Using hats from the handling
collection as inspiration for a short piece of writing.
In May 2017, the Kinsley WEA Creative Writing group had a
visit from Wakefield Museums to provide objects for inspiration. A box of hats
from the museums handling collections were taken to the group and after
discussion and handling the hats the group were tasked with creating a short
piece of creative writing.
We invited the group to share their work via our blog and
here are some of the pieces of creative writing and memories recalled.
Marjorie Lacy
The Brown felt hat with ribbon and feather!
This hat reminded me of my mum, around about 1940/1950s. Mum
had a similar one. It matched perfectly the brown and green check coat she
wore.
Mum would have made the coat herself; Uncle Billy, who was a
tailor would have sourced the material for her and also have cut it out for her.
As an ex-machinist for Montague Burton’s factory in Leeds, mum would have sewn
the pieces together. Auntie Madge would have done the ‘finishing off’ of the
collar, buttons and tie belt, then pressing it. - The making of the coat was a
real family affair!
When mum put the coat on, she was very happy with it, then
she decided it needed a hat to complete the ‘look’. We went to the hat shop on
Harehills Lane, it was next door to our Doctors Surgery. Mum tried several hats
on, we laughed at them knowing they were not ‘the ones’.
The milliner handed her a brown woollen felt hat with green
trimmings. It was just right, the hat colours blended perfectly with the colours
of the check coat. As Grandma Precious said later, ‘You look a right Bobby
Dazzler!’
Something Blue
By
Caroline Devonport
The blue and white striped box, so beautiful it must contain
beauty. I slide the string handle off, lift the lid. The excitement builds, my
palms are slightly clammy. Unfolding the tissue, I’m desperate to see what it
contains. I know, but still the excitement of seeing it for the first time.
I close my eyes to remove the last layer, reach and grasp
the soft silky fabric, feel the firmer body below. Gently carefully, my eyes
still closed I lift it from the box.
I can feel the folds of material stroke and tease my hands,
but I don’t look even a peek. I slowly slide it onto my head. Facing the
mirror, I open my eyes gradually, wanting to take in every detail as I do.
A blue silk Halo meets my eyes; tiny pearl beads frame it
catching the light in a milky glow. Turning my head slightly to the right now a
beaded flower catches my eye, supporting the ostrich feathers of gray and blue.
The bonnet's outside it's stripped silk of silver and blue, the inside of the
brim, pale blue silk, the same silk as my gown. A lighter blue silk ribbon
wraps around the hat, tied at the nape of the neck.
Perfect just perfect.
I Remove the bonnet and position it on the wig stand, before
pulling out my veil, and the glass headed pins. Folding, tucking and pinning as
I go I gently attach the antique veil to the brim.
Ready, ready for my big day.
MY HATS by
Susan McCartney
I have hats for all seasons
Hats for no reasons
Apart from I love them
Cannot get enough of them
I’ve got loads of hats
More hats than cats
I’m a serious mad-hatter
And what does it matter
Whatever the weather
A hat with a feather
Makes me feel better
So I’m a real go-getter
But daughter Kate’s
opinion
Is that I look like a
silly ‘un
She says of the tan one
That I need to chuck it
‘Cos I look like Hyacinth
Bucket
She’s doesn’t mean I look
like a prat
I know the truth
SHE wants that hat
She says with a sigh
And a gleam in her eye
I look like Michael
Jackson
With my black felt hat on
But let me tell you
SHE wants that one too
She’s right about one
though
The green feathered has to
go
Makes me look like Robin
Hood
A style that’s never good
A hat that was once the
rage
Of ladies of a certain age
Give me hats for all reasons
Give me hats for all seasons
Do I suit this one?
Don’t tell me the truth
String me along
Don’t tell me, don’t admit
That I look like a twit
The pink straw trilby
Will be
Going to charity shop
In the drop of a hat because
I look rather silly
Like I’m serving In a Deli
The embellished pink is
dandy
The colour of bubble candy
But too fancy for me
I’d rival a Christmas tree
The 20s cloche is
somewhat posh
This vintage find is quite
sublime
It suits all faces, times
and places
Kate will have to dream
She could try her schemes
But she’ll have to wait
To a much later date
I so love this hat
So there’s the end to that
It makes me taller,
thinner
Everyway a winner
So give me a hat
Homburg, trilby or flat
Whatever the reason
Whatever the season
I love a hat
Sunday
School Hat
By
Lynda
McCraight
I was born in 1954, but I remember a particular hat I had
to wear for Sunday School in the 1960s. It was white and very stiff, shaped
round the edges to incorporate where your ears were and had a very thin, red,
velvet ribbon tied around it. I think Mum said they soaked the fabric in
sugared water to make it stiff.
We always had our Sunday School Anniversary about May
time and did a morning procession around the mining village where I lived,
singing hymns we’d rehearsed for weeks and carrying a big banner, a bit like
those carried by miners on marches, and were accompanied by a little brass band, maybe the Boys Brigade.
I remember wearing a Sunday best coat with a velvet
collar and white ankle socks with some kind of ornamentation at the top like a
frill, and being allowed a new dress from C & A in Nottingham, as long as
it didn’t cost any more than £1/19/11. I also had little white net gloves and
new shoes from Alfreton Market. One pair I had was odd. They were essentially a
beige colour but one had become lighter than the other. I hated that pair, and
sitting on the platform erected at one end of the Methodist Chapel, I dared
myself to kick them down through the platform, to the floor below, and spent
the rest of the service standing in my socks!
It seems strange when you think about what young girls
wear today. We were essentially an imitation of our mothers but it didn’t
necessarily make us ladylike. I was a right little beggar, especially at the
Anniversary. One year I volunteered to recite a poem and learned it off by
heart but when it came to my turn to recite, I refused to do it. They called my
name three times and I just refused to stand up – maybe it was the year I was
standing there in my socks.
Mum sat at the back with my baby brother and punished me
by buying him and my sister an ice-cream on the way home – but no ice-cream for
me, and I was sent to bed as soon as I got home. I hadn’t realised how ashamed
my mum had been by that incident – all I
could remember was thinking I’d managed to rebel against the Sunday School
rules. However, when I was 14 and thinking I’d be asked to become a Sunday
School teacher, they said, “Sorry, but there are no vacancies.” And that marked
the end of my relationship with the Chapel.
Hat Box
By
Neville Raper
May 2017
Rob felt like Howard Carter at the tomb of Tutankhamun,
except right now, instead of sand, it was mainly
dust he was sweeping away.
The door to the walk-in
cupboard was stiff, probably hadn’t been
opened in years.
This wasn’t unusual to
Rob; he’d been in the house clearance
business for about ten years.
This property had been empty a while, although it was hard to estimate how long. Rob considered
anywhere between two and two thousand years.
Rob pulled at the door handle;
the hinges shrieked in indignation.
The interior was gloomy, to his left was a pull chord connected to an ancient looking
Bulb. “There’s no way this will work” he muttered to
himself. To his complete surprise, it burst into light, instant sun in the
confined cupboard.
“made to last” he chuckled.
He was confronted by a
stack of identical cardboard boxes. Each a dirty
brown colour and about twenty inches square.
Stacked from floor to ceiling, a
wailing wall of storage.
There were no markings on them, completely anonymous.
Whoever had put them there had made a great job of arranging them, boxy brickwork.
Rob eyed them up and down; he
reached up and forced his finger tips
either side of one of the highest boxes. He pulled it gingerly towards himself.
He knew by painful experience to be careful when moving such, mystery,
containers.
Too many times in the past he’d come a cropper when the contents had been much heavier than he’d
expected. He’d lost count how many times he’d woken up, on the floor confused,
with a bump on his head.
To his delight, the box felt light, he pulled. Everything he
saw next was in exquisite slow motion.
The whole cardboard construction fell in
an avalanche of organisation. He was sure
that when the boxes fell they left behind a perfect shadow of dust suspended in
the air, a dirty negative.
The whole wall collapsed upon him, buried in storage, as if this wasn’t bad enough, a split second later, the dust followed it.
Rob laid where he was for a few minutes, waiting for any
injury to manifest itself. After feeling
no real pain, or the wetness of blood, he sat up.He checked himself, particularly his bare legs below his old cargo shorts.
To his relief, the boxes all appeared to be
as light as the first and fell off him easily.
One of the cardboard containers had tipped over, and the contents had fallen out. A hat.
Rob picked it up and looked at it. A straw boater in excellent condition, in fact, it looked almost
new. The straw weaved into the construction was
bright and fresh with an aroma of sweetness. The band that ran around the crown
was bright blood red. The hat showed no sign of age.
Rob did what most people
would do in this situation; he popped it on. Immediately, he felt a shift in
his equilibrium. A smell of wet vegetation assaulted his senses, and he could
hear the drone of summer insects close to his ears.
His arms ached from exertion,
and a trickle of sweat ran down his back. Rob looked into his hands and could
see the shadow of something substantial there. He squinted and could make out
what appeared to be handles of oars. He felt the resistance of liquid weight, ebbing
and flowing. Suddenly a voice made him start. Another shadow manifested itself
about two metres away. The image wavered and wained like the water he could
feel flowing past his arms. He focused, and beautiful young women crept into
view. Like a portrait looked at through a rain soaked window, she seemed to
warp and run.
“Oh Bertie, what a wonderful
day for an aquatic adventure”.
Rob snatched off the boater;
reality snapped back into full fact focus. He reached up and touched his face;
it was covered in a thick layer of dust. Rob used his T-Shirt to rub some of it
off.
He must have bumped his head,
he thought, although he wasn’t aware of losing consciousness. The irony of this
wasn’t lost on himself.
He moved and removed the lid
of another box. This time it revealed a bright yellow helmet. He picked it up
in his hands. It was a fireman’s helmet; it looked like it was from the second
world war. Once again, it looked new, unused. The visor was clear with no scratches,
and the leather straps used to attach to the head smelled clean and freshly
tanned.
Rob hesitated but wanted to
ensure that what just happened with the boater was just dust in his eyes and a
bang to the head. He slid it on.
Immediately, the smell of
acrid dense smoke filled his lungs; he retched into his mouth. He felt an
intense heat. Looking down, he saw the hairs on his arms and legs shrivel and
oxidise on his skin. They broke off and mixed with the dust.
Rob felt his clothes tighten,
the material within them reacting to the temperature. He couldn’t see anything.
The smoke was a black hole eating oxygen and light in equal measure. He looked
at his hands and was terrified to see blisters starting to form. As he stared,
one popped, and viscous fluid ran down his wrist. He’d seen and endured enough.
Struggling, Rob felt the strap melting into his chin. He scratched and clawed,
managed to get his nails underneath and threw the helmet off. To his disgust,
he could see tendrils of his charred skin follow it.
He clenched his teeth and
fell to the ground; he rolled around and around in the dust to extinguish
himself. He slowly stopped when he realised he was untouched and unmarked. He
looked at his hands; they were perfectly intact and unmarked.
Dave, the site foreman,
popped his head through the room door.
“You OK Rob? I heard a bang.”
“Yeah, I’m alright thanks,
think I’ve inhaled too much dust from this cupboard, I’m gonna finish early.”
“You should have worn a facemask,
you daft lad!”
“I know that now” Rob
shrugged with embarrassment.
“OK Rob, see you tomorrow.”
Rob gathered up his
belongings. As he did so, he saw another open box near the door. Hanging out
was a brand new bowler hat. A tsunami of nostalgic warmth washed over him. He remembered
as a child watching old black and white comedies with his Dad. Harold Lloyd,
Buster Keaton, Laurel and Hardy and of course, Charlie Chaplin. His dad would
love that hat.
As his hands were full, he
took a chance and popped it on to his head. He waited for some terrible vision
or event but nothing happened, relieved, he walked out of the room.
He left his possessions
behind.
Dave shouted after him, “see
you Rob, nice hat.”
Rob turned and scowled at the
foreman. Dave felt that stare in his very bone marrow, the smirk he had on his
face dropped immediately.
Rob walked out into the busy
street. He looked up and down until he saw what he needed.
“Taxi!”
The cab pulled up, and Rob
got into the back. Although his body felt the cool leather seats on his bare legs,
his brain didn’t register it. He was deep in thought.
“Where to pal?” The driver
cheerfully asked.
“I am not your pal, my good
man” Rob retorted.
“Sorry mate, so where to?”
Rob rubbed his hands
together. So much unfinished business to be attended to, so much yet to do.
“My title driver is Doctor.”
“OK, Doctor” the driver
responded sarcastically, “Where do you want to go?”
“I have lot’s to do”
responded Rob.
“Well, the meter is ticking…”
“Rillington Place, number 10”
a wide smile broke out on Rob’s face or rather the shadow that was Rob’s face.
It was slowly fading away.
some great writing here I did like the little horror story.. well done all
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