Adolescent Nell

I watched a programme about the history of Covent Garden and also listened to a BBC history podcast earlier this year about the life of Nell Gwyn, who lived there in the 17th century.  Most people know something of Nell's story, how she started off as an orange-seller in a London theatre, how she transitioned to the stage, as an actress achieved fame and caught the eye of noblemen and eventually King Charles II, became the king's mistress, bore him a child and soon thereafter 'retired'. 

What struck me most forcibly listening to the podcast was that she achieved all of this in her supposedly adolescent years! She was only just into her teens when she started as an orange-seller and she had only just turned twenty when she became a mother and gave up her acting career. That's extraordinary, isn't it, by today's standards? Not so unusual perhaps when one considers that in the previous century, both Catherine of Aragon and Catherine Howard were only sixteen when they made their Tudor marriages. 

Maybe  adolescence  (from the Latin adolescere , to mature) was much more aligned to physical rather than emotional maturity prior to the 20th century. It must be fairly obvious that nowadays, certainly in the more affluent and enlightened West (since the education and welfare reforms of the last hundred years) youngsters can enjoy the luxury of an extended childhood.

Anyway, historical comparisons aside, I decided to head off into the bountiful worldwide web to find out more concerning the  remarkable adolescent years of  mistress Nell Gwyn. 

Eleanor 'Nell' Gwyn, 1650-1687

Information about her early life is both somewhat patchy and conflicting. It's believed she was born in 1650, a year into the country's short flirtation with puritan Republicanism (1649-1660). Her birthplace may have been Hereford, or Oxford, or London (they all lay claim), though the latter has the strongest case, given that's where we know Nell (given name Eleanor) grew up, in Covent Garden. She was "low-born", a euphemistic description of her working-class origins, the younger daughter of a mostly absent and sometime convict father and a mother who was proprietor of a bawdy-house.

It's also almost certain that she was illiterate, for there was no schooling available to poor girls of her day. She would have grown up in her mother's brothel in Coal Yard Alley, just off Drury Lane, and along with her "notorious" sister Rose she would have served "strong waters" to the clientele. There is a suggestion she may have taken a lover of her own when she was twelve years old.

Her first break (if you can call it that) was to be recruited by one Mary Meggs (aka Orange Moll) who had a licence to "vend oranges, lemons, sweetmeats" within the King's Theatre off Drury Lane - for by 1663 the dour days of the Republic were gone, the monarchy had been restored with fun-loving King Charles II on the throne and the theatres had re-opened. Mary Meggs' scantily-clad "orange girls" sold fruit to the patrons of the shows and were often tipped to take messages from high-society men in the audience to the actresses backstage. 

Nell soaked it all up, the atmosphere, how the theatre worked, and being both pretty, precocious and with a comic talent had soon managed to persuade the management to enrol her in the theatre's acting school in 1664, aged fourteen, where she was given small parts to begin with in plays and revues. Note that she was among the first wave of female actors, for prior to the Restoration of 1660 women's parts had always been played by boys and men. Not that Nell herself was averse to cross-dressing either. From time to time she dressed as a man with a false beard and called herself William Nell. Because she couldn't read, she learned her lines by rote from listening to others reading them and on top of that she improvised. She was a natural performer and by her mid-teens had become something of a sensation for playing in John Dryden's heroic drama 'The Indian Emperor ' as the love interest of the main actor Charles Hart, who was at the same time her real-life lover. 

By 1667 she had secured her acting reputation and offstage she numbered actors and earls among her paramours. In fact during that year the Duke of Buckingham took on the role of unofficial manager of Nell's love affairs and through that connection she came to the notice and soon to the bed of the King of England. Charles II made no secret of his mistresses. His Queen, Catherine of Braganza, could not bear him any children but he already had six from four separate mistresses by the time he took up with Nell. She rather archly called him Charles the Third because she'd already had two previous lovers with that name. He is said to have adored her for her quick wit and forthrightness as well as for her other charms.

Nell portrayed as Venus with her son as Cupid

Nell continued to appear regularly on the stage in tandem with being the King's favourite mistress through to the end of the decade when she fell pregnant with his son. Baby Charles was born early in 1670 and soon afterwards Nell made a triumphant return to acting and was the talk of the town again. However, she chose to retire aged just twenty when she became pregnant with a second royal bastard, after which the King installed her in a town house on Pall Mall within sight of the royal palace. He also gave her Burford House on the edge of his Windsor estate and for the next fifteen years Nell would be a sometime companion to the King, dividing her time between London and Windsor according to the King's movements. Not bad going for the illiterate little orange-seller who'd grown up in a brothel. She was apparently very tolerant, if sometimes scornful, of his other mistresses.

She'd never expected that her royal affair would last, but she made it work for her and she was always in the King's affections. Charles II kept that portrait of Nell as Venus hidden behind a landscape painting, but he would reveal it occasionally to guests who he though might find it of interest. And when he died in 1685, he left instructions for his brother (James II) that Nell Gwyn was to be well cared for, and so she was, living on in the Pall Mall house until her own death (from a stroke) two years later, aged just thirty-seven. She lives on in social and theatrical folklore, and various streets and buildings named in her memory.

I've been sorting through some old photographs recently and was struck by a similarity between the paintings of Nell Gwyn above (both painted by Sir Peter Lely when she was twenty) and that of a girl I knew fleetingly back in my own adolescence in Cambridge. I think it's the bosoms! Linda was the sister of a schoolfriend of mine, she was a student and part-time photographer's model, lived life to the full and barely made it into her twenties. I kept her picture (admittedly rather creased by the years) for sentimental reasons that you may care to guess at.

Linda Martin, 1952-1972 

As for my own adolescent years, I suspect they were fairly typical for a middle-class boy in the 1960s into early 1970s. There was embarrassment about one's conservative (i.e. 'square') parents, concern that the world might go up in an atomic fireball, worry about passing exams, about acne, the size of one's cock, making out with girls, being caught masturbating or using drugs, finding part-time jobs to fund buying clothes/records/books/beer, taking girls out (it was expected the boy would pay) and going to the football (those last two being mutually exclusive back then). It was a struggle but it was fun, And I left home as soon as I could.

I also wrote poetry, mostly for its own sake, sometimes for the school magazine, occasionally for girlfriends. I didn't keep much of it, as I didn't think it would stand the test of time, but I do have a couple of poems dating from those teenage years. I've shared this one before in an early Dead Good Blog back in 2014, but I'll reproduce it here in lieu of anything new this week:

Saturday

I open the window

into a cold and rainy morning.

The grey streets

are full of grey people

with frowns on their faces

and water in their shoes

cursing the day they were born.

So I turn back to Friday night

for you are smiling and warm.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Adolescence: An Apology

When I think of the years of my adolescence I feel neither nostalgia or sentimentality. There were some good times and not so good times. There were lovers and friends lost and forgotten, places lived and left. All in quick succession. Gusto and hot air I was a hurricane, careless like only the young are allowed to be. I was lost, for those were the years before poetry, before humility.

I only started to write in my late twenties, and due to this I don’t have any Juvenilia to speak off. My juvenile poems were written on the cusp of middle age, and are far from the doe-eyed idealism of some younger poets. As a writer I was born a curmudgeon. The silent sigh of joint pain buried in every line.

In a roundabout way what I’m trying to say is: I don’t think of adolescence much, so I have barely written about it (why I chose to write about the topic is anyone’s guess). In a brazen ploy to lower expectations, I have the one poem I unearthed from a bottomless draw (don’t we all), and reading it again after all these years, I’m not ashamed to admit I recognise myself. It goes as follows:

The Lonely Models 

All those girls from the other school 

you fingered and fucked 

(their Mums too). Where they lived 

seemed an otherworldly place, 

in the part of the town I wasn’t allowed to go. 

I would watch you mime the moves 

in high pitched squeals recite your name, 

until the time came when we would see 

my Dad waiting diligently at the bottom 

of the hill, signalling tea was ready. 

He always invited you. 

You never did talk while we ate 

perfectly happy to watch the telly 

and laugh at the jokes Dad made, 

often you would stay the night 

and we would play boardgames 

whilst he washed your clothes. 

In the morning you would abscond 

to do your rounds as I went to school. 

I could only imagine what you were doing 

playing patty cake in the other estate 

with all the lonely models. 

I pictured my face on your face. 

I could never understand the reasons 

you gave for coming back, 

they were needy and nagged 

they wanted more than you could give 

if it was me I would’ve given more 

than I had stayed when they asked 

dig-down and never return. 

I’ve come back to help Dad move, 

you’re where I left you in the cul-de-sac, 

and seeing you now nothing’s changed, 

you still pretend to desire the wrong things. 

I recognise the fragility in your wave 

as I drive my Father away.

Jamie Field.

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Adolescence

I asked a few friends what they thought the ages of Adolescence (from Latin adolescere 'to mature') are and got different ranges of age. Even scholars have different views e.g. from 10 to 26. The World Health Organization definition officially designates an adolescent as someone between the ages of 10 and 19. Personally I’d go for from 13 to 18 years old. Mind you, I know people who were born aged 53 and some who are still teenagers at 92.

On looking up the ways that period of life are presented in the arts world of films, plays, books, paintings and sculpture there are so many representations that I decided to stick to the Poets part of Dead Good Poets.

When I was trawling through the internet for examples of poems related to adolescence it wasn’t surprising that there are a lot. But a fair number of the choices referred back to a list made by Dr Oliver Tearle, a literary critic and lecturer in English at Loughborough University.

Here is that list in his order:

1  John Clare, First Love
2. A. E. Housman, ‘Oh, When I Was in Love with You’.
3. Claude McKay, ‘Adolescence’.
4. Gwendolyn Brooks, ‘We Real Cool’.
5. Philip Larkin, ‘This Be the Verse’.
6. Seamus Heaney, ‘Blackberry Picking’.
7. Rita Dove, ‘Adolescence I’.
8. Carol Ann Duffy, ‘In Mrs Tilscher’s Class’.
9. Simon Armitage, ‘You May Turn Over and Begin’.
10. Adrienne Su, ‘Adolescence’.

So that was his list but it shows the difficulty in choosing a definitive list as after reading them I’d take out at least four of them immediately and replace by - what? As I said earlier putting Adolescence in Google brought up hundreds of examples by known and unknown poets.

But as expected, at least by me, there were an awful lot of poems related to teenage angst. Take two of the listed poems.

Clare: My face turned pale as deadly pale/ My legs refused to walk away/ And when she looked, what could I ail/ My life and all seemed turned to clay

Armitage: I was dreaming of/ milk-white breasts and nakedness/ or more specifically virginity./ That term - everybody felt the heat/ but the girls were having none of it

Almost a couple of centuries between them and the sexual tension of adolescence screams out.

But...errr...perhaps not everyone went through that sort of experience. Let’s take this example from a poem by a person from Birmingham who went to an all boys’ school in the 1960s:

it’s worrying that/ Bertie Auld would be fit/ for the Villa game/ or would Mom remember
The Victor Annual/ it’s struggling with Latin/ and the sudden choice/ that split the school/
Beatles or Stones

Now that really was angst. I’m told.

'The adolescent brain' by Teresa Ngigi

I went on a cruise to Norway for my 50th. In one of the towns we moored at I came across the graffiti mentioned in the poem below. It could only have been sprayed by an adolescent.

Everything

Hammerfest
the most Northerly town in the world
at a latitude of 70 39 48
although whether numbers
are allowed in poems
I don’t know
but I want them in this
Because I Want Everything
is what was sprayed
on a garage door
in English in Hammerfest

First published by Iota in 2002

Thanks for reading, Terry Q

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Adolescence - That Difficult Age

 A definition –

‘Adolescence is the phase of life between childhood and adulthood, from ages 10 to 19. It is a unique stage of human development and an important time for laying the foundations of good health. Adolescents experience rapid physical, cognitive and psychosocial growth.’

We all go through it, some better than others, but I think it’s a fair assumption that none of us would like to go through it again. The itchy personal areas sprouting body hair, blushing, sweating, feeling awkward and embarrassed, suffering acne, the onset of menstruation and, if that wasn’t enough, there was the ridicule of peers. We change and grow at the right time for our body clocks, so a twelve year old male or female might already have a mature body and be a fascination to their less developed friends, those later developers came under similar scrutiny. I suppose I was one of the many Miss Averages, but that didn’t mean it was an easy time. I had added problems. My mother always made sure I had a supply of sanitary towels. When she became terminally ill and no longer able to see to me herself, our helper, Auntie Kathy, was tasked with such things and I could bounce all manner of questions off her. My mother passed away when I was thirteen and a half. Auntie Kathy, who wasn’t a real auntie but a member of staff, was my rock. I had my grandmother, too, who was more special than words can say, but she lived away. When my father remarried within months, Auntie Kathy was no longer needed as our housekeeper and left us, but continued to be my saviour for many years. I was a frequent visitor to her home. Sometimes I needed a shoulder to cry on, sometimes a good laugh. She was good at both. All this going on and adolescence, too. Oh, and at school there was a small team of horrid girls who stole sanitary protection by bullying others to hand things over, or steal from their school bags, teasing anyone who didn’t have anything because they hadn’t ‘started’ yet. Children can be cruel.

There was a boy in my high school class who looked the same in the fifth year as he had in the first year, though maybe a bit taller. About ten years after our school days we met by chance at the Derby Baths, of all places. He was in the forces, Army or RAF, doing very well and looking like a blond Adonis, what my dad would have called ‘a fine figure of a man’. He had grown up. I wouldn’t have known him, but he recognised me.

When it came to growing up, adolescence and puberty, I wanted to be the best parent I could possibly be to my children. I’ve always been open and approachable about anything. I attended meetings at school about Personal & Social Education so I would know exactly what was going to be discussed in their lessons and how various questions might be answered. Armed with information and confident to be on the right level I was ready. Our son, having reached a silent or grunty, living in his room stage, coming out to get fed, was fine. Our daughter, starting periods refused to have a conversation with me about it. I respected her wishes and privacy. I made sure she had what she needed and wrote her a letter explaining what I wanted to say. It was ripped up and put in her bin. I felt so hurt at the time. I wasn’t wanted, not allowed to even do this for her. Hormones, from both of us, firing in different directions.

My chosen poem, from Philip Larkin, it just had to be...

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tankas

Like haiku poems, tankas are small, form poems, originated in Japan. Each line follows a pattern dictated by its number of syllables.

The tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as "short song," and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.

I studied on a one-day a week creative writing course before my degree, I ad the opportunity to learn about tanka and managed to produce four of my own. The four poems developed organically, out of my love for nature and my family.

We lived on a housing association estate back then and I was always amazed by some of the local children, who often seemed to mill about without much parental intervention and support. My own son and daughter were kept occupied with sport, art and musical activities. The fourth poem reflects the development of those other children.

 

Adolescence


Keep your faith with me

When the world opens its arms

And you slip from view.

Youth may take you far and high

My love will hold if you fall.



Constraint


Political correctness

has stifled life’s frivolity.

Joy goes unspoken.

Speech tight-lipped, not free.

Who is different – you or me?



Bonsai


Tiny perfect leaves

Trim ev’ry minature bough.

Impersonation

scaled to perfection with skill

and patience by loving hands.



Cherry Tomatoes


You were not nurtured

yet year on year green shoots grow

wild on wet compost.

Carelessly discarded seed

Ripens to soft scarlet fruit.  


Thanks for reading. Adele

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