of the behaviours women have silently accepted for too many years and now reject, we do, I believe, have the potential to create more mutual respect, equality and cooperation. The messages that boys and girls need to hear within their families and schooling is that they are both equal, that either a woman or a man can be a boss, that both can be strong, that both can be in the kitchen and look after their children, that both can be on equal terms in the dance of sexual attraction. Let’s make it happen but don’t let’s lose the light-hearted fun of flirtation and courtship in the process.
“Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” George Bernard Shaw
Jan 18
2018
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Helen Whitten
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What bright spark thought up the idea of dry January? To go off booze at the most miserable grey month of the year? It’s madness. Perhaps it was the same person that came up with Movember – the idea that men should grow weird moustaches in order to raise money for charity? Surely we could raise money without this spectacle? But how can we survive dismal, chilly January without the odd gin and tonic or glass of wine? What worse time of the year to decide to keep off the odd tipple or two?
So far I have managed 18 days without alcohol – probably the first time for some forty years (other than pregnancies and hospitalisations) that I have not had a glass of wine with my dinner. Some people say they feel marvellous without alcohol – fitter, happier, sleeping like a baby – and that they take off weight miraculously quickly. Not me! I can’t claim to feel happier nor fitter, nor am I sleeping better. Worse still, despite jumping around to an aerobic video every day I haven’t taken off a single ounce of weight … so what’s the point I ask myself?
On top of this every Sunday magazine covers the topic of post-Christmas detox – we can’t even eat the chocolates everyone gave us for Christmas. So all we can eat is quinoa and brown rice … oh how dull do we have to be in such a dull month? Apparently we should be going vegan. Ouch. I wish I could feel as virtuous as others seem to feel about all this.
But it did get me thinking about the idea of a cleansing of the body and soul. We went to a church service at St Luke’s, Chelsea, last Sunday and there was a baptism service within the Eucharist. The church was full of children running up and down the aisle, the boys clambering over pews as if they were on a climbing frame, the little girls sitting pretty in their pink bows on their Daddy’s knee, a Just-William style boy balancing a fidget-spinner on his nose like a seal. It was fascinating to watch as parents attempted a losing battle at discipline and yet, at the same time, I felt that the Christian words of celebration and love would be seeping into those small souls, sewing memories of values and sacred music into their young minds that might last a lifetime.
And all the while the priest rose above the mêlée to speak of baptism, of a dramatic immersion of renewal and reminded us that we can, at any time of life, choose to begin again in faith, in newness of purpose.
And so perhaps I can see this painful detox as just such a cleansing. I am determined to keep going until February lst. More than that I have actually booked myself in for a ‘health regime’ at a spa where maybe I shall only be able to eat gruel but my goodness I shall feel pleased with myself at the end of it all. Even if I am pale with desperation and haven’t taken off any weight, what a heroine I shall be to myself!
So to all of you endeavouring to plough through the same miserable no-alcohol no-naughty-treats January, good luck! I empathise with you and haven’t enough energy to write a longer blog … too exhausted from the effort of being good. Roll on Foodie February … and a Happy New Year to you all.
Dec 18
2017
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Helen Whitten
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I drove up the King’s Road the other day and noticed the hundreds of tiny boutiques and independent shops that line the road. It made me reflect on the changes that I have seen in the high street and beyond over my lifetime.
I was struck by the amazing creativity that has happened in this country and the extraordinary choice of products and services we now have. Thinking back to the High Street of my 1950s youth, there was a dullness in the displays, the products, and few of the services, personal or professional, that are now on offer were available then.
This was emphasized again when David and I went into Winchester last Saturday to take his granddaughter, Bo, to the panto – Peter Pan. On every street corner there was a band or a choir, stalls selling home-made food and crafts. The colour, care and creativity of these community groups and individuals was startling. And, of course, the pantomime was fantastic – up-to-date with its Brexit jokes but timeless in the “oh yes we do” and “it’s behind you” that sent the small children wild with delight.
I remember my mother doing some AmDram with her Women’s Institute group, and there were cakes and jams but now countless small towns have Literary Festivals, Poetry Festivals, Music Festivals, Open Mic poetry evenings. Every village has it book groups, meditation groups, yoga, mindfulness and therapeutic workshops. The choice is staggering when you add to that the U3A and other local courses and education. And choirs and rock groups. Wow, aren’t we lucky?
I used to set my workshop groups an icebreaker to draw something that made them go wow. Some things are changeless – a sunset or sunrise, a child, the moon, a tree, nature, birds. Others change all the time and many that make me go “wow” today were not around in my parents’ day. SatNav, how cool is that to have someone tell you in good time which way to go in complicated cities and one-way systems? He occasionally has a mad moment and sends me somewhere ridiculous but most of the time he gets it right. Even in the remotest winding country lane in deepest Wales, Scotland, Eastern Europe and almost anywhere on the globe you no longer have to prop a map dangerously on your knee and try to fathom out where you are. And he will even read me my text messages.
My mobile phone amazes me daily with what it can do and what it can tell me – and I can bet you that even then I probably only use 5% of its facilities! The apps that my 6-year old granddaughter uses to learn, to write computer programming script and improve her maths are so useful, and creatively programmed to be entertaining as well as educational. There are emails and skype to keep us in touch with family. friends and work colleagues who may be far away (or sitting next to you!). And the internet, mainly a source for good though, like human society in general, also a source of evil. It can bring together communities in compassion and altruism but also in terrorism or paedophilia. But that’s humans for you.
In moving house we have had the help of Jayne and Maria, M&J Home Solutions, clever declutterers who have been a huge support in focusing our minds on what needs to go to charity or the tip, how to clear the house to show it at its most attractive and appealing to those who might look around. I don’t believe my parents would have been able to avail themselves of such a service.
There are dogwalkers, homesitters, people who will cook and deliver you your everyday meals when you are working hard. And food that you can actually eat! We weren’t allowed in pubs in my childhood, there was no decent coffee and mostly only disgusting food. Now every other shop is a café or patisserie and the food in the UK has improved beyond measure. If I dare to say so, I find it even better than the food in France these days, where the menus have hardly changed for forty years. In England you can find food from every part of the world and also a wonderful creative fusion – even in provincial towns. Pretty much impossible in days gone by!
And as I waltz around our lovely warm home and look out at the pretty but chilly frosty garden I remember times before central heating, when a home would have one warm room with a radiator, leaving the rest of the house freezing. We would get dressed beside the radiator but shiver when we had to go down the corridor to the loo. No more dangerous geysers in our bathrooms to asphyxiate us. And we are finally learning from our mistakes to seek more sustainable methods to keep ourselves warm in winter and cool in summer.
My mother had to struggle with twin-tub washing machines and hand wrangles. My young adult days were spent at the launderette – the fact that there are very few of these on the high street these days speaks of the fact that most people have their own washing machines and probably tumble driers too. Previous generations have had to hang their washing on freezing cold or damp washing lines or string it around the house. The carpet sweeper was pretty exhausting, too, in comparison to a Dyson … and that’s not to mention the hours one would spend washing up the dishes!
And that is not to begin on the medical front. That is truly a wow. My mother’s generation were enraptured by antibiotics, penicillin and vaccinations because before these so many children died. People forget how medicine has transformed our lives. And now we have MRI scans and the technological innovations that have been invented over these decades and it is quite astonishing what hospital doctors can do to save people and make their lives better, even in the most difficult circumstances. People who would inevitably have died in earlier times are kept alive. What we now have to tackle is the terrible human tendency to live somewhat unhealthy lives of too much eating and drinking (oops, Christmas is coming…oh dear, note to self).
Air travel was only for the wealthy – the route from London to Nice was one of the most expensive in the world but today one can get a return for £50 at some times of the year. And cars are so much more reliable – I recall more-or-less every journey having some breakdown with the cars we drove in our early 20s.
In 1969 I remember standing in the garden with my father when the first man landed on the moon. My father was delighted and would have been thrilled to watch the antics of Tim Peake on the space station and gain the knowledge of the universe that we have gained since that time, thanks to photographic technology and the ability to transfer data home from outer space. Near miraculous as far as I am concerned!
I have booked myself into a spa in January – another thing that was few and far between for my mother’s generation. I ought to be booking in for a diet programme but actually am taking the time out with a girlfriend, an old schoolfriend, to enjoy hydrotherapy, massage, warm baths, swimming, and manicures. What a luxury. I come from a generation that grew up doing our own nails but judging by all the nail bars on every high street obviously this is no longer the luxury it was for me. There were no credit cards, of course, and very little credit despite astronomic mortgage rates.
Inevitably all this is relative and difficult for younger generations to compare. But I hope that those who are young today will be able to look back in a similar way in forty years time to stop and notice the improvements that have occurred in their lifetime. It’s too easy to get into pessimism and become blind to what is all around.
And so, as we head up to Christmas, I wanted to remind you, remind myself, of how much our lives have become more comfortable and how important it is not to take it all for granted. Keep looking and noticing because there are so many people in the world who do not enjoy these things that used to be luxuries but are now commonplace experiences of our every day life. There’s nothing commonplace about them – they are amazing and are the output of human creativity, teamwork and ingenuity. So we can choose to focus our eyes and minds to appreciate and be grateful for all these incredible advances that make each day easier and more enjoyable for us.
Happy Christmas to you all and I wish you a happy, healthy, peaceful and prosperous 2018!
Dec 04
2017
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Helen Whitten
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After my last blog piece about working for Alistair Horne I had several interesting emails from people who wrote to me about the influence of an encouraging boss. These people had shifted some internal and external blocks for the individuals working for them, pushed them to do more than they might have done without their influence, sometimes helped them change direction entirely. It made me reflect further on turning points – those moments where something shifts or you may take a completely new direction. Some of these happen unexpectedly and others happen because you make them happen. Perhaps, as you read this, you might remember those people or events that have changed your own life.
I am experiencing a turning point now – selling my flat near Gloucester Road. It’s been a fabulous place to be, for work and for leisure – close to the tube, the park, my grandchildren, the museums, the Albert Hall and all of London. Room in which to see clients when I was working and just about large enough to entertain a few friends or family from time to time.
It’s a wrench, letting it go. I have had a place in London since 1968 so this will be the first time I have not had some kind of pad here since then – some 50 years! I started off in flats in Rosary Gardens, Observatory Gardens, Harrington Gardens (lots of Gardens though no actual garden to be enjoyed in any of those!). There were sometimes four of us sharing, sometimes five. We were strangers to one another – finding flatshares through ads in The Times or Evening Standard. The flats in Rosary and Observatory Gardens were in the basement and there would be slugs crawling up the walls and condensation crawling down. But we had fun. I remember Harrington Gardens cost me £22 per month rental – but then I was only earning around £800 a year in 1968!
And now I have broken out in shingles. Blast! Funny how the body reminds you of the pain you are in (sometimes rather painfully, as now!). Of course I should know all about it, having written Emotional Healing for Dummies with David. I knew that it hurt to let go of this flat and yet I was too busy to stop and feel that sadness – and selling it is anyway an essential part of David and I finding a nice house in Kew. And sometimes we have to let go of one thing in order to allow in another.
As I walk these familiar streets before moving out, I remember the ‘60s, High Street Kensington and Biba, the platform boots and short skirts. The air of optimism. It feels different today – but then of course none of us knew, in 1968, how ghastly the 1970s would be with power cuts, having a meal or bath by candlelight, the three-day week. So none of us know what is around the corner now. It looks gloomy but who knows? The ‘70s doom was followed by the ‘80s high. Life often surprises us.
Reflecting more on turning points, my first one was when I was around four years old and my parents returned to the UK, having lived in Portugal for many years. My father’s family, the Bucknalls, had a long history in the cork and shipping trade in Portugal but he was advised, in 1954, that plastics would transform the cork business and he would be better advised to return to England and find a new direction. Both my parents loved their life near Lisbon. My sister, brother and I had also been very happy growing up in the sunshine and warmth of Portugal and its people. So it was a sad moment for all, I think.
We sailed home and, if my memory serves me well, my brother, aged 6, dropped his teddy bear into the water as we were leaving harbour. It says much about the Portuguese love of children that the ship stopped and a nearby fisherman pulled the sodden bear out of the water, came up the gangplank and gave it to my brother. Of course I imagine I can remember a picture of this scene but, as with much of our lives, those images could well have been planted by my parents telling of the story!
Arriving in England was a chilly experience. We stayed near Chester and my memories of those years were of beautiful countryside but grey skies and grey playgrounds with Lowry-style streets and nasty little boys in grey shorts chasing me with stinging nettles! My mother found the people incredibly kind. And, looking back on it now, this turning point must have been a really challenging time for my parents, as they adjusted the family to life in the UK.
I was probably an odd child, speaking a mix of Portuguese words interspersed with English, and not used to English ways. I hated school until I went to Knighton House in Dorset. I remember so clearly making friends on the school train with Penny Corke, with whom I am still friends, and Ali Stamp. I felt I was in heaven in the Dorset countryside with ponies in the field and pet guinea pigs or rabbits in their pens. I enjoyed life in the dormitory with its chatter, dares and midnight feasts (I wrote home to tell my parents that it was “just like Enid Blyton”) and my independence. Boarding school isn’t all bad!
And on to Cranborne Chase where I started to write poetry, became totally Beatle-mad… and then read Dr Zhivago. Boris Pasternak became my hero. I had his photograph above my desk. He sparked my interest in Russia, politics and love, and has, I think, influenced my tendency to write a personal story within a socio-political setting.
And there’s always a teacher, isn’t there, who changes one’s life? My history teacher, Miss Jones, with her red hair, feisty spirit and her love of history moved me towards studying history for A level. My mother had despaired at my continued statements about “what’s the point of history, I am only interested in the future and space travel now!” and was delighted that Miss Jones, together with my wise tutor, Countess Zamoyska, managed to pierce through this idiotic girl’s brain and help me see that history was indeed a fascinating subject.
E H Carr’s What is History caught my imagination during A level and later I was lucky enough to study under Professor Richard Overy when I finally read history, aged 39, at King’s College, London. Overy taught The History of Political Ideas. He was both scary and inspiring and I was enthralled by his lectures on Wittgenstein, Marx and Hegel.
From school I went into publishing – where I earned a pittance but loved being surrounded by books. My boss at Macmillan, Caro Hobhouse, introduced me to research when she suggested I work for the jacket design Art Director, Cherriwyn Magill, in the role of picture researcher. This gave me the opportunity for a peripatetic life where (as has been the case for the rest of my career) no day was the same. I would be out at picture libraries, museums and newspaper libraries tracking down engravings, paintings or photographs for use on Macmillan’s cover designs. And from there, as I mentioned before, to historical research and Alistair Horne.
Towards the end of my history degree my tutor at King’s observed that I was good at pastoral care of the younger students and asked whether I had thought of working with people? A personality profile suggested that I could be a teacher, counsellor or coach. But, aged 42, to change career was terrifying and I needed some qualifications. It was during my Post-graduate at Thames Valley that my lecturer in communications, Lex McKee, gave me the idea of business training – his job as a lecturer looked such fun. So I decided that would be the way I would go.
Since then within Positiveworks there have been so many people who have supported my development – my sons, Bruce Abrahams, my late brother-in-law Leo Cavendish, Shirley Conran who suggested I do all kinds of things I never thought I could! And so many more. Then, as I moved towards retirement, meeting my creative writing tutor, Chris Sparkes, whose observation “I see you like to write narrative poetry” gave me a genre, setting me off on the journey to my first poetry collection, The Alchemist’s Box. And now here I am writing my blogs and exploring life after “work”.
And, as I say goodbye to my flat, and Kensington, I wonder …what’s going to happen next, for me… for you?
Nov 09
2017
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Helen Whitten
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The historian Alistair Horne died on 25 May this year and would have been 92 today, 9 November. I worked for him for some six years as a researcher on The Official Biography of Harold Macmillan. I suspect we all have a teacher or boss to whom we feel grateful . For me this is Alistair. I learnt so much from watching him write and feel now that I would like to capture some memories of my time working for him.
I remember that it took me six years to move him from his old portable Olivetti typewriter to a word processor. As a long-established writer and journalist, he tapped away surprisingly fast with two fingers but eventually he did see the benefit of being able to erase errors and edit paragraphs without the necessity of Tippex or multiple attempts at retyping specific pages to fit into his manuscript.
It was probably the only thing I was able to teach Alistair. When I started working for him in 1983 the ad in The Times was for a researcher for an “established author”. Established, he was. A historian with many books to his name including the classics A Savage War of Peace, on the Algerian War, The Price of Glory, Verdun 1916, and The Siege of Paris. At the time I met him, he was busy recording the life of Harold Macmillan.
I had just begun to feel ready to take on a job that was more demanding than the freelance picture research I had been carrying out for Penguin and Macmillan. My younger son had recently started nursery and I had more time on my hands.
On reading the advertisement for Research Assistant, I wasn’t sure whether I was sufficiently qualified for the job. I discovered later that Alistair had received some forty applications, many of which mentioned degrees, which I did not.
I had worked for Macmillan publishers for many years, first as a PA to an editor, Caro Hobhouse, and it turned out to be Caro who was editing Alistair’s biography. In my time in the editorial and picture research departments, I had come across Harold Macmillan as he would come into the office about once a week and walk around talking to the staff, senior editors and Board members.
So when, many years later, in 1983, I called the number in The Times and discovered that it was Alistair Horne writing the biography of Harold Macmillan it felt a little like destiny. At the interview the coincidences continued. I discovered that I was to take over the role of a previous Research Assistant, Serena Booker, who had been tragically murdered in Thailand aged only 27. Serena was the youngest daughter of my prep-school headmaster, John Booker and his wife Peggy, and sister of Private Eye and Daily Telegraph journalist, Christopher Booker. I remembered Serena running around my school, a much-cherished little girl with blonde hair and a lively nature. These were sad shoes to step into.
As Alistair and I talked it turned out that his own daughters had gone to my senior school, Cranborne Chase. One topic of conversation slid easily into the next. I was hired.
I learned so much during that time with Alistair. How he did his research. The questions that needed to be asked. The facts and dates that needed to be checked. I travelled to libraries. I once met A J P Taylor at the Beaverbrook Library though I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t recognise him until I mentioned this dapper man in a bow tie who had been helpful in tracing some facts and my mother said, “Darling how could you not recognise A J P Taylor when you bump into him!” I had an interesting visit to Chartwell, and to Macmillan’s own home at Birch Grove. It was fascinating reading the original letters from the troops in war, and Macmillan’s own diaries.
I watched Alistair place into files the relevant newspaper articles, letters, torn-out notes for inclusion in appropriate chapters, ticking off information as it was used. I saw him sketch out his work by laying these out on his desk as he typed. He would, like many authors, rise early and go down the garden to his conservatory office, next to the mews garage in St Petersburgh Place, W.2. where he lived with his beautiful second wife, Sheelin.
I did my best to find the facts, file, archive and type accurately but I am sure I made some mistakes. I suspect there were times when I drove him mad with my other responsibilities as a wife and mother. He would often ring our home in the morning, forgetting that I had my two young sons to take to school. This was before mobile phones, otherwise I think my school run would frequently have been interrupted with his thoughts for the day.
My sons would also benefit from the snippets of research I did for some of Alistair’s articles. He wrote travel pieces for the newspapers and, as a keen skier, he described helicopter skiing in the Bugaboos including details on how to survive an avalanche. I told my sons that should they ever get caught in an avalanche they should first ‘swim’ in the snow to prevent the snow getting too compacted around them. Then, if stuck, spit in order to see which way their spit was pulled by gravity so as to identify which way to move. Hopefully they will never have to use his advice!
I also worked on Alistair’s book on the children evacuated during the war and specifically on the tragedy of the Benares, the boat that was torpedoed, where many evacuee children were drowned. During this period of research I heard of Alistair’s own experience of being evacuated to the USA and how much he had enjoyed his time there where he had made friends for life. I interviewed children, now adult, who had been evacuated within the UK, some of whom had had happy times, others terrible. I heard of the homesickness, of the difficulty recognising parents when they returned home, of how fathers tried to assert their authority on the family when they returned from the war, of mothers who had worked on the war effort and were then pushed back into the kitchen, and more.
And as for Harold Macmillan himself, I ended up with a sense of respect for his mind, his wit and humour. Of his determination to live longer when he overheard a nurse say “it won’t be long” and thought “Bugger that!” I was impressed that he continued to enjoy half a bottle of champagne every evening well into old age. The biography could not be published until after his death, and I recollect Alistair observing that despite a generous advance, when all the work was taken into account, he had earned very little over the long period it took him to complete the manuscript. Another salutary lesson for me – not to have high expectations of financial reward for writing!
After publication I could have continued to work for Alistair on future books but decided finally to do the History Degree I had wanted to do since I was 17. So, aged 39, I completed the UCCA forms and Alistair filled out the piece designed for the Headmaster. I am sure having his name on the form made a significant difference to my being accepted on interview both by King’s College London and LSE. I accepted the offer for King’s and had a mind-opening time, stimulated by amazing lecturers such as Professors Richard Overy, Conrad Russell and David Carpenter. Mind you, I suspect Alistair would not have approved of the ‘safe space monitors’ that have recently been introduced to King’s and other universities!
And so he was influential in setting me off on the next part of my career journey, as although I went into professional coaching and training I believe that this background in the themes of history and philosophy have stood me in good stead in helping clients achieve perspective.
Alistair kindly mentioned me in his autobiography But What do you Actually Do? When I wrote to him to thank him for the mention, we discovered another coincidence – that I was now living in the village of Ropley, Hampshire, where, it turned out, he had spent many childhood years! I have found that there are certain people who come and go in one’s life that seem to have had an almost destined course to cross one’s path. Alistair has been one of these. And I thought of him often as I was researching and preparing to write my own books.
He had the courage to grasp the opportunities of his era – being a spy, involved in intelligence-gathering in Palestine in World War II under Sir Maurice Oldfield, head of MI6, then working in Berlin where his cover was as a Daily Telegraph correspondent. He lived and worked in France for many years and later established The Alistair Horne Fellowship at St Antony’s College, Oxford, to support young historians. He was made a CBE in 1992 and knighted in 2003, appointed a Chevalier of the Légion d’honneur in 1993 and was a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. An impressive life.
For me there are many of his books on my bookshelf and many memories that continually reaffirm my love and respect for history. I feel fortunate to have known him and worked for him – I wonder, when you think back yourselves, which of your own bosses have left their mark and influence on your life?