Tuesday, 31 March 2020
Albert William Pateman 1885 - 1962
Where was I? Ah, yes, I think I’ve told you enough about my mother and her people. I ought to tell you a bit about the Patemans, the line of them I’m at the end of - that’s what I was told as a child but didn’t realise it was true only from the point of view of my father’s father; I was his only Pateman grandson, his only chance of keeping his line going. I’ve learnt - only recently, mind - to look at the bigger picture. Since Grandad was one of five boys - and just two girls, one of whom died as an infant - I reckon that if you went back a generation and took it from my great grandfather’s perspective, then the Pateman line is likely to be going strong a hundred and forty years after he started to make his own contribution. Well, that’s a guess.
I never heard my great grandfather spoken of as a child; my grandfather occasionally spoke about what sounded an invented childhood - I now know there was truth in it and I’ll come to that - but of his parents and siblings he said nothing. When we were visiting, Grandma did occasionally talk to my mother about a mysterious Auntie Maud and from the genealogy it looks like she would have been the wife of Grandad’s brother Arthur and so aunt to Grandma’s children: Grandma called her husband Dad and he called her Mum so it fits in that a sister in law should have been called Auntie. Grandad died in 1962 when I was fifteen; Arthur who I’d never heard of in 1966; Maud in 1972; Grandma in 1979.
The thing is Grandad had taken his family south of the river while the others stayed north - Arthur and Maud lived in Hornchurch and Upminster, for example - so family visits would for them involve going into central London and down from Charing Cross or else going through the Blackwall Tunnel or across the Thames on the Woolwich Ferry - anyway, however you did it a bit of a palaver to get to Dartford (where Grandad first moved) or even Welling (where he lived in the same house 41 Churchfield Road from the 1930s until his death).
I’ll tell you why the family was on the north side of the Thames. It’s very simple really and it’s down to my great grandfather John Pateman, known to me only from genealogy.
John Pateman was born in Cambridgeshire, in one of a group of villages south east of Cambridge; in his case Litlington. Those villages were full of Patemans who had been there for as long as anyone could remember, the boys and men agricultural labourers. John was born in 1858 his birth registered in nearby Royston. But he wasn’t baptised. Ah, why not? Well, his parents - or maybe just his mother Susan - were non-conformists and when Susan Rusted married James Pateman in1849 they went down the road to Royston to do it according to the rites and ceremonies of the Independents of the New Meeting. Not the Old Meeting: there were so many non-conformists in the area that they could enjoy the luxury of falling out with each other and the New Meeting catered to some of those who had fallen out. I haven’t gone into the theology even though it was clearly of some interest to James a twenty two year old agricultural labourer and Susan same age and straw plait worker - the commonest form of work available locally to girls and women, who could do it at home and were paid by the piece. In other words, gig economy work.
I guess Susan as the active non-conformist because her father William was a cut above the agricultural labourer class; he was a whitesmith - what I’d call a tinsmith, someone who made pots and pans - but which as whitesmith identifies his occupation as the poor relation of the more glamorous blacksmith. Anyway, this William Rusted lived to a great age unlike his daughter Susan who died in 1871 when she was forty three and back living with her father. She had two children with her, including my great grandfather John, and she also had her husband James. They no longer had their own home because times were hard and James had made them worse by blotting his copybook.
The repeal of the Corn Laws and the subsequent mid-Victorian agricultural depression forced many, many thousands of agricultural workers and their children into the cities or into emigration. Several of James’s siblings left for London and one for Australia. But James tried to hang on and by the time of the 1861 census had lifted himself up to the level of shepherd. It wasn’t enough to save him.
Susan gave birth to their sixth child in the winter month of February 1864 but the child died before the month was out, a private baptism at home squeezed into the three weeks of Emily’s life. I guess my great grandfather John, aged five, may have been present though aged two his mother had been sufficiently preoccupied with another new born child to send John to lodge a few doors away, a fact duly recorded in the census of 1861. Anyway, in 1864 Emily was born only to die. Maybe her mother had no milk. Things were bad, bad enough for James Pateman the shepherd to get caught stealing from his employer. He appeared in court a month before Emily’s birth, his sentence reported in the Cambridge Independent Press:
….. James Pateman of Litlington, shepherd, charged with stealing one bushel of beans, of the value of 4s 6d., the property of Mr Thomas William Russell, his master. The defendant pleaded guilty, and committed for 14 days hard labour ….
It’s likely that James lost his job as shepherd and maybe a tied cottage too. Whatever, in the census of 1871 once again he is a farm labourer and living with his father in law and two remaining children, including John. Things are not looking up. John’s mother dies later in the same year when John is thirteen years old. James becomes a widower.
By 1880, John is in London; I guess he left home in the mid-1870s, at sixteen or eighteen, maybe younger. He may have hitched down to the big city alomg what was once Ermine Street and is the route even now of the main road, the A10. Or he may have got the money together for a single train ticket from Royston which would have taken him to Bishopsgate or Liverpool Street and from there it was a short walk into the heart of London’s East End, then as now the destination of choice for all poor migrants.
Maybe he had some help from his older sister Fanny who as early as the census of 1871 was in service as a cook living at a fancy address (Bulls Gardens) in Kensington & Chelsea. It looks like Fanny has falsified her age upwards by two years to nineteen when one would expect to see seventeen. The implication is clear: she had added two years when she was first applying for work. When she married in Chelsea in 1875 she is described simply as of full age. By the 1881 census she is back to her real age, now twenty seven, and she is free to declare it because her mariner husband has moved her to Margate on the Kent coast where he now works as a coast guard. I’ll come back to this couple.
Anyway, John Pateman follows his sister to London and on arrival makes his way to Bethnal Green where he may or may not already have a job and lodgings. In the census of 1881 he is a brewer’s servant living in Granby Street, a small enclave tucked away at the top of Brick Lane. Almost certainly he is working in the vast Truman, Hanbury and Buxton brewery which dominates Brick Lane. He has recently married and is living with or close to his in-laws the Lees; his father in law is also a brewery worker; he and his wife were also migrants, arriving over twenty years before from Old Hunstanton in Norfolk.
But their daughter Georgina Lee was born in Bethnal Green and that may make her a helpmeet to her husband John who is new to East London’s versions of poverty and crime. They married in the local parish church, he twenty one, she twenty, and their first child Florence is conceived in wedlock. She is born in 1881 and dies in 1918, probably a victim of the Spanish Flu pandemic, but still long enough to have been witness at my grandfather’s wedding in 1910.
My grandfather is born in 1885, the third of the children of John and Georgina. He is rapidly followed by Gertrude who dies in 1888 as an infant under one year of age, by Arthur in 1888, and George in 1890. This is all too much for Georgina who has no more children until 1899 when Ronald is born . Meanwhile, she eases her life by sending away my grandfather. He is sent to live with her sister in law Fanny and husband John Wolfe in Margate and five year old Albert William duly turns up in their census return for 1891, where he’s recorded as Bertie Pateman. Perhaps they didn’t know he was technically Albert William and there were no telephones to pursue the matter.
Fanny and John were, unusually, a childless couple but by 1891 they have filled up their home at 27-29 Ethelbert Road with Fanny’s younger sister Annie, who is thirty, single and a housekeeper; Gertrude Fisher, an adopted child of sixteen; another Annie aged fifteen, who is a niece of Fanny’s from Litlington and a domestic servant; and finally their nephew, little Bertie. Well, my guess is that Fanny and John are running a boarding house of some kind and Ethelbert Road is well-suited: it was (and is) just off the seafront, running directly down to the promenade.
When I was a young child my grandfather once told me a story of how as a boy he was taken to school, riding in a carriage by the sea, and eating chocolates from a box on his lap. I thought he was having me on: Grandad came from the East End (no sea there) and he had been a school caretaker (his occupation on my parents’ wedding certificate) or else - as my mother told me - a bookie’s runner. I didn’t know much but I did know that we were not posh people who rode in carriages by the sea.
But Bertie was not making it up. He may have forgotten the details (he was a small boy at the time) but he did live by the sea for a period and he was a small boy in a household of women who did not have children of their own. It is quite possible that little Bertie was spoilt rotten. Albert William Pateman really had an Aunt Fanny, his father’s sister.
This piece pushes back in time on my memoir of childhood I Have Done This In Secret (2018; available on Amazon or from Waterstones etc). My thanks to Gillian Cable for the archival genealogy.
Sunday, 22 March 2020
Four of the United Kingdom’s five recent Prime Ministers graduated from the University of Oxford. And quite a few British voters could tell you with what class of degree they did so. It would be unthinkable to write a Wikipedia page or a biography without including such a basic fact, up there with school attended. For public figures, past and present, politicians or intellectuals, knowing what they got if they went to Oxford (which you can read as generic and include Cambridge if you wish) is an important part of knowing who they are or were.
To become Prime Minister, it is an advantage not to have got a First.
But the box easily labelled “What they got at Oxford” is rarely opened for the simple reason that there is nothing inside which we might inspect.
Imagine what happened in, say, June 1968 - sufficiently distant not to trouble anyone’s PR or legal team. That year, three hundred sweating PPE finalists trooped into the Oxford Examination Schools, dressed in sub fusc. On eight occasions spread over a week or so they sat down for three hours and on each occasion they tried to answer, in longhand, four questions which they picked from the dozen or so offered on printed examination papers not previously seen. Over the next few weeks, members of the board of examiners comprised of some among their teachers read the resultant efforts (300 students each writing 32 essays = 9600 essays), collated their marks, met to decide who to call for viva voce, and shortly after published a printed list of the results, posted up in the Examination Schools. Despite the dangers - only thirty students were going to get Firsts - many students returned on the day to read the printed results.
And that was that. It was all over, except for the One Percent, the three candidates who a week or so later would receive a handwritten letter from the Chairman of the Examiners congratulating them on their performance. Shortly afterwards, all nine thousand six hundred essays would be destroyed. None would be published as “Model Answers”.
To my knowledge, no examination scripts from distant Oxford Finals examinations have survived. I don’t think any student ever secretly kept a carbon copy of what they wrote and hid it in their gown as they walked out; old fashioned pen and ink would not produce a carbon anyway. When it comes to looking at what it took to get a First in 1928, 1938, 1948, 1958, 1968 …a historian of Oxford has nothing to study, nothing which might indicate how essay styles changed, how standards changed. Only the printed examination papers allow access to what was considered examinable. Even those are rarely looked at; I have a feeling that it might be embarrassing.
The deliberate destruction of evidence is understandable; it prevented any challenge to the verdict ever being lodged. Once marked and destroyed, nothing could be appealed. You could not point to course work assessments because there were none. Your tutor could not plead on your behalf because once printed, the results were as Final as Finals themselves. Maybe there were occasional typographical errors; who knows.
There were things which students would grumble about beforehand. It was considered an advantage if one of your own teachers was on the Board of Examiners that year. They would be involved in setting the questions and would be unlikely to set ones on topics which they had not taught you. It would be wildly implausible to suppose that no tutor’s recommendations as to What to Revise were ever influenced by what they knew was coming up on the printed paper. Maybe a whole paper was occasionally leaked. Students who didn’t have tutors on the Board pumped those who did for any titbits of advice. And, of course, even though the scripts were numbered to provide anonymity they were handwritten and a tutor would probably recognise the work of his or her own students - though in 1968 his students would outnumber hers by about six to one.
If you got called to viva that had both advantages and perils: in 1968 Michael Rosen, the children’s author, then taking his Finals in English had an unsuccessful run-in with Dame Helen Gardner, determined to stop him getting a First. He writes about it in his recent autobiography They Call You Pisher (pages 289-91).
I still have the breakdown of the marks in each of my eight 1968 Finals papers which combined to give me my degree classification: ααβ ααβ ααβ/3 αβ αβ βα βα βα. That is as open as the box ever can be, but in the absence of the scripts it’s all Greek (the /3 punctiliously records the fact that in one paper I answered only three questions rather than the required four).
Michael Rosen had alphas in all his papers except that which Helen Gardner marked. She had given him a delta to hole below the waterline his chance of a First and she was not going to retreat.
We do things differently now. It is all much more objective. We have course work and percentages and External Examiners - and Model Answers all over the Internet.
Friday, 21 February 2020
By the middle of 2019 in the United Kingdom, Leavers and Remainers could be considered neck-and-neck. A significant number of the elderly who had voted Leave had died since the 2016 Referendum; new young voters, overwhelmingly Remainers, had joined the electorate.
Every poll showed that Remainers were on average younger and better educated than the Leave voters and by all normal standards that ought to have given the edge and allowed them to outperform, to win and reverse the 2016 Referendum result. They didn’t. Why?
One very large part of the answer lies in what is called the narcissism of small differences. Nice educated Remainers could not bring themselves to sink their differences in the face of an overwhelming threat to their way of life. They went around saying Oh, I couldn’t possibly vote for someone who is on record having said in 1973 that …. or I draw the line at someone who does not believe in the rights of penguins or In the past, they collaborated with the Tories. They did not look to the future,only to the past. In contrast, Leavers focussed on the main issue of getting Brexit done, sunk their differences (which were manifold), and turned out to vote for the only party which clearly announced that it would get Brexit done - and indeed did, very rapidly, on 31 January 2020. So old and uneducated they may have been, but Leave voters understood how to think and act strategically. They got what they voted for.
Remain voters didn’t because in places like the nice, middle-class university town of Lewes they went out and voted Green and Labour thus ensuring the defeat of the Liberal Democrat, the blindingly obvious choice in Lewes to beat a very hard line Brexiteer Tory. The margin of defeat was smaller than the combined Green and Labour vote. But, honour satisfied, the Green and the Labour voters had not betrayed their Principles as they no doubt made a point of reminding everyone at every opportunity.
This local inability to think strategically was reflected at national level, where the “strategists” of the Labour and Liberal parties went out of their way to rub voters’ noses into the fact of their differences, Liberal leader Jo Swinson leading the way but Labour not far behind.
The Liberals are now completely without any strategy. Yesterday I received an email from them headlined
Whoever you are, the Liberal Democrats will stand up for you
It's called desperate marketing. And I hope it's untrue; there are people out there who I trust no political party will rush to stand up for.
Sunday, 5 January 2020
Number Ten Downing Street is now the home of Tsar Boris and his Tsarina, Carrie; in the corridors there lurks Rasputin, Mr Dominic Cummings, currrently advertising for weirdos (his word) to assist him in running the country and keeping the Tsar's children out of the newspapers. His job description explicitly rules out anyone who can talk about Lacan over dinner, otherwise I might have applied. But at least I can dust down this previously-unpublished piece of memoir. We are all opportunists now.
An “O” level in French dated 1962 and no subsequent study of the language would hardly equip me for graduate studies in Paris ten years’ later and so, after being awarded a Leverhulme European studentship, I spent the summer of 1971 attending full-time at the Alliance Française on the Boulevard Raspail. The teaching methods were traditional and effective but I was hardly fluent by the end, either as speaker or writer.
Nonetheless, I composed a letter to Jacques Lacan. It was handwritten and I don’t have a copy, though I recall writing about my interest in Althussser, oblivious of Lacan’s own connections. I had already bought a collection of Lacan’s writings and had heard of his seminar. But I understood “seminar” in the English sense as something which at most twenty people might attend, so I wrote seeking permission to be one of them.
In reply, I got a hand-written letter giving me the details of the seminar which would re-commence on the 8th December in Amphitheatre II of the old Law faculty in the Place du Panthéon. In addition, he was to give a one-off lecture in the chapel of Saint Anne on 4th December at 21 heures 15 - arrive early, he added, because it will be crowded. Finally, should I wish to meet, he had alerted his secretary - the letter gave a telephone number.
Click on Image to Enlarge
I made my way to Saint Anne for the crowded lecture and subsequently to the first, equally crowded “seminar”. There were hundreds of us. A little late, Lacan entered stage left in full-length fur coat, behind him a young woman who assisted with the coat, draped it over her arm, and left. I was sitting next to Ann Smock (later, Professor of French at Berkeley) and I think it was she who pointed to the front row of the lecture theatre which was populated by stylishly and indeed flamboyantly dressed young women. It’s said that they are paid to sit there.
I duly noted that fact and on my way to the second lecture the following week paused to buy two buttonhole flowers. I sat next to Ann Smock again and presented her with an orchid to match my own. We should join in the spirit of the thing, I said.
I never responded to the invitation to meet Lacan, perhaps because shortly after I met someone who had just had a bruising encounter with him. Lacan’s first English translator, Anthony Wilden, was in Paris to give a few seminars (which I must have attended). In conversation afterwards, he said that he had now written a book on Lacan’s work and had sent the typescript to him for comment. Wilden was hoping for Lacan’s imprimatur in the form of a Preface, something which Lacan had recently provided for Anika-Rifflet Lemaire’s Jacques Lacan (1970).
Lacan summonsed him and sat behind his desk with the typescript laid in front of him. He flicked through and Wilden could see that certain words were underlined. Lacan gestured at the typescript and said, My name does not appear often enough.
My own feeling now is that Lacan's early work is still worth reading, notably the Rome discourse which Wilden translated as The Language of the Self . It is sensible to read his work alongside Melanie Klein and Donald Winnicott rather than as something which stands alone and apart. For example, Lacan's contrast between parole pleine and parole vide parallels Winnicott's True Self and False Self.
But as the work becomes more obscure and convoluted, I think it eventually becomes uninteresting except as the symptom of Lacan's desire for some kind of cult status - a status he clearly achieved. Along the way, he also made a lot of money enabling him - most notably - to purchase Gustave Courbet's L'Origine du Monde when it came on the market. The painting is now in the Musee d'Orsay.
Rather in the same way, I came to distrust Derrida's work and gave up on his lectures. (I tried again at a later date but gave up again). But I never developed the same distrust towards Barthes, Foucault or Levi-Strauss. I had chance to listen to them during my time in Paris and felt that in their different ways they were all perfectly serious and not seduced by their own fame.
I attended Lacan's seminars and read the Ecrits when I was in Paris. I also had chance to discuss Lacan's work with Elisabeth [Sanda] Geblesco who commuted up to Paris weekly from her home in Monaco to train as an analyst. Later (1974 - 81) she became one of the last analysts to be supervised by Lacan. She died in 2002 and in 2008 her notebooks recording her meetings with Lacan were published as Un Amour de Transfert.