Women’s Days

Posted on March 16, 2015 by Liz

Two women’s events took place last week that I was lucky enough to be involved in. One was the beginning of the 40th anniversary year of celebration of Rights of Women, the second was an International Women’s Day celebration at Garden Court Chambers.

Rights of Women

Rights of Women was one of the first legal organisations I was involved in when I started practising at the Bar in 1980. There was an advice line service and every couple of weeks the advice givers (usually baby barristers or trainee solicitors) would climb up the narrow winding stairs to the small ROW office in an old house in Grays Inn Road (the old Time Out building) and then we would answer questions on housing, employment, family law, lesbian custody, domestic violence, immigration. The need was obvious. The phones rang constantly. I became more involved in the organisation. There were training workshops for new lawyers, sub-groups doing research into areas of law where there were few or no formal statistics. Family, housing, employment issues troubled many women. Immigration issues were also coming to the fore.

The 80s was a time when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister, Clause 28 was creeping into the statute books and lesbians were seen as more dangerous than drunken, neglectful fathers. The emphasis was on so-called Family Values. I joined the Lesbian Custody Support Group. The workers wrote papers, produced research, including the tragic case law, and produced a legal handbook, Valued Families. The other sub-groups were doing the same. When the Children Act 1989 came into force, with its test of ‘the best interests of the child’ an excellent piece of research was produced ‘Contact between children and their violent fathers: in whose best interests?’ which was used to educate and inform the judiciary about the effects of domestic violence on children. I joined ROW’s policy group, and in the 90s for a few years I was chair of the organisation. We organised conferences, seminars, training and parties. The advice lines continued to run. It was all vital work, not least because it provided support and assistance to us, the lawyers who were out there in the field.

So last Thursday, I spoke about ROW past. Hilary Fisher from Women’s Aid which works very closely with ROW talked about the current work, including on the new offence of coercive control. And looking to the future was Sophia Raja, a trainee solicitor, who has worked with Southall Black Sisters, on the challenges ahead, particularly in light of the cuts to Legal Aid, which is having a severe and deleterious effect on women’s access to justice. See the Value of Legal Aid – case studies. It was a good event. It is so easy to become despondent – we thought we had won the battles but it’s clear now that we need to keep fighting – and it was uplifting to see so many young women in the audience, aware of the issues and keen to take up the struggle.

Rye

Posted on February 28, 2015 by Liz

When you climb the cobbled streets of Rye you can’t really believe you’re in a living breathing town. It’s so pretty, it’s so old, it’s so perfectly maintained.

First of all I read Mapp and Lucia by EF Benson. My copy of the book says it was re-printed in 1971 so I assume that was when I first discovered the series. I thought the world of Tilling was wonderful – the description of the characters, the telegrammatic utterances of Diva, quaint Irene with her pipe, Lucia’s Italian phrases, and I particularly loved the image of the Rolls Royce of the Wyses transporting its owners the 100 yards to the dinner party or bridge game and then the Roller having to turn round inch by inch, sawing slowly back and forth in the narrow streets.

Then I learned that Tilling as described in the books, was in fact Rye. I knew that EF Benson had lived there. He became the mayor! Then I learned that Henry James had lived there too (wonderfully evoked in The Master by Colm Toibin). In Lamb House – the house that EF Benson later lived in and which became the Mallards in the books.

Unfortunately there is an aspect of real life in Rye – weather and people and cars as well as the seasons, so the photos of Lamb House are rather carefully taken, to avoid the lorries and because sadly Lamb House is not open in February.

Our hotel was just off Traders Way and – they said – is the hotel the Traders Arms that Lucia and Georgie stay in when they first go to Tilling.

But they had an interesting collection of books.

And in the bar, which sold a mean G&T and a very dry sherry, was a wonderful machine that told fortunes for the princely sum of 10p. I was about to make a new friend!

It was Scallop Week when we were there – and scallops with black pudding, bacon and puree of cauliflower, eaten at the Standard pub, was a dish that scallop lovers can only dream of.

Rye is one of the Cinque Ports but is over a mile away from the sea. There is talk of smugglers and several inns boast a history of plots and secret meetings. There is also the quay and views over the salt marshes – many people climbed out of the train wearing sensible footwear and organised backpacks. There is the Kino, housed in the old library, which has a wonderful programme of films showing all day. It is full of indicators of its medieval past – gates, walls, towers.

But it was Mapp and Lucia’s world that I wanted to see, and I was not disappointed.

It was therefore very nice to attend a party the next day where at a given moment there was a short musical entertainment, consisting of two or three ukelele numbers and a duet on the piano. We sat in a semi circle our hostess’ living room and there was polite applause at the end.

Charlie – the demonstration

Posted on January 12, 2015 by Liz

It had been announced that all transport was free. But the 96 bus wasn’t running. And in the Metro the platforms were crowded. Train after train went past, and still we couldn’t get on. Finally we joined the crush in a carriage. Some firm women by the door stopped others coming in as we seemed to crawl to Odeon, St Michel, Cite. We got out at Strasbourg Saint Denis, but it was impossible to leave by the Sortie on the platform. Everywhere were people, posters and flags in their hands ready to furl, ready to lift. Eventually we arrived in Boulevard St Martin. It was 2.30 and people were filling the streets in their thousands. There was chanting, occasional bursts of cheering, clappping. There was no internet connection and no phone connection.

We squeezed into Place de la Republique at 3pm. It was packed. Marchers, police vans, media vans, everyone with a phone, waving their arms trying to take a picture. The other roads leading into the Place were also heaving with people. The call had gone out for everyone in France to demonstrate, and it felt as if they were all here, in one square in Paris. People were clinging to lamp-posts, little children sat on their parents’ shoulders, friends clutched the arms of each other, a man murmured to someone who looked like his dad, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’ Others had clambered up onto the statue in the centre. People leaned out of the windows. Banks of photographers stood on balconies.

And so many people were holding cards, posters, signs. They held them for hours.

‘Je veux marcher!’ a woman said to me, but there was no question of marching. We moved forwards and sideways. It did feel to an extent that this was a demonstration of despair, people wanting to express their horror at so much of what is happening in the world, and solidarity with all those affected by injustice.

Apart from a few sirens, there were very few police (visible) and people joked that they were all protecting the government leaders from across the world, the leaders who had come to – to do what? Show respect? Join in? Score political points? Did they stand for hours, crushed, blocked, pushed into mud, waiting to move, did they hold placards in the air?

Leaving the Place was almost as difficult as getting there. Every street was filled with people, now going both ways. There were no buses, a few motorbikes tried to push their way through, but the roads were full of people. We had an arrangement to see some friends for dinner but getting home to change and getting back to them seemed an impossibility. And still there was no internet or telephone connection! We stood pathetically outside their door near Arts and Metiers. There was no-one. We were swirled along by the crowd down to the Pompidou Centre, and then came a text. Come to us now! We limped back to their appartment. We had been on the move for three hours, but it felt more like three days.

These friends have organised internet connection in their own home and have access to international TV channels. This was showing as we walked into their warm, bright living room. It was an extraordinary event, and being in Paris it felt important to be there. But twitter tells me that in today’s Telegraph there is an article that raises the issues that have to be borne in mind. The reactions for young people living in the area where the brothers lived, and why they feel as they do.

Charlie

Posted on January 11, 2015 by Liz

On Wednesday morning I was at my desk in London, desultorily doing some paper work, looking forward to lunch at Zedel – a French brasserie off Piccadilly Circus – and after that a trip to see The Book of Mormon.

Cal came into the room. ‘There’s been a shooting at the Charlie Hebdo office. Twitter is saying 10 dead.’ I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. An incident yes, maybe injuries, but not death. I am not a fan of strip cartoons. I knew Charlie Hebdo vaguely – France’s Private Eye but more irreverent. It is important in France. Even if people don’t read it they want to know what Charlie Hebdo is talking about. Everyone knows the style of the cartoonists.

But this was too terrible to contemplate. More tweets were coming in, from formal sources. Emails arrived in my inbox from FranceTV and Liberation. Serious injuries. Then at least 10 dead. Then twelve dead. It was true.

Lunch – although delicious – was a sad affair. Tweets were coming in. The first time I read ‘Je Suis Charlie’ I wanted to cry, just as our waiter was describing an item on the menu. I looked at him with tears in my eyes. And then the irony of watching the Book of Mormon. What religion can do. A wonderful show, I urge everyone to see it, but I watched with a lump in my throat. At home we watched the news and the gathering of crowds in Place de la Republique. the signe Je suis Charlie was everywhere.

Purely by chance I had booked a ticket to Paris the next day – Thursday, 8 January. The day President Hollande had said would be a day of national mourning. Security at St Pancras seemed tighter. Queuing to go through French passport control I read a notice pinned on a post – in French it said that anyone with any photos or videos of the incident or information about the suspects should speak to the authorities. At the passport control desk I noticed a large picture of one of the two men.

We were in France, still on the train at 12 noon when the announcement was made that there would now be a minute’s silence. The train didn’t stop but a cloud of silence descended on our carriage. At the Gare du Nord I didn’t notice as many police with guns. Perhaps they had been called away on other duties. Otherwise, life in Paris was going on as usual, the metro was running, passengers talking and laughing, tourists with huge backpacks, silent people reading novels.

In the flat I switched on France Info. The hunt for the killers was on. Apart from the weather and one or two headlines, Charlie Hebdo was the only subject of news. There had been a shooting in Southern Paris – a police officer killed, but that it seemed was unrelated, just a sad coincidence. One of the Paris digital news boards in rue de Rennes was saying that there would be a vigil in Place de la Republique that night. I wondered how the Mairie of the VIth was responding to the events and walked to Place Saint Sulpice. Outside the Mairie was a printed sign offering condolences to the families and extending solidarity.

News came in that the suspects had left an identity card in their car – could it be real? They had abandoned their black car and hijacked the car behind them, throwing out the driver. He had said he couldn’t leave his dog, so they let him take his dog. Then there was news that the suspects had been sighted in a motorway shop, stealing food and petrol. Such banal behaviour after such mayhem.

As night fell I took the 96 bus and went to the Place de la Republique. It wasn’t raining but the air was damp. I crossed at the lights into the Place. Already there were huge crowds, cheering clapping singing La Marseillaise in a sort of low moan. People held up candles, pencils, signs Je suis Charlie. There was chanting, all different sort of chants, as one ended another would begin – Nous sommes Charlie, Nous sommes Charlie: Liberté d’expression, Liberté d’expression: Charlie n’est pas mort: Maintenant Charlie est immortel: Dans la rue démocratie: On est unis.

On Friday I spent almost the whole day in front of the TV. In the morning came the news that the suspects had holed up in a printing establishment in a town to the North of Paris. There were long hours of shots of grass, with blurred images of men in balaclavas (the forces of order) moving around.

The had three hostages. They had two hostages. They let one go. They had one hostage. Helicopters flew low, TV presenters tried to find things to say. Experts in the studio ruminated that the men would be tired, hungry. Runways at Charles de Gaulle airport were closed. TV screens started to show the slogan Je Suis Charlie. Twitter accounts had black lines through as a mark of respect. People changed their twitter picture to Je Suis Charlie.

C was coming on the train. As she passed Charles de Gaulle airport there were the helicopters. It seemed very close. And then there was a shocking development. Another situation, in Vincennes, in the east of Paris, there had been hostages taken in a supermarket. It was called Hyper Cacher, Kosher Supermarket. Our hearts sank. This could not happen.

In a way, the murders of Wednesday were forgotten. Now it was all about how the situation in the north and in the east of Paris would be resolved. The main road, the periferique, was closed, buses and the Metro in that area were stopped. We heard that a threat had been made in the supermarket that if the two brothers in the printing establishment did not come out free and safe hostages in the supermarket would be killed. The man in the supermarket was known, he knew the brothers. Then the media were asked to move back from the area of the printers. It seemed madness – why should they need to be asked in such a situation?

There were shots, smoke. The brothers were out. Firing, shooting, shot. Something had to happen in Vincennes. The police went in – it was all on screen – they seemed so vulnerable. Surely they would be shot, they were in files, one behind the other, crouching creeping. There were flashes, shots, explosions. The hostages were out. How many injured? It wasn’t clear. 5 dead. 4 hostages and the hostage taker.

It was over. They were dead.

People sent emails and texts, asking if we were OK. And we are. In the VIth, life goes on as usual.

We are just preparing to go to the march in the Place de la Republique. It is discouraging to be marching with David Cameron who is said to be coming. The march begins at 3pm. It is now 1pm. Already the TV tells us that the Place is full.

2015 film story

Posted on January 5, 2015 by Liz

So that was Christmas. Since then – films seen have included – Paddington, Birdman, Seraphine, The Keeper of Lost Causes. On a scale of 1 -10 with 10 being very good and 1 being not so hot, Seraphine [2008] comes out at 9 and Keeper of Lost Causes (Danish thriller) at 4, Birdman 6 and Paddington 7.

Seraphine is the painter Seraphine Louis known as Seraphine de Senlis, after the small town, north of Paris, where she was working as a maid, in 1912 when discovered by a German art critic and dealer. Being discovered by a German art dealer just before WWI was not the luckiest of happenings, but he returns after the war and makes good on his earlier comments and promises. The stillness and silence of life before radio and TV is beautifully portrayed as well as the magic of Seraphine’s painting methods. What stands out is how harsh life was for the poor and the working class. If you weren’t well or you grew old you lost your job and probably died – of starvation if not ill health. And this is why they fought for and we keep fighting for a proper welfare state and National Health Service.

The Keeper of Lost Causes, set in the present day, is more of a TV film, in the style of but not as good as The Killing and the Bridge. It is an unlikely but simple story of a policeman with two expressions, irritated and possibly not so irritated. This is his character. He has an almost ex-wife and a stepson. This is his back story. He is assigned a rather nice partner played by the admirable Fares Fares. They investigate an old, cold case, which they shouldn’t. It’s not clear why Nikolaj Lie Kaas wants to pursue this case but he does, frowning and smoking, and the villain is soon discovered. It was easy to watch and the time flew but it wasn’t a true cinematic experience.

Paddington – we laughed, we cried, there was marmalade. Yes, it was enjoyable.

Birdman – I entered the cinema with such high expectations. The film has had great reviews, people wishing they’d seen it a week ago, in 2014, so they could say it was the best film of the year, descriptions of a roaring come back for Michael Keaton, references to Robert Downey Jr. What could go wrong? It was slow. It was magical realism (not my favourite genre) – there was a talking bird, Michael Keaton levitated, he moved things just by thinking about them, a bespectacled critic referred to Roland Barthe and there was a self conscious play based on a Raymond Carver short story. So far so tricky. Edward Norton was very good, as indeed was Michael Keaton. There were one or two nice ideas and a good line or three. The film-maker was obviously trying to do something different, something not Hollywood, looking at despair, and identity, and self-worth. I would not call it a brutal brilliant satire of celebrity. But somebody did, so perhaps it’s a question of taste.

Jukebox Playlist – A Sense of Occasion

Posted on December 6, 2014 by Liz

With a Wurlitzer in the corner and the 45s specially sent over from St Louis Missouri (thanks to Bill Greensmith), the stage was set for a great party for a book launch. A Sense of Occasion was about to hit London

Guests flocked to Garden Court Chambers from far and near – France, the States (OK – several years ago), Dover, Leicester, Wood Green. The wine flowed, the Twiglets crunched – and the book sold!

There were at least three people in the room whose names were Christine (and another one who had trouble navigating her way round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but that’s another story).

There was a great prize draw with magnificent prizes – who would not want to win a mug depicting the cover of the book, or a pen with the same image? and competition was naturally fierce. The winners behaved with perfect modesty and stashed their booty into (suspiciously) large bags immediately.

It’s always difficult to know exactly what to read at a book launch – you want to give a flavour of the book but it needs to be a passage that has a logic of its own, a beginning, a middle and an end – and with short stories that’s difficult because they are already quite tight in structure. So I chose ‘The Other Aldermaston March’ – which has within it the story of what happened to my mum and her sisters during the Blitz, the night they went to to their aunt’s in Woodford to have a bath, and a bomb fell onto the house.

After the reading, the talking got louder, the music got stronger and the jukebox became the centre of attention. Rightly, because this was an evening about the 60s. Linda Lewis chose a few discs, assisted by ace hairdresser Frank Casali, and then there was dancing – but by then the pictures had to stop.

You can buy A Sense of Occasion here.

Chelmsford to London on a scooter

Posted on November 28, 2014 by Liz

This is a journey I have never undertaken, although I did once travel from Chelmsford to Birmingham on a scooter. It was a cream and green Lambretta. I was on the back and got rather badly sunburned, but that’s another story.

Now there are feverish preparations for the London Launch of A Sense of Occasion. Bill from St Louis has sent a wondrous collection of 60s singles for the juke box – from the Four Tops, through the Crystals, the Supremes, Tommy Tucker, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, to Howlin’ Wolf and Elmore James.

The directions on how to reach the venue in Lincoln’s Inn Fields have been circulated. The cumfy chairs have been organised. The wine has been ordered. The big question of the day really boils down to one thing – ‘Will there be enough Twiglets?’

But, putting aside such grave concerns and to get in the mood, here is Martha Reeves, with the Vandellas, appearing on Ready Steady Go in 1965. The weekend really does start here.

An Awfully Big Occasion

Posted on November 11, 2014 by Liz

It is all go in Chelmsford, preparing for the launch party of A Sense of Occasion.

The Saracen’s Head will be humming – just as it did when mods dropped in, lurching from the Lion and Lamb, via the Golden Fleece and the White Hart, parking their scooters outside, slipping out of their parkas.

The play list for the launch has been one of the most important features. As regular visitors to this website will know, the stories in A Sense of Occasion trace the lives of four mod girls in the 60s – love loss laughter and scooters. So the music has got to catch the essence. The Four Tops, Spencer Davis, Green Onions, a smattering of the Beatles, James Brown, Donnie Elbert and more. Just listening to the tracks now is like being at the Corn Exchange on a Saturday night. Everyone smelling their best – Old Spice or Avon’s Wishing. Everyone looking their best in their suede coats and their Hush Puppies.

Books will be on sale, books will be signed. There will be a prize for the best mod outfit. There will be lights, there will be music. Can’t wait!

Hear more great tracks at The Sixties Made Me

Brief Encounters

Posted on October 1, 2014 by Liz

Looking back over a wonderful summer of ideas and art, the Last Days of Limehouse stands out as a thought provoking and interesting production, in the intriguing surroundings of the crumbling Limehouse Town Hall, telling the story of the original China Town. Most of the buildings are gone now, pulled down in the name of modernisation, replaced by wide roads and concrete blocks, and this was the subject of the play, to a great extent. Do we hang on to memories, dark winding alleys, small gloomy shops in old Victorian buildings, or do we go for an inside loo, hot and cold running water and maybe even central heating?

The audience walked round the large ballroom, following the action, as the scenes played out. Loved it!

The Musee d’art Moderne in Ceret was a revelation because it was such a fabulous place – Picasso, Chagall, Matisse – bang in the middle of our holiday resort. Bull fighting is not my idea of fun, but the art work was evocative and powerful, nonetheless.

Back in London there was the showing of Brief Encounter – David Lean’s 1945 film starring Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard, at the Royal Festival Hall. What made this a remarkable event was that the London Philharmonic Orchestra played the soundtrack – Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no.2.

Before the film began there was a complete performance of the Concerto with the pianist Leon McCawley. Then Celia Johnson’s daughter spoke – describing what the film meant to her mother and reading from letters her mother wrote to her father from the film set, her fears, her triumphs. And then the film. How many times have I seen it? 3? 4? 5? and I had forgotten so much. Its humour (Irene Handl playing the cello and then a cinema organ), its pathos, the despair at that gossiping neighbour. The soundtrack of the film had been painstakingly removed, frame by frame, so that the London Philharmonic could play in its stead. The result repaid the massive effort – with its wonderful rich sound, in the magnificent surroundings of the Royal Festival Hall, the whole event shared with a capacity audience – it was a great evening.

There was Matisse at the Modern.

The Earth Caught Fire outside the British Library.

And there was Mondrian at the Turner Contemporary on the curve of the wonderful beach at Margate.

It was a great exhibition in a light airy new building. What did I know of Mondrian, apart from the fact he worked in straight lines with primary colours? Fortunately, the recent BBC programme about the city of New York had given us a brief introduction to his life and work, and indeed there was a wonderful film which formed part of the exhibition which highlighted his joy at moving to New York with its straight streets and its brightly coloured taxis, as well as his love of the music he heard in the nightclubs. But the exhibition displayed his development from his early work, a form of impressionism to the final stark representation of objects through lines and right angles.

And then came the Black Chronicles exhibition at the Autograph Gallery in the ultra hip area of Shoreditch, in East London.

This exhibition is still on – till November – and you should catch it if you can.

On display are fascinating images of a society rarely spoken about and even more rarely pictured. These are photos, postcards and calling cards from the late 19th and early 20th Century of black citizens living in this country at that time.

Replete with culture, we’re now in autumn with even more delights to look forward to.

Cut it out

Posted on September 5, 2014 by Liz

I have never been a great fan of Matisse’s cut-outs. I like his paintings very much. But the dancing blue nudes have never done much for me. But I like to keep an open mind – several thousand visitors can’t be wrong – and so we made a visit to Tate Modern to see the exhibition – which ends on Sunday. But apparently open for 36 hours from tomorrow!

Henri Matisse (1869-1954) began using cut-outs in the last 17 years of his life. The method began as a way of planning his pictures but as his health failed the cut-outs became the image itself. With this new information – what did I know of his intentions? – each picture became something exciting, energetic, fluid.

The images – sometimes with the pins holding the pieces in place – shiver with muscle, power and control. The dancers leap from the wall, heads thrown back, arms flung wide. The Knife Thrower, the Toboggan, the Dragon slide, shimmer and slither. It is extraordinary to think he has created these vibrant pictures with a few pieces of painted paper and a pair of scissors.

Matisse used this innovative medium in every way imaginable. His home was his studio and his gallery. He lived with his images. He created book covers, illustrations, carpets (for Alexander Smith Carpets) and stained glass windows.

The last room in the exhibition is titled Christmas Eve and displays a cut-out model and the stained glass it became, commissioned for the Time-Life Building in New York. Bright sharp colours on a Christmas theme. About the connection between stained glass windows and his cut-outs Matisse said that he cut out his paper in the way you would cut glass. The difference is that with the cut-outs you were trying to reflect light. Arranging glass had to be done differently because the light was shining through.

The light came shining through for me.

This is a fascinating, uplifting exhibition. Catch it now. Go after the NHS march and rally in Trafalgar Square on Saturday!

And afterwards have a discussion about the exhibition over a very good cup of coffee in the coffee shop with the wonderful view of the Thames – on Thursday the sky-line looked almost, fittingly, Parisian.

Elizabeth Woodcraft

writing about the law, books and other matters of obvious importance

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